BRINGING THE SMACK DOWN

This weekend was full of attempted dutch ovens, ticklings, near suffocations under the covers and LOTS of, "don't you dare (insert not nice action here)'s," followed quickly by, "OW! BUTTHEAD!'s."

Some of the more noted occassions were Man Friend biting my arm, snapping me with a towel, and putting a bike helmet on my head and then hitting the helmet, which wouldn't have been THAT bad except one of the little plastic chin strap pieces is UNDER the helmet and got pushed into my head.

Don't fret however. I got him back. The most notable of these attempts was shoving a finger under his nose (a perfectly clean, relatively sterile finger) and telling him to sniff it (there may or may not have been a wedgie given as well).


NOT ANYWHERE NEAR G-RATED:
Mom: "Did I tell you that we had decided to get you and your (older) sister a hotel room you all can share with your significant others (at the youngest's wedding in August)?"
Me: "Yeah, you told me. Guess we're going to have to come up with some sort of sock on the door knob system then, aren't we?"
Mom: "Things I didn't need to know."

Me: "My dog won't be like that. I'll keep the pooch on a tighter leash than I keep him (Man Friend)."
Rusty: "..."
Dad: "Don't worry, Rusty. If you fly over (my home town) you'll see the dirt path I've run around the end of my lead."
Me: "Just shy of those tittie bars, huh Dad?"

Man Friend: (He got shocked, as in high voltage electricity coursing through his body, this week) "It felt like someone kicked me in the chest. My nuts jammed so far up into me, I thought I was going to choke." (That is more a rough guesstimation what was said because I don't remember EXACTLY.)

BARNESY, BARNES, BARNES!!!

I have attempted to use this site to try and entertain the masses. Occassionally it's hit or miss but I think I've done a fair job, so when I hear that one of my masses (no, that is NOT a fat joke) is despressed... WELL! I'm going to do my damnedest to try to cheer them up. So may I present to you:

TOP 10 REASONS I HEART ERIK WITH A K!!!*

10. He works with crazy people.

9. The man is brilliantly sarcastic with a dry wit that is like the creamy sauce on top of the fetticini.

8. He's going to be a pro-wrestler.

7. He's like the Rock only A MILLION TIMES COOLER!

6. He's definately not ashamed of his MASSIVE action figure collection.

5. He doesn't get all squeamish when I make dirty jokes, and often times joins in.

4. He gives really good hugs.

3. He isn't bitter and resentful of (most) women.

2. He has superhuman powers. It's true. I've seen it. It's called compassion.

1. He writes the greatest theme songs KNOWN TO MAN!


*There are certainly more than ten reasons but I had to end this entry somewhere.

FEEL BETTER, ERIK WITH A K! I command you!

MORE THAN JUST A ROOMMATE

"Katie, I think I have a (left blank for your well being and because there actually ARE some things I won't admit to the web viewing public... let us just call it a "thing")."

"Are you sure it's a thing? Do you want me to look at it?"

"Not really."

"Well, I could tell you if it actually IS a thing."

"..."

"...?"

"FINE!"

(Looking intently at some part of my body) "That's a thing alright."

"We must NEVER speak of this again."

TOILETTE

"We have a girl bathroom. There are no magazines in there. It is not set up for power pooping."

"You know what you can do to fix that?"

"There's a boy here now. He can fix it, though arguably he has not yet asserted his dominance over that part of the house. He did however attempt to mark his territory by clogging the bathroom sink with his chin pubes*."


*And leaving the toilet seat up.

DISJOINTED AND HAPHAZARD (MUCH LIKE MY GRIP ON REALITY)

I can relate. It's like a disease! Specifically, syphallus. Except incurable. The part I'm really digging for is that it eats your brain rendering your head full of swiss cheese.

IN OTHER NEWS:
About my copy editing professor. Beyond the fact that the man is categorically insane and insatiably long winded, it DISPLEASES me the way he talks about design.

GRANTED, he does say that simply because you're familiar with a program doesn't mean you can design and granted, newspaper design is unlike what we are taught at DAAP, it still drives me up a freaking wall when he talks about teaching something in five WEEKS that I had to study for five YEARS. Not that I'm the best designer ever and I haven't ever seen his stuff but COME ON. There is SOMETHING to be said about raw talent (which I don't really feel I was blessed with - shut it, you naysayers. Design is hard and it has a whole hell of a lot to do with the fact that I'm too hard on myself) but I refuse to believe that EVERYONE in that room has a smidgen of it.

AND FINALLY:
When I finally get my dogget I promise not to do this. Okay, MAYBE the harem dog but only to shame and humiliate him when he shows himself for the slut he really is.

CONFESSIONS

God damn, I'm a bitch.



I'm sorry.

ABOUT AS GRACEFUL AS AN OSTRICH MATING DANCE* **

*For those of you who don't get this analogy, I apologize. For those of you who do, I profusely apologize.
**Yes, I do watch a lot of the Discovery Channel.

I am not graceful. Shock. I can trip while not even walking. I have no doubt you've all seen that "keeping my balance" dance I perform whenever I lean too far to one side and have to bounce around to regain a normal standing position and to prevent myself from crashing bodily to the floor.

Unfortunately, that little hop along dance isn't always an option. Like when I'm squatting. At work. In front of the printer.

Now, I work at the customer service desk. This means I am completely surrounded. There is MAYBE three feet of space from the wall where the printer is located to the wall that is the actual desk that customers (and by customers I mean devil spawn) stand at, asking me in all sorts of demeaning and unflattering tones to do their evil bidding. There was plenty of wall space for me to merely reach my hand back and catch myself as I teetered off balance while in that unflattering squat. At least you'd think.

I reached my hand back all right to what I thought was the drawer. I was off by about 5 inches. Rather than the drawer, I planted my hand and thus my weight onto the flap creatively put into the wall to hide the trashcan. I fell down.

Luckily, our trash almost entirely consists of paper products so it isn't horrendously disgusting to accidently stick your palm into the garbage but that same little flap that betrayed me? It also raked its little corner across my arm.

Two managers were behind the customer service kiosk with me at this point (neither of them doing a damn thing to help me out with the barrage of people standing before me). One asked in the most disgusted tone if I was alright. The other couldn't breath enough to even make an audible chuckle, the same manager that told me, after I asked if she'd gotten a haircut, that no, she hadn't gotten her hair cut, she'd just bought a shampoo that makes your hair shrink AND MY BRILLIANT RESPONSE?!

"Really?"

...

I deserved to fall on my ass in front of a lot of people.

HOW DO I POSSIBLY EXPLAIN THIS? (continued)

I forgot one of the better thing that resulted from the costume, the thing that made me laugh so hard I thought my insides would liquify and forcibly leave my body.

While Danny was still packing that lovely image as seen below, someone (Dan) suggested he sneak himself around the corner and "present" himself to Jenny because she was a) sitting, and b) face height with his crotch.

So Danny, of course, did.

And Jenny shrieked. She actually screamed when presented with Danny's penetrating manhood in her virginal face.

This is what it's like when girls swoon over Danny. Some of us can't breath. Others scream for joy.

HOW DO I POSSIBLY EXPLAIN THIS?

I threw Dan (another) "Go Away" party tonight. Because he's going away (Guatamala). Forever (2 years).

In the process of packing, Dan found a number of things he put into a grab box for all of us at the party to take away a piece of him in his absense.

He packed a special bag for Danny.

In this bag was a Warrent t-shirt, a blond wig, and red spandex track pants. Think about it. Roll it around. Settle it under your tongue. Let that just sink in a moment. Yup.

I'm completely unashamed to admit we're JUST that kind of crowd to encourage Danny to put it on and Danny is JUST that kind of guy to succumb to our peer pressure.

For those of you with queezy stomachs, I suggest you look away.


May I present what Danny is packing. You know you want to hit that.

So after he removed the fruit and potatoes from his nether regions, I was still debating putting the produce back into the feed bin rather than throwing out the testitaders. Innocently, I pointed to Danny's crotch and said with no shame, "can that thing penetrate?"

He looked down, almost dejectedly and responded, "I sure hope so. That IS what it's for."


Oh, it can penetrate all right. It just raped my eye sockets. I dare you to try and look away.

BECAUSE I'M INSANE

The Man Friend and I were walking through the mall the other day, specifically the younger adult apparal when this little sprite of a conversation convulsed forth:

"I'm going to piss off my kids something awful when I tell them I'm not buying them shit like this because they'll look like filthy sluts and arrogent little pricks."

"Glad to know I won't always be the mean one."

"Nah. But I think I'd be a good mom."

"I agree. You'd make a great mom."

"Well, probably. You know, after I got past the first few stressful years of no sleep and the screaming."

"Just until I got you drinking again. Heavily."

SCAPEGOAT

I started taking the Pill. No, not for THAT reason but rather as an attempt to level out my hormones. I've been on it two days. You wouldn't think that's really enough for it to have much effect but I have been in a foul enough mood the last two days that I need SOMETHING to blame it on.

Hello, little blue scapegoat.

This is usually the part of the month when I'm okay with who/what I am and where I'm going/what I've done. But not right now. Nope. Every little insecurity is latching itself to my leg and it wants my full attention which, being the overly self-critical worry wart that I am, I am only too happy to supply.

The really pathetic thing? There isn't so much going on right now that I can't handle it. Granted it isn't the best of situations. It isn't what I REALLY want. I'm just being a huge pussy. I'm just too scared to really do anything about it.

And talking to Mom about it had the reverse effect of what I was hoping for.

SMOOTH AS A BABY'S BUTT

I did something dumb.

The worst part? It was ENTIRELY my own idea. I thought it would make life simpler. I thought it would save me time but there are just certain things better left to professionals and the tearing of one's own hair from ((cough)) down there is one of them.

It started off simply enough. As I was haunched over in the shower shaving away at the inevitable strays that make the bikini line just oh-so-unappealing it came to me. Why not forcibly remove said bikini line hair with HOT WAX?! On the most delicate part of my body?! It'll be easy! I do it to my eyebrows all the time!

Pity the tolerance for pain on my face doesn't translate below the belt. Who knew?

To Sally Hansen I go to get the proper supplies. I absolutely refuse to tell you how much I spent but suffice to say it was too much. I even bought a spray-on numbing agent.

So away I spray, securely seated on a towel on the bathroom floor (I'm not putting my butt on that floor. It's hairy) and slather on a nice, thick coat of Wicked Witch of the West Green wax. Rub on a strip to make sure it sticks, hold taunt and OH MY EFFING GOD WAS THAT UNPLEASANT. Not only was my nether region NOT numb, it made the wax not want to stick to the strip. Multiple attempts were made at removing THE SAME CLUMP of wax. To. No. Avail.

BUT! I'd thought of this and my kit kindly came with a bottle of Wax Off, for the purpose of removing left behind waxy residue! One problem? The Wax Off was on the other side of the bathroom.

Yes, I most certainly did. For those of you who have read that horrible email that did NOTHING to dissuade me from this endeavor, you know what is about to happen. I stood up. I IMMEDIATELY regretted that decision. I waddled uncomfortably to the Wax Off and proceeded to rub it onto the problem area. But here is the real kicker, what they don't tell you in school. This miracle Wax Off shit? About as effective as my numbing agent. Oh, it clears the wax off the skin alright, makes it nice and brittle so you can chip it away. But it's a REAL pity if some of that wax just so happens to still be attached to some hair. Now you're forced to remove those chunks A LITTLE BIT AT A TIME. And what's more unpleasant than ripping hairs out by the root? Doing it slowly and in small increments.

And the real bitch of it all? It's patchy. I still have to go over my bikini line with a razor to clean up the parts that didn't turn out so smooth. And for what? It's not even bathing suit season! Apparently, I didn't think I had enough material for here. Needed to spice it up a bit. LEARN YOUR LESSONS FROM ME KIDS. If you're brave dumb enough to go through with it, professional is the way to go.

I'M AN IDIOT

"'We put the Oh! in flowers?' There's no 'O' in flowers."

"Are you serious? What have you been smoking?"

"Not a damn thing."

THINGS THAT JUST AIN'T A GONNA HAPPEN AT MY AGE

Man Friend met my parents for the first time Sunday which resulted in this conversation Saturday:

"What time do you want to meet up with my folks tomorrow?"

"((CENSOR)). I forgot all about that. I was going to get a hair cut. Why didn't you remind me? (Oh no he didn't.)"

"I do believe I DID just remind you. Besides, it's something important. Why didn't you remember? (That's right. I went there.)"

Come Sunday, Dad and a scraggly haired Rusty bonded over OSU football and powertools and Mom did her classic mom routine of jumping to her worse possible scenerio (but saying it as if she were joking) by asking me if he was "the One" and if she should start saving up for the wedding. I assuaged her concerns with my typical response of hands over the ears and yelling "lalala" so as not to hear her, BECAUSE I'M MATURE. Certainly mature enough to be getting married any time soon.

BUT, just maybe what I'm saying is start airing out those hunter green crushed velvet bridesmaid dresses ladies with the pretty orange sash and the puffy sleeves and the lace that goes up to your throat. Does that paint a pretty picture for you? HUH?!? DOES IT?!?

THAT'S MY GIRL

Me: "I'm on top of things."

Jenny T: "Yeah. Like band geeks."

Me: "... Oh, well played."

WORKER PRODUCTIVITY

So I noticed something this morning. I am WAY less likely to procrastinate if I have to get up EFFING EARLY IN THE DAMN MORNING (6am). I seriously got a lot done, and all before noon. I didn't even know it was legal in this state to do much of anything before noon. I...

... did a two hour training session at work on a new POS system AND got paid for it (this was the entire reason I even got up that early at all).
... bought a case of beer for the party (in bottles because Man Friend is a beer snob). Just an FYI: They actually LET you buy beer at 9 in the morning.
... went to the bookstore which didn't open until 10 so I went to Old Navy instead (and spent some of Daddy's money).
... Half Price Books (I LOVE THIS PLACE MORE THAN I LOVE MY SPLEEN, and I have a pretty damn fine looking spleen.)(They have giftcards is all I'm sayin'.)
... DuBois bookstore to pick up the books Half Price didn't have (and spent some more of Daddy's money).
... PennStation small chicken salad sandwich without tomato and extra pickles.
... finally went home to blog about it all for your enjoyment and to take a nap before my class starts at 4.

I am seriously (about 18%) considering taking this up as a habit.

I WANT TO PUSH THE BUTTON

This weekend, I noticed a button on Rusty's old letterman jacket. It was a photo of him and 6 other guys (4 of which I recognize). In their band uniforms. It HAS to be early high school. They all look like they haven't even a whim of growing facial hair, even our own Dan D. the Human ChiaPet. Granted, some of them still haven't a whim but my point is they looked like they were twelve.

I stole this button. I put it on my purse. I look at this button because it makes me SO VERY HAPPY. And by happy, I mean tingly in all the right places. Seriously. I'm the first to admit I like 'em nerdy but I didn't quite realize how much until my eyes feasted upon high school band geek at its finest.

It isn't that I'm into younger men. I tried that (sorta). It failed (he was only a year younger than the youngest sister). Miserably (it might have something to do with the fact that he's a dick). Worse than miserably (and an asshole). I don't look at high school guys now and feel happy (more like annoyed). But the combination of knowing four of these guys now, knowing who and what they are today (a farmer, a doctor, an engineer, and a welder). My heart is all aflutter and my mind is racing to naughty, naughty thoughts (can I hold your welding torch?).

Rusty wanted the button back. I told him it made me want to take my clothes off. He's going to let me keep it.

IF I HAD A MILLION DOLLARS

Actually, if I simply made more than I do and was fiscally able to spend more than $10 on any one person at Christmas time then, Tiffany, this would be yours.

One day, my dear, sweet sister. One day.

BECAUSE I'M HONEST

"You are the best girlfriend ever."

"Well, thank you, but why?"

"You just are. I say so."

"Yeah, but I wanted a laundry list of reasons as my subtle attempt to get more compliments."

BASE JUMPING

To use an analogy I've used a million times over, I feel as though I am walking straight for a cliff. I have NO IDEA what is in my forseeable future because I. Don't. Have. One. In three months, my entire college career will be O-V-E-R.

And then what?

I don't yet have a job. I don't even yet have a working portfolio. I have NO idea what is to become of me and I am TERRIFIED. While part of me just wants this last quarter to be over and done with so I can finally move on and stop driving myself crazy with the thinking and the plotting and the planning... I am just so very scared right now. I try to hide it from myself, too, with looking up apartments (the VERY fun part of all this) and avoiding the more obvious concerns. This is also why I've avoided my portfolio for so long because it puts in my face that someone gets to look at my work from the past five years that I'm not satisfied with in order to determine if I'm at all worth their time or effort.

And despite what everyone else has told me, that I'm crazy and I will be fine (and don't get me wrong, I really do appreciate the encouragement) I just don't see it. I want to. I want to see it. I want to know that after all of this I will come out okay and that I will actually be able to care for myself without being a burden on my parents and I will be successful and that I'll find the dream job I think I want. Not immediately. I'm not so naive to think I'll find it right off the bat. Hell, I think I'll be lucky to find ANYTHING.

I've been told I'm silly, that I think this taking care of myself thing is way more difficult than it actually is but I have no proof that anything I think is wrong. I haven't ever been made to test it. To test myself. And what if I fail? After all the time and effort and money my parents have put into me, after all this confidence everyone else seems to have in me... what if I disappoint you all? What if I disappoint me? I'm not okay with that. But I'm also not confident enough to say it isn't even an option. Working retail the rest of my life certainly isn't. I'm a planner! I organize things! I am almost obsessively thorough! But I just have NOTHING to work with right now. NOTHING to grasp onto.

And all I can do is keep heading for that cliff and hope to God the parachute deploys.

DAN'S GOING AWAY PARTY - UPDATE 1

EDIT: From now on, all updates about the party can be found here.

Hi kids. The Man Friend kindly pointed out the slight issue of where y'all were going to sleep after this shindig is all said and done because Drew is kind enough to offer us a field, but crashing at his place is NOT an option. Dan's parents MIGHT be up for it but I've yet to speak to Dan about the issue so DO NOT QUOTE ME ON THAT.

Another option is camping it and I've already contacted Christina Jo to see if borrowing her seven man tent is an option (I can't imagine that it wouldn't be). If anyone else knows anyone who owns a tent/has one themselves, I would love to borrow it for the occassion. With regards to the seven man tent, I guess the first seven people who ask me about it get it?

ALSO, this party is BOYB and Knox County is a D-R-Y county. While it is perfectly legal to drink inside county limits, you cannot purchase alcohol within those same county limits so either buy it here and bring it up or buy it at some pit stop on the way up. (Yes, I realize I've previously stated that there would already be beer there but that beer will be lovingly provided by you because I can only afford so much and the Man Friend is generous but even that is too much for him. So, sorry and if that changes your status then you are totally lame and if not, you are totally cool and rock on.)


LIST OF THINGS TO CONSIDER:
- Do you have a tent? Do you know someone with a tent? Do you have a sleeping bag? BRING THEM!!!

- Buy your beer here and bring it with you.

- I will be driving up after work on Saturday (I get off at 3:30 and will be leaving sometime Sunday late afternoon if someone wants to ride with me).

- If you have a folding chair, BRING IT! The real draw of this party is Dan and the burning of a couch. We're pretty much going to hang out and watch things light on fire. I wouldn't burn smores on this fire seeing how it is a couch but maybe we can provide something else like that. Also, another draw for you city slickers is the fact that you can see every freaking star in the sky. Trust me on this. It made it very difficult to walk up the hill last time because I was too busy checking out the Milky Way.


Seriously folks, if this is too much of a pain, I understand but it is for Dan and I feel way more comfortable asking it of all of you FOR HIM than I would if it were any other person. At the same time, I still want enough people interested to make this worth our while to pull it all together so just tell me you're still interested/absolutely for sure coming come hell or high water/or if this is just a bit too much for you and you're going to kindly back out.

That's it for now. There will, without a doubt, be another update later but I will try to warn you about it via Facebook.

WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS (OR 400 TO BE EXACT)

Mysterious I ain't. There is no sexy allure about me that makes men want to know more. I am not coy. I am not demure. I am not enchanting or seductive. I could just never pull it off and I've given up long enough ago that I have no remaining delusions otherwise. It boils down rather simply. I don't willingly hide things (which I'm sure has some direct correlations to my inability to keep my mouth shut). And along with no delusions, I've also accepted and even become okay with the fact that I will NEVER play the role of the beautiful, mysterious stranger.

What I wasn't prepared for was the fact that I am also so predicable. When I started dating Rusty, one of the first things I thought was, "he's not the type I usually go for." This was a good line of thought seeing how successful I'd been in the past dating guys who fit my "type". (See: The Asshole) But apparently, I WAS so delusioned to think the men I'd dated in the past fit my type at all.

Please. Allow me to explain myself.

I have a picture featuring Rusty amongst a crowd of 10 other boys at some high school dance. In this picture, Rusty is one of only two NOT wearing sunglasses. He is also wearing a gray plaid suit. Now... I'm all for plaid, particularly gray plaid (See: My own pair of hideously ugly gray plaid pants) but... let's just all take a moment to thank the proper authorities that Rusty was wearing this in high school where such lapses of judgement are wholey forgivable and even encouraged for the future entertainment of others.

He is certainly easy to pick out of this photo IF you know who he is. Chris (Katie's best friend) does NOT know who he is, but that did not stop him from picking up this photo, studying it for nary a minute, and pointing Rusty out of the entire crowd saying that is who he thought I would date.

Further investigation revealed that he didn't so much just look at Rusty and decide he was it, he was simply the one left after the process of elimination. BUT STILL! I am so gut wrenchingly predictable a BOY pointed him out. Not even a woman with her astute powers of observation. NO. It was a man.

Bloody hell.

GOING AWAY PARTY INVITATION

Hi kids. I'm trying to think of brilliant ways to spread the word about Dan D.'s Going Away Party/Couch Roast to be held at Drew's farm and the narcissistic part of me thinks enough of you read this blog for it to make any resemblance of an impact.

What: Dan D's Going Away Party/Couch Roast
When: September 23, 2006
Time: 8, I guess.
Where: Drew's farm. It's far away. I know this. But we can't burn stuff in the city and there will be beer and it IS for Dan. D-A-N. You all know and love this guy. He's so worth a car trip. And he'll be up there anyway.
Why: The man is leaving for TWO WHOLE YEARS to save orphans and widows in Guatamala. The least he deserves is your attendance at some party. There will be beer. And maybe hotdogs. Everybody loves hotdogs. And fire. There will definately be fire. And a couch. In the fire. How cool is that? Definately cool enough for you city slickers to drive 3 hours. Definately.

(And there will actually be a couch this time or Rusty get's shot with the potato gun... which may happen anyway.)

I THINK IT'S A TREND

A recent phone message I left Dan: "So.. are we, like, fighting because I haven't heard from you in a long time and I know I haven't called either and I HAVE worked the last four days and I have to work the next four, too, but I was just wondering because I haven't heard from you. Okay, so call me back. Unless we really are fighting. Because in that case, you suck. Bye."
Dan's response: "When did you turn into such a girl?"

A recent phone conversation I had with Rusty: "Yeah, it was touch and go there during the (OSU/Texas football) game. I was tempted to just end this relationship."
Rusty's response: "When did you turn into such a girl?"

BOO

I have a secret. It's heinous. Really and truly awful. Actually, it isn't much of a secret at all because I somehow manage to tell every new person I meet. It's also the best kept secret EVER KNOWN TO MAN because no one seems to believe me until they witness it themselves.

I am ridiculously easy to startle, and I mean easy like a pubescent boy is easy. Seriously, folks. If someone is STANDING (as in, NOT ATTACKING ME BUT STANDING EFFING STILL) some place I wasn't expecting, I jump. If something doesn't LOOK the way I think it should, I jump. This brings great joy to my roommate but WHY does no one ever believe me when I try emphatically to describe the severity of my reaction? I DON'T EXAGGERATE!!!*

Stop laughing. Stop it. I'm not actually kidding though. If it's a story, well, yeah, but other stuff. Stuff like this? SO. NOT. KIDDING.

So when Rusty ran out of my room and I turned the corner and didn't immediately see him, my brain uber quick went through the mental deduction to figure out he had already turned the OTHER corner and was on his way down the stairs.

Except he hadn't.

And he wasn't.

In the moment it took for my eyes to sweep over to where he was standing he didn't even NEED to say the mumbled, "boo" that tumbled awkwardly from his lips, his hands up like claws. Nope. It. wasn't. necessary. The scream that erupted from the very fiber of my being in turn startled the shit out of him. He LEAPT away from me, falling against the wall, arms up in defense, a disgusted and pained look on his face until the shrillness subsided and I was left clutching the wall and my chest, panting.

The biggest problem with this affliction (asside from the uncontrollably loud screaming) is if I don't manage to startle someone with my reaction, I usually don't get a chance for retaliation. That, however, was not the case this weekend. While Rusty was minding his own business (and showering, as it were) I plowed my way into the bathroom, really just to be a pain in the ass, and went to the end farthest from the door to peak in, the thought process in my head being I was less likely to get wet. He heard the door open and looked out to see what was going on just after I'd managed to sneak by. Satisfied that it was all in his head, he turned around to see my floating head peering at him (the upper half of him) and he nearly jumped out of his skin, yelling obscenities and spouting hatred, and again I was left clutching the wall and my chest, laughing.

And I'm beginning to see why y'all think this is so fun.

*Except for that one time!

WHY I KEEP HER AROUND

Because occassionally, she makes me cookies. And on even rarer occassion, she makes me laugh REALLY. HARD.


"Cookie! I'm going to take 5 cookies and that will be my lunch today."

"Okay."

"As a nursing student you would let me do that?"

"No. As a fat kid I would let you do that."


Yay, Katie! Yay, cookies!

SHUT IT, WOMAN

Nothing in my life is funny right now. I tried. I tried three times to write a post for you, Tiff, so you could get some work done in a relatively happy mood but all I'm freaking doing right now is working... retail. I know you've done it and you're a much stronger soul than I. I bow down at your feet, kiss kiss, blah blah, hail the workaholic queen.

HE THINKS MY VOCABULARY'S SEXY

"How was work today?"

"Work was long and arduous and I'm a big pussy because I don't want to go back."

"You are the only person who would ever use 'arduous' in a sentence."

"Is that why you're dating me?"

"Possibly."

ROUND'S A SHAPE

"The largest waist a Playboy Bunny has ever had is 32 inches."

"Well, that isn't hard. When I run my waist drops down to 30 inches."

"When I run my body waist doesn't change."

"Oh yeah?! Well, when I run I get out of breathe."

CLOUD OF DEATH

Katie likes to try to talk to me whenever I'm on the phone or computer. It's as if the sudden distraction of my attention is all it takes to bring on an attack and she just HAS to tell me this one story RIGHT NOW OR SHE'LL DIE. And some nights, this means she must invade my room. Which is dumb. Because I don't always play well with others.

For example:

Katie was laying on MY bed and I didn't want her there so I smacked her butt as hard as I could. If you know ANYTHING about Katie this fact will not upset you because you'll know Katie has an ass that could WITHSTAND THE FORCE OF AN ATOMIC BOMB.

As means of retaliation, she farted releasing an invisible CLOUD OF DEATH over the vicinity of her rear.

So I forcibly removed her from my bed using my feet.

Yes. That's right. I kicked her onto the floor. And promptly knocked shit over.

In my haste to pick up the things that were now toppled, my face took an UNPLEASANT trajectory, right through the aforementioned CLOUD OF DEATH.

For a moment, neither of us could breath. Me from choking and sputtering, her from laughing herself silly. Again, if you know ANYTHING about Katie, you are WELL AWARE of the fact that she is much like a man in some regards, particularly, the stench that E-M-A-N-A-T-E-S from her posterior.

I'm pretty sure I threw up in my mouth a little.

INTIMACY

EriK: "I may not know much about relationships but I would have to think that a woman being comfortable enough to fart in front of her man is an intimacy unrivaled."

Me: "Well, if that's the case then how intimate is it if the boy farts ON the girl? Twice."

Rusty: "It was an accident! I was asleep!"

Me (asside to EriK): "He's not allowed to be the little spoon anymore."

ASS ICE

*If you want to get truely technical the ice never touched his ass. We put it in the front. But Junk Ice didn't have the same ring.

Imma give you a rundown of my weekendedness in a particular order:

FRIDAY:
Boy Thing gets into town about the time I get off work. We decide to do nothing and rent a movie. My friends decide otherwise. One Matt and two Eric/k's commender my porch (which I must admit is a pretty freaking sweet porch) so THEY can drink and smoke cigars and cloves.

And apparently berate me for being a woman. (SHUT IT ERIK WITH A K! THIS IS MY BLOG AND I'LL TELL THE STORY HOW I SEE FIT!) Now, let's (not) take into account I was hormonal (bitchy) at the time but NO ONE says to me on MY PORCH, and I quote, "Hush woman, the men are talking," and lives to breathe another breath.

All he got, however, was a hearty, "OH ((CENSOR)) YOU," out of me for that. He failed die simply because I would have been the one who'd of had to clean up the blood. And he's huge.

SATURDAY:
Party at my place. You know why I hate having parties anymore? Because y'all are effing slobs but also because I DISLIKE cooking for you people. It's smokey and I'm running around so much I can't enjoy myself.

But you know what is worse? I HATE when someone touches my grill. GET. THE. HELL. AWAY. FROM. MY. BABY.

But that's not funny. Onto what is. Rusty likes to screw with Dan D. and by "screw with" I mean wrestle and generally molest just shy of rape. This particular tussle on the porch resulted in Rusty grabbing Dan around the neck and leaning him back so far that his hips are thrust forward invitingly. I helpfully grab a handful of ice but Matt E. did the honors of shoving said ice into the front of Dan's pants. And rubbing it in.

Luckily for Dan, he wears boxers.

Unluckily for Matt and me, he wears boxers.

Dan picks up the ice that has since fallen from his pant leg and he shoves it into Matt E.'s mouth who then jumps up and runs screaming like a girl through my neighborhood. I get a cube in the mouth, too but I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't worth it.

SUNDAY:
Boy Thing's Jeep breaks down about an hour away from my place so I go keep him company while he's waiting for his dad which means I am the BEST GIRLFRIEND EVER AND DESERVE LOTS OF EXPENSIVE GIFTS AND TOYS. AMEN.

ANAL CLEANING

Katie freaking LOVES it when I have a party. Because I clean. The ENTIRE house. BEFORE the party. Why? Why do I do this? You idiots are just going to mess it up again.

I blame my father.

Come over individually and I see nary a need to lift a finger. Dishes need done? Katie will do them eventually. There are questionable spots on the toilet? I'll hover. The floor has taken on a gray hue under the fine coat of dust? I have dry skin.

But suddenly it's a group and I HAVE TO CLEAN THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN TOUCHED SINCE WE MOVED INTO THIS HOUSE. I watered plants that would have thought the Sahara Desert was a vacation. I WASHED THE SLIP COVER. I moved Frank (the pine tree) and Eliza (the mannequin*) just to mop the hardwood floors.

My sister may be uber anal when it comes to organization (according to D2Mom) but there are two people who are as anal (if not more so) than she is and they would be our father and me. Daddy taught me everything I know (that I hadn't already inherited). A forensic team couldn't find any sort of evidence in this house. Party on.

*Yes, we really do have a mannequin. Here is a picture of Aaron molesting Eliza at the luau this past winter.


It was his idea to wear her bra. He was TOTALLY SOBER. I'm not kidding.

WHY I LOVE JENNY FROM THE BURG

"I think I might clean the house Thursday so Rusty doesn't actually see my anal cleaning come Saturday."

"Anal cleaning? That's gross."

"... Dude, I meant the house. Not my butt."

TO TIFF'S COWORKERS

I have nothing witty to say today to entertain and regale my sister in the first few minutes of her work day. (Shouldn't you be WORKING, Tiff, instead of using the computer for personal entertainment? Does your boss know you're reading this? HEY! TIFF'S BOSS! SHE'S NOT BEING PRODUCTIVE!)

It was brought to my attention that if I don't satisfy my older, nosy sister's need to pry into my day to day life that she's bitter and resentful and just a royal pain in the ass to work with for a good part of the morning afterwards. (Not that she isn't a pain in the ass regardless.) So this is my apology because now not only is she going to be annoyed because there is no brilliantly funny update from me, but she's going to be uber pissed because I'm making fun of her. For being short. And old. Well, older than me at least. Seriously though. She really is short. I bet if you people went over to her desk right now you could see her little feet dangling JUST ABOVE the floor kicking in a rage. It's cute, isn't it, how she has to sit on the edge of the chair to touch the floor. A good prank would probably be to put her chair at full height so then you could watch and giggle as she jumped up and down trying to get her butt up on it. I bet she could even ride Hey Dog like he was a horse. I have to admit though, she is a hard worker and she'll probably move ahead in your company. Not so much for her astute attention to detail but because her head is at the PERFECT height to kiss some major ass.

And let's not forget she's getting on in years now. She may not technically be "old" yet (though you have to admit she's trying her damnedest to make it to 40) but her memory is getting a little rusty*. And she is a product of the 80's. Big hair (so what's changed?), acid wash denim, stirrup pants**, and pants pegging should all be held against her. So should that one Milli Vanilli cassette.

I would like to take this moment to let you all know I love my sister terribly and I know deep down in her soul she's strong enough to take this sort of abuse (only from me, mind you so DO NOT try this at home) and in her infinite grace and mercy she realizes I'm still wet around the ears and to keep my naivety and innocence in mind as she plots my demise. I would also like her to keep reading and enjoying my blog but woman! You just don't threaten to snitch like that!

LOVE! XOXOXO, Shanny Lynn

*Yeah, how do you like that one coming back to bite you in the ass, huh?! It was lame when you said it, too!
**I actually don't know for a fact if she ever owned or wore stirrup pants.

THE KEY TO WORLD PEACE

"There is nothing better at 10 pm (or 10 am for that matter) than an ice cream sandwich."

AW, HELL NO

It's my fault. I really just can't learn my lesson. I can't get it through my head that stairs are meant to be climbed, NOT bash the SHIT out of my toes.

Exhibit A:

Twice! In two days! Bloody hell. See that stuff in the bottom right corner? That's blood. On my flip flop. And you know what I did when offered a bandage by the woman who worked in the coffee shop I stopped at to get a napkin to wipe up said blood? I told her no. No, I'd rather drag my gaping wound of a toe around C-L-I-F-T-O-N until I could get back home and take a picture of the carnage for my blog.

Steps*: 2; Toes: 0

*Particularly concrete steps. In the middle of a dirty, dirty city.

GET THESE MUTHAEFFING ONIONS OFF MY MUTHAEFFING SANDWICH

Talking to Katie I remembered something that I left out of the previous post. APPARENTLY, Rusty's subconscious either wanted to get back at me for giggling at his anger OR he thinks that deep down inside I have a violent streak just waiting to pounce and rear it's ugly head. Following the harrowing dinner fun, the next day Man Friend informs me he had a dream about me.

"Oh? And what sort of dream was it?"

"You got sent to jail."

"Beg your pardon."

"You got sent to jail. Guy put too many onions on your sandwich so rather than letting me go get you a new one you just hauled off and punched the guy."

"So why didn't you protect me from the police? Why didn't you tell them I was totally justified? Damn onions."

"They tackled me."

So he's the hero without actually DOING anything. I mean he TRIED to save me from the jail inside his head but alas. Even heros have an off day. Or they get tackled by the police while the woman fights the good fight. Stupid, freaking onions.

HONK IF YOUR SERVICE IS GREAT

This weekend the man friend (hereafter known as 'Rusty' - Are you happy now, Tiff? It's on my blog so it MUST be real!) ATTEMPTED to feed me. He eventually succeeded (three hours later by no fault of his own). It started off innocently enough. I was hungry. He was paying. So Friday evening we drove into one of the nearby towns (by 'one of' I mean ONLY nearby town) that is sprawling enough to have TWO legit restuarants. The first one boasted a 45 minute wait to which my grumbly tummy declared we would try out luck elsewhere. Elsewhere just so happened to be Ruby Tuesdays.

Nothing too exciting. Nothing I haven't done before.

We apparently merely suggested to the hostess that we THOUGHT we would like a seat in the smoking section (yeah, mom was surprised, too) but we obviously weren't not too sure. We also apparently told only ourselves that we were going to sit at the bar for the 30 minute wait. First thing we noticed as we walk into the smoking section where the bar is located: two empty tables.

I suggested maybe they're running behind because there were a number of people outside.

45 minutes, someone who JUST WALKED INTO THE DOOR being seated before us, and two MORE empty tables later , Rusty decided to ask the hostess if we might be seated as well. She claimed she walked into the bar and called us. Not so. We were as close as you could get to her little podium and nary did she call our name. Not wanting to make a scene, Rusty asked her again to seat us in the smoking section. And she seated us immediately. In the NONsmoking section. Man friend is not pleased. I suggested lightening up, at least we were seated at this point and conversation turned to dinner.

20 minutes later and the lady at the table next to ours leaned over and asked, "you haven't been served yet?" Very astute madame. As our retained possession of the vivid red menus (I think rather clearly) indicated, we had NOT yet been helped. She told her waiter. He tells us he'll get the manager.

A portly fellow in a white buttonup that just screams inept sauntered on over, KNELT DOWN so he's on our eye level, and asked how us folks are doing this evening. Rusty proceeded to explain the last six paragraphs to the man whose managerial response is, "awww."

AWW?! Are you kidding me?!

He asked how he could make it better but at this point Rusty was sputtering pissed and I couldn't even look at the guy because I was laughing at Rusty for being so pissed. So rather than accepting his generous offer of free, spit on food, Rusty informed the man that we would be leaving as soon as he finished his beer (because he'd actually already paid for that), to which our friend responded, "None of my customers leave unhappy."

Like hell they don't. Rusty's stubborn.

Speaking of stubborn, he also feels the importance of fulfilling all his promises, particularly the one about sitting ON MY PILLOW WITH HIS BARE ASS. I had to drive home THREE HOURS and rather than just being able to immediately crash my head into a nice, fresh pillow, I had to CHANGE THE SHEETS.

And blog about it.

OH! And one more update. For any of you who have known me for any extended period of time (really, we're talking a matter of minutes here people), you know that graceful I ain't. One particular move I consistantly find challenging is, apparently, USING STAIRS. Damnit. It was ONE STEP UP and I didn't lift my foot high enough and now the tip of my middle toe isn't so bruised you can see it, but is bruised enough for me to bitch about it. And I fell, too. Not really because I tripped (which I DID) but rather because of my brains refusal to use the toes I'd just bashed into the metal strip to break the downward motion. Now, I have to give Rusty credit. He didn't laugh (though that smile was a little condesending) and he offered to help me up but the only thing I could think at the time was "Ow. Ow. Ow. Don't cry. Ow."

TRY OUR NEW LIMB REMOVAL SYSTEM

I woke up in an irritable mood today. You've been warned.

My right arm and I are fighting. The whole arm. The right hand and I continue a fragile peace but I fear mutiny at any moment.

You see, the skin on my right arm is forcibly removing itself. In annoying, ugly, white patches.

Why the hell am I molting? Why arm? What did I do to you? Yes, yes, I remember full well burning you in the hot Canadian sun but that was OVER TWO WEEKS AGO and you didn't even get it THAT bad. I've lotioned you since, albeit haphazardly. You have no good excuse for nullifying our relationship and voiding the contract we negotiated in years prior.

And it isn't like I can take a wash cloth to it rid myself of it. That just pisses it off. Maybe I'll just hack off my arm. It isn't like I REALLY need it anyway (yeah, lefty!). I think that punishment suitably fits the crime.

YET ANOTHER VICE

I LOVE caramel.

No. No, wait. LOVE is not a strong enough word to truely express the depths of my feeling about that tan, sugary substance. Alas*, I do not care for caramel on its own. It must be delicately coupled with another to bring about it's truely glorious nature. A coupling such as apples, chocolate, coffee products, or the salty tang of sweat off a naked body.

This is why Nestle Treasures are my FAVORITE CANDY EVER IN THE WHOLE WIDE WOLRD, AMEN. (OH MY GOD, do you SEE that image at the top of the linked page with the chocolate and the caramel and the lighting so pristene on the beautiful oozing center? Knees: weak. Heart: fluttering. MUST. HAVE. CANDY.)

The reaction you see above is also why I do not allow myself to have Nestle Treasures. No self control. It's a real pity but better in the end for my ass if I stay away from the chocolatey, caramely sin.

I do, however, allow myself the caramel treat every now and again in the form of Starbucks (Boo! Damn the man! Down with the corporate giant! Blah, blah, blah! But have you TASTED a caramel frappuccino with no whip and extra caramel sauce?! And the angels came down and said unto the world, "Bask ye sinners in the glory that is a frappuccino." - At least that's how I remember it happening.)


*I really did just use 'alas'. You may commense with the calling me a pretentious bitch.

CANADA! (Ode to my Feet)

Le PARTE TWO-E:
I have to admit this is a little ironic. If you know me at all you know I. HATE. FEET. yet for some reason, I couldn't keep mine the hell out of the Canadia pictures. Therefore, I present to you in their technicolor goodness, my feet.

Water!


More water!


I realize you can't tell but I guarentee this is in fact, still more water. (Yeah, toe ring! It's almost TOO sexy.)


If you don't get what this is by now then NEVER READ MY BLOG AGAIN.


This was me attempting to show how bruised my feet were after Matt "taught" me to play soccer (It's because I have no control and I kick people) but instead this seems to show some strange deformity whereby my feet no longer look like a separate entity from my ankle but come frighteningly close to becoming the dreaded cankle.


May I present for your viewing pleasure: Dirty, sandy feet.


Still dirty but not so sandy feet. I WAS going to take a shower but Canada ran out of hot water. Canada's a bitch.

IT ISN'T CALLED FLIRTING IF I'M LOSING

Okay.

When I say 'wrestle you to the ground' what I really mean is I'll catch you when your guard is down and attempt (rather pathetically) to keep you somewhat vulnerable while I do my best to achieve the second part of the initial threat (in this case licking of the forehead). If such attempts fail, I will make copious excuses to get out of any repercussions there might be as the result of my assault. If THAT fails and I am subsequently covered in excessive amounts of your slobber (IN MY EAR!) and given a sizable wedgie (EFFIN' HUGE!) to accompany my spit bath, my only response is YOU ARE SO GOING DOWN. I don't know when, and I'm not telling you how but you will rue the day.

R-U-E.

NOT TO MOST STANDARDS

Despite how lazy I've been the past week, I feel like, today, I finally got a few things accomplished. Among them:
(BACK OFF ALL YOU PEOPLE WITH YOUR JOBS AND LIVES AND RESPONSIBILIES)

- I got up BEFORE noon.

- I used unnecessary commas in a sentence.

- I showered (AND! I even shaved my legs).

- I went to the grocery store.

- I started* my portfolio.
*Just don't ask me to define started.

Despite ALL of those WONDERFUL GOALS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS (DROP IT!), I think I forgot one major thing. (I SAID DROP IT!) I cannot for the life of me remember if I brushed my teeth today. I am so VERY disgusted with myself that you don't have to be BUT! instead of immediately rectifying the situation, I decided to tell the internet. I HAVE POOR ORAL HYGIENE. PLEASE JUDGE ME.

I must now to go bravely into the depths and defuzzify what used to be teeth. If I'm not back in five minutes, just. wait. longer.

CANADA! (As told by slightly blurry, not quite compositionally sound photographs)

Le PARTE ONE-E:
Canada was so beautiful sometimes it looked fake as seen here:

Here:

Not here:

Here:

Also note the Estes butt crack Junior is proudly displaying to the right. I swear to God, if not both than at least one brother was sporting this FINE fashion statement AT. ALL. TIMES.

BE GLAD YOU AREN'T RELATED

"I have a great picture to show you."

"You are a cruel person for sending me that."

"Yes, but your reaction made it so worth it. Now you can be cruel to others. OH! I know! I'll send it to Tiff!"

"Nice. I have a feeling that will start a photo war."

"Oh, she can BRING IT! I D-A-R-E her."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Well, I wouldn't tell her that to her face. That would just be dumb."

YEAH, WET WIPES

1) My car got moved. And not by me. This is a good thing. My best guess is Katie and if that is the case I am SO VERY HAPPY that I keep my car keys on the table by the door so that 1) she didn't have to wake ME up to do it since she was up for work anyway and 2) I didn't get a parking ticket. Last parking ticket I got was $40. WTF?! The nice little $10 parking ticket I got in Kentucky was enough to ensure I NEVER PARKED THERE AGAIN! $40 is just excessive. And mean. Bastards.

2) I have no water pressure. AT ALL. The friendly blue notice on my door says I won't have it FOR 6 MORE HOURS. I don't know if the water company got the memo, but I'm done camping. Got back Friday, thanks. (This is also the reason my car needed moved)

3) The Canada pictures will be up... eventually. I have to sort through them and I took almost 200. Don't get excited. None of them are of exceptional quality. Just me dicking around with composition. And now that I admitted that I'm going to be embarrassed to show them to anyone who has even the slightest clue what they're doing with a camera.

"You were in design school for how long? And you had how many photography classes? For SHAME!"

NOSTALGIA

I've been on a quest of sorts to find the cereal my grandparents used to feed me as a small child. It wasn't sugary sweet, to my best recollection it was supposed to be good for me, and I'm pretty sure it was something the elderly community is encouraged by the medical community to eat.

Only thing I know for sure, it isn't All Bran.

But I'm feeling pretty regular.

YOU'RE TOO ENTERTAINING TO GO TO IOWA

I tore my favorite jeans last night. From crotch to midthigh. I leaned over to remove my not-the-sexy bowling shoes and now I need to go shopping.

As a way of consoling me Seth told me a story about his torn jeans. Apparently, Seth carries a LOT of stuff in his pockets. This LOT of stuff tore a hole in his jeans rather high up on his thigh and one day, Seth wore these holey jeans WITHOUT underwear. I'm assuming by the time he realized his mistake he wasn't within the range of a fresh pair of panties so his BRILLIANT, PHILOSOPHICAL solution? He used DUCT TAPE to WRAP AROUND HIS WHOLE THIGH to cover the offending (?) area. Weren't you worried about removing that duct tape later? Along with all your leg hair?

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. This IS Seth.

Seth the beatnik pirate who can't defeat Eric because Eric is a ninja and even though pirates and ninja's are mortal enemies, Seth the beatnik pirate's only real super power is smoking pot.

Seth the amazing sweating man who nuzzles into my cheek and gets sweat IN MY EAR! and then can't understand WHY I'm spazing out.

Seth the bowler extraordinar who decided to make the game a little more interesting last night. For every spare, we had to show our belly buttons. For a strike, our boobs. I showed a whole lot of belly button. Thank God I suck at bowling.



SETH! Don't go to Iowa. They won't appreciate you like we do. Besides, what are you going to do with a MA in Philosophy anyway?

NEW LINKY GOODNESS

Drew M. - At least I think that's what his last name starts with. If I'm wrong, I'm pretty damn sure one of you will not only correct me but then tease me until I cry. (I have been corrected)

Drew is Dan D.'s friend. Drew smells like shit. Drew makes REALLY good cow. It was at Drew's that the bonfire took place. Drew didn't give me a ride on the tractor but then again, I never asked. Drew linked to me first and even though this seems like a rather big jump in our relationship and I thought I told you I wasn't interested in anything serious, I feel pressure to reciprocate since Rusty told me Drew doesn't link to ANYONE. It's just the neighborly thing to do. And it makes me feel like prom queen. Heavy on the queen.


Erik B. - Erik (spelled with a 'K' people, which I think means he can't truely be considered one of the Eric's - spelled with a 'C') is training to hurt people for a living for the entertainment of the nation. Thats right folks, pro-wrestling. I knew another guy who wanted to be a pro-wrestler once. We called him the Polish Thunder. Erik told me once (okay not really but work with me here) that the only way he'll promise not to body slam you is if you buy him a beer. Good beer. In a bottle. None of that can shit (even though the one time I sent Erik out for beer he brought back MGD. In a can).


Dan D. - Best known on this blog for such antics as this, this, this, this, and this, Dan D. finally has a blog all his own. He hasn't written anything yet and probably won't write much once he does start, but he has one. Woo.

MULTIPLE PERSONALITIES

"I don't like to wear shoes or socks. They're too constricting."

"I feel the same way about pants."

BEST WAY TO START A STORY EVER

"So I was helping my dad move a dead hooker onto the table..." -Ed

FIGHT OR FLIGHT

It rained.

I'm not complaining. This is just your formal announcement.

It rained hard.

Think of me as the weather channel.

We decided to watch a movie. Something with Cuba Gooding, Jr. in it. The movie was at its climax. Cuba was near death and as he glared at Robert DeNiro in a way that said, "what now, bitch?!"... the TV went black. Son. of. a. bitch. I want to know what happened.

And then the whole cabin shook. Like an earthquake.

Matt E. D-O-V-E for safety as far from the window as he could, tumbling into the bathroom as Sonja opened the door, pulling down one of the parents on top of himself as a living shield. A rather large tree crashed over the roof and snapped between the cabin we were in and the one beside it. Eight 20-somethings, one 12-year-old, and a few adults dislodged elbows and knees from other's orifices and stared out at the storm that has since obscured the other islands into a gray haze.

The first thing out of anyone's mouth: "That was freaking AWESOME!"

Someone helped Matt to his feet.

"Tossing aside small children and the elderly to save yourself, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm just curious how high the number is going to climb before you're done telling this story."

LIFE WITH ROOMMATES, PART FOUR (I LOOKED IT UP)

"So he's going to come visit you again next weekend?"

"Yeah. We're going to have copious amounts of sex."

"Yeah right."

"You don't believe I'm that big of a slut?"

"Not yet. You gotta work your way up to Marta."

HERE'S ONE FOR THE ROAD

1) IT is a w-i-n-d-s-h-i-e-l-d w-i-p-e-r. YOU are an e-n-g-i-n-e-e-r. Figure it out.

2) Do not make fun of ME trying to explain to YOU how to work a windshield wiper when it's 4 in the morning and you JUST WOKE ME UP.* **

3) So are you going to ask the little girl to make my coffee or is that $3.50 I just spent so I can bask in your general presense? Because if that is the case, I WANT MY MONEY BACK.

Moron.



*Matt and I are still friends.
** I think.

VENTING

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.

AAAARRRRRRHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

ALL SORTS OF SEXY

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.

WOULD YOU BELIEVE I HATE EXCLAMATION POINTS?

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.

SCREW IN A LIGHTBULB

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."

HE SHOOTS LASER BEAMS FROM HIS EYES

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

CANADAS ARE EH HOLES

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.

TOM IS THE DEVIL AND THE DEVIL IS MYSPACE

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.

GUTTERAL NOISES OF ANGER AND DISGUST

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.

IMAGE STOLEN FROM DREW

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

I LIKE BUT'S

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.

THREE OF SIX

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.

BCKSTSOOOABDTTCITD

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:

Scream!

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.

YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE A (DIS)HONEST WOMAN OUT OF ME

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.

STANKY (NOT APPROPRIATE FOR SMALL CHILDREN AND PETS)

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.

WE'VE ALL DONE IT

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 Rent.com, watching Small Space, Big Style on HGTV and then looking up dog breeds on animalplanet.com 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).

HELP! I NEED SOMEBODY! HELP!

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:

slr

slrdesign

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

slrdspeechdesign

slrdspeech-design

slreiss-design

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?


THANK YOU!

AMPUTATION OR LYME DISEASE (EDITED)

**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).
**NEW AND IMPROVED WITH COMMENTS FROM DAN D!

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.

I SWEAR I HAVEN'T BEEN DRINKING... TODAY

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.

GOD I LOVE ULTIMATE FRISBEE

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
- THROW. ME. THE. FRISBEE.
- 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.
- ACTUALLY ASK ME MY NAME AND BOTHER TO LEARN IT.
- 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?"

THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID

"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.

VACATION, PART ONE

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."