Plastic Sweet Tea Jug (Of Death)

OK. Can we just talk for a minute about how I am completely O-B-S-E-S-S-E-D with these new Jimmy Dean Commercials and their crusade for teenagers to eat breakfast before school? I thought their commercials about feeding the universe so that the planets don't turn into a bunch of lazy sack of shits and ORBIT, GOD DAMNIT! was brilliant, but this.....this is by far the greatest cast of characters to ever peddle pancakes on a stick. I can't decide if I like Dimwit or Crabby best and I don't think I ever could choose. It's like trying to choose between your children. If someone forced me to choose between saving the life of Dimwit or Crabby, I would respond with a monologue from "Sophie's Choice."

But let's move on, because this is making me think of all my years spent in science classes that I couldn't understand and I swear to EFFING GOD if all it took to pass was to eat a goddamn corndog first thing in the morning, I am going to storm into a Jimmy Dean lab and start throwing beakers until someone figures out time travel.

So in case you haven't figured out by now, I watch A LOT of television. Aside from cooking shows, I am also completely obsessed with crime shows - fiction and non fiction. I should also note that I am the biggest vagina on the planet (I said "am" not "have", to be clear) and should be the last person allowed to watch anything remotely scary. Like, if I watched the Lion King right now, I would have a dream about how Scar kidnapped me from my hot dog stand and forced me to become a sex slave, all while calling me "Sssssssimbaaahhh". Issues.

You would think that I would be smart enough not to watch anything but Skittles commercials before bed time, but in 26 years, I have yet to learn my lesson. I will watch a scary ass movie (read: PG-13), true crime stories and a CSI or Criminal Minds before bed time. Like a smorgasboard of SCARY AS FUCK right before my overactive imagination gets to spend the next 8 hours in complete solitude is a brilliant idea. My brain only has two reactions when it comes to interpreting "bumps in the night": irrational fear and BITCH, RUN.

Now, thankfully, I don't live alone. My fiance and I live together in a one bedroom apartment, so the amount of time I spend seriously regretting never keeping my Tinkerbell night light is minimal. Lord knows I have never, could never, would never live by myself. I would probably spend most of my time curled up in my bathtub with foil on my head because I just watched War of the Worlds and am now convinced that Tom Cruise can read my thoughts. And you KNOW he likes tall women because he's a midget, so I'm immediately fucked because I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about how tall I am. Anyway, there are very few nights I am left alone to divulge in this insane, irrational behavoir.

But it does happen. And, lucky for you, it happened on Sunday.

Approximately 11:30pm on Sunday I was in bed, reading on my cell phone because I was trying to tire my eyes out and get 8 hours of sleep like a responsible 9 to 5er. It was really, really windy out and though very nice, our apartment building was definitely feeling the gusts. So I put down my phone and close my eyes and force myself to think nothing but happy thoughts (this is actually not an exaggeration. If I were to let my brain go wild, every dream would literally be like the random, psychotic tangents I go off on when I'm writing. See above Scar dream. No lie.).

So right as I am about to drift off, there is a very large noise in my kitchen. Something has fallen over. And I am the only one here. I can't begin to express the sheer terror that I felt in that exact moment. I was thisclose to texting my fiance that he had to come home NOW because I heard a noise. Completely rational, right? I know. I grabbed my phone and just laid there, completely still, contemplating my next move. Do I go check it out? What if it was just a mouse scavenging through our cardboard recyclables? BUT WHAT IF IT WASN'T. What if it was Tom and he had finally found me because I WAS JUST measuring myself for my wedding dress the other day and now he knows all my exact measurements and he wants to add me to his robot collection? Totally plausible.

Ultimately, I made the rational decision to stay very, very still and listen for more noise. There was no more noise, just more wind outside. I knew my fiance would be home soon enough, so I tried my hardest to go to sleep. Eventually, after more forced happy thoughts, I did fall asleep. And I survived the night. Tom didn't kidnap me (yet) and now that it was daylight, I could safely check out the cause of my distress. I walked into our kitchen and there on the middle of the floor was a giant empty jug of Arizona Sweet Tea, laying just inches from our cardboard bin.

Logic says it was either a mouse who knocked it out or it was only lightly wedged between two pizza boxes and either the strength of the wind shaking the building knocked it loose or the pizza boxes loosened their grip on the container. (Look at me saying things that make sense!)

I am 98% convinced that one of those is the correct explanation for my terror. But 2% of me thinks that if we hadn't taken the recycling out today, I would wake up to find that Jug in my bed tomorrow. Like, a pet sematary situation for plastic containers but now it's also posessed and it's pissed because I don't drink iced tea so it's exacting revenge for feeling rejected.

And now I'm not going to sleep tonight.

Animal Kingdom < Senior Citizen Buffet Lines

If you've ever watched an Animal Planet special about the food chain and predators vs. prey, then you're familiar with what it looks like when a hungry group of territorial lions circle around a zebra carcass hissing and clawing their way to a feast. This is EXACTLY the same image you will find when a group of senior citizens hit the buffet line.

How do I know this? HOW DON'T YOU KNOW THIS?!?

If you have no idea what I'm referring to and you still think your grandmother is a 4'7" teddy bear made from moth balls, hard candy and the mouth of an angel who's eaten 100 bars of soap, then I am going to encourage you to stop reading...HERE. I don't want to ruin your image of your beloved Nana. *SPOILER ALERT: She's a whore for petite pastries.*

As a banquet coordinator (that's my "official title", read: "assistant/bitch") for a restaurant in Baltimore, I have seen my fair share of events and met a cornucopia of folks. But there is no group of people that I want to slap an eviction notice on more than the group of 100 elderly grumps that shuffled their way into my gourd last year. Allegedly, they were on a tour and we were their stop for lunch. I say allegedly because I'm still not convinced it wasn't an elaborate plot by Jesus trying to coerce me to turn over to the dark side because he CLEARLY does not want to pick me for his kickball team but he doesn't want to look like a douche about it. I CAN KICK A BALL PAST 1ST BASE, JESUS, THANKYOUVERYMUCH.

I digress. Don't get me wrong, I find some old people to be completely adorable. SOME. THESE WERE NOT SOME. I think this group was angry that they had to be awake before noon (that bitter tone you're hearing is my alarm clock murdering my dreams at 7:30am). They came through the doors shaking their canes like they just couldn't believe there was no one there to give them a piggy back ride up the steps because kids these days, I tell ya, no respect for their elders! (If you could re-read that in your best old person voice, that would be very helpful. Thank you.)

So we direct them to their respective tables and inform them that the buffet is ready to go. What happened next was the most awesome display of animalistic instincts mixed with the patience and sharing is NOT caring attitude of a 4 year old. Father Time has the line at a standstill because he can't figure out the difference between fish and chicken, and his comrades are not having it. Apparently when you get old, you also forget that soup requires spoons, so an alarmingly large number of people are complaining that they can't eat their soup with their hands and see no resolution to this quandry.

Old ladies are pilfering desserts so they have currency to trade for cigarettes and porn can have a snack while touring around Ft. McHenry. Old men are pouring coffee straight down their pants to see if anything is still alive down there. Ok, that second part's not true. But they did go through an exorbitant amount of coffee and this now means that group #2 has to wait for more coffee and dessert. AND THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. THEY DID NOT LIVE THROUGH WWI, WWII, THE GREAT DEPRESSION, ETC, ETC, 17 MILES TO SCHOOL IN SNOW BAREFOOT, ETC. TO SUFFER THIS KIND OF INJUSTICE. Now,  because old people have the same concept of time as dogs, 30 seconds feels like 3 hours. One woman asked a server to get more coffee for the coffee station, and as said server was refilling the coffee urn, this same woman complained that they were out of coffee and that girl is taking longer than 10 seconds and I don't LIKE the way she is defiantly igno - oh here she comes -  well it's ABOUT TIME.

After they've eaten everything they possibly could (read: 4 bites of food and all of our souls), they take their stolen wrapped brownies, shove them in their purses and begin to the arduous journey of trying to figure out where they came in. But not before being sure to complain about every last little detail of the nightmare they have just survived on their way out. How dare we only provide 1-2 brownies per person?! Where are we? Communist Russia? How dare you ration my sweets?!? I HAVE DIABET-US!

*Side Note: There was one incredibly adorable couple of about 85 who held hands the entire time. They are exempt from this post. I would have taken them home, but my fiance still won't let me get a pet*

This foray into the behavior of our elderly friends did nothing to quell my distaste for them, except make me REALLY excited for when I turn 90. I am going to be an insufferable bastard with impossible expectations. I swear to all things holy, if my grandchildren don't pour me a bourbon and warm up my hovercraft in record speed, I cannot be held repsonsible for my actions. *Pulls out Ke$ha CDs* You've been warned.

Car Thoughts I Thought On the Way Home. Vol. 1.

 So, yes, this says Vol. 1, which means there will be more volumes to follow, because let's face it, I have the attention span of a baby squirrel. By this time tomorrow, I will have found 27 new things that will grab a hold of my pea brain and try to make chicken noodle soup. Doesn't make sense you say? This is clearly the first time you're reading my blog. So to make things easy, let's start with 3 things I thought about on the way home from work today. Because if you're anything like me, you're already ready to tap out. (WARNING: I have a 30 minute commute. This won't be pretty).

Chris Carrabba
For those of you who didn't drink a bottle of ANGST every day in high school like me, he is the lead singer of Dashboard Confessional, a.k.a. the original Godfather of Emo.At 5'5'', he is perfectly pocket sized. Plus, he clearly glues his sideburns down with the salt from the tears he's crying as he brushes your hair while simultaneously writing you a poem about his damaged soul that you fixed by butterfly kissing his no-no. He's perfect. I bet you his tears even taste like Chicken Picatta. Mmmmm...delicious pocket serenades at my every whim.

PUPPIES!!!!!!!
They're fluffy, they're sleepy, and every time they give me a nip with their little toothpick teeth an angel tickles my soul. Whenever I hear the word puppy, I SQUEEEEEE!!!!!! Which, ironically, is a sound so high pitched, only puppies can hear it. We were made for each other. I'm so obsessed with puppies that I bought toilet paper because there was a small, fluffy golden puppy frolicking amongst a meadow of butt cotton on the packaging. BONUS: When I didn't get a puppy for Christmas, I made my fiance watch a 7 minute long You Tube video of other people getting puppies for Christmas. I SQUEEEEDDDDD!!!!!! in his face consecutively for 7 minutes to no avail. You would think it was charming that I could talk to puppies but NOOOO......

Sideshow Adam Durtiz
This choice has nothing to do with the Counting Crows or the fact that before Shrek ate him, he sang a bunch of songs about having a seriously suicidal case of the sads. No, this is about THAT HAIR. He is the founder/creator/CEO of a phenomena I like to call Palm Tree Hair. Every time I look at him, I want to sit under his hair with a strawberry daiquiri and ogle the pool boy. PERFECTION. Plus, he pulls like the hottest tail in Hollywood and I guarantee you it's because he promises to take them to his "private island", but instead of an actual beach with sand, he stands underneath a tanning light in a sandbox and they're all like "SWOON!!....you're so environmentally conscious. SIGHHH, I am so jealous of your Escalade." 


Ed. Note: I'm not going to pretend that I wrote this post sober.

Awkward Turtle is Awkward.

Awkward Turtle: a socially stunted  twenty something, usually found wearing attire laden with animals (for the sheer love of fashion, not irony); generally brilliant with poor conversational skills; posture and fear of fellow people resemble that of a turtle; can be found in your apartment complex/laundromat/basement/etc.

*Disclaimer - I am in no way claiming to be an awkward turtle (copyright pending). I think we all know you will never find me anywhere near laundry.*
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^ I have no idea why I felt the need for the above divider, I just like the way the dashes look. It's like you're driving on a road paved with my thoughts and that makes me feel IMPORTANT. Now keep reading about ME:

I fart out awkwardness with reckless abandon. Over the course of three days, I crop dusted awkward over several unsuspecting and undeserving strangers and friends. Read on for a heart warming tale about why I shouldn't be allowed out in public without a chaperone.

First offense: I hijacked a wave meant for someone else. (Well, it could have been meant for me, which makes the following that much more awesome). Now, not only did I turn into a hand greeting terrorist, but the second by brain screamed WRONG, I sprang into action the most awesomely obvious, non-rectifying and quite possibly more humiliating/hilarious move ever created: the-wave-to-hair-stroke recovery.

I would love to regale you with a victory tale about how all of this went unnoticed and no i did not launch into a hysterical giggle fit, thankyouverymuch, but that would be a lie and this post would be unnecessary. No, I upped the ante on this poker match and grossly misjudged the appropriate ratio of eye contact to recovery plan. *Note to future self, when disengaging from theft of gestured pleasantries, ABORT eye contact, I SAID ABORT, DAMMIT!!*

Second offense: Just two days later, I leaned into a goodbye hug with a friend who is a goodbye  cheek kisser. No worries, right? Common situation, what could possibly go wrong. Nothing, I suppose, unless you are a 5'9'' female and said friend is a 5'5'' (that might be generous) male. So he kissed me on the cheek goodbye and at that moment I decided I was unsatisfied with this ending, so I chose my own adventure, turned to page 63 as instructed and went in for the hug. WRONG. Said friend was unaware of my intentions and I fell into him at a downward angle. I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure it was a long way down. Don't worry, I didn't hurt him. I simply stood up, mumbled something incoherently while giggling, half heartedly punched his shoulder and walked out the door. Like a champion.

They say that things always happen in 3's, but I'm really hoping in this case it's not true because I'm pretty sure my awkwardness gave me shingles.

Yikes, now this post is getting awkward. *Retreats back into shell*

Rule #1: Never Turn Down Free Cake. Ever.

Earlier this evening I was indulging in adult libations at my local watering hole when the most rare, random and delicious words were spoken to me: "Hey, do you want some cake?". It was followed with an actual piece of said cake waved in front of my face and let me tell you, it was spectacular...

Now, I am shy by nature. I tend to have a touch of the social awkwardness (juuuuuuust a touch). In normal, familiar circumstances, I WOULD never, HAVE never, turned down free cake. I can't even wrap my head around why a person would knowingly turn down free. fucking. cake. It's caaaaaaaaaake. *drools and waves tongue around inappropriately*

But tonight I was a lone rider. And, BTW, I am the least successful lonesome bar patron. I need a P.I.C. with me at all times. Nevermind that I have worked in a bar for 4 years, shhhhhh.....I suck at making conversation in a situation where I am not being compensated with whatever relevant currency is available (Pesos, Euros, Yen, Dried Macaroni....I'm not greedy). I'm like an intellectual hooker.

So there I was, at the bar, watching football, enjoying my refreshing beverage (water with ice and a straw), when I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime: "Do you want some cake that I convinced my table full of dessert whores celebrating some asshole's birthday to cut JUST FOR YOU?". Whew. I was flattered, I really was. It was that 3 layer buttercream bizzzz.  But I was out of my element and there were pretty girls left and right, who didn't even look twice at the cake. That sounds bad. Let me replace "pretty girls" with "emus". Yes, this works better. Anyway, this rendered the cake undesirable......at the moment. Don't ask. I'm a woman and the insecurities are too deep to discuss.

Let's flash forward to now. When it's 3:15 in the morning and I am reminiscing about the evening. Oooooh, Le Sigh....remember the cake? Ahhh yes, the cake....feels like it was hours  ago....

I have no shame when it comes to sugary celebrations of someone's achievements. I don't even care if I know you...I want IN. Whether or not I try to recreate said missed opportunity has yet to be proven...

This may have happened when I got home:

Self (well, drunk self): This might be one of the first time we've turned down free cake. WTF.
Brain: You know we have frosting in the fridge.
Self (well, drunker self): Sold. No bread though. Problem?
Brain: WE HAVE FROSTING IN THE FRIDGE.
Self (where am i?): Hmmm...No bread though....
Brain: We have frosting in the fridge and peanut butter in the cabinet
Self (who are yooo-): Nommmmmmmmmmmm......

Lesson Learned: free cake < cake frosting + peanut butter @ 3:45am.

"First you take your ham and slather it with a nice, thick layer of delusion..."

It's approximately 6:50pm on a Tuesday and Rachel Ray is in the background squawking at me like a chicken with a half a pack a day habit about how to cook something with something and something sauce. I'm not really sure because I spent the whole time envisioning a whole chicken running away from her screaming "You're one of us!" while throwing onions at her and trying to shank her with a carrot. He will lose, but it will be one hell of a delicious battle.

But I digress. I'm obsessed. Not with her. I find her infuriating. I only watch her show because I'm not willing to give up 30 solid minutes of staring at food just because she has an unfortunate face/voice/body situation, but I do make it a point to put her on mute so I still win*smug smile*. No, I'm obsessed with the food network. I watch it more than I read smutty gossip blogs and that is saying something because that's pretty much what I do all at day work - and I don't work for a gossip blog.

So anyways, here I am, watching Rachel Ray while she pecks relentlessly at my eye balls, when it hits me. I could do that, nay, I SHOULD do that. What's "that" you ask? Why, only follow and accomplish, beyond successfully, my childhood dream, that's what!

See, many, many, many years ago when I was just a shy little girl with a vivid imagation and bouts of hyperactivity, I spent a lot of time playing alone. And that meant that I had a lot of time to start nurturing the portion of  the brain that sprouts giant stalks of crazy. Of the many ventures I embarked on - all in my brain, of course - one of my most favorites was hosting a cooking show in our kitchen. *Side bar - I have also been a teacher (even imaginary students are assholes), novelist (true story. I actually wrote 13 pages before my self diagnosed ADD intervened), and celebrated actress (I have won more Academy Awards than probable - I still win, at least once, if not twice, every year)*

Now, what exactly did I teach my aodring and eager audience (flour & sugar tins and probably a small plant)? Ham and cheese roll ups. With Mayo. No bread, though, because this was the after school snack episode. Yes, my foray into the culinary world of fake television began with walking my viewers, step by painstaking step, through the process of taking slices of ham and cheese (whatever you happen to have on hand!), adding a layer of mayo and then rolling it up. And repeat. Nom. Fucking. Nom.

I'm like the Giada DeLaurentiis of deli meats and processed cheese. Someone call the Food Network, STAT, and tell them to pink slip all their current chefs, because their services are no longer needed.

If Cleanliness is Next to Godliness, Then I'm Clearly Satan

I've been inherently lazy since I was just your typical baby hanging out inside my hotel room, minding my own and contemplating room service, until the cleaning lady came and tried to kick me out early, even though I requested a late check out. Well, I rightfully refused and told Housekeeping where to shove it by hooking my foot under my mother's rib cage until they called Security and I was forced to turn in my key card around 12:18pm. Customer Service is a dying art.

Anyways, as I got older, it didn't get any better. When I was just a Small, I developed an aversion to showers. My dad even tried appealing to the classist in me by threatening my social status and telling me that I was going to be the smelly kid in class and did I really want that? I answered his question by playing in the sewer in our front yard.

Now, it's not that I don't like showering. I do. I'm just incredibly, mind bogglingly lazy to a point that I want one of those grabbers my 90 year old grandma had so I can reach the remote when it's fallen on the floor and my fiance isn't home to get it for me. I'm even too lazy to ride around on a Hover-Round cause they just seem like to much of a hassle and I'll probably end up running over someone's small child (On purpose. If I hear a small child violently raping my ear drums with it's scream, I'm going to run it over. Fair's fair).

Showering is just a lot of work. I miss the days when I was a bartender and I could get away with not showering every day because the smell of a 3-day bender is like catnip to your customers. Now I work in a small office where my space heater wafts my new smell of defeat in every direction like a goddamn slap in the face. Every time I walk into the office, I want to apologize to my boss and explain that I didn't shower today because the thought of getting up at 7:30am still makes me want to dry heave after a year and a half of doing it. So, I get up at 8:00 instead, begrudgingly, and quite frankly, you're lucky I'm wearing clean clothes (probably not).