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.*
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

^ 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).