Tag Archives: relationships

That Time I Didn’t Go To Barcelona On A Toy Plane

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Dad:  So when I got to Kentucky, I unpacked my bags and I was brushing my teeth in the hotel room…

Me: yea?

Dad:  But then, I realized there was something awry.  The toothpaste was really, really white and tingly.

Me:  Umm…

Dad:  And you’re probably realizing now, what it took me about two more minutes to realize.

Me:  Oh no….NO!

Dad:  Oh, Yes.  Preparation H.

Me:  What? I thought you were gonna say Ben Gay.  Come on, seriously?

Dad:  I used an entire bottle of mouthwash, chewed a pack of gum, and a case of mints, but I couldn’t get that taste out of my mouth for about three hours.

Me:  Did your tongue shrink?

Listen, even though I just shared a completely personal story with you at my father’s expense, that I might have promised I wouldn’t tell, there is still no excuse for my absence.  I realize I dropped off the face of the earth recently.  That is actually me in the picture above. And then, of course, after that happened, I required reconstructive surgery so that set me back another 3 weeks.  I apologize.

So let’s see, what could we talk about? That time I got robbed by drug dealers cus I didn’t realize my boyfriend was a heroin addict?  Nah.  How about the time I decided to fly to Barcelona in the middle of the night on a broken toy plane? Winner!

londonWhile I was living in London, I did quite a bit of traveling around Europe.  This was due partly to the fact that we had four day weekends, and the remainder of the week… I never went to class.   I had an excess of time on my hands, so to speak.  This guy I met in London, we’ll call him Lenny, was sort of like my London Kenny, or my long lost brother, or something.   One night, we were sitting in the computer lab.

Lenny:  Let’s go somewhere tonight.

Me:  Like, a club?

Lenny:  Like a country.

Me: Well, I have class tomorrow.

Lenny:  ?

Me:  Good point.  Where do you want to go?

Lenny:  I dunno.  How about Barcelona?

Me:  Eh, I’ve never been to Spain, sounds good.

Lenny:  MMMk. I got us tickets for the red eye.

After being hurled over and ready to puke on the two hour bus ride that brought us to the airport, we were finally ready for lift-off.   It’s 1 am, and I’m starving, nauseous, and pissed off.  Plus, I’m deathly afraid of flying as it is.  We sat there, strapped in, for about an hour.

Me: Um, why is the inside of this plane bright yellow and electric blue?

Lenny: It’s Ryan Air.

Me:  It looks like a toy.  Or IKEA.  And this seat is like, plastic.  Wait. Are we on a toy plane? Holy crapballs, I’m about to fly to Barcelona on a toy plane.

Listen, I’m not a technical genius, so I’ll go ahead and say they announced that the plane was broken.OH really? It was necessary for us to sit ON THE PLANE, while you examined it’s brokenness?  Then, we needed to wait in line with all 300 people to get the tix refunded. We wait.  We wait.  Alas, the sun is coming up and they tell us the flight is cancelled – so we could get off.

Lenny:  Here, you’re exhausted.  Just sit down and I’ll wait in line for us.

I try to get food, but who knew NONE of the middle-eastern airport quickie marts are open in the middle of the night. I sit down on the only available seat, next to a portly man who was slowly falling asleep and smelt like the Dollar Menu.  After a few minutes, he starts snoring.  The snoring increases in volume until I start to lose my mind.  Lenny looks at me from the line and can see the look of desperation and sheer disgust on my face.  All the sudden, I completely lost it and burst out with inappropriate laughter, which I tend to do when I’m fasting, haven’t slept in two days, and sat on a plane all night in order to not go to Barcelona.

…And I kept laughing all the way home, while on the bus, where I almost ate Lenny’s arm and then threw up on the seat in front of me.

Other posts you should read:

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

So, You’re Telling Me You’re Not MARRIED?!

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

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As usual, I couldn’t sleep. I ended up watching a classic movie called Penny Serenade.  You know, black & white. Cary Grant. Some prude who never takes off her apron and always buttons her shirt to the top.

I have two words for this movie: lame.

I realize that classic movies are supposed to be the height of Hollywood glamor and awesomeness, but man, they suck. Hardcore. Total snoozefest. I’d rather watch a Matthew McConaughey chick flick. But you know what? I think I’ll keep it on my shelf so people can still think of me as one of those people who appreciates old movies.  As a matter of fact, I’ll set it right next to my antique copy of War & Peace that I’m not even going to pretend that I’ve ever cracked open, which looks great right next to my vintage camera that I’ve never used.

This conversation naturally makes me think of other things that I dislike: women.

When I think back on it, women really haven’t changed all that much since elementary school, when I’d come home and burst out into the ugly cry over something a mean girl did.  I was hoping that when I got past college, they would stabilize.  Nope.  Still crazy. Although the reasons behind the craziness may have changed with time, they are still, very much, crazy.  Hating other women for no good reason. Asking their boyfriends the world’s most stupid questions. Flipping out on poor unsuspecting men.  Bursting with ravenous jealousy. I can’t even count how many women I’ve been told that hate me, that have never actually talked to me.

Let’s look at a few demonstrations of female behavior over the past twenty years of my life.p_792662

[4th GRADE: the betrayals begin]

Me:  Hey Annie, wanna come over tonight and we can organize our sticker collections? [Yes, we really had them]

Annie:  Um, actually, I’m going to Becky’s house after school.  Oh, I don’t think I told you that we had a talk and she wants to be “secret best friends” with JUST me.  Isn’t that mean?

Me: Psssh!  YEA!  I thought we were all best friends?

Annie:  Yea, but she wants to leave you out.

Me:  Well you told her that was a stupid, crappy idea, right?

Annie:  Well, actually…um…. we ARE secret best friends now. Just her and I.

Me:  UM, so I see that our three-way best friend NECKLACES mean nothing to you! Huh? You lying, backstabbing, dirty little tramp!

[10th GRADE: the unwarranted hatred and jealousy begin]

Friend:  [leaning in so close to me that I’m forced inside my locker] Amber doesn’t like you!

Me: What? Wait. Who the heck is Amber?

Friend:  The girl who hangs out with Margie.

Me:   I don’t even know her.

Friend:  But she’s totally spreading rumors about you!

Me:  What?  Rumors? But why?

Friend: Well, she likes Andy.  But Andy likes you.

Me:  Ok. But how can I help THAT?  Besides, I wouldn’t date Andy in a million bagillion years.

Friend:  Well. She’s pissed. And she’s telling everyone you’re a spoiled beotch!

Me: Spoiled? That isn’t even kinda true. I work at Chuck E. Cheese and drive a 1964 Dodge?

42-17401848

 

[25 YEARS OLD: the false rumors and accusations begin]

Me:  You know who I really like?  Sandy.  She’s so nice.

Co-worker:  OH, that’s weird. Cus Sandy is not a fan of you.

Me:  Not a fan?

Co-worker:  I overheard her talking to someone, but I can’t say who.  Anyway, she said that the boss favors you cus you got Employee of the Month again.

Me:   But I out-performed everyone in the department?  They would be breaking their own rules by not giving it to me.

Co-worker:   Well I don’t know.  That’s just what I overheard.

Me: What am I supposed to do?  Suck at everything so Sandy will like me?

Co-worker:  I’d try to stay on her good side if I were you.  She’s telling everyone that you’re cheating on your boyfriend.

Me:  WTF?  I don’t even have a boyfriend.

As we can see, there is no rhyme, reason or logic going on here. And I’m not saying I hate all women. Just the ones who are ridiculous.

I have some fabulous lady friends.

OTHER PARTS TO THIS SERIES:

Why I Hate Women Part 7 of 8,964: Mind Warp Trivia

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

 

 

 

 

 

Breast Pumping Your Way To A Free Mocha

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There’s something magical that happens the very instant you become a mom.  I’m not sure of the details because I have not yet crossed that shaky domestic bridge, but from what I can gather: you become the cheapest person alive. 

My very best friend is a new mom.  I get in her car and immediately she throws the largest coupon organizer of ALL TIME onto my lap.  The coupons were alphabetically organized. “This is going to get us through the day,” she said with a grin.  First, we roll up to McDonald’s because she has a buy one extra value meal, get one free sandwich coupon.   I thought, “ok, thats fine, free sandwich.”  For the next 10 (and I am NOT exaggerating) mins, I was but an innocent bystander to the following drive thru conversation:

friend:  Yes, can I get the grilled chicken value meal? 

lady:   Sure.   Drink?

friend: I’d just like water and actually I don’t want any fries with that cus I’m trying to lose weight.  And then I’d like another grilled chicken sandwich, lettuce only. 

lady: Okaaaaay.  $9.42. 

friend:  And no mayonnaise on both.  (we pull ahead to the window and she hands over the coupon)  Okay, I have a coupon, so I should get the second sandwich free.

lady:  OKAY. SO  your new total is $6.12

friend: UM.  Hmm.. Now, shouldn’t the total be less than that?  Because the sandwich is free and I only ordered an extra value meal -but I didn’t even get fries and I only got water.

lady:  Well, why don’t you just order two sandwiches then? 

friend: Because the coupon says I have to order an extra value meal in order to get the other sandwich free.

lady: OKAY. SO you want the extra value meal, with just the sandwich and the water?

friend: Yes.

lady: Well, the bottled water is actually more expensive than the other drinks, so it’s still going to be that amount.

friend: Ok, then no water.

lady: OKAY. SO you just want  the extra value meal – with no fries and no drink?

friend: Yes, that is correct.

(at this point, the lady is rendered speechless and has to get the manager)

(this is also the point when I call my dad and have a five minute conversation, while trying not to leap out the car window and thrust myself into moving traffic.)

drive-thruFinally, they tell her just to pay three dollars and they hand over the sandwiches.  As we’re leaving, she tells me that later we’ll have to go back cus the Mochas are buy one get one free from 2:00-5.   Then we go to Baby’s R Us.  She rolls up to the checkout with a cart full of stuff and hands the elderly cashier AN ENTIRE STACK  of coupons.  Then, she says:

friend: But here’s the thing, they are all expired.

cashier: Um, so you want to use a stack of expired coupons for your purchases?

friend:  Yes.  George said it was okay because I live out of town and only come around once a week.

cashier:  George doesn’t work here anymore.  Let me get the manager.  (at this point, I start to get uncomfortable)

friend:  Oh, and I’m supposed to get a free box of diapers because I bought three Pamper products.

(Knowing what is about to come, I just walk away.  I stand by the door for a good 15 mins before going to the car, where I waited for another 10 minutes.)

As soon as she gets in the car, I tell her that she took so long that we might miss the 2-5 time frame in which to get the free mocha at McDonald’s.   I start driving, when I notice some rustling in the passenger seat.  Before I know it, she has plugged in her breast pump and was holding two empty bottles.  I just looked over  and she says, “Don’t you worry, I got this under control.”   We ended the day by going to JCPenney, where the clearance items were also buy one get one free.  Then there was yet another confrontation with an elderly cashier when my friend asked if she could do two separate purchases in order to get more things free.  The lady said that wasn’t really fair to JCPenney, to which my friend replied that she has to do what’s fair for her wallet. 

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

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It’s no wonder I don’t make any sense. I’m a combination of two polar opposites, who by all rights, should never have met much less married.   My mother came from a Nazi-strict household where she wasn’t allowed to see movies or go to football games, for fear she would encounter Satan himself. She also wasn’t allowed to celebrate Christmas which explains why we have presents piled from the floor to the ceiling every Dec. 24 and a Christmas tree in every room of the house – including bathrooms.  Except the bathrooms are small and the only space is above the toilet… and that can get prickly.

My father, on the other hand, had no parental guidance, unless you’re including alcoholics.  He took off when he was 18, with nothing but $60 bucks and a dream in his pocket. That dream, consisted entirely, of doing nothing.

For years, my hippie father hitchhiked across the country, attending approximately 4 different colleges and surviving on randomness and sheer luck.  For awhile he slept on a beach in Destin (no, no- not in a house, on the actual beach), working part time on a fishing boat – until he discovered he was very prone to seasickness.  Then he camped out in the Rocky mountains, where he was told it was perfectly fine to drink “the fresh spring water.”  But that person had been grossly mistaken.  So he headed out West.

Me: So, whippie-dad2here did you stay when you were traveling?

Dad: With whomever took us in.  One time I stayed at the Cadillac Motel for a buck twenty-five.

Me: Cadillac Motel? Was it decorated with car memorabilia or something?

Dad:  Not exactly.  It was an open field with a bunch of old Cadillacs up on cinder blocks.  With a mattress inside.

Eventually, he made his way out to San Francisco where his older brother awaited.  They thought it was a great idea to start a moving business called “We Merry Movers,” for which they had no insurance.

Dad: One time, we had this expensive leather couch and we were taking it down the stairs and it caught on something and sliced open the entire back.

Me:  So, what happened?

Dad: We set that side against the wall and started a different business.

my-momThen for a while, my dad went to school at Illinois State University, where he lived in a farmhouse with five other guys, out in the middle of a cornfield.

Me: So that house must have been crazy.

Dad:  All we did was drink until there wasn’t anything else to drink.  One of the guys worked at a liquor store and stole booze so he could resell it and pay the rent.  It was like a black hole. We were in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t even save enough gas money to drive to the next town.

Me: That house must have been filthy.

Dad:  Yea, we cleaned our floor about once a year….   in beer.

Finally, my dad would make his way back home, where he played in a band and started to get his life together.   One snowy night, my mother, a shy and gorgeous woman, happened to be dragged out to a party where they were playing.

Me: So, how on earth did you meet someone like mom?

Dad:   We were at this party.  I was walking by the front door, when it opened and your mother tripped on a pile of snow and fell through.  I went to help her up and all I could think was, “This woman is hot.  I don’t know anything about her…but I’ll figure out a way to love her.”

Me: So …?

Dad: So as she was leaving, I ran out and wrote my number in the sleet on her windshield.  That probably wasn’t the best idea, considering her defrost was on.  A year later we got married on my birthday.  You know, that way I would always remember the date.

Needless to say, by my mother’s mesmerizing powers of persuasion and the grace of God, my father changed his ways.  And I couldn’t have custom built a better set of parents.  I adore them.

…But that doesn’t mean I still can’t blame all my issues on you.

Love ya!

p.s sorry about stealing those pictures and broadcasting them on the internet.  you guys still don’t even know what a blog is right?  so we still cool, right?

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

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brit-boyWhat exactly is it with the Recycle Bin on my desktop?  And why is it that every time I go to empty it, I accidentally delete it?  And why is it that when I go to search for it in my computer, it says ‘no results found?’   And why is my computer trying so hard to protect the location of my recycle bin?  Makes me think there’s something shady going on behind my back. ..All of this recycle bin talk makes me think of daddy issues. I’m not exactly sure  how my brain draws correlations like this, but lucky for you it does… or this entire blog would be about the quest to locate my recycle bin.  And even I couldn’t be mildly entertained by that.

I  think it’s a fair assumption to say that all signs point to the fact I was probably supposed to be a boy. In fact, I don’t know how I ever ended up wearing makeup or having a non-butch haircut, but miracles do happen.  It all started when my parents moved to the middle of nowhere and the only kid my age was a boy named Christian.  For more on that experience, go here.  So I grew up doing boyish things, which I think had alot to do with the fact that my dad tried to make me into a boy by subtly sabotaging my girlishness and preying upon my weaknesses.

Dad:  Hey, wanna help me stack hay in the barn…. it’ll be real fun?

Me: Um.  Not really…(Just about anything with my dad is fun when I was 7… but even then I knew that would totally blow chunks)

Dad: Afterward we’ll go get pizza and ice cream.

Me:  Hand over the pitchfork.

[The next day…]

playing-schoolDad:  Hey, can you give mom and I a hand in transporting all these stones to the flower garden?

Me:  Well…actually, I had big plans to ride my bike in about five minutes.

Dad:  You can get some office supplies next time we go to the store.

Me:  Hmm…that’s tempting, but I don’t know…

Dad:  AND I’ll play school with you later.  You can quiz me with spelling words on the chalkboard.

Me:  Sigh.  You know that’s an offer I can’t refuse.  Where’s the gloves?

Some might say this was a mild form of child abuse. But I knew deep down I was just yet another girl with daddy issues, living the life of a victim.  As I got older, I branched out into friendships with women, which I quickly realized were not nearly as carefree and easy going as my friendship had been with dear, sweet, uncomplicated Christian.  It didn’t take me long to realize that “daddy issues” may possibly mean a whole lot more than being coerced into helping tear down a wall, or tiling a bathroom floor (my parents did a lot of remodeling okay?)  This trying time in my life led to the statistic that 80% of my friends are now male.

With further analization I actually discovered that I didn’t have daddy issues in the same sense that most girls did.  My dad wasn’t in the slammer, he was eating dinner with us every night.  He didn’t lock himself in the den with a scowl on his face and refuse to play ‘childish games.’  He didn’t cut me down or give me a body image complex, in fact he was pretty fabulous.  One day, it finally occurred to me. I was suffering from the absence of daddy issues.

But honestly, I don’t think there is enough attention given to the absence of daddy issues…  It can cause some pretty big problems when it comes to dating:

Me:  What are you talking about?!?  So what you’re saying is, you don’t know how to replace my transmission with your eyes closed?

….You can’t build a doghouse out of an orange peel?

….Are you telling me that you have never built a gazebo from a scratch using only a pocketknife?

….You mean, you can’t explain to me for the fifteenth time how the electoral college works? This just isn’t going to work.

And so my life would continue, forever in shocking disappointment. All thanks to my dad.

brit-is-a-boy

So You’re Telling Me You’re Not MARRIED?!

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Hold on to your clip on ties. I want you to pop a squat and take a moment to regret all the stupid decisions that you’ve made today.  And since you’re probably gonna break a sweat, I’m gonna cool you off with a tropical breeze of insightful knowledge.

My mom gave me a vacuum and a cactus as a housewarming present.  Half of this gift confused me.  The vacuum was a given, considering, along with mowing the grass, that is my mom’s second favorite pastime.  We don’t have sufficient time right now, or a licensed psychologist, to get into the mechanics of why exactly these are my mom’s favorite pastimes. But a cactus?

Mom: “You need to have some other living thing to keep you company.  And this is the only thing that’s impossible to kill.”

Fair enough.  But as of last night, I can say with all the conviction of an OJ Simpson trial, that my mother has been officially wrong about something in her life.  That cactus is a goner.  And as I was dumping it out into my garbage can, I thought, “What kind of person can’t keep a cactus alive?” The answer, unmistakably blaring in my eardrums like a bad ACDC cover band, was:  the kind of person that probably shouldn’t procreate.

Maybe I subconsciously killed it cus I hate all things Southwestery. I don’t know.  That being said, there’s not a solitary day that goes by when I don’t break out into a musical-esque song and dance like something out of the Sound of Music or a freecreditreport.com commercial, rejoicing over the fact that I’m not married yet, nor do I have any illegitimate children.  This is not merely due to my phobia surrounding all things associated with commitment, but also due to the fact that if I’d of married any of my previous boyfriends – I’d be taking a sightseeing trip to the Brooklyn Bridge very soon.  So I could effectively end my life by jumping into that ice-cold, watery abyss.

weddings1I find, however, that the rest of the world doesn’t participate in my joy.  Considering the bulk of my time is divided equally between:  being in weddings, attending baby showers, and trying not to eat the entire box of ice cream right before bed – I’m around alot of “committed people.”  Here’s a quick sound bite from last weekend’s baby shower:

Friend’s Granny:  My, I haven’t seen you in ages.  Let me see that hand.  Wait…. WHAT?!

Me:  Hey, good to see you too.  How’s the assisted living complex?

Friend’s Granny:  You’re NOT MARRIED?!

Me:  Nope.  Not yet.  Wow, you look exactly the same.  …So, what’s been going on with you?

Friend’s Granny:  Wait, I thought your boyfriend proposed to you in Paris?

Me:   Well, turns out he was bipolar, who knew.  And too Italian. And his breath was funky at random times.

Friend’s Granny:   Well, I thought I heard you were going steady with some boy you met in London, what happened to him?

Me:   Yea.  Yea, I was.  Heroin addict.   Oops. ….So, do you still play Bingo every Thursday?

Friend’s Granny:  But what ever happened to that first boy you were with?  He was so …

Me:  Um…  He was a “musician.”  So, you know, he needed to follow his music.

Friend’s Granny:  Well, are you at least dating someone?!?

Me:  Yes, he’s very nice.

Friend’s Granny: He’s nice? Well, then why haven’t you snatched him up yet? You better get him before someone else does!!

Me:   Um.  What? I’m not quite ready.

Friend’s Granny:   You’re running out of TIME!

Me:  Time? Like, as in my lifespan?   Didn’t you just turn 92?

Friend’s Granny:  Can you at least do me one small favor?

Me:  Sure. What’s that?

Friend’s Granny:  The next time I see you, can you at the very least have a baby?

Other articles you  might enjoy:

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

What Women Really Want

Paris Can Bite Me

Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend

 

Oh Yea, That Time I Got Dysentery In Mexico

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I’m putting on the cloak of honesty right now.  It’s not even mine, I borrowed it permanently from a friend.  But still, you know what’s coming.

Please listen carefully:  All my Facebook amigos, I love you.  Really, I do.  Because of this ingenious billion dollar idea, [that again, I couldn’t seem to have thought of because I was too busy planning other people’s weddings or dating inappropriate men or getting dysentery in Mexico] I’ve gotten in touch with a lot of you who I probably would have never heard from again.  Ok, so maybe it wasn’t so genius.  That being said, you should know that the very moment you completed one of those ridiculous quizzes you were deleted from my status updates…

You have not and will not be given a second chance.  I apologize, I wish I were as kind as God.  I have so many tragic and exciting updates to scroll through, that I can’t take time to read about “What Your Favorite Color Says About You” or “What Breed Of Dog Are You Most Like.” Well guess the heck what?  That’s pretty fricken lame and you’re never gonna be a Jane Austin character OR a country.

So back when I was 19, I was in a wedding. Three weeks later I ended up in Xalapa, Veracruz with a girl who was also in the wedding.  Alright, well I guess that’s it.  Have a good day!  …So this girl had studied abroad in Mexico and wanted to go back.  For some ungodly reason, I cleared out my bank account and volunteered to go with her to a foreign country, known for human trafficking and drug smuggling.

hair-gel-mexicoI’m going to go ahead and say that this was one of the best times of my life. We had absolutely no agenda for our trip except eating enchiladas, getting tan, not throwing up, and salsa dancing every night.

I’d like to take a moment to point out some of the the highlights of my trip.  If you’ll notice in the picture, that is me standing atop one of the oldest and steepest Mayan Pyramids, which was a five mile hike from civilization, in 100% humidity and 110 degree weather.  Have I mentioned that I can’t usually walk to my kitchen without needing a puff from my inhaler?  You’ll also notice that I’m wearing platform sandals, which I wouldn’t recommend for such an ambitious feat.  You should also know that I’m scared of heights. You should also know that this is the exact moment when I started to get amoebic dysentery, or something akin to it, from accidentally using tap water to brush my teeth.

I had to be carried half of the way back.  Oh, did I mention there are no toilet seats in this part of Mexico? And did I mention that a mean lady rations you one square of toilet paper when you walk in the bathroom?

We stayed with some college guys.  They were possibly the nicest and most hilarious people I’ve ever met – I couldn’t understand a word they said.  Hold the phone…I may have just discovered the secret to marital bliss. They constantly played these ridiculous Cd’s of American top 100 love ballads – like the discontinued ones that they throw in the dollar bin along with Amy Grant cassettes. They tried to sing along.  It sounded absolutely ludicrous.  You better believe when I left, I gave them a Michael Bolton Greatest Hits CD.

I spent the majority of my days trying to get them to say the word Walmart, because they couldn’t pronounce the letter “w” and for some reason, I found it to be the best free entertainment I’d ever had.  Actually I think I might pull out those videos tonight, I could use a cheap laugh.

mangosOh yea, then there was that time that the boys took us to a random person’s mom’s house and she cooked us a Mexican feast.  I happened to mention that I liked mangoes and some guy spider monkeyed up a tree to hack some down with a machete. I have no idea what his name was.  He was forever memorialized as Tarzan mango guy.

I have so many more stories, it’s a shame.  Honestly though, I’ve never met kinder people in all my life.  It was a fabulous time.  I’ve never been so sick, yet so afraid to seek medical help.  I thought I was going to throw up my spleen.

Paris Can Bite Me

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I want you all to know that it’s so deliriously late right now that I don’t even have any midnight oil left, I’m running on fumes.  Or smoke.  Or whatever would be left after you’ve burnt a crap ton of oil.  Coldplay is my only companion at such an hour, so consider yourselves a priority.  And I’m about to mesmerize you with an amazing story much like the late night infomercial I’m currently watching that has rendered me speechless with it’s magical powers of persuasion.

But, wait, don’t you always burn the midnight oil, therefore, this blog right now really isn’t much of a sacrifice?

What is this CSI?

So. Paris guy.  I’ve briefly mentioned him a couple times, and many of you have asked for further detail.   Well, I’m going to give it to you so you can stop your begging already… you’re more pathetic than my Italian grandma on Thanksgiving.

grandma

grandma:  Look at all this food.  Oh goodness sakes, what am I gonna do with all of this FOOD?  Will someone eat something, please?  Britteny,  can I dish you up some more potatoes, doll?

me:  I can’t breathe.

grandma:  [sounding as if she might burst into the ugly cry] Well, what did I make all this food for then? I don’t have anywhere to put it.  I thought I told you kids to bring your appetites.  Doesn’t anything taste good?  Oh, now it’s going to go to waste.  We can’t waste food, God won’t appreciate that.

me:  It tastes great. Exactly like every Thanksgiving for the past 26 years of my life when we’ve had this conversation.

grandma:  This is terrible. And so is my food. [welling up]

So Paris Guy and I dated a little over a year. He would also be the ex that inspired the blog “Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend” in case you’re wondering.  I discovered he had proposed to his previous fiance in Disneyland.  Wha?

ex: You haven’t ever been to Disneyland?  I can’t BELIEVE that!  I’m taking you there soon.

me: No you’re not.  I am not going to Disneyland.

ex:  But it’s so much fun.

me: How would that be fun for me?  I throw up on rides and Mickey Mouse creeps me out and I hate fairy tales.

Anyway, things were getting rough.  I needed to breathe.  I did what any sensible girl would do in my situation:  I ran away to London.  Of all the great lengths I’ve gone to in my life, I’d have to award myself 5 stars for pulling off this shennanigan.  But then, he came to take me to Paris on Valentine’s Day and my roommate accidentally told me he wanted to propose.  Great.

paris1

I had specifically warned him that I was not ready for marriage.  I wanted to be done with school first.  When we arrived in Paris, I came down with influenza almost instantaneously after setting foot on French soil (my stomach was either rejecting the vast amount of grease I was about to consume, or the impending proposal, or just the French in general).  As we toured the city, in pouring down hail, I could barely hold my head up.  He then took me to see a show at the Moulin Rouge, which ended with him leaving his wallet in the cab and us wandering around the red light district for several hours with no money or way to get home.  The romance was so thick in the air, that I nearly said yes.

cinderellas_castleHe left me with the ring, I don’t know why. Then he went off the deep end and tried to sabotage all my friendships back home… some of the not as close friends actually fell for it.  After I got back, he coerced me into couple’s therapy, but I eventually tried returning the ring, but it got stolen out of my glovebox when I let one of my friends borrow my car.

And I lived happily ever after without him.

 

Kenny Chronicles: Technologically Challenged

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So Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I are doing some errands around town, when my mom calls:

Mom:  I have a pretty serious problem.

Me: What’s wrong?!?

Mom:  I can’t watch any of my shows.   And Dancing With The Stars is premiering tonight and I can’t watch that either!

Me:  Why? Do you want me to tape it?

Mom:  Well your dad said we need some kind of box to watch local channels now.  They’re all fuzzy.  Except I remind him to get one everyday, but he forgets to get one everyday.

Me:  A digital converter box?

Mom:  Is that the thing that will make the channels clear?

Me:  Yes.  Well, I could pick one up for you – I’m just running some errands.

Mom:  Well can you get it tonight?  I’ve already missed two weeks.

So Kenny and I go to Best Buy. Normally, my independent side refuses to ask for any kind of help from an associate.  I don’t know why, but we certainly don’t have time to diagnose that tonight.  I was in a HUGE rush, so as soon as we enter the door, I cringe a little and ask the security guy where the digital converter boxes are.  He says, “See the Home Theater sign?  Right under that.”  Sweet.  That doesn’t sound complicated.

Kenny and I reach the Home Theater section and wander up and down a few aisles.  Neither of us see anything resembling what we’re looking for.  We loiter around for a bit and I make eye contact with two associates, but they were helping other people.

digital-converter-boxMe:  Well, they HAVE to be here!  Do you see anything?

Kenny:  Really?  Look who you’re talking to.  Just ask someone or we’ll be here all day.

So a guy walks by and says he’ll be with me in a minute, but the minute never came.  Eventually, I can’t wait any longer so I told Kenny to wait where he was and I’d get some help.

Me:  Sir, I’m sorry.  I’m in a huge rush.  I just really need to find the digital converter boxes. I was told they’re in this section but I can’t find anything.

Best Buy Guy:  Oh, sure.  [he comes over to me and points] See right where that guys is?

Me: Yea.

Best Buy Guy:  He’s leaning right on em.  There’s a stack about 8’x4′.

And there it was.  The most gigantic pile of digital converter boxes that there ever was. And there was Kenny, just leaning on them with a confused look on his face.  Obviously, I had to snap a picture so I could make a public mockery of the moment.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

What Women Really Want

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Come on in.  Pop open a cold one (non-alcoholic, of course, cus I need you to keep it classy and focus on what I’m saying).  Grab all your friends and sit Indian style on the mat.  Please don’t be concerned if you can’t sit Indian style, the more important problem is, why don’t you have any friends?   Men, I especially want you to listen up.  Hurricane honesty is about to blow you away.   Sorry Mary, there’s no spoonful of sugar with this Robitussin.  Just the cold,  green, mystery flavor your mother used to shovel down your throat.  So let’s recap what we already know:

1. We want you to be nice. But not too nice, Nicey McCallaghan.

2. We want you to pay attention to us. But watch it, Smothery McFerguson.

3. We want you to give us our way. But only half the time, Doormat McPushoverPants.

Alright, so now that I’ve given you a month to digest that very scientific and logical information, we can move on to Part II:

christina-aguilera-and-husband4.  We want you to be funny. But not a comedian with a complex that has to make a joke out of everything or he has no self-worth because he used to get beaten up at the bus stop or something.  Got that?  If you can’t make us bust a gut, then it’s OVER, Snoresville McGee.  You know how you always get perplexed when you see a fine lookin lady with an awkward geek who is unfortunate looking?  Well that’s cus she just dumped her rich, gorgeous underwear model for the guy who works the late shift at Taco Bell because he cracked a joke when he handed over her Chalupa.   Yea.  I never said these were smart decisions.  But they are what we choose, nonetheless.

5. We want you to be manly. But over the years it seems that you’ve taken this to mean stubbly and un-showered with a beer belly?  No, no.  Just because you shower, shave regularly, and don’t wear brown shoes with black pants it doesn’t mean that you’re not a man.  P.S.  it won’t KILL you to do a face mask or a pore strip once in a while.  You’ll still be allowed to shoot people on Call of Duty.

6. We want you to be romantic. The problem is, you’ve taken this idea of “romance” and twisted it into a pretzel of ungodliness.  It’s downright scary, what you’ve done.  I think the underlying roses-with-babies-breathproblem is somewhere along the line there was a glitch in the matrix and you guys got terribly confused by the term: romantic.

I’ll tell you what it doesn’t mean: red roses with baby’s breath (and perhaps a fern), heart-shaped pendant necklaces (actually, heart-shaped anything), stuffed animals with mushy sayings, “gamble chocolates” with mystery fillings, or an attempt at writing us poetry.  [[Sigh]]   So really, the bottom line here is creativity.  So maybe we should rephrase this to say – we want you to be creative.

Can I get a witness ladies?

Remember it.  Write it down.  Fold it up.  Tuck it in your jockstrap.  And have a more successful life.

You’re welcome.