Bubble Letter Life

Sometimes people say "You get hit on all the time!" like it's flattering in some way. The people who hit on me are always disgusting. Here's an example.

About ten minutes ago a man came into my office with "Thug Life" tattooed on his forearms. Was it in Old English? Some weird intimidating font? Nope. It was in bubble letters.

Strike one.

"MMMMMMMMMMMM. I see you're not married." The old dinnertime noise/reminder of time slipping away combo. It's a wonder you're randomly hitting on women.

Strike two.

"Your boyfriend is truly blessed." You think God is real.

Strike three.

So there you have it, getting hit on is not awesome.

Smash Mothers

So tonight an old lady hit my car while it was parked. She managed to hit it so hard that it's most likely totaled. Phone calls were made, her grandson and kids showed up, and his parents forced him to lift up his shirt and reveal his yin yang sun hip tattoo.

This poor lady told us that her husband was at the hospital up the road after having a stroke. She was way too old to be driving and cried that she was going to lose her license and independence. I felt so awful for her. I can't even imagine dealing with the loss of freedom and having to look mortality in the face like that.

Fortunately, this happened right after an improv rehearsal, so we were able to just stand around and joke as much as we could. Even the stressed out family had fun. The cop that came out was a level 10 illegal babe.

I have no idea what the insurance company will say tomorrow, but I am really glad that even though my car is probably totaled, I can make the best out of a shit situation. I'm glad everyone around me is healthy and that I am not anywhere near having my independence taken away. Bringing a little levity to the situation and being around other people in the same mindset made me feel even more focused and confident that pursuing comedy is the right thing for me.

Cheesy, I know.

The tow truck driver told me that his wife left him for a pizza man. I said "she probably had some weird pizza sauce fetish or something." He laughed and said "Mushrooms and shit." I said "I bet you'll miss her less if you imagine her as a pizza," and he agreed.

I will keep my fingers crossed for insurance money and the possibility that officer Keith will use the phone number the took for the police report to make contact and carry me around like a fragile whispering flower.

Funny/Not Funny

Me: I love my parents a lot

Person: that is cool, my dad is dead and my mom is crazy

! (?) !

So, this one time in Ann Arbor...

Oh, Hello!

Sometimes when you're young you tell lies. Usually they just float off into the Cosmos, never to be seen again. Occasionally they are remembered and you have to deal with them. The link below will take you through the wardrobe to an audio snippet of an example of the latter from the archives of my personal life.

http://oralfixations.tumblr.com/

Compliments... I don't understand.

Dear Future Jenny,

If you are trying to compliment someone, don't say "when I first met you, I didn't think I'd like you," just go straight for the "you are cool," or leave it alone altogether.

Thanks,

Past and Present Jenny

Social Networking Triumph

The second human male I can remember having a crush on is my facebook friend. He's very sexy, and he's very stupid. I'd like to, once again, take a minute to thank the technology Gods for helping me reconnect. He posted this today:

"NAME THIS PERSON... A radical, left wing, anti America, SOCIALIST running who threatens to undermine the American family and the American way of life with liberal policies. One who can't provide a US birth cert and used mainstream media to get elected by the uneducated, and the scared people falling fast into foreclosure. One w/racist ties who won't put his hand over his heart during the national anthem."

Yes! He's a birther! Best day ever.

Ha-rumph.

The first time I ever really kissed a guy with tongue I was in my parents' basement attempting to sneak some cookies while he went to the bathroom. He got back more quickly than I anticipated and ended up shoving his tongue in a mouth full of chewed cookie. Today I noticed that he has a picture of himself with a faux hawk holding some sort of huge snake around his neck. I'd like to thank social networking sites for taking a gross situation and making it completely vomit inducing.

Mad (TJ) Maxx: Post Apocalyptic Bargain Hunting, Jean Spirit Posession

I am not a bargain shopper. I like deals as much as the next human, but there is always a hidden price to pay- and in the case of deals, that hidden price is having to deal with bargain hunters. They are a terrifying breed, usually foaming at the mouth and accompanied by several starving and damned creatures (typically in child form). Overall, I think it's worth paying a 30% mark up to avoid dealing with them. True as that is, yesterday I came to a devastating realization- I'm pretty broke. I'm pretty broke and I yearn for new clothes.

My mind immediately flashed to my childhood. Memories of bargain shopping at TJ Maxx with my best friend and her mother flooded my mind. Discounted Polo socks, a tempestuous sea of closeout Tommy Hillfiger shirts and people who desperately need them... everything the department store couldn't sell, thrown to the vultures. Next thing I knew, I was on my way to TJ Maxx.

Pulling up, I reassured myself that it was my tendency to over blow the true horror of everyday situations that was causing me to cringe at the thought of sorting through racks of clothing for that Special Find. My best friend is still a dedicated bargain hunter, and although she's not quite to the foaming mouth stage (she'll definitely get there as she ages), she insists that if you search hard enough you'll find a reasonably priced hidden gem. She also has a tendency to make better life decisions than I do, so I take her recommendations pretty seriously. Channeling her bargain hunter patience and spirit, I walked through the dirty glass doors. Inside: End times.

Blinding fluorescent lights, the scent of anticipation and grandma perfume. Packs of creatures banding together, wildly grabbing tags. Female humanoids snarling, feasting on gaudy handbags. Shoe fortresses, forests of active wear. Unaccompanied children, a surprising array of candy from around the world. The sounds of children, old shopping carts, and Rod Stewart. At the end of it all- me. Wide eyed, heart pumping, attempting to map the place out as quickly as possible.

My main goal was to purchase a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans (and live to wear the items). My eyes darted to the t-shirt selection- taken over by a tribe. A female leader, six small tribesman. They looked vicious, like they wouldn't have a problem chewing through my ankles if I were to impede their perusing. No bueno. I immediately turned to the denim. A shapeless creature molesting every pair. I'd rather risk molestation than being nibbled by potentially cannibalistic t-shirt hunters. I slowly closed in the the denim, then, to my size. The molester was breathing heavily, but safely four sizes on the other side of me. The cannibal tribe spread out, war cries echoed throughout the open aisles. I immediately felt a sense of familiarity... these are the same jeans from my childhood.

I stared into the prehistoric jean rack and remembered walking with my thumbs through my belt loops. I remembered loudly declaring that I would only wear JNCO's (self expression). I remembered purple and red and green jeans so tight that my bones were almost too constrained to properly develop. I remembered that my middle name is Jean, and that my last name is Bloomer. I considered that my name could translate to Jennifer Pants Underwear. I remembered peeing my jeans at the age of 13. I remembered wearing bell bottoms. My whole life in jeans was swirling around my head. Possessed by the great spirit of jeans past, I felt my hand being guided toward one pair. My hand landed on the soft denim. The one pair from this century left standing. I looked down at the tag- nay, the tag looked up at me, and it read my size. "COMPARE AT 99.99. " This was indeed a deal. A deal that would fit over my ass... the best kind of deal.

The native screeches and cries of the cannibals, the heavy breathing of the denim molester, the throaty crooning of Rod the Mod- all drowned out by the wholly encompassing euphoria brought on by a huge discount.

I purchased the jeans and walked out into the crisp evening air. My gaze was drawn to the beautiful cotton bargain folded neatly in my right hand. I'm still not a bargain shopper, but tonight, jeans, I'm Yours.

I'm still alive. I'm a creature!

This probably doesn't come as a surprise to anyone who follows my blog, because I see or speak to most of them on a semi-regular basis. However, for any creepy lurkers out in the universe, I'm still around, I've just been too wrapped up in a lumberjack to post anything (literally).

Anyway, a lot of really weird things have been happening to me, as usual, but I fucked up today and thought it was worth blogginn'.

I get the same thing for lunch every day, from the same restaurant. When I call, I say the exact same thing every time. It's to the point that the girl just says my order when she hears my voice. I like that, because I completely hate ordering food. It's awkward and I mumble, then have to repeat myself, etc. Every day I pay with my debit card, and leave the same tip. I say "Hi" to the people working regularly, but lately I've been feeling like I should engage them in a little bit of conversation, to avoid seeming like a pedophile or serial killer or something. This can be filed under "incorrect urge" in my brain, just like humping stuffed animals throughout my youth. Similar to my urge to hump stuffed animals as a child, I was unable to resist. For what it's worth, I had better luck violating my toys.

My first mistake was switching up the routine. Yesterday I marched in there and paid in fucking cash. The girl looked like she might explode a little bit and said "I don't think I've ever seen you pay with cash before!" I really didn't know what to say, so I just responded with a simple "Yeah, but I do sometimes.... haha," and then I wanted to die. Instead of throwing myself into traffic, I went back to work and ate my lunch while reading the same blog I read every single day.

I guess, in order to paint this picture more vividly, I should probably note at this time that the restaurant I frequent is in a strip mall in Redford. It's right next to a "career placement/advancement" agency so it's always teeming with fuck ups and people trying to run me over. This is the kind of strip mall that pays homeless people to hold up signs touting exciting deals. There are always multiple felonious skanks screaming on their cell phones, etc. It's a total cluster fuck and if the food wasn't amazing and I wasn't such a fat ass on the inside I wouldn't bother.

ANYWAY!

Today I went back, and decided not to throw anything off. I pulled out my debit card to pay, but since I had paid with cash the day before, we had to talk about the fact that now I'm back to debit. I started to tell the girl that I'm a "creature of habit," (which is one of the million stupid phrases I use that I should quit) but I didn't get any further than "I'm a creature..." when this mammoth bitch crashed through the door using her "outside/ lost in the middle of the woods and desperately needs rescuing" voice demanding a refund on her $5 hamburger lunch special. Who fucking orders a hamburger at a middle eastern restaurant?

So this Goliath is losing her fucking mind about the hamburger, and I have absolutely no time to finish my phrase! I'm standing there, and the girl is looking at me like I'm retarded or something because I just told her I was a creature. I felt so creepy! I was completely startled by bad burger rhino and I couldn't find it in myself to correct the situation. I paid, left, and now this girl I see more frequently than most of my friends and family thinks I let her know that "I'm a creaaatureeee" with heavy purpose and seriousness.

Fuck.

Driving Too Fast In Parking Lots

When people whip into parking lots at 85 mph and then back into parking spaces, I want to fucking kill them.

That's all.

Not All The Way Blind/ I hope Hell is fake because I think I'd go there if it is real.

Metro-Detroiters- I've got some bad news. I'm sure most of you have seen the Sam Bernstein commercials featuring his whole wonk-eyed family. If we've ever talked about the commercials, I'm sure I've screamed something about how fucked up Richard looks and how hilarious it is, etc. I'm sure I've bellowed "Aahhhhhh MANNN Richard is my Bernnnstteeiinnnn" over the hills and magical Jesus cloud mountains into the vengeful ears of God Himself.

Well it turns out that Richard isn't just weird looking, he's fucking blind. Foot in the mouth, for the 14,125,425th time. I need a muzzle.

Anyway! The way I found out about this is worth noting.

Not since the great "snuggies are backless" scandal of Christmas Eve 2008 has there been such an uproar in my kitchen.

The scene: Tuesday night, pizza on the table. My mouth is completely full. A Sam Bernstein commercial comes on before final Jeopardy. Dad sits silently in the recliner.

I scream, with my mouth full of pizza "Faackin Richaaaadddd! Dass my boyyyy!" My brother scolds me- "He's fucking blind, you bitch!" My Mom jumps to my defense by interjecting "He's not all the way blind." Nick (my brother) yells back, "Yes he is! He walks with a fucking stick! He was is a professor at U of M! I sat in on a few of his lectures, he's very inspirational!" Mom, still not having it, says "He's just not all the way blind. No he's not."

If there is a Hell, I'm going there. Not just because I've been making fun of a blind guy for a while, or because I have premarital sex, or because I think it's funny when kids fall and break their teeth. I've been dealing with a lot of Jesus/religious stuff lately, and by pretty much every measure that has been presented to me, I'm going to Hell. This is a total bummer because I think I'm pretty nice. If I were in charge of whatever alternate to Hell there is- I'd let anyone in who was pretty nice and not a magician/circus person/carny/David Lee Roth. I'm going to be very upset and out of luck if God does exist and he's not like me in that I can't hate or be mean to (or condemn to Hell) anyone who is nice to me. If I am ever put before God, I'm relying on his acceptance of such phrases as "You know, I really love what you did with that whole Appalachian region of the U.S.- The mountains look great!" or "Where did you get that robe? You look stunning," or "Since you're omniscient, you must know that I'm a HUGE fan of beards." to keep me out of the infernal circle. Ugh. This sucks. Religion just needs to smoke a bowl and chill the fuck out.

Anyway, stop making fun of R.B. because he can't see anything.

Lonely Broads

A mean, crotchety old man just came into my office, and in the middle of complaining about the government, snow, storage, etc. looked at me and said "Is that a tattoo! Are your friggin' ears really that big!?"

I replied "Afraid so."

He then let out an impassioned "Jeeesssuuus Christ! You broads wonder why you get old and lonely!"

The world is going to hell! I thought I was going to have to wait a little while to buy a house and a rocking chair in order to chastise young people for being on my lawn and doing otherwise unsavory things, but it turns out I can just do that anywhere.

I'm into it. The girl at Subway with the never-going-to-heal surface piercings is getting a talking to very soon.

Lonely Old Broads!

WEED WEED WEED WEED

Anyone need some?

That's what a recent bulletin on MySpace read. Only this bulletin was not posted by one of my million hescher friends- it was posted by a girl I used to babysit from the time she was about a toddler to elementary school.

Once again, the Internet is giving me a very interesting glimpse into the life of someone I would have otherwise let go, except for the occasional passing thought. It's surreal to think about buying weed from someone who sat down next to me on a couch with a book called "Where Puppies Come From" and demanded a more thorough explanation. I remember when she used to pee her pants and lie about it, or when we almost got into a physical altercation (I'm not above beating up a kid) over some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups she wasn't supposed to be eating.

Now she has her lip pierced a few times, wears green eyeshadow and tells me about going to "Warp" tour. It almost makes me feel bad for my parents, because when I read her seven bulletins about having TREE and WEED, etc. I felt like maybe if I had told her where puppies really came from instead of saying "Ummm I'm not sure, maybe you should ask your Mom about that one... I know you peed your pants earlier by the way" she would have been able to resist acting like a weirdo. I wonder if every time my parents hear me tell my little brother to lick a girl's butthole they think back to the kid who charged them $1 for a painting of a green line and die inside a little bit. "Maybe if we hadn't let her eat nothing but popcorn for a year she wouldn't be suggesting that her 17 year old brother toss a salad".

I'm pretty sure there's nothing they could have done, but I feel a little bit like I can understand that sentiment now. I'd like to think that when it's your kid, the love you feel for them sort of overshadows the disgusting "Ahhhh what the fuck?" feeling I got when I read about the little druglord, but who really knows. If she's smoking weed, she's sucking dicks and THAT is fucked up to me.

I guess she figured out where puppies come from without my help. I don't smoke weed, but if I did I'd probably want to "Boof a J" (to quote Muriel's mom) right now.

It Never Ends

When I was a little kid, I was a loser (I still am, but people give me less shit about it now because I'm a tyrant bitch and it has become cool to be a dork). There were a lot of days I didn't even want to go to school because some jerk would make fun of me all day and I didn't really fight back. When I did fight back, somehow I would totally fuck it up and make myself look even worse than I did in the first place. One quick example: When I was in 6th grade I wrote a poorly coded note to a friend of mine about a guy with whom I was "in love". I went so far as to mention the one time I had spoken to him on the phone (which for me was basically on the level of having sex) and I felt the need to explain to my friend that he reminded me of a cuddly teddy bear. In a move only I could pull, I dropped the note in the locker room at school and it found his way back to him. There was a very short redhead in my class named Shane Sims, who was an asshole and really took the opportunity to make fun of me every day, probably to distract from the fact that he came from an extremely recessive gene pool. ANYWAY! I thought I would be super funny and distract everyone in my class from the constant "Jenny loves Aaron" fiasco by writing "Shane loves Aaron" on the back of my notebook and holding it up. Somehow this tiny ginger turd pulled the old switcheroo on me and changed the notebook to say "Jenny loves Aaron", so I was holding that up for my whole class to read. Not. Too. Cool.

That type of situation can pretty much be applied repeatedly from the time I learned to speak until I was 15 or so. When things like that would happen, my Mom and Dad would always offer the comforting wisdom that Elementary/Middle/High School doesn't last forever, and that eventually I would graduate and never see or think about most of those people again. As a kid with huge buck teeth and giant bangs, I was very into that. If, for any reason whatsoever, I end up with children of my own, I think it's a pretty safe bet that they will be losers as well. I was really looking forward to explaining to them that eventually they will not have to worry about all of the asshole kids that will eventually push them around or find out about their secret crushes. Having an end date for harassment and being a social reject really does help. Unfortunately, thanks to the Internet, wireless phones, and websites like MySpace and Facebook you never really do get away from the people like Shane Sims.

Much like the "people you may know" feature, which tends only to remind you of people you know and hate, the benefits of these websites (i.e. maintaining a sense of friendship despite a total lack of communication and face time/effort) are somewhat outweighed by the drawbacks. I was going to skip my ten year high school reunion, but now it doesn't even matter, because I know what all of those sloppy hos are doing! Now there's no point! Even if I did go to the reunion (which is scheduled to happen about the same time the world has been prophesied to end- not a coincidence if you ask me), I wouldn't have to ask what people were up to because I KNOW. I lurk everyone I can possibly lurk, and I know they lurk me too!

I realize the solution is as simple as avoiding these types of things, but if I did that I'd have nothing to lament. I'll just have to be more careful to avoid failing obviously so people don't have anything to call our former classmates and gossip about.

New Favorite Movie

Right now I want to encourage all Comcast customers to stop whatever they are doing, and sit down in front of their TV. Then I want you to go to the Free Movies section on your OnDemand Menu, and scroll down until you find "To Catch A Yeti". Then I want you to click play and prepare for the best hour and a half of your life.

SERIOUSLY.

I watched this movie last night and it was enchanting. Meatloaf plays a mean hunter who tries to catch this amazing and wonderful Yeti, but things go awry.

It's the best! Needs to be released on DVD. There is a part in the movie where the Yeti screams and I swear to god I haven't laughed that hard in at least a year. SO FUNNY. The Yeti giggles and makes amazing noises. Similar to an Ewok in that it delights me, different in that it can ski on its bare feet.

Best movie ever.

I'm sad to report that for most of the cast, To Catch A Yeti was their only cinematic foray... but once you make a masterpiece there's really no point in humoring the thought of doing lesser films.

I am in love with this movie.

Good Excuse: I can't pay because I was stuck in THAI PRISON

You know, I was trying to let this go, but it's a little after 11 and I just drew a comic about it so I have to commit it to my BLOG.

I really fucking hate people who store things, even though their existence provides me with a job and money for things like fuel and shelter and neon crawlers from CVS. I hate them so much that I tell my friends about them. I think about them before I go to bed at night. Sometimes I mutter "fucking assholes" into my pillows when I'm half awake at 4AM... and I'm thinking about those fat, crusty motherfuckers.

One day when I was about 17 my (Asian- so he seemed wise to my racist white self) friend's Dad got real serious on me and said "Leave work at work and home at home... that's the key to happiness," but I just can't fucking do it! It's Friday night and I'm sitting around my Mom and Dad's living room drawing pictures of me setting a stranger on fire.

There were at least four people who crossed my path today that I could have done without... but this guy, he's a really outstanding turd. Every time we talk to someone, we note whatever bullshit they say in an account we have set up for them. This comes in handy because these sloppy whores can't keep anything straight, especially the lying-ass stories they tell me all day long. Mostly I don't really care because I can tell it's taking every fiber of their being to be able to string sentences together, and I'm actually impressed that they are resilient enough to have survived long enough to lie to me for several consecutive months- but this guy's lie really went above and beyond the call of duty.

So this man, Kevin, calls me early in the day to pay his bill by phone. This is a very normal thing and I didn't think twice about it until he said to me "Yeaaaahhh... my things were almost sold at auction last month because someone over there ddiiiddnn't quite do their jooobbbbbb."

This immediately struck me as interesting because normally if we don't quite do our job, people's things don't get sold at auction. Fortunately, Kevin was ready to let me know exactly what the problem was before I even had a chance to ask, but not before I had a chance to glance over his account notes, which let me know (thanks to a big mouthed friend of his) that KEVIN was in the clink the previous month!

Kevin told me that his friend brought a check in to pay his bill, but we never applied it to his account. He explained to me that this made him very uncomfortable because he really counts on me to take care of his things. I really let Kevin down. Despite a spell of guilt so strong that I almost took my life, I asked him two questions: One- was the check ever cashed, and Two- why didn't he come pay the bill himself. I wanted Kevin to tell me some lock down stories! There is nothing wrong with that. My job is boring.

Kevin then returned the let down twofold- he informed me that I'd have to contact his mystery friend to check the status of the ghostly unapplied check (we don't usually have our customers' fave five on file) AND that he was "Ouuut of the counnntrryyyy" and too busy to come in and pay the check.

Normally I would just let this go- but Kevin's tone was a little condescending and I don't take shit from pack rat jailbirds. I said "Well, Kevin, according to our notes you were actually in jail last month."

The phone line went silent and then Kevin said... and I fucking quote:

"I was in Thai Prison... for abouuuut a month."

THAI PRISON for ABOUT A MONTH.

I don't know how one gets caught up in Thai Prison for about a month. I guess someone that gets locked up abroad would need storage! I wanted to crawl through the phone and set that man on fire. What a horrible fucking lie. At least tell me you were in the hospital with a mystery disease! Tell me your third cousin died... something. THAI FUCKING PRISON!?

Ever the voice of reason, my Dad said "Maybe he got caught jaywalking."

Christmas Cheer

Well tonight is Christmas Eve, and my 24 year old family tradition of hanging out was rescheduled due to "inconvenience"- which is ridiculous to me- but anyway, it was decided that we would instead hang out this past Sunday. I should clarify- it was decided weeks ago that today would be inconvenient, so we planned to hold the gathering in advance of Christmas Eve. If it were possible for my family to decide the day of an event that it should have been held in the past, and agree to pretend as if it had happened, then we would probably all be much happier people. Anyway, the event, as it happened, was fine, seemed normal- but one thing did happen that really made me look forward to our big, extended family get together tomorrow.

I think it's funny to say things to my brothers and parents that maybe (definitely) shouldn't be said. I hadn't been to see my parents in about a month, so my Dad was harassing me and asking me what I'd been doing. I said "You know me, blowing random dudes." Now- this normally wouldn't be a surprising or offensive answer, but since our extended family was around, my Mom felt the need to loudly chastise me by raising her voice and saying my full name. "Jennifer. JEAN. BLOOMER."

I accepted her response because she wants my family to think she's raised a nice, mature young woman. They all know I'm a weirdo, but whatever helps her sleep at night. The thing about my Mom that always gets me is that she tries to put on a facade of normalcy for my family- but she says the most fucked up shit in such a matter-of-fact way that they have to know she's a punisher. This has never happened in such a clear way as it did Sunday night.

We were all sitting around, enjoying a very delicious lasagna dinner (which I enjoyed thoroughly) when the subject of my Uncle's new found position within the Catholic Church was brought up for discussion. Of course, he wasn't present, but my Grandma told us all that he was now an Usher. Everyone in my family has an opinion, but mostly my Aunt's husband and Mom. They both started discussing the Catholic Church, and the donations Ushers apparently ask for. I have no idea about any of this, because the most experience I have with Catholicism is lying about having been confirmed in order to be my cousin's confirmation sponsor a few years back... whenever that old pope died. ANYWAY, everyone was chiming in and complaining when my Mom said "I'm not going to donate money to the church so they can RAPE OUR LITTLE BOYS".

UUUUUUHHHHHHHHH. Awkward! She said it so nonchalantly... I laughed pretty hard.

I can't believe I got scolded for blow jobs but she dropped the child rape bomb right in the middle of our delicious meal!

Totally weird. Hopefully she does more of that stuff tomorrow!

Christmas Cheer

So I was hanging out with my Grandma the other day while she was opening her Christmas cards. I usually hate Christmas cards, because once you start sending them you're fucked and have to send them to everyone you've ever known for the rest of your life or run the risk of falling into the "Oh... I didn't get a card from _____ this year." zone (which is worse than death in my family)- but there was one in the bunch that really stood out so I thought I'd write about it.

First of all, the front of the card featured my boy Scooby, which I can back 100%. He was in a box with a Santa hat on looking amazing. The card itself came from my Grandma's former co-worker, Emmett, and although I never knew Emmett I was always a fan of any story featuring his name, so that was also great.

What truly made the card, however, was part of the inscription. The first couple of lines were typical "I went golfing this year, I am trying to keep warm" old people stuff, but the rest of the card read as follows:

"Judy Brown died last week. She choked on food sample at Costco.

Celebrate your Christmas with happiness.

Love Ya,

Emmett."

Ummmm... I don't know for sure, but I think a friend dying warrants a phone call. Emmett is my kind of guy for sure. Inappropriate.

Thanks Plow Man

I would just like to post a public THANK YOU to the lion of a man who did me the kind service of plowing my car in the parking lot at work. I realize I was out of the office for about three minutes, and that in the plowing universe three minutes is enough time to clear off an entire Wal-Mart Parking lot and father three children- but I think maybe he could have waited the five minutes I had posted on the door to ask me to move my car.

Maybe he knew there was nothing I'd rather do than use an ice scraper to dig my car out in the subzero temperatures. I think when you look at my face, I seem like the kind of girl who loves to dig cars out of giant piles of compacted snow. He probably caught a glimpse of me and said, "Merry Christmas Sweetheart" and then kindly took all the snow he could possibly gather and nestled it up as close as possible to my tires.

This will be the fourth or fifth time in three days my car will have been stuck in the snow, so I'm more or less a professional in these situations. I find the best way to get your car out of the snow is to use all of the force humanly possible and attack the snow like an animal or someone rescuing a (presumably worthwhile) person from an avalanche. This involves furious stabbing with an ice scraper and furious digging with your own hands. If you can get generally furious with the snow you will win. Yes, you will somehow get snow down your shirt and freeze your boobs but it's worth it because you get to drive your car until it gets stuck in some other wayward snow bank, where you will be tested by the elements once again.

Moral of the Story: There is nothing better than being plowed in by a guy who looks like he probably stole beer from Ratt's dressing room.

It Came To Me In a Dream

Last night I couldn't sleep at all. I'm guessing that had a lot to do with the fact that I had about five energy drinks in a futile attempt to be energetic during my waking/socializing hours. I did an Arizona RX/Sugar Free Red Bull system and it didn't kick in until waaayy late. I stared at my ceiling for about three hours thinking about a million weird things, and I fell asleep for about two hours total (maximum), but that was weird half awake sleep. This isn't exciting at all- except for the amazing groggy dream I kept having. Actually, it was more like a clear prophetic vision.

I was basically living in The Grind: Hip Hop Aerobics. If you don't remember this, you are whack.

Eric Nies basically humps air with no shirt on and teaches you illicit dances while you get in shape. This is just like Flirty Girl Fitness but for all sluts and not just aging housewives trying to spice up their marriages or ladies strip teasin' for their man. It also features a very high Zumba factor which automatically increases the value of any product (or human being for that matter). Zumbas are the guitar solo of pants.

Anyway! When I was in 6th or 7th grade my mom bought me TGHHA (Awesome) on VHS as some kind of a sick joke. First of all, at this point my mom was still trying to tell me what to wear, which in her mind only consisted of body suits and high waisted, tight ass jeans in the brightest clown colors imaginable. I had buck teeth, a thumbs-in-belt loops problem, and I was not allowed to watch MTV at all. In fact, I wasn't allowed to watch VH1 either. I had no idea what was cool, and I read a lot of young adult novels about horses. I was a major fuck up.

When you treat a child in this way, and then hand them a brightly colored neon box with a ripped to shreds Eric Nies grinding, it's like handing them a box of projected sex appeal and coolness. I figured Eric was probably cool, and anything from MTV had to be okay... even if it was four years old. I thought I was going to get into sick shape, grow huge boobs, learn some amazing moves, and completely impress Aaron Gierada at the activity night, to make up for him finding the secret love letter I wrote in which I described him as a cuddly teddy bear. Once he saw me doing the worm with my giant grind-grown boobs, he would stop making copies of the note and want to hold my hand forever.

What ended up happening is a big more tragic. Unfortunately all the zumbas and Eric Nies saying "That's Niiiiiccceeee" in the world can't transform an awkward 12 year old into an amazing sexy dancing middle schooler. It, instead, turned me into a person who was grinding alone in the basement with her thumbs through belt loops and a southwestern print body suit and purple jeans on. Equally unfortunate is the fact that The Grind is still the most formal dance training I have, save a tap dance class when I was about 5 and the time I lied to my best friend about being in a Backstreet Boys dance class (yep) so if I were to unleash my tremendous moves, I'd probably revert to the belt loop air humping.

Maybe the most amazing thing about this is that I thought I was grinding to perfection. This is similar to the way Roundhouse made me feel that I could break dance. So confidently, in fact, that I said "Dad, check this out" and I was breakin', which I think was more of me rolling around on the ground almost knocking over my mom's weird knick-knacks.

The most upsetting part about my prophetic visions of my grind future is that I have searched somewhat tirelessly for clips (or, god willing, a full version) of my video, but it's nowhere to be found! I'm going to have to go dig some stuff up at my Mom's house. Maybe I'll buy Darren's Dance Grooves and update my skills. I think I could probably make more friends if I could pop and lock.