why my Uncle John rules, a study in three acts

Act One:

He came to the movie theater parking lot that one time my sister and I had gone to see Mean Girls after I called him and told him that my car wouldn't start. Two minutes before he got there my car started and he didn't roll his eyes or laugh in my face once. Or he waited to laugh until he got home, but either way, I appreciate it.

Act Two:

When I was little, he taught me how to bang on my metal highchair tray with my silverware and yell "I want food! I want food!" I'm also fairly certain that there is a picture floating around in one of the family photo albums of him giving me a sip of his beer at age, I don't know, one? There are very few people in this world who will actually encourage you to break the rules and be obnoxious, so you have to learn to appreciate each and every one.

Finally, Act Three:

He just won tickets to the John Mayer/Sheryl Crow concert on Tuesday and he's giving them to me, thus giving me yet another chance to make John Mayer the father of my babies. Don't judge me.

Long story short (HAHA), thanks, Uncle John!

where my insecurity shines brightest

I'm now almost finished with my volunteer training, but in order to become a full-fledged volunteer I have to jump through a few more hoops. One of these hoops is a background check, which, disregarding any intoxicated misdemeanors (no charges, whoohoo!), I'm fairly certain I will pass with flying colors.

I also have to have three references fill out a sheet about me. Or something about me. I don't know what it is, they won't let me see it, but I assume it's something like that. I found this out yesterday so naturally last night I dreamed that one of my references called to talk to the Head Lady In Charge (I have no idea what she's really called, other than Vicky and I didn't really want to tell you her real name but now I have and THANKS A LOT) and Vicky told her she didn't think I was ready to be a volunteer because I fell asleep during training. I DID NOT. And no matter how many times I denied this accusation, they still wouldn't let me become a volunteer. Because cursing like a sailor and talking inappropriately about stool samples? Totally OK. Falling asleep, however, is total grounds for permanent rejection.

I get ten vacation days a year and I try to hold off taking them for as long as possible. This year I got to the third week in January.

Ladies (guys?), I don't know if this ever happens to you, but today I felt a lot more boobular than usual. I was wearing the same scrubs, the same camisole underneath, same bra and yet every time I leaned down I felt like I was being obscene. I talked myself into believing that I was being paranoid but then one of my (female) coworkers told me I was very "cleavagy" today. WTF?

Last night, as Heidi and I were taking a walk, we played a little game I like to call "Stupid Things We Did While We Were Drunk." It's a fun game because everybody wins!

So. Please share. If you share some good stories I'll share The Stupidest Thing I Have Ever Done Drunk. It's a good one. I think. I just have to narrow it down. Yes, I am begging for comments and I do not care and also, bite me oh and what else? Suck it. Thanks.

As a sneak preview, here is The Stupidest Thing Heidi and I Have Ever Done Sober: We just spent an unhealthy amount of time in front of the bathroom mirror looking at our elbows. Verdict? Elbows are weird looking, whether they're bent or not.

smile! you're a jackass

I cannot find any pictures of JUST myself where I am not a) making a goofy face, b) posing with a stupid prop, or c) five years old. I'm not sure what that says about me. Other than I am a jackass.

I'm tired today. WOW, this is exciting. Next I will tell you what I had for breakfast. Coffee and an english muffin. Good times.

OH, let me take a moment to talk about . . . Big Brother. I know, earlier this summer I promised (threatened) to talk about it each and every day but what can I say . . . I forgot. And after Kaysar got kicked off for sucking at the game, I lost interest a little. But now I have a bad boy crush on Evil Genius Doctor Will, even though he is skinny and pale and is friends with Mike Boogie. And if you can love someone in spite of that douchebag? That, my friends, is true made-for-TV love.

don't forget to breathe

I think Heidi and I just permanently injured ourselves doing Pilates. Seriously. At some point, when I was lying on my back with my legs behind my head and then Mari Windsor told me to spread them I wondered if I'd fallen asleep and was having some sort of horrible, prison dream. But I wasn't. It was a lucid nightmare. And then she kept reminding me to breathe and I got all defensive like "no shit, MARI, in all my 24 years on this earth I have NEVER forgotten to breathe" but then I realized that, no, actually, I wasn't breathing and that's why I just woke up in a pretzel shape because I passed out while rocking back and forth and HOLDING MY FREAKING ANKLES.

Whoever came up with that torture is crazy. But like, crazy in a good way because it actually works. Which makes me keep inflicting the torture upon myself. Which I think makes me a little crazy. Or a lot crazy. But we already knew that.

The whole doing Pilates is part of a crazy experiment I have come up with that involves actually doing some sort of physical activity every day in order to not pass out from walking up the one step stoop in front of our apartment. And since this crazy experiment is actually working, my friend Mary and I have come up with another experiment. This one is more of a social experiment, though. We're going to post ads on Craigslist (real ones this time) and see what happens. We like the position of power, because if anyone crazy or grammatically challenged or fifty answers we can delete them forever before they get our e-mail addresses and stalk us and kidnap us and steal our underwear. I wish Heidi was single so she could try our experiment, too. I don't think two people make a very good sample. Anyone else interested? COME ON, it'll be fun. Ok, maybe not fun. Most likely awkward and uncomfortable. But we're doing this in the name of SCIENCE. Or boredom. Whatever works for you.

I'm kind of excited for us to try this because it will at least give me something to write about on here. You know, so I can stop writing about how I almost broke my neck doing Pilates. And, yes, meeting new people kind of makes me so nervous I throw up in my mouth a little. So I think I'll just take Mari Windsor's advice.

The part about the breathing. Not throwing my legs behind my head. Talk about awkward.

another one bites the dust

Ok, UNCLE. I give. Enough. Stop getting engaged, people, I mean it.

Alright, not really, but come on! Three of my friends have gotten engaged this summer and if things keep going this way I'm going to be going to nothing but weddings next year. One of my good friends got engaged this past weekend and she wasn't even on my radar. I don't know why, she and her boyfriend have been dating for a long time now, but I was still surprised. I believe my exact words were "holy fucking shit" (so eloquent) and I repeated that for pretty much the rest of the day, except the part where I was at volunteer training because I think they'd probably frown upon me shouting obscenities in the middle of a video about a kid's mom dying.

My friends are all growing up, buying houses, getting engaged and it's really cutting into the people who still want to go out and do stupid things with me. If people start having babies soon, I'm gonna shoot myself in the face, because if there is anything I hate more than a bridal shower, it's a baby shower. And if there is anything I hate more than a wedding, it's a baby. Haha, I'm totally kidding. I don't hate weddings.

Conversations with my Roommate: Special Emmy Edition

Heidi: Wow, he's really clutching that Emmy. He must love it a whole lot.
Me: Yeah, he's gonna shove it up his butt later.
Heidi: Ow.

I don't know how this turned into a post about zombies. These things just happen.

Last night, my roommate and I walked to the new mall they have been building for the last eighteen years. They were having their grand opening and luckily, we live a ten-minute-walk away so we didn't have to fight with all the other assholes in Dayton to find a parking spot.

I have been pretty excited for this new mall because, and don't judge me, there will now be a bar within walking distance of my apartment. And this is Ohio. Suburban Ohio. So maybe you don't understand just how special it is not to have to drive to a bar and worry about how you're getting home. Not that it's stopped us in the past, but still. And as Heidi pointed out, we can walk to the bar, then walk across the street to The Waffle House (I KNOW, don't be jealous) and then walk home. Who wants to come visit and don't lie, I know you do.

Bar aside, what else is now within walking distance? A Cheesecake Factory, a movie theater, a comedy club, White House Black Market, Coldstone, several other stores and restaurants and . . . a book store. A two-story bookstore. I almost peed a little, I was so excited. Between this mall and the upcoming Ikea, my credit card is going to break in half from exhaustion.

I thought the best part about this new mall is that it gave me a good, central location to run to should zombies ever attack. This is something I spend a good deal of time worrying about, you know. The only problem is, this is not a traditional mall. You have to actually go outside to get from store to store. None of it is connected. So I may have to rethink my Zombie Survival Plan. I still think this mall will be the best place to go. After all, it only takes ten minutes to walk there but let's face it. If these guys are following you, would you be walking? HELL. NO. You would be running as fast as your little legs would allow. I'd drive my car STRAIGHT INTO The Cheesecake Factory to get away from them. You can survive on cheesecake, right? And then, maybe I can get like a jetpack or something? So I can fly from rooftop to rooftop? How much are jetpacks?

I'm sure any visitors to our apartment will be glad to know that, should zombies attack, I know where to go. Laugh at me all you want now, but when the zombie revolution comes, I'll be the one with all the cheesecake and the books and the cute outfits. And if you're lucky, you'll be with me.

no more crack before bed

I had the best night last night. Man, I was everywhere. I started off in Chicago, visiting my friend Mary. I got lost downtown, so I got out of my car and walked down the street dragging my suitcase behind me. I wandered into a bad part of town and sat down on the corner to get my bearings. A giant bear of a man with a funny hat and a long, scraggly beard approached me and asked if I'd like to buy some fake jewelry. I clutched my purse, and instead of ignoring him like a sane person, I shouted, "NO I WOULD NOT LIKE TO BUY YOUR CRUMMY ASS JEWELRY GET AWAY FROM ME AHHHH HELP HELP HELP!" Then the man got in my face and told me his jewelry was the best! I should be so lucky to buy his jewelry! Through his tirade, I screamed a continual "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (breathe) AHHHHHHHHHH!" and got my cell phone out of my purse to call Mary. When she answered, she asked why I was screaming and I explained that I was lost! And a giant man was yelling at me! And shoving jewelry in my face! Ugly jewelry!

She then asked me where I was and I started yelling out street names like I had directional Tourette's. "First Street! No . . . Yellowbrick Rd! Magnolia Blvd! Cheesecake Ave!" Mary calmly explained that I should take my suitcase and my stupid ass back to my car and possibly find a map. Oh. A map. Of course.

I must have found Mary's apartment, because suddenly she and I and all of our friends were in Mexico. In a quaint, little Mexican restaurant. And guess who was our host! Tom Everett Scott, who is my favorite of the Hollywood Toms because he's not a Scientologist and he believes that my manic episodes CAN be treated with medication.

Anyway, Tom seated us at the best table and Mary and I invited him to sit with us. Which he did. Which was awesome because I love him and want to marry him. Then Mary threw her fork in the wall, but it was OK because there were already lots of holes in the wall. Tom thought it was funny and I started to get jealous so I also threw my fork in the wall. Then we all threw our forks in the wall. Tom's boss, a short, squat, gray-haired lady, came over and yelled at us and when Tom told her that he thought the wall looked better all forked up she yelled at him, too. So Tom told her he didn't need this job! He had a new show on TV, after all! So he quit right then and there and sat down next to me and then the waiter brought us a pitcher of margaritas that never emptied.

So you can imagine how pissed I was when my alarm went off and I was a) no longer in Mexico, b) no longer drinking a margarita, and c) no longer planning my future as Mrs. Guy Patterson.

the one where I berate a small child . . . but only in my head, so I think it's OK

This afternoon I took my mom to the dentist so she could have a tooth ripped out of her head. She had told me that she could probably drive herself home after the appointment but "pshaw!" I said, "P . . . shaw." Would you want to drive somewhere after you'd gotten three shots in the mouth and then had a dentist rip a tooth out of your jaw and then drill a HOLE in the bone underneath? I didn't think so.

So I sat in the waiting room (FYI, did you know that we're supposed to call it the "reception area" at my office? But we totally never do) and read my book like a good daughter, although I found out after that I could have totally watched the procedure. And once I got over my initial disgust I realized that might have actually been kind of neat to watch and I know I'm sick and weird just shut up and also bite me.

The only other people in the waiting room (excuse me, reception area) with me were a couple and their son who were waiting for their other son to get his braces (yes, I was eavesdropping, duh). The boy waiting was about nine or ten and was engrossed in some weirdass cartoon on the television. He was also holding a dolphin stuffed animal. Ok. Sure. I'm not judging. His mother stood up and told him she was going to go to Tuesday Morning which, and don't be disappointed, is just a store. I know. I was about to ask her how she knew how to time travel, even if it was just to yesterday morning, but then I remembered that store was down the street. I was totally crushed.

Before she could leave, however, the little boy jumped up (without dropping his trusty dolphin stuffed animal) and shouted, "Mommy! I love you the most, Mommy! I'll miss you!" while his mom laughed and hugged him and tried to walk about the door, but not before being accosted with more hugs and shouts of "Mommy, I love you the most!" I tried, you guys, I really tried to think, "aww, how sweet, he misses his Mommy" without snickering but my inner cynic wouldn't shut up. That bitch just about went crazy trying to make me look down at my book and not laugh. I mean, good lord, Mommy was going to the store! Not outer space! She wasn't even time traveling! Unfortunately. She even asked the kid if he wanted to go with her but he said watching cartoons was probably more fun than going to the store. So I had to give him credit for that, until he ran out the door after his mom to give her another hug and then I started imagining what he'd look like at fifty, pushing his wheelchair-bound mother back to the condo they share in Florida after a rousing game of shuffleboard, while the stupid, stuffed dolphin rides shotgun on Mommy's lap.

My family is not very demonstrative when it comes to sharing feelings or shouting declarations of love, which is maybe why things like that seem out of place to me. Fake, almost. But when my mom walked back into the reception area with a swollen cheek and gauze in her mouth, I drove her home. And when she asked me to stop by KFC so she could get some mashed potatoes and gravy, I happily obliged. Now that is love.

So screw you, little boy. And your little dolphin, too.

Won't somebody think of the children?!

Yesterday, on my precious Sunday afternoon off, which I normally choose to spend unshowered, in my pajamas, and drinking coffee until I have to pee every five minutes, I instead spent five and a half hours in a church. Not going to an actual church service, god forbid (heh), perish the thought. I started my first day of training to become a facilitator at something called the Oak Tree Corner and their office, even though they are not associated with any religion, just happens to be located within a church.

Oak Tree Corner is an organization for children who have lost a close family member or friend. Facilitators are in charge of leading the kids in groups to help them through the grieving process. And before anyone worries that I will completely harm a child's mental health in a scary and irreversible way, the training is very, very extensive. I heard about it through a coworker who has been involved with the organization for four years and decided to pursue it since I a) have a lot of free time, b) enjoy working with kids, c) get little to no satisfaction out of my job, and d) should give more back to the community than feeding money into the local bars.

I didn't really know what to expect when I walked into the room. I didn't know how many of us there would be, I didn't know what kind of people they would be, I didn't know what kind of activities they'd make us do. My worst fear is that we'd have to play a million ice breaker activities, something I had more than enough of in high school and college and, besides that, I hate ice breaker activities with the fire of a thousand suns. I'm pretty sure everyone does. It's not that I don't enjoy getting to know people, it's just that I don't care what your favorite food is. I'm sorry. I don't. Also, I can guarantee that approximately .0005 seconds after you tell me, the information will have left my brain and splattered all over the wall next to me. Don't look, because brain spaghetti looks disgusting.

Luckily, we only had to do one ice breaker, and it was mostly painless. The other volunteers varied in ages. I think the youngest is probably 20 and the oldest maybe 50 or 60 something, so I definitely fell on the younger end of the spectrum. There were only two men in the group, not counting one of the volunteers already involved in the program who came to speak to us, and one was around my age and the other middle-aged and married to one of the women in the group.

All in all, it was a very pleasant experience and I'm really looking forward to going back. I was definitely nervous going in. After all, the whole thing was definitely out of my comfort zone, what with the meeting new people and being nice and responsible and on time and not saying anything inappropriate for almost six hours. I was mostly successful. My face only turned an unholy shade of red about three times and, oh, I did accidentally bring up stool samples at one point, but everyone laughed so I think it was OK.

Seriously, though. Stool samples. I should not be allowed out in public and I can't believe they're going to let me be in charge of children.

When I think of boats, I think of Lake Michigan

I sat with my friend Mary for hours on the edge of Lake Michigan, listening to the water lapping gently at our feet. We'd taken our sandals off before we hung our legs over the edge of the dock, the first smart thing we'd done in some time. But it's hard for me to regret the stupid things we did. The huge margaritas we shared at our ten o'clock dinner after Heidi and I drove six hours to Chicago. The drinking game we played while we waited for Mary's roommate to get ready, not realizing until it was too late to go to the bar that he'd fallen asleep while changing his pants. So instead we sat on the Mary's floor and drank. Laughed. Talked. Took stupid pictures. Heidi passed out and Mary and I, as usual, weren't ready to go to bed even though it was four in the morning. And we were out of beer.

We walked to a 24 hour liquor store (our mecca) and bought a case of beer, laughing our way out of the shop when the cashier said to us, "you girls have a good night." Back at Mary's apartment, we covered Heidi with a blanket, loaded Mary's bag with cans of Miller Light, and began the fuzzy walk to the beach. Fuzzy not only because of the margaritas, but because I had taken my contacts out and forgotten to put on my glasses. I walked semi-blindly beside Mary, trusting that she'd lead me in the right direction, and as always, she did.

We ran into obstacles, of course. It still being dark and me not wearing my glasses, we chanced upon a couple sharing an intimate moment. Made not so intimate by Mary and I stumbling onto the scene and then running away giggling. Once we'd recovered, we sat on the dock and talked until the sun came up. And when we realized that the sun had come up we talked some more, until we both had to pee as a result of all the lapping water and, oh possibly, all the beer. We ran behind some bushes and then, after, laughed the entire way home because right next to the bushes, in all its pristine glory, was a Porta Potty that neither of us had noticed until it was no longer needed.

duly noted

I've decided to stop whining so much, because my roommate told me that if I turned into a Debbie Downer like one of our other friends, she was going to punch me in my babymaker. And I really don't want her to do that because that sounds like it would hurt.

I'll tell you what the Pilgrims did bring: smallpox. It killed scores of Native Americans, ravaging their population.

I think I'm getting sick. Wah wah waaaaaah. Seriously, though, I think I have a cold. WTF, it's summer. I haven't taken any medicine, though, because I'm trying to deny the cold and say it's just allergies. I'm good with denial. I think this may work.

Actually, I think denial is what gets me into trouble the majority of the time. Well, that and procrastination. I mean, DAMN, how many times do I have to learn the same lesson before common sense finally sinks in? I think that's why I'm so bad with things like car maintenance (and oven knobs). I want to deny that there's anything wrong, but you can't argue with a car. I can't bullshit my car like I can people. Not that I would ever bullshit someone, oh no. But, I can't say to my car, "Car, you do not need oil so stop telling me to check it. Also, why are your windshield wipers only working intermittently, why why why? You are not broken! Stop it! Fix yourself, bitch!" because my car ALWAYS WINS.

So, yeah, I'm not holding out much hope that my powers of denial will defeat a summer cold.

Nurse Squirrels!

Nurse Squirrels!

So the other day on the way to work I heard some exciting news. They are building an IKEA in Cincinnati. Actually, not even all the way to Cincinnati so it will be SO CLOSE and I'll get to drive by Giant Touchdown Jesus to get to it. When I heard that news I think I had a tiny orgasm which was NOT SAFE because I was in the car. But come on. An Ikea less than an hour away. Did you see the nurse squirrels? How can you not love a store that brings you something like the nurse squirrels? Nurse squirrels! Wrapping tiny bandages! Around tiny baby squirrels! I really like squirrels. Once when I was younger we found some squirrels in our backyard and we fed them gatorade (for real) out of a teeny, tiny, eyedropper. They were so cute, even though they kind of looked like aborted rat fetuses with their squinty, glued shut eyes and their stringy, not-yet-fluffy tails. After a few days we took them to a nature reserve. At least that's what my parents told me we did with them. And if that's not what really happened, then I don't want to know.

Nurse squirrels!

I still forgot the pie

Happy (belated*) Birthday, Dad!

Guess what! I reinstalled my camera software, bitches**! Take a gander (I'm 80) of the sweet wrapping job I did on my dad's birthday present:

Yes, that is pink wrapping paper. For my dad's present. From Target. Is it not beautiful? That is also my bedspread. It is not from Target and yet? Still beautiful, no?

And just because, a picture of my inflatable Pirates of the Caribbean sword*** (don't hate).

*would you expect anything less from me?
**This could get out of hand
***Ok, it has now gotten out of hand****
****I've had a lot of coffee today

don't you judge me

There's this car on the way to my parents house and it's always sitting out in front of the house and it has this bumper sticker that says "Liberals hate our troops" and EVERY time I drive by it I have to stop myself from "accidentally" crashing into the back of it or sideswiping it and taking the mirror with me. I realize that between this and my last post, I seem very destructive, especially when it comes to cars with certain types of stickers on them. But I'm really a very nice, gentle person! I swear!

At my parents, we were all sitting on the back porch and this thing started fluttering around in the garden. My dad thought it was a butterfly and my mom thought it was a hummingbird, so I went over to investigate and saw that it was actually two butterflies locked in a passionate embrace. They were totally doing it. Who knew that butterflies could engage in consensual (I hope), caterpillar-making intercourse while in flight? At first I thought that maybe they were doing something wrong, because they were both facing opposite directions, but I just googled "butterflies mating" and I guess that's just how they do it. Yes, I really googled that. And I believe I told you not to judge me.

Everything they do is so dramatic and flamboyant. It just makes me want to set myself on fire!

We call our downstairs neighbor Slammy Slammerson because each and every day she slams her front door shut with the force of a thousand Mack trucks slamming into a thousand tiny, body-building midgets (I don't know) at 100 mph. Other than that, she's fairly quiet and I hardly ever see her. Far be it for me to complain, considering we have already had a couple of fairly loud events at our apartment that have lasted into the wee (like midgets) hours of the morning.

But the past couple of days Slammy Slammerson has been crossing the line. She has people visiting from out of state (Pennsylvania) and they keep parking their giant, family-size van in one of our precious parking spots. This would be enough for me to heave great passive-aggressive sighs of displeasure but I saw today that this van has a giant Bush/Cheney sticker on the right side. Now I'm just trying to figure out if it's worth going to the store for the sole purpose of buying a carton of eggs just so I can throw one of them at this van. I've decided that, no, it's probably not wise to do something like that but not because it's WRONG but because someone might see me. And as much as I like to do things that may get me into trouble, I don't like to get caught doing them.

The worst offense, however? Slammy Slammerson has a pair of pink Crocs sitting on her porch. Not only does that mean she WEARS them but I have to look at them whenever I go outside which is not often because it's hot and humid and there are bugs out there.

I know I should be glad that she's not letting her dog pee on my porch or having loud, violent sex at 4 AM but . . . Crocs? Really?

Conversations With My Roommate: Special Phone Edition*

Me: Hello?
Heidi: Heeey.
Me: Hello.
Heidi: What are you doing?
Me: Just driving home from work.
Heidi: Cool.
Me: Yeah.
Heidi: Yeah.
Me: So . . . what's going on?
Heidi: Well, we got this thing in the mail.
Me: Yes?
Heidi: And it lists all these classes you can take in Beavercreek.
Me: Oh yeah?
Heidi: And they're not that expensive, really, and they last two months.
Me: Cool.
Heidi: There are a couple I think sound interesting.
Me: Like what?
Heidi: Like . . . OK, there's this culinary class?
Me: . . .
Heidi: And I've always wanted to take a culinary class.
Me: . . .
Heidi: It would be like that episode of Friends where Monica and Joey take a cooking class.
Me: Yeah. That doesn't so much sound like fun to me.
Heidi: There's also a cookie decorating class?
Me: . . .
Heidi: And a cake decorating class?
Me: . . .
Heidi: And the best part is, after you decorate everything you get to eat it.
Me: Heidi.
Heidi: Yes?
Me: Is the only reason you want to take these classes so you can eat the end result?
Heidi: Um, duh, of course.
Me: Got it. Is this leftover angst from the other night when you really wanted chocolate cake and I wouldn't let you go buy one and we couldn't make one because our oven was broken?
Heidi: Maybe.
Me: OK.
Heidi: There are some really funny sounding classes, too.
Me: Like what?
Heidi: Pottery.
Me: I actually think that sounds fun. And messy. Hence the fun.
Heidi: And this other one called . . . wait for it, "Self Hypnosis: A Guide to Stop Sabotaging your Life."
Me: The hell? I think the first step to stop sabotaging your life is to stop paying for classes like that one.
Heidi: Listen to the description . . . "Learn to help yourself relax and get in touch with your body and your subconscious mind in order to--"
Me: Heidi?
Heidi: What?
Me: Is this a masturbation class?
Heidi: Haha!
Me: Because I'm pretty sure that if you need a class for that you have bigger problems than self-sabotage.
Heidi: True.
Me: I wonder where they hold that class.
Heidi: Probably in the Jack Shack behind the building.
Me: Good call.

*Obviously this is not verbatim. The government may record my phone conversations but I, unfortunately, do not

take me out

Last night, against my better judgement, I went to a Reds game with my roommate, her boyfriend, and his roommates. If I were smarter, I would have stayed home like a good little girl because I knew this morning I had to be at work early. Early like still dark. THAT is early.

But I wasn't a good little girl. I went out on a school night. And, although we left the game an inning early because the Reds were up by 7, I didn't go to bed until well after midnight. Which is why I drank so much coffee this morning, which is why I just peed a latte.

I'm so glad I went, though. We sat in the cheap seats and ate one dollar hot dogs and drank six dollar beers. By the fifth inning my ass was going numb and Heidi and I had already rearranged the positions so that left field was playing right field, the pitcher was the catcher, the ump was playing first base, and the security guard was shortstop. My ass still hurts and this morning I wondered why I had Kathleen Turner voice until I remembered that I had been yelling a lot when Heidi and I decided to "get really into the game," which basically meant screaming obscenities, stomping our feet, and streaking the field so we could be on ESPN only we didn't get to that last part.

I didn't really give a shit who won the game (I was leaning toward the Reds but only because they shoot off fireworks if they win), but I got a glimpse of what it is that people love about baseball. After getting one piece of bad news and one piece of disturbing news earlier in the day, it felt good to sit back and concentrate on the the game. The parts that I paid attention to, anyway, when Heidi and I were playing "serious." It was nice. Relaxing. Even though the person behind me kept getting his nuts on me (um), the parents at the end of the row were blocking the aisle with both their baby and stroller, the guy sitting next to me was inexplicably wearing a Cardinals shirt in a sea of Reds fans, and I was almost hit by the Wave at least ten times.

Take my picture by the pool, cause I'm the next big thing

Whenever I hear that Weezer song "Beverly Hills," all I can think about is a dancing midget dressed as Elvis.

I know. That's weird. Stick with me.

The REASON that song has been forever ruined for me is Pants Off Dance Off. Have you seen that show? It's on Fuse. It's on late. It's on entirely too often. I discovered it late one night right after we'd gotten our cable hooked up. Because once I had cable again I found it hard to pry the remote out of my hand. The episode I saw featured a hot guy dancing around in tighty whities who barely spoke English. Then I fell asleep and when I woke up in the morning I was worried that I had actually made the whole thing up. Or dreamed it. Dreamed about half-naked people dancing in front of music videos. Which would be sad and kind of creepy but honestly? I've had weirder dreams.

Once I'd seen this show, I wanted to show it to EVERYONE. Luckily, we have TiVo. I recorded an episode but didn't get around to watching it until the day of our 4th of July cookout. Mary and I settled in to the sofa, ready to be entertained. Which we were. We were also HORRIFIED that the episode I had recorded featured a) a dancing midget stripping off his Elvis jumpsuit to reveal (what looked like) assless chaps and b) a flabby stripper wearing a hot pink bikini and a UNICORN HEAD. I mean, if YOU had seen something that horrifying wouldn't you share it with each one of your dearest friends? Mary and I figured that if we had to have the image of a middle-aged midget slooooowly taking his clothes off burned into our brains forever, everyone else should be subjected to the same torture. It's only fair! We had to share it! Seriously, it was like The Ring, I kept expecting the phone to ring with some "Seven daaaaays" shit and then a week later open my front door to find Unicorn Woman and then she'd stab me with her unicorn horn. Or something.

But perhaps the weirdest, most surreal part of the show? It's hosted by none other than Stephanie Tanner.

Awesome blossom, extra awesome. Part two.

My sister and I went to dinner at Chili's tonight (I'm trying to hit as many restaurant chains as possible this weekend) and our experience was a lot better than at TGI Fridays last night. Even in the bathrooms. When I walked into the bathroom, I noticed that there was a book on the counter. Either some strange person had brought their own book with them and forgotten it or Chili's is now providing their patrons with reading material for when they have to go twosies.

While I was in the stall (just number one), I was listening to the conversation between the mom and child in the stall next to me. The Mom kept saying, "Are you done? Honey? Done yet?" and each time The Child would answer no, until finally he'd had enough and he yelled, "Mommy! I'm POOPING!" all "damn, bitch, I am creating a MASTERPIECE here and you keep asking if I'm done!" And I have to assume it was a masterpiece, because as I was washing my hands, he said, "Mommy, this is a big one."

Indeed, little man. Indeed.

We'll have an awesome blossom. Extra awesome.

My roommate and I paid our rent a little while ago. At one AM. We like to wait til the last possible minute, although if that were completely true, we'd have waited until 8:59 this morning.

Tonight was supposed to be so fun. But it wasn't. It wasn't horrible and it was fun up to a point but now I'm just really annoyed. We went to a restaurant* for dinner and waited for an hour. AN HOUR. And the food at this restaurant does not warrant waiting for an hour. But we waited, not because we were especially excited about the food, but because we were told we'd only have to wait 20 minutes. Which was a LIE. A big, fat, lie. And we were hungry. At one point, one of my friends went to the hostess to ask why a party who had come in after us had been seated and she told my friend that they had a reservation that had been made three days ago. Ever inquisitive, my roommate and I got the restaurant's phone number and I went outside to call and "make a reservation." Only to be told by THE SAME HOSTESS on the phone that they don't take reservations! At that point I realized I could organize a total coup d'etat but I didn't have the energy because I was fucking hungry.

After dinner, we were going to a friend's for a drink. One drink. Which turned into two hours. The plan was go to a bar after this "drink" but at that point everyone was too tired to go. Except for one person. Well, I mean, I would have gone, but my roommate and her boyfriend were falling asleep on the couch and I was their ride so I didn't think it would be too nice of me to say, "Hey, you guys stay here, I'm going to go get drunk at a bar and when I come back, can you drive us all home?" Because that's just not how I roll. Heh. And then, as I was getting ready to drive myself, my roommate, and her boyfriend home, my friend implied I was an alcoholic. AWESOME. Great ending to the evening. Thanks.

So yeah. I had a GREAT weekend, thanks for asking. Also? I went to the pool today (actually the highlight of my day) and the only part of my body that got sunburnt? My thighs. Only the front, not the back, but that's probably because I fell asleep for an hour on my back. What can I say? John Mayer is very relaxing.

*I'm not saying the name because I'd HATE to tarnish their image**
**It was TGI Friday's

Plus, I've never really been good at sharing

Tonight after work, some coworkers and I went to an open house at a new pediatric dentist office in the area. And no, it was not for the free wine. I didn't even have any. In retrospect . . . I don't know why, although I try not to drink in front of my coworkers because when I drink, the filter between my brain and mouth, the one that doesn't work too well anyway, becomes clogged with alcohol and that allows words like "hooha" and "douchebag" and "manboobs" to slip through. Truly. It's science.

The best part of this office is that the dentist is a woman and her husband (a man, FYI) is a hygienist. And her front desk person is a man. A cute man. No, I don't remember his name because I never remember anyone's name the first time I meet them. It's like I stop listening after "Hi, I'm . . ." For real, I think it's some sort of brain abnormality. Once I know your name, though, I know it forever.

Anyway, I'm kind of hoping my boss forms a very tight friendship with this new dentist. After the cute man gave us a tour of the office, one of my coworkers approached me and said, "He's cute." I nodded. "He's not wearing a ring, either," she helpfully provided. I thanked her for checking that out for me, but neglected to tell her I'd already noticed. And then I couldn't remember just when it was that I started checking the left hand of every man I meet, even the notcute ones.

Sometimes I think that my coworkers (all married, most with children) look at me as some kind of project. A Set Up the Single Girl project. Save Jennie from a permanent State of Spinsterhood (and eventual eating by wild dogs . . . heh). Which . . . OK, but most of the single males who come into our office are a) old, b) creepy, or c) fifteen. And while I'm perfectly willing to break the law, I'm not gonna go that far.

I think it's hard for them to understand that I don't particularly want to get married. I don't mean I'll never want to, but right now it's really the furthest thing from my mind. I realize that a lot of women my age, especially where I live, all tend to be married or close to marriage. I've reached the age where my friends are starting to get married. And while I wish them all the happiness in the world, I really don't understand the inclination. The veil looks itchy, the dress binding, and I much prefer my flip flops to satin high heels.

hot child in the city*

The first time my roommate and I tried to use our oven was a couple days after we'd moved in. We soon discovered that it didn't quite work right. It would only turn to 400 degrees and anyway, once you turned it past like 200 the thing would just shut completely off. We could preheat it if we barely turned the knob, but that made it kind of hard to cook anything, seeing as how we didn't know what temperature it was. One night, it took Heidi 45 minutes to make french fries. That is not normal.

So, three months later, we (and by "we," I mean Heidi, because she is the responsible one) finally got around to telling maintenance that it wasn't working. Yesterday, when I got home, the work slip was hanging on our front door. When I saw that the work had been completed I did a happy dance (not really) but stopped when I saw the reason why the oven hadn't been working. Evidence of Heidi and my ineptitude as cooks was staring me in the face because right there, scribbled in messy manwriting, it said, and I quote, "Temp knob for oven was upside down."

After I showed this to Heidi and we recovered from our hysterical laughter (this happens a lot, like when we have impromptu battles with the inflatable Pirates of the Caribbean swords my sister got us from McDonald's . . . don't hate), we ignored the fact that it was 800 degrees and went to Papa Murphy's to get a pizza. So we could test our fixed oven, you see. I'll have you know that it took the exact 12 minutes to cook and tasted delicious.

Later that night, I was sitting on my bed watching Sex and the City and brushing my teeth. Are you impressed? You should be because I even managed NOT to drool toothpaste spit all over my shirt like I normally do. Heidi came in to use my computer and glanced at the TV. AND NOW I BRING YOU . . . Conversations with my Roommate:

Heidi: What is that?
Me: What?
Heidi: That thing she's holding.
Me: Pot.
Heidi: Oh. From over here it looked like a bag of semen**.

And this was the point I ran into the bathroom so I didn't spray toothpaste ALL OVER MYSELF. And I made it. I dare you not to be impressed now.

*was the name of the SATC episode I was watching
**Yeah, I'm not sure I know what a bag of semen would look like, either. AND I DON'T WANT TO.

It's so damn hot . . . milk was a bad choice

So, I was definitely one of those people who was all, "I'm not gonna complain about how hot it is because, hello, it's SUMMER and the last time I checked it gets really hot in the summer," especially when people started complaining about how hot it was all the time, no wait, but REALLY especially for those assholes who felt the need to say, "is it hot enough out there for you?" when coming into our office (which, by the way, is kept at a frigid -200 degrees) and yes, I'm talking to you, UPS guy . . . I know it sucks to have to wear that outfit and carry around heavy boxes all the livelong day but I don't really want to hear about it. Yes, I know that sounds callous and uncaring but I DON'T GIVE A SHIT. Also, please stop sweating on the packages. And stop standing there and telling me stories about carrying boxes up three flights of stairs, because I know you're just stalling so you can suck up the air conditioning.

But anyway, my point is (yes, I have one) . . . it is really hot outside. Hey, I didn't say it was an interesting point. And, yes it IS hot enough out there for me, thank you very much. It is also so humid that I almost drowned from breathing in the air. No, I'm not exaggerating. Suck it.

See? The heat is making me irritable. And, much like alcohol, it is lowering my inhibitions. When I walked out of the grocery store and almost fell down on the ground because the Heat Miser* slapped me like a bitch, I was suddenly compelled to yell, "Oh my god! It's so fucking hot out here!" But I didn't. It was hard to stop myself, though. And then when I got home, I put the groceries away and immediately started stripping my clothes off on my way down the hallway to my room, not noticing until after I'd changed that the blinds on the windows that look into the apartment next door were wide open. It's OK, though, cause I don't think they were home from work yet. Even still, if you find blurry pictures of me in the Internets in just my bra and underwear, please tell me so I can contact the proper authorities. I did not sign up for that shit.

*Oh my god, seriously though? How fucking awesome is the Heat Miser?