Last night was probably one of my more embarrassing sober moments as of late.
I had a really busy day at work yesterday, which is nothing out of the ordinary, except that I was so tired that my eyes were burning and I should have just asked to go home and take a little nappy-poo, and then tried again today.
But no, I am Courtney, hear me roar, can't stop, won't stop Rockefella Records cuuuzzzzz we get down baby, we get down baby.
I still had shiz to do for what we will call a little "side project" at work, but I *really* needed to put on sweat pants, relax with a glass of wine, and rip into my bag of skittles that had miraculously survived over 24 hours in my apartment.
So I sat down, got the computer all situated, got the iphone charging, got the channel timer set to FOX so I wouldn't accidentally miss the start of Glee (Kurt, I love you! come live with me! I have boas and sequins and we can daaaaaaance! .....Finn is a douchelord, fact not opinion....) and then went to pour my Red Truck.
Right when I was getting all cozy on the couch, my Firefox completely shut down.
A pop up from windows: NOTICE! YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN INFECTED! 29 VIRUSES FOUND <insert list of files including but not limited to: worm, trojan horse, AIDS, Rosie O'Donnell, end of the world, etc>
I would liken my computer being under attack to a mama bear protecting her cub. It was a stage of intense panic and anger followed by the only rational decision: Call Dad!
"Dad, I have Norton Anti-virus, but my computer closed out all my programs and is saying it's under attack. HELP MEEEEE!!!!!!!"
"Court, disable your wireless, do a full Norton scan, it's probably a fake program trying to access and hack your computer. Norton will catch it. I'm on the other line with a client, I'll call you back."
[Click Norton full scan}
2 seconds later....
I'm not sure what I expected here. My mom is no more tech savvy than I am. I just felt so ALONE without my computer and needed some comfort.
Mom: I'm on the other line with your sister, let me call you back.
Me: Ugh, fine, bye.
The world revolves around meeeeeeeee!!! WAAAAA!! I'm 5 and am going to throw a tantrum now!!!
Mom: What's wrong?
Oh no, the two most dreaded words in the English language, sure to unleash the most intense of emotions. I'm not sure if it was the thought of forking over $69.95 to this "XP Virus Scan," the utterly painful potential loss of my laptop, or the anger of knowing someone was fucking with me while I was trying to do WORK, but I am quite positive that it was triggered by pure exhaustion in which my world was turned upside down and this hacker was all, Imma go Eyjafjallajokull on your ass and make your internet a "no-fly" zone.
My logical response: "MY COMPUTER IS, LIKE......ATTACKING ITSELF!"
Mom: I'm sure it will be fine. I'll have Dad call you when he gets home.
Me: I ALREADY CALLED HIM! HE'S ON THE OTHER LINE WITH A CLIENT!!!
re: duh, mom, I wouldn't call you FIRST.
apparently she got that.
Mom: We'll call you back. Bye.
I think my parents were trying to tell me I was overreacting just a tad.
My Dad called back.
Told me the same thing he did the first time.
My mom got on the phone, totally changed the subject to tell me a funny story about my college beast, Vinny, who now lives with them.....
The conversation took a turn and ended up somewhere around gay adoption, then the little boy in Russia, and ended with her spying on the Indian neighbors.
In the mean time, my heartwarming Twitter community has offered helpful advice about my computer and offered to help!
Well, it turns out my Dad was right the entire time. 2 hours of scanning and a reboot later, my laptop was whirring away.
I called the hearse I had ordered and told the company it was a flase alarm.
Completely physically and emotionally drained, I decided it was time for both my computer and I to go to bed.
So I did.
And slept until 7:30 this morning.
I'm feeling much more "normal" now.
Just another day in the life of an obsessive control freak whose computer basically allows my heart and lungs to continue to function in a manner deemed appropriate for a little thing we like to call "staying alive."
And that, my friends, is why I should not function on less than 8 hours of sleep.
Or be separated from the interwebs.
I cringe to think what may have happened had my iPhone not held my hand through this horrendous process. I love you, internet, never leave me again!
I've decided that my recent lack of creative juices is due to less than normal alcohol consumption, resulting in less still-drunk mornings at work in which I abandon all duties and blog.
Well wait no more kiddos!
After ingesting too many $2 vodka waters, some ice cold beer, and some luke warm tequila and whiskey shots, I am in full blogging mode.
The highlight of my night was actually eating oatmeal in my kitchen, having a conversation with my roommate, which i remember zero details of, who was eating corn out of the can.
We keep it classy.
But as I passed the canned corn, still on the counter, on my way out this morning, I was reminded of a cherished childhood memory.
But before we waltz down the road of remembrance, let me enlighten you with a tasty little morsel:
I have a very active imagination.
So much so, that I have vivid memories of things that I thought happened, but didn't really happen, and I wonder how much of my childhood is reality vs fantasy.
Bringing us to the case in point:
When I was around 5 years old, we took a little road trip to Lake Murray, Oklahoma to spend a weekend of fun in the sun with the fam.
I'm sure like most things in my childhood, I would go back and realize that this place is a dump and much smaller than I remember, but in my mind, Lake Murray was a vast lake of sparkling blue diamonds, glittering under the glowing sun that stretched out over the plush green fields of the camp ground.
Obviously, this can't be correct since Oklahoma is the armpit of America and is good for nothing other then gambling and turquoise jewelry.
I digress, any-hoozle.
I of course insisted on riding with my grandparents, because, duh, they were the coolest people ever and took me to Luby's every Friday night to get a chicken leg, mac n cheese, and fried okra, with jiggly blue jello or chocolate pie, or both, and a delicious yeasty roll.
That's not why I love them, but it made me love them more, and at a young age I decided to latch on to them every chance I got, PLUS it meant I didn't have to ride inthe car with that annoying, screeching baby that my mother would not "send back."
In reality, I'm pretty sure my little sister was one of the best babies ever, but that's really neither here nor there because this story is all about ME*.
*standard childhood belief.
While either going there or coming back, I can't quite remember, my grandfather fell asleep at the wheel.
We crossed over the median and ended up with the rear end of the car in a corn field.
I thought this was delightful and remember the story fondly!
I told it all through my youth: my silly grandad falling asleep and we drove into a CORNFIELD!! teeheee
When I was 22.
READ: TWENTY TWO!!
SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER!
I was reminiscing about this and my parents and grandparents were laughing hysterically.
I know, I know, I am a fantastic storyteller, always yuckin it up.
Turns out I had it all wrong.
What ACTUALLY happened, was that my grandpa fell asleep, crossed over the median, and we were almost sideswiped by an 18 wheeler, all while my parents watched their eldest child almost go up in smoke from a couple of car lengths back.
Not so cute.
For the visual learners:
I confused this:
So I was all:
When I shoulda been all:
Guess I thought that giant draw of the horn was just a tractor comin to plow the crops.
Yanno, cuz death knocking on my door was not near as exciting as yellow vegetables growing out of the ground.
***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
When you're done reading mine, mosey on over to LiLu's to check out other TMIs, because:
Well, right when I really started to enjoy this little tradition, TMI Thursday will be no more.
No worries, I still plan on telling my embarrassing stories.
But let's dive right in!
I have a habit of sexting.
Around 1am, you can find me in the corner of the bar with one eye open, furiously typing away on my phone.
This isn't a rare problem.
But coupled with my amazing escape and pass out skills, it turns into quite the situation, in which I usually wake up with 10 missed calls and some angry WTF texts from my current gentleman caller.
It really is kind of amazing how quickly I can go from horny coherent to beelining for my bed with some string cheese and no memory of what I was doing 10 minutes ago.
There was one particular fellow who really got the brunt of this.
It may or may not be the same fellow who I decided I was going to make out with in a bar...in front of his little sister....who may or may not have been in my sorority.
I think I also asked her once if she would care if I dated her brother.
But all of this is really here nor there since I don't remember and therefore, it never happened.
Words to live by.
Once skankily clad evening, I do believe I texted him something like "Over this. Meet me at my place?" around 1:45.
I would give this 2 points more than the "Wanna hang out later?" text.
I've often wondered about this.
No one "hangs out" in the middle of the night.
Clearly this should just say: Wanna bang? I'll b the big spoon after.
Soo in the 15 minutes after this happened, I half blacked out, only to remember the rest of my night because of the trauma that ensued.
Obviously, I dopped all of the contents of my purse on the walk home, which was also a bad idea since I had to go through a few dark alleys all by my lonesome.
When I got to my one bedroom apartment, I didn't have my keys.
Instead of calling a friend and going to their place, or maybe waiting for the boy on his way and telling him we were spending the night at his place, I decided taking off my shoes and sprinting back to the bar was the appropriate thing to do.
Because CLEARLY I must have left them there instead of dropping them in a bush that buffered a tumble I surely took.
The bar was locked up. Shocker.
It's 3 am.
I walk back home, shoeless.
My skin says bagpipes, but my feet say hip hop.
I never did find my shoes from that night.
Guess someone found something they liked.
I decide it's a good idea to call my mom crying that I can't get in to my apartment and then sleep in my doorway until my friend Megan came to get me at 4 in the morning so I could sleep on her couch.
Not only am I super classy, but a pain in the ass.
I'm pretty sure the boy gave up after that.
I probably wouldn't be very happy either if someone chose running around barefoot in a dark city hopelessly looking for keys instead of hopping in the sack with me.
I'm just glad I made it to the parking garage to pop a squat instead of deeming the hallway a necessary place to pee.
This morning, I had a realistic discussion with myself about things I am good at: running, plays on words, drinking, being judgmental, making grilled cheese, starting but not finishing after-parties, story-telling, knowing every reality tv show to ever exist, having photographic memory, brunching.
Things I am not good at: being told what to do, relationships, sleeping in, not drinking to excess, saving money, being patient and non-obsessive, understanding how every friend I have can be so chronically late for everything we ever plan.
So, if you put two and two together, I clearly have 3 career paths, which I have evaluated in order of least to most likely:
3. Owning my grilled cheese and alcoholic snowcone truck.
If you follow me on twitter (@cstanderfer, duh), you may remember some inklings of a food truck conversation.
What started as a joke quickly enolved into a 5 hour conversation, a serious follow up about legality and business investment with my dad, and then an utter fail at any sort of follow through.
The gist was that I would drive a party truck around, serving alcoholic snow cones (under the table of course), grilled cheese sandwiches, and have a party deck on top--complete with party playlists and a water balloon launcher.
I really don't care if you fin this unrealistic, because it's my blog and I can pretend that anything is possible.
Heard of Reading Rainbow much?
2. Charging my friends a flat fee to plan events and parties.
College-roommate Stephanie has already agreed to gold dig make a mutual investment for us both.
She will find a rich doctor and I will move into their pool house and plan parties for them all while pursuing my career as an author.
This is a win, win.
Steph enjoys the finer things in life, while I really couldn't care less as long as I have a pool, booze, and nice running terrain.
And a stove.
To make my grilled cheese.
And maybe a hammock where I can lie while her cabana boy brings us drinks.
Okay, maybe I like some fine things.
I will probably have a long-term non committed relationship with him, resulting in him getting fired 8 months later when it becomes awkward.
Sounds about right.
1. The most realistic of the three:
I am going to apply at OPI and suggest a Texas line of nail polish colors.
I will come to work still-drunk, rattle off a bunch of plays on words, and be home by 2pm.
I made my own guidelines.
I can't imagine they would turn down my application considering I would settle for the same ungodly amount I make now.
*I do not support the following stereotypes.
**White and black were left off due to my lack of filter from brain to mouth.
Red-dy for some football
I red a book....once
Red River Rivalry
Papa's belt left a mark
This little piggy
Ain't red, Ain't yelluh
I spend my pesos on Queso
Mustard meets Ketchup: the state fair corndog saga
I even left LiLu's call out on there because a) she is great and b) she spills tea on her V in an epic TMI Thurs.
So, today's particular post will probably make you highly uncomfortable.
I hope it does.
Because I had to suffer and you should too.
So I help out at a center for families downtown.
On Sunday, they had a meeting for the parents and needed some adult volunteers to help in the kids room.
I like kids, I had nothing better to do on a Sunday from 7-9pm because Pretty Wild isn't on until 9:30, and I like to pretend like being a good person for 2 hours makes up for all the bad karma i accumulate throughout the week.
I walked in and discovered that we had 1 volunteer for every 2 kids, which is really unnecessary considering some of them are 14-15, but whatevs. I plopped my ass on the couch next to a cute little girl and started watching Dr. DoLittle.
Oh, Eddie Murphy, you and your talkin hamster soo funnyyyyyy.
I discovered not 30 seconds later that little miss chatty cathy was going to be my new bff for the next 2 hours.
I will literally just go through our entire dialogue complete with commentary.
"Hi! My name is Arianna, want me to spell it? Look!"
[draws out letters on her leg]
Hey, that's pretty good, what a smart little girl!
oh, I had no idea the things this child knows...
Hi, I'm Courtney, how old are you Arianna? Are you 5?
Yes. I'm five. But I'm not a baby anymore, I'm a big girl.
Yes you are! Do you go to school?
When I WAS a baby, I made my mama's stomach fat, and now it's still fat. I came out her nana. Do you know what a nana is?
errrmmm, oh God....
Yes, I do know what that is.
I don't think this part is particularly weird. I used to babysit a little boy who was potty training and had recently discovered his very own little weiner. He would run around in public yelling at everyone "I HAVE A PENIS!" and it was actually kind of funny.
"Why yes, yes you do! Good for you!" was my favorite response EVER--by a grandmother type.
Guys, you might want to skip the next part.
All girls have nanas. And you get a period out of a nana. That's blood.
Uh, yes, that's true. Um, what do you like to do at school?
I like lunch because we get to eat and recess because we get to play.
What kind of games do you like to play?
My nana itches. Sometimes I like to dig in my nana, but my mom says that's nasty.
By this point I am highly uncomfortable.
Uh, yeah, that's not something you should do in.... public....?
Do you know what S-E-X is?
O. M. G! Who is this child? WTF?
Do YOU know what that is?
Shouldn't we be talking about the Easter bunny or something??
Um, yes i do, but, um, so anwa--
Then tell me what it is.
Um, it's something for um
[insert collar loosening and a throat clear]
A) This is totally inappropriate for me to be discussing this with a 5 year old
B) I can't say it's for mommies and daddies because what if she doesn't have a daddy, but I don't want to advocate sleeping around either, arghhhh why can't this child be from the burbs?!
C) DO I remember what S-E-X is?
It's something for um, grown ups who love each other.....
it's how they make babies
I'm not old enough for S-E-X. I have to wait until I get titties
Did this little girl just say titties?!
That's my sister. She has titties.
[points to 13 year old who is probably wearing a bra but most definitely does not have 'titties']
But they don't shake yet.
When I get big, mine will shake.
By this point I have moved away from her in hopes she will just disappear and also out of fear that she is going to touch me with her hands that have been "digging in her nana."
I have no idea HOW I got myself into this predicament, but I want out.
As if God answered my awkward prayer, a girl named Precious walked into the room and little Arianna got very excited and ran to her.
I also ran. Far, far away to the coloring table near the safety of two elderly women who could surely handle any more awkward situations with a better sense of decency than I.
And that was how I got a lesson in sex ed from a 5 year old.
When I got home, I took a shower.
Even though it was "No Shower Sunday."
Cute little girls are not always what they appear to be....
For as long as I can remember, I have had a nail-biting habit.
Even when I was little.
There are two things I remember my mom always correcting me for
1. Biting my nails
"Courtney, you're biting your nails..."
2. Using the inside collar of my t shirt as a napkin at dinner.
"Courtney Suzanne! STOP wiping your mouth on the inside of your shirts!"
ok yeah, it was gross when I had orange stains on my collar from spaghetti dinners, but it was soooo convenient
It's been a problem for awhile.
I do it when I am bored, nervous, or a combination of the two.
When I am a sitting duck, as you will.
It's actually worse when I'm bored. I have no idea I'm even doing it until I taste blood, or accidentally rip off some skin instead of a nail tip.
It sounds more morbid than it is, really.
I can't seem to help it.
It's like I go into sleep walker mode, bite off all my nails, then wake up and am like errrr, WTF happened to my finger nails? Who stole half of my thumb cuticle?! Why are there purple sparkly bits of nail polish on my lip?!
NAIL POLICE, NAIL POLICE!
Some times, I can manage to let them grow out, and then they will stay that way for awhile, because they are hard and healthy and long and you don't want to bite them.
*that's what she said*
But inevitably, one gets chipped or snagged or breaks and I have to "even them all out" which is either my OCD taking over or my sneaky excuses to gnaw on some dead skin.
I've tried the fake nail route too.
I basically ended up ripping all of them off the first time around and had to re-grow a couple layers of nail before my hands looked normal again.
Plus the upkeep would cut into my boozey slush fund
(re: money I should save but I just wanna get cruuuuunk sooo-ho much, ya hurrd?).
But worse than not having long, pretty, girly nails is that everyone and their sister's boyfriend's childhood friend from elementary school and their mom PLUS the dog wants to comment.
"OMG! Courtney! Why do you *do* that?! It looks like it hurts!"
At this point, I have instinctively tucked my thumbs into the palm of my hands and have my knuckles resting up so no one else can get a glimpse of my bloodied nubs.
[insert awkward moment where some people try to UNCURL MY THUMBS to see my nails again]
"C'mon, just show me it wasn't thaaaat bad"
Okay, do I look retarded to you?
Stop talking to me in the same voice you use when speaking to children, let go of my fucking hands, which belong to ME by the way, and you are totally invading my privacy now considering how close to my crotch I was trying to hide my hands.
I mean, really people, get a clue.
I get really embarrassed when people see my nails, which is a rare occurrence.
Wanna talk about that time(s) I peed the bed? fine.
Remember when I ate that entire pizza by myself? ...out of a random apartment's fridge? okay.
I'll even reminisce about that time I slept in the doorway of my apartment (shoeless) for 3 hours because I drunkenly lost my keys and lived by myself and the management office isn't open at 2 am.
But leave my nails alone.
I think I am going to start responding with respective sweet spots in defense.
"OMG Courtney! Look at your nails! Doesn't that HURT?!"
"OMG Look at your FAT ARMS! Can you FEEL them jiggling while you walk or is that just an optical illusion?"
"OMG! Does my nail-biting look as painful as your loud conversations (about you and your husband's boring weekend gardening was sooooo fun until your mother-in-law came over cuz she is just WHACK and overbearing and shiz) sound!?"
"OMG! Are you wearing tennis shoes and a belt with light denim in 2010? Are your jeans really meant to be that high or are you hiding a fupa under there?!"
Oh, I'm sorry, did I strike a chord?
We all have them.
Another of mine?
Stop inspecting my cuticles or your ass might get a round of verbal assault right from the lips of moi.
And let me tell you something, this package is small, but it packs a punch.
And the combination of that plus my brain-without-a-filter-no-thinky-before-speaky quality makes for many regrettable moments, if not careful.
For some reason unbeknownst to me, I turn into a complete klepto when I've been drinking.
Which is actually quite strange:
A) I have a guilty conscience
To the point where I do things and then need to blurt them out for no reason. I TOOK ONE OF YOUR DIET DR PEPPERS BUT REPLACED IT BEFORE YOU EVEN NOTICED!
phew, had to get THAT off my chest.
B) I hate "stuff."
I clean out my closet regularly, do not just cram random things in drawers, and get anxious when there are 5 bottles of the same condiment in the fridge. Um, why do we need 3 soy sauces, 2 ketchups, and 5 mustard bottles again? This is probably just because I do not like mass amounts of condiments and really wish they wouldn't party in my fridge.
C) It's never, ever, something I actually use. It always sits around for a few weeks and then gets thrown out with the old milk.
First trip to Vegas, taken on my friend Kathleen's 21st birthday since she was the last one.
Stupidly book an ungodly early flight Sunday morning.
The last thing I remember is ordering everything on the menu in a diner around 7:30am with our new weekend friends, hardly touching any of it because i was still double fisting a red bull vodka and a mimosa, making it rain $20 and $100 bills from their winnings at the casino, and then stumbling upstairs and trying to shove everything in my bag before passing out for 2 hours.
I do not remember taking the taxi to the airport, checking our bags, or going through security.
But I DO remember seeing a burger king.
I remembered in line that I'm not a fan of The King, but stayed there with my dear party friend Megan.
While Megan was paying, I stole a Ms. Fields cookie.
I was giggling to myself.
There is actually a very good chance that the cashier saw all of this and put the cookie on Meg's tab.
I wouldn't know because shortly after, I re-blacked out and woke up to a guy shaking me violently and telling me we were in Austin.
I was face down on my tray table in the middle seat and the plane was almost empty.
He said he was impressed. He had never seen someone "pass out like that."
Umm thanks? [Your friends suck at partying].
I slurred something, somehow found my friends, and then slept for 15 hours straight. I never did savor those chocolate chips.... I found the crushed cookie in my carry on a week later...
Summer time activities often involve drinking too much, deciding we nee to make jello shots for the pool the next day, going to taco cabana for queso, and while there, stealing bags full of those little condiment cups they leave just sitting there in the middle of the restaurant.
ok I suppose having a salsa buffet there justifies them just "lying around," but really this isn't stealing. It's like a give away, and I won!
Kind of like that time I found a box of fraternity formal shirts and decided I needed 6 of them.
If taco C had a bowl of peppermints at the exit, I might just grab the entire thing and run.
If I ever have bad breath, I just check random purses until I hit my hidden stash of left over dinner mints. Why buy altoids when you can get tasty little wrapped treats FO FREE?
Anyway, the point to all of this is that on girls night Friday, we were paying to get into the gay bar (if only we had known the password "grinder" would get us free admission! *sigh*) and they had a bowl of flavored condoms sitting there.
I instinctively grabbed a handful.
But I chose strawberry, banana, and apple.
I reallydon't get the point of flavored condoms.
Well, unless you wrap it up for BJs because your partner acquired a souvenir from that spring break trip to Cancun.
But that's some kool-aid I'm not drinkin, so it's neither here nor there.
So now there are 3 flavored condoms sitting on my tv stand next to a gingerbread candle and a flask of vodka.
Well, that's not entirely true, I moved the vodka this morning because it was a little much to take in on a Monday morning.
I kind of want to taste one.
Or blow them up like balloons 40 year old virgin style.
or fill them with hair mousse and then plant them in the apartment elevators.
I have a habit of going to my parents' house for at least a portion of the weekend.
This weekend it happened to be Saturday. Partly because my brother and sister were home for spring break and mainly because what started as a low key "I'm not drinking" weekend was transformed Friday afternoon by a happy hour in the office, continued happy hour at the bar, polishing off a bottle of wine in my apartment, and blacking out after a shot of jager to the point of not remembering a damn thing.
Not when I discovered I left my debit card at the bar (still there), not when my boss pointed out the out-of-my-mind email I sent her (thank Gah-hod I didn't hit reply all), not even when I was told I made out with someone in a bar (soooorrrry mooooom).
So any-hoodles, when it's rainy and you can't just wake up and celebrate in some good old fashioned hair of the dog on a patio somewhere, what do you do? Escape to suburbia to detox!
Except that at 4:30 my Dad taunted me.
Dad: "you know there's 3 bottles of red over there, Court"
Me: "Dad....it's not even five...."
Dad: "Since when does that stop you?! Besides, it's Saturday and it's 5:30 on the east coast!"
And then I found myself drinking red wine and eating laughing cow cheese completely UNnecessarily.
Note: Dad was not drinking, just encouraging me
So the lesson here is that I do not have a spine, will drink wine when told, and if you take me to get a steak dinner, I'll sleep at your house, ask if we can watch precious, and then you can buy me lunch the next day.
So anyway, I'm lazy, it was cold, and when my mom said "Are you sleeping here tonight?" I replied with "Yes, but I'll probably regret it in the morning."
All slutty jokes aside, I should have known that very phrase was enough reason to drive home.
I don't remember falling asleep Sunday night but I woke up to a terrible blaring noise that was sure to be a fire alarm. I had that terrible ripping feeling as my swollen eyes tried to decipher what ungodly hour of the morn it was.
As I stubbed my toe on the dresser fumbling for my glasses, I realized that the sound wasn't as loud as I originally thought.
Maybe because it's 7-effing-15.
To make a long story short, I finally dragged my ass out of bed, made a jumbo cup of hazlenut coffee, and realized it was 8:10 and I should have left 20 minutes ago.
Take the back roads! It'll save you time!
No Dad, you know how I am off the beaten path.
[dad prints map out and draws on it with a pen as if I can decipher his hieroglyphics]
I went for it anyway.
It was going great until I had to find "Texas Trail"
Well that road only goes one way.
To be honest it wasn't Dad's fault.
I could SEE the mother effing highway.
It was right there.
But that can't be right, I'm looking for Texas Trail.
Sometimes I really wonder about myself.
I start to panic when I realize I am definitely going the wrong way.
The traffic I have to encounter when I pull a U turn is horrendous.
I look at the clock.
I'm supposed to be there at 8:30.
Now granted, no one actually abides by the 8:30 rule.
But I hate being late.
It makes me feel anxious, and I had a shit ton to do today, and it felt like a fat man was sitting on my chest. And not in a good way.
Not that said situation is ever good, per se.
But that sexual encounter would be less uncomfortable than my punctuality issue.
Of course I call my dad, expecting him to tell me he can magically transport me to my office instead of suggesting I just turn around and go find my exit.
The following conversation ensued:
Where are you?
I don't knooooowwwww!! I missed my exit and now I don't know where I ammmmm.
What direction are you going??
DAD! you know i don't know directions!! This is why I told you I shouldn't go this way.
Well is the sun on your left or right.
[pause to hold up the Ls and remember which is left and right]
Okay. Turn around and go the other way.
It pisses me off that he is such a directional magician.
MUST BE NICE TO OPERATE LIKE AN AZTEC SUNDIAL!
(whatever that even means)
Thanks for passing on bad eyesight instead of that lovely directional mechanism.
A few minutes later, I am waiting in traffic backtracking to my missed exit.
It's now 8:54.
By this point my throat is closing up. I cannot possibly make it before 9:15.
I do what any neurotic, high strung girl would do and start to cry.
The last time I cried was watching Fried Green Tomatoes on TV about 2 months ago.
But I was really frustrated.
Then the guy next to me in his volvo saw me and started looking at m sympathetically.
Damnit. Why didn't I wear contacts so I could put on sunglasses??
The better question: WHY AM I CRYING OVER THIS?
I finally found the exit 2 more tries down the line.
Of course once I wasn't frustrated, I just got mad.
But then "Hey Soul Sister" came on.
I had a bi-polar moment and started belting it out while driving along.
I was pretending to play drums on my steering wheel having a complete *moment* when I realized I was pulling up to my office.
By this point, I had expended 5x the energy a normal person uses by 9:22.
And to be honest, I'm really not even sure if anyone noticed I was late.
I got more coffee, because CLEARLY, I needed to be more hopped up on something.
Then I got to work.
The rest of my day was pretty uneventful besides my co-worker Daniel bringing me a pack of jalapeno kettle chips from Subway.
And that, my friends, is why I am vowing to never sleep at my parents' house on a week night again.
I'm sorry that I haven't partaken in the tap tappity tap of my keyboard as I watch the words appear on your glorious white canvas.
But mostly, I'm sorry that I haven't had time to post.
Not sorry for you, but sorry for me.
There are so many things I wanted to share with you.
last night I had a dream that my mom wanted egg drop soup.
we took her to a chinese restaurant so she could have some.
The waitress wanted to add hot peppers but she wasn't supposed to.
So she tried to sneak them in but got caught and the emperor got mad.
we ran out and I accidently left my shoes inside.
This is a big deal because i lost all of my flats except one pair (in real life not in my dream), but i woke up in a panic that i was shoe-less.
Anyway, after the emperor chased us out we ran to our minivan, only to be held up at gun point by a masked man.
I screamed and he ran away.
My mom jumped in the minivan and pulled me through the window and sped off.
We were safe.
My grandmother was also present for all of these chinese adventures.
The point is....
I enjoy you. I miss you. and I will be back.
If it helps, I neglected showers, breathing, lunches, and morning coffee runs (trips to the coffee shop, not coffee diarrhea) before you got axed.
For revenge, please contact boss lady and those needy clients.
Actually, don't do that.
Next week is a new week, and I plan on refocusing my attention so I can spend the majority of my time blogging, tweeting, and drinking dirty martinis. I would say wine, but we all know I haven't been skipping that part of my routine.
I love you, Blog, and I'll see you next week so I can bitch about how fat men really need to wear undershirts. Because everybody loves a nice pair of titties, but no one appreciates triangular saggy man boobs.
Come Monday, I'm lighting a blogging fire under my ass.