I have a problem

A serious problem.

I can't help it.

The cravings and immediate gratification are the same as a cigarette or the clang of a slot machine.

My dad has threatened interventions before. But I don't think I can handle that.

If only it wasn't so.... available.  And it's easy, too. When you don't buy a lot at one time, people don't realize that you are stocking up. I don't look like anyone that needs to be featured on TLC. I'm a normal person. Just with one little addiction.

 

No, seriously. I can't go to the grocery store without walking down the salad dressing aisle. And then, when they put it on sale "buy one, get one free," God help me.

I have three different types of Ranch in my fridge. Talking about it out loud gives me an intonation similar to Benjamin Buford Blue (Bubba Gump).

This is an issue. Seriously.


I rationalize it by thinking of different ways the world could end and the fact that I can hole up in my apartment for a long time with enough creamy nutrients to keep me alive for at least two days. Boo-yah.

Don't hate the player, hate the wide variety and great sales.

Fill in the blank

A friend's mom unearthed a top notch picture of us from high school. My friend showed it to me and I rapidly fired questions at her:

WHAT ARE WE WEARING!?
WHY IS MY HAIR LIKE THAT!?

And... the most important one: What the hell are we looking at!? So, blog readers- that's your million dollar question. What are we looking at? Fill in the blank. Comment and take a gander. The most clever comment will be rewarded with....... more blog posts at some point (WINNNNNNER!!!)

Quirks from the road

My coworkers and I travel a lot during the fall and we all have stories we can tell about our great road running adventures. We have all had at least one moment (a day??) where our outlook has betrayed us by switching our appointments to a different time zone or where we get a call or text obnoxiously late or early from some other time zone (PEOPLE- I AM ON WEST COAST TIME. JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE HAD YOUR LIFE IN ORDER FOR LIKE TWO HOURS DOES NOT MEAN I HAVE.... also, sorry, coworker, for calling you at midnight East coast time-- it was only 9 my time).

We have all been at the point where we roll over in the dark to find the alarm, slam it off, get up, scratch whatever needs scratching and make our way over to the window to throw open the shades to get a view of whatever office park, parking garage, or lame intersection our room faces- just so we can remember exactly where we are.

We entertain each other with "tales from the road," stories about showing up to the airport way too early (foiled by different time zones again) or late (damn you, time zones); recaps on throwing our keys away with our trash and what it was like to dig through the dumpster at the Embassy Suites for an hour; or run downs on what type of rental cars we got and jealous grunts when someone reveals the sweet ride they snagged on their trip. Ahhhh yes, life on the road.

Fortunately/Unfortunately/Fortunately/Unfortunately, Tunately, I didn't have any major happenings to report on during my last trip. My adventures were kind of lame. I ate "chicken" at a Vegetarian restaurant. (I have no idea what it was if it wasn't chicken, but I am still flabbergasted at how far veganology has come.); I took a lot of pictures of the leaves changing colors, and I apparently ordered a bunch of shower caps. On the last night on the road I went back to my room to be greeted by a frantic hotel employee. He was knocking on my door as I walked up. A huge smile of relief spread across his face. "FOR THE SHOWER!!!," he barked as he thrust the shower caps in my hand. "WEVE BEEN TRYING TO GET YOU!!!" and off he went. I had not been to my room in hours and... oh yeah... HAD NEVER USED A SHOWER CAP IN MY LIFE, so was a little confused about why I was suddenly holding four of them. I shrugged, went into my room, and immediately started wondering which room the person with the shower cap necessary hair was camping out in..... And if they would let me touch that mystifying hair. 

FYS

There are some people in this world that people just want to talk to. Total strangers will walk up to them and reveal their deepest secrets. People in the line at the grocery store will seamlessly shift the conversation from the weather to a detailed outline about their struggles with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. An innocent smile while pumping gas could result in a fifteen minute monologue about their granddaughter's ballet recital. A friend and I describe this as an 'FYS' moment- one that should be held onto for your shrink. While in line at Starbucks, divulging that you are stressed out because you have to move unexpectedly because you caught your landlord in bed with your boyfriend is not for me- that is FOR YOUR SHRINK.

Luckily, I am not one of these people that people just want to talk to.

Well not most of the time, at least.

Thank god.

But, for some reason, every now and then, I do attract some bizarre behavior and conversations. For example, the time that the girl ringing me up at the grocery store told me about her weight issues. Or the time that the man got on the half empty streetcar and chose to share a seat with me and proceeded to tell me about his ultimate fear of getting trapped in the deep freezer at work.

A more interesting FYS moment occurred this summer, while I was staying at a casino. (Just to paint the picture- it was legit, it wasn't like a truck stop casino). I had just pressed the elevator button to go to my floor when a man in a bathing suit stuck his hand in between the doors and just barely made it in. He gave me a big "I'm only missing two teeth" smile and proceeded to talk.

"You been winnin big!?"

"No- not really, I haven't been gambling much."

"Awwww- come on now--- you gotta play. I bet yer lucky! I won real big last night."

"Oh."

"No- seriously. Real big! I done won $600! And I'm doing good today, too- but I had to take a break and run to the room to use the bathroom. I didn't want to take the chance to find it in the casino. I gotta pee real bad."

At this point, he gave me another grin while hopping from one leg to the other and pulling his knees together real tight.

"Shit," I thought to myself, "why did they put me on such a high floor? If I were on the third floor, I could have avoided this altogether."

The elevator slowed down as the doors opened and he let out a moan as he kept up the toddler 'I have to pee' two step.

Another woman got on and pushed a button.

He looked at her "How ya doin, ma'am?" Her face twisted slightly as she took in the scene. He continued. "Man, I been havin a good day! But I was just telling my friend here I wish they would turn up the A/C- I'm so dang cold-I'm shiverin!" He squeezed his knees together and somewhat covered his crotch and sent a wink my way. Like it was a little inside joke that he really was about to piss all over himself.

Finally, the elevator dinged to a halt at my floor and I scrambled off of it.

I guess I had been lucky- I got to avoid what could have been a urine soaked scene in a small space. And, just from my brief interaction, I think that this man had a lot of things that he should have been sharing with his shrink.

We should all be ashamed of ourselves.

The other day while perusing Wal-Mart, I came across this fine example of how Americans have become overweight, sad, materialistic, Honey Boo Boo loving, ignorant consumers.

Please notice the size in between L and XL.


That's right- Husky.


Really!? Really!? HUSKY is a size now!?

I guess there's no such thing as vanity sizing when it comes to boy's Halloween costumes.

There should be a size called "YOU ARE TOO DAMN BIG TO GO TRICK-OR-TREATING" or maybe, instead of Husky we should call it "YOU DON'T NEED ANY CANDY, FAT-ASS. NOW RUN HOME AND DO SOME SIT UPS, KING CURTIS.*"




*Thank you to Laura Meagher for the King Curtis reference.

That time I gave blood...

The first time I gave blood quickly became the last time I gave blood. (Unless- of course- someone I know is in dire need, I guess I can suck it up and try to do it again- but I will bitch to you about it.)

Recently, a good friend of mine was hospitalized. All of his friends scrambled to do anything they could for him and his family but, as is almost always the case, there was little to be done at the time when he was worst off. Our options of help ranged from bringing baked goods, to providing moral support, to donating blood. Despite my debilitating fear of needles and everything related to them, I had done everything else on the support forefront and wanted to do more. I decided to give blood. I would like to point out that after I have to get a shot or get blood drawn, I call 3-5 people to tell them what I just did and that I survived. No amount of smiley face stickers or shitty lollipops can give me the "pat on the back" that I need after I interact with a needle- only generous amounts of self driven positive verbal feedback will do.

I knew the only way I was going to be able to donate was if I had constant moral support. A coworker of mine, Rachel, was also going to give blood, so we made plans to go during lunch. I was incredibly nervous and was not sure what state I would be in afterwards, so I asked her to drive. She is apparently a pro at blood drives, so I distractedly talked and asked her questions during the ride to the hospital. Much like that time I went snorkeling, the lead up to that time I gave blood became a jumble of far off gazes, imagining the worst case scenarios, and bursts of rapid speech intermingled with moments of quiet panic.

We got to the blood drive and Rachel let me go first so I wouldn't have to sit in sheer terror any longer. After they scanned my license, they sent me to a makeshift cubicle where a woman pricked my finger and rambled off the longest laundry list of questions ever. I could barely focus enough to answer questions like my date of birth, much less "Have you lived with anyone in the past 5 years that may have shared needles with someone that may have visited Africa since 1993?" Apparently I said everything I needed to say because I was directed to a group of cots set up as the blood donation station. I grabbed a cot by the window- hoping a view of something would distract me from the needle that was about to be stuck in my arm and sat there while my mouth went dry and my palms got sweaty.

Two doctors grabbed seats on the other cots at about the same time I did. One of them, lightly laughing, let the nurse know that he had never given blood before and that he was a little nervous. This did not help my case. How is this man- who is surrounded with tubes, blood, needles, blood, sick people, gross human stuff, and blood every day at work nervous!? If he's nervous- I need should be FREAKING OUT right now. Oh wait- I am. The nurse, having picked up on my emotions, let him know "Baby- you don't have anything to be nervous about. Besides- you think you're nervous? Look at this one- here- she won't even look at me." Damn, she was good.

The two nurses got to work on their assembly line style blood drive. They got everything going on the two doctors and made their way over to me. When one of them ripped open the antiseptic wipe, I almost levitated. As they set up the needle and started drawing blood, I tried to focus on good things. I stared lazily at the palm tree outside the window and slowly closed my eyes as I realized I was sweating. Like seriously sweating. Like pooling in my belly button and dripping from my ponytail sweating. The nurse hurried over to me. "Oh no, baby- you can't close your eyes. Stay awake. You gotta calm down." She rummaged around in an ice chest and came at me with three ice bags- two for my neck and chest and one for my head. As she packed me in ice like a seafood display, I heard "Is she OK?" coming from the "nervous" Doctor. I was making a damn sweaty scene.

I looked at her, tried my best power of persuasion, and told her "I want to stop." "Uh-uh you can't stop now. You have to finish. Just relax. This isn't a big deal. What are you so afraid of?" I turned my attention back outside and kept thinking "I'm going to puke all of those potatoes I ate for lunch."





I hadn't eaten lunch yet. I was high off of giving blood.

As I finished up, a nurse sat on the cot beside me to give blood. She was eyeing me and explaining that she had never done it before and was kind of nervous. (GREAT- WANT TO JOIN THE CLUB!?) The nurse running the station told her not to worry about it- and don't worry about me- I was a paid actress. They got me over there so people could see the worst case scenario.

I queasily smiled at the two and tried to joke "they're not paying me enough." Or that's what I was going for. Instead, I'm pretty sure I looked and sounded something like "Sloth" from Goonies.

The moment finally came that I was done being drained and I hobbled away from the cot as quickly as I could. Rachel, who started after me, and was done ten minutes before me was there with moral support and cookies and O.J. and candy.

As I made my way through a bag of Famous Amos, I decided I would stick to baked goods and moral support from here on out. At least I'm good at one of those.

An Honest Look at Hurricanes

Now that all of us in South Louisiana have survived Hurricane Isaac, I would like to provide everyone with an honest look at hurricanes. While they are  nerve racking and produce more gossip and rumors than TMZ, they usually turn out OK. Actually, when a storm like Isaac- weak, poorly formed, not a lot of power (and yes- that is a hurricane, not a tennis serve) is predicted to make land fall- people get kind of excited. In fact, the overly used phrase "Hurrication" is worked into conversation as often as possible. "Where are you going for the Hurrication?" "Did you get booze for the Hurrication?" "Man- I am so psyched about the Hurrication." "Can you pass the Hurricaiton?"

I am going to go ahead and break it down for you. There is no such thing as a "Hurrication." The suffix "cation" implies relaxation, good times, and- most of all- amenities (read A/C, food, gas, running toilets, etc). Even if you are able to evacuate to somewhere fun during a Hurricane- the likelihood of you deciding where to go, who to go with, when to leave, and actually getting there without any stress is impossible. Also- once you are wherever you are- even if you are "cationing"- there will be some points of anxiety as the storm bares down on your home and all of the people you know who stayed (because they care about what happens... unlike you- enjoying your margarita poolside... shame shame... and yes I'm jealous).

And- for those of us who stay- the only "cation" part will be the first night (or night and day)- where you still have power- and all you have to do is drink, eat, and sleep. But then- when that pop, buzz, and flicker happens- when that last little laugh fades- when you wake up in the middle of the night in a puddle of your own sweat- when the power goes out- to quote a wise SEC coach, "lots go wrong."

To give you an idea- here is what you think your Hurrication is going to look like:

Here is what it will actually look like:

Here is a more in depth look at the timeline of a "Hurrication:"

1. The bastard hurricane takes a turn for your home town. Well- at least it's still a weak, puny hurricane. The type of hurricane that was always picked last at dodgeball. I'm sure it's African storm parents are disappointed in what its made of itself. As they watch its approach to the coast, his dad looks at his mom: "He should have gone to law school." This is the time where you decide what to do with yourself. Also, this is when most people start to act like Perez Hilton- and think they have all of the scoop. 
2. You make your plans. You need gas, groceries, booze, water, and to get your ass to where you are going. There is nothing more fear inducing than a tussle over the last loaf of shitty white bread or frustrating than sitting behind an Excursion for 45 minutes at a gas station only to find out they got the last single drop of gas from the pump. True story. I paid $22 in cash and had to go get $20.86 back because there was only $1.14 worth of gas left. I used more gas getting to the station and waiting than I actually bought. CRAP. 
3. You get to your home/friends house/wherever and let the party begin. The booze will flow and the meat will cook. You emptied out your freezer and are now providing everyone with a smorgasbord of tenderloin, gumbo, shrimp, and ice cream. Ahhh- yes- the ice cream. Grocery stores give ice cream away right before hurricanes. You read that right. Just give it away. Most people eat more ice cream during a Hurrication than they do the rest of the year combined. It just goes down so smooth. Moolineum Crunch- yes, indeed. Drunken ice cream pants down dance parties. And Apples to Apples. 
4. The next morning you wake up. You still have power but are stuck inside because the storm is raging outside. As the Hurricane thrashes its head around and blasts NIN, you begin to regret how many calories and shots you consumed the night before. You make your way into the kitchen for some Tylenol nerve pills and you see the remnants of the night before. You totally forgot that you also decided to finish off the milk- with the oreos, of course. 
5. To get over your regret, you go take a nap. There's nothing better than sleeping in the (sideways, drowning, overwhelming) rain, right? When you wake up- you're hungry. And its almost noon. And you haven't eaten since breakfast. You decide to make a sandwich. With chips. And then have some leftovers. And wash it down with a beer. And ice cream. 
6. You're into a game of monopoly/reading a book/taking a shower/surfing the web/sleeping when a loud pop echoes through the air. You see the unmistakable green sparks of a blown transformer and, as in slow motion, the house slowly whirs to a stop. The power is gone. All of the residents begin to yell to each other from their current activities that the power has gone out. Everyone knows- but it still needs to be announced. 
7. Its been almost 48 hours. You've started counting the hours without electricity like a prisoner counts down a life sentence. You hope the pencil marks come off the wall- but actually you really don't care- because you're miserable. It is hot. And gross. And sticky. And you end up piling up into one room with the window unit plugged into the generator to sleep at night. Five people, three pets- no problem. As long as you have that sweet sweet A/C. 
8. A power truck drives down your street. Grown men run into their front yards as if they were kids responding to the obnoxious 'HELLLLOOOO' of an ice cream truck. Your tears of joy turn into tears of sick frustration as you realize they made a wrong turn and are not helping your sorry asses any time soon. 
9. Now- this is a powerful moment. Everyone has a breaking point moment during a Hurrication. That one moment where being hot and gluttonous and hanging out with the same people for days straight has taken its toll and then something happens. A fight breaks out. Someone forgets to close the fridge all the way and generator power is wasted. Someone drank the last beer. For me, it was finding out that my cat had used the bathroom on my clothes for a second time. This time- on the clothes on my bed. As I was outside, in the pouring rain, hosing cat pee off of my clothes I did a quick calculation and realized that, without power, I was down to my last pair of EVERYTHING. Yep- that was the point for me.  The nice breakdown point.
10. Life sucks.
11. The storm has passed and people are wandering the streets and rubbing their eyes. Assessing the damage. Professionals on TV are urging you to stay away from downed power lines (honestly I think evolution should just keep on trucking and do what it needs to do- maybe we shouldn't warn the people who need to be warned, ya know?). There are rumors of people with power. Where? Where are these houses with the sweet A/C? With multiple rooms that you can sleep in without sweating through your clothes? You wait it out. You know your turn will come. And it does. Eventually. Just like before, there is a whir, and a buzz, and then everything comes to life again. You hug your coffee maker and lap top like long lost friends and then yell to everyone else (just in case they don't know): THE POWER'S ON. Then you update facebook. Because that's what matters most. 
12. Work. The thing you were happiest to take a break from. But finally- you return to some normal semblance of life and secretly- you kind of like it. You're happy to be back. 

That time when I was famous

During one of my trips home, my Dad pulled out a copy of Rolling Stone and told me there was something he wanted me to see.

"I don't know what it is. But there is something about this picture that looks so much like you."

He showed me an article about the movie The Dreamers- a film about a an American student studying in Paris who falls into a love triangle with a brother and sister (thank you, Wikipedia). My Dad pointed out this picture:

When I got back to my place, I rummaged through my photographs until I found it. The reason that picture had such a strange resemblance to me.

Man- if I had a dollar for every time someone said- 'Hey- aren't you that girl that was in that weird NC-17 movie about an American kid sleeping with French siblings?'....

Best Advice Ever

When I was in high school I was President of the anti-drug and alcohol club at my school. Yep.

Dernt der drergs- they're berd!

Around prom, we set up a "pen pal" program with a local elementary school, where the youngins would write high school students letters encouraging them to have fun at prom while staying safe. This is one of the letters we got. I could not have put it better.

My favorite part is the warning about "ecstacy and angeldust." It's true- you might hallucinate.

You know that awkward moment where....

You think someone is waving to you and, even though you don't recognize them, you wave back- just to realize they were waving at someone behind you and you're left flailing, trying to decide what to do with your hand to play off the fact that you just waved at a total stranger. Run it through your hair? Scratch a fake itch?

Once, during my Freshman year in college, I was on the receiving end of one of these awkward situations. The guy I was seeing and I decided to go on a very fancy date night to a high end restaurant. We dressed up, acted like we were adults who had class, and headed to the restaurant.. Once we were there, we fumbled over the menu, made a mess with the bread and butter, and didn't order booze out of fear of being pinned for under age and thrown out onto the street like a character in a predictable cartoon.

While we started to make our way through our sober, awkward, fancy dinner, the waiter came over with a bottle of wine. He leaned it against one arm so we could see the label and let us know it was from the gentleman at the bar. Confused, we turned toward the bar to find a man waving at us. Unsure, we both gave half smiles and waved back. As soon as we did this the man's face dropped. He rushed across the restaurant and stuttered out an apology. He thought we were someone else. Keep the wine. (Giving it back never occurred to me.) Sorry. Enjoy the wine, though. With deep crimson cheeks, he turned and quickly made his way back to the bar and avoided eye contact with us for the rest of the night.

That was awkward but at least we got wine out of it. Was it good? How the hell do I know? I was 19 and just trying to keep my bread crumbs under control.

(Not like I would know if it was good these days, either. And I'm still trying to keep my bread crumbs under control. Keeping it classy.)

Gone Crabbin'

A few weeks ago, some friends and I were invited out to a lake house to spend the weekend boating, tanning, and doing things usually done on and around a pier and water. The last morning we were there, we were given a lesson in how to throw a cast net into the water to catch bait. We all took a go at it. The entire act of untangling a net and then dividing it in half while holding part of it your teeth in order to capture some unsuspecting marine life made me feel like we should have been surrounded by the blue waters of Greece. I dreamily looked around for a handsome Greek man with dark hair and beautiful teeth to ride by in his boat, but was greeted instead by the neighbors clad in Americana swimwear, pulling the little ones on a float designed to look like a hot dog. That'll do.

Girls akimbo during netting lesson. We seem a little skeptical.

Anyway- my friend's boyfriend, Scott, became quite a pro at casting the net and within a few attempts caught a decent size mullet and drum. We were amazed.

Scott becoming the pro.

In a final attempt at a fisherman's life we decided to put the fish in two crab traps that were tied to the pier. We were about to head home, but we figured we could see if any crabs would "take the bait." We loaded up the car and, like little children on Christmas, eagerly went to check the traps. It had been about 45 minutes.

At this point I should tell you about the beauty of setting crab traps. You don't have to be in the water. And, as you pull them in you get to fantasize about the crabby bounty that you are about to reveal. It is amazing.

So we pull in the traps to find....... THREE CRABS!!! In 45 minutes. Holy moly! The promsied land! I was like a person with an addictive personality hitting a number at roulette: I was hooked (pun intended?).

I was going to my cousin's house on the beach a few weeks later and I immediately got in touch with him to see if there were any crab traps at his house. He said there was one and that we could use it when we got there. Oh boy. I was excited.

I made plans with my dad to set the trap the first night we were at the beach. He bought some turkey necks to use as bait (why use nets when you can use grocery stores?) and the first thing we did was put a neck in the trap and submerged it into Santa Rosa Sound.

I was really excited. I kept promising my mom we would be replacing a meal with a crab boil. I was certain of it.

Lesson Number One: Don't make promises you don't have any control over.

After the trap had been out there for a while, I went to check it. It contained.... a hermit crab. That would have been impressive if I was 7 years old and still amazed with the ideas of shells as homes, but I had graduated to the real world of sea creatures. I wanted real crabs. What the hell?

I freed the stupid hermit crab and put the trap back in the water.

The next morning I checked the trap to find..... A HUGE FREAKING CRAB. Seriously, a big crab. Like the kind of crab whose theme song was "Bad mammer jammer."

I was stoked. Yeah buddy. Just call your little crab friends- let them know about the Thanksgiving dinner you are enjoying.

The next afternoon, my uncle pulled the trap out to check it and.... the bottom fell off. And my huge crustacean was set free.

Lesson Number Two: If you are going to set a crab trap, make sure it works and all of the parts are attached.

We immediately fixed the trap, put a new turkey neck in it and threw it back into the water.

I was pretty bummed. I hadn't even gotten a picture with my catch and it had already got away.

The next day, I reluctantly checked the trap again. This was just not going as planned. While the anticipation was still there when I pulled the rope in, I knew deep down inside that it would not be full of crabs.

I pulled the trap in and.... THE BIG CRAB WAS BACK. He wanted more turkey!!! And- on top of it, there was a crab claw attached to the outside of the trap. I wasn't sure how what exactly went down to get to that point- but I was certain there was more than one crab out there.

I put the trap back in the water and let it sit over night. The next day was our final night at the beach, so it was now or never. I really wanted to deliver on my crab boil promise. I pulled in the trap to find the big crab and another stupid (but big) hermit crab. ARRRGHHHHHHHHHH

Whatever. Crabbing is dumb, anyway.

The morning we left, I set the crab free. Rather- my Dad set the crab free and I got out of pinching distance after making a scene like this woman. My Dad dumped the crab so we could get a picture of it. And, boy, was that crab PISSED OFF.

Lesson Number Three: Tryptophan has no effect on crabs. 

He was not messing around. He was out for blood. Or the ocean. Whichever he got to first.

My Dad tried to flip him back into the sound with a pen. Fail.

The crab yanked the pen from my dad.

I lost it. Between squeals and laughter, I warned my Dad that this crab meant business. He just straight up took that pen. Didn't even ask or anything.

We got him to pose for one more picture before my Aunt got a shovel and flung him back into the water.

I seriously thought that the crab might take the shovel from her, too. If that had happened, we would have really been in trouble.

As we made our way back upstairs, I looked at my Dad- "Man- that crab was mean!" Through his infinite wisdom, he responded "Well, they don't call them crabs for nothing."

Lesson Number Four: They don't call them crabs for nothing.

Happy Anniversary!

Today, my parents celebrate 30 years of marital bliss!

I called my dad this morning to check in (and forgot to wish him Happy Anniversary- which he reminded me to do).

Since I was a bad daughter on the phone, I figured I could make it up through the internet. That's more legitimate and sincere, anyway- right? It's not like people just "like" stuff on facebook all willy-nillly- I mean the internet is where you can express serious thoughts and emotions and where people will really take time to digest what you are saying.

So- here goes.

Happy Anniversary to my wonderful, loving, sometimes whacky parents. Without y'all- I would probably only have 40 blog posts instead of 70. (OK- well, I wouldn't have any given that it took you to make me- but you know what I am saying). I am really glad the combination of vodka, fireworks, and America's birthday on that magical night in July in 1983 resulted in me coming into the world. (What's that- you don't know when you were conceived? Why not- that's a totally normal, not weird conversation to have with your parents).

Thank you for all the times you let my friends hang out at our house after football games in high school. Thank you for hosting the after-prom breakfast Junior and Senior year. Thank you for making sure I always have a cake on my birthday (except for this year- what's up with that!?), and for answering my phone calls even when you know it means you will have to listen to me bitch ad nauseum for the latest thing that has pissed me off.

Me: You know what pisses me off?
You: Everything?

Thank you for the candy on Valentine's day and on Easter. Y'all really do know the way to this girls heart. Thank you for your continuous support of me and each other. Y'all have laid a great foundation for me and I hope that one day my kids will be congratulating me and my husband on our anniversary.


Congratulations on making it this far. Y'all should be very proud. I know that times can get tough, but ultimately you should remember the basics of your love:
Momma- you married a man who likes to dance, adores The Three Stooges, likes telling jokes, is an endless source of trivia, and will always be the life of the party.
Daddy- you married a woman who can stop traffic by lifting one eyebrow, can fart on command, will always be adored by kids (even if she does make them cry), can make meals that put Martha Stewart to shame, and probably will always beat us at cards or Mah-jong.

Happy 30th!

Thanks again for providing me with material:

http://forevermisspronounced.blogspot.com/2011/08/crap-my-mom-says-part-dos.html
http://forevermisspronounced.blogspot.com/2011/10/wise-behind-his-years.html

Trick or treat?

Or maybe both.

When I was in high school, there was a conference of sorts that my local youth group hosted. For one weekend in the Fall of my Freshman year, all of the Jewish kids from the south congregated (good word, huh?) in my hometown. I knew a bunch of the kids coming from camp and was psyched to get to see them in a non camp setting (a showered, non-BO type setting).

My mom volunteered to help at the welcome event and, with some of the other parents, was given the assignment of putting the food (snacks) out and making sure the teenage slobs didn't make too much of a mess.

While my mom was keeping us well fed, we were screaming hellos and hugging each other like long lost siblings. We were fourteen and our forty eight hours together were jam packed with an abundance of emotions.

During the reunion, I took a break from screaming "OH MY GOOOODDD" and running to hug a friend I had not seen in TWO MONTHS (soooooooo lonnnnggg) to get a snack. I perused the options: chips, candy, cookies (the main teenager food groups) and opted for a few individually wrapped pieces of candy and a handful of M and Ms and made my way back over to my posse.

As I walked up to my group of friends, I put the M and M's in my mouth, and started to talk when a terrible taste interrupted my train of thought. "BLEUGHHHHCHHH." My friends stopped talking and looked at me. "SOMEONE MIXED THE M AND MS WITH SKITTLES. THIS IS SOOOO NASTY." I found the nearest trash can and dramatically spit out a wad of chocolaty rainbow. Even if you removed the layer of teen drama from my reaction, you would have still gotten a "NASTY." It really was gross.

At the end of the event, my mom rounded up me and the two girls who were staying with us and headed home. As we drove home, we recapped the last two hours: who talked to who, who was wearing what, and WHO MIXED THE M AND MS AND SKITTLES!? Apparently I was not the only one to fall for it.

My mom looked at me and confessed. It was her.

I was mortified.

She is not a candy lover and didn't think the mix would be that bad. She was consolidating bowls and keeping the snack area tidy, after all.

OH.MY.GOD.

I just prayed that no one was able to see who did that and then track them back to me. That would just be Jewish skittle social suicide.

It's a jungle out there....

For the first time in my life, I have my own back yard.

Correction- for the first time in my adult life, I have my own back yard.

I have planted four things: a key lime tree, zinnias, sunflowers, and giant sunflowers. Two of the four have survived. I have giant sunflowers and a key lime tree. Not too shabby if I ever want key lime sunflower seeds.... eh? One of the four have flourished.  Big. Ass. Sunflowers.

I have gotten a lot of pleasure out of watching my sunflowers grow.


And grow.


And grow.


And grow.

There should be a word that out giants "giant." The scientific name for sunflowers is helianthus annuus, but it should really be humongous annuus (roughly translates to huge ass sunflower).


(Please don't explain to me that annuus is a derivative of how frequently the sunflowers bloom. Remember whose blog you're reading here. I get it. I am just making a joke).

Last night, I was enjoying my sunflowers with some friends when an image came into my head. All of a sudden, I saw my Jurassic plants uprooting, walking over to my window, tapping on it, and letting me know that they hadn't been watered in a while.


Even thinking about it now gives me the chills.

Big ass flower freaks.

I told my friends my nightmarish vision and then quickly turned to the sunflowers (who were clearly listening) to let them know the first one that did that would get a face full of round up. I am not messing around.

The Ultimate Search Engine

Last Summer, I introduced the best "accent" ever to my faithful readers. You know- the one where you put an "er" into ERVERY WERD PERSSIBLE. Basically, all of the hilarious ERMAHGERD stuff going around the internet right now started with yours truly.

You saw it here first.

Alright, I'm lying. I actually saw the ERMAHGERD language first used electronically on Wal-Mart's webpage.


Last June, I was looking for a rocking pair of Jeggings (jean leggings- if you are so unhip that you didn't know what that horrible fashion statement was) for 80s night (or for real life?) and decided to see what the great American mecca had in stock. I went to Wal-Mart's site and searched "jeggings." This is what came up:

  

Who knew that Wal-Mart gave the ability to search phonetically. Who knew!? 

"Guest" Blog: McDonald's Fail

You know those times where everything is going right and the only thing that can make life better is a little greasy goodness? This guest blog, written by Michael, tells of one of life's disappointments when that heart attack in a bag is withheld.

There's nothing wrong with a little penchant for fast food right? After a recent experience, I got the hint that I need to tone it down a little.

Sure fast food is bad for you and it is hard to avoid the guilt that comes with being handed a hefty bag through the second window that takes both of the employee's hands and your hands to complete the transaction... and knowing that it is all for you. But, every now and then it is what the doctor ordered (well not literally, unless they were trying to drum up business).

So picture this, I woke up for work on a Friday in a great mood and the first thought that crossed my mind after turning off the alarm---- McDonald's breakfast! Like a kid on Christmas morning, I jumped out of bed, and rushed to get dressed so I could make it to Mickey D's to grab some scrumptiousness without being late for work. I felt good as I made great time fighting the traffic to my local McDonald's. To avoid the inevitable delay of amateur (or lazy) McDonald's purveyors, I opted to go inside. So I parked, headed inside and, given my elated state, decided to forgo my normal chicken biscuit and ice coffee order and treat myself to the whole big plate breakfast. You know, the one with everything that screams coronary, covered in syrup.

Oh yeah, Mickey-D's. You got me salivating like a Pavlov dog.

This morning, this particular McDonald's was extra efficient (am I in New Orleans?) and the food was being bagged before my transaction was completed.  The woman behind the counter grabbed my meal and ice coffee and sat it all in front of me and then waited for payment. With a smile, I pulled out my trusty debit card and swiped it through the self-serve card swiper machine. 

CARD DENIED.

I chuckled, "stupid machine," .... swipe again

CARD DENIED.

I started to get nervous as the woman behind the counter fixated her cold, McDonald's gaze on me.

I didn't have any cash. Swipe.

DENIED.

Swipe again.

DENIED. 

I KNEW I had money in my account. Certainly enough to pay for the big plate breakfast. This totally confused me. Panic immediately took place of confusion as I realized the fate of my breakfast. The breakfast that was already sitting in front of me.

The woman, tired of my fumbling, asked "Can you pay?" I tried smiling nice and explaining that my card should work and that I didn't have cash. In one fell swoop, the bag and iced coffee were off of the counter, and her back was to me as she yelled:

"Beth, we have another one who can't pay." Apparently she felt the need to inform Beth AND everyone in line behind me of the situation.

Totally defeated and empty handed, I turned to leave. I kept my eyes down as I walked past the line of McDonald's goers who knew the "go inside trick" and who just watched me have the ultimate McDonald's Fail.

My confusion regarding my money woes was cleared later that day when I found out  my card number was one of FIVE THOUSAND potentially hacked overnight through my bank, which then shut off access to my account (without notice). FIVE THOUSAND in a bank of MILLIONS of card carrying customers. If there were a million customers in my bank (and there are far more), the chances of my card being affected is less than 1%. ONE PERCENT. And on all of the days. The day I was going to treat myself to a big plate breakfast. But instead, my Friday morning was left to fate, who decided to tell me that I had crossed the fast food frequenter line and slapped my hand away from the eggs, hashbrowns, biscuit, sausage, pancakes, and sweet sweet sweet syrup.

The Ultimate Poker Face

Recently at dinner, my friend, Forbes, stopped the conversation with an interesting bit of information.

"So,  y'all, my tooth fell out."

In between mouthfulls of chips and tacos, I got out a "wha?"

"Y'all want to see it?"

My other dinner amigo, Michael, and I answered at the same time.
Me: Yeah I do!
Michael: Uhhh- gross- why do you have it?


Me: Oh yeah, why do you have your tooth with you?

Forbes: Well it came out about thirty minutes ago. When we first got here.

I stared at him as I finished my margarita. My full margarita. As I made a slurping sound at the bottom of the glass, he rummaged in his shirt pocket and revealed a molar. With the root still attached.

Me: WHAT THE!? FORBES!? YOUR TOOTH FELL OUT AND YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING!?
Michael: Shhhhh... Leila- you're being really loud.
Me: BUT HIS TOOTH FELL OUT!
Michael: Yeah, man, what the hell!?


Forbes: I made a really weird face. I thought y'all would have noticed that.

I snatched the tooth from his hand to inspect it. Yep- sure enough- it was a tooth. (My years of education finally paid off).

Me: Forbes- A FACE!? YOU MADE A FACE!?
Michael: Shhhhhhhh
Me: You didn't say anything!?
Michael: That is pretty weird- I can't believe you didn't say something. That's really gross.

I immediately turned to Michael and shoved the tooth toward his face, which resulted in him trying to escape the molar by slamming his head into the wall behind him.

Perfect. Teaches him to tell me to shhhh.

I handed the tooth back to Forbes.

Me: You gotta get that taken care of. Tomorrow.
Forbes: I'm cool. Maybe I'll go in on Monday. (Puts tooth back in pocket).

Hopefully the tooth fairy made it rain for him and threw in a few extra chips for the ultimate "I just lost a tooth in the middle of dinner" poker face. 

Just in case the dinasours come...

I've told you about my friend, KTO before. She is a life long friend of mine with whom I have shared many memories. She's gone on several family vacations with my parents and me (lucky her....), most of which were to the beach.

During one such trip, we had to take two cars and Katie and I ended up riding with my Dad. He had an SUV and biceps (which are directly related to "getting" to deal with the luggage), so had most of the trip's necessities in his car. Beyond the basic clothes and toiletries- we were also loaded down with a week's worth of food. My parents' beach philosophy is:

You're at the beach. If you're hungry, go make yourself a sandwich or whatever. Don't ask for my help. I am currently at the beach. I will be sitting right here if you cut a finger off or something but there is no reason why I need to go up there to make you're lunch. No- we are not going out to eat for lunch. We are at the beach. Snack? I don't know- I am sure we have something. Go look.

This might sound harsh- but I was in high school at this point. If I couldn't put some peanut butter on two pieces of bread, we had bigger problems.

So- back to the point- Katie and I were in the car with my dad, with all of the luggage and good beach food (for all of those DIY lunches). We were chatting away when we hit a lull in the conversation at which point Katie looked up and said "At least we have all of the food- you know? In case we end up with the dinosaurs or something."

.....


.....


.....

"Uhhhhhhh..... WHAT!?"


Katie then explained to me that she always had the "Land of the Lost" in the back of her head- and was happy to know that in case the ground opened up and sent us hurling through time, we would at least have some rations to get started with.


True?


I was pretty sure what WE were going to eat if a pot hole in the interstate sent us to the Triassic period was irrelevant, but was intrigued none the less. So much so that I am blogging about it 13 years later.

Well done, KTO. Well done. You're right- at least we had the food. And each other? Except I would give y'all up before I let a T-rex get my peanut butter. Don't take it personally.

Just hold your breath and jump

As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have an irrational fear of the sea, or rather, sea creatures. I don't like them. I don't want to be near them. And I don't want to be in a situation where I can't get away from them quickly or punch them in the face (which is hard to do under water). So you can only imagine my inner dialogue when I was on a family trip with a boyfriend and they decided we were going to go snorkeling. I certainly wasn't going to be the reason we weren't going to go. I might be the reason the boat had to turn around and come back to shore- to drop off the hysterical girl- but the boat was at least going to get out there beforehand.

I think the boy knew I was nervous scared shitless (sans the soiling myself), but I really tried to play it cool. The boat ride to the offshore reef felt like it took hours. As everyone else sun bathed and chattered gayly, I alternated between getting lost in scenes from Jaws to trying to participate in the conversation by interjecting two to three words that probably had nothing to do with what was being discussed at the time. I was freaking out.

The boat finally came to the reef and dropped anchor (I think figuratively- I don't think they just drop anchors on reefs- I don't remember). At this time, the staff went over the "free swim" perimeter (like they needed to tell me twice don't get too far away from the boat) and the "I'm OK" signal for divers- the sign they would require divers to give them if they felt like something was awry and needed to confirm the diver's safety. (Major foreshadowing). During their little wrap up where they told everyone to have fun, I went numb. I couldn't believe what was about to happen.

Adults and kids alike pulled on their masks, flipper waddled to the side of the boat, and flopped into the ocean like it was no big deal. I tried stalling by fumbling with my gear, but that only gave me so much time. My palms were sweating, knees weak, arms were heavy. (Lucky for me I didn't eat spaghetti). I could just say "Nope, not gonna do it" but I knew this excursion was paid for. And, in the words of my good friend Mollie, "I am not a pussy." I was going to get in that open water if it was the last thing I did (which at that point, I was pretty sure it was going to be).

I made it over to the side of the boat and my mind went blank as I jumped in.


I immediately snapped to AND FREAKED OUT. Panic attack. MAJOR PANIC ATTACK that got worse with every undulation of the ocean. I looked at the boy like a deer in the headlights- totally panic stricken- mouth open- OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD- splutter- face full of sea water- OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD- another face full of sea water.

My display of "how to be an incoherent mess with a life vest and goggles on" was interrupted by the people on the boat.

"DIVER!!! DIVER!!!!"

"They're talking to you."

I focused on the boat through the tears and salt water.

"DIVER" (as he pats his head with both hands- *safety signal*) "DIVER!? ARE YOU OK!?"

I pulled myself together and limply touched my head with both hands. "Yeah... I'm OK."

Panic subsided to slight embarrassment as I looked around and saw everyone flipping around in the water- even the little kids. (But whatever, those are probably the same dumb little kids that learn how to ski wearing dumb monster helmets and go down without poles).

I took a deep breath and focused on calming down. The motion in the ocean still had me a little nervous, but I was already there so I needed to see what all of the fuss was about. With a little help/coaxing, I finally put my mask on and looked down. It was pretty cool. Fish. Lots of them. In every color that was popular in the 80s. I tried breathing through the supplied blow hole (or snorkel, whatever), and regressed slightly. The combination of hearing my own breath (and then focusing on my own breath) and rocking with the waves caught me off guard and sent me into a slight panic. I worked on it, though, and by the time the "Time to get your ass out of the water" signal was given, I was pretty comfortable.

I don't think I talked much on the boat ride back- only because all I wanted to talk about was how awesome I was for doing that. So what- maybe I did make an awkwardly aquatic scene- but I wasn't going to let a paid for excursion go to waste.... or let any seven year old show me up.

Return to Sender

I have a friend who is in jail that I have sent a few letters to. The first of which was a Christmas card. I tried to get it to him a few weeks before the holiday and, at that point, I was still receiving tons of mail for the people who lived in the apartment before me. Anytime mail was actually addressed to me was exciting (even bills). Unless, of course, it was the Christmas card that I had sent my friend in jail with a big "Return to Sender" on it. He had already been moved by the time my card showed up for him. Here is how that scene went:

I get home and grab the 6 cards out of my mailbox and start flipping through them:
Card from San Francisco addressed to previous family
Card from Austin addressed to previous family
Postcard from London addressed to previous family (WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE!?)
Card from Michigan addressed to previous family (WHY WON'T THEY FORWARD THEIR ^&*^% MAIL!?)
Card from New York addressed to previous family
Card not addressed to previous family- pause- look closer- I recognize that hand writing- DAMN IT- my Christmas card

So my USPS haul that day was 5 personal cards to previous family and 1 returned Christmas card that I sent to my friend in jail.

I took time picking out that card. It was tough. There was this great card that had Rudolph sitting in a recliner sipping on some coffee and behind him, along the wall, were mounted deer heads. When you opened the card it said "They used to laugh and call him names." I got a good chuckle out of it (bastard reindeer) and then decided to go with a lamer, less violence implying card. When I called my good friend and told her about my card selection- she let me know that she had sent our friend the Rudolph card. DAMN IT.

I decided to go big or go home with my second card selection. I would like to point out that Hallmark does not have a "Best of luck in jail" section with cards like "If you drop the soap, just leave it" or "I was going to get you a cake for your birthday, but instead I just made you this shiv" so picking out a card is kind of a tough task. But I found a good one the second time around. I didn't take a picture of the card, but this sums it up:

If this card wasn't a winner, then one doesn't exist. WHO IS THIS CARD FOR ANYWAY!? Friends in rehab? People in AA? Is the liquor thinking of you? Are you thinking of them while you are drunk? Are you thinking of the liquor and then had to send someone a card? If this is what Hallmark is putting out these days, I think I need to look at their job openings, because I could definitely come up with some good ones. Here are some examples that I have already thought of:

"Artistic Movies" are so in right now

P.S. (As in pre script... yeah I just made that up- deal with it) Spoiler alert!!! If you have not seen or read The Hunger Games yet and are going to act like this blog revealed some secret plot line for you- don't read it. Also, move out from the rock you have been living under and join society. P.S. (as in post script to my pre script)- in the movie Titanic, the ship sinks. 

I recently went to see The Hunger Games with a friend of mine. We had both read the books and I had already seen the movie, but I told him I would go again if he wanted to see it. The point is- we both know how the story went.

About ten minutes into the actual games, the sound in the theater went haywire. You could hear all of the auxiliary noise but none of the characters voices. Therefore, the scene where the fire balls chase Katniss out of the woods went something like this:

*Birds chirping*
*Katniss asleep in a tree*
Apparently something wakes her up (we're not sure what because we can't hear it)
*Birds keep chirping*
*Katniss freaks and starts running*
*Sounds of whoosh and some crackle as we see flames engulfing surroundings*
*Katniss gets hit with big ass fire ball shrapnel* She is apparently in a lot of pain by her tightened face and open mouth, but we don't hear a gasp.

It goes on like this for a while.

During the scene where Cato and the clan are running around together with mouths open- I lean over to my friend and said "They should have closed captions- *Screaming* *Ahhh**Ahhh*"

During the scene where Rue gets Katniss' attention and tells her about the tracker jacker nest nearby, I made a crude comment about what Rue was saying (she's mimicking a sawing action).

This solely background noise kept going and going and was getting old quickly. People started leaving the theater and I looked at my friend and said "This noise thing is starting to piss me off."

Finally, we got to the scene where Rue is dying and having a conversation with Katniss- which we can hear none of. At this point, my friend- in the middle of an epiphany- looked over and loudly said "OOOHHHH- THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE NOISE." It was dark in the theater, but there was no mistaking my "Areyoukiddingmeyoudumbass" look.

"Really?" I asked him.
"I thought they were doing an artistic approach or something."
"Really?" I asked him again.
"Well why didn't you say anything to me? I didn't know. I hadn't seen it before."
"Really?"

There are a few states of impairment- both hereditary and self induced- that this type of total unawareness is acceptable. And my friend was mostly unimpaired (mostly). His unawareness was totally unacceptable. I toyed with the idea of making him totally unaware of the fact that his ride left him when he went to the bathroom (you know- just a little "don't be dumb" lesson). Instead, I gave him a ride home, and dissected his stupidity the entire way.

Please just give me my food

Recently, while ordering food, I dropped my custom of using "Cathy" as my name. Just to see what would happen.

Place my order.
Girl taking my order: What's your name?
Me: Leila
Girl: What?
Me: Leila
Girl: OK

Food comes up. I immediately know it is mine because the guy who is in charge of calling out the names stares at the receipt. He looks at the girl who took my order and then back at the receipt. She notices his uncertainty and whispers my name to him.

Girl: It's Lita.

Guy: Ohhhh- ok. Lita. Your food is ready.
Proudly turns to girl who took my order: You misspelled it. It should be L-E-T-A.

Right. Back to Cathy it is.

I like your leg.

Katrina hit during my senior year of college- which, to say the least, put a damper on my last year. (Bonus points for the worst pun ever?) I moved to Boston for the semester, played refugee with a very good friend's family (thanks Nicole, Gasper, Janice, and Alex! no thanks, Max) and learned things like where to get the best cannoli, how to not make eye contact on the T, and why people own long underwear.

When I got back to school in New Orleans, I felt like I was given a new shot at life but also felt like every day that passed was a huge milestone and so every morning I woke up more and more sad knowing that I was about to graduate from unreality. My parents knew I was having a tough time with this, as well, and decided that they wanted to give me an early graduation gift- and got Nicole and me a spot on Muses, an all women's Mardi Gras parade. It was a big "Thank you" to Nicole and pretty much the best graduation gift ever for me.

The night of the parade was a blast. It was one of the most memorable experiences that I don't remember that I have ever had. It was certainly an amazing way to celebrate my four years in New Orleans and Nicole and I couldn't have had more fun.

At the end of the parade, my Dad picked us up downtown and, upon my demand, took us to F and M's (a total dive bar- and in the top four of my "favorite places on Earth" list). On the way to the bar, we were stopped at a red light when my Dad interrupted the inebriated conversation with "Leila- GO GET IT!" I had no clue what the hell he was talking about and explained that to him. "Right there- on the median- go grab it!" I stared at him blankly and he put the car in park, got out and ran down the median. I couldn't even imagine what he was going after that would make him park his car in traffic, but didn't have long to try to figure it out.

He got back in the car with a mannequin leg.

Yep.


"Loooookkk!," he said as he held up a "life like" leg with perfectly pointed toes. "It's amazing..."

"Dad- the light is green- come on- I'm ready to go to F and M's and you're weird."

Little did I know, my Dad just found the newest addition to our Mardi Gras crowd, Poydras. My Dad proudly carries "her" out to any parade and has come to be known as "the guy with the leg." Yes- he's that guy.

Poydras has been adorned with fish net stockings stocking and glitter shoes shoe and dozens of people stop to take pictures with her each year.

Yes- I know I am chunky, but it is the leg what we are looking at here.

Who gets to hold the leg has become a pretty big thing. It attracts so much attention from floats that my dad has caught things that people clearly did not intend to throw (such as a bead specifically made for krewe members only).

There was almost a scuffle this year at Mardi Gras when another weirdo came out onto the parade route carrying a mannequin leg. Some words were exchanged, but ultimately they set up shop further down the block. Personally, I would have liked to see an American Gladiator style throw down with the legs used as props. 

So, that fateful night in 2006, my family became even weirder as we added another limb to our family tree (second worst pun?) and brought Poydras into the home she always deserved.

Me VS Fruit Flies

Things I love about living in South Louisiana: pretty much everything. Things I could do without: the roaches, worms, caterpillars, weird bugs in my garden, spiders, and the disgusting fruit flies that have taken over my kitchen and life.

And before you waste your mind power thinking this-- NO! I DON'T HAVE FRUIT SITTING OUT IN MY KITCHEN. DON'T ASK ME IF I DO.

One- I don't like fruit (except for apples- which is a topic of its own) and two- I'm not a European painter from the 1700s- I don't need some bowl of pretty stuff laying around for inspiration. So where did these fruit flies come from!?

I have diligently emptied the trash. I even got rid of my luxurious second trash can. Long story. Well- not that long. I use to recycle. I don't anymore (the city hasn't given dropped off my recycling bin- chill, hippie). I kept the can. Which, when I think about it, is kind of the opposite of recycling- having two trash cans instead of one in your kitchen- so you have to make less trips and produce more trash per trip.

I have done everything I can.

I successfully got buzzed and unsuccessfully tried to suck them up with my vacuum cleaner.

I desperately googled 'how to get rid of fruit flies' and started perusing.

I started reading and then quickly stopped reading to make sure I didn't google 'scary fingernails.' Turns out, I didn't. But really- why does she have such long, dark nails!? Are those to scare off the fruit flies?

I tried a few different things and, with the help of an intuitive friend (shout out Steph!), created my own fruit fly killer. 

Turns out the fruit flies and I have something in common- we both love champagne! Who knew!? I would have invited them to my party... Oh wait- I did. See above.

This method has certainly worked on the dozens or so fruit flies that have flown to their imminent death lusting after the sweet bubbly concoction, but there are still THOUSANDS left in my freaking kitchen. I'm out of champagne (big surprise there), so I have moved onto other fruit fly vices to take these little rapid breeding assholes down. I now have 6 death cups in strategic points with hopes of total annihilation.

I just can't live like this anymore. I can't. It was funny the first seven times Sophie, completely annoyed, swung unsuccessfully at the fly buzzing around her. But it turns out even humor has its price- and laughing at my cat is not worth living amongst dirty, annoying, stupid, never ending pests.

Guest Blog: No good deed goes unpunished...

Or let's hope it doesn't for this poor shmo's sake.

This is a guest blog presented by the talented Melissa. She got to experience an awkward life experience the other day and I invited her to blog about it. Enjoy!

The day was off to a great start. My first class was canceled, the sun was shining, and I was way ahead of schedule. So, on the way to work I thought I would stop at PJ's Coffee, since I was in the mood for a nice, iced caramel latte to complement this seemingly perfect. day.

Once inside I was pleased to find that there was only one person in line! What a rare sight! I quickly took my place behind a man in a purple baseball cap, who appeared to be in his mid thirties. I did my usual thing where I let myself pretend I'm going to purchase a second breakfast in the form of a chocolate croissant only to remind myself that I am trying to eat healthier when I hear someone talking to me. I whip my mop of wet hair around only to find baseball cap man talking to me.

"So," he says with a really big-ass grin on his face, "are you gonna buy me my coffee today?"
"Uh, no..." I say with a nervous laugh. I wish the man would have let me continue my chocolate pastry musings. Damn him. "Not unless you need me to..." I say nervously to fill the stifling silence.
"Oooooh dang!" He replies with that same big-ass grin on his face. "How about I get you yours then?"

Ok, stop. I HATE when dudes pull this shit. Granted, I tend to be oblivious to it most of the time, but still. You date the same person for three years and it becomes pretty easy to pretend you're asexual and undesirable. I don't know how to react to this stuff anymore, ya know? Plus, this dopey, purple-hat wearing man was not my type. Sorry, bro. Also, I have a boyfriend. But I'm not perfect and I would have kept flirting if this dude wasn't so...cheesy.

"Don't do that!" I protest, "There's no need!"
"Nonsense," says Purple Hat Man, "I got this one. Tell the man what you want."

Now, I am so upset that this man is buying my coffee that I try to cheapen my usual order because I feel bad that ice and flavor syrups cost an extra 60 cents. What if this puppy-eyed fool is spending his last precious pennies on my coffee? The thought scares me, so I reply that I would like a skim latte. Ew. I hate hot, unflavored lattes. But guilt consumes me and I realize there is no way I am getting out of here with what I really wanted -- an iced caramel latte and a quiet morning in my own thoughts.

So I promise the man I'll "pay it forward" and buy someone a coffee sometime soon. (No I won't. This man creeped the shit out of me and I am not stooping to weird person in a van with tented windows status- even if it means performing a good deed. Sorry.).

He proceeds to hand the barista a credit card. The barista swipes it. "Oops! Didn't go through!" he says with a smile and proceeds to swipe the card again...and again...and again....

"Oh shit, that ones not working!?" Purple Hat Man asks. "OK fine, try this one!" He hands the man another card. Declined. Again.

This happens with one more card before Purple Hat Man starts to sweat and even gets a little bossy, "PUT A RECEIPT ON IT!! SWIPE IT WITH A RECEIPT ON IT! THE MAGNETIC STRIP IS JUST MESSED UP MAN!" he tells the Barista. The line behind me is now 5 people long. They are all staring. Perhaps its my neon orange shorts that have them so captivated. But, based on their faces, it was definitely due to the scene that Purple Hat Man has caused between trying his hand at chivalry and subsequently experiencing the embarrassing effects of bankruptcy.

Finally, I interject. "How about I pay for it so we can just get out of here." I say. I can't remember my tone here, but I imagine myself sounding a lot like Daria from that old MTV show -- flat and unimpressed.

The barista looks at me, looks back at Purple Hat Man who is now chuckling nervously and fumbling with more of his credit cards, and then looks back at me. I make eyes at the barista that say, "HELP ME, YOU BASTARD. HELP ME." He sees my eyes and says, "Ya know what. They're both on me. Y'alls drinks are free. Enjoy your day."

My nasty hot latte could only be salvaged by Splenda, but I do not dare take time to add a packet since that would mean spending another second with broke-ass Purple Hat Man. I tell him thank you under my breath and jet out the door.

Once the humiliation wears off, I start to laugh to myself. That was great! I call my Mom. She is amused. I decide to make the story my Facebook status. It gets 21 likes and I am feeling pretty damn good. What a LOSER, I think to myself. Either that broke dude tried to scam me for a free coffee or he really is just a sad, broke man hitting on a tiny, tan girl in orange shorts who doesn't give a shit. The man couldn't win.

Later in the day I check my Facebook. Under my little story of the day's event, my friend posts a comment:

"...credit card machines have been down on campus all day today."

Shit. That man REALLY couldn't win. Oh well.