That time I accidentally thought I was naked

HEY YALL- IT'S MARDI GRAS!!!!

Which means that I have been and will be beadwhoring it up for the best plastic POS that anyone is throwing off of a float. I will also be dancing to all of the bass drums and cheering for all of the fly girls with the bands. I LOVE THIS CITY.

And in the middle of my parade merriment last week, I was so overcome with that love that I decided just to take my shirt off.... or so I thought. And my reaction was priceless.

It was a nice night, one that required some light layering. And, after beadwhoring and bassdrumdancing, I had worked up a sweat, so decided to take my top layer off. I was talking to my friend in the process and totally unconcerned with what I was actually doing-- that is, until I felt air on skin that should not be exposed to said air.

I grabbed my shoulders and glanced down to realize that my short sleeve shirt had come off with my long sleeve shirt. 

I immediately hit the deck. 

My friend, mid sentence- stopped.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" she asked me. 

I was in a schmiegel squat on the neutral ground feverishly trying to pull my shirts apart and yelling 'COVER ME! COVER ME! STAND THERE SO NOBODY CAN SEE ME!!'

"What is wrong with you!?"

"I PULLED MY SHIRT OFF ON ACCIDENT--- I AM NAKED ON ACCIDENT!!!"

She bust out laughing and as I told her to shut up, I realized that I still had a tank top on.....

I forgot that I had triple layered (for protection... you never know?) and that while I did not mean to take the short sleeve shirt off, I was not completely exposed for all of Mardi Gras to see. 

But my reaction certainly told a different story. 

And if viewed from an outsider, the story probably went "did yall see that crazy girl take her long sleeve shirt off and then freak out?"

A brief look at a summer job

Remember before you were an adult and people would ask you what your plans were for the summer?

I work with college students and a lot of them still ask me that. I always want to half smile and cup their face and peer into their ambitious eyes and say "sweet, sweet child... hold onto your youth forever." Instead I half grunt/laugh and let them know that in the real world (even in education) you don't get the summer off.

But I did get the summer off at one point in my life and I, like most people, had a series of summer jobs. In high school I worked for my dad (thanks, dad). In college, I was a camp counselor one summer, got a job at my University one summer, and was a sports camp counselor at the local JCC one summer.

That's right. Sports camp. Preteen boys and sports. And, despite going to day camp at the JCC, most of them were not Jewish. (You can't play basketball- it's too dangerous. You could poke an eye out!)

I fell into this job because I worked part time at the JCC during the school year teaching "biddy ball." What do you mean 3 and 4 year olds don't have hand-eye coordination? Sure they do! And I just couldn't wait to get up early every Sunday of my Junior and Senior year to help them hone in on theses skills. Nothing cures a hangover like young children and sports equipment.

Near the end of the school year, my boss at the JCC asked if I would be interested in working at their summer day camp. I didn't have any other plans lined up so I figured why not.

That question answered itself within the first week.

Little did I know there are only a few ways you can get the respect of a herd of pre-teen boys enrolled at a sports camp- you need to have testicles and to be in with the "cool" staff members (who of course have testicles and are cool by nature--- there is no science behind it -- it's almost a catch-22). The following flow chart will explain it better.

I found myself in the bottom box--- in with the "cool" staff members, decent at sports, but alas- just a girl. Therefore, it really didn't matter what I said or what voice I said it in. I was not going to be respected or listened to at all. In fact, out of both sessions, with about 40 campers per session, there was only ever one girl camper. So it was an entire summer of feeling like I was talking to hyper active brick walls.

My frustration climaxed one day during free swim. I was the sports camp counselor on duty. Our group was swimming with other camp groups and, naturally, our boys were the only ones who treated free swim as time to dunk, push,  and beat the crap out of each other under water. During one of these asinine displays, I walked over to the edge of the pool and bent over to tell one of the kids to stop semi drowning the little guy. It took me yelling his name three times to get his attention and when I finally had him and all of the other kids looking at me, I felt two hands on my back and the water hit my face.

I came up to howls of laughter and to see a counselor from another group who I had never spoken to before standing next to the pool with a shit eating grin on his face. I pulled myself out of the pool, gave him a look that killed a tiny part of his soul, and sloshed my way into the gym where my co-counselors were hanging out. They immediately got silent.

I held back tears of frustration and rage and told them I was going home. They tripped over each other to get off of the bleachers and find me a towel.  As my boss walked me over to the back exit, he meekly asked if I would be willing to get them lunch while I was out. I turned to him in amazement as he held out a sheet with their orders and some cash.

"We have enough for you to buy yourself lunch, too." Dumbfounded, I took the order and cash and walked out of the gym. I held the tears until I got to my car. As I battled with teary vision and grabbing my sun heated steering wheel, I swore on all of the per-pubescent testosterone in the world that I would never speak to another male again.


Or at least for a few hours.

Famous last words

My mom is a really good cook. She can put together 6 course meals or whip up fish en papillote. She makes excellent gumbo, amazing grillades and grits, and has mastered the art of producing fluffy matzoh balls. She is the queen of her kitchen. While my mom enjoys spending time in the kitchen, she does not like baking. Unfortunately for her, however, a tradition started decades ago when she baked an award winning cheesecake for one of my dad's customers around the holidays. I am almost certain that if she could time travel, she would go back to that December, put some cookies in a tin, and be done with it. But alas, her fate was sealed by that cheesecake.

Now this is not any ordinary cheesecake (or so I've been told- I don't know, I don't like cheesecake). People go nuts over this cheesecake. Back in the 60s, my Grandmother would sell these cheesecakes at fundraisers for $20. That's the equivalent of over $100 today. For a cheesecake. Cream cheese and sugar. And eggs and butter. My Grandmother did not give my mom the recipe until she and my dad were happily married. Oh yeah- it's that good. (Or so they say).

Throughout the years, my mom saw the list of loyal customers who were to receive cheesecakes grow. The once coveted family recipe became the cornerstone of our holiday kitchen activity as we would churn out literally 12-15 cheesecakes every December. My mom and I developed our own assembly line of crust making, egg separating, and flour measuring.

In recent years, things have changed and now only the very select few get a cheesecake. This year some of those select few included my coworkers. I went home one weekend to partake in the cream cheese sweat factory and to have my mom's support while putting together my own cheesecakes. Since the kitchen is HER room and she has made a gazillion cheesecakes over the course of time, she had an overly watchful eye on my doings. She was particularly attentive when I began assembling her Cuisinart Elite Food Processor (insert awe here) and I finally snapped when she told my dad just to grind the cookies for me.

"MOM- I HAVE TWO DEGREES----- I AM CERTAIN I CAN FIGURE THIS OUT."

She put her hands on her hips, raised one eyebrow and hesitantly relinquished some of the kitchen power.

I dramatically sighed and turned to back to the food processor. I put the cookies in and mashed the button. Nothing. I shifted the top and tried again. Nothing. I started getting nervous at the thought of replacing the expensive machine that magically broke when I touched it when I realized it wasn't plugged in.

I tried to play it cool and plug it in without anyone noticing. But my parents saw. Oh yeah- they noticed.

Two degrees.

But neither in cheesecake making.Or how to plug stuff in.

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.

A Snowball's Chance in Hell, The Grand Finale

  I fumbled around with all my gear with the hopes that I would just delay the inevitable forever, but everyone else in my gang was ready to go. They all got their butts in motion and took off down the first drop. I quickly got ready and maneuvered my way over to the drop, and saw everyone in my group. Nicole was helping J pizza wedge down, and the two boys had made it down and were waiting at a little plateau where the trail turned to the left and kept going. There were experienced skiers taking off all around me (including dumb little kids in dumb monster helmets). I watched everyone else, took a deep breath, and just went for it. I bent my knees, tucked my poles, and leaned forward like a big idiot.


I meant to look like this:

But really looked like this:

 

Honestly, I probably didn't even look as good as Goofy at his worst. I tumbled down the first drop. I lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. Things that I had at the top of the hill that I did not have at the bottom: 

• My poles
• My hat
• My skis
• My goggles
• One glove (OK so I didn't lose EVERYTHING)
• The very little dignity I had
• My cool

The second I finished rolling down the mountain, I got up and marched my ski boots right over to Guy and used every word combination possible to tell him that I was NOT OK with being at the top of the mountain. And what was HE THINKING bringing me up there? During my incredible tongue lashing, nice eye witnesses started bringing me my equipment that I left down the hill. So the whole scene went something like this:

"You &*!#%&%, DID YOU REALLY THINK I WAS- oh, thanks for getting my glove for me- READY TO SKI DOWN THIS &*()&*()& MOUNTAIN, I BARELY EVEN- yeah- that's my pole- thanks- *)(*(*^&*^*& LEARNED TO SKI THE )*)(^&^*$%^ BUNNY HILL- great- yep- that's my hat- yes, I'm ok... thanks"

I was furious and mortified and on top of a mountain on a stupid blue trail. And for all of you ski experts out there- good for you that blue trails are easy- I'm proud of you- you deserve a pat on the back. They should be easy if you know what you're doing. But if you are a girl from Louisiana who is just getting comfortable with the idea of snow and has only been on skis for a total of two hours in her life- blue trails are not so freaking easy.

Turns out we were on the wrong trail. We should have gone around the back of the restaurant to start on the green trail. But there was good news- only about 100 more yards, and then our trail overlapped with the "easy" green trail. Just to put this in perspective for you- I'll do the math. There are 300 feet in 100 yards, and I fell about every four feet, so that means I fell down about 75 times (± 5 times, CI: 99%) in the last 100 yards of the blue trail. The trail color also described my bruised ass and legs, so it was a win-win. 


Once we made it to the green trail, it got a little better. I was getting steadier on the skis and feeling somewhat more comfortable. J was having a tough time like me, but we were making progress. At one point, when I fell, my friend Nicole skied over to help me up. I excitedly told her that I was starting to like skiing and I was really getting the hang of it. She excitedly told me that she had good news for me- I had the whole rest of the mountain to ski down. My excitement quickly waned. 


We were slowly but surely making our way down the mountain when J twisted her knee and could not go any further. Nicole set up the SOS sign of the skis making an upright X and waited for the medics to get there. When they got there, J went down the mountain on the sled, and Nicole followed close behind.


It was just me and the boys. But not for long. Guy decided that he should get to the bottom to check on Nicole and J and felt OK leaving me and Mikey, the two idiots from Louisiana, on the mountain. It was pretty late in the day at this point, and the daylight was rapidly fading. I started getting pretty nervous about the situation, which forced me to lose focus and fall a gazillion more times. Mikey was tired of waiting on me and also uncomfortable with the encroaching darkness and did what all good jackass friends would do- PEACED OUT. Thanks, Mikey. I owe you one.


Mikey left me on the mountain. Well everyone left me on the mountain. Mikey was just the last to do it. As the last hope of sunshine disappeared, I tried really hard to stay calm. I realized how quiet it had gotten, and how much snow muffles sound and kept pushing images of gory horror movies out of my head. This was so uncool. Who knew that I was going to die in Vermont on a mountain? Damn you, Katrina. 


Right as my nerves got the better part of me, Ski Patrol showed up. I was so thankful. There were two guys and a girl and they quickly questioned me. My gratefulness took a U-turn to indignation that they were talking to me like I was an idiot and then another U-turn to playing the Katrina card. They didn't give a shit. There was someone legitimately lost on the mountain and the last thing they wanted to deal with was a girl who was in over her head. They mumbled amongst themselves and decided that the girl would stay with me to finish the slope. 


I tried to make some jokes. Nothing. I tried talking to her. Nothing. She tried giving me ski pointers. Nothing. I kept falling. I asked her if I could take my skis off and walk down the mountain. She said no. I asked her if she had been to New Orleans. She didn't answer. I fell. I tried to pizza wedge. I fell. She warned me that there were some frozen creeks coming up that might get a little slick, but to just ski like normal. Her warning was not unheeded, but I didn't know what skiing like normal meant. I fell. She let out a huge sigh and told me to take my skis of. She put them over her shoulder, and skied down the mountain with them. Looking totally hot with blonde braided pigtails coming out of her unborrowed ski hat. Followed by me-a Southern girl in a 90s ski get up with men's gloves on, walking like a damn storm trooper in awkward boots down the mountain. You should have seen the looks on my friends faces when they saw me coming. You should have also heard the words that came out of my mouth. 


Picabo Street can keep her stupid chapstick endorsement.

A Snowball's Chance in Hell, cont.

Part 2 of one of my best moments. 

Once J and I gave our final unrequited smiles to Wheezy, we waited for our buddies at the lodge. They came in, all red noses and smiles, and asked us how our lesson went. We filled them in on our non hot, non male ski instructor and let them know that we were now experts at pizza wedging. Once we got all caught up, the discussion turned to what we should do next. We were at Stowe, which has plenty of trails to choose from- ranging in a variety of difficulty. Considering that J and I just mastered negotiated with the bunny hill, the rational option would have been to stay on the smaller, green trails; but what's the fun in being rational? After about 5 minutes of discussion, the group was headed over to the larger mountain to "go get lunch at the restaurant at the top" and then- oh yeah- ski down.

At this point I called my Dad to let him know that I was disregarding part of his advice- but I was not smoking weed beforehand. In fact, my exact quote was "Hey Dad- I'm just calling to tell you Picabo Street better watch out, cause I'm about to conquer this mountain, and next I'm coming for her chapstick endorsement." Untruer words have never been spoken.

We got over to the big mountain and got on the lift (which by the way, is by far the scariest part of skiing- especially when you forget to get off). Nicole and I were in a chair together and I talked 1,000 miles/minute about whatever popped into my head and if I could have bounced my leg and drummed my fingers, I would have. I was scared shitless- but totally playing it cool.

We got to the top of the lift and I ungracefully plopped off. I calmed down when I realized we still had a meal to eat before I "conquered the mountain." We made our way into the restaurant and hunkered down with an assortment of amazingly appropriate winter food- the kind we just to pretend to enjoy in Louisiana. Hot tomato soup, with a gooey grilled cheese sandwich, and hot cocoa with little marshmellows on top? Yes, please! I was too enthralled with our LL Bean ad lunch to focus on the task in front of me. When someone asked "Alright- you ready to ski down?" my heart split in two and moved to my throat and stomach, and my lunch immediately moved into my guts. It was time.

A Snowball's Chance in Hell

Sums up the likelihood that I was going to make it down the mountain gracefully the first time I went skiing.

I would like to let my avid fans know (all 16 of you), that this is an amazing story- but I want to keep you as fans, so I am going to break it up to really pique your interest.

During Katrina, I went to school in Boston with the hopes of experiencing a totally new culture (e.g. not making eye contact AT ALL on public transportation or talking to strangers in the grocery store) and different weather. Needless to say, my  hopes were absolutely fulfilled. I mastered the T, went to a lot of the museums, and brought a large box of cannolis home with me for Thanksgiving. I also took advantage of the cold climate and worked with my friend to get her to organize a ski trip to Vermont. (I also begged the same friend to take me to Friendly's the entire semester and when she finally did- the week before I left- I was somewhat incredibly disappointed- to which she responded, "This is why I did not want to take your dumbass to Friendly's- what did I tell you!?")

We arranged to go skiing during the first weekend of December. We put together a motley crew to head to the mountains of Vermont: Nicole, a Mass native who had been skiing her whole life; her friend J, a girl from CT who grew up going to ski resorts but never actually skied; Nicole's other friend, "Guy" who was also from Mass and an experienced snowboarder (and who I was somewhat dating at the time); Mikey, a friend of mine from Louisiana who was also a Katrina refugee who had been snow boarding once; and me- a novice to everything including mountains, the snow, and most of all, skiing.

Due to my extreme naivete, I was really excited for the trip. I called my parents to let them know. My Dad, who had lived in Colorado for a while, gave me some words of wisdom: "Your friends will be way more experienced than you and will try to convince you to go to the top of the mountain. Don't let them do it. And when they do finally convince you, don't smoke weed before you go." ***I come from a straight-shooting family. And my parents were young in the 70s. Enough said***

Our caravan made it to the mountain, rented our gear, and got ready to go. And here I use 'gear' like I looked like I belonged there- really I was in a borrowed ski getup from my friend's mom. It was incredibly early 90s with huge pink and green color blocks. It was rad. It even had extra pockets to store my pogs in.

Since J and I had never skied before, we decided it would be best if we took some lessons. We kept talking about how hot our young instructor was going to be. Our conversations always seemed to mimic cheesy romance movies. I kept thinking how he would find my Katrina story endearing, which I would top off with a southern accent to really turn the flirt up. J and I were in the midst of one of these conversations when our ski instructor interrupted us to introduce herself. "Girls, my name's Wheezy. I've been a ski instructor for over 40 years. If you listen to what I say, you'll do just fine."

Wheezy meant business.

While our dreams slowly deflated, J and I "rode the magic carpet" a few times and learned how to pizza wedge among a gaggle of 6 year old kids with helmets that looked like monsters. Really, it should have been J and me with the helmets on. There is not much that is more humiliating than falling 5 times on the way down the bunny slope while little booger eaters speed by you. It took a lot of self control not to stick my pole out and take a few down. J and I tried to make light of everything, but Wheezy was not having it. She definitely gave us our money's worth and after her  "reminder tips" and cold goodbye, we met back up with our friends.

A Day Full of Chihuahuas

"there are good days
and they come and go and never seem to last
and the bad days
when they come around always kick the
good days ass into the ground"

Bob Schneider

Yesterday was a bad day. It was a day full of Chihuahuas.

My family has a saying- when a bunch of little things happen that aren't much to deal with by themselves, but in succession can be overwhelming- those are called Chihuahuas. And if you give the option of having a Great Dane take a hunk out of you or a few Chihuahuas nip at you- most would opt for the Chihuahuas. But I would go ahead, grit my teeth, close my eyes real tight and go with the Great Dane. And get it over with.

Yesterday's Chihuahuas came to a head for me when, after a long day at work, I tried to parallel park in front of my house, and a douchebag in a Mercedes stopped in the perfect position to prevent me from moving. While I usually avoid any sort of confrontation with strangers (but love it with people that I know well), I had lost my sense of humor and made the best "are you f-ing joking face" and glared at the dbag. His girlfriend in the passenger seat (with huge sunglasses on... of course) just laughed. I so badly wanted to slam the door of my Honda open and scuff up his nice paint job. But I didn't.

While yesterday was a bad Chihuahua day, it doesn't top the one I had a few years ago. That day started immediately with small things that continuously built to the point that they were like a snow ball chasing me down a mountain to hell.

Angry phone calls.
Relentless emails.
Gross weather.
Non stop chihuahuas.

I stayed late at work to finish some stuff up and when I left, decided that I would treat myself to a mixed drink when I got home. I was out of vodka, so I walked to the Rite Aid by work to get some (yes- I come from the land of plenty... where they sell booze at convenience stores) and, lucky me, saw that they had SKYY on sale. Maybe my day was making a turn for the better. I purchased a handle of SKYY (it was on sale, so why not go bigger?) and a big thing of gummy worms (because very few things go better with vodka) and made my way to my car. It had started to rain when I left work, so by this point I was pretty soaked, but the treat of a drink and gummy worms was worth it.

I parked off of a fancy street and about half a block away from my car was a fancy driveway with fancy cobblestones. As I crossed the fancy (wet) cobblestones, I slipped and busted my ass. The bag o'wonderfulness was in my left hand and the driveway sloped downward from my left to right. The vodka shattered and begin pouring out of the bag and down the driveway, only slowing to soak into my pants. I sat in the rich people driveway for about a minute and tried to keep calm. I peeled myself off of the ground and made it to my car, got in, and started crying.

When I got home, I walked in- dripping rain water and vodka, carrying a bag of gummy worms and blue glass shards to find my mom, boyfriend, and his sister all enjoying drinks on the couch. Daiquiris. Finally- a silver lining to my day. After all of that, I did have a mixed drink waiting for me- in the freezer. Or I would have if they bought one for me. But they didn't.  At this point I went into my room- ripped my pants off- then put my head into my pillow and screamed. Fucking Chihuahuas.

The Walk of Shame

My first car was a Mazda 626. It was pretty amazing. Until, of course, its transmission died at one of the busiest intersections in town and when I could finally get it into drive- I could only get it as far as the donut store right next to the intersection. And then, it would only go in reverse. But before all of that, it was pretty awesome. It was so awesome, it had oscillating air vents. Boo yah.

My car first started showing signs of a dying transmission through minor tantrums. For example, one time it wouldn't accelerate on the interstate. Another time, it took a few tries to get it started. One other time, it just wouldn't start at all. This time just happened to be in the grocery store parking lot.

My parents sent me on an errand to our neighborhood grocery store to get a few items. I can only remember one item on the list so I will go ahead and make up the rest:

• Mustard
• One onion
• 12 pack of toilet paper

I went to the store, purchased said items, and then walked out to my car. I got in, and tried to start it with no luck. I sat there for a while, and tried again. Nothing. One last time. "SERIOUSLY!? UGHHHH!!!" (I am trying to recap what an anxiety ridden teenage Leila would sound like- but it kind of sounds like an anxiety ridden late 20s Leila. Shit.)

I called my parents and let them know. They were busy cooking dinner. Could I please walk back to the house?

"With the groceries. We are completely out of toilet paper."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? MOOOOMMMMM!!!!

I gave up the negotiation (which lasted all of two loud sighs and three drawn out 'moms') and pulled my sorry ass out of the car... with the bag of toilet paper and two other small unnoticeable things and started to walk home. It wasn't the walk itself that was bad, it was the route that I had to take.

The walk took me over the "Overpass" which is just a bridge that goes over a few shops and a train track. The problem with it is that the sidewalk is narrow and when you drive over it, you notice every single pedestrian (which are few and far between).

I made my way out of the grocery store parking lot and got to the bottom of the Overpass. With my head held incredibly low and my hair pushed across my face, I made my way across the bridge knowing that every single student in my high school class was currently making their way over the overpass and figuring out my family's secret as they drove.... we wipe our butts. How humiliating. At that point in my life, it was the equivalent of having going to Walgreens to pick up Monistat, Preparation H, and cheetos (because you're hungry but didn't realize how embarrassing your purchase combo is until you are in the incredibly slow moving checkout line).

I couldn't believe my parents put me through that. I swore I would never run to the grocery store for them again. I didn't care if we were out of toilet paper, and down to our last shred of kleenex... I was not EVER going to the grocery store again. NO WAY.

Needless to say, I was 17. Again, my negotiating powers failed me a few days later when we were out of milk. Except this time, my mom let me take her car, which trumped my car with the whole ability to start thing. That way, none of those classmates of mine would have any chance of spotting me walking home only to discover that we tried to maintain our Calcium as much as our hygiene.

That Time I Became a Jesus Lizard

I think it is fair to say that everyone has an irrational fear of something. For some, it is heights. For others, it is bugs. And for others, it is snakes. For me, it is sea creatures.

I HATE THEM. Anything that lives in the ocean. Alright, let me rephrase that. I hate to be in the ocean next to anything that lives there naturally. Dolphins and seals are cute and whatnot, but I will pay to stay my happy ass on the boat rather than swim with Flipper. Flipper can go screw himself.

The way I think of it is that these animals have a total unfair advantage over me. They can see well under water, swim fast, and can sneak up on you. I am not just talking about sharks. I am talking about the stupid crabs that you accidentally step on or the dumb needle fish that will nibble at your thighs while youre standing waist deep, non chalantly chatting with your friend, while also emptying your bladder, but pretending that it is just a "warm spot" that you just walked through.


I am afraid of all of them, but sharks really take the cake. You always hear of shark attacks and then the story is followed up with how rare attacks are, and how sharks really don't intend to chew on people. To be quite honest, I don't give a shit. I don't want to take my chance and bump into the one inbred, stupid ass shark that got kicked out of his mother's protection too early because he was too retarded for her to deal with. No thank you. That's all I can think about any time I wade into the water--- please god, don't let me meet the shark that is a few eggs short of a caviar tray.

They also say that sharks generally only feed at dawn and dusk. What about the shark that stayed up all night partying and woke up around noon and is really hungover and just wants a good piece of meat? What about that shark, hmm?

I've imagined every possible way that I can be defeated by sea creatures and take EXTREME caution when beaching it. I make as much noise as possible in the water when I walk out. I kick up a bunch of sand to let those dumb sting rays know to get out of my way. I also never turn my back to the great wide open. That just puts you in a vulnerable position. It's like "Hellllooo sea creatures, I am not paying attention. Come get my ass." Oh yeah, I also never go out alone. And I am also never out further than anyone else in my group. That old saying- you don't have to be the fastest, you just have to be faster than the slowest guy- I repeat that to myself anytime I am splashing around, trying to enjoy myself. (I realized that I have this thought even when it is me and the most loved of my loved ones. That's not good. But I guess that's why they call it irrational).

This extreme fear came to a head a few summers ago when I was at the beach on vacation with my family and some family friends. I was about 100 yards out with my then boyfriend and the youngest member of the family we were vacationing with, a 16 year old boy. We were just chatting and I was acting like I wasn't afraid to be in the water when I saw it. A big dark shadow. Dan and Harrison noticed it about the same time I did and before Dan could turn around to see my reaction, I was already half way to the beach. I'm not sure if I channeled my inner Jesus Lizard (cause we all know it is much more likely for me to channel a lizard and not Jesus), and ran on top of the water, but I got my ass out of there faster than you can say "holy shit- look at that shark swimming up to us."

When I made it to the sand, I crumpled over and tried to catch my breath. Through my gasping, I heard laughing. I looked up to see my mother laughing so hard she was about to cry. "Was it even that big of a fish?" she choked out to me. "Yeah, it was a huge fucking shark, Mom. And it was right by us." Apparently, my Mom and the momma of the other family were watching the whole thing from the beach. They watched all three of us see something, followed by our responses. The boys' was something like: "Hmmm... I wonder what that is" while my response was "OHMYGODIAMABOUTTODIEGETMETHEFUCKOUTOFHERE." And apparently, my extreme freakout was quite obvious from the shore.

All my mother could do, after I just saw "my life flash in front of my eyes," was laugh her ass off and ask me to go into the condo to make her another drink.

"IM" me later...

True story. I am a nerd.

When I was in middle school, IMing (Instant Messaging) was big. We were all coming up with screen names so we could gossip with each other via the internet (it was a pretty big deal).

Mine was Chewiesgal.

Wookiewoman was taken.

You know that dream where....

You go to class and realize you have a test you didn't study for or you are standing in front of a crowd naked or....... you bust your ass in front of a lot of people. Yeah, well I am lucky enough to have that last one come true. So- keep wishing upon stars, because some time dreams really do come true.

I grew up going to Henry S Jacobs camp in Utica, MS (a bustling town). The summer after my Freshman year in college, I worked as a counselor at the camp. It was a great experience. I really liked my co-counselor and our campers. My co-counselor, Jodie, was easy to get along with and had a similar sense of humor as me.

Every night at camp, each unit participates in an evening program. The units are broken up by age group (basically by elementary school kids, middle school kids, and soon to be high school kids). The counselors plan the evening session every day and present a skit at lunch to give their campers an idea about what to expect that night. All the cabins in the unit participate in the program together except one night a session... a very special night.... bunk night. Each cabin has one bunk night during their time at camp where they get to do whatever they want while the rest of the camp is going to their evening programs. I have very vivid memories of some of my bunk nights that included swimming across Lake Gary (I think my counselors slipped all of us something to convince us to do that), eating so much cake I thought I was going to vomit, and being lifted up in a chair (similar to a Jewish wedding)- which seemed like a good idea at the time until one of us almost lost our head to the ceiling fan.

So when it came to planning a bunk night for our cabin, Jodie and I, with all of these amazing memories, knew we had to do something special for our girls. And we had to get them really excited during the skit at lunch. And this is where the story takes a turn. I can't remember anything that our bunk night entailed. Not one single detail. Nothing. And the reason for this is because all I remember about our bunk night is the skit.

Jodie and I were planning to come hauling ass into the dining hall from different directions and jump onto the stage in the middle and do something silly to let our campers know it was bunk night. The stage was really just a large wooden block that was about a foot and a half tall. Over my time as a camper, I probably watched at least 100 people jump on and off that stage. After my skit, I think the rules were changed to (in your best Long Island Jewish mother accent) "no jumping on or off the stage" (you could poke your eye out). So Jodie and I were lined up for our skit and came running into the dining hall. We neared the stage and Jodie got there a second before me and jumped on. I made my move to jump but apparently miscalculated and hit both of my shins directly on the corner. Anyone who understands basic physics knows what happens next (think a body in motion will remain in motion). Well- my body was in motion- it was just my legs that had stopped. The rest of my body kept going and my face went directly into Jodie's crotch. Smack Dab. It was the most intense, quickest, and unplanned lesbian occurrence of my life. And the entire population of the camp- campers, counselors, and staff members were there to witness it.

I immediately popped up and pretended like I didn't just head butt my co-counselor's vagina in front of the entire camp. But there's no playing that one down. Especially when you have bruised and bloodied shins and tears coming out of your eyes.  So, if you ever find yourself in a situation that you are afraid of falling in front of a lot of people- just try to measure your distance from others and make sure that if you do fall- that no one's private parts will be there to catch you.

Where it all started.

The inspiration for my blog came from a series of emails I sent out last summer (much like the Leimail of my night in hell the Atlanta airport). The following are a series of rapid fire emails I sent to a friend after deciding that I desperately needed some wine (you know that feeling, right?). Please enjoy. Or don't. If you don't enjoy, please contact a medical professional immediately because it means that you are lacking the part of your brain that can process humor.

9:01 P.M.
I just got back from cake class, and I am covered in icing, and just googled "how to open a bottle of wine without a corkscrew" and then checked my email for the fun of it (before opening the wine) to find SIX messages (back to back) from --------- (insert name here of anyone you know that you don't want 6 back to back emails from... actually that would probably be anyone. If they can't say it in ONE email, then you don't really need to hear it). I really need to find my corkscrew.

9:15 P.M.
Things I found while looking for my cork screw:

A rolling pin

A pastry brush (who knew)?

A lemon squeezer???

A garlic press

A garlic chopper

A carrot peeler

Salad tossers (maybe after all this wine, I will be tempted)

Shish-kabob skewers (good thing I own those for all the times I make my famous kabob)

Two ice cream scoops

Bamboo skewers (maybe I should just go ahead and skewer something)

 

Lessons I learned:

Swiss army knives DO NOT have cork screws on them (what is the point of that?)

Banging a bottle of wine on a flat surface does not actually push the cork up but, instead, builds pressure in the bottle

Jamming a screw driver through the cork of so-banged-on bottle seems like a good idea at the time

Cork breaks up easily

Wine in a banged-on bottle builds up pressure

A screwdriver used to puncture a cork on a pressurized bottle only results in a volcano of pinot noir

Pinot Noir can burn your eyes

Cork floats (not a new lesson, but a reminder)

Tiny bits of cork, while floating, are impossible to remove from wine

 

Lessons I may learn tomorrow:

What cork does to one's digestive system

9:17 P.M.

OK, since I am on a roll here.

 

Why don't they rename the email folder from "outbox" to "outhouse?" That would be much funnier

 

Also, the guy at the walgreens found my purchase of $30 worth of candy (Earl's finest) and two cans of spaghettios hilarious. You know what I found hilarious? His grossly ornate ring that may as well have been taken from Schmiegal, himself. Also, who the fuck asked him if my purchases were funny? I sure as hell didnt.

 

Tonight in cake decorating, we made 'puppies' (two cupcakes turned upside down and covered in pounds of icing). And one of the women in the class begged the instructor for hers because, apparently, it is one of her coworkers birthdays tomorrow. Once she recieved the extra puppy, she then begin to giggle histerically, and informed us that "she's gunna think I made it.....hehehehehhe..... she's on a all cabbage diet....... hehehehe..... She's gunna ruin her diet......hehehehe" I think her coworker should punch her, eat the cake, and then plan on spending the rest of the day in the bathroom.

 

Y'all.... I gotta get out of this group

Now this is one of my favorite stories that I like to tell repeatedly to the same people (well only because I only have so many people in my life. And divide that number by at least two to determine how many of those people will listen to my stories again and again). I also assume that the people that were there to witness it also tell it every now and then. But they probably tell it at a party when people start telling stories about their weird ass friends. That's when my friends tell it....

When I was a freshman in college, a new website was invented called facebook. I am sure we have all seen the movie and know all about the Winkelvoss twins (who aren't that good looking in real life), but people my age were the exact market facebook was first introduced to. My sophomore year, facebook was opened to Tulane. And by junior year, most of the school checked it at least once a day. So- my friends and I were the first people to experience writing on each other's "wall," posting pictures of each other, and of course.... joining groups.

Well back when groups were just groups (and not free advertising for businesses or ways to communicate with specific crowds and whatnot), there were some pretty funny groups out there. In fact, my dear friend KTO created a group about the movie Wedding Crashers. It was instantly joined by hundreds of other Tulane kids. Ahmazing.

So during the first year of my addiction to facebook, I was living in an off campus apartment that was a lovely little three bedroom. And like most apartments in New Orleans, it was raised about three or four feet off the ground. Also like most other apartments in New Orleans, its neighborhood had its fair share of cats (feral, domestic, and whatnot). Well at some point that year, my apartment became the shelter that was kitty version of The Boot. And apparently any hour after dark was happy hour. Cats from all over the damn city started to meet and mingle under my happy little abode. They would hang out, have a few drinks, probably make out to some really horrible early 90s rap song (which is not a slow make out song and no one else is dancing slow to so they really just look dumb right there in the middle of the furiously dancing crowd but hey... whos judging), and then they would get down to business. Cat business. Right there. Under my apartment.

I assume you are saying "so what" right about now. That is- if you are even still reading. Because really- who wants to read about cat sex? WELLLLLL.......... everyone- or at least thats what I thought. When I started the group.

So- in case you have never heard two cats do it- it is absolutely horrible. It sounds like a ghost being tortured with poker sticks that someone is shoving through their ghost stomach and twisting. It is a horrible horrible noise. And you know in the cartoons, when a cat is sitting on a fence, and meowing or whatever, and someone throws a shoe or an opened sardine can or something at them. Yeah- well that cat was probably not singing in real life. The animator probably lived in New Orleans. In my neighborhood.

So anyway this cat match.com BS goes on for a while under my apartment. And I am up late one night- "studying" (surfing the net) when I hear it. And I get a flash of genius and decide to start my very first facebook group "No more kitty love under my house." I grin. I invite my two roommates. And I go to bed.

The next morning I get up and excitedly check my new group. One member. Moi. Well- that's OK. I am sure my roommates (BEST FRIENDS) were not on facebook last night. I go about my day. Check it again. Still one member. This goes on for a while (how long- I can't exactly remember, but the fact that it went on for at least 24 hours is not OK). I think it has finally hit me after a day and a half that this group is totally UNACCEPTABLE. This is not OK. This is not what the Winkelvoss twins and that rutheless bastard Mark Zuckerburg had in mind when they created facebook. They did not want to know about cat sex. Ever. Never. Ever. Ever. And while my roommates and I could discuss it in private, that haunting haunting eerie love making, we were not to display it proudly on the most visible place possible- facebook. Well there I am. In my room. By myself (just like the group). And the epiphony rushes into my brain like a whiff of cat nip. Y'all... I gotta get out of this group.

I immediately unjoin. Delete. Shudder.

I don't think I brought it up with my two BEST FRIENDS immediately. But I certainly had a realization that day. They wouldn't let me walk around with some broccoli in between my teeth. Or with some ambiguous stain on my pants. They would tell me. But the minute I tried to bring them to my level and shove that leafy green in their pearly whites. Nope. It was not happening. I was stuck to flail completely and totally alone. Well not totally alone. I am sure the cats would have been there for me.