Nothing too extreme went down this weekend. It was pretty normal as far as weekends go. And by typical I mean it was weird by normal people standards but regular for me.
Sent texts from Friday night to various people (I went to 2 parties, starting at 9pm):
9:39pm: Omg amaretto is so delish!
9:56pm: Kathleen and I are drinking. Way?!
10:08pm: WUNDABAR!
10:17pm: Im already gettin tipsy. Itll be fun
10:24pm Im already drinkingamaretto
10:26pm Im not at haus wet idk.
10:28pm Im at the ferajtl cats party and they made me chug. Thats the first timd ive fver chugged.
10:30pm You are a terrible person. You just want me to get dsunk and hid bbq chips in my mailbox again.
10:34pm Yebg. Bbq chips are my fav.
10:50pm Wcy to kill my thunder
12:34am Dance paqtajyyy!!
12:36pm There ir am intense dance partay that youre misring out on. Wish you were here.
12:38am I hate ynu and i am tipry
12:58am Iw dancing slutily owith liz
1:03am Rodmw w is staqting to spin. No bueno.
1:21am Im not rure what my grinkage is, but im the world is sprinning and im drunk.and i just tripped over a curb
1:23am Thats jnins job. In walking iomewnow
1:24am John im dhpunk
1:29am Mile yokwneed to adopt apangolin
I like to think that because I don't have a QWERTY keypad I am less able to type texts that make grammatical sense when I start consuming things. Pressing multiple buttons to get to letters that I use a lot just means that my texts are amusing to their recipients.
Saturday morning I woke up at 7, felt like crap, and had a whole assortment of minor injuries. Two scratches, lots of muscle soreness, and my right hip hurt like hell from all the intense swaying I did on Friday night. Plus I puked four times. I am so classy.
Also, this text conversation happened on Saturday afternoon:
Boy: Freezing rain is so weird
Me: The technical term is grobble.
Boy: Yeah...grobble sounds like a sex term
Me: Can you use it in a sentence?
Boy: As the love-making began, he grobbled her sweetly. She was not frightened or worried by this. Instead she reveled in the passion that was ensuing between them.
This was totally unexpected. I was totally flirtingly joking about the whole use it in a sentence thing. Except Boy took it seriously enough to make my jaw drop open when I got this text. Do you know how hard it is to make me speechless?? How do you even respond to that?! I was just like, Woah...that was totally porn worthy.
Yesterday of course was the Superbowl. Went to my friend's house (Chateau) and hung out with a bunch of people. Kept my alcohol consumption to two bitch drinks. Ate a shitton of junkfood. Dropped a piece of cake on myself. Etc. I was rooting for the Steelers (my Dad would disown me otherwise) but since that didn't work out I just rooted for the commercials instead. And I also rooted for that cameraman that got steamrolled in the first half. I loved the slowmo reply of that one.
Also, thoughts on halftime:
1. Fergie are you having an off day or something?
2. Somebody saw TRON and really liked it
3. OH MAN, A REAL SONG! Oh wait.....NONONO FERGIE YOU ARE RUINING IT!!
4. Cool stage man.
5. Usher....yeah, you move that sexy ass of yours.
Post Superbowl, the greatest show known to anyone under the age of 25--Glee--came on. Darren Criss (aka Harry Potter from AVPM/AVPS) is still dreamy as always and Sue Sylvester makes my life.
And just for kicks, on my walk home I ate sidewalk. That's what I get for going to school in the Northeast.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Social network butterfly
Drinking makes people do stupid things. (I'm currently thinking about this because it's relevant. I went out last night and made a minor spectacle of myself. Since I'm going to be sitting here in bed until I feel less sick enough to go make myself some french toast, I figured I might as well talk about it.)
For example, things I've done while drunk include:
1. Hiding BBQ chips in the mailbox.
2. Confessing my love for my juggling instructor to someone who I later realized was in the juggling club.
3. Table dancing
4. Licking dessert toppings off people of varying degrees of hairiness
5. Running around singing the Beach Boys Christmas Album at the top of my lungs after having some 4Loko.
6. Bunny hopping across a crosswalk for no apparent reason.
But those were all one time things. Literally, every time I start drinking I begin to socially network.
One example would be the night that I'd had about 5 drinks before I got hold of the bottle of Hot Damn! It all went downhill from there (I ended up shirtless and dancing). Throughout the night I drunkenly facebooked, tweeted, texted, called, voicemailed, and had a 20 minute AIM conversation with myself (my friend was online but asleep).
Another was last Easter when I had 20 drinks, and then called a friend at 3:30 in the morning with a wicked case of hiccups after having been tweeting & texting all night.
I am a real social network butterfly.
I'm pretty sure it started last year when my two friends Soxhat and Ghost thought it would be funny to leave me a drunken voicemail. They just become substantially more ridiculous upon consumption of alcohol, so it was pretty funny. In fact I still have those voicemails saved on my phone because they're just so damn entertaining. Anyway, thus began a tradition of us calling each other and leaving voicemails for the other people. Soxhot won't even answer his phone if it's me and I'm calling after midnight because he knows.
Generally, I just talk about whatever is on my mind. A lot of classes I take are animal based. My favorite animals are pangolins, so both Soxhat and Ghost have received multiple ramblings about the glories of scaly anteaters.
Also, I apparently like echidnas a lot too. I was sitting in the Couchboat right before winter break started when I get a text from Soxhat: "I'm at the verizon store listening to your drunk voicemails. They were very excited about echidnas" Is it sad that I don't remember ever talking about echidnas?
Facepalm. He and his mother (who I'm also FB friends with because she makes delicious cookies) were in the verizon store getting new phones. One of the attendants was showing them the new video voicemail feature. Not knowing any better, the guy just picked the first voicemail there was: drunk Sam blubbering on about monotremes. Oh boy. Awkward.
Thankfully last night was limited to tweeting and phone related communications since I lent Giraffes my laptop. On top of fracturing her rib this week, her MacBook died so I told her she could use mine. It was probably better for me and all of my facebook friends that this happened.
For example, things I've done while drunk include:
1. Hiding BBQ chips in the mailbox.
2. Confessing my love for my juggling instructor to someone who I later realized was in the juggling club.
3. Table dancing
4. Licking dessert toppings off people of varying degrees of hairiness
5. Running around singing the Beach Boys Christmas Album at the top of my lungs after having some 4Loko.
6. Bunny hopping across a crosswalk for no apparent reason.
But those were all one time things. Literally, every time I start drinking I begin to socially network.
One example would be the night that I'd had about 5 drinks before I got hold of the bottle of Hot Damn! It all went downhill from there (I ended up shirtless and dancing). Throughout the night I drunkenly facebooked, tweeted, texted, called, voicemailed, and had a 20 minute AIM conversation with myself (my friend was online but asleep).
Another was last Easter when I had 20 drinks, and then called a friend at 3:30 in the morning with a wicked case of hiccups after having been tweeting & texting all night.
I am a real social network butterfly.
I'm pretty sure it started last year when my two friends Soxhat and Ghost thought it would be funny to leave me a drunken voicemail. They just become substantially more ridiculous upon consumption of alcohol, so it was pretty funny. In fact I still have those voicemails saved on my phone because they're just so damn entertaining. Anyway, thus began a tradition of us calling each other and leaving voicemails for the other people. Soxhot won't even answer his phone if it's me and I'm calling after midnight because he knows.
Generally, I just talk about whatever is on my mind. A lot of classes I take are animal based. My favorite animals are pangolins, so both Soxhat and Ghost have received multiple ramblings about the glories of scaly anteaters.
Also, I apparently like echidnas a lot too. I was sitting in the Couchboat right before winter break started when I get a text from Soxhat: "I'm at the verizon store listening to your drunk voicemails. They were very excited about echidnas" Is it sad that I don't remember ever talking about echidnas?
Facepalm. He and his mother (who I'm also FB friends with because she makes delicious cookies) were in the verizon store getting new phones. One of the attendants was showing them the new video voicemail feature. Not knowing any better, the guy just picked the first voicemail there was: drunk Sam blubbering on about monotremes. Oh boy. Awkward.
Thankfully last night was limited to tweeting and phone related communications since I lent Giraffes my laptop. On top of fracturing her rib this week, her MacBook died so I told her she could use mine. It was probably better for me and all of my facebook friends that this happened.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Bill of Rights
It might be hard to believe but regardless of my numerous tales of inebriated adventures, I was not well and truly drunk until my sophomore year in college.
It was the first party of the semester and I was having a great time. I like to hang out with people and I love to get my groove on, so me + parties go together like ketchup and everything (I really really love ketchup).
I was already in two cups of punch (aprox. 4 drinks) when Chef offered me a round of Fire and Ice shots. Now, I don't really like the taste of alcohol, which is why I stick to mixed drinks and don't drink beer, so I'm not really sure why I said yes to this offer. I was not tipsy. Tipsy hits me around 6 or 7 drinks. Like I said, not really a lightweight. Maybe I wanted to try something new. I don't even know. But I took the shots.
For those uninformed, Fire & Ice shots consists of the following in order:
1 shot Jagermeister
1 shot Hot Damn! (or other cinnamon schnapps)
1 shot peppermint schnapps
The Jager was gross, the Hot Damn! just burned like cinnamon gum all the way up my nose and down my esophagus, and peppermint schnapps just tasted like slightly alcoholic mouthwash. All in all considered, I thought it was pretty good. So I did two rounds of this.
In the next hour I ended up doing two more rounds of Fire & Ice shots which brought my total number of shots to 12 and my drink total for the night to around 15 or 16.
Since my previous drinking total had never gone beyond 9 or 10--and the room was spinning--I came to realization that I was drunk. I remember thinking 'so this is what drunk feels like' and I wandered around the party chit chatting and bumping into things. Eventually I wind up on the front porch couch. When drunk me sits in the same place for too long I tend to start swaying. No idea what brings about my need to sway side-to-side like I'm at a Kumbaya campfire, but that's what I do. Then I open my mouth "I've never been dis drrrrrunk beforrrreee guyysssssss....it'sssss no bueno." Even though I have come to the realization that I'm drunk and I sort of know I'm talking ridiculousness, I can't bring myself to care. Thanks alcohol.
Metalhead eventually comes out to find me making an ass of myself. Mostly because my butt was stuck in the couch (it had no springs) and I was too plastered to get out of it on my own. Instead of helping me like normal people, my lovely friends are content to watch me attempt to maneuver myself into a standing position while still stuck in a sofa. I can only imagine how ridiculous I looked. Most of the time MH doesn't drink to excess, and thankfully this party was no exception. She took pity on my pathetic self and dragged me back to her house (we weren't housemates yet), which was only about a block away.
"You should probably have something to drink." MH hands me a cup of water. I chug it. "Do you want some bread?" "Sure!"
As I chowed down on bread I realized what a wonderful kind of food bread was. I then proceeded to literally eat half the loaf. I also chugged several more cups of water.
Metalhead leads to her basement, where there is a spare futon. She attempts to tuck me safely into bed while I babble on about nonsense. Somehow I move onto the topic of the Bill of Rights. I spend the next 30 minutes or so lecturing Metalhead--incorrectly, mind you--on the Bill of Rights. I am a ridiculous person. Even after all this, MH made me crepes for breakfast the next morning, because she's awesome.
I've never been black-out drunk, so I remember doing all this. I think that kind of makes it more funny.
Even funnier: at the beginning of this year after drinking a little too much punch, my drunken self decided to prove to Metalhead that I could indeed remember the Bill of Rights when drunk. So at 3am on a Saturday morning I wrote them down. When I drink, my handwriting is 200% more illegible than my normal handwriting. I thought that it would be a good idea to tape this piece of paper to Metalhead's door. So I did.
I didn't closely read it again until the next morning, but I failed again at correctly remembering all ten amendments of the BOR. The crowning moment of that brain blast is what I wrote for Amendment 4. "#4: No quart soldiers. Aka don't let ugly people in ur house."
Really, this just proves I am a drunken genius. But more on that later.
It was the first party of the semester and I was having a great time. I like to hang out with people and I love to get my groove on, so me + parties go together like ketchup and everything (I really really love ketchup).
I was already in two cups of punch (aprox. 4 drinks) when Chef offered me a round of Fire and Ice shots. Now, I don't really like the taste of alcohol, which is why I stick to mixed drinks and don't drink beer, so I'm not really sure why I said yes to this offer. I was not tipsy. Tipsy hits me around 6 or 7 drinks. Like I said, not really a lightweight. Maybe I wanted to try something new. I don't even know. But I took the shots.
For those uninformed, Fire & Ice shots consists of the following in order:
1 shot Jagermeister
1 shot Hot Damn! (or other cinnamon schnapps)
1 shot peppermint schnapps
The Jager was gross, the Hot Damn! just burned like cinnamon gum all the way up my nose and down my esophagus, and peppermint schnapps just tasted like slightly alcoholic mouthwash. All in all considered, I thought it was pretty good. So I did two rounds of this.
In the next hour I ended up doing two more rounds of Fire & Ice shots which brought my total number of shots to 12 and my drink total for the night to around 15 or 16.
Since my previous drinking total had never gone beyond 9 or 10--and the room was spinning--I came to realization that I was drunk. I remember thinking 'so this is what drunk feels like' and I wandered around the party chit chatting and bumping into things. Eventually I wind up on the front porch couch. When drunk me sits in the same place for too long I tend to start swaying. No idea what brings about my need to sway side-to-side like I'm at a Kumbaya campfire, but that's what I do. Then I open my mouth "I've never been dis drrrrrunk beforrrreee guyysssssss....it'sssss no bueno." Even though I have come to the realization that I'm drunk and I sort of know I'm talking ridiculousness, I can't bring myself to care. Thanks alcohol.
Metalhead eventually comes out to find me making an ass of myself. Mostly because my butt was stuck in the couch (it had no springs) and I was too plastered to get out of it on my own. Instead of helping me like normal people, my lovely friends are content to watch me attempt to maneuver myself into a standing position while still stuck in a sofa. I can only imagine how ridiculous I looked. Most of the time MH doesn't drink to excess, and thankfully this party was no exception. She took pity on my pathetic self and dragged me back to her house (we weren't housemates yet), which was only about a block away.
"You should probably have something to drink." MH hands me a cup of water. I chug it. "Do you want some bread?" "Sure!"
As I chowed down on bread I realized what a wonderful kind of food bread was. I then proceeded to literally eat half the loaf. I also chugged several more cups of water.
Metalhead leads to her basement, where there is a spare futon. She attempts to tuck me safely into bed while I babble on about nonsense. Somehow I move onto the topic of the Bill of Rights. I spend the next 30 minutes or so lecturing Metalhead--incorrectly, mind you--on the Bill of Rights. I am a ridiculous person. Even after all this, MH made me crepes for breakfast the next morning, because she's awesome.
I've never been black-out drunk, so I remember doing all this. I think that kind of makes it more funny.
Even funnier: at the beginning of this year after drinking a little too much punch, my drunken self decided to prove to Metalhead that I could indeed remember the Bill of Rights when drunk. So at 3am on a Saturday morning I wrote them down. When I drink, my handwriting is 200% more illegible than my normal handwriting. I thought that it would be a good idea to tape this piece of paper to Metalhead's door. So I did.
I didn't closely read it again until the next morning, but I failed again at correctly remembering all ten amendments of the BOR. The crowning moment of that brain blast is what I wrote for Amendment 4. "#4: No quart soldiers. Aka don't let ugly people in ur house."
Really, this just proves I am a drunken genius. But more on that later.
Why jello shots are bad
I'm a sucker for jello shots. This sad fact got me into some Deep Shit once.
It all started when my friend invited me to her 19th birthday party. The party was on a Friday night. Problem was, I had already put down my $30 deposit for a spot on a bus trip to an Environmental Career fair. Since it took so long to get there, the trip was literally an all day thing. I was supposed to be at the bus stop at 5:30am ready to leave. I told her that I'd love to come, but I'd probably get back late and be wiped from the trip.
Before I went to bed the night before, I made sure that my alarms were set correctly and that my backpack was packed and that my 'business casual' outfit was far enough into the realm of casual business that no one would mock me. I was a freshman in college OK? I didn't exactly have a closet full of power suits and heels.
4:55am: First alarm goes off. I hit the off button.
5:45am: I wake up again, see the clock, "Shit!"
The bus had already left! F my life, there went $30 down the drain. Turns out that in setting my alarms I had forgotten to turn my second alarm on. I. Am. An. Idiot. So I did what I would do any other Friday. I went to class, made some homemade pizza with friends, went to a frat event. On the walk home from the last event, Boyf (Metalhead's boyfriend) and I decided to stop at the campus community center to grab some hot food. In the process we run into Metalhead who had just been at our friend's birthday party. She was in a pretty good mood, and knowing my love of jello shots, told me that there were still a few left.
Being the sucker for jello shots that I am, I decide that I should at the very least go over to her house to say Happy Birthday or something, and if jello shots are just chillin there, then hell I'd have one or five.
From the very second I walk in the door it is very obvious that they had been partying for a while. Further inspection reveals more than ten handles of various alcohols, rummy gummies (another fave of mine) and a single jello shot. Last one for the win. Now, I had already made plans to go to another party so I wasn't planning on staying long. Just enough time to wish my friend happy trails, take a shot, and leave. But I was there for 15 minutes and about to leave when the decision was basically made for me; the campus police had arrived. My stomach sinks like the Titanic.
Did I mention that said friend's house was on-campus housing? Not to mention that we're all, you know, not 21. Yeah, great combination.
Generally the cops don't just show up unprompted. Somebody, in their state of slizzard idiocy, had opened a window in the front of the house. Since the house had curtains nobody realized it was open and music continued to blare on. A neighbor had called and complained of a noise violation from the loud music. So thus the police. Well, the police knock on the front door, presumably to ask us to turn the noise down. The girl who answered the front door was a little wasted, and panicked as soon as she saw the cops. She slammed the door in their faces and ran upstairs to hide. Well duh, they're going to suspect we're all up to No Good, and thus they came inside.
The hush that ran through the party when it was broken up by the cops would have been pretty funny if I hadn't been one of the bustees. The main reason being that most of the people in attendance were pregaming for a Drag Ball, and everybody (with the exception of a few people) was dressed in drag. Not to mention tipsy. Both cops looked a bit weirded out to find a bunch of drunken, cross-dressing college kids throwing a party. I have a feeling they usually just have to deal with the drunks, so obviously they were somewhat caught off guard. The fact that there were guys awkwardly peeling of bras they were wearing at the time just made it a bit comical.
After demanding our IDs the cops set out to give us a lecture on 'partying smarter'. It was weird because they were busting us for drinking, yet telling us how not to get caught next time. Because that makes a ton of sense.
But that is not the worst of it, oh no. The most awkward part of the whole debacle is that I recognized one of the cops because I had class with her. One of the cops that JA'd (judicially administered) me sat behind me in my Social Movement in American Politics class. Her name is Deborah, she looks sort of butch, and she always wore a Nascar hat. I had to deal with the knowledge that she probably recognized me and was judging the shit out of me for the rest of the semester. It was really awkward.
It was bad enough that I had to go down to the campus police station the next day to pick up my written ticket, but because my offense was alcohol related the school makes you take a short course on alcohol at the Clinic. That cost me another $30. Turns out, according to my online test results, that I drink a normal amount for a college student. Well thanks for that bit of insight, Clinic. The only thing I got out of that class was my Blood Alcohol Concentration (BAC) card. It comes in pretty handy sometimes, but only if you've been drinking fewer than six hours.
I guess this incident served to teach me a lesson: never drink on campus. Also, jello shots are bad. The end.
It all started when my friend invited me to her 19th birthday party. The party was on a Friday night. Problem was, I had already put down my $30 deposit for a spot on a bus trip to an Environmental Career fair. Since it took so long to get there, the trip was literally an all day thing. I was supposed to be at the bus stop at 5:30am ready to leave. I told her that I'd love to come, but I'd probably get back late and be wiped from the trip.
Before I went to bed the night before, I made sure that my alarms were set correctly and that my backpack was packed and that my 'business casual' outfit was far enough into the realm of casual business that no one would mock me. I was a freshman in college OK? I didn't exactly have a closet full of power suits and heels.
4:55am: First alarm goes off. I hit the off button.
5:45am: I wake up again, see the clock, "Shit!"
The bus had already left! F my life, there went $30 down the drain. Turns out that in setting my alarms I had forgotten to turn my second alarm on. I. Am. An. Idiot. So I did what I would do any other Friday. I went to class, made some homemade pizza with friends, went to a frat event. On the walk home from the last event, Boyf (Metalhead's boyfriend) and I decided to stop at the campus community center to grab some hot food. In the process we run into Metalhead who had just been at our friend's birthday party. She was in a pretty good mood, and knowing my love of jello shots, told me that there were still a few left.
Being the sucker for jello shots that I am, I decide that I should at the very least go over to her house to say Happy Birthday or something, and if jello shots are just chillin there, then hell I'd have one or five.
From the very second I walk in the door it is very obvious that they had been partying for a while. Further inspection reveals more than ten handles of various alcohols, rummy gummies (another fave of mine) and a single jello shot. Last one for the win. Now, I had already made plans to go to another party so I wasn't planning on staying long. Just enough time to wish my friend happy trails, take a shot, and leave. But I was there for 15 minutes and about to leave when the decision was basically made for me; the campus police had arrived. My stomach sinks like the Titanic.
Did I mention that said friend's house was on-campus housing? Not to mention that we're all, you know, not 21. Yeah, great combination.
Generally the cops don't just show up unprompted. Somebody, in their state of slizzard idiocy, had opened a window in the front of the house. Since the house had curtains nobody realized it was open and music continued to blare on. A neighbor had called and complained of a noise violation from the loud music. So thus the police. Well, the police knock on the front door, presumably to ask us to turn the noise down. The girl who answered the front door was a little wasted, and panicked as soon as she saw the cops. She slammed the door in their faces and ran upstairs to hide. Well duh, they're going to suspect we're all up to No Good, and thus they came inside.
The hush that ran through the party when it was broken up by the cops would have been pretty funny if I hadn't been one of the bustees. The main reason being that most of the people in attendance were pregaming for a Drag Ball, and everybody (with the exception of a few people) was dressed in drag. Not to mention tipsy. Both cops looked a bit weirded out to find a bunch of drunken, cross-dressing college kids throwing a party. I have a feeling they usually just have to deal with the drunks, so obviously they were somewhat caught off guard. The fact that there were guys awkwardly peeling of bras they were wearing at the time just made it a bit comical.
After demanding our IDs the cops set out to give us a lecture on 'partying smarter'. It was weird because they were busting us for drinking, yet telling us how not to get caught next time. Because that makes a ton of sense.
But that is not the worst of it, oh no. The most awkward part of the whole debacle is that I recognized one of the cops because I had class with her. One of the cops that JA'd (judicially administered) me sat behind me in my Social Movement in American Politics class. Her name is Deborah, she looks sort of butch, and she always wore a Nascar hat. I had to deal with the knowledge that she probably recognized me and was judging the shit out of me for the rest of the semester. It was really awkward.
It was bad enough that I had to go down to the campus police station the next day to pick up my written ticket, but because my offense was alcohol related the school makes you take a short course on alcohol at the Clinic. That cost me another $30. Turns out, according to my online test results, that I drink a normal amount for a college student. Well thanks for that bit of insight, Clinic. The only thing I got out of that class was my Blood Alcohol Concentration (BAC) card. It comes in pretty handy sometimes, but only if you've been drinking fewer than six hours.
I guess this incident served to teach me a lesson: never drink on campus. Also, jello shots are bad. The end.
Quote of the Day
As said by Metalhead:
"A quick survey of my text messages reveals that there is a 32% chance that if you are texting me, it is because you want to tell me about something that involves nutella"
I haven't informed the rest of the world, but this year I tried Nutella for the first time and promptly got the rest of the house hooked on it. But more on that later.
Old people are wack sometimes
Yesterday I skipped class because I am sick. Sick enough to feel very miserable and not be able to breathe through the proper holes, but not sick enough that Clinic will fork over some antibiotics. Been there, done that. So I'm made to suffer.
Monday was really terrible, a sinus headache coupled with a stuffy-but-constantly-dripping nose which equals miserable. And a blaring case of Rudolph Nose Syndrome from trying to relieve the intense pressure in my face via excessive nose blowing. Not to mention that this is the first real sickness I've had since getting my nose pierced in July. Excessive nose honking does not make nose piercings very happy.
Having woken up every two hours or so Monday night to blow my nose/lie there unable to breathe properly, I was in no mood to attend classes on Tuesday. Plus, it was snowing really hard and walking 30 minutes to class in a snowstorm is thrilling but bone-jarringly cold. I'm miserable enough being sick, kay thanks. After having rifled through my medicine box on Monday, I did not have enough Mucinex to last me through the week. Plus, there was a giant Blizzard of Death headed straight for Prestigious University and slated to hit today. Having learned my lesson about trying to drive Penelope in snow the hard way (via towtruck), I am in no way going to tempt fate and do that shit again. I decide to brave the 4 or so inches of freshly fallen snow and go to Wegmans, the Mecca of all grocery stores, before the real Snowtorious-B-I-G hit today and I didn't stand a chance.
It took me 45 minutes to dig Penelope out of her parking spot. This included the time I took to clear out the entranceway to my parking lot, since the rental company (though very good about most things) is terrible at plowing there. It's an incline, and I've gotten stuck in the snow there before. I do nothing if not learn my lessons.
Anyway, I get to Wegmans. It took some searching--damn those Mucinex boxes blend in well--but I finally get what I need. My haul includes: Tang mix, Halls cough drops, a tub of Vicks, and Mucinex. I get in the 10 Items or Less (they really should use "fewer" in these instances) line.
Now, I'm a nosy person by nature, but some things you can't help but notice. Like the fact that the older gentleman in front of my was buying a National Inquirer and a gazillion quarts of milk. The total is later found to be 48 individual quarts of milk (I heard the check out guy say it). This kind of stuff just stuns your brain a little bit. I mean, you really have to wonder what this guy is doing with this stuff. But really, I should probably not judge too harshly. What if he just really likes milk? Old people need lots of calcium, right? Osteoporosis and all that jazz. Or what if his wife bakes cookies to excess and his grandkids (he looked kind of grandfatherly) just really crave milk after a good cookie omnomnom? Or maybe he's a Crazy Cat Man (though in reality, milk is not good for cats)? No, I've bought too much weird stuff (the Totally Oompah LP comes to mind) to judge too harshly.
What I'm really judging this guy for is the National Inquirer. I had no idea people actually read that kind of literary garbage. I take People magazine with a grain of salt, Fox News with a tub of salt, and the National Inquirer is like going scuba diving in a salt mine. I've never read one mind you, but you don't even have to read them to know that they're a crock of BS. One look at the cover stories--Apocalypse Coming Next Tuesday! Jesus Had a Twin Sister! Terrorists Hiding in Great Pyramids! Dinosaurs Used Cutlery!--and you'd have to be more than a few crayons short of the box to actually believe anything this magazine had to say.
The best part of this is probably that the check out guy wasn't even phased by this odd conglomeration of stuff. Apparently people buy weird bunches of stuff from The Weg all the time.
Monday was really terrible, a sinus headache coupled with a stuffy-but-constantly-dripping nose which equals miserable. And a blaring case of Rudolph Nose Syndrome from trying to relieve the intense pressure in my face via excessive nose blowing. Not to mention that this is the first real sickness I've had since getting my nose pierced in July. Excessive nose honking does not make nose piercings very happy.
Having woken up every two hours or so Monday night to blow my nose/lie there unable to breathe properly, I was in no mood to attend classes on Tuesday. Plus, it was snowing really hard and walking 30 minutes to class in a snowstorm is thrilling but bone-jarringly cold. I'm miserable enough being sick, kay thanks. After having rifled through my medicine box on Monday, I did not have enough Mucinex to last me through the week. Plus, there was a giant Blizzard of Death headed straight for Prestigious University and slated to hit today. Having learned my lesson about trying to drive Penelope in snow the hard way (via towtruck), I am in no way going to tempt fate and do that shit again. I decide to brave the 4 or so inches of freshly fallen snow and go to Wegmans, the Mecca of all grocery stores, before the real Snowtorious-B-I-G hit today and I didn't stand a chance.
It took me 45 minutes to dig Penelope out of her parking spot. This included the time I took to clear out the entranceway to my parking lot, since the rental company (though very good about most things) is terrible at plowing there. It's an incline, and I've gotten stuck in the snow there before. I do nothing if not learn my lessons.
Anyway, I get to Wegmans. It took some searching--damn those Mucinex boxes blend in well--but I finally get what I need. My haul includes: Tang mix, Halls cough drops, a tub of Vicks, and Mucinex. I get in the 10 Items or Less (they really should use "fewer" in these instances) line.
Now, I'm a nosy person by nature, but some things you can't help but notice. Like the fact that the older gentleman in front of my was buying a National Inquirer and a gazillion quarts of milk. The total is later found to be 48 individual quarts of milk (I heard the check out guy say it). This kind of stuff just stuns your brain a little bit. I mean, you really have to wonder what this guy is doing with this stuff. But really, I should probably not judge too harshly. What if he just really likes milk? Old people need lots of calcium, right? Osteoporosis and all that jazz. Or what if his wife bakes cookies to excess and his grandkids (he looked kind of grandfatherly) just really crave milk after a good cookie omnomnom? Or maybe he's a Crazy Cat Man (though in reality, milk is not good for cats)? No, I've bought too much weird stuff (the Totally Oompah LP comes to mind) to judge too harshly.
What I'm really judging this guy for is the National Inquirer. I had no idea people actually read that kind of literary garbage. I take People magazine with a grain of salt, Fox News with a tub of salt, and the National Inquirer is like going scuba diving in a salt mine. I've never read one mind you, but you don't even have to read them to know that they're a crock of BS. One look at the cover stories--Apocalypse Coming Next Tuesday! Jesus Had a Twin Sister! Terrorists Hiding in Great Pyramids! Dinosaurs Used Cutlery!--and you'd have to be more than a few crayons short of the box to actually believe anything this magazine had to say.
The best part of this is probably that the check out guy wasn't even phased by this odd conglomeration of stuff. Apparently people buy weird bunches of stuff from The Weg all the time.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Bathrooms
Since I last posted about uncontrollable #2, I feel like I might as well stick around the topic and blog about bathrooms.
First off, I'm a terrible Tree Hugger major. I've never been real camping. The cabin camping I did as a nine year old in Girl Scouts doesn't really count, because I was in a cabin. There weren't any showers, but there were still toilets and the biggest reason I've can't go camping is because I cannot handle not peeing in a toilet. Peeing in the woods creeps me out because are so many opportunities for disaster. Some hunter could stumble upon your squat-zone, you could wipe with an un-wipeable plant (I had a friend in middle school who had accidentally wiped his ass with poison ivy on a Boy Scout trip), or, you know, bears could attack or something. The last thing I need to be doing is giving a bear a peep show. Thanks but No.
I mean, I guess if I was stranded on a desert island I would be able to pee in the woods. Survival and all that...not that I would be doing much peeing if I were really dehydrated while in the desert. And not that there would be much woods either.
Obviously, I don't have an issue with the idea of peeing in the woods. It's really just my personal struggle. Guys have it good. They can just Point-And-Shoot. And literally, they can pee just about anywhere. Their pants don't even have to come off! I would pee outside all the time if it were just that easy. Us in the Order of the Uterus on the other hand, have a bit more difficulty in navigating a leak in the forest. The complicated physics of having the urethra point down-ish, while also avoiding peeing all over your clothes and yourself is just not worth it. I'll hold it, thanks.
And then we come to the outside toilet alternative: porta potties. These aren't as bad as peeing in the wilderness, but still kind of weird. Only to be used as a Last Resort for sure. Porta potties make me nervous because I've watched too many YouTube videos and episodes of America's Funniest Home Videos. With the right number of people it is not that difficult to tip over a porta potty with a person inside it. There can't be too many things grosser than being about to get down to business when you get thrown sideways and wind up covered in shit. This just makes me extra cautious when using a porta potty located near an incline. I'm sure a Porta Potty Accident it would cause a violent and immediate puking reaction in me. Ick times infinity. Plus there's that weird porta potty cleaner smell that they all have. Weird.
Let's move to the indoor plumbing versions.
Public bathrooms invoke a polar reaction in me: they are either Awesome, or Repulsive.
Awesome bathrooms are generally clean, have soap in the soap dispensers, and energy efficient hand dryers. The floor does not look like a toilet flooded in the past five minutes and there are no stalls where previous occupants have left you little surprises in the form of other gross stuff. Pleasant smells are always good too.
Now, Repulsive bathrooms are basically the opposite of Awesome bathrooms. They are so disgusting that you'd have better be on the verge of your bladder exploding to actually use these things. When you gotta go, you gotta go. I've been there. No judgement or anything. But afterward you're just like, "Dear Jesus, I touched my bare skin to that?" Or maybe you're somewhat paranoid about germs and you've mastered The Squat like my mother has, along with the Toilet Paper Seat. Either way, Repulsive bathrooms are likely to give you a case of PTSD.
Notice that I didn't mention graffiti. Maybe it's the inner rebel in me, but I think graffiti gives a bathroom character. It gives me something to look at while I take care of the Essentials. And quite frankly, I find bathroom graffiti to be some of the most interesting bathroom reading available. Granted, some of it is mega distasteful and I wouldn't mind if that were erased, but most of the time it's pretty cool. But only inside the stall. Outer-stall graffiti is just kind of trashy.
Also notice that automatic flushing toilets were not mentioned under Awesome bathrooms. That's because AFTs are not awesome. They are in fact the opposite of awesome. Since when did we Americans become so lazy that we can't even flush on our own? Is the act of flushing really so energy intensive that we have to program other things to do it for us?
But OK, I get the whole cleanliness idea. I don't really like the idea of swiping my grubby hands in places where somebody else's grubby hands have been. But really the only people who absolutely need AFTs are the elderly and people who are incapable of standing on one leg to flush with their foot. Therefore AFTs should be restricted to handicapped stalls. That way I don't have to deal with the damn things.
If you couldn't tell, I really dislike AFTs. They don't really like me either. I mean, there are very few things worse than the toilet flushing before you're ready for it to flush (...ok, so maybe a bear peep show). The absolute worst is when they spray. UGH. My butt hates being sprayed with toilet water. Gross. And what about multiple flushes? AFTs do not comprehend the idea of having to flush more than once. It drives me nuts. I mean, I don't know about guys, but sometimes Order of the Uterus members experience Monsoon Season in the Southern Hemisphere and then we have to go about changing feminine hygiene products. AFTs don't understand the concept of feminine hygiene products either because they will just flush for anything.
Enough about toilets. Time for some Actual Bathroom Stories.
1. Back when I was a Girl Scout, probably in the year 2001 or so, my troop took a trip to the Old Country Buffet. Apparently the buffet got into an altercation with my stomach, so I made a trip to the water closet. Being obnoxious middle schoolers that we were, my friends decide to prank me. Now, I was in the handicapped stall and there were two other stalls next to it. At some point during my bathroom extravaganza, another woman came into the bathroom and was using the stall next to mine. I had no idea that my friends had snuck into the bathroom. The lock on the stall next to mine snicks, and I hear the door creep open. Then I hear a loud shout of "BOO!"and I see from underneath the stall the feet of the other lady jump a significant height into the air. Those idiots got the wrong stall! Sitting on the toilet I nearly cried myself blind I laughed so hard. Outside the stall I can hear my friends trying to explain themselves to a clearly scandalized woman, "We are SO SORRY. We thought you were our friend Sam!" Guys, next time you might want to shoe check before you go being creepers.
2. Several weeks after moving into Estate of Emergency, I was upstairs in my third floor abode when I hear Metalhead's muffled shout of "Sam! You might want to see this!" She was in our bathroom. As explained above, many a terrible thing can happen in a bathroom. I automatically assume the worst (ie she stabbed herself in the uvula with a toothbrush, she's drowing in the shower, etc). "Metalhead, are you OK??" "Yeah, but you're gonna want to see this."
Turns out that it was a mushroom. Growing out of our bathroom floor. After getting over the initial shock of having a fungus just chillin out next to our toilet, we named him Magnus. It became a huge joke in the house. The euphemism for 'going to the bathroom' became 'I'm going to visit Magnus' or just 'visiting Magnus'. Magnus the Mushroom was alive for about a week, and then he wilted and died. I believe it fitting of our status as college students that we just left him there. I did a make him a tombstone out of a notecard though.
First off, I'm a terrible Tree Hugger major. I've never been real camping. The cabin camping I did as a nine year old in Girl Scouts doesn't really count, because I was in a cabin. There weren't any showers, but there were still toilets and the biggest reason I've can't go camping is because I cannot handle not peeing in a toilet. Peeing in the woods creeps me out because are so many opportunities for disaster. Some hunter could stumble upon your squat-zone, you could wipe with an un-wipeable plant (I had a friend in middle school who had accidentally wiped his ass with poison ivy on a Boy Scout trip), or, you know, bears could attack or something. The last thing I need to be doing is giving a bear a peep show. Thanks but No.
I mean, I guess if I was stranded on a desert island I would be able to pee in the woods. Survival and all that...not that I would be doing much peeing if I were really dehydrated while in the desert. And not that there would be much woods either.
Obviously, I don't have an issue with the idea of peeing in the woods. It's really just my personal struggle. Guys have it good. They can just Point-And-Shoot. And literally, they can pee just about anywhere. Their pants don't even have to come off! I would pee outside all the time if it were just that easy. Us in the Order of the Uterus on the other hand, have a bit more difficulty in navigating a leak in the forest. The complicated physics of having the urethra point down-ish, while also avoiding peeing all over your clothes and yourself is just not worth it. I'll hold it, thanks.
And then we come to the outside toilet alternative: porta potties. These aren't as bad as peeing in the wilderness, but still kind of weird. Only to be used as a Last Resort for sure. Porta potties make me nervous because I've watched too many YouTube videos and episodes of America's Funniest Home Videos. With the right number of people it is not that difficult to tip over a porta potty with a person inside it. There can't be too many things grosser than being about to get down to business when you get thrown sideways and wind up covered in shit. This just makes me extra cautious when using a porta potty located near an incline. I'm sure a Porta Potty Accident it would cause a violent and immediate puking reaction in me. Ick times infinity. Plus there's that weird porta potty cleaner smell that they all have. Weird.
Let's move to the indoor plumbing versions.
Public bathrooms invoke a polar reaction in me: they are either Awesome, or Repulsive.
Awesome bathrooms are generally clean, have soap in the soap dispensers, and energy efficient hand dryers. The floor does not look like a toilet flooded in the past five minutes and there are no stalls where previous occupants have left you little surprises in the form of other gross stuff. Pleasant smells are always good too.
Now, Repulsive bathrooms are basically the opposite of Awesome bathrooms. They are so disgusting that you'd have better be on the verge of your bladder exploding to actually use these things. When you gotta go, you gotta go. I've been there. No judgement or anything. But afterward you're just like, "Dear Jesus, I touched my bare skin to that?" Or maybe you're somewhat paranoid about germs and you've mastered The Squat like my mother has, along with the Toilet Paper Seat. Either way, Repulsive bathrooms are likely to give you a case of PTSD.
Notice that I didn't mention graffiti. Maybe it's the inner rebel in me, but I think graffiti gives a bathroom character. It gives me something to look at while I take care of the Essentials. And quite frankly, I find bathroom graffiti to be some of the most interesting bathroom reading available. Granted, some of it is mega distasteful and I wouldn't mind if that were erased, but most of the time it's pretty cool. But only inside the stall. Outer-stall graffiti is just kind of trashy.
Also notice that automatic flushing toilets were not mentioned under Awesome bathrooms. That's because AFTs are not awesome. They are in fact the opposite of awesome. Since when did we Americans become so lazy that we can't even flush on our own? Is the act of flushing really so energy intensive that we have to program other things to do it for us?
But OK, I get the whole cleanliness idea. I don't really like the idea of swiping my grubby hands in places where somebody else's grubby hands have been. But really the only people who absolutely need AFTs are the elderly and people who are incapable of standing on one leg to flush with their foot. Therefore AFTs should be restricted to handicapped stalls. That way I don't have to deal with the damn things.
If you couldn't tell, I really dislike AFTs. They don't really like me either. I mean, there are very few things worse than the toilet flushing before you're ready for it to flush (...ok, so maybe a bear peep show). The absolute worst is when they spray. UGH. My butt hates being sprayed with toilet water. Gross. And what about multiple flushes? AFTs do not comprehend the idea of having to flush more than once. It drives me nuts. I mean, I don't know about guys, but sometimes Order of the Uterus members experience Monsoon Season in the Southern Hemisphere and then we have to go about changing feminine hygiene products. AFTs don't understand the concept of feminine hygiene products either because they will just flush for anything.
Enough about toilets. Time for some Actual Bathroom Stories.
1. Back when I was a Girl Scout, probably in the year 2001 or so, my troop took a trip to the Old Country Buffet. Apparently the buffet got into an altercation with my stomach, so I made a trip to the water closet. Being obnoxious middle schoolers that we were, my friends decide to prank me. Now, I was in the handicapped stall and there were two other stalls next to it. At some point during my bathroom extravaganza, another woman came into the bathroom and was using the stall next to mine. I had no idea that my friends had snuck into the bathroom. The lock on the stall next to mine snicks, and I hear the door creep open. Then I hear a loud shout of "BOO!"and I see from underneath the stall the feet of the other lady jump a significant height into the air. Those idiots got the wrong stall! Sitting on the toilet I nearly cried myself blind I laughed so hard. Outside the stall I can hear my friends trying to explain themselves to a clearly scandalized woman, "We are SO SORRY. We thought you were our friend Sam!" Guys, next time you might want to shoe check before you go being creepers.
2. Several weeks after moving into Estate of Emergency, I was upstairs in my third floor abode when I hear Metalhead's muffled shout of "Sam! You might want to see this!" She was in our bathroom. As explained above, many a terrible thing can happen in a bathroom. I automatically assume the worst (ie she stabbed herself in the uvula with a toothbrush, she's drowing in the shower, etc). "Metalhead, are you OK??" "Yeah, but you're gonna want to see this."
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