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From Almighty
Idiot Princess Stacey
the green bean massacre
as i look back on my childhood, i am absolutely thrilled that it
was so
very long ago. my mother took classes to improve her ability to
embarass me
in public.
she became an expert in increasing the frequency and intensity of
my
horror. here is such an example.
picture it. 2nd grade. mid week.. after school... at the grocery
store just
down the road from the school. it is THE place to be seen by fellow
elementary school students. i am walking through the store with
my mom. a
rare treat, as she usually picks me up around 5:30 or 6, but today,
it is
just about 4pm. i am walking tall and proud, enjoying the afternoon
excursion. everyone is happy. smiling. calm. then my mom grabs a
can of
green beans from the shelf and breaks into what i can only describe
as a
rusty rendition of vaudeville softshoe and pretends to juggle the
one can
in her hands.
and then it happens.
the can flies out of her grip, and crashes into a pyramid display
of other
canned vegetables. the noise is deafening to my fragile 7 year old
ears.
people come running from all over the store to see what has happened.
my
mom bends down, looks into my frightened face and softly says, "one
day,
you will understand what I am about to do"
she then stands up straight, puts one hand on her hip, and extends
the
other arm to point a finger at me and loudly exclaims, "STACEY
BURKHOLDER-
HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS WITH THINGS IN THE STORE!!"
i am crushed. and my schoolmates point and laugh and snicker. i
can only
imagine the story flying around the schoolyard the next morning.
my mom
did buy me some great pastries to calm me, but i will never forget
that
fateful trip to the lomart.
grocery shopping has never been the same.
i hate basketball
hi friends,
this week as i prepare for my 10 yr high school reunion, i am finding
my
mind wandering back to that evil netherworld of high school and
pimples and
awkward crushes on stupid boys. i was never very popular in school.
i had
one close friend, and a few acquaintances. i masked my misery with
humor
and sarcasm. i have broken out of that horrible shell a bit, but
when i
think of high school, all my progress seems to slip through my fingers.
let
me take you back to another horrible memory. not so funny. just
painful.
why on earth do i want to go back?
i am at a basketball game with my best friend,
jenna. she is a sophomore
and i am a junior. she has a crush on a boy that plays junior varsity
basketball. so we are at the jv game on a warm fall friday afternoon.
we
are cheering for chris- her love interest. he, too has a MEGA crush
on her.
remember how powerful crushes could be? you would see that special
person
and they could just look your way and your day would suddenly be
fantastic.
so anyway, we are watching the game and all is well.
i look down at the doorway to our gymnasium and i see my mother.
i cannot
understand why she would be at the school on a friday night. i know
that
she knows that i am here. and that frightens me. she is scanning
the crowd
and i assume that she is trying to find me to embarass me. so i
mutter in a
low voice to my friend "my mom is here. she is at the door..
don't make eye
contact" because in my skewed teenage mind, if i ignore her,
maybe she will
go away. unfortunately my mastermind plan fails miserably. she locks
her
gaze on me and snaps her fingers at me. SNAPS her fingers at me.
she used
to do that when i was little. and i hated it then. i LOATHE this
action
even more at this moment. so i make that walk of shame to the door
to find
out why she is here and hunting me down.
we walk outside without exchanging a word between us. i can tell
that she
is SO MAD. i am not sure what is going on. she turns to face me
and says
in a loud voice, " I KNOW YOU DON'T ALWAYS TELL ME THE TRUTH
ABOUT THINGS"
and immediately my mind begins to race. i am making a mental list
of all
the things that i have done in the past few weeks that i have lied
about
and am preparing to confess to any one of them when she continues
and drops
this bomb.."BECAUSE YOUR DOCTOR CALLED TODAY AND CONFIRMED
THAT YOUR
PREGNANCY TEST CAME BACK NEGATIVE"
remember that we are outside-in front of the gym entrance. people
are
standing in line to purchase their tickets for the varsity game
that will
begin shortly. so basically half of my school hears this comment
and turns
to stare at us.
that horrible silence envelops me.
my whole body begins to shake and i feel my neck and ears growing
hot with
anger and embarassment.
you see, i have never gone to a doctor for a pregnancy test. EVER.
some dickwad has prank called my mom and gotten me into a HUGE mess.
so i grab her by the arm, walk her as far away from the crowd as
i can and
calmly and coldly explain that i have never even put myself in the
position
to potentially become pregnant. i tell her that i cannot fathom
that she
would believe anyone that called and tried to pass on such garbage.
then i
started yelling. i yelled about how doctors don't even call and
reveal
confidential information like that. then i asked her for the doctor's
name. (because i know that she is a note-taker and MUST have written
this
sh** down.)
get this.. my "physician" is named james baker. my response
to this
information is as loud and condescending as it can possibly be-i
say "YOU
MEAN THAT TELEVANGELIST??- ARE YOU CRAZY??" and the name of
the hospital
that he "practices" out of does not even exist. the jerk
that called
combined the names of two hospitals in town. like combining St.
David's
and Brackenridge to St. Brackenridge.
so i send my mother home with her tail between her legs and i have
to face
the months of rumors about my "pregnancy".
i can't remember if our team won the game. i hate basketball games
now. i
get cold and clammy when i watch basketball now. blech. march madness
gives
me hives.
and my mom gives me the benefit of the doubt a lot more often these
days.
dear lord. i need some xanax.
thank goodness there will be a bar at this reunion. hooray for booze!the
scariest halloween ever
i am a sophomore in college at mary hardin-baylor. i am young and
naive and
a wee bit homesick. i check my mail four or five
times a day. just to make sure that i didn't miss anything. and
my mom
sends me something nearly every day. a postcard. a letter.
a note with a dollar stuck in it, things like that. she sends letters
with
money in them. if i have worn my retainer, the money is mine. if
not,
my roommate gets it. my roommate got rich that semester.
it is mid-october. my third semester at school, and i check my mailbox.
there is a card in my little box notifying me that i have a package.
my eyes grow wide, and i run to the window of the post office to
claim my
prize.
the mail clerk hands it over to me. i have a manila envelope from
my mom.
YIPPEE!! it is holding some sort of wonderful surprise.
i just KNOW it! and my friends gather around to ooh and aahhh over
my
package. we all know what a treat mail is in college, don't we?
did i mention that the mail center is in the student union building?
in
front of the snack bar. so pretty much the whole school is in there.
eating lunch.. studying..checking their own mail. waiting for their
next
class.. whatever.
so i rip open my envelope, reach inside this little mystery package,
and
pull out my surprise. i hold it up for all to see. and then i start
to
shake.
i realize that i have just unleashed a bright orange pair of underpants.
with a post-it-note stuck onto them with the following message-
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
ohhhhh. the horror. the horror.
my mom is a very sick woman. and she knows it. i am afraid that
i have no
chance to escape the insanity.
and yes, i still own the halloween underpants. i feel that same
sense of
shame every time i see them in my drawer. they keep me
humble. as if all of my other stories wouldn't.
i am soooooo uncool
hi friends,
more war stories from the hall of shame. this one comes to us from
stacey's sophomore year in college. it is early fall in belton.
the days
are getting shorter. everyone's summer tans are fading. and we have
all
fallen into a comfortable routine for the semester.
the leaves are turning. the temperature dips down below 80. for
stacey,
this is cold. she grew up in el paso, remember.
it is the first chilly day of the fall semester. everyone is digging
through their piles of clothes for clean sweatshirts and jeans.
you
remember
the sniff test, right? regardless, the sweaters and jackets are
being
dusted off and keeping the youth of america warm. welcome to october.
so i decide to wear my letterman jacket from high school. i have
seen
others on campus and decide that it is time to strut.
you see, i was a bit of an overachieving nerd in school. i was on
several
academic teams. i was also into sports. so i earned a few letters.
just how many letters, you ask?
four? no.
five? please...
six..not even close.
eight. i got eight letters. and i had those suckers sewn all over
my
jacket. i was looking fan-TAS-tic, i tell you. i was hot sh*t. but
then
again,
that was in high school. i am in college now. but i don't care.
i am 19 and
i can take on the world.
i had attended EASTWOOD high school in el paso. hence, my jacket
was
adorned with a boatload of E's. i had three sewn on the front of
the jacket. five on the back. and not only were they on the back,
they
formed a W like so:
E E
E
E
E
and i also have a figure of a swimmer sewn into the back of my jacket.
because I am the district champion in the 100-yard backstroke for
all 4
years of
high school. again, i am hot sh*t. (in my own sad little world,
i am.)
so i am strutting to class in my jacket, feeling smug. feeling proud.
strutting. i am casually nodding my head at people that i know.
doing that
little recognition nod that we all do.
as i near my next class building, i hear a male voice behind me
clear his
throat, and loudly exclaim,
"uhhhhh. yes, pat.. i want to buy a vowel. VANNA, I'D LIKE
TO BUY THE
LETTER E."
i realize that someone is making fun of me. and then i realize just
how
many other people are within earshot of this statement.
the laughter around me started with giggles and snickers. i can
feel my
face getting hot and i know that i am no longer the sh*t.
i lower my head and walk to class while the university of mary
hardin-baylor bands together and collectively laughs its ass of
at me.
i am forever a nerd.
and a footnote. this past thanksgiving a shocking confession sends
me into
a tailspin. my old,close, used-to-hold-my
hand-while-i-peed-in-the-bushes-after-getting-drunk-at-the-lake-so-i-won't-fall-into-my-own-pee-pee-friend
albert admits
that he is the evil little man that is responsible for crushing
my ego.
after 9 years of hating the evil bastard that squished
my feelings, i now know that it was a friend. e tu, albert.
i feel so very cheap and used. but i still wear my jacket. in spite
of it
all. because i am hot sh*t, dammit.
and don't you forget it.
i fought the law. and the law won
okay.. here it is.. the next installment of horrifying moments of
my youth.
when i was in college, i worked at a bar in temple, texas. in the
summer,
we opened up on monday nights for local teenagers. some creative
genius
named this weekly event "teen night" absolutely stellar
intellect, i tell
you.
so we sign up to work this extra night a week. it is money in the
bank. all
about the cash for stacey. the guys that i worked with had completely
different motives. they liked to look at the young whores-to-be.
we all had
our reasons.
due to security restrictions, we had to pat down our customers before
they
entered the bar. in previous years, we had some patrons that felt
the need
to bring knives and brass knuckles to the club. so we got to pat
these
kiddos down in the front lobby. and we also got to confiscate their
cigarettes. as you may know, there is a mega fine for being caught
with
cigarettes if you are under the age of 18 in this state. our local
law
enforcement officers hid in the dark hallways behind the front desk
to
pounce on underage smokers. they would write out citations, we would
confiscate the cigarettes, and then smoke them when we went out
drinking at
the end of the night. but that's another story alltogether.
and then there were the bouncers. men in their mid-twenties who
were
looking for young girls to flirt with. ugh. so as i would pat the
girls
down, they would stand behind me, with their arms crossed, and rate
the
incoming hotties. they were very impressed with hooters. again..ugh.
and
there i was, patting down the millionth teenage girl, checking for
weapons,
drugs, etc. and i squat down to check their socks/shoes. and you
can just
imagine the amazing crotch shot that i would be subjected to if
i were to
turn around at that very moment. yes, the overexcited bouncers loved
to
stand RIGHT there in case we turned around after they tapped us
on our
shoulders.. i fell for that several times. and then, once i figured
out the
joke, i began just reaching up behind me with my right hand and
grasping
their package in my tight grip. always a good time. i would do this
while
facing forward. no need to turn around and face the crotch.
so again, i am squatting, feel a tap on my shoulder and roll my
eyes. i
sigh and reach back and grab. only this time, i don't feel denim
in my
grasp. i feel a different kind of material.. like a slick poly-cotton
blend.. and i peek through my legs and see that the pants are black.
and
the shoes are black as well. shiny and black. not the boots and
jeans i am
accustomed to. so i slowly stand up, release the nads and turn around
to
face a 6 foot tall, red-faced police officer. his eyes are bulging
and i
know why. i squashed his hoo-hoo.
there is an amazingly long, excruciating and awkward silence. i
have
absolutely no idea what i can do to remedy this situation. i begin
to cry.
so he thrusts his right hand out and says, "well, Roy's my
name.. what's
yours? "
fortunately i did not lose control of my bowels at this moment.
he has an
awfully good sense of humor, so i don't get arrested for assaulting
a
police officer. hooray!
thus the days of tapping stacey on the shoulder promptly ended.
ah, the
days of yore.
and i have a friendly officer in temple that has got my back. because
once
a long time ago in a land far, far away, i got his front.
thank you.. i'm here all week.
let's be careful out there...local police are retarded. part 1
hi friends.
have you ever had one of those days where you knew there was a
possibility of some chaotic event.. and then it really happens?
let's start with some background. i have been delivering meals for
our
local meals on wheels program in the marble falls area. i have
covered the route 7 times in the past three weeks because people
are on
vacation and such.. so i wake up in the morning, stumble into
some clothes that don't smell too bad, and then load up my car full
of
meals. i have decided not to carry my purse with me as i deliver
meals.
i carry my wallet, keys, and cell phone. i have a copy of my insurance
card
in my wallet so that it will always be with me.
after i finished up my route yesterday, i came back home, tossed
my wallet
on my couch and jumped in the shower before heading to work.
as i left for work, i grabbed a crappy frozen dinner for lunch and
ran out
the door.
my wallet was still on the couch. not in my purse.
as lunchtime approaches, i am deciding that i need to go buy something
to
eat instead of eating my frozen spaghetti dinner. at this moment,
i realize
that
i am running around without any identification, money, or proof
of
insurance. and i think to myself, "you know.. wouldn't it be
awful if i got
pulled over?" how on earth would i explain myself?
i grumpily eat my frozen dinner, and get back to work. i am happy
that i
have a half a tank of gas and won't have to worry about trying to
buy gas
with a check and no i.d.
my shift ends, i get into my car and head home.
at nearly 11:30pm, as i am turning off of highway 281 in marble
falls onto
2nd street, i am so glad to be almost home. i am tired, and hungry
and
ready to relax. as i approach a stop sign, i look in my rear view
mirror
and see flashing red and blue lights. i turn right at the intersection
and
expect to see the police officer continue on in pursuit of the bad
guy he
must be headed toward. but HE IS FOLLOWING ME! and i pull into a
parking
space right in front of the police station on main street. he blocks
me in
with his patrol car. freaking blocks me in. where else can i go?
through
the front doors of the damn police station? what the hell?
and of COURSE he asks me for my license and registration. i have
to tell
him my lame ass story about my wallet being on my couch. i know
that he has
heard every story in the book. but mine is true. TRUE, DAMN IT!!
i know
that he rolls his eyes at me. he tells me that he has pulled me
over
because i failed to use a turn signal when turning from 281 onto
2nd
street. somehow i manage to refrain from saying "SO WHAT!!"
he apparently
saw me in the turn lane, saw me stop and look for oncoming cars,
and turn
without a turn signal. there were no oncoming cars because i live
in the
boonies. there are four people that are awake in marble falls at
this hour,
and he and i make up half of that population. (i figure if 99.9
percent of
the town is at home and in bed, and no one else is on the road,
i should be
able to make a turn FROM A DAMN TURN LANE without being harassed
for not
using my blinker)
the police officer is bound and determined to figure out if i am
who i say
i am. he seems surprised that i actually know my drivers license
number,
but i do. i also give him my address and phone number, and manage
to find
my registration form tucked up in my visor and i hand it over to
him. he
then mumbles something about having to verify that i actually DO
have a
drivers license and would i please wait in the car while he does
this. do i
have any choice? he brings everything back to me and verifies that
i do not
have any outstanding tickets or warrants. i am free to go.
he then says, "i don't know if you just didn't use your signal,
or if it
doesn't work.." and i quickly respond, "it is nearly midnight,
there is no
one on the road. i decided not to use my signal."
he looks down his nose at me and informs me that "it is the
law."
our tax dollars are paying for this and other stellar services.
i thank him for this newsflash and drive home. why do i thank him?
i would
rather get out and kick him in the shin. if i did that,i could understand
him wanting to give me a ticket.
and honestly, i have not used my turn signals regularly since 1998.
i do
not plan to use them regularly now. except after 11pm in marble
falls.
because apparently local law enforcement has nothing better to do
than
terrorize the two drivers that are on the roads at that hour.
i think i shall buy myself a helmet now because i am such a public
menace
on the road. i must prepare for all those traffic accidents i am
going to
cause.
i hope that i can count on all of you for bail money.
stacey..
local police are retarded. part 2
hi friends,
i know that it only seems like a couple weeks since i've been pulled
over
by the police in marble falls.. and as a matter of fact it HAS only
been a
couple weeks. so apparently, they felt the need to do it all over
again. i
was headed home, it was about 11:30 last night when i hit marble
falls. i
decided to get a few groceries before going home. several of the
lights in
marble falls are flashing yellows and flashing reds at this time
of night.
i make sure to stop at the flashing 4-way red light before proceeding
northbound on highway 281. i see that there is a crew working on
the lights
at an intersection ahead of me. the lights are flashing yellow.
there is
also a police cruiser parked to the side of the intersection. i
am going 5
miles under the speed limit and listening to loveline.. minding
my own damn
business. i drive through the intersection while making a mental
grocery
list..and OF COURSE i see flashing lights in my rear view mirror.
i pull
over because i must have done something perfectly legal and the
police have
to make sure to be absolutely retarded about the whole situation.
i pull
over into a parking lot and wait for my freaking ticket. i have
no idea
what i have done wrong, but i figure that there is some new law
that i am
violating. i certainly couldn't just drive home without being harrassed
like the rest of america.
i actually have my wallet and license and insurance this time. hooray
for
me and my wallet. i look up and recognize officer a**hole from a
couple
weeks ago. the same guy that blocked me in right in front of the
police
station. yeah, that guy. the one that pulled me over for failing
to use a
turn signal. when there was no one on the road. i did stop to look
both
ways, i was actually in the turn lane, too. and i decided not to
use the
signal. we had a discussion about it "being the LAW".
it is a pointless
law. and i do use my signal all the damn time now just for officer
A-hole.
except when i turn into my driveway. at that point, i just roll
my window
down, shout into the night "I'M TURNING RIGHT!" because
that is just as
pointless and stupid as using my turn signal. and i have already
been
pulled over in my driveway. what are the odds they'd try that again??
okay.. so back to my story..
so i look up at him with absolute hatred and hand over my license
and
insurance card. guess what? i have the expired insurance card with
me. so i
roll my eyes and put my hand out to receive my ticket for no proof
of
insurance. he has not told me why he has pulled me over yet. i can
hardly
wait to hear this week's reason.
he then looks at me and asks me if the light was flashing yellow
when i
drove through the intersection. i wrinkle my forehead at him, and
ask "are
you kidding me? YES, THE LIGHT WAS YELLOW. WHY ON EARTH WOULD I
RUN A RED
LIGHT RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU? i hate getting pulled over and i do
what i can
to avoid it."
he then says, "uh.. well, i was sitting at the intersection
for awhile and
i was reading something. i looked up and realized that you had gone
through
the intersection. by the time i had the car in gear, had my lights
on and
was pursuing you, i saw the flashing yellow lights in my rear-view
mirror... um.. i just wanted to make sure.."
what a MEGA A-hole!! he has to ASK me if i ran a red light? call
me crazy,
but i thought the police were supposed to pay attention to those
minor
details before pursuing people. i just stare at him. it is clear
as day
that he can't ask me that one question that we all know and love:
Do you
know why I pulled you over?-because HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHY HE
PULLED ME
OVER!!
he gives me back my license and insurance card. i am so mad that
i can
almost cry. i turn around and head to the grocery store. following
all the
damn laws i can think of.. but it just doesn't seem to matter in
marble
falls.
i am half tempted to drive into town tonight, look for that guy
and ask him
for his phone number. then i can call him to let him know exactly
when i
will be in marble falls, and then i will pull over and let him know
the
exact location. just to save him the effort. then he can just pull
up
behind me, throw out some verbal diarrhea, and then i can be on
my way.
i swear, if this is where my tax dollars are going, i will give
everything
up and be homeless. just to avoid dealing with this insane sh*t.
the police manage to pull me over twice a month these days.. but
they never
seem to catch up with the people driving their white bronco about
eight
miles an hour around town and smoking pot. i run into the potmobile
on a
weekly basis. why can't the police do it?
not surprisingly, i am in a pretty bad mood today.
i am sure it will happen again. and that is why people go postal.
From Karen G,
New Jersey Chapter President
It all started one fateful day when one of
my friends decided that we
needed to go see a hockey game. We got our tickets and we all packed
into my friend Christine’s Pathfinder. There were 5 of us total.
The
game was pretty boring but the Devils won so all was right with
the world.
Heading back home down the New Jersey turnpike we were behind another
SUV that was schlepping box spring on the roof rack. The driver
was
going at a good clip in the middle lane until suddenly the flimsy
twine
that was holding the bedding to the roof rack gave way and the box
spring did a Matrix maneuver stood straight up length-wise and went
flying towards the car. Next thing I know my hands are in front
of my
face and I hear a big BANG and glass was shattering (I was in the
passenger’s seat at the time). The box spring luckily caught
the top of
the car and smashed the moon roof in. We pulled over and waited
for the
police to come. In the meantime the box spring is sitting in the
middle
lane of the Turnpike and cars are running it over and sparks are
flying
everywhere and horns are blowing and accidents are nearly being
avoided.
The police get there and make their report and send us on our way.
We
have a broken moon roof and glass swishing up above our heads but
the
plastic covering you use to cover the moon roof when not in use
is still
intact so we drive on.
We all are a bit on edge and all of a sudden my friend Deb who is
the
biggest scaredy cat of all starts laughing. When asked what was
so funny
she said, “for a split second when I heard the thump on the
roof I
thought it was Osama ( as in Bin Laden). Now we were all laughing
hysterically. After 911 the tri-state area has been a bit on edge
when
it comes to terrorism and threats to personal safety.
Well it doesn’t end there! We are driving on the Garden State
parkway
and I notice that the plastic screen that covers the moon roof when
not
in use is starting to open and glass is showering down on me a bit.
So I
reach my hand up to hold it shut when all of a sudden I hear this
sucking noise and the plastic screen gets sucked up and out of the
car
landing somewhere on the parkway. Luckily no one was behind us.
I start
laughing; my friend who’s car all this happened to starts crying
and the
other three are in shock in the back. Christine is crying and saying,
“what do I do now, what am I supposed to do now”? We all
at the same
time say “Just drive!” We finally get to my house safe
and sound and
everyone just keeps saying how in the hell did that happen…except
for me
because I am the queen of the “it could only happen to you”
story.thanks for creating this space here Laurie.- finally, a place
that feels like home for the 'so uncool we're totally Cool girls.'
From IG Kami
here was my day today:
so I go to get new contacts. the last few weeks some sort of funky
hard film had grown on them & they hurt like hell to wear &
finally
realised I Had to replace them. had to get my eyes check out again
too, b/c of course while I actually could still find my presciption
from
last year (after dumping the entire contents of my dresser on both
my bed & dresser top), it had expired a year a month ago. just
is my luck.
so, I take out my old ones and they do the pre-lim stuff and explain
to them the problem. the Dr says: " where are your disposable
lenses?"
and I say ' I don't have disposable lenses, I only have these daily
wear from last year.' Dr :" no. this presciption says you should
have
disposable. -- how long have you been wearing those?"
' um, 1 year 1 month. this is just how my life seems to go sometimes.'
the Dr. looks confounded. checks my eyes w/ the eye magnifying
thingys again realllll carefully ( even w/ a jewler type loop) &
then says :"remarkable! your eyes are clear as a bell. you
have NO damage
from wearing lenses that at the extreme people wear for a month
& then throw away and you wore the same pair for over a year.
you have
Incredibly thick cornea's young lady." me :'better thick cornea's
than thick ankles!' then Dr. Do-Good I'll call him, encourages me
to "why
don't you just throw that old nasty pair away right now b/c you
certainly won't be wearing them anymore; I'll even give you a brand-new
lens
case for your new ones so you won't have to worry." and he's
smiling and laughing and being so nicey nice and so I did, tossed
those suckers (
the right lens was still ok to wear, kinda made me sad to see it
go, I had kinda thought I'd hang onto it as a back up ) right in
the old trash
w/ a mock hoop shot while the Good Dr. smiled approvingly, I beamed.
I walked out of there feeling like some sort of medical miracle.
and so I go - mucho dollars poorer I might add for having bought
several Actual DISPOSABLE Lens pairs not wanting to have a re-peat
of
before- and it's only after I get home do I realise: that bastard
screwed me.
I had grounds for a LAWSUIT and he knew it! my eyes could have been
totally f'ed by wearing those lenses that long and he didn't even
have the decency to give me a f'ing discount on the ones he sold
me!
and sinse I willingly tossed my old pair into the dumper, good girl
that I am, I can't even freaking prove it now.
maybe I was just so happy to be dealing w/ an eye doctor who spoke
to my face and looked at my eyes instead of my chest like last time.
maybe when you go to a Super convience store for eye care, you don't
actually expect it to be all that Super. maybe on some level I was
expecting to get screwed. all I know is, I think I just earned my
Chapter Rights to the Idiot Girls Action Adventure Club.
From Jennifer
K
I'll do a tried but true story of idiot-ness.
It involves involuntary nudity, so it has to count. I used to do
a little thing called "The Rocky Horror Picture Show"
here
in Rochester NY on the squalid shores of Lake Ontario years ago.
We did a wacky 'gender bender' show (a lot less wacky in retrospect)
where all the girls played the
male roles & vice versa. I wound up playing the title role of
Dr. Frank-n-furter that night. Well, long story short, at one point
Dr. Frank-n-furter throws his cape off
by fully extending his arms out to the sides while at center stage
and reveals himself wearing a ladies teddy/corset/merry widow type
lingere. I whip my cape off, and
whip my boob out. As soon as my arms popped to the sides fully extended,
my left double d cup breast felt the need to also 'fully extend'
out of it's cup. This scene
happens within the first five minutes of Frank appearing on stage.&nbs!
p; It's quite a way to introduce a character to the audience.
Another round
from "I'll Buy A Vowel" Stacey B.
the
not-so-friendly skies (october 2003)
hi friends,
i know that it has been awhile since an embarassing story has been
sent.
and that has been nice for me. but i had another misadventure this
weekend
that is worthy of sharing with everyone.
to give you all some background- i had a lot going on last week.
i moved
into my new house on monday and tuesday and then immediately left
for el
paso to meet my mom. then we drove to albuquerque for the balloon
fiesta.
my house sits on the breeding ground for approximately one-third
of the
nation's mosquitoes. at least that is what it feels like! i need
some
skin-so-soft or OFF!! so my legs are covered with mosquito bites
and i have
absolutely no self-control when it comes to not scratching them.
i am like
a child. it itches, i scratch. so i have all of these bumps and
raw spots
on my legs. needless to say, i don't shave before heading to new
mexico. no
need to shave the mosquito bites right off my legs! i did bathe
before
leaving for the airport, though. i promise.
and our adventure begins on the return trip. i have worn all of
my jeans
except my overalls, so my jeans are in the washer at my mom's house.
i LOVE
my overalls. my mother thinks that they are horrible and rolls her
eyes
whenever she sees them. but i am wearing them nonetheless because
i am
almost 30 and she can't ground me anymore. i am going to wear them
just to
be spiteful. the laundry gets done, and packed into my suitcase.
and we
head to the airport everything is fine until i get to the security
checkpoint.
apparently my low-top six dollar hiking boots from payless may pose
a
threat to national security and i have to remove them. FINE. i put
them in
the gray plastic tub and send them on their way through the x-ray
machine.
i remove my backpack and watch and put them in a tub as well. i
walk slowly
through the metal detector/scanner and i set the thing off. BECAUSE
I AM
WEARING MY OVERALLS WITH A MILLION METAL BUTTONS. i can hear my
mother
laughing, no...cackling at me even though she is miles away-at home.
but i
can hear her anyway. the woman performing the "body check"
informs me that
she is going to scan me with a magic wand. when it beeps, she will
have to
feel me up in that exact area to make sure that i am a safe passenger.
i
also have to stand with my legs spread apart and my arms out.. like
a
cheerleader in mid cheer. i am so NOT into this process. i had never
given
serious thought to the placement of the metal buttons and clasps
on
overalls until this very moment. there are clasps right on top of
my
breastel sprouts, and buttons on the pockets..dangerously close
to the
crotch area. as the magic wand is waved over these private areas,
bells
and whistles go off, and the government has given this woman permission
to
touch me in my no-no areas! and now mystery woman made has it to
second and
third base with me, and i never even caught her name.
i also have an anklet on my right ankle. let me correct myself-that
would
be my right HAIRY LIKE SASQUATCH right ankle. so she has to have
me sit
down, extend my leg, she has to push up my pant leg, pull my sock
down
until she can see through the forest of leg hair that it really
is a piece
of jewelry instead of a glock. that poor poor woman. luckily, i
am deemed
safe for travel and can put my shoes back on. i feel so cheap and
dirty,
though. that was the most action i've had in years. i vow to only
wear
plastic flip flops on my next flight. i will also be sure to wear
pants
with absolutely NO metal on them. like some yoga pants or something.
nobody
gets to pat me down and send me on my way again. she didn't even
buy me
dinner.
so think carefully about your attire before you travel. or you could
be
accidentally molested by a stranger with a gun. not as fun as it
sounds.
trust me.
until next time,
stacey-the worst traveler ever
From IG Jodi
I have a stalker story for you. I started
dating Thomas as a setup between mutual friends, and although I
noticed he was abnormally skinny and pale, I
decided to let it go and think of it as a quirk. On our first date
he took me to a Discovery-Zone type place that served pizza and
boasted a huge indoor playground. He
decided it would be fun for us to go and "play" on the
playground, and convinced me to let him slide down one of the slides
with me. It was a tube slide, and halfway
down, he stopped himself suddenly by forcing his hands against the
sides. Then he proceeded to stick his tongue into my mouth. There
were similar experiences in the
ball pit, as well. I escaped, heading toward the giant trampoline
thing, where i could at least jump away from him (he was my ride,
and i didn't have a cell phone.) On
the trampoline, he tackled me and managed to squirm his way on top
of me. So i suggested we go eat pizza. I didn't want to piss him
off and be left stranded, i ! didn't
even know where I was. After that date, he took me to his friend's
house, who had about 12 pet snakes, a baby crocodile, lizards, you
name it...
Eventually, as i looked frantically for a way out, he wrote me a
letter telling me that he had a terminal illness (explaining the
random "sit down to rests" and the
unnatural pale tint to his skin,) and that he was looking for someone
to spend the rest of his life with. So i told him that was too much
for me, and got out. I thought it
was over, until he later called me and told me that Make A Wish
Foundation was sending him to Hawaii and he wanted somebody to go
with him. As much as I
considered it, I decided it would be a new level of evil and said
no. He told me in an email that he'd wait on the moon for my side
of the world to come around, just so
he could get a glimpse of me, which served only to freak me out,
when i'm pretty sure he only meant for me to declare him my Prince
Charming and ride away with
him. He kept calling me, begging me to come back, showing up in
random places, threatening my new boyfriends, and eventually, I
found a knife ! on the hood of my
car. That was this fall, almost 4 years after we broke up. But I
haven't heard from in a while. I'm not really sure if he's still
alive. Oh well.
From Monika
I have this thing; I can’t always wash
my clothes so I have to start digging out my b-team outfits.
This particular day I was weeks behind in my laundry and I pulled
out a short denim skirt with what I thought was a tiny little rip
in it, I searched for clean underpants and came up with a fuchsia
striped thong and I threw it on under some white tights and some
hiking boots. I looked like a 12 year old nerd, but who cares, I
was not going to be late for work once again.
By the time I got to the train I noticed it was a little colder
than normal on my butt, but I didn’t pay it any mind.
When I got on the train, my friend Carrie goes: “Monika! You
skirt is ripped!”
“I know, on the split, I figure its small enough I could get
away with it.”
Carrie kept shaking her head no. “Your butt is showing!”
“Carrie, no it isn’t!” and I start spinning around
to get a view of my ass.
“Yes it is!”
Finally I put my hand back there and wouldn’t you know it,
sometime during my rush to the train, my skirt ripped all the way
up. There was nothing I could do about it either, I just tied my
sweater around my waist and went to work. I figured I would run
to the cheap store and get some jeans.
When I finally got into the neighborhood of my job, I was hustling
to my building and I hear: “Excuse me miss?” It was a
man’s voice so I turned around, thinking that I am being pursued
for
my beauty, and the most gorgeous man I have ever seen is holding
my sweater.
“Um you dropped this about 2 blocks back.”
From "an
idiot girl in training"
Rock 'n Roll Shitters
I couldn't believe it. I was actually going into Johnny Walker's
HOUSE. Where he LIVES. Where he BATHES and EATS and SLEEPS every
day when he's not on tour or passed out somewhere
with his friends in front of some bar. (In case you don't know,
Johnny Walker is the lead singer of one of my favorite bands, the
Soledad Brothers. They're not too famous but they've done a lot
of
stuff with the White Stripes).
I had e-mailed him asking about his band merchandise, and when we
both realized that he lived just the next town over (why any hot
slide-guitar playing rocker wants to live in Ohio is beyond
me, but he said he likes it. Must be the drugs talking) he just
said I could come over and go through all the merch to save time
and money for shipping. We picked a date and I sought
pre-merch-rooting advice from my friend Casey, who lives in New
Jersey (ie: we obsessed about this for hours over the internet and
phone). When it came time to go I had to accept the fact that
we were arriving at his place in a minivan and my mother would be
going in with me, since I am a minor and she wants to make sure
he doesn't rape me or offer me drugs (damn). I had
remembered to call Casey on my mom's cell phone, and we worked out
a plan where Casey just happens to call during the visit and I say,
"Oh, he doesn't want to talk to YOU," and then I pause
and then say, "Oh, okay, fine... ! Johnny, can you talk to
my friend Casey?" and then hand the phone over to him (the
plan more or less worked except she called about three more times
than
needed. I can't believe we actually worked that plan out. You needn't
remind us that we are complete losers, we know that well by now).
Everything was going according to plan and I hadn't
vomited all up his doorstep or anything.
I knocked on the door and Johnny answered in his all his scruffy
blues-rock glory, and he introduced us to his girlfriend Ericka
(damn again). They were both incredibly sweet and I envied them
and
their cute apartment with all my heart and soul. He let me sort
through the boxes of merchandise and as I did so I was forced to
listen to my mother make a complete fool of herself ("Is Ericka
in
the band too?!").
And then as I was pulling out band tees Johnny said, "Why don't
you try them on in our bathroom?"
I almost pissed myself (which would have been beyond embarassing
because he just asked me into the bathroom). I WAS GOING INTO JOHNNY
WALKER'S BATHROOM. And I didn't even
have to ask!
As you know, I am still a teenager and natural teenage insanity
and hormones overtook my mind and body so: I took a picture of his
can. Psychiatrists can say all they want about this, but I can
guarantee you it was worth it. Hey, call me an obsessive fan all
you want, if you were in a rock god's bathroom you'd be taking pictures
of his crapper too, to commemorate the rarity for
posterity. (And also because it was really, really funny.) After
I came out again, we hung around and talked some more, and Johnny
took it upon himself to show me his personal photo album
filled with somewhat incriminating photos of Jack White and other
various band members in nothing but their boxers, which was an added
bonus to the visit. We went home, and I uploaded the
picture of the toilet to send to Casey! .
A few weeks after the visit I came across a quote by Jack White
of the White Stripes saying, "We live in an age where everybody
wants to dissect every little thing about every celebrity; get into
their bathrooms and know everything about them." I stared at
it, dumbfounded, and said to Casey, "He must NEVER find out
about our picture of Walker's shitter."
From Laura
HI,
I feel a little like ass today. Not to be confused with "damn
it".
Damn it is when there is absolutely no hope, and you are not going
to
feel better for at least another 24 to 48 hours. You also look like
complete and total shit, and could care less. "Ass" is
when you are
feeling a bit under the weather, your looks aren't quite as bad,
but you
try to at least brush your hair and teeth. So, today I feel like
a
little ass. Not that I have a little ass, I have a huge ass, but
any
way. I have a cold and I hate to have anything running out of my
nose.
It's just not my favorite thing ya know. I don't mind being all
congested in the mornings, blowing my nose a few times and then
everything is fine. This shit is a constant nose blowing experience.
I
feel like Rudolph with a cocaine habit. I keep making that awful
sucking noise, and it all runs down my throat, and makes me feel
as
though I could gag. I am sure you need to know all of this information.
I had a hard time sleeping last night. I stopped by the coffee and
dessert shop on my way home from the tennis shop and had some java,
java, java. I think I am turning into an 80 year old man. Let me
explain. I love coffee. I have found myself drinking it in the middle
of the day. Oh, and that's not all my friend. I have started drinking
it black too. I discovered that I like the actual taste of the coffee.
I do like a little mocha, choca, grande, cinnamon, sugary, goodness
every now and then. But I like just a plain cup of joe every now
and
then too. Another sign that I am turning into an old person....I
spoke
to a complete and total stranger at the pizza buffett here in Clinton
the other day. I have no idea why I started talking to this random
person, but I did. THe sad thing is, I didn't realize that I did
it
until some one brought it to my attention after we got back in the
car.
What in the hell is wrong with me? I guess as long as I don't start
taking sugar packets from Ryan's I am ok. But I did realize, at
the
coffee and dessert shop, they have peanut butter in those little
containers now. What a great invention. I just had to put some in
my
purse. See! Who says purse but some little old lady that looks like
Sophia from the golden girls? I did still packets from a public
place.
Help me! I don't want to be old!
This is about all that I have to discuss at this moment. I am hoping
maybe something else will happen before I see you this afternoon
and we
can have a pleasant conversation on the way to Spartanburg. That
is, if
you are still going. Let me know if you still want to go and I will
just pick you up at your apartment. I need to run the car through
the
wash because Pete and his Pussy Posse have had a freaking field
day
running, and sliding down my windshield and back glass. It's a little
too early for baseball, but that doesnt stop them. Oh my God! I
am
turning into a cat woman. A little old lady whose car has kitty
foot
prints all over it, carries a purse full of sweet and low, talks
to
strangers, and drinks her coffee at 4:00 in the afternoon when it's
90
degrees outside.
Have a good day and I will talk to you later. I just need to soak
my
dentures and make sure to watch my stories on the television set.
Laura
From Michelle
IMPOSSIBLE
What is it about men that are completely unattainable that I find
so
insanely attractive? Just in the last few months...
---
There is no one on this earth better than my boyfriend. He's perfect.
We have coffee on Sunday mornings, share our stories and judge others
based on their shoewear choices. He calls when he is supposed to,
he
never cares what others may be thinking and he understands what
a
fashion catastrophe can do to shake my soul. He also just happens
to be
gay.
---
You know what its like when you meet someone and the "compatability-o-
meter" jumps off the charts. It's all there, he's handsome,
he smells
good and he laughs at all my jokes. Together we could move
mountains...or maybe just stand at the edge of one and spit. I've
planned our wedding, our dog's name, where we'll vacation and jotted
down a note to buy burial plots next to each other, all within the
first fifteen minutes of meeting. The universe has finally taken
kindly to me! Wait...no not that! Sure, I'd love to meet your wife.
---
He's single, he's interested and he lives really far away. Maybe
its
something about vacations that opens you up to meeting new people
or
maybe its just you can say whatever you want and then leave town...but
I always meet guys who live elsewhere. This new one, is perfect.
He's
deep and introspective and smart and tall and we spent two whole
days
inseparable. And then he went home. To that other country. Where
they hate Americans. And now I feel like every time my country bombs
someone else he's out there relieved that we're apart. Sigh.
From Kendra
Well hello friends and family,
I just thought you'd want to hear about my night...
Work was pretty busy tonight and very stressful, so I was looking
forward to returning home, brewing a cup of tea, putting on some
comfortable PJ's and curling up in bed with my new book...
So at 11:15pm I walked to my car and used my handy dandy snow brush
(thanks dad)Üto clear off my car, and got in, a little worried though
that I wouldn't be able to get out of the snow pile I had banked
my car in before my shift.Ü But she backed right out of that drift.
No problems there! Whoo hoo! I love my car! I was home free.Ü I
cranked up the radio listeningÜtoÜsome classic rock.ÜÜÜÜ
I'm driving on the freeway and I'm about half way home and I realize
that my gas pedal wasn't working.Ü Yep the gas pedal wasn't pedaling
any gas.Ü So I tried 4th gear, nope. 3rd? Negative.Ü Now I realize
my car has just taken a major shit (sorry mom) on me at 65 miles
per hour on slick roads at about 10 degrees Fahrenheit.Ü
SHIT! I find my hazards, and I start to barter with God.Ü "Please
if I just make it to the off ramp, I'll volunteer for Lent services.Ü
No wait I'll donate a whole weekends work of tips to the church".Ü
Sure that had to work how could God say no to that?Ü
Let me tell you, pretty easily.... I was now stopped and partially
blocking the 84th street exit by the State Fair grounds on I94.
Yikes! Every car that passed nearly clipped me at 70 mph!
I call up work, and thankfully they hadn't turned off the phones
yet! My manager said one of the cooks who lives out my way said
he would come get me.Ü Great now I get my trusty Amoco Motor Club
card which my mother nagged me to put in my wallet "Don't call
us in the middle of the night with car problems" (again, shout
out to mom). Okay, the Motor Club Gal is on the phone listening
patiently as my wavering voice asks for a tow truck. In the mean
time I'm on hold listening to light jazz, humming along to the same
tunes I hear at the grocery store.Ü This isn't so bad.Ü Help is
on the way, and my heater is still blowing a little bit of warm
air.Ü Then I hear sirens and see flashing lights in my rearview
mirror.
Instantly I want to cry, but on the bright side it might be a handsome
young cop, and we will laugh at our wedding on telling everyone
how we met that cold, snowy January night.
I get out of my car (after Iíve checked my hair)...No such
luck, it's a middle aged, no nonsense man who says to me "What's
wrong with the car? Why are you stopped on the freeway?îÜto
which IÜsay "WellÜofficer I just got thisÜurge to paint my
toenails, and this seemed as good a place of any. Isnít this
a great color?" But inÜreality my apron is flapping around
like a sheet on the lineÜand I whimperÜ"My car is just dead,
I don't know what happened, I tried to make it to the exit, but
it just won't go"
"Well" he saysî This isn't the best place to be."Ü
(Gosh and here I thought it was. What better place to stop then
in the middle of a freeway exit?) "Put it in neutral and I'll
push your car off the rampîÜSo he starts to essentially rear-end
my car.Ü Finally it starts toÜroll, and it starts to roll right
back onto I94 westbound, my steering wheel is stuck the opposite
direction.Ü So hear I'm busting a gut (thanks for the dumbbells
dad) trying to wretch my wheel to the right and the officer is yelling
at me for all of West Allis to hear through his speaker "PSSHT
MAM, GO TOWARDS THE OFF RAMP!Ü PSSHHHT YOU NEED TO GO TOWARDS THE
OFF RAMP PSSHHHTTT YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG DIRECTION"Ü
At this time I try to stick my head out the window to tell him that
my wheel is stuck, but of course my windowsÜdon't work, so instead
in a panic I bang my head on the glass and then try to open the
door, as my car is still inching towards the traffic on I94.Ü In
desperation I put my hands up in the "I surrender" signal
I always see on COPS, hoping this will get his attention. After
another "PHSSHTT MAM YOU NEED TO GO TOWARDS THE OFF RAMP"
It works, he comes to my door.Ü
With my hands still in the air (hey he might have thought I had
a firearm), I told him that he wasnít going to believe it,
but ìÖmy car is in such bad shape that the steering
wheel wonít even work.îÜ This is where he looks at
me funny and points out that I need to put my key in the ignitionÜto
turn the wheel.Ü (How was I supposed to know?) So now there is a
long line of people waiting to exit as the Milwaukee County Sheriffís
car is pushing me along my way in the right direction down the off
ramp.Ü Gee, now I understand what he meant when he said I was going
the wrong direction.
Now he had told me earlier that we were going to go right on 84th
street to get me out of traffic.Ü I however notice there is a stop
sign at the bottom of the ramp, and I am a careful driver (for insurance
purposes- right mom?), so I use my emergency break and stop to watch
for oncoming traffic.Ü I think this really frustrates the officer,
'cause I think my car gotÜa little more than aÜbump, if you know
what I mean, to get it going again. I finally stop in a ìsafe
spotî, right in front of a fire hydrant and about three feet
from the stop sign at the bottom the of the off ramp.
The officer knows that I'm waiting for a tow truck, so he bids me
farewell by telling me if I get to cold I can ìÖalways
walk up to the 'Tosa fire department to wait and stay warm.îÜI
tearfully thank him and sit in my car shaking waiting for my co-worker
to show up.Ü He arrives and we promptly head for the first openÜplace
we see to warm up, and that happens to be a bar that actually sells
slushies and is playing polka music. We have some coffee and really
yuck up my night.Ü
I had to check on my Tow Truck Guy, since it is now 1:00.Ü The bartender,
a middle aged divorcee named Ted, keeps our cups filled and we discuss
what could be wrong with my car, where to tow it to and how much
it will cost, ìCould be the O2 sensor...could be the alternatorÖcould
be the battery...could be $150.00...could be $80.00...î could
be the devil has it in for me.
Tow Truck Guy calls, I answer, he replies, "Yeah can you hold"
Sure what else am I going to do except discuss Ted's highway gas
mileage on his 2000 Ford Ranger?
"You called for a tow?" Tow Truck Guy is pissed cause
the Motor Club Gal didnít' tell him that I was forced off
the freeway.Ü Well I explain that I'm less that a block from where
I was and I'll be right there.Ü
Its 1:30am when we arrive back at the scene and there are two squad
cars surrounding my car, and another car in front of it.Ü Now I
start to cry, bewildering my co-worker Brian, 'cause I'm certain
at this point a minivan came careening around the corner and smacked
into my car pinning it to a lamppost and rendering it un-drivable.Ü
But good news it's only a drunk driver, who has completely missed
my car and hit a snow bank insteadÜand is now doing the walk of
shame and trying to flirt with the female officers (who I think
are laughing at him)! Thank God! Boy am I lucky!
So as once again I managed to block off the entire northbound side
of 84th St. IÜtryÜto apologize to Always Ready Tow Truck Guy, who's
bug shield reads "WE GET THE JOB DONE", but he is ignoring
me and hooking all these chains up to my car, he is talking to the
dispatcher, "MMMHHMMM she moved locations, we don't do that
shit...she said she on the freeway...she not on the freewayîÜHeís
sort of stomping around and all IÜcan think to do is follow him
around the flat bed and pick up his gloves every time he drops them,
hoping that my concern about the possibility of frost bite and wanting
to keep Ühas hands warm will show him how sorry I was about the
mix up.Ü
After I confirm that he will accept my check card (hoping there
is enough money in there), he cranks my car up on his flatbed and
says he will follow us to Waukesha.
When we arrive at my home, I asked him if I opened my garage if
he could just put it right in there; however I am very happy with
its current location; at the far end of my driveway near the mailbox.Ü
At this point itís nowÜ2:30 AM. I paid.Ü It was $80.00.Ü
I again apologized and said thanks, and I understood that Iím
sure he's had a long night with the weather.Ü I gave him and his
partner directions back to the freeway.
After my stressful night I had Brian take me over to the PDQ across
the way to get a coffee.Ü Guess what! My Tow Truck Buddies were
there.Ü So I offered to get them some snacks, they both declined,
but they actually smiled and thanked me for the offer.Ü We were
good, all was well with "Tow Truck People", I had succeeded
andÜI now could rest peacefully.Ü
It's now 3:53, this really happened to me tonight, my coffee is
now finished and my appendages have all thawed. I hope you all enjoyed
my evening as much as I did.Ü I'm going to get some sleep.
With Luv Kendra
From Jennifer
G.
When
I was in 4th grade, a boy in my class told me that I had hairy arms
so I went home after school and shaved my arm hair with my momís
Bic.
I got a perm at a beauty school before starting 6th grade. The student
put too much solution on my hair and left it on way too long. I
started middle school with a head of gray, frizzy, partially balding
hair.
At a high school golf tournament, I whiffed so hard on the tee box
that the wind actually caused the ball to drop from the tee, counting
as one stroke. I had to hit my second shot from there, which resulted
in me taking a divot out the size of a piece of sod and launching
it 20 feet down the fairway. Keep in mind that this was in front
of, like, 250 people.
I donít believe in thong underwear ñ they make me
feel constipated. I am constantly in search of the perfect pair
of undies that will not cause horrible VPIs (Visible Panty Lines).
I almost got my ass kicked by a big, fat, lesbian bouncer at a biker
bar because I told her I didnít like her attitude.
I canít go a day without spilling coffee on myself, my desk,
or in my car.
My husband and I are the same height standing, but I am 2 inches
taller than him sitting ñ Iím long-waisted. He lovenly
refers to me as ìLurchî on occasion.
When I lived in Washington, D.C. for a summer, I went home with
a random guy from a bar and wound up dry-humping him in his front
lawn after he realized that his roommate still had his keys at the
bar. We thought we would just move inside when his roommate got
home only we both passed out. I didnít wake up until a neighbor
slammed his car door shut at 6:30a.m. Since I was not familiar with
the D.C. area, I had no idea where I was. (I had been making out
with Random Guy in the cab on the way to his house.) I left him
passed out on the lawn and walked at least 4 miles, totally hung
over, through a neighborhood in the worst ìWalk of Shameî
of my life, until I found a cabbie on a main street. As we drove
and drove, and drove some more, I realized that we were in a suburb,
25 minutes outside of the city. Fabulous. It wasnít until
the cab was in front of my apartment that I realized that I had
no money in my purse. I had to go inside and, without her permission,
dig money out of my roommateís wallet. I didnít think
she would even know the difference because I found her passed out,
naked, in the bathtub! It was clear we both had an interesting evening.
My husband and I own a Beagle/Lab/Hound mixed dog named Newman.
When he was a puppy, he was totally insane. To get rid of some of
his excess energy, I thought it would be a really good idea to take
him Rollerblading ñ that way he could run as fast as he wanted
and I could keep up with him. I am lucky to be alive today. He ran,
completely out of control, pulling me behind him like I was water
skiing. I almost ran over a small child on a bike and decapitated
a couple holding hands. When Newman decided to go in the opposite
direction, I did about 4 or 5 complete circular rotations without
falling!!!! Iím scared to this day of the noises and words
that came out of my mouth. It was quite a scene. I wound up taking
off my blades and dragging the wild beast home in my socks.
Right out of college, I lived and worked downtown. I could walk
to work. On a fine spring morning, I put on a sundress and headed
out the door. Halfway to my office, I noticed that in the far lane
of traffic, a strange man in an old, beat-up car was hanging out
of his window, yelling. I looked around. What was he yelling at?
I finally realized that he was yelling at me! I tried to ignore
him but he would not let up. I stopped and screamed back at him,
ìWhaaaaat?î I could finally make out, ìThe buutttoooonnn
on the baaaaaccckkkk of your drrreeeesssss is unnnnddddooonnne!î
The button on the back of my dress is undone? What? I remembered
what I was wearing and closed my eyes in horror. The dress had about
ten buttons going all the way down the back. I felt around and started
at the top button ñ still done. The second one down ñ
still done. The third ñ still buttoned. The fourth ñ
unbuttoned. The fifth ñ undone. I started to sweat. The sixth
one down ñ wide open! Oh dear God. The whole lower half of
my dress was wide open and flapping in the breeze! I had walked
like this for at least 5 blocks in rush hour traffic. To make matters
worse, I was wearing white, cotton underwear the size of my head.
The list goes on and on and onÖ
ìThe
Snow Bank
îWhen
my now husband, Mark, and I were first dating, we used to trade
off sleeping at each otherís house. When I stayed at his
place, I would get up in the morning, and either throw on my clothes
from the previous day, or put on a mixture of my pajamas and whatever
I found in the front of Markís closet. I would then drive
home and get ready for work at my apartment.
It was the middle of February and bitterly cold, even for Minnesota.
I reluctantly emerged from bed and began to assemble the dayís
outfit for the drive home. The flannel pajamas with pink sheep all
over them that I wore worked perfectly as the first layer of my
ensemble. I then grabbed a pair of Markís old sweat pants,
with holes in both knees, and pulled them over my ìSheepy
Timeî PJs, sort of like snow pants. I grabbed my black dress
socks from the day before and put them on, carefully tucking my
pajama bottoms into the socks to prevent any drafts. I put my feet
into my pump-like shoes. I threw on an old pair of glasses (think
Flo the waitress ñ I kept them in my purse for sleepovers),
put on my sweater, and headed for the front hall closet to select
some outerwear. (I had only my dress coat and leather gloves with
me.)
I took one of Markís vests, a navy and yellow wool scarf,
a hat with a large band of gray fleece around the edge, and a nasty
pair of old black mittens. After getting this mess of an outfit
on, I actually put my dress coat on over the top. (I looked something
like the kid from The Christmas Story.) What did I care, I was just
driving home and no one would see me anyway. I went to say goodbye
to Mark. He informed me that I looked ìspecialî and
I should be scared to go out like that. I waived him off and headed
out to my car.
Because it was like 30( below zero (no joke), exhaust from cars
froze instantly upon hitting the pavement. This made driving very
tedious, with intersections particularly difficult to navigate.
I was less than 4 blocks from my apartment, traveling down a one-way
street, in the left lane, when the stoplight in front of me turned
yellow. The idiot in front of me actually decided to stop for it.
Are you kidding me? Everyone knows not to stop, especially in winter.
I applied my brakes and knew instantly that there was no chance
in hell I would be able to stop.
I panicked. I was totally going to smash into the fucking idiot.
All I could say was, ìOh shit, oh shit, oh shit.î I
couldnít go right because there was another car in the lane
next to me. If I went to the left, I would hit a snow bank. As the
distance between the shit-for-brains driver in front of me and my
car got smaller and smaller, I had to make a last minute decision:
Hit the bastard or try to avoid the car somehow. My poorly-though-out
decision in the end was to turn left and pray that the snow bank
would slow me down.
Instead of slowing me down, the snow bank served as a ramp, an accelerant
if you will, that launched my car 10 feet up into the air (Dukes
of Hazard style), past the said driver, at a 45( right angle.
After what seemed like 15 seconds of air time, my car landed on
the side of the snow bank, at the same 45( angle. I was hanging
from my seatbelt.
What in the fuck just happened?
I had to take a quick inventory. Was I OK? Yes. Did anything hurt?
No. Could I get out of the car? Maybe. I thought I had better get
out sooner as opposed to later in case the car blew up or totally
rolled on its back. With my seatbelt still on, I put my hand on
the door handle and attempted to kick the door open. It came flying
right back and almost severed a limb. Perfect. I decided to roll
the window down and crawl out. After a bunch of pulling and kicking,
I got safely out of my car.
There was a problem, however. My purse was still in my car with
my cell phone in it. Shit. There was no way I was going back in
there. Without even thinking, I just started to run for a nearby
hotel because I was so damn cold.
Letís pause for a moment and reflect on my ìspecialî
outfit. The holey sweatpants over my pajama bottoms, the pant legs
tucked into the black dress socks, the glasses, the Michelin Man
style jacket I have on. I was so freaked out, I just ran right into
the lobby and breathlessly up to the reservation desk. The smile
on the face of the woman behind the counter quickly dropped as she
tried to make sense of what was in front of her. I kept saying,
ìmy car, my car,î and pointing in the direction of
the front doors. Before I had time to ask to use their phone, I
saw the cherries pull up behind my car.
The police! Theyíre here to rescue me. I left the frightened
woman at the desk and ran back out onto the street. The officer
was out of his car with his hands on his hips, staring, dumbfounded,
at my car. I came running up waving and yelling, ìthatís
my car, thatís my car.î The first words out of his
mouth were, ìhow in the hell did this happen?î as he
leaned forward Iím sure to smell my breath.
I gave him the brief version and asked if he could help me push
my car down off of the snow bank. He looked at me like I was retarded
and informed me that the only way my car was getting down was with
the help of a tow truck and sort of smirked at me. He did fish my
purse out of the car so I could get my phone, but left me to fend
for myself when he was called off to a ìrealî emergency.
I went back over to the hotel and stood in the lobby while I made
arrangements for a tow truck. I called Mark to tell him what had
happened and started to cry when he answered the phone. As I explained
my experiences, Mark started to laugh. He thought it was the funniest
thing he had ever heard. As I continued, I started to laugh as well.
I got laughing so hard, my eyes and nose were dripping all over
the place. I could actually see the humor in the morningís
events.
It was a little more difficult to see the humor when I realized
I wouldnít be seeing my car for a while. I realized this
when I saw that half of the engine and most of the under-carriage
remained on the snow bank once the tow truck pulled my car down.
From Rachel
A few weeks ago when we were swamped at work,
I
had no free time and had not done laundry in
quite some time. In a big hurry one morning I
dropped my clothes off at the laundromat around
the corner, made double sure to check the closing
time and ran off to work in my last clean
clothes.
At the end of the day I left work late and in a
rush, ran to the express train, shoved small
children and old people out of my way; hurrying
to make sure I'd make it to the laundromat in
time.
All bundled up and slipping in the snow, head
covered in a hat and scarf, and looking not
unlike the Michelin man, I skidded to a stop in
front of the door - and it was locked!
Inside there were a few employees and all the
lights were still on.
They looked at me standing out on the sidewalk.
I rapped on the door and gestured TEN with my
hands. I called out "YOU SAID YOU CLOSED AT TEN O
CLOCK!"
They stared.
" I NEED MY CLOTHES" I yelled. "PLEASE! IT'S JUST
NOW TEN O CLOCK! I CAN PAY FOR IT RIGHT NOW!"
More staring.
I threw my arms up in the air. "YOU HAVE ALL MY
UNDERWEAR. C'MON!"
One of the men inside looked at everyone else.
Then looked at me. He walked tentatively over to
the door ... and pushed it open.
Turns out they were still open and I was just
pushing the door the wrong way.
I dont think I'll ever go there again.
Another contribution
from "I'll Buy a Vowel" Stacey
i remember being five years old. life was
simple and things made sense. for
a little while.
do you remember when you were little and you didn't feel good? i
do. i
remember how crummy i felt when i had a fever. i usually had a headache
and i just felt uncomfortable. i didn't get sick very often, either.
i
didn't like getting sick. and i hated-hated-hated getting headaches.
i was aware that there were different types of headaches. they had
names.
like tension and migraine and stress. i knew this because i watched
television and i saw the commercials that talked about how pain
relievers
could help get rid of all the different kinds of headaches. there
was
anacin and bayer and excedrin.
i also saw lots of commercials for tucks medicated pads. do you
remember
those circular, medicated pads that were used to put out a match
on their
commercials?
i thought that by using a pad like that on my head---i could get
rid of my
headaches..(my hemmorhoid headaches) .. i could just rub the headache
away.. the medicine would just work its way through my skin and
take it
away like calgon.
the ad promised that it would make the itching and burning go away...
well,
i had burning because i tended to have a fever along with my headaches.
i
wasn't too sure about the itching, but i sure didn't want the headache
to
get so bad that i started to itch!
one afternoon i had a really bad headache and i began to cry. that
just
made it worse. i thought that i was about to get really itchy. i
felt hot
and sweaty and crabby and i began to whine. my mother looked a bit
concerned as she asked me what was wrong.
her jaw dropped when i revealed my horrible medical condition. i
had a
hemmorhoid.
(you see, i thought that a hemmorhoid was the kind of headache that
made me
itchy and burny.)
then my mom just looked confused.
and i began to cry harder.
so she asked me to repeat myself.. and i said "i ha-ha-have
a
hemm-u-ROYYYYYYYY-DUH"
there was a prolonged silence.
she then asked me tell her exactly what a hemmorhoid was. and i
explained
in between sobs and rubbing tears from my eyes that it was a really
really
super bad headache that made me burn and itch--i neeeeeeded those
tucks
pads to rub on my head to make the pain go away and keep the itching
from
happening..it would be so much easier than rubbing the messy preparation
h
cream all over my forehead. it was neat and disposable.. it would
be so
convenient for my headache needs.
i was really confused when she started to laugh.
she just lauged at me. and i think she may have actually slapped
her knee
while she laughed.
and i did not get a tucks medicated pad for my headache. i had to
go take a
nap. i hated naps. naps were stupid.
and so was i.
i did not figure out what a hemmorhoid was until junior high. and
then i
felt the full magnitude of my stupidity. i knew then that i would
never win
any awards for intelligence..
but to defend myself.. no one ever goes into great detail about
what a
hemmorhoid really is during a commercial! but in my five year old
brain-
the information all seemed to fit together. am i the only idiot
that got
things like this so horribly wrong? or made their mother nearly
wet her
pants from laughing so hard?
dear lord, i hope not.
now you all have to share so i don't feel like such a dope.
stacey
From Ginny
The Interview Process
There’s a secret nobody tells you about this whole law school
thing. Getting into law school is not that hard. Law school, itself,
is not that hard. Passing the bar, while stressful, is not that
hard. After all, they tell you what you need to know. You just have
to memorize it all and have the ability to spit it back out at a
grader with a few facts thrown in to tell them why you’re
blathering on about the rule against perpetuities. No one gives
a rat’s ass if you actually understand it.
The secret is, if you do all that, get into law school, take the
exams, pass, do well, pass the bar… then the hard part hits
you
smack in the face. It’s damn near impossible to find a job.
I’m thinking this as I’m sitting across from an over friendly
Persian man with a giant afro, in his third floor office. He has
two
giant horse sculptures on either end of his large mahogany desk,
which are somewhat successful at balancing out the giant bozo
the clown mane wobbling on top of his head. I’m smiling my
best “I’m friendly, but not crazy!” smile, in my
best suit, with the
shoes that always manage to give me a blister on my right heel.
I’m pretending to listen to him, but the voice inside my head
is
screaming, “For god’s sake, don’t stare at his hair!”
I realize as I sit there nodding that I probably look like I’ve
been recently
sedated, hands folded in my lap, ankles demurely crossed. As I expound
upon my excellent research, writing, and analytical
abilities, I’m secretly thinking, “I spent five bucks
in gas and three to park for THIS?”
Then comes the dreaded, “Well, do you have any questions for
me?” This always comes after the interviewer at issue has spent
the better part of thirty to forty five minutes talking exclusively
about himself. This is my cue to show amazing insight into the
operation of said firm or entity and ask one brilliant, poised,
insightful query. In return, the interviewer will nod and fill me
in on
the particulars of their successful operation.
Problem is, there’s usually not much left to discuss after
hearing about everything these people do, in more detail than I
probably care to know.
In this particular interview, however, I did have a question. Maybe
it was just that I wasn’t paying attention while trying to
avoid
making eye contact with the guy’s hair, but I had no clue as
to what these people did. This wasn’t a standard law firm like
most
of the others I had interviewed with the past few weeks. It seemed
to be some kind of consulting firm. Stranger still, it didn’t
have a legal department. Why they were advertising for an attorney
was anyone’s guess. ‘Fro man wasn’t an attorney,
either.
“Err,” I said leaning forward slightly, “Yes, actually,
I do have a question. What is it exactly that you do here?”
‘Fro man pressed the tips of his fingers together. He nodded,
staring over my head for the answer to this particular
interrogatory, as it was clearly some kind of abstract hypothetical
question, requiring careful reflection. “Yes, well,” he
began
slowly, tapping the tips of his long fingers together in deep thought,
“We are managers, I suppose, but we don’t actually have
anything to do with the actual running of any businesses.”
He smiled patronizingly, and the afro wobbled again as he looked
back
at me, hopefully. I think my mouth must have been open, because
he went on. “We advise other managers as to strategy for
management, to all kinds of businesses, but we don’t actually
have anything to do ! with implementation of those strategies. It’s
kind of a virtual office.”
Right, I’m thinking, clear as mud now. You can open an office
doing this? “I see,” I said, sensing he wanted some sort
of false
affirmation that anything he said made sense. “So, you are
the idea people.”
He smiled brightly. “Yes! Exactly!” The afro bobbed in
joy as he nodded. He looked like a trainer at Sea World ready to
throw
me a fish. I smiled back, as it dawns on me that I don’t have
a snowballs chance in hell at this one.
After a few more meaningless exchanges, he started to fidget at
his desk while talking in a way that made it clear he was looking
for a tactful way to get rid of me. “Well,” I said with
the sedated mental patient smile, “I’ll let you get back
to work. Thanks so
much for you time.” He got up and walked me to the front door,
lest I forget the way down the only hallway in the office in the
last forty minutes. We shook hands and I made my way down to my
car, waiting in the three-dollar parking spot where I left it.
Adrenaline from the potential for employment possibility having
drained out of me by this point, I hobbled slowly through the
parking lot on my badly blistered right foot. A few feet away from
the safety of the car, I managed to step in a large patch of
loose gravel. Maneuvering midair to avoid ripping the elbows off
my best interview suit, I found myself sprawled out on the
ground with gravel in my mouth, my right knee and right palm throbbing.
I looked behind me several feet to see one of the
cursed black pumps lying on its side like a felled animal, half
filled with gravel. I rolled myself into a ball, looking at the
large
patch of blood where the smooth skin on my knee had been a few seconds
ago, dark red blurring into the black to! rn edges of my
last pair of pantyhose.
I grabbed the shoe, staggered the last few feet to my car, and heaved
myself into the drivers seat. Satisfied that nobody had
seen my graceful headfirst dive into the dirty asphalt, I decided
to have a good cry over a cigarette.
And if anyone tells you that passing the bar is as bad as that,
they are a damn dirty liar!
From Kathleen
When I was 15 years old, and at the height
of my ability to be mortified, I was dating a very cute boy whom
I could not believe even knew I existed.
One summer afternoon, he and I decided to take a romantic walk through
the woods and have a make-out session right there on the ground.
So, we found a nice
spot, sat down and commenced to kissing. Thirty seconds later, my
dream date pulled back with a strange look and a seriously crinkled
up nose. And I knew
what was wrong instantly, without even looking (or in this case,
smelling), and I knew it as certainly as I know that you are doomed
to have spinach between your
teeth when you’ve just met the man of your dreams. I had sat
down. Directly. In deer poo.
We jumped up, I trying desperately to act light and breezy as if
I had not a care in the world, and him, I’m sure, trying not
to run away from me as fast as humanly
possible. We ran to the edge of the woods where it met the ocean,
where my hunky guy made valiant yet unsuccessful attempts, using
huge wads of seaweed, to
rid the back of my pants of poo.
Needless to say, the boy never came near me again. The mutual horror
of that unspoken event was just too much for us ever to consider
any other alternative. We
knew we must avoid each other and all eye contact if either one
of us was ever to put The Incident behind us and go on to lead normal,
albeit scarred, lives.
Now, being 21 years later, the boy eventually grew up, made the
obvious choice, and became a plumber. I credit myself, of course,
with his unending mission to
rid the world of unwanted poo. I am oh-so-unhappy to report, however,
that he is my mother’s plumber, and her owning a 200-year-old
house lends itself quite
nicely and repeatedly to his prowess in waste management. And most
unfortunately, I am sometimes there when the house’s delicate
digestive system goes awry,
thus forcing me into close proximity with my partner in shame.
And, oh! How we try to maintain some semblance of normality during
these wretched occasions. We talk about the weather, our spouses,
politics. But I know
what he’s really thinking about. I know from the shifting feet,
the flaming red cheeks, and his intense interest in the wall directly
above my head. Oh yes. He’s
thinking about the poo.
Lost Ankle, Broken
Keys or Vice Versa
It’s Saturday night and my best friend Debra calls. She’s
been invited to her boss’s house for a party and since she
has no date she asks me to accompany her. This
is great; I’m up for a party anytime!
Since we are on our way to a party we decide that we need to stop
at the liquor store first for refreshments. A bottle of Goldshlager,
bottle of White Zin, case of Bud
Lite, and then of course Debra’s favorite, Southern Comfort
and we are on our way!
As we finally find the address of The Boss’s house I pop open
my bottle of White Zin and take a big swig. I then hopped merrily
out of Debra’s car and knocked on
the front door. As the door swings open I shove my bounty of alcohol
into the arms of the man holding the door open. “Put this in
the fridge,” I order the stranger!
Next I push past this man, bottle in my hand, and begin to rearrange
the contents of the refrigerator to accommodate my cool liquid friends.
Apparently no one knows what to make of me. I don’t normally
act like this unless of course I’m drunk or I’m with people
who have already seen me drunk. I
assumed (and we all know the danger of assuming) that if Debra’s
boss had invited her to a party he must be familiar with her drinking
etiquette (or lack thereof). And
any drinking friend of Debra’s is automatically a drinking
friend of mine! I felt it was appropriate to forego the obligatory
niceties and cut straight to my shameless
self. Why put on airs only to disappoint later?
Turns out Debra had never been social with her boss before. In fact,
she later told me, she hadn’t really been invited so much as
been included in a casual, “why don’t
ya’ll drop by sometime?” type of invite.
Oh well! Cut back to Saturday. Lucky we brought our bottled buddies!
The Boss, it so happened, lived a mere three blocks from this college
town’s main bar strip!
Yay! Let’s walk to the clubs!
First though Debra (who had now found relaxation and socialability
in a bottle) and I wanted to dance in the front yard, you know to
limber up for the long three block
walk. Suddenly Debra starts performing cartwheels in the wet grass.
Then BOOM! Down she goes. We all laugh of course. We laugh and laugh
until we realize
that she isn’t getting up.
“Debra, are you okay?” “I’m okay, I think,”
she mumbles, spitting grass out of her mouth. “Well stand up!”
I holler. Slowly and tottering on her huge platforms
she begins to stand erect. “Ow!” she moans. “What’s
wrong?” I ask her. “My ankle hurts. I think I broke it,”
she answers. “No you didn’t break it,” I tell
her. “If you broke it you wouldn’t be able to stand on
those shoes let alone walk!” I say this with much authority.
Soon The Boss and his roommate tell us that they are ready to mosey
on to the bars. So the four of us walk the three blocks to the main
strip and choose a loud
flashing dance club to stop. Debra and I drink and dance, we dance
and drink and then drink some more. Finally Debra says “Teena,
my ankle still hurts; look at it.
Does it look swollen to you?”
I totter over and squint at her ankle in the flashing strobe lights
of the club. I examine one ankle, then the other, then both at the
same time. “They both look the same
to me!” I finally declare. “Okay, good. I’m going
to keep dancing then,” and off she goes.
Next thing I know I’m staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, then
unfamiliar walls. It’s all white; all white and I begin to
panic! Why am I in an all white room? I’ve been
committed while I was passed out!
Slowly I piece together the events of the previous night. The word
“boss” floats across my mind followed by fleeting panic.
Not my boss I remember and the panic
subsides. My eyes focus and then I remember where I am. I must find
Debra. I must get home!
I stumble into The Boss’s living room and find the other three
accessories to last night’s shenanigans. I make my way through
hands, feet, hands, feet, leg, torso and
finally a mass of red hair. “Debra,” I whisper. “Debra!”
I say louder. “DEBRA” I finally shout!
“What?” she snaps from the opposite direction of her hair.
It’s then that I realize that I am talking to her wig.
“Debra,” I continue as I turn to face her….well face.
“I need my keys.”
“Why would I have your keys?” she asks innocently.
My body fluids run ice cold at this question. “I gave you my
keys at the club last night while I went to the bathroom, remember?”
She squints up her face. The strain of trying to remember makes
her look like she’s trying to lift a mighty weight or maybe
expel a mighty weight.
“Oh yeeaah!” she drawls. “Well after you went to
the bathroom some guy asked me to dance so I gave your keys to the
guy standing next to me.”
I struggle to remain calm. Maybe we know the guy who was standing
next to Debra. Maybe it was The Boss or his roommate. I must not
jump to conclusions just
yet!
“Do you know who that guy was,” I ask?
“No, but I did introduce you to him when you came back from
the bathroom,” she replied.
“I thought you just wanted me to dance with that guy, you didn’t
tell me that you gave him my keys!” I’m beginning to unravel
now. My mind is fuzzy, I’m think
I’m still buzzed, and my best friend gave my car keys away
to a stranger last night. Not only that but I am some 45 miles away
from home.
As I already told myself, don’t panic yet. Maybe I brought
the guy with my keys back with me. I must retrace my steps. I make
my way back to the bedroom I
stumbled out of. It is of course empty. I look in the closet. It
is not empty, it is rather jammed pack, but there are no signs of
a man, woman, or humanoid visible.
I check the bathroom, including bathtub and find no one and no keys.
Finally I check the other bedroom. This room is almost bare except
for a single wide mattress
on the floor. In desperation I look under the mattress. The guy
from last night is not under there nor are my keys. Shockingly and,
to this day, mysteriously my
panties are under that mattress though. Unfortunately my panties
will not start my white, convertible <?xml:namespace prefix =
st1 ns =
"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Capri.
I grab my underwear and put them on and head back to the living
room.
Debra is no longer sleeping on the love seat where I last spoke
to her. “Debra” I call out!
“Ow, Ow, Ow” I hear.
I look down.
“Get off my hand” she yells!
“Sorry” I tell her as I lift my considerable weight off
her hand.
“Deb, I can’t find my keys!”
“Did you find your underwear,” she asks?
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“If you don’t remember, now is not the time to tell you,
“She says.
“Let’s go find your car” she suggests.
As it so happens, Debra also drove a Capri. “I have an extra
key, let’s find your car and try my key in it,” she offers.
As she stands up she complains that her ankles feel stiff and decides
to forego wearing shoes just for now.
Debra manages to drive me the 45 miles to the supermarket parking
lot where we met up the night before and where my car sat parked
all night. I get out and take her
spare key with little hope in my heart. Of course the remote does
not work to unlock my door. My heart sinks. I try the key in the
lock. It works! Will it work in
my ignition though? I hold my breath and insert the key. It goes
in! I turn the key; it turns! My car starts! What are the odds!
Although I’m relieved, Debra still complains about her ankle.
After returning home she visits the emergency room and finds out
that not one ankle but both ankles are
broken! No wonder they both looked the same. Debra had just spent
the night walking three blocks to the bar, dancing at the bar, and
walking three blocks back on
two broken ankles!
“Teen,” Debra says on the phone the next day, “there
is no better anesthesia than Southern Comfort!”
I suspect this is said through a cloud of Lortab, but I agree.
No need to remind here that she still has to face her boss when
she goes back to work. I guess that will teach him to be so casual
in handing out invites to his house in
the future.
Contributed by Idiot Girl Teena Maze
From Idiot Girl
Elissa Chapter President in Key West
Thank you, Laurie Notaro, thank you a thousand
times over.
Not only has your writing amused, amazed and inspired me, but it
has
kept me out of jail. Yes, jail.
It all started with me being sick for about a week, then finding
out
that the guy who dumped me because "he just didn't have time
for a
relationship", and he "hoped he hadn't hurt me",
really meant that I
was as appealing as a sucking chest wound, and had run out immediately
and picked up some 19 year old to be his "new girlfriend."
Then my
roommates (dubbed "Dog Girl II and the masseuse) came home
drunk, and
proceeded to have an argument at 4:30 AM directly outside my door.
The final straw came when I was in the kitchen, about 9:30 that
morning, when Dog Girl II wanders wearing a pair of underwear, and
NOTHING ELSE. She was followed by the "lucky gentleman"
who got to
partake of her "womanly charms" the preceeding evening.
Both of them
were bitching about me having cleaned the bathroom that morning,
apparently this woke them up. (She must have been so distraught
over
being awakened she forgot to put on her freakin' clothes.)
This is the point where I became thoroughly enraged. That
patchouli-stinkin', half naked, deadbeat, slovenly, pothead hippie
brat and her Mr. Right Now had just gone too far. I fled the house
quickly, before I commited a double homicide.
I drove around and wound up at the bookstore where some saintly
clerk
had faced out "Autobiography..." After I was done squealing
and
jumping up and down, I gleefully paid for the book. Then I spent
the
rest of the day sitting on the beach reading, laughing out loud
and
generally perplexing the people around me. By the time I had finished
it, I was slightly sunburned, thoroughly relaxed, and no longer
wanted
to send Dog Girl II and the Masseuse through the woodchipper. The
Ex,
well, I still cursed him with incurable impotency because it was
necessary, but that's not illegal here in Key West.
My roommates owe you their very lives, and I owe you a debt of
gratitude. It's not that I mind being someone's bitch, but I look
like hell in orange.
Thank you,
Elissa in Key West
(President of the Idiot Girl's Local #371742)
(P.S. "Whipping Post" is the best song, ever.)
<insert something pithy here>
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