I may have to take pervert classes with Liz Lemon: A TMI Thursday Overshare

TMI Thursday

I’m not even sure this is TMI, but it isn’t something I’m proud of and so I’m running with it.

Oh internets.  I come to you today with a shameful confession: I check out men’s packages.  A lot.

I don’t know why and I can’t help it.  It’s not a sexual thing…well, sometimes it is but most of the time it’s not.  I’m not, like, judging anyone on shape or comparing bulges.  Jeez, internets, I’m not an animal.  I just can’t help but look. 

I am always the first to notice someone’s fly is down.

“Not that I’m looking but… your fly is down.”

Oh but I am looking.  Old, young, fugly, attractive–I am an equal opportunity peeker.

I’d like to think that I’m pretty discrete about the whole thing; a quick glance and then I go on about my business.  There was nothing discrete about my behavior yesterday, though.

Again, I couldn’t help it.  At work I deal with a lot of outside contractors, and all I needed from this particular gentleman were 2 documents so I could draw up a contract.  Instead of handing me the two pieces of paper, he was blabbering on about boring shit.  I don’t think it was important, or at least I hope it wasn’t because I wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying at all. 

For starters, he looked like a bizarro version of a guy I used to date; an older, cleaner-cut, probably sober version.  It was eerie.  Secondly (is that even a word?), he was wearing green pants and a beige canvas belt.  Something about that combination was like a Chinese finger trap for my eyes.  I could not look away.  I guess it also didn’t help that I was sitting at my desk and he was standing to the side of my monitor, putting his, ahem, area, right in my line of sight.

It was awkward, at least for me.

Finally I was able to tear my eyes away from his crotch long enough to make eye contact and let him know that if he could email the documents in question to me by 10 am tomorrow morning, that would be fine.

But I couldn’t let it go there, internets.

He laughed at my use of “fine” and asked what would have been “perfect.”

“Right now would have been perfect,” I answered, “but I’m used to dissappointment so I’ll be satisfied with fine.”

Guys, I don’t even know what that means, but at the time it sounded vaguely sexual.  By the time he left my face was bright red and I wanted to hide under desk for the remainder of the day.

Head on over and see LiLu for more TMI deliciousness.

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News flash: the refrigerator is not magic

There are lot of good things about living by yourself:

  • no dress code (read: pants optional)
  • the box of Thin Mints you’ve been saving for 3 months is still in the freezer
  • you can be pretty sure of the origin of any hair you find in the shower drain

Just to name a few.

A bad thing about living alone is that it is really hard to cook for one.  Sure, leftovers for lunch rock, but how many days in a row can you seriously eat vegetable lasagna?*   With every moldy block of cheese I throw out, the sound of money being flushed down the drain rings in my head.  Another downside: there are no ‘surprises.’  Much like browsing your closet for a shirt you know you don’t own, searching the refrigerator for pickles you know aren’t there because you know you haven’t bought them is an exercise in disappointment.  Once you eat the last string cheese, no more are going to magically appear in the ‘fridge.

Sometimes you forget about things, though.  A while ago**I bought some orange juice to make sangria with.  I’m not a big orange juice drinker (my fruit juice of choice being Simply Limeade), so the OJ sat forgotten in the door of my ‘fridge.

Until last night.  After hoovering down a sleeve of Thin Mints after hoarding them in the freezer for 3 months, I wandered to the kitchen in search of something to quench my post-binge thirst.  Standing in front of the refrigerator and brushing the minty crumbs off of my shirt, I spied the forgotten orange juice.

“I wonder if that’s still good,” I asked, pulling it out of the fridge.  The vague “best if used by date”: March ’09.  As we are approaching May ’09, I questioned the viability of the contents of carton.  A quick sniff test revealed no obvious answers (orange juice is supposed to smell a bit sour, right?).

Fuck it, I’ll just pour some in a glass and see if any mold floats to the top.

I did, and none did, so I drank it.  I’m still alive today.  I might even drink some more tonight.

——————————————————————–
*answer: 3.  After that, the vegetables get a bit mushy and the whole thing starts tasting like the dodgy cafeteria spaghetti you had back in middle school.
**My default is to say “a couple of weeks ago,” even if the event I’m retelling happened when I was in 7th grade.  This obviously does not apply in this case; “a couple of months ago” would be more accurate.

Adventures in nature (a short story)

nature

Once upon a time there were some Bad Mutha Fudruckers. These Bad Mutha Fudruckers had some Awesome Friends who lived just outside of town in a house right on the waterway. Mama Mutha Fudrucker liked visiting Awesome Friends because there was always boats to be ridden on and fresh fish to be eaten. Baby Mutha Fudrucker loved visiting Awesome Friends because he got to run free and roll in dead fish and crabs. The Oldest Mutha Fudrucker loved visiting Awesome Friends because Mama Mutha Fudrucker told him to and he knew what was good for him.

One day the Bad Mutha Fudruckers were visiting Awesome Friends, either laying on the grass, enjoying a beer, or drinking sea water (as Baby Mutha Fudrucker was want to do, despite the barfing that invariably followed). Soon the Mutha Fudruckers were plagued by gnats and West Nile Virus-carrying mosquitoes.

“Bug spray! Bug spray!” cried the Mama Mutha Fudrucker. “My kingdom for a can of Bug Spray!”

Mr. Awesome Friend sprinted for the house, and came back shortly with a can, which he offered to Mama Mutha Fudrucker and Mrs. Awesome Friend. The two ladies wasted no time dousing themselves with the contents of the can, making sure to cover every inch of exposed skin, and even spraying some on their hands for careful application to their faces. Mama Mutha Fudrucker thought that the spray smelled a little off, but still familiar, and so she said nothing whilst continuing to apply the bug repellent.

Sufficiently covered, the ladies handed the can back to Mr. Awesome Friend with their thanks.

Mr. Awesome Friend looked at the can, and then back at the ladies with disgust.

“Y’all, this is RAID.”

The end.

Monday you can fall apart…

liverwurst

You know what sucks?  Paper cuts.  And single socks.  Also world hunger, orphans, and uncontrolled wildfires.  But today we will mainly be talking about paper cuts because I have one.  I also have several match-less socks but that doesn’t bother me too much because I really don’t have a problem wearing one sock with a blue toe and another with a purple toe.  In fact, I kind of like it.  What can I say?  I’m adorably quirky.  Oh, you want some evidence?  Try this on for size: when I was a kid I my favorite sandwiches were peanut butter and butter.

Yeah, I said butter.

I can’t imagine that I came up with that combination on my own, and given my childhood aversion to touching actual food, I’ll have to credit my mother with coming up with that bizarre pairing.  I hope she never tells tips my kids off to this abomination on Wonderbread, because then I will have no choice but to offer my children vomit between two slices of bread.  There is no way I am capable of spreading delicious peanut butter on one slice of bread and delicious butter on another, slapping them together on a plate and serving it to people I will presumably love.  Thinking about it now makes me feel kind of puke-y, although I distinctly remember thinking at the time that it was the bomb.

Of course this is the same woman who loves to tell me that my favorite baby food was liverwurst and cottage cheese, pureed in the blender.  I may have been a gifted baby, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t advanced enough to swipe the Cheerios off of my high chair tray while clearly enunciating my desire for liverwurst, banging my soft plastic spork on the tables and demanding “brain food.”  Nice try, Mom.  I maintain that my favorite baby foods were mashed bananas and zwieback biscuits, which sound normal and something I would maybe even eat today.

Anyway…

Paper cuts.  I have one and it hurts.

Twig and berries

balls

Balls.

Those are totally balls.

Let me back up and start from the beginning.

The morning of my sister’s bridal shower, my mom’s house was in total chaos. Chicken salad was still being made and frantically chilled, butter chips were defrosting, a complicated showering/blow drying schedule was being ignored, and there were still errands to be run. Since my step-dad had already claimed the coveted (at least, by comparison) job of removing the dog poop from the backyard, I gladly volunteered to run last minutes errands. Grabbing punch supplies from the local grocery store and picking up some balloons? Check and double check.

After throwing a couple of liters of ginger ale and frozen juice in to the trunk, I was off to the balloon shop. I was greeted by the sweetest old lady you can imagine.

Go ahead, imagine her.

Short, wrinkled, slightly hunched, arthritic fingers clutching balloons by their brightly covered ribbons. Can’t you just see her? She sent her equally old and equally adorable husband to the back to get the balloons my mom had already ordered, and I asked her if it were possible to get a couple more plain, white balloons for us to attach to the mailbox at the house.

It would be her pleasure, she informed me. As she turned her attention away from me and towards the task of filling a couple of balloons with helium, I took a minute to check out the merchandise. Even though the candies were marked  .99 cents (usually my pet peeve–it’s .99 DOLLARS, not .99 CENTS, unless you are feeling extremely generous), I wasn’t even upset. Old people are so cute, I sighed.

Mr. Ballo0ns came out with two big clear bags filled with balloons.  He instructed me to take them out of the bag ASAP to prevent them from deflating prematurely.  Roger that.

After I paid Mrs. Balloons, she handed me the two additional balloons I’d requested for the mailbox.  She said a lot of something about how to adjust the height on the balloons using the complicated knot she’d tied in the ribbons, but all I could focus on was her wrinkled old hand holding, nay, cupping, a delicate ball sack she had fashioned from extra balloons to serve as a balloon weight. 

Here, let me refresh your memory:

twig-and-berries2

I think she was playing a trick on me. Either that, or I was on Candid Camera.

Later that night my 4 year old niece was running around the house, rubbing the balloon weights all over her face and unwittingly teabagging herself. I may have peed my pants a little a lot.

The one in which I talk behind my tomato plant’s back

farmer-sarah
I kill plants. To anyone who has been reading this blog for a while, this is old news. I covet them in friends’ houses, where they sit all well-nurished and satisfied, happily filtering the CO2 out of the air and replacing it with delicious O2. Not so much in my house. The last plant to stay alive for any amount of time in my care was a group of three paperwhites I was given as a housewarming present in February of ’08. They lasted until they grew too tall for the container they were in and started drooping, after which I threw them out in the yard for the dogs to chew on and used the container to hold toothpicks and my cool salt’n’pepper shakers.

Somewhere between then and now, I’ve decided to grow some vegetables. I’ve got a little bit of free time on my hands, so I went to the grown-up’s toy store that is the Home Depot and picked up a single roma tomato plant, some potting soil, and a watering can. After reading this Instructable, I fashioned a hanging planter out of an empty Simply Limeade bottle and hung that son of a gun out on my front porch, visions of fresh tomatoes and homemade salsa dancing in my head.

Encouraged by the fact that my baby tomato plant hadn’t perished immediately, two days later I was back at the Depot (as those of us in the know call it) picking up a couple of zucchini and bell pepper plants. Look out, world, Bad Mutha Fudruckin’ Farms is open for business!

But now, sadly, I think my tomato plant is dying. It hasn’t put out any new leaves, and the existing ones are looking pretty burnt. It couldn’t possibly have been my less-than-delicate handling of it’s roots during the transplanting process, could it? Let’s all agree to blame it on some limeade that must have escaped my hap-hazard rinsing job.

My zucchini and peppers, on the other hand, are growing like mutha fudruckin’ gang busters. I honestly feel like I can see them growing if I watch long and closely enough. My friend Craig is a strong advocate of talking to plants (and has some pretty incredible specimens to back up this theory), so I’ve been trying to be as encouraging to the plants as possible without looking like a complete lunatic in front of my neighbors swigging 40s of Steel Reserve on their front porch. Everything I say, though, comes out sounding pretty lame.

“Wow, zucchini, you’re really putting out some leaves, huh? Well, keep up the good work.”

“Dang, pepper! 2 new leaves? Somebody is an overachiever!”

Poor tomato, though, all I can say is, “Oh, little tomato, you’re not doing so well, are you?” But then I feel bad because they are all pretty close and the poor little tomato surely heard the praise I’m heaping on the others. Maybe he needs to be seperated from his thriving cousins and put in the back yard, where he can feel superior. Or at least adequate.

Or maybe I’ll toss him to the dogs as a chew toy and head back to the Depot.

I have not died (but I think my tomato plant is on it’s way out)

HELLO….hello…..hello…

Echo…echo…

Yeah, so, I’m a crap blogger. I don’t even have a good excuse, just an extreme case of writer’s block combined with some serious stage fright. Come on! Have you seen some of the blogs I read? These bitches are funny, and I’ve been having a hard time bringing the funny without falling back on the poop humor that used to kill in third grade.

*Sigh*

Those were the days.

work-poot

And now that I’ve tipped my hand, I should probably refrain from telling you about how I was blissfully passing gas in The Boss’ office as I was making copies of site plans on his big copier/scanner when I was interrupted mid-poot by said Boss. Who knows if he noticed anything (he has a problem with wicked B.O., so perhaps we cancelled each other out), and I think I played it off pretty well. But damn you FiberOne bars! Why are you so delicious? Do you think you are in some kind of gas-inducing face off with broccoli? Because hands down, you win, FiberOne bar. Happy now?

So anyway, I’m back. With gas. Tomorrow I’ll tell you about how my tomato plant is sucking ass.