The Two Towers

I tend to get overwhelmed...  I like to think it's because I'm a person with big ideas, constantly moving on to the next thing, weighted down by my own genius.    But, it's just as likely I am only as capable as most four year olds which is why I bit my lip and did the sniffly, "I'm not going to cry thing," about five times while attempting to move myself out yesterday.

These past couple days I've been doing a lot of shopping.   Which, don't get me wrong, I'm BOSS at.   But I didn't realize the sheer mass of stuff one needs in an apartment.   I seriously would consider a marriage of convenience right about now just so I can have a shower and get people to pay for my dish towels and salad spinners.   Even with my graduation money--and everyone was VERY generous--this has been a huge dent in my pocket.   But, not to sound like Practical Pam.   Picking out my china patterns and buying wine glasses and choosing colors for my bathroom and browsing IKEA couches has been really fun. I'm imagining being that fun girl who hosts Sangria parties in her fun apartment.  And my apartment will be really fun, I have some good color choices (yellow and silver for the bathroom, silver and BRIGHT turquoise for the bedroom, cranberry red dishes in the bathroom) and equally great mixes of modern and classic inherited furniture from my parent's basement.   At a couple points during our excursions to TJMaxx, Target, and Bed Bath and Beyond, my dad has looked at me and gone, "Annie, you have really good taste."   Now coming from my father, the arbiter of all things tasteful, it's like being told by Ted Kennedy (may he rest) that you have a knack for drowning pregnant girls in the river.   Praise from an EXPERT.  

So needless to say, I feel good about my shopping decisions and usually I know what I want and what I like, so that hasn't been that hard... the stressful part?  Enter the two towers of Mordor:

There are some towers even brave men dare not climb...

Oh my gosh, and this isn't the bulk of it.   Or even close to the bulk of it.   I was talking to my boyfriend on the phone last night, telling him how stressed I was about moving.  He replies, "I love moving!   How  can you find it stressful?!"   Ok, bucko, you sort through 22 years of stagnant entitlement (I have WAY too much, of EVERYTHING) and attempt to pack it in tiny boxes and tell me you're not the least bit stressed.  Geesh.

  There are three epicenters of sheer, accumulate, shit in my house; my bedroom, the basement, and where I haphazardly stashed stuff from college during vacation thinking I would have more than two minutes to sort through it later...yesterday I spent 5 hours running between all of them, making difficult life decisions, deciding what to take and what memories to belittle by throwing them away.   Now, I'm usually good at making decisions, but "grown up" things stress me out.   So I have like, drawers full of warrantees and extra buttons and old iPods I could conceivably sell on eBay.    What if I need to sew on the button to that blouse?   Wouldn't it be good to have an extra?    Whatever, in reality, I don't sew, and would just take it to the tailor's if I really wanted it fixed.  Buttons can be pitched.   But it takes me a while to come to this logic and I feel guilty about throwing maybe important adult stuff away, especially when I still have a stuffed bunny.   And if anyone tried to throw HIM away?  They would be shanked.  

So that's how my days have been going.  I'm really looking forward to writing a blog about how great my new apartment looks and how great my new job is instead of one about how my eyes welled up and I screamed, "Literally no one could do this!" while trying to clean my 12' by 10' room.  I mean, come on, we're not reaching for the stars.  

My Biggest Fears

I frequently tell people that my biggest fear upon graduating college was being, "homeless and jobless."   Well bust out the champagne--as of today I am neither.

Yesterday, I spent the day berating myself for showing up to the morning's interview fully fifteen minutes late.   While my presentation itself had seemed to go ok that morning, they told me, I thought somewhat ominously, that I would know by the end of the week "one way or another."  So when I got out of the interview at noon, I figured it was a wash and prepared myself to wait until 5 pm Friday to find out that they had gone in another direction.

Nonetheless, since I'm such an AWESOME girlfriend, I spent the day busying myself cleaning up my boyfriend's apartment as a thank you for letting me loaf around his apartment for the few days while I got ready for my interview.  I decided to set a festive mood with Matt's favorite dinner, Pasta alla Notka, and I figured (magical thinkingly) that if I celebrated something maybe the universe would alter and give me a reason to celebrate.   As I was sauteing the garlic, the phone rang.  I was so nervous when I saw the number was from the HR lady, I hit "ignore".   A few seconds later the voice mail tone chimed.   I put it on speaker and Matt and I huddled around the phone, listening as intently as if it was the voice of God.  "Hi, Annie.  This is Kathy, I just wanted to discuss the result of your interview this morning."   Matt looked at me.  With pity.   He measured his words.   "Why don't you call her back, Honey."  And it kinda did sound pretty bad.  I went outside, tail tucked between my legs, fully prepared to cry on Matt's shoulder and bitch about how nothing works out for me.    Instead, something amazing happened.   They offered me the job!  It's my dream job, too.   Needless to say, there was much screaming and jumping and celebration.   Then on to the next hurdle... I start next week, where do I live?!

I've never picked out an apartment.  In D.C. I found housing through internship agencies, without ever touring an apartment and had I willingly chosen to live in the housing U.D. assigned to me (against my will), I would most likely be the kind of person who wears tissue boxes as shoes and eats stuffing out of the couch cushions.   But regardless, I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted.   I wanted Urban.   Downtown Dayton.   I liked the idea of a loft.   I also wanted a one bedroom, less than 800$ a month.   I wanted washer/dryer.   So I looked online at the loft apartments in Dayton.  Easy enough.  Unfortunately, the loft I was set on didn't have any one bedroom apts.   "We have a 2 bedroom for 850$ a month."  Noooooope.  I found another loft apartment that had a two bedroom apt, for 750$ a month, some utilities included.   I went to go check it out.   When I pulled up to the lot, a maintenance man STARED at me.  For like, 30 minutes of unblinking eye contact.   Leered, even.   Bad sign.  He opened the door for me, "Thank you," I said.   He replied, "No. Thank YOU."   EWWW. Bad vibes.  Ok so if that wasn't creepy enough, while I loved the exposed brick, city views, and lofty feel, I hated the fact that the place smelled like mildew.  That, plus the lecherous handy man effectively put the kibosh on that apartment.  Also, "some utilities included" meant "trash collection."  Wow.   Color me discouraged.

The next place I looked at, Dayton Towers was a high rise in the Oregon District.    My favorite district. Walking distance to my favorite bars. Snazzy building:

Even better, when I walked up, there was a fabulous older gay man outside smoking a cigar.   Done.   When the gays approve a place, it's a good place to be.  I was taken with the apartment.  Galley Kitchen.  Tons of closet space.   View of the skyline.   Light!  Glorious light!   I practically skipped down to the leasing office to sign my deposit.   I have a good feeling.  740 square feet that is COMPLETELY mine.  Oh and Utilities are included.   Gas, Electric, Water, AND Trash.

So, buying an apartment is a little like, "If you give a mouse a cookie".  When you buy an apartment, you need some furniture to go in it.   And the most important piece of furniture?  A bed.   My Dad called me up after I told him I put the deposit down on the apartment, "Honey, are you overwhelmed?"   No, excited.  "Well good, go buy yourself a mattress."   So I schlepped to Macy's, laid on about a dozen mattresses, and decided I wanted a Sealy Postrapedic.   It was an investment, but I figure, you spend half your life in bed, might as well be nice.   Downside?  They can't deliver until JUNE 4th!  I will be sleeping on an air mattress on the night before my first day at my first job.  Cool.

Notice it only says 48 hour delivery on SELECTED models.

And if you have an apartment, you also need... dishes.   Towel racks.   Shower curtains.   Napkins.   Plates.  Bowls.   Cups.   Silver wear.  Glasses.   And on and on and on.   I went to Target with my parents after dinner and bought some of these items.  The best part?   They're mine.  I don't have to worry if my roommate doesn't like my china pattern or wants pastels in the bathroom instead of the bolds I like.  I get to pick WHATEVER I want.   I bought these great plates with bed poppies on a beige background...they're amazing.  I can't wait to throw a dinner party!

I seriously feel so adult, I think I might schedule a teeth cleaning. And yeah, that is the most adult thing I can think of, which makes me, pretty decidedly, you know, not an adult.

Magical Thinking

Magical thinking is causal reasoning that looks for correlation between acts or utterances and certain events. 


My favorite author, Augusten Burroughs, wrote a book called "Magical Thinking," which is a collection of essays.  In my favorite essay, Burroughs talks about a phenomenon called, appropriately, magical thinking.   Upon reading his essay, I believed in soul mates.   Never mind that Burroughs is a gay, former-alcoholic, without formal education in a happily committed partnership with his partner, Dennis Pilsits.  He is, nonetheless, unequivocally the counterpart of my immortal soul.  Here's Why:

I have been practicing magical thinking my entire life.   It's what convinced me as a child that if I wanted something enough, I could alter the molecular compound of the universe in order to get it--hitting a home run, for instance, involved me just wanting to hit it enough--usually this didn't work.  Yet I was undeterred.   As a teen, getting asked to Prom involved visualizing and obsessing about it, and then waiting for the universe to acquiesce to my request.  And weirdly enough, this didn't work out so well either, I still asked my gay best friend last-minute.    So you would think that I would have figured out magical thinking isn't real.  But no, it doesn't have to be rational, that's why its magical.  Instead, I changed my type of magical thinking.   Instead of wanting something and assuming you can will it into reality, now my particular brand of magical thinking has evolved to take the form of refusing to want anything.   So for instance, if I had an amazing first date with someone and I really, really like him and someone asks how the date went, I say, "Ok."   If someone asks how I feel about the guy I say, "I don't know, he seems nice enough,"   because, obviously saying that I like him will ruin the whole thing and the universe will punish me for my greed and pride by making me find out this guy actually is a priest/cross-dresser/philander/Jehovah's witness and then all bets are off.   Magical thinking.   Or, if I feel confident about, say an interview that's today, in less than two hours, and someone asks me, "Do you think you'll get the job,"  I say, "No."  Regardless of how prepared I feel. I don't want to want anything.   It's like the opposite of that song.   The whole way my twisted brand of magical thinking works is that it's when you allow yourself to want something, that's when you don't get it.   So if you actually want something, you convince yourself not to want it, or you at least don't vocalize the actual desire you feel.   Follow?


I'm re-reading what I've written and I think someday they will write psychological textbooks about me.   I am obviously not a well woman.   But I can't help it.   I am the worst kind of narcissist, the kind that thinks anything they do can in anyway influence the outcome of the universe.  I always used to laugh (not out loud in their faces, just in my head) at people who told me they prayed to win at high school sports.   I reasoned, that if God in His infinite wisdom, is turning a deaf ear on starving, popped-out belly, eyes eaten by flies, kids in Africa, he probably doesn't give a flying fuck about whether or not the Wildcats make it to semi-finals.  But am I any better?  My appeals aren't to God, they're to...what?  The molecular compounds in the universe?  Ions and matter and other things that I tuned out while were being described to me in Physics?   It makes no sense.   And just as egotistical as those are who petition God for touchdowns, is me, trying to trick and reverse psychology the universe to bend to my will.   It's every bit as insane as refusing to step on sidewalk cracks.  Except my condition doesn't even have a catchy rhyme.   


So, now that I've graduated from college and am blossoming into a mature adult...I refuse to look at apartments.   Because obviously, when I start doing that, I won't need to get one because I won't get a job and will be living with my parents.    And I won't think about the future, because that will only jinx it.   Yes, I'm twenty-two years old and I still believe in jinxes.   Wholly and completely.   

Poopsie Daisy!

I woke up this morning in the beach house, looked out the window, and saw the blue sky over the marsh.  It was a perfect morning and I was feeling especially benevolent, so I decided to make my famous (or they really should be for as good as they are) stuffed french toast sandwiches for the whole family.    After a trip to the local Piggly Wiggly for some supplies, Matt and I got started on whipping up a delicious spread.    Gradually the family awoke to smells of french toast, bacon, and coffee, and sauntered into the kitchen, just in time to grab a heapin' helpin'.   All six of us ate out on screened in porch overlooking the marsh, complete with majestic white egrets.   It sounds idyllic, right?   It kind of was.  But what do you think the subject matter was during this occasion.  Plans for the day?  Books we were reading?  Kate and Will's wedding/honeymoon/impending divorce?  No.   As so many conversations do in my family, it floated to the subject of floaters.   Not "bodies murdered by the Russian mafia and found in the East River" kind of floaters, but poopy floaters.   Excrement.  BM's.

Poop has a special place in most of our family stories.   It actually is a badge of honor to have good bathroom tales.  Everyone in the family snorts and laughs until their spleen's hurt when my Dad tells about the time he went into "the wrong john" in the Columbus airport and had to run out, pants hoisted, belt undone.  My mom, a former poop prude, embarrassed that my father said something as benign as "she's in the restroom" to explain her prolonged absence during dinner at my dad's partents house when they first started dating, still shudders during these conversations, but even she chimes in with my sister's epic dirty diaper stories--especially the time she let out a huge juicy plop right in the middle of church during the homily.   And as an adult, a product of being in Morocco, Jeanie waxes eloquent about her scrapes with parasites, accidental diarrhea, and pooping outside.  She claims earnestly that if anyone in the Peace Corps in Morocco say they didn't poop their pants at some point during the trip, they're lying to you.   Something about the atrocious hygiene.  Having never been to Morocco or in any other way disgraced myself, I sadly, don't have any funny poo stories, so it's kind of like being the little brother who wants to run away and join the circus at a family reunion full of neurosurgeons.

How did the two newcomers react to this topic area?   Actually, I knew Matt would fit in with my family when he said he knew he liked his brother-in-law when he was strangely ok with looking at a particularly impressive specimen of Matt's poop.   Ok.  Welcome to the family, sir.   Even better?  Jeanie's paramour, James, fresh off a two year stint in the peace corps in Morocco, missed the toilet at his house in Brigantine, NJ, and pooped on the floor. Within a few days of going home to his mother.   My mom, having heard the story a few weeks earlier from Jeanie, asked him how on earth this was possible yesterday morning, with all the relish of Gestapo officer, the same way she's been interrogating the boys the entire trip.   He cheerfully shrugged and said, well, "I've been used to squatting outside for two years..."

Strangely, this was one of the most fun parts of the entire trip.  All six of us, outside in beautiful weather, juuuuuust shootin' the shit.  

Cashew Vacation

After indulging in just about all the partying I could handle in Daytona--which isn't a whole lot, thank God I wasn't born a Kardashian--I am now enjoying what I like to refer to as "the good life" in South Carolina with my family on vacation.   Except this time it isn't just my family.  My boyfriend and my sister's "lover" (husband, boyfriend, cabana boy all also quasi-apply) have joined us.   Just to clarify, when I say "vacation" I don't mean, "let's kayak, snorkel, enjoy shopping, and learn to wakeboard" kind of vacation.  In my family, vacations consist of lying on the beach, lying on the porch, reading, drinking wine at dinner, and generally doin' nothin'.   Which is fine by all of us.   But I have to admit, I was a bit concerned the interlopers wouldn't find the same joy we find in this dull routine.   But so far, so good.

Some of my best family memories have happened here in Litchfield, South Carolina.   On the fourteen hour car ride down, (which seemed excruciating until I turned about 14) my sister and I used to make up musicals (like normal kids do) and listened to Les Mis and the Pointer Sisters ad nausem, balking loudly when our parents tried to substitute in their lite rock.  When at the beach, priority number one for my sister and I was a wet sand fight, which I would invariably lose after my sister's over-enthusiastic chucking.   I would sheepishly saunter back to the towel, bruised and covered in wet, crusty, sand.  And the fun didn't end with childhood.   When I was a thirteen I had my first kiss (with tongue!) under the stars of Litchfield one night, after lying and telling a 16 year-old boy I was 15.  I also had a great time with my sister chugging Seagram's wine coolers on the beach and then happily turning cartwheels a few years later.  The stuff dreams are made of, really.   

This vacation: nothing noteworthy to report.  Which is exactly how I want it.   It's just been low-key like usual... making fun of my sister's penchant for nudity, taking binoculars and thrusting them into my mom's face screaming "Ima peep ya'll!", talking about Pippa Middleton's ass, being called "tasty" by a pot-bellied old southern man in front of my mother AND father, avoiding a ravenous, blood-thristy duck during dinner, and of course, trying to convince everyone else in the family that hummus and rice cakes do, in fact, make for a delicious meal.  The stuff I'm sure all of you do with your families.

Ode to THOSE girls:

NOTE: This blog was written and saved on my computer THURSDAY because I didn't have internet access to post it.  Now that I am on REAL vacation with my family in a lovely beach house with wi-fi, I can post it.   I will also post sick pictures of the house so you can all be jealous.

The Dayton to Daytona trip is about as far away from what I think of as a vacation as one can get.  Things I dislike: a) crowds b) drinking to excess c) uncomfortable sleeping arrangements d) no privacy.   Things which surround me on a daily basis during my Daytona trip: a) crowds b) drinking to excess c) uncomfortable sleeping arrangements d) no privacy.   And what else would you expect when you mix about 1,000 lusty coeds, 5 people to a single hotel room, and free beer everyday from 1-3pm?  Don’t get me wrong, I like a good time as much as the next girl, more even, and ya’ll don’t even wanna see me move it like Bernie, but as the trip winds down, trust me, this daily routine has worn a bit thin.

Speaking of thin.  At first I was completely intimidated at the thought of donning a bikini in front of all of my classmates, fearing my flabby, white frame would be mistaken for a beached Beluga Whale.  I imagined explaining desperately to animal control as they try to hoist me with a forklift that I am actually just a college student who overdoes it on the French fries.  But, upon actually seeing most of the other bikini bodies, I’m definitely doing ok.  I may not be THE hottest, but I’m definitely not the worst.  Everybody has a little flab here, some cellulite there… no big deal. It’s fun and freeing to realize even beautiful girls have problem areas.  And then, then there are those girls… you know the ones I mean. 

Those gorgeous and mysterious creatures who always have smooth hair, clear skin, and flat tummies, which only emphasize how ginormous their boobs are in comparison.  The girls who flirt and giggle and toss their hair without looking the least bit rehearsed, which I know from hours of rehearsing, is difficult to pull off. These girls are the life of the party, and I can’t help but wonder what sort of bizarre genetic jackpot their perfect lucky asses managed to hit.  

Where the flying-fuck do these girls come from?!   I have felt personally tortured by them since fourth grade, the situation worsening in high school as I watched them land every boy I had a crush on, win every homecoming court title I coveted, and get invited to every party I would never be cool enough to attend.   It’s odd that I’ve graduated from college and so little has changed.


 Today, as I was on the pool deck I heard this slender, blonde gazelle of a girl look down at her perfectly flat stomach and wail, “OH MY GOD, I’m SOOOOOOOO fat.”   To which her friend, who consequently looked like a water buffalo chimed in, as if on cue, “No, you’re beautiful!  So SKINNY!”  And she was.   But I call bullshit, making her obligatory chunky friend choke out the truth while obviously realizing how her own body fell short. I’m so tired of those girls, and secretly, more jealous that no matter how hard I try, I will never be one of them.

So here in Daytona, when I was, completely unfairly, disqualified from the Limbo contest for turning my head, and some tanned toothpick went on to win instead, that bit of awkward, dumpy fifteen year-old in me came out and wanted to demand justice.   Those fucking girls…

Vanity

Is there a downside to writing this blog when I'm exhausted, tipsy, wearing a peptide mask, and feeling nostalgic? Only that it might be too gut-wrenching, too emotional, and too raw.  Also, punctuation will probably suffer slightly.

So I'm graduating from college this Sunday, and while I am completely not one to get wrapped up in occasions and tend to shy away from all things involving self-congratulation, this, for some reason, actually feels important.   Despite objections to the contrary, I'm a very logical person.  And my logic is thus: everyone "graduates" from elementary school, nearly everyone reaches high school, most people get their diplomas, but there still are a lot of people who don't get a college degree, even less who get a four-year degree, and even less still who get a four-year degree from an esteemed private school and do so with honors.   So, for the first time in my life, I feel like this is an accomplishment.  And I'm actually really proud of myself.  I might, maybe, kinda, sorta be a bfd.

It's fun to really feel like the center of attention instead of the nerdy kid who got picked last for dodgeball.  I went out for dinner with my roommates and their parents tonight at Bravo by the Dayton Mall, and for the first time in a long time I was completely un-self-concious and at ease with myself.   Don't get me wrong--I talked to loudly, drank too much wine, told inappropriate stories, laughed with my mouth open, and while getting ready, my hair wouldn't curl right and my dress made me look fat and I had a huge, practical joke zit on my forehead--but I also felt like, "hey, you're here because you love me, and if you don't, you can talk about how much you hate me later."   And not to get too Dr. Phil on ya'll, but that's a big step for the girl who used to get so nervous about social situations she would try on 7 different outfits before deciding she was too ridiculous to go out in public.  This Annie isn't the prettiest girl in the room, but damn if she won't be the one laughing the hardest.  I have such joy and humor, and I'm finally realizing these things make me strong, they're not embarrassing.   I will never be that girl who can wax eloquent for 45 minutes about wallpaper patterns, but I do know a good joke about a nun, a rabbi, and a hooker...

As I re-read this I'm a little annoyed because I hate serious blogs, especially those which could conceivably double as journal entries...you guys don't need to know I'm afraid of clowns or that I think the boy in my history class is "dreamy".  But I do want to say that at some point of sitting at Bravo and cracking jokes about my past escapades, I thought to myself, "This girl is a peach, I'd want to be her friend," and "this girl" was myself.  I've always been vain, but in the past it's been a mechanism to hide crippling insecurities, the kind that would keep me from ever auditioning for a Subway commercial, but now, I am vain in a legitimate way.  Vain because I like myself.  Vain because I accomplished a whole fuck ton.   And vain because I really, seriously, will never settle for anything less than I want out of life.  The world is my oyster.  And I'm going to shoot that sum bitch with horseradish.

Exam Stress

I am a morning person.  Nothing makes me happier than getting out of bed, sipping some coffee, and tackling the world.   But I am also a human... so I am also pretty stoked about waking up, realizing I have nothing to do that can't wait, throwing my alarm clock (my cell phone) on the floor, and laying spread eagled, face down, under luxurious blankets.   That's totally what I did this morning.  Then, I woke up, juuust in time for Dr. Phil on the couch.  Top it all off?   Oatmeal mixed with peanut butter and raisins, microwaved to perfection.  This morning I also made war paint with suds from face wash and had a 15 minute snooze-alarm dream I was a disney princess, complete with animation, before I threw the alarm clock as described above.

Exam week ROCKS.  I don't know what people get so stressed about.  It's roughly the same pressure as any hectic week in college, except everyone EXPECTS you to be stressed during exam week, and you only have one test/real thing to do all day.   I'm such a diligent, plan ahead freak that I've done all my studying before the beginning of the week anyway.  So the rest of my time, can be spent as I spent mine today: A Dr. Phil laden morning followed by a trip to Starbucks, small-talk with baristas, lemon-pound cake samples, a quick type-up of a take-home essay (nothing too taxing), and then home again to watch some poor frat pledge on Law and Order: SVU get a frat paddle stuffed up his fudge factory.    Yes, I had to spend 50 minutes of my day writing about social contract theory, but then I got to call my Dad, and hell, my mom too, and listen to them be proud of me for handling the stress of college. It's like warm hugs from Jesus all around.  To round out my exhausting day, I had a Wendy's Chili and then went to ghetto dollar movies with my roommates to see a stoner knight (yes, you got that combo right) movie.   DONE AND DONE.   Oh and I haven't showered or worn makeup today.   I had to think for a hot second whether I even put on deodorant (I did).  But, normal college day?   No makeup and sweatpants means I'm hungover, a failure, and probably only got in because my Daddy knows the Dean.    Exam week?   I'm too burdened by the weight of my own genius to worry about menial things like proper hygiene.  Everyone cuts me slack on exam week.   It's like being Charlie Sheen or the ugly Baldwin brother: no one expects anything of you.

So while my peers are, I don't know, studying,  I'm watching daytime TV and "oh no she didn't"-ing the stay at home mom whose having an affair with the paper boy.  And maybe noshing on some jelly beans.  So as I get ready to enter adulthood, I say this with maturity and poise to all of you that were actually physically or mentally exerted today:  NAH NAH na NAH NAH! 

I am a weird-people magnet

This morning I was sitting in Starbucks (like I do) half-studying and half-texting Katie to make fun of people/things/nouns in general.  I was listening to my usual study mix through my headphones (Duffy, Kate Nash, Regina Spektor, basically all angsty, girl-power, piano music available to me) and suddenly I became aware of a large woman looking over my shoulder.   I thought maybe she was checking out my conversation with Katie, which makes sense, because we're pretty funny together, but I was still annoyed she just invited herself to read over my shoulder.  Then I noticed she was actually looking at my notebook. I wondered, horrified, if she was looking at the doodles of babies I made while I was watching that horrible "Miracle of Life" film in christian marriage class.  That would be pretty suspicious...I didn't want her to think I was one of those desperate women who snatch babies out of strollers.     Then she spoke to me, and she expressed interest in...my highlighting techniques.  She further explained, "I always like to see how people study, I used to be a teacher."   Keep in mind she said this over my shoulder breathing creepily into my ear.  Mmm Hmmm.... What else is there to say?   "Whatchu studying girl?"  Uh, it's for my christian marriage class.  "You're in college?! Christian marriage?!  Shoot that 'aint a class!"  I'm sorry.  Obviously you didn't go to, "how to not interrupt people while they try to get their coffee break on" class in college.  

And I wish I could say this freak-occurence is a freak-occurence.   But it isn't.   People seem to interpret my inability to physically tackle them as an open invitation to share opinions, fears, and life stories with me.  I don't want to hear them!   I don't know what on earth would inspire people to think I'm a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to cry on... in my entirety I'm not that nice, let alone per body part.  So anyway, I thought I'd share for you, the severely abridged list of my top-5 creepy people encounters.

5.  The lady in Stein Mart:
 A few years ago I was with my mommy in Stein Mart looking for sparkly earrings and/or home goods.   As I scanned the racks a dowdy housewife wearing a LIME GREEN HAWAIIAN PRINT suit, grabbed me by the arm and said, "excuse me, I need your opinion."   My first thought was, "Oh sorry ma'am, I don't work here," but I was rendered temporarily speechless by her loud outfit.  She then proceeded to ask me my opinion on several HEINOUS purses while my mom looked at my bemused expression and laughed at my suffering.  I tried to tactfully tell this woman that none of the purses that "matched" were pretty...and that maybe with such a "lively" print she out to try a neutral... which I figured was a public service to all epileptics who might seize upon seeing her.  

4.  The "Millionaire":
My next few stories involve airplanes.  I meet the strangest people, or more aptly, they meet me, while flying the skies.   I was on standby for a flight on my way home from Wisconsin, and I assumed I wouldn't get on a flight until late, because I'm unlucky like that.   So imagine my shock when not only did I get the LAST seat on the early flight, but it was also in FIRST CLASS.  I couldn't believe my luck!   Unfortunately, when I met Paul, my seat buddy, I realized this wasn't good luck at all.   Paul regaled me with stories about the supermodels he dated, his big house in Atlanta where movies were frequently filmed...and told how sexy I smelled.   Also Paul was 35 and not dissuaded by the fact I was 21...and thus, creepy.   Question...If you're so rich, why do you need to get dates with an average-looking 21 year old you met on a plane??

3.  Serial Killer:
I don't know for sure, but if I found out tomorrow that as I am writing this blog now--this guy is chopping up bodies to put in a walk-in closet--I wouldn't be surprised.   I was on an airplane reading, "American Psycho," and if the creepy novel didn't give it away, the fuck-off on my face should have let him now I didn't want to chat.   YET, he asked me "is your book good?"  to which I said yes.   He asked a couple more questions, to which I gave one word answers.  He continued to avoid the hint and leer creepily at me, asking me if I liked scary stories, where I lived, and what my hobbies where.  Please don't wear my skin as a coat, dude.

2.   Foot Fetish:
I was on my back to Dayton from D.C. and I came across a guy dressed as a pilot, sitting at the bar.   "I hope you're not drinking," I joked.   He wasn't.  We chatted a bit, and ascertained he was MY pilot.   I had time to kill so I had no problem talking with a guy who a) wearing a wedding ring b) showed me a picture of his daughter and c) my pilot (obviously I wasn't going to miss the flight).   He asked for my number since he flew to Dayton a lot and didn't have friends there...and you can say I'm dumb or naive, but to me, if you're MARRIED you aren't flirting with me!   So...imagine my surprise when he sent a text that said, "I want to take you to get a pedicure and then suck on your sexy toes all night."   EW EW EW EW!    (PS My feet are NOT sexy.  They are gnarly)

1.   Rat after Cheese:
And la piece de la resistance.  This is BY FAR the weirdest and most bizarre thing that has ever happened to me.  I was at Tim's with Chris, people-watching and loving the freshman in heels, just sitting at the bar.   Some lovely gentleman starting striking up a conversation, asking if Chris was my boyfriend.  Chris is gay.   So I explained this, and with no prompting this guy answered, "yeah I got a girl, but she don't respect me.  She knows how to push my buttons, (obscene gesture to indicate buttons was withholding sex)."  I nodded.  He showed me a picture of his lovely girlfriend in a three-sizes too small bikini top via his cell phone.  I was HORRIFIED.  He also showed me a picture not his girlfriend, but his "baby mama," similarly inappropriate in pose.   Then he said to me, "Girl, you better lock up your monkey.   N****s be after that shit like a rat after cheese."   And by monkey...he meant my no-no place.  He told me men would be after my lady parts like rats after cheese. Charming.

So there it is.  The top 5.  HORRIFYING EXPERIENCES.  Don't say I bring it on myself.  That's victim blaming.

Things I did last night...

1.  Dye my hair using "Nice and Easy" foam.    In the commercial the foam doesn't drip and there is a cloud.   In real life, I squeezed the bottle too hard with my Lennie from "Mice and Men" 'tard strength, exploded the foam everywhere and cursed loudly while cleaning it up, realizing somewhere in the back of my mind that ammonia and bleach, when mixed, create a toxic gas.   I pictured being found dead and naked in the bathroom with foam in my hair.  Frantically checking I realized the color was no ammonia.   Phew.

2. Walked through the Ghetto in my tight LBD with Chris in a bow tie and tails.   Was subject to several cat-calls, but was disappointed most were directed at "Mr. Bow tie."  The Beyonce swagger in my walk died a little.

3.  Went to the Black Box Awards as Chris's date.  Loaded up on Franzia, and still partially frozen cocktail shrimp.   Told Chris I would scream "I love you, Baby" if he won best actor, which he did.  When he sat back down I told him, "Good, because I don't talk to losers."

5.  Popped the champagne I brought in my purse during Chris's acceptance speech.  Yes.   Keep it classy.   I am your dream girl.

4.  Yelled more classy things like, "Steve, I will have you!"  when Chris's super shy roommate, Steve, presented awards.

5.  Butt-dialed.   A lot.

6.  Danced/sang-along to "Walking on Broken Glass" by Annie Lennox.   Also pointed out that I am "Annie" as well.

7. Pounded a cupcake right before bed.

8. Woke up at 5 am with a pounding headache...decided the wine sugar/ cupcake sugar were combining to punish me.    Drank a lot of water while watching informercials for the Magic Bullet.   Cringed every time Margarita mix or raw eggs were shown.  Made a mental vow never to drink again.   Realize will not  keep vow.