23

May

Out of Shape… Still

I’m in my early twenties but my injuries are already healing slower than they used to and older anatomical issues nag constantly – like what I imagine I will be like as a wife (sidenote: stereotypes are bad, but are sometimes funny). Every time I run, I feel the ghosts of these  injuries past.  It’s sort of like those ghosts in Pac-Man that bear down on you until they consume you and you die what I can only assume is a slow, painful, and pixelated death. Those very ghosts bore down on me today. Old stress fracture sites, old ankle sprains, terrible knees – they all combine together to form a perfect storm of misery. It almost makes me regret that the words “contact sport” were ever in my vocabulary. (Just kidding, sports = the best.)

2cat

So, anyway, today, I tried to run up a hill, into the wind and, well, it wasn’t so successful.

At first, I felt like I was in a Nike commercial. This was my hill, I was going to get over it. I was going to conquer this hill. But then the hill kept going. And going. And then, I made it!!  Over the  first crest from the vantage point of which I could see the many other hills that lay before me. And that’s when my commitment to getting over the hill faltered like a fading star in the night sky. Nah, it was more like an asteroid on a collision course with some other galactic body. CRASH AND BURNNN.

I slowed to a walk and of course, other runners chose that particular time to appear out of nowhere and pass me. They all gave me judgmental looks and I stared right back, defiant. Nope, I didn’t. I just looked at the ground. Dignity in failure is not one of my strong points.

1cat

I’m supposed to sign up for a half-marathon soon because clearly, I’m masochistic and want to slowly grind my joints into a fine, chalky powder. I hear once you’re mostly powder, you can’t feel pain anyway!! So, that’s my goal. My “hill,” if you will.

- Daughter

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22

May

Somebody’s Drunk in the Kitchen

I have a recipe that I hold near and dear to my heart. It was passed down for centuries in my family. It represents health, community, and spiritual well-being within my clan. Not really. I just found it this year on a Google search. But that doesn’t make for a very good story.

Anyway, during the last four months of college, this particular recipe has been a staple. It became comfort food. What is it, you ask? Kale and shrimp. It doesn’t sound impressive but this recipe is seriously magical. And, the best part of it is that it is impossible to screw up.

Unless you’re me.

I have made this recipe probably one hundred times. There are less than ten ingredients. It takes a maximum of thirty minutes to prepare and make. You’d think I’d have it down pat.

Mais, non.

I was so excited to cook this meal for my family because for once, I knew what I was doing. I confidently sauteed the kale and shrimp. I disregarded the directions a bit because I added more kale than the recipe called for. Ah, well, I should make more sauce to balance it out!! So, I added more vinegar to the sauce. Worst. Decision. Ever.

Immediately, the steam coming up from the pot turned into a noxious gas that made my eyes water. Well, maybe it’s one of those foods that tastes better than it smells! 

Nope, it wasn’t. I put a small sample in my mouth and I might as well have taken a shot of vinegar. Now my mouth was burning in addition to my eyes.

Luckily, my mom came to the rescue and was able to water down the sauce to less terrifyingly-vinegary levels. Nobody died after eating it so I guess I made something edible. Checkmate.

- Daughter

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21

May

Unpacking < Packing

I felt very optimistic when I woke up this morning. I set up my mom’s juicer and juiced the sh heck out of vegetables and fruits indiscriminately. The resulting juice was the color of toxic waste but it actually didn’t taste that bad considering it was mostly kale and carrots. I felt like a hippie as I drank this disgusting-looking liquid but there are worse things in the world than feeling like a hippie.

This juice thing is supposed to replace my go-to beverage in the morning: coffee. I made the impulsive decision to stop drinking coffee and today is day 1 of what I foresee to be a very Poor Life Choice(tm). I already got a migraine-like headache from the lack of caffeine and felt distinctly less energetic and jazzed about life. To be honest, my will power is only so-so currently. We’ll see how long this lasts before I break.

After I was thoroughly juiced up and sans-coffee, I started the process of unpacking. It felt like forever as I opened box after box without any visible progress or improvement. I looked at the clock, expecting it to be a few hours later than when I had last checked, but no, it was only THIRTY MINUTES past when I had started. I dramatically laid on the bed with my hand on my head and re-enacted the scene from Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara says, “I’ll think about that… tomorrow.”

I didn’t realize I had so many clothes until I opened up those nifty vacuum-seal bags they were all stuffed in. Every time I broke open the vacuum seal I wanted to yell out, “RELEASE THE KRAKKEN!” Instead, I sighed as the small bag suddenly expanded with overflowing garments and sheets.

It was kind of like the OPPOSITE of Christmas morning: I didn’t want to open any of these bags or boxes and unleash the hellfire within. But, I persisted and now the unpacking is about halfway done. My room looks less like a storage locker and more like a room where somebody might sleep.

And tomorrow, the unpacking continues. As does my misery.

- Daughter

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19

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part V

Dad’s Version of Events:

Dante’s Inferno had nothing on us today.

I have seen The Apocalypse, and its name is Southwestern Texas. We awoke this morning to a cool breeze in Dallas, which lulled me into thinking the heat and humidity we drove into yesterday had broken.

Cruelly, that was not the case.

Not only did it turn out to be as miserably hot again today as it was on Saturday, a gale force wind worthy of The Perfect Storm reared its ugly head – in our faces. All day.

It was intimidating.

But let me return to the heat. How hot was it? I noticed several cars driving in the opposite direction (with the wind) with those heat-reflecting shields partially deployed in their windshields.

I imagined the associated conversation thusly:

“Good, God, the sun is burning my eyes through the windshield. Dear, please grab that aluminum foil heat reflector thing and pop it up on your side, would you?”

“Isn’t that going to affect your view? I mean, don’t you need to see out the front of the car?”

“Nah, it’s the passenger side. Not much happens over there and, besides, you’ll warn me if something’s about to explode or run into us.”

Yep. Something like that.

And I’ve never, ever seen people deploy their shield while driving. Parked; of course. Driving? Come on.

I am happy to reveal that I did not witness such behavior on our side of the Interstate but, then again, Daughter’s crap sh belongings pretty much obscured my vision anywhere to the back or side of us.

And the wind. My God, the wind!

Big rigs were weaving all over the place. Dust devils danced through the landscape around us. And occasionally a gust threatened to blow open one of our doors.

Well, not really on that last point, but it sure seemed like it, at times.

Prior to this leg of the journey, my trusty pickup was averaging almost 22 mpg. But today it plummeted to 17.5 mpg. Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s a head wind.

Out in the middle of nowhere, between the garden spots of Odessa and El Paso, there were actually two bicyclists laboring along the shoulder of the Interstate. They were clearly in the middle of some masochistic bike “adventure,” since they were festooned with sleeping bags and panniers. As we sped by them, I estimated they were tootling along at about 1.73 mph, with 24 miles to the next town of any significance. I thought it was illegal to bicycle on an Interstate Highway, so if there are any law enforcement officials reading this post, please note the location of these two cyclists.

Even though it’s been about six hours since we passed them, I figure they are still out there and have maybe managed to cover all of two miles in that time.

I’m telling you it was windy.

There were two essential highlights today. The first involved passing through an immigration checkpoint. When we realized what lay ahead of us on the road, it sparked a flurry of inappropriate comments from me to Daughter, such as:

“Be sure to turn the Spanish language radio station off when we roll the window down.”

“Remember to say ‘thank you’ instead of ‘gracias’ to the Border Patrol officer.”

Things like that.

The second highlight and, perhaps, the Tenth Festivus Miracle of the year was that Daughter was almost bright-eyed and bushy tailed for much of the drive, until she “hit the wall” later in the day and asked me why I wasn’t tired.

(Note to self: When traveling with Daughter, plan on a minimum of three coffee breaks before noon if there is any expectation of consciousness from her after 3:00 p.m.)

And tomorrow? If Allah and the Dust Devils are willing, we should roll up in front of our Home Sweet Home at some point in the afternoon, assuming:

1) We leave the hotel before 9:30 a.m.

2) The Tarpaulin Gods accept our sacrifice of Hampton Inn Shampoo and Conditioner.

3) We don’t get pulled over for an expired State of California license plate.

4) There are enough foo-foo coffee joints between New Mexico and California to keep us both focused and jazzed.

If all those things come true, we have a chance. If not, well, Hope Springs Eternal and Tomorrow is Another Day.

Or is that Tomorrow Never Dies?

I get it confused sometimes if I haven’t had any coffee.

- Dad

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Daughter’s Version of Events:

Miles and miles of.. nothing.

Miles and miles of… nothing.

I got up early for reeealsies today: 7am. Essentially the crack of dawn in my world. But I got up. My dad was probably pleasantly surprised that he didn’t have to drag me out of bed. Oh wait, nevermind. That’s never happened because I am the one always awake first on this road trip.

We made our way to Starbucks in the morning before hitting the road as per usual. I prefer local coffee places but my father has developed a taste for large corporate coffee with no personality. He loves to make fun of me for getting a soy latte which he terms “foo-foo” but I’m not the one who is constantly asking, “So, where’s the nearest Starbucks?” He is an addict.

I don’t love the coffee there but it’s drinkable and sometimes delicious if I use the powers of my imaaaagination. I like to call it Starbutts because it’s just immature enough to annoy my father. I don’t think I’ve actually said it out loud to him and to be honest, he probably wouldn’t notice if I did because he can’t hear most of the things I say.

Anyway, today I may or may not have angered the barista at Starbutts by asking if my drink was coming because it took longer than usual. I mentally berated myself because I was being the customer I always hated when I was working there. Sorry, hapless barista! I was just grumpy because the sun was waaaaay too close to the horizon for my liking.

After successfully acquiring coffee (I pray it was free of spit), we got back on the road and I fell asleep almost immediately. But then my turn behind the wheel came all too soon. It was incredibly windy so my usual multi-tasking was a no-no. I put my DJing, Starbucks-finding, and e-mail-checking to the side in order to keep the truck from blowing off the road. My Dad doesn’t know how to use my iPhone so I had to find Starbucks on my phone only at stoplights or slower portions of the road. Safety first!!!

Speaking of safety, my dad has avoided sleeping when I’ve driven the past four days because he doesn’t trust me or something. However, I happen to be a fantastic driver. I am the Danica Patrick of this road trip. And my dad is… he’s like the Ricky Bobby.

Well, anyway, today he stole my FaceTent(tm) and actually slept. Because of this, I had to rely on myself for two hours’ of entertainment. I sang songs with questionable content and  used the opportunity of him sleeping to push the speed limit a bit. Not a lot but enough to feel like I was James Bond or something. Going three miles over the speed limit is definitely equivalent to how James Bond feels.

Dad, stealing my idea.

Dad, stealing my idea.

As the day wore on, I got more and more tired. My eyes started to dry up and when I went to rub them, I accidentally got sunscreen in them. So, they ended up being dry and also burned with the intensity of one thousand suns (ironic considering it was, you know, sunscreen that caused this). I decided the best way to resolve my temporary blindness was to pour bottled water directly into my eyes while in the car. Surprisingly, it sort of worked and I was able to both see and blink without excruciating pain – success!!!

Not that there was much to see...

Not that there was much to see…

Tomorrow is hopefully the last day of driving. 9 or 10 hours of driving left! My dad is already asking if there’s a Starbutts around here.

- Daughter

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02

May

How to Build a Box

Well, don’t ask me. Look how mine turned out…

 

The saddest part about this box is the fact that I am so proud of it. The handles were cut with a jigsaw that I was terrified of using. It turns out that being terrified of the tools you’re using does not make for controlled cuts in wood. It actually makes your lines horrible and askew. Despite the failings of the box, it is a box I created with my own hands and carpentry prowess. My carpentry professor approved of my construction and even went so far to say that, yes, “it definitely looks less crappy than when you started.” That’s a success in my book.

So, while I have spent the last four years of my college education learning some pretty obscure knowledge about things I will (probably) not have to use again, this seems to me the most practical and humbling course I have ever taken in college. Who knew that five pieces of wood could take multiple hours to put together? Who knew that screws make a terrible nails-scratching-across-chalkboard sound when they go through a high density material? Who knew I was capable of using a saw without chopping off limbs? Well, I know now. Sort of.

Unrelated: I have decided to give up my dreams of a career in writing to become a carpenter and inspire others to build boxes.

- Daughter

 

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24

Apr

I Have Instincts

Or, rather, my body does. I swear, every time my body senses I am going to have fun or something like it, it shuts that sh stuff down so fast.

I was bouncing around yesterday, happily doing my laundry (“happily” = I had no clean clothes left so I had to) and, while I was folding my underwear, I realized I didn’t have that much to do on my thesis before the deadline next week. Therefore, I could definitely fit in time to go hang out with a friend at a bar that night. And then horror struck. My body, sensing that fun was imminent, immediately – and I mean, within the hour of deciding to have fun – shriveled up and receded into itself… like some sort of sick hermit crab.

I developed some sort of chest cold (although, I said “infection” to other people because it sounded worse and more worthy of pity) and was coughing all over the place. I cursed my lungs and the virus infecting them (?) (/I’m not a pathologist) and begrudgingly texted said friend and said I couldn’t go. I was very displeased.

So displeased, in fact, that I tunneled into my bed covers and sat there for a while, thinking dark thoughts about my lungs and their various treacheries.

Harry Potter gets me.

My new plan to have fun is to focus on achieving a surprise attack. I am only going to have unplanned fun so as to not tip off my body that fun is in the near future. I’m hoping that when I walk down the street I will randomly be pulled into a bar where I will proceed to fun.  (Yeah, it’s a verb now.) Or, maybe while I’m writing my thesis a llama and a mariachi band will pop in and again, unplanned funning will happen!! I’m really looking forward to surprise funning.

- Daughter

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11

Apr

Being an Idiot in Carpentry Class

Today, my technical theater carpentry professor laughed at me. A lot. And I took it with my tail between my legs because frankly, I deserved it.

I'm really creative. At failing.

I’m really creative. At failing.

 

Let my preface this by saying I am in no way connected to the theater arts or activities-during-which-you-build-things, but every other single person in the class is a techie (not to be confused with Trekkie) who knows the basics of theater, scenery, etc. Then, there’s me. A lost little lamb in a storm of power tools and staple guns. 

My partner and I had to draft a 2D model and build a 3D model of a structure that would successfully drop snow on-stage. Naturally, I ended up drafting the most complex piece of machinery I could think up – I literally might have just accidentally built a computer. That’s just how I roll. When we were presenting our ideas, all of the other students had these brilliant, simple ideas that looked completely feasible.

And then I presented my draft which had about 10 different arrows annotated with specific instructions all over the page. My professor looked at the draft, cocked his head, and said, “That’s certainly… creative.” Guess I’m going to fail this carpentry class. Cool. I’m literally going to fail a class because I have no actual life skills and can only read books. 

Well, today was the real test. I had to build this wildebeest of a project. I started out with a basic little wooden frame that I was very proud of – my professor even came over and said it was, “Cute!” And I said, “Yes, that’s what I was going for. It’s very applicable to my post-college life. When I’m being interviewed and the hiring person asks for my resume, I’m just gunna show them THIS *proudly raises up wooden frame like it’s Simba from The Lion King*” He chuckled and I kept building. And then I hit a roadblock. I had no idea how to get my complicated machine to work… and on top of it, the staple gun wasn’t working.
My partner went up to ask my professor about the staple gun who assured us that, yes, there were plenty of staples in it. But it just was not working. I was trying to staple fabric onto the frame but to my dismay, no staples were coming out. He came over to watch me use it so he could see firsthand why it wasn’t working.
Me: *presses on staple gun, nothing comes out* “SEE? It’s not working.”
Professor: …… *suppresses giggle* “….. that’s because you’re pushing on the wrong end of the staple gun… it’s upside down, not broken you idiot. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
I about died from embarrassment. I sat there laughing at myself but also shaking my head in disbelief at my stupidity.
And, as I was leaving, my professor couldn’t help himself and said, “Make sure you don’t forget how to use a staple gun between now and our next class.”
Who needs dignity and self-esteem anyway?
- Daughter

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20

Mar

They Didn’t Teach Me This in Driver’s Ed.

I was out in Philly, driving around, pretending I knew where I was going. The usual. However, this time, things went terribly wrong and I almost died. Not to be dramatic or anything.

Here I am, in my truck, trying to figure out how to get to a grocery store parking lot that I could see but failed to actually find an entrance. It was one of those optical illusion parking lots. Or a mirage. Or a mirage of an optical illusion. Regardless of what it was, I could not get to it.

My roommate suggested I follow the cop driving in front of us, surely the cops knew their way around! Indeed they did. I followed them down to an underground police station parking lot. Internally panicking, I executed a three-point turn and  screeched drove quietly away.

Upon exiting the parking garage, I took a right as per my roommate’s suggestion. I thought to myself as I drove along the road: My, this road is awful narrow… they should do something about that. 

Of course, it was a one-way street and I was driving the wrong way down it. Luckily, there were no other cars except for a car that was about to turn down the street. That is, until they saw me whereupon they honked and made unhappy faces. There was also probably swearing.

In driver’s ed, they teach you defensive driving techniques. I was told to always assume everybody else on the road is an idiot. But what if the idiot is you? How can you defend yourself  against yourself? That, my friends, should be added to the driver’s education curriculum.

- Daughter

 

 

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19

Mar

Allergies versus Hurting a Waiter’s Feelings

Sometimes, I ignore the fact that I am an unemployed college student and go out to dinner where people make food for me. This reduces the risk of me setting fire to things as I am wont to do.

My roommate and I, intrepid city explorers that we are, picked a trendy restaurant neither of us had tried. We were seated at a table overlooking the kitchen so we could watch everyone else’s food be made while waiting for ours, tantamount to torture when you’re hungry.

Eventually, we got our food and ate our way through three courses very successfully. So successfully, in fact, that at the end, we didn’t have room for dessert. And because of inconvenient food allergies, I couldn’t eat anything on the dessert menu anyway.

And this is where comedy ensues. The waiter handed us the bill for the meal in addition to a crème brûlée on the house. My roommate and I  looked at each other as he handed us the dessert;  we both happen to be allergic to dairy.

Our shared dairy allergy doesn’t veer into the “life-threatening” category so we occasionally have a bit of ye old cow juice and cow-juice derived products. But only after judging whether or not the food is worth the inevitable stomach ache and digestive issues that follow. However, this was not “a bit” of dairy, it was an entire crème brûlée.

It was culinary blackmail essentially. (Except for the fact that the waiter had no idea, but whatever.) If we didn’t eat it, we’d look like ungrateful jerks. If we did, we’d be consuming something knowing our bodies would ultimately reject it.

We decided to plunge in and eat it because we didn’t want to hurt the waiter’s feelings. He’d been too nice and accommodating to snub him in any way.

The drive back from the restaurant was what could only be expected: misery. My roommate and I  exchanged pep talks encouraging each other not to waste our money by throwing up the food we had just paid for. Positive thinking worked! We managed to keep and digest every last cent. We paid for that meal in more ways than one, however.

- Daughter

 

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18

Mar

I Almost Burned Down a Hotel

Being the unprepared person I am, I brought my own food along on my three-day trip out to central Pennsylvania because of my various food allergies. (Food allergies are so hot right now – I’m right on trend. #fashionforward)

I was so happy to have my bagel with me at breakfast one morning that my joy washed away any sort of rational thinking, exacerbating my already-lackluster awareness that comes with being awake before noon.

In case you forgot, I am not a morning person. I stumble around blindly in the light of day until finally I realize that this is no nightmare, I am truly awake in the real world. Because of this, my decision-making skills in the a.m. are not exactly on par with, say, my afternoon and evening decision-making skills.

The fire in question was caused by a conveyor-belt toaster which had a very small opening between the conveyor belt platform and the heating implement. I’ve already learned once that I should not be trusted to cook things. I haven’t learned anything, apparently because what follows is the height of culinary idiocy. I can almost hear Gordon Ramsey banishing me from the kitchen on one of his reality t.v. shows.

I thought that my bagel –  a hulking Godzilla among tiny, weak breakfast foods – would fit into the toaster perfectly. In a fit of naive optimism I thought things would work out for me. Surely this bagel will fit! I will just cut it up into multiple pieces and push the bagel down so as to fit it according to the confines of the space!!!

My dreams of toasty, bagel-y perfection would be destroyed, however. Or rather, set aflame and turned to ash and dust.

By smashing the bagel into the conveyor belt, I did indeed make the bagel smaller. Unfortunately, I was also ensuring that huge pieces of sticky bagel bread clung to the wiring of the conveyor. I had also cut the bagel up in an effort to ameliorate the toasting process, quite unaware that those very pieces would congeal into a mass of horror at the back of the toaster. This mass completely jammed the conveyor belt and stopped it from moving. At this point, the crumbs on the wiring caught fire.

I nervously attempted put the fire out while simultaneously attempting to remove the congealed bagel from the back of the toaster. Another guest, slightly bemused at my horror and unease at this growing inferno, blew out the flames. SUCCESS!

But no, there would be no success on this day.

The fires came back with a vengeance. At this point, I call over my aunt who smartly turns off the heat. But, the flames continued. Eventually, I flagged down a woman who worked at the hotel who put it out without much fuss. She tells me it happens all the time and that she “doesn’t want me to feel bad”.

I looked around, the smell of acrid smoke completely enveloping the downstairs main lobby, and stared back at her and said with a straight face, “Oh, I don’t feel bad.”

And I didn’t feel ‘bad’. That is not the correct word for the feelings I felt. “Shame”, “embarrassment”, and “horror” are more apt.

I misjudged a toaster, what else am I misjudging? Whose crumbs have I crushed onto toaster wiring? What friends have I set aflame in a rush of ill-judgment? We will never know.

- Daughter

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14

Mar

Being PC in an Amish Town

Today, I drove with my aunt, uncle, and cousin into central PA. There were many desolate landscapes to peer at whilst ruminating on one’s mortality and ultimate demise. Nothing quite like a Northeastern winter to bring you incandescent happiness.

We drove through a small farming community populated in part by Amish. It was my lucky day! The Amish are pretty much the original hipsters. Straw hats? Check. Vintage style clothing? Check. Beards? Check.

Just because you’re in a place with Amish people, however, does not mean you can act like you’re in some sort of human petting  zoo.

I was very aware of this and I did my best not to act like their community was some sort of wildlife exhibit. A couple of Amish boys saw me gawking politely staring at them and gave me a peace sign. I’m not sure that was an Amish-approved gesture but it was a Daughter-approved gesture. I felt like we really connected. Then again, maybe that was an Amish way of making fun of me.

I managed to get this horribly blurry photo of a horse and Amish buggy. It’s a terrible picture  because I was trying to be respectful. It was my fear that the mere sight of an Apple product like my iPhone would induce a craving in these people, a craving that could only be sated by a re-introduction into modern society where the Apple God would be venerated above all others. And I don’t want to single-handedly destroy a centuries-old community. I just can’t have that sort of thing on my conscience or record if I am going to accomplish my goal of becoming the next pope.

- Daughter

 

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13

Mar

Do Not Cut Your Own Hair

Sometimes I look at crafty, DIY websites, see an interesting project, and think to myself: Hey, I could do that!

Those five words together comprise the most dangerous sentence in the entire English language.

I happened to watch a video tutorial on how to cut your own bangs. Score! Now I never have to get my hair cut in a salon again. Wrong. Now some poor, hapless hairdresser is going to have to salvage this mess on my head.

The first few times I trimmed my bangs, they looked fine. Maybe because most of the hairdresser’s work was still intact at that point. But now, my bangs have grown out and it has become more and more obvious that scissors near my face should not be a thing that happens.

The last bang trimming session was hurried. And it shows. Thank goodness I have thick and dark hair so it is less obvious that my bangs are more of an Abstract Expressionist statement than real, human hair.

I was going to a party and I decided that the best way to look amazing was to randomly chop into my bangs. Oh, they were trimmed, alright. More like hacked to death.

It wouldn’t have been so terrible if I were patient. In fact, I probably could have cut my bangs properly had I slowed down and acted less like Edward Scissorhands. Unfortunately, I like things to happen at the speed of light. Faster, if possible. [Insert Higgs boson joke here.] It is out of this preference for speed that caused the Great Massacre of Hair. May they rest in peace and may we all learn from this dark chapter of human history.

Moral of the story:

Do not trim your hair in a box.
Do not trim your hair with a fox.
Do not trim your hair in your socks.
Do not trim your hair on the docks.
Why? Because you will regret it,
Lots and lots.

- Daughter

73 days ago Short URL Comments

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12

Mar

City People

It’s spring break! Yay!

Sunshine and sand?

Nope. Try rain and gray and grumpiness.

Penn's Landing

Penn’s Landing

The redeeming part of this break, however, is that my aunt and little cousin have come to entertain me with their wit and various talents. My aunt’s specialty is educating me on the particulars of literature, art, and history and my cousin’s talent is shaming me for my ignorance in all branches of knowledge. Except my aunt and cousin manage to both teach and shame me in a way that is much less condescending than the way my father does it. (Love you, Dad!)

It is nice to have other people around the apartment besides the cats. Speaking of which, my aunt and cousin were horrified by the smell emanating from my room where they stay. I can’t even smell anything in there at this point. I think this is a bad sign. I must be slowly morphing into some human-animal beast, immune to all animal smells.

Independence Hall

Independence Hall

Anywho, like any good host would, I am pretending that I know my way around this town but really praying to the GPS gods that my navigation voice person does not lead me into a river or through a building. The calming, soothing salve that is the GPS lady’s voice can only go so far in soothing me. Why? City people, that’s why. They are the reason that I cry myself to sleep at night.

City people are a certain breed: tough, intimidating, and individualistic. It’s every man for himself on the streets.

Crosswalk? Oh, you mean, the target range for cars to hit as many pedestrians as you can.

Puddles? Oh, well let’s just speed through this puddle as fast as possible to waterfall it onto passers-by.

Lost people who ask you a question? Let’s stare blankly at them.

Person who needs to merge into your lane? Hahahaha, good luck.

City of Brotherly Love? More like, City of Brotherly – MOVE OUT OF THE WAY OR SO HELP ME GOD.

#whatup

#whatup

- Daughter

 

 

 

74 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Family/Humor

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11

Mar

I Bought Fancy Toys for the Kittens but They Only Play with Their Poop

"Are you hiding poop in there?"

“Are you hiding poop in there?”

I don’t really understand why the kittens find poop preferable to the six jingley play balls and the pricey carpeted scratching post with feathers. They have ignored all of my efforts to impress them with material things. Maybe because they have self-sustaining entertainment: their own poop. I wish I had known this before I dropped a pretty penny trying to create a fun environment for them. I would have gotten bigger litter boxes or just filled my entire room with litter – oh wait, that’s already happened – had I known that they would enjoy what happens in the litter box so very much.

Every time I go into the room, the kittens are doing their darnedest to turn my room into a raw sewage dumping ground. Their toys sit sadly in dark corners, untouched save for some half-hearted pawing all the while the kittens thinking to themselves: I wish this was poop. 

This is what happens: they paw around balls of poo in the litter box until they successfully get a piece of it out. Then, they proceed to play table hockey amongst themselves using the poop as the puck.  I’m lucky if the poop is covered in cat litter. God forbid if it’s not and they step in it… they sprint away from me and track their feces to places unreachable by humans thus forever leaving their excrement as eternal monuments. The only positive aspect of this poop-flinging is that it forces me to constantly vacuum and clean. My room alternates between being a toxic waste site and being spotless.

I have taken to sleeping on the couch because I found it hard to sleep with kittens running across my face at 3am. Aw, cute little kittens with their cute little paws running across you! No, you are mistaken. I know where those paws have been: in and around their own poop. Mostly IN.

As for the mama cat, Ginger Rogers, I had the misfortune of catching her out of her favorite hidey-hole under my bed. She looked at me with murder in her eyes and hissed her meanest hiss. She’s missing a few teeth so the effect is sort of a lisp-y hiss and is slightly less intimidating than a regular hiss. I think she might be hating me less because instead of hissing for thirty seconds while spitting, she only hissed for fifteen seconds while slowly retreating under the bed. I’ll take it!!!

- Daughter

75 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Humor

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05

Mar

My Yoga Teacher is a Cannibal

It’s the only explanation for the words she chose to use during yoga class.

Everything was going great at first, the yoga studio was dark and lit with flickering candles. There was so much zen and namaste up in my third eye I had to use eye drops to get some of it out so that I could see. (?) I’m fairly sure there was Buddhist monk chanting which made me feel holy and special inside. But then, the teacher ruined it.

“Okay, now make sure that you’re opening your right hip; feel how juicy it gets, just get it juicy.”

I definitely misheard that… did she just say that my hip should feel juicy? 

“Now we are going into Crouching Eagle Pose.”

*awkwardly bend into a human knot and fall over, pretend I did it on purpose and reach for water bottle*

“Everybody is doing great… Let’s take a few breaths. Breeeeeeeeeeathe in Peace… Breeeeeeeeeeeeathe out Joy… Inhaaaaaaaale Truth… Exhaaaaaaaaale Identity… Truuuuuuuth is your Identity… Let Identity be your Truuuuuuth.”

What is happening? I feel weird. There are too many weird feelings. I don’t want to be here. This is weird. 

“Now raise your hands to the sky… if it feels right. Honor yooooour Body… Honor yooooour Truth… Honor yooooour Identity.”

I’m fairly crunchy, hippie granola-y but this is crazy. I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. Lady, I don’t want to join in on your pagan rituals, just show me how to do this pose. I’m good with just focusing on breathing in oxygen. 

“Sit deeper in this position, your thighs should be feeling really juicy right now.”

I swear, the next thing she says is going to be, “Now, take out your bottle of A1 Steak Sauce and slowly shower yourself in it. Then stand over one of those candles and roast yourself. Make sure that you feel juicy.” 

Maybe I am immature. (Okay, I am.) But this yoga class was just too much for me.

I kinda feel like a steak though…

- Daughter

 

 

81 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Humor

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18

Feb

How to Recover from Embarrassment

First of all, recovery from embarrassment is impossible. You will live with the shadow of shame following you through every triumph and every defeat. In fact, embarrassment and shame will be your only companions as you slowly walk toward your death.

But, never fear! There are ways to cope.

I shall start by digging through the dumpster of my memories to scrounge up one of the most embarrassing things I have ever done, lest the fresh embarrassment from this past weekend not be enough self-inflicted torture. What happened this past weekend? That will forever remain a mystery. (‘Forever’ = until enough time passes so that the story becomes funny instead of just cringe-inducing.)

Happily, I have an embarrassing story that has been aging like a fine wine. It has been stewing for years in my memory and now, we can all chow down on this hearty… stew… of hilarious wonders. It is embarrassing but I no longer feel a desperate urge to spontaneously combust when I tell it. I’ll set the scene for you: I was a young child, but 18 years of this world. I could parrot back monologues from Hamlet, sure, but real life skills were lacking. Public transportation was totally inaccessible to me intellectually, truly an enigma. An enigma that almost took my arm off.

I was on my way home and had to take the train to the airport. I wrote down the train schedule four times. I got to the train hours earlier than I needed to. I got to the right platform, HURRAH!!! I silently congratulated myself. I was almost a real person.

Then, a train came and the conductor yelled something but I didn’t hear or try to listen in my excitement. I jumped on the train, only to have the door immediately shut on my arm, from which I could not extricate myself. My body was inside the car but my arm, still clutching my suitcase, was hopelessly flailing on the other side of the door. At this point, I panic. I do a crazy dance trying to will myself to become something – anything - else besides the flesh and bone trapped between the train doors.

Now, this particular performance would not be so spectacular if it weren’t for the fact that the platform was overflowing with people whose attention I held captive with my antics. The conductor eventually figured out what was going on and opened the doors at which point he told me loudly, “I SAID THIS WAS THE LAST STOP, NO PASSENGERS!”

I hurried off, my imaginary tail between my legs. The crowd of witnesses just stared in shock at the stupidity that had occurred before them. I actually overheard another passenger say, “I would feel bad… but she’s just sooo stupid.” Ah, that stung. Thank you, kind stranger!! You are truly a god among men. 

Yes, I almost died because I was so anxiety-ridden I became deaf. I almost lost my arm, guys. TO A TRAIN.

———

Here are my tips for dealing with embarrassment:

1) Become a Hermit: Who needs people? All they do is make you feel embarrassed and ashamed. Unacceptable.

2) Cry: A real cry. A hurricane of tears that no emergency response team can even fathom cleaning up.

3) Fetal Position: Attempt the fetal position and stay like that for three days, preferably in a closet à la Harry Potter.

4) Just Stop: Don’t do the embarrassing thing ever again.

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Feel free to share your embarrassing stories in the comments to make me feel better about myself!

- Daughter

96 days ago Short URL Comments

Anxiety/College/Embarrassing Stories/Fail/Humor/Laugh at My Expense

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13

Feb

Brownies from Hell

Sums up my type of cooking.

Sums up my type of cooking.

Brownies are supposed to be a combination of everything that is good and sacred in this world. Second to the Pope, the Brownie is revered across cultures as a spiritual leader. I’m not sure why my roommate and I were messing with perfection.

We attempted to make “healthy” brownies. Worst idea we have ever had.

First, we made two trips to the grocery store and then scoured the internet for a few hours to find a suitable recipe that met our qualifications. After an informal group interview, we narrowed down the recipes to the most delicious-sounding. And in the final interview round, the brownie recipe that ended up with the job was especially appetizing. He sounded great on paper. Unfortunately, he wasn’t right for the position and we had to terminate him after his first day for being repulsive.

After a suspiciously short time in the oven, the brownies came out and smelled delicious. We didn’t even wait until they had cooled, we just  shoved them down our indiscriminate gullets like hungry pelicans. Unfortunately, they were the worst things in the entire world. I started chewing and my face lit up with the enthusiasm only baked goods can inspire. Then, my face slowly dropped into a grimace as the sensory data from my tongue went to my brain where it proceeded to freak out from utter disgust and revulsion. Despite the initial horrible taste, I wanted to be an Equal Opportunity Brownie Employer and gave it another chance. If it is possible, it tasted even worse the second time. My roommate and I had built up so many expectations for brownie greatness and then this atrocity showed up instead. We just couldn’t take it.

We laughed to keep from crying. It was honestly one of the most disappointing things that have happened to me in recent times. Probably means I’m a spoiled, privileged brat… maybe. But it mostly means I suffered severe disappointment in the form of crushed brownie dreams.

I have a fever and the only prescription is brownies that taste like brownies and not like something that came out of the butt of a dog.

- Daughter

101 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Fail/Humor

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11

Feb

The Rainbow Fish was a Confederate

WordPress just up and died on me. I can’t access the main site so I have to use my phone to update today. I apologize for the brevity of the post and will serenade you with my regular ramblings tomorrow when WordPress rises like the Lazarus of the Internet.

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Today, I wrote over one thousand words about The Rainbow Fish picture book by Marcus Pfister. You know, the one with the fish with the shiny scales and a bad attitude.

I mention this only because I ended the paper with the most bizarre sentence ever that included the words: “each fish is entitled to its own share of sparkle.” I’m practically Mark Twain. Ok, it makes more sense within the context of the paper but still, what the what?! The only way I could have ended it better is if I just used various emoticons in place of words… :) :/ :( :?

It seems my blog writing habits are in the midst of a coup to wrest power from my academic writing habits who have held my authorial voice hostage for decades. It’s a civil war. And it will be a bloody, ruthless fight. Parody and humor are hacking away at academic seriousness like an ax to a tree.

I hope they can reach an armistice and just agree that we are all entitled to our own share of sparkle regardless of our relation to the Mason-Dixon Line.

- Daughter

103 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Fail/Humor

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29

Jan

The First Day of Exercise After a Period of Slobbery

I used to be a college athlete. How far from the throne I have fallen. Just walking up the two flights of stairs to my apartment is how I imagine a husky feels during the Iditarod. Standing for longer than ten minutes is just asking to pull a hammie.  If that doesn’t give you a comprehensive picture of the role of exercise in my life, you should really step back from this blog and take some time to think about your life. Because you haz the dumb.

Exercise is a rare activity that happens in my life because I’m more worried about graduating college than ellipticaling my way into the 6-pack club. Furthermore, my one-pack is perfectly suited to my needs at the moment and – bonus – it’s aesthetically pleasing according to the Renaissance standards of beauty (which I adhere to). My one-pack also happens to be academically necessary; I saw it on the syllabus for my Buddhism class between “post discussion questions to the course website on Wednesdays” and “achieve enlightenment”. Obviously, the professor understands that the best way to learn is through a hands-on approach requiring students to grow a Buddha Belly. The first step in this long journey toward the Middle Way one-pack/BellyofBuddha is to not have a six-pack. I’m already there!! *high-fives Buddha* To comprehend this religion, I must first be the Buddha. *Eats donut… mindfully*

I haz nirvana. I no haz samsara.

I haz nirvana. I no haz samsara.

Despite my steadfast dedication to Buddhahood, there are obstacles in my way. Like friends. Specifically, friends who encourage me to exercise. I was cajoled into a spinning class by such a creature. But this wasn’t any normal spinning class, this was a CLUB/SPIN CLASS. The instructor turned off the lights and put on some black lights. I guess so you can’t stare at the other spinners but that defeats the point, how do you know who’s winning?? Sure, I want to have a good time, but I also want to make sure I am better than most people there. How else will I feel good about myself?

Because I haven’t exercised for a while, I was on the verge of nausea most of the time and part of me thought this must be what dying feels like. About halfway through, when the instructor said to turn the resistance on the bike up, I turned it down. And kept doing so until I got the point where air was essentially pushing the pedals. The lights were off but I still tried to look like I was really struggling. I’m a very dedicated method actor.

Finally, the spinning part of the class was over, but the hell wasn’t. Core training was next. I am usually impressed by myself during core exercises because I don’t totally suck at them. Maybe it’s leftover strength from my old glory days as an athlete with a fully-functioning body. Anyway, I wasn’t particularly concerned about this part of the class.

My hubris would be punished.

I tried, I really did. But sooner or later, my mind would yell, “KEEP GOING! KEEP GOING!” and my abs would whisper solemnly, “No,” whereupon I would flop LOUDLY onto my mat. This happened an immeasurable number of times. The teacher, whose muscles appeared as if they were struggling to free themselves from the confines of her body, always looked in my direction at the unexpected thump. And seeing my crumpled pile of limbs, I think she felt pity and chose not to laugh.

I struggled and struggled and variously flopped onto my stomach and back like a dead/dying fish. I was an unsightly walrus in a sea of lithe, graceful dolphins. But also a dead/dying fish, don’t forget that either.

Me.

Me.

Me.

Me.

My abs still hurt and my dignity… well, there’s none of that left anyway so, no matter.

- Daughter

116 days ago Short URL 3 Comments

College/Embarrassing Stories/Fail/Humor/Laugh at My Expense

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27

Jan

Unintentional Bar Fight(s)

To celebrate my first weekend back at school, I did that thing people do where they go out to socialize (?). The first bar we went to was where I imagine the guys from Duck Dynasty patronize after a long day of making duck calls and using a grammatically-incorrect bastardization of the English language. Plastic cups, darts, questionable detritus on the floor – it had everything a suburban hillbilly could ever dream of… and more. Oh, so much more.

Antlers seemed to be the main decorative element in the bar with beautiful taxidermied animals serving as accents to liven up the space. (GET IT?!!!!!!) There’s nothing I’d rather stare at than the eyes of a cute boy dead raccoon that appeared to be in the throes of a rabies-induced manic episode when it died. It was truly the stuff of nightmares. (GET IT?!!!!!!) Or maybe the taxidermist artist just took certain creative liberties with this particular dead animal – maybe he imagined himself as some sort of Picasso of the taxidermy world.

Besides looking into the glass-filled eye sockets of forest creatures scattered here and there (think the lobby at the Bates Motel in Pyscho), there was an – err – “older” crowd. Regardless, we had fun but soon left for less grey pastures (no offense, y’all).

The second bar we went to was unbelievably crowded. We got in and immediately multiple bodies of varying intoxicated states were slammed up against us. That’s how EVERY bar is, you say. NO. It was worse. It was like Southerners at a butter festival. So. Many. People. I felt like I should have donned a swimsuit and goggles and done a nice, relaxed breaststroke through the crowd. I tried to be polite and say “excuse me” while I made my way through the crowd but I was largely ignored and steamrolled by plaid-wearing LAX bros. (Translation for Dad: jockish, not-so-smart, “manly” guys who play lacrosse or wish they did.)

When we had shoved and pushed our way to the bar, a guy happened to be there (WHA?!) so I briefly exchanged witticisms with him and made fun of his sweater. He was wearing a Mr. Roger’s sweater. I can’t listen to someone’s intelligent conversation when the theme song of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood is playing in my head the entire time: would you be my neighbor? It sounds funny but it’s not. It’s very distracting.

At one point, my friends and I had acquired our own bubble of personal space – a rare treat – and we were enjoying ourselves when suddenly, a disembodied hand entered the circle and broke the revery. It started swooping into a hug-like gesture but I was not the target, it was the girl behind me. I literally limboed underneath the hand/forearm and escaped an awkward hug-bombing moment. To add insult to injury, the body attached to the intrusive hand was falling on top of me after this incident so I gave this poor-excuse-for-a-bipedal a few reassuring pats on the back and said, “JUST SO YOU KNOW, THERE IS A PERSON RIGHT BEHIND YOU. JUST FYI. DON’T WORRY IF YOU FALL ON ME AND SLOWLY BREAK ALL OF MY RIBS. NO BIG DEAL.”

Because I got an elbow to the head, body-slammed, and otherwise completely thrown around like a rag doll, I like to believe my experience at this bar counts as a bar fight. Unfortunately, I lost. I lost a lot. Except when I got a surprise a hug from a stranger because… *SPIN MOVE* I got out of there before he even noticed. I may not have bulk, but I have speed and the agility of a rabid raccoon.

And that’s about it. I’m glad insulting bar patrons is now officially a coast-to-coast tradition. Nobody will escape. Nobody.

- Daughter

118 days ago Short URL 2 Comments

College/Fail/Humor

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20

Jan

Smoked Bacon: Not the Good Kind

Looks like another freshman tried to make popcorn.

Looks like another freshman tried to make popcorn.

This semester, I am living in a big-girl apartment instead of slumming it in the dorms at college. I am too good for dorms and can’t ruin my reputation running around with the wrong sort of people who choose to call these heathen-holes “home”. To be fair, the dorms are actually quite nice. They were built in the something-or-other century and have lovely architectural design (read: fancy pants) that will make you unconsciously raise your pinkie finger and start wearing a monocle.  But they’re still dorms. And as such, they have major drawbacks. For example, you have to be ready at all times for errant freshmen who wander across your path and have yet to develop social skills resulting in awkward small-talk while you microwave your oatmeal when really, that situation calls for an in-depth analysis of the sociology of breakfast foods in America. Obviously.

Sometimes, a cat – illegally kept in the dorm by an aspiring-future-cat-lady student – will escape from its enclave and make a beeline for your open door and straight to the bathroom where it will hop in the bathtub and look up at you expectantly (this happened).

You also are constantly subjected to idiocy: that of yours and that of others. Figure 1: fire alarms. Every year I have lived in the dorms, some person has set a bag of popcorn on fire. IT’S A BAG OF KERNELS THAT YOU PUT IN THE MICROWAVE FOR THREE MINUTES, HOW DO YOU MESS THAT UP?? Best get a refund from the college because you have learned NOTHING important. And, to compound matters, this person (let’s be real, it’s always a freshman) has to be a popcorn pyromaniac during the wee hours of the morning. So, the entire dorm has to evacuate with their fuzzy slippers on and unironically clutching stuffed animals, looking like disheveled hobbits after a trip to Mordor (and back).

Embarrassingly, I have also set off the dorm fire alarm. I was cooking bacon in my room despite the rule against cooking and electric burners in the dorm. (NOBODY SEPARATES ME FROM MY BACON.) After successfully sizzling up some pig bits, I noticed that there were a few stray pieces of bacon burnt on the bottom of the pan. No problem, I will simply pour ice-cold water into this saucepan which has hot oil and burning pork morsels in it, thus, no cooked-on bacon… GENIUS!! 

Well, I idiotically poured the water into the saucepan filled with flaming pig remains (sidenote: way less appetizing describing it that way rather than just calling it, ‘bacon’), and a huge plume of smoke immediately filled the room. I felt like I was standing in the shadow of the volcanic cloud of ash and debris from Mt. Vesuvius, it was that serious. The fire alarm went off and panic seized me. My first instinct was to hide the evidence from my illegal cooking activities (I stashed the still-burning-hot saucepan in the bathroom with the perfume of acrid smoke wafting out. They’ll never check here! And then I opened my window and did what can only be described as a panicked frolicking as I tried to herd, coax, and force the smoke to make its way out through the window instead of loitering around like teenagers outside of a pharmacy (that’s still a thing, right?). By some miracle, the fire alarm turned off and I breathed a sigh of relief – probably inhaling some smoke while doing so. But yes, I was an idiot.  I haven’t eaten bacon to this day…

Just kidding. Give me bacon, or give m- no, just give me the bacon.

- Daughter

125 days ago Short URL 5 Comments

College/Fail/Humor

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03

Jan

I’m a Pathological Liar and a Party-Narcoleptic

It is tiring being witty. Each day is measured in witticisms, not hours, in snappy comebacks, not minutes, and in pointed insults, not seconds. My mind is a finely-tuned machine with a factory assembly line ready to churn out wit and give the world the fluttering, ephemeral – yet, also eternal – gift that keeps on giving: my humility humor. As you might imagine, my brain is exhausted most of the time. Because of this fatigue, sometimes I get lazy. I have certain coping mechanisms to make up for this and one of them is lying.

These costumes make me fatigued. Bring me my smelling salts!

“These costumes make me fatigued. Bring me my smelling salts!”

I don’t know when I started doing this (from birth, on) and I’m not sure why (because I’m lazy like I just said?) but if I’m in a party situation and people expect humor out of me, I lie as a substitute. For example, this New Year’s Eve, I went to a kickback with people I sorta/kinda knew from ye olde high schoole. During my various conversations, I lied about my name, about which high school I went to, and about my identity in general.

Even when my friends called me by my actual name or when I responded to my name and people had their “aha” moment as they realized the truth, I still firmly denied this labeling. Some humored me and asked what my name was and I said I didn’t have one; I was just a nameless girl with a bad attitude and even worse jokes. I don’t think anybody at this party was amused by my contrived anonymity, but I certainly was, and that’s all that matters these days.

Interestingly, it is a favorite past-time of mine to christen people with new names that I become deeply committed to as I truly believe these new monikers capture their essence. I’m not sure what my desired anonymity or my obsession with re-naming others means, and frankly, that is some Freudian-level psychosis I refuse to touch right now.

Back to the story: somebody had the grand idea of leaving the back door open at this party so I began to go through the first stages of hypothermia. Old Man Winter (not my dad) crept in as an uninvited, unwelcome house guest. I was shaking like a chihuahua and I probably looked like one too at this point in the night.

I wish I had a sick coat like that at the party.

I wish I had a sick coat like that at the party.

A very nice person who I christened Gorton (because he looked like the Gorton’s Fisherman fish sticks guy to me) gave me his scarf and I decided to tie it around my face so I could be a Russian babushka.

This guy.

This guy.

Me!

Me!

Besides lying and using people’s garments/names for my own entertainment, I also attempted to take a nap at this party. Part of this was probably because I had a glass of wine or two or three but I was also genuinely tuckered out from a full day of work. Now, this wouldn’t be nearly so funny if it hadn’t also napped in the middle of a NYE party last year. Except last year, I was sitting on a couch literally falling asleep around people talking loudly and music blaring… you know, how parties usually are. I am a party-narcoleptic. This year, I decided that falling asleep in the middle of everyone and everything was sooo last year so I bided my time until I could make my escape unnoticed and sleep in peace. I walked into another room and laid down on the couch… stealthily. Somehow, a few people spotted me during my ninja exit and followed me to make sure I was okay. (+1 for being good humans!) I’m pretty sure I grumpily responded that I was just tired (because I was, yo). Then, I tried to sleep amid protests that I was shaming the good name of youth.

Party-narcolepsy, it’s a serious pro- *falls asleep*.

- Daughter

142 days ago Short URL 2 Comments

Fail/Laugh at My Expense/Social Dysfunction

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28

Dec

I Only Drink Fancy Water or, I Drink Therefore I Am

It’s true. I’m too good for tap water, even filtered water has that lower-class aftertaste I so despise. “Fancy water” is a catch-all I use to classify any bottled water that has more than three ingredients on the label other than “water”. Why fancy water? It just makes me feel better and encourages me to make fancier choices throughout the day.

Fancy.

A beverage infused with the sweat of the gods of Mount Olympus!

I should paint my nails… with a gold-leaf overlay and a miniature replica of the Sistine Chapel ceiling on each nail.

I’m ready for a snack… of pickled shark fat cubes with truffle oil. Mm, shark fat. (Rich people totally eat that. (?))

I really need to work out… how I’m going to fit all of these golden rings on my fingers. 

I should make a collage from all of these recycled magazines… so my menservants will have Christmas presents. (Side note: I had to actually look up the plural of “manservant”… #pretendrichpeopleproblems) 

But let’s get real for a second: I know I’m a poor college student. It’s nothing to be ashamed of; nay, there is dignity in the way I refuse social outings in exchange for re-counting the change jingling around in the bottom of my purse (I call it the national anthem of poor people). However, that doesn’t stop me from pretending I was born into great wealth from time to time. Hence, the buying of fancy water.

I will never go back to Poor People Ale aka “water”. Where are the bubbles? Where are the herbal infusions? Where is the label that says, “collected spittle of the Queen of England”? Nowhere to be found and therefore, impotable.

Mmmmm.

Three angels died from dehydration to make this. They donated too many tears.

Also, just so you know, the founder of this particular company (“Dr. Ayala”) has four job descriptions: Pediatrician, Artist, Innovative Cook, and Founder. I kind of want to meet this guy because I imagine he is some sort of Mary Poppins of Beverages. Makes me thirsty just thinking about it.

My marketing campaign pitch for fancy water beverages: “ORGANIC WATER. It’s expensive, yes, but those student loans don’t need to be repaid quite yet.”

- Daughter

148 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

Embarrassing Stories/Fail/Humor

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30

Nov

The Unpublishable Piece I Wrote For My Internship

Me being serious.

Me being serious.

I have to do a bit of writing here and there for my internship. Sometimes, my ability to write is complicated by my utter lack of lucidity in the mornings. Mostly because I can never stop looking at cat pictures the night before. In the fog of sleep-deprived delirium, I believe – nay, AM – a comic genius who can turn anything into a humorous masterpiece. Homelessness rate up? I can probably work in a #nohobo joke. West Nile Virus threat? Kanye West seems a fitting punchline somewhere. Earthquake fears? No, it’s just yo’ mama taking a walk.

Anyway, during one particular morning, I had around 3 hours of sleep and 4 cups of coffee. The combination of caffeine and sleeplessness created a monster who refused to write about anything in a serious manner. I was shaking. Was it from the caffeine? Or were the very fibers of my being trembling with laughter?

My task that day was to write a little post about a housing competition. Simple enough for a sane, well-rested person, someone I was not at that moment. I did try at first but the blank page before me became too much, I gave up and unchained the crazy. Brilliance ensued: why not anthropomorphize the houses? Why can’t the housing competition be presented as a Bachelor-style dating show? Sure, I thought, that’d be hilarious. 

Here it is in full:

Bored of your own house and daydream about finding the One? Look no further. Three finalists from the San Diego area are competing for your vote (and affections) in Redfin’s Iconic Homes of America Competition.

Bachelor #1: 10292 Wateridge Circle. He enjoys watching the sunset each evening with a glass of red wine sangria. His ideal mate loves Real Housewives of Miami and rollerblading. Located in Sorrento Valley, this split-level home features beautiful Spanish architecture complete with palm trees.

Bachelor #2: 7310 Vista Del Mar Avenue. Long walks on the beach and playing ultimate Frisbee fill his leisure hours when he isn’t working his day job as an investment banker. It’s the second largest residence on the La Jolla coast and possibly the coolest. Private beach access and ocean views are framed by impressive Mediterranean architecture.

Bachelor #3: 816 San Rafael Place. His favorite activity is dancing to smooth jazz under the moonlight. He hopes his next romantic partner will share his love of waffles. This four-story house is located in Mission Beach and has 360-degree views of the coastline from the rooftop deck, a true Californian residence.

Voting is open from October 26 to November 2. Vote for your favorite on Redfin’s Homes of America page on Facebook. Who will get the final rose? On November 5, America will find out.

My supervisors told me it was “cute” which in editorial terms means that it will never see anything but the bottom of a trashcan.

- Daughter

176 days ago Short URL 3 Comments

Fail

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21

Nov

grumpy faces

Yesterday, I had a piece of cake but the icing stuck to the top of the container so when I took it off, all of the icing completely separated from the cake. It was also the most disgusting cake I have ever had the misfortune of eating. It tasted like what death must feel like.

In other news, I have an uncanny resemblance to Grumpy Cat.

- Daughter

186 days ago Short URL 2 Comments

Fail/Laugh at My Expense

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