Debacles and Other Hilarious Misfortunes

VOmit5

2011-09-20T20:55:00.000-07:00

I've fallen off the bandwagon in recent months - mea culpa! I've become a homeowner (woo!) of a major fixer-upper, and it's been a wee bit time consuming. So, without further ado, my latest post!

The subject of this next debacle just may murder me for writing this, so to protect her identity, I will call her Risa. The rovely Risa.

Risa was a college bud of mine, and the summer before our senior year, we decided to move down to Southampton with my roomie Megan and have a wild a crazy time and make a million dollars. The three of us, along with another friend, moved into a one bedroom basement "apartment" in North Sea - it was a bedroom, a living room, and a bathroom. Kitchen was upstairs and was shared with the landlord and his girlfriend. Yes, you read that right. Four people. One bedroom. Risa and I shared a corner of the living room and taped sheets to the ceiling for privacy. Living like rock stars.

We all worked about eleventybillion jobs in order to try to pay our rent ($500 a month EACH), and we barely saw each other. I worked as a bartender for half a second (quit after my boss forced me to be a shot girl one evening - can you even imagine? worst.shotgirl.ever), I waitressed, I hostess(ed?), and I worked for a catering company. But when we weren't working, we partied hard (as you do). One weekend our landlord thought Risa and her friends partied a little too hard, and kicked her out. Which is highly amusing, because she is the nicest damned person on the planet.

So when our summer finally wrapped up, I offered to drive Megan and Risa back to Binghamton. I had that lovely minivan of death and had plenty of room. I told Risa I'd drive to pick her up at her place, after packing up Megan and my stuff. No probs Bob! I had to work that last day, so I planned on hitting the road around 7.

Now, after moving out, the Rovely Risa took a liking to a fine local establishment called the Boardy Barn. The Boardy Barn is the classy kind of place that sprays beer out of kegs all over everyone and things like this

happen. On the Sunday we're meant to be driving home, I get a call from Risa, who explains to me that she'll be stopping by the Boardy Barn to say goodbye to some friends before I pick her up. Now, the Board Barn is NOT some place you just casually drop by. It's a place you get sucked into and before you know it, its midnight and you're on the drunk train back to Manhattan. Risa assures me that all will be well. I cross my fingers.

Megan and I pack up our things - the middle seat of the minivan had been removed, and we jammed that vehicle full floor to ceiling. We eeked out the tiniest space for Risa's butt and one suitcase. We go to pick her up. I see her teetering in the driveway.

Ohhhhh, christ.

Risa is in an exuberant mood, but is most definitely not in any shape for a five hour drive. But whaddaya gonna do? We pack her in the back seat and hit the road. We can't see Risa for all of the stuff we have packed in the van, so we just shout to her occasionally.

Hey Risa! Everything ok back there?

Yeah guys! It's allllllll good!

Hey Risa! You still with us?

Yeeeeeeeeeeah.

Hey Risa!

..............

Yo Risa!!

.............

We decide it's probably time to pull over and check on our nonresponsive friend. I pull into a gas station, and discover Risa passed out against the window. I open the van door to see if I can rouse her, and I notice that her suitcase has been ripped open and all her things are strewn about everywhere. And then I see that she is holding something. A VO5 shampoo bottle. Filled with vomit.

That blessedly skilled ralpher managed to 1.) be aware she was about to be sick 2.) say hang on a second, body. You really can't be sick just now. Give me a moment. I just need to grab....ok, no, it's not there. Umm, two seconds, ok? No, not there either. Ok, seriously body - I just need to find some kind of vessel would you hold your horses. Oh yay my shampoo bottle RALLLLLLLLLPH!!! 3.) and then she actually managed to screw the top of the shampoo bottle back on. Now, I don't know about you, but whenever I get sick (which never happens anymore because I'm a responsible home-owning adult!), just about all I can manage to do is cry out feeble pleas to the tequila gods to be gentle. This Risa is a dedicated, responsible, calculating ralpher.

As Megan and I stood in the gas station staring at Risa in awe, bemusement, and just a teeny tiny shade of disgust, she roused for a moment, shook her VO5 bottle of vom at us and said

I told you guys! It's allllll good!

A Horrifying Tale of Tape and Birder

2011-06-29T22:28:00.000-07:00

I've been having some minor car trouble lately (minor as in, my radiator is leaking like a sieve and I have to stop every few miles to pour a gallon of water into it lest I expire in a burst of flames) and after contemplating what a most hilarious blog post the inevitable death of my car will make, I realized I already had quite a doozy. So I apologize for not sharing it with you sooner.

I was on summer break from college, and I decided to take a road trip from Syracuse to visit a highschool bud whose family had moved to Princeton after we graduated. Easy drive - only about four and a half hours, and all on highways. No problemo. Or, it wouldn't have been, had my family's propensity for debacles not also extended to our car purchases.

My dad isn't necessarily a patriotic man, but for some reason, when it comes to buying cars - he always buys 'Merican. Ford, specifically. Now, I have nothing against Ford, per se. Other than the fact that the god damn cars just don't seem to know when to quit.

My first set of wheels was a sexy hand-me-down Ford station wagon. Widest ass on the planet, with wood paneling along the side to boot. It was a hit among my friends in highschool, who enjoyed sliding across the fake leather bench seat in the front, or sitting in the midget seat in the trunk to more easily make faces at our less fortunate counterparts who actually had to walk to school.

That beautiful beast embarrassed the crap out of me, and lasted, unfortunately, throughout my highschool days.

But to add to the awesome factor while we owned the station wagon, my dad moved on to what is known in the family as the Mercury Villager era (an era that extends to this very day). In 1996, it was time to get a new set of wheels, and hot damn - if my dad was going to buy Ford (Mercury is the same thing), I wanted him to buy a Mercury Cougar. Sexy kind of? In retrospect, the car is pretty dumb - and also, this was before the rise of the more popular use of the word Cougar - and I'm glad my parents didn't get it. But it was a sporty car and I wanted them to get it so bad. But instead, we wound up with a mother effing minivan. Hot shit.

Long story short, after the wagon died, my dad wound up owning two of the same minivans - one in green, one in blue. Not cute. But dad was convinced of the sturdiness and reliability of these vehicles - even when the automatic windows stopped working, and it could no longer drive in reverse - I'll be damned. The thing could still drive forward!

So this is how I found myself hurtling down the highway towards Princeton, NJ, in my sexy ass minivan. Of course the AC in the car didn't work, but fortunately this was before the windows stopped rolling down in this particular vehicle (that would come approximately 87 years later in the life of this car), so I had the windows down and the radio blasting (it DID have a pretty sweet tape deck too). Life was good.

As I'm making my way to my friend's house, I notice some storm clouds forming in the distance in my rear-view mirror. No worries, I'm only about an hour from my destination, so I won't have to battle the elements for too long.

But as I'm keeping my eye on the storm, something else catches my attention in the mirror.

What's that? Doesn't that window look a little different than normal? (These are the supercool back minivan windows that pop open like fish gills). I feel like......I can see.....more sky out the window than normal?? Is that even possible? It's a window?

But no, something is definitely weird about the window. And then I see it move.

Whaaaaat?

I quickly pull over onto the shoulder and slam on the breaks. I jump out of the car and run back to the window.....just in time for the entire two foot by two foot panel of glass to plop into my arms.

And then it begins to rain.

And I'm standing on the side of the highway, slack jawed, holding my car window like a very awkwardly shaped child.

Not really too much to think about then, other that What the shit dad why did you buy such a piece of crap car???? and put the window in the backseat and keep on driving.

I pull into my friends driveway, and he sees the big gaping hole in the side of the van. He looks at me, laughs, instantly comforted by the fact that yup - I haven't changed since the last time we saw each other.

Still a trainwreck.

We have a great weekend hanging out (what, you thought this story was over?? We haven't.even.started.), I'm sure I call my dad and berate him for putting his only daughter in such a death trap (I'm a real charmer!), and before I know it, it's time to head home.

In Bethlehem, PA, my tire explodes as I'm flying down the highway. I'm on the phone with my then-boyfriend, and I distinctly remember throwing my phone, grabbing the wheel with both hands, hurling many many many expletives, and somehow navigating the van from the left lane over to the shoulder on the right. When the van comes to a stop, adrenaline is pumping through my veins, my hands are shaking, and my knuckles are white. I then remember to breathe.

I call my boyfriend back, most likely in the shrillest voice ever imaginable

ohmygodthetireexplodedohmygodialmostdiedohmygodohmygodohmygod!!!!

When he calmed me down, I got out of the car, and only then did it dawn on me that I really had no freaking clue where I was - only that I was still a solid 3 hour drive from my parents.

ohmygodohmygodwhereamiohmygodohmygodiamgoingtodiehere!!!!

Boyfriend again attempts to calm me. As traffic is whizzing by, he tells me I just need to go put the donut on.

Just need to go put the donut on INDEED.

As if ANYONE ever pays attention to their parents when they show them how to change a tire??

As he talks me through how to get to the donut, I quickly realize that the donut, having not been used since the car was made in 1492, is completely rusted to the underside of the vehicle. And it is NOT coming off.

More ohmygods ensue.

After about ten more minutes of hysterics - finally - a man in white in shining armor pulls over to come to my rescue. Or rather, a knight in a giant white pickup truck (Ford, of course). I tell my boyfriend that someone has stopped to help me, and I get off the phone.

Out of the pickup pops a man's man. Jeans, white t-shirt, leather vest, mullet. Covered in tattoos. And body hair. Cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth.

The typical dialogue of what seems to be the problem, miss? ensues (or at least what I assume to be typical dialogue between a person who has a flat tire and the random stranger who stops to offer help).

He manages to get the donut loose, but of course - the thing (having not been used since 1492) is flat.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaail!

Not to worry, miss, there's a Wal-Mart not too far from here. We can getchu a tire there.

I was so desperate - so very, very desperate and clueless - that I actually thought that sounded like a swell idea. So I took him up on his offer to drive me to Wal-Mart (future Lita and the rest of humanity says are you kidding me???).

When I climb into the truck, I'm surprised to find I'm not the only passenger. There is a similarly leather-clad, chain smoking person already there - only this one I think is female.

Earl? What the hell is going on??

For the record, his name was not Earl, but I can't remember what it actually was, and it sounds appropriate, no?

You can see what's going on you stupid woman! This lil lady needs a new tire, and we're going to Wal-Mart to get her one! Now shut your god damn mouth!

And the doors slam shut.

Holy batshit crazy hell. What am I even doing here??

Earl and Irma (it's my story, I can call her what I want) proceed to chain smoke what I deemed to be a billion packs of cigarettes on the fifteen minute drive to Wal-Mart with all the windows rolled up, and by the time we arrive at Wal-Mart, I am gasping for air. But I am thankful I am actually at Wal-Mart, and not in a dumpster or buried in the woods somewhere.

It's the little things.

Earl, who is very confusingly horrible to his wife/fellow ill-advised leather enthusiast, is exceedingly nice to me, and takes me to the tire center and helps me get the right tire. I put the tire on my credit card, and we return to his truck, and to Irma.

I'm starvin'. Hows abouts you, girlie?

You're always starvin', Irma, ya stupid fat cow!

Ignoring Earl's abuse, I admit that I am, in fact, also starving, and we swing by a McDonald's drive through. I realize I have no cash, and Earl insists on paying. It's bananas. I don't think I've ever had a person be this nice to me before. Ever.

As I'm greedily snarfing down my french fries, listening to Irma and Earl fighting in the front seat, dropping the N-bomb and various other racial slurs along the way, I realize that we aren't driving back the way we came.

Ohhhhhkay. I'm sure there is nothing out of the ordinary here.

But, while I may be completely and utterly useless at automotive care, I am excellent when it comes to my sense of direction. And we were definitely NOT going back to my car.

Earl glances at me in the rear-view mirror, and seems to take note of the panic in my eyes.

Don't worry, darlin', we just need to swing back by home for a quick second. Have to feed the cats.

Ohhhhhhhhhhh no. Oh NO nononono. I know what "feed the cats" means in crazy country bumpkin talk. Youuuuuuuu mother effers fed me that McDonalds so I can get plump so you can boil me for dinner ok that's not a euphemism for "feed the cats" but I can't even contemplate what you are actually planning to do to meeeeeee oh wait yes I can and it rhymes with TAPE and BIRDER.

Meanwhile, I have definitely texted my boyfriend about the situation, but am unable to make a call for fear of offending Earl and Irma (their pride should probably NOT have been a top concern of mine at this point). But I punched 911 into my phone and was ready to dial.

We pull into Earl and Irma's driveway. Or should I say parking lot.

Because they live in a motel.

Arrrrrrrre you even kidding me?

They pop out, they don't pull a gun on me, and they wander into one of the motel rooms. I awkwardly follow them - but only to the doorway (because it's never too late to start exercising caution??). Their motel room/apartment is filled with action figure paraphernalia. And cats. Which they are feeding.

Well I'll be damned.

We return to the truck. We drive back to my van. Earl puts the tire on for me. As we say goodbye, there are tears in my eyes - of thanks and also of I am ALIVE!!!

When I got home, I managed to find Earl and Irma's address, and mailed them a gift certificate to Wal-Mart as a thank you. And then I bought a AAA membership - which comes with one free tow a year, and a money-back guarantee of not getting taped and birdered.

The Bidet of Death

2011-06-13T20:33:00.000-07:00

Ok. So maybe it wasn't that dramatic. But that bidet was pretty traumatizing.

I was out on a date at schmancypants Morimoto where Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto created the menu - very shishi and flash and NOT not the usual type of place I frequent (I'm more of a $10 burger kind of gal). But my date had recently gotten a bonus at work (by not being a Mexican drug runner) and we decided to splurge.

We eat a ridiculously decadent and wonderful meal - the decor of the place is awesome and we're totally enjoying being out of our element. At the end of the night, my date goes to the bathroom, and when he gets back, he tells me I just HAVE to go check out the bathrooms. Apparently there are infinity mirrors and a waterfall and.....I just have to go see it.

So I leave him paying the bill (winner!) and I head down to the loo. The sink area is cool, but nothing that crazy. I walk into one of the bathroom stalls and am immediately impressed by the fact that the door and the walls are floor to ceiling - none of that BS typical American-style bathroom where the doors only go as far down as your knees and there are inch wide gaps where people can actually see you through the door (wtf American bathroom designers get it together!!). Behind the toilet is an infinity mirror and I see myself and the toilet going on and on forever and I wonder who the crap wants to see this many toilets?? Not cool.

So whatever, I'm not that impressed. But while I'm there, I may as well take advantage of the facilities, and I pop a very ladylike squat (aaaand this blog is pretty much going to guarantee that I never go on another date again, but whatever - what's a little bathroom humiliation amongst friends??).

Ooooh, the seat's warm!

How lovely.

Then I notice, over to my left, a series of buttons.

Intriguing.

There aren't any words on the buttons, just pictures. And after a bottle of wine, I think Pushing this button is a brilliant idea! and I push one of the buttons.

I hear a whirring noise emanating from the toilet. I peer between my legs (oh yes boys - who wants to date me next??) and out pops this cute little stick thingy.

Intriguing?

HELLO! The thing starts spraying water. At first it's surprising/weird. And then it's.....nice.

I push another button, and the cute little stick thing (man I wish I knew the proper word for it - wand? that doesn't make it sound much better) starts to move and do all kinds of crazy things.

Oh my!

Meanwhile, my date has been sitting by himself after footing a very expensive bill for about ten minutes.

Ok, it's time to say goodbye, magic wand of wonder.

I look for the off button. You know, the big red button that turns things off. No such button.

Shit.

I push a button that looks like it could be the off button.

NOPE! Definitely NOT the off button!!!

I start to panic. I push buttons wildly. The magic wand of wonder/fear/horror starts moving around like a raving lunatic. Much like the woman sitting above it.

Aha! I think to myself. It must be motion activated!

I hesitantly stand up, and the stream of water gushes out of the toilet, through my legs, and begins to splash on the stall door. WHOMP I sit back down before I cause a flood.

I begin to perspire. I am completely sealed in this bathroom. I cannot tell if anyone else is around. If I try to escape, my clothes are going to be soaked with toilet water. But if I sit here, I may never be found! (Man, I wonder if those people you hear about with their butts adhered to their toilet seats were actually being attacked by a robo-bidet!!)

I reach for my phone. Do I call my date?? What do I say?? I'm trapped in the toilet?? It won't let me out of it's clutches?? Not to fret, there's no service in the bloody basement anyways.

Just as I'm about ready to let out a blood curdling GAHHHHHHHH in frustration, the magic wand of wonder/horror/fear/torture/abuse stops. Just like that.

I quickly pull up my pants and run screaming from the stall. Ok. Maybe I didn't do that. But I did remember to pull up my pants before quickly exiting the chamber of horrors (I'm all class!).

I finally return to my date after a 15 minute absence - breathless, sweaty, and bewildered after being ravished by a toilet. But something had changed. He somehow didn't look as attractive as he did when I left him at the table. I grabbed my coat, and my date called after me - Where are you going?

Errrm....I'll be back in fifteen minutes!

Sleep No More (or How I Lost My Friend and Found Some Peen)

2011-05-13T11:00:00.000-07:00

Spoiler alert – do NOT read this if you plan on going to see Sleep No More, as it reveals some of the good bits (no pun intended).

So a friend of mine asks me if I want to go see a play – it's MacBeth, but it's like a new version, and it's set in a fake hotel (the McKittrick) down in Chelsea. Sounds like fun!

Fast forward a month or so, and it's time to see the show! I haven't read any reviews, and really know nothing about the production. I arrange to meet my friend outside the venue, but I show up early and figure I'll stand in line until the show opens. But there's no line – they just usher me inside. Into a very dark room, with one lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Up ahead, I can see the outline of other people standing in line, so I follow. I check in, and receive my ticket, which is a playing card – the 7 of diamonds. I text my friend.

I am here! It's weird!

I'm ushered up some stairs. I ask someone if I'll be able to meet up with my friend – they tell me we can meet at the bar. The bar? Ok.

Darkness. There was a blonde girl in front of me at some point, but I've lost her. It's now pitch black. I feel for the wall. I guide myself along and occasionally come across a candle (which I steer clear of given my last blog post) that lights the way for a brief period . The candles disappear again. I walk into a wall. Brilliant.

I eventually emerge from this labyrinth into a lounge that's been decked out with a 1920s speakeasy vibe. Red velvet curtains on the walls, gin cocktails (that cost $14 – too bad they couldn't maintain the prohibition-era prices!), and someone crooning on stage. Occasionally, a dapper young man takes the stage and calls out numbers or suits, and asks those people to enter the hotel. Totally Twin-Peaksesque. I look at my card – being thankful that my friend and I bought tickets together as opposed to separately, as we would have wound up with different cards.

My friend arrives, and exclaims “That was well weird!” or something similarly British. She hears the guy calling out numbers.

What card do you have?

The seven of diamonds.

Her face falls.

I have the five of hearts!

Oh HELL no! I believe my exact response was. I am not going in there without you!

They call all sevens. Panic!

Ok, maybe if we go up there, we can explain that we're together, and they'll let us both in.

We merge into the sevens. A woman dressed in fine garb is handing out masks. White masks. With giant beaks on them. Like the exact ones from eyes wide shut.

Whaaaat thaaaaa faaaaack.

My friend and I exchange worried glances and, after realizing that no one is collecting the cards, decide to just try to fudge it and sneak in together.

We are ushered into a small room next to an elevator, and are given our instructions. No taking off our masks, no talking, no photos, and no cell phones. No problem.

We then get into the elevator. We're escorted by a handsome Irishman, who reiterates the rules, and then adds a wee suggestion.

The McKittrick Hotel is best experienced alone.

A give my friend a nudge, which she understands means

Aye feckin' right wee man.

The elevator stops and the doors open. The people at the front begin to exit, and I follow my friend. Except the bastard handsome bastard arsehole Irishman puts his arm up in front of me, and my friend is still walking down the hallway, not realizing I've been stopped. As the elevator doors begin to close I manage to squeak out “Chloe!!!!” and my friend turns around and all I can see are her wide eyes staring back at me through the mask in horror as the doors close completely.

As I stand there in an elevator full of strangers, having just cried out like a little child for their mother, the bastard handsome bastard arsehole Irishman smiles at me, and whispers

You'll be better off without her.

To which I respond in my head with Bastard ass jerk handsome idiot plan ruiner BAHHHH!!!

And then the elevator is moving. Up, down, I have no idea which. I try to get my bearings – must find Chloe! The doors open. I scoot out and immediately start looking for stairs. I think she is below me (wrong). I run into a stairwell, and whip out my phone – battery flashing red. FAAAACK. I start texting her, but an evil usher in a black Eyes Wide Shut mask sees me and shakes his finger at me. I run around another corner and manage to send out a text:

Bastards!

Which I then realize isn't very helpful, so I follow it up with

Find the stairwell, I'll wait for you at the bottom. They won't let me use my bloody phone!

No response.

As I stand there alone in the stairwell with my birdmask on, feeling like an absolute idiot, I realize that I am probably not in the only stairwell in the hotel. And I am probably not going to find my friend.

I didn't want to come to this thing by myself! I think. I bought a ticket with a friend for a reason! For a shared experience! You bastard handsome bastard arsehole Irishman!

And after about ten minutes I realize - hey, I paid for the ticket, and I'm here, so I might as well go see what this whole this is about.

I venture into the hotel, which is the most insanely well designed and intricate set I've ever see – a hotel lobby with bell boys, offices with stacks of letters you can pour over, a taxidermy shop (its not just a hotel), a candy store (where you can actually eat the candy! But I didn't! Because I was scared the evil ushers would yell at me).

For the first twenty minutes or so, I keep checking my phone, hoping that my friend had texted, but no joy. Eventually, I kind of forget about her as there is so much to explore. And characters start swooping through the rooms and I catch the drift and start following them around, watching different vignettes unfold.

The place is absolutely cavernous (eventually I figure out there are five different floors and each floor is massive - 90 rooms in total!), and I witness a kind of tango dance, a murder, fights and a bunch of makeout sessions. It's all made more surreal by the fact that there are hundreds of other anonymous people in masks like mine, which hide your mouths making it very difficult to speak, so everyone is roaming around in silence. I try to look out for my friend but I am mostly lost in the experience.

I am starting to feel things culminate – there is more strife is the characters' movements, more anger and angst. The characters are all silent as well, but you can tell that they are screaming at each other. My fellow visitors are also feeling the same way, and when a character leaves the room, there is a bum rush of people following them to find out what's going to happen next.

And then drum and bass music starts blasting through the building. I find myself in a long hallway, and the music is getting louder. A character brushes past me, and I hurry up to follow him – feeling much like Alice heading down the rabbit hole. He opens a door and flashing light pulsates out of the room along with this incredibly strong music. I rush inside and there it is. Peen.

I'm in a room with maybe 80 other onlookers, strobe lights are flashing, drum and base is beating, and in the center of the room is a naked man covered in blood wearing the head of a deer. Dancing. There is another man, shirtless but unexposed peen, also covered in blood. There are two women, one with a shaved head, both with bared breasts. Dancing. Oh, and there is a bloody fake baby (dead? Alive? No idea).

Whaaaaaat. The. Faaaack.

It's hard to see, but I look around me – there are some older people (like white hair older people), there are college kids, there is everybody – and I just look at them thinking THIS IS THE CRAZIEST THING EVER IN THE UNIVERSE! I can only relate it to the sensation I felt skydiving – complete sensory overload where your brain just cannot compute what is going on around you.

But then the dancing starts to get crazier. And arms start to flail. And the blood starts to splatter. And I'm not ashamed to admit that my legit thought during this deeply crazy and sensual moment is

Listen MacBeth (at least I think you're MacBeth), if you get any feckin fake blood on my white shirt I am gonna be piiiiiissed! As I inch myself away from him.

And then the music stops. The characters all head for different exits, and hilariously 80% of the crowd (male and female) follow the naked guy. You can guess which percentage I was in.

I unfortunately lose the peen guy, but happen upon MacBeth again as he's taking a shower to wash all the blood from him. There are at least 20 people packed into the bathroom with him as he showers. I watch him put on his boxer briefs (didn't know they had those in the 1920s/1600s but whatever, I heartily approve), and then I finally get a text from my friend. (My texts to her came through on an hour delay – pretty fancy setup the evil ushers have with Verizon!!)

On 5th floor! Where are you?

We arrange to meet in the banquet hall in the basement. To my chagrin, when I arrive, there are a ton of people already there watching a bunch of characters having a banquet (makes sense).

How the feck am I going to find Chloe?? I subtly get out my phone WHOMP an evil usher swoops down on me. Bah! How am I ever going to find her in here??

I keep scanning the crowd. I'm looking for a tall girl. What was she wearing? God! I don't remember what she was wearing! There's a girl. She doesn't look that tall? Is that? Hello? I wave. She waves back! We run towards each other giggling like little schoolgirls. We embrace and hold onto each others hands like we have been separated for a lifetime. We laugh some more. And the first words out of my awkward beak-mouth are

Did you see the peen??

And her answer was no, she did not. She missed the entire scene.

So thank you Mr. bastard handsome bastard arsehole Irishman for making me go it alone. Turns out you were right – it was better that way!

Lita Flambé

2011-05-02T11:35:00.000-07:00

So you may have noticed me referring to the fact that I have voluminous hair. My curly mane has tamed itself over the years, but there was a time when my hair was gigantic and entirely unruly. And during that time, I managed to set my hair on fire not once, but twice. On two different continents.

The first engulfment occurred in a Parisian bistro, when I was probably about 6 or 7. My parents took me with them on numerous European vacations when I was a kid - something that I don't entirely understand. Traveling with kids is difficult - they're whiny, need feeding far too frequently, and they can't walk very fast or far. But to my parents credit, they thought it was important for me to be exposed to many different cultures at a young age. And they apparently compensated for the stress of traveling with a yearling in tow by drinking heavily whenever possible.

So we're out to dinner in a candlelit restaurant, and I'm probably irritatingly clambering over and under the table and fidgeting and generally being a nuisance while my parents try to enjoy a nice bottle of wine. Our waiter comes up to our table and says

Excusez-moi, monsieur et madame, I don't mean to interrupt, but your daughter.....her hair.....it appears to be on fire.

And much to my parents surprise, they glance in my direction and notice flames emanating from the back of my skull. They leap to action and start batting me over the head with their napkins. Fortunately the waiter refrained from dumping a carafe of water on my head.

That was the first incident.

The next time, we fast forward a few years. Our first year back from London - the Blizzard of '93 - I essentially have never seen snow - and we get a week off of school. I think Syracuse is AWESOME.

I make a million snow caves with my friends in the 8 foot tall snowbanks. Dad and I are working on one in our front yard, but we run out of daylight, and it's time to go to bed. Pajamas are put on, and the scrunchy comes off - leaving me with a foot long halo of frizz (pretty similar to the one pictured in the photo above). Dad comes to tuck me in, but I'm still too excited about all the snow - I want to go back outside.

Allllllll right. Put your snow boots back on, I'll go grab a flashlight.

Weeeeee!!! I am so excited. We head back to the snow cave, and I set up inside with a flashlight. But it's not casting enough light, so my dad has an Aha! moment and goes to get candles (haven't we already learned this lesson??).

We dig out little perches for them along the walls of the cave, and they light up our construction site perfectly. I work away inside along with my dog Ginger, who is bizarrely good at building snow caves (I just had to point at a spot and she would dig dig dig), and dad is on the outside, working on a turret made out of igloo-like blocks of snow (we do NOT mess around when it comes to snow caves - also dad is a desk-ridden engineer who loves an opportunity to unleash his design skills).

I'm la di da in the snow cave zone, and have totally forgotten about my frizz halo. Working away on all fours, I come a little too close to one of the candles (the candles!) and all of a sudden my bangs are on fire. I start to scream and I scramble towards the turret which opens to the outside. Dad runs to the turret to see what's wrong, and sees the giant fire ball that is his daughter. So he does what any father would do - he jumps on top of my head.

So one second my head in on fire and the next my skull is being crushed by a man double my size who has not only managed to extinguish the fire, but also my entire supply of oxygen.

After overcoming the shock of seeing his flameball daughter, dad clambers off my twice traumatized head and digs me out of the snowcave. Miraculously, my hair was mostly intact - the fire was all show no substance.

I have not set my hair on fire since. Pretty impressive considering that I have now reached a refined age which involves dinner parties with candlesticks on the table and many bottles of wine in the fridge. But I now travel with a giant candle snuffer in my purse at all times. Lita Flambé is clearly long overdue.

TTACBM (Things That Are Currently Bugging Me)

2011-04-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

Something tells me this will be a series.

Things that are currently bugging me about apartment hunting in New York:

You advertise an apartment in all capitals that say things like:
"I CANT BELIEVE ITS NOT BUTTER!! NO FEE!!!!"
or
"GR8 APT 4 GR8 PRICE!" We are not texting, you are writing a Craigslist post and there is no character limit you IDIOT.

There is no such thing as a $1200 apartment in Fort Greene with a pool on the roof you LIAR.

Where's the refrigerator? Oh! It's in the closet???

You clearly can no longer pay the mortgage on that fancy brownstone of yours, so you advertise a "semi-private" apartment for $1000 - where the tenant has to walk through your house to get to their "apartment" which has no kitchen. Here, let me help you write your ad. You are LOOKING FOR A ROOMMATE.

You schedule open houses for a two foot by two foot studio apartment and then 507 people show up to view it and we all start fighting to the death in the shower (which is as close as we can get to the oxygen seeping in through the only window) to win an exorbitantly priced microscopic apartment that none of us actually wants.

The only way to arrange my furniture in this space is to sleep with my head in the oven and me feet in the bathtub.

One room that can only be accessed by walking through another room does not a two bedroom make.

The super sounds exactly like Forest Gump and lives.in.the.basement.

The super gigantic apartment you're advertising for under market value is under market value because it is directly across the street from a mosque that has a megaphone aimed directly at your bedroom window. Did you request a 5am wake-up-call-to-prayer? No? Tough nuts!

Things that are currently bugging me about online dating:

You text me and say "Hey, it's Matt" and I think to myself God damnit did you really just cost me a text message to say that?? and so I respond with a sarcastic "Hey, it's Carly" and then you respond "Hey Carley!" and then I want to stab you.

You work on a railroad and say things like "my last relationship really didnt go no where lol"

You.are.a.midget.

Your email address is @aol and you want me to log into AIM. This isn't 1995. Get with the friggin' program.

You pressure me to schedule a date ASAP and then YOU cancel it. Turdball.

You are a Mexican drug runner (yeah, you still bug me dude).

You have photos that make me wonder Where did your shirt go? Which is normally followed promptly by Why are you taking pictures of yourself in bed and who is taking these photos??

Your profile says "Tryin to be a sucess in every aspeect of my life" - DIRECT QUOTE.

And that is what's currently bugging me. For now.

Cat in a Hot Tin Pot

2011-04-06T09:43:00.000-07:00

Another day, another familial hot mess. This one actually occurred on the same trip as the smelly goatman – in Crete, 20 years ago.

On yet another rambling drive in the mountains – Ma and Pa wanted to explore some Venetian villages and escape the hot, oppressive coast. (I have had to consult with them on some of the details of this story, as – unfortunately - an 8 year old doesn't really have a good memory for history and art – just things that are funny and/or mortifying). We have been driving for what I deem to be a gabillion hours, and I'm tired of eating animal crackers and reading the same copy of Beano, so my parents decided it's time to find somewhere to eat.

We pull into a small village (small as in they don't even have roads – just a main square where you have to abandon your car and then walk through the rest of town), and find it mostly empty. We ask someone about places to eat, and a man directs us to what seems like the only show in town – an old stone building with a few picnic tables outside. The only person in the building is an old, plump Greek woman who is standing over a giant pot of bubbling food. Winner!

We come inside and say hello, and realize that the women doesn't speak any english. She clearly knows we are there looking for food, so she tried to explain the food that she has in the pot. It smells delicious, and we are foaming at the mouth......until she attempts to describe the food.

“Cata meata!” she cries.

Come again?

She points at the pot - “Cata meata!” and rubs her belly. The three of us look at each other to confirm that she did, indeed, say “cat meat.” Yes. The crazy lady at the only restaurant in town is cooking up a giant pot of cat. 8 year old Lita looks at her mother in horror pleading Mommy please dont make me eat kittens!!!! and then Why didn't you pack any #$&@* PB&Js??

The woman registers our horror (perhaps it was the telling sign of us slowing walking backwards towards the door while holding our hands up in defeat with yuck written all over our faces) and looks confused. “Cata meata! Cata meata!” I was just about ready to run screaming from the building when a well dressed man saunters into the restaurant. The woman speaks to the man, who then turns to us and welcomes us, in english.

We explain that we're looking for food, and like the woman, he points to the pot and says “Vegetable broth, herbs, and cata meata.”

Yeah! We $@&% know! Cat meat! Don't you have anything else to eat in this entire village or are you all felinicidal maniacs??

But while he is saying “cata meata” he is making a motion with his hands. Like a knife slicing something.

Seriously? Mom, Dad - I think it's time to get out of here NOW.

And then we put it all together - “cata meata” - “cuta meata” - cut.meat. Meat that has been sliced into chunks. Not meat that has come from a cat. Not cata meata! We laugh, and explain to the gentleman what we thought they were saying (I imagine my mother meowing at him). And then he laughs, and explains it to the woman, who seriously laughs.

After serving us up three healthy portions of cata meata, she goes out onto the terrace and we hear more laughing – an entire gaggle of women had gathered outside to come stare at the stupid Americans who would rather starve than eat cut meat.

Incredible. In any language, in any country, hilarious debacles transcend all.

Ma and Pa enjoying our "cata meata"

Me, clearly still grossed out by the confusion.

Scar Tissue? I Don't Even Know You!

2011-04-04T10:02:00.000-07:00

There's a two inch scar on the back of my left thigh, and this is the story of how it got there.

I was a freshman, and he was a senior. We met in pottery class. He, making gorgeous feats of clay on the wheel, while I sat in the corner making misshapen coil pots staring at him, playing that scene from Ghost over and over in my head while occasionally drooling on myself.

Noticing my drool, he asked if I wanted to go out on a date. Yes! my heart cried before realizing that there was no way in hell my parents would let their 13 year old daughter go out on a date with an 18 year old guy. Whelp, it's worth a try.

To my surprise, they actually tell me that Mr. Potter can take me out - it just has to be during the day. Because everyone knows that teenagers only turn into hornballs after the sun sets (what?).

So tralala we go off on a glorious day date to a nearby park that has a number of beautiful waterfalls. We decide to go off the beaten path (damn you genetic trait!!), and start hiking along the riverbed. We come across a tributary (yeah, I grew up country-ish and I know what that word means, so what!), which is falling over a gently inclined hill composed of slippery shale. We're both wearing our super awesome Tevas, and decide to head up the stream.

It's a beautiful hike and tralalala I have no recollection as to what we're discussing, but I'm sure it has something to do with Magic cards, building theater sets, ultimate frisbee, or some other supercool awesome activity. Mr.Potter is hiking ahead of me and I hear a "Augh!!!" right before looking up to see Mr. Potter's derriere slamming directly into my face, which, in turn, causes me to slip and start sliding down the hillside.

Now, I know you've all fantasized about falling down a river/waterfall like the mud slide scene in Romancing the Stone (wait what? That's just me? You don't know what you're missing!!!), but in real life, it is not that fun.

As I'm sliding my way down the shale (ow), I look up and see Mr.Potter watching helplessly from above (so glad I could break your fall, dude!). When I turn around, I am greeted by a downed tree, which promptly inserts one of it's broken branches into my thigh. Holy. Hell.

Mr. Potter stumbles his way down the hillside towards me as I let out a blood curdling scream. He extricates me from the tree, and blood starts pouring down my leg. Now I am not even going to pretend that I am a brave human being - the sight of blood/needles/bandaids makes me woozy. But have no fear! Mr.Potter whips off his shirt to create a tourniquet.

Now, if this were a romance novel, this would be the part where I would fall in love. Instead, whipping off his shirt reveals not rippling muscles, but rather a ghostly white concave pimple covered chest (I'm not saying mine looked any better - but at least I had the decency to keep my shirt on).

He wraps his shirt around my leg and we head for his car. My house is half an hour away, and I spend the entire journey exclaiming I am not going to the emergency room!!!, so he simply takes me home.

We arrive home to find my parents in the yard casually fake gardening/waiting for me to come home. I bound up the steps to the house and into the bathtub, where I continue to bleed, abandoning Mr.Potter to explain to my parents how he has horribly maimed their only child by shoving her down a waterfall which was in no way any fun like it looks in Romancing the Stone.

I refused to be taken to the hospital to get stitches, preferring to patch myself up with a million band-aids. And while I never hung out with Mr.Potter again, I will always think of him whenever I'm hanging around with no pants on, staring at my butt in the mirror.

Everything is Awesome

2011-04-01T10:05:00.000-07:00

I wrote a guest post for a wonderful friend's blog. She is actually the one who inspired me to start this site (thanks lady!). The Flamingo Room is filled with great tid bits about living a positive life, so I decided to make a contribution on the importance of being aware of the random acts of awesome that happen all around us - which has become a mantra of sorts for me.

Everything is Awesome.

I hope y'all like it!

Ode to a Bug (or How I Lost Hearing in One Ear)

2011-03-31T14:08:00.000-07:00

I am 15. I am babysitting my two younger cousins at their camp on the lake in Cooperstown. My aunt has driven to New York City for the day to pick up my uncle from the airport.

It's a remote spot - the camp is on a part of the lake where there are no other camps, and the driveway to the road is about a 1/4 mile long on an incredibly steep incline. I don't have my license yet, but hey! How much trouble can me and my cousins (who are about 11 and 8) get into in a few hours??

I think you already know the answer to that question.

Towards the end of the day, I suggest to the boys Wouldn't it be a nice idea if we made dinner for your parents? Which I can only assume meant hamburgers, as I really don't know what the hell else I was capable of making at that point in my life (though, as I think about it, I have since only added grilled cheese and brownies to my culinary repertoire). I also thought we should go out and collect a nice wildflower bouquet to welcome them home with (whatever I was the babysitter and I was in charge!), so we head off into the woods to start picking flowers.

All is going dandy until I find a really beautiful, colorful flower and snap it up.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

Something flies out of the flower and heads directly for my ear.

Gah!

I try to swat it away.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

I swat again, and drop all the flowers.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

The mother effer is IN my ear!!!

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

I scream. My cousins come running.

THERE'S A BUG IN MY EAR!!!!!

They laugh.

IT'S NOT FUNNY THERE'S A FRIGGIN BUG IN MY EAR STOP LAUGHING!!!!

They stop laughing.

I keep swatting at my ear, but the damned thing isn't moving.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

I jump into the lake. With all my clothes on. Cousins start laughing again. I'm underwater.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING ME!!!

Cousins stop laughing. I come out of the water, and the thing is still buzzing in my ear. Like super duper deep in my ear. Like kind of rattling my brain deep into my ear. I am freaking.

We run back to the camp, and it's still buzzing. It's driving me crazy. As I dive back into the lake to try to drown the bastard, I order my 11 year old cousin to call one of his friend's parents. 9 out of 10 kid's parents in Cooperstown are doctors, so I figured one of them would have advice for me.

As I continue trying to drown the bug/myself, my cousin tries ringing his best friend.

The numbers busy!

Keep trying!!!

An eternity of head dunking continues. Cousin keeps dialing friend.

I hear a laugh.

What's so god damned funny COUSIN?!?!

I've been dialing my own number this whole time!! Heheee!!

Well ha bloody hooha.

But then I notice - silence. The buzzing has stopped!! The bug is gone!

I emerge from the lake and whoop and holler with my cousins (well, at least with the 11 year old. The 8 year old was probably off pelting the cat with a slingshot after being unsupervised for the past hour).

We return to normalcy, and my aunt and uncle arrive a few hours later. We sit down to dinner and all is fine and lovely until....

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

Are you even serious.

Umm, Aunt?

Yes, Lita?

I have had a bug stuck in my ear for approximately the last 8 hours. I thought it was dead, but apparently it isn't, and it's really becoming quite bothersome.

AIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!! she screams as she rushes me upstairs and into the bathroom. She shoves my ear under the shower head.

Aunt? I really don't think this is going to work.

She runs out and comes back......with a turkey baster. No joy.

So around midnight we trundle off to the emergency room. The only plus side here is that at least the emergency room will be quiet at that time of night.

We arrive to discover an entire Little League baseball team in the ER waiting room. Welcome to Cooperstown.

Fortunately, they're not all injured, and I'm seen quickly.

Oh yeah, that's a bigun is NOT something you want to hear a doctor say as he is peering into your ear canal. He pumps a syringe full of liquid into my ear to paralyze the bug (I shudder to even think how much that drug to paralyze a bug cost my parents), and then another a little later to flush the bug out.

As my aunt looks on, the bug plops out onto the floor, and she issues a blood curdling squeal.

OH MY GOD THAT THING IS F*CKING GIGANTIC!!!!

Not the calming words a traumatized 15 year old was hoping to hear. The doctor picks it up and shows it to me. It's a moth. A giant friggin moth. Like a huge are you even kidding me?? moth. A huge are you even kidding me?? moth that had burrowed itself deep into my ear canal and hung out for the past 10 hours.

The nice doctor put the moth into a syringe for me, suspended in liquid (that probably cost my parents another couple hundred), as a memento. It sat on my dad's workbench for a few years, and every time I would return from a concert with my left ear ringing, I would head down to the basement and shake the syringe and exclaim:

Mwahahhaa!!!! Who's laughing now, Moth????

The Great Australian Debacle Part II

2011-03-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

Continuing from Part I

So there I am in Coober Pedy, hundreds of miles from anywhere. Stranded. I check out the Greyhound station for tickets out of town, but the next bus wont be coming through for days. Also, it is expensive, and I have to save my money for a flight out of Uluru.

I return to my underground hostel, and dejectedly sit in front of the telly watching Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome with a handful of other backpackers. But hark! What's that I hear?? An American accent! I wander into the kitchen, and eavesdrop on this girl's conversation as she chats with her Australian boyfriend about driving to Uluru. I very Americanly insert myself into their conversation - and it turns out this girl is from Buffalo flippin NY. She takes pity on this fellow Upstater, and offers to let me hitch a ride with them to Uluru. Yipee!

We depart in the next day, and arrive 8 1/2 hours later as the sun is setting. They have a tent and head to the campground. I head to the hostel, which I'm shocked to discover costs an exorbitant $50 a night (most hostels cost about $20). I check in, then head for an internet cafe to figure out how in the heck I am going to traverse the 1442.823 miles(give or take a decimal) back to Melbourne on the $300 I have in my bank account. I manage to find a flight on a puddle jumper that costs about $200. Only issue? The next flight out doesn't leave for another five days.

Now, Uluru is a pretty cool place, but the fact is, the main attraction is a giant rock.

And then there's another grouping of smaller, slightly less impressive rocks.

The normal person probably spends about two days there - maybe even just 24 hours. Five days? You have got to be kidding me. Oh, and also, with $200 spent on my flight, I have $100 to my name - which has to last me another 5 days. Brilliant.

After my night in the hostel, I look at the other accommodation in the "town" (because really its just a commercial fabrication - no real town to speak of). The only cheaper place to stay is the campground. Issue? No tent. I walk aimlessly around a strip mall wondering where on earth I'm going to sleep. I stroll through the grocery store in a daze until I see it.....the Kookaburra 5000. A one (wo)man tent - price? $20. And with the campground costing $15 a night, this is the best investment I made since buying my first pair of skorts.

I take my Kookaburra 5000 and head to the campground. I pick a nice campsite, sand, dirt, and about one tuft of grass. No trees to speak of in the outback, mate.

I settle in for my first night, and am woken up promptly at 6am when the sun first hits the tent, skyrocketing the temperature inside to tent to steamy 105 degrees. Good morning!

I head to the only "cheap" place in town for breakfast, and I bump into the Buffalonians. They're heading to the big rock today for a hike - do I want to join? I look at my calendar. Oh wait! I have a big fat nothing to do for the next 5 days until my flight. I guess I could squeeze in a walk.

We head off, equipped with our fly hats. What's that you say? Oh yeah, the hats with the corks dangling from them that you figured was a stereotype?

Those do exist, and are incredibly necessary. Flies in the outback stick to your eyeballs like a really gross version of white on rice, and they require serious deterrent. Except the Aussies have gotten more sophisticated in their fly-abating apparatus, and now you have hats with fly nets covering your face. So we set off on our 6.5 mile hike around the big rock in style.

About halfway round, having exhausted our water and developing third degree burns on our blindingly white shoulders, my fellow Upstater starts failing and I realize its probably best to leave her in her moment of need with her boyfriend.

I forge ahead, and eventually come across another American, traveling solo. He's an avid photographer from California, and we finish the hike together. I wait in the car park for a solid 20 minutes, and when the Buffalonian doesn't return, I do what any sane woman would do and abandon her (what???). But seriously, it was hot, and Mr.CA had a car, so we headed back to base camp.

I see the Buffalonians later that day, and they're fine, tired, and ready for their return journey the next day. Mr.CA and I have dinner together (which for me consists of a can of tuna fish as I have zero dollars and no cents left to my name). We are both happy to have found companionship in the desert, as clearly no one else travels to Uluru alone, because that's just crazy.

We hang out in his flash, expensive hotel room which consists of two bunk beds and a sink (shared bathroom down the hall thankyewverymuch!) and costs $120 a night. He introduces me to Aqua Teen Hunger Force, which he downloaded onto his laptop before departing for Oz. I will forever be grateful for that exposure but danger!danger! If you meet a guy who has actually bothered to download episodes of ATHF onto his laptop, head for the hills.

We spend the next three days together, doing literally every last thing there is to do in Uluru - walk to the top of the rock, walk around the other rocks, stare at the rocks, take tons of pictures of the rocks, get up at dawn to watch the first rays of light hitting the rocks. You get the picture. He even bought me tickets to go with him on a midnight star gazing tour, which was pretty awesome (yeah yeah, I know, I shoulda seen the next bit coming).

All goes well until my final evening in Uluru, when Mr.CA confesses to me that he's not actually on vacation. He has defected from the Navy, and he is out seeing as much of Australia before they hunt him down. And he is so glad to finally tell me as he hasn't told anyone and not even his family knows where he is. And then he tries to kiss me.

BERRRRRRH!!!!

I awkwardly exit his hotel room and run off into the night back to my tent. Meeeeeeps!

The next morning I am awoken at 6am by Mr.CA "knocking" on my tent door.

I don't want to talk to you!! Leave me alone!! I shout through the flimsy tent walls.

Yes, imagine me, sitting in my tent, refusing to unzipper my door, shouting at a giant man standing outside. In the middle of a desert. Pretty ridiculous.

I wait for a period of time, listening for him, and emerge when I haven't heard anything in a while. There is a note under a nearby rock. Usual stalker-ish language about being soulmates. Dear christ.

I pack up my Kookaburra 5000 and head to the airport. Of course, Mr.CA is flying out at the same time (though thankfully not to the same place), and I sit in the airport terminal (which is populated by only 40 other people) doing my best to blend into the furniture. Thankfully, he doesn't try to talk to me.

My plane takes off, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. My epic journey is at an end. And I am still, somehow, alive.

I never heard from Guy ever again, but every November for a few years I would receive a birthday card from Mr.CA, postmarked from a different part of the world.

So, Andy, if you're reading this, thanks for cultivating my love for Aqua Teen Hunger Force. And for not murdering me in the Outback. Much obliged.

Playing It Lesbian

2011-03-30T08:55:00.000-07:00

I recently went out with a bunch of girlfriends and one of my friend's sister, who is gay. My friend wanted to hook her sister up with a nice gal, and another friend used to bartend at a lesbian bar, so she decided we should take an outing there.

Whelp, the lesbian bar had gone downhill since my friend had last worked there (It used to be like Coyote Ugly in here!!!), so we decided to book it and head elsewhere. We wind up in the Village at another gay bar. Rather, another lesbian bar. Gay bars, in my experience, are often filled with great dancers in really tight pants and no shirts. This was decidedly different. No men. No bare chests. Just a lot of good lookin ladies doin' a whole lotta close talkin'.

I wind up at the bar, talking to these two girls, who I find out are sisters (don't worry kids, this blog will remain strictly PG, we are not devolving into creepy porno territory on my watch!). I don't know what the hell the protocol is with this stuff, so I just ask - “Are you both lesbian?” One sister says “I am” and the other says “I'm bi.”

And then they ask me - “Are you a lesbian?”

Well, pickle sticks! Is it proper etiquette to be in a lesbian bar if you're not a lesbian?? This is my first time!! Do you get kicked out for posing as an imposter?? Is being your friend's sister's wingwoman onced removed good enough reason??

I panic.

I stammer out an answer.

“Yes. I mean....kind of. Sometimes? I mean no. No I am not a lesbian. I actually kind of think hoohas are weird lookin'. I mean, I love women. I don't hate women. I love women!!”

At which point the lesbian/bi sisters look at each other awkwardly and slowly inch away from me.

And that, ladies and gents, is how I became the worst. fake. lesbian. ever.

Getting Spanxed

2011-03-25T12:04:00.000-07:00

I am most definitely not bringing sexy back.

Last night I went to a fancy party, and I needed a fancy dress to go along with it. I went shopping with a girlfriend earlier in the week, and we managed to find the perfect dress - but the look was missing a little.....je ne sais quoi. To the lingerie department! my friend cried. It's time to get you some Spanx!

Now for those of you of the female persuasion, you know that Spanx are the best thing to come along since the corset. "Lose ten pounds in two minutes!" the ads declare. Well hot damn, sign me up. I pick out a pair that covers stomach, butt and thighs, and take it to the dressing room, along with dress and friend.

Thankfully there was no one else in the dressing room to witness/hear me grunt/groan/shimmy/smoosh myself into my Spanx (other than my very forgiving and highly amused friend), and the end result was perfection - the dress looked great!

So tralala, off I go to the fancy party - it's after work, so I brought my dress with me to change into. I find the bathrooms, but much to my dismay, there is no disabled stall - which we all know is the only way to change in style while standing next to a toilet. So I cram all my stuff into a regular stall and begin the changing in the toilets dance - hang as many belongings on the hook as possible, stay far away from the toilet, and balance yourself so that your bare feet don't touch the floor.

All is going well until the donning of the Spanx phase begins. I get them up to my thighs, and then I hear someone else enter the bathroom. Rut ro.

The someone is doing something very quiet at the sink - like putting on make-up, or being the most annoying slow quiet person ever. I try to proceed with the Spanx, but it is essentially impossible to put these things on without an "oof" "arrrgh" "phoarrr" or "jesus christ make it be over!!!" and I didn't want this stranger hearing me grunting and groaning in a bathroom stall and reporting me to the authorities for public indecency.

So I attempt to proceed in silence. Sweat starts trickling down my brow as I muffle my agonized cries. And this someone just won't leave. I can feel a vein starting to pulse in my forehead, and I'm starting to get woozy from holding my breath.

Mother.....jesus.....god.....help.....GET THIS WOMAN OUT OF HERE!!!

And then I hear the bathroom door open and close.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! as I suck in air at long last and get the Spanx over my derriere. Mission accomplished.

And while I may have walked out of that bathroom stall with a little less dignity, there was a whole lot more fabulousness going on. Though I am seriously considering writing to Spanx about changing their motto to "Lose ten pounds in 13 mildly painful, excruciatingly awkward minutes." For serious.

Off The Beaten Path

2011-03-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

We interrupt the regularly scheduled broadcast on Australian Debacles because it has been a crazy week and I've had no time to write Part II of the blog! So here's a little something I cooked up earlier :)

Getting into hot messes is a family trait of mine. Hilarity has followed me from day one – like the time I was learning to walk and my mom accidentally let me fall face first onto the sidewalk and I bloodied my nose and she kept me indoors for 3 days straight for fear of the neighbors reporting her to child protective services.

My father suffers from OTBP – inability to resist going Off The Beaten Path. This is pretty much every child's worst nightmare, as all a kid ever wants to do is fit in. And in elementary school with my afro hair and funny accent (a charming mix of Central New York meets West London), I did not need anything else blocking my route to Normalville.

Family trips often involved a car and a screeching abrupt U-turn whenever Dad spotted a castle or an artist's studio or any site of historical significance. So this is how we found ourselves winding up a mountainous road somewhere in Crete, without the foggiest clue of where we were going. This was one of those European roads really only designed for one car going in either direction, and when you reached a bend in the road the actual official protocol is to honk your horn to alert any drivers coming in the opposite direction of your presence. So, you know, that way you'll only smash into each other going 10kpm, and not 50kpm, and maybe at 10kpm you might not actually both tumble down off the mountainside. And all of this only adds to my tendency as an 8 year old to barf inside anything that moved. Brilliant vacation.

As we're driving up the worst road in the history of ever, we spot an old man walking up the mountain. There have been no towns anywhere in the last half an hour of driving, and there aren't any more ahead of us, so we have no idea where this guy came from or what he's doing on this crazy road in the middle of nowhere. He has a rope tied around his waist, holding up his homemade burlap pants. As we draw closer, we see that he has approximately no teeth. So what does it make perfectly logical sense to do? Oh! Let's offer him a ride! DAD!!!! Oh yes, Dad invites the old man to clamber into the car and take a seat next to his only offspring. Clearly Stranger Danger did not exist in the 1950's when dad started school.

Only when the man is in the car do we realize what he's doing up on the mountain. He's a shepard. And how do we know this? Because he smells like horrific amounts of goat shit. He doesn't speak a word of english, but he is clearly terribly excited to have been offered a ride, and he simply points up the mountain and dad resumes driving as I stare death-daggers into the back of his skull while trying to subtly master mouth breathing with all the windows rolled down.

Goatman looked a lil som'm like this:

The fact that he can't communicate with us does nothing to hamper Goatman's desire to speak, and he is yabbering a mile a minute while grinning his toothless grin. And then he says something hilarious and bursts out laughing and starts slapping my incredibly sunburned back. Oh. My. God. I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that Macaulay Culkin was disowning his parents. Surely this is a possibility. Surely I can be adopted by parents who take vacations to Disneyland, stay in Howard Johnsons as opposed to camp sites, let their children eat Peter Pan peanut butter instead of that disgusting crunchy organic crap, and would never dream of letting homeless smelly goat herders sit within such close proximity of their daughter. Surely.

As thoughts of plotting my parents eradication are swirling through my head, Goatman starts flailing his arms around madly. There is no sign of civilization anywhere. No town, no buildings, no water source, no nothin. But he keeps flailing so dad pulls over, Goatman smiles, exits the car, and waves goodbye. As we pull away in bewilderment, I look back through the rear window, and watch as that stinky toothless bastard simply starts making his way back down the god damn mountain. For serious, Batman?? Visions of this man, who has clearly lost all his marbles along with his goats, spending his days waiting for tourists to pick him up and take him on an odoriferous 5 minute joyride......I had no words.

And that's what you get for going off the beaten path – fantastic stories to share with friends 20 years later. So thanks, Dad, for being a completely irresponsible parent. And thanks, Mom, for waking up in the middle of the night to take me to the bathroom at campgrounds across Europe. Who the hell needs normal? Though I'll still buy my (future, TBD) kids Peter Pan peanut butter. That organic stuff is gross.

The Great Australian Debacle

2011-03-22T11:52:00.000-07:00

I've led a long life filled with debacles, but none tops the epic one I experienced while living in Australia after college in 2004.

I had been living with my parents, trying to get a work visa to no avail. When it became apparent that I wouldn't be able to get one I decided I wanted to take a road trip before I had to head back stateside. I hadn't yet been to the "Red Center" of Oz yet, so I mapped out a route (west from Melbourne through the Grampian Mountains, head to Adelaide and Kangaroo Island, then north to the opal mining community of Coober Pedy, and on to Uluru).

I posted my hoped-for itinerary on a backpackers forum, looking for the one vital thing I was missing - someone with wheels. I met up with a couple of folks who were interested in the journey, including a guy from New Jersey who was traveling in a dilapidated Volkswagen camper with a penchant for using olive oil as an all-over body lotion. Pass.

When I was just about to give up on my plan to hitch a ride, I was contacted by an English guy who had thrown in the towel on his former life back home. At the age of 32, he decided he needed to see the world, so he sold all his belongings, bought a ticket to Oz, and then bought himself a 4 wheel drive upon landing. Courageous, enviable, and completely flipping insane. But I needed a ride.

The guy (I have genuinely suppressed his name from my memory) came over to meet my parents, who were understandably skeptical about the situation. Guy brought over his truck, equipped with snorkle, jerry cans for extra petrol, a tent, and more maps than you can shake a stick at. My parents were assured that this would work out fine, so off I went, telling them I'd be back in a few weeks.

By the time we made it to the Grampians (all of four hours into our journey) I knew I had made a terrible mistake. Guy was prone to kindergarten interactions - you know the kid who had a crush on you so they made fun of and irritated you incessantly? Yeah. And I am an only child, so tolerating annoying siblings is not a skill I have acquired. Grin and bare it, Lita, only one more day til Adelaide.

Outside of our bickering, we did have some good times - like when we arrived at a campsite and discovered a small child running screaming through the grounds, being chased by a deranged emu, being chased by an increasingly panicked father. Or the time when I was chased by a very persistent kangaroo about 87 times around a picnic table (what is it with Australian wildlife and the chasing of humans??).

However, once we left civilization behind in Adelaide, things started deteriorating rapidly. Once you get into the outback, you drive until the sun goes down, and then you stop. Because once the sun goes down, the kangaroos come out, and your car will inevitably be smashed to smithereens when you inevitably hit one of them. I had everything mapped out so that we'd arrive at a place to stay with plenty of time before sunset. But of course Guy jacked up that plan, and as the sun sets we are looking towards the horizon and see nada for miles.

In the pitch black, we slow down to a crawl, and I check the map and note that there is a roadhouse about 20 miles away. In the outback, roadhouses are set up on the highway just about one tank of gas apart. Roadhouses are also only inhabited by truck drivers because few civilians bother traveling these roads. We limp into the roadhouse having nearly hit approximately a million kangaroos (oh, and don't forget about the bloody camels that roam the desert!!).

We saunter into Spuds Roadhouse (seriously) which is a combination bar/restaurant/gas station/motel, and I watch as about 30 sets of male truck drivin' eyes turn on me. Errr, Guy, you get the room, I'll wait outside.

He comes out with our room key, and a few cans of beer. Its winter and the sun had set around 6 - leaving us plenty of time to hang out (yay!), so I tell him I'd be happy going into the bar for a drink and he calmly explains that he thinks it'd be best if we both stayed in our room for the next 12 hours with the door locked, preferably barricaded.

So we find our room, which will officially go down in my book as the most disgusting place on earth. Two single beds with those gross crocheted blankets, in orange, accompanied by various unidentifiable stains. A hole in the wall large enough for any number of deadly animals/spiders/snakes to climb in through, and the pièce de résistance - a bathroom without a door. Arrrrrrrrre you kidding me. We spend the evening reading books, staring at the walls, rationing our beers, and playing cards (of course there's no television). Oh, and going out and sitting in the car whenever the other needs to pee or shower.

(I have actually found a photo someone else took of said disgusting motel room )

We book it at the first sign of light in the morning, and arrive in Coober Pedy a few hours later. Now Cooper Pedy, while being the opal mining capital of the world, is an absolute wasteland. Daytime temperatures skyrocket into the 100 degree territory, so people have taken to building their homes underground. An entire town, existing almost entirely under the earth. Attesting to the surreal nature of this town is the fact that the post apocalyptic Mad Max movies were all filmed in the area.

We hunker down in our underground hostel (where the rooms are literally just carved out of the bedrock)

and discuss our gameplan. Guy wanted to travel to Uluru, then head west through the center of the country to Perth. Now, if you take a wee gander at this map, you will see that there is no road between Uuluru and Perth.

Oh wait, what's that tiny faint line I see? A dirt road. That goes on for 4-5 days of driving. With absolutely no towns in between save a few remote aboriginal towns. Making that journey with this Guy? Not happening. We decide to part ways - he heading back south to Adelaide then out west to Perth, me, determined to make it to Uluru.

He departs the next day, and somehow I only then realize my predicament. I am stranded in a remote town in the Outback, with no means of transportation. Oh, and for entertainment, the hotel has all the movies filmed in the town - which I am dismayed to find out includes Priscilla Queen of the Desert. Now that was a great movie, but what part was filmed in Coober Pedy? The part where Guy Pearce's character gets the crap beaten out of him by a bunch of hicks. Brilliant.

Now that your eyes are bleeding from the strain of reading such a long blog post, I'll pause. The remainder of the debacle (oh yes, there's more) will be posted tomorrow....

I Am Officially Ancient

2011-03-21T11:44:00.000-07:00

Spent the weekend visiting a girlfriend who lives in a small college town in Pennsylvania. She wanted to go out dancing, and I was game because I haven't been dancing in eons. We went to one of the four bars in town, and it was absolutely rammed with college kids. Nothing makes you feel older than hanging out in a bar filled with Justin Bieber lookalikes (really guys, really? You want to emulate a 17 year old who inspired an entire website dedicated to lesbians who look like him ??)

We move to the dance floor, and actually have a really great time - only occasionally realizing that we are, at the age of 28 and 29, officially the oldest people in the room. When my friend goes to take a bathroom break, I take the opportunity to take a seat (yup, officially 28 going on 80) and I whip out my phone and start reading the New York Times online. Oh yes, yes I do.

So then a guy walks up to me. I would be lucky if he is maaaaaybe 24. Potentially he is 19. And he looks at me coyly and says "you come out to a nightclub and then you're gonna just sit on your phone all night??"

And my actual response is to furrow my brow and exclaim "How can you be out dancing when we are bombing Libya???" as Rebecca Black's Friday blasts in the background.

And he looks at me like I have 18 supremely awkward heads, and walks away.

Winner.

Why I Really Moved to NYC

2011-03-20T19:25:00.000-07:00

A cow's vajayjay.

Oh yes, you heard me right. A cow's vagine instigated my move to the big city. Not because of the arts and culture. Not because of the crazy 24/7 vibe. I moved to escape bovine ladyparts.

Prior to living in New York, I lived in the pastoral and bucolic town of Cooperstown – population 2,000. I graduated college, moved to Australia for 9 months, spent all my savings, and then returned stateside with negative $1000 (thanks Ma and Pa for the “loan” you didn't quite realize would be a permanent one!). Cooperstown had a free place for me to stay (my parents summer home), and a busy tourist season where I could rake in $300 a day waitressing (I now understand why women find it difficult to quit stripping – that cash money is powerful stuff!!!). It was meant to be a summer stint to replenish my bank account, but when I was offered a job at the local museum in the fall, it became a year-round commitment.

So here I am, spending winter in a glorified cow town. Now, don't get me wrong, Cooperstown is filled with a lot of smart folk – two museums, the Baseball Hall of Fame, an excellent hospital, and a small graduate school for museum studies. But no.eligible.bachelors.

I don't want to make it sound like I only had boys on the brain – but Cooperstown is a lonely place once summer's over. They don't even have a movie theater, fer goodness sake. My friends that still live there (god bless em!) can attest. C-Town, like New York City, has about a bazillion more women than men, and I am not joking when I say there were literally like three single guys in their twenties. And one of them was the overweight bartender. Seriously.

I knew my time in Cooperstown would be limited – its an insular community that takes a while to crack, and that just wasn't my bag. Work at the museum long enough to make it look good on a resume and then get out of dodge. But where to go? I had no idea.

After 9 months of going to work, going to the gym, and then going home (with the occasional book club meet-up thrown in), I decided to foray into the world of online dating. Holy. Crap. I have to say, the only thing worse than online dating in neurotic NYC is online dating in East Bumblefuck. In NYC, you search for people within a 5 mile radius of your zip code, because you can't really be bothered dating someone from the Upper West Side. In Bumblefuck, you search for anyone within 120 miles because that will return about 8 people for you to pick from, and yes, you have reached a point where you are willing to drive for two hours for the slim chance you find someone to make out with that has all their teeth.

After numerous lame dates (“Wait....you have how many children???”), I was super stoked to be messaged by a handsome blonde guy who hadn't yet created a single offspring. He worked at a farm. We arranged to meet at the local ice cream stand (yup, welcome to Bumblefuck). I get there before he does, and he pulls up in his red pick-up truck about ten minutes late. I'm a little peeved but he is h-a-w-t hot so I'm willing to cut him some slack. He saunters up to me, extends his hand in greeting, and says “I'm right sorry I'm late – I was on my way to my car and I saw that one of my cows was in labor.” (At which point he is shaking my hand). “I had to stop and help her give birth to the calf.”

Now, I have a few friends who loooove animals, who might be like “awww that's so sweet!" But all I was thinking was this hand that is shaking yours was shoulder deep inside a cow's hooha ten minutes ago. Ice cream headache or not, I wolfed down my chocolate vanilla soft serve swirl in a waffle cone, and said goodnight. And when a good friend of mine called me a few days later with the good news that she had been accepted in grad school at NYU and suggested I move to NYC with her, my response was When????

And that, my friends, is the real reason I decided to throw in the towel on country life and move to the big city. Not that I'm saying that hipsters are better than farmers, but at least now my dates will be late because the L train broke down, and not because they were otherwise occupied with a barnyard animal.

Dating Like It's (almost) My Job.

2011-03-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

So, here I am, back on the dating scene after a 3 ½ year hiatus. It doesn't seem like a very long time, but when you consider that Facebook wasn't really that big a deal back in 2007 (ok, maybe it was and I was just really slow about setting up an account) – the dating scene has changed a lot. I marvel at friends who connect with potential dates on Facebook before they even meet – I mean, most people's Facebook accounts reveal a hell of a lot about them, so what would be left to discuss once you finally met up in person?? “It looks like you had a nice time in Switzerland last summer.....and I really love your new apartment. What's your name again?” Weird. Or perhaps I am just 28 going on 80.

So I have decided to take the same approach to dating as I did to my last job hunt. Go on as many dates/interviews as possible. Might sound weird, but I think I have some kinks I'd like to work out before I start dating for serious.

When I decided to leave my last job, I found myself in a pretty similar situation as I'm in right now – I had been in the same job for the past three years, and I knew that my interviewing skills would be a bit rusty. Also, given the economic climate, I knew there would be a lot of people vying for the same jobs (“economic climate” could easily be replaced with “dating scene” here in NYC). So I applied for jobs like crazy. A pay decrease? Ok. More qualifications needed than I have? I'll give it a try. On Staten Island? Ok nevermind, I won't apply for just any job. Even I have my standards.

One of the first interviews I found myself on was for a job I knew I didn't want. It was at a museum who had been in the news due to their financial issues, and was way the hell up on the Upper East Side. No thank you. But hey, there are lessons to be learned from every life experience, so off I went.

The interview was going well, they seemed really interested in my skill set, and I found myself actually wanting this job. Like, badly. I'm sure you've been in the same position before – it's kind of like a game. Once you're in it, you just have to win it!

They ask me your typical interview questions - “What was the biggest challenge you've faced in your current job?” Bam – I prepared for that one! “What was the second biggest challenge you've faced in your current job?” Are you kidding me??? That is so completely unfair!!!

And then - “If we called your boss right now, what kind of employee would they say you are?”

Firstly, stupid question, and you people are obnoxious idiots for being so unimaginative. Secondly, “My boss would certainly say that I was a good employee. Would he say that I was a great employee? Probably not.”

What??? What did I just say???

I saw the words coming out of my mouth in slow motion, and in my head I was saying “Noooooo!” And I visualized myself grabbing my word bubbles and shoving them back into my mouth and swallowing them. I actually just told someone interviewing me that I am not a great employee.

See, now what I MEANT to say was “I find myself, after three years in the same employ, not being challenged, and while my boss would certainly say that I am a great employee and fufil all tasks in a timely and professional manner, I myself am not satisfied with my output because I know I am capable of so much more.” THAT is what I meant to say.

The interview actually went on for another 45 minutes (what were they thinking???) and when I got out, I called a friend and relayed the story. “You said what???” Yeah, I know. Trainwreck.

But this interview – for a job I didn't even want anyways – taught me a lot (like how not to be an idiot). And then I went on to every other interview and never again told my potential boss that I wasn't really a great employee.

So this is the approach I will be taking to dating. You are potentially a fat angry man? Ok, I'll meet you. And I will learn how to not sound secretly racist (even though you are clearly a Meixcan drug runner). You are looking to date someone between the age of 18 and 50? I will assume that was a slip of the cursor. We will hang out and I will flex my dating muscles and learn how to make small talk again (I know, I know – it's shocking to think that me of all people could ever be at a loss for words). And even if it takes me 87 horrific dates before I find someone potentially compatible with me, when I do, I will totally nail that date and the guy will certainly be calling me for a second interview.

I am secretly racist.

2011-03-15T20:19:00.000-07:00

So, for those of you who have known me for a while, you will know that I am hilariously bad dater. From dating a guy from Eastern Europe whose favorite TV show was "The Geo Party.....you know, that show where they tell you the answers and you have to ask the questions!" to the Irish guy whose name I never could understand and still don't to this day (I think it was something along the lines of "Dunaaagggggrrrrrrruuuuhhhh").

Whelp, I have recently found myself back on the dating scene, and as I suspected, I am back with a vengeance!! So gird your loins NYC, this is gonna be good (at least for you).

I just got from a date with a guy I met online (don't act like you haven't done it!), and ohmigoodness, it went better than expected. Initially. From his photo, he looked pretty cute. Tall guy, a bit chubby, but cute. From our brief conversation prior to setting up a date, he managed to express that he had burned by some ladies before, which was kind of weird but - hey - I'm just learning the ropes of this whole dating thing again, and I'm ok with going out on some trial dates before I regain my legs. So I go to meet the guy, expecting a very fat (people are rarely honest in their photos!) jaded man (I think it's important to have low expectations and a sense of humor in order to survive online dating).

But fear not! I arrive bang on time, and he is there already, and he isn't morbidly obese! Winner! And he can string more than two sentences together into a conversation! We are on a roll. We enjoy a glass of wine and a cheese plate, and we chat about our backgrounds, where we've lived, what we do for a living, etc (though he does spend an inappropriate amount of time discussing crappy dates he has been on). Turns out, he is from "the border" in Texas. I'm not too familiar with the area, and he explained that he grew up in Mexico, but was born on the Texas side and has dual citizenship. Interesting background - sounds like I could learn some stuff from this guy.

After we finish our wine, our waitress asks if we want another, and he hurriedly says no, and asks for the check. Well crap! I thought that was going decently. I know this guy isn't lifetime commitment material, but most of you know, I am kind of ok with that right about now. He leaves for the bathroom and I quickly text my girlfriend an update - "I dont know whats going on! 45 minutes in, and I think the date's over!" He returns from the bathroom, and pays for his portion of the check without even trying to offer to pay for mine (even though he actively referred to our meeting as a "date"). Alright - I can see that if he has been dating for a long time, this whole first date thing could get tiring, and not to mention expensive. But then he confuses me - rather than making excuses to leave, he asks if I want to grab dinner.

Sure! It's only 7:15 on a Tuesday night, and while I DO have episodes of It's Always Sunny waiting for me at home, they can wait til later.

We grab dinner, have a fun chat about tequila, we talk more about our careers, and he feeds me a canned lined about my "beautiful eyes." He mentions moving to New York to "escape the family business." Erm...ok. I ask him what his family business is, and he tells me "various things." Erm?

Now, I have plenty of friends who have family businesses - be it a gas station, a farm, a restaurant, or an antique store, like my own mom. None of these people would have an issue responding with "Oh, my parents own a gas station/farm/restaurant/antique store."

So I smile and ask "Various things?"

"Yes, various things."

Awkwardly long pause as I continue smiling (soooo awkward)

"Legal things??" (Hahahehe?)

"I really don't think it is appropriate to discuss business on a first date." (.......what!?)

"But we were just talking about my job and my family? I was simply trying to lighten the mood." (And YOU brought up the "family business"!!)

"I just hate people who buy into stereotypes and assume everyone from the border are drug dealers." (Ohhhhhh my goodness is this even happening right now???)

"Listen, dude, if someone from Des Moine, Iowa told me they came to New York to escape the 'family business' which involved 'various businesses' - I would have made the same joke, because ITS HILARIOUSLY AWKWARDLY VAGUE."

"Here's $20. That should cover tax and tip." And he walks out the door.

Oh yes, ladies and gents. I secretly think all Mexicans are drug dealers (though he made it clear that he does not identify with Mexicans - he is from the Border). So now I know. Next time I am out on a date, and someone informs me that they are involved in "various businesses" - I will assume they are in the puppy and cupcake industry, and are starting up a company that manufactures fairy dust and sprinkles. And clearly NOT anything sketchy.

For serious, Batman? Online dating universe, I am so ready for you.

And so it begins!

2011-03-15T19:06:00.000-07:00

Oh yes, ladies and gents. Litachiqita is starting a blog. Friends and family have been entertained by my tirades and rants for close to three decades, so I thought it was time to give the Facebook community a break and gather all my thoughts in one cohesive (if not coherent) space.

So welcome! Things here won't really have a theme, but most of the time, I hope my posts will entertain you. Because, god damnit, life is hilarious. And if you ever need a reminder of that fact, just come back here, and check in on my latest life disaster. There will be plenty. Trust me.