Like I needed more confirmation

that Mock Trial had taken my once (somewhat) intelligent brain and propelled it into a wall with a tennis ball launcher, left it in the sun to bake onto the concrete for three hours, and then boiled it before having fun with a new set of stainless steel knives; (that was the single longest dependent clause in the history of Anaerobic Exercises in Futility. . . and all the villagers rejoiced!) I woke up to find a most strange Word document on my desktop.

I was trying to stay awake and get some work done last night, but it was a losing battle. I stayed awake just long enough to fetch my laundry from the magic dryer that only charges you fifty cents to lovingly tumble your garments with hot air for eighty-four minutes. After folding my laundry (so fresh n' so clean clean), I didn't bother to close the document, figuring I would just work on it today.

Keep in mind, I was trying to write a proposal for a term paper. The class is "Human Behavior in the Social Environment II," a social work requirement. The paper just has to involve adults and social work in some way (ambiguous, no?).

Here is what I found in the document:

Human Behavior in the Social Environment II
26 January 2006

Something about conflicting roles for those who are premature caregiving tools—no, we really do just prefer that analogy.

State: Konanova, Bailey, Walsh.
Defense: Frankie/Micky, Nathanson/Sturgeon, Perry.

It's not quite as good as the time I woke up to find a Word document containing "Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy," without any recollection whatsoever of even opening Word. But nonetheless, I now have proof that Mock Trial is eating my brain and should seriously be investigated by the CDC as the latest strain of the plague. Forget bioterrorism, just hand everyone binders with all the case documents and watch mock trial cripple an entire nation.

You try it. . . I dare you. . .

Worker's Comp, here I come!

This morning I was scurrying around my room trying to get ready for work, running late because I decided it would be a great idea to go back to bed after my roommate dragged me for breakfast. So I get out of bed with forty minutes to spare--during which I must shower, get ready, and all that jazz.

I'm on the home stretch, I've got clothes on, my hair is as done as it's going to get, and I've touched my makeup bag, even if not the contents thereof, when I think: Shoes! Okay. . . (a) it's snowing; (b) I'm wearing blue and tan; (c) coat is gray; (d) bookbag is black; (e) necklace is brown leather, silver, and pearl. . . After performing the arduous calculations that only a true shoe fanatic can do mentally on short notice, I decided: Brown shoes it is!

But then. Glory of all glories. Awe-inspiring event comparable to none. Hallelujah chorus bursting forth from a light of supernova-proportions. (Science people, if you even tell me that supernovas don't really produce a lot of light or any such nonsense, not only am I going to ignore your obviously superior knowledge of astronomy, but I'm also going to morph into the playground bully who used to steal your pocket protectors and then stomp on them in mud puddles just to see the look of agony on your little nerdling face.)

I found a pair of shoes that I had forgotten I owned.






Just let it sink in for a second.




Don't rush it.



Do you feel the warmth of a cool breeze flirting with the oceanside on a perfect early summer day in Southern California; not quite hot enough to give you second degree burns; not quite cool enough to afflict you with an acute case of nippilus erectus? Do you feel it?





Basking in the joy of my discovery, I picked up the forgotten shoe, the abused child, the neglected orphan. I found his twin, and I reminisced about the day I found them. I was in New York City, wandering Chinatown with friends, when we came upon a little shop. Being a shoe fiend, I went to the back of the store and began browsing. I wasn't necessarily interested in anything, but then a little old man popped up out of nowhere (I swear it was like a whack-a-mole set-up in there so that he could just pop up through the floorboards whenever he thought he could pressure a windowshopper into making a purchase).

He asked me which shoes I liked, and, in a moment of panic because I realized I was about to purchase shoes I didn't necessarily want, I pointed to a pair that looked like it should belong to anyone but me (yes, that does include big burly lumberjacks and double amputees). They were brown and blue plaid with a brown leather strap and shark's-tooth-shaped thing. (I'm so discriptive, I know you're picturing them right now. If Google can't do anything with the way I worded that, then I know your brain sure as hell can't.)

Anyway. . . I found the shoes and I was overjoyed. They matched my outfit perfectly; they made the authoritative clicky noise when I walked on cement or tile; they were different in that bordering-on-grotesquely-unfashionable way. And they caused me to fall on my ass outside the Union this afternoon.

That's right. For some reason, shoe designers just don't think traction's all that important. And I have to agree. What happens in the event that someone wants to stare at the bottom of my shoes? Do I want them to see some trashy run-of-the-mill traction on there? Hells no. I want them to see something so smooth, shiny, and polished that they'll be lining up to watch my confidence crumble as I fall repeatedly on not-so-hidden patches of ice.

For you, my loyal fans.

Let's get one thing straight here: I don't have time for you. You people and your need to laugh at my miserable life. Uh huh. The beattitudes are going to bite you all in the ass one day.

Anyway. . .

This weekend the Mock Trial team ventured down to Atlanta, Georgia, for a little bit of Southern fun. We competed against teams who consistently beat us with the home team advantage: a Southern accent that screamed, "I have a confederate flag tied to my car antenna and I think Bush was chosen by God! Pick me! Pick me!"

But just a couple of things came out of my mouth during trials that I think are sufficiently amusing enough to share with you on this fine Tuesday afternoon.

1) Opposing counsel objected during my cross examination, claiming it was a compound question. Keeping in mind that (a) we were in Georgia, and (b) the average Mock Trial judge is about as bright as the neighborhood six-year-old who runs around town eating the mucus he pulls from his nose in broad daylight; here is my response: "Your honor, the question is not compound. Rather, the question is prefaced by a dependent clause."

2) In case you didn't know already, the judges in Mock Trial tournaments are treated like gods. We must bow and scrape before them, just begging for their affection and praise (and points). Therefore, one should never say what I did during an objection argument: "If opposing counsel knew the Midlands Rules of Evidence, she would know that police reports may not be entered into evidence. However, if Your Honors wish to ignore the Rules of Evidence and admit the document, I have no objections." Thank Allah I did it with a smile.


I assure you, there are more tales from the weekend of mocking, I just have to go to class right now. I shall return later to share with you.

Randomness

Ever suddenly remember something you did a long time ago (for clarification, at this point in our lives, "a long time ago" could mean anything from two weeks ago to ten years ago), and wonder why you would ever behave in such a manner?

For instance, when you liked that one guy and you could never find the right outfit, accessories, or hair style? And you would dress yourself for class only to get home, know that you would see him in several hours, and start digging through the wardrobe convinced that what you had deemed appropriate for the rest of the world only that morning was somehow deficient when it came to seeing that guy? Why don't we realize how ridiculous that is at the time it's happening rather than continuing to litter the ground with apparel?

We all know in retrospect that the carefully matched shoes, purse, skirt, top, earrings, and barrette were a waste of time and energy. But we'd do it again in a heartbeat--and we do, just soon as the next "that guy" appears.

And why do we giggle? Why do we suddenly change our personalities and demeanors? BUT if we happen to snag the guy, we'll complain in a couple weeks that he doesn't like "the real me." Well, that's our own damn fault for not showing this "real me." Does the "real me" exist? If so, can I see it? Or will it giggle when asked to appear?

People. Let's stop being so idiotic. For no reason, I was caught off-guard by memories of standing before my mirror, trying to find that perfect hairdo, only to have the wise Kevbo inform me hours later, "You like him." "No, I don't. . . how did you know?" "You changed your hair. . . but don't worry. Straight men never pick up on things like that."

So ladies, unless you plan on dating a gay man, don't bother. Go out in your pajamas with bedhead and last night's makeup. Spare yourself the effort.

Friday the 13th

Woohoo!

Did I ever tell you I was born on Friday the 13th? Mhm. I was.

I was brought into the world on the most appropriate of days. A day associated with homicidal maniacs who wear weird masks with little holes in them that serve no apparent purpose other than to allow the skin to breathe, which doesn't seem to be that much of an issue when you can guess what's under the mask, and, believe me, it's not skin you would see in an Oil of Olay commercial--it's decaying and scarred and smelly and might as well just fall off the face if we're looking for aesthetic value. . . hmm. . . maybe that's the point: the mask is ventilated to allow the smell to seep out so the victims have a warning that a homicidal maniac dressed in bloody rags, carrying old-fashioned, rusty weapons like chains and swords, is headed their way, prepared to kill them slowly, one limb at a time, because it's more fun when the victim is trying to crawl away, pulling herself with the arm that hasn't been cut off because her legs are gone too, and you get to see that look of panic and despair, and wonder why she's even still trying, until the weirdo in the mask--who happens to have a normal name, which is anticlimactic, if you ask me. Who wants to think of a homicidal maniac named "Bob" or "Jimmy"? You don't. You want to call out, "Oh no! The big hairy sperm-filled trucker who kills people by running them over with a semi is coming!" or "Help! The low-level bureaucrat of death is trying to kill me!"--finally lops her head off.

*sigh* Happy Friday the 13th, everyone! And remember, if you want to make fun of a horror movie, pick one you've never seen before. I've certainly enjoyed the experience.

Tree, Ass. Ass, Tree.

It's nine o'clock in the morning; I didn't sleep last night; it's the first day of classes for the new semester; and I'm drinking Irish coffee while listening to needlessly depressing music.

What's going on here? Well, I'll tell you.

I've already been out to face the world once today. Jenny and I had breakfast and then I went to buy my books and talk to Financial Aid. I was informed that the University was going to take a great big tree limb, sand all the twigs stemming from it into little needle-point spikes, and then shove it up my ass. And just because I was looking for a little added pleasure, sensation, and stimulation, I called the nonprofit organization from which I received my second scholarship to be told that they were going to grab hold of the tree limb--you know, the one the University had so kindly inserted into my ass--and twist.

I'm stuck. I'm stuck on this campus. If I move off-campus I lose five thousand dollars of free money. If I move into University-sponsored apartments I might not lose the money, but they make no guarantees (of course--which is why I absolutely adore low-level bureaucrats who have neither the know-how nor the authority to make any real decisions or tell you anything of importance or really answer any question worth asking). And if I take the chance of living in University-sponsored apartments, Jenny and I would have to find two to four more roommates. Not happenin'. Just not goin' there.

So where am I? Stuck in a fucking dorm room with a spiky tree limb stuck up my ass. And it's been rotated 270 degrees just for fun.

Can we all agree on something?

More specifically, can we all agree that sometimes I do stupid--really stupid--shit? I'm not talking about the all-too-common anyone-could-make-the-mistake-of-thinking-red-means-go-and-green-means-stop stupid. I'm talking about the certifiably institutionalizably severely retarded kind of stupid.

Like the time I was parking outside my mom's work and freaked out because the car wasn't stopping, only to realize I was pressing the gas pedal rather than the brake.

Or the time I gave my number to Kevin.

Or the time I made up the word "institutionalizably."

Well, last night, I did something beyond even myself. It was so stupid that I can't even come up with a label for it. After I tell you what I did, feel free to tell me what I should call it.

I got to work at ten til ten. About five after, my manager came out to the dining room and asked the servers if any of us had jumper cables. Excitedly, I thought of the winter car kit I got for Christmas and replied that I did.

I got the other server to run the dining room for me, and I proceeded to the parking lot to fetch the cables, move my car, and go bring electric life back into the poor dead battery. Examining the tag on the cables, I saw that the four places on which to put the cables were numbered one through four.

So, I did the logical thing: I skipped reading the tag and proceeded to attach the cables as numbered. The cars weren't started; the rain was drizzling lightly; and I could just feel the impending victory as I reached forward to attach the last cable.

Right as I was planning the phone call to my dad to announce proudly that I had used the winter car kit, sparks started flying, I jumped backward, and as the cables lit on fire, all I could do was back away while screaming to my manager that the cars were on fire.

In my moment of panic, I realized I didn't have my cell phone with me and no one seemed to be moving quickly enough as we screamed for someone to bring out a fire extinguisher and someone else to call the fire department.

One of my fellow associates (as the company likes to call us because apparently they think we feel special if we're "associates" rather than "employees") ran out and began spraying down the cars, and I watched in horror as my vehicle continued to relight itself.

Fire just kept jumping from the engine. And I just kept thinking, "Mom's going to kill me."

So, moments after the fires were put out and my fellow associates went inside the store, the fire engine showed up. Being the only one out there--and the one who created the mess--, I had the pleasure of explaining to the emergency personnel how I managed to light two cars on fire.

They checked things out for a minute, asked for names and addresses, picked pieces of melted jumper cable off the burnt white paint and melted battery casing of my poor little eggshell van (named "Mockdor"), then asked if I had tried starting the car.

"Fuck no! The car was just on fire a second ago and now the battery casing is melted and you want me to start the fucking car without knowing whether the battery is going to completely explode and engulf us all in flames in death!?!"

That's actually just what I thought. In reality I said, "No. I'm scared to."

So they urged me on, saying they didn't think the battery casing had melted through to the core, and I should try to start it. Climbing in, I watched as they pulled down the visors on their helmets and took a step back. Really comforting.

I had a moment of contemplation, sitting there with the door hanging open and my hand on the ignition. I couldn't decide if it was safer, in the event of explosion, to have the door open or closed. It seemed like less debris would hit me if the doors were closed, but that would also potentially trap me inside a flaming vehicle. Knowing that there were two fire fighters standing outside my door, I pulled it shut and tentatively turned the key.

Voila! It started. No fire either.

A wave of relief came over me until I realized I still had to drive it somewhere in the morning. My mother's husband (who I actually called my "stepdad" for once) told me to take it to a particular mechanic, so I did. They told me the battery was leaking acid.

The battery. was leaking. acid. Fucking acid. Do you know how scary it is that the car could've exploded while I was on my way to the mechanic!?

Well, anyway, I agreed to have the battery, light assembly, and hood release wire replaced. The mechanic also offered to sand down the panel and paint it for me if I went to the auto parts store and bought the paint. I did so and I have to return tomorrow to have the car fixed.

Total cost of being a dipshit: almost $700. That I don't have. To repair a vehicle I don't own. After an accident that could've easily been avoided.

"Do you know how to do this?" Mike asked. "No, but I'll follow the directions," I said. "I can do it so you can go back inside," Mike said. "No," I said, "Tiffany's watching the dining room for me; I can get it."

And the rest is history.

Hell of a way to start the new year.

You know me. Kind of. You at least know that I like to party upon occasion--especially when at home and away from the stresses of school and mock trial and such. Well, I'm at home, and it's New Year's Day. What do you think I was doing last night?

Good guess, but no.

Let me give you a few hints: Jello shots, Alabama Slamas, Melonballers, strawberry Smirnoff vodka, and another substance that shall go unnamed.

Got it yet?

No. Trust me. You don't.

If you add in whiskey of several varieties, you've got the party that was taking place at both my house and my stepsiblings' house across the street.

If you add in lots of grease, dirt, annoying people, and the desire to kill someone, you've got my surroundings: the fine dining establishment at which I work.

That's right, folks. I spent my New Year's Eve drunk at work. Not so much drunk as tipsy--that is, until a certain something happened. Let me tell you about it. Mmk? Mmk.

So I was working. For once we had a semi-adequate staff, and we weren't as busy as anticipated. I was walking back to the service station from taking an order when I looked up to see someone standing at the door.

Under any other circumstances, I would've gone to seat the table before ringing in my order. But this time, I stopped dead in my tracks. I did not--I repeat not--want to see this person. So I gave him one of my signature looks: the exasperated/pissed/infuriated look that screams "What the f*** are you doing in my restaurant and why don't you turn around and walk right back out the door, being sure to slip on the three inch coating of grease we left on the floor for you? And please, while you're lying face-down on the floor, breathing in salmonella and hepatitis, make sure the door slams on you. If need be, I can come pull it shut for you."

But he didn't follow instructions very well. Instead he continued to wait for a table. And just as I was asking another server to go seat him in her section, the lovely little man who can't read facial expressions was joined by none other than Dickweed Kevin.*

When I noticed Sir Dickweed, I had to form an action plan. It went something like this: keep waiting tables, pretending not to see him, and hope like hell he doesn't approach me; if he does, say, "I have nothing to say to you," and walk away.

This plan was flawed in many ways. One: Dickweed and his friend decided to move from their table in the other server's section to a table in my section with three other people. I was taking drink orders when he walked up, so I turned to him and said, "I'm taking an order here," in a tone that said, "Back the f*** up and get back to your table on the other side of the restaurant." His reply: "I'm sitting here."

So I took the drink order and quickly pawned the entire group off onto another server. Flaw two: I had to keep walking past the table to go wait my tables. So I went out into the dining room as little possible. When standing behind the service station I must've looked like a total dipshit. Dickweed's friend was seated such that he could watch what I was doing, so I would duck down behind the service station like I was trying to hide from a gunman or something.

Flaw three: yet another friend of Monsieur Dickweed showed up and needed a carry-out order, so I had to go to the front of the restaurant to take the order. Then, after I had made the order, I should have carried it back up to the gentleman who had just become scum-by-association. However, in most child-like form, when I saw that Dickweed's party had approached the cash register, I went to my co-workers and begged someone else to take the order up there.

Flaw four--the fatal flaw: I hid in the back of the restaurant until Dicky Dickweed and his group left the restaurant, only to have him re-enter after I thought I was in the clear. You must understand a couple things. When Dickweed arrived, I quickly went to the back of the store and consumed several shots of various alcoholic beverages. After he left, I returned to the front of the store with a mixed drink in hand. When he walked in, I was getting past tipsy.

So there I was. Sitting. Smoking. Drinking. Supposedly working.

"Yes?"
"I knew as soon as I walked in that this was going to be awkward."
*nod*
"I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"Well, I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"How's school going?"
"Good. Busy. How's your wife?**"
"Good."
"And the kids?"
"Good. Rotten as ever."
"Good."
"I see you started smoking again."
"I never quit.***"
*Stunned look*
"So how's life?"
*Blank look*
"Good? Bad? So-so?"
"Not good. Business is bad and I'm losing my job."
*Inner glee--so I was delighting in his pain, sue me.* "I'm sorry to hear that."
*Silence while I play with my cigarette*
"Well, I gotta get Mike back to the house. It was good seeing you again."
*Look that just went "WTF? Why even bother with such pleasantries when we both know you're lying through your teeth? Oh wait--my bad; that's what you did the entire time we knew each other."* "Right."

If this is any indicator of how my new year is going to go, then I have no interest in finishing it. Ugh. Next thing you know, Greg and Dennis and all my mother's husbands and my sister's con artist ex will be starting a club. President Dickweed will be in charge. They'll call it The Bastardly Brotherhood. Anyone interested in membership can wait his turn. I know there are plenty of men out there still waiting to lie to the women of my family and it would be wrong to let someone cut in line when they've all been waiting their entire lives to find someone as stupid and gullible as we.




*Don't ask how he got that name. When he originally stopped talking to me without acting like a grown adult and providing some closure, I was pissed off and changed the entry in my phone from his name to "Dickweed Kevin." Being that I had never even used the derogatory term "dickweed" before, one might say that I was just feeling inspired.


**That question was the verbal equivalent of a bitchslap in the fourth degree. I was more than proud of myself for that one, and you should be proud of me too.


***Bitchslap number two. He never approved of smoking and apparently never figured out that it's easy to go without smoking for a day when you're seeing someone who doesn't wanna know. Dipshit Dickweed.