A Few Fuck-Yous…


…Brought to you by international air and train travel.

1. Fuck you for wearing your skunk perfume on a plane (also on the train…I’m looking at you, passengers of renfe who showered in old man cologne). I’m glad you’re making an effort to smell good but we’re all hurtling through the sky in a coke can so everyone can smell everyone else a little too well and I will sneeze on you.

2. Fuck you for wearing your nicest heels and jewels through the security line. I’m glad you’re wealthy and old, but there’s really no reason to hold up the line with your nonsense just so you can stick your fake nose a little higher in the air.

3. Fuck you for looking nice on an airplane, honestly. This isn’t so much of a fuck you as it is a how is this possible? I look like a gremlin who was caught in a flood and a tornado and a hornets nest. It’s just rude to look so much better than me, and to make it all look so effortless. I’m wearing socks with sandals, goddamn it, because I’m tired, these shoes were too heavy to check through, and my toes get cold. I’m a wreck. This is a PSA.

4. Fuck the system. Or…yeah. Fuck this whole first class business class nonsense. I get it, because I, too, would like to actually be able to stretch my (very long) legs out whilst flying. But I can’t, because I don’t have money flying off of trees and landing in my wallet.

5. Speaking of first class, fuck the stupid curtain. “Okay so what we’ll do is take the rich people and put them up front and then keep the plebs away from them with a mesh curtain.”

6. Fuck airports that don’t have free unlimited wifi. Sorry I have a six hour layover and wanted to write on my laptop but only had 30 minutes to do it, JFK. Sorry. So sorry I refuse to pay $5 an hour for shitty wifi. On that note, fuck writing a blog post on your cell phone whilst using data.

7. Fuck. I’m so fucking tired. I’m in that mood where nothing matters so I don’t understand why people put any effort into anything non-essential. Also I broke a nail and I’m annoyingly emotional about it.

8. 12 hours down, 8 to go. There’s no place like home. Fuck everywhere else.

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Jamaica, Rolf, Jamaica.


This place is just full of wonder.

“Oh, look, a deer on campus!” the hipster thought. “My goodness I love wildlife. I’m from the city, so seeing a deer is not a regular occurence for me, but when I see one I really feel like a Native American. I feel like Pocahontas, or Leatherstocking maybe, and I just feel so one with nature. My, my, isn’t life just amazing? That you could see one deer and suddenly be transported to New England in June, stalking your prey in your TOMS…I mean, moccasins? Such a beautiful moment I just had, here, in this place, where it only stops raining when the full moon comes out. Then the squirrels sing their song and my goodness, aren’t I just so appreciative of life and Mother Nature?”

And then he goes to the dining hall and puts a cookie on the dish conveyor belt. Because that’s what it’s for. To convey cookies back to the dishwashers who are slaving away, cleaning spaghetti sauce off of colorful dining hall plates, and my oh my couldn’t they just use a cookie right about now? If only one would come through the conveyor belt and provide that sweet release from the pain of life, just one molasses cookie shaped like a flower, just one, just…

And because they were blessed with that cookie today, they’ll pay it forward to the janitor who cleans the hall bathroom. They’ll go to the store and buy environmentally friendly cleaning products because why not? And Bill the Janitor will walk into the bathroom, mop in hand, and see that the bathroom is already just sparkling clean and he’ll fall to his arthritic knees, crying, “Hallelujah!” because now he can get off work early and go home to his wife, who he has spent the last forty years with but who he hasn’t seen in weeks because he’s been working the night shift and really, for all he knows, she could’ve kicked the bucket by now. But she hasn’t, and when Bill gets home he sits down to a nice, home cooked meal of lamb and spinach (with vinegar, make that extra vinegar, the taste buds have taken a beating in this hard life), and he sits down at the TV for the first time in months and watches the Lehrer Hour on PBS and my goodness, he remembers when McNeil was on that show too, and it was the McNeil Lehrer Hour, which would make sense, and he remembers it before Gwen Eiffel and Judy Woodruff were reporting, and man was the Carter Administration tricky, who would’ve thought a peanut farmer could make it into office, too bad they crucified him. And then he’ll doze off, a book of Wordsworth poetry resting on his belly, and that will be his final night on this earth, but it was a good one because that girl cleaned the bathroom for him.

And his wife, Nadine, will find him so peacefully stretched on the couch, and thank goodness the poison kicked in so quickly, she just couldn’t take it any more, she just wants to move to Jamaica with Rolf, her gardener. She’d been planning it for ages and when Bill came home early tonight, well, she just knew it was the work of Jesus, praise Jesus, Lord a mercy, life is sweet. Bill was a good man, but she just felt so old around him, she needed young love again, so she booked the plane trip and now it’s done, she can leave, no one will ever know.

And Rolf, the college student, sits back and looks at the deer on campus and thinks, “Man, it just doesn’t get any better than this.” He dusts off his TOMS, throws his paper coffee cup in the recycle bin, and walks toward his dorm, into the sunset, where his bags await him and Nadine calls, “Jamaica, Rolf, just think. Jamaica.”

Because that’s what college is all about.

Mondegreen


There’s this phenomenon called mondegreen (which I learned about in Linguistics, big surprise) which occurs when the brain misinterprets song lyrics. It was a sad, sad day in Linguistics when I realized realized that mondegreen is practically an integral part of my life.

Welcome to the land of the ice and snow, where the middleducks run and the hot springs flow.
Or, at least, that’s what I thought were the lyrics to The Immigrant Song. And since I thought that when I was little, I can’t stop singing it that way.
Me: Hey guys! I love me some Led Zep! Ahhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa….ahhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa…welcome to the land of the ice and snow where the middleducks run…errr…I mean…
Them: What the hell’s a middleduck?

Psycho sister, insane!
Funnily enough, my sister sang that to me when we were little. Ohhhh, she knew that those weren’t the words to the hit song “Psycho Killer,” but neither of us knew French and it was funny to hear her call me psycho. Funny how it doesn’t amuse me so much to hear her say it now…

And then, of course, The Strokes decided to befuddle me. I love them, but I will never simply be able to listen to one of their songs and know the lyrics. Julian slurs too much… The real lyrics are in bold, and the ones I thought up in my insanity are in italics:
Happiness is two different things: What you take and then what you bring. One is pleasure, one’s discipline. One’s devotion, one’s just a ring. Desire and reward. Long term and short term joy. Don’t waste your heart…
Happiness is two different things: one you take and when what you ring. One’s the pleasure one’s insuringgggggg…one’s the ocean, one is a ring. Inaaaaaruuuuuwwweaaaahhh, luhhaaaaadaadeedaaa…don’t work so hard…

The song goes on, as do the misinterpretations, but I don’t want to embarrass myself further. Basically, I shouldn’t be allowed to call The Strokes my favorite band anymore. I have disgraced them.

PS: I totally call dibs on forming a band and calling it The Mondegreens. Just know it happened here, and don’t you dare take that away from me.

Kissing and Collaboration (Take Notes, Kids)


Hi y’all! We (Cappy @ Writer’s Block and Girl on the Contrary) have decided to collaborate on a blog. We know, we know. The world’s been waiting for this one for a looooong time. We’ve known each other (through the interwebs) for over a year now, and we thought it would be only appropriate to celebrate our anniversary by posting together. So here goes.

Cappy: The first kiss: it happens to the best of us. And they happen over and over (if you’re lucky…or unlucky, if you’re looking simply for “the one”). Of course, Girl on the Contrary and I were about 97 when we had ours (not together…) since we’re slight flirtation failures, but nevertheless, it happens.

We’re romantics. You can tell by the fact that we wear corsets and walk around knighting people all the time. So we figured we’d talk about what we deem acceptable and unacceptable vis-a-vis first kisses.

Girl on the Contrary: Cappy is being too modest. She was actually 95 when she had her first kiss, she just didn’t want to tell you that for fear you would think she was a “hoochie-mama” (those were her words, not mine, I would never say “hoochie-mama”, I prefer the term amorously gifted. It hasn’t caught on yet.) She was right about one thing, however, I do like to knight people but only those who have shown themselves to be valorous in some way- like letting me cut in front of them in the grocery store check-out. I’m not really romantic, I just like romance. Anyway, I definitely like kissing so it’s worth discussing, and by worth it, I mean Cappy and I plan to make a lot of money writing about kissing. So, like, really worth it.

The Place

GOOD:
Cappy: On a balcony. So Rom & Jul.
In a wheat field during a sunset…but hey, don’t wear shorts, or severe chafing will ensue and your kiss scenario will be demoted to the bad section of this list.
On a sailboat…during a sunset? Don’t lean against a sail or anything though. Don’t want to lose your balance and get eaten by a shark! That’s not romantic.
On an albatross. Because, really, it’s bloody well majestic.
In a hot air balloon. Just don’t hit a plane or something. We’re not sure it’s possible, but it would be just our luck.

GotC: In a closet. As I understand it, when two people go into a closet together- it turns into Heaven for like 7 minutes. Also, beaches. Also, also, my living room couch. It’s so simple yet so perfect.

BAD:

Cappy: A field just as a crop duster passes overhead.
An albatross that really needs to potty.
A balcony…because, really…do we WANT to compare ourselves to Rom and Jul? They. Died. And it wasn’t just like a little, painless death. Their deaths were filled with poison, heartbreak, and stab wounds. I blame the friar.

GotC: I agree, it was totally the friar’s fault. Also, cars. It’s super awkward and there are arm rests and seat belts to deal with. Also, also, under bleachers at any sporting events. Steer clear of the under the bleachers because before you know it, other kids will be calling you “amorously gifted.”

The Mood
GOOD:

Cappy: Dark-ish. Because he might not be that cute. And you don’t necessarily want to see his fish face looming in on you and then you all of a sudden think, “WHAT AM I GETTING MYSELF INTO?!” But then maybe that’s what you SHOULD think, and you’d better think it fast before he starts ripping your clothes off.

GotC: If Clueless taught me anything, it taught me that lighting it crucial. Florescent lighting is not flattering on anyone so avoid places with florescent lighting. Dusk is nice. So is twilight. I’m pretty sure those two are the same thing.
BAD:

Cappy: Totally dark. You don’t want any wandering hand action to be happening…unless, you know, you DO want wandering hand action. But at this point we’re only talking about the first kiss, not the first grope.

GotC: Too bright. You don’t want to see too much, trust me on that.

The Caress:

Cappy: If he grabs your head and locks it in, we have a problem. But if he touches your face, whispers something nice, says you’re pretty when your eyes are closed, etc…well, actually, he’s probably just Edward Cullen and you should get your holy water out. The caressing should be nice, but really, no matter what he does, it’ll seem kinda dumb when you say it out loud.

GotC: Ah, the caress. Super sappy, super romantic, super necessary. A touch of the face, a holding of the hand, when he pushes your hair behind your ear……..I’m going to stop now because I think you get it and if you don’t, you need to watch some movie adaptations of Jane Austen novels, they usually get it right in the sweet caresses department.

The Whole Package:

Cappy: You should feel nice afterward, and your tonsils should remain intact, thank you very much.
And that, my friends, is kissing advice from two foxy ladies who just like to keep it real. You like us. Admit it. Actually, don’t admit it, just show your love with a little smoochin’.

GotC: You should be smiling, and every time you think about it afterward, you should smile. And if you’re not smiling or don’t ever think of it again, it wasn’t done properly. Also, according to conventional wisdom, unlike us, you’re not supposed to talk about it.

So there you have it. We’ve tested all these scenarios out, so they’re like, totally scientific and everything. Just listen to us and we promise, you’ll have a lotta luck in love. Meow.

Girl on the Contrary is a sassy, sassy lady. You can read more about her here, or in this post I wrote about our love. We share similar tastes in music, love, and life, and both have an unnatural obsession for Alice in Wonderland. And I love her dearly because she was one of the first people to read this blog (she was here before you. Feel bad about yourselves). If you know me, you want to know her. Or, contrarily (get it? get it?), if you know me but wish you didn’t…well, what are you doing here anyway?

Mary Poppins Pockets


My boyfriend keeps everything in his pockets. I guess that’s not unusual, since most guys don’t carry purses etc. It’s just always so hilarious to me when he pulls his phone and wallet, a whole cake and a small elephant out of his pockets at the end of the day.

What? How? How was all that stuff in there? They didn’t seem full…you didn’t look like you’d had a poo incident in the front of your pants…then how? Your pants aren’t weird or anything, right? There’s no “false bottom” in them? Is that possible?

How have you been carting all that stuff around all day? And can I have some of your magical powers?

There's an elephant in there, I swear.

Of course, I laugh at him, because I have no tact. And he may or may not strangle me (or throw his pocket elephant at me) in anger for writing a stupid blog post about his deformity unusually spacious pockets.

I laugh about it because I think it’s cute. I will never get over the novelty of his Mary Poppins/Hermione bag pockets.  I laugh because honestly, there’s no reason to laugh. I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. I know what he keeps in there (elephants, I tell you!), so it shouldn’t be surprising.

I laugh because I laugh at everything, to be honest. I think the things I say are hilarious, I laugh at my own blog posts (way too hard), I laugh at people’s pockets…it’s just what I do.

It makes me wonder, does the novelty ever wear off? I hope not. I’d like to think that I will forever laugh at his pockets, and lots of other worn out and old jokes that we’ve formulated over the years we’ve known each other. Because it seems that as long as I can laugh at him, and he can tease me for it, we’ll always be in pretty good shape.

Leave it to me to turn a post about pockets into a lesson on keeping love alive, or some such rubbish.

But seriously, I always wanted to date someone like Mary Poppins.

Someone Like You


To begin this story, and help illustrate the weird ramblings my mind takes, I should let you know that I’ve been listening to Adele’s “21” nonstop for the past week. I finally bought the whole thing (I’d gotten a couple songs from it but finally caved because it’s AWESOME). So I sing in the shower (a lot) and was bustin’ out some “Someone Like You” while shaving, when I thought of something totally profound. Maybe.

I know that Adele isn’t creepy, or a stalker, or even someone I could possibly think negatively of, so just know that before I continue. I think the song is beautiful, and extremely artfully done, and I identify with it in a lot of ways.

But I also was thinking that it could totally go a different (weird) way (if you were insane, which Adele isn’t, and which I try not to be too). I’ll explain better:

I heard that you’re settled down
That you found a girl and you’re
Married now
I heard that your dreams came true.
Guess she gave you things I didn’t give to you

Right. So basically they used to date, then they broke up, then he got married and is happy and she’s like “Oh, I heard you’re married. I just wasn’t good enough for you, was I?! WAS I?! I HOPE SHE’S SUPER PRETTY AND SUPER DUMB!” Kinda.

Old friend why are you so shy?
Ain’t like you to hold back or hide from the light

 I mean, I guess he hasn’t talked to you in a while because you’re not dating anymore, and because you went nutso on him after you broke up so he got a restraining order.

I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited
But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it.
I had hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded
That for me it isn’t over

Girl, it’s over. It’s over for both of you, and he’s moved on. You’d moved on too, until you found out he had a wife and now you’re showing up at his house like “Ooh, I miss you so much, I love you even though we haven’t talked in years.” Have a little self respect, and stop “turning up out of the blue” because it’s not romantic or thoughtful, it’s sad :(

Never mind I’ll find someone like you
I wish nothing but the best for you too
“Don’t forget me”, I begged.
I’ll remember, you said, “Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead.”
Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead.

That’s the spirit! Maybe. Here’s the deal. I don’t think he’s good enough for you. Like, I get it, he was your lover and you’re sad especially since he’s moved on, but you don’t need to find someone LIKE him, you need to find someone ELSE who DOESN’T remind you of him, because that’s just sick and unhealthy.
And then she sings some more stuff about time and happiness and such, and then repeats some of the stuff she said before…

Nothing compares, no worries or cares
Regrets and mistakes
They are memories made.
Who would have known
How bittersweet this would taste?

So that’s pretty sad. But I have a philosophy that goes something like this: you’ll die an old maid if you don’t get over it.
Oh, that was kinda mean. And I never live by that, so I’m a big, rude, hypocrite who just insulted an entire song by Adele that I honestly love love love just for the sake of comedy.
I make so many sacrifices for you people.

And then she sings more about finding someone like him, which personally I think is a mistake because I bet he smells a little weird and anyone who doesn’t marry Adele is a fool.

And…bow. Because that’s the end of the song and this horrendous blog post.

Oh. By the way. Do you think Adele will still marry me/be my best friend? Because she’s gorgeous and soooo talented. Watch.

How to Make Friends


Step One: See them around town.
You like what you see. They seem nice, always chatting with passersby or wearing something fun. Give them a little nod as you pass to show that you want to be best friends.
Follow them to their favorite lunch spot. Memorize their order so that one day you can be in front of them in line and order it, then hear them gasp delightedly behind you and say, “That’s my favorite!” I can practically hear the sound of friendship bracelets being made.

Step Two: Ask around.
Casually ask your friends (or any complete stranger within a 10 foot radius) “Who is that sassy lady wearing  a false ponytail and cowboy boots? I’d like to know her. What is her name? Birthday? Social security number?”

Step Three: Add on Facebook.
Because nothing’s more welcome than a random friend request from someone you may or may not have seen staring at your false ponytail.
If you’re feeling spunky, add a personal note. “Hey, I’ve seen you around and think you are the coolest thing since ice cubes. I would like to be your best friend…forever.”

Step Four: Find out where they work.
This information can be obtained in the same manner as in Step Two.

Step Five: “Bump” into them at work.
“Oh my goodness, you work here? I had no idea. I work across town at a pizza stand, which has nothing to do with your high-flying job as a trapeze artist so I really have no reason to be here…what a crazy coincidence! Wanna be best friends?!”

Step Six: Burn the restraining orders.
They were mistakes. Mistakes!
 Keep telling yourself that.

Why I’m Destined to be Tina Fey


People tell me I remind them a lot of Liz Lemon (for those of you who don’t know, that’s Tina Fey’s character on 30 Rock). While I pretend to be offended that people compare me to a single, middle-aged woman who eats her feelings, I’m not…I’m not offended at all. In fact, it’s pretty much my crowning glory.
Here is a list of why I will become Tina Fey. Not hope to become, mind you. Will.

1. Her brother is 8 years older than her. My sister is 7 years older than me. In her book, Bossypants, Tina/FutureMe wrote, “my brother has always looked out for me like a third parent.” Laurel treats me that way every day. Not that I don’t love her for it, because I love being taken care of. But sometimes it gets to the point where I want to tell her to just get a pet fish to take care of instead…not that I compare myself to a fish…uh…

My little Midge.

2. “One of my five hundred nicknames for my daughter is Midge, which is short for Midget, because she was a very small baby.” When we first got my cat, Mickey, I wanted to name him Midge so badly. He was the tiniest thing I’d ever seen and I coud practically fit him in my palm. So I still call him Midge, even though he is now the hugest cat on the planet.

3. The woman is a genius, and obviously I am too.
Here are a few random samplings of that genius (hers): “No one ever says, ‘You really, really must deliver the baby during labor.’ When it’s true, it doesn’t need to be said,” and “There’s a drunk midget in my house.”

Just so you can properly compare, here are a few random samplings of my genius: “People will come and go, but sour candy…that stuff’s forever. Literally. I think it’s radioactive,” and “Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Give a man a Big Mouth Billy Bass and he’ll regift it to you next Christmas.”

4. She claims that now that she’s 40, she needs to take her pants off as soon as she gets home. “I didn’t used to have to do that,” she writes. “But now I do.” Well, Tina, I already have to do that. I guess I’m just preparing to live your fly, fancy lifestyle before I turn 20.

5. She remembers the pamphlets she got that were about her period. While mine featured really weird cartoons that asked questions such as, “Can I go swimming while on my period?” and “Will I bleed to death if I’m on my period when I get into a knife fight with Mike Tyson?” hers had the “vaguely threatening” title of “Growing Up and Liking It.” She thought her period would come out as a blue liquid like in maxi-pad commercials; I always thought those commercials were a marketing nightmare. As I’ve asked many times before, what twit thinks that I’m gonna want to buy a maxi pad that could double as an umbrella on a rainy day?

I think you can all see that I am exactly like her. And if you can’t see it, maybe get some glasses…or just keep your mouth shut.

Party Etiquette


1. For those of you that drink, don’t use those horrendous Bud Light bottles that have a “name tag” on them.
You know people are just gonna scrape dirty pictures on them after they’ve downed a few. Whose idea were those anyway? “Yeah, let’s make it easier for drunk people to give out their phone numbers, get drunk, make mistakes, and then forget about them in the morning.”
Stay classy, people. Water seems a little more fitting for my kind of party anyway.

2. If it’s meant to be a fancy dress party, actually dress up.
I don’t know how many times I’ve seen the girls look lovely and the guys come with crap spilled all over their shirts and their hair sticking up in more directions than a porcupine’s quills. Just look like you spent more than two minutes getting dressed, okay?

3. Don’t eat all the chips, people!
You could probably stand to lose a few pounds anyway, and all you’re gonna do tonight is eat and sit. Just because you won’t shut up doesn’t mean you’re getting exercise (unless, of course, your jaw could use a good workout). Save those chips for the anorexic models who will no doubt show up later. Make them eat; it’s your civic duty.

4. Don’t be a wallflower.
That’s annoying; you came to this party, so PARTY! That doesn’t mean you have to do crack and bounce off the walls all night while hitting on the hostess. But it does mean that you should smile and speak and laugh. And dance, if appropriate. Heck, dance if NOT appropriate.

5. Bring the host/hostess something.
Preferably a fatted calf. But if those aren’t readily available at a supermarket near you, sparkling cider usually does the trick.

6. Finally, don’t get drunk off your booty.
I’d say “don’t get drunk off your ass,” but my daddy reads this. Oh. Oops.

What’s a Heezy, Anyway?


I have been awarded the Versatile Blogger Award by the very attractive (I assume) blogger over at Merry Musings and now am absolutely required by law to post random facts about myself etc etc. But hey, I’ve never been one to talk about myself (I know, I can practically hear you scoffing through the internet right now), so who knows what I’ll spit out today.

1. Leighton Meister’s song “Body Control” has recently made me think of “Botty Control” and picture incontinent toddlers.

2. I secretly want to punch people who walk around with their hands in each other’s back pockets. Like, you couldn’t wait for about 10 more minutes to go somewhere private and fondle his butt there? No, apparently not.
So yeah, PDA-ing idiots in the mall. You’re rednecks (probably not). I hate you and your butt-squeezing hands. Watch it, or you might just find my hand in your boyfriend’s pocket. How do you like it now?

3. Outback Steakhouse commercials make me absolutely detest Australian accents. Which is ridiculous, really, as I am pretty much in love with YouTube comedian Natalie Tran, along with standup comedian Adam Hills (he will marry me someday) and they’re both from Australia. I think it’s because the Outback Steakhouse guy ISN’T ACTUALLY AUSTRALIAN. I refuse to believe that he is in any way connected with the real Australian outback, mainly because he sounds like he’s half kangaroo. Oh. Wait…

4. Dogs are aliens. Yeah, I said it. The government didn’t want me to, and if I disappear from bed tonight, you’ll know why. All that barking? Those crazy high-pitched dog whistles? Yeah, that’s how they communicate with their home planet. And when they nuzzle (attack) you? PROBING. THEY’RE FREAKING PROBING YOU.

5. I’m so afraid for my generation. I’m a little worried that we’re gonna start spelling ludicrous “Ludacris” and not know it has an actual definition. And I don’t understand most of these new-fangled words anyway. What’s a heezy? Who are you, Ice Cube? And why did that man just say something about my badonkadonk? Is that some kind of cancer?

6. What the HECK is up with morning people? I didn’t even know 4:30 AM existed until that perky girl over there said that’s when she wakes up.

7. And really, what’s with this new fad of people giving stuff up for Lent? I know it’s been happening for centuries probably, but honestly? People who aren’t even religious do it now, don’t know why they’re doing it, and quit after three days without chocolate. And to those who are religious: it’s like a bad New Year’s resolution only you do it for 40 days and compare yourself to Jesus the whole time.