“Save the fuel. I’m coming for you.”

Jason Statham is a badass. Sure, he plays the same character in every movie, but in every movie, he’s just an ass-beating, bonafide badass. And I’m fine with that. Mark Wahlberg gets me going in a similar manner, too, but then you remember that he’s Marky Mark – “Good Vibrations,” and the badass factor gets turned down a notch. Haha.

I still love you, Wahlberg.

Last night I went to AMC to see “Sinister.”  I would like my money back. This is the first movie I have ever actually almost walked out of. It was terrible. Part of me wants to go more into detail about the weak plot, the overdone acting, the forced and senseless dialogue, and the cliche “kids are scary so let’s make them say ‘shh’ which is supposed to be creepy but is actually gayer than AIDS” number they did 1039501 too many times. It was bad, that’s the point.

At 3 pm yesterday, I went inside a building for a seminar. It was 78 degrees. Two short hours later, I exited, and was slapped in the face with a brisk and blustery 31 degree temperature drop. Pretty drastic. What I was wearing in the 78 degrees was not appropriate for the now 47 degrees. Regrets.

ANYway, that being said, I love autumn. BOY do I. Nothing gets me going more than chilly weather, scented candles, baked goods, and holiday garb. Once September hits, I skip right over Halloween and Thanksgiving and charge straight into Christmas with the passion of a thousand burning suns. I’ve been making special, unimportant trips to Costco just to submerge myself in the extravagant holiday decor that fills the building. I’ve been privately enjoying Christmas carols in my car since mid August, but now I’m blaring my Trans-Siberian Orchestra Pandora station for the world to hear whether they like it or not. It’s joyful AND TRIUMPHANT!!!

What really has me by the balls during the autumn and winter months though are Bath & Body Works seasonal candles and soaps. Marshmallow Fireside gives me a nose boner than lasts for more than 4 hours, and from what I understand, that calls for medical attention. I love it. I have gone a little overboard with the room spray, several candles, and a car freshener, and I’m still thinking about going back for more. Why do good smells make me so jubilant? I don’t even know. My nose is smiling just thinking about it, though my bank account is not.

Today is Sunday, and on Sundays, I eat whatever the f-ck I want. To prepare, I exercise harder than normal so I don’t feel so bad. After boxing for an hour and then getting a quick 2.4 miler in, I whipped up a glorious bowl of mouth-watering guacamole, and then assembled the ingredients for an Oreo brownie recipe. The recipe uses cookies & cream ice cream, Oreos (I chose to use the birthday cake flavored special edition Oreos, BOOM), fudge topping, and fudge brownie mix. How could ANYTHING go wrong with that combination, right? The instructions said to bake them for 26 minutes. After 55 minutes, the brownies were still a pan of bubbling molten lava. I gave up. Hopefully they taste heavenly though they are misshapen. We will just have to see. I want to kick the oven door in though. Once again, if it’s not a cake, it’s not in my wheelhouse. 

White people problems. PEACE.

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J:   “So what do you guys like to do on the weekends?”

B:   “…..I go to Bath & Body Works.”

 

Two for me.

I’m not sure how this happens to me twice in a row, but last night after drafting up a big fat blog post, it vanished once again, without a trace. Argh! ARGH, I say. I forget everything I said yesterday, so I guess I’ll just let you know what’s going on today.

I bought a gigantic sack of candy bars for the trick-or-treaters on Halloween. The mistake I made was buying Twix bars. I’m not sure what I thought I was doing buying my biggest vice in the Mars candy world. Twix are my achilles heel. If the Romans built a prison of Twix bars around me, I could eat my way out in hours. I love Twix, okay? Anyway, to my surprise, I have so far been able to leave the giant sack of delicious chocolate covered caramel drizzled shortbread cookies alone for nearly a week. Six more days to go before Halloween, though. If I break, I’ll be handing out Milkbones. Stay strong, Switz.

When August arrived this summer, I was feeling like a lazy bum being sedentary and not doing anything active with my body. Unfortunately, it was 118 degrees all summer long, and running was simply out of the question for me. I’m just not that hardcore. Team sports and I go together about as well as dill pickles and chocolate syrup, so that was out. I looked into some martial arts, but the karate clubs nearby had weird schedules that wouldn’t work for me. Then I found a Title Boxing Club like 2 miles from my house. They have a free class for newbies to try, and I figured what the heck, let’s give it a go. I went in, and before even trying the free class, I decided I may as well go ahead and join. I signed myself up for a year-long membership, got my gloves and wraps, and took my place next to one of the 170 pound punching bags, ready for class to begin.

Class starts, and I’m already feeling like an energized badass. Montell Jordan immediately starts playing in my head, and I’m bopping around like Million Dollar Baby. We start off with some cardio—jumping jacks, mountain climbers, sprints. “Aw yeah,” I say to myself, “You got this shit.” Not five minutes later, I am going into cardiac arrest, feeling like throwing up all over my neighbors and myself, and yawning continually due to lack of oxygen to my brain. This was no joke. They were beating my ass. Inside my head I was saying things like, “Becca, you’re a lunatic—why did you ever sign up for this? A YEAR OF THIS? You’re going to die.” Regrets.

I had 55 long minutes left.

By the time class ended, I found myself laying face down on the floor, motionless, and in need of a stretcher to deliver my carcass to my vehicle. The next two days were absolutely brutal. My body was bitch slapped. They bitch slapped my entire body. I am not exaggerating when I say that I literally could not walk down the stairs. I could hardly put on my pants. I had trouble getting into my Jeep. It was rough.

THANK GOD! That’s what I signed up for after all. Boy do they whip you into shape up there. I am feeling and looking fit as a fiddle, you guys. If you have a Title Boxing Club near you, I highly recommend going. 

The only downside is that I’ve really torn up my poor knuckles. My hands are starting to look pretty haggard. People probably think I fight bums in the street for crack because of the way my knuckles look. Tradeoffs.

So I’ve been cooking a lot. The photos of my meals have been getting a lot of attention lately, so I think I might start throwing some easy recipes on here every couple of days. THOUGHTS? Tell me how you feel about it. They are all low calorie, super simple and delicious meals. 

Ok bye.

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B:  “YOLO!  ….I don’t even actually know what that means.”

C:  “You only live once.”

B:  “Oh. I thought it was some sort of salutation.”

Take me out of the ball game.

Mother. F-cker.

I just wrote a GIANT blog post, and then it VANISHED!!!! I am devastated. I guess I’ll just do it again.

I think football has officially taken the number two seat on my “most hated sports” list, being replaced with gusto by baseball. It’s so boring. I don’t understand how people watch it. It’s like watching someone make a bed. But for six hours. It’s like watching a maid make beds for six hours. America’s favorite pastime, get out. Baseball does not pass time. Time passes it. Now, live at a baseball field, maybe I can see it—there’s beer, gluey nacho “cheese,” people watching, hooting and hollering—fine. But baseball on television? That’s torture. I’d rather watch the Catholic Channel.

People keep saying things to me like, “GASP – you don’t like baseball?! But you live in St. Louis!”  I don’t care if I live on the moon, baseball is not going to get any more exciting because of my geographical location.  “You’d better learn to like it if you’re going to live here,” they say. No. I won’t. The world series is interrupting my X Factor schedule, and that is the only glimpse of baseball I will be catching on purpose, f’real.

I haven’t written a blog post in forty-five years. I forgot my log-in information. It’s been a while. I’ve been busy cooking, exercising, and failing at baking. “Cooking? YOU!?” I know. One year ago my diet was made up almost entirely of Velveeta shells & cheese, spaghetti, cereal, McDonald’s, and Chinese takeout. I’m not sure how I didn’t turn into Kirstie Alley. Somehow I managed to maintain a normal physique. This year however, I am cooking up a storm! Salmon, tilapia, broccoli, sweet potatoes, squashes of all sorts, shrimp, chicken, brussels sprouts, quesadillas, salsas—WOO! I’m actually pretty good at it. Baking though, that’s a whole other “ball game.”

HA! Get it? I say “ball game,” because like baseball, it’s f-cking terrible. I’m not sure why. It’s disastrous. Recently I got the recipe for these incredible chocolate chip cookies made with Jello to make them extra soft and moist and delicious. I went out and got all the ingredients, and set myself up in the kitchen to get to baking. Have you ever had those biscuits at Red Lobster? Well they came out like those. Except not, because those biscuits are terrific, and these cookies sucked. They had a biscuit-like texture. They were like chocolate chip English muffins. What’s worse is that the recipe yielded over 70 of these non-cookies. I was depressed.

Next I attempted butterscotch oatmeal cookies. Easy enough, right? Apparently not, because mine turned out flat and runny. You had to eat them with a fork. I’m not joking. They still tasted good at least, unlike my Red Lobster Cheddar cookies. Nobody will be calling me Betty Crocker any time soon. At least as far as cookies are concerned; for whatever reason, I have had luck with cakes, so at least there’s that.

Halloween is right around the corner. This is the first year I am living in a house in a high traffic neighborhood and not in a dark, seedy apartment, meaning children by the dozen will be stopping by expecting fistfuls of candy. Or iPods and iTunes gift cards, whatever it is this spoiled, greedy generation expects from strangers on insignificant holidays these days. To avoid what happened last year, I have already purchased two large sacks of bulk candy. One of those bags is filled with Twix bars. Purchasing it ten days in advance may have been a major mistake. We’ll see how many of those Twix bars are left come Halloween night. I’m a bit of an addict. Once that bag is torn open, there’s no telling what might happen. If I binge eat all those Twix bars, I guess I’ll just have to hand out batteries.

I think it would be funny to hand out ice cream sandwiches. At first the kiddos would be like, “Aw yeah!! Score,” initially not recognizing the negative consequence of stuffing frozen treats into their sticky trick-or-treat bags, until they get home and find their Reese’s cups and mini Snickers floating in a soupy vanilla ice cream puddle.

I’m twisted.

WELL, I would write more but I’ve already written all this twice. I hope I didn’t forget any funny, snarky comments I had in the first one. Sigh.

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A:  “I need to charge my phone.”

C:  “Well, I would let you plug yours in but mine is currently plugged in. How low is your battery? I need a number. Give me a percentage.”

A:  “57.”

C:  “Okay, mine is like 96, so I guess you can charge yours.”

Holy humidity, batman.

 

 

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Why do doors that open automatically for you with zero action and 100% convenience on your part say “caution?”  You don’t need to caution me that there is convenience ahead. You need to warn me when doors are NOT going to open up magically for me so I don’t body-slam it, break my nose and lose my dignity.  There should be warnings for the opposite. “Caution: Manual Door. If you don’t take action on this door, you will slam into it face first, breaking your glasses, stubbing your toe, and embarrassing yourself publicly.” 

The heat will take my life. It’s hell on earth. I don’t know how much longer I can survive it. It has been above 100 degrees for 8 weeks straight now, many of those days reaching temperatures above 113, day in and day out with the exception of perhaps two days where it dipped into the low 90s. I don’t understand! Why does the earth need to get this hot? We already have ovens, God. We can bake our Tombstone pizzas and Pillsbury croissants in our GE Profiles, we don’t need to set them on our driveway to make the magic happen.

My weather app has just stopped giving me “sunny” or “partly cloudy” clipart to illustrate what it’s going to be like outside. Instead, it just shows this:

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There are just no words to describe how awful this heat wave is.

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You know it’s hotter than balls when the weather channel has to start using creative adjectives to describe how life-sucking the temperatures are.

The other day, the weather forecast predicted temperatures to actually dip below 100 for the first time in weeks, and it said this: “Monday: 94. Colder.”  COLDER? COLDER, AccuWeather?! Go wash your mouth out with soap. Unless I will be needing to don a cardigan, don’t tell me it’s going to be “colder” when it’s 94 f-cking degrees.

I have been sweating like a bitch. I get home from work everyday smelling like the gorilla complex at the zoo. I have never been sweatier. The humidity is thicker than Queen Latifa’s thighs. I feel like I need to start wearing goggles and flippers just to get through it. I’m so glad I’m not a plant right now. They are all just shriveling up and dying off.

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Missouri canceled all their 4th of July fireworks shows due to the extreme fire hazards flaming fireworks would pose. The grass is drier than Ben Stein’s sense of humor. One rogue roman candle would light this place up like Chicago in 1871. WHEN WILL IT END?!

Winter sounds like a myth now. It’s like Big Foot. Only rumors of it exist, supported weakly by vague recollections older people have of it that they are barely able to describe anymore with their faded memories. I can’t wait to be cold again. I’m starting to go to the grocery store just to hang out in the frozen meats section just to remember what goosebumps feel like. Give me autumn or give me death!

Well, time to go watch those athletic freaks of nature blow my mind in the Olympics.

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“I made a whole batch of those cupcakes, so if you like them and you want more, just say the word. But if you don’t like them….then just don’t say anything.”

 

Time out.

The Voice is starting to piss me off. My rage is uncontrollable. I don’t know where to begin to express my discontent with the judges. Christina got rid of Jesse Campbell, quite possibly the best male vocalist on the show. RaeLynn was one of my least favorite in the beginning of the show, and quickly became one of my favorites. When she rocked out “She’s Country,” I fell in love. Then Blake’s stupid ass kicked her off! WHAT IS HAPPENING!??!?! I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. I still like you, Blake. But…but…!!

Also, Christina is being a total C-word. What, she lost five pounds so now she gets to be a bitch to everyone? Her negative criticism is always unwarranted and rude in general. She needs to be slapped in the tits.

Now it’s down to the wire though. I am saddened that Lindsey Pavao has left us. I think Juliet Simms will win this show. She’s a badass. Jermaine has a good voice, no doubt, but something about him bores me, same as Javier Colon last season. It’s like….they’re so powerful and good technically, but lack character in their singing. I don’t know, they don’t grab me as individuals like the others do.

My aspartame consumption is really causing my memory to debilitate, and I keep blacking out other parts of the show. I can’t remember who is left anymore. Go Juliet.

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The world has destroyed my attention span. I used to be able to wait for dial-up internet, and now I can’t wait for a 10 second YouTube commercial. I get pissed when it takes longer than 2 seconds for my email to load. I’m aggravated when the gas station pump takes 8 seconds to print a facking receipt. I feel like a six year old waiting for Christmas Eve when my oatmeal is in the microwave for 1:30. It can’t be reversed. Impatience is now ingrained in my generation.

I am finally the proud parent of a gloriously simple and sophisticated white iPhone 4s. I could not be happier. Deactivating my Droid was like getting ice cream on a 100 degree day. I was overjoyed. I am amazed I had the self control to not hurl my Droid at a brick wall up until this point. Siri and I are best friends. I asked her what I should wear this morning, and she said, “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing right now?”  I asked her again about an hour later and she responded with, “I’m sure whatever you wore yesterday would be fine.”  Haha. Attitude. Thanks Siri.

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Of course after receiving my new phone, I had to go peruse through the apps and get all my conveniences set up for myself, beginning with weather.  I’m a real freak about my weather updates. I want to know the real temperature, the “feels like” temperature, the chance of precipitation hour-by-hour, the 10-day forecast—I need to be in the know. Anyway, while I was deciding which app to choose for my weather updates, I read a few reviews. One particular weather app had a comment from a user that read,

“Cool app but isn’t always right.”

….No shit. Welcome to the WEATHER, kid. Weather forecasts are never “always right,” you nimrod. That’s like saying, “The Celtics are good but they don’t always win.”  Sigh.

WELL, time to do work things. Bi!

_________________________________________________________________

B:  “The bad thing about rice cakes is that I eat like six of them at a time.”

A:   “That’s because they’re filled with air.”

UFC you later.

I have been cooking a lot lately. My vegetable consumption has skyrocketed. My countertop is covered in fresh produce instead of a Jenga tower of Velveeta Shells & Cheese boxes. It used to be really tricky for me to buy fresh fruits and vegetables, because they would spoil and grow a toupee before I ever got around to eating them. Now I can barely keep my veggie stock full. I feel like I’m buying spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes and lemons nearly every day.

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I wish I had a garden. Then I wouldn’t have to watch my food go bad. I could just pluck things fresh off the vine. Strawberries, for example, get moldy before they even reach my home from the grocery store. This pisses me off. I like potatoes though. Potatoes don’t go bad. They just grow more potatoes. I wish the other vegetables would follow suit.

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I’m in a room full of people watching a UFC fight. The two fighters in the cage right now happen to be Canadian. People in the room keep saying, “Becca, these guys are Canadian! Don’t you want to watch?”  as I type away on my computer. No. I don’t know why everyone thinks just because I am from Canada that I should give a f-ck about other people doing things who also happen to be from Canada. If there was a quilting convention being broadcasted on television and the two geriatric women needling away were both from Missouri, would you give a shit about that, Greg? I didn’t think so.

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Speaking of the Canadian thing, when people find out I’m Canadian, it is not uncommon for them to say something like, “Hey, I went to school with a guy named Jordan who was from Canada! Maybe you know him?”  Canada is f-cking huge. It’s larger than the United States. What makes you think that I would just happen to know one of the 34 million people from there? Good lord.

These UFC fights are insane. This guy’s face is completely f-cked. His eyes are more swollen than a pregnant woman’s feet after a walk for heart disease. I don’t know how he can even see. It looks like he got hit in the face with a pumpkin. Like he was standing under a building and a pumpkin got dropped off the roof and hit him square in the face. I don’t know why people sign up for this. I generally like to avoid pain, and by generally I mean as a rule of my being at any and all costs. Four minutes later, this man’s face looks like he got slapped with a weed-whacker, and there are lemons beneath the surface of his skin. This is a bludgeoning. They just stopped and put a giant bag of ice on his face. There is no other option at this point. He looks like Quasimoto.

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I am typing this in real time as I watch this match. The other dude’s nose is a wreck. It is completely smashed. I would be bawling like a baby. At this point, my body would have taken over and forced me to pass out to protect me from any further suffering. Holy shit. His face looks like a steak that just got tenderized with a spiked mallet. His upper lip is so swollen, it looks like a chalkboard eraser. There is blood everywhere. It’s like he got sprayed in the face with hot sauce. This man is going to need 4 Vicodin, a shot of morphine, a bottle of Goldschlager, and several pounds of ice when he goes home. A coma is the only way to perservere through this beating. Put this man out of his misery. It looks like somebody dropped him off a house and he smacked his face on the curb.

Well, I guess…..that’s……it. That’s it. Bye.

____________________________________________________________________

B:   “Oh. T.I. has really nice teeth.”

T:   “T.I.’s got enough money to have any kind of teeth he wants.”

Plumb Pudding.

I have a headache that could kill a man. It is actually affecting my brain. I couldn’t say “iPhone” just now. All that sputtered out was, “uh….uh…..wait…..uh….”   It’s bad. Like, my eyeballs are hurting. I have popped some naproxen sodium in hopes that it would battle the migraine pounding away in my skull like Travis Barker. So far I still feel like the Keebler Elf is chopping wood in my cerebellum. I can’t live like this you guys.

The plumber came. GOD BLESS IT THE PLUMBER CAME!!!! Our five-day sink-clog has finally been remedied. After plunging the drain and opening the trap, we discovered two plastic knives, a popsicle stick, a straw, and half of a plastic fork. That’ll clog your drain. Whoops. Due to an unusable sink for nearly a week, almost every single dish we owned was dirty and piled upon every square inch of counter space we had, stinking it up worse than Fergie at the Superbowl. The kitchen smelled like spoiled algea and pussy. It was disgusting.

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After tackling the pile of dishes, I went on a full-fledged cleaning rampage. It actually smells GOOD in here. Like, if you closed your eyes, you might actually think you weren’t somewhere completely f-cking disgusting. I Febrezed everything. Candles were lit. The floor was swept and scrubbed, the counters disinfected, the microwave cleaned, and the carpet vacuumed. SPEAKING of which, today was the day I got to try the ol’ Dyson Ball Animal vacuum cleaner for the first time. I came. It is an incredible machine. It turns on a dime, it has multiple easy-to-use attachments, it’s a beast—I love it. I can’t believe how much dirt is in the carpet. It’s nauseating. And I eat Cadbury Mini Eggs off that floor….

I won’t stop.

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I want Mexican food. I would like to be showered in queso blanco. Is that too much to ask? I could bury my face in a cheese enchilada right now if a) I had one and b) no one was around to witness it. Motorboating food is a sure-fire way to become judged harshly. (Fat). Sometimes I get over certain types of food for years at a time. From 2008 to 2010, I could not stop eating Mexican cuisine. Then I did. Chinese and Italian took the lead and I stuffed my gullet full of pasta and fried rice. Two years later, Mexican food is creeping back in. Boy is it. Give me some rice and beans, Jose. Fire up the grill.

WELL, I’m leaving. It’s none of your business what I’m going to go do.

…..but if you must know, I’m putting on more pants because there is a chill in the air. Nosy pricks.

_____________________________________________________________________

“Brian, you came!”

“No, I just spilled my drink.”

Home sweet home.

I cannot wait to leave the dump that I am living in in Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania itself is a dump, but the apartment we have been staying in for the last year is a direct reflection of the crummy, vapid state itself.

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Currently, our plumbing is all f-cked up, and nothing will drain. The tub fills up with water while you’re showering, the washing machine leaves your clean clothes sitting in three inches of water after the cycle, sopping wet , forcing you to hand-wring each heavy article of clothing out before tossing it into the dryer (for two cycles, because consequently it takes forever to dry), and the kitchen sink is completely filled with water, and has been for FIVE days now. This is a problem. 1) It’s f-cking disgusting. 2) It’s f-cking annoying. Our counters are PILED high with dirty dishes, and the kitchen smells like afterbirth. Thank god the toilets are flushing, but the way things are progressing, it’s only a matter of time before those stop working, too.

We have no garbage disposal. That means two tiny macaroni noodles can clog the kitchen sink entirely. This also means stinky spoiling food sits in the trash for several days, stinking up the place.

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We have no air conditioning. “Get a window unit!”  Our windows do not slide up, they angle out. Window units are not a plausible option. The date is March 24th, and the apartment is probably 82 degrees. We are all sweating. The opposite issue is that we do not control the heat in this building. Instead, the old couple that lives below us does. This is problematic because the heat travels from their apartment up the air ducts into our apartment. What’s wrong with that you ask? See next issue.

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Our downstairs neighbors REEK of pee. It is a geriatric couple that do nothing but sit at home all day, pissing in their elastic waistband pants on the couch. Each time they leave the apartment to slowly shuffle down the hall with their walkers to retrieve the mail (which takes them like ten painful minutes somehow), they leave the door open to their apartment, and the gut-wrenching stench of urine permeates the entire building. Passing through the hallway at this time will surely put you to death. The ammonia levels in this apartment are life-threatening. It gets in your mouth. You need to scrape your tongue after an accidental run-in with Mr. and Mrs. Peebody. It’s f-cking terrible. I don’t know how the ammonia level hasn’t killed them yet, but I hope it does soon. When they die, the apartment will need to be cleansed by fire. Industrial strength cleaning supplies will be as effective as using a cardboard box as shelter from an F5 tornado.

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We have no dishwasher. This is more of an inconvenience than a serious problem, but a problem nonetheless. Four people in one apartment: the dishes pile up fast. One minute you’re eating dinner, and the next minute you’re feeling hopeless, facing a pile of dishes the size of Mt. Everest.

Our carpet sheds like a Newfoundland dog in mid-July. I have never seen carpet do this before in my life. It doesn’t matter how many times you vacuum, carpet fibers continue to unpluck themselves and scatter about the floor. Somehow it does not seem to be thinning. I don’t understand.

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We have only two-prong electrical outlets. Welcome to 1976. My computer, flat iron, blow dryer, vacuum cleaner—almost all of my appliances are three-prong. This is very annoying. I had to purchase several plug-in adapters so that I could use all of these items.

Bugs invade our home in a very serious manner. Our windows aren’t exactly “airtight,” nor are the screens that loosely occupy them. We have an infestation of tiny flies right now. They wind up in your glasses of water, on your toothbrush, they fill the light fixtures—it’s disgusting.

Things are just permanently dirty in this house. Like, no matter what you do to the tub/shower, it will never look, feel, or smell clean. Same with the floors. Nothing can be done. Get me out of here.

WELL, that’s enough agony for now. Enjoy your day, girls and boys.

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“When I first came from Russia, it said this was an ‘alcohol free campus.’ I was like, ‘Oh my god, they give alcohol for free here?'”

Car sick.

I have arrived in Pennsylgaynia. I knew I had entered the state when I passed an entrance ramp on the interstate and saw a car at a complete stop, waiting for all the assholes in the right lane refusing to move over and let him in finally pass by so they could try to go from 0 to 60 in three seconds and not get ass-reamed by the semi that would be rushing up on them immediately upon their entrance to the highway. GUUUHHH.

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On Tuesday morning before I left my hotel in Indiana to finish the drive to Pennsylvania, I stopped at a gas station to get caffeine and snacks. In the checkout line, I spied snack-size baggies of Cadbury Mini Eggs. I have had a hard time finding them the past couple of Easters, so I got excited and grabbed 3 or 4 packages of them. The clerk put them in the grocery sack along with my drinks, and I put them in the back seat and continued on my way down the road.

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Four hours pass, and I am now just ten short minutes away from my house in Greensburg. The end is in sight. Suddenly, Raleigh sits up in the front seat and begins to gag. He’s about to throw up. All over the leather seat in my brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Now, from experience, I know that once Raleigh has begun his gagging motion, you have a 10-15 second window before he throws up all over the g-ddamn place, so if you’re quick, you can grab something for him to throw up in or on so you have less of a mess. This is fine and well, except that I am driving an SUV 65 miles per hour down the EXTREMELY narrow interstate with cars and semis to my right, and four-foot high cement medians to my left. There is no room for error.

I frantically search for something to capture the vomit in. I have no leftover empty fast food bags, napkins, nothing. Then I remember the bag filled with Cadbury Mini Eggs in the back seat. There’s no time to save the Minis. I reach back and grab the bag, all the while trying to maintain my vehicle and not careen into a RAV-4 or a cement wall. Raleigh is still gagging, getting closer and closer to barfing all over the front seat of the car. A ticking time bomb. I desperately try to get the plastic grocery sack open and directed in front of his mouth with my one free hand while maintaining most of my attention to the high speed traffic I am in. I flap my hand around the plastic bag, trying in vain to position it in a way that would contain the puke when suddenly, “BLEEECHHH!!!”

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Hot liquid explodes all over my hand. Wide-eyed and mouth agape in terror, I look over. I was too late. I couldn’t get the bag in order before he threw up. My entire hand is covered in bright yellow, bubbly, hot, frothy throw up. None of the vomit made it inside the bag, but instead, all over it. It was f-cking disgusting. I had to get the bag out of the car immediately. I roll the driver’s side window down and motion to toss the bag out the window. Unfortunately when you are going sixty-something miles per hour down the interstate, a flimsy plastic sack covered in dog puke doesn’t fly out the window like a rock. The vomit-covered bag flew RIGHT back into the car and flung puke all over my face, shoulder, hair, and head rest. I continued to scream and struggle with the flapping bag for probably five or six long seconds until it finally exited the car. I glanced over my shoulder to see that it had also splattered the yellow barf all over the rear passenger window in the process. My entire vehicle now smelled like a stillbirth.

Ten minutes. I was just ten minutes away from my destination.

It literally could not have gone any worse than it did. I should have just let him puke on the seat.

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In positive news, my allergies have finally given me a f-cking break. Thank god. I was about to give up and just die. I have never been so clogged up in all my life. My sinuses felt like someone hit me in the face with a mallet and smashed my nose into my skull. My labored, impossible breathing was like what I imagine being a pug would be like. Terrible.

Please read this man’s blog about taking the SATs. I laughed out loud by myself in my living room like a mental patient for ten minutes. You will too. If you can read I mean.

http://deadspin.com/5893189/what-happens-when-a-35%20year%20old-man-retakes-the-sat

WELL, that’s all for now, folks. Keep calm and whiskey forward.

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B:   “What should I do with my hair? I have an appointment on Saturday.”

C:   “Don’t ask me for hair advice, Becca. I’m gay but I’m not that gay.”

Bed crumbs. Like ‘bread crumbs.’ You’ll get it later.

 

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I spent the last 10.5 hours driving eastbound across the United States, or shall I refer to it as the United Fields of Soybeans, because that’s all I saw for 700 miles. That and windmills. And dead coyotes. Boy were there are lot of roadkill coyotes. You’d think animals would be smarter. It’s like, you run into a deer in a field and it sprints away from you like you have polio and there’s a wildfire behind you. They approach a busy interstate with dozens of enormous steel machines barreling down the cement like roaring tanks, and they walk directly into them. I don’t understand.

I have finally arrived at the Comfort Inn in Richmond, Indiana; my midway point before finishing the long haul to Pennsylvania. I checked in, drove through McDonald’s, snuck my dog into the hotel, and have settled down for the night. I made the mistake of inhaling my McDonald’s value meal in my bed. There are crumbs all throughout the sheets. It feels like the bed is full of sand. Lucky for me there are two beds in this room.

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My canine counter part, Raleigh, is making the voyage with me like usual. He is my fellow traveler, and a great one at that. He sleeps literally the entire way, no matter how long we are in the car. The only issue with that is he turns into a ballistic psycho animal when we reach our destination because he is just bursting with energy. I just bring billions of toys I can stuff treats into and attempt to entertain him with food until we go to bed. Food = Entertainment. That’s how we do things in America.

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My allergies could not possibly be any worse than they have been for the past week. I am more congested than the streets of LA when it rains for more than four minutes. It literally feels like someone rolled up a sock and jammed it into my nasal passage. There is not a nook or cranny of space for air to squeeze through. I am losing my life. F-ck plants. F-ck all of the plants. I have a pile of balled up Kleenexes on the floor of my car that could stuff a pillow case from blowing my nose like a pissed off elephant all day long. Not that blowing my nose helps even in the slightest way. My sinuses feel like a bloated water-logged dead body. I don’t even want to speak because of how dumb I sound. Words with N’s in them are impossible. I have taken both a Zyrtec and a Mucinex today, to no avail. I’m still just a mouth-breathing, retarded-sounding son of a bitch.

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I had a dream last night that these huge fluffy clouds were freezing because of the cold weather, and essentially turning into big masses of snow in the sky, and they came crashing down and breaking into pieces on the ground. It didn’t make any sense. Thanks for listening.

WELL, this is short, but I am extremely tired and need to pass out in this bed. Tomorrow will be spent blitzing the continental breakfast, pumping some caffeine into my body, and then finishing my drive to the worst state in the entire country. Goodbye, all.

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C:    This F-CKING dog won’t stop playing with her stuffed crab on my knees.

B:    Kill that thing already. Set a mouse trap.

C:    But she entertains me sometimes. If I were to kill her though, I think I would drown her. Or put her in my back pack and slam it against my wall.