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.

.

.

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.

_________________________________________________________________________

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.”

The gift of giving.

Uh….Fox? First you put a friggin baseball game over The X Factor, and NOW you move X Factor to Sunday on top of DEXTER?!?!?!  Whoever is making the decisions up there needs to choke on a pickle and croak. To make matters worse, for some reason it is impossible to record The X Factor on the DVR. It gets all f-cked up. Looks like we’ll be watching The X Factor in real time, and watching Dexter immediately afterward. Sigh. Difficulties.

Last night before bed, my dog failed to take a dump. Meh, he’ll go in the morning, I shrugged. This morning when I took him out to do his business, he trotted to the end of the porch, realized it was pouring rain and gusting wind, and turned right around and marched back to the front door. I did manage to convince him to at least face the rain for a quick minute to take a pee, but he galloped back to the front door as fast as he could to get out of the driving rain (he’s a diva). Skipping two typical times to poop was unusual, but I figured he could wait until I got home after lunchtime to pinch one off.

My day dragged on, and by the time I finished my tasks at the office and ran to Wal-Mart to get some groceries, it was already 3:45 before I made it home. Trent had beat me there by no more than a minute. The front door opened, and out bounded Raleigh, followed by a displeased looking Trent. “Why don’t you go look at what your dog did,” he said distastefully.

I walked inside the apartment, stepping into the kitchen with a direct view into the living room. Trent’s birthday is on Monday, so there is a nice pile of festively wrapped birthday presents in the corner of the living room. They were all from me, except one. Looks like Raleigh left a “present” of his own. Directly next to the pile of presents was a big steaming pile of runny shit. Poor Raleigh had held his poop in for 18 hours longer than usual, and just couldn’t hold it any longer. When I didn’t get home until late afternoon, he had no choice but to let hell break loose on the living room carpet.

It was a bad one, too. Not just a tidy little dog log. This was a sloppy pile of mushy dog poo. Not ideal.

Anyway, that was my Friday afternoon.

Sorry about how gross that dog shit picture is by the way. Look how shiny it is.

….gross.

While I was at Wal-Mart today, I paused at a shelf at the end of the pet aisle and investigated this product:

“It’s a rain coat…..it’s a bandana…..it’s a…..rain bandana.”

…Is this the best they could do? That’s not even clever. They didn’t even give it a creative name. It’s meat…..it’s a loaf…..it’s a…..meatloaf.

Is anyone really going to buy their animal a rain coat? Is any animal actually going to wear a rain coat? I know my dog is a pussy about the precipitation, but I’m not about to slap a raincoat on him before he scurries outside to tinkle.

Well, that’s enough blasphemy for today I think. Time to bury my face in a million baked goods, compliments of my mother.

_________________________________________________________________

“R is the most menacing of sounds. That’s why they call it MUR-der, and not muckduck.”

Feces Pieces.

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My dog rolled in shit again today. Right before I left for a nice fancy dinner at Red Lobster. He smelled like roadkill. Shit isn’t exactly Miss Dior Cherie. Terrible timing. I went back inside, squirted a hand towel with Dawn dish soap, and scrubbed his head and back with it, then left for my endless-shrimp meal. I wasn’t about to let a feces covered canine ruin my evening plans. After stuffing myself with seafood, I came home to my shit-fest dog, just ranking up the place. I had no choice but to give him an aggressive bathing.

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He knew. The little bastard tried to escape. For the first time ever he resisted the bath. He loves shit that much. Bird poop, cat poop, raccoon poop—he can’t wait to find it and rub his face in it. I’ve never known another creature to love the smell of shit as much as this dog. He did not want it to come off. I scooped his stinky carcass up and dumped him into the shower, where he received a very serious scrubbing with about half a liter of puppy shampoo. I almost had to use vinegar. Unreal.

.

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Tonight was the first time I ever ate at Red Lobster. I was suckered in by their endless shrimp special. Shrimp refills, as many as I want? Who can say no to that?

It was way too much. They served me enough shrimp to sink a shrimping vessel. I’m going to reek of garlic and butter and seafood until next Wednesday. Just like my dog. Except I smell like food, and he smells like diarrhea.

Red Lobster’s biscuits are a problem. They’re so delicious. I can see myself becoming physically dependent on them. They’re so buttery and soft and wonderful. I want to crawl inside one and hibernate for the winter, then eat my way out of it in the spring. Also, their mashed potatoes? Creamy heavenliness. Those two items alone would keep me coming back.

I like that they named the restaurant “Red” Lobster, as if we didn’t already realize that lobsters were red. Give me a “wet” water please, waiter. Redundancy.

Everyone in the restaurant was the size of a mini van. So many fats. They were there for the endless dishes too, obviously. Red Lobster is like a casino buffet for seafood. People who are eating there consider it a swanky meal because it has “lobster” in the name.

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I really love caesar salads. Nothing gets me going quite like a crispy, slightly anchovy, asiago and romano sprinkled caesar salad with crunchy croutons. Mmm. The issue that I have with salads however is that once I run out of croutons, it’s game over. I can’t keep eating just lettuce. It doesn’t work like that. I need some crunch in my lunch, you know?

I was really excited to get that to rhyme. It was anticlimactic.

Well, I hope you all had a wonderful weekend filled with whiskey, fast food, and shame. Until next time, I bid you adieu.

__________________________________________________________________

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Pissing contest.

A 14 year old dog peed on my leg today. I was standing there minding my own business talking to its owner, and it lifted its leg and pissed on my foot. Stuck a flag of ownership right on my calf, as it were. I was pissed. You don’t just go around pissing on other people. This isn’t a party at R. Kelly’s house.

I spent the better part of the day dreaming about consuming a creamy, cheesy bowl of Velveeta Shells & Cheese and watching television up on my arrival home. The clock slowly ticked on, and as my long day finally came to an end, I made it back to my apartment and made a beeline for the kitchen cupboard. There, I was disappointed to find that all the boxes of Velveeta Shells & Cheese had been eaten. I was dismayed. I rummaged further to find that we did still have some off brand “Great Value” macaroni and cheese, and figured it wasn’t a terrible substitute.

I brought the pot to a rolling boil and dumped in the pasta. As the timer slowly crept downward, I made my way to the fridge to get out the milk and butter.

We were out of milk.

Bah! I exclaimed. I double and triple checked the fridge to make sure I wasn’t just a blind retard, but found nothing. Then I thought, aha! I’ll just call Sharon, the lady who lives in the apartment above me, and see if I can run up there really quick and grab a half a cup of milk. I called. Busy signal. I called again. Still busy.

I called three more times. STILL busy. Who doesn’t have call waiting these days? This isn’t the Stone Age.

I opened the fridge again. Still no milk. I sank to using water and sour cream.

As you can imagine, it wasn’t the same. I ended up using a lot of ketchup to mask the slightly off flavor of the cheesy/watery/sour creamy mixture.

I went into the living room with my bowl of macaroni and question mark and plopped down on the couch, switching the TV on, hoping E! or Comedy Central would have something interesting enough on the air to distract me from the weird macaroni.

….I couldn’t figure out how to get it to work. So here I am, alone in silence with my shitty bowl of water noodles.

All in all the macaroni thing didn’t work out for me as planned.

I think it’s also valid to add at this point that my day started by being awoken by the harsh, shrill, and invasive sound of construction workers jackhammering the concrete street directly in front of my house. Not exactly the best part of waking up.

Tomorrow will be better.

.

….right?

Bye.

_______________________________________________________________

[Words With Friends]

Z:  [gadi]

B:  What the hell is gadi? Bitch.

Z:  Zouk??? Everyone gets one.

Hook, line, & sinker.

Things have been getting REALLY steamy in my bedroom lately, and it’s not because there’s S&M involved. The summer temperatures are steadily climbing upward, reaching unbearably humid and torturous levels. My air-conditioning-less apartment is 500 degrees. It’s not right. My living room is like a giant crock pot. It’s like one big slow cooker, and I am the pot roast. The vultures are circling overhead. It’s only a matter of time before the heat takes us all.

We actually did finally get one of those LG space air conditioning units for our bedroom at least. I am a Caucasian. I can’t sleep in any room that is above 68 degrees. I prefer a chill 65, but I’m attempting to be somewhat energy-efficient.

Actually, Trent just bitches at me when I put it below 68. I would willingly fork out all of my income for a frigid room. Also, I care about my comfort far more than I care about the environment. Sorry, pandas.

.

I really jacked up my exquisite auburn locks. I accidentally dyed my hair Rihanna red last night. I look like a firefighting lesbian. It’s not great. Actually, it’s really bad. Instead of going with my usual L’Oreal Feria color, I chose a redder shade, hoping it would be a sharper auburn color. Instead it turned out to be fire engine crimson. It bled into my blonde highlights, and now my hair is pink. I look like a troll with a bleeding scalp.

.

Seriously. I look like I went to the state fair and got cotton candy stuck in my hair, and then someone pulled a Carrie on me.

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It’s like I dyed my hair in my sleep and used Pepto Bismol instead of L’Oreal.

I think you get the idea.

I guess the only thing I’ve got to redeem my trashy hair do at this time is my “bubbly” personality.

….

It was a bubble gum hair joke. Bubble gum is pink. Like my hair.

Nevermind.

SO. Moving forward. A lesson for this week, besides the obvious hair coloring fiasco that I hope you learned from:

Anchor belly button ring

+

Netted loofah

=

Ouch.

It might not be a real anchor, but it certainly works like one. You can’t get lazy with the lathering when you’ve got a fish hook in your navel. That thing hooked my loofah like a rainbow trout on a fly rod. I did not suffer any real painful consequences, but it was a good scare.

WELL, time to go. I hope you all had a miserable time reading this. I’ll be off to compare my hair with Pink’s.

_______________________________________________________________________

“I drank for sixteen hours yesterday. My head hurts from that, and also because I slammed my face into a checkerboard table last night.”

Knuckle sandwich.

Yesterday was a bad day. While snowboarding at Beaver Creek, I got a little ambitious and went into the medium/large feature terrain park, completely unprepared for what lay ahead of me. The jumps I had been going off at this point had been more or less tall kickers with no transition gap in the middle, just a nice smooth decline to land on. Trent warned me that these jumps looked quite a bit larger than what I was expecting. I didn’t believe him, and brushed off his warning, strapped in, and gunned it for the first jump. I launched straight up in the air, made a nice grab, then looked down to spot my landing. Only I was nowhere even close to clearing the jump. Not. Even. Close.

I barely had time to think “OH SHIT!” before I plummeted directly down probably ten feet, knuckling the jump HARD. The impact of my landing jackhammered my knees up to my face, slamming them into my jaw. My teeth were smashed together and my mouth was taken over by excruciating pain. I quickly scrambled to the side of the jump as to avoid being nailed by the next rider, and hunched over in agony on the side, spitting out bloody saliva.

My knee had popped me with incredible force directly under the chin, slamming my jaws together, crushing my tongue and busting my teeth. My teeth on the lower left side of my mouth were loose and bleeding, and my tongue immediately started to swell. I don’t know if you have gathered this or not yet, but tooth damage is literally my worst nightmare. Trent rode up to me and stopped to see if I was okay. “My teeeeeeeth…Ohhhh nooooooo…” I wailed. My face hurt so bad. We rode down to the bottom and went home.

I got back to the house and went to the mirror to assess the damage. Thankfully no teeth were chippped or cracked, but three on the bottom were loose and bloody. My tongue had a nasty bite mark and was fat and swollen. Underneath my chin, my jaw had a purplish goose egg on it, swelling away. My neck was stiff and my left fibula was sore. Not only that, but I was nauseous from the pain and shock, and probably concussed.

My neighbor gave me Vicodin. Thank god.

I decided there is really no reason for me to ever have to clear a 15+ foot gap in my life. I’m very content on the baby jumps. I also bought a mouth guard. I love my teeth more than I love being awesome. Because after all, who is awesome without teeth?

I have no idea what that means.

Does anybody else out there watch Meerkat Manor? I’m addicted. I have watched every single episode of every season, and have even started doing some repeats. I feel like I’m watching reality television, but with meerkats instead of human beings. I get into it just like The Real World, too. Every episode, it’s like, who’s banging who? Who got kicked out of the house? Who’s in trouble? Who died? Who’s pregnant again? It keeps me on the edge of my seat. They’re like tiny humans covered in hair.

And fleas.

There are a lot of hairy humans with fleas though. That’s what I mean.

Trent and I recently ordered a canine DNA test from SkyMall. Our curiosity about what breeds of dogs make up our mutt Raleigh has reached its peak. We were told he was a rottweiler/lab mix, which he is clearly not. Then we decided he was a Greater Swiss Mountain dog mix, but he has plateaued at just below 50 pounds, and is a bit of a dwarf. Now we’re just confused. So for $75, we swabbed his cheeks and mailed the cells off to have his lineage determined. I can’t wait to find out.

I hope the results don’t come back all stupid though, like “Boston terrier,  lhasa apso, Irish wolfhound, cat.”  I’d be pissed. I’m on YELP, you know. I can complain. The internet is a dangerous place.

Well, I forgot everything else I was going to talk about. Sorry. Bye.

_________________________________________________________________

“My sister had a bunny. She stopped providing for it and it sat in a cage in our backyard.  My dad released it one day and told my sister it got out on its own.  It proceeded to live in our backyard for 2 years before disappearing.”

iTrip balls.

Today I was on a roof damage inspection/appointment with a large insurance adjuster named Ted. Ted is somewhere north of 350 pounds, and six feet tall. During our appointment, I let out a big yawn. Ted instantly responds, “Would you like a 5 Hour Energy Shot?” with such enthusiasm and expectancy in his voice that it was hard for me to decline.

“Um…sure,” I said.

“I swear by these things,” he started. “They get me through the day.”

He quickly got down from the ladder, reached into his truck, cracked open two containers of 5 Hour Energy, and cheers’ed me with a, “Bottoms up!”

The only time I’ve ever consumed 5 Hour Energy Shots is during Olympic-level binge drinking events where my BAC is so high that it tries to shut my nervous system down, preventing me from functioning and effectively knocking me unconscious. Other than those “isolated incidents,” I have never delved into the realm of seeking energy supplements of any kind.

I chugged down my shot, tossed the empty container into the bed of the truck, and turned over the bottle to read the label. “What’s in this stuff anyway?” I inquired.

8,333% Vitamin B12. This seemed a little unnecessary. What’s wrong with 100% of the daily value of B12 vitamins needed? I then reviewed the suggested dosage, which read:

Drink one half (1/2) bottle (one ounce) for moderate energy. Drink one whole bottle (two ounces) for maximum energy. Do not exceed two bottles of 5-Hour Energy shots daily, consumed several hours apart. Use or discard any remainder within 72 hours (three days) after opening. Refrigeration not required.

CAUTION: Contains caffeine comparable to a cup of the leading premium coffee. Limit caffeine products to avoid nervousness, sleeplessness, and occasional rapid heartbeat. You may experience a Niacin Flush (hot feeling, skin redness) that lasts a few minutes. This is caused by Niacin (Vitamin B3) increasing blood flow near the skin.

I shrugged, and got into my truck to drive back home, which was 29 miles away. Initially I was feeling very peppy. I had a burst of what was really pure joy and feelings of optimism. “This is great!” I thought to myself. “Maybe I should go buy a box of these.”

Five minutes later, I had a different opinion.

As I was barreling down the interstate, I started to feel strange. I was having what felt like an out of body experience. It felt like my brain was no longer connected to the rest of my body, like my conscious self was floating above my physical self, looking down on what was about to happen, which was me careening into a cement median as my body flew into a caffeine overdose. I started to shake. My skin began crawling and burning. My legs were sweating on the car seats like you wouldn’t believe. I began to panic.

I felt like I was tripping on LSD. All I could think about was finally making it back to my apartment where I could lie face down, motionless on the carpet. “If I can just make it home without killing myself, I’ll be safe,” I wept. My brain was trying to send signals to the rest of my limbs, which were not responding as they had turned into pure Jello, and Jello does not respond to brain waves like muscles and ligaments do. It’s just delicious. The drive felt like it went on for three hours. Three straight hours of panic and stress and anxiety. I finally got home and wobbled up the stairs to my apartment, still feeling like I was on acid.

I suppose I didn’t take into consideration my size and weight in comparison to Ted’s, which is a very fair David & Goliath ratio. A serving size for a human of my stature is probably less than a half a bottle. Maybe I should have read the directions first.

Never again.

I didn’t die though.

—————–

“Classic pythagorean theorem.”

Lady Luck.

Today my neighbor backed into my car in her SUV and broke my grill guard. Then I got run over by a child on a bicycle, almost mauled by a 260 pound Mastiff, violated by a labradoodle named Frodo, and then had to catch, pick up, and return an immobile elderly woman’s partially-blind, raccoon-sized cat to her, which I am intensely allergic to.

It’s been one of those days.

I’m approaching a house with my clipboard in hand, going to offer the homeowner a roof inspection. Before I step foot on the lawn, the largest dog I have ever seen—an English Mastiff—appears in the driveway and starts barking louder than any creature I’ve ever heard. I’m not kidding, this dog was the size of a Clydesdale horse. Its bark could frighten a velociraptor and make a bengal tiger cower. It was huge. And it was angry.

I am the biggest dog-lover in the Northern Hemisphere; this is just a fact of life. In my experience, you can get any dog to warm up to you if you just refrain from acting intimidated, and just give it a minute to stop feeling territorial. This dog was different. This was a komoto dragon covered in fur. It was the beast-dog from The Sandlot. It probably ate entire pigs for breakfast. I was unsure about approaching it.

The owner appears after forty or fifty seconds of death-threat barking to see what all the commotion is about. I call out, “Will he like me if I just go up to him?”

“No,” she shouted.

Oh.

I later learn that this 260 pound Mastiff mauled the neighbor two years ago when she walked over to bring the neighbors a pie. Moving on.

Moments later, Trent and I are in the driveway of someone’s home while their two children, ages 8 and 10 are playing outside. The eight year old boy is riding around the driveway on his black mountain bike, and the girl is playing with their three Doberman Pinschers and two german shepherds inside the fence.

Two of the Dobermans are not excited about my being there, and are not having any part in accepting my friendship offerings, snarling and snapping and barking ferociously at me through the wooden fence. Being a dedicated dog lover and also a winner by heart, I refuse to give up on my quest of gaining their love and affection, and hunch down by the fence, balancing on the balls of my feet, trying to get the angry canines to sniff me through the fence and decide that I would be their friend.

Suddenly, a powerful, deliberate force smashes into me, knocks me completely over and off my feet and pummels me to the ground.

The eight year old boy has literally crashed his bike into my body, nailing my  lower back and hip and knocking me to the ground. I lay in the gravel, slowly looking up at the boy in disbelief and agony, wide-eyed and confused as to why he would drive his bicycle directly into my body with such great force. He looks terrified.

“I—I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that! Really! I was—I was just trying to squeal my tires and drift my bike!!” he desperately tries to explain.

This boy had the type of dad who would beat his ass if he knew his child had assaulted another human being with his Huffy, so I accept his apology and decide that any child who drives his mountain bike straight into another person is clearly mentally challenged anyway, so I forgive him and pardon the incident, hoping I would not be partially paralyzed.

I limp up the hill with my throbbing backside, onto the next house. I knock on the door, and an old woman pokes her head between the curtains in the window to the left of the door. “Come to the other door!” she hollered, so I trot over to the side door that was the entrance to the sunroom, and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I wait for probably 2 and a half minutes, but the woman never comes. The only sign of life is an enormous, grossly obese cat that is blind in one eye that had thudded off of a chair and approached the door to investigate my presence.

The cat would clearly not be opening the door for me, so I return to the window near the front door. The woman’s face appears again. “Just come into the house!” she hollers.

I open the sunroom door, being careful not to let Garfield outside, and then open the next door leading into the kitchen. There I find a 300+ pound elderly woman named Mary, chain-smoking cigarettes and listening to the radio. Mary is extremely overweight and cannot really move around. She spends most of the day in her chair, popping pain pills and smoking Marlboros. We chat for at least fifteen minutes about her gay neighbors Jerry and Cory, and Cher’s transvestite daughter “Chaz,” and then I inform her that I need to catch up with my husband who is probably waiting for me.

“Don’t let Puddin’ get out when you go!” Mary reminds me. I assure her I will be very careful not to let her enormous cat outside, and I block the kitchen door with my leg as I open and close it behind me. As soon as I swing open the second door leading outside however, a grey and white flash darts between my legs out into the yard. It was the blasted cat.

I spin around in disbelief at the door I had closed so carefully behind me in the kitchen, where I had left the cat inside. There at the base of the door was a tiny cat door. “Gosh dangit!” I shout. How does a cat so morbidly overweight move that fast? I quickly stick my head in the kitchen and call to Mary.

“Mary, I didn’t realize you had a cat door—your cat has escaped into the yard! Do I need to catch him?” I asked.

“Would you?” she said pleadingly.

“Um—yes. Yes I will,” I assured her, and run back out into the front yard.

“Puddin’! OH Puddin’,” I beg. “Come to mama.”

The enormous cat is posed in an apprehensive position, munching on grass near the sidewalk (fatass). I scuttle around the yard for a few minutes, and finally snatch the huge fur-bag up in my arms, and carry it’s gigantic sagging feline body back into Mary’s house.

I’m really, really allergic to cats.

I deliver Puddin’ to Mary, and immediately make a bee-line to her kitchen sink to scrub my arms up to my elbows with Dawn in a desperate attempt to rid myself of any cat dander that would surely cause me to go blind and collapse my wheezing lungs within minutes. I rub-a-dub-dub for a good thirty seconds, and finally leave Mary’s home.

By the time I make it back to the truck, my wrists and forearms have broken out into an itchy rash, and my left eye is blazing like a forest fire, watering away and burning as if I had sprinkled Cajun seasoning salt directly onto my corneas.

Fail.

There’s always tomorrow.

————-

Me: “Everyone is so obsessed with Jersey Shore. I don’t understand. I feel like I need to watch an episode to see what all the fuss is about.”

Trent: “I’ve seen episodes of it babe. You would be—pissed.”

It happens.

It’s Sunday, meaning it’s our “cheat day” to eat whatever our tastebuds so choose. Trent and I treated ourselves to an epic meal of Mexican food at Rancho Grande followed by Dairy Queen’s new Strawberry & Golden Oreo Blizzard afterward. If you haven’t tried this delectable treat out yet, you are missing out big time. Not having had this ice cream concoction yet is like never having heard of Christmas. Scamper out to your vehicles and hit up the drive-thru, everyone.

Needless to say, I clog the toilet in my apartment today, and unfortunately, am without a plunger. I have to go to the store and get one; it’s an emergency. So I go to Rite Aid. It closes literally 30 seconds before I get there, and the doors are locked.

“Blast!” I shout.

I run across the street to the grocery store. I am perusing the aisles, but cannot find a plunger. I flag down an employee and ask her if they have plungers. She doesn’t know, she says, because she is new.

She yells for another employee, “DO WE HAVE PLUNGERS??”

He looks at me smugly, smirks, and says, “…Aisle 7…if we have them.”

I go to aisle 7, and find my plunger. I scan the registers to look for the least likely person to pass judgement, you know, an old woman, old ass man, nerdy kid, etc. My only choice is a geeky looking 17 year old with zits. I choose him.

I walk up with my purchase. He looks at it, looks at me, suppresses a snort, and says, “Plunger, huh? Haven’t had anyone buy one of those here before.”

At this point, normally I would add in some quippy comical commentary so it’s not just like an, “I just clogged my toilet, that’s why I need this plunger” type of ordeal. But, there’s nothing to say. I mean, I was buying a plunger. There’s no camouflaging it. He scans me through, smirking all the while. I’m embarrassed. I leave.

The end.

——

“Pigpen, next time I need advice on a good Planet of the Apes film, or how to get the resin out of my bong, I’ll come to you. But I will not be taking romantic advice from someone who cannot spell romantic OR advice.        Or bong.”

Suicide.

I awoke this morning and scampered on over to my 2-unit fish tank that contains my two betta fish, Predator and Prey, to feed them their breakfast first thing in the morning as I always do. I glanced down into the tank. Prey was swimming around like normal, but immediately my stomach lurched. Predator was missing.

“OH NO!” I yelled, and started hurriedly scanning the surrounding countertop, trying to find him. I leaned over the counter and saw his dried, shriveled body on the living room carpet. He had leapt out of his tank and killed himself on the floor.

“Noooooo!!!!” I ran around the counter and scooped up his dry, lint-covered body. His fins were hardened and plastered to his tiny little body, his eyes fogged over and white. He was dead.

But then, I swore that he had twitched. “I think he’s still alive!” I exclaimed to Trent.

“That fish is not alive, babe. It was probably just a reflex.”

I refused to believe it, and tossed him back into his tank. He sank to the bottom and didn’t move. I was disheartened. I had to remove him from the tank, so I got a slotted spoon and dipped it in to scoop him off the bottom of the bowl. That’s when he jolted back and forth.

“See! I told you he was alive!”

Predator started twisting his body back and forth, attempting to make a comeback. The only problem was that his fins were dried up and hardened to his body, so he couldn’t swim. I scooped him up and started feathering his fins with my fingertips, and slowly but surely he was almost fully revived.

The only problem is that now his eyeballs are ruined, and he is definitely blind. He can’t see his food to eat it, so he’s likely to starve to death. I’m sad. We’ll see how this pans out.

Fish attempting suicide. I mean, I get it. A fish’s life sucks. All they get to do is tread water in their little 4×5 inch bowl of water with absolutely no stimulation of any kind, 24 hours a day, every day of their sad, boring lives. Had I known Predator was feeling so low, I would have left the radio on for him or something when I left for work every morning. We’re pulling for you, buddy. Just keep swimming.

“If I could find this ROAD, it’s like, ‘Bob’s Road.'”