Jews: Please Stop Confusing My Coworker. He is a Simple Man.

"You know when people spell Hanukkah with a Ch? Chah? Chanukkah? Why do they do that?"

Slippin' On Sand and Salt Or, Laid Back (with my ass on the ground and the ground on my ass)

Today was the second time I've been frozen out of my car this winter. Piss.
Actually, yes. Piss is warm and would be helpful.

Is it ok to put boiling hot liquid in the crevases of your car? If not, how about pee? I will pretend it has been stung by a jellyfish.

I live at home, so my mom drives me to work on days like these. She drops me off and then I slide down the stairs and have just enough coat and butt padding to break my fall.
True, I get a car.
True, I have a mom.
True, I have a fleshy bum and a down-filled coat.
But dammit anyway because now I am afraid to drive even when I get the car open because it is slippery as snot. Or ice.

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"By inane you mean...not nane?"

Maritime Law Keeps Me From Saying More

Carly assumes that people go to their five-year reunion to see who got fat, and she didn't understand why I didn't want to go. Isn't she charming?
I had planned a relaxing evening of Sudoku puzzles (and by relaxing I mean mind-numbingly boring and frustrating until I would give in and find sleep) when Rick and Matt called, giving me fifteen minutes to showerandpicksomethingoutthatdoesn'tlooklikeI'mtryingtoohardandgetdressed. I had already RSVPed saying I was gainfully employed as an entertainer on an ocean liner. No one was expecting me.
Up until the moment we entered, I maintained that we could still leave. I wore something fairly non-descript in case of an emergency getaway...
But there was food.
And they had booze.
And they had fat people, which I must remember to tell Carly.
And it didn't suck, which I must remember to tell myself in five more years when I try to find a non-boat excuse.

I'm thankful that he's not that big a nerd.

Matt talked me into a late night run to Comp USA. I'm not into late night shopping. I'm a sleeper, but he gave me an ultimatum*. We arrived to our destination minutes before the Official 11:59 pm Opening and were shocked to find a line around the entire building for this Night Owl/Early Bird Sale. Somehow I knew this was not a crowd gathering for a Michaels' midnight craft bonanza. They were smiling. These were not the determined faces of Early Bird shoppers; these people reveled in their geeking. Amid the frolicking dweebs, I spotted a string of our former classmates, and did not hesitate to point them out to Matt who will agree that I have now fulfilled two obligations**.

*This or the reunion.
**This and the reunion.

Self-Defense

I got ready this morning in an empty house.
As I was blow-drying my hair, I considered that I always close the door. Even when I'm home alone. And then it occurred to me: especially when I'm home alone. I must use it as a barrier to protect myself from intruders should someone break in while I have a loud heatblowing machine near my ear.
I realize that I didn't lock the door. At this point I've worked myself into a frenzy and as I'm reaching for the knob, I hear a giant crash FROM THE SHOWER. I panic and step closer. In the meantime I yelp and grab a brush to bludgeon something to death.
I remove the curtain to find the source: our waterproof message board has become unhinged and suction-less and landed in the tub.
And then I beat the crap out of it.

Love Connection

A week ago, Carly had a date she described as 'magical'. Magical. She went to the orchestra and dinner with a boy. Imagine my surprise. She does not like the orchestra. She does not like classical music, but he was very charming and well behaved.
And then the boy was bad and mean and rude. And she did not describe this as magical. I believe she called him a ButtFace. (It's possible that I added that word to the story for embellishment. It's also possible that this guy--we'll call him Josh--was a buttface.) Josh didn't hunt ducks. He didn't remove the muffler from his truck so that the entire neighborhood might bask in his manliness. He didn't set poo on fire. But he wasn't good enough. They never are.
We* here at deletedeletedelete are now accepting applications for Boys Who Should Be Allowed to Date My Sister. Please include your name, age, location, interests, and feelings about germs. Send all necessary material to the comment box or enoughaboutyou@gmail.com

*The Committee will be made up of Mom, Poppa, Matt, Carly's roommates, Yours Truly, and what the hell, I'll accept applications for the Committee also.

Axe Body Stink

I sat at my desk today tapping my forehead when all of the sudden, my pen exploded.
No, that was a joke.
...My head exploded!
Joke again!
...The smell of Teenage Boy Cologne assaulted my nose. DING! That's what happened. Holy, holy stench. I hope the girls don't notice that I'm still sweating from gym class. I didn't have enough time to take a shower because I was too busy whipping the other dudes with my towel. That was awesome.

Petrol and I go Waaay Back

When we were little and had free time and microphones, Carly and I made tapes of pretend radio shows. In truth, we just re-made commericals in small voices. One of our favorites was, "BP. On the move."
The other was what used to be: "We're on your way/ The convenient stores of (beat) Speedway." It rhymes. The little tune fits with the correct number of syllables. No rushing. Sweet. Spunky.
"We're on your way/The convenient stores of Super America"
DOES
NOT
RHYME.
Does not fit the correct number of syllables. Rushes. Is not sweet. Is not spunky. Sucks.

Arguments Against Solar Power

Matt thinks my habit of comparing gas prices is bizarre. I document it here to see
1. who else does it? It can't be uncommon. It's so interesting.
2. whether anyone keeps track of their findings.
When I lived in St. Joe (sigh!), I'd watch the daily pricing battle of two neighborhood gas stations. I'd pass them on the way to class in the morning and returning home after noon I'd notice that the numbers had been traded (for bigger or smaller--I couldn't predict! It was exciting!!).
I was thisclose to starting a log. Seriously. I only got far enough to mentally document and recite later. Gas prices spell c-o-n-v-e-r-s-a-t-i-o-n. It gave my roommates more to mock. At least then they didn't notice my Easy Mac dishes piling up.

Math Teachers = Socially Awkward + Tactless

"What are you guys making today? I'm hungry."
"I don't teach Foods. I teach Child Psych."
"Oh. Well, why would you need children's psychology? What is there to understand? They say, 'I want that' and then cry if they don't get it."
"Well. I guess we spend too much time trying to figure them out. We should cook more."

Cord Structure

Dad: "Look at this cable. This is beautiful cable."
Mom: "I would leave you for cable like that."
Dad: "You are a human butt...Man, I hate hooking up VCRs. They are a pain in the ass. A pain in the ass. No two VCRs were created equal. In and out...dammit."
(minutes later)
Dad: "That's the...out. In."
(even later)
Dad: "All right. Which one is in and which one is out?! Dammit!"

Sociable Drinker

Bar musicians have amazing patience for unruly patrons, especially the lonely drunks. Last night down at Harvey's there was one such offender whose elated strains resounded on every song he (thought he) knew.
"This is a song I wrote called 'Loafers, No Socks'. It's a summer---"
"'Loafers, No Socks'?"
"Yep. That's what I call it."
"That's a good tune."
The man giggled and swirled his drink. Eventually Matt and Richards began pandering to the enthusiastic drunkard with some John Denver, James Taylor, and Neil Young. Wastey stumbled to the microphone:
"I've been to Hollywood, I've been to...I can't do it."
They started again, coaching him through it and he slurred,
"Let's try this."
After the fourth restart, the manager approached Drunky.
"Hang on a second! Nobody's leaving. There's twelve of us. Are you leaving?"
[Indistinct manager whispers]
"I've got to come over here."

Another One Bites The Cheap Girl In The Ass

It was a special occasion, so I bought a beautiful silk top because it was on sale and because I cannot resist deep olive green on sale. Unfortunately, I found the prettylittlecamisole in a pile of To Be Washed. The pile grows exponentially. It's hard to keep track. It could have been there for weeks, suffering.
I assumed that the Dry Clean Only tag was more of a garment care suggestion than a rule. I see that my reasoning is faulty. I don't know why I think my washing tactics will alter the outcome: Well, I use detergent and put it on a delicate cycle with cold water. Sure, I have jeans in there, but denim and silk go together like wampbabaloopmahbawopbangboom.
Except that they don't.
Like most of my Dry Clean Only items, it emerged from the washing machine a tortured version of its former self. Imagine a tissue from last winter, crumpled in your pocket. And then imagine that you threw the 2-ply to the ground and stomped on it. Wrinkled. Bruised. Lifeless.

Bambi's Mom Or, Read No Further If You Like Animals

I have to admit that I've never been hunting. I have no interest in shooting animals. Unless they're clay pigeons (rimshot).
Yesterday we were driving down 494 when Carly squealed. Out the passenger window was a truck full of tents and equipment. And strung to the back, flapping in the wind was A DEAD BUCK.
Deer? Buck? It had antlers.* It was dead.
Aside from obvious sanitary concerns, there was the discomfort of seeing it, watching its bound body flail. Is there really no law against toting home your kill in front of God and everyone?

*Best Monica Quote Of All Time: Antlers, antennae. What am I, a scientist?

Better Than Flowers in a Hospital Room

I don't usually talk about the serious shit. Sometimes I mock it. Sometimes Anonymous (not Matt Anonymous, but another Anonymous) thinks I avoid my feelings.
But it turns out that Anne's dad is sick. Like really sick. Acute Myeloid Leukemia sick.
And so today (and yesterday, as I was absent a post and, Maggie, I am sorry for letting you go a day without an update) I'm asking you, People of the Internet, to send up your prayers, your thoughts, your well-wishing, for Mr. Dad (that's what I call him. Anne just calls him Dad).

She Didn't Put It On The Fridge

Engaged..In A Kiss!
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

"I want to show you one of the pictures I took at the shoot."
"Did you do that on purpose?"
"Yes, Mom."
"So why are they behind bars?"
"Because I thought it was cool, Mom."
"Is this because you think marriage is like jail?"
"No, Mom."
"Oh. Hm. And they liked it?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Hmmm."

Easy Like A Chocolate Morning

Hey 9:50 AM, Are you too early for chocolate?
Nope. I'm just the right time. Especially if you can find a piece of Halloween-sized, peanutty chocolate.
You wouldn't even believe it if I told you: an OhHenry! just appeared as soon as you suggested it. I guess I should...
Yes. Yes, you should.