Tuesday, September 30, 2008

What not to do in the locker room

Old people in the locker room please put your pants on. Yes I’m very happy that you are so comfortable with yourself that you can walk around naked for hours and do squats (ewwww), but you’re making the rest of us uncomfortable.

I mean I understand that everyone has to get naked in the locker room, that’s fine we all do it. But lady if you had time to put your top on please put the rest of your clothes on. For some reason it’s worse than if you were wearing nothing at all.

Also no one appreciates it when you take off your clothes and then bend over and stick your ass in our face. I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Oh and to the mom in there that brought her kid in and then proceeds to go on a lecture about how little worms were going to crawl up through the dirty mat and get into her blood, burrowing through her feet if she didn’t wear shoes, what the hell is wrong with you? The little girl was like 4 years old, and now traumatized for life, I practically jumped on the bench as she was going into really graphic detail.

And what’s with that random chick eating her lunch in the locker room? I mean people are getting naked and you’re enjoying a pb&j? There’s a time and place lady, and this isn’t it. Way to creep out everyone here.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Perforated things blow

For some odd reason I can take even the most innocuous situation and make an ass out of myself. I think its part genetics, part awkwardness and a dash of obliviousness.

Take for example Friday. When it was my turn to bring in food to work for the editorial department. Well I completely forgot about it until halfway there, and already 30 minutes late, so I stop off at a local bakery. Even though there was no line they had a little number thing lit up, stating which number would be served next. So I go to the red number thingy and try to grab the next number. But instead of one number coming out, half the roll spits out at me.

I try to be smooth about it and hide the extra numbers. I look around to see if I got away with it and the guy behind me looks at me like I have a third nipple and I’m trying to get him to talk to it or something. And the woman behind the counter rolls her eyes and asks me what I want. Had she done that in the first place I wouldn’t have ruined numbers 91 through 168.

Then tonight at the supermarket I had a small issue with the bags in the produce section. I mean first of you can’t just rip those things off because it sends the whole reel into a spin and it never winds back up correctly. The old lady behind you tends to sigh really loud, a sigh that conveys both annoyance and a “those damn younger people” attitude. And second the freaking bags are welded shut. It takes me about 27 minutes to get one open so that I can buy all of three apples.

This is why I try not to go to the supermarket that often. Actually it might be best if I stay out of public places altogether.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Pool etiquette

I had grand plans to get in shape and get tan this summer. (I am usually a very impressive shade of clear.)

Well neither of those two things happened. But these last couple of weeks I have been going to the university pool more often, and actually swimming. And there are two things I learned today that I thought I already knew but apparently I was wrong.

First off, you really should tie your bathing suit on as tight as you can; being in a hurry is no excuse for missing this vital step. Yep half way down the lane I realized that my top was coming off and I had kind of slipped out. There is no graceful way to get out of this in a public pool. It didn’t help that I started laughing and then started drowning.

Thankfully I was able to right everything, I think the guys next to me might have seen something, but meh oh well.

I’m thinking I might have to go purchase a new bathing suit, this one seems to have lost some of its elasticity, maybe three years is too long with the same suit.

And the second thing is: remove your makeup before getting in the pool. Because the makeup will run, but it will stay on your face, just not where you originally put it and you will look like a sad tranny.

So those guys might have gotten a free look but if they saw my face it would have scared the previous image from their mind. So I win.

Also as I was almost done the usually crowded pool seemed to clear of all other swimmers. There was no one to my left or my right. So naturally, I rationally assumed that somehow a freshwater, chlorine-adaptable shark had gotten loose in the pool and everyone else had gotten out and now I was the only one left to be eaten. Bastards could have at least screamed a warning at me.

I hit the wall and quickly turned around scanning the pool for a tell tale fin. But apparently I was wrong, there was no freak shark in the pool at all, instead all the swimmers were just lazy and hanging out on the other wall.

A shark would have been cool.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Ingredients for insanity...

Well hell I’ve been kind of lazy these last couple of weeks, and now I feel bad because Ms. Puddin gave me a shout out. So I guess I’ll have to step up my game. Well I’ll try but sadly I’ve been incredibly boring and all I do is work.

But thankfully I have horrible neighbors so they always give me something to talk about. Like these last two weeks I think a few of them have gotten together and tried to think up the most effective ways to drive me insane.

And they have come up with a few good ones.

The first is creative assault from a neighbor (I haven’t figured out who he is yet) is the fire alarm. Not the normal pulling of it, like some freshman dorm prank which leaves you out in the Arizona freezing desert nights wearing a very thin tank top and shorts, but where he has let the batteries run down and now every minute and thirty-two seconds there is a loud chirp.

It’s been going on for over a week. I toss and turn a rip out more and more hair every time that happy little fuck chirps. How this doesn’t bother anyone else in the building is beyond me. I’ve called the landlord, the maintenance man and I’ve screamed out my window, all to no avail.

Soon I’m going to have to buy some batteries and go door to door. And then I will have the reputation of the insane neighbor, which might be a good thing.

The other thing is that my neighbors all play different music. Most of which I can live with, it’s mainly rap and mariachi music, which I think meshes quite nicely. But the other morning as I was getting ready for work I hear, from somewhere beneath me, a techno Frosty the Snowman. It’s freaking September, and it’s Frosty the Snowman. What is wrong with these people?

They were also kind enough to repeat the song 37,000 times, so that when I finally left for work I was ready to grab a butcher knife and kill just about anyone. (Maybe there was a subliminal message in that evil song.)

Other than that my neighbors are just your run of the mill, weird looking, creepy old men. Sadly about three apartments have a direct view into my apartment, so I keep my blinds shut all the time. Which is sad because I so enjoy my view of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit calendar on my neighbor’s fridge. Those chicks are hot.

Sunday, September 14, 2008


OK so I’m 29, and four months away from the big three oh. What I’ve come to realize is that most people seem to think that 30 years-olds (and those hovering around that age) in general have aged very badly or have been disfigured in some freak accident.

I come to this conclusion because every time I mention my age I get, “really? You don’t look 30.” But I hang out with a bunch of 30 years old and they get the same thing. So I think that most people just think that after 27 people get a shit load of wrinkles, age-spots and grey hairs.

Well I’m here to tell you that this is not true. We look just like everyone else. We’ve integrated seamlessly within society and now you can’t tell us apart. I think I look my age. And I’ve earned my age, many times I probably shouldn’t have lived (mainly stupid decisions while inebriated, because oceans and alcohol really don’t go well together, throw fire into the mix and you realize you’re probably slightly retarded), so I’m proud to have made it to 29.

I blame TV. You get high school shows with 30 year olds playing teenagers and people get a warped since of age. Which is good for me, but I’m always like, well what did you expect, some evil hag with a hairy mole on her chin?

Then next statement I hear is, “You look really good for 29.”

But what, I look like ass for a 25 year old?

Thursday, September 11, 2008

No pants

The worst part about living in a glorified shoebox is that when someone knocks on your door, and you take five minutes to answer said door, they know its because you walk around your place in your underwear and can't remember where you threw your pants an hour ago, was it in the kitchen or the bathroom?

Thankfully it was just a neighbor, my oh-so-smart self managed to leave my keys in the lock, again. But at least I didn't lock myself out again thats a hefty bill.

And also whats with the awkwardly standing at the door? Ok thanks for letting me know I left my keys in the door, now move along. Oh you wanted to make small talk? Um I can't draw "thanks for letting me know I'm a dumb ass" out more than 30 seconds so say bye and take off. Oh you wanted to stand around a little longer?

What's a good conversation ender? I never know how to get away from someone. I think I should have something prepared for those awkward conversations that are going nowhere but you can't seem to get out of. So that when we're just standing there I can whip out, "Yeah I gotta go, I'm a secret agent and have to go save the world from mutant ninjas right now. Oh shit I shouldn't have told you that, now I have to kill you." But I'm not sure that is believable.

Sunday, September 07, 2008

I got crabs!

I went to the Giants game on Friday. I love AT&T Park. There are no bad seats, only bad players.

Anyways a friend had been talking up the crab cakes, (and I wanted the excuse to yell “I have crabs” really loud over and over) so we walked all the way around the park to go get some. Come to find out the damn things were $15. I mean I know park food is obscenely priced but come on. But after much bitching I bought one. And that plus a beer and ice cream and it came in a little over an economy car (obviously not a kia those things are pieces of shit).

And I have to admit it was damn tasty, I will never get one ever again but still very good.

And the thing made a complete mess, I had crabs all over me (still isn’t old). So I brushed off all the crabs and accidentally brushed them all onto the guy in front of me. (We were in the front row of our section so he was a little below us, in perfect drop something on the guy position.) I said I was sorry but I felt bad, and I was proud of myself for not telling everyone that I gave that guy crabs, ok I told a few people that. Everyone around me laughed their asses off, but at least I didn’t spill my beer, that would have been worse.

Monday, September 01, 2008

Because I'm lazy

Ok I'm cheating and just putting my column in here (its for school I'm not actually a cool columnist or anything, because that would be too good). So I'm a little lazy what of it?

I've always thought of myself as a pretty independent person. I mean, I'm almost 30 and I haven't died yet, so there's a plus.

But I have recently realized that maybe I wasn't as independent as I thought I was. I went from living at home to living with roommates to living with a boyfriend. Well, two months ago, I went to living alone.

Living by yourself is a lot different than living with someone else. You pay all the bills, you have to do all the cleaning and you don't have to argue about what to watch. But there are some things that I've come to realize about living alone that I might not have otherwise ever known. So here are some things that I've learned in the last two months:

The refrigerator doesn't magically restock with food; you have to actually go to the market and buy food. Also, no matter how many times you look in the fridge, that chocolate cake you've been dreaming of isn't going to be there.

The stupid pasta sauce jar is obscenely hard to open. And often when I thought I wanted pasta what I really wanted to do was scream in frustration while trying to twist off a now fused-to-the-top lid, eventually giving up and getting Chinese food. Mmm, chow mein.

Finding a good Chinese food place is the key to happiness, but a mediocre Chinese food place will get you by.

I could live without an oven, but the microwave is my master, and I will do whatever it says so that it will never leave me. But you should not run the microwave and the toaster at the same time. Your apartment will get mad at you and throw you into complete darkness, and then you will have to wander the halls looking for the fuse box.

When you're sick, you still have to feed yourself, and making ramen while almost dead really sucks. And when sick, you should take your friend's advice and get some medicine so that you can actually function for the day.

I've realized that if I suddenly die, it would take a few days for anyone to notice. Thankfully, my apartment gets unbearably hot, so the smell should alert the neighbors before too long.

If you live on the third floor and only have windows that look into a light shaft, your apartment will turn into an Easy-Bake Oven every day. But if you lay on the floor, you can actually see blue skies.

Egg cartons burn incredibly easily, especially when left on a gas burner that you mistakenly lit. They smell rather sweet and make a prodigious amount of smoke.

The smoke alarm is really loud.

It's probably best not to make friends with your neighbors when your walls are paper-thin. You get funny looks sometimes, and some of those noises you hear you really don't want to associate with other people. (I'm mainly talking about those people that crank up Nickelback; I don't want to give them a face.)

You shouldn't try to "eyeball" shelves. Sure, it's not like they're perpendicular, but I definitely can't put anything even kind of rolly on them.

Crooked pictures rock.

If you can't figure out how the IKEA table goes together, go get a beer and try again later. Repeat until said table looks kind of like the picture.

An old television set with a built-in VHS is really heavy, and there's a good chance you will throw out your back trying to carry it up three flights of stairs before the cable guy finally helps you out eight feet from your door.

You can fall in love with a guy just because he was able to hook up your DVD player. (Admittedly it was fleeting, but for a few minutes I worshipped the ground he walked on.)

Having only two outlets in an apartment (none in the bathroom) will make you homicidal.

No matter how much you scream, that spider isn't going anywhere unless you actually do something about it.

Even though nobody is around to hear me, I'm still going to scream at spiders.

I can go almost 48 hours without actually saying a single word.

It's not drinking alone if you are talking to a friend online.

Sometimes you have to ask for help. There are just some things that you can't do alone.

Although I've almost burned down my apartment, felt like I broke my toe and smacked my head rather hard on the counter, I love living alone. I love that the crooked pictures on the wall are mine and that I put them up. I love the sink with the overflowing pile of dirty, mismatched plates. I love my tiny, cramped apartment that could double as a phone booth because it's mine.

My favorite thing is that when I turn the key in my lock and open the door, I walk into my apartment, and it hits me that I can survive on my own, and it makes me smile.