Please read before attending any concert-type live music event that I may also be attending

     I love concerts. I've been to some really good ones this year.  My favorite was Ludo, but there were a lot of other really great ones.  If you've been to one with me, you know that for about 8 weeks afterward, I repeatedly reflect on the intense inner joy I felt during the (this is one of my favorite buzz phrases) COMMUNAL EXPERIENCE of concert going.   Small venues, lots of people, and good times had by all.  So very kumbaya.

    Just as being part of a real geographical community carries certain responsibilities, so also does membership in the sacred, albeit it temporary, rock concert community.  Also as with a real community,  flout the rules and you will get owned by those forced to share your space.

1. Obey the Band.  If they tell you to sing along, then sing.  If they tell you to stand up and dance, then do it.  If the planets align and you have the good fortune of being specifically instructed by professional musicians to air hump in unison, then please, PLEASE do it.  To refuse is not only insulting to the band, but it tells those around you that you think they basically suck at life.  (Note:  During the opening bands, do exactly the opposite of this rule.)
2. Keep public displays of affection to a minimum.  Since showing affection to your significant other is not vital for life, "a minimum" means "none".  So yeah. Keep the public displays of affection to none.  No one cares that you have a girl friend.  You can make kissy faces and put your hands in each others' pockets at home.  It's even more annoying when it's the girl hanging all over the guy as if seeking his masculine protection.  Do you think we are all here with the express purpose of hitting on you or maybe trying to molest you in some way? Get over yourself. It's really an easy rule to remember.  Whenever you wonder "Is this too much public affection for a concert?" just remember "None."  If the amount of affection in question is "none" affection, then you are clear.
3. You will be touched.  They design small venues in a specific way. Technically there's enough floor space in the building so that the fire code allows for 1,500 occupants, but the layout is constructed so that all 1,500 of us are forced into the 600 square feet directly in front of the stage.  It's based on the scientific principle that enjoyment increases as personal space decreases.  We have no choice.  The dirty looks and exasperated sighs you broadcast every time someone's body makes any contact with yours are both unwelcome and useless.  Oh,  you don't like that my elbow touched your sleeve?  I'm so sorry.  Please allow me to back up into the miles of open space all around me on all other sides. While I'm at it, why don't I just go out to the car and listen to the cd instead? 
4. If an audience is like a neighborhood, holding a huge sign above your head during the show is the equivalent of teaching your dog to poop on everyone's roses.  We all spent money on our tickets.  Most likely they were purchased way in advance and with much fanfare.  We chose our outfits days beforehand and with care.  We hydrated.  We stretched.  We drove for hours and spent our car insurance money on a hotel room.  YOU made a huge sign and held it up at face level through the entire performance.  The end.

There are more suggested practices and actions to be avoided (shouting out "Freebird!", putting your beer on the stage, taking someone's spot when they go to the bathroom), but they are largely flexible based on alcohol consumption, whereas the previous five are rigid and unflinching.  Oh--except when they play Go-Getter Greg.   Then all bets are off. 

I don't know who you are, but I think I am programmed to destroy you.

      I have noticed an interesting phenomenon that occurs in certain social situations.  It starts with some sort of casual encounter with a total stranger, and it ends in unexplained mutual hostility and ill will.  Unexplained, that is, until right now.  I shall now explain it. 

     The most frequent occurance of this for me is during lunch.  I usually go to Panera Bread, which is sometimes boring, but I never feel like putting the effort into packing my lunch or thinking of an alternative place to stop for a sandwich.  Like most popular lunch spots, Panera often has a really long line.  I don't mind standing in line. 

     The problem is that I'm ordering like, a cup of soup or a sandwich or, if I'm feeling particularly kicky, a bagel.  These items take about 2 minutes to make.  It's usually a pretty safe bet that the 40 yuppies in front of me are all ordering multiple items for multiple people, all with special requests, extras, substitutions, and beverages requiring milk to be steamed and ice to be crushed.  The yuppies, however, are not my random enemies in this situation.  It all happens on the way through the front door.



This is my battleground.

      I walk accross the parking lot with great purpose.  Invariably someone else comes from the side toward the same destination, and a silent face-off ensues.  If the other person gets to the door first, he will have to hold it open.  This means that I will go in first and be in front of him in this line of flip-flop wearing complex orderers.  Usually when the person in question is a man, he will let me go in first.  We are not enemies.  My enemy is the female who is entering at the same time as I am.

     I slow down my gait and pretend to check my phone or scratch my leg.  She pauses to hit the lock button on her key a few more times.  I stop to examine a bug on the sidewalk.  She takes a moment to adjust her purse strap.  The key here is balance.  If I fall too far behind, it will be acceptable for her to walk through the door and allow it to close behind her.  I need to maintain a close enough distance so that she feels compelled to hold the door, but not overtake her to where I would be obliged to hold it and give up my place in line.  We are trapped in a delicate dance of random enmity.

     At least she is better than walking in at the same time as a group of the aforementioned yuppies with their jogging strollers and elderly parents.  They just descend upon the front door like a swarm of locusts.  I think they are unable to see people who are not part of their immediate group, and thus I have NO chance of getting in front of them in line.  I've contemplated bringing a flowered Skort and Vera Bradley bag to try to blend in and get them to buy me lunch, but it really seems like a lot of effort for a turkey sandwich.

Why are you like this???

Men:  You are great!  You have many redeeming qualities and I enjoy spending time with you.  However, there are three things that I would like for you, as a group, to work on changing.  Preferably, these changes should be sudden, drastic, and free of future relapses.  Thank you.

1. You like really really really really boring things.  Golf on TV?  One-player video games?  Reading articles online about features on cell phones you don't even OWN?  I don't mind being ignored in pursuit of other interesting or worthwhile endeavors, but I can't help but be annoyed when doing something with me is passed up in favor of reorganizing the hard drive on the computer or spending hours in Guitar Center comparing two pieces of unaffordable band equipment.  So. Boring.
2. Any degree of stress instantly renders you unfit for human contact. As females, we tend to take certain things in stride. Speeding ticket? It happens. Let us pray, however, that it happens to us and not to you, because you will be unbearably grouchy for about ten years afterward.  Obviously women have a bad reputation for a tendency toward "moodiness", but while the masculine bad mood may be less frequent, it is much more unpleasant due to both duration and severity.  Why do you think we invented cupcakes?
3. You lose weight in like 2 seconds. I have eaten Special K cereal and cauliflower with hummus for months on end. I have spent hours and hours at the gym giving myself shin splints and sweating until I smelled like a dead hooker.  Still, my weight remains the same.  You, on the other hand, go from Yeungling to Yeungling LIGHT for three weeks and lose 7 pounds.  I hate you.  The worst part of the whole thing is that you probably just switched beers to see what would happen, because you LOVE your body just the way it is.  

You make me sick.

Guys.....Where ARE we?

Every once in a while, I find myself in a situation that leads me to ask "Where are we? Is this America?????"

I don't mean that in the "What has happened to this country?", patriotic, Sarah Palin-ish way. I mean like, literally wondering if  I have wandered into a third-world country or maybe onto the set of a not-very-funny sitcom.  My most recent out-of-geographical-context experience was this past Tuesday when, between the hours of 10:48pm and midnight, I found myself in Wile E. Coyote meets Dangerous Minds meets Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist with some Deliverance thrown in.

Law and Order scene-change music  BUH-bum!

10:48pm  September 21, 2010  
Parking lot outside The Social
Orlando FL

The four of us were in a fragile mental state after spending 4 hours in a dank night club thrashing around with hundreds of hipster weirdos listening to music while drinking beer and tequila.  Imagine our confusion when we went back to the parking space expecting this:

But instead finding this:

Honestly, we were not all that surprised or confused.  I'd like to keep lying and tell you that we were totally blindsided by the whole "The car is gone" thing, but really I think we were almost expecting it.  Rewind to 4 hours and 51 minutes earlier.

Time Travel Worm Hole

BUH-bum!


5:57pm  September 21, 2010  
Parking lot outside The Social
Orlando FL

 Fresh as daisies, we jumped out of the car ready for action!  Approaching the parking lot ticketing machine, the following conversation ensued.  It might not be word for word, but my memory is pretty much a steel trap, so I'm sure it's extremely accurate.

ME:  Hey look!  The parking here is only $5! That's awesome!  That leaves me so much extra money to donate to my many charities! 

MOE:  That sounds awesome!  Derp Derp!

CURLY:  Do you think the ice cream man comes around this time of night?

LARRY:  I hope you guys have cash because I don't.

MOE:  The machine is broken.  We can't pay.

LARRY:  Let me try kicking it a bunch of times impotently.  That should solve everything. 

CURLY: Even just a Snickers bar that has been in the refrigerator would do the trick. 

ME and MOE:  It's our lucky day!  The universe has smiled upon us at last!  Free parking a-go-go!

Four hours and 51 minutes later......

 Obviously we knew there was a chance we could be towed or ticketed or something, especially in light of the huge sign right next to the parking space telling us that if the machine was broken we either had to call some number or not park there lest we be towed and impounded at our expense.  Seriously though, who has time to be reading all kinds of signage and calling all kinds of phone numbers?  Is it really our job to single-handedly fix the crumbling infrastructure of Orlando, Florida?  I don't think so.

All the same, ACTUALLY getting your car towed and impounded on a crazy night out of town, far from home, with three idiots was like slipping on a banana peel, or having an anvil fall on your head.  I knew it was possible, but just seemed too cliche to actually happen.  I think it was the cartoonish nature of the whole thing that kept us all calm.  How can you get upset when you're pretty sure you're in an episode of Seinfeld?

If you've ever watched Sex and the City and thought "That's so unrealistic", then you have obviously never hailed a cab.  The activity is every bit as glamorous and cosmopolitan as it looks on TV.  What is neither glamorous nor cosmopolitan is where the cab dropped us off.

BUH-bum!

11:32pm September 21, 2010
The Impound Lot
Deliveranceville, USA

If ever I have found myself in a location that I would rather no be, this was it.  After sliding our cash payment through the tiny slot in the bullet proof glass of the impound office, we were simply told

"Meet me around back."

"Around back" turned out to be a disgusting cartpath with a row of meth labs and brothels on one side and a 10 foot chain-link fence on the other side blocked off with black corrugated plastic sheets so no one could see inside.  Promises of protection offered by my three companions did not exactly inspire confidence in the face of  roving gangs of crack-addicted transvestite prostitutes.  I was fashioning a shiv from my ticket stub and tree sap when a section of the fence opened outward and the impound lot guy uttered yet another informative and helpful directive.

"There you go."

And there we went. There we went into the lot that at first I thought was paved with gravel, but then realized that I was just stepping on an uncommon amount of broken glass.  The guy didn't even follow us in there. 

In the Locker Room

Recently my limited supply of work-out-at-home self-motivation became depleted and I was forced to go get a gym membership.  I love the gym because it provides a communal suffering experience that I find quite inspiring.  What I do NOT find inspiring is the communal visual experience of the locker room.

It is my understanding that certain unspoken codes apply to the men's restroom, especially where urinal usage is concerned.  I propose that we need a similar set of rules for the women's locker room, but in this case they should probably be SPOKEN, even written in big block letters on the locker room walls, the inside of the bathroom stalls, stitched into the shower curtains, and maybe even tattooed onto everyone's faces as part of membership. I also volunteer my services as a locker-room crier, marching back and forth with a bullhorn, announcing the following clearly and with great enthusiasm:

1. When it comes to public nudity, brevity is the name of the game.  Obviously you are going to have to get naked in order to change clothes or dry off, but at a certain point that time period must end.  For example, if you have recently dried yourself and have decided to spend a few minutes standing in front of your locker applying lip balm, tweezing your eyebrows, and Facebooking about how intense your workout was, why not take the towel from the bench next to you and wrap it around your body, thereby covering your nakedness?  Sometimes I see people where the towel is not even on the bench but in their other hand, just hanging there like they have nothing else to do with it. Because of people like this, I'm developing repetitive stress disorder from averting my eyes.  
2. The gym shower is to cleanse yourself, not to perform lengthy and complicated grooming rituals.  There is a reason the shelf in the gym shower stall provides only 4 square inches of surface space. Necessary toiletry items in this milieu include shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.  That's the end of the list.  Razors, shaving cream, loofahs of multiple shapes and sizes--these are for use at home.  I've been in the shower next to you. I do not like it when your teeny tiny leg hairs come over to my side in their sea foam of used shaving cream.

    3.  Get in and get out.  There is no Starbucks here, nor is there free wi-fi or big screen TVs.  The locker  room is the most hostile environment in the entire gym, but despite the discomfort there are always three or four women huddled around in the changing area chit-chatting like they are in line at Barry Manilow concert.  Having long-since showered and changed, their presence in this venue is both gratuitous and unwelcome.  It's not just the way their obtuse banter echoes off the acoustic tile that causes a problem.  The biggest issue is that you are not supposed to just BE in the changing area, just WATCHING other people change.  Even if my bra is off for a total of 3.5 seconds, and even if I am wearing brand new underwear, I still feel like they are judging me.  It's only a matter of time before they start bringing scones and copies of Tuesdays with Morrie along, at which point I am going to start changing in the alley behind the Sonic Burger.

 If only all locker rooms were like a sexy underwear party, a la the 1982 comedy Porky's. I can assure you that this is not the clientele of Lifestyle Family Fitness in Orange Park, Florida.

I may be expecting too much of people, but it discourages me to have to use up an entire day's worth of aplomb in the five minutes it takes me to change into my yoga pants and sports bra. 

I can pay you in hugs!

The one thing that really sucks about being an adult is that whenever something unpleasant must be done, you are the one who has to do it.  I suppose I could hire an assistant, but I myself am employed as an assistant, so technically 100% of my salary would have to go directly to my own assistant person.  I'm no mathemetician, but even I know that is not a very sound business plan.  Ergo, I am obligated to do these things for myself, most likely over and over again, until I die. 

Scheduling Doctor's Appointments

"Doctor Important's office."

"Hello ma'am I'm a patient of Doctor Important and I'd like to make an appointment."

"Slow down slow down! What is your name?"

"Chloe Peace."

"CARLY?"

"CHLOE. C-H-L-O-E."

"C-H-O-L-E-"

"No ma'am it's "C" AS IN CHARLIE, "H" AS IN HARRY, "L" AS IN LUCY, "O" AS IN OSCAR, -"

"Carly there's not need to spell it again I'm not stupid. Last name!?"

"Peace."

"Can you spell that?"

And you can take it from there.  Women who answer phones at doctors' offices do not "ask" questions. They state the nature of the information that they need.  It's not "What is your birthday?", but "BIRTHDATE."  "LAST MENSTRUAL CYCLE."  "LAST PELVIC EXAM."  Do they really need to know all of that just to get me in to see the doctor about a mole on my arm?  I really think these people are on a power trip, and I want no part of it. 

Emptying the Dishwasher

I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about this one, and I can't say for sure what my problem is with it.  On a bad day, it takes about 90 seconds max to complete the task, but I just HATE doing it.  My best guess is that I am bothered by the tedium of moving a clean object from one place to another.  Kind of like how I don't mind washing the laundry, drying it, even folding it, but actually putting it away cannot be done without a great deal of sighing.  Also there is always the chance that two clean dishes will scrape against each other and make that awful noise that I associate with prison. 

Purchasing Tampons

In addition to the obvious embarrassment of buying an item that everyone knows is going straight to a location that you'd rather they didn't think about, there's the more troubling implication that you are possibly unstable due to unpredictable hormonal surges.  Since I figure they see the box and expect me to burst out crying at any moment, being as I am having my "woman times", I usually make an extra effort to act happy and polite.  I think it may backfire and just make me look like I'm on cocaine.  Maybe by the time I hit menopause I will have found a balance.

That lady is awesome.  If you don't know who she is, I feel sadly for you.  Let's just say she wouldn't have a problem buying Tampax.  She'd probably just slam it down on the counter and announce "I need to purchase these because my uterus is going through a time of transition right now."

Over and over again.  Until I die.

Stumble me and Digg me!

Hey everyone great news! Now if you like a post, you can click on the Stumble or Digg button (or both!) and it will help get my blog out to more readers! 

Thanks in advance.  Soon the internet will be mine....

P.S.  Don't stumble or digg this post because everyone will be like "This is lame!" and never come back.  Find your favorite and do that one...

Jody Rivelli--Elementary School Girl or Terrorist? You decide.

When I was in grade school, a brother and sister shared my bus stop--Jody and Joey Rivelli. Fail names for sure. I chalked it up to the fact that they lived in an apartment building, and were therefore from what I considered as "the other side of the tracks." Don't ask me why I had this notion as it clearly makes no sense. I myself have lived in multiple apartment buildings and never felt the need to have teardrops tattooed on my face or install bars on the windows. It was just a weird childhood misconception...most likely based solely on my experience with the Rivelli children.

The fact that Jody and her brother behaved as though they were in some kind of pre-peubescent motorcycle gang was, I am sure, purely coincidental. I just know that they frightened me. Jody especially set me on edge, as she possessed what I considered to be a "criminal temperament". It was all in the eyes. The looked all sharp and crimey. I imagined that she spent her free time repeatedly throwing a baseball against the side of her brick apartment building and making angsty facial expressions.

While to passersby she may have appeared to be an innocent 8 year old girl, I know the truth, as she proceeded to terrorize me in several ways. I shall outline them for you now so that the wool can be pulled away from your eyes and you can start viewing all children as they should be viewed--with guarded suspicion.

Riding the school bus was bad enough as it was.  The only saving grace for the first two years of school was that my upstairs neighbor Takara Palinski rode with me and therefore I was not a friendless loser (sometimes a puked-upon loser, but never friendless).  The real trouble started when I was in third grade and Takara was in fourth, therefore placing her in the middle school and leaving me to fend for myself. If we have met, you know that I should never, under any circumstances, be left alone to fend for myself.  I do not possess the social coping mechanisms necessary to survive without at least one sidekick, and my lack of sidekicks leaves me open to attack from hostile third party apartment dwelling gang bangers.

A few days after school started, I was getting on the bus at the end of the day to go home and Jody walked up to me in the aisle and punched me in the face. Twice. Now, I don't know if this is common and you are all reading saying "So what? I've been punched in the face eight times just this week alone!" but to me it was definitely outside of the realm of situations for which I had a predetermined response.  This left me with no choice but to go to my default reaction.  I cried.

The remainder of my ride home was spent curled up in the bench seat simmering in a stew of fear, shame, and self-loathing.  By  the time we came to my stop, I had worked out a plan to surgically alter my appearance and move to a suburb better than our own, a suburb with no apartment buildings. 

My mother went sideways when I told her about, as she called it, the "battery" I was subjected to.  Within ten minutes she had spoken to the principal and arranged for the maximum punishment allowed by law--a stern talking-to.  The next morning, at school, Jody delivered the mandatory apology, dropped her head to her chest in the mandatory and universal expression of false contrition, and plotted her revenge.

Call me paranoid, but I firmly believe that when she vomited on the floor in fourth period English later that day, the gesture was intended for me.  It was the perfect retribution as it not only traumatized me, as it was accompanied by much theatrical retching and great splashing noises, but once again my reaction brought shame upon myself, and shame is not a good color on me.  I like to think I calmly filed out of the room behind all the other students, but the reality of the situation was probably closer to this:

Just picture that same facial expression on an 8 year old girl with two black eyes.

Thus continued my long and storied history of public humiliation.

Red and the Pimp

Chloe: If you were able to add one amendment to the constitution,
making it unbreakable and permanent national law,
What would it be?

Anders: Mmmm good question.

Chloe: I'm assuming your answer has to do with boobs
like
'If Anders enters the room, all females under the age of 40 are obligated to take their tops off on command."

Anders: As cool as that would be
it would be selfish.

Chloe: That's the point of the question.
You can be selfish cus it's not real.

Anders: I would rather make a new law that benefitted mankind in an awesome way.
Besides,
that already happens when I walk into the room.
:)

Chloe: booyah
How about…….
if you make more than $1,000,000 a year, like……..
idk
Something that would allow an equalizing to take place?
But I think I'm describing communism.

Anders: hahahaha

Chloe: I JUST INVENTED COMMUNISM

Anders: Oh Chloe your such a commy. You and your obamacare.

Chloe: Okay so how exactly would you benefit mankind with your legislation?

Anders: Well it’s no secret that boobs make the world spin,
so I think I would set up some sort of show your boobs earn reward points system:
Men get to see boobs
There fore making them happy and more productive,
while women earn reward points to spend on certain items
I think productivity would go up.
Crime would fall.

Chloe: and YOU are describing prostitution.
YOU JUST INVENTED PROSTITUTION.

Anders: At least I’m not a commy.


Having typed this chat out into blog form, a few major stumbling blocks are jumping out at me, leading me to the conclusion that I definitely cannot be friends with Anders any more.  Perhaps you noticed them as well.

1. At first I was semi-impressed with his selflessness when I suggested the boob thing.  "That would be selfish. I would rather make a new law that benefitted mankind in an awesome way."  Okay.  How nice of you.  I'm thinking a law that would protect the innocent, feed the hungry, or maybe give complimentary Sani-wipes at the DMV.  But no.  He meant not "It's selfish because I would get a cheap thrill at the expense of the dignity of others," but rather "It's selfish because I'm the only one who would get cheap thrills at the expense of the dignity of others." 
2. In this boob-laden utopia, did you notice that the men are the only "productive" members of society, and that the only role of females is to degrade themselves in order to fuel the continued productivity of the men?  Perhaps Anders would be more comfortable in the year 450 A.D., when the women wore leg irons as they served great goblets of mead to the menfolk.
3. The last problem with the conversation has to do with how I grossly mislabeled as "prostitution" what at most seems like some kind of national strip club or sexy Chuck-E-Cheese. 

I'm not going to address the whole issue of me possibly being a communist.  Maybe later. Right now I have some back issues of The Daily Worker to catch up on.

Mmmm..... Jewish Rye.

Jarett:  I never order toast at restaurants.
I can make my own toast for about four cents.

 me:  i love rye toast

 Jarett:  And it will taste a thousand time better.
And rye toast is the best, yes.

 me:  it's sooooo goooooddddd
it's hard to find a good marble rye around here though
We need a good jewish deli
those jews really know their bread

 Jarett:  Haha

 me:  and suffering.
Bread and suffering

 Jarett:  And its fun to ask them to make you a ham sandwich!

 me:  That's what they could name their deli!
Bread and Suffering!

 Jarett:  No, it should rhyme with "pain."
Grain And Suffering

P.S. When he sent me the link to that picture, I got really upset.  "How could someone else think of the same thing?!?!?! Is it possible that we are not as unique and hilarious as we think we are?" 

But he photoshopped it so all is well.  Our mental real estate is still prime, babies. At least Jarett's is.  I mean, really. "Bread and Suffering"?  Could I have missed a more obvious and hilarious cultural reference? 

Stop Treading on Me, Fitness Haters!

     Diet and excercise are obviously good things.  Doing these things is not anything spectacular, but there are two groups of people who clearly think that they are, and while they are opposite in many ways from each other, they are equally annoying, as they are really trying to communicate the same thing.

"Oh my God! You excercise!  I am soooo jealous! I could never do that!"
     People who say this behave as though putting on a pair of sneakers and walking around the block is some extreme sport requiring a large portion of God-given talent.  I suppose tying double-knots can be tricky, but there is always velcro. I think what these people are really saying is "I'm going to pretend that your paltry amount of physical fitness time is a big deal so that I won't feel badly about never excercising at all.  After all, we're not all Superman!"

"You excercise too much. You look anoretic. It's not healthy to be that skinny." 
     I can understand this kind of reaction to a person with an ACTUAL eating disorder, but my BMI is actually on the high end of average.  On a good week, I excercise for maybe two hours total. On a bad week, I don't work out at all, and have been known to eat Nutella out of the jar with a big wooden spoon. That barely qualifies as an extreme health regimen.   What these people are really saying is "I shall accuse you of an outrageous and unhealthy fitness routine, calling into question your priorities in life, thereby establishing myself as the superior being. My life is so frought with meaning that I laugh at your time spent developing cardiovascular fortitude and chopping vegetables.  I feel sad for you."

    If you know the secret to actually becoming overly extreme with fitness and sticking to it, please clue me in.  Otherwise, please stop trying to discourage me from what meager attempt I am making.  Also, if you know a good place where I can buy Nutella in bulk, that would really help me out.

New Friend

Are you lonely and sad? Do you spend hours practicing ventriloquism so you can have someone to talk to?  

Are the only two numbers in your phone's contact list "#MINS" and "Fast Wok"?  

That used to be me too. Well, not really.  That's just pathetic.  I did, however, recently find myself in a situation where I needed to make a complete new set of intimate acquaintances.  This led to the development of a fool-proof system to make and keep friends!  The complete set of 13 DVDs and 9 leatherbound volumes can now be yours for only $199.99 + shipping!  (Shipping cost ranges from $149-699 based on location.)

Guess what, New Friend!  Order today and you'll get that free travel mug to use as you rush out to your many adventures with the awesome new entourage my system will yield for you!

And they will!!!!

Right now you're thinking: "But that sounds too good to be true! Last time I made friends, it cost me ten times that, and I didn't even get a complimentary travel mug!"

If you are thinking that, then join me in a visualization exercise:

Imagine yourself on a serene tropical beach. The white soft sand is warm under your feet, and a gentle ocean breeze blows through your hair. What's that sound? Ah, it's a distant horn from a passing ship.

All around you there is the pleasing white noise of the surf and the scent of tanning oil and sea salt,

hearkening back to the days of childhood.

Now I walk up to you. Is that a pina colada in my hand? Am I extending it to you?

NO! I'M HERE TO THROW IT IN YOUR FACE!

THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR THINKING THIS AWESOME DEAL IS "TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!"

YOU GET A FACE FULL OF MY FROZEN ISLAND BEVERAGE!

For those of you who still have lingering doubts about my system's "legitimacy", I encourage you to try the following tips, exclusive to blog-readers and totally free of charge!!!!!

1. Give your prospective soul mate a try-out.  Everyone loves a chance to be evaluated!  A midnight visit to his or her home while you sob uncontrollably is often a fine litmus test, an opportunity for the candidate to demonstrate both emotional fortitude and physical stamina. The less intelligible your ramblings, the better.  Add to the fun and excitement by "accidentally" dropping several empty prescription bottles from your purse, or perhaps lighting something on fire. 
2. Walk a mile in her shoes.  This can be as easy as sleeping with her boyfriend or kidnapping a few of her children for a week or so.  If your prospect is a male, achieving empathy can be as simple as replicating a few of his outfits in exhaustive detail and wearing them when you two go out together.  All of these gestures showcase your personal devotion as well as how far you are willing to go to TRULY understand the other person.  Who wouldn't respond positively to that?
3. Never say never.  So it seems that the two of you are not getting along so well and quite possibly you have nothing in common.  Maybe the monthly pledge you make to National Public Radio clashes with his Confederate flag tattoo.  Don't give up!  Forcing a continued friendship with someone who hates everything about you is perhaps the BEST way to prove that you are in it in win it. Some of my most satisfying relationships are held together, not with shared interests and knowing glances, but with mutual hostility and leg irons.  

You're welcome.

I know, I know, you're feeling unworthy of all of this.  The travel mug, the free pearls of wisdom--what did you do to deserve such favor?  But there's more.

Take a moment to peruse just a sampling of the topics and techniques you can become fluent in by the end of the 36-week introductory period:

• Personality Mirroring and You
• Nurturing a Sense of Obligation
• The Facebook Ninja
• How to Choose the Right Inappropriately Expensive Gift
• "If you hang up, I will kill myself!!!" and other Hilarious Quips

The knowledge contained in these volumes and instructional videos REALLY changes lives.  It can change yours too, but you don't have to take my word for it.  See celebrity commentary here.  

So you see? The evidence is there. The testimony is there.  The solution to your pitiful friendless state is just a phone call away!  Call now! 

The Moist Mistake

     I was recently asked a question regarding unspoken codes that must be followed in order to live in civilization.

     Specifically, the query addressed how to handle a situation in which you know a hug is expected, even demanded by societal conventions, but you are perspiring to a point that you consider yourself to be offensive.

    I will address this issue and many others for your pleasure and to protect you from sweat-related social pariah-dom.

Factors to consider:

1. Why?  Stress?  Heat? Exercise? The cause of the seepage has a drastic impact on the level of acceptance you should expect from those around you.  It's totally okay to be drenched if you just finished a rousing game of rugby.  Having dirt and grass stains all over you helps, too.  On the other hand, if you are in an elevator that you entered completely dry, and by the 4th floor your forehead is bejeweled with beads of nervousness, that is no good. 
2. Where?  Point of origin is key here. (Only applicable if the cause of the perspiration is NOT exercise, in which case all is well. See above.)  A person who is otherwise dry and fresh may flag down a taxi to reveal an unexpected underarm situation.  Even worse is random cranial excretions, as they often result in much swabbing with napkins or paper towels, and this is just across the board disgusting.  Go to the men's room and splash come cold water on your face. Make this end. 
3. Who?  I don't make the rules, I just follow them. That being said, if you are good looking and relatively fit, society will go much easier on you here than if you are morbidly obese or otherwise unpleasant to look upon.  For the latter, it is generally assumed that your perspiration is somehow related to your body type, and whether it is true or not, opinions are formed. Stigmas are attached.  Stereotypes are reinforced. Even if you saw a sweaty overweight person on The Biggest Loser, running a marathon, about to cross the finish line, you'd still think they were sweating because they are fat.  THEY ARE RUNNING A FREAKING MARATHON!. Anyone would be sweaty. But like I said, I don't make the rules.

Another thing to keep in mind when you ARE all damp and the situation DOES call for socially required human contact: Please, PLEASE do not verbalize your predicament. It makes everyone so much more uncomfortable. (Again, this does not apply to exercise or sports-related situations.)  There should be no  advance-apologies such as "I would love to hug you but my back is soaking wet," or the dreaded "I'd shake your hand, but my palms are all sweaty." NO. Just do the handshake or the hug and let the chips fall where they may. The average person will be much more forgiving of a slightly damp handshake than they will of your embarrassing personal confession.

There's always the possibility that this is all just me, but I doubt it.  If it is just me, then please follow these rules when you are around me, and we will all get along just fine.

The Pregnant Dog Phenomenon and some other stuff like it

You wanted a whole post about the animal nipples, and I cannot say that I blame you.  That is a hilarious topic.  Since I am pretty sure that it will not support an entire post, especially since the you already have the basic idea of the animal nipple situation based on yesterday's excerpt from my chat with Jarett, I shall expound on it a bit and tell you a few other things that make me feel very weird and paranoid for no reason.

You-Know-What

 

I feel guilty even posting that picture.  Please do not think that I get my kicks watching puppies suckling.  My original thought was to post a picture of a pregnant dog so that I could accurately convey my message, but I felt like a creeper google imaging that, so instead it just looks like I have some sort of problem with adorable puppies.  The point is that I KNOW WHAT THE PUPPIES ARE HIDING, which is namely weird mother dog nipples.  Whenever such things are near to me, which thankfully is not often, I tend to pretend something else fascinating suddenly caught my attention, so as not to seem unduly mesmerized by the unavoidable spectacle of animal teats placed before me.  

Innocent Friend:  "Look Chloe!  The dog just had puppies!"

Me: "Did you guys notice how smooth this wallpaper is?  It's like glass! But it's paper!"

Ignoring Someone's Call

Let me preface this by saying that if we are friends and I call you and text you regularly, I probably have never ignored you when you called me.  In fact, I was probably so happy that you were calling that I dropped my phone about ten times in the excitement and practically drove off the side of the road trying to answer.  I'm cool like that.

No, the people who's calls I ignore are the ones who I either never want to talk to or I find it tiring to talk to.  Usually, if not always, these people also live hundreds or even thousands of miles away.  This fact somehow does not stop my brain from telling my nerves that, because I looked at my phone, hit the "END" button, and put it back down, the caller is suddenly, not at the opposite end of the country, but in the car next to me at the light.  I picture a surprise visitor, just flown in and waving enthusiastically through the car window while waiting for me to pick up. Their waving slows down and their smile contorts into a horrible grimace as they watch me ignore them, willfully, almost with pleasure. 

Even being within the confines of my home does not prevent me from feeling this instant paranoia/guilt.  Are you at my front door?  Can you see through my walls?  ARE YOU ALREADY IN THE HOUSE?  Oh yeah, no.  You are in A TOTALLY DIFFERENT TIME ZONE.  Fail.

We Need to Talk.....Later

This is the most terrifying thing you can say to me.  Worst case scenario, the reason you are saying this is that you personally are bothered by something and you would like to share that with me in a traumatic fashion.  The slow torturous conversation that you have in mind will not fit into your currently available time, but you want me to know that it is coming. When? How? Why? These are questions best answered randomly and according to your discretion.  What we do know for sure is that I have been robbed of my ability to blithely go about my day, and instead I shall spend the next however-many-hours-you-see-fit crapping a brick and mentally replaying every moment in our relationship to see where I went wrong and what egg of displeasure you are about to crack on me.

Best case scenario, you do not understand the proper use of this phraseology and just want my recipe for cupcakes or to tell me how my new throw pillows brightened your day.  Either way, screw you.  If you have something to say, say it.

It will bring me great comfort if at least one of you comments that one or all three of these phenomena are familiar to you, but I doubt it.  I'm sure that all of this can be traced back to some childhood dysfunction, but this is not an episode of Mad About You, so let's just not analyze it. 

(::::::)

Okay so I know I stopped writing my blog, but you guys check it out. Today I was chatting with new friend and here's a snippet:

me: yeah animal teats disturb me greatly


Jarett: Haha

me: i avoid visual contact with them at all costs

Jarett: Yes.  Especially like, a week after a dog gives birth.  And they like, drag on the ground.
And the dog seems to not even notice.
 
me:  I just avoid looking because i think people will accuse me of being some sort of pervert.

"ARE YOU LOOKING AT THAT DOG'S NIPPLES????"
"THE ONES THAT LOOK PAINFULLY DISTENDED?"

Jarett: "YOU MUST BE A FURRY!"  Then they hold up a cross at you.

me: Hahahahah right. Not writing my blog is making me say a lot of things in normal chat that should not be said.  I think I'll write a post about this.  
 
Okay. I got a piece of paper and wrote: "animal titties".  Where have I gone wrong in life?

Jarett: I would hide that paper if I were you.

me: I am a person who writes "animal titties" on a scrap of paper and puts it in my purse for safe keeping!
 
Jarett: Bahahaha. Get going on that post.   You should definitely title it: (::::)
 
So as you can see, it is going to be impossible for me to NOT write my blog.  I realize that most of the humor in this post came from Jarett, but I promise to be more independant in the next one. 
 
P.S. That emoticon for a pregnant dog was Allie's idea in this post on Hyperbole and a Half. 

Announcement

Hello to all 16 of you who follow my blog.  I really appreciate it.  I love you guys. 

Lately reactions to the blog have been causing me more grief than it's worth, so I'm going to stop doing it.

That's the announcement.

If you still want to talk to me and have interesting conversations about stuff that's happening with you, I hope we can be friends in real life.

Chloe

The Joys and Sorrows of Being Friends with Boys

Over the years I have learned that I have certain limitations when it comes to friendship.  That is to say, I can't deal with drama and have trouble tip-toing around people and their little quirks and insecurities.  As a side point, I am rife with quirks, insecurities and drama, and I require that people deal with me.  That reduces my friend choices drastically to 1) an interesting and awesome subset of rare females and 2) almost every male on the planet.

It's not as if I think this is okay.  I'm trying to work on my flaws so that some day all the peoples of the world will want to be my best friend, but that is a slow process, and until then I need people to listen to my crap.  Don't take it the wrong way--I love listening to their crap as well, but it seems like everyone has their crap much more together than I do.  Which leaves me the one doling out the majority of the crap. CRAP.

The females who manage to put up with me to the point of the closeness of sisters are truly to be applauded for their fortitude.  I have most likely been mean to them, tried to make out with them, made horrible jokes at their expense, and cried for extended periods of time on the phone with them while they were trying to get some sleep. 

For you boys, I have mixed feelings.  I thought it might help to make a brief list of pros and cons.  If cons win, you can pack your bags.

Cons:

1. You talk about what just happened in the bathroom.  That's no good.  I despise any mention of bowel movements.  You talk about them ALL THE TIME. You talk to each other about the size. the shape, the frequency. This makes me die on the inside.  Who can find you attractive when you speak of such things?
2. You quote South Park AD NAUSEUM. I like that show, too, but it's almost as if you purposely choose the most unattractive dialogue of the show to repeat over and over.  Please stop. It makes me unattracted to you as a group.
3. You are really, really terrible at cleaning up.  I know for sure because I've asked you to do this on many occasions, and each time you made the mess worse.  How, I don't know.  But you did. You suck at cleaning up.
4. I'm constantly terrified that you will find someone you like better than me.  Who needs Cuppycake when you find someone hotter and smarter that you can also make out with? 

Pros:

1. My crazy behavior often goes un noticed by you, as you are busy focusing on maybe my butt or whether you can see my nipples through my top.  What's even better is when one of my special unterus-possessing friends is present, in which case I can act completely insane because there are twice as many tops to look down and thighs to ogle.  I think that if the Unibomber had boobs, society would have been inclined to overlook things, chalking it up to the stress of being so awesome.
2. Most women enter the home of another woman and start taking dilligent notes of their surroundings, estimating when last the ceiling fans were dusted and mentally rearranging the furniture.  I can depend on you guys never notice such mundane details.  I could drag all my furniture to the center of the living room and light it on fire, then sprinkle the contents of the cat box to and fro throughout the rest of my home, and but since neither of these activities interfere with drinking beer or playing video games, you wouln't say a word in judgment. 
3. You are cute and often adorable to look upon. This especially applies when you are angry about something that really you shouldn't be angry about, perhaps some perceived injustice such as the Yankees sweeping the Sox, or maybe you spilled your beer or got pee on your shorts. 
4. Very little mental effort is involved in our relationships.  The emotional exhertion normally necessary in a female friendship is replaced by the occasional physical laor of baking cupcakes or doing your laundry.  These tasks are much more manageable than attempting to successfully navigate the estrogen-laden social obstacle course of a baby shower or "girls' night" on the town.  I choose cupcakes!

So I guess we are at a stalemate.  But come to think of it, who the hell cares how bad you are at cleaning up?  I can do my own freaking dishes.  

Things I found in my house on Sunday morning

For any of you who have come over on a Saturday night, you are aware of my aversion to cleaning up.  Once the food is served, I really hate the idea of continuing to play hostess; I want to enjoy your company and have a good time. Unfortunately, since the rest of you are total slackers who wouldn't clean up even your OWN kitchens,  stepping out of my bedroom the next morning often calls to mind exiting the bunker, post-apocalypse.  That is to say, it's scary and full of unfortunate surprises. 

• Beer bottles are probably the most obvious and seemingly least interesting items to be found. However, their mere presence in my home is not nearly as fascinating as their locations. Who is finishing a beer in the bathroom?  When did a framed photograph of my in-laws make the transition from vertical to horizontal and become acceptable for use as a coaster?  I suppose I should be happy that you even thought to protect the furniture in the first place, but at what cost?

• An Unidentified Random Hat generally shows up somewhere on the living room floor or maybe on the kitchen table.  We never know to whom it belongs, nor does anyone claim it.  The real question is not "Who left this here?" but "Why do we have to many friends who find it socially acceptable to wear knit beanies and Tam O' Shanters in public?" Seriously people, it's summer in Florida.  Lay off the hats. 

• Shot glasses with half a shot in them can be completely blamed on me.  Here's what happens:  Yay! Alcohol makes things more fun!  Wait--don't want to drink too much, take it easy there, no sloppy drunk girl today.......Rock Band!!!  More Rock Band!!! Uh-oh starting to lose the buzz....another shot of tequila should fix that....wait a whole shot is too much.....eh screw it.  The next morning, a half-empty shot glass is a reminder of my unfortunate lack of accuracy in estimating my blood alcohol content coupled with extreme paranoia that I will get drunk and throw up on things. 

• Clothes that smell really, really, really bad are the fun surprises that often haunt the next few days as I make my way through my chores.  Did you play drums so vigorously that the sweat soaked through your Levis and was threatening to rust out your double-bass pedal?  No problem!  Change into your back up pair, but not without casting the offending jeans with all your might in some random direction, preferably into the be-darkened corner of a rarely used spare bedroom. 

It may sound as if I am complaining.  Not so!  I love these Sunday mornings, and I love all of you.  I also love pretending to be asleep to that Joel cleans up at least half of the house before I have to deal with it.  See you Saturday night!  Bring beer.

I think I figured out part of it....

I was thinking about what I wrote yesterday, about wanting to steal other identities, and I thought "Hey I wonder if it means anything that I chose these three specific people to be?."

Here's what I think it means:

Mary-Louise Parker:  Well, more accurately I want to be her character on Weeds, Nancy Botwin.  Nancy-Bot owns everyone she knows.  No one uses her--she uses everyone around her, but they love it.  Something about her intoxicates everyone to the point that they don't see her flaws, they only see the awesome parts.  Everyone is fiercely loyal to Nancy-Bot and they don't even turn her in for dealing drugs or having FBI agents murdered in her bedroom.  I just know that if I could look and act exactly like Nancy, no one would complain about my bad judgment or lack of tact, because they would love me too much and instantly forget about all the bad things I have done. Instead of keeping account of my mistakes, they would shield me from the consequences of my actions, delivering me lattes and cooking me things even though I never put out.

Alison Mosshart:  *sigh* Ahhh Alison.  I'm going to try to control myself and stay on-point because I get very easily off track when I start talking about her.  She is, arguably, the sexiest human alive, not to mention she is sooo talented. I want to be her because she owns the room.  When Alison is on stage, she is home. Everyone is glued to her; she never needs to feel self-conscious or embarrassed.  She can get sweaty, she can stumble, she can scream into the microphone off-key, and all it does is add to her magnetism. I, on the other hand, have to work so hard just to survive on the stage that it's like I'm drowning and people are pointing and laughing at me as I struggle to come up for each breath of air.  If I were Alison, I would never feel humiliated again.  

Zooey Deschanel:  This is the most tragic of them all.  When I was a teenager, I thought "I'm going to be funny and smart and free-spirited. I'm going to have awesome bohemian clothes and play folk guitar."  I am none of those things; Zooey is all of them.  Even down to her messy hair and un-manicured nails, she is what I clearly envisioned for myself once all the teenage drama was over, but it didn't work out that way.  The closest I get is listening to Carol King records and chewing on my cuticles.

I think this post has been very NOT Hyperbole and a Half -like.  I love Allie Brosch, who writes that blog, and you should definitely check it out, but I shall do my best to just write pure me and not copy her or anyone.  If that's not enough for you, I'll remind you of what a Mexican drug king pin said to Nancy-Bot in season 4:  "Nothing is ever enough, but we live, and we try."

I'M CONFUSED!!!!

It has recently been suggested to me that perhaps I am copying Allie from Hyperbole and a Half, whom you should definitely check out because she is really funny and original and her blog provides hours of lolz.  This one comment has made me question my whole existence.

Well, to be fair, it started way before that.  I've discovered that I have a compulsive need to try to BE someone else.  Not just a philosophical "I want to be someone other than me" thing, like, I choose specific people that I want to basically steal, like in that Ethan Hawk movie where you see Angelina Jolie's boobs, but without all the killing.

That's Mary-Louise Parker, Alison Mosshart, and Zooey Deschanel.  I have tried to be each of them on several occasions.  At least I have good taste.  No use trying to be an ugly chick. No one likes them any more than they would like me.

When I was told that my blog is a lot like Allie's blog, like maybe I'm copying, I thought to myself, "Time to find out what is funny about YOU and write that way."

That's where the problem started.  I have no idea who I am.  I'm always trying to be someone else or something else or improve in some way, if you took that all away, I'm not sure what you would find.  One thing that I'm fairly certain of is that it wouldn't be very funny.

My gut reaction was to stop writing my blog.  Why keep blogging if I am just trying to be something I'm not?  These are my words, but am I saying them with a secret wish to be someone else?  I know that it's just a stupid blog that only like 10 people read, but it's so reflective of my life that this really disturbs me. Why do anything? Why say anything?  Why?

I'M CONFUSED!!! 

What kept me writing was that I thought "What would these 10 people do if I stopped blogging?" and I came up with the following possibilities:

• Drive nails into your temples
• Join a gang
• Call your parents
• Start a fight club
• Watch more internet porn
• Forget I exist

None of those options work for any of us, so I shall continue to post as I figure this all out.  SUCKAS!

How the Universe Made Me Want to Stab an Infant in a Crowded Airplane

It all started with me being snarky at the gate when I went up to the counter for new boarding passes. I had to get up really early that morning, but it was almost okay because I was looking forward to the day.  We were on our way to my home town to visit friends and family, which pleased me greatly. Whenever I am in a good mood, it confuses me that other people can be grouchy. Do other people have lives too?  Do they have feelings that are unrelated to my current mental state?  This does not compute with me.

My only crime was happiness, a level of joy that apparently offended the counter people greatly.  When I greeted them and asked for help, they just stared at me.  Nothing. No facial expression or movement or verbalization of any kind would even indicate that either of them saw me there or heard my request. 

The problem with a good mood that is thinly veiling the misery of waking up at 5am is that the misery WILL show itself at some point.  I said to the Delta associates who stood, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed before me,

"Are we not using our words today?"

Big mistake.  They were in charge of assigning our seats and thus deciding if we would want to live or die by the end of the flight. They chose die.

The whole time we were waiting, there was this baby.  She screamed non stop.  I smiled and in a singsongy voice announced to my husband that baby cries don't bother me in the slightest!  This is all part of my attempt to present myself as a prime candidate to have kids of my own, but probably just made me look insane.  The fact is that baby cries do not upset me at all, as I assume that I will someday  have to hope other people have patience with my crying baby.  It's called empathy people.  It didn't hurt that the mother and child were unwashed and appeared indigent, perhaps poor immigrants who have recently arrived to cash in on their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Perhaps they earned money for plane tickets by acting as seeing-eye dogs or human foot stools.  Who were we, the over privileged American yuppies, to begrudge a poor little Nicurguan baby her right to cry?  What next?  Try to stop the caged bird from singing?

Like I said, my mood was pretty volatile.

Not only did the counter trolls seat us in the VERY LAST ROW of the plane, but guess who we shared the row with?  None other than La Madonna herself, breastfeeding her baby and adjusting her nimbus with her free hand. Upon being seated I commenced patting myself on the back.  What a greatly magnanimous person I am!  Who else would be so gentle and kind as she took her  seat by this poor immigrant, who would surely return my greeting if only she spoke English?  Maybe I can arrange to tutor her on our language and teach her our ways! 

When the baby started screaming almost instantly, I reminded myself that I would one day be in the same situation, and again congratulated myself on my understanding and fellow feeling.  Then things started going south.

First, she spoke to me, in perfect English, asking me to trade seats with her so that she could be on the aisle. Obviously that would be the best place for her since she has the baby, but that would put me in the middle, and I hate the middle.  Everyone is always taking your arm rests and touching your thighs with their thighs.  Unfortunately this is one of those social situations where I had absolutely no choice so I had to do it. 

Then she fell asleep with her head tipped back and her mouth wide open, which was just gross.  It put her face on full display, shaved eyebrows growing back, chapped lips, and snub nose.  This was when I really started hating her.  I hate everyone who sleeps on planes because I want to sleep on the plane more than I've ever wanted anything, but I just can't do it.  It's soooo uncomfortable and I am always afraid of looking EXACTLY like she looked at that moment. 

Serendipitously, she roused from her refreshing nap just as the flight attendant reached our row with the scraps left over from feeding snacks to the other, more fortunate passengers.  Normally this is my favorite part of the flight because I love those little gingerbread biscuit things.  Well, I should say lovED, past tense, because presently I loathe them. 

Now is a good time to mention my recent purchase of several pure white items of clothing.  It's a new phase.  My favorite pure white thing I have bought to date is a sheer cotton bathrobe that I wear as a pashmina.  It makes me feel all sophisticated and unblemished.  Ten minutes after the flight attendant brought our cookies, the back of my prized piece of clothing looked like it had been smeared with human feces.  People who allow their children to spatter semi-digested foodstuffs onto the clothing of total strangers should not exist.

After the baby finished her little snack, the STD warehouse who gave birth to her took them both to the lavatory to get cleaned up.  My seat and hers were decorated with globs of chewed up cookies, and what did not hit my white top landed on my jeans.  I did my best to clean up everything with some sanitizing wipes from CVS, but some messes are just beyond the capabilities of a mere moist towelette.  When she sat down, I had removed and balled up my defaced faux-pashmina and was stewing quite obviously, but she didn't care.  That was when her wedding ring was brought to my notice.  Strike two after the English capabilities--she's married.  Why should I feel the least bit compassionate toward a married American woman with no bra who allows the wanton destruction of the property of others?   

As the flight continued, mommy dearest took more open-mouthed naps, and child was allowed to dump juice on my feet, pull my hair and pound on my thigh with her disgusting sticky evil baby hand.  It amazes me how much devastation was brought into my life in a 2-hour time span by a person who would have easily fit into the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of me. 

Maybe when I have kids, people can come down to Florida and visit me. 

If I ignore you, will you go away?

I saw a very classy fellow sporting a tee shirt with that profound questioned emblazoned on it today, and it has prompted the following lists of respondents and how they might answer that question:

• Traumatic Brain Injury--No
• Gangrenous limb--Yes
• Acne breakouts--Yes
• Clamydia breakouts--No
• Tyrannasaurus Rex--Yes
• Jeff Goldblum--Probably Not
• Poo water gushing from an overflowing toilet at a dinner party--No
• Oil gushing from ruptured well in the Gulf of Mexico--             Also No
• Wall posts on Facebook--Yes
• Farmville requests--No
• Ice--Yes
• Icebergs--Eventually
• Weapons-grade Plutonium--Evenutally
• McDonald's French Fries--Never

Disney World: You Broke My Brain and Crushed My Soul

Let me start by saying that I, like most children who live in America, have experienced many happy times in Walt Disney World.  Family members tell me of happy hours spent shaking Mickey's hand and learning about the countries of the world through repetitive song.  These pleasant childhood days are lost to me, as all memories prior to the atrocity of my last visit to Orlando are completely erased.  Pleasant thoughts of the past surrender when confronted by the  Optimus Prime of Clusterfails (OPC Day).

I take most of the blame. A great deal of trauma could have been avoided if I had just admitted to myself and others that I am NOT good-natured and do not view life as a funky adventure.  Let me take this moment to officially state that I have a very well-defined comfort zone, and I have zero interest in expanding or altering it in any way.  I am also a spoiled snob when it comes to certain things, and I'm okay with that.  Unfortunately I had not yet embraced this truth about myself at the time of OPC Day, and my ill-timed enthusiasm to be perceived as whimsical and easy-going screwed me over big-time.

The first problem was that I agreed to go to Disney World in the first place.  As a little kid it's okay, but a group of adults wishing to force prepaid enjoyment upon themselves are probably better off in an atmosphere like Las Vegas or a Carnival cruise ship.  For anyone over the age of 14, Disney is just sad.  It's hot.  There are little children everywhere.  There are tourists EVERYWHERE.  You have to wait in line baking in the sun forever to do things that you don't even want to do, but since you paid about $95 to get in, you force yourself to act happy and excited every time something happens.  I've seen people taking pictures of squirrels at Disney.  SQUIRRELS. 

It began in the hotel, at check-in.  A family member had been so kind as to book the room using that website run by Captain Kirk, where the prices are so affordable that you might almost be inclined to overlook that they are offering you a single queen bed despite the fact that you have three full-grown adults in your party.  That night was the beginning of the end as far as my psyche was concerned.  It was so disgustingly sweaty between those two carbon-based butane heaters that at one point I think I actually had a minor stroke.  Being so easy-going as I was, I had volunteered to occupy the MIDDLE of the bed, which by 3am was starting to feel more like an especially lumpy funeral pyre.  I genuinely wanted to die. 

Before everyone else retired to their hotel rooms, the rest of the group congregated and made decisions about how best to destroy my life.  They really hit the jackpot.  "Let's get up super early so we can be at the park when it opens!!!!!!!! Won't that maximize our fun?!?!?!?!?" 

Here's a graph I made to show the relationship between enjoyment in life and the time I have to get up in the morning:

After consulting the graph, I could tell that even with solid sleep, my social skills at that hour of the morning would be somewhere on par with Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein, or at BEST I could hope to achieve Rain Man status.  Since the rooming situation allowed me approximately 22 minutes of sleep that night, what we were looking at for my mental state was probably something like Carrie at the prom after they dumped all that pig's blood on her.  I didn't link that video because it is too horrible, and if there existed a Youtube video showing ME that morning, I wouldn't link that one either, for the same reason.  Some things you just can't un-see. 

My Loving Husband attempted to neutralize the situation by bringing me a cup of coffee from the lobby.  Here's a tip:  If you can look into your Styrofoam cup and clearly see the tiny little bubbles collecting through the colorless liquid, you are in for some real crap coffee.  Attempting to drink the vile urine-colored substance served only to exacerbate my Carrie-like rage.

We went down stairs to get into a friends' mini van, my most hated of transports, with 6 other people who looked like they were on a mixture of Zoloft and crystal methamphetamine.  After driving through Starbucks with great ceremony to highlight her great generosity of spirit, the family member at the wheel safely transported us all to the park, where several bajillion tourists had already arrived and were waiting, their fanny packs bursting at the seams with sanitary towlettes and disposable cameras. 

Since I do not enjoy the feelings of intense anxiety, uncontrollable nausea, or paralyzing terror, I did not go on any rides for most of the day.  And I was FINE WITH IT. I wasn't being grouchy, I just wasn't going on rides. Apparently not going on rides by choice is a capital offense in Disney World.  All day I had to listen to "What's wroooonnng???" (annoying) "Do you need more coffee?" (patronizing), and my favorite, "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

NO, nothing is wrong. NO, I do not need to go back to Starbucks. NO, I do not need to use the bathroom. I JUST DON'T LIKE RIDES.  By mid afternoon I was so worn out by trying to be cheerily uninvolved with the theme park experience that I gave in a went on a ride.  I shall rue that decision until the end of time.

The ride I caved and got into the line for was Mission Space.  It is designed to simulate what an astronaut might experience on a flight to Mars, with g forces (still not sure what those are) and hypersleep.  (NOTE: Since I began writing this paragraph, I am experiencing a significant tightness in the chest and the general feeling that I might die.  My genuine aversion to telling this part of the story astonishes me.  Must keep going!)

First the locked me in a capsule the size of a Porta-Potty with Loving Husband and Random Cousin.  The doors closed and locked with a sound that I would normally describe as "a space shuttle about to go out of the atmosphere", but in this case I guess that's exactly what they were going for.  I lay back and tried to breathe, hoping that I could just go to a happy place until it was all over. 

It's freaking me out too much to talk about the next 3 minutes in any detail, but I can honestly say that it involved blood-curdling screams, tearing at the walls, beating on every available surface, clawing at Loving Husband's arms, and massive amounts of tears and mucous.  Something snapped.  I was truly and legitimately traumatized. 

It took days for me to recover.  The rest of that afternoon was spent wandering around Epcot maintaining a shell-shocked expression and wondering which of the countries sold dignity as a souvenir.  Really, it was the perfect capper for a 24-hour period designed specifically to strip me of self-worth and reduce me to a quivering pile of shame and humiliation.

So the point is.....Disney World......don't go there.