Things I Wish Would Go the Way of the DoDo

Why does the rest of humanity insist on continuing to do, produce, and own things that I really do not care for? If I could have it my way, here are a few choice items that would be blown off the face of the earth. (I'm going to try to choose things that I personally hate but are not already on every rant blog on the internet. It goes without saying that fanny packs, Planet Hollywood tee shirts, and terrorists are blights on humanity. No need to beat a dead horse by mentioning them here.)

1) Shiny Shorts For clarification, I am talking about shorts common to athletes, sometimes called basketball shorts. They are shiny and sometimes have these little tiny holes in them everywhere like chain maille from the future. I guess it's okay when actual athletes are outfitted with them as part of uniform. My problem is that most guys who wear them are not within miles of a sporting event geographically or a hundred pounds of professional athletics physically. Look down and you will see, not rippling calf muscles and Air Jordans, but pale man-canckles and black rubber Adidas flip flops. Looking up is no picnic either. The flabby torso in an oversized tee shirt and the unshaven-but-not-in-a-hot-way face are dead give-aways that the shorts are worn expressly for their easy access properties. Gross.

2) The Olive Garden Commercials for the Olive Garden make all women look like door to door Avon ladies from the 1970s. The same women who they hire to toss their silk scarves to the wind in Enterprise Rent-a-Car ads are seen extolling the stress-relieving powers of unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks. Throw a vaguely ethnic waiter into the mix and you have an ad campaign that takes a dump in the lap of every normal, non-polyester-pants-suit-clad female in America. I could tolerate the commercials if the food was like, spectacular or something, but I would rather eat the sole of Mussolini's 18-hole leather riding boot than any of the abysmal creations purportedly concocted by Marissa Tomei on her adventures through the mother land. Salt, fat, cheese, and oregano are layered to create a flavor sensation that appeals to the absolute lowest common denominator. I'm sorry, but just adding the letter "o" or "a" to the end of a name does not make it authentically Eye-Talian.

3) Mayonnaise I have one question for the inventor of mayonnaise: WHY??????? This crap is absolutely disgusting, both in consistency and flavor. What does it actually taste like? Does anyone know? No, you don't know, and do you know WHY you do not know? Because even people who use it regularly would never be able to muscle down a spoon full of the stuff straight from the jar. Have you ever seen dried mayonnaise? Were you to find it in your expensive hotel suite, you would run screaming to housekeeping and demand a new room on a different floor at the opposite end of the premises. Anything that congeals should automatically be precluded from the list of items you put on your sandwich. To add insult to injury, we have come up with a whole horror show of mayonnaise-based substances to eat in small confined spaces and inflict on our coworkers and loved ones. Have you ever SMELLED egg salad or tuna salad? Forget smelling, forget tasting--Have you ever LISTENED to yourself as you ate these things? Mayonnaise is an all-in-one attack on the senses and must be destroyed.

4) Vagisil Commercials It happens to the best of us: You're sitting with your friends watching a show specifically selected to impress upon them your good taste and depth, and suddenly an unrealistically attractive female is on the screen calmly discussing how she copes with that "not-so-fresh feeling." As a female myself with a vagina of my own, I want to tell everyone in the room that I have no idea what the woman is talking about. Itching? Odor? Discharge? WHO IS HAVING THESE EXPERIENCES???? I feel like I have been around the gynecological block a time or two, and at no juncture did I ever think to myself "Hey, I could really benefit from some Vagisil right now." To be clear for the men out there, Vagisil is not for the treatment of a specific ailment, such as a yeast infection. Okay, that happens. It is also not for cleansing purposes, which is totally a legitimate reason to purchase a product. From the best I can piece together, it's something like mayonnaise, but for your genitals. It's greasy and disgusting, and it doesn't actually improve anything, just covers up further unpleasantness.

5) Coupons Recently I was stuck in the grocery line behind a lady who had about 12 items. She was wearing a green home-made moo-moo. It is noteworthy that the thing is home-made because the way she made it at her home involved no actual seams, but rather taking one long sheet of iridescent green material, folding it in half, cutting a head hole in the fold, and tacking the sides together with safety pins. I have a picture of this that I totally took with my phone because I'm a ninja like that.

Anyway so while I was busy staring at at all her side boob and rolls of fat clearly visible from the sides of her "outfit", she whips out like a million coupons. The problem was not so much the coupons themselves but the sense of entitlement and air of superiority that accompanied their transfer from purse to cashier. Ironically, this whole display stripped her of any remaining modicum of dignity she had left after putting on that house dress. I'm all for saving a few bucks, but self-respect is priceless. Okay maybe it's not coupons I want blown into oblivion but that lady. Whatever. You get the picture.

A list like this can go on forever. I'm really not full of hate. Maybe tomorrow I will talk about some of the things I love with a white hot passion. Any suggestions?

My Underwear Drawer is Out of Control!

I am so on drugs right now. If I could get a hold of whatever they give bulls to cure them of erectile dysfunction, I'm fairly certain that I might be able to inject it directly into your heart and you could have a faint idea of how high I am right now. Apparently it's fairly common when you run so much that all your adrenaline is released at once. Unfortunately I stopped running two hours ago and I'm still bouncing off the walls.

Despite the fact that my entire house is pretty much destroyed, I have decided to focus all my energies on cleaning out my underwear drawer. I do this sometimes when I have a lot of work to do, enough energy and time to do it, but for some reason I would rather die than run a vacuum over the carpet. This is why my spice cabinet is clean and organized, while my bedroom looks like a bunch of frat boys just finished performing some sort of primitive hazing ritual.

The underwear drawer was chosen for a specific reason. This morning when I opened it to get some unders, I noticed that 95% of the space is taken up by things other than bras and panties. Why do these things deserve such a coveted location as their home? I shall now break down for you what I find and we can work through this together.


WARNING: To all potential pervs who are currently getting all on the edge of your seats, I must say you will be disappointed. Vibrating dildos, multi-colored condoms, and various other personal products will not be coming into play in this post. It's not that I'm omitting them, it's just that I do not keep these things in my underwear drawer. I have a secret fear that my mom will need to borrow socks on one of her many visits to my home, and I will be in for a very awkward situation that will inevitably make matricide the only option. Also, things leak, and my underwear are expensive.

1. Bras, Panties, and Socks from THIS Century I figure I should start with the most obvious, though also the least substantial, portion of my drawer's contents. This is stuff that qualifies in the "underwear" category and that I will potentially wear as such at some point in my future.
2. The Old'ns Sometimes instead of throwing away the ancient, disgusting relics of my under-wardrobe, I leave them in the bottom of the drawer to disintegrate. If we're being honest, the real reason they are still here is that I know one day I will be too busy rearranging the medicine cabinet to do the piles of laundry in the hamper, and these oldies and no-longer-goodies will be my only option. When I have to wear these atrocities, I drive very carefully and spend actual time thinking about what I will do if I have a heart attack and the doctor on call in the emergency room is attractive.
3. The Random Support or Modesty Garment I cannot provide a fully satisfactory explanation for the presence of these items in my life. Apparently what went down was a moment of body-related insecurity combined with a rare social event that required a special outfit. One example is the absolute ugliest one-piece body suit that I bought to wear under my dress for my grandfather's wedding. Why do I own this????? Had I just given birth to twins and forgotten about it? Also I have several slips. Why? How many translucent skirts do I own? Do I spend a great deal of my time standing, legs apart, directly in front of the sun?
   
4. The Gift-with-Purchase Sachet of Potpurri This makes me sad. It's a silk bag the size of a tennis ball full of scented wood chips. I have entrusted this item with de-funkifying a metric ton of mostly unidentified garments and random debris in varying stages of cleanliness and decomposition. This particular one I got free with a second-hand skirt I bought online in 2004. Why do I not smell pretty????

6. Random Stuff in Envelopes You know you're an important piece of paper if you're in the underwear drawer. Maybe you're not worth taking down the fire box, unlockinng it, and putting it back on the shelf, but I sure don't want you to get lost. Today I have Dave Matthews Band tickets for a few months from now, Paramore tickets for a little after that, a Better than Ezra fan club pass that expired in 2007, and a library card. Apparently the panty drawer is the "cultural center" of the dresser. Arts and entertainment related items can find a good home here!
7. Many Much Bathing Suits I have absolutely no idea where I got all these swimsuits.
For the most part, I have never worn them and don't remember purchasing them. I just know that they account for about 70% of the volume in the drawer and I always get excited thinking I found a bra but it turns out to be a bathing suit top.

In addition to those main categories, I also found two unopened packages of post-its, electric guitar strings, a latex-free fingertip bandage, 81 cents in change, a greeting card with a picture of a petting zoo on it, three sewing needles, an Icy Hot patch, and my grandmother's wedding ring. The fact that the wedding ring is nestled between the band-aid and the post-its shall haunt me with guilt for the rest of the evening, but I will not move it to a new, more prestigious location. The post-its and the fingertip bandage are a part of me now. It's what Nana would have wanted.

UPDATE: Just to be clear, when I was finished with this post last night, I just stuffed everything back into the drawer and returned it to the dresser. This morning when I needed underwear, I was once again pawing through bathing suits and concert tickets and finally settled on going commando.

Week One--They're round and blue

I'm in big trouble. All week, no matter what horrible things happened that could have caused a potential breakdown, I told myself "It's okay. You can get it all out this weekend at band practice. You are going to drink alcohol and head-bang your way to emotional wellness."

See? I had a great plan on how to end up freaking ecstatically pleased by midnight on Saturday.

The trouble started this past Monday--T minus 5 days to band practice/sweet mental health. Monday I freaked out and decided that I am not a fun person if I do not drink. That should not have been a news flash, but due to some pre-existing self-doubting tendencies, I took the realization pretty hard. WHY AM I NOT FUN??????
So I contacted a long-time friend of mine who is accustomed to dealing with my hyperbolic reactions to small-picture problems. He had the following "great idea": "Hey Cuppycake, why don't we just both stop drinking alcohol for 30 days? That way you will prove to yourself how very fun you are just being you!"

We are no longer friends.

Unfortunately I made the commitment and there is no turning back now. To back out would be worse than if I had never made the no-beer pact in the first place, because it would PROVE that I am indeed some sort of a low-level fledgling alcoholic. It's no disorder to NOT make a pact and continue drinking normally, but to make such a deal and be unable to keep it is definitely borderline. So I'm stuck. But hey! Who cares!? I AM fun! I think I remember having fun before I started drinking, so surely I must be able to do so once again. I was pumped.

Monday afternoon panic set in. I have to go home and go to bed without a beer? How can that be? Where am I?

Tuesday was no better, as panic attacks seem to go hand in hand with big life decisions. You may have noticed a lack of blog posts on Monday and Tuesday of this week, as I was otherwise occupied closely monitoring my internal organs to make sure they did not leap through my skin and run out of control, alienating friends and family and oozing all over the furniture.

Wednesday I had a breakthrough. It's possible that I had completed what is commonly referred to as "detox" and was no longer in a state of constant panic.

By Saturday I had hit my stride. "I can do this!"......as long as I get the second half of my plan--hardcore band practice.

I have saved an extra special F U for whatever neighborhood watch toolchest called the fuzz on us after about 15 seconds of warming up. We had to stop just when I was starting to get ready for my big release of anxiety and tension. You gave me band blue balls, and you WILL be punished. I don't know how, but I'm going to get you.

That being said, one week down, three to go. Maybe when the time is up and I can drink again, I'll save my first toasted tinkle for your front doorstep. I'm willing to sacrifice my one small scrap of dignity.

Show me the law that says that I must have more self-respect than Fergie.

I love you, Self-Loathing

While I was getting ready to write this post, I tossed my boss' laundry into his dryer, which is from the future and has a "play/pause" button like on my car stereo. After a good deal of staring, I noticed that there is a setting called "Air Dry". I found this completely confusing.

Anyway, like I was saying, I really think high self-esteem is over rated. Think of all the wonderful things self-loathing has helped to accomplish!

1. The Lower Back Tattoo Nothing says "I can't disappoint my parents any more than I already have" like a tramp stamp. This is a person who does NOT want her face to be the thing you remember and who anticipates that you will rather not make eye contact with her while having sex. Obviously I think it's super hot and want one. Badly. Badly I want one.
2. The 24-Hour Health Club The members of a 24-hour gym are basically telling the world that even if their lives became so full of meaningful and value-added activities that it left only the 2:45am-3:30am time slot open for excercise, they would do it anyway, because they hate their bodies. Maybe someone with good self-esteem would say "Hey, I accomplished so much important stuff today that maybe it's OKAY for me to not work out." That person would be sadly mistaken.
3. The Food Court This is the most naked and openly exposed expression of low self-esteem on the list so far. Eating in the food court (especially by yourself) is a sign to the rest of the world that you have essentially given up. As a metaphor for life: There are plenty of choices I could make, but they would all be either mediochre or give me diarrhea. The people around me are unknown to me, but most likely the group includes at least eighteen convicted sex offenders. On the bright side, you get to use one of those red trays that remind you of elementary school, and the bathroom is like, right there.
4. Speed Dating Without even looking in my Rolodex, I can easily list at least a dozen people I know who met their full personality potential within 7 minutes after I met them. That is why they are in the Rolodex and not in my phone. Their only saving grace is that they don't KNOW that they are uninteresting. Speed dating is essentially a bunch of people getting together with the full knowledge that they don't have enough intellectual stimulation to offer another person to even make it to the entree, and that is just sad. Personally, the appetizer and cocktail are my favorite parts of the meal, so sign me up. I mean, the speed date is essentially the face-to-face version of a blog anyway.....
5. The Blog...sigh.... Maybe this doesn't apply to EVERY person who writes one, but for me each post is like a little strip of meat that I cut out of my thigh, pushed a hook through, and dangled in the waters of the interwebs. Like the Facebook post with no "Like"s, the blog with no followers is real confirmation of what you thought all along--no one wants to here what you have to say. So what if "what you have to say" is trite, poorly-spelled, or alienates half the population whose virtual approval you are hoping to win? You all know you love chomping my thigh anyway.....OMNOMNOMNOM!

Epic Bangover

It is a day of recovery and reflection....and nursing an epic bangover. For those who don't know, the bangover is what follows a night of heavy, face-melting, ear-ringing, sweaty band practice, performance, or attendance at the sweaty performance of another heavy, face-melting, ear-ringing punk band. It is both beautiful and painful, not as debilitating as a hangover, but waaaaaay cooler.

My rockstar-calibur symptoms include ringing ears, salty sweaty hair, scraped knees, dirty fingernails, hands and thighs bruised and swollen from the crash of the tambourine, vocal chords that sound like they are full of gravel, and of course a neck that is so sore I can barely hold my head up. The neck symptom is of course the one inspiring the name of the syndrome--head banging leads to the bangover.

(Tambourine leg)

All of the other effects I can handle, but the neck.....this is not cool. I have tried several strategies to deal with it, and none are working. Here is a short list of what I have tried thus far, so you know never to waste your own time or money on such futile remedies.

1) Ice Pack

Ice is so fail. It does nothing. The only thing it has going for it is a temporary numbing factor, but since this disappears instantaneously the second you move it from the affected area, it is basically useless. Also, my neck is ROUND, so while one section is blissfully and temporarily numb, the rest is still in pain, not to mention the fact that it's use precludes any sort of movement. So unless you have a square neck and all day to lie around motionless, I say put the ice pack in the beer cooler where it can do some good.

2) Icy Hot Patch

I don't even know where to begin with this one. In the hour I had it on, it was neither icy to dull the pain nor hot to relax it away. More accurately, the slogan should be "Not quite sticky enough to stay in place, but just sticky enough to make you feel like you have a cold dead hand on the back of your neck." Maybe they wouldn't sell as many, but at least it would be honest.

3) Advil

Ah, trusty Advil. I love your candy-coated deliciousness and pain-relieving action for the occasional tooth ache or menstrual cramp, but you are woefully inadequate as a bangover remedy. It was like using a Flinstone Vitamin as birth control--it won't hurt you, but it won't help you either, and to use it for that purpose is just fooling yourself. Also counting against the Advil was that I had to go to CVS to purchase it, where I was hit on by some skinhead in a PCP rage.

I could take some leftover Percocet from having my tooth pulled, but that WOULD give me a hangover, and then I would have a hangover AND a bangover. I'm not prepared to deal with that. Instead I will coddle my bangover, put my sweaty dirty ripped jeans from last night back on, go to Starbucks, and try not to think about how much I want another one.

Childhood Me=Constant Overreactions to the Bodily Functions of Others

Part II--Rachel Peterson Peed her Pants

Before I tell this story, I should start by saying that I have had way too much caffeine just now and will probably be peeing my own pants whilst I am blogging. Also, in an attempt to counter-act the caffeine I am drinking a lot of beer so let's just see how it goes.

I was in second grade. The bus puke incident was far behind me, but apparently I had made little progress accepting that other people some times disgrace themselves publicly. Personally I do not remember ever EVER peeing my own pants or so much as wetting the bed, so this whole thing struck me as horribly degrading and shameful.

I went to Elmwood Street Elementary School, and we had a freaking awesome setup there for gym class and recess. There was a baseball diamond, basketball court, playground, and huge soccer field where we also had the annual "Field Day" with pony rides and face painting and all kinds of fun. Unfortunately, I despised gym class, recess, and Field Day. They all involved physical activity and/or social interaction, and I sucked and still suck at both of these. The ability to run up and down a field getting sweaty and high-fiving people is a skill set that I will never possess.

It was during a dreaded gym class that I was sitting on the grass in a line next to Rachel Peterson. The teacher was doing some sort of a long, drawn-out sit and reach assessment, meaning that you had to wait about 10 years for him to call your name, at which point you sat down in front of a wooden box and reached for about 15 seconds, then went back to sitting in the grass until everyone else was done. Since my last name was at the end of the alphabet, I sat there beside Rachel Peterson for about 17 hours.

This would not have been so bad if I were a deaf-mute. Rachel Peterson's parents were undoubtedly the type of people who drank beer out of cans and kept ashtrays next to the toilet, and as a result they had not taught their child the notion of personal dignity. When she first paused in her streak of blabbering to tell me she had to "take a pee", I was instantly stricken with anxiety and started waving my hand in the air.

"Mr. Sullivan! Rachel has to use the bathroom! I think it's an emergency!"

Mr. Sullivan's response was woefully inadequate. His mistake was asking her for more information. Clearly he should have asked me, because I was the only one who appreciated the urgency of the situation. She told him she could hold it, and the fact that he believed her makes me question the entire Massachusetts educational system. The first thing an elementary school teacher should learn in graduate school is "A child who even remotely indicates impending bodily function should be rushed to the restroom with the same urgency which you would summon if you were a fireman in a fire truck on the way to a fire." When I have kids, I am going to put them on the toilet every 20 minutes whether they have to go or not. It's just not worth the risk.

The most disturbing part of the whole even was what happened next. She squatted, she smiled, and she said "Oh my God I started to!" as if she were pregnant and her water had just broken. This is not a moment of pride and celebration! I was instantly nauseous and started silently freaking out.

She held the rest for a few moments, then let it go. I watched the pool around her shoes grow, and promptly had a panic attack. We finished our sit and reach. When he got to her, the gym teacher either didn't notice that her pants were soaking wet or he figured the English teacher could deal with it.

For the rest of the day, I was in a haze. All I could think about was that phrase "Oh my God I started to!" and the stupid look on her face when she committed what I considered as a crime against decency. I was traumatized.

A few hours later, I was stewing and watching my mom put her makeup on to go out. She knew something was up with me but chose not to get involved with what was undoubtedly going to be a repeat of the whole "Takara threw up on the bus today!" fiasco.

I could only hold it in so long. The next thing I remember was lying on my back, kicking my legs in the air, shouting with great melodrama "Rachel Peterson peed her pants!!!!" again and again. It seemed an appropriate reaction at the time.

Certainly there were many questions going through my mother's mind as she stared, slack-jawed and lipstick in hand, at her daughter on the floor, not the least of which being "Who is Rachel Peterson?" I answered none of these questions.

Rachel, if you're out there, thanks for confusing my mom. It made the trauma worth it.