We've all been in a situation when we're asked to do math problems in either a timed or highly public situation- whether it be on the blackboard as a 3rd grader or later on in one of those rare times adult life that you actually have to use math.
Not counting my panic attack regarding my one page accounting homework in "business for non-business majors" during grad school, I can count the times on one hand where I've had to do math in a high-pressure situation (and technically a one page homework with a week to complete it and only counting as a minute fraction of my grade isn't really "high pressure" I suppose). Ironically, instead of during any number of my myriad degrees or during my short stint as a trial attorney, my most horrific math experiences came during the time I worked in retail.
I'm going to take a wild shot and say that most people have had either a restaurant or retail job in their lives, and if not, you're likely one of those assholes who treats people in the service industry like shit and therefore have enjoyed many a spit milkshake in your day. I've done both, but the only time I was in direct contact with money was working at the mall.
I actually loved working the cash register. I'm relatively anti-social and don't give two fucks about how a customer is doing, so having a place where I'm required to be that only required interactions with people who had a reason to talk to me (i.e. they wished to purchase things) was perfect. I'd scan the tags, push the total button and the customer would give me money. Then, magically, the register would tell me exactly how much change to give the person requiring no more math than being able to count the number of bills in your hand. Generally this was the sequence of events for person after person.
But at least once a day you'd get the person who THOUGHT they were making your job easier. I'd take their cash, type in the amount and press the button that opened the drawer and told me how much change to make. $8.64, that's easy, I'll just get this 5 over here, and some ones - "Oh, wait, I have *enter unnecessary amount of change here*, HERE!" the customer would say with a smile while handing me a handful of coins.
BUT I'VE ALREADY PUSHED THE TOTAL BUTTON! My eyes get huge as I look at the change in her hand and the bright red $8.64 on the screen. IT'S TOO LATE TO GO BACK. YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO FIGURE THIS OUT YOURSELF. My heart races as I look behind the customer and see the line forming. She looks at me like I'm supposed to be thrilled with this development, BUT YOU JUST RUINED EVERYTHING.
Doesn't she know it tells me how much change to give her back? Didn't she see I'd pressed the button already?? I'm working retail for god's sake, there's a reason I'm behind the counter at Juicy Couture instead of at my summer internship with NASA. I can't pull out a pen and paper, which would make this infinitely easier, since there are people waiting. My brain has literally shut down and I am no longer capable of making any kind of decision, whether it be figuring out this lady's change in a timely and unpanicked manner or wiping the look of sheer terror off my face. WHAT IF I GET IT WRONG? EVERYONE WILL HATE ME. I'LL GET FIRED. Then of course everyone will tell me how simple the problem was. THE SHAME.
I feel like screaming "THE LIMIT DOES NOT EXIST" and running out of the room, but somehow I manage to scrape together some form of change after likely an extremely excessive amount of time and hand it to the customer with a questioning look, waiting for her to tell me that I was shorting her $45. When she doesn't resist my chosen amount, I breathe a sigh of relief while at the same time wanting to hit her with a broom for causing all that unnecessary anxiety. Then I look to my left and see the girl who can barely spell her name and has told me she's failing this or that class in community college handle the EXACT SAME SITUATION without a moment's hesitation.
When the next customer hands me her AmEx black card, I want to run around the counter and hug her, patting her hair and just mumbling "Thank you, THANK YOU" for an uncomfortably long period of time.
Some people can't do public speaking, some people can't pee when others are in the bathroom - I can't do math in my head under pressure. Or really ever. Give me a pen and paper and I'm good, but don't expect my brain to be your human calculator.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
WOULD I EAT IT?
My lovely friend and personal trainer has her own website and blog This Fit Blonde where she gives workout and diet tips, along with my favorite section, "Would Amanda Eat It?" She goes through the pros and cons of certain "healthy" foods and gives a verdict at the end of whether or not she'd eat it. Often times I don't agree, so I decided to post my own version.
Chocolate Covered Toffee
Pros: It tastes like what I imagine heaven must be, which is to say unicorns and rainbows dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with cocaine.
Cons: It's basically 100% butter and sugar, which are the two worst substances you can put in your body behind arsenic and motor oil. I might as well just inject it into my arteries and hips at the same time.
So would I eat it?
FUCK YES. If motor oil tasted this good I'd consider drinking that too. Sweet god, when I eat this it's like the sky opens and flying cat angels begin to sing as I lay on a bed of clouds and am massaged by elves. Really sexy elves that look like Bradley Cooper and speak with a British accent.
NEXT!
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (with the neon powdered cheese)
Pros: This takes me back to summertime in my childhood, where I'd eat an entire box and probably play Mario Kart for the rest of the day. That was the life, man. But I'd eat an entire box because the damn thing was BURSTING WITH FLAVOR and full of happiness and joy. It tastes like magic likely because it's magical that there isn't any cheese in it...
Cons: There's the general rule that you probably shouldn't eat anything that is the color of a radioactive carrot, but they still sell it in stores so it can't be THAT bad, right? Well the ingredients list reads like a chemistry lab, including "medium chain triglycerides" and everyone's favorite "yellow 5" and slightly less favorite "yellow 6." Not sure where the orange is, since that is DEFINITELY not yellow you see above.
Would I eat it?
Bring on the medium chain triglycerides! While I'm slightly fearful that the amount of this that I ate as a child might have some sort of metallic element living in my body forever, it tastes so damn good I just can't NOT have it. When someone first introduced me to "real" mac and cheese, like the kind with melted cheese in it, I was NOT thrilled. I've now come to love both, as cheese is glorious in its real and fake form, and the government hasn't proven this is radioactive.
So that's all for today, folks. I promise next time to put on some foods I WOULDN'T eat. And it's a good thing I ate all my toffee last night or that picture up there would have me running to eat more right now. But as a citizen of LA, the fact that it's raining will keep me away from most places and safe from the toffee craving for a day or so.
Chocolate Covered Toffee
Pros: It tastes like what I imagine heaven must be, which is to say unicorns and rainbows dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with cocaine.
Cons: It's basically 100% butter and sugar, which are the two worst substances you can put in your body behind arsenic and motor oil. I might as well just inject it into my arteries and hips at the same time.
So would I eat it?
FUCK YES. If motor oil tasted this good I'd consider drinking that too. Sweet god, when I eat this it's like the sky opens and flying cat angels begin to sing as I lay on a bed of clouds and am massaged by elves. Really sexy elves that look like Bradley Cooper and speak with a British accent.
NEXT!
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (with the neon powdered cheese)
Pros: This takes me back to summertime in my childhood, where I'd eat an entire box and probably play Mario Kart for the rest of the day. That was the life, man. But I'd eat an entire box because the damn thing was BURSTING WITH FLAVOR and full of happiness and joy. It tastes like magic likely because it's magical that there isn't any cheese in it...
Cons: There's the general rule that you probably shouldn't eat anything that is the color of a radioactive carrot, but they still sell it in stores so it can't be THAT bad, right? Well the ingredients list reads like a chemistry lab, including "medium chain triglycerides" and everyone's favorite "yellow 5" and slightly less favorite "yellow 6." Not sure where the orange is, since that is DEFINITELY not yellow you see above.
Would I eat it?
Bring on the medium chain triglycerides! While I'm slightly fearful that the amount of this that I ate as a child might have some sort of metallic element living in my body forever, it tastes so damn good I just can't NOT have it. When someone first introduced me to "real" mac and cheese, like the kind with melted cheese in it, I was NOT thrilled. I've now come to love both, as cheese is glorious in its real and fake form, and the government hasn't proven this is radioactive.
So that's all for today, folks. I promise next time to put on some foods I WOULDN'T eat. And it's a good thing I ate all my toffee last night or that picture up there would have me running to eat more right now. But as a citizen of LA, the fact that it's raining will keep me away from most places and safe from the toffee craving for a day or so.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
BEST OF HONG KONG, ENGRISH EDITION
Inspired by my cousin, I've decided to compile my entire stash of Engrish clothing photos into one glorious blog. I miss Hong Kong, probably because this is a hobby I can't enjoy in the US.
What ABOUT the classic camper van?
Chokebore?
I love it when random, unrelated words are written across my uterus.
I mean, why make up nonsensical English when it's right there for you?
Read the ice cream flavors. I guarantee you don't want any of the Iraqi one...
TWITCH. Is that like twerking?
Ironically when I would shop for these clothes it WAS happy and funny.
So...where's the Rottweiler?
YOU ARE THE SOLDIERS AND WE COMMAND YOU
Thanks, I think I will.
Seriously. They didn't even try.
A very dramatic news piece if you read the paragraph...
It says "Queen We will." How do you "queen?"
Together?
Get with the trends, you moron.
EXCLLENT!
OKIWONT
I'm the worst slow.
Stalking is a universal language.
Ok...I can see that you're serious about this.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
WHY HUMANS SHOULD BE MARSUPIALS
This is something I've thought about a lot. No, for real, go with me here. First of all, marsupials are hilarious, as are most animals that call Australia home - it really is like the Land of Misfit Toys, but for actual living things. But despite their inherent hilarity, marsupials have really got this child-rearing thing figured out.
Kangaroos are the most obvious example, or wallabies (which should really just be called mini goddamn kangaroos, they don't need a whole new name just because they're small, but whatever) - you see them bouncing around with a little baby's head poking out of a pouch on the mom's belly. Not only have humans actively tried to copy this (see: fanny packs and baby Bjorns), but it serves even more of a purpose than you realize.
We humans have to go through nine terrible months of pregnancy, getting giant and fat, often feeling completely horrible and unable to control our vomit and pee. Kangaroos, however, are pregnant for 33 days. DAYS people. Then it "gives birth" to the teeny tiniest underdeveloped baby kangaroo ever possible, which continues growing and developing in the pouch. Instead of growing something ENTIRELY TOO LARGE to be properly expelled from our bodies without lasting damage, kangaroos are like "oh, hey, I'm going to give birth to this thing while it's small enough to feel like I'm just taking a shit."
When our babies come out, they're ugly, gross, noisy, practically blind and dumber than a pet rat. But they HAVE to come out because if they got any bigger inside they'd explode out of the mother's stomach at a very inopportune time. You have to feed them every few hours. They do absolutely nothing in return. Now if we had a POUCH, that baby could have 24/7 access to food, warmth, and whatever the hell else it needed to survive until it grew into a being that can at least walk. Kangaroo babies hang out in that pouch as long as they want, then when they have enough cognitive ability to become bored, they jump out and start living without any unnecessary explanation from mom or dad.
If humans had pouches, the baby wouldn't need to cry because it could just go get its own milk three inches away. I'm not sure about the poo and pee situation but let's just assume something as gross as that couldn't be piling up in the mom's pouch for months so it's somehow evolutionarily taken care of. The baby could pop its head out of the pouch and watch what's going on around it so that it would understand that it needs to get its shit together before it tries to get out and mosey around on its own. It'd listen to conversations, learn language, learn what things are, understand that walking is a necessary skill and see that adult humans don't plop themselves in the middle of the floor and start crying whenever they want. Well, most don't.
So many things would be solved if we were marsupials. I might even consider (CONSIDER) procreating if I knew that my child would appear out of my pouch understanding how to walk and get attention in a non-annoying way. Babies can't even tell you what they want. They just lay there and cry and won't shut up until you figure it out. My CATS can tell me what they want. They meow, look at me, and walk over to their empty food bowl and look at me again as if to say "Get with the program, bitch, we hungry." They don't randomly roll on the floor and meow just to hear their own voice. Puppies learn the word "walk" or "outside" as quickly as they learn to walk, and that's all you have to say to get them over to the door with their leash. Human babies have no idea what the fuck is going on.
If you've ever watched or listened to a baby play through a baby monitor, you know that they just make random noises for no reason. Oh look, I can SHREEEEIIIIIIIIK really loud! That was awesome, let me do it again! Ha! All the while the parents think the kid has hurt himself but in reality he has just discovered that he can make noises that he doesn't seem to understand are some of the most annoying noises that will ever grace this planet. Or even just yelling gibberish. Whatever it is, it's fucking annoying and it needs to be stopped. Marsupial kid would be able to watch other humans interact without random squealing and come to understand that he, like his parents, has a voice that will soon learn to use words which can form conversations.
If nothing else, he'd at least learn how to communicate with minimal language skills - kind of like when I went into that noodle shop in Hong Kong where no one spoke English and I simply pointed to the picture of what I wanted and said "Coca Cola" and was able to pay by the woman pointing to the cash register numbers. During no time while I was eating said noodles in the shop where everyone was speaking Cantonese did I decide I was going to see if my voice worked by squealing or making random noises. If I had, I likely would have been carted off to the looney bin.
Babies should be more like pets - SMART. Oh, I don't have any food? I'm going to tell my mom. I have to use the restroom, I'll go stand by the door and bark. It's dark outside and mom just turned off the lights. I guess it's time to sleep. I'll curl up next to her and sleep until she's done sleeping, and won't wake her up to get food because it's RIGHT THERE and I can just walk over, get some, and come back.
So if we were marsupials, our kids would stay in our pouch until they could at least be as smart as a dog or cat. That's all I'm asking for. I don't need you to have a 5th grade education coming out of the womb, but dear god, stop making all that stupid noise and flailing about like an overturned turtle. And really, the pants-shitting has got to stop. At least be able to run to the bathroom and bang on something until we pick you up and put you on the toilet - I mean the DOG can do that. Get with it, humans.
Kangaroos are the most obvious example, or wallabies (which should really just be called mini goddamn kangaroos, they don't need a whole new name just because they're small, but whatever) - you see them bouncing around with a little baby's head poking out of a pouch on the mom's belly. Not only have humans actively tried to copy this (see: fanny packs and baby Bjorns), but it serves even more of a purpose than you realize.
We humans have to go through nine terrible months of pregnancy, getting giant and fat, often feeling completely horrible and unable to control our vomit and pee. Kangaroos, however, are pregnant for 33 days. DAYS people. Then it "gives birth" to the teeny tiniest underdeveloped baby kangaroo ever possible, which continues growing and developing in the pouch. Instead of growing something ENTIRELY TOO LARGE to be properly expelled from our bodies without lasting damage, kangaroos are like "oh, hey, I'm going to give birth to this thing while it's small enough to feel like I'm just taking a shit."
When our babies come out, they're ugly, gross, noisy, practically blind and dumber than a pet rat. But they HAVE to come out because if they got any bigger inside they'd explode out of the mother's stomach at a very inopportune time. You have to feed them every few hours. They do absolutely nothing in return. Now if we had a POUCH, that baby could have 24/7 access to food, warmth, and whatever the hell else it needed to survive until it grew into a being that can at least walk. Kangaroo babies hang out in that pouch as long as they want, then when they have enough cognitive ability to become bored, they jump out and start living without any unnecessary explanation from mom or dad.
If humans had pouches, the baby wouldn't need to cry because it could just go get its own milk three inches away. I'm not sure about the poo and pee situation but let's just assume something as gross as that couldn't be piling up in the mom's pouch for months so it's somehow evolutionarily taken care of. The baby could pop its head out of the pouch and watch what's going on around it so that it would understand that it needs to get its shit together before it tries to get out and mosey around on its own. It'd listen to conversations, learn language, learn what things are, understand that walking is a necessary skill and see that adult humans don't plop themselves in the middle of the floor and start crying whenever they want. Well, most don't.
So many things would be solved if we were marsupials. I might even consider (CONSIDER) procreating if I knew that my child would appear out of my pouch understanding how to walk and get attention in a non-annoying way. Babies can't even tell you what they want. They just lay there and cry and won't shut up until you figure it out. My CATS can tell me what they want. They meow, look at me, and walk over to their empty food bowl and look at me again as if to say "Get with the program, bitch, we hungry." They don't randomly roll on the floor and meow just to hear their own voice. Puppies learn the word "walk" or "outside" as quickly as they learn to walk, and that's all you have to say to get them over to the door with their leash. Human babies have no idea what the fuck is going on.
If you've ever watched or listened to a baby play through a baby monitor, you know that they just make random noises for no reason. Oh look, I can SHREEEEIIIIIIIIK really loud! That was awesome, let me do it again! Ha! All the while the parents think the kid has hurt himself but in reality he has just discovered that he can make noises that he doesn't seem to understand are some of the most annoying noises that will ever grace this planet. Or even just yelling gibberish. Whatever it is, it's fucking annoying and it needs to be stopped. Marsupial kid would be able to watch other humans interact without random squealing and come to understand that he, like his parents, has a voice that will soon learn to use words which can form conversations.
If nothing else, he'd at least learn how to communicate with minimal language skills - kind of like when I went into that noodle shop in Hong Kong where no one spoke English and I simply pointed to the picture of what I wanted and said "Coca Cola" and was able to pay by the woman pointing to the cash register numbers. During no time while I was eating said noodles in the shop where everyone was speaking Cantonese did I decide I was going to see if my voice worked by squealing or making random noises. If I had, I likely would have been carted off to the looney bin.
Babies should be more like pets - SMART. Oh, I don't have any food? I'm going to tell my mom. I have to use the restroom, I'll go stand by the door and bark. It's dark outside and mom just turned off the lights. I guess it's time to sleep. I'll curl up next to her and sleep until she's done sleeping, and won't wake her up to get food because it's RIGHT THERE and I can just walk over, get some, and come back.
So if we were marsupials, our kids would stay in our pouch until they could at least be as smart as a dog or cat. That's all I'm asking for. I don't need you to have a 5th grade education coming out of the womb, but dear god, stop making all that stupid noise and flailing about like an overturned turtle. And really, the pants-shitting has got to stop. At least be able to run to the bathroom and bang on something until we pick you up and put you on the toilet - I mean the DOG can do that. Get with it, humans.
Friday, November 7, 2014
ELF ON A SHELF IS FUCKING STUPID
Let's not waste any time here. This Elf on a Shelf thing? Dumb shit, that's what it is.
I first ran across this "tradition" on Pinterest (the glorious time-waster I use to find pictures of homes I will never own and food I will never cook) sometime last year before the holiday season. There was a picture of a stupid little skinny-ass elf with a creepy Peter Pan-esque childlike adult quality to his face and he was doing such things as, oh, sitting on a shelf. I clicked the link to find out what the hell this was.
First of all, it said it was a "Christmas tradition." Hmm, that's interesting, not a tradition I had with my family, but then again we're somewhat odd so I didn't doubt that other people may have grown up with such a dumb ass stunt in their home. Then I thought more - how many people's homes had I ever been in at Christmas? Had anyone ever come to school telling me what their elf had done the night before? This was seeming fishy to me, so I looked it up on the scholarly internet publication known as Wikipedia.
According to the entry, Elf on a Shelf was a book that was written in 2004. 2004! And it was called "Elf on a Shelf: A Christmas Tradition." Apparently the author COMPLETELY misunderstood the meaning of tradition, as you can't INVENT ONE and try to pawn it off on people as something great and awesome. That's like me deciding one day that during the entire month of December I'm going to wear a ceremonial robe made out of Christmas tree skirts and call it a fucking tradition and shame everyone who does not then go home and make his or her own ceremonial robe BECAUSE IT'S TRADITION. No. And it's not like the tradition was "invented" in the 80s - it was invented WHEN I GRADUATED COLLEGE. There's not even a hint of nostalgia there. It's just a big, fat lie.
So this made-up tradition with a very vintage-looking elf (ALL LIES I TELL YOU) has more to it than simply sitting on a shelf. I'd have way less problem if it was a mere decoration. But no, the elf, like Santa, becomes an extension of the parents and is always caught in "mischief" around the house. The key is for the kid (or god forbid some really fucking annoying adult) to find the elf each day in his new position.
And the purveyors of this false tradition aren't content to play hide-and-seek with said elf, he must be doing something silly, ranging from hanging halfway out of the cookie jar to squatting with a fake shit (YES, I'M SERIOUS HERE)
to sharing a jug of maple syrup (?) romantically with Barbie (when he is CLEARLY homosexual. I mean it's 2014, come on Elf, accept yourself, be proud! Don't hide in the closet. We've seen your face, buddy, you're hiding nothing).
(HIS ARM IS SO CREEPILY LONG. Also Barbie would never go out with a guy dressed like that.)
Don't think this is a harmless "tradition" that takes a few minutes each night. Ohhh nooo, if your elf doesn't have handmade clothes you're not trying hard enough. He needs to be fishing in the toilet (with blue coloring and goldfish crackers, I may add)
or elaborately popping out of a present a la Alien.
If those don't seem time-consuming enough for you, let's add wastefulness - what about buying an entire bag of marshmallows and pouring them in the sink for 15 seconds of "OH HOW CUTE HE'S IN A BUBBLE BATH"?
Seriously people, get ahold of yourselves. No one at your work is going to care that you're falling asleep at your desk because you spent 3 hours making a realistic and believable elf scenario that your kid was fascinated with for approximately 3 seconds and then having to clean it all up and do it again the next night. And I'm sorry, there are just entirely too many "ideas" on Pinterest that have to do with the toilet. There's the aforementioned squatting to take a shit (WHAT IS THIS TEACHING YOUR KIDS?!), fishing in the toilet (um, SANITARY ISSUES?), another squatting over the toilet with candy cane poos floating in the water, scooping "reindeer poop" - shall I go on? Or shall I just put up the link to EVERY ELF ON A SHELF POOP IDEA ON THE FUCKING INTERNET?? Which would be here.
Yes, there is an entire Pinterest search DEVOTED TO POOPING ELVES. There are also a ton of positions that require the elf to be "hanging on" to something, which always just looks like he's humping whatever object to which he clings (such as a gallon of milk, the Christmas tree, baby Jesus...) Then there's a really questionable one scrubbing his ass with a toothbrush but I didn't click that link for fear of what else I might find.
So in summary, someone invented a "tradition" ten years ago that requires absurd amounts of time, creativity and unfortunately scatological preferences to entertain your kids with just ONE MORE THING to make the holidays more stressful.
Just say no to Elf on a Shelf, or I will send someone to your house to say no for you.
I first ran across this "tradition" on Pinterest (the glorious time-waster I use to find pictures of homes I will never own and food I will never cook) sometime last year before the holiday season. There was a picture of a stupid little skinny-ass elf with a creepy Peter Pan-esque childlike adult quality to his face and he was doing such things as, oh, sitting on a shelf. I clicked the link to find out what the hell this was.
First of all, it said it was a "Christmas tradition." Hmm, that's interesting, not a tradition I had with my family, but then again we're somewhat odd so I didn't doubt that other people may have grown up with such a dumb ass stunt in their home. Then I thought more - how many people's homes had I ever been in at Christmas? Had anyone ever come to school telling me what their elf had done the night before? This was seeming fishy to me, so I looked it up on the scholarly internet publication known as Wikipedia.
According to the entry, Elf on a Shelf was a book that was written in 2004. 2004! And it was called "Elf on a Shelf: A Christmas Tradition." Apparently the author COMPLETELY misunderstood the meaning of tradition, as you can't INVENT ONE and try to pawn it off on people as something great and awesome. That's like me deciding one day that during the entire month of December I'm going to wear a ceremonial robe made out of Christmas tree skirts and call it a fucking tradition and shame everyone who does not then go home and make his or her own ceremonial robe BECAUSE IT'S TRADITION. No. And it's not like the tradition was "invented" in the 80s - it was invented WHEN I GRADUATED COLLEGE. There's not even a hint of nostalgia there. It's just a big, fat lie.
So this made-up tradition with a very vintage-looking elf (ALL LIES I TELL YOU) has more to it than simply sitting on a shelf. I'd have way less problem if it was a mere decoration. But no, the elf, like Santa, becomes an extension of the parents and is always caught in "mischief" around the house. The key is for the kid (or god forbid some really fucking annoying adult) to find the elf each day in his new position.
And the purveyors of this false tradition aren't content to play hide-and-seek with said elf, he must be doing something silly, ranging from hanging halfway out of the cookie jar to squatting with a fake shit (YES, I'M SERIOUS HERE)
Don't think this is a harmless "tradition" that takes a few minutes each night. Ohhh nooo, if your elf doesn't have handmade clothes you're not trying hard enough. He needs to be fishing in the toilet (with blue coloring and goldfish crackers, I may add)
If those don't seem time-consuming enough for you, let's add wastefulness - what about buying an entire bag of marshmallows and pouring them in the sink for 15 seconds of "OH HOW CUTE HE'S IN A BUBBLE BATH"?
Seriously people, get ahold of yourselves. No one at your work is going to care that you're falling asleep at your desk because you spent 3 hours making a realistic and believable elf scenario that your kid was fascinated with for approximately 3 seconds and then having to clean it all up and do it again the next night. And I'm sorry, there are just entirely too many "ideas" on Pinterest that have to do with the toilet. There's the aforementioned squatting to take a shit (WHAT IS THIS TEACHING YOUR KIDS?!), fishing in the toilet (um, SANITARY ISSUES?), another squatting over the toilet with candy cane poos floating in the water, scooping "reindeer poop" - shall I go on? Or shall I just put up the link to EVERY ELF ON A SHELF POOP IDEA ON THE FUCKING INTERNET?? Which would be here.
Yes, there is an entire Pinterest search DEVOTED TO POOPING ELVES. There are also a ton of positions that require the elf to be "hanging on" to something, which always just looks like he's humping whatever object to which he clings (such as a gallon of milk, the Christmas tree, baby Jesus...) Then there's a really questionable one scrubbing his ass with a toothbrush but I didn't click that link for fear of what else I might find.
So in summary, someone invented a "tradition" ten years ago that requires absurd amounts of time, creativity and unfortunately scatological preferences to entertain your kids with just ONE MORE THING to make the holidays more stressful.
Just say no to Elf on a Shelf, or I will send someone to your house to say no for you.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
HOW TO DATE LIKE AN ADULT IN THE WORLD OF SOCIAL MEDIA
I only wish I were writing a book about that, because it would fly off the shelves. In fact, this is simply an impassioned plea for someone else who has successfully navigated the waters of dating as a 30+ person in the 2010s. I need help, desperate help, and I'm assuming many others do too.
I've got a few problems to contend with, the largest of which is likely the fact that I had long-term boyfriends from age 18-25 and never actually learned how to "date" since I just sort of ended up in relationships. I mean, when you're in college, you hang out with someone a lot because you have all the time in the world, and then in a matter of weeks you decide if you like them enough to become their significant other or leave them in a ditch for the next sucker who passes by.
The second problem is that I'm an old fart and in my earliest years of dating (college) there was no Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, real text messaging or the like. You had to actually spend time with someone. You couldn't have a text conversation because it took 4 hours to type one sentence on the pre-QWERTY keyboards of our Nokias or Moto Razrs.
To me, dating should be simple. If I'm going out with you on a first date, I'm physically attracted to you and checking to see if you can hold a conversation and/or are batshit crazy. If I am going on a second date with you, I sufficiently like your personality to tolerate you again. If I decide I don't like you, you won't hear from me again, unless you're someone I might run into in the future and then I have to figure out how to delicately let you know I'm not interested - likely by the efficient and uber-mature way of getting a mutual friend to mention it.
When it comes to guys, however, I have no idea what's going on. Despite the fact that it seems obvious a guy would only ask a girl out if he's attracted to her, I can never confirm or deny someone's attraction to me unless and until they make a concerted effort to get in my pants - regardless of my response to said effort. It's the attempt that makes it known. How do I know that you don't just think I'm fun and cool and might be a new platonic friend if you don't at least attempt physical contact? I mean I THINK people should be attracted to me. I'D be attracted to me. So it seems illogical that I would default to "not attracted" simply because there was no outward show of said attraction, but I cannot say that my brain works logically.
And now that we have facebook and chat and texting it seems that all the "rules" have gone out the window - someone might ask you on a second date sooner if they couldn't stalk you online or sit in their pajamas eating Cheetos in bed while texting you and looking at your pre-nosejob photos on Facebook.
I now realize I should've gotten an MBA for multiple reasons - I'd have a job by now and I would've had a decent-sized pool from which to select potential dates in a more organic setting instead of 60 23-year-old girls and a few gay guys. Once I left the school environment I completely lost all ability to function and now that people have "work" and "obligations" and can't meet you for lunch randomly on a Wednesday between classes it's really damn hard to meet new people. Couple that with the fact that I have no coworkers (out of three) that are my preferred age and sex and you've got the life of a hermit.
So would a 20-something please write a book about what dating is now? Is there more to a "like" on Facebook than what meets the eye? Are texting rules kinda like rules from the 50s about how and when you should call one another? What the hell do we talk about if we know what the other person has been doing the whole time we were apart because they kept posting pictures to facebook? WHAT IS THE REAL MEANING BEHIND A FACEBOOK RELATIONSHIP STATUS? CAN YOU SEE OTHER PEOPLE UNTIL THAT? I DON'T UNDERSTAAAAAAAAAND GOD HELP THIS OLD FOGEY OUT.
I'm actually a great catch, I'm just a dating moron. I can happily provide excellent references from ex-boyfriends that I consistently won "girlfriend of the year" throughout my relationships. I'm not jealous, I'm not a stalker, I don't have trust issues, I'm up for (almost) anything, I'm not a giant fatty, I have no biological clock, I look younger than I am, I'm smart... And despite all that you know about me I am SO MUCH LESS CRAZY than girlfriends I hear about. I'm not going to key your car if you dump me, I'll just cry a lot. You'll never need a restraining order. But dating makes me look crazy because I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S GOING ON. In my world, dating should be like this:
"I think you are cute. I don't find you painfully annoying or stupid, we should hang out and see if we would like to date."
"I think those same things about you. I agree we should go to places together to see if we develop a mutual attraction that can be turned into a relationship."
"Great, I will let you know when I find a dealbreaker and must end our courtship."
"That sounds good. I will let you know at what point you don't have to worry about me going out with other people in a direct and concise way so that you won't be confused, ever."
"We have a deal."
So yeah. Why did my dating years have to fall into such a ridiculous time for technology and a complete social gap between people ten years older than me and ten years younger??
I've got a few problems to contend with, the largest of which is likely the fact that I had long-term boyfriends from age 18-25 and never actually learned how to "date" since I just sort of ended up in relationships. I mean, when you're in college, you hang out with someone a lot because you have all the time in the world, and then in a matter of weeks you decide if you like them enough to become their significant other or leave them in a ditch for the next sucker who passes by.
The second problem is that I'm an old fart and in my earliest years of dating (college) there was no Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, real text messaging or the like. You had to actually spend time with someone. You couldn't have a text conversation because it took 4 hours to type one sentence on the pre-QWERTY keyboards of our Nokias or Moto Razrs.
To me, dating should be simple. If I'm going out with you on a first date, I'm physically attracted to you and checking to see if you can hold a conversation and/or are batshit crazy. If I am going on a second date with you, I sufficiently like your personality to tolerate you again. If I decide I don't like you, you won't hear from me again, unless you're someone I might run into in the future and then I have to figure out how to delicately let you know I'm not interested - likely by the efficient and uber-mature way of getting a mutual friend to mention it.
When it comes to guys, however, I have no idea what's going on. Despite the fact that it seems obvious a guy would only ask a girl out if he's attracted to her, I can never confirm or deny someone's attraction to me unless and until they make a concerted effort to get in my pants - regardless of my response to said effort. It's the attempt that makes it known. How do I know that you don't just think I'm fun and cool and might be a new platonic friend if you don't at least attempt physical contact? I mean I THINK people should be attracted to me. I'D be attracted to me. So it seems illogical that I would default to "not attracted" simply because there was no outward show of said attraction, but I cannot say that my brain works logically.
And now that we have facebook and chat and texting it seems that all the "rules" have gone out the window - someone might ask you on a second date sooner if they couldn't stalk you online or sit in their pajamas eating Cheetos in bed while texting you and looking at your pre-nosejob photos on Facebook.
I now realize I should've gotten an MBA for multiple reasons - I'd have a job by now and I would've had a decent-sized pool from which to select potential dates in a more organic setting instead of 60 23-year-old girls and a few gay guys. Once I left the school environment I completely lost all ability to function and now that people have "work" and "obligations" and can't meet you for lunch randomly on a Wednesday between classes it's really damn hard to meet new people. Couple that with the fact that I have no coworkers (out of three) that are my preferred age and sex and you've got the life of a hermit.
So would a 20-something please write a book about what dating is now? Is there more to a "like" on Facebook than what meets the eye? Are texting rules kinda like rules from the 50s about how and when you should call one another? What the hell do we talk about if we know what the other person has been doing the whole time we were apart because they kept posting pictures to facebook? WHAT IS THE REAL MEANING BEHIND A FACEBOOK RELATIONSHIP STATUS? CAN YOU SEE OTHER PEOPLE UNTIL THAT? I DON'T UNDERSTAAAAAAAAAND GOD HELP THIS OLD FOGEY OUT.
I'm actually a great catch, I'm just a dating moron. I can happily provide excellent references from ex-boyfriends that I consistently won "girlfriend of the year" throughout my relationships. I'm not jealous, I'm not a stalker, I don't have trust issues, I'm up for (almost) anything, I'm not a giant fatty, I have no biological clock, I look younger than I am, I'm smart... And despite all that you know about me I am SO MUCH LESS CRAZY than girlfriends I hear about. I'm not going to key your car if you dump me, I'll just cry a lot. You'll never need a restraining order. But dating makes me look crazy because I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S GOING ON. In my world, dating should be like this:
"I think you are cute. I don't find you painfully annoying or stupid, we should hang out and see if we would like to date."
"I think those same things about you. I agree we should go to places together to see if we develop a mutual attraction that can be turned into a relationship."
"Great, I will let you know when I find a dealbreaker and must end our courtship."
"That sounds good. I will let you know at what point you don't have to worry about me going out with other people in a direct and concise way so that you won't be confused, ever."
"We have a deal."
So yeah. Why did my dating years have to fall into such a ridiculous time for technology and a complete social gap between people ten years older than me and ten years younger??
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
PART II: BLINK ON DOWN THE ROAD
As we return to our setting of a van full of trail mix and an ever-growing potpourri of sweat and feet, I feel it's important that I preface this next adventure with a little background.
My 7th grade science teacher, who had what I'm now realizing was a borderline disturbing sexual obsession with Bill Nye the Science Guy, decided one day to measure our lung capacity. With a simple balloon and some equally simple method of measurement, it was determined that in addition to being the nerdiest person in my class I was also able to intake significantly less oxygen than my fellow classmates. A gym class blackout and doctor's visit later, my shiny new asthma inhaler became an accessory to the oversized flannel shirt I wore multiple times a week at an attempt to follow trends.
It also should be noted that around the same time we were asked to run a mile in gym class. As the skinniest person alive, one would think I'd be speedy. One would be wrong. In fact, I came in COMPLETELY LAST with a mile time of 11:47 (yes, I remember the exact time) because I had to walk most of the way after I completely failed to pace myself on the first lap.
Returning to Sonoma County, we'd had a delicious meal at lunch of burgers and - wait for it - poutine while the other van's runners did their thing. We came to the exchange where I would be starting my second leg in the parking lot of a library somewhere between San Francisco and Napa. After attempting to sleep on the grass next to the building because the van itself was too hot, we finally received a text that the second van was nearly there and the runner would follow posthaste. Time to get suited and booted.
It was approximately 6pm as I began to get ready, which meant that during my run it was going to get dark. Ragnar has about seven pages of rules on running in the dark, most of which relate to the amount of reflective and blinky shit that must be on your person between the times of 6:30pm and 7:30am so that cars can see you and make a conscious decision on whether or not they wish to hit you instead of simply an unfortunate accident caused by nighttime's cloak of invisibility.
Over the shiny pink bridesmaid dress I was still required to wear, my friends now placed not only a reflective crossing-guard vest, but a blinking neon armband and a red bicycle taillight. To top it off, over my super rad orange headband I had to wear a headlamp, akin to those worn by mechanics and spelunkers. It looked like there'd been a fucking mining disaster during prom and I had volunteered to help my fellow (wo)man in the crisis.
Now I was about to "run" 6.6 miles. No part of me thought I'd be able to run even half of it without stopping, but I at least figured I could run-walk it without significant injury or suicidal thoughts. Once again, I was completely hallucinating and had no idea that the worst 1.5 (2? 3? I don't even know honestly) hours were seconds away from beginning. I saw the bride run around the corner in her completely ridiculous poofy running dress and 80s veil and knew I was about to start. Fear was setting in.
I started off on sidewalks. I didn't realize what a beautiful and glorious thing sidewalks were at the time, and they went completely unappreciated. The scenery was boring - apartment complexes and office parks, with a couple of "nice" trailer parks thrown in, all of which found a way to use the word "estates" in the name of their subdivision. As I mentioned in the first part, I have absolutely no concept of distance. None. So to me, half a mile was probably a mile in my mind, and I found out later that 6.6 miles actually was what I would have imagined to be ten. Whodathunk.
We ran forever on this one long street, obviously a main thoroughfare - I was absolutely convinced that by the time we actually turned that I was going to see the finish up ahead. Funny, this was in fact nowhere NEAR the finish, even though I'd been going for at least half an hour. Like I mentioned before, there were no mile markers, so I just had to imagine how far I'd probably gone and then divide that number by two to get the actual likely distance traveled.
When we finally turned, three things happened:
1) It got dark, IMMEDIATELY
2) The sidewalk disappeared and turned into either a ditch, a 1-foot shoulder with uneven gravel or actually running in the middle of the road
3) All parts of my body gave out so that I was unable to properly navigate things like ditches, bushes with sticky burrs or slanted roadways
So here I am, not even attempting to run because even with my miner's hat I could barely see in front of me, on some farm road in the middle of nowhere. No wineries, no grapevines - not the scenery I'd anticipated. Part of the time I was so miserable that I started hallucinating that I was in Missouri and that I should go to my Grandma's house. Because after traumatic events one is not likely to remember many specific things, here is a vague rundown of what was going through my mind at the time:
- Oh hey, my ankle stopped working. Yeah, the one that basically doesn't have tendons. Whoopsie. That kinda hurts like fuck.
- Shit! Does that truck see me?? I guess I'll go run in this ditch - OW GODDAMN IT WHY ARE THERE BURRS IN THIS DITCH? WHY AM I RUNNING IN A DITCH??
- I think I might actually die. There's no one out here, all these houses seem dark. Maybe they're making meth. Is this the meth part of Sonoma?
- No one has passed me in like ten minutes. Am I still going the right way? I see no blinky lights in front of OR behind me..yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm lost. Do I have a cell signal? HA of course not, I have Sprint, the company that lets you die in the middle of nowhere.
- That's interesting, when I run I feel like I'm about to shit my pants with every step. I should probably stop. I can't afford to shit my pants a SECOND time as an adult. Should I go shit in this woodsy area? Oh wait, I'm fucking BLINKING. I can't hide. I'll just be the blinky person shitting in the trees instead of directly at the side of the road. That'd be a little hard to explain.
- Oh hey, that burp was that hamburger. My stomach feels gross. Maybe I'll just vomit so I won't have to shit my pants.
- Ok SERIOUSLY I've been running for like eight hours, how am I not at the end yet? Where's the "one mile to go" sign?? I have to have run at least 15 miles by now, maybe 20. It feels like 2am. Oh wait! There are people up there with lights on! That must mean I'm close!
As I pass the people who had pulled their van over to cheer us on, I asked them how far away from the finish I was. Expecting a "just around the corner" or "half a mile!" they told me "Only about 2.5 miles!" as though that was a short distance.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" I shouted back. Based on their silence I don't believe this was the response they were expecting.
- Uh oh, my friends are texting me. "Where are you?" I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE. I actually texted them something to that effect. They reply with something encouraging, when I really deserve "HURRY THE FUCK UP YOU ASSHOLE" - what nice friends.
- What would happen if I just sat down? Would someone come find me? Would I become roadkill?
- There's a light on in that house. I wonder if they'd let me nap on their sofa. I promise I wouldn't report the meth.
- Are there bears around here? Because honestly I'm feeling pretty ok about being eaten by a bear right about now. I mean, I'd be in the newspaper. No one would say I was a wuss if I was eaten by a bear. It's like a legacy. They'd forget I was a terrible runner and spent most of my time sleeping, they'd just remember how brave I must have been fighting that bear that ate me. Little would they know that I'd simply sit down and let the bear go at it. No use in fighting, that'd just make it harder for the bear to eat me. Is that considered suicide by bear?
I finally see a sign with a light on it - one mile to go! This would have been much more encouraging had I not already been on this road for approximately 17 hours and 45 minutes. I was limping because in addition to my ankle ceasing to function I had blisters on both of my feet, my hips hurt from being on a slanted surface for miles, I still couldn't decide if I was going to vomit or shit my pants, some unknown part of the back of my knee was hurting, I had burrs on my socks and I still had to make it the last mile. I couldn't fake run anymore when I passed people.
"You can do it! Just one more mile!" people would shout. NO. NO I CAN'T. I ACTUALLY CANNOT DO IT, which is why I'm limping past you at 1mph instead of pretending to get a second wind as you cheer for me, so please just stop. You're making me feel stupid. Let me live this humiliation alone, alone in this darkness of this weird NorCal farm country backroad. I wanted to punch all of the encouragers in the face. They may have been yelling "good job" but all I heard is "start running, people are going to see you soon!"
When I got to the finish line it was so weirdly disorganized and I was so dazed that I couldn't figure out where to go - luckily our next runner just ran up to me and grabbed the bracelet (our relay "baton") because I couldn't even tell who she was at first. My team found me and led my limping ass back to the van, as I heard people come in behind me. "How was it??" their teams would ask. "It was GREAT!"
Great? My teammates knew not to ask. "Well, it was actually the worst couple of hours of my entire life, right up there with the food poisoning I got in Hawaii. The only part of me that doesn't hurt right now is my hair, and I actually considered taking my own life approximately nine times. I'm bleeding through my socks and tripping over my own feet, but other than that, I suppose it wasn't too bad."
The actual greatest moments of my life came shortly thereafter, first when a teammate agreed to run my last 3-mile leg for me without even requiring monetary compensation and second when I took my Klonopin and passed the fuck out on one of the bench seats in the van. It was at that moment that I knew that never in my life would I ever have to run again. Ever.
My 7th grade science teacher, who had what I'm now realizing was a borderline disturbing sexual obsession with Bill Nye the Science Guy, decided one day to measure our lung capacity. With a simple balloon and some equally simple method of measurement, it was determined that in addition to being the nerdiest person in my class I was also able to intake significantly less oxygen than my fellow classmates. A gym class blackout and doctor's visit later, my shiny new asthma inhaler became an accessory to the oversized flannel shirt I wore multiple times a week at an attempt to follow trends.
It also should be noted that around the same time we were asked to run a mile in gym class. As the skinniest person alive, one would think I'd be speedy. One would be wrong. In fact, I came in COMPLETELY LAST with a mile time of 11:47 (yes, I remember the exact time) because I had to walk most of the way after I completely failed to pace myself on the first lap.
Returning to Sonoma County, we'd had a delicious meal at lunch of burgers and - wait for it - poutine while the other van's runners did their thing. We came to the exchange where I would be starting my second leg in the parking lot of a library somewhere between San Francisco and Napa. After attempting to sleep on the grass next to the building because the van itself was too hot, we finally received a text that the second van was nearly there and the runner would follow posthaste. Time to get suited and booted.
It was approximately 6pm as I began to get ready, which meant that during my run it was going to get dark. Ragnar has about seven pages of rules on running in the dark, most of which relate to the amount of reflective and blinky shit that must be on your person between the times of 6:30pm and 7:30am so that cars can see you and make a conscious decision on whether or not they wish to hit you instead of simply an unfortunate accident caused by nighttime's cloak of invisibility.
Over the shiny pink bridesmaid dress I was still required to wear, my friends now placed not only a reflective crossing-guard vest, but a blinking neon armband and a red bicycle taillight. To top it off, over my super rad orange headband I had to wear a headlamp, akin to those worn by mechanics and spelunkers. It looked like there'd been a fucking mining disaster during prom and I had volunteered to help my fellow (wo)man in the crisis.
Now I was about to "run" 6.6 miles. No part of me thought I'd be able to run even half of it without stopping, but I at least figured I could run-walk it without significant injury or suicidal thoughts. Once again, I was completely hallucinating and had no idea that the worst 1.5 (2? 3? I don't even know honestly) hours were seconds away from beginning. I saw the bride run around the corner in her completely ridiculous poofy running dress and 80s veil and knew I was about to start. Fear was setting in.
I started off on sidewalks. I didn't realize what a beautiful and glorious thing sidewalks were at the time, and they went completely unappreciated. The scenery was boring - apartment complexes and office parks, with a couple of "nice" trailer parks thrown in, all of which found a way to use the word "estates" in the name of their subdivision. As I mentioned in the first part, I have absolutely no concept of distance. None. So to me, half a mile was probably a mile in my mind, and I found out later that 6.6 miles actually was what I would have imagined to be ten. Whodathunk.
We ran forever on this one long street, obviously a main thoroughfare - I was absolutely convinced that by the time we actually turned that I was going to see the finish up ahead. Funny, this was in fact nowhere NEAR the finish, even though I'd been going for at least half an hour. Like I mentioned before, there were no mile markers, so I just had to imagine how far I'd probably gone and then divide that number by two to get the actual likely distance traveled.
When we finally turned, three things happened:
1) It got dark, IMMEDIATELY
2) The sidewalk disappeared and turned into either a ditch, a 1-foot shoulder with uneven gravel or actually running in the middle of the road
3) All parts of my body gave out so that I was unable to properly navigate things like ditches, bushes with sticky burrs or slanted roadways
So here I am, not even attempting to run because even with my miner's hat I could barely see in front of me, on some farm road in the middle of nowhere. No wineries, no grapevines - not the scenery I'd anticipated. Part of the time I was so miserable that I started hallucinating that I was in Missouri and that I should go to my Grandma's house. Because after traumatic events one is not likely to remember many specific things, here is a vague rundown of what was going through my mind at the time:
- Oh hey, my ankle stopped working. Yeah, the one that basically doesn't have tendons. Whoopsie. That kinda hurts like fuck.
- Shit! Does that truck see me?? I guess I'll go run in this ditch - OW GODDAMN IT WHY ARE THERE BURRS IN THIS DITCH? WHY AM I RUNNING IN A DITCH??
- I think I might actually die. There's no one out here, all these houses seem dark. Maybe they're making meth. Is this the meth part of Sonoma?
- No one has passed me in like ten minutes. Am I still going the right way? I see no blinky lights in front of OR behind me..yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm lost. Do I have a cell signal? HA of course not, I have Sprint, the company that lets you die in the middle of nowhere.
- That's interesting, when I run I feel like I'm about to shit my pants with every step. I should probably stop. I can't afford to shit my pants a SECOND time as an adult. Should I go shit in this woodsy area? Oh wait, I'm fucking BLINKING. I can't hide. I'll just be the blinky person shitting in the trees instead of directly at the side of the road. That'd be a little hard to explain.
- Oh hey, that burp was that hamburger. My stomach feels gross. Maybe I'll just vomit so I won't have to shit my pants.
- Ok SERIOUSLY I've been running for like eight hours, how am I not at the end yet? Where's the "one mile to go" sign?? I have to have run at least 15 miles by now, maybe 20. It feels like 2am. Oh wait! There are people up there with lights on! That must mean I'm close!
As I pass the people who had pulled their van over to cheer us on, I asked them how far away from the finish I was. Expecting a "just around the corner" or "half a mile!" they told me "Only about 2.5 miles!" as though that was a short distance.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" I shouted back. Based on their silence I don't believe this was the response they were expecting.
- Uh oh, my friends are texting me. "Where are you?" I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE. I actually texted them something to that effect. They reply with something encouraging, when I really deserve "HURRY THE FUCK UP YOU ASSHOLE" - what nice friends.
- What would happen if I just sat down? Would someone come find me? Would I become roadkill?
- There's a light on in that house. I wonder if they'd let me nap on their sofa. I promise I wouldn't report the meth.
- Are there bears around here? Because honestly I'm feeling pretty ok about being eaten by a bear right about now. I mean, I'd be in the newspaper. No one would say I was a wuss if I was eaten by a bear. It's like a legacy. They'd forget I was a terrible runner and spent most of my time sleeping, they'd just remember how brave I must have been fighting that bear that ate me. Little would they know that I'd simply sit down and let the bear go at it. No use in fighting, that'd just make it harder for the bear to eat me. Is that considered suicide by bear?
I finally see a sign with a light on it - one mile to go! This would have been much more encouraging had I not already been on this road for approximately 17 hours and 45 minutes. I was limping because in addition to my ankle ceasing to function I had blisters on both of my feet, my hips hurt from being on a slanted surface for miles, I still couldn't decide if I was going to vomit or shit my pants, some unknown part of the back of my knee was hurting, I had burrs on my socks and I still had to make it the last mile. I couldn't fake run anymore when I passed people.
"You can do it! Just one more mile!" people would shout. NO. NO I CAN'T. I ACTUALLY CANNOT DO IT, which is why I'm limping past you at 1mph instead of pretending to get a second wind as you cheer for me, so please just stop. You're making me feel stupid. Let me live this humiliation alone, alone in this darkness of this weird NorCal farm country backroad. I wanted to punch all of the encouragers in the face. They may have been yelling "good job" but all I heard is "start running, people are going to see you soon!"
When I got to the finish line it was so weirdly disorganized and I was so dazed that I couldn't figure out where to go - luckily our next runner just ran up to me and grabbed the bracelet (our relay "baton") because I couldn't even tell who she was at first. My team found me and led my limping ass back to the van, as I heard people come in behind me. "How was it??" their teams would ask. "It was GREAT!"
Great? My teammates knew not to ask. "Well, it was actually the worst couple of hours of my entire life, right up there with the food poisoning I got in Hawaii. The only part of me that doesn't hurt right now is my hair, and I actually considered taking my own life approximately nine times. I'm bleeding through my socks and tripping over my own feet, but other than that, I suppose it wasn't too bad."
The actual greatest moments of my life came shortly thereafter, first when a teammate agreed to run my last 3-mile leg for me without even requiring monetary compensation and second when I took my Klonopin and passed the fuck out on one of the bench seats in the van. It was at that moment that I knew that never in my life would I ever have to run again. Ever.
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