Mystery drink

The last known occurrence of a 'mystery drink' situation was at a bar in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

The"bar" was actually a glorified pit of despair hole in the wall that would have completely blended into the wall if not for the red pepper lights hanging around the door post and the enormous gentleman sitting next to the door in a dirty plastic chair that could only have managed not to splinter under this gigantic man with the aid of magic. The tiny bar was packed bar full of costumed (some guy was wearing what I still believe to be an actual, deceased moose's head) patrons.

That place was like this: Lots of people. Lots of alcohol. Lots of obnoxious sounds. It felt kind of like this:

It's beautiful, yet intriguing.

 

We ended up in a small corner where we yelled at our friends over the blasting music coming out of the speakers located roughly three inches from our heads. Boyfriend went over to the bar while I stood huddled in the corner, trying to prevent unnecessary touching from strangers. He reappeared a minute later and handed me a small plastic cup.

I sniffed it. I couldn’t smell any alcohol (this should have been a red flag). I sipped at it. It kinda tasted like fruit cocktail - this sent a signal to my brain that it must be as benign as watered down Kool-Aid. So I drank it. All of it. (In hindsight, this entire thing was my own damn fault.)

I felt fine for the first thirty seconds. Then all of a sudden, everything became ridiculously funny. After that it was all kind of a blur.

To be honest I'm not really 100% on what happened, but I do know that Boyfriend had to lovingly carry and/or drag my drunk self all the way home.
 

Here is this entire post in a nutshell:

...Maybe I should have just posted the diagram? Oh well.

Quick trip down memory lane: eating paste

Most parents think their kid is already hot shit once they start making coherent noises. Everyone likes to imagine that their offspring really is a genius, but let’s be honest; why would the most gifted child on the planet be so concerned with eating paste? You know, a lot more kids are paste-eaters than you think.

"Want a nickle?" "Hell yeah, I do!" "Eat this paste!" "Sounds like a great idea!"

Just sayin'.

This leads me to a story: In the first grade, we occasionally paid a girl named Mandy a nickel to eat paste. I guess we got some twisted satisfaction out of this. (Don't judge me, she totally liked it.)

Every day we gave her the pocket change our parents gave us to buy child-sized cartons of juice and Mandy ate glue. (Man, I really hope it's not actually made out of horses. SNL said it was made out of horses.)

I wonder where Mandy is now? And more importantly, I wonder if she still likes paste?

Yeah. That was the whole story.

Why a book by me would never sell

People always tell me (with exasperation/superiority complex), "everything always happens to you." *insert irritating eye roll*

Things happen to me all the time. Things happen to everyone. Most people just don't feel a need to illustrate them poorly.

So for all of you who say that...you should know I picture you like this:

I happen to be a little bit of a drama queen - somehow, I feel like it is necessary to share my experiences through story telling, poorly executed attempts at art and interpretive dance.

Okay, so not interpretive dance. I'm a terrible dancer.

Regardless.

A book by me would be random and distorted with a poorly constructed plot. I lose interest quickly and go off on random tangents about nothing. Sometimes I surprise myself by completing what I start, but honestly, that is incredibly rare. Like unicorns.

In the hypothetical that I ever did successfully write a book, people would flock to their neighborhood book peddlers and snatch up every copy. They would read the first few pages and giggle a high pitched giggle of excitement and glee. And then they would realize how random and distorted it was. And how poorly the plot was constructed.

They would hold my book, staring lamely at my masterpiece with discontent. They would flop around like dying fishes. I'm pretty sure that they would eventually succumb to a feeling of helplessness and general malaise - too depressed to do anything but lie on the floor and wait for the world to end.

I can't sit idly by and watch all of you regret a purchase like this.

It's because I care.

Cat terrified of larger cat.

My sister dressed up as a cat for Halloween. (Not that creative but a crowd pleaser.)

That is not important. What is important is that my actual cat was scared shitless of her.

The cat fluffed up to double her size, her ears went down and she was backing away slowly while hissing,  spitting and gnashing her teeth.

 It was awesome.

My sister kept saying "oh it's okay, I'll pet her and it'll be fine!" but that was not the case. The cat had sensed competition in another, larger feline and she knew she stood no chance. She ran away and hid under the living room furniture. And that's totally fine because she can't bite me from there.

Once again, I would like to reiterate. It was awesome.

Stealing Halloween candy from children

So on Halloween, the most awesome holiday ever, I went to the store and bought candy for trick or treaters. (I live with two dudes who are very unlikely to think that far ahead.)

My roommates were continuously warned not to consume said candy. I pointed and gestured. I raised my voice so they could hear me over the TV. I threatened them with bodily harm. I repeated myself.

 

 

They promised. I forced them to make eye contact with me and promise. They promised again with eye contact.

They lied.

They never turned on the outside light and they ate all the candy before 7pm.

For lack of better options, I silently raged.

That's all I've got.

Handle with care

Last weekend was a long weekend full of work. I work with my sister at a local museum where we put on birthday parties and explain things to small children and adults. (Things like: "If you poke it, it will probably bite you." and "Alligators have more teeth than you. And if you poke it, it will probably bite you.")

Saturday, after a particularly grueling birthday party at the museum, Sister, Boyfriend and I decided to have pizza for lunch. We were ravenous with hunger from the morning's work, so we made our way to a rather large pizza buffet establishment.

All the way to the pizza place, Sister and Boyfriend were bickering about how much more pizza they could eat than the other. I was in the anguished throes of starvation so I just let them bicker - but to be clear, my tiny little sister can rarely out-eat Boyfriend on her best/hungriest day whereas, Boyfriend can eat his weight easily and then scavenge in the fridge for more.

If you question it, he will just snap his head around and shout something along the lines of: "This isn't Siberia, Woman! I can eat if I'm hungry!"

So anyway.

Let me illustrate:

As we left, Sister stroking her midsection tenderly, as she followed us out to the car, I mused aloud that it was funny that she had out-eaten Boyfriend. We got in the car and she sprawled across the back seat saying:

"Handle with care...this side up...delicate package..."

Boyfriend said nothing for a few minutes and then a look of jealous determination came over his sweet little boyfriend face.

It seems that Boyfriend is a little competitive. Boyfriend likes to be the best at everything, even eating. He must have interpreted the comment about Sister having eaten more than him as some sort of high praise for her - and he was not to be defeated. Boyfriend offered to go back so he could prove that he could definitely out eat my tiny little sister.

Clearly he was the eating master!

I talked him out of returning to the pizza establishment, but just barely.

He is still griping about it though.

The Useless Panda Situation

"Useless Panda": to be pathetic and useless out of a feeling of sadness or uselessness, usually originating with an inability to motivate oneself to do actual work or accomplish anything.

* * *

The term "Useless Panda" came into glorious being to describe my sister when I got home from work one day last week to see her sitting on my bed looking a little like this:

Looking pathetic, sad and useless because she
had run out of activities to fuel her procrastination.



She had a big paper due the next day and had literally spent her entire day finding one activity after another that was more pressing than just writing the damn paper.

It went like this:

Wake up at 8:00am. Roll over....Wake up at 9:14am. Roll over....Wake up at 10:17am. Roll over....

Wake up at 10:42am. Give up and wake up already. Remind self that paper is due tomorrow morning.

Go into bathroom and brush teeth for 26 minutes. Decide to destroy organizational bins I had painstakingly put into place to find teeth whitening strips for the divine purpose of multitasking.

Apply tooth whitening apparatus.Vow to write paper after this.

Whiten teeth while watching vital TV program about migration of butterflies.

Look at computer. Vow to write paper.

Go downstairs and clean living area for several hours.

Make snack in the kitchen while vowing to write paper.

Go upstairs with snack. Eat snack while watching Court TV. Vow to write paper when done.

Go downstairs and drag/push the heavy-ass vacuum cleaner up the stairs.

Clean entire upstairs including roommate's room. (He was torn between whining that she went in there and being pleased that his shower was clean.)

Vow to write paper.

Take shower and attempt to shave legs. Run out of motivation to do even that. Feel sad because she doesn't even want to shave her legs. Vigorously scrub feet instead.

Vow to write paper.

Decide there is a need for brain food before a paper can be written. Go downstairs. Bake muffins.

Take muffin upstairs (roommate politely tries to glean a single
muffin, tell roommate to make his own damn muffin).

Sit in front of computer with muffin and politely suggest that the paper writes itself.

Blink at computer. Concentrate.

Cock head to one side. (Nothing happens.)

Cry. Uselessly. Big, hiccuping sobs of pathetic uselessness.

This is when I came home to see her sitting there, like this:

^ Most useless person ever.

 
She hiccuped, showed me the remnants of her muffin, her very clean feet and her paper on which she had typed her name and the date.

I ended up having to make her do half-assed, pathetic jumping jacks  to get her to stop crying.

Hence the term "Useless Panda". It doesn't have to make sense. Just let it happen.

Dog torture device

When the door bell rings, my dog barks like a maniac to warn us there's someone outside. This is great unless it's Halloween or if there are a bunch of Jehovah's Witnesses out there (they always just kind of stand there a little too long, then the dog will never shut up).

As it is nearly Halloween, I have purchased a Dog Torture Device that I am rather excited about. (Also known as a Halloween costume.)

** Before you sympathize with my dog, remember that I have spoiled him completely rotten for almost three years now. He repays me by doing whatever the hell he wants and nothing else. **

Because my dog is so massive, finding an acceptable costume for His Fluffy, Black Cuteness has been a real pain in my ass. I was almost down to spray painting his fur with stripes of yellow and calling him a bee. However, I saw a flaw in that plan and fortunately (or unfortunately) for my little precious, I finally located him a pumpkin getup.

I did this for two reasons:

1. He is a giant ass black dog and kids tend to be scared of him so I feel like a costume will ease their arguably justifiable fear. Who's afraid of a giant pumpkin? No one.
2. I want him to be festive.

This will end in one of two ways:

1. He will submit to my will and dutifully wear the pumpkin getup like a good dog and be handsomely rewarded for his suffering with a multitude of treats.
2. (More likely) He will have to be held down on more than one occasion to keep the costume from being ripped to shreds and buried.

So I'll let you know how it goes.

**UPDATE**

We tried the big, puffy getup but it was too tiny for his massive puppy body. We substituted this pumpkin T-shirt:

My mother, the bargain hunter

Let me start out by saying this: I love my mom. However. She might be killing me.

For some reason, my mother insists on getting a deal on everything. Yes. Everything. We need cereal? (Is it on sale?) Toothbrush? Why buy only one when you can get eighty five of them in the discount bin?! Or even better, they are free at the dentist's office! Sweet! (Our dentist is going to be pissed if he ever finds out about the stash of stolen dental supplies my mother keeps under the bathroom sink.)

But hey, who am  to judge? I have toothbrushes for life now!

But she might want to reconsider her stance on haircuts. Just sayin.

I'm afraid if I leave Sister alone with her too long, someone will come home bald. For a bargain.

Charlie; adorable beast and best mistake I ever made.

My dog was the best mistake I ever made. I'm only a little ashamed to say I love him like a child. The story of Charlie, the 35 pound 90 pound 105 pound dog goes a little something like this:

I had this roommate. Roommate wanted a dog. I was like; "Okay."

We went to the shelter. Roommate petted about 3085286518201.37 dogs. I walked to the end of the kennel and saw this little guy:

All cute and tiny and irresistible.

He looked so pathetic, sitting there in the kennel at the pound. He was the only dog that wasn’t barking or howling its head off at us. It was instant love.

^ Instant love. ^

The guy at the pound told us that he was going to be about 35 pounds fully grown. I was like, “35 pounds? Sure. Sounds good.”

That lying bastard. The dog is now 90 pounds. He enjoys sitting on my lap (read: crushing me to death), barking at things and being obnoxiously adorable.

He likes to try to run away a lot and if I open the door he tries to escape. I'm not sure why a spoiled dog is so intent on running away. I feed him tons of expensive kibble, pet him every day and baby talk him more than I would an actual baby. But for some reason, he runs and runs and evades capture. He will not come back for a treat, a toy or even a damn steak. And I end up just following him on foot, screaming curses at him and blocking traffic.

Ahh, good times.

Turns out, he really only wants to track down other dogs for the purpose of smelling and tail wagging. Once he realizes that running away to do it was probably a bad choice, he comes back. The whole process will send me to an early grave, I'm pretty sure.

UPDATE: I have discovered that he will come back if you throw open a car door and shriek "CAR RIDE".

Sickly death feeling

Today, I am experiencing a sickly death feeling that I highly disapprove of. I am also heavily medicated through no fault of my own.

(Dear DayQuil; make the damn dosage instructions bigger. If I need to take it, chances are I can't see it through the squinty haze of illness. Help me out here.)

Let me explain:

I took DayQuil and Sudafed.

So basically a Molotov cocktail of health.

I feel like I must be tripping on acid.

Imagine that, if you will.

I'm never doing that again.

It's mutual, Biting Cat.

I will begin by saying that the cat and I were never friends. (Not that I dislike cats or anything, I'm a veritable animal lover. It's just this one cat.)

This is Boyfriend's cat. This statement tells you two things;

1. I had nothing to do with the selection or upbringing of this horrible beast.
2. I can't get rid of her, not by accident nor by design.

The cat likes biting me, glaring at me from a variety of perches throughout the house, eating shoelaces with no remorse and hacking up hairballs on my once clean floors. According to my sister, she's not all bad. The cat really likes purring and cuddling with everyone who is not me, all while glaring at me from afar.

The cat and I are at opposite ends of the couch, glaring at each other due, in large part, to Boyfriend's Mom. Boyfriend left the cat with his parents while he was away at school a few years ago and over the summer Boyfriend's Mom  returned the cat to him. (Probably because of the biting.) Anyway. Boyfriend is still in school out of state and his insane landlady doesn't take kindly to non-human, non-rent-paying individuals.

And so somehow, I was tricked into unwilling cat ownership. Here's how it went:


Boyfriend's Mom places the cat in the back of her large SUV.

 Boyfriend's parents drive eight hours with the cat to bestow the cat upon their son.

 Boyfriend enjoys a nice summer of ignoring me and baby talking his insolent beast.

At the end of the summer, Boyfriend looked at me with his sad Boyfriend eyes.

Boyfriend somehow convinces me that the cat and I will get along splendidly.

Boyfriend returns to school at the end of the summer, leaving me with the petulant beast.

The cat begins glaring at me, stalking me and biting me at every possible opportunity.

 Yay.

Things not to bring to the museum

It has come to my attention over the past few years that people actually have poor enough judgment to bring all kinds of unnecessary or ridiculous crap to our outdoor, animal habitat museum. So here's to you, you crazies.

THINGS NOT TO BRING TO THE MUSEUM:

 1. Your small pets.

Apparently this is not obvious to many people.

 2.  High heeled shoes.

Yes. You will be walking around outside. There is limited pavement. Mostly gravel and dirt. And random holes in the ground that will make you fall and die.

3. Electrical equipment such as a crock pot, stereo or oscillating fan. (People do this. True story.)

I am actually a little disgusted that this has been an issue so many times. (Yes, I am wearing a green shirt and I have a walkie-talkie. No, I cannot magically provide power for your appliances.)

Seriously. Come on now.

Sleep: why I didn't get any

Today I am feeling pretty damn cranky.

Here is why:

Oh roomates. Thursday is still a weeknight. And 3:30am is not a good time for a party.

I hate driving

This morning while driving to work, I saw a drug bust in action. I hate driving, especially in the morning and especially when I'm headed to work. I hate road-raging jerkfaces who cut me off - I am chronically nervous about destroying my car because then I would have to ask my mom for rides and then I would have to move home and then I would be alone and have a hundred cats and never leave the house and become a hoarder like the people you see on TV...

So anyway, the drug bust; it was pretty anti-climactic to be honest. Just a couple of police officers walking their dogs and knocking on doors. And handcuffing. Whatevs.

I wish I could teleport to work and never have to drive. Unless teleportation hurts or something, in which case, I'd probably still try it at least once.

Food projects are the best kind of projects.

My sister had to do some art thing for school a while back and it was awesome beyond reason. I helped. We made a delicious bust of Aristotle. This is how it went:

We made his tasty little shoulders out of rice krispies. We had to start over because we ate the first shoulders - these are the second shoulders.

We formed a head-like structure. That thing sticking out of his head is actually a chopstick. Unfortunately, we didn't have a better plan to keep the head on. The chopstick remained where it was until Aristotle's 'demise'. (Sister took him to class where he was graded, admired and ultimately, eaten.)

Then we slathered him with delicious white frosting. That is my sister's hand.

We temporarily lost focus and did this.



We finally stopped eating the frosting directly from the container long enough to make this fondant! It is made of: marshmallows, powdered sugar and love. :)

Then we covered his cute little krispy head with fondant and began sculpting with whatever we weren't eating.

Smoothed out the lines and added facial features. I like to think that he's a carefree, jolly type of guy.

This is the final product. And my finger lovingly picking his cute little fondant covered krispy nose.

 Needless to say, we are culinary geniuses. Obviously.