Thursday, December 23
It's a good thing I'm very careful about my spelling/grammar...you might never know I've been drinking except for my random thought-jumps. Yes, that's an awesome new word I just made up. Thought-jumps. Use it...but give me credit or you'll owe me $3 every time you say it. Yes, I've definitely copyrighted that word just now. No, not kidding.
OK, yes, I was kidding just then.
Wanna hear a funny story? Too bad, you're going to hear my story instead. (haha...self-deprecating humor joke) Anyway, so last night I came home from work with my name-tag on because my job is one of those awesome ones where you have to wear a name-tag and someone who barely graduated high school could get my job and I'm not sure why I work there because I graduated college with a 3.95. Uhhhhh, anyway, I was still wearing my name-tag when I got home, so I thought, "OK put it in your coat because you would NEVER go without your coat at this time of year, so you'll definitely bring your coat to work with you tomorrow, and you'll thusly have your badge tomorrow." (Thusly: a very awesome old-English word like THUS but cooler because everything's cooler when you add an -ly) It was a foolproof plan. FOOLPROOF I TELL YOU. ...So I got dressed today and wore a sweater-coat and THUSLY (again, awesome) did NOT wear my coat. WHAT are the odds? Crazy, man. Life is crazy.
Just as randomly, I made a new best friend. Don't tell Cori or Christi. Her name is Katie. (something about that "K" sound, apparently I love friends with a "K" sounding name) Anyway, she's my best-work-buddy-Tom's girlfriend, and I love her. That's not just the alcohol. She's super sweet and funny and best of all she thinks I'M FUNNY which gives her like a gazillion points in the "Points towards becoming Ashlee's new BFF" category...which is really the only category in life that matters at all. Besides salvation. ...Where did THAT come from? And salvation isn't a point system at all! ...See where this thought-jump thing became an awesome word to copyright? Genius. Point of the story (cuz even I lost interest in it): I love her and will keep her forever.
I also replied to an eharmony.com message in this inebriated state. GASP yes I am on eharmony. As of like 2 weeks ago. OK, the thing is, it's like my friend Alex and her love of peanut butter on pizza, I couldn't KNOW it was awful until I tried it (the pizza, that is). Then I did and guess what? it was WRETCHED. But I didn't know until I tried it. Same thing of online dating. Don't hate until you have tried it. YES it's super lame. NO I don't think it's the only way I could ever find someone who "completes me." MAYBE I think Mr. Right's on there. Whatever, that's unimportant...this blog isn't about me. WHO AM I KIDDING of course it is! Anyway, I replied to a guy that I don't really like, so I don't really care if I'm slightly sloshed when I reply to him.
OK, this is not the comedic gold that I try so hard to put on here every time I post something new, but I felt bad about not posting in a little while. I hope all 3.5 of my viewers enjoy this, and I'll try to post something that I've legitimately thought out very soon. Thanks all!
God bless us, every one!!! (Tiny Tim???...where did that COME FROM?? This Christmas spirit thing is really getting to me, and it's annoying...)
Tuesday, November 30
I apologize to all my die-hard fans that have been on the verge of suicide without an update from me for the past (few?) month(s). So sorry. I’ve been working about 50 hours a week making a pittance selling furniture to the cheapest people on earth. Nope, not Jews. Old Dutch people. No, seriously, those Holocaust survivors have nothing on Hollanders. They come in driving brand new Buicks but want me to cut them a deal on a $100 ottoman. I could make a fortune if my boss gave me $5 every time I ask someone how they’re doing and they tell me they’re “just looking.” One of my favorite lines (yes, that means this has happened more than once) is when they want me to show them the $88 mattresses and I tell them I wouldn’t put a dog on those, but show them anyway. They see it, feel the metal springs through the 1/8 inch thick padding and say, “Well, it’s just for my daughter. She’s only 8. It’ll be fine. And delivery’s free, right?” Really? If you’re going to buy this POS mattress for your kid and you DON’T want to spend as much on delivery as you did on that mattress, I think you can fold down the seats of your Escalade and just find a way to git ‘er done, you cheap son of a – Anyway. Even the Asian people know how to blow me off. When they’re not trying to get me to pay their sales tax, give them free delivery and throw in a couch for 20 bucks, they give me the same “just looking” as everyone else…except that they’re more like “just rooking”. Oh, sure, they just nod, smile and act like they don’t understand English when I explain to them that if I give more than $200 off a $500 chair I'll make about 27 cents, but they sure know “just rooking.” Is that the first thing they teach them in ESL class? After “free derivery?” and “no, is too much, we go Big Rots instead” of course.
This is shaping up to be a very racist post. First the Jews and now the Asians. Is there a major people group I have NOT offended? I’m sure I can fit them in here somewhere. Oh…yeah…I found them. I knew I was missing a large, dark part of the population. But I can’t. I’ll tell a short anecdote of someone ELSE’S un-PC-ness instead. (**Did anyone else say "PC-ness" out loud and hear "penis"? Was that just me? OK, yes, I'm a 12-year-old boy laughs when someone says "pianist"...anyway...) My boss this summer (not the cool young one but the ignorant older woman) was in a meeting with some very…diverse…members of the Fort Wayne community and kept saying “Afro-Americans.” My cool boss was mortified. He thought he was going to get shot. When he related it to me, of course I laughed heartily at his uncomfortable expense. Also, one of my co-workers asked me the last name of this black guy who works next door to us, and my friend Tom said he was pretty sure his last name was “Blackman. Brian D. Blackman.” AAAAND…she believed him. She probably would have called him Mr. Blackman if we hadn’t set her straight. (For any slow readers/auditory learners out there, say "Brian...D. Blackman" out loud...a few more times...you'll get it eventually.)
…And don’t get me started on the Mexicans!! Sorry, I had to. I actually have nothing bad to say about them. They might not be here legally, but they pay with cash and they don’t typically come back to complain. However, we have ONE Hispanic woman that works at our store, and I’ve tried not to stereotype and joke that every Hispanic person that comes through the door knows her, BUT THEY DO. Even if they don’t ask for her the second I greet them, I work with them for 5 minutes and they ALL—WITHOUT EXCEPTION—ask, “Does Maria work today?” I’d also make a ton of money if my bosses paid me $5 every time THAT happens.
Tom and I were the “lucky” ones who got to walk in the Holland Parade of Lights behind the store truck tonight, and I decided to make the most of it and pass out my business cards; I even did Tom a favor and wrote his name on them. But then TOM (who, by the way, typically has no qualms about making a fool out of himself) got really embarrassed when I went into the crowd and asked if anyone needed a mattress or a sofa!! It’s called networking!? I was singing along with the Christmas carols and dancing with Jingle Bell Rock, so clearly they would rather work with me than a creepy old man who watches them lie on a mattress for 20 minutes. If those people come back in with my card and I split half the deal with Tom, he’s not going to be so embarrassed, is he? Eh, he probably will be anyway. But he’ll still be spending that commission check, regardless of how embarrassed he was at the way I got them to come to the store, won’t he? How very “Tale of the Little Red Hen” of him…or…some other fable that accurately mirrors this real-life story.
In other news, this week is the busiest my social life has been in like…a month. Dinner with family tonight, out to the brewery wearing ugly Christmas sweaters with Tom and my new/his friend Katie tomorrow, date on Thursday, and maybe something Friday. Is this what normal extroverts feel like?
…And on Black Friday I had an Indian woman with curried B.O. coming from every pore.
Ah...bigotry mission accomplished. CBFF Christi would be so proud.
Update: I retract any and all statements that may have offended Asians, Dutch people, Mexicans, Africans, African-Americans (who I think actually go by "black" now?? not sure), and God's chosen people, the Jews. We all have tendencies and quirks that make us unique and set us apart from everyone else, but that does not mean that one race/people/creed is better than another, and until we break the cycle of hate and satirical "truth," we will never be truly ONE.
Update again: I retract my retraction. It's a freakin' humor blog. Get some thicker skin, ya PC Commies.
Sunday, August 22
I’m not sure we’re really acquainted. Although, except for the monkey that follows my blog (seriously, I’m flattered, but WHO ARE YOU?), you DO know me. But to anyone who might stumble upon this site by accident or random Kevin-Bacon-game bunny trail from some person to me, and be indubitably struck by my quirky brilliance, I will describe myself to you a bit more. And perhaps you who know me will be enlightened further.
I’m an original copy-cat. But Ashlee, what does that mean? you undoubtedly ask. Answer: anything that you read on this blog that makes you laugh has probably been stolen—in format, not in content. I don’t plagiarize, everything on this site is really made up from my weird mind, but my humor is not my own. I have learned how to be funny from my CBFF Christi and a few funny people I read. Allie of Hyperbole and a Half fame is one of those funny people. Dave Barry is another. Self-deprecation and run-on sentences with too many adjectives come from these people. So, don’t stop reading me, but read them too. You probably won’t think I’m that funny anymore, but they’re hysterical.
I’m a NERD. Not even a geek, because geeks are cool and get to go to awesome stuff like Comic-Con and Star Wars conventions and gamer expos. Nope, I’m just a nerd. I graduated college Summa Cum Laude with a 3.95 GPA, I correct everyone’s grammar (if not out loud, in my head), I am the ONLY one in my family that finds my engineer father’s dry humor hilarious, and I think of puns all the time that I don’t actually say because, as a rule, all of my peers would look at me like their grandfather wouldn’t even make a joke that lame. I know this because on the few disastrous occasions when I have tested out one of these puns that seem oh-so-witty in my mind, this is the reaction I have gotten:
Hence, the whole stealing-other-styles-of-humor thing. My dad would have laughed hysterically…or at least understood the joke and chuckled to placate me. But no one else finds it truly funny. (Super-fun side note: if you take my advice and look at the blog I mentioned, you will see that even my style of artwork is stolen from Allie)
I have a very obsessive personality. It doesn’t take much for me to like something...and when I like something, I LOVE IT. Examples: 1) CBFF Christi told me she loves the show Dexter. I watched three seasons in about a month to be caught up with her. 2) Lost: I got sick of hearing all the hype without understanding what they were talking about, so I watched four seasons in a month and a half, even when it got unbelievably stupid and more than usually impossible. When I got like this in college, CBFF knew that if she walked into our room and I was there, I was going to be watching the show of the month, whatever it was. And she was going to hear synopses of the episodes because I’m also very expressive and can’t help but laugh or go “aw” or something when I’m watching a show with my headphones in. She was always very patient and pretended to be avidly interested in the nuances of shows she had never seen and characters she had never heard of. IMDB is my enabler in this obsession. It is far too easy to search for the movie I’ve just seen and figure out why that supporting actor looks so familiar. Then I have five movies he’s been in RIGHT on the tip of my tongue in case someone says, “I don’t think I remember who you’re talking about. What else has he done?” Which happens surprisingly often (I don’t have too many film-geeks for friends). When LOTR came out (and if you don’t know/can’t figure out what that stands for, just stop reading my blog right now), my dad and I went to a flea market and bought a replica of Sting (complete with “made in Pakistan” on the blade), my parents gave me the Evenstar necklace for Christmas, and I learned all the Elvish phrases in the (first) movie. Don’t bother telling me how pathetic I am, I already know. It’s totally another “dad” characteristic: my dad watched Phantom of the Opera and we all saw the musical together at Western Michigan University when I was 18 (four years ago) and he would STILL watch that movie every other night if my mom didn’t put her foot down. We also bought all three Extended Versions of LOTR and he tries to make it a tradition to watch all three over a Christmas vacation weekend. It’s pretty unsuccessful, but that’s not the point. The point is that he’s really obsessive, and so am I.
I do things specifically so people will think I’m cooler—usually guys. Example: guns are pretty cool, and I like shooting targets with my dad and learning how to make bullets because it’s an obscure skill that I will never use but that is fun to have in my arsenal (ha, arsenal…guns…see? That’s my natural humor: LAME). But I really like that I know just enough about guns to seem cool to a guy who has a small to moderate gun knowledge, i.e. every single American guy on the planet except those who know way too much about guns. I mean, even the pacifists I know who would never own a gun in real life play a crap-ton of video games equipped with armories that would make a trigger-happy 19 year old Marine go, “Umm, I think that might be a little overkill.” Also, I recently had WAY too much car trouble than should be allowed for a broke college grad living far from home with no job and an essentially brand-new car. So I did a lot of Googling about crankshaft position sensors, limit-home settings, camshafts, and spark plugs. To any mechanic trying to screw me over or tempted to think I was gullible and ignorant, I threw in JUST enough car lingo to make them think otherwise. A very useful tool. Also, I think Star Wars and Star Trek really are cool (see above weird fact #3 about me), but I want to know so much more random trivia about it JUST so I will be cooler in the eyes of fellow geeks of the male gender, which is invariably who I am always attracted to even though I desperately wish I would fall for the rugged, muscular, exotic guys who are well-read and well-traveled (side note: this is exactly like my male friend who wants to date a redhead—or just Amy Adams—more than anything in the world, but always dates girls of other hair color—usually with brown hair and glasses). And lastly, I like some video games, but my skill level is very much a typical girl skill level (very low) and I only like Mario kind of stuff, and only on the N64. It’s my favorite system, for sure. But I like movies a lot, and some video games like Oblivion and Assassin’s Creed are a lot like movies because there’s a good storyline, and Fallout 3 is pretty cool too. However, though I don’t play them and don’t get geeked out about graphics or awesome moves or anything, I will watch a guy play video games for a good two or three hours 1) to spend time with someone of the opposite sex, and 2) so he will think I like video games and therefore am cool. I will never attempt to pick up a controller, even if I am offered an opportunity, because without fail I will be outed as a less-than-devoted gamer. This has led to many a yawn-stifling evening watching a friend free the demon-warrior-ghost from his crypt only to slay him with rapid-fire thumb movements and save the medieval kingdom from inevitable destruction by genetically altered goblins.
So, that sums up the weird world of ME…for now. There is just so much more that I’m not willing to share with you…namely because I would be hesitant to share it with a therapist, let alone you crazies/future employers/possible lovers on the Internet. And…you…know who you are??
If I suddenly triple my follower count from this post I’ll add more wacky facts about myself, but I’m out of ideas at the moment so I’ll try to eat my Comedy Wheaties in the morning to keep up my humor-strength. Might take awhile. I know, I know…you’re ALL waiting with bated breath. Especially that monkey.
Thursday, August 12
Get some popcorn and a loved one to squeeze in terror...or a Snuggie if you're completely alone in the world.
Yesssss…something crazy finally happened to me. This is the most ridiculous thing to ever occur in my life. Weirder than two friends coming out to me, weirder than having a huge crush on my cousin when I was 8, weirder than bringing a dead bird to class in 2nd grade…they all pale in comparison. The bird thing is a close second, but really they can’t compare because this was straight out of a chainsaw slasher movie. I’m not even sure if those two horror genres are allowed to be in films together, but that’s how scary this was. OK, enough build-up. Grab some popcorn and a friend’s hand (or the hand of someone you’re interested in; more power to you) and get ready.
My office did an event one Saturday and needed a HUGE tent for it, but we had no budget to rent one. We called every contact we had on Thursday and had a woman at the WWII museum call us back and say they had a 30x60 tent we could use. The museum is about 40 minutes away, but it was the only option we had, so we were pretty excited about it. Once we made the trip to the museum, a woman came out and said, “Yeah, John’s going to come and talk to you about the tent. There’s a slight issue with it.” The issue? It was destroyed A YEAR AGO in a huge storm. How badly was it destroyed? Well, we had the lovely John to tell us that bit of news. The top probably had huge tears in it, but for some reason he didn’t know for sure. He DID know, however, that many of the supporting poles were broken. He also knew that even if they weren’t, there is no way our vehicles would have been able to fit the poles. So…they couldn’t inform us of any of this before we came all the way out to the middle of nowhere??? This was just pissing us off at this point, by the way. The chainsaw-slasher part is still to come. John asked us if we want to see the tent anyway, just in case it’s still usable somehow. Well, we DID drive THREE vehicles FORTY minutes out of our way. Contrary to what John may think, we do not actually take time out of our incredibly busy schedules to take three vehicles just to visit the WWII museum on a whim. So, yeah, we would like to see the tent. So, he told us to follow him. We crossed the street and drove into what was essentially a field with an overgrown gravel path…and a barn in the middle of the field. This barn is something out of “Deliverance.” Also, it was raining; as if this setting wasn’t creepy enough. So John let us all into this barn thing, and we walked into a semi-lit, fairly-empty garage area with Russian words spray-painted all over the walls and a random filing cabinet or two. One of the interns informs us that he’s fairly certain one of the sections of Russian graffiti says “murder.” Garbage and random junk littered the floor, which I’m sure also houses about a billion types of viral infection. But what we did NOT see is anything that could pass as a tent. So John escorted us to another room, which looked like it could be the basement of a creepy house where people do drugs and make pornos. That doesn’t happen in this room, though. Nope, this room gave subtle hints that the barn had been broken into and used as a party barn by teenagers. These subtle hints included, but were not limited to, the fifteen-odd empty handles of vodka, the two doors that had been lain out as beer pong tables, the fifty empty red Solo cups and the hundred or so Natty Light cans strewn on the floor, the counter, the sofa, and the stained and ratty carpet. Combine this with the low ceiling, the flickering fluorescent lighting and the feeling that any second I would find the pentagram and skulls where these kids had done animal sacrifices and I was just a little creeped out when John shut off the lights and I WAS STILL IN THE ROOM. Two other interns were just in front of me, and with no small amount of shame do I relate to you that in a life-threatening situation, there would be no gallantry from this girl. No, I shrieked and clawed the backs of the guys in front of me to make sure I was no longer the last person in the room. Huh-uh, I’ve seen scary movies; I know that the person in the back and the person in the front always get it. And the virgin is always the first to go, so DOUBLE WHAMMY. So, John moved a filing cabinet from in front of a different door and left us all in the creepy party-garage/date-rape house/E-is-for-ecstasy room. Then my boss (who is only two years older than me so we get along really well) saw the stairs leading up to a second level, and he goes, “I’m going to go check it out!” Of course, this is where in a REAL scary movie he would have been killed off because once you split up you are just begging for the ax-murderer with half a face and some serious mommy issues to come find you and peel off your epidermis in its entirety to complete his zoot-suit-o’-skin (femur-cane sold separately).
But the real version is infinitely creepier and potentially really sad too. He came back downstairs where we were all still waiting for John and said, “Umm, it’s really weird up there.” While this was not a shocker to any of us, we asked him to explain. Apparently the upstairs area was split into a bunch of teeny TEENY rooms with a bed and a bathroom each, and the words “Know why you live” were written on the staircase. First thought: we’re definitely going to be killed. Second thought: tell CBFF Christi and BFF Corrin where I am and what John looks like so they’ll know who to look for during the investigation into our mysterious disappearance. Third thought, less funny: this sounds a lot like a human trafficking scheme. That thought has bugged me ever since we left that underage-drinking Russian crackhouse with a chop shop on the side for a little extra revenue, actually. But it’s not funny to think or write about, so I’ll skip it and go back to the funny-creepiness.
The second my boss related to us the teeny rooms that I’m sure were just places for the wasted teens to hook up with a bit more privacy, John freaked us all out by pushing back through the tiny door with the filing cabinet in front of it and telling us he found a storage area outside that may contain the tent. Remember? We’re looking for a TENT. I know, it’s a little hard to remember why on EARTH we were putting ourselves in so much danger in the first place. To refresh your memory, it’s because we love our jobs so FREAKING much and take pride in our work and want to put forth the best DARN event possible. Yeah… Anyway, we all traipsed outside in the drizzling rain and see four storage-area-garages all sitting next to the barn building. Though we were now out of the dusty, ratty porn-barn and in the daylight, we were no longer visible from the road, i.e. no witnesses. FAAAAAN-tastic. As John opened up the first of the garages, we began to get an even stronger sense that we were in a bad Stephen King novel. I’m not even sure if there ARE any bad Stephen King novels, but you get the idea. Think that really crappy “Wrong Turn” movie and anything with clowns in it. We saw faded, once-brightly painted picnic tables stacked on top of each other, old carnival signs, clown faces peeking out at us from behind old holey tarps, and I THINK parts of a merry-go-round or carousel. TERR. IF. EYING. (I know that’s not how you spell terrifying, but it works better this way phonetically) As we were all half-heartedly looking for the tent that is supposedly buried under all these old horror-movie props, just wanting to make it out alive and not really caring about the tent anymore, all of a sudden one of us looked up and John was carrying around a spool of chain in one hand. YES, he ACTUALLY had a chain dangling from one of his hands. I’m not creative enough to make this crap up. Calm, rational, and realistic person that I am, I tugged on everyone’s sleeve that I could get a grip on and squeaked, “He’s got a chain, you guys! He’s definitely going to kill us!” My boss told me to get into his car and have 911 on speed dial. Now, I sincerely can’t tell you guys if we were all serious or not. He was half-joking like the rest of us. But I really can’t figure out if we were all scaring ourselves into hysteria and were laughing because we were all terrified, or just laughing it off because we knew it seemed horrifying but was really harmless. Anyway, partly to get out of the rain, and partly because I felt one of us should have a chance of survival in case John started swinging that chain around, I got into the car and just watched. John had mentioned that his “friend” (accomplice) might know where the tent was, but we didn’t see him call this friend; suddenly this other guy appeared out of NOWHERE and said, “So you guys didn’t find that tent yet, huh?” WHAT. THE. HECK. We didn’t know how he knew where we were, how he knew what we were looking for, and why his umbrella tip had a semi-sharpened look to it, but we were not about to stick around to find out. John (who at some point had put down the chain) and his friend opened up the second garage and we found TENTS! Remember tents? So we wouldn’t get rained out for our event? Barely, right? Tents by the score, poles in the upper thousands, of all different shapes and sizes. We were almost home free. But not quite. We quickly discovered that we couldn’t lift a tent out of the garage to see if it was undamaged, and even if we could somehow manage that impossible task, there was no way to know which poles went with it. And even if we could somehow manage THAT, neither the poles NOR the tent would fit into any of our vehicles. ALL of which John or one of his deranged cohorts COULD have learned for us with just a little bit of digging BEFORE we drove 40 minutes out there and spent the better part of a morning trying not to get axed, or herpes…herpes’ed? Anyway, the second we learned it was useless to try with these tents, we hightailed it out of that house of death and made our way safely back to the office…and it didn’t even rain the next day.
Point: I’M STILL ALIVE! End.
Friday, July 9
The purpose of this post is just to briefly give a shout-out to NOT getting married today!! Yay!! Seriously, this is not sarcastic or a cover for the deep deep pain I feel. I'm not opposed to marriage, and I'm not going to rant about what a completely manipulative, cowardly person filled with committment and trust issues who pulled a Chris-Farley-in-Tommy-Boy-with-his-pretty-pet-biscuit my ex is. No, I'm better than that. No really, that was for humorous purposes only. I applaud his cowardice wrapped in a nice "this is the right thing to do" candy-coated shell, because it really was the right thing, for me anyway.
I still think marriage is great, but HOLY CRAP people my age should NOT be getting married. No seriously, all the marriages on Facebook of people I graduated with or who are not even graduated YET, they FA-REAK me out. Maybe they knew who they were much more than I did, but I didn't come into who I really was until after the break-up. And MAN I'm cool. Haha. I mean, I have flaws for sure, but I really like myself. I really hope I don't have to be single to like myself, because what a drag that would be. A vow: whenever my next relationship is (and I'm NOT looking for one in the near future), I will NOT immediately turn into a needy insecure super-bitch. Because I'm not that person, and I don't know what it is about men I get into relationships with that turns me into that psycho.
So, to anyone in an unhappy marriage because you got married too young or you didn't live life as much as you wanted to before you got married or you didn't know what a total bastard your husband was until after you said "I do," I am going to party it up for ALL YA'LL's sake tonight! Two of my best friends are coming out to the Fort to hang out with me, and we are going to have so much fun. Actually, I asked them to come out in case I was really depressed and weepy today, but I woke up relaxed and stress-free, no crying (a small miracle for the woman with tears PERPETUALLY coming out of her face) and wondering how on EARTH a mere 8 months ago I actually thought I would be ready and happy to be ANYONE's wife starting today, let alone HIS wife.
I have way too much to do for myself and by myself before I'm ready to become the sweet, stay-at-home, forget my dreams because his are more important, "dinner's on the table, sweetheart!" wife that my dear BLIND high school and college friends are becoming so easily, like lemmings to the cliff. Again, NOT hating on the institution of marriage, just the choices most of my peers are making.
So, move to Chicago to follow CBFF Christi? I can do that. Italy? hello, gelato! Paris? well, some things are out the question no matter how much freedom you have. But Australia? have you HEARD the men talk? YES PLEASE. Law school? ...meh, why not.
"Back then I swore I was gonna marry him someday, but I realized some bigger dreams of mine." Oh Tay-Tay (Swift, that is)...I may not be a multi-award-winning recording artist, but I feel ya. Sing it, girl.
Sunday, June 13
To begin, I knew this was crazy when I did it, but College BFF Christi tried out for a reality TV show in Chicago, and when I looked at her like she was kind of nuts, she said, “Why not? At least I can say I tried. People can’t make fun of me because they didn’t even try and I did.” This inspired me to try my own crazy, at-least-I-tried thing. Spoiler alert: CBFF is NOT on a reality TV show, and our plans worked out equally well for both of us.
Hello. You don't know me, and even though I don't really know you, I have a very weird question. I'm a senior at *I’m not telling you guys* College, and I have an internship in Fort Wayne this summer, with Senator *So-and-so*'s office. I'm making essentially a pittance, and I can't really afford rent anywhere. And, your family has a big farm in *some Indiana* City. (I know, I know...this already sounds insane as I type it...believe me, I'm aware.)
*I thought admitting it would make it seem less creepy. It didn’t.*
*Yes they are.*
So, you can completely disregard this message if you find it intrusive and presumptuous, but I'm CLEARLY at the end of my rope here with such a desperate request. On the off chance that you DON'T immediately delete this, and if you would feel more comfortable after meeting me, you can do that
AND, believe it or not, he actually replied: My parents are great people but believe me you don't want to live with them haha....I will let you know if I hear of anything around Columbia City.
I had to add that last period, by the way. While I was just grateful to get a reply and not a restraining order, the more I read it to friends who couldn’t believe the story until I read both messages to them, the more I was like “YOU’RE a millionaire? YOU were on TV as this classy, rich guy and you can’t even use a PERIOD??” And to just throw “haha” in there like it goes with the rest of that sentence…I mean, come ON. Also, it made me unbelievably curious as to what kind of people his parents are to make him say that. Are they conservative? monkish-ly quiet? sheep-humping hicks? Do they decorate their house with clowns? I’ll never know.
Anyway, since then I have met two people who know him and know the family and I told the story to one of them and he thought it was hysterical instead of crazy. Maybe a little crazy, but he mercifully kept that to himself…unlike the other coworkers in the room who immediately mass-texted and Tweeted it and gave me REALLY weird looks for the rest of the day. He said he could picture Trevor saying something like that, and that he was too nice to think it was creepy. And if he doesn’t think I’m unbelievably crazy and disturbed, then clearly he’s not mentally right and it’s a good thing I didn’t live with him this summer. Whew, dodged a bullet on that one.
And that, children, is the story of how your aunt Ashlee ALMOST lived with a millionaire/got her first restraining order.
Saturday, June 5
Dear Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon Bunches:
I love you. You are delicious. But if we are going to have a beautiful relationship together, we need to start with honesty. You are overkill. When I tell people about how delicious you are, I’m going to sound like an idiot because that’s what your name does to me. “Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon BUNCHES.” Really? Did the marketing team of Post cereal, Honey Bunches of Oats division, even have a meeting when you were developed? Or was someone just like, “Hey, we have this new cereal with cinnamon bunches; what should we call it?” And the rest of the team was like, “Just say ‘with Cinnamon Bunches.” Didn’t ONE person stand up in that meeting and go, “But we already have ‘Bunches’ in the name…isn’t that a little redundant?” I have to think that someone at least thought it. Is your company full of spineless zombie lemmings? No one in your entire corporation knows any synonyms for “bunches?” I think that should be a job requirement. “Clusters” is an excellent alternative. It’s perfect; the cinnamon parts are totally cluster-like. Or you could really change it up and go for something entirely different. I mean, I don’t have a marketing degree or even much of a marketing mindset, but you totally could have set yourself apart as this new, completely awesome cereal in the cereal aisle if you had gone with an advertising approach where you crossed out Honey and wrote in “Cinnamon!” (With or without the exclamation mark, it’s up to you. I’m not the marketing guru here. Then again, neither is your team of geniuses, apparently.) Then instead of your consumer walking down the cereal aisle and saying, “Oh my word, seriously? Has Honey Bunches of Oats come out with ANOTHER variety? When is this going to stop?!” they will be saying, “Wait, is this the same thing as the other ones? Is the honey flavor gone entirely? Have they taken out the honey bunches? Did Honey Bunches have to take a mandatory retirement? Was there some sort of big falling-out between Honey and Oats? Did Honey have a scandalous affair with one of the staffers? Are they trying to confuse me by covering it up? Was there an epic battle between Honey and Cinnamon and Cinnamon won and now it’s trying to take over the world one cereal at a time? …I’ll buy some.” See, confusion creates interest, and interest sells cereal. Plus, you don’t put the new part at the end of the title. No one will get that far because people are lazy about reading. Plus PLUS, everyone knows that cinnamon is better than honey. Just saying.
On a final note, we are having another fight now, because I have said the word “bunches” so many times in my head that it doesn’t sound real anymore. Bunches could not possibly be a real word. So thanks for that.
I’m still eating you again tomorrow morning, though.
All my love,
Wednesday, June 2
I have the self control of an un-spayed dog in heat (I realize the fact that she’s un-spayed is completely moot since spayed dogs can’t be in heat, but it’s necessary to get the point across of how very little self control I possess). Well, I thought about what to have for dinner and remembered Roommate saying that I should eat her tortillas so they don’t go bad. I have never heard of tortillas going bad, but at that point I had already made the mistake of letting a teeny thought like “you know what tortillas make? quesadillas” into my head and it buried in like a tick and by that time I had it like herpes and it would never go away and I would never be able to get rid of it until I satisfied it like the nasty little sex offender it was and that’s three mixed metaphors in one sentence and I don’t even care because you need to understand that this complete lack of willpower is a terrible thing keeping me from gaining any sort of self-improvement. Suddenly I had an overpowering NEED to make myself the cheesiest quesadilla ever. Like, there was no way I would be able to go another 2 minutes without gobs of cheese and tortilla in my mouth (not gobs of tortilla, actually; poor syntax which I am again not fixing in my urgency, merely commenting on which may be more time-consuming). OK, we’ll get to why this was a poor choice in the first place later. Really, I probably recognized it then, but I was like a serious meth addict experiencing the worst withdrawal of his life, so bad that he didn’t even remember how awesome meth was but he felt one of those phantom pains about it and there was a very real possibility that he could actually get that real feeling back and he would stab a human baby to remember for real how great meth was even though he knows he just went on a binge of crack and X, and then heroin and blow both on the next day and he really really doesn’t need that meth but he can’t think of ANYTHING ELSE BUT METH. So I went down to the kitchen and got out the “nearly-bad tortillas” (justification? check) and mozzarella AND colby jack cheeses and a pan and went to work on the mo-fo of all quesadillas…which wasn’t epic at all but when meth addicts are really jones-ing for some meth, ANY meth is the mo-fo of all meth. Really, just keep comparing me to a meth addict and this will make a LOT of sense. Even the burns. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’m also watching “How I Met Your Mother” on my laptop while I’m doing this, which is great but means most of the counter space is taken up and when it comes time to take the 3-lb. quesadilla out and put it on a plate I grab a napkin because I still feel too intrusive in Roommate’s house to use her dishes with any frequency. And with all that cheese came massive amounts of drippy, boiling-hot grease, which I failed to remember until the napkin gave out and the pain sensors in my fingers reminded me and I dropped the quesadilla on my Enter key (ish) but mostly not on my computer (thank GOD!) and I’m trying to bite off some of the cheese oozing out of the side and MASSACRING my tongue because I took it out of the skillet .5 seconds ago. But in my snort-some-meth-powder-I-found-on-a-NY-sidewalk-next-to-a-pile-of-actual-excrement state (I don’t even know if you snort meth or if it ever comes in powder form, so excuse that part) I just didn’t care. And I burned my fingers in about 5 places and my tongue was destroyed. And it was way too much cheese. Like, I could feel my bowels shutting down and making picket signs and striking for 3 days AS I finished the last bite. So, maybe in some weird part of my brain that thinks it’s helping but really doesn’t remember ANYTHING about biology, I thought I was counteracting all the fast-food-induced toilet paper usage by making me crave (and unavoidably eat) something that would stop me up for a week. But now I’ll just want to real bad and be unable to and curse my lack of self-control until I decide ten minutes later that I must eat some Little Caesar’s Crazy Bread THAT INSTANT or I will die. OHHH…remembered something I wish I hadn’t: I had Arby’s mozzarella sticks with lunch. EFFFFFFFF. Really…REALLY?
OK, then I was all, “That was a poor choice; no more food tonight. Deal? Deal.” I talk to myself WAY too readily when no one is around. Anyway, about .7 seconds later Roommate comes in and says, “Did you eat?” And I COULD say, “Yes and it was a poor choice so hide all the food ESPECIALLY CHEESE for a week.” But I do not. I say, “Yes, and it was all cheese so I won’t poop for a week. You’re welcome for that. (We’ve know each other a WEEK, by the way) Why do you ask?” And I figure it probably has something to do with going over to her brother’s house because he and his wife are super welcoming and invite me ALL the time and I usually just decline because I’m a real adult now (supposedly) which makes me boring and exhausted and I go to bed at like 10:30. So, she goes, “Oh, well since I’m taking care of Reuben’s cats this weekend he’s treating for Chinese and says you’re welcome to join and use their Internet and he’ll treat you too.” And OF COURSE the response was NOT, “I’ll come for the Internet and because your brother and his wife are super awesome I love them, but I don’t need to eat anything for the rest of the week, let alone the poor choice of Chinese takeout.” No, dear reader, it couldn’t possibly be that. It was, “I’m not that hungry but I’ll totally come anyway if he’s treating!” because it doesn’t matter how full you are, if you are offered a free meal and it is something you love or even tried once and didn’t hate or heard about in a magazine and it sounded edible, and you are a Dutch person, YOU MUST EAT THAT FREE MEAL. This is a Dutch rule. No one even taught me; it is engrained in my being. So I ate 5 lbs. of cheese today and then a whole extra meal that wants so desperately to pass through me very quickly because it’s Chinese and it delivers fast, it gets eaten fast, it digests fast and it leaves fast; but the cheese Nazis and Border Patrol bowels (alliteration NOT intended) have set up a 4-day roadblock and are intent on making me suffer for thinking I can somehow beat the system of natural punishment I deserve when I eat fast food in a meth-addict-reminiscent way (points for spelling that right the first time). “In fact,” says my body, “that’ll be two for (flinching) thinking a wheel of cheese would be the right solution.”
Wow. This is really long but I think it’s a good one. Hopefully you stuck with me through that long post and you weren’t like, “Need picture! Too much letters!” Because apparently you all have terrible grammar too. Anyway, wacky things don’t really happen to me, so instead I guess I’ll have to create humor out of the really poor choices I make. Really, though, those write themselves.
OK, my work-mind says, “You shouldn’t fall back into your habit of going to bed at 4 am and getting up at noon just because it’s a holiday weekend. You’ll have to be an adult again next week.” But my normal, still-in-college-mode mind is going, “WOO HOO!!! Nothing to do until 1 tomorrow!!! Stay up and watch Glee and maybe a movie or six!!” But I’m going to listen (ish) to my (boring) responsible mind and go to bed after just one teeny little episode of something as of yet undecided.
UPDATE: the 10-lb. quesadilla had essentially NO effect on my digestive routines!! Yay! OK, I REALLY will stop talking about poop now. At least for a week.
Saturday, May 29
That’s right, they’re not even the same type of graph, nor do they show the same thing, nor do they make much sense. The things to grasp from analyzing these horrible graphs are the following:
1. I use more toilet paper the most people NORMALLY, without eating massive amounts of greasy slop. Not so much in amount per use, but in number of uses daily. I’m so glad you know that now.
2. Eating fast food on consecutive days ends in misery, or preferably, death. Because then at least Roommate could save money by buying less toilet paper.
3. Paint graphs/drawings in general take way too much time, and I should be sleeping, because otherwise I end up publishing graphs explaining how often I poop on the Internet.
But wait, there’s more!
I was brushing my teeth when something else happened that makes the prospect that my teachers just felt really sorry for me because I tried so hard and thought I was so smart so they passed me a very real possibility. Background: I am blind. OK, I almost wrote, “Like, LEGIT blind” when I realized that’s not at all legit and I was going to give my (again, sarcastic number) millions of readers a very wrong picture of myself. I’m very very very nearsighted. This is more realistic but also less dramatic. However, this story will demonstrate 1) my utter stupidity and, 2) more informatively, the severity of my nearsightedness. I had already taken out my contacts and was brushing my teeth when I felt a hair on or near my mouth. Or possibly a wayward bristle poking me in the lip. I reached for it without looking in the mirror first, and got nothing. But I felt it again and tried to grab it again. Still nothing. Now I was getting irritated, so I went to look in the mirror to figure out what the crap this was. Again, very nearsighted person that I am, I have to get REALLY close to the mirror to see myself clearly. In the process of getting near enough to see the hair/bristle to pull it out of my mouth, I got too close and stabbed myself in the gum with my toothbrush, successfully making me feel like a mental patient who needs an orderly to brush their teeth for them and remind them not to swallow the paste or choke on the brush, since I forgot in a mere 2 seconds that I had a toothbrush sticking out at a 90⁰ angle from my mouth and getting close to a sheet of glass with my face might be a bad idea. This begs the obvious and unfathomable question: HOW AM I A COLLEGE GRADUATE? OK, that is actually not that difficult to accomplish, I guess. Lots of real idiots graduate from college. Better question: HOW DO THEY (the vague, inscrutable they) EXPECT ME TO BE AN ADULT??? I CAN’T BRUSH MY TEETH WITHOUT STABBING MY FACE!!! Figure that one out and you get a cookie. Unless I picked up a reader outside of a 10 miles radius from my current position, because I'm not mailing you ONE COOKIE. Buy yourself one and claim it's from the super cool blogger chick you "know" and then you'll be promoting me too. You get cookie; I get promotion. Everyone wins.