Saturday, December 8, 2012

The night I came in second place with Ryan Lochte

Exactly 100 days ago, on a hot Tuesday August evening, my friend Faige called and asked me if I wanted to go to a party sponsored by Hennessy. I had a craptastic day at work and although I didn’t feel like getting dolled up, I threw on a dress and went to meet her. The venue was pretty much inside the commercial property building she works in so she showed me around, we had a few glasses of wine, and made our way to the party. Once inside, we were met by a dozen leggy models holding trays of different Hennessy mixed drinks. We tried our own and each other’s, and realized the only way to get through the pungent, vile taste was to suck them down quickly. Before long we were 4-5 drinks in and walking around the space, also noticing that we were probably 2 of the 4 white people at the party. A non-issue, really, but amusing in the sense that there is always some truth to stereotypes (read: Hennessy is a black drink. Read: must find out which of my black friends drink this shit and how the hell they can stomach it). A few people from LA began talking to us, and I learned a couple big name celebrities would be at this event; Erykah Badu and Ryan Lochte. I chuckled at the randomness of it all, but then remembered Ryan Lochte supposedly had a thing for donkey booties and clearly, there was no shortage of them there. Faige scoped out the VIP area (which wasn’t that hard to miss at it was a raised square resembling a boxing ring on the right side of the room) and we sauntered in that direction. At this point the diesel fuel was pumping through my veins and I started doing that awesome thing where you strike up random conversations with everyone around you, even when they don't have any interest in talking. I was talking to some dude when out of nowhere he sort of pushed me to the side to let a group of people were part ways for someone to walk past us. I looked over at him (cannot stand when strangers touch me, so rude) and was about to open my mouth when a woman placed her hand on my arm and said “how you doin' tonight, girl?” I looked up and locked eyes with Erykah Badu. Inside I felt something resembling innards starting to liquefy? But that sounds awful so that’s not a good comparison. Maybe like hot flashes on top of hot flashes? At any rate, I could feel my mouth form into a big, cheesy fucking grin and the only thing I could make out was “oh my God you are so beautiful” to which she smiled and walked away. I hadn’t even noticed that Faige was no longer standing near me, so I looked around and saw her talking to an older guy in the VIP area. I made my way over to her and gushed about my earth shattering experience with Ms. Badu, but she had one goal and that was to get into VIP. The man she was talking to was going to “let” us sit at his table, so we walked up and sat down with a group of stiff, white haired businessmen. One of them with an English accent asked me if I wanted a drink, and I declined. “Don’t you like Hennessy?” he asked. I leered at him. “No I don’t like Hennessy,” I said. “This shit tastes like gasoline.” “Oh, interesting that you say that,” he replied. “I’m one of the VPs for the company.” Woops. I figured the only way to get out of that situation was to start dancing, so I put on my best robot, tried some Jersey turnpike and dropped it down low like only I can. Faige, easily mortified, tried to get me to sit down but I wasn’t having it. I looked over and saw a group of people standing near someone tall in a white shirt. “Holy shit, it’s Ryan Lochte!!” I exclaimed. I edged my way over with Faige behind me and began discreetly making my way closer and closer. Women and men alike were snapping pictures with him and trying to chat him up. I mean, they were really eating this shit up. I found myself next to a short guy who started talking to me and it turned out he was a friend of Ryan’s. I made small talk with him and just as one woman was walking away, I tossed my phone to Faige and introduced myself. She took one photo and I didn’t like how it turned out so I asked him if he would take another. Apparently this is not the type of thing you ask of famous people because once again, Faige looked horrified. I asked him about the Olympics, how he liked Europe, and what he thought of Erykah Badu as she was just going up to perform. Let me be honest: this guy was ah, dumb. DUMB. The rumors about him being intellectually sub-par are all true. He was barely able to articulate sentences without sounding like a 7 year old. He was, however, gorgeous, and it was then the star spangled banner began to play in my head because I had come up with a goal all of my own: to nail him. Another girl had grabbed his (incredibly short) attention span, so I resorted to talking to his small black friend. “So listen. If I wanted to hang out with Ryan after this thing is over, how would I go about doing that?” I asked. “Give me your number” he said. I did, and as Faige drove me home, I told her she would be accompanying me in said mission. She had found herself a nice stallion, so unfortunately it looked like I was on my own. She dropped me off and I realized that it was already close to 3am and it was a school night. I debated on just going to sleep, but my phone rang and soon after I was put on speaker and asked to come to the Public Hotel where Ryan was staying. In my drunken haze I realized I would have to go to work in the morning so I thought it made sense to PACK AN OVERNIGHT BAG. Yes, an overnight bag. My old ass, vintage Puma bag that’s pretty much falling apart. Not one of those, oh hey, I'm gonna meet you at a nice hotel and have a sexy romp, but a I'm being practical and packing a bag that could very well be 30 years old with my TOOTHBRUSH AND CLOTHES FOR TOMORROW. I took a cab to the hotel feeling pretty proud of myself and downstairs found a bunch of young kids working. They were part of the Hennessy marketing team. With drunkenness and exhaustion, I tried to muster “what room is Ryan in?” when his friend came to get me. He eyed up my bag and I just shrugged my shoulders. We got to the room, which was in fact two suites together and there I found Ryan sitting on a chair on his phone. “Hey,” I said as I sat down. “Hey,” he responded and went back to texting. The three of us sat in silence for a good few minutes before I finally asked, “so is anyone going to offer me a drink?” His friend shot up and led me into their bedroom where there was a small fridge. I took a mini bottle of wine and sat back down in the living room. By this time Ryan had turned on the tv and was watching a skateboarding competition. “Man, I’m totally getting back into this when I get back to Cali,” he said. “Oh for sure man, you’ll be so good at it,” little black guy responded. Really? I thought. Because I don't know how he was able to grasp the concept. I yawned, and they both looked at me. “Sorry, it’s late. I have work tomorrow…” Silence. "So is Olympic Village like the big whorehouse everyone says it is?" I asked. "Are there condoms lying around everywhere?" "I actually don't know anything about that," Ryan said. "I spent all my free time practicing." I bit my tongue about seeing the segment with Ryan's mother being interviewed and telling the world her son tells her about his one night stands. Ryan turned on MTV and a Nicki Minaj video came on. “Man, I love her titties!!” he said, with the most inflection in his voice that entire evening. I choked back a laugh and started thinking of the best way to get Ryan’s friend out of the room or to make it more obvious that I was in fact there to LAY HIM. I went to the bathroom and went through the cabinet, which was full of toiletries and two huge watches. I remember thinking, wow, I should really take one of these but then snapped back to reality because a. I was not a klepto and b. I had more important things to worry about. I walked out of the bathroom and found that another girl had stopped by, and Ryan was not only making her a cocktail, he was walking her around the suite. She looked about 18. I looked quizzically at short black guy and hissed “are they going to hook up?” He shrugged sheepishly, “maybe.” What the shit? My cleavage was out, my legs looked amazing, and I was chewing at least 12 pieces of gum so there was no way I reeked of alcohol. Okay, yes, maybe I had gotten the hiccups at some point but they went away remarkably fast. I marched over to the bedroom area, picked up my Puma bag and started to put on my coat. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Uh, home,” I replied. “Why?” he asked. “Because, short black guy (I knew his name that night, or at least I hope I did). The sole purpose for me coming here tonight was to fuck Ryan Lochte. If that’s not going to happen, there’s no reason for me to be here.” “Well, you can always crash on the couch,” he said. “Excuse me? No. I’m going to leave here with A LITTLE DIGNITY.” With that, I slung my Puma bag across my shoulder and slammed the door.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

You've reached a new low when...

The phrase Girls Night In can be quite deceiving. You're not going galavanting about town, so what could really happen? Yeah, sure, we'll watch movies, have a few glasses of wine and go to bed. Oh no. Not when you put two Irish girls, an Italian and a Polack in the same room together. What started out as an innocent Friday evening turned into one of absurd debauchery. As more and more wine flowed, the music got louder. And what girl doesn't want to dance when she hears Top 40? I use the word dance loosely, as it was more of an 80's exercise video gone wrong, complete with jumping jacks, the running man, and of course, the robot. Cut to more wine and a raid on one of the Irish 1's closet. Talk about the sloppiest fashion show imaginable. Stumbling about, trying to put outfits together, and commenting on whose boobs looked better in what shirt really took the free for all to new heights. No, no, I take that back. Jumping around topless was the height of it. What? Girls do that at sleepovers, you know. 2 1/2 bottles per person later, we were each slathered with retin A that would soon make our faces numb and fell asleep in one big bed together. It was all sweet and adorable and cuddly-like until the following morning, when the previous night's alcohol and cheese pizza consumption came back in full force and my innards were screaming at me to wake up and relieve myself. Still in a drunken haze, I whispered to Irish 1 what my plan was, only to be knocked back into reality when she kindly let me know that she was out of toilet paper and that the closest store didn't open for another hour. Time that I didn't have, according to my churning stomach. Keeping my horror inside as not to wake Irish 2 (Italian 1 jumped ship onto the couch) I glared at her and put my head back down. A few minutes later I was instructed to go to the bathroom and it was there that I saw the improvisation which had taken place; doggie piddle pads were cut up into little squares and set on top of the toilet. Yes, you read that correctly. Doggie piddle pads. The diapers for dogs. Canines. As in, this was designed specifically for an animal and not meant to touch the ass of a human. From the bedroom I could hear Irish 1 attempting to hold in her guffaws, and as I hung my head in shame at what I was about to do, I realized we were all probably better off just going out to the fucking bar. At the very least, we could have stolen a roll of toilet paper there.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Is this real life?

For the third year in a row, I drove down to the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my parents. It's 18 hours one way. Typically I would write something about my wacky father, but since we see eye to eye for the most part, I'd like to introduce you to my mother, Malgorzata (Margaret). At 5'4, 50-something years old, she's one of the sweetest, most honest people you'll ever meet. She (God love her) also has a few screws loose. Think Marie from Everybody Loves Raymond multiplied by 1000 and throw in a Po1ish accent. Her motto should be "knowledge, interest, control," because she thinks she knows everything, she's interested in everything, and she wants to control everything. Perfect example: my dad driving, me sitting next to him, and my mom sitting with her head in between our seats to catch every word we're saying. It's impossible to summarize all of the crazy that came out of her mouth during our trip, but here are a few of my favorites: After driving past a Burger King billboard with the words "No Fakin' Bacon," my mom screamed: "NO FUCKING BACON?!" 2. After several mispronunciations, she finally gives up and starts referring to Matthew McConaughey as Matthew "Moj Kochany" (Mooy-kohany), which means "my darling" in Polish. 3. Driving to one of the islands on the Outer Banks, she asks if what we're on is a "penisula." 4. While devouring a plate full of humongous shrimp, she looks up and says "I don't know if you knew this, but in the ghetto they call these scrimps." 5. After seeing a guy's profile picture of whom I had been corresponding with back home she says "I think he has simpleton features. Also...is he poor?" And finally, my personal favorite on the way to dinner: "I think you're overdressed. I also think you look better than me. The latter is what bothers me the most. Can you change please?" I did, but only because she was paying.

Friday, August 3, 2012

God, I've been terrible at posting. But in my defense, I've been glued to the television, cheering like a maniac for Team USA at the Olympics. I don't think I've ever been this into sporting events in my life. And how could you not be? The athletes out of our country are INSANE. Their bodies? Rock hard. Their nimbleness? LIKE A GECKO. Seriously. Have you seen the women's gymnastics team in action? There have been judges whose mouths have dropped open. And those swimmers? Geezus. I happen to believe Michael Phelp resembles Shrek (or Sloth from the Goonies, take your pick) but there is no denying that his talent is remarkable. It's a great time to be a (Polish) American!Now if only I could sneak into the Olympic Village...Oh, and just because: I've included a little gem I think you might enjoy. That's right, it's the water polo team. GROUP SHOWER, ANYONE?

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Backhanded compliment

So it's no secret that I date online. I've been on that Godforsaken site OK Cupid (or OK Stupid as my friends and I call it). I have a separate blog dedicated to those stories: http://theanticupid.blogspot.com/ but I received a message from a guy I had to share. It read: "hey, I'm way too young (21) but I thought you were 23. Keep up the good work! I mean, not to make you feel like you're old or anything." For the record, I'm 30. And nowhere on my profile does it say I'm looking for guys younger than me. My response? "If you're old enough to crawl around on all fours with a gag in your mouth/a paper bag over your head, you're old enough for me."

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Reason 5,047 why I love senile old people

Sometimes after I've had too much to drink and I feel like I need to put my life in perspective, I'll sign up to volunteer for Senior Bingo Night at the local old folks home in my neighborhood. I guess the politically correct term is 'elderly,' but if you've called them old for so long, it's really quite impossible to change. Typically I'll back out last minute and get a stern email from the organization about how I shouldn't have waited until an hour before the event to bail, but once in a blue moon I'll actually follow through and show up. And most often than not, I'll have a delightful little experience. Tonight I sat in between Octavia, a wheelchair bound woman wearing a construction worker orange t shirt, and Joanne, also in a wheelchair and clutching a can of Coke. Octavia was all smiles and compliments while Joanne stared at me, tight lipped and disapproving like. Quite the cranky one, she was. Octavia was fully capable of handling her own bingo board, but Joanne kept falling asleep. And snoring. When she did, I would innocently place the chips on the numbers she had, because if I tried to do it when she was awake, she would push my hand away and glare at me. She woke up at one point and mumbled "you Joanna?" I replied yes. "I'm Joanne." "Well look at that," I said. "We've got some pretty awesome names." (crickets). "You got birds on your dress?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "I got a dress with champagne glasses on it." SWEET MOTHER MARY. I KNEW THERE WOULD EVENTUALLY BE A BONDING MOMENT. "I do like the champagne Joanne, and I am going to want to see this skirt." No response. Great. Back to square one. When it came time for me to leave, her was of saying goodbye was "You go to the beach? You got some tan lines. But you look alright. You look alllllright." Thanks for the self esteem boost, g-ma.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Lost in Translation

Every summer, my mom flies to Poland for 6-8 weeks to visit family. My dad, like me, is terrified of flying so he stays behind and lives like a bachelor in his man cave. Which is almost unfurnished other than Pink Floyd and Janis Joplin posters. I like to pop by once in a while to make sure he's doing okay. He'll never admit that he's lonely, but I know he's secretly happy to see me. He takes full advantage of these visits and forces me to either call any company that might have overcharged him for a service (cable, insurance, etc.) or help him pronounce whatever words he's been having problems with that particular week. It's important to note here that he doesn't have any 'special needs,' but merely a super thick Polish accent which is both terrifying to listen to and incredibly difficult to understand. I don't know if other immigrant children have been appointed the task of becoming a personal secretary/translator, but I certainly have. Of course it has its perks; sometimes my dad pays me, and other times the amusement of seeing Home Depot employees' faces when he says things like "wat do yoo mean yoo hav no more of dese? man on phone tolds me there were three. Dis place is sheethole" is enough. But there are those days, God bless him, when I have to search deep within my soul in order to keep from running screaming into the woods. Today was one of them. We were soaking up some rays by the side of the house when he interrupted my nap. (In Polish): "how do you say mud in English?" Me: mud. Dad: no not mad. Me: I'm not saying MAD, I'm saying MUD. Like wet, sticky dirt?" Dad: Yeah, you look like dirt. Dad: how do you say three? (comes out as free). Me: three. Not free. Dad: That's what I said. Free. Me: I can't. Dad: Stupid English.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

My Life as an Alfred Hitchcock Movie

I'm walking by the lake with a friend, and she needs to go to the bathroom. God forbid she goes when we actually have access to a public facility. She decides to go when there are none around...in the bushes. She finds some and asks me to cover her. She's peeing, and I'm leaning over trying to shield her from the public. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT CLASSY BROADS DO. Everything is going smoothly until I feel three horrendously sharp jabs on my head. When I reach up to touch it, A BIRD FLIES OFF. That's right. A bird. The size of my hand. As I scream, I look to the left and see that it's now perched on one of the bushes. If that wasn't bad enough, about 12 of its friends/cousins/siblings are there too. So now I'm running away, with my friend at my side digging in her pants to get leaves out. "Did you fucking see that?" I ask. "No, what happened?" she pants, one hand in her underwear. Passerbys are now staring at us. "A bird just attacked me. Straight up just landed on my head and pecked at me." "Well it probably thought your head was a nest" she responds. "WELL CLEARLY. But did it break flesh?" She checks my head and thankfully there's no blood, but the fact remains that I was thisclose from starring in my very own version of Birds. And being pecked to death. I'm guessing this means I should probably start straightening my curly, nappy hair to avoid this happening again...but I just don't have that kind of time.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

I'm on the A-list...of jackholes

Last weekend I was out with my friends Shanel and Katie. Katie saw a guy that she found attractive. "He looks like Josh Henderson from the new Dallas show," she said. I barely heard her, and continued dancing. "Look, he's going to the bar. Let's go get a drink." I walked up with her and Shanel. As it turns out, I ended up standing right next to him. And because my friends are just as obnoxious as me, they pushed me into him. Three times. It was then I finally opened my mouth. The conversation went something like this: Josh Henderson look alike: (glaring) Me: I'm really sorry. My friends have no manners. JH: It's ok. Me: Wow, that is some jacket. (he's wearing a grey leather jacket. It's hot as balls). JH: Yeah. Me: Did you...ride your motorcycle here? JH: I didn't know it was going to be so hot in Chicago. Me: God. You must be sweating like crazy. JH: It's actually not that bad. Me: So you're not from here? JH: No, California. Me: You look like you're from California. Me: So you want a shot or something? JH: No thanks, I don't like shots. Me: What are you going to order? An avocado salad? JH: (orders two shots) Me: Prick. I went back to my friends and Katie was looking at me quizzically. I asked her what was up. "You do realize that WAS Josh Henderson right?" "Who?" "JOSH HENDERSON. The guy from Dallas. WHO I TOLD YOU ABOUT LIKE 10 MINUTES AGO." "Oh. No. But can you believe he was wearing that jacket?" And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I should never talk to 'celebrities.'

Monday, June 11, 2012

Paging Doogie Howser

The dream I had the other night was so random and amazing I have to write about it. It was winter, and I was snow tubing with a friend of mine from high school. Her name was Sarah, and people used to call us the twins because we both have curly hair. Anyway, I'm coming down the hill and whose arms do I run into but those of Neil Patrick Harris. He was just chillin' at the bottom of the hill like he was waiting for me. So we start flirting because he's CLEARLY NOT GAY in this dream, and he says "everyone's been talking about you and your friend." "Oh yeah?" I ask. "What's the word on the street?" "Well, we've been trying to figure out who's more attractive." I nod. "And I was definitely going to say you but there's something a little, I don't know, ghetto about you." Fast forward to us in a HOT TUB and I'm squeezing his arm thinking, wow, I thought he'd be much skinnier. Except it's Neil Patrick Harris, but as his character in How I Met Your Mother so he's super smooth and knows all the right things to say. We start to make out and then...I wake up. Definitely beats the one where I sat on an AIDS needle.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Ball buster

So it's warm out and I've been boozing pretty hard. Over the past couple of weeks I've been hitting the bars with my friends and in doing so, busting the tiny little balls of pretty much every guy that I meet. How has it become so damn easy? Where have all the witty men gone? I've heard I'm abrasive, intimidating and scary more times than I can count. A 5'3 cherub like myself. The only thing that can be considered scary is that I relish in this shit. It's like ammunition and I've got SO MANY GUNS. Case in point: I'm sitting at a bar, clearly inebriated, when I see a super hot, tall guy. I wave and smile. We make eye contact. Finally he comes over and with his sour breath tells me I look like I have my guard up. I ask him if he knows the capital of Poland. He does not. He asks me why I didn't come over to him and say hello. I tell him I'm paralyzed from the waist down. He stares at me. I move my legs. I find him amusing enough to have late night food with, and as our unfriendly Russian waitress tossed a menu at me, I felt the need to search within the deep confines of this guy's innards to see if he had a soul. Because how ELSE can you find out if you're having breakfast with a zombie or not? "That waitress hates me," I said as I buttered an entire loaf of bread. "Oh yeah? Why?" he asked. "Well I was in here last week and she forgot to bring me my nachos, so I kind of went off." "What do you mean she forgot your nachos?" "I mean I ordered nachos and she brought me my two entrees WITHOUT THE NACHOS." "Wow, you really eat a lot, huh?" "I mean, do you understand the severity of this? I ask for extra cheese and sour cream, but instead I'm met with a bacon lettuce club and cheeseburger and fries. I NEEDED those nachos to prepare me for my meal." (crickets) "See, that's why this is never going to work." (look of confusion/beginnings of a scowl). "You didn't order me nachos after hearing that story. You fucking men today." And yes, I know this is why I'm still single.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Beam me up...

Scientology. Where you check your soul and homoeroticism at the door.

Top 10 random quotes from the time I turned 30

1. They ran out of cake, so I got you cakeballs. 2. Don't do what I did when I turned 30. Note: this meant get pregnant. 3. You look like Shirley Temple, and not a day over 21. 4. Since there aren't any straight black men here, I'll just fill in for now. Note: said by a gay black man. 5. Judging by your ass you're only 25. 6. I hope you're wearing a dress to your party and not pants. Note: said by a 90 year old woman who likes to call herself my grandmother. 7. My wish for you is to find a husband. 8. We got you something we knew you'd appreciate. Money. 9. This fried ice cream tastes too fried. Note: who says that? 10. If you ever want to have kids, now would be the time.

Monday, May 7, 2012

St. Peter's Hands

If you're like me and grew up going to private school, I'm sure you can remember daily mass and the misery that came with it. For the other young girls and myself, it was the perfect place to get our giggle on. Maybe because making any kind of noise was so forbidden, the moment someone did all hell broke loose. And if someone farted; we were goners. Looking back, everyone seemed to have their own special way of trying to hide their laughter from the nuns. The ones who laughed nasally and honked like geese would try to cover it up by sneezing louder than they were laughing. Ones who had chortles building in the back of their throats began coughing. And then there was me...beet faced and shoulders shaking uncontrollably. A silent laugh, yes, but still dangerous because the moment I had to take a breath I would usually make some kind of inhuman sound that resulted in being separated from the class and forced to sit next to the teacher. "Shh. Saint Peter is watching you," Sister Rosemary would say. God those women were boring. But they made an impression that would last a lifetime. Recently I went to church with two of my girlfriends. We sat in the middle. We were hungover. We looked like we had been run over by a semi truck. Midway through the mass, one of us said something that likely caused the most ridiculous display of immaturity ever to have graced Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I looked over at my friend Moni and she was wearing her sunglasses. Her shoulders were shaking, which could only indicate one thing. And then I felt it. The laughter creeping up from within me. I looked down at my lap and hoped for the best. Too late. Our friend Katie had seen and by then, three grown women managed to have a full on laughing attack for no good reason whatsoever. There we were, the rejects of Catholic school, fighting back tears and completely mortified, but somehow unable to stop. That was of course until Katie looked up at one of the stain glassed windows and said "Saint Peter is giving us the hand." The three of us turned to the window and sure as shit, Saint Peter's hand was outstretched in a way that said "you have got to be kidding me." With that, we filed out.
Have I mentioned I'm trying to launch a career as a writer? How can I do that when I can't even blog every week? GOD. Wait, it's been nearly a month. EVEN BETTER.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Fat girl problems

Okay, I'm not fat. But right now, the cravings I'm having are those of morbidly obese woman. You see, I gave up sweets for Lent. And I have a huge sweet tooth. I can sit and eat pounds and pounds of chocolate and unless someone takes it away from me, I will probably continue eating it until I pass out. So for the last 30 days, I haven't had one bite of chocolate, cake, candy, cookie, etc. And in 30 minutes, it's Easter. I mean, it's not like the clock is going to strike midnight and I'm going to run into the kitchen, ready to do some major work on the cheesecake my mom and I made. OR AM I??? No. I've made it this far (please don't ask why I even gave up anything for Lent, I honestly have no reason other than I felt the need to) and I'll make it until morning. But once that dessert tray hits the table, everyone needs to get the FUCK out of my way.

Friday, April 6, 2012

The Gatekeeper

In dealing with the incessant hassle of having to answer my company's sales calls (God I'm glad I went to college), I've recently developed a new identity to help me through them. Her name is Becky Kates. She's a post op tranny. Picture Will Ferrell's voice immodulation skit and you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. Just a taste of one of my conversations: Me, in my regular voice: Thanks for calling (company name), this is Joanna Cold caller: Hi there, I was hoping to speak with the person in charge of handling your shipping supplies Me, as Becky: This is Becky CC: Yes, hello, are you the person in that handles the shipping supplies? Becky: Depends on who's asking honey CC: Oh. Yes. This is Jennifer B: Well isn't THAT a lovely name CC: Thank you. I was hoping... B: You know I almost chose Jennifer as MY name CC: I'm sorry? B: Not important CC: How much volume would you say you had coming out of there? B: My hair has TONS of volume CC: No, I meant in terms of shipments. Would you say you do mostly UPS? B: So you mean to tell me you're NOT calling to sell me hair products? Case in point: if you ever want to get rid of someone on the phone, or make someone uncomfortable in person for that matter, try lowering your voice a few octaves, draw out your vowels and you've got yourself a winner.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Don't make eye contact

My friend Moni says I get upset over things that don't matter and I should learn to let things go. What she doesn't understand is that I am waging a war against the homeless crackheads of Chicago and I need a little support. I don't know what it is, but I feel like I'm a magnet for them. Winks, catcalls, trying to yank my groceries from my hands...sometimes I want to drop to my knees, pull a Nancy Kerrigan and yell "WHY ME????" There's a homeless newspaper called Streetwise that's handed out by the unemployed and while I wholeheartedly agree with the mission, I have a hard time seeing the same guy on my corner everyday yelling in my face that I should donate and take one. I mean, I know who he is. I know what he's doing. If I wanted a gotdamn paper I'd take a paper. The public transportation system brings me to a whole other level of discomfort and rage. Why do I have to sit on the train and listen to an irate man walking up and down the aisles screaming about how vile we are as humans that we won't give him money for a sandwich? I mean, how hungry is he REALLY? If I wanted a sandwich, I'd say fuck the train, I'm taking my $2.25 and going to McDonald's. Most recently I found myself in a situation that nearly caused me to open my mouth. I say nearly, because deep down there is a deep rooted fear in being retaliated against and the last thing I want is to get spit on. Or beat to a pulp. This guy was bible thumping. Straight yelling about God and reading bible verses. I was on the phone with my mother, whose voice was now completely drowned out. A woman next to me made the mistake of engaging him in conversation. There he stood, two inches away from me rocking back and forth and warbling about how he put his hand on an oven once and it burned and then he did it again and one more time but finally God told him not to touch that stove because it would be hot. Did God also tell him he was a masochist? Throw in some comments about the Cubs and Sox and how God likes one team more than the other and I legit thought I was going to lose my mind. BECAUSE IT'S ONE THING TO PREACH TO PEOPLE AND IT'S ANOTHER THING ENTIRELY WHEN YOU MAKE NO DAMN SENSE. A deep sense of relief came over me (or was it divine intervention?) when the train finally came to my stop, but not before I heard the guy respond to the woman and say that the opinions of Jews and Muslims didn't matter. It's a good thing my Polish foot didn't end up his crazy ass.

Monday, March 5, 2012

Thought of the day

There's a woman out there, a fourth, actually, who may or may not be using contraceptives when having intercourse with Rush Limbaugh. If that's not enough to make your vagina shrivel up and wilt, I don't know what is.