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."

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.

Praying for Aurora

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.

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.