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.

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.'

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.

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.