Homeless Deer of Long Island

You know that you have a knack for making people feel uncomfortable when you prove to have the ability to get a straggly homeless man to walk away from you.

A few nights ago, my roommate and I were sitting at the bar of our favorive pizza joint, conveniently located a block from our home. It only took about 4 minutes for the the creepy older man to my left to take an interest in me.

It would be a lie if I said that this has never happened before. By nature, I am polite and nice to people and sometimes this attracts creepers. I would rather be a creeper magnet than a bitch, I think.

Anyways, the gentleman looks at me and smiles.

" I had paid my tab but when you sat next to me, I decided that I would stay for one more beer. I'm not a forward guy, but I'm not dumb enough to leave either." He giggled at his own sort of funny joke.

It was strange. He was older, had beer belly that could compete with any globe of the world found in 4th grade classrooms nation wide, and he was clearly more socially awkward than I am, but I was oddly flattered.

Flattery lasted about as long as a heard of snowmen in a hot tub. After twenty minutes of listening to this man recite his weight fluctuation history and high school track/field records from the 1800s, I was ready to move on.

I slowly turned my body back to my roommate, but she was in deep flirtations with a nice looking, age appropriate man. I was out of luck and I knew I would be forced to make up ridiculous stories to make the night bearable.

As I turned around, the man was still talking and he mentioned that he had spent the afternoon golfing with his brother.

" I love golf. In fact I started the very first female golf team when I was in college. My uncle taught me to play when I was little and I have just always enjoyed it. You may have heard of him, he is on TV every once in a while, his name is Tiger Woods."

Awkward Silence.

Just then, my favorite homeless man, Mark approached us and gave me a huge hug and kiss on the cheek.

People judge Mark because he lives in an abandoned car warehouse or maybe because he looks like he is being electrocuted every time he hits the dance floor. He is nice though and he drinks quality beer and those are two things that I look for in a friend. He passes with flying colors.

Mark is also very deep, or at least he tries to be. He is always telling me things like

" Your soul is a garden on radishes. It needs sunshine and happiness as much as hard times and rain to let it form into a pumpkin pie."

Like I said, deep.

I introduced Mark to my new golfing weight fluctuating friend and they quickly hit it off. Mark told him that his heart felt like a a starving squid, or something equally as weird and I tapped myself on the back for matchmaking skills. I had single handedly blossomed this friendship and I had ever right to be damn proud.

I ordered another drink, and when I turned back to the happy couple, they were discussing how a raccoon had gotten into a hospital somewhere in the midwest.

At this point in the evening it is important to note that I had gulped 2+ Long Island Iced teas. Sometimes when I drink, I think that the more LIs I drink, the soberer I get but this is simply just not the case. I was just at the right level of drunkenness where my bar lies were becoming quite extravagant and I was feeling pretty competitive. Bad combination.

I couldn't just sit there and let them tell this story about raccoons in hospitals. I had to one- up them and tell a better story. there is no explanation for what popped out of my mouth next.

" Oh thats nothing." I said casually. " Last week I came home from work and there was a deer in my living room. No idea how it got there. It took me 20 minutes to shew it out with a broomstick"

Silence. again.

Homeless Mark and the creepy old man glanced at eachother, speechless. When I turned my head to slip my drink, they both walked away without a goodbye. I hope at the very least they left together to develop the beautiful friendship that I started. At least that way I can note the evening as a success.

If only room clearing was an olypmic sport.

How to get a job after College

Welcome to adulthood, recent college graduates!

In the spirit of celebrating all of the collegiate graduations that are taking place over the next few weeks, I thought that it would be appropriate for me to share the story of my first interview for a post-college-real-life- adult-job.

Shortly before graduation I was offered an interview at a college across town from the school I was about to graduate from. Although I knew that I was qualified for the job and I had every intention of charming the pants of the selection committee , it was my first big girl interview and I was a little nervous.

I had done interviews for high school and college jobs but I knew that this would be more serious. I figured though, that if I had survived an interview at the Ben and Jerry’s tourguide interview, I could handle anything the admissions committee at a small liberal arts college would dare to through my way.

The very first questions at my Ben and Jerry’s interview was:
“ Imagine that you are a pea and you are stuck on the end of a fork and you are about to be chopped into little bits. What do you do?”

I don’t remember how I answered this one, but I was offered the job. I have yet to find me another job that would send me home with three pints of ice cream every day I showed up to work. That was a pretty sweet gig. Pun very much intended.

I was prepared, but still antsy.

Knowing that I tend to get clumsy when I feel uneasy, my mind was filled with horror visions, all of which included me falling on my face during the interview. What if they offered me a glass of water and I spilled it down my white shirt, creating the appearance of breast lactation or chronic boob sweat? What if I accidently farted while meeting with the Vice President? I was in panic mode for the entire interview week.

Thankfully, I was able to calm myself down by the time I got to campus. I met with admissions counselors, the dean of students, graduate assistants, undergraduate tour guides, everyone. I was amazed how relaxed I felt in these meetings and I was able to be myself ( a professional, classy, well put together version of myself, that is).

By the time I reached my last interview of the day, I was confident that I would be hired. Everything had gone so incredibly well, and there was nothing that I could possibly say at this point to embarrass myself.

Wrong.

I met with the Director of Admissions. He asked me about my college experience. I listed my top three strengths and weaknesses for the third time that day and when the interview finally ended, I silently sighed with relief. Finished.

As my interviewer walked me out of his office, he started to lecture about how exciting life after graduation was going to be for me.

I tried to say something like “ Yes. I am excited. This is my first adult interview”

Of course this is not what actually came out of my mouth.

Instead, I looked directly at my potential future boss and said “This is my first adult VIDEO”

Silence.

They ended up offering me a job and I have decided to take it as a compliment.

I am not sharing this story to implant extra worry into your head. In fact, my intensions are exactly the opposite. I’m just saying, that if I can tell the boss that I am trying to get into the porn business and still get hired, you can find a job too.

Blood, Sweat, and Wet Pants

My spring travel season started last week and I am pleased that my level of awkward encounters is rivaling the extreme episodes that took place last fall. I began my spring journey with my traditional struggle though the revolving doors at the airport and I managed to successfully make it all the way to Charlotte, NC without being an embarrassment to my family. Unfortunately I had a three hour layover and I should have known that my cell phone and my good luck would both eventually run out of battery life. I always plan my trips in a fashion that forces me to eat dinner in airports. I pretend to be upset about having to eat fast food or a “lunchable” from the magazine stand, but secretly, it is my favorite part about traveling. Maybe because my parents always insisted on packing mushed up peanut butter sandwiches and stale crackers for family trips. If I ever have children, I will be a little more considerate of their stomachs. Lunch is one of the top 3 more important meals of the day. As I got off the airplane, I went on a search for the perfect dinner time snack and eventually I settled with a BBQ sandwich and a huge bottle of water. I celebrated adulthood and the fact that mom had not picked my meal . I knew that BBQ was a bad idea considering my history of elegance and grace and that mom would have been correct by picking a cleaner option. I was feeling particularly courageous though, and to my surprise, I survived the entire sandwich without smudging any sauce onto my cleanish white shirt. The water bottle however put up an unexpected battle. I was sitting at my terminal and directly next to middle aged man with incredibly thick glasses. I removed the plastic wrap from the tip of the water bottle and I was eager to lift the nozzle and enjoy the watery greatness inside. When I gripped my fingers around the pullup nozzle though, I couldn’t seem to pull it open. Determined not to let the water bottle to get the better of me and ruin my good spirits, I placed the bottle under my right armpit to free both of my hands, allowing them to work as a team to pull the nozzle of the wretched bottle. Just then, in the peak of my struggle, I noticed the arrows on the top of the water bottle, signaling me to twist the cap up instead of the vertical pull I have been failing at for the last five minutes. Excited that I had finally cracked the code, I twisted the nozzle open quickly, forgetting that I was still squeezing the bottle with my armpit. I watched as my water squirted out of the bottle and covered the nearly blind man next to me. I think everyone has been a victim of a bad case of the giggles in an inappropriate time, but it happens to me a lot. Uncomfortable in silence, I often break into laughter in churches and hospital waiting rooms. This is one of the reasons I make a reasonable effort to avoid both of those locations. Anyways, as the blind man looked at me in fury, in search for a non-bladder related explanation for why his khakis and graph paper gridded shirt were suddenly wet, I broke into uncontrollable laughter. I tried to give a heartfelt and sincere apology for spraying him, but the harder I concentrated of holding a straight face, the more theatrical my giggles grew. As tears were rolling down my cheeks and snorts were escaping my nose, I decided it best to just leave the situation. I gathered my belongings and moved to the other side of the terminal and prayed that that man would sit next to me on the plane. Welcome back travel season, I have missed you!

Flying Urinating Squirrels Love Lemon Yogurt

It is no secret to you, my dearest readers, that for the last five weeks I have been suffering from a miserable case of writer'sblock. Although I do apologize for abandoning your reading needs for so long and I do worry that my reglegence is a clear sign that I should never have children, I want to assure you that my absense is not a sign that my life has shriveled into a series of boring cookie cutter days. Although I have found myself in several awkwardly noteable situations, I simply have not had the creative energy or the time to write them in a way that would be entertaining for any of you to read. I am hoping to change that today and give you a little taste of what has been happening in my freakshow life for the last couple of weeks.

The most important event worth noting is that I moved into a new house a few weeks ago. Although I will not bore you with the details of the physical move, you may take pleasure in knowing that I was welcomed to the neighborhood in the most sanitary of ways. I was leaving the local grocery store and daydreaming about the lemon yogurt that I had just purchased when I saw a man standing awkwardly close to a silver car. I chuckled a mighty chuckle and thought to myself: " Self, it sure looks like that man is peeing on that poor person's automobile" I then realized that the car being washed with human urine was parked in the same spot that I had left my own silver car and quickly my chuckle came to a halt. Those of you who read about my daily episodes on a regular basis know that I am by no means a stranger to odd encounters but nothing quite like this has ever happened to me before. I was not sure of the proper etiiquette for disturbing a stranger's public urination. After a few quick seconds of deep thought, I was able to place myself in his metaphorical shoes. I have personally never had to pee so badly that I felt the need to release myself in a public parking lot in the middle of the day, but if I ever do see myself in such a situation, I would hope that people would allow me to do my business in peace. No one likes being walked in on while using the restroom at the mall with the broken stall handle. Also, I was not sure what I would say if I decided to approach the urinating gentleman. Would I be obligated to give him $5 for washing my back tire? Ultimately I decided that it was best if I allowed him to finish his duties in peace before I went home to enjoy that lemon yogurt.

You may also be interested in knowing that I have been walking like Forest Gump for almost a full week. Although it is undeniably true that I am willing and able to do almost anything to draw attention to myself for the sake of a good story, this specific act of ridiculousness is not a direct result of my self adoration and instead is the product of the twisting of my two left feet.

The trouble all began a few weeks ago when my beloved roommate joined a running group called the Hash Harriers. Although this post is not intended to act as a marketing campaign the Hash Harrier group and I have full intensions of pulling this writing exercise back to my flying squirrel fall; I feel like I do need to take the time to admire a group that cherishes some of the things that I love most; beer, socializing , being outside, running, and generally inappropriate- adultlike behavior. Founded in 1930, The Hash Harriers identify themselves as a drinking group with a running problem. Although I have only participated in the rowdy shenanigans of this organization once, I have a deep respect for any group that allows me to act unladylike in public. When Kate invited me to join her last Wednesday, I was thrilled but a little nervous. I was a kindergartener on the first day of school. What if there were bullies? What if the other kids didn't like me? What if they pulled my hair and/or stole my lunch (or in this case beer) money? What if the little boy that spit in my hair when I was sledding was there? What if he spit in my hair again? Although several horror situations played through my mind, I had not even considered the possibility that I would trip and fall on my face.

When I arrived in the meeting lot, I felt instantly at ease. Everyone was very friendly and there was no sign of anyone who may want to spit on me. We circled up and sang some songs, everyone introduced themselves with their inappropriate hash nicknames and I was able to identify myself as a virgin hasher. I had been brainstorming ways to reinstate my virginity, so I was thrilled. As we began the trail of the evening, I ran approximately 103 steps before I tripped on a curb, shoelace, or thin air and dropped quickly to the pavement. "Virgin down!" someone yelled.

Although I do not tend to embarrass easily, I am sure that I blushed before kissing my mighty muscles and lifting my body to continue my epic hashing journey. It was not until another hasher pointed to the blood gushing from my bare knees that I realized that I had been wounded. Still not feeling the pain and wanting my new friends to think that I am super badass, I continued to run.

Our trail lasted about three miles and ended at a local watering hole where the group enjoyed more songs and beer and I used an entire first aid kit of bandages. I was brought to the center of the drinking circle several times for being a hashing virgin, for eating pavement, and for general awkwardness. I am the master of first impressions and I am really excited to go back next week.

Tomorrow I will try to find the time to discuss an emo man with gagged ears who I may or may not have proposed marriage to last weekend. He may or may not have tripped over his own foot to get away. I may or may not think that because of the events of last week, that we may be a match made in clumsy heaven.

A Christmas letter for 2030

Early this week, my family received a Christmas letter that included a merry and festive comment about an elderly man’s constipation. I have decided that when I have a family of my own, I am going to send out ridiculous Christmas letters to my friends and family. For those of you in my address book, prepare yourselves to read a little something like this.

Dear Friends and family,

I hope that the holiday season is treating you well and that you are surviving having your children home from school. I am so thrilled that my kids are past the age that they require all/ any of my attention.

Jamal and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary last spring and I am amazed that we have not killed each other yet. I had always thought that wedding vows were more of a formality and I never thought that we would wait till death do us part. I have been dating my hair dresser’s husband for the past 6 months and that seems to be doing wonders for my marriage.

Our youngest son, Simon (16 years old) lost his virginity last summer. Jamal and I never really thought that it would happen for him. We are both so pleased that he finally found a girl who is able to look past his severe acne and strong body odor to give him a chance. If he is anything like his father in the bedroom, I am sure that she will be back for more.

Our Oldest, Courtney ( 19 Years old) on the other hand has had no problem in the love making department and has just announced that she is pregnant with her second child out of wedlock. Tis the season to be slutty, I suppose. As a Grandmother, I am pleased that the father of baby number 2 is significantly more attractive than baby daddy numero uno. A Grandma can handle one grandchild that resembles an alien with a lemon stuck in its mouth, but no one wants all of their grandkids to be genetic duds. People would start to talk.

Lastly, I will mention our middle child, Lance ( 17 years old). The saying “ Saving the best for last” simply does not apply here. I just figured that if you read about Lance at the end of this note, you would have less time to forget his existence before you read next year’s holiday letter. He left for college last fall, but neither Jamal or I noticed he was gone until he came home for Thanksgiving. He may be the most boring child I have ever met and to be honest with you, I can not think of anything exciting he has done in the past year. In fact I can not think of anything worth mentioning about his entire life.

I look forward to screening your calls in 2031!

Single Sweaty Sock

"I'm not drunk. This is just the way I am" is a phrase I have been hearing myself say a lot lately.

It is no secret that I enjoy being awkward and that I take great pride in my ability to entertain my friends with my interactions with strangers. Although I always enjoy my ridiculous episodes, I often forget that I live in a small city and the chances of me running into the same person more than once is quite high. This is beginning to get me into trouble.

Last July, my friends and I hosted a bachelorette party for my roommate. The night started out mellow and low key but I never doubted that by the end party our innocent intensions would be misplaced with my left shoe, poise and "inside voice". Although I knew that things were bound to get rowdy, I never expected to end the night with seven single dirty socks and a priceless story to share with my future grandchildren.

After dinner and a few themed martini's at a local American Bistro, we decided that it was in everyone's best interest to go dancing at the club with the frog porn display. Please note: it is never in ANYONE's best interest to watch me dance for I am about as graceful as a blind giraffe on roller skates. But like I said, I had sampled a few martinis and had conveniently forgotten that my moves on the dance floor could be considered cruel and unusual punishment for my victimed viewers.

At Club Frog Porn things began to get interesting. We had a stack of Bachelorette Party dare cards that we designed solely to embarrass drunk girls at parties. Lucky for me, I rarely get embarrassed and therefore always dominate these games.

As we were taking turns pulling cards from the deck, I was beginning to grow bored. My friends were picking cards telling them to " dance with someone more than 20 years older than you" or " Ask the DJ to play Celine Deon and sing along". Yawn. I wasn't sure how this game was going to make the bachelorette party any different from any other Friday night of my freakshow life.

When it was my turn to pull a card, I wasn't even excited. I was strongly considering hiding the card from my friends and making up my own prank. I would make an imaginary " write your own dare" card. I was confident that I could think of a dare more entertaining than anything on these cards and considering my impressive experience in the fields of lying and bullshit- I knew that I could make it sound believable. . It would probably include a bald man, an elaborate fabricated story, and/or a fart. I am 24 years old and still firmly believe that farts make everything a little funnier. I pulled the card I was pleasantly surprised to see that I needed to " Ask a man for one of his socks…and keep it!". I knew I had hit the bachelorette dare jackpot.

I immediately turned to the first man with in grabbing distance. Without wasting any time with an introduction- asked for his left sock. He said no. I rolled my eyes and sighed as if he was refusing to tell me the time. This was going to be more challenging than I thought. Not wanting to give up hope on my socked prey, I politely asked again. I can be very persuading when put my mind to it and eventually I had his sweating sock in my hand.

Above all things, I am a competitor. Since the rest of the bachelorettes had grown bored with the game, the only competition was with myself. The card technically said that I only needed to collect one man's sock, but my strong work ethic would not be satisfied with a solo lonely tube of sweat and feet juice ( gross sorry). I decided that it was only logical to push myself to collect as many socks as possible before the night was through.

At first, I thought that I was a sock collecting failure. I asked at least a dozen men to donate 1 sock to the cause of Katie's blissful marriage and no one was willing. Although I was impressed that in my efforts, though I had not collected any socks, 2 men had asked for my number and 1 man had compared me to Chelsea Clinton. I ordinarily would not take this as a compliment of any kind, but if I had to look like any of the Clintons- I would pick Chels.

As the bar was closing, my luck turned. As I was on the dance floor, performing my drunk giraffe dance, almost all of the men who had refused their footwear to me earlier in the night were approaching me with socks in their hands! It was amazing. Within 6 minutes I was holding 7 single sweaty socks!

I left for the night with my head held high-proud to be labeled the sock collecting champion from game of which I was the only competitor. However, in all of my glory, I had forgotten that there were now 8 men in the city who think that I have some sort of foot fetish.

Cheers.