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.

Screech Powers is a boob man

I fondled Samuel Screech Powers last night.

I am proud to announce that I have officially crossed one of my new years resolutions off my list of things to do this year. I am even prouder to announce that every single one of my childhood dreams came true in a single evening.

In a post a wrote last week, I created a list of things I wanted to accomplish before May 1, 2012. The first goal on the list reads as follows:

1.) have some type of correspondence with a famous person. "Fame" will be defined at my digression. If Barack Obama and Tiger Woods are unavailable, I will settle for a smaller scale celebrity such as the owner of Rivermont Pizza Company or Bolton Valley Ski Resort's Instructor of the Year, who happens to be my own father.

Check.

I have had sort of a rough week. The boy that I previously mentioned that I was dating, moved to Florida on Thursday and I took it a little harder than I would have expected. Feelings suck. I grieved with my good friends Ben and Jerry for several days and I needed a distraction. Something to make me feel better without recruiting a colony of cellulite dimples to my butt. Fortunetley for me and for my waistline, in the height of my depression, an old friend of mine informed me that Dustin Diamond (Samuel Screech Powers from Saved By The Bell) was going to do a stand up comedy show a few miles from my home. With this information my entire world turned around.

Screech Powers played a signicant role in my childhood. Not only was I was a huge fan of Saved by the Bell, but I also had a pair of insect printed short-overalls that I wore well through the seventh grade. I was thrilled that I would have the chance to hear his show but I didn't expect to have such an intimate connection with him.

My friends and I showed up to the performance lounge at 6:30 eastern standard time, right when the doors opened. I almost peed my khaki shorts when the usher lead us to a table directly in front of the stage. My expectations for the evening quickly escalated. I knew that would no longer be satisfied with a peaceful night of quiet giggles in a dark room and admiring my childhood kindred spirit from afar. My front and center seating assignment provided me not only with a clear view of Dustin Diamond but he would also be granted a clear view of my freakshow shenanigans. I had the perfect opportunity to draw attention to myself and cross the first new years resolution off my list as a success.

Screech entered the stage and after a few jokes, he looked directly at me and said the very sentence that I have been day dreaming about since I was about eight years old.

"You have great boobs."

As a woman, I probably should have been offended. Maybe I should have given him a feminist inspired speech about respecting me for my brains and personality. It would have been a lie, I was beaming with joy. I was way to proud that he was impressed with the two "personalities" underneath my halter top to pretend to be offended. In the heat of the moment I did what any self respecting attention seeker would do: I did a little shimmy boob dance. A tasteful boob dance. No reason for alarm, dad.

My little jiggle ( that my friends have now informed me looked more like a seizure than a dance) was all it took to hook Screech into conversation.

" Do you have a man?"

Oh my god.. I am going to marry Samuel Powers and have curly haired, childhood star babies who would undoubtedly come out of the womb snorting and wearing multi colored parachute pants. YES!

" No..I don't" I replied with a louder-than-necessary sigh. I needed my audience to hear me.

" Your a nice looking girl. You should have a man. Why don't you have one? Are you mean? How old are you?"

Oh my God.. Screech Powers has a hairy chest. Think of something to say other than " May I pet you?" Maybe we will have monkey babies. I touched a monkey once at the zoo. It was soft.

" I'm 24"

" oh. I would destroy you...but I bet I could make you screech in under five minutes" he said casually before changing the subject. I am sure he has never used that line before.

When the show was over I boldly stated to my friends that I would not leave the building without a wedding proposal from Double D. I ended up settling for a picture and a hug.

As a approached him for the picture, I wrapped my hand around his waist and dropped it onto his back pocket. I gave it a little tap before bringing my palm back to an appropriate place on his back.

As he turned to look at me, my mouth filled with honesty.

" I'm sorry. I just touched your butt and I tried really hard to make it look like an accident... But in reality... it was very intentional"

He chose not to acknowledge this comment but made a quizzical Sreech like expression.

At some point after this, we had a brief conversation in british accents, but I can't seem to remember the details.

I don't think that anyone will argue that this counts as " some sort of correspondence with a famous person".





- professional freakshow

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.