A sweet birthday miracle

My feelings for multiple " it's my birthday" posts and public displays of affection are very similar. I don't like either and consider them to be in poor taste. Unless of course i am the lady making out at the laundry mat, then I say " horah! Bring on the slobber!"

Just kidding, dad. I have never kissed a boy in my entire life.

I'm okay with birthday whoring too, as long as I am the one doing the whoring. When September 17th rules around, I can't help but tell anyone with working ears that it is MY day. This year was no exception.

I woke up early to do some grocery shopping before picking up the boyfriend from the airport at 11. I had bought some weekend food, shampoo, and an assortment of household items.

I scanned all of these items through the self check out line and was tickled when I watched the price drop over $11 after scanning my Kroger shopping card. by far my favorite part of shopping.

44 dollars and some forgettable amount of change.

Great.

Opened my purse to get my wallet and it isn't there. I had left it in the car.

Not so great.

I tell the lady supervising the self check out area what had happened and she said I could run to my car to get my wallet and that I wouldn't have to reswipe everything.

Great again.

A cute older man, probably in his late 60s, smiles and jokes that I am no where near old enough to be forgetting things yet.

" I will have you know, I am 25 years old today!"

We both laughed.

I went to my car, got the wallet that I had carelessly forgotten and hurried back to pay for my shampoo.

As I get Into the store, the cashier hands me my bag.

"Thanks, let me just swipe my card" I say and walk to the self check out kiosk.

The lady smiles and said that the older man had paid for my groceries while I was in the car and that he says "happy birthday"

What a way to start a day. Of course it was nice to not pay for $44 of groceries, but the warm fuzzy feeling from the kindness of a stranger will surely stick with me for a while. I need to find a way to pay it forward.

- professional freakshow

Happy birthday, puffy face

It is official. I am old enough to both run for congress and rent a car without the pesky $15 a day underage fee. I wanted to write this post on the actual anniversary of my escape from my mother's womb, but I was busy celebrating.

It is a custom for there to be a party on ones day of birth, and being the traditionalist/ attention whore that I am, I invited my closest friends over to celebrate.

My roommate, Kate and I made an invitation on Facebook. Kate is one of the very few people that I can team write with, but I was pretty pleased by what we came up with.

The invitation read as follows:

"Join us as we celebrate Erin's 25th birthday! If you know Erin, you know that it is no small feat that she has come this far. As concerned roommates, we make her sleep with a helmet in case she falls off the bed and/or gravity decides to reverse itself. She argued at first, stating that she was a "grown-ass-woman" and that the helmet was degrading, but when we offered to paint lightning bolts on the side with glow-in-the-dark puffy paint, she gave the idea her "this is super rad" dance and promptly twisted her two left feet, falling into the sticky bug trap in the basement. Obviously, if this would happen to anyone, it would happen to her. We all remember the time she fell in the parking lot after running for 0.5 seconds and skinned both knees, in an act not dissimilar to a drunk giraffe on roller skates. Then again there was the time she was walking at the airport and stepped onto the wrong moving sidewalk, propelling her backwards into what she describes as, "The closest I've ever come to flying." And let's not forget the time she was attacked by a homeless woman in Seattle who called her out for being a whorey bitch. You know her fondly as the girl who once broke her nose walking into a door... The girl who once tripped in front of a man in a wheelchair and said, "I'm sorry! I can't walk." Her 25th birthday is no small achievement. Come drink with us and watch her stumble. If you're lucky, she might hold on tightly to your hand while yelling, "Let go of me, let go!" or refer to you affectionately as "husband!" for the duration of the evening. Either way, her endearing snort is guaranteed. Hope to see you there!"

Kate also posted fun facts about the birthday girl everyday during the week prior to the party. Those may be posted at a later time, but I will most likely forget.

The party started off smoothly, people brought wine, flowers, hugs, and birthday butt squeezes. My boyfriend had even flown in from Florida to surprise me. Kate made me a punpkin cake with homemade cream cheese frosting. I was so excited that all of my friends were celebrating with me and much like my 8th birthday party, I spent about 50% of the time singing the birthday song to myself and the other 50% looking out the window to see which of my friends was arriving next. This was better than my 8th party though because this time there was vodka in my red kool-aid.

My good friend, Rachelle came at about 11 with a big gift bag in hand. She had made me a mobile made of cloths hangers, ribbons, and 20 airplane sized booze bottles!

At this point in the evenining, I had convinced a man to act as photographer and follow me around with my I phone. I pulled him onto the back porch. To take my picture with hanging mobile. Right after the picture was taken, I was stung by a huge- ass-hornet, right on my eye! I was rushed to the bathroom for inspection and a call to the doctor. I spent the duration of the night in bed with ice on my face.

Kate later posted on the invite:

"Fun fact #7- we had a party. Erin was stung in the eye by a Hornet, forcing her to miss her own damn party. If this could happen to anybody, it obviously happened to her."

- professional freakshow

“HAHA, Gotcha” said God one sunny day.

I cant believe that it has been an entire year since I have started this blog. I wish that I could say that I finished the year posting as regularly as I was in the beginning, but I suppose I can try harder this year. When I started this little freakshow project of mine, I had an embarrassingly shallow social life and it seemed that I didn't have anything better to do than write. In the last year, I have come to terms with the fact that I may be living in VA for a while, formed some great friendships, took up running as a hobby, started applying to graduate schools, and worked diligently at perfecting my art of being the most awkward kid on the block.

I know that I took some time off from writing regularly but I am ready to come back in full swing. I miss the days that I would religiously check for comments and constantly update my pageviews. Thankfully, my fall travel season for work started this week and given that travel chaos was the original theme of this blog, I am confident that it will give me some inspiration.

It only took a few hours for this trip to be interesting.

I flew into Boston early Monday morning and everything seemed to be going smoothly. I firmly believe that the fate of my trip can always be determined by the success of my first flight. If I get bumped to first class, it will be a great week. If I have delays or if my baggage gets lost, I will be lucky to survive until Friday. If the plane crashes, that sucks too.

Although this week I was not bumped to 1^st class, my plane arrived on time an d my luggage made it to Boston with me. I figured that this was a sign from God was everything would run smoothly for the duration from the week.

Wrong.

Now that I think about it, it may have been presumptuous for me to even try to guess what God's signs are supposed to mean. Who am I to claim to know G's intensions. He and I both know I haven't spent any note worthy amount of time at his house lately.

Monday, I had a few visits with high schools and everything seemed to be going well. When I was finished for the day, I decided that I was going to go to the hotel, catch up on some emails and take a nap before finding some dinner.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I was enjoying my merry drive through the small towns of MA.

CRASH!!!!!!

I felt my car propel forward as the Jeep Wrangler behind me took residence in my back seat.

" Well that's not good" I said outloud to myself.

I get out the car to talk to wrangler's driver and I was surprised to see an attractive man in his mid-20s.

I introduce myself, smiling like a fool. He probably thought that I had suffered some sort of brain injury from the crash, who smiles after a car accident?

We exchanged info, called the police about next steps, and went our separate ways before it hit me that I was driving a rental car. panic set in and tears would not stop rolling out of my eyes.

I returned the car to hertz, got a new uglier car, and went on my merry way. Brian ( the wrangler) sent me an email later that night apologizing again and providing me with a copy of an accident report to fill out.

I responded:

Thanks, I was able to fill one out at Hertz. It was nice meeting you although the circumstances were not ideal. Maybe we will run into each other again sometime. Pun very much intended.

Erin S***

VP of fender benders and rental car relations

BadLuck Inc.

No response. Whatever. I had a good laugh.

Sorry God.

Hi friends. Sorry I have been absent from your blog reading days, things have been crazy. I am applying for graduate school for the spring semester and the business of writing personal essays, filling out applications, and asking for letters of recommendation all while trying to maintain my "normal" life has been A struggle.

I don't have a lot of time to spend with you today, but I wanted to share something before I forget it in the hustle and bustle.

A few weeks ago, agreed to teach a class to incoming college freshman about the risks of drinking alcohol and today, as I was explaining " standard drink sizes" an earthquake hit! A 5.9 that apparently originated only 50ish miles from campus. Trying to remain calm, I jokingly told the class that "that's what happens when you drink vodka" but I was really thinking that this is a clear sign from god that I have no business teaching college kids about drinking responsibly.

Sorry mom. Sorry liver.


- professional freakshow

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.

I always get a good laugh when I look at the search phrases that people googled when they stumbled across my blog. Today's post is going to be short and sweet, but I wanted to share with you some of my favorites that I found while stalking my own statistics this morning.

Enjoy.

1.How to ask a man for his socks
2. How to change a slutty reputation
3. Justin Timberlake pissing in public
4. Powers on the boob
5. Wet my pants in Church
6. Drunk giraffe freekshow dance
7. Screech Powers: father of my monkey babies
8. Sweaty sock porn

I am my own biggest fan

I was originally planning on posting about a strange encounter I had last week with a few former champions from the show " The Biggest Loser" in Times Square, but instead I think I am going to take a break from broadcasting my awkwardness and try something I have never tried before. I am going to blog about blogging.

I have read a few posts from great bloggers with great advice about how to make your blog appealing to people other than your guilted parents.

This will in no way shape of form be helpful to anyone. Well..except me.

I hope.

I have been blogging since Mid September and although I usually feel like I can grasp the concept of how to draw attention to my site, I know that I still have a lot to learn. I have a few questions for you experienced bloggers and bloggerettes and if you would be so kind, I would love your feed back.

1. I have a fan base of 39 followers, two of which happen to be my own parents. I also have a large group of people who I know are reading because they will occasionally comment on posts, but the don't follow. Is this normal? I feel like when I find a blog that I like, I always follow it so that their entries show up on my dashboard when I get to work in the morning. I also feel that following Is a way of saying "you are awesome". The follow button is the button of love and acceptance. If people read and don't follow, does it mean that They don't like what they have read? Is it because I occasionally use the term "boner for Jesus"? Are they lazy?

2. What are your thoughts and feelings about scheduling posts? I sort of like the idea in theory, but I feel like I would be lying to all 39 of my followers. I even feel a little guilty about lying to the non following readers although their feelings are far less important to me. It just seems fishy if blogger says that I posted at 7am after my morning corn muffin when in actuality it was written on my couch with a bottle of wine while watching reruns of Little House On The Prairie that I recorded off cable and onto several VHS.

3. I thought that there was a strong positive correlation between the quantity and quality of my posts and the number of page views I received. This week proved me very wrong. As you know, this is the first post I have written this month. For the first few weeks of June, my page was being opened 0-4 times a day. It was pretty pathetic. I knew that I had to pick up momentum and start writing again, but I just couldn't seem to find the time. All of a sudden though, on June 7th, my blog was viewed 135 times and has continued to gain traffic through the next 2 weeks. I am thrilled about the new reader base, but still, not a single one of the 768 view in June have resulted in a follower increase.

Thanks for your help folks. If this post put you to sleep, I apologize. I promise to write about my Big Loser friends later in the week, or maybe I have already written it and it has berm scheduled to go out later in the week. You may never know. Creepy


- professional freakshow

Being Easy isn't Pretty

Here they are! Life lessons of the week!

1. In order to follow your dreams, you must be able to acknowledge the fact that being easy isn't pretty

2. Starting a drinking campain at 530 is always a good idea. Just be prepared for feelings to pour out of your eyes at 2 in the morning.

3. It is much easier to rob a bank if you are not smoking crack in the lobby. I am not saying that smoking crack is a bad idea, simply that you should escape by getaway car, and not by foot to avoid conflict with the police.

4. Some times it is hard to let go of old flames. Sometimes it is harder to let go of a stanger's hand at the bar.

5. When a man is nice enough to walk you home, you should thank him by forcing him to sit in a room with your crying roommate.

7. Colorblindness is a serious disease. People who suffer from colorblindness will never experience the true beauty of Christmas lights and will struggle to dress themselves for the rest of their empty, black and white lives. Above all, however, you should never get in a car with them… unless you want to die.

8. You can avoid feelings pouring out of your eyes at 2 in the morning by drinking your feelings between the hours of 5 pm and 12 am. Yes, feelings. that’s what we’re calling long islands now. Maybe you should’ve had a glass of feelings instead of taking jell-o shots without the jell-o. There's always next time.

9. When trying to let go of said stranger’s hand, it’s generally best to pretend he won’t let go of yours and to yell, “Let go of me! Let go!” If he wasn't afraid of commitment yet, he probably is now.

Popcorn Loving Pirate Goes through Sex change

I wish I could remember more of my dreams.

A few nights ago I had a dream that my roommate and I were performing a one act play together in front of hundreds of people. This was funny for a few reasons:

1.) because my last theatrical performance was in the 7 th grade where I was casted as "male pirate#3". At the time I thought I was given a male role because my acting skills were so grade A that the director thought that I could handle such a challenging task..but upon later reflection, it was probably because At the time...I looked like a boy.

2) for some reason in this dream, we decided that we were not going to rehearse together. we were just going to learn our own lines and mesh them together on stage opening night.

3) Ashley, being the dedicated thespian she is, had memorized her lines perfectly but I had forgotten to even glance at my script before stepping on stage. I was making things up as I went along. The play was apparently intended to be a touching tale of a mother (me) putting her daughter (Ashley) to bed after seeing a scary movie...but since I had not read the play, I had interpreted the scene as Ashley in her death bed. Needless to say, this dream also included Ashley telling me that we would never be performing together again.

Days after this dreamy night, Ashley invited me to an improv comedy workshop/audition. I was really nervous because of my lack of theatrical experience and my habit of snorting and/or breaking things when I get uncomfortable. Like usual, once I arrived at the workshop, I felt instantly welcomed.

We played games and read monologs from personal ads off of craigs list and played al sorts of games. I was also fed popcorn, which happens to be on of my top five snack foods. Others on this list include: goldfish, chocolate covered gummy bears, string cheese, and vodka.

Wednesday, after my meeting with my running/drinking club, I received a call with an invitation to join the improv troupe! I could not be more excited. have found a group of people who not only tolerate will tolerate my antics but will work with me to develop them and transform them into an art.

Where else will I find a community where it is socially acceptable for me to pretend to be a man in the process of sex changing surgery and looking for a lover who will role-play with zombie costume? I think that I have found my match.


- professional freakshow

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.

Picking ticks off a circus clown

In case you are feeling lost and need some friendly life advice, today is your lucky day.

Life lessons to think about this week:

1. Never attempt to juggle 4 bottles of wine unless you are a trained circus clown. With out the proper technique, you will inevitably drop and crash a minimum of 1 bottle onto the street, turning the neighborhood dogs and squirrels into raging alcoholics.

2. There is nothing less entertaining than watching children attempt to run a full mile. If you find yourself in this position of boredom, it is crucial that you find the nearest bottle of wine and start a " tasting". If tasting to you means drinking a full bottle before 11 am, so be it.

3. Every girl deserves a friend who will offer to shave his head every Wednesday, just so she can touch his baldness. In return though, you may have to pick ticks of his dog.

4. Running in 5K races is a great way to keep yourself in shape. However, if you choose to drink wine in leu of stretching, you will experience a great deal of difficulty removing yourself from the couch the next morning.

5. If you are going to send a friend a text that says " eat lunch with me or I will release my ant farm into your bed and spit in your honey nut cheerios. The choice is yours,let me know what you decide."- make sure you actually text it to your friend...and not your roommates brother...who you have only met once.

6. It turns out that boys are good for more than eye candy. They are also remarkable at changing the lightbulbs in my kitchen.

7. If you feel the need to tell a stranger that your roommates are actually your identical triplets, it is best if they are not around. The story will quickly be proven to be false when said stranger can clearly see that you are not identical in the least.


- professional freakshow

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

This I believe.

I believe in magic, miracles, and monsters under my bed. I believe that all of the world’s citizens are worthy of finding companionship- where ever they see fit. I believe that hard work pays off- even if it takes longer than expected. I believe that we all deserve more than our fifteen minutes of fame. I believe everyone should have the right to their own beliefs- even if I don’t agree.

I believe everything I see in infomercials. I want to believe that Michael Jackson is just misunderstood. I believe that boys and girls don’t understand each other, and that life is more interesting that way. I believe that the most interesting people are the people who are not afraid to believe in the non-traditional

I believe in the importance of bathroom stops during long car rides. I believe that all living things, whether found in my back yard or across the globe should not suffer in result of human greed. I believe that art can heal and that brownies can fix a case of the Mondays.

I believe in believing in others- and in myself.

Tis' the Season to be Slutty

I am a firm believer that at some level, everyone loves a good slut. This is not to say that we adore, envy, or remotely respect girls in dresses tight enough to fit our favorite childhood dolls, but the world would be a dull shade of grey without them around. Boys, for obvious reasons are drawn to the exposed skin popping out of their halter tops, women of all ages enjoy gossiping amongst themselves after encountering a slutty creature in the wild, and even the most conservative religious types tend to flock to anyone they think can be fixed with a little help from Jesus and a hug.

Although I would not typically consider myself to be a member of the slutty community, I do have a strong appreciation and deep understanding for their lifestyle. At the core of every in good slut there is a girl who needs pots and pans filled with love and attention. Being an attention whore myself, I find it hard to judge ladies who choose to use their bodies and sexuality as their tools of choice in efforts to turn heads. Personally, I tend to resort to outrageous behavior and elaborate stories to accumulate interest and recruit members to my fan club; but I understand that other attention seekers have other strategies. In the end, I think that we are all working for the common cause to outshine everyone else in the room. I have decided that the residents of sluttytown are slightly misunderstood by their surrounding prude communities and that as an attention slut myself, it is my duty to act as their ambassador I beleive that correct term is Slambassador. This post will act as my first of many efforts to eliminate judgment of nude enthusiasts and to promote a lifestyle that has earned a reputation for being 2nd class.

Whether we are seeking attention, material goods, or sex; aren’t we all just a little bit slutty?

May the new year bring me Tiger Woods and a frightened mailman

Although traditionally my new years resolutions are set in January and broken by February; i have decided to change things up this year. after working in college admissions for almost two years, I feel that my year changes at the end of April. May 1st is the national deadline for students to let colleges and universities know of where they will be going to school in the fall semester and although we will still be putting the final touches of our incoming class, today is the magical turning point for counselors to start recruiting high school juniors. Happy new year.

In the spirit of a new year, I have decided to create a list of things that I would like to accomplish by May 1st of next year. A few of them are serious, but most are intended to fun and I am hoping they will trigger and inspire some quality awkward posts throughout the year.

Here is the list. Feel free to make suggestions.

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.

2.) wear an ugly Christmas sweater somewhere fancy, in July.

3.) Prostitute Epic Tales Of. A Professional Freakshow in Heels and earn no less than 100 followers. I may need help with this one. Advice is appreciated, your actual fellowship is appreciated more.

4.) sing karaoke with an imperfect stranger, perferably over the age of sixty.

5.) win some sort of contest. I would prefer for this said contest to not require me to wear a wet tshirt like uniform, but again, desperate times call for sluts in white tshirts sometimes.

6.) Convince someone that I am royalty in another country. I will gladly grant myself double Points if I either a. Run into real royalty at a grocery store or while pumping gas. B. Run into some one else pretending to be royalty. ( six yearolds wearing burger king crowns are not worthy of double points,unless of course they are actually the king of burgers.)

7. Fabricate one of those " copy and paste this into your Facebook status if you..." campaigns and try to make it the grossest STD of internet fads. Ideally I would like it to be more popular than pogs were on the richmond elementary school playground in the early 90's but I will settle for outcooling the kitten with the hiccups on youtube. I would be open to suggestions with this task. " June is national _______ month. Copy and paste this into your status if you or your friend, family, mailman, drug dealer, or on the side lover have been a victim of..... A brady bunch marathon...Alien abduction.....explosive dierhia ( gross..I veto this one right now.)..... You get the idea.

8.) Scare the living day lights out of the mailman. My new house has one of those old school slots in the door so that the mailman can push my birthday cards from grammie and Netflix DVDs onto the welcome rug in my entry way. One of these days I am going to be waiting by the door so that as the mailman slips my water bill through the slot, I will grab it from his hands and maybe make some sort of growling noise, not unlike a wolf with rabies.

9.) Save my phone number into. A stranger's phone as "God" or " Dr. Quinn Medicine woman" and then text them everyday.

10.) Create and summit a recipe to the pilsbury bake off. Double points will be granted if I make it on tv.

11.) transform myself into a domestic goddess. I will consider this mission a success when I successfully:
A. Receive one or more compliments on the perfect iron job of my shirt. I will also try ironing wearing heels and maybe an apron. That seems domestic like
B. Learn to mop the floor without leaving it grosser than when I started
C. stop pretending that doing laundry and febreeze are synonyms.

12.) do something extreme such as skydiving, piercing something strange, or jaywalking.

Cheers and cheerios

- professional freakshow

Aliens have green boogers and love Saltine Crackers

The next time I run into my 1st grade teacher at the supermarket, I will have to question her about my 6 year old self. Although I try to forget the details of my life before I harvested my prized boobs, I would like to verify my suspicions that I was a heavy mouth breathing child, sitting in the corner of the classroom, eating glue while my peers peacefully pasted popsicle sticks together for their parents’ refrigerator.

I was an awkward kid, there really isn’t any question about it. I remember spending hours with my best friend in the woods behind my parents’ house, searching for the ocean to sail to Europe. Although northern Vermont was a great place to grow up, it was not a sufficient region to find salt water, unless my saltine crackers happened to fall into the bath tub. Unfazed by the inconvenience of living in an inland state, we hiked through the wilderness , pretending that we were orphaned children escaping from our evil caretakers. I vaguely remember finding an alien spacecraft during one of these adventures, and maybe time traveling machine or two. Normal things.

In some ways, I think that I may still be the same kid with the overbite, admiring my boogers on the playground and protecting my family from creatures from another planet. That’s okay, this blog as well as my everyday life would be far less entertaining if I made more of an effort to fit in.

Recently I have come to terms with the fact that although I may not be like the other kids, I have nothing to be ashamed of and I have decided to only surround myself with people who appreciate my quirks and inspire me to be who I am. I may never be able to wear a white shirt without spilling my applesauce on it and I may always pick my wedgies in public. I am far from perfect, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I would rather be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.

Drooling Catholics hate poetry of the 18th century

I believe that it is a universal truth that sometimes meetings and lectures are boring. I think that we have all been in a situation, weather it was in high school pre-calculus class, a college lecture hall, or in a meeting at work, that we have felt like/or have actually fallen asleep. I am lucky that my current job keeps me entertained and that even the most boring of meetings, although sometimes painful, have never inspired me to doze out of consciousness. Although I currently have no use for this plan, being the caring and thoughtful citizen that I am, I have developed a set of directions to help napping enthusiasts escape the consequences of their inappropriate slumber. I do wish that I had thought of this three years ago when I was taking a course in 18 th century poetry. I am also posting this because I am self involved and I am craving your praises and feedback.

If you ever fall asleep during a class, meeting, or at dinner with the president of the United States; there is an easy and (I am assuming) effective way to dodge judgement.

1.) As soon as you realize that you have in fact taken an inappropriate nap and that you are not actually at Disney land with out your pants on, discretely remove any drool from your mouth. If you are dreaming about making out with johnny depp dressed as a rugged pirate, feel free to finish before continuing on this mission. This step is very important because the exercise will not be effective if there is slobber flooding your face. You can also consider yourself screwed if anyone, specifically the boss, teacher, or Barrack, catches you wiping your cheecks. Like any quality nose pick or butt scratch; discretion is key.

2.) if and only if you have successfully completed step 1 this mission should you bother with your continuation of your journey to escape. Once drool is removed, silently practice in your head the level of volume that you will use to speak when you finally raise your head. It is going to need to be in the form of a whisper, but loud enough for and onlookers to hear you. Imagine the voice that you used to tell your mom that you had to pee when you were in church or a theatrical performance. A whisper, but a whisper loud enough to to turn the heads of Catholics three pews in front of you. The kind of whisper that would still trigger a mother/ daughter discussion/ scolding about being an embarrassment in public.

3. Take a loud and exaggerated deep breath and slowly raise your head. It would not be a bad idea to rub your gas station lucky rabbit foot, and hope that people are acknowledging your performance.

4. slowly open your eyes and simultaneously not-in-church-whisper, " and in Jesus' name... Amen."


- professional freakshow

Bill gates makes lust to a pirate on roller-skates

It turns out that being single is not a terminal disease after all. Although for quite a while it was feeling like the only male attention I was receiving was from the mailman and I was convinced that I was destined to be a woman with twenty to thirty cats, it turns out I was wrong. I am not trying to make excuses, but one of the many reasons that I have been neglecting my freakshow blog, is because I have been dating the same boy for two months in a row. No small task.

I am hoping that by sharing with you the story of how we met, you may forgive me to being so lazy.

We have a plethora of mutual friends, but we had never been formally introduced. I had recently moved in to a house down the street from my favorite watering hole, and although this has been great for my blog and my amusement, my liver is a little sore. One night, When I was in the mood to make strangers feel awkward and out of place, I decided to do some social research.

My friend, Amanda and I worked for a solid five minutes to create a survey for some unexpected strangers to complete and we were confident that we could make some grown men squirm. Side note about Amanda: we have only been friends for a few months, and I adore her. When I tell her that I want to run down the street in broad daylight, dressed as pirate, she not only supports my decision, but offers to run next to me dressed as a dinosaur. Kindred spirits. I need to be surrounded by more people who inspire be to be myself, despite the social norms that are violated as soon as I step out my front door.

Here is a copy of the survey that we created. Please picture this hand written and on a piece of receipt paper. I am resourceful. Very Mcgyver like.

1. Do you believe in magic? Y or N

2. The perfect wife:
A. Cleans gutters
B. Wears blue and cooks bacon
C. Can suck a nail out of a 4 x4
D. All of the above

3.I wish my ________ was bigger and my _________ was smaller.

4. I make lust most like:
A. The big bad wolf
B. A goldfish out of water
C. A giraffe on roller-skates
D. Bill Gates

5. What do you hope to find at the end of a rainbow?

Will you marry me? Y or N

If no, could you hand in marriage be bought with a ham and cheese sandwich? Y or N

Still No? How about extra cheese? Y or Y

Naturally, I decided that this survey was best suited for either the sketchiest lad in the bar or an elderly woman. I knew though that I could not have my first read through with my creepy prey. I would need to warm up. I then spotted John and decided to approach him with my survey. Although he refused to answer the questions, he laughed and confirmed my self beliefs that I am hysterically delightful. We chatted for a while, and I knew that I was in trouble. Not wanting to try too hard to win his attention, and because the riot of the survey was dying out, I knew that I needed to devise a plan that would redirect the room's attention back to me.

I moved on and found a tattooed man with gaged ears. I asked the survey questions, he answered, but was in no way interested in marring me. He may or may not have tripped over his own foot trying to run away. For the rest of the night, whenever he would walk past me, I would whisper "husbannnnnd" in his general direction, in the most creepy of ways.

I didn't talk to John for the rest of the night, but I was happy to see him when I joined the running/ drinking club a few weeks later. I was not so happy when he watched me eat the pavement fifteen feet into my run but I figure that if he can watch me fall on my face and harass tattooed men and STILL ask me to dinner, that has to be a good sign right?

- professional freakshow

Pleasuring electronics

I recently purchased an IPad and I am not ashamed to admit that it has quickly transformed into my family, best friend, and lover. I have no new freakshow stories to share with you this morning,but I wanted to test the convenience of blogging from my new obsession.

Cheers


- professional freakshow

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!

A supportive bra for my 10-12 toes

I am well aware that this post is a day late. Yesterday, I had strong intentions of writing a thoughtful post about all the wonderful things that I am thankful for in this beautiful world. Unfortunately and fortunately my mother loves me and allowed the white wine to sit next to me at dinner and said post is just now being birthed.

Whenever a movie or TV show films a Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey eaters always take turns listing the things that they are thankful for. They take turns listening to each other say that they are thankful for the food on the table and the cloths on their backs. Although my family has never done this TVland tradition, it does not mean that I am not thankful or that I shouldn't take the time to reflect.

As cliché as it may be; I am thankful for my health. I am thankful that I have ten toes and I am extra thankful that said toes are evenly distributed among my two healthy feet. I can imagine having 10-12 toes on a single foot would be both inconvenient and unattractive.

I am thankful for rest stops with clean bathrooms and for hotels with complementary breakfasts. I am thankful for supportive friends and supportive bras. Although I have a degree in English-Writing, I am thankful for spellchecker on days that my spelling is feeling extra creative. I am thankful for hugs and for kisses. In this time of economic doom, I am thankful to have a job and thankful that I work with such an awesome team of people. I am thankful for my 20 blog followers. Although I wasn't at the time, I am now thankful that my mother tortured me with multiplication table quizzes over my middle school summers. I am thankful for Ruth Wakefield who accidently invented the chocolate chip cookie in 1934 and I am thankful to be an American.

I am thankful for my sister and for my roommates who are always timely while paying the rent. I am thankful for warm socks. I am thankful for the heat in my car and in the hearts of my friends and family. I am thankful that you are reading this and keeping the eye rolls to a minimum. I am thankful for my freedom and for my privacy. I am thankful for IBprofin. I am thankful for both of my parents. I am thankful wine, red and white. I am thankful for every teacher I have ever had. I am thankful for caller I.D and clean water. I am thankful for my self-esteem and for the people who tolerate my sometimes silly behavior.

I am thankful for a lot more things, I am sure, but like earlier mentioned- the wine sat next to me at dinner last night.

French stinkbugs smell like beef products

Today is the one week anniversary of the day that I accidently kidnapped a Frenchman. Don't worry, I didn't lure anyone into a van with promises of free candy or use physical forces of any type. It truly was an accident and truly makes for a nice blog entry. Feel free to follow along.

I was an attendee of a small social gathering at a new friend's home and I was having a marvelous time. The party had been active for about an hour and I had already had an opportunity to discuss three of my top five favorite conversation topics: tall creepy men, baked ziti, and anything that will allow me to tell a ridiculous story about myself. The other favorite talking points include my vast knowledge of Ben and Jerry's Ice cream and other dairy products as well as the mating traditions of wild animals. Unfortunately those topics will need to be discussed at a later party.

As I was chatting with my new friends, I noticed a suffering stinkbug clinging to a window shade for dear life. Although I was devastated that I was going to have to put my conversation on hold, I was also in the mood to save a life. I always save bugs and allow them to continue their lively bug lives in the wild. I do this for a few reasons. 1.) If the roles were reversed, I would appreciate it if the stink bug would let me continue my life rather than mash me against his/her shoe. 2.) I like to consider myself a hero of sorts and 3.) although karma is sort of an asshole; I am not.

I separated my heart and soul from my wine glass scooped the stinker into my hand and carried him safely to the front door of the apartment. I swung the door open with my free hand and without hesitation, I threw the stinkbug into the air with intensions of allowing him to live a life of freedom. A life without the fear of falling into my wine glass.

If you get anything out of this post let be that you should always look ahead before sending stinkbugs into the air. As soon as the stinky bug left my finger tips, I realized that there was a tall man walking towards the door. Nothing could be done to prevent the stinker from hitting this man in the forehead.

As the bug bounced of the man's head, I tried to hold my giggles inside and offer him a sincere apology, but I couldn't keep it together. We both began to laugh and all seemed to be forgiven. Just as I was about to go back inside, Buggie man asked in a strong French accent if I knew where apt 717 was located. Ordinarily, I would have made up a set of convincing directions and sent him on his merry misguided way, but I had already thrown a bug at his head and I figured honesty might be a nice thing to try out for a change. Also, it is worth noting that there are few things that I love more in this beautiful world than bald men and cheese. Men who barely speak English happen to be one of those things. I couldn't have told him a lie if I wanted to.

I admitted that I didn't know the apartment complex well and therefore was not qualified to give directions and asked him where he was from.

" Me name eees Seeevan. I am from Fronce"

That was the moment I fell in love. I simply knew that I had to impress him with the 2 years on French that I took and barely passed in College.

"ummmmmmm. Je m'appelle Erin. Uuuh. J'adore le fromage" was the only thing that I could remember.

For those of you who are not as skilled in the French language and culture as I am, that translates into " My name is Erin. I love cheese."

There was a moment of awkward silence before I realized that I was granted a rare opportunity to act as an American ambassador of sorts. it was my patriotic duty to give Sevan a cultural experience to share with his Mere and Pere back in his homeland.. I took him by the hand and dragged him across the hall to introduce him to my friends, repeating the phrase " Welcome To America. The land of boxed wine."

Turns out, I was not the only lady in the room in love with his French accent and Sevan was automatically the the center of our 3 wined circus. Although he occationally mentioned that he had friends waiting for him in apt 717, he never actually left our group. He spent the evening discussing the difference between French and American women, and taught us essential phrases in the French language, such as " Your Mother smells like beef products".

I think that I will add "kidnapping forgieners" to my list of skills. It will join my other talents of blowing spit bubbles off my tongue and coloring inside the lines.

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.

“Running from the cold up in New England- I was born to be a fiddler in an old town string band”

After one case of lost luggage, two bald men, fourteen blog entries, several profanities, and numerous awkward encounters; I am pleased to announce that my travel season has come to an end. I am only 2 plane rides away from a somewhat settled life that will allow me to sleep in the same bed for multiple weeks in a row; a life that will allow me to go grocery shopping without the fear of spoiled eggs and milk. Its going to be great. Although I truly love the traveling aspect of my job, I am exhausted and more than ready to stop living out of my hot pink suit case with a fashionably broken zipper.

This blog was originally intended to keep my family and friends posted about my journeys and adventures as I traveled through the frozen lands of New England, but it has developed into a spit bucket for the creativity that I often feel I have nowhere to express. Travel season is over, but I think that I will try to keep up with this blog in order to a.) document the outrageous situations that seem to follow me b.) continue to entertain my friends families and new followers and c.) have a therapeutic venue for creativity.

Bring it on, Chapter two!

 

Things I learned with Richard Simmons and the Purple Power Ranger.

A few weeks ago, I boldly committed to making a list of Life lessons every Monday. I then promptly erased this pledge from my memory and never did it again. I apologize if anyone has been lost without these words of wacky wisdom, but I hope that this new list is able to get your life back into order. I know that it isn't Monday but life lessons are always worth your time, despite the day of the week. Maybe once a month is more realistic anyways.

This is what I have learned in October:

1. Although it is true that violence never really solves anything, If you ever encounter the man who invented automatic revolving doors, it is appropriate and encouraged to kick him in the shins.
   
2. It is always good news to meet five new friends on a plane. It is typically bad news when these five new friends accidently get you drunk on said airplane of love.
   
3. Every girl deserves a male friend who is willing to dress up like Richard Simmons for no reason other than for her amusement. She also deserves at least one chocolate chip cookie a day.
   
4. College Admissions Counselors can not possibly be expected to keep a straight face when a student comes up to their table, higher than Steve Urkle's pants and says : "Yous got white girls at your school? Cause I hear doze white girls make GREAATTTTT sandwiches" ( I am secretly hoping that that kid comes to LC and rooms with the classy young gentleman who asked me last spring if the girls at LC were easy. Seems like a good match.)
   
5. Enjoy every opportunity you have to sleep in a king sized bed. Sleep horizontally one night if you wish, just because you can. But be warned, when it is time to go back to your full sized bed of boredom and doom, it won't seem big enough and you will feel as though your creative sleeping visions are cramped.
   
6. If when returning to your hotel room, you see that the cleaning staff is making your bed, check and make sure that they speak English before starting a full conversation. Also note that "Excuse me maim, I am sorry to bother you, I am in no rush, but do you know how much longer you will be in this room?" translates in Spanish as " Hand me ALLLL of your Shampoo NOW!!" I have a lot of baby shampoo bottles in my purse.
   
7. Every once in a while, order your food in a British accent. Ask for the loo, just for good measure.
   
8. If your drunk self ever thinks it's a good idea to pull pranks on your soberself, don't listen to her- she's drunk. Saturday night it may seem like a good idea to change all of the names in your phone, but come Sunday morning you will be very concerned about why you are receiving text messages from " Arvad the anteater" ," Purple power ranger" , and "god". Don't put yourself through the trouble of figuring out everyone's true identity, but I strongly encourage you to try this on a friend's phone.
   
9. Someone needs to find a cure for writers' block.
   

Tequila Fueled Fiction

This weekend I have learned two things about myself:
1. I am a ridiculous human being
2. There is a large possibility that I am a pathological liar

Before you judge and question why I would publicly admit such an unflattering flaw, please take note that I don’t lie about the things that “matter” and I that would never cheat on anything more important than monopoly. I generally consider myself to be a trustworthy person.

The trouble all began on Friday as I was waiting for my friend Molly to pick me up from the airport in NYC. It wasn’t terribly cold out, but there was a hasty wind. Although I have to admit that I mildly regretted not wearing a jacket that morning, I was at least wearing pants. Pants are always a good start in my book.

I was sitting on a bench, reading, and minding my own business when and older gentleman sat beside me.

“ Where is your jacket? You must be chilly, young lady.” The man judged.

Without even thinking about it, I instinctively answered

“ Oh I’m okay. I just flew in from Alaska”

If you held me at gunpoint, I couldn’t tell you why I said that. I have never even been to Alaska I wasn’t even trying to lie. I had no reason to. I could have just as easily replied with a polite “ yes, I am feeling quite chilled this afternoon” or I could have even explained that I grew up in northern Vermont . Instead though, this nonsense about Alaska just popped out of my mouth, like the gum that flew into my hair earlier this year. By the time I realized what I had said, I couldn’t come clean without making myself seem insane ( Which actually may be close to the truth). I just put my head back into my book and prayed to the Eskimo Gods that he would not ask any follow up questions.

Molly picked me up a few minutes later and I vowed to myself that I would save my fibs for times of crisis and emergency.

And then I had two margaritas.

As the tequila ran through my bloodstream, the lies ran out of my mouth. Except now they were significantly more extravagant and no longer shielded by a sober social sensor. Tequila always makes me more clever and awkward and it often inspires me to make up fun occupations and life experiences. My personal favorite was convincing a man in Vermont that I was a professional Polka instructor and offering him a free lesson in the middle of the bar. By the end of the night he had learned this fake polka dance so well that he was dancing solo and I was playing the air accordion next to him. Still makes me laugh.

I was in rare form in New York City. There are now people in Queens who were entertained by:

1. A recent graduate from the art program of University of Oklahoma- Now working as a tattoo artist in Manhattan.
2. A teacher for the blind in Wisconsin
3. A sales rep from Jersey. ( when asked what I sold, I froze and just said… “ um. Snakes.” And walked away)

This game kept me entertained all evening.

I could lie and tell you that my addiction to fibs is a recent development, but it would be exactly that. A lie. Although I cannot recall the first time I decided to dodge the truth, I do remember several fabrications I made up before the age of 10. Most of these lies were created solely for the purpose to get my little sister into trouble and to solidify my spot as the good daughter. I hardly think that those count as a lies, just good strong self-marketing.

As I grew older and Alicia grew smarter, I stopped trying to convince her that it was okay to stick her middle finger up at people of authority as long as she didn’t personally believe it was wrong. I stopped telling her that as a mature 4th grader, I was more than qualified to give her a haircut, and I moved on from conning her into writing the word “sex” in her diary and insisting that if she showed dad, he would be really proud of her 1st grade handwriting.

As I grew and matured, my lies and stories grew more extreme and elaborate. My senior year of college I started a rumor that our campus mascot statue of a fighting hornet was going to be removed because of some foreign exchange students from Lebanon were offended. I claimed that the hornet was sort of hate symbol in their country and that since LC is so great about respecting diversity and different cultures, they agreed to remove the statue until these make believe students graduated. Ultimately, the rumor got so big that our Dean of Students had to send out a campus wide email saying that it was false. I later admitted to making up the entire story at a talent competition later in the year and thanked the DOS for being such a good sport.

After reflecting on this topic, I think that the word “liar” may be a little harsh. I think that I am more of a storyteller. Libraries don’t have sections labeled “ Lies” and “ non-lies”. If I were to write these ridiculous stories, instead of speaking them to strangers; it would be labeled as fiction. Call me a drunken fiction teller.

Epic Tales of a Drooling Freakshow in Fluffy Pink Slippers

Approximately once a week, I convince myself that I am on candid camera. Some of the situations that I have found myself soaking in just seem too perfectly outrageous for them to happen in “ real life” and the only logical explanation I can formulate is that someone is secretly filming my life for a reality TVshow that is undoubtedly widely popular in Canada. I surely did not disappoint my Canadian fan base this weekend.

I flew out of Connecticut at 6am Friday morning and other than a small incident of being trapped with my luggage in the revolving door at the airport, everything was going fairly smoothly. That is, until my first layover in Pittsburgh.

When I awoke from my traditional airplane nap, my tongue had a dry leathery feel. I am not an expert in tongue saliva analysis but the way my dry tongue stuck to my lips lead me to believe that it had been dangling outside of my mouth for the last 2-60 minutes. The plane had just landed, so I checked my blouse for noticeable drool spots and collected my belongings from the overhead compartment.

As I was leaving the plane, the unthinkable happened. The man behind me stepped on the back of my sandal, and the strap that holds my foot in place snapped. I immediately found a seat at a nearby terminal and shuffled through my bag to see if I had anything that may save my shoe. I was hoping to open my purse and see a magical roll of duct tape that had materialized out of thin air, a Genie that would grant me 3 wishes, or at the very least, a stick of gum. No luck.
I decided that I was not going to let my bad luck ruin my spirits and instead take it as an opportunity to buy a new pair of shoes without the fear of buyer’s remorse taking over my conscience. The only problem was that I was of course still in the airport and my choices for shopping were limited.

I shuffled through the airport, failing with my attempt to walk normally with a broken shoe. I checked several stores hoping for a pair of loafer-like shoes and still holding out hope on finding a wish granting genie.

If I had found a Gene in the airport, I’m not sure exactly what I would have asked for. A pair of solid shoes, for sure since that was the only reason I was looking for said genie in the first place but I don’t know what I would use the other 2 wishes on. I think that I may ask for my household chores to take care of themselves and for my legs to always be smooth without my need to shave them. I also would consider wishing that endless amounts of chocolate chip cookies would fall from the sky- in which case I would also have to wish that I could eat endless amounts of said cookies without my waistline suffering the consequences.

Although genie hunting in the airport was not successful, I was able to find a solution to my shoe dilemma. I eventually found a store full of socks. If there was any hope of ending my awkward shuffle parade, I knew that it would be found in the Socks shop.

As I limped and wobbled my way into the store, and heaven’s lights shined down on me as I spotted a huge wall display of slippers. Naturally, I squealed with delight.

Now though, I had a whole new problem on my hands. They had black loafer slippers like I was originally hoping to find, but they looked so dull and boring next to the plethora of colorful slippers that filled the wall.

Although I have to admit that the decision was a difficult one, I ultimately decided that a pair of furry, pink/yellow/blue/green slippers best suited my needs.
I figured that this was the best choice because

a.) I generally like my airport slippers to make a statement. I would hate for anyone to see my new slippers and think to themselves that I have boring taste in bedroom footwear.
b.) Multicolored slippers would surely make for a more entertaining blog entry later.
c.) I would fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a Sesame Street puppet.

I proudly put my slippers on and pranced throughout the airport. I felt that I was experiencing everything for the very first time. The thin bottoms of the slippers allowed me to feel the different textures of the tiles and carpeting. I had made a few laps around the airport, before making the worst decision of my day.

As you know if you have read this blog from the beginning, I typically try to avoid the moving sidewalks at the airport. They rarely end well for me. With my new slippers however, I let my curiosity get the better of me and transformed into a sidewalk riding-daredevel. I decided that I could not leave the airport without experiencing the sensation of the escalator grids on my slippered feet. If you only take away one thing from this blog, please remember to never, under any circumstance, walk on the moving escalator with pink fluffy slippers.

As soon as I placed my full body weight onto the sidewalk, I knew that I had made a mistake. I could feel the grids pressing against my feet and instead of the massaging effect that I was hoping for, I thought that my feet were going to be sliced like slivers of cheese by the end of the trip. OUUUCH.

I had to get off the moving escalator as soon as possible and had to minimize the time each of my precious fluffy feet spent touching the moving grid of torture and hell. I ran to the end of the side walk , lifting my feet as high as I could with each step. I imagine it looked similar to burt or ernie walking on coals, or cutting through a field full of snakes. Naturally, by the end of my coal walk, I had formed an audience. I thought about taking a bow and wait for the round of applause, but opted to find my seat outside my terminal let my tongue hang out of my mouth and resume my traditional airport nap

100 ways too piss off a polish girl

It is a rare occasion when I make an effort to piss off a complete stranger. As someone who typically tries to avoid confrontation like poison ivy and the plague, I often allow irritating situations to slide by without argument. Although I generally like my conversations with new friends to be free of conflict; I also generally dislike being bullied. When I feel intimidated, sometimes I can't help but get a little sassy.

Last Friday, I found my seat on the airplane to Lynchburg with no intensions of making me seatmate uncomfortable. When a middle aged man with more salt than pepper in his hair joined me and offered a warm “hello” , I was delighted to have a chatty friend. I had been out of town for 2 weeks and had experienced entirely too much “Erin alone time”. Finally, Someone over the age of 18 for me to talk to, I thought to myself.

Saltn’ Pepper was visiting his daughter and family in Virginia. He majored in Music in college and enjoys reading poetry. As soon as he told me that he was a minister at a church in Ohio, I knew that our conversation would inevitably turn awkward/blog worthy.

When I told Salt’n Pepper that I was originally from Vermont, a look of concern and worry tormented his face.

“That’s a pretty um…. Liberal state isn’t it?” He said as he put the arm rest down between us. It was as if he thought that my political views were contagious and that skinny arm rest was his only hope of making it off the plane without being infected.

At this point I was tempted to tell him about how excited I was that my brother and his boyfriend were finally getting married, but I thought better of it. He had not yet said anything rude to me and fabricating a brother and future brother-in-law was not necessary.

After a moment of silence, Saltn’ Pepper pulled out his wallet, and handed me a homemade business card.

“ Part of my job is to counsel people in need. You seem like a really nice young lady and if you ever feel that you need someone to talk to. Please know that you can always call me.” He said.

I thanked him for this kindness and placed the handcut piece of construction paper into my purse.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

“ Are you Dutch?” He asked me.

“mmm…no..” I was polite, but very confused.

“ I alway’s say.. If you aint Dutch.. you Aint much” He laughed, clearly pretty proud of his own joke.

I laughed too. There are few things that I enjoy more than rhyming.

He then told me that he had a bumper sticker with the phrase on it and proceeded to tell me about the other funny bumper stickers that he had seen. This was turning into a very nice conversation after all.

“ I’m just glad that I’m not Polish” he said. “ I wouldn’t be smart enough to but a bumper sticker on my car properly”

I stared at him for a moment in utter disbelief. I really wasn’t offended, but I was shocked that a minister would say something of that nature, especially to a perfect stranger. I come from a strong polish heritage and I was tempted to tell him so, but I decided that it wasn’t worth the battle.

As our flight continued, I was amazed by the number of polish jokes this man knew, and how he was clearly not shy to share them with anyone who would listen. I could tell that he was joking and if I had known him better ( or at all for that matter) I would have probably found it funny. I sometimes make fun if children with lisps, I really cant judge.

I decided that although I was not going to tell him that I was Polish that it was the perfect time to end the conversation and read my cosmo magazine. As I opened my $4.50 of trash, I was sure to place myself at an angle that would allow saltn’ pepper to read “100 ways to make him hot in bed” over my shoulder if he so desired. I have always been good at sharing.

This is where the story gets interesting.

As the plane was landing, Saltn’ Pepper made a few more jokes, all at the expense of my ancestors. He stood next to me as we were waiting for our bagged luggage and the polish jokes continued until my bags arrived. As I gathered my belongings, he extended his hand toward me .
“By the way, I’m Alan Smithe” He said forgetting that his business card had his name printed on it.

All of a sudden, a rush of courage and sass filled my mouth.

“ It was nice talking to you, Alan. I’m Erin Giebutowski” I said, borrowing my mother’s maiden name.

I smiled and watched the color drain out of Alan’s face. Without another word, I walked to my car.

Life Lesson Monday

I am a firm believer that there are lessons to be learned in almost every situation. My roommate, Kate, and I often review the weekend’s events in the form of life lessons and I think that through this blog I would also like to occasionally share these words of wisdom. I think that this should be a weekly event and since today happens to be a Monday, I shall declare every Monday as the day of life lessons.

Learn with me:

1. There is no such thing as a problem that can not be fixed with a glass or three of wine and a chocolate chip cookie.
2. Everything is more fun when I am surrounded by friends and family who not only refrain from judging my sometimes eccentric personality, but are able to celebrate my oddities.
3. Justin Timberlake has a bit of a stutter. He does not have the same effect on my fluttering heart that he did when I was 13 years old with a face of acne and a mouth of metal.
4. I have no business drinking caffeine. This is actually not a new lesson, but a lesson that I relearned this week. 1 cup of coffee= Erin bouncing up and down in the rental car.
5. If you take a tour of Mark Twain’s house at 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, you will be the only person there without a cane and AARP card.
6. One should never pass up the opportunity to touch a bald man’s head. It is simply incredible.

The giant and the frogs

This weekend I succeeded in my mission to touch a bald man’s head and make it look like an accident. I have decided to grant myself double points of awesomeness due solely to the fact that my bald prey was nearly 7 feet tall; naturally making it difficult for me to swipe his baldness without a running leap. I believe that the extreme levels of skill and determination that were needed for such a challenging task deserve recognition and I would be lying if I reported that I am anything less than brilliant.

Saturday evening started out like any other Saturday evening. I had been out of town for 2 weeks and after spending 14 days alone in hotel rooms, I was more than ready to misbehave in Lynchburg. My flock and I decided to swing by our favorite bar before spreading our wings and trying a new club downtown that is typically a waterhole for strange locals and serves as a great venue to catch up on some quality people watching. This particular club also often displays videos of mating frogs on the dance floor so it is difficult not to be entertained.

After a few hours of dancing and frog porn viewing, the flock collectively decided that it was time to migrate back to the nest for some sleep and a light snack. As I waited for the tender of the bar to retrieve me my bill, I caught a glimpse of a beautiful bald giant. If he had been of average height, I may have been able to simply gather my belongings and find my way to the exit. Unforunately, his extreme height acted as a magnet that attracted my recent obsession with touching hairless heads. I couldn’t help myself and before I knew it I was standing next to him and plotting my attack.

As I opened my mouth to initiate a conversation, the giant looks at me, smiles, and says “ I’m 6-11 and no.. I do not play basketball”. That was the moment that I fell in love. He was tall, bald, and apparently some sort of mind reader. Absolutely amazing.

Unfortunately, I fell out of love as quickly as I fell into it when he began to talk about his ex-wife and children. I must say that I was disappointed however by removing all romantic intensions from the situation, I was able to focus all of my energy towards my original quest to touch is bald head.

After what felt like hours of forced small talk, my brilliance leveled to the surface and I was ready to attack. I knew that the first order of business was to get the giant closer to my own height so I staged a graceless mishap and dropped my clutch at my feet. I quickly apologized for being so clumsy and pretended to be greatly concerned that my cloth bag had somehow damaged his feet with its great fall. I then acted as if I was making a valid effort to pick my bag up off the floor. After 2 fake attempts, I asked the giant if he would be willing to reach it for me, fabricating an excuse about my bad knees.

Was this a lie? Yes. Am I proud of it? Only a little. As the saying says though, desperate times call for desperate measures and I think that this situation definitely applies. Mr. Clean and his bald head had escaped my fingertips on the airplane and I couldn’t let this giant get away. I am no quitter.

As he so kindly bent down to hand me my bag, I made believe that my roommate, Ashley, had called my name behind us. I spun my body around with great dexterity and accidently graced my fingertips across his smooth and shiny head.

It was even greater than I had anticipated. Although I did not have the time allowance or confidence to get a good grip and make his skin wrinkle, the brief swipe was well worth the plotting and struggle.

Life. Is. Complete.