What's in my Brain...

So, I don't really have enough material (or at least have a coherent story from a childhood experience) to make a complete entry, so I'll give you an exclusive "in my brain" look at my week.  You're so lucky.

Monday AM: After taking the 100-question simulated MBE- Wow, I'm going to completely fail the bar exam.
Monday PM: Oh my God.  It is eleventy-billion degrees out and I'm out here trying to learn how to swing a golf club.
Monday a little more PM: Holy crap!  I just hit the ball right onto the green!
Monday even more PM: Baskin Robbins...mmm.  
Tuesday: It's so beyond hot I don't even want to go outside.  How did I live with this for 13 years in Texas?
Tuesday PM: Taking the dogs out- Wtf is that?  Omg it's a giant toad.  And Cherry is trying to eat it.  Shit.  What if she actually succeeds and drags mutilated toad parts into the house?  Run, toad!  I'm retarded.  Toads don't run.  But he's certainly not making any real effort to save himself.
Wednesday:  Empty head.  Completely. As in, cue the crickets in my brain.
Thursday late AM: Wow.  I can't believe I slept until almost noon.  I'm a complete failure.  
Thursday Afternoon: What the hell is this guy doing trying to walk across the highway?!  In front of MY car?!  I literally almost crapped myself just now.  
Thursday (later) Afternoon: I love Target.  Hmm.  Why isn't my car unlocking?  Because the remote is broken.  So, I guess I have to unlock it manually and...yep it sets of the alarm.  Now there are people staring at me thinking I'm trying to steal my own car.  
Thursday Evening: $25 for an average manicure?  I won't be coming back here.
Friday Afternoon: So the remote in my key isn't just out of battery.  Nor does it just need to be re-programmed.  It's completely broken.  Of course it is.  Because it's MY car.  And this kinda stuff happens to items I own. 

And now here I am on the brink of the weekend.  My last weekend of freedom.  Ever.  

Nascar on the Loose

Hey you!  It's been quite a while.  I apologize for the delay, but I was busy finishing finals, graduating, and getting engaged.  Quite a big few days if you ask me!  You didn't ask me, but this is my blog, so I'm going to TELL you it was.

This next little ditty comes to you courtesy of my experiences on my neighbor's swingset when we lived in Ontario.  Yes, the town with the terribly small-bedroomed house, school bus drivers that don't let you cross the street to board, and schools with TABLES so we sit like cattle.  With all of Ontario's apparent downfalls to a spoiled seven-year old, my neighbor's swingset was the highlight of my life.  I had a tire swing in my backyard.  The tire swing was fun, until your idea of fun no longer included winding it up and spinning yourself around until you were about to vomit.  When that lost its luster, I'd head next door where there were two swings, a swinging see-saw thing, a fort, a slide, and a swinging monkey bar (that would later cause my first broken nose).

Can you say baller, shot-caller?

Anyway, one day during my admittedly many forays into their backyard, I got way more entertainment than I bargained for.  To set this up properly, I have to tell you about our crazy, white-trash neighbors across the street.  The lady was a single mom who looked and acted like Tanya Harding, and her two sons were often the ones who got in trouble for shooting their Nerf guns at random wildlife in the neighborhood.  I'm fairly certain they also set several small fires in their driveway.  Basically, they were legitimate butt-plugs.  In addition to that, their yard was dotted with several pink flamingos, as a means of "classy" lawn art, and there was a bird fountain that was covered in bird crap that served as the piece d'resistance of the whole yard.

Shortly after we moved there, Tanya got a new boyfriend.  Take every stereotype about car racing, mullets, and guys that drive shitty pickups, and you have Billy Ray Cyrus 2.0.

This is pretty accurate, minus the "authentic" Nascar crew jacket.  Shirt unnecessary.

This dude pretty much moved in with Tanya...and that resulted in more than one visit from the local police.  I'm sure this was about as much activity as the police got, since most calls probably involved livestock blocking traffic or someone trying to write the word "Poop" on the side of the school.  And then came the day and Billy 2.0 and I would cross paths.

I was enjoying my time on the swingset when I heard yelling coming from the general direction of the should-be trailer home.  I looked up to see Billy 2.0, aka Nascar, aka Waffle House wedding groom, come sprinting through the yard between my house and the house next door, being tailed closely by two cops.  Naturally, he was shirtless, and was trying desperately to be agile in barefeet and skin-tight jorts.  He kept sprinting right into the creek at the back of our yard and took off splashing downstream.  He took a moment to wave at me as I gaped at the scene unfolding in front of me.  I would later wonder why he waved.  I'm not sure I'd have the where-with-all to be polite to an 8-year old who is privy to one of my life's more embarrassing moments.  But maybe that's in the mullet code of honor.  Regardless, I hopped off my swing and started to follow them.  Not closely follow, but enough to where I could see what happened as they rounded a bend in the creek a few houses down.  Billy 2.0 got straight-up tackled by the cop who was obviously tired of dealing with his shit.  I bet Ontario cops don't sign up for strenuous exertion when they take the job, and this dude was furious.  Billy 2.0 didn't put up much of a fight, and after they cuffed him, I quickly ran back to the swingset so I didn't look like the neighborhood creeper who was watching the local scandal.  

I think after this final debacle, Tanya dumped Billy for good.  At least he was never around much after that.  His familiar rust brown pickup truck did not grace Tanya's driveway for quite some time, and I was secretly sad that I wouldn't get to see real live episodes of Cops unfold right across the street.  Sigh.

Meltdown in Ontario

When I was seven years old, my family moved from Wallkill to Ontario, NY.  This was exciting/traumatizing for a number of reasons.  At first, I was excited to move.  The idea of something new and fun is always cool to a seven year old.  I was, though, sad to leave my gigantic bedroom in our house in Wallkill.  I mean, this thing was huge.  It took up 1/3 of the entire upstairs of the house.  I had an entire toy kitchen/living room set up in there.  Jealous?  You probably are.  My sadness about losing my huge room was magnified when I saw my new room.  To be fair, it is a perfectly nice room.  BUT, it wasn't as big as my old one, and because I was an asshole when I was little (see earlier posts), I was completely distraught over it.  But, my parents were really good at distracting me when I was upset, so they quickly directed me to my new bike and the huge basement where I could ride around in circles when it was too cold.

Then came my first day at my new school.  First of all, I relished the fact that at my old school I got to cross the street to get on the bus, AND we each got our own desks.  Desks that you could lift up and store all your stuff under the tabletop.  Badass desks.  Imagine my shock and despair when the bus drove right by my house and went around the cul-de-sac so that I didn't have to cross the street to board.  I was outraged that the bus driver was treating me like I was incapable of crossing the street to get on a bus.  The day just got worse when I got to school and discovered that not only did we not get the cool desks where we could store our shit, we didn't get desks AT ALL.  We were herded like cattle into tables of 8.  I'm sure the look on my face upon seeing this was one of pure disgust.  Where would I store my library books?  How did I let myself get roped into this small bedroom house at a school where I neither get to have my own desk OR cross the street to get on the bus?  The horror.

I needed one of these.

After a first day of school where all I could focus on was my lack of a desk, I moped off the bus and walked inside.  My mom asked me how school was, and I just broke down.  I imagine it was beyond difficult for her to keep a straight face as I, in all seriousness, made my school out to sound like a maximum security prison.  I know if I was listening to a seven-year-old lament the lack of cool desks, I'd laugh in her face.  But, my mom is an angel, so she listened intently as I demanded to transfer to a school that had cool desks, and pleaded with her to figure out a solution to this road-crossing situation.  My parents both empathized with me.  At least they acted like they did.  They probably rolled around in bed laughing after I went to sleep.

I was not able to transfer to a school merely because I was dissatisfied with the desk situation.  BUT, my dad did talk to the bus driver (I really wish I could have heard this).  In my mind, this is how it went down:

Dad approaches the bus driver as I get on.

 She probably didn't look like this, and I'm certain our bus drivers weren't allowed to smoke, but who doesn't love Forrest Gump?!

Dad: Excuse me, I have a ...somewhat odd request for you.
Bus Driver:  Yes?
Dad: Would you mind not going around the cul-de-sac before you pick her up?
Bus Driver:  Um, excuse me?
Dad:  Well, she's very upset that she doesn't get to cross the street to get on the bus.
Bus Driver: Are you f**king serious?
Dad: ...yes.
Bus Driver:  So you want me to stop on my way in just so she can cross the street to get on and off the bus?  That's retarded.
Dad:  Yes, I know.  But could you?
Bus Driver: I guess.

So she did.  From that day on, I was always allowed to cross the street.  A minor triumph for me.  And the following year, we got cool desks.  So all was right in my world.  I also loved my new bike.  Rock on.

Rabies Alert

Ok folks, I'm back.  I have a final tomorrow, and since I feel sufficiently prepared (HA) I've decided to update my blog.  I don't know if anyone watches the Tyra show (I mean someone must watch it because she's still on the air), but apparently yesterday she acted rabid.  Literally rabid.  She claimed she had been bitten by a rabid dog and then she started foaming at the mouth.  I personally didn't witness this because I'm not home in time for the lesser 2pm talk shows, but I guess when you run out of things to do on a talk show, why not start acting like you need a tetanus shot?

This rabid model situation reminded me of an eerily similar "situation" that I endured last year when I lived at my old apartment.  I have oft referred to it as the "Half-Dead Bat Situation."  It was newly spring, meaning the earth was finally thawed, flowers were in bloom, my glow in the dark white legs were finally seeing the sunlight.  I ran some errands, and when I got home I walked up the stairs to go to my apartment.  I then noticed a black blob on my doormat.  My original glance made me think it was just the remnants of a plastic trash bag, but as I got closer I realized it was, in fact, a bat.  Now, I'd never even seen a bat since I moved to Columbia, so I was slightly shocked to not only see one, but to see one that had braved the light of day and met his untimely demise on my porch.  I stepped around him, and went inside to drop off my groceries.  I then devised a plan to dispose of my dead bat friend.  This plan involved a set of high-tech animal removal tools, also known as spatula that I would throw away, a Ziploc bag, and my oven mitt (protection from the killer rabies germs).  In my opinion, it was a highly sophisticated and fool-proof plan.

So, I go back outside with my Ziploc bag open, and my spatula ready to scoop.  Just as I've got the spatula under him and I'm ready to scoop him in, he flips his shit and starts flapping his wings in a panic.  At this, I LOSE it, start screaming and fling my spatula and Ziploc bag, which lands on his flailing body.  Still screaming and panicking, I decided it was a good idea to throw my oven mitt, which landed in the flower pot of the people across the hall.  I then skip inside, slam the door, and lock it (I'm not taking any chances that this asshat can turn doorknobs).  Still mildly alarmed, I looked out the peephole, before realizing that I wouldn't be able to see it because the bat wasn't 5 feet tall.  I carefully cracked open the door and saw him laying motionless on the doormat.  I crouched down and blew on him, and he flipped his shit again, to which I slammed the door again.

I called animal control to report my half-dead bat situation, and she asked me if it was rabid.  Um, I have no idea, I skipped the bat diseases class that talked about rabies.  Just kidding, I have never TAKEN a class called bat diseases because a) it doesn't exist and b) I don't care about bat diseases.  While I'm waiting for animal control, I occasionally check on Bruce Wayne to see if he's still there and half-dead, or if he has managed to come back to life, get away, and get reinforcements from his bat-friends.  Or maybe Robin would show up.

Anyway, finally the animal control woman arrives.  She uses tools equally as sophisticated as mine to trap the bat, taking a kitchen spoon and scooping him into a Folger's coffee can.  She then gives me the rundown of what will happen to Bruce (she didn't call him this, but I interrupted her and told her his name, at which point she looked at me like I had eyes on my forehead).

I stare at her in disbelief/mild disgust as she tells me that Bruce will be decapitated, and his head will be sent to a lab for rabies testing.  I could have done without the details, but in my infinite imagination, I picture an old-school execution, and I wonder if Bruce's executioner looks like this:

I Googled "executioner" and came across this well-built gentleman.  I find the thought of someone at Columbia Animal Control wearing this to behead bats and other rodents highly amusing.

The animal control lady then told me I should consider being tested for rabies.  Um, what?  Bruce didn't bite me.  I don't know the specifics of rabies (again, no bat diseases class), but I do know I never came in direct contact with Bruce.  I thanked her, and watched her tote off my little half-dead buddy.

I monitored myself closely the next few weeks, making sure I didn't become overly feisty, or start spewing foam out of my mouth.  Animal lady of course had me paranoid that I was going to lose it, and go Old Yeller on everyone.  But, alas, three weeks later, I got the phone call from animal control, informing me that Bruce was rabies free.  So, my half-dead bat was now full-dead, on account of the fact that his head was in some lab.  Sad.  Poor ending for that little guy.

RIP Bruce Wayne.

Look at that radiant smile.  Lights up a room.

In other news, today is Cherry's 1st Birthday!  Despite being a total idiot, she managed to make it a whole year.  Here's a shot of the birthday girl:

This is what drunken pranks have come to?

I was browsing the interwebs today in one of my (admittedly many) study breaks, when I came across something truly outrageous:

"A CHEF has died after an EEL was put up his bum.

Shocked doctors in Sichuan, China, found the sea creature in the 59-year-old man's rectum after his death, it has been reported.

The 50cm long Asian swamp eel was allegedly inserted into the unnamed man's bottom, after he passed out drunk, by pals playing a prank on him.

Medics said the eel had devoured his bowels."

Story here.

Obligatory picture of an eel. I certainly hope the eel in this case was smaller, although in the end I doubt it mattered.

Wow friends. Way to go above and beyond your obligation to embarrass your drunken friend. What happened to the days of drawing inappropriate pictures on his face with magic marker? This is a bit too far. It's time to tone down the pranks my friends. Not only that, this dude was 59! I can't imagine his friends were much different in age from him. I understand that as you get older you develop more creative ways to mess with your friends, but putting things up their asses is probably something that should always be off limits. Just saying.

Summer and I agreed that this will also certainly have an impact on the trust level we feel amongst our friends when we're inebriated. I can just picture myself walking around trying to perform searches of my friends while yelling "Does anyone have an eel? ANYONE?!"

Lesson of the day: Avoid your friends' anuses, pervs.


PS, Summer you can look back on this as the day you became a household name amongst all 4 of my readers...even if it is in reference to a bowel eating eel. You're welcome.