TMI Thursday: A little like Slimer

Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

During our winter break, freshman year in college, a few friends and I decided to take a ski trip to Julie’s mountain house. If you remember, I don’t ski (at least not well), but I was more than ready for the inevitable drinking part. We stocked up on food (i.e. pasta), beer, and one of those margarita tubs. Because we’re classy like that.

One of our trip "achievements"

One of our nights of drinking eventually turned into a game of Kings which is either never a good idea, or always a good idea – depending on how you look at it. Once we ran out of beer, we proceeded to keep our cups full with the mix from the margarita bucket. (As an aside: I “made” the margarita bucket. And it confirms my belief that I should never be allowed to make mixed drinks in any form, as I think I added nearly double the amount of tequila necessary.)

As we neared the last of the cards, things started to fall apart. Julie bounced from the table, and we later found out that she threw up in the sink. (And by “found out” I mean, we saw it. Because the sink was then clogged.) Why did she throw up in the sink? Because the bathroom was already backed up – which is why Peter disappeared outside, to pee in the snow, leaving me, Keith, and Costa at the table to finish the game.

It’s hard to remember at this point, but I imagine that the last card must have been a waterfall. And that I was last. Keith and Costa finished their drinks, and I put mine down – with just a little bit left in the cup. Costa went to check on Julie (his then girlfriend), and Keith proceeded to “chastise” me.

“Come on, Liebchen, you have to finish that.”

“Keith, if I finish that, I’m going to vomit.“

“Just finish it. You can throw up outside.“

“I don’t have my shoes.“

“I’ll carry you.“

Always susceptible to goading, and unable to turn down such a gentlemanly offer, I agreed. He carried me, bride-over-the-threshhold style, and I carried my beverage.

“Ready?“

“Ready.“

I gulped down the last of it.

“How do you feel?“

Except, in the winter, not summer. And green, not pink.

I’m at least thankful that I made it over the railing and not on her deck, but, still, after I was done a neon green pool stood out nicely against the fresh white snow.

And Keith carried me through all of it. Those friends – the ones that don’t just hold your hair, but literally hold you – might actually be one in a million.

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In case of emergency

As a single girl who lives by herself, at least two hours away from the closest family member, I’ve often wondered just who I should designate as my “person”. My Liebchen-is-in-the-hospital-and-we-thought-you-should-know person. Of course, Mama’s listed and I know she’d make the trip down from Philly in record time if I needed her. But what if the need is more immediate? When I lived with Cla, we’d occasionally list each other as emergency contacts, but now that we’re not living together, is that still appropriate?

I bring this up now because, well, my mother is a worrier.  (To be fair, we both are. We just pick different issues.) She worries about me running. Outside. And alone.

And I get that.

When I run outside, I don’t keep my cell phone on me. I tried that once, a button got jammed, and I ended up sending over 40 blank text messages, one right after the other, to a poor, unsuspecting friend. And it’s not like I wear a nametag, or carry my license with me when I run. It’s usually just me and my iPod.

So Mama (and I agree with her) wants me to have this, just in case:

As we talked about it last night she said, “I just don’t know what other numbers you’d want on it. I obviously put myself as a contact, but it looks like people put their significant others (nope) or their roommates (not anymore) on there, too. Who would you put?”

That, Mama, is an excellent question.

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A happy surprise

All of this spring summer weather that we’ve been having lately has reminded me of something that’s been lacking in my life (or rather, my closet): sundresses. Cute, strappy, I-can-wear-this-anywhere, so-much-more-comfortable-and-breezy-than-clinging-shorts sundresses.

You’re starting to see them more and more out on the DC streets now. Gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve noticed the recent abundance of shorter skirts showing just a bit (or a lot) more leg. And I’ve been taking notice, too. I often find myself wanting to tap on the shoulders of women on my way to work, and ask them where they’ve been shopping. Unfortunately 1) I’m not that friendly in the morning and 2) I’m not that forward, in general. I could, quite possibly, scare someone.

This desire for an updated warm weather wardrobe, though, has also reminded me of something else that’s lacking in my life: money.

As naive as it may sound, I’ve felt nearly (not totally, I’m not an idiot) recession-proof for a little while (though I knew it wouldn’t last). I knew people who were losing their jobs and taking pay cuts, but also people who were finding jobs, and making good money. And I knew others, still, who were moving back in with mom and dad, trying to weather the storm for a bit. But I was still doing all right. Until, at our last staff meeting, El Jefe officially announced that there would be no raises this year. We all knew it was coming. We knew. Yet, we all still hoped that maybe something, anything would turn around in our favor.

However, as if in answer to BOTH of these “problems”, I received a happy surprise in the mail yesterday: my tax refund! (Is it a refund? A rebate? A return? Whatever it is, it’s money back.)

It’s like the government was reading my mind! As much as I had complained about doing split state taxes, apparently it worked out in my favor. I gave Virginia too much money, so they’re giving a little back. Woohoo! And now that it’s sunk in that I’m not at all recession-proof, I’m fully aware that the majority of the check should go into savings.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t spend a little bit on summer fashions, right? It’s good for my mental health.

Thanks, Virginia. You made my day.

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Pity party for one, please

I may be 23, but today I feel like this:

Actually, I was going for feeling like the old lady, but maybe it’s more accurate to say that I feel like the dead mouse on the ground. That she’s stabbing with her cane.

I’m thinking it’s a mix between the race yesterday, and the fact that I was so exhausted that I passed out last night around 7:30pm, fully clothed, practically sitting up, yet still somehow lying on something that did NOT do good things to my neck/back.

Clearly, my life is really hard.

What does a girl have to do to get her own personal masseur?

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A little housekeeping, if you will

A few things today, to usher in the weekend:

1) After watching Miss America the other night, I cannot get “Untouched” out of my head. It’s catchy. And makes me dance a little when I listen to it on the way to work. (And, let’s be honest, I’m dancing in my desk chair, listening to it now.)

2) A friend shared this with me, and I still swear it has to be a joke ad. He maintains that it is not. Perhaps you’ve already seen it, but if not…enjoy. Mow the lawn, indeed.

3) I’ve been tagged twice now to share a photo, just as I am while reading the blogs of those who tagged me. First, from Marie and then from f.B. Since I do most of my blog reading at work (shh! don’t tell!) the picture presented a bit of a problem. But, since I just remembered to do it now, you get the most natural (nearly) photo I could snap.

Oh so attractive with my unkempt, still wet, post-shower hair and sleep t-shirt. I know what you’re thinking: hot. I’m pretty sure this look is making a comeback. You heard it here first.

Thank God it’s Friday!

Now, is it 5:30 yet?

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TMI Thursday: Do you need two?

Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

Today’s TMI is brought to you in the form of gchat – because I just couldn’t relay the conversation any better. (Emphasis added by yours truly – as if it were needed.)

me: haha – i love it

are you back from vacay?

Peter: yea

me: how was it?

no injuries, i hope

Peter: wishful thinking, sam might have lost a testicle

me: you’re joking….right?

Peter: umm….no

i wish i were

me: omg! what happened?

Peter: he got what is known as testicular torsion, its when your ball wraps around the vein giving it blood and slowly kills it

he didn’t get into surgery quick enough to fix it properly

me: how does that even happen? is he okay? (if you’re playing with me, i’m gonna be so mad)

Peter: im not playing with you i swear

he’ll be fine

he still has one working ball

me: holy crap….

Peter: no one has believed us when we told them

it wasn’t even a skiing accident

me: so how did it happen?

Peter: well, it happened while he was skiing but its just something that can happen when you are doing physical activities

me: how many people have you told? does he really want it spread around? would it make you feel like any less of a man to have one ball?

Peter: well sam wasn’t exactly “manly” to begin with (side note: Sam=Crush, from this story)

he’ll live though

he is telling people, im sure its not something he wants screamed for the rooftops but he isn’t hiding it

me: wow

Peter: it was pretty crazy to have all that happen

me: did you guys have to go to the hospital out there?

Peter: yea

he was rushed into surgery when we went to the hospital to try and save his ball

me: but you just didn’t get there in time for it to be saved?

Peter: we weren’t even close

he waited a day to go in

he thought he just pinched his nuts and they were sore from that

so he didn’t go in until the next day at which point there was nothing the doctor could do

me: well, i suppose that’s quite the eventful ski trip…

could he ski after the surgery? or was it the last day?

Peter: it was the 2nd day

he’s actually bed ridden for 4-6 weeks to heal from the surgery

me: oh god…that really sucks

Peter: yea it does

other than that the trip was fantastic

…

…

…

Cheers, kids.

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House rules

Remember when I told you about that roach that was an unwelcome tenant in my apartment? Well, shortly after that post, I got him. I saw him creep out from the closet, but sluggishly this time, as though he’d been drugged. And he was moving slowly enough that I had time to pull on my winter boots (which went great with my extra large sleep t-shirt), and squash the ever-living shit out of him. There was much rejoicing, and many triumphant texts sent (at least three). And I clearly didn’t feel bad at all because, well, he was just gross.

In fact, as a general rule, I don’t feel bad killing bugs that may get into my apartment (or any building, for that matter). I won’t squish you when I walk outside, just don’t follow me to my home. Simple enough rule. I had a bit of a dilemma last night, though, when I saw two teeny spiders (honestly, no bigger than my pinky nail) crawling around near the end of my bathtub. I wasn’t concerned about them, and, frankly, I expected a couple bugs, as I’d left my windows open yesterday morning.

My normal m.o. would be to turn on the water and let them go down the drain. The prior rule stands. BUT, for some reason, I started thinking about James and the Giant Peach. You know how all those creatures get, well, giant? And do you remember what Miss Spider’s gripe was with the two horrible aunts? They killed some of her relatives by sending them down the drain. Look, I know Roald Dahl is just fantasy, but would you want to be on the bad side of this?

I sure as hell wouldn’t.

I think I’m safe for now, as I haven’t seen any old men peddling glowing, magic seeds recently, that would result in abnormally large creatures. (Though, in DC, you never can tell.) But the impact of that book is almost enough to make me want to gently usher the critters onto a piece of paper and out onto the window ledge.

Almost.

(I’m sorry, Miss Spider. Please don’t get me.)

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“I am so smart! S-M-R-T!”

For the past few months, I’ve been preparing to go back to grad school. I’ve been researching programs, exploring my reference options, talking to my boss, and, worst of all, studying for the GREs.

Miche and I decided back in February that we’d start studying and take the test in May, just to get it out of the way. Well, May is less than two weeks away (seriously, where did April go?), and we’ve yet to register for a test date. We have, however, been studying – staying late after work to take advantage of the open conference rooms. And, I can’t speak for Miche (though I think she feels…similar? similarly?), but I have never felt dumber.

Part 1: Verbal

I thought I had a decent vocabulary. I read. I do crossword puzzles. I have a background in romance languages.

But, apparently, that’s not good enough. Half the words on the practice test analogies, I’ve never even heard of. And forget the reading comprehension. I can hardly stay focused enough to read about the economic repercussions of different chemical treatments, much less answer questions on the material. I’m screwed. (NOT an example of my supposed decent vocabulary.)

Part 2: Math

Oh. My. God. It took me at least ten minutes to remember the formula for the circumference of a circle. And there was one point where I was convinced that there are 90 degrees in a triangle. (I’m embarrassed to admit that.) And I still have adding and multiplying square roots, arcs, and FOIL to review. Yeah, FOIL. What a bitch.

My biggest worry before was how I’m going to pay to go back to school. Now, that looks easy compared to basic math.

Aside from simply avoiding the exam all together (not an option), any tips on how to handle it? I can clearly use all the help I can get.

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Tokens of childhood

I was home (again) this past weekend, very briefly, and made a startling discovery while pawing through things in my bedroom: I still have my old baby teeth in a little purse, in my old jewelry box.

I’ll give you a moment to “ewww.”

It’s okay. Like I said – I was a little shocked myself. And while I couldn’t bring myself to touch them, I did shake the bag around, looking for one particular tooth that was the bane of my existence – right up until it fell out.

Let me ‘splain.

When I was about a year and a half old, I was riding my little plastic tricycle down our driveway. It’s a bit of a steeper incline, to begin with, and the bottom half of the hill was also littered with various sized twigs and branches. Not a big deal for a car – HUGE deal for a tiny trike.

I managed to hit one such branch, which flipped me head over heels over my handlebars, and caused me to land on my face. My dad looked at me, as I had blood gushing from my mouth, and determined I’d be fine. Mama determined that we were going to the dentist.

The dentist determined that I needed a root canal. That bastard.

I was strapped to the table (because, honestly, what 18-month-old is going to lie still for someone drilling in her mouth?), and the torture commenced. And in the end, one of my front teeth was yellow.

About 5 years after the original torture. See that one tooth to the right? That darker one that doesn't fit in? Yeah, I hated that one.

I must have tried everything to make my tooth white again. For the longest time, I thought that if I brushed hard enough, I could change the color. Or, that I’d be able to leave some of the toothpaste on, just that one tooth, to mask the difference.

When that didn’t work? I did my very best to pull that sucker out – even before it was loose. I tried the string-tied-to-the-doorknob trick, and bit into numerous apples, hoping to coax out the monstrosity.

And after all of that trying to get it out, I still kept the damn thing for more than 15 years!

Go figure. I never claimed to make much sense.

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Something about those baseball pants…

The Nationals were 0-7. The only team in the majors to not have won a game so far. I suppose that, eventually, they had to beat someone. (Its not like they’re the Detroit Lions or anything.) And, I suppose, that someone just had to be the Phillies.

Le sigh.

Being at the game last night, however, was not a total bust by any means. I sat closer than I ever have before – a mere 2 rows behind the Phillies’ dugout! Which meant that I broke out the camera – and took pictures of all my boyfriends. Let me be clear: I don’t have sports crushes, usually, except for baseball players. In 3rd grade, I had eyes only for Darren Daulton. Now, I know better than to limit myself. I currently have 3 Phillies crushes (one of them new, as of last night). Gotta play the odds.

3) Lou Marson; Catcher; #3

I really hope he's over 18 in this photo. He must be at least college...right?

Marson on second last night - Zimmerman's just an added bonus

I feel a little like a cradle robber on this one. He’s only a year younger than I am, but 1986 just sounds so much younger than 1985. (Shut up; it does.) In any case, Marson had a decent game last night (especially for someone whose team lost to the Nats) – a good hit and some great base-running. I’ll keep an eye on him throughout the season, but he’s showing a lot of potential.

2) Cole Hamels; Pitcher; #35

Getting ready for a little batting practice

Hiding in the dugout - probably from crazies like me (Look at that hair!)

Wow. Just wow. He is a beautiful man – and ‘beautiful’ really is the best way to describe it. Of the current Phillies, he was my original crush (if that makes sense), and he’s still up there. He’s not really even #2, more like #1.1. And I was pretty disappointed that I wasn’t going to get to see my World Series MVP pitch last night. (He was slated to, until Wednesday night’s game got postponed.) As it was, I had to resort to stalking taking pictures of him during batting practice, and when he poked his head out of the dugout. Whatever, I’ll take what I can get. Heidi who?

1) Jayson Werth; Right Fielder; #28

Oh, hey there. How's it going?

I love you! Um, I'm sorry...is it too soon? Are we not there yet?

Werth has this kind of scruffy, not-really-a-bad-boy-but-could-be, look going for him – you know, not to mention his fielding skills. Every time he came off the field, I was staring right at him, either face to face, or through my camera. Until I got embarrassed, because I was sure he caught me constantly taking his picture. The next time he came by, I accidentally caught his eye, and I swear he half-smiled, half-smirked at me. Honestly, you’d have thought I was a giddy little pre-teen with my first crush. But so very worth it.

Even with the loss last night, it’s shaping up to be a very promising season.

Game on.

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