How Melvin Got his Head Back

24 Jul

This is going to be a three-part post updating you about various parts of my life.  The first two parts are mostly harmless fun.  The third part should probably be avoided by anyone who doesn’t like knowing about my period.  You know who you are (ahem, Dad…also, one other person who I will not mention because I don’t want to embarrass her but probably the third part will make you queasy).

An Update on Melvin:

Hey guys.  So, first thing’s first.  I know many of you were wondering what happened to Melvin the Snail.  Remember Melvin?  Remember that time he wore a jacket?  How about that time he posed in a bra?  Or the time he was giving a lecture to a bunch of kitties?  Well, an unfortunate thing befell Melvin.  He was traveling in my bag en route from Tucson when one of his antenna fell right off.  Luckily I was able to put it somewhere for safe keeping.  Then, a few months later, one of my kitties (my money is on Clark), knocked Melvin’s upper half off the place where he was magneted and BAM!  Instant decapitation.  I put him in a safe place while I mourned the loss of my travel buddy.  But then yesterday, in a fit of procrastination, I used some of the Krazy Glue that I borrowed because I am far too disorganized and forgetful to remember to buy it myself (hence why Melvin was in such a sorry state for so long) and I reattached Melvin’s head, and his antenna, back to his cute little neon body.  Here he is, happily mugging for the camera:

20140723_220710I guess maybe you can’t really tell that he is mugging because I didn’t get a good angle on his face, but suffice it to say that he is.  He always is.  He even had a cheese-eating grin on his face when his face wasn’t connected to the upper half of his body.  Now that’s a guy I’d like to grab a beer with, ya know?

Catastrophe!

So, as some of you might know, I am catastrophe proneI am also prone to being spit on.  Which really is a catastrophe all its own only a far less silly one than other catastrophes I have experienced.  Being spit on is actually rather infuriating.  I angry cried on the street the second time it happened.  It was the same guy both times by the way.  A few months after the second incident, after I had filed a report with my local precinct, I saw him at the Atlantic Center opening the doors with his elbows and almost spit on him.   I didn’t, though.  It seemed likely to blow up in my face especially considering there were cops outside and the most recent instance of him spitting on me was like, 2 months prior and I don’t think that revenge is covered by the law.  I probably would have gotten arrested.  Now that would have been a catastrophe.  Anyway, moving on.

The reason I bring up my having been spit on in the past is because of what happened yesterday when I was in the midst of running errands with a friend.  We were en route to buy some paper towels when I felt something wet on the outside of my right ankle. I walked a few steps, realized it was also maybe a little bit slimey, and looked down.  Obviously there was a huge wad of bright green gum stuck to my leg.  Not only was it stuck to my leg but during the 3 or 4 steps I had taken before I realized what was happening one portion of the gum had dislodged itself from my leg and fallen underneath my heel onto my shoe so when I took a step there was like stretchy green shit running between my foot and my sandal.  Also, another piece had gotten on the sole of my shoe and was creating the same mess of stretchy green shit between the bottom of my shoe and the ground.  It was, quite possibly, the biggest piece of gum that has ever existed.  Also, it was green apple.  I know this because fruit flavored gum has a very strong aroma.  I bet it was like, Bubble Yum, or something, only this person decided to chew the entire pack at one time.  Or it could have been Big League Chew.  Do they make green apple flavored Big League Chew?  It was really gross.  And, of course, this happened before I bought the damn paper towels.  Life doesn’t make it easy, ya know?  In case you were wondering, I am not entirely sure how the gum got onto my leg, although I do have a few theories.

1.  One of the dudes in the group milling on the corner that my friend and I had passed spit gum out at exactly the wrong moment (or the right one, depending on whether or not you’re an asshole) and it stuck to my leg.
2.  A cycler cycled past and, rather than being a good person and stopping at the garbage can to spit his or her gum out just spit it out into the world, sort of like a gift, and I happened to be walking by at that very moment, ready to receive it.
3. The universe thought I had been surprisingly catastrophe-free that day and, knowing my utter distaste for fruit-flavored chewing gum, dropped a piece of gum from the sky at exactly the right speed and in exactly the right direction to create maximal hilarity with minimal gum stuck in my hair.

I think probably option three is the most likely.

Not Safe for Dad (NSFD)

So I just now decided that I don’t think I want to write this third part at all.  I don’t think I feel like sharing this particular embarrassing story about myself just at the moment.  Maybe some other time, if you’re lucky.

The Day After

21 Jul

Radio silence: over!!

Actually, I don’t know if any of you guys really care all that much about my recent lack of posting.  You know who does care?*  Facebook.  The other day I got a message from my franklyrebekah Facebook page saying that people miss franklyrebekah because I hadn’t posted anything in a while.  I called bullshit because not many people have “liked” my page and I am sure that a lot of people who have really only did so because they are my friend and wanted to be supportive and then promptly hid my franklyrebekah updates from their news feed because it jams up the works.  I might do the same thing if I were them.  Oh but by the way, if you want to like my page, you should. I think there is a handy little Facebook link button somewhere or other.  To the right maybe?  Yea, I think it’s somewhere on the right. At least, that’s where it should be.  All you have to do is click it.  That’s what they tell me, anyway.  Then you can tell your friends to like it also, I mean, if you’re so inclined.  Is what I am doing right now lame and also sort of rude?  Yea, probably. I’ll stop.  Okay.

Anyway, so maybe some of you know this already but this past Saturday, July 19th, was my birthday!  Hooray for being born!  I had a really good day, actually.  I decided this year that I didn’t want to plan a whole thing so I picked up a bartending shift and then a bunch of my friends came over to hang out and my family surprised me with a visit and my friends who own the bar bought me a birthday fruit tart and everyone sang happy birthday to me and I blew out the candle and I think maybe I saw my mom shed a little happy tear.  Yea, it was pretty neat.  And then I went out with some friends after and there was A LOT of whisky and a Nutella-stuffed calzone and some beautiful sunflowers and lots of hugs and some more whisky.  I actually had to work the next day, which is sort of what this post is about, and on the way to work I had a moment of fret that there might actually not be any whisky left in all of Brooklyn.  Or, at least, not any Powers.  But I got to work and, lo and behold, there it was:  a shiny bottle of Powers perched upon the shelf right next to the Jameson.  Phew.

So that all isn’t the point really.  The point is that on the night of my birthday I went to bed really late.  I went to bed really late despite the fact that I knew I was working the next day from noon to 9 and that there are few things that I dislike more than bartending hungover.  The thing is that I took the shift specifically because I figured that knowing (a) I had to work the next day at noon and (b) just how much I hate bartending hungover, I would make responsible, wholesome decisions the night before.  At this point in my life I feel I should just stop lying to myself.  Honestly, it’s embarrassing.  Anywho, needless to say the yesterday morning that the title of this particular post refers to was less than stellar.  I got out of bed and went down the hall to brush my teeth and everything.  I had to pee.  I looked at the toilet and noticed that the seat cover was up and the seat was down, as it should be.  Then I put the seat cover down, blocking access to the bowl.  Why would I do that?  I don’t know.  I then proceeded to stare at the now unuseable toilet with a feeling of complete confusion.  How would I pee with the cover down?  What would become of me?  This lasted for about 30 seconds before I thought to myself,

Hey, asshole, just undo what you just did and all will once again be right with the world.  Or at least, the world of this particular bathroom.

So I put the lid back up again and all was right, as I had hoped.  Then I went back into my room and smacked the side of my ankle on the wall.  How?  I don’t know but that’s what I did.  Luckily I don’t bruise easily but the spot is sort of sensitive to the touch so I am pretty certain that I have some serious subdural bruising.  (As an aside, I looked up the definition of the word subdural because sometimes I use words incorrectly and no one tells me and this is what it said: “situated or occurring beneath the dura mater or between the dura mater and the arachnoid membrane.”  That definition cleared up absolutely nothing for me and made me feel like maybe there are a bunch of spiders living under my skin. Is that possible?)  Anyway, that’s not even the best part.  This is the best part.  So I had gotten myself all ready to go and was speed walking down the hallway when I realized that I had forgotten my phone in my room.  Oh no! So I turned around and rushed back to my room and in the process, and unbeknownst to me, I got the strap to my canvas shoulder bag stuck on the doorknob of the closet outside my bedroom.  I bet you know what happened next but if you don’t, I’ll tell you.   I ripped my bag clean in half.  Top to bottom.  And all my shit came pouring out onto the floor.  My wallet, a book, some magazines, a pocket knife, my mace, some old receipts, a few gum wrappers, and a lot of sand.  So, yea, that was pretty fun.  It was a cute bag, too.

Other weird things happened later in the day but nothing that would really stand up well against that story so I will just leave it at that.  Oh, and also, I have come up with a new way to describe myself.  I am catastrophe prone.  So, stay tuned for future catastrophes because for someone such as myself, they are hiding behind every corner, just waiting to appear.

*Following the whole Citizen’s United ruling, I feel as though it is okay for me to refer to Facebook as a “who” as opposed to a “what.”  Just so you all don’t think I had a total grammar fail right there.  (But let’s be real: this is totally just me justifying my grammar fail.  I could never lie to you guys.)

Penelope the Missing Pregnant Tarantula

10 Jul

Alright you guys.  So today I was walking down my street in order to go get some frozen yogurt (I ended up deciding to spare my stomach and bought ice pops instead) when I came across the following sign taped to a pole:

Tarantula

Apparently there is a tarantula running rampant around my neighborhood.  No, scratch that, apparently there is a pregnant tarantula running rampant around my neighborhood.  One of my friends, Michael, said that he looked up the number and it appeared to go to a landline somewhere in Oklahoma,* so I suppose it could be someone playing a cruel, cruel joke on an old friend or something but whatever, let’s pretend that is not the case.  Let’s pretend, for just a moment, that there is, in fact, a pregnant tarantula named Penelope crawling around somewhere on my street, ready to pop out at any second.  You ready?  Let’s go.

So I don’t know if you guys really know how I feel about bugs.  The other day I found a dead roach under a suitcase in my bedroom and it took me upwards of two hours to somehow scootch it onto a dustpan and hurl it out the window.  I had convinced myself that it was likely to come back to life at any moment and exact its revenge on me for contemplating throwing it out the window by eating my eyeballs.  Or something.  I almost had my friend Ben come over to deal with it but I worked up the courage to be an Adult and Handle It.  I am not actually that much of a wuss but there are certain things that are simply above my pay grade.  Dead roaches and pregnant tarantulas are two such things.  So upon seeing the sign, snapping a photo and sharing it on social media I did what any reasonable adult would do.  I called my mother.

I don’t know if you guys do this when you call your mothers, but I tend to just launch into whatever it is I am going to tell her about without an appropriate greeting.  This is funny because my mother doesn’t use a cell phone and the landline phone she uses is insanely old, is the size of a brick and does not have caller ID.  Or, if it once did it no longer works.  The conversations go something like this

Mom: Hello?
Me: I was walking down the street and I stepped on a ketchup packet and the ketchup shot all over the place but somehow it didn’t get on my pants!

Or

Mom:  Hello?
Me:  Seriously?!  What the fuck is wrong with the Supreme Court?!  Who raised these fucking guys?!

Or, in the case of this afternoon,

Mom:  Hello?
Me: There is a missing Mexican red rump tarantula in my neighborhood named Penelope and she’s pregnant!  What if I find her?!

I like to think my mom finds all this amusing.  At any rate, my mom and I then proceeded to have a 25 minute long conversation, 95% of which was centered around Penelope.  She said to me,

“You know, Rudy really should have spent more time on things like tarantulas rather than focusing on ferrets.”

I didn’t actually know what, or who, she was talking about but my mom knows all sorts of things so she filled me in.  Apparently Rudy Giuliani really hated ferrets and made it his mission to rid the city of them.  I knew nothing about this (although I can’t say ferrets are my favorite creatures) so obviously I did a little internet research and found this awesome rant.  You guys it is so funny, you really ought to listen to it.  He gets a call from this guy named David Guthartz from New York Ferrets Rights Advocacy (does that even make sense grammatically?) which is an actual organization that exists in real life.  I mean, ferrets are animals too and shouldn’t be mistreated and blah, blah, blah but I mean, really?  You can’t make this shit up.  Anyway, so Rudy calls the dude deranged and then elaborates on that with the following comment:

“The excessive concern that you have for ferrets is something that you should examine with a therapist.”

I know it really wasn’t very nice of Rudy but I could not stop laughing.  This was a thing that happened live on the radio and is now on YouTube and I can’t get over it. It is so good.  I might listen to it again.  But I have gotten off topic.  So my mom and I were talking about Penelope and what I would do if I were to come across her in the wild.  Would I scream?  Would I run?  My mom suggested that I mace her but given my track record with mace I thought perhaps that was not the smartest of all options.  After a little while of joking about Penelope and the possibility of hundreds of itsy bitsy little tarantula babies stalking around Brooklyn I walked past a vegetable garden and, noticing some patty pan squash I exclaimed,

“SQUOOSH!”

My mom, understandably, thought I was still talking about Penelope and shared her concern that if I were to step on Penelope I could inadvertently pop her eggsack, sending baby tarantulas running all around.  Could you imagine?  There I would be, shuffling around my apartment in my ridiculous slippers.  I notice a tarantula, step on it, baby tarantulas spew all around and, likely, many of them go running up my leg.  What would I even do?!  Could you imagine?!  I can and it is absolutely terrifying.  It actually reminds me of a story.  So back in 2003 I was in Tanzania as part of an epic year of study abroad that I am pretty sure I have mentioned here before.  Anyway, a bunch of us were sitting around, chatting, when my friend Lauren noticed a big black dot on the big toe of her right foot.  She did what I think was the reasonable thing and squeezed it and out came a whole bunch of some sort of baby insect.  Some mommy insect had laid an eggsack under her skin and when she put pressure on it they hatched.  It was probably one of the most disgusting things I have ever witnessed.  I don’t know how she didn’t vomit.  I would have.  I would have vomited, then fainted, then vomited again, then probably choked to death on my own vomit all because some asshole insect laid a bunch of eggs in my big toe.  Ugh.  I am shuddering just thinking about it.

So anyway, given how things go for me in general I think it is highly likely that Penelope will somehow find herself into my room and make herself a little nest and then lay all her tarantula eggs and I will wake up in the morning, put on my slipper, feel something furry and realize that instead of a slipper made of synthetics I had tried to put on a slipper made of baby tarantulas.  So, stay tuned for that.  If I don’t choke on my own post-faint vomit and die I will write about it.

*I looked it up and it suggested a cell phone so, who knows.  Apparently the internet doesn’t know it all.  Or at the very least it gets confused sometimes.

#DeadRoach

30 Jun

Because I have nothing of consequence to write about right now, and because my blog has been uncharacteristically silent, I am going to write a post about the other day when I found a dead roach.

A few days ago I was sitting in my room trying to figure out what to do with my day.  That has been my reality as of late.  I sort of wake up, sometimes I have plans, sometimes not so much, but it is always a matter of trying to busy myself in the mean time.  I usually figure I ought to do something productive – organize my books, clean my desk, send out some writing samples – but instead I always end up sitting at my desk, drinking coffee and watching gymnastics clips.  Just this evening I gave myself a little test and realized that I can look at the entire USA National Gymnastics Team, juniors and seniors, and identify all of them by name and many of them by name, gym and best apparatus.  It is not something I am proud of.  Anyway, that specific morning I decided that the best use of my time would be to unpack the suitcase that had been sitting on my floor from a weekend trip to my friend Debbie’s wedding.  I love Debbie and her wedding was great.  If I had a video of her reciting her vows I would be so happy.  It was like, the most love I have ever seen verbalized before in my life and it was really something beautiful.  (Congrats Debbie and Bobby!  Love you guys!)  Now that I am thinking about it, I didn’t decide that the best use of my time would be to unpack the suitcase.  I decided that I wanted this fun headband that my friend Emily had given to me a few weeks prior and I was pretty sure it was in the suitcase.  I was right but I didn’t figure that out until something terrible happened.  So I went over to the suitcase, I moved it, and

THERE WAS A DEAD ROACH UNDER IT!

It was so bad.  I hate roaches.  Honestly I don’t care if those fuckers are dead or alive they totally gross me out.  There was this one time when I was in India back in 2004 and my friend Michelle and I were traveling around Rajasthan together.  We were at a train station waiting for our ride to the next spot we were going to visit when we found out our train was incredibly delayed.  Not like, “this train is delayed because of train traffic ahead of us, and thank you for your patience,” but like legit 6 hours of waiting for a train.  There were lots of people there also waiting.  Also a really cute little calf wandering around eating all manner of things.  Michelle decided to go off and get us some chai and snacks and I was tasked with watching our bags.  Normally that would not be a problem except that right when Michelle walked away an army* of rat-sized roaches walked right over to where our things were.  They were the biggest roaches I have ever seen in my life.  Like, imagine the roaches that we have here, like, the water bug ones, and then make them something like 5 times the size and that’s the shit I was faced with.  It was horrible.  I had to pick up all of our things and try and relocate them slightly away from the roaches so they wouldn’t hide in our bags, eat the cashew nuts we had, build up their super powers, and then emerge from the bags at the fucking Taj Mahal and kill us all.  So incredibly gross.

So I had India-sized roaches flashbacks.  I was convinced that this sucker was just playing dead and that when I went to dispose of him he would come back to life, fly across the room and give me a fucking heart attack.  So I did what any normal person would do: I put the suitcase back on the roach, called my dad, texted with some friends, and started tweeting.  Nobody really reads my tweets but I tweet nonetheless.  Here is a look at what you are missing:

I then moved the suitcase again and

Then my brain started getting carried away and I got scared.

At this point I had tried calling my friend Ben once and my father two times.  Neither of them had answered.  I was in crisis mode.

As is custom, no one read any of these tweets so me like, putting out calls for help into the Twittersphere did absolutely nothing.  Then I texted my friend Emily and she said that I should probably get a broom and a dustpan.  Genius.  In my mind I had a picture of one of those broom and dustpan situations where you have the broom and it is a regular broom with the broom stick and everything but then you have the dustpan and it is not one of those ones where you have to bend down to use it, it also has a stick.  A dustpan stick.  And the stick makes it just as tall as the broom.  So I was really excited about this prospect because it meant that my face had to be no where near the roach.  The only thing is that I don’t have one of those dustpans with the sticks.  I have the normal one.  Fuck.  So I ended up moving the suitcase, averting my eyes, somehow brooming the dead roach (it didn’t move) onto the dustpan without bending down, then using my foot to angle the dustpan in such a way that the dead roach slid all the way to the back, then extending my arm as much as possible to lift the dustpan and then ever so slowly walking the dustpan with the dead roach over to the window with the open screen that I was really concerned my cats might fall out of and flinging the dead roach as far as possible.  I felt proud.  I still do, actually.  I have been telling everyone about it.

Anyway, so the roach is gone and my suitcase is still packed although I did find the headband thing and I wore it two days in a row. Thanks for listening.

#In truth there were only 3 roaches but if we use the fact that these roaches were 5 times the size of the dead roach on my floor, that means that there were really more like 15 roaches which is very intimidating.

FYI: I am an Adult

24 Jun

So this is a thing I realized today:  I find port-o-potties hilariously funny.  Like, all the time.  I don’t know what it is about them.  They just make me giggle.  And this is not a new thing.  I think I have always found them funny.  So I remember this one time when I was little I was in the car with my mom and I all of a sudden wondered to myself,

Self, how do they get port-o-potties from one place to another?

And wouldn’t you know it, about 5 minutes later a pick-up truck with not one, not two, but three port-o-potties on the back drove right on by!  It made total sense!  Up to that point I was trying to think of all the different possibilities: dropped by helicopter? Towed in? Placed on some sort of motorized platform with wheels and directed there via a remote computing device?  (I didn’t say I was a logical child.)  This turn of events had three distinct effects: (1) I was very excited; (2) I laughed really hard; (3) I was impressed by the speed with which the universe answered my extremely burning silent inquiry.  Maybe there was a god?

Anyway, fast-forward a few years.  I developed this nasty, unintentional habit of timing my summer runs for exactly when some sort of service came to clean the port-o-potty right by the Ocean Parkway entrance to Prospect Park.  I don’t know if any of you have ever walked by when a port-o-potty is being cleaned but it is one of the worst smells ever.  And it travels.  I would be like 1/2 mile away and I would all of a sudden get a waft of this disgusting aroma and realized that, damnit, I had done it again!  And then I would spend the next 1/2 mile trying to breath only through my mouth while simultaneously feeling a great deal of sadness for whatever poor bastard was tasked with that particular job.  I mean, can you imagine?  Being like, right there while all the nasty stuff from the port-o-potty hole comes up through a tube into the back of the truck?  And then having to walk around with that odor stuck to your clothes?! (I have a theory that stinky particles are stickier than nice-smelling ones and that is why garbage mens’ clothes smell like garbage whereas florists clothes do not smell like flowers.)  Between the feelings of pity and the slight odor-induced nausea I would also be sort of giggly because of course I went running at exactly the time when the port-o-potty was being cleaned again.  I mean, what are the odds?!

And then today, I was walking around and there was this port-o-potty and on it was painted the name of the company and do you know what it was?  Rent-A-Unit.  Okay, so if you were to come up to me one day and be all,

Rebekah, if you were to guess what the company Rent-A-Unit has on offer what would it be?

I really don’t think I would guess a port-o-potty.  No, sir. Off the top of my head I can think of one or two things I would be likely to guess and they both are closely related to the possible usages of the male anatomy outside of urination.  There are just so many possible funny names for port-o-potty companies that I felt really let down by this one.  It saddened me.

Okay, and now for the last thing which is the funniest thing that has ever happened to me in relation to port-o-potties. So the other day I was walking down my street past this construction site and I saw what looked like a port-o-potty with the door ajar.  On the side was painted “Call-A-Head,” which I think is a superb name for a port-o-potty company.  As I approached the structure I kept repeating in my head,

Do not look in the potty….do not look in the potty…do not look in the potty…

I mean, really, you never know what could be hiding within the confines of a random moveable toilet.  There could be someone in there with his or her pants down.  Or a possum.  Or, I don’t know, some birds that would come flying out right when you walk by, scaring the shit out of you.  But of course I ignored my own logic and peaked into the potty.  What I saw was hilarious.  There, inside the potty, was a man in some sort of outfit — security guard? — sitting at a tiny little desk doing paper work.  His office was a potty.  And I thought to myself,

Man, if I find myself sometime down the line waking up, getting myself Dressed and then heading to the office except that my office is not really an office but is instead a head, I would be very sad.

How does one put on an outfit that looks Serious and Professional and then commute to work and then go into a potty and sit at a teeny tiny desk and take themselves, or their jobs, seriously?  I would just laugh all day long.

The end.

My Shiny Quarter

22 Jun

I know this is probably the worst time to publish a blog post considering that the USA are playing Portugal in the World Cup as I type, but whatever, when you are inspired you are inspired and I never pretended to be smart about this whole blogging thing.  So it is not secret that my year has sucked.  I wrote about it here. Also, here.  Oh and then there was this thing that happened that I wrote about here.  And let us not forget about this.  So this isn’t a blog about me complaining about how I am having an off year, and how my life has sort of been like a line of dominoes, where one of them falls and knocks every other one down in rapid succession.  It is about something else.

So on Friday I was walking home from getting some juice when I stumbled upon a quarter.  I walked past it about 5 paces or so and then stopped, thinking about my friend Monica.  She has also had a rough couple of weeks ever since her dog went missing.  I thought about how Monica always picks up pennies.  It’s this really endearing compulsion that she has.  We would be running through the streets of New York and no matter what we were talking about, she would always see the pennies, always pick them up.  I turned back around and, with Monica and Lark on my mind, I picked up the quarter.  I took it in my fingers, turned it over, and decided that that very moment would be the moment that I would stop thinking about what a crappy year I have been having, I would stop dooming myself to more misfortune, and just change my mindset.  That quarter, I decided, was going to be my change in luck, that place in the domino line when you get them all wrong and the one falling somehow misses its neighbor and the rest of the pieces remain standing.  I know this might seem a lot to put into one small piece of currency, but in the face of thinking that you have somehow run into a string of unexplainable bad luck it really seems like the most logical next step.

(I just heard screaming from an adjacent building.  Somehow the US has overtaken Portugal?  How surprising.)This is going to sound really cheesy.  Perhaps even cheesier than the things I have already written in this post.  I was just watching an episode of Gossip Girl (I know, I know), and Rufus Humphrey said something to Dan over breakfast that really just got to me:”…success, people praising you, it goes away.  And when that day comes, if you don’t like who you are, you’re done.”I don’t know.  I have spent a good amount of time trying to figure out what has been happening recently.  I have spent a lot of brain power, shed a lot of tears (more than I really care to admit to) trying to understand what the fuck I ever did to have all this happen.  But then I realized I didn’t actually do anything.  It’s just life, it’s the world.  This is how shit goes.  And I can either feel sorry for myself, or laugh at myself.  I can either look backwards, or look forwards.  I can either wonder why there are so many assholes, or I can be happy that I like who I am and anyone who doesn’t, well, they simply aren’t worth my time.  From here on out I am choosing the latter in all three of those scenarios.As it turns out, a quarter really can be the harbinger of good things to come.  I mean, if I was going to somehow attribute all my good fortune to some weird universal bullshit, why not assign some of my good fortune to a quarter.  Right?  Right.So that is it.  That is the end of me thinking this is an off year, and wishing I had a bear-free cave to live in.  This is the beginning of me realizing I have an amazing support system all of whom I love and appreciate; I have a fantastic family; I have a warm house with great roommates and two annoying as hell but incredibly sweet cats; I have my health; I wake up most mornings feeling lucky that I am who I am; I have this shiny new quarter.  The rest, I think, will come in time.

If You Need Me I’ll Be in My New Cave

19 Jun

I don’t know whether to file this post into the category “I did this so you don’t have to” or “when you think people are laughing at you they probably are and you should look in the mirror” or “Rebekah needs to buy a cave and stay there until 2015.”  Anyway, you can cast your votes after reading the next incredibly embarrassing thing that happened to me.  I promise I will laugh at this a few years from now.  Maybe.

So, I don’t know if you guys know this but for me, this year totally sucks.  It is the actual worst year of my life.  I thought that nothing could be worse than 2010, and I had really clung to that with every bit of strength that I possess in my entire body because at least then when something totally sucked I could be like “well, it could be worse.  It could be 2010 again!”  But now I don’t even have that because 2014 is totally worse.

I need to add here that I know that, relatively speaking, my 2014 has not been as bad as some other people’s 2014.  I know that probably I am sounding like a whiny little bitch right about now and people are gonna be all “well, those aren’t real problems” but whatever.  Those people can suck it.  So, let us continue.

So earlier this year, after I got back from Peru (which was really fun except for when my earrings were stolen out of my ears), I had an interview at this place that does community gardening.  I was really excited and totally qualified and the position was essentially made for me.  Anyway, I got all excited about it and then I got to the interview and in an effort to not sound like a raving lunatic because of all the excitement that I was feeling I dialed it back too far and I think came across as uninterested.  I knew it didn’t go well the second I left the office.  Anyway, I got home like an hour later (it was so far!) and looked in the mirror and discovered that my scalp burn from Peru had started peeling and there were like pieces of skin all through the top of my head.  I had looked in the mirror when I left, no skin.  But by the time I got there, skin everywhere.  So probably they thought I was this totally underwhelmed, totally boring, totally unmotivated person with serious hygiene problems.

That was a great day to be me.

So then fast-forward to this afternoon.  I had to go to this interview and it was sort of rainy outside when I left so I brought my umbrella.  By the time I got to where I was going it was not rainy but instead it was wildly humid. You know what does not do well in humidity?  Eye liner.  You know what would have been a good thing to do before interviewing?  Looking in the mirror.  Did I do that?  No, of course not.  So I talked to the lady for a few minutes, she seemed nice, and then I left and walked over to the Verizon store to deal with the fact that they had said they would send me a new phone in the mail but had neglected to do so.  Anyway, because of the earlier rain I had not brought my my sunglasses which, as it turns out, was a huge mistake because had I brought them I could have at least not looked like an ass while walking the streets of Brooklyn.  So I am walking down Flatbush and this woman in a car looks at me and starts laughing.  Like, seriously laughing so hard.  She was having the time of her life.  I thought to myself two things: (a) don’t be so insecure that you think some random person is laughing at you; and (b) did you sit on something?  You must have sat on something.  I looked at my butt, there was nothing there.  Why I assumed it had to do with my ass doesn’t actually make sense because I was facing her, so really logic should have told me that I looked like a total weirdo but no, I thought it was my ass.  Or that I had been shat on by a bird and didn’t notice because I get shat on more than the average person so it’s just like, normal these days.

So I logicked myself out of the worry and continued on to the Verizon store where I dealt with 4 different people, none of whom told me my makeup was fucked.  Also, I may or may not have had an almost mini-breakdown in the Verizon store because that is something I do these days at random places.  (As a side note, why don’t the people at the stores and at banks have direct access to someone who can help you at the help center?  Why do they also have to wait on hold listening to advertisements for mortgages and extra cloud storage and shit?)  Anyway, the lady on the phone was really nice and I don’t blame her for not telling me about my makeup because she couldn’t see me but I believe if she had seen me she would have told me about it.  Then I walked all the way home to my apartment.  I got home, walked through the door, went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and BAM.  Disaster face.  I actually wish I had taken a photo of it because it was really something to behold.  So I immediately did the thing that I shouldn’t have done but it’s me so obviously I did it.  I sent the following text to the person I had just interviewed with:

“Thanks for meeting with me.  I just got home and realized my eye makeup had gotten all screwed up from the humidity and I am hoping that happened after I talked to you.  But if not, I am usually not that much of a mess and will not be leaving the house without a mirror in my purse for the rest of the summer.”

To which she replied:

“:) It’s all good. Very nice meeting you too.”

And then she said something else about shifts that’s not actually relevant to the story.  Her text led me to believe that my makeup was, in fact, at least moderately screwed up when I talked to her.  So, that’s good.  Go me!

The thing that is so sad about the whole situation is that I looked in the mirror when I got home and all I could think was “of course.”  That was it.  It’s like, obviously since I put effort into actually looking like a presentable human being today my eyeliner was like “sucker! You think you look GOOD?! Palease!”  So, that happened.  It has now been made clear to me that the only reasonable thing for me to do is put a bid in on a cave somewhere and move into it for the remainder of the year.  My friend Sarah tells me that probably I can just go into a cave and hang out there and eventually through squatter’s rights it will become mine but with my luck a bear will be living there already and would try to maul me but would only succeed in gauging out one of my eyes and eating my right arm.  I would defend myself with bear spray but, as we have learned from my experience with mace, I cannot be trusted with anything that comes in an aerosol can.

So, if you need me I will be in my cave.  I will be accepting visitors and snacks.

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