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A Little (Slightly Depressing) Self Reflection for Your Sunday

1 Feb

Alright I know I have been super duper quiet on this blog as of late. That is partially because I have been writing (almost) daily over on my other blog, ChafingIsReal.com. Any of you who haven’t checked it out yet, or don’t know what the deal is, here is some info! So this year I decided to sign up for this challenge to run 2,015 miles in the year 2015. For those who are wondering, and yes people have asked me why I chose the number 2,015, it is one mile for each year since Jesus was born. I mean, not really. Jesus has nothing to do with it. That was really just a nod to the religious history of our calendar. I’ll stop now. So, you can watch over there to see how I am doing if you want, and read all the nonsense that I spout. It isn’t all about running, either. There are all sorts of fun things that happen so you should check it out, if you feel so inclined. Moving on from self-promotion….

This past Friday I got back from a 9 day trip to New Orleans. I’ve been going down there for a visit every year since I moved one of my closest friends down there back in 2012. My annual pilgrimage has almost become a marker of time, so I figured I would use my return as a sort of self-reflection on all that has happened in the last year. And you guys, a lot has happened.

About halfway through my trip I realized that it has been almost a year since I quit my job at the bar I worked at for almost 6. It is weird to think that the end of a bar job could be such a big milestone in a person’s life but it really was. I realized, after leaving and taking a step back from all that happened, that I had been in almost an abusive relationship with my job. I don’t really know how else to put it than that. In a lot of ways, too, being there year after year almost stagnated my growth as a person. Well, maybe that isn’t entirely fair. I don’t really know how to explain it. Working the same place, the same shifts, for so long is both a blessing and a curse. On the good side, I built myself up a bit of a business, a lot of people came in on my shifts to hear my stories, read my bar signs and shoot the shit. On the bad side, the longer and longer I stayed, the more and more I felt like I would never leave. It became almost a security blanket. The flexible schedule allowed me time to do other things (like get my Master’s) but I ultimately just felt trapped. And angry. And, more than anything else, sad. I know I have said this before but it almost felt as though I could have woken up and been 25 all over again. That’s how stagnant I felt. Quitting that job, although it caused a landslide of disasters that seemed to effect every other facet of my life, was one of the best decisions I ever made. And I think that finally, a year later, I can really reflect on that and appreciate it.

Now that’s not to say that everything is unicorns and rainbows. A few weeks ago, sitting on the floor of my Aunt Catherine and Uncle Mikel’s living room during the middle of our annual Chanukah party, my dad looked over at me and said,

You’re not having a very good time, are you?

Thinking he was talking about the party (which was, by the way, fucking hilarious for myriad reasons) I turned to him and said that I was having a good time. He looked back at me and said

No, I mean in life.

And it’s true, I wasn’t. I’m not. I keep waiting for it to get just a little bit easier but it doesn’t and probably it won’t. That’s life, right? When one thing comes together, another thing falls apart and it is a matter of juggling highs and lows, expectations and realities, excitement and disappointment. I guess part of the thing is that as we get older, the expectations we have of where will we be, who we will be, become a little bit higher and when we don’t measure up in whatever ways we think we should, we fall a little bit father than we did, say 5 years ago. Time seems a little more pressed now. I feel a little bit more behind. But it’s silly, all these things. There is no proper pace, no right place to be in life. We all take our own road and each one of those roads has its own struggles. I guess it is all a matter of understanding when it is time to make a change and what that change has to be. Last year, it was quitting my job. Right now, I am working on this running project as a way to get to the end of the year and look back and say,

Wow, look at what I did. Look at what I accomplished.

It’s not about anything other than taking control of my life, setting myself a positive goal, and then doing whatever I can to (safely) achieve it, documenting the entire journey more for myself than anyone else. It’s a measure of where I was at the beginning and where I will be 2,015 miles later. And all those hours spent running will give me a lot of time to think about where I want to be after that. They will let me spend time thinking about something I have been wondering a lot lately, whether I have overstayed my time in New York. But on the other hand, is it the city or is it me? It makes me think of some Ben Folds lyrics (cheesey, I know, but he plays the piano with his elbows!):

Lucretia walks into a room.
Because she does it’s not the same room
The one she wanted to be in
She says, “Everywhere I go, damn! There I am”

Because, and this is a thing I have said countless times to countless people, changing location doesn’t mean everything will get better. You will still be there. And if you are the problem, then you are going to be exactly the same only this time thousands of miles away from family, support, and whatever the hell else you left behind. So it’s a crap shoot, really. You can never really know what the root cause of the problem is until you change something and see what happens. So I am thinking about writing the names of a bunch of cities, throwing them in a hat and then picking one out and moving there. That seems completely reasonable and adult, right? Right.

Anyway, I’m fine, really. I just think it’s good to air some things out sometimes. We see so many representations online of how perfect people’s lives are, that sometimes it’s good to remember that everyone’s life is a little complicated, a little shitty. So here’s me throwing a little self-pity into the ring, you know, just to keep things interesting. Now I am going to go do what I always do when I am in a crappy mood: go for a run. And then I will write about it (in hopefully a much more up-beat way than this Debbie Downer of a post) over on my other site. And then I will go to work so I can continue to financially tread water. To life!

A Tail of Two Kitties

18 Jan

In my post from yesterday on ChafingIsReal.com I alluded to the fact that I would explain to my readers why it was that I missed writing a blog post this past Friday. Over on that blog, for those of you who don’t know, I am documenting my progress in a challenge to run 2,015 miles in the year 2015. In case you are wondering, it is going pretty well. So far this year I have run 64.64 miles which means that I have another 1,950.36 miles to go before I can call this journey a success. It is a little bit daunting, to say the least. This all means that, if I were to run every single day for the rest of the year (which I will not do because I don’t want to hurt myself and also that sounds miserable) I would have to get in roughly 5.6 miles daily. So, yea, that’s some work. If any of you readers (a) live in New York City and (b) are runners please let me know. I wouldn’t mind a touch of company every now and again.

Moving on. The other part of the challenge, which is an aspect that I designed for myself in order to improve my writing, is to post a blog post on that other site every single day. Obviously, I have failed. But that’s okay! I am not throwing in the towel! Sometimes life gets in the way and keeps us from doing the things we set out to do and we can either be mad at ourselves about it or just shrug our shoulders and realize that we are not in control of everything and sometimes cats, and a movie and a night that both turn out to be a lot longer than you anticipated, just happen. So, without further ado,* the story.

This coming Wednesday at 6:50am (uuuggghhh) I will be departing for New Orleans for my annual visit. I have friends down there so I like to get down there and hang with them for a week, give or take. In anticipation of this, I decided that it would be smart to bring my two kitties, Clark and Grete, over to my parents house so I didn’t have to cobble together people to feed them and give them scratches for the 9 days I will be out of town. My parents were not incredibly pleased about this turn of events but they love me so they agreed. (Thanks Mom and Dad! You’re the best!!) I happened to be watching my friend Katie’s car while she was in Costa Rica this past week (so jealous) and so I figured it would be easy to put the kitties in their little houses and drive them out to my parent’s place in New Jersey. So, while my friend Ben looked on, I packed my kitties into their little houses which caused some not so serious injuries to my shoulders. I should have cut Clark’s nails shorter. Live and learn. We then loaded the kitties, kitty accoutrement, and laundry into the car and I made the relatively short, but incredibly stressful, trek to my parents’ place. It’s actually not usually that stressful but have you ever driven for 40 minutes, including some time on the BQE (the lanes are so tiny!) with two yowling cats in the back seat? I do not recommend it. They make the craziest noises. Ben said they sounded like dolphins. I don’t know about all that but what I do know is that I spent the entire car ride cooing at them and oscillating between incredible guilt for having taken them from the only home they have ever known and crammed them into little carriers and fear that I was going to get rear-ended and my kitties were going to fly through the front windshield. Poor, poor kitties. Anyway, we got there safe and sound. Physically speaking, anyway.

So I called my mom and she came out and helped me carry the two little beans (that’s what I call them) into the house and down to the basement so we could show them where the litter box was. Clark quickly emerged from his box and hid underneath a shelving unit and Grete remained in her box, where she apparently felt safe, for the next 4 hours. Just in there. Sitting, staring, occasionally crying. It was heart breaking. Eventually she came out and hid herself, face against the exposed brick wall, behind some paintings that were leaning there. I am still unclear as to why that seemed like a good place to hide but there you have it. After dinner I decided that maybe the proper course of action would be to carry each of them upstairs into the less scary part of the house where my parents and I were hanging out so they could begin the adjustment period. Big mistake. Huge. They were shaking. Grete spent the first hour of upstairs time wedged between my left arm and the arm of the sofa, with her head behind a cushion. Clark spent his time hiding behind Grete. You guys, they are the wussiest kitties ever to have kittied. It’s really something. After some time Clark got spooked and went into the living room and hid between the back of the sofa and the wall. He remained there for something like 12 hours. I brought Grete up to my bedroom, thinking, again erroneously, that maybe being with me would make her feel more comfortable. She slept on the bed for a little bit but eventually ended up jumping down and hiding underneath it. Where she remained for the next 48 hours until my mother, bless her, went upstairs and pulled her out and brought her down to the basement were the litter box was. Oh, yea, I forgot to mention that in an act of both bravery and seething anger Grete took a shit on the bed.

Cats are such assholes.

As a person who considers herself a better-than-average cat mom, and who was really trying to do what was best for her little kitties, I spent almost the entire 24 hours I was at my parents house worrying about the kitties, talking about the kitties, trying to find the kitties and laughing at the kitties. I feel sort of bad about that last part but I can’t help it. Poor, pathetic little fuzzballs.

So as of the update my mom gave me last night at approximately 10:30pm, things had not changed much. My mom did manage to get Grete to come out from under the bed by sitting on the floor and reading. Eventually Grete, who is very much in need of attention pretty much whenever she is awake and not eating, came out purring and let my mom scratch her head. My mom then brought her downstairs where Grete is currently hiding. Clark, although he has still been taking refuge under the sofa in the living room, has used the litter box. I think both of them have eaten some snacks. Grete loves snacks.

Anyway so that is the Tail of Two Kitties (teehee) and also a long, drawn-out explanation as to why I did not run on Friday and also did not write on my blog. I simply couldn’t run. I had to meander around the house trying to figure out where the kitties were hiding and also at one point I had to drag Clark out from underneath the oven where he decided to wedge himself. That is not a good place to be a kitty. Also when I got back into the city I saw Boyhood with my friend Revaz at IFC. It was good. You should all see it. But maybe wait till it comes out on DVD (or streaming or whatever the kids are doing these days) because it’s almost 3 hours long. And that’s a long time.

If anything of note happens with the kitties I will be sure to let you all know. Feel free to send messages of love and concern. Also, read my other blog. It’s not that great but the posts are short and sometimes have something to do with running but usually have more to do with my imagination. Okay thanks.

* “Without further ado” is a phrase that I have said and never written and so I went on the internet and learned some things! Apparently people oftentimes write “without further adieu” instead of without further “ado,” even though if you were to translate the former it would mean without further goodbye? And that doesn’t make sense although it does look awful pretty. There is something to be said about the aesthetics of a bunch of vowels in a row. The word “ado” actually means hubbub or fuss, which I am sure all of you well-vocabularied people already knew but I thought I would throw it in here anyway. And also this one last thing because I didn’t know this and I think it is really cool. When people confuse words like “adieu” and “ado” it is known as an eggcorn! That’s what it means to confuse two words that sound the same but have different spellings and meanings. Eggcorn! Who knew! I will now try and work the word “eggcorn” into casual conversation on the regular so be on the lookout.

Don’t be Internet Creepy

21 Nov

Here is a weird thing that happened this morning. (By the way it is only 9:30am and I am already having a little bit of a stress attack due to The Internet. It is TOO EARLY for such nonsense.) So I woke up this morning to a bunch of alerts on my phone. This is normal. The following fit squarely into the “normal” category:

1. Really late text messages from people wondering if I am working or out, or from people wanting to send me hilarious gifs and messages because, I have come to realize, I am the person for a lot of people where when something funny or weird happens and they think to themselves “who would appreciate this?” the answer is Rebekah. Rebekah would appreciate it. So I get a lot of funny texts which makes me exceedingly happy. Especially when I read them first thing in the morning. Great way to start the day. For real. I am not being sarcastic. Please keep sending them. Please.

2. A bunch of emails but mostly they are bullshit, like investment advice and crap from The Central Park Conservancy, a mailing list that I never signed up for and have unsubscribed from about a dozen times, not that anyone is counting.

3. A notification of all the apps on my phone that need updates which I mostly ignore because most the apps came with my phone and they are stupid.

4. A New York Times rundown that I peruse because it is good to know the happs, even the very limited happs from the perspective of one news source.

Those things are all normal. Sometimes, though, things that are abnormal happen. Or at least slightly out of the ordinary. Those sorts of things are exciting. Here is a list of some of the things that happen overnight that when I wake up I’m like “woah! What could this be about?!”:

1. Comments on this blog. The thing about that though is that when I receive comments on this blog during the night they are usually either spam (recently a lot of the spam that has been getting through is from a junk account called “testosterone pills” and I can’t for the life of me figure out why this account won’t stop hounding me via nonsensical crap) or from the psycho lawyer who sends me mean messages from throw away email accounts when he’s wasted at like 3am on a Wednesday.

2. New blog followers and blog likes. That makes me feel good! It has been a slow-growth process but one of these days shit will get real. I believe it.

3. Twitter activity! I am not good at Twitter. I have been trying to get better at it by posting things more often and that seems to be working out okay for example the other day I made a new Twitter friend and I felt pretty good about it. We Tweeted back and forth for a few minutes. About Anonymous. It was invigorating.

4. Facebook friend requests. Okay, this is a mixed bag. I am not excited about this so much as slightly nervous. It’s like, when I click on the thing to see who is trying to be my “friend,” I kind of cringe and halfway look away, as if whoever it is is going to somehow jump out of the phone and do, well, I don’t know what they would do. Depends on the person I guess. If it was this one kid I went to middle school with he would tell me I had boogers on my nose. He always used to tell me that whether I had boogers or not. I blame him for my rather unladylike habit of wiping my nose on my sleeve.

5. Instagram things. I have been really liking Instagram. I follow NatGeo and that is really awesome. The other day they posted this video of a parasitic wasp larva that eats a spider and then takes over the spider’s web and it was totally awesome. Gross, but awesome. Also my friends do cool shit. And The Fat Jewish is on there and that cracks me up. That account put on a really fucked up joke about Anne Frank that I shouldn’t have laughed at but I did. Really hard. It made me feel bad about myself as both a Jew and a human being.

6. LinkedIn notifications. Did I even spell the site right? I don’t know and honestly, I don’t really care. And that is because I am less excited about these than any of the other things because, meh, professional networking site. What a snooze.

Anyway, so whenever any of these abnormal things happen I think to myself, “self, today is going to be a bizarre and interesting day.” And today is one such day. So this is what happened:

  • I woke up this morning and realized that I had a request on LinkedIn.
  • I went onto LinkedIn and looked at the profile and realized that I had no clue who this person was but that we do have some ‘interests’ in common, at least as far as LinkedIn is concerned, and we had two shared contacts who, as far as I know, don’t know one another. Okay! Seems legit!
  • I approved the LinkedIn contact because, really, what do I care. I don’t really use LinkedIn. Too stuffy. My photo is of me drinking a cup of coffee in Guatemala. Decidedly unprofessional.
  • I got a new endorsement from my new LinkedIn contact who somehow magically knows what I am good at? LinkedIn is so silly.
  • A few moments later I had a notification from Twitter that I had gotten a new follower. How fun! Then I realized that my new follower was none other than my new LinkedIn connection. What a strange coincidence!
  • More notifications from Twitter! A new retweet! And a favorite! Wow! What a day! Wait? Is that who I think it is? It is! My new Twitter follower who also happens to be my new LinkedIn connection.
  • I felt weird so I went on the GChatz and immediately chatted my friend and told her about all the events and she was like “cool? but maybe mostly creepy?” and then….

Me: oh my god and now he found me on Facebook! WHAT THE FUCK?!
CJ Rene: who is he?
Me: I DON’T KNOW! (I was stuck in caps. It happens more often than I care to admit.)

So then I looked at his LinkedIn page and I realized that people on LinkedIn can see when you look them up on there which is part of the reason I never use it and then I had a freak out. Because I don’t want him to know I am looking! But my friend told me that he is being creepy so obviously I would look at his page but he probably doesn’t think he is being creepy. Maybe this is normal for him? Like, a normal day like one of my normal days during which I do not connect with strangers on every social media platform I can think of. So then I thought maybe I would message him on Twitter and be like,

“Um, hey, I’m sure you’re nice and all but what you’re doing right now with the rapid-fire connecting on The Internet is really bugging me out.”

But you can’t message someone on Twitter unless you are following one another and I wasn’t following him so that avenue was closed to me. So I did the only reasonable thing, I rejected the friend request. I did that because, well, I don’t know this person and also because I don’t want to encourage him to then try and find me on Instagram. And then I felt really happy that I upped my Instagram security settings because, as my friend Emily said, “no one needs their Instagram being public.” So true. And then I started writing this blog.

There are a few points to this story. One of the points is that even when you are well-intentioned, which this person might very well be, going on a connection spree with someone you don’t know, especially someone of the opposite gender, can be seen as a little, um, weird? And also scary? Especially when that person happens to be sort of afraid of The Internet even though all her shit is on here and easily searchable, as was reenforced this morning by the aforementioned story. I guess I already really explained the other point which is that I am scared of The Internet. Like, actually terrified of it. And it is maybe good to be reminded every now and again that the things that are out there don’t just go into the abyss, they are findable and readable by all sorts of people, well-meaning or otherwise.

So that’s today. I am going to go for a run now and contemplate The Internet and my presence on it. And also wonder whether my new LinkedIn connection, Twitter follower and rejected Facebook friend is reading this blog. And if after reading it he unconnects and unfollows. Only time will tell. Stay tuned.

Coney Island Shenanigans

26 Aug

I was going to edit this for Dad-safety, but really, Dad, you should just skip this one entirely.  It’s like that one time I wrote this blog post and warned you about not reading it and you read it anyway and then you regretted it.  Don’t make the same mistake twice, Dad.  Just, yea, close the tab and slowly back away from the computer.  That’s right, ever so slowly…

For the rest of you, there are two very important things that you all must know about me.  First, I love Coney Island.  It is one of my most favorite places in the world.  No matter what time of year, what time of day, that you go to Coney Island, something crazy is always happening.  Good crazy, mostly.  I really believe that Coney Island is one of the only places where people just sort of let their freak flags fly.  Even those people who go about life trying to fit in and be normal, when they get to Coney Island that shit goes right out the window.  People who are still too repressed to let their inner weird-o see the light of day?  Well they steer clear and I feel sorry for them.  Such a boring life they must lead.  Second, I embarrass myself all the time.  Or, well, seemingly embarrassing things happen to me but I think that for the most part being embarrassed is just sort of a waste of energy and so I don’t feel embarrassed.  I just sort of carry on.  Like that one time I ran 10 miles and then worked out at the gym for 45 minutes before realizing that the light blue string hanging out the bottom of my running shorts was not attached to said shorts but was coming from the tampon that was, at that time, shoved inside my body.  I could have been embarrassed but no.  I continued right on stretching until I gathered the energy to make my way down to the ladies locker room to tuck the string back where it belonged.  Life, ya know?

Anyway, normally my love of Coney Island and my tendency to get myself in potentially embarrassing situations don’t really overlap.  Only today they totally did.  So there I was, all by my lonesome on the beach waiting for my friend Kendra.  The sun was strong so I thought to myself, “self, you really ought to put on some sunscreen.”  So I went about putting sunscreen all over, even taking care to get some under the strings of my bikini so that I didn’t end up burning the skin just around the edges of my bathing suit.  I always, always, always burn the area of my butt right where my bikini ends.  Every fucking time.  In fact, I even did it today.  That is not important.  What is important is that in the process of trying to get the sunscreen on around my bikini top I totally managed to, initially unbeknownst to me, flash those sitting around me on the beach.  And, obviously because it is me, rather than just quietly putting my boob back where it belonged I said, to no one in particular, and while tucking it back into its temporary home, “get back in there!”

Sigh.

Sometimes it’s like I have no control.  In all the hubbub happening with the right boob, I didn’t realize that the left one was also exposed.  So there I was, on Coney Island, before noon, boobs out.  Good work, me.  I was almost hoping that, since I had already exposed myself, at least someone could enjoy the show.  But not like a creepy someone.  Just someone who would be like “oh, breasts!  Well isn’t that a nice little surprise for a Tuesday!”  I imagine this person with a British accent.  Perhaps thankfully, now that I am thinking about it, the only people standing near me were a dude in a Speedo standing up and meditating while leaning on his bike and a woman flailing around listening to music and drinking Cannabis Energy Drink.  I fucking love Coney Island.  And so now I am left to ask the age-old question:  if a girl flashes the beach at Coney Island and no one is around (or conscious enough) to see it, did it even happen?  I am not so sure myself.  I guess I’ll find out if a picture of my tits show up on the internet.  God forbid.

But that’s not all!  After Kendra arrived and I told her all about my misadventures in sunscreen application, we decided to go for a swim.  So we went over to the life-guard protected area and hopped in.  There we were, swimming, when all of a sudden I saw what appeared to be, at first glance, either a tentacle-less jelly fish or a very small shark.  Then, upon looking again I realized that it was the biggest condom I have ever seen.  Like so big.  I screamed, obviously, and Kendra and I quickly ran out of the water.  Here’s the thing though. I partially screamed because, ew condom in the water and what if it comes near me and sticks to my leg and then I have some sort of crazy horrible disease because that’s how it works, right?  But also I screamed because that condom was so goddamn big.  I mean, I know there is that thing that people a lot of times think that bigger dicks are better but I’ll tell you what, I would not like to meet the dick that belonged to that condom.  No way Jose.  Once, when I first moved to the city I had sex with this guy with a huge penis and I swear the second I laid eyes on that thing I lost all color in my face.  My lady parts are fucking delicate, you know?  I had trouble walking the next day!  And I think this condom, if memory serves, was even too big for his penis.  If I ever had sex with the penis that fit into that condom I would never be the same.  For real.

By the by, does anyone else think that the sentence construction I just used was really weird?  It’s like, through this whole thing I have not imagined a penis attached to a dude.  I have imagined just like, a free-standing gigantic penis kind of going through life, unattached, waiting to find a similarly unattached vagina or else someone in possession of a vagina who didn’t run the other way when faced with this particular phallus.  I would say poor penis only, judging from the condom which appeared to have been used, it did find someone that wasn’t afraid of it.  I hope she, or he, enjoyed him or herself.  Until that last sentence there this imagination game I had was totally heteronormative.  Not cool, Rebekah, not cool.

So, that’s what happened on Coney Island today.  People may or may not have seen my boobs without a bathing suit covering them, and I definitely saw a condom that was, at that moment, thankfully lacking a penis.  Also, I have learned that I do not have a future in erotic fiction, so that’s a career path to cross off the list.  Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Second Base at the Bar

30 Jul

So you guys.  I know that I should be a smart and responsible person and learn from my mistakes.  Well, “mistakes” is not actually the right word so maybe I should try that sentence again.  I know that I should be a smart and responsible person and try to understand and respect the expectations of others, even though it means keeping my mouth shut in the face of really shitty behavior.  As much as I want to do it, I will not write another bartender tip.  I have a really good one in mind (many, actually) but in an effort to not complicate my life again I will just keep them to myself until the time when I no longer have to tend bar (that one was for you, Ben) for a living which is seeming less and less likely to ever be the case.  I might have to take these tips to my grave.  But just because I can’t write about the absurd things people do from the perspective of a bartender does not mean I cannot write about the absurd things people do from the perspective of a bar customer, right? Right!  Let’s go!

Okay, so, this is funny.  I know we have all done this at some point (I totally have and I still feel awful about it).  We have all made poor choices and made out at a bar.  It is not right but it happens.  As someone who has done this before, I really try to be as understanding about other people’s situations as possible.  Maybe one of them lives with their mom.  Maybe one, or both, of them is in a relationship with someone else who they live with and so neither one can take the other one home and they don’t have enough money, or motivation, for a hotel room.  Maybe one of the people ate something really good and the other person wanted to taste the thing but the first person had already finished it and so the only hope of getting a little sample is to somehow experience the flavor through the remnants of the food that is caught in the other person’s mouth.  I mean, this can involve some very creative uses of the tongue.  Anyway, as I said, I tend to not be bothered too much by making out at the bar.  I mean, it’s not great, but I get it.  We all make mistakes.  There are circumstances.  Hormones.  Also, booze.  It’s cool.  Sometimes, though, people go a little too far.

So the other night I went out for a drink with my friend Ben to try and recap this thing we had done earlier in the day that we were both really excited about.  We did one of those things where one of us was like

“Hey, remember that really awesome thing we did earlier with that thing and the ideas? Wasn’t that great?!”

And the other one was like,

“Totally.  We are basically the best.”

We were doing that for awhile.  Self-congratulation is always a good time, especially when you have teammate to do it with.  Anyway, so there we were, drinking whisky and feeling like the champions that we are when this couple walked in.  It was one of those weird couples where, like, you look at the two people and they don’t really make so much sense together, physically speaking?  So you think that maybe one of them has a really good personality, or the other one is hot but with a not so good personality.  Or maybe the dude has a huge dick.  I don’t know, that’s what I thought.  But maybe that’s just because I haven’t had sex in a while.  Anyway, we went back to doing what we were doing (read: feeling like super heroes) when the two of them started making out hardcore at the bar right behind the taps.  Whatever, I didn’t really care.  I mean, maybe a booth would be a better location but who am I to say.  Also, maybe he had her favorite flavor gum and she just wanted to borrow it for a minute.  I could see that happening.  Ben and I looked at them for a quick second and went back to our conversation.  A few minutes later, and for reasons I cannot really explain, I looked back over at the couple.  I looked back over at exactly the right (actually, wrong) moment.  I saw the girl reaching into her shirt.  I thought at first that maybe she dropped a crumb in there.  Or the piece of gum she had possibly borrowed from her friend minutes prior.  But, no.  There weren’t crumbs.  No gum.  Just her tit.  She pulled her boob out and, in a very graceful movement and before even the dude knew what was happening, she had put her hand on the back of his head and literally shoved him downward, thrusting her now exposed breast into his mouth where he proceeded to suck on it.  At the bar.  Where there were other people.  Watching.  Not so much in a voyeuristic way but more in a “wait a second is what I think I am seeing actually what I am seeing?” sort of a way.  It was exactly what we all thought we were seeing.  Second base at the bar.  At that point Ben turned to me and said,

“What time is it?”

I looked at my watch.  It was not yet 10pm.  We immediately started laughing which caught the attention of the bartender who then looked over, saw what was happening, and also started laughing.  I mean, there really was no other response.  I mean, you couldn’t be mad really.  Or disgusted.  You almost had to respect it.  It was just so damn ballsy!  So the bartender, once he was done cackling, told them that they could kiss a little but to maybe keep it more PG and also that they should probably keep their clothes on.  A few minutes later she started grinding on him.  To Bjork.  It was really very odd.  Anyway, at this point the bartender had had enough and asked them to leave.  They got confused and tried to exit out of literally every door in the place, bathroom included, before they figured out they just had to leave out the same door that had previously come in through.  They remained on the ramp to the bar for some period of time doing I can only imagine what, with the male half taking occasional bathroom breaks.  It was all very strange.  As it turns out, they had been kicked out of two other bars before the one Ben and I saw them in which leads one to wonder, was this a repeat performance or a case of escalation?  Did they get caught before he got a little handy action?  (Do people still call it a handy?)  Was this part of some sort of huge social experiment to see how far thye could take it before getting asked to leave?  Did she ever get to have a chew of the gum he so selfishly had the last piece of?  I have so many questions.

Now today I am left wondering whether they ever ended up finding a place to have sex.  I sort of hope they did because I would imagine the whole experience would leave them both rather frustrated indeed.  Also though right now, having recounted the fact that I thought about the culmination of their very strange and public version of foreplay, I feel like a little bit of a perv.  I am going to cleanse my mind by watching this video on repeat and trying to figure out how to make this song my ringtone:

UPDATE:  Just moments after finishing this post I headed to train at the next stop on Rebekah’s Tour de Bars 2014.  So I walk in and no more than 25 minutes later in walks the same couple that I wrote the blog about, still sort of drunk, maybe coked out, in the same clothes.  I tried so hard to not laugh that, in an effort to hold the laughter inside, tears started pouring out of my eyes.  And this bar was not one of the three bars (that I know of) that this couple got kicked out of for public boob sucking.  Folks, you just can’t make this shit up.

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.