Tag Archives: weddings


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


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.

At Least There Were No Penises

19 Aug

Or, in the spirit of Rocky and Bullwinkle episode titling, The Day I Went to Hunkomania.

Before this past Friday, I only had one known experience with a male stripper.  A couple of my friends in college decided it would be hilarious to hire a stripper to come to their dorm room for our friend Janice’s birthday.  So we all gathered, under the pretense of pre-gaming with watermelon flavored vodka (shudder) before a birthday night out, when the buzzer rang.  Janice assumed it was just another guest.  Then, an aggressive knock on the door with an accompanying voice declaring we had elicited noise complaints.  Janice, wide-eyed, opened the door to find a decent looking man decked out in a police uniform that looked as though it had been purchased at Ricky’s.  It was a little too spandex-y, the wrong color blue, and had a very fake-looking badge that read “sheriff” affixed on the right side.  I’m pretty sure there are no sheriffs in Hartford, Connecticut.  Janice was still busy apologizing for our volume when the dancer plopped down the boombox he had been carrying and started slowly unbuttoning his shirt.  Janice’s face morphed from one form of horror to another.  I bee-lined, red-faced, to the corner, being sure to be out of harm’s way, and, while the dancer gyrated in a royal blue thong, I made a quiet promise to myself that I would never again be in attendance at such an event.

Fast-forward about 8 years to last Friday.  As one of the bridesmaids in an upcoming September wedding, me and a fellow bridal party member took it upon ourselves to organize a bachelorette party for the bride-to-be.  It had come to our attention through various routes in the grapevine that this particular bride would very much enjoy an audience with strippers.  Through various internet searches I decided that if we were going to do the stripper thing, we would go to the most hilariously-named strip club in the city:  Hunkomania.  I promptly put ten tickets to Hunkomania, plus a hot seat for the bride-to-be, on my American Express card.  I mean, if I was going to charge tickets to a strip club, I might as well get some extra Jet Blue miles, am I right?

As the night approached I became more and more nervous about the whole thing.  I spoke with a few people and was told, in equal measure, both that there would be no penises and that there would be penises everywhere.  I kept my fingers crossed for no penises.  I had all these ill-fantasies of me, sitting in a neon-lit room, bass blasting, penises in all directions.  I am not going to say that I like penises as much as the next person because, honestly, that would be a lie.  Penises serve their purpose and when they are not serving their purpose, I would like them to be tucked away in their underwear house.  And that is the case for a penis I know.  Stranger penises are a whole other story.  I never want to see a stranger penis.  So, you can imagine my dismay when I imagined dozens of stranger penises in every direction.  That would not a happy Rebekah make.

Upon arriving at the club I was happy to find that there were no exposed penises.  Instead, there were topless men with very nice abs and a lot of shrieking women.  I tried to get into it.  I ordered my drink and put a few singles in the waist band of a school teacher (for real, he told us).  I looked around at the carefully toned bodies.  I giggled with my fellow Hunkomania attendees.  It was all going well until some dude stuck his head in my chest!  No hello, no how are you, no check for consent, straight to the motor boat.  Okay, so, not only do I not like stranger penis, I also do not like stranger touching especially when that touching comes from a dude and involves anything other than a light tap on my shoulder. I told him to stop, he told me, while being muffled by my breasts, that it was okay.  I told him it was most certainly not okay and got my fingers prepared to poke him in the eyes.  He noticed my fingers and backed away slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements.  I figured word would spread that the girl in the pink and white striped dress was an observer and not a participant.  I was safe for a bit of time until this guy who I nicknamed in my head “The Humper” because every time I saw him he was literally writhing on someone decided that I looked lonely.  He sat next to me, leg draped over my leg, and said

The Humper: Do you know what’s about to happen?
Me: You are going to stop touching me?
The Humper:  No, do you know what’s about to happen?
Me, in a menacing voice: Do you know what’s about to happen?

The Humper then decided it was wise to move on to other people.  He honed in on the bachelorette which, I think, was the perfect decision. Also, I think my lightly veiled threat made its way through the rest of the hunks and I was able to enjoy the rest of the show with minimal physical contact and absolutely zero penis sightings.

All-in-all I think it was a success.  Zero penises.  Personal space established.  Bachelorette in the hot seat.  Some of the finest abs I have seen in real life.  Once the initial shock of it all wore off I was able to enjoy myself.  I was also able to ignore some of the more, um, questionable aspects of the show like when it opened up to news coverage of the Kennedy assassination and the fact that music from The Lion King and costume including headdress accompanied the first black dancer to take the stage.  Sometimes you just have to check your political sensibilities at the door.