This weekend over about a bakers dozen cocktails, I explained to my mother what a Dutch oven is.
From the guilty expression on her face, I suspect that she has been doing this to men for many years without knowing that its actually a thing.
The jig is up! They knew it all along.
Busted. Big time.
The rain and snow continues to come down in NJ tonight so you know what that means?
Forget stocking up on milk, water and duct tape at the local store. If you don’t have a cat you better go out and get one so you can start instagramming it until spring arrives.
En route to become obscenely intoxicated in the Run of the Micks, St. Patrick’s Day pub crawl in Philadelphia I opted with the most dangerous, “safe” transportation route of all time. I say safe because this option doesn’t include me off roading my vehicle, drunk for an hour each way. I say dangerous because it is likely that I will die before I get there.
Step 1 of the 3 train commute begins with the river line. This is a light rail that runs from Camden to Trenton. Essentially, when we think of Camden being the ass hole and Trenton being the balls, this train is the taint of New Jersey. It transfers germs along the small territory day in and day out.
Step 2, which I’m currently on is the transfer to the Septa train and head toward Center City. There have been many stops so far. The ticket guy has accosted me because allegedly I purchased the wrong ticket. I’m not sure how because the ticket clearly stated, “round trip to Philadelphia” but I guess I should have translated that message to mean, “do not pass go and do not collect $200 of green diarrhea beers.” Additionally, I’m sharing a 3 seater with a large woman who has CHOP tattooed on her throat. I’d like to ask if that’s an instruction, like, “hey, please karate chop my throat!” but I’ve thought better of it because if I die before I get to this event I’m going to be pissed. However, if I die after, I will be relatively ok with it.
Step 3 will be the final light rail to Spring Garden, should I make it that far. I guess I’m really posting this because it could be the detailed account of my last day on Earth. Should I die, I’d like this to be my legacy.
Cheers!
I’ve recently discovered that Bruno Mars has been hiding a very obscure medical mystery. Although it may be hard to believe that a man who looks much like a lesbian is capable of such greatness, it is through careful examination and data collection, I can say with 100% accuracy that Bruno is carrying an extra chromosome; the panty dropper, and it’s dominant.
The extra chromosome is responsible for women’s desire to “catch a grenade” or trample each other to death for this man.
Do not mistake this for love. It is drastically different. Studies that I conducted both in my car, bedroom and on my couch all revealed that his lyrics surpassed my heart, (the love zone) and went directly to my tenderloins (the panty dropper zone.)
I should’ve bought you flowers, and held your hand. Gave you all my hours, when I had the chance. Take you to every party cause all you wanted to do was dance. Now my baby’s dancing, but she’s dancing with another man.
Well done, mother nature. Or science. Or you know, whatever.
I’m guessing I may be experiencing this problem because I don’t throw out my undies until they have literally disintegrated. I keep washing, rinsing and reusing until forces greater than my own intervene and say, “give them up, freak.” There are times that I am stricken with the intense urge to get my underwear off immediately. A panicked inner dialogue starts like this, “Oh god! What underwear do I have on? Are they from 7th grade? I don’t remember them having sequins. Are they on backwards?!” Of course, this would only happen to me in a compromising position, like in my office.
If I were a normal human being, I would excuse myself to the bathroom, but I’m not and I never will be. Plus, if I go into the bathroom to inspect my front wedgie, I’m afraid women in the other stalls will suddenly notice that I’m wearing heels and no pants at all. I don’t want to have to register as a sex offender for the rest of my life.
My question is, if I were to snip my undies off with scissors inconspicuously, whilst still wearing my pants and slyly place them in the garbage, is that rude? More importantly, would anyone even know, or would everyone know? It’s like, if a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one there to hear it, does it still make a sound?
No one will ever know.
My desire to live outside of my means started at a very early age. Being the only girl in a very financially unstable family, I had no choice but to wear the hand me down Emmit Smith jersey and lee dungarees of my older brother. I was taught to be happy and thankful for this, though I could not have been less of either. This especially came to be an issue around ages 12 and 13 when my outward appearance had everyone, including myself questioning if I were destined to be a lesbian. I would bug my mom relentlessly that I needed clothes to make me look like a girl. All I wanted out of life was a glittery playboy bunny belly shirt and a rainbow mini skirt, so that I looked like I was going to a rave, but just to fit in at school.
I would beg my mom to take me to the mall. She was infuriated by my audacity. The mall was a place we never spoke of. We weren’t mall kinda folks. We were Jamesway shoppers and that was the bottom line! I pleaded with my mom that I simply could not get the kind of “gear” a 13 year old girl requires at a downgraded version of Walmart. The agony!
Therefor, in an attempt to extinguish my desire to shop at the mall, my mother explained to me in vulgar detail exactly what happens to people who go there. She told me that all the robbers and murderers crowd places like malls, because they know that only rich people can afford to shop there. She also said that robbers and murderers work together to optimize their attacks. So, as she so gingerly put it, when you go to the mall, a murderer quickly sneaks underneath of your car after you park. When you exit the vehicle, the murderer grabs you by both ankles and cuts your achilles tendons so that you can’t get away. At this time, the partner in crime (literally), the robber, comes and takes all of your money and steals your car. In summary, my mother wanted me to know that if you go to the mall, you die.
I had probably told a dozen of my friends this story over the years before it dawned on me that it had to be 100% false. Thanks a lot, mom. Although I must admit, sometimes when I suspect I am in a place where only “rich” people go, I still climb through my sunroof and jump off the roof of my car as far as I can. You can never be too careful, right?
Ok, ladies listen up. I’ve gone to great lengths and regrettable places to bring you this news. When a gentlemen suitor is continuously explaining that he’s very interested in you, but his life is “very complicated right now,” it translates, simply to this. “I really like you, but I’m over 30, currently going through a divorce and living with my parents for an indeterminable amount of time.”
Boom, boom, pow.
During the holiday season, a particular ghost haunts me relentlessly to remind me of exactly how stupid I can be. Those that know of this dirty deed like to bring it up at this time of year as if it gets better with age. It does not. This gem is arguably the stupidest thing I have ever done, but if it doesn’t wear the crown, I’d say it’s definitely in the top three.
Twas the night before Christmas and I was as drunk as a homeless person outside of Penn Station. (That’s the line right?) It was several years ago and I was something like 18 or 19 years old. It was a time in my life were I was mostly alone, being estranged from my family and single and drinking enough alcohol to kill at least one horse on a regular basis. Oh great, I’ve just come to realize that I have reverted back to my teenaged self. Great news! Anyway. I’ve always been lucky in the way that I do have amazing friends. When one of them invited me to their family Christmas Eve party, I was ecstatic. I loved being included in such things. All night long we drank, laughed and talked with family. We drank, exchanged gifts and drank. We drank and drank and drank. When the party was over, we returned to my friends house and since we had been having such a great time, we decided to celebrate with drinks.
All of a sudden, the party was interrupted with the beep beep beep of my Samsung flip phone! It was a certain pervert that I was romantically interested in at the time. He was 25 and only interested in romantically taking advantage of a teenaged girl. I felt the like the bell of the ball. He was hammered drunk and calling with urgency because he wanted to bone. Using all of my ability to reason, I said “ok, I’ll be right there.” I practically kicked the door open and ran to my car without saying goodbye or thank you to anyone. I believe the universe created the next obstacle to prevent my stupidity, but the foot of snow that had fallen was not going to stop me! I was on my way to have my void for love, literally and figuratively filled by a sweaty, drunk, creepy man/boy! I insufficiently scraped some snow off the windshield of my 98′ Jetta, appropriately named Mrs. Trunchbulll. It had been snowing for hours and to my disappointment, no matter how much snow I cleared, thick, solid ice and frost lay underneath. This is where it gets really stupid. I only lived 3 miles from my friends house at the very most. I got in the drivers seat and turned the keys in the ignition. You may suspect that the next thing I did was buckle my seat belt, but no. Instead, I reached for the old Samsung and called my life long best friend, Nell. She was my ride or die chick I knew she would have my back as I stepped on the gas and took off into the night with zero percent visibility. I was surprised to hear her sleepy voice. I hadn’t realized it was 2am and being that it was Christmas Eve, most people were sleeping. I was excited to tell her about the rub and tug that was in my immediate future. She was furious. “Ashley! You’re an idiot. You can not be fucking driving right now?!?!” I tried to back peddle, but as I slurred “everything will be fine” the old Samsung died on me! Fucking bitch. I shrugged it off and still with zero percent visibility I literally took a shot in the dark and decided this is where I would make the right turn to take me to my house.
Mrs. Trunchbull roared and bounced up and down over the unfamiliar terrain. I thought maybe I was on someone’s front lawn. For whatever reason, I kept my foot on the gas and my hands on the wheel, as if it was Mario Go Kart and I would magically drive off into the sunset and collect magic coins for a job well done! When the vehicle couldn’t go any further, reluctantly I got out to figure out what the hell was going on. I stepped out and sank into soft, wet, freezing mud. My tires were so deep in the same mud they were not visible to naked eye. I was confused as I looked around, I saw no street lights, no houses, no nothing. I had driven the Jetta so far out into the field, I had to run to find the road.
Motherfucker! How was I going to have irresponsible sex with that weird guy?! I knew I had to play it cool. I abandoned my vehicle. I ran on foot, as if it were the olympic trials, back to my friends house. The same door I kicked to get out, I kicked again, but this time to get in. Upon seeing me he yelled, “you crashed!” I said, “no I didn’t, but something’s wrong with my car could you give me a ride home please?” He persisted. He knew something terrible had happened. He put me in his pick up truck and drove me to the scene of the crime. He was in complete shock at the severity of the situation. He asked a lot of questions. “How the fuck did you do that?! How stupid are you? You want to just leave it here and go to jail?!” I had no good answers. He called friends for back up. They brought trucks, chains, shovels, etc. It was a rescue mission. We laid flat on our stomachs using our hands to free the tires from the endless mud. The sun started coming up. With the new day light, in the distance we could see families putting gifts under their Christmas trees. My friends reminded me that if we didn’t get the car free soon, I was going to jail. We were working quickly and making progress when the creepy pervert enroute to hump me stopped on the side of the road in his BMW. He was my hero. He said, “you crashed!” I kept my story straight and replied “no, I didn’t!”
By the grace of God, we freed Mrs. Trunchbull and I was able to drive her home before I was sentenced to life in jail for stupidity. The pervert came home with me. After all the commotion I had lost my desire to be poked and prodded by him. He was surprised and irritated by my resistance and must have snuck out as soon as I fell asleep.
I awoke that Christmas day by myself, around noon. Shit! I had forgotten that I had been on the phone with Nell before “my car stopped working.” I found the Samsung and threw it on the charger. When it came to life I was bombarded with messages of what a total ass hole I was. It was all true. The universe was mad at me. Nell had been out, with her mother of all people, searching for me because she was so worried when our phone call got cut off. She wanted to kill me. I deserved it. In retaliation for not “putting out” the pervert told all my friends that I had saggy tits. Which, by the way is very, very untrue!
I decided to lay low for a few days and reflect on my life. It wasn’t pretty. Although, I guess you could say that the fact that I’m not dead or in jail, is a kind of Christmas miracle.
If ever you’re feeling down and thinking you’re not having a good holiday, remember this story and know that it could always be worse.
Happy holidays everyone.
Last night for dinner I stopped at Dunkin Donuts. I bought a large cookies and cream hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and ten munchkins. I consumed all of that purchase in the privacy of my car, while driving. Total cost of dinner: $3.98. A steal! The convenience of doing whatever I want and not being judged for leaving powdered sugar all over my face/shirt/pants? There is no amount of money or love that can afford that kind of happiness.
