HI FRIENDS.
I have not posted in a long time because I had dead week/finals time (in other words gain weight from all the coke and chick fil a you consume and try to stay off facebook for more than a day time) and then I got home and I've yet to embarrass myself enough to blog about it. Amazing, right? Wrong. Because I just lied. I actually have embarrassed myself (shocking) I just haven't had time to blog about it...in other words I've been watching Harry Potter (cause I got all 8 movies for Jesus' birthday) and eating big chocolate bars in the shape of Santa.
Anyway, I have just one quick story before I get to the REAL blog. Today I had to move the cars to the vacant driveway adjacent to our house. I didn't really think it out. The result was that I ended up going barefoot. With an owl pajama shirt on. And nike shorts. I had just showered so my hair was wet. Anyway, all of this would've been fine but I forgot about one thing. Thorns. So after I parked the first car, I decided to cut through the neighbor's yard to get back to my house. But there were thorns. But I've been reading Hunger Games and Katniss, the protagonist, is really brave. Like so brave that she makes me want to do brave and adventurous things (like, brave in the action sense, like killing villains. Not brave as in asking for a boy's number or something, cause I do stuff like that). So I pretended that I was in the arena and I booked it back to my house. Well, I got several thorns in my feet. And after several swear words I pulled them out and drove the over car over to the driveway. So then I had to use the sidewalk (I live on a busy street) to get back to my house. So there I was (and I'll say it again): owl pajama shirt, pink nike shorts, barefoot, wet hair, walking along the sidewalk. I really hope one of my ex boyfriends saw me because I'm sure they'd say something like "WOW I SURE WISH THAT RELATIONSHIP HAD NEVER ENDED SHE IS TOTALLY LOOKING GOOD AND ABSOLUTELY SANE AS WELL."
..
not.
So, to the real blog. After consulting my friend Kaci, I have decided to do a series called "Every crush I ever had" based on another really popular blog (imitation is the sincerest form of flattery). I am doing this because a lot of my most embarrassing moments in my past have risen from these crushes.
So, #1. My first crush was 4th grade. #1 was a fifth grader. Scandalous. I didn't really like him until someone told me he liked me (that's how the best ones start). Anyway, he asked me to be his girlfriend via AOL email and gave me a ring (which I refused to wear to school but he played basketball with my brother so I wore it to the games on a necklace cause I was really cool) and sometimes we held hands. Then, like all good relationships, it came to an end. But naturally I was still in 4th grade love with him. My best friend Jill (who will turn up a lot in this series) and I made a music video to the song "Everytime" by Britney Spears in which I did what I'm sure was an amazing ballet dance to and we planned to give it to him so he'd know my true feelings. However, he started ignoring me completely on AIM so I decided against showing him the music video. (Thank the Good Lord Above because we ended up going to the same high school and I never would've been able to live that one down). And that was Crush #1 that I'd had at the age of 10.
The End. I mean To Be Continued.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
The time I peed in Ballet Class
Hi friends.
So I decided to not tell a story from the present this time, and since I can't tell a story from the future, I'm telling one from the past.
The title says it all. The time I peed in ballet class.
So, I was eight years old when this happened, so obviously this isn't one of those accidents that just happens when you're potty training.
See, the thing is, as a child, I was actually very shy. I'm still somewhat reserved, but usually my weirdness overshadows that.
Anyway, I realized about 5 minutes into ballet class that I had to pee, and I couldn't hold it. But the thing is, I was too shy to ask to go to the bathroom, and even if I did ask, I didn't know where it was, so that would only cause a lot more problems than a shy little girl felt like she could handle.
Now, being the incredibly logical genius that I am, realized I was wearing a skirt over my leotard and tights, and it would make a lot of sense to just let out a little bit of pee at a time, about once every ten minutes.
Well, the thing is, it actually worked. That is, until we had announcements. Announcements happened at the end of class, right before we did one last combination. So, for announcements we sat on the ground and listened to the teachers talk about recitals and what not. So I was sitting there and I realized this was the home stretch- if I made it through this, I would be home free. So I'm sitting there and I let out what I thought was the last bit of pee. Well, it wasn't the last bit (how much did I drink?! I still wonder) and it wasn't a bit. It was a lot. A good puddle-sized amount.
That's right: the next thing I know, there is a little puddle of pee next to me (under me?) on the beautiful wooden dance floor. And this obnoxious child looks at the puddle and looks at me and says, "UM, I think that's PEE."
Well, no shit sherlock.
The next thing I know, I am being escorted to the bathroom where the rest of my pee goes to its proper place: a toilet.
Now, after class was over, for some sick reason, I was determined not to tell my mother. So, I got in the backseat of the car and immediately began to complain that my leotard was itchy (This was pretty genius of me if I do say so). My mom gave me permission to take it off in the car, which I happily did (there's no way I was comfortable in it after letting out sporadic little pees for the past hour in it) and when we got home, I proceeded to run inside and shove it in the bottom of my laundry hamper and then take a bath (wash away the shame).
I guess my logic was this: if I had to embarrass myself front of my whole ballet class, there was no way in hell I was sharing that humiliation with my mother. Or maybe I just didn't want her to have the shame of having an 8 year old who peed her pants in ballet class. Either way, she never found out.
And that, everyone, is one of the finest moments of my young life. The moral of the story is: if you have to embarrass yourself, don't let your mom find out. Also, don't drink a shit ton of water before ballet class, and finally, it really is okay to ask to go to the bathroom and to ask where it is if you don't know.
So I decided to not tell a story from the present this time, and since I can't tell a story from the future, I'm telling one from the past.
The title says it all. The time I peed in ballet class.
So, I was eight years old when this happened, so obviously this isn't one of those accidents that just happens when you're potty training.
See, the thing is, as a child, I was actually very shy. I'm still somewhat reserved, but usually my weirdness overshadows that.
Anyway, I realized about 5 minutes into ballet class that I had to pee, and I couldn't hold it. But the thing is, I was too shy to ask to go to the bathroom, and even if I did ask, I didn't know where it was, so that would only cause a lot more problems than a shy little girl felt like she could handle.
Now, being the incredibly logical genius that I am, realized I was wearing a skirt over my leotard and tights, and it would make a lot of sense to just let out a little bit of pee at a time, about once every ten minutes.
Well, the thing is, it actually worked. That is, until we had announcements. Announcements happened at the end of class, right before we did one last combination. So, for announcements we sat on the ground and listened to the teachers talk about recitals and what not. So I was sitting there and I realized this was the home stretch- if I made it through this, I would be home free. So I'm sitting there and I let out what I thought was the last bit of pee. Well, it wasn't the last bit (how much did I drink?! I still wonder) and it wasn't a bit. It was a lot. A good puddle-sized amount.
That's right: the next thing I know, there is a little puddle of pee next to me (under me?) on the beautiful wooden dance floor. And this obnoxious child looks at the puddle and looks at me and says, "UM, I think that's PEE."
Well, no shit sherlock.
The next thing I know, I am being escorted to the bathroom where the rest of my pee goes to its proper place: a toilet.
Now, after class was over, for some sick reason, I was determined not to tell my mother. So, I got in the backseat of the car and immediately began to complain that my leotard was itchy (This was pretty genius of me if I do say so). My mom gave me permission to take it off in the car, which I happily did (there's no way I was comfortable in it after letting out sporadic little pees for the past hour in it) and when we got home, I proceeded to run inside and shove it in the bottom of my laundry hamper and then take a bath (wash away the shame).
I guess my logic was this: if I had to embarrass myself front of my whole ballet class, there was no way in hell I was sharing that humiliation with my mother. Or maybe I just didn't want her to have the shame of having an 8 year old who peed her pants in ballet class. Either way, she never found out.
And that, everyone, is one of the finest moments of my young life. The moral of the story is: if you have to embarrass yourself, don't let your mom find out. Also, don't drink a shit ton of water before ballet class, and finally, it really is okay to ask to go to the bathroom and to ask where it is if you don't know.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Dog Days are Over
So, world. I have yet another brief but funny story to tell. I'm not going to give you the back story of the story because that would ruin the story.
So here's the story. Wow I just used the word story a ton. Haha. Story.
Today, Claire and I went to get Which Wich on campus for dinner. (I always type Wich Which first and then I use my logical reasoning and realize that doesn't make sense and correct it).
We write down our sandwiches and everything is going great. In fact, I am having a great day, completely void of any seriously awkward encounters. Huzzah, right?
Wrong.
So, we walk up to the register and the male cashier says, "Wow, I can smell one of you." And I just stare because I'm trying to remember if I put on deodorant this morning. Then he elaborates: "Your perfume."
Naturally, my big throws me under a bus and says, "It's not me, it's her." (I still love you, though.)
Interruption: if you work at Which Wich, don't comment on your customer's scent. They won't come back. You hear that, sir? I'M NOT COMING BACK. (Except in a couple of days I'll probably crave a grinder and and I'll break that resolution, but it's the thought that counts.)
Now here's the thing: I am NOT, I repeat NOT, one of those girls who overdoes the perfume.
In fact, I hardly ever wear it. This is because I am allergic to perfume and if I wear it every day in succession my eyes swell up and my throat becomes inflamed and I start developing a cough like a bark. (So pleasant). So I save it for special occasions.
Today was not a special occasion. See below.
So, after my big throws me under a bus, I immediately try to explain lest he gets the wrong idea. So, I say "Oh well, I put on perfume because I went to the Humane Society to play with dogs and then I smelled like dogs but I didn't have time to shower but I didn't want to smell like dogs so that's why*."
*verbatim
And he just says, "...Okay.**"
**also verbatim. Ellipses and all.
This was the truth. But, as Claire was quick to point out, I did not need to share all of that information.
I was just trying to explain why I smelled so strongly of Clinique Happy. Because I am not one of those girls who overdoes the perfume.
Anyway, the moral of the story is this: it is okay to not want to smell like dogs. It is not okay to share this information with Wich Which cashiers.
So here's the story. Wow I just used the word story a ton. Haha. Story.
Today, Claire and I went to get Which Wich on campus for dinner. (I always type Wich Which first and then I use my logical reasoning and realize that doesn't make sense and correct it).
We write down our sandwiches and everything is going great. In fact, I am having a great day, completely void of any seriously awkward encounters. Huzzah, right?
Wrong.
So, we walk up to the register and the male cashier says, "Wow, I can smell one of you." And I just stare because I'm trying to remember if I put on deodorant this morning. Then he elaborates: "Your perfume."
Naturally, my big throws me under a bus and says, "It's not me, it's her." (I still love you, though.)
Interruption: if you work at Which Wich, don't comment on your customer's scent. They won't come back. You hear that, sir? I'M NOT COMING BACK. (Except in a couple of days I'll probably crave a grinder and and I'll break that resolution, but it's the thought that counts.)
Now here's the thing: I am NOT, I repeat NOT, one of those girls who overdoes the perfume.
In fact, I hardly ever wear it. This is because I am allergic to perfume and if I wear it every day in succession my eyes swell up and my throat becomes inflamed and I start developing a cough like a bark. (So pleasant). So I save it for special occasions.
Today was not a special occasion. See below.
So, after my big throws me under a bus, I immediately try to explain lest he gets the wrong idea. So, I say "Oh well, I put on perfume because I went to the Humane Society to play with dogs and then I smelled like dogs but I didn't have time to shower but I didn't want to smell like dogs so that's why*."
*verbatim
And he just says, "...Okay.**"
**also verbatim. Ellipses and all.
This was the truth. But, as Claire was quick to point out, I did not need to share all of that information.
I was just trying to explain why I smelled so strongly of Clinique Happy. Because I am not one of those girls who overdoes the perfume.
Anyway, the moral of the story is this: it is okay to not want to smell like dogs. It is not okay to share this information with Wich Which cashiers.
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