Hypothesis

He wanted to know "the deal with single women and babies."

So I said, "Okay. You know when you're six? You're watching Saturday morning cartoons and a commercial break comes. You sit there on the couch--we're 21 now, so this is pre-Tivo, and you have to watch the commercials--and you watch, like, eight of them, and you're just fine. Still stationary. But then the ninth one comes, and suddenly every fiber of your body is freaking out, and you're scrunching your knees up to your chest and rocking back and forth, eyes bugged out, grabbing the first person that passes, pointing and begging, 'NOW! I need one of those now. You don't even understand. I need one of those, and I need it RIGHT NOW.'"

And then he understood perfectly.

Hidely-Ho

I'm pretty tolerant of general living noise, even though my new upstairs neighbors' general living noise seems to consist of a horrifyingly yappy dog on meth with Superballs for pawpads and a horde of elephants that stomp around all day long, presumably in search of Arthur and Celeste. They're very stompy people.

But they're nice enough, and they don't park in my space, so I ignore it.

Until they bring home their drunk friends at 2:30 in the morning and have what sounds like a cage match in my hallway. I'm not one for confrontation, especially when I am a single girl living alone and the people outside are at least three incredibly drunk and at least jokingly violent men. I finally peeked out my door to ask them to, very nicely, shut the fuckity-fuck up, but they had already gone upstairs to their own apartment by then.

They stomped around and yelled at the bouncy yippy dog awhile, but settled down after another fifteen minutes or so. From the sound of the thuds, at least one of them ended up on the living room floor.

I was highly annoyed, particularly since this isn't the first time similar things have happened, so I briefly embraced my passive-aggressive side. I waited until noon, checked to see if their cars were all still in front of the building, and then proceeded to vacuum my entire apartment. And yes, judging by the groans and thumping on my ceiling, it had exactly the desired effect.

On a vaguely related note, as I walked out to my car this morning, I was oddly annoyed to find an empty Ziploc bag on the garage floor. Not because of the littering, but because I just thought that if these people live in this godawful rat-trap building, one would think they should maybe be saving some money and buying generic reclosable plastic bags. It's kind of like my old neighbor, who was a grown man living in a really shitty trailer and then bought a brand new Jetta.

The Problem with Noel Gallagher

I once read somewhere that Oasis always uses "moon/June/spoon" rhymes. I heard "Don't Look Back in Anger" today, which is such a beautiful song, but that niggling thought has ruined their entire catalog for me.

...

Somebody called me looking for Roy, and I said I didn't know anyone by that name. The person responded angrily with "Who is this?" I wanted to say, "This is a girl who likes her living room curtains, dislikes chunky wooden bangle bracelets, and does not date Republicans." Instead, I just told him he had the wrong number, and he hung up without apologizing.

...

On March 26, I walked outside and was greeted with the entirely unwelcome sight of that beautiful snow that falls fast and hard like rain. It's almost April and there are these big fat fucking flakes everywhere, and there's a sour-looking girl in a denim miniskirt and pink plastic flip-flops glaring at me. I turned the other way, tilted my head to the sky, and stuck out my tongue to catch snowflakes as I walked through the parking lot.

Heh. (glance) Heh. (glance)

I have a secret:

I absolutely detest watching comedies with other people.

I guess it's okay if neither of you have seen the movie before, but if your friend has, he'll spend the whole film chuckling and quickly glancing over at you all, "Is she laughing? Is she enjoying this? Why isn't she laughing? Does it suck? I thought she liked MST3K. Ooh, hey, heh. Wait, did she laugh at that?" And repeat.

I mean, that's a lot of pressure.

Awww

The other day, in a fit of "Oh god I quit my job," I drove to the nearest city with a Mac store and bought The Sims 2: Bon Voyage. It is helping me get through the freakouts; when I get overwhelmed by the jobness and moneyness and tiredness and jadedness, I turn on the iBook and occupy my thoughts with buying a vacation home in the tropics for Dustin and Angela Broke.

Anyway, on Interstate 29 between here and there, there's an old delivery truck parked in one of the pastures. It's completely white, except for the childlike spraypainted red scrawl on the side that reads "MARRY ME KATHY?" As you drive past, you can see the back of the truck where he wrote "I'M SMITTEN!!" And then, in case you really are a cold bastard, once you can see the other side in your rearview mirror, a slightly different color red declares "THANK YOU JESUS! SHE SAID YES!!" And then I die inside from the heartwarmedness.

See? I'm not a completely hopeless old, jaded, bitter waitress.

Anonymous Voyeur

Something compels me to pick up little scraps wherever I go, little glimpses into the minds of other people: dropped grocery lists, discarded exams, misplaced photographs, forgotten fortune cookie fortunes. I take them home and put them in a box in my bedroom; I like to think that whoever the owner is, wherever they go, whatever they do, however long they remain in this world, they existed. I can prove it. I might not know their name or face, but I have some little piece of them that showed how they passed the time on a Friday afternoon in November 2003.

Yesterday I was headed into Wal-Mart on an errand to pick up some curtain rods. As I passed the trash cans by the front door, I spotted a slip of paper on the ground. I picked it up and glanced at it, initially displeased at the fact that it was nothing more than a receipt. I usually prefer handwritten things; if I kept every receipt somebody littered, I'd need to replace the box with a foot locker.

Anyway, I decided to keep this receipt, mostly because it listed only two purchases: Oreos and condoms.

I wish I had been the cashier during that transaction.

Such a Supple Wrist

"I only vaguely remember the movie. It really sucked, but come to think of it, the pinball machine was awesome. And there are a lot of good movies that had shitty pinball machines."

"The worse the movie, the better the pinball machine?"

"Pretty much."

[a beat] "I officially love America. America makes sentences like that possible."

First Roll Call of the Semester

"John Doe?" she asked.

"Here," he said. "But I go by Invictus."

...

He was dead serious.

I swear I am not making this up.

The Difference Between Men and Women

It seems that Joe and I have had this conversation three or four times, and we inevitably reach the same conclusion.

If men (A) and women (B) switched bodies for a day, what would that day be like?

Answer A: Men would need two days. They would spend the entire first day naked with strategically placed mirrors. Also probably a mini-trampoline. On the second day, I suspect they would spend most of the time playing with all their new underwear and shoe options. Don't lie, you know it's true.

Answer B: Women would (maybe) jerk off once, and then spend the next twenty-three hours and fifty-one minutes opening jars and lifting heavy stuff. "Why, what's that, Little Old Lady? Let me help you with your applesauce. No, no, keep your butter knife, no loosening the seal on the lid today. Ta-da! Ooh, hey, softener salt." (Is the Little Old Lady in this scenario actually a Little Old Man whose gender has changed for the day? I don't know. And now you're over-thinking this.)

Licklicklick

Yesterday was Day 7 of the Mystery Illness, and I finally went to the doctor. My old doctor retired, so I told them I didn't care who they gave me. Anyway, they assigned me a doctor--we'll call him Dr. Kangaroo. He seemed very nice, but this is roughly what my doctor visit looked like:

Allison: Hi, I've got all the symptoms of mono.
Dr. Kangaroo: Hm. So you're sick, you say?
Allison: Oh, also, my mother had mono last month.
Dr. Kangaroo: No, she didn't.
Allison: Yes, she did.
Dr. Kangaroo: No, adults don't get mono. College kids don't get it either. Only teenagers get mono.
Allison: Um, she had the bloodwork done. She had mono. Also, mono is going around campus with a vengeance.
Dr. Kangaroo: Nah, you're just sick.
Allison: Maybe I should at least get the bloodwork? I've been sick for seven days with the same symptoms my mother had.
Dr. Kangaroo: Nah. You have "that viral thing that's going around." Not that I can tell, since my entire diagnostic criteria seems to be sticking a flashlight in your ears.
Allison: Um, am I paying for this? Maybe you should check my throat for white patches. Or maybe you should at least ask about my symptoms.
Dr. Kangaroo: No, no. How about I poke you in the stomach for while? Here, does this hurt? Jab.
Allison: Yes.
Dr. Kangaroo: This? Jab.
Allison: Yes.
Dr. Kangaroo: And this? Jab.
Allison: Yes. You poking me in the stomach hurts.
Dr. Kangaroo: Hm. Must be gastrointestinal.
Allison: What? I don't have gastrointestinal symptoms.
Dr. Kangaroo: You've had some vomiting, yes?
Allison: No.
Dr. Kangaroo: Diarrhea?
Allison: No.
Dr. Kangaroo: Oh. Well, you will. As for my diagnosis: you're sick.
Allison: No shit.
Dr. Kangaroo: Tell you what--if you're still sick in ten days, come back and see me.
Allison: Oh, of course, I mean, once I've been sick for SEVENTEEN days, it might be a good idea to see a doctor then.

And then I kicked him in the balls for the sheer satisfaction of it. I mean, my ninety bucks had to buy me something, didn't it?