Save Me Jeebus!

Tact is something I lack.

 

When my friends and I are getting ready to go out and the skinny girl keeps returning from her room with a different outfit complaining, “Does this look okay? I am so FAT!” and everyone else is like, “You’re gorgeous!” “You’re tiny!” “OHMYGODSTAHP you are beautiful!” I’m the douche in the corner saying, “Yeah you look awful, ya tub o’ lard. Now shut up and chug because the cab will be here in five minutes.”

 

When I do P90X Plyo and Tony Horton says, “Alright, you’ve got two legs, let’s do Hot Feet on the right,” conveniently forgetting about Prosthetic Leg Eric in the back who he introduced us to in the beginning, I start laughing. At Eric. And his one fake leg.

 

However, my lack of sensitivity is most evident at Easter. There is just so much that is prohibited and deemed “unacceptable behavior” that it’s pretty much inevitable that at least three members of my extended family will be offended and our Easter dinner prayer will primarily discuss forgiving sinners while everyone not-so-discreetly gives me the eye.

 

 

Unfortunately, and unavoidably, Jesus is the reason I have so much trouble around this holiday.

 

First of all, I love me a good Jesus joke. Anything is funnier when Jesus is involved. Pouring Merlot at my winery job was particularly difficult yesterday, because all I wanted to do was say, “This is the blood of Christ” and have everyone reply, “Amen.” Am I wrong for that? I didn’t mean it disrespectfully; I was just trying to bring some life back into the room (ba dum chh).

 

 

Secondly, I feel compelled to make up for the fact that I haven’t been to church in over a year and a half by dedicating every action to the Big Guy.

“I’m off to my internship…FOR JESUS!”
“I’m going to sleep in until 1 p.m.….FOR JESUS!”
“Let’s go to Margarita Monday…FOR JESUS!” (pronounced hay-zoos)
I have caught on that maybe this isn’t okay by the reactions I receive from those who don’t know me well enough to tell me off, aka an uncomfortable half-laugh and a shaking of the head while they look down at their feet hoping I’ll just leave. Who am I supposed to devote my life to, Bradley Cooper? ….I’m not opposed.

Finally, any time I get chastised for performing a task improperly, my immediate reaction is to say, “What?? I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would’ve done.” And, if we’re having honesty hour here, I’m kinda right.  

 

So is my lack of discretion really that bad? If so, which level of Hell am I going to, exactly? Someone let me know; I need to figure out which SPF will provide enough protection while still giving me a healthy glow.  

Thrust into the Real World: Month 10

This month, the creepers came out to play. Reasonably warm weather and the fact that I emerged from my hermit shell (aka my bed, in yoga pants, with my hood up) led me into the outside world. There, I was quickly reacquainted with strange men with zero perception of just how unwelcome their forwardness and ineffective pick-up lines truly were.

Here are a few of my favorite interactions:

Chris the Wigger:
“Ay girl.”
“..Hi.”
"You’s beautiful.”
“Well thank you.”
“You a country girl?”
“What?”
“You a country girl? You from da country?”
“…I like being outside…?”
“We should go four-wheeling sometime.”
“Yeah.”
“Lemme get yo number, we can go four-wheeling. On a four-wheeler.”
“Great.”
“So what’s yo number beautiful?”
“How about I get your number instead?”
“Aiight dat’s coo.”
[Gives me number. Watches me put it in my phone. In a rookie move, looks away for a split second. I delete his number.]
“Alright, I’ve got it!”
“You should call me and we’ll cheel, aiight?”
“I’m psyched.”
“You look cold. Wanna wear my jacket?”
“Not really.”
“Aiight dat’s coo.”

Dubiously “Olympic” Gymnast:
“I was in the Olympics.”
“Are you sure?”

 

iPhone App Developer:
[After finding out that he lives in my neighborhood]
“I live on Ferrier’s Court. Where do you live?”
“…Close to there.”
“How close?”
“Pretty close.”
“Like the next street over? The street after that?”
“Well it’s a big neighborhood so maybe it’s not as close as I thought.”
“Hunter Green Circle? Raspberry Drive?”
“….”
“Cranberry Street? We should hang out; I’m lonely in my house. I live there by myself. Alone.”
“You know actually I don’t think I live there anymore.”

Robbie the Dead Head:

*Whistles*
“…”
“You are gawrgeous, baby.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s yer name?”
(in my head: Veronica? Jade? Whitney? Felicia?)
“Skylar.” (in my head: FUCK.)
“HOO HOO re-heally? I live on Skylar street!”
“Really? That’s cool. How’s it spelled?”
“S-C-H-I-L-E-R! Why how do you spell yer name hunneh?”
“Exactly like that. WHAT a coincidence. Is there a street sign?”
“Yeah.”
“You should steal me the street sign so I can hang it in my room.”
“WE should steal the street sign together. What’s yer number baby?”
“I’m afraid of danger. How about I get your number, and I call you in a few weeks to see if you’ve stolen it for me yet?”
“Well all raht!”
“Yay.”

The Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives Drinking Game

It’s no secret that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives” on the Food Network (only to be eclipsed by “Chopped,” which I have seen every episode of seven times and it’d be great if I was lying). My sophomore year of college, I would run on the treadmill while flipping back and forth between this piece of beautiful culinary television and “Man vs. Food” on the Travel Channel, pumping the speed up to eight miles per hour and ignoring the fact that this ironic combo was probably the reason why I have never and will never have six pack abs.

 

Watching the show as much as I do, I have become the self-proclaimed master on all things Guy Fieri. Some days I can’t stand him, others I wish he would tickle me with his bi-colored goatee and tell me I’m pretty. To be fair, that can be said for a lot of people.

 

Food and alcohol pairings are extremely sophisticated, which is why I can’t think of a better way to spend the next Saturday afternoon Triple D marathon than by cracking open a Bud Light and playing the Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives Drinking Game.

 

 

• You think,’ Is he actually driving that Chevy Camaro while talking to the camera? Seems unsafe’ – Drink!
• “Hey it’s Guy Fieri and we’re rollin out” – Drink!
• His sunglasses are on backwards – Drink!
• We all go to Flavor Town – Drink!
• He condescendingly describes how to put together a marinara sauce – Drink!   
• “Everybody in the pool” – Drink!
• He flirts with a female chef, regardless of her attractiveness and/or sexual orientation – Drink 2!
• The chef clearly despises him – Drink 5!
• One of his celebrity chef buddies makes a “random” guest appearance – Drink 2!
• He assumes The Hunch position – Drink!
• “Love, Peace, and Taco Grease” – Drink!
• You think, ‘He’ll probably suffocate on that huge bite of sandwich he just took’ – Drink!
• He jokes, “Do I have a little something on my face?” when it’s obviously everywhere – Drink 2!
• Something is so delicious he just grunts and points forcefully at the plate – Drink!
• He makes a dramatic display of the fact that he doesn’t like eggs – Drink 2!
• He mentions his college days at UNLV –Drink 2!
• He claims a sauce is so good that it could be eaten on a flip-flop – Drink!
• Something delicious is described as “Money!” – Drink!
• “Winner winner _______ dinner” – Drink 2!  
• He mentions his sons Hunter and Ryder – Drink 2!
• The end-of-show blooper reel rolls – CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!

Three Ways Pandora Can Win Back My Affection

Dear Pandora,

 

You’re great, you really are.

 

You’re always there when I need my fix of 90-00’s pop music, busting out classics like Nivea’s “Don’t Mess with My Man” and Willa Ford’s “I Wanna Be Bad” in the clutch. When I’m having a particularly angsty day and all I want to hear is Eminem screaming about drugs and Kim with increasingly murderous rage, you somehow sense this and throw all of his comedy hip-hop by the wayside in favor of the emotional disaster that was The Marshall Mathers LP. You have a sixth sense in this way, and for that I am eternally grateful.

 

However, sometimes you really suck. If we were dating, I’d have the, “It’s not you it’s me” talk (when we’d both know it was really definitely you). If we were friends, I’d suggest you lay off the juice and get your life back in order. If you were my mom, I would’ve gotten emancipated a la Macaulay Culkin years ago.

 

You have a tendency to do me wrong in the dirtiest of ways: throwing a cog in my morning routine of getting ready while jamming out to volume eleven-level tunes, and even worse, leading others who happen to be enjoying my excellent taste in music to believe that I ‘liked’ a Creed song. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

 

If you want us to remain friends, here are the three ways in which you need to check yoself:

 

1.       Stop assuming I like JLo as much as you think I do – Sure, I had a tap dance to “Let’s Get Loud” in my sixth grade recital, and I love to imitate the Ja Rule rap in the “I’m Real” remix, but that’s about the extent of it. Why oh why must every other song on my Christina Aguilera radio be Jennifer Lopez, especially the most recent, god-awful dance mixes? Sure, I’d love to “be it on the floor” tonight, but right now I’m five minutes late for work and I simply don’t have time. Furthermore, if I am forced to follow being “it on the floor” with “doin’it well,” I’m most definitely going to drop too low and pull something and then my plans are shot to hell. Stop forcing me to channel my inner Latina, it’s strenuous.

 

2.       Don’t pigeon hole me into a decade – I like Madonna. I will give a hearty thumbs up to old-school, “Vogue”-era Madonna. I’ll even give “Hey Mr. DJ” Madonna a few minutes of my time. Keep her comin’. But it is musically racist of you to believe that just because I like Madonna, I all of a sudden want to be bombarded with the shittiest music of the 80’s. I’ve also liked Pat Benatar, Cyndi Lauper and Queen, but then you come at me with Flock of Seagulls and it’s the equivalent of telling someone a story for twenty minutes only to have them respond with, “Wow, that’s crazy.” At least pretend like you’re paying attention.

 

3.       Learn to take a compliment – “Are you still listening? I mean it’s whatever, I’m just paying for everything you hear and you haven’t liked or disliked anything I’ve played in the past hour… No it’s totally fine, I don’t mind footing the bill; you’ll get me next time right? LOL. It’s just, you know, I’m paying for all of these songs and I feel like you’re not even appreciating them. You could always upgrade and actually pay for the same exact service without Vistaprint commercials popping up every fourth song, but it’s okay because I’m totally fine with shelling out for this music!!!” Hey asshole, maybe you’re just not fucking up for once and I’m actually enjoying every song being played. Way to ruin the flow.