The Agoraphobic Heifers


What I remember… by The Agoraphobic Heifers
January 17, 2012, 8:00 am
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It’s weird the things your mind chooses to remember after someone has passed away.  Three years later, there are plenty of things I remember vividly about my Nana; I remember lots of stories and things about her personality, but mostly I remember the little things that seem so obscure and unimportant now. She was a wonderful woman who fought long and hard against the cancer; I think about her a lot and I miss her every day.  If I had had the opportunity to say a proper goodbye to her, I think I would’ve thanked her for all those little things she did that made her a perfect grandma.

Thank you for…

-having the world’s softest hands.

-wrapping our picnic sandwiches in waxed paper.

-always sharing half a piece of your refrigerated gum with me.

-keeping marshmallows in the bottom drawer in the kitchen when I was little so I could sneak some without mom knowing.

-calling me “sugar” until your dying day.

-cutting my sandwiches in “indian squares”…which really just meant triangles.

-smelling of Obsession perfume. Constantly.

-perfecting the family spaghetti sauce recipe (or any recipe for that matter).

-always freezing half a water bottle full of ice for long car rides and then wrapping a paper towel around the bottle to soak up the condensation.

-letting your hair go naturally gray.  And then shaving it all off in anticipation of the chemo.

-crying everytime I played a song for you on the piano.

-using phrases like “In any event…” a million times a day.

-holding me in your arms while I cried over my first real broken heart.

-brushing your teeth religiously after every meal.

-wearing Birkenstocks…with socks.

-always keeping a pair of “sensible shoes” in the car, no matter what the occasion.

-rubbing the food court napkins on a piece of ice and then cleaning off my face after lunch.

-sobbing within the first 5 minutes of “The Sound of Music.”

-buying me my first set of luggage – those suitcases have seen more than you probably ever imagined they would.

-fighting for so long.

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The Trials and Tribulations of Catholic School by The Agoraphobic Heifers
October 10, 2011, 8:18 pm
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Between the ages of 9 and 14, life is pretty rough.  It doesn’t really matter who you are.  Those 5 years are just destined to be a mess.  If you consider a bell curve of awkwardness and all around embarrassment, the exponential increase starts climbing dramatically at the age of 9. You spend a few years phasing out of the bubble of innocent childhood, and you make your way into that early adolescent period where shit hits the fan.  The apex of that awkwardness bell curve occurs at age 14, when you’ve got zits all over your goddamn body, you can’t help the fact that you smell a little funky, and you haven’t quite mastered the art of controlling your hormones.  Luckily, things start to look a little brighter as you transition to high school, but for some of us it’s a miracle that we ever recovered from that high point of weirdness.

This wonderfully memorable time in my life was enhanced by the fact that I attended a Catholic school until the end of junior high.  Catholics can be blamed for a lot of things (Lord knows my altar serving days were a little sketchy), but I personally hold the entire religious institution responsible for the inherent social ineptness I suffer from today.  Looking back, there were so many things that occurred on a day-to-day basis at this school that were clearly setting me up for failure. Many of my most humiliating memories occurred in the breezy breezeways of that school (that’s right, those damn Catholics couldn’t even afford to give us real walls in our school – we had to walk around in breezeways).  I can also trace a lot of my current insecurities and anxieties back to those classrooms.  Catholic guilt is a powerful thing, folks.

When we were in 8th grade, we had to learn all the states and their capitals.  And then on top of that, they expected us to know the Canadian provinces as well. I realize now that this isn’t really asking much; I’m a better person for having learned this.  But at the time, holy shit was it an imposition.  My friends and I had just finished making up a whole new code-alphabet so outsiders wouldn’t be able to read the notes we were passing back and forth, and we didn’t really have time for nonsense like this.  So we all bitched and moaned, bitched and moaned.  And our teacher (a gem of a human being who greatly resembled a lizard), took it upon herself to give us a little perspective.  I believe her speech went something like this (Kara, help me out if I’m missing anything): “Do you people realize that Canadians know all 50 states AND the capitals by the time they are in the 2nd grade?!  They take the time to learn all this information about our country and you can’t even make the effort to learn the names of their 13 provinces?!  Do you realize how ignorant that makes you??”  So, whatever.  I understand the point of her rant.  But I was 13, and in quite a fragile (hormonal) state.  And I certainly did not appreciate being called ignorant.  This lecture stuck with me.  And to this very day, I experience intense feelings of guilt when the topic of Canadian provinces comes up in casual conversation (which happens more than you’d think…).  Because I  know I can’t accurately name all the provinces.  But I bet all the Canadians in the world can name every US state and their capitals!  I just feel like an asshole.  I’m sorry, Canada.  I’m truly sorry.

When they find out I attended Catholic school, people always ask me if I had to take religion classes.  Well, yes.  Yes, I did.  I also had to attend mass once a week with the rest of the school (where we sometimes sang hymns that had corresponding sign language, which we all did….with pride).  And sure, that sucked.  But religion wasn’t the worst subject.  Nope, not at all.  We had Family Life.  Which was the Catholic version of sex-ed.  And we had this every.single.year.  While it was bad every year, 5th grade stands out in my mind as being particularly horrifying.  We had this teacher – I’m not quite sure how to describe her.  She had this leopard print skirt that went down to her ankles, and I think she genuinely thought she was hot shit when she wore it.  And this one time we were doing a writing exercise with her, and we had to read this paragraph about a dad praising his daughter for rescuing the pet dog from a fire, and then write a response sentence, as if we were the daughter.  I wrote “Yeah, I guess I did do a good job, dad.” And she marked me down because I didn’t say “thank you” in my sample sentence.  In a sample sentence to my fake dad.  Nevermind the fact that my sample sentence was perfectly structured and used correct grammar.  Nope, I didn’t get full credit because I forgot to be polite.  I’m telling you, Catholic guilt is some scary shit.  Whatever, moral of the story, she was awful.  As our 5th grade teacher, she was responsible for teaching us about….you know, periods and stuff.  Which is just so awkward anyway, but then you compound it with the video we had to watch – the video of a blessed birth occurring – and it was downright miserable.  This video hurt my innocent little eyes.  And let me tell you, it was quite the close-up.  I learned two important things about the birthing process that year: 1) apparently grooming down there takes a backseat when you’re carrying a child.  Which, I understand – you can’t really see what’s going on, so I’m sure it’s easy to let it get a little out of control.  And 2) Things stretch down there.  A LOT.  Needless to say, I was scarred for life after that.  After we had finished our Family Life unit in class, every time I wasn’t feeling well and had to go home sick, this teacher would pull me aside and whisper in a VERY LOUD STAGE WHISPER, “Do you think it’s your period?”  UGH! Fuck off, you nosy, overbearing, self-righteous, leopard-print skirt wearing bitch!  Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?!

By the time we got to 8th grade, a large chunk of our class had left (probably because they got sick of Mrs. Leopard-print skirt asking them if they had gotten their period yet).  There were only 14 of us in the end.  And that year, as with every other year, we had to sing in the Christmas program.  Just our class. With 14 people.  And the male half of our class was going through that voice-changing stage where you could never really predict which octave they would be speaking in.  So all in all, it was not a recipe for any award-winning performances.  But this was just beyond humiliating.  We had to sing “What Child is This?” which has some pretty high notes in it.  And didn’t you know?  8th graders are FAR too cool to sing in the Christmas program.  So basically, the performance ended up being a lot of muttering and off-key humming.  I wish I could say that the school/church community was understanding of the situation and applauded us for our efforts. But I’d be lying if I told you that.  We definitely got made fun of.  By parents.  And teachers.  I think our principal even had a few laughs at our expense.  But what did we care?  We were 8th graders…we were on our way out!  I like to pretend that this experience doesn’t haunt me.  But let me just tell you that I haven’t really felt the same about that particular Christmas carol since that fateful night.

Throughout my time in Catholic school, I had to wear a uniform.  And to be honest, I didn’t really mind it.  Actually, I would be all for a uniform now.  It seems easier than making the effort to pick out a new outfit every day.  But I digress.  These uniforms were not pretty.  We had the horrible, pleated pants that fit snugly…around our ribs.  And the nice, white polo that tucked into said pants.  There was just no way to win with that outfit.  No matter what.  So when we had free dress days, it was a big.fucking.deal.  I would lay awake at night planning what to wear to school.  It had to make a statement.  It had to be just right.  It had to be cool.  But these free dress days also came with strings.  Like, what if you misread the calendar and you showed up to school in free dress when everyone else was in their uniforms?!  Jesus, that would just be the worst.  Or what about those days that were themed free dress?  For Valentine’s day, we had to wear pink, red, or white; for Christmas, we had to wear festive colors, etc.  But what if what I wore didn’t pass inspection and I had to go to the office and see the principal?!  It was just too much stress.  My parents used to get really annoyed because my friends and I would call each other at least three times the morning of a free dress day, just to confirm what was going on.  But I firmly believe that we were simply taking all the necessary precautions, as any smart person would.  Because you know they would bury us under a thick pile of Catholic guilt if we fucked up.  And I’d probably still be suffering because of it.  I’ve got enough problems, thank you very much.

I’m glad that I recovered from the bell curve of awkwardness.  It was quite a traumatic time for me.  At least I can laugh about it now…when I’m not feeling guilty for not knowing the Canadian provinces, that is.



Some things make me un-cynical… by The Agoraphobic Heifers
October 2, 2011, 6:30 pm
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There are some things in the world that don’t make me hate all human beings.  In fact, there are certain things that make me celebrate the basic humanity and inherent goodness that we all possess.  Those things are few and far between, but when I’m inspired by them, I have to make the most of it.  Because it won’t be too long before some loser/Republican/incorrect grammar user comes along and kills my buzz.  So, for the record: at this moment in time, I am inspired.  And I hope that I can find a way to give back to the human race, instead of sitting around bitching about how useless most people are (I still reserve the right to complain whenever the mood strikes; I can’t give that up completely!).  But seriously.  How could you not be inspired by these faces?

Look at that smile.

I don’t know these kids’ stories.  But I know that a friend of mine working in Rwanda as part of a medical mission found their stories and their faces beautiful enough to capture on film.  And I also know that their lives have been nowhere near as privileged as mine.  And boy does that make my heart ache.

As of today, I’m giving myself one year to get my affairs in order, save some money, and purchase a plane ticket to…wherever.  Anywhere but here.  Anywhere but this over-indulged, greedy, good-for-nothing, first world country.  I don’t know what I’ll be doing, where I’ll be going, or how long I’ll be there.  But does that really matter?  No, probably not.  These tiny details of my life seem pretty trivial in the grand scheme of things.  There are more important things to be worried about.  For real.



Enemy of the Day: Misery One-Uppers by The Agoraphobic Heifers
September 27, 2011, 4:32 pm
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Sometimes when I’ve had a truly shitty day, all I really want is for someone to listen to my story and then say, “Wow, that really sucks.  You have every right to hate the entire world right now.”  On a more rational level, I realize that my life is one of privilege and luxury.  My problems really are quite trivial when compared to, oh I don’t know, the fucking famine in Somalia.  Or some other really sad shit like that.  But they are still my issues nonetheless, and sometimes I just need to wallow in my own misery for a while.  Usually my friends and family are supportive enough to give me that.  But occasionally those sneaky misery one-uppers come around and rain on my fucking parade pity party.

Misery one-uppers come in all shapes and sizes.  They can be male or female.  Tall or short.  Fat or skinny.  But regardless of any of these qualities, their most noticeable personality trait is their tendency to trivialize the lives of others, from sun up to sun down.  These assholes will….

  • Conveniently have a migraine when you have a headache.
  • Be living through a fucking hurricane when there’s a pretty big rainstorm at your house, threatening to flood your basement.
  • Discover that their house has a rabid bear problem on the same day you find the termites in your home.
  • Be diagnosed with bronchitis the same day that you develop a chesty cough.
  • Work 60-hour work weeks when you work 50.
  • Get only 3 hours of sleep the night before when you got 4.
  • Lose their mother, brother, and favorite aunt in a horrific car accident on the same day that your beloved grandmother dies of cancer.
  • Find out they have to push triplets out of their vagina the same day you learn that you’re having twins.

Sometimes, misery one-uppers aren’t dickheads on purpose.  But more often than not, these people know exactly what they are doing.   Misery one-uppers are also closely related to habitual exaggerators and pathological liars.  They can’t help it.  If they can even fathom an experience more depressing than yours, well then holy shit it must be true.  And they must tell you alllllll about it.

I once read about Meeks (mean geeks) on one of my favorite blogs, 2birds1blog.  And I think that Meeks and misery one-uppers share very similar qualities.  In fact, they might be bred from the same strain of pure evil and douche baggery.  I can’t even begin to imagine what would happen if a misery one-upper hooked up with a Meek and produced a love child/demonic mini-human.  That might just be too much asshole for the world to handle.

For a full explanation of the mysterious Meek character, please refer to this handy description (trust me, we ALL know people like this…and if you are that person, well…I’m NOT sorry.  You deserve to know how much of an asshole you are.):  http://www.2birds1blog.com/2008/01/patsys-regina-george-moment.html



I hope there’s medication for people like me…and my dad…and my mom. by The Agoraphobic Heifers
September 23, 2011, 4:48 pm
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To say that I’m a bit uptight is a colossal understatement.  To say that I’m an insane control freak, with a hint of OCD is more accurate.  But honestly, I never really stood a chance.  Both my parents came out of the womb sporting their own brand of crazy (I mean that in the most loving way possible).  And my grandparents?  DEFINITELY CRAZY.  I was doomed, just based on the natural flow of human genes.  In addition to the genetic (im)perfections that make me considerably more anal and obsessive than the rest of the world, I am also the oldest child.   This familial role comes with its own baggage, and let me tell you, I have carried my neatly packed, perfectly organized baggage like a champ.  I am an older sister to the core.  So I don’t just have “Type A Personality” written all over me.  No.  I have “Type A, Overbearing, OCD Control Freak” stamped in big bold letters on my forehead (perfectly centered, of course).

Until I moved out of my parent’s house, I never knew that we were the weird ones.  I thought the rest of the world washed their dishes with soap before putting them in the dishwasher.  I thought everyone’s parents spent at least an hour every weekend sitting together, coordinating schedules in their planners.  I thought all moms made grocery lists that were organized by the path they walked through the store every single time.  But then I kind of grew up.  And I learned that these things aren’t necessarily normal occurrences in every household.  I also discovered that there are people out there who survive day-to-day life without To-Do Lists.  That was a big slap in the face, let me tell you.

Some of the habits I notice in myself, I also see in my parents.  For example, both my parents live by the rule that not only are you NEVER LATE for things.  But actually, you’re not really on time unless you’re 10 minutes early.  True story.  I once had a boyfriend who lived on what he called “Jewish Standard Time.”  This meant that he was perpetually 10, 15, 20 minutes late for things.  In all seriousness, I think this was the root of our break-up.  In addition to never being late for things, we also never sleep through our alarms.  My dad and I ensure that this never happens by routinely checking and re-checking our alarm clocks no less than three times before we go to bed.  I do it once when I crawl in bed, before I start reading.  Once again, when I’m done reading but have not yet removed my glasses.  And then one final time when I have turned out the lights and taken off my spectacles. Then, and only then, can I be sure that my alarm is set for the correct time.  I’m not totally sure what his routine is like every night, but I know he also checks the clock at least three times.  Maybe more.  Thanks a lot, dad.

All three of us carry insanely large bags.  At any given time, my purse will weigh at least 8 pounds.  I’m sure my mom’s is about the same.  And Jesus Christ, my dad’s briefcase weighs about as much as a 4-year old child.  When he flies for business, he actually has to remove shit to shrink it down to a carry-on bag.  Doesn’t that just seem a bit excessive?  The reason that our bags are so heavy is because we must be prepared for anything.  We must always have our planners.  DUH.  Because dear lord what if we need to write something new on our To-Do Lists?!  Or better yet, what if we complete a task and need to check it off our To-Do Lists?!  It’s like a security blanket; we must have it with us at all times or we won’t survive.  My dad and I also have this weird need to have at least three different writing utensils with us wherever we go.  One is normal (I think).  But three?  I know.  Just let me explain.  Having a pen on hand is obviously just a good idea, no matter who you are.  But what if that pen runs out of ink?  Well, good thing I have a back-up!  But then, what if that pen runs out of ink? Or what if it cracks in half and explodes in your bag?  Or what if you suddenly have to take a test, and they won’t allow ink, they will only let you use pencil?!  No worries!  I have a mechanical pencil tucked safely in my purse.  At all times.  I know my dad has more than three in his big-ass briefcase.  But three is the absolute bare minimum.

I have a few habits that are my own, however.  Sometimes my parents make fun of me for these.  But I wonder why exactly they think they have any room to judge.  You know how the volume function on TVs and stereos is often measured with numbers?  And those numbers appear on your screen?  Well, it just seems so nice to have those numbers always rounded up to a multiple of five.  Because multiples of five are fucking awesome.  So, when I watch TV or listen to music, the volume must always be turned up or turned down so that it hits that awesomely perfect number.  It must be 20 or 25.  NEVER 23. There is only one exception to this rule.  I can handle the volume being at 12.  But that’s just because 12 is a dozen, and that’s also cool.  Not quite as cool as a multiple of five, but still cool.

I also have to eat my M&Ms in groups of three.  And I get more than a little annoyed when the package does not end evenly.  If I have to eat one lonely M&M after eating the rest of them in groups of three, I get quite sad.  Actually, I get so sad that I usually text my BFF Kara about it.  She’s one of the only people on this planet who has learned to accept my M&M habit, and she’s even joined in the fun.  Bless her.  M&Ms are just better in three’s.  They fit perfectly on your tongue so you can suck on them for a few seconds and get a good taste of that sugary coating, and then Voilà! you have the perfect amount of chocolate hanging out in your mouth.  Seriously.  Try it.  I dare you to.

While I’ve lived pretty much my whole life like this, I think it’s actually starting to get worse in my old age.  I notice that these things cause me more and more anxiety if they aren’t quite living up to my standards. I worry that someday, it will get bad enough that I’ll need medication just to make it through the day.  There’s help for people like me, right?  I can get some pills for this, yes?  Pills that I can take in groups of three’s…?



To the Future Mr. Grammar Nazi by The Agoraphobic Heifers
September 19, 2011, 8:10 pm
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I’m not a very nice person when I’m mad.  When I’m not being passive aggressive and giving you the world’s most effective silent treatment, I’ll be hitting you with some seriously low blows.  I’m not afraid to hit below the belt.  I will dredge up things from the past, and you better believe that I will twist the details so that I can inflict the most pain possible.  If you want to avoid the viciousness that is the Grammar Nazi, then fucking pay attention. When I get that crazy look in my eyes, consult this list.  Because you will most likely be in violation of one of the following rules.  Punishment will follow, unless you quickly compensate for your mistakes.

  • Please note: I like flowers; they are nice.  But food is better.  And if you really care about my happiness, you’ll present me with a nice little shot of tequila.  Don’t forget the salt and lime.
  • Don’t you dare send me a text message, greeting card, love letter, etc. that contains one single grammatical error.  It is not the thought that counts.  It’s the good grammar and well-structured sentences that count.
  • We are living in the 21st fucking century.  I will not be a 1950s housewife.  Or your mother.  Ergo, do your own damn laundry.
  • Don’t even think about leaning in for a little early morning smooch if I have not yet had the opportunity to brush my teeth.  And don’t open your mouth for any reason until you’ve done the same.  Actually, let’s just agree not to interact with each other until…noon?  Maybe 1 pm?  We’ll see.
  • You should know that I am never late….for anything.  And if I ever get a call while I’m sitting at a restaurant waiting for you, and you tell me that you’re still all the way across town and “running a little late” I will not be happy.  Is your grandma in the hospital?  Did you lose both your legs in a horrific accident?  Well then, motherfucker, you don’t really have a good excuse, now do you?  There’s no reason to be “running a little late” if there isn’t any bloodshed.  Get your ass to dinner on time.  I will not be kept waiting.
  • You are, of course, permitted to have female friends.  However, don’t think for one single second that it is okay to receive a text message from a female friend that says, “Do you still have feelings for me?” (or any variation of that), and then respond with “I don’t know.”  That shit is unacceptable. There are about 5 million more appropriate responses to that ludicrous question.  Get your shit together. (BTW, this is one of those things I will remember forever and will continue to use against you when you piss me off.  Tread lightly with your big-breasted, dumbass “friends.”)
  • Look, I don’t care if you’re a Kennedy, I will not be taking your last name when we get married.  But honey, honestly.  If you’re agreeing to spend the rest of your life with me, that is the least of your problems.
  • My mother is a fantastic cook.  That shit is not genetic.  Don’t expect it to be.  You want good food?  Go to her house for dinner.  Or better yet, cook your own fucking food, you lazy asswipe.
  • While we’re on the topic of food, keep your hands off my Wheat Thins and hummus.  That shit is like my crack.  And if you ever call me out for eating an entire box by myself, while watching six episodes of Gilmore Girls in a row, I will rip your tongue out.
  • We will be washing our bed sheets once a week.  Because my mommy taught me that if we don’t, we’ll probably die.
  • I will probably agree to marry you only if you are marginally less intelligent than me.  Because I don’t like to feel stupid.
  • I will probably never want to birth your child.  It just doesn’t seem fair that I have to rip my vagina apart to produce a crying, shitting, leaking mini-human, while you get to sit idly next to me without having your crotch region severely mutilated.  There are plenty of little African babies to love.  And as far as I know, pushing shit out of my body is not a requirement in the adoption process.
  • If I’m wrong, you’ll never hear me admit it.
  • I don’t take criticism well.  Ever.  Even when it’s “constructive.”  Just keep that in mind.

That’s about it.  Surely you can remember everything.  It can’t be that hard.

Love,

Mrs. Grammar Nazi

P.S. My standards are not too high.  They are perfectly reasonable for a woman of my caliber.  You’re goddamn lucky to know me.



A Glimpse into my Brain by The Agoraphobic Heifers
September 13, 2011, 11:18 pm
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There have been three things monopolizing my emotional and intellectual energy today.  They all involve some combination of awkwardness, stupidity, and/or grammatical errors.  These incidents are the types of things that I obsess over and waste a lot of time being upset about.  Get ready.  There’s some good, some bad, and some vampires.

1. Let me preface this story by saying that I adore my current friends.  And being a painfully shy and awkward introvert, I find it much more convenient to keep a few life-long friends rather than making new ones all the time.  I literally don’t have the capacity for an ever-evolving social life; I prefer the stability I have now.  But not all my friends live nearby.   Some live in….fucking England.  Or goddamn South America.  Or the other side of the state.  But not here, in the same city as me.  So.  That being said, making new friends and finding something to do in the evenings (other than eating Chipotle and watching a solid 5 hours of TV), might not be the worst thing in the world for me. Buuuuuuut meeting new people makes my tummy hurt.  So you can see the problem.  New friends?  Or a happy stomach?  Which to choose, which to choose…

Last night, I chose new friends.  I agreed to go to a sports bar with some guys from work to watch Monday Night Football. [Side note: As I was prepping for this anxiety-inducing social event, I told a few people what my plans were (so I could get some moral support, you know).  More than once I got the “Do you even like football?” question, dripping with self-righteous disbelief.  I’m sorry.  Why would it be so goddamn unbelievable if I did like football?!  Because I’m a girl?  Because I have breasts?!  Because I should like ballet and synchronized swimming instead?!  I don’t understand.  I don’t get off on football games, no.  Definitely not.  But I know the rules.  And I know what a fucking first down is (which is more than a lot of girls can say).  So yes, I guess you could say I sort of “like” football.  What I don’t like is the way that everyone seems to think that is a relevant and worthy question to ask me while I’m preparing to actually socialize with real human beings for the first time in weeks.  The thought of making small talk literally gives me the shits. So at this point, I’m pretty sure I’VE GOT BIGGER FISH TO FRY, FOLKS.]  But anyway, back to my point.  So I went to the sports bar with four other guys from work.  All of them were pretty young, so the conversation was pretty easy and it wasn’t too awkward or stuffy (YAY!).  We had a few beers.  We talked.  We did some tequila shots (yeah, that’s right – shit got real).  And then I even pulled the “Oh, don’t worry, tequila shots are on me!”  move.  AND! I fucking shared my spinach and artichoke dip with these boys.  You could say we bonded.  Or at least that’s what I thought we did.  For real.  That’s what I kept saying to The Valedictator when I came home drunk.  I believe my exact catchphrase was “I bonded with the boyssss!!”  That’s not embarrassing or anything….

BUT THEN.  Today at work, it was like nothing had happened.  Now, I realize that we can’t just pick up a bottle of Jose and start taking shots together right there at the copy machine.  But I kind of expected a nice hello.  Or at least some fucking EYE CONTACT.  I was sorely disappointed.  These bastards had the nerve to pretend like we hadn’t shared food and booze the night before!  I’m not sure what I’m missing here.  I was quite excited after successfully navigating this specific outing with my new “friends.”  I thought I had figured it out: engineers would be the cure to my social anxieties.  They are mostly good people, who are mildly socially inept and pretty damn awkward most of the time.  It balances me out.  It forces me to be the less awkward soul of the group.  But I guess I was wrong.  The evening of fun and laughter clearly didn’t mean as much to them as it did to me.  So, back into my cave I go; screw making new friends.  It doesn’t matter.  I like my routine, anyway.  I don’t need friends….Just give me Chipotle and Netflix, and I’m set for life.

2. I hate to admit this on such a public forum, but here it is: I watched “Eclipse” last night.  Yes, that’s right.  I watched a vampire movie (after “bonding” with the boys…).  Yes, I’ve read the Twilight books.  And yes, I’ve seen the other two movies.  But I’m not proud of it.  And I don’t like either the books or the movies (although, Taylor Lautner is quite nice to look at….).  This movie has been occupying my emotional energy today for two reasons.  First, I want those two hours of my life back.  I knew I didn’t like it while I was watching it, but I still didn’t turn it off.  Stephenie Meyer won again, just like she won when I was halfway through the first book and then one week later I had miraculously completed the final book in the series.  I couldn’t stop then, and I couldn’t stop last night.  But oh I wanted to.  The second reason I’m so worked up about this movie is related to the first.  This shit clearly draws the teenage girls (and me) right in, and then proceeds to teach them horrible horrible horrible lessons about what it means to be a woman.  I feel the need to set the record straight. Guess what girls, vampires don’t exist.  And if the guy you’re “in love” with ever appears to be sparkling in the sunlight, you might be on ecstasy.  Oh, and you REALLY don’t need a guy to survive.  You will physically survive without one.  Promise.  That whole needy, codependent thing is not sexy.  Be your own woman!  Make a name for yourself!  Then maybe think about settling down a little later in life.  Also, (spoiler alert) if you have to become non-mortal to stay with your “true love,” and you want this to be accomplished by him biting you and injecting vampire poison into your bloodstream, then you need to RUN THE FUCK AWAY.  NOW.  I’m just saying.  These books and movies do NOTHING for feminism.  And that just hurts me.

3. I am getting sick and goddamn tired of people ignoring/not knowing the difference between “your” and “you’re.”  These assholes need to get off Facebook, Twitter, etc. and go jump off a cliff.  It’s not that difficult, people.  But  if it really is too much of an effort for you to use correct grammar in everyday situations, DON’T POST SHIT ON A PUBLIC FORUM.   Seriously, if I see one more Facebook comment that says “haha your awesome lolzzzz,” I’m going to shit a brick.

These are my musings for Tuesday, September 13th.  It’s important shit, right?  Right?!  Tell me I’m not crazy for worrying about these things…