White Girl Problems

Babies are cute. To my dismay, they become more and more adorable in collaboration with this annoying ticking sound that seems to be coming from my uterus.  But is it actually coming from me, or have friends and family somehow strapped a hypothetical time bomb to my back?

When I was younger, I used to tell my mom that I didn’t want any kids. This was partially to remain steadfast to the evil teenager character that I played for so long (I’m my mother’s only child, therefore her only hope for grandchildren), but also because I really didn’t think that I should have children. “I would be a terrible mother! I’m crazy! I would be such an awful mess and drive my children to drink!” I presumed.

Then I realized something; Parents are crazy. It’s pretty much a prerequisite for having children. The fact that I am not a raging alcoholic at this point in my life is truly an accomplishment.

These days, I have so many friends who are getting married and having children, not necessarily in that order, and a butt load of people hounding me about why I’m not in that boat. My mind has been in a vicious tug-o-war with itself, as I am always so adamant to do the opposite of what everyone wants me to do (i.e. get married, have children), but then when I see the little rug rats and they look so peaceful, the rope gets tugged the opposite way.

About a year ago, my brother, who is ten years my junior and still in high school, said to me,

“Hey Sissy, when are you going to settle down and have some kids? I think I’m ready to be an uncle.”

How convenient! You’re ready? Oh good, because this Perfect Man that I have been hiding in my garage has been getting antsy to get out and start our Perfect Family.

My sister, 12 years my junior, has been bugging me since the day I graduated from college about how much she wants to be the flower girl in my wedding. Now that she is almost sixteen, she is still trying to come to terms with the fact that she is probably too old to be a flower girl and will have to settle for bridesmaid, if the day ever comes. I think it would be an awesomely evil joke to make her a middle aged flower girl. That will teach her to pressure her older sister.

Then there is Big Gay Joe, my obviously gay cousin, who has titled himself my wedding planner for this non-existent wedding and reception. Joe also has a checklist of requirements for any potential suitor of mine. “How do you know if you like him yet? I haven’t even met him!” has been heard coming from his big gay mouth after I come back from a date.

On more than one occasion, when we are out in public together and BGJ sees someone who he finds suitably attractive for me, he will grab my arm and exclaim, “This is my cousin! She’s single!” while the poor stranger smiles politely and pretends not to have fully understood what was said, attempting to avoid the incredibly awkward situation.

Joe’s checklist has gotten progressively shorter over the years and now he is finding less and less importance in “Lindsay’s Husband’s Requirements.” Soon there may only be one box with “Is willing to marry Lindsay” next to it, sadly waiting to be checked off.

Of course there is Rita, my crazy, 89 year old grandmother, who is not-so-silently awaiting my non-existent wedding. She wants so badly to be able to attend her favorite grandchild’s nuptials to a (her words) handsome rich man. This woman has at least another ten good years in her, but I just don’t know if that is going to be enough.

My cousin, Dan, got married a little over a year ago. His mother had the rehearsal dinner at her house. I think that about half the people who were invited to the wedding were also at the rehearsal dinner. My family really knows how to indulge in a drink or two (or twelve) and people had to be sent out on multiple beer runs, since the garage refrigerator and multiple ice buckets were emptied quite quickly. I wasn’t drinking, which always makes family functions much more difficult, and involves not only having to smile and nod at the dumb things that a (select few) family members say, but then have to listen to it more than once. I will hear the same thing multiple times that night, and then again the next day because said person won’t remember previously telling me the story. The running joke between me and my cousins is, “Just a thumb!” which is what Rita says every time a refill on her wine is offered. Somehow though, an arthritic thumb equals three normal person thumbs. I am pretty sure that I will be getting horrible arthritis for laughing at this, as karma. 

Out on Aunt Lynn’s patio, smiling politely at Rita while she wobbles with her “thumb” of wine, she asks me, “So, have you met anyone interesting?”

Oh Lord. Doing my best to skirt the question, I respond, “Grandma, everyone I have met is interesting!”

“Oh, you know what I mean!” She says, wanting a different answer from me. Let it be known, Rita is both shocked and appalled that I live with two female roommates and not one of us currently has a boyfriend. I have two gay cousins, and I am afraid that she might be thinking that there may be another gay in the fam. While a lesbian would be a nice addition to my family, unfortunately, my singledom is purely from lack of worthy men, not from closeted gayness (sorry ladies).

The next morning, a sobered up Rita asked me, “So, did you meet anyone interesting last night?”

Realizing that she didn’t remember last night’s conversation, I used the same line and innocently said, “Grandma, everyone I met last night was interesting!” This comment received another smile/glare from good ol’ Rita and I quickly segued into talk of the wedding that was to be taking place that night.

The notion that a wedding is a great place to find a mate is pure crap. A wedding is a gathering of friends and family and I don’t necessarily want these people watching me flirt with boys, nor do I think that many boys will want to flirt with me if they catch a glimpse of me on the dance floor. I can’t dance for the life of me and I sweat more than I care to talk about, so while I might look cleaned up and fancy for a while, that is short lived after the music starts and I flail around, dancing like I’m having a seizure. It’s not pretty.

Getting to Dan and Michelle’s wedding the next afternoon was oh-so-fun, as I was put in charge of getting the two grandmas and an aunt safely to the country club. Luckily it was a short drive, so listening to Rita ask, “Danny has some cute friends, don’t you think?” was through quickly enough, and after I got the old ladies out of my car and safely into the club, I was able to escape to the sanctuary of my teenage brothers and sister. Or so I thought.

The second I walked up to them, Drew informed me, “OK, Sissy. We decided on the drive over here that when Michelle throws the bouquet, the three of us are going to hold everyone else back so you catch it.”

At that point I started scanning the room for an escape route and/or someone, anyone, who I could go talk to who wasn’t going to give me any shit about getting hitched. Nothing. The only person who would of be any help at this point is Dan, who guards me like a protective older brother and mad dogs any boy who even says ‘hi’ to me. But he was the groom, and was obviously too busy with his own wedding to help me avoid the family planning mine.

I find the bouquet toss at weddings to be a horrible and demeaning tradition, second only to the removal and flinging of the garter. Drunken single women fighting over a flower arrangement that is destined to dry up and die within a matter of hours is a bit pathetic. It also draws more attention to the fact that I am single. Why don’t we just go all out and make me wear a sign that says “unemployed” while I am standing out there, just to finish me off? Maybe if it was a sandwich instead of flowers being thrown, I would be more interested.

So when I was sitting on the toilet peeing, with my dress pulled up around my waist and my underwear around my knees and heard the DJ say, “Oooookay! I’m going to need all the single ladies to come on out to the dance floor at this time!” I was quite relieved that I had chosen such an opportune time to use the restroom. But then as I was washing my hands, I heard Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” song slowly fade and the DJ say into the microphone, “So we are missing someone. Sissy. Where is Sissy?” Drew, I am never going to forgive you for this one. My siblings have called me “Sissy” since the moment they could talk, which I've always found endearing. Hearing it over the country club’s sound system calling me out to the group of single women on the dance floor made my unmarried walk of shame all that much worse.

I stood as close to the rear of the pack as I could and held my sister firmly in front of me, blocking the path of the airborne embarrassment bouquet. A special thanks to Michelle, for not throwing it in my direction.

By the way, when my other cousin, Matt, got married seven months later, this same thing happened. I wandered off right before Lori was about to throw the bouquet, but once again I was found and sent to the dance floor to stand among the other singletons.

But back to Dan and Michelle’s wedding. The morning after it there was a brunch for some of the friends and family members before people left town. It was certainly an action packed weekend, but I guess if you are the first of four boys to tie the knot, you get quite the to-do. I wasn’t hung over, as many people were, but I was grumpy from being around certain family members for such an extended amount of time. Once again, I found myself being bombarded by Rita, who once again, asked me, “Sooo, did you talk to anyone interesting last night?”

I am not joking people. She asked me this exact question three times that weekend. So with an exasperated smile, I once again told her, “Yes, I met a lot of interesting people this weekend.” She rolled her eyes and continued drinking her coffee, when my aunt came up to us. “Did you have fun last night, Lindsay?”

“Yes, Auntie Lynn, I did! It was such a beautiful wedding.” I responded.

“Wasn’t it?” She asked. “And did you meet anyone interesting?”

It's Amazing that I'm Still Alive

I love being able to tell people what I am doing at any time of the day, whether they like it or not. It is for this reason that I love Facebook. With Smartphones, you can literally tell people exactly where you are and what you are doing, anytime, anywhere. And I know that most of you people reading this have been on your phone, checking your Facebook, Tweeting something oh-so-profound, or playing Words with Friends while sitting on the toilet. Don’t deny it, maybe you are even reading this from the commode. We’ve all done it. However, I try not to borrow other people’s phones too often.

So this is my tale of the time I Facebooked naked. Intrigued? Don’t be, although I felt that this story needed a certain imagery to accompany it, so yes, there are pictures. And I must say, I do look quite skinny in them. My vegetable and gummy bear diet must be paying off! Here goes…

I woke up around 6:45am from the bustling of the dogs and my mom around the house, but I kept my eyes closed, refusing to actually wake up at such an ungodly hour. Alas, my efforts were foiled when Sally walked into my room, saying, “You know what’s weird Linds? The past few days I have woken up at 5:03 every morning. But this morning I realized that your dog was sitting outside my door quietly whining for me to get up.”

I still had not opened my eyes, and from under the covers I responded, “Hmmph. You know what else is weird? The past few mornings I have woken up at 6:45am from someone walking into my room and starting up a conversation!”   

She laughed and apologized before leaving my room, but by that point, there was no getting back to sleep for me. I let Dave (my dog) get up on the bed and cuddle for awhile before Sally left the house and I finally decided to get up and shower.

Showering at Sal’s house is always much more pleasant in the summer. Since you don’t need the water as hot, you are able to take a longer shower, and since my left foot is (still) in a cast, I need a lot more time to take my unbalanced peg-leg showers than I do when I’m on two feet. So with my iPhone playing loudly in the background, I wobbly, yet successfully cleaned myself under the lukewarm spray.

It was after my shower that trouble ensued. Climbing over the tub wall, I reached for my towel and dried my arms, and then my face. When I pulled the towel away from my glistening cheeks, I noticed a large black spot on my bright green towel. Even without my glasses on, I instantly knew that I was face-to-face with a very large spider. Now, I’m not normally super freaked out by these eight-legged creatures, but that in no way means that I want them in my face. I had been given quite a start, which caused me to scream and throw the towel onto the floor. The spider somehow got knocked onto the bathmat that I was standing on, and was right by my feet, unmoving. I thought that maybe this was a dead spider that I was dealing with, and while I still don’t want it in my face, it was much more manageable if it was just a corpse.

My roommate in San Francisco has a severe fear of spiders. If Katie sees even a speck of one in her room, she doesn’t hesitate to wake me up at 2am to come remove it. I have horrible guilt if I ever kill one, so even on these damn crutches, I have to find a way to trap them in a jar and set them free outside without letting them touch me. It can be quite difficult. Anyway, my first thought after throwing the potentially dead spider onto the ground was, “Oh, my gosh. I have to send Katie a picture. This will totally freak her out!” (Guilt for killing spiders does not equal guilt for scaring roommates).

Laughing evilly to myself while sending the picture to Katie, the beast of a spider suddenly came to life and started racing toward me. The next two seconds of my life are forever engrained in my memory, but in a slow motion replay, over and over and over.

As the newly awakened spider dashed towards me, I screamed (yet again) and jumped back on my one good foot, into a small puddle of water that had dripped off of my hair and body, since I was unable to fully dry myself with my spider-infested towel.  I then slipped, falling backwards, arms flailing, crutch flying, and yanking a towel off it’s hook, all the while thinking that I can’t let my casted foot crash to the ground and hoping that my thick phone case works in not letting my airborne phone break when it hits the ground. It’s times like these that I wish I had my own reality TV show. Or a helmet cam (Christmas is just around the corner people).

After I gracefully landed on the tile floor (not gracefully at all, but my naked fall is awkward enough, so let’s pretend I looked pretty while doing it), I burst into a fit of laughter with the instant replay immediately going through my brain screen while simultaneously hoping that 1) the spider was nowhere near me, and 2) I hadn’t broken any more bones, because at that point, there was nothing that I was going to be able to do about either of those problems. But what I could do was dry my tears of laughter and immediately let my public know what just happened to me, by posting the picture of this huge spider to my Facebook wall. And I did just that.

Hearing my second scream, Thunder Dave had slowly wandered to the open bathroom door and sat staring at me, wondering what the hell was going on. That adorable dog-head-tilt wasn’t doing anything to save me, but it was cute. And I have mixed feelings about the fact that the spider had found a good hiding spot by then, because if Dave had seen it, he would have attacked and eaten it. The downfall is that I never found it and the next couple days at Sal’s house consisted of me in a constant state of fear and suspicion. Where did Spidey go? Is she hiding in the box of Kleenex for when my allergies act up? Maybe laying low near the sink so she can crawl up inside my cast when I’m doing my make-up? Or maybe she made the trek into my bedroom and is hiding under my pillow so she can crawl into my ear one night and lay eggs. Any of these are entirely possible. Maybe I should go back to killing spiders. I’ve been reading far too much about the peaceful ways of Buddha.

For now I will continue to ferociously shake out my bath towel before I use it, even though I’m back in San Francisco. There are still spiders here, and since I never actually found her, I really don’t know if Spidey hitched a ride back to the Bay with me, now do I?

Special thanks to Sally O'Malley for helping me with the pictures for this blog post. I guess that makes up for coming in to wake me up at the crack of dawn, just to chat.

One Step Closer to Nerd Fame

Are you tired of simply reading my words? Never, I know, but now you can HEAR them too! My friends, David and Gavin, have a podcast called Three Pints Deep. I promised them that I would plug them via Facebook when they put out a new episode and that any time I am actually ON the show, I would post the link in my blog. This is obviously an incredibly transparent attempt to guest star on their blog as much as possible, but I do love to hear myself talk!*
I tried to get them to have me become the third host on the podcast, my argument being that they need a female influence to appeal to a wider audience. Not to mention, it's called THREE Pints Deep, not two. They should stick with that lucky number three vibe. Alas, no dice.  
After I got over my initial insult, I posed this newest idea of being a reoccurring guest star, with the offer of posting on FOL. Well, I stick to my word, so here it is. And if you're like me, and just want to hear my part over, and over, and over.... I'm from minutes 5:05-9:35. Just sayin.


Episode 5.5 "Imagine You've Been Kidnapped..."

http://threepintsdeep.podbean.com/ 

*The exception being hearing myself on answering machines and voice mails. I'm convinced there is a conspiracy on these devices to make my voice sound more manly and awkward than it already does in person.

I Keep on Fallin'

I was asked out once by a guy that I met through a friend. I knew it wasn’t going to go far from the beginning, when he asked for my number but followed the question up with some lame poor me comment that made it impossible to back out. Greeeeat.

So the following week, my blonde buxom friend and I met up with him and a friend at the Sparks Farmers Market. Ah, Thursday nights in downtown Sparks. It’s a place where you can find one of the highest concentrations of white trash, underage drunks, and people I went to high school with (who may or may not be in the previous two categories) enjoying the cool, beautiful desert night. I’ve never been sure why they call it a “farmers market,” as I have never seen a piece of fruit or vegetable in a five mile radius, and have been meaning to suggest to the City of Sparks  that they should rename it the “Slutty Farmer’s Daughters Market.” There is however, a very small collection of a taco truck, a corndog stand, a local radio station setup, and a margarita stand, that I must admit, has the best guava margaritas that I have ever tasted. The margarita stand always had a ridiculously long line, and when I would succumb to the 20-30 minute wait, I would usually buy two of these delicious concoctions and have to walk around with a drink in each hand, incognito with the rest of the crowd. Yeah, it was that kind of place.

So Gretchen and I ended up grabbing a beer (no margaritas for us tonight) and sitting outside the local brewery, listening to some crappy local band and watching the severely intoxicated 50-somethings shake it to the live music, when “Alan” and his friend showed up.  If you know me at all, you know that I am not shy. If you have dated me at all, you know I say the most awkward things at the most opportune times.* I can only assume that since I wasn’t really into this “Alan” kid, I wasn’t too nervous and therefore was able to keep my awkward blabber to a minimum. I did, however, mention my clumsiness and grandly showed off my scabby, scarred knees. While the rest of the night was less than exciting, and mostly filled with me talking, Alan still called me the next day to ask if he could take me to dinner.

My philosophy on dating is that anyone who is gutsy enough to ask if they can take me out on a date deserves at least that.** I know that someone can become more appealing the better you get to know them (or more appalling, depending on the person).  So the following night, Alan came to pick me up for dinner. He texted me to let me know that he was just getting to my house, and since I was back living with my mom after college, I yelled “Bye!” and raced out the door to meet him before he had a chance to come up to our house. Later, Sally (aka Mom) would tell me that she didn’t think that he was much of a gentleman, since he didn’t come to the door to get me. I never told her that he would have had I not raced out of the house like a bat out of Hell (shout out- love you Sal!).

He did have time to get out of his truck and halfway around it before I was out of the house, and did open the passenger side door for me. He drove a huge, lifted Chevy truck, and I had to remind myself that I was back in Nevada and this was a very common occurrence. It did not necessarily mean that he was an ultra conservative, cattle roping redneck hick.

Anyway, we ended up going to a little Californiacated Mexican restaurant not too far from my house. He pulled up into a parking space right in front, facing the front door and wall of windows surrounding it. There was also outdoor seating, located on the side of the restaurant that was almost directly in front of the passenger side of Alan’s truck. It was a beautiful summer night, and there were plenty of people sitting outside on the colorfully painted picnic tables enjoying their fish tacos. As Alan killed the engine and got out of the truck, I opened my door and went to slide down from the lifted truck, when I tripped, lost my flip-flop, and proceeded to flip around and fall onto the ground, still somehow holding onto the door handle. My landing was actually pretty sweet. I ended up on my rear end, holding onto the door handle, one bare foot on the ground, the other foot, with shoe, still in the truck. Hence, I was facing the inside of this beast of a vehicle and was staring directly at Alan, who was staring right back at me. The image is burned into my memory, but I really wish I could have photographed the look on his face. His mouth was dropped so far open that he could have caught one of his eyeballs when they popped out of his head. It was priceless. After his brief moment of shock, he asked, “Are you okay?!” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine. This happens to me all the time.” I said, waving it off and trying to regain my composure.  I wasn’t anywhere near as embarrassed as I should have been, and I can only attribute this to what I stated before about not being that into him. If this were a guy that I had had a big crush on, I would have wished that I could melt into the pavement. I can’t imagine how many of the diners sitting in the patio area saw my not-so-graceful tumbling act, but I’m sure I gave someone a good laugh (you’re welcome).

“Oh my God. When you told me you were clumsy, I didn’t actually believe you!” he exclaimed. Note to my readers, I’m not making this up. When I tell you that I am clumsy and uncoordinated, I’m not kidding around. Which is exactly what I told him.

I ended up breaking it off relatively soon after this incident. Not because of the tumble in any way, but because I am pretty sure he was picking out engagement rings after our second date. As a person with commitment issues, this was a problem for me and therefore he had to go. Last I heard, he was engaged to some girl after a, not surprisingly, short courtship. Looking back, I learned that Alan and I have one thing in common; we both fall hard and fast, but in two very different ways.  

*See; every other FOL blog regarding me dating.

**Exceptions to that rule include; men over 50, dudes with a criminal record, guys with swastika tattoos, and women. Although the last one is subject to change depending on how good their health benefits are and if they can apply them to a domestic partnership.

Prime Time

Well, I’ve passed my prime. Technically, I have five months left, but let’s be honest, marriage is not in my immediate future. For those of you out there with a confused cartoon question mark hovering above your head, please refer to my blog from October of 2009, entitled, “Major Deal Breaker.”  In this blog, I explain that my buddy Blair, age 6 at the time, informed me that the ideal time for me to get married is age 27.

Here I am, 27, single, on crutches, and now that I might be able to finally start walking again, the doctor tells me that I am going to have to wear orthopedic Frankenstein shoes. This is not going to be very beneficial in my dating life.

I have plenty of reasons why I am not married at this point in my life. The main one being that I will dismiss any boy who shows any interest in me, for reasons such as;

a.       Bad speller

b.      Poor conversationalist

c.       Too intense

d.      Too good looking, therefore obviously not trustworthy

Leave it to a first grader to put it all in perspective. Who knew that all I really needed to watch out for were these 10 things…

Drink Coffee, It's Inspirational

My mother is constantly sending me things that she believes will help to inspire me and find some direction in my life. She emailed and/or printed out Steve Jobs' Stanford University commencement speech no less than three times for me to read. I still haven't read it. 
A couple months ago, she forwarded me yet another inspirational email. 80% of the time I really do open them up and at least take a look. This was one of those times. I noticed that the length of the attachment was quite long, which usually means a quick scan and delete, but this one had pictures, so I was intrigued.
For all of my artsy friends and followers out there, I really liked a lot of what this guy had to say. And did I mention there were pictures? So here I am, passing it on to you. I hope that you enjoy it, but if you feel the need to email me inspiration, just send me a Starbucks card instead. 

 http://www.austinkleon.com/2011/03/30/how-to-steal-like-an-artist-and-9-other-things-nobody-told-me/
  
And yes, I realized that by passing this on, it makes me even more like my mother than I already am. Please refrain from further comments regarding this.
Enjoy.

Blinky

Some stories simply have to be told, and this is one of my favorites. As usual, I have changed the names of the people involved in order to protect the innocent and spare them any embarrassment.

When I was in high school, there was always a specific meeting place for weekend nights. I found that each high school had a different location for their classmates to congregate. When there was no place to go, or if a party got broken up, my classmates and I would gather at the designated location to loiter, until we found somewhere else to go, or as it many times happened, we were shooed away by the business proprietors.  At my first high school, the meeting spot was “tri-state.” At my second, it was “Meet at Sev!” that was so often yelled between open car windows (meaning one particular 711 convenience store, centered in our high school’s zoning area).

I had this friend, who we will call “Stacy” for this story. Stacy drove a grey soft-top Suzuki Samurai that had been broken into so many times it had to be duct taped to patch the holes. I believe that Stacy went through three stereos and two soft-shell car tops before she relented to the knife slits and silence and started keeping duct tape in her car, instead of a CD player, realizing that it was much more practical. Luckily, the body of the (I don’t know if you could call it a “car”) was silver, so the boxy metal frame matched perfectly with the duct taped shell. It’s as if the manufacturer planned it this way.

I can’t even begin to imagine how unsafe this vehicle was. As much as I got a kick out of riding around town in this silver box, it seemed as though Suzuki had finished building a different model of car, and with the leftover scrap metal decided, “Let’s really get our money’s worth and put together just one more car with what we have left.” And so became the Samurai.

On more than one occasion, Stacy would go to the parking lot after class, only to find her car not in the space she had parked it in earlier that day, but a couple spaces away. It took no more than five boys of mediocre strength to lift the Samurai up and set it back down ten feet from where it had been originally parked. Stacy would sometimes get annoyed. I found it hilarious.

One uneventful Saturday night, Stacy and I were out in the ‘zuki, calling everyone we knew from our Nokia cell phones, desperately trying to find a fellow student who was stupid enough to allow a bunch of teenage hoodlums to come over to their house while their parents were out of town. Unfortunately, the only lead that we uncovered that night was that people were on their way to post up at “Sev.” So off we zipped in the Silver Bullet, its tiny engine straining to hit 45mph while carrying two passengers, four rolls of duct tape, and a six-pack of Zimas.  

As we reached our all-to-familiar neighborhood 711, we could see that our friends had already started to gather in the usual parking spaces adjacent to the convenience store. The ‘zuke’s headlights made everyone squint and block their eyes as we putt-putted into a parking spot and greeted everyone through our open windows and slashed convertible topper. As Stacy killed the engine, our friend* who we will call “Johnny,” walked up to the car and in a concerned voice said, “Hey, Stace. Turn your car back on real quick.”

Thinking that we were going to be relocating parking spaces, I remained seated in the passenger’s seat while Stacy flicked her cigarette butt out the window and turned the key.

“Turn your blinker on.” Johnny instructed. She did. Johnny looked inquisitively at it.

“Now turn the other one on.” Without question, Stacy again did as she was told. Taking a look at the right front blinker, Johnny told us, “Hey, I don’t want to alarm you, but you’re really low on blinker fluid.”

Poor, poor Stacy. All that this girl ever wanted was for people to like her. She was one of those individuals who trusted people whole-heartedly, and really believed that everyone was always looking out for her best interest. Her naivety is what made her so loveable, not to mention that every time she was duped, she had a great attitude about it. So when Stacy responded to Johnny’s blasphemous warning with, “What? Are you sure?” I had no choice but to stifle my laugh and see where this would go.

Johnny then explained calmly, “Don’t worry. Take it in to Jiffy Lube tomorrow and ask for Sam. If you tell him that you know me he will totally hook you up.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you so much Johnny!” Stacy responded.

At this point, I had my head between my knees in order to hide the tears that were streaming down my face from laughter. The fact that my body was convulsing in dry heaves could not be hidden and I was convinced that this would be the tell-tale sign that something was up. Johnny however, was doing an amazing job at keeping a relatively straight face and continued on with his “girls-are-stupid-and-don’t-know-shit-about-cars” lie.   

“Don’t worry girl! You know I’ve got your back! Sam is pretty good looking too. Maybe I could set the two of you up if you like what you see.”

Stacy was also boy crazy, so while most sane people knew that Johnny was a douche bag and had never cared about anyone except himself, Stacy found this offer incredibly appealing and thought nothing suspicious of the fact that Douchey McDoucherson was all of a sudden being so nice. This is when I opened the passenger side door and practically fell onto the pavement in a fit of tears, laughter, and full body heaves. I was beginning to feel bad for Stacy and my plan was to walk around to her side of the car, stand between her and Johnny, and sweetly explain to her that blinkers are light bulbs and therefore no fluid was involved. But for the life of me I could not get a word out. Finally, one of our friends who had been gathered in the group of laughing bystanders (I don’t know how this escaped Stacy’s radar) let the cat out of the bag and told Stacy that in fact, there is no such thing as “blinker fluid.”

Thank the good lord that this naïve little girl had such a great sense of humor. I can only imagine how badly this could have gone over with some of my other friends. With a shocked look on her face, she exclaimed, “OH MY GOD! What if I had actually gone in to get it fixed?!”

(I want the reader to know that I am still cracking up as I write this blog.)

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a foreign car...” Stacy joked, pretending to be having her encounter with “Sam,” and asking for her blinker fluid to be refilled.

When I told my mom the story the next day, she got quite a laugh out of it herself, and the next time Stacy was over at my house, Mom took to calling her “Blinky.” Stacy came to embrace her new nickname, and not only was she able to laugh at herself that night, but has actually re-told this story to others. And I am so grateful that she has, because if we can’t suck up our pride and tell our humiliating stories in the name of comedy, what has this world come to?

Unfortunately, the Samurai was sold shortly after high school, and the Blinkster replaced it with a tan Ford Ranger. Definitely not as fun, but I guess this mini pick-up truck is a slight safety upgrade and is more difficult to…pick up (pun intended). Death box, you will be missed.

*I use the word “friend” only because Johnny would sometimes hang out with the same people that Stacy and I did. But for lack of a better word, this guy was a complete asshole.

General Hospital, but not the TV Show.

My orthopedic surgeon is hot. And I mean really good looking. Like the type of hot doctor that gives hot doctors their good name. Meanwhile, I have been in the hospital for over a week, no shower, and haven’t even seen myself in a mirror this whole time. When I get wheeled into the operating room on the hospital gurney, I look like the nurse has just found me escaping from the nuthouse. In my backless hospital gown, one bandaged foot, the other in an ill-fitting hospital sock, I’m quite a catch. My hair is a kinked, greasy, slept-in mess from not being able to leave my hospital bed, but luckily they give me a lovely blue operating room hair cap to cover it up. But all this embarrassment is simply not enough for me. Oh, no. I always have to take embarrassment to another level.

I have been in the operating room so many times by now, that I think that I am becoming more and more used to the “sleepy medicine” that they give me. With each OR visit, I have been able to stay awake longer and wake up sooner after surgery. I am awake long enough to see them put up the curtain between me and my foot and start messing with my wound, and the second they finish and start to pack up, my eyes pop open. But can you blame me? I’m pretty sure I have said- my surgeon is hot. You would want as much awake time as possible too.

But that is where the problem lies. When one is given intravenous sleepy medicine and attempts to stay awake and chat with the OR personnel, words tend to spill out of one’s mouth that doesn’t always make mush shense…

The third time that I went into the operating room within a week and a half, I told Hot Doc that I was convinced that they turned the OR into a discotheque the second that I fell asleep. Therefore, I was going to try to stay awake as long as I could, to prove my theory. With a laugh, he said “OK” and continued to prep for surgery. After the last of the doctors, residents, nurses, anesthesiologist, and general paparazzi filed into the room, I was starting to get heavy-eyed, yet continued chatting and joking with the staff. One of the cute residents picked up the iPod and asked me, “What do you want to listen to?”

To which I sarcastically, but stoically, replied, “Heavy metal.”

Now, at this point I was talking and making perfect sense in my head, but hours after coming out of my surgery slumber, it wasn’t quite clear to me if I had been talking out loud or simply having a conversation in my head while drifting into a deep sleep. Anyway, the music that was then played sounded as if they had taken my request seriously and were actually playing heavy metal. This is when the curtain went up and my overly sarcastic and drugged up self slurred,

“Sheesh! What if I had requested Justin Bieber?” Unfortunately, this being the last thing that I remember before officially dozing off, I have concluded that it came out more like,

“Shcsh..whmifmysggeshted Justin Bieber?” So now I have to deal with the fact that Hot Doc most likely thinks that I’m into hard core metal and dream of underage Canadian pop stars.

Upon waking immediately after surgery, I remember Hot Doc explaining to me how the surgery went, or professing his love to me, I can’t really remember which, but then I got to stare straight up his nose through my hazy eyes as he and a nurse wheeled me into the recovery room.  During this short trip, Hot Doc and the nurse were discussing the ongoing construction of the addition to the hospital. Never wanting to be left out of a conversation, but not being able to fully articulate my thoughts yet, I had a complete conversation in my head, that made total sense to me (and was hilarious) at the time about children being able to use the construction site and surrounding dirt to play in. All that came out of my mouth however, was, “…sandcastles…”

Right… I am hoping Hot Doc is used to people speaking gibberish after surgery and still wants to marry me. I have a friend who, in attempts to console me, told me that she came out of anesthesia singing “Bicycle Built For Two.” What a weirdo!

Now that I am out of the hospital I have weekly appointments at the orthopedic clinic and I take extra care to make sure I am showered, in full make-up, and looking super adorable to make up for my disheveled time in the infirmary. I am assuming that Hot Doc is waiting until I am no longer a patient of his to propose to me. Or that he is taking his time to make the marriage proposal extra romantic. I will have to tell him later that I am not a fan of surprises, but for now, I’ll wait.