Today I braved the absolute hell that is the mall immediately after the holidays.
Sidenote: Can this leggings trend please go away? I'm jealous of all the cute little skinny, flat-chested whores that get to step out looking like Lohanminal.
I decided that I had worked up a little appetite, so I stopped at Ben and Jerry's for a delicious smoothie. The stand was staffed by a sprite of a man, who turned out to be quite insane.
"Can I help you?"
"Uhh, yeah. Can I get any smoothie I want without the yogurt, just the fruit?"
"Of course. You can get anything you want."
"Ok... Can I get the strawberry lemonade smoothie without yogurt?"
"Sure, you can even punch me in the face, if you want."
Um, what? I paused for just a second to comprehend what the man said, but my bewilderment rapidly evolved into "Don't tempt me, buddy. I was attacked by a coffee mug a couple of days ago, and my lip still has a knot in it. I would love to redirect my pain to your face."
But, I didn't punch him. Instead, I laughed awkwardly and patiently waited for him to concoct my strawberry lemonade smoothie WITH the yogurt that I made such a fuss about NOT wanting. Then, even though he got my order wrong, I tipped him a dollar because he said that the money went directly toward his bus fare.
My post from yesterday was about the fever blister on my face. That's not nearly the problem now. A coffee mug fell out of the cabinet and collided with my face this morning. The picture is what resulted.
So, the 26th year of my life has proven that I'm prone to fever blisters. Never before this age did I suffer from the absolute wrath that is facial herpes. I'm hoping with my upcoming 27th birthday to rid myself of this catastrophe. I'm not trying to advertise my vanity. But it makes me feel horribly ugly.
I woke up with one on Christmas morning. Recently purchased meds have prevented my face from swelling like I just got my ass kicked in a boxing match. However, it still sucks. These suckers usually take a good three weeks to heal. And yes, I am totally whining.
Jables and I have decided to devise a naming system for my current and future outbreaks. Although it's a fun game, I truly hope that the first round of naming is also the last.
We based our system on how hurricanes are named. We will start with the letter A. We will rotate between the female and male sexes. The only stipulation that I added was that the name must be extremely hideous, much like my face.
I knew if I gave the YouTube geeks a little time, I would be able to post this SNL skit on my blog. I have watched this no less than 25 times in the last 24 hours. Hilarious.
Remember when you'd take a piece of chalk and put it inside the chalkboard eraser so when the teacher went to erase the board, he or she would actually write MORE on the board?
You know how it sucks to be a girl? I'm sure you've had these conversations with your favorite female before. We girls have more body parts to shave, Aunt Flo comes to visit us each month, it's typically harder for us to reach the big "O" during s-e-x, and oh yeah, there's the whole having kids thing. To quote Kirstie Alley in Look Who's Talking: "Try squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon."
But I think I've figured out one reason why it's better to be a girl.
If one is really desperate to get drunk, one can always insert an alcohol-soaked treat inside a highly membraned body opening to feel an immediate buzz.
Rosey informed Cheers Heavy and I of the sake enemas offered in Japan. I think those would be rather uncomfortable. However, I've heard that Swedish gals often take advantage of vodka tampons, which are easy to insert and unnoticeable once inside the body. I've never partaken in such a sport; however, I'm glad to know that if I wanted to, it would be virtually painless.
Just thought I'd let you all know that I am officially Ms. Cook. I was hired to teach part-time next semester at the same high school where I've been student teaching. I'll teach Contemporary Lit and World Lit while I finish up my Masters. Hurrah for plum pudding!
And incase you were wondering, the Martina McBride concert was more like a show you'd see in Branson, Missouri. She has a wonderful voice, and I love Christmas tunes. But the cheesiness factor was at an all-time high: lots of jazzy hand gestures, bad skits, and costume changes. I enjoyed myself, mostly because it made my grandma happy. And for a good fifteen minutes, my mom allowed me to poke fun and criticize nearly everything I saw. Eventually she gave me the stank eye, and I shut up. I truly don't mean to sound like the Grinch, but the woman went out and asked random people in the crowd if they preferred ham or turkey on Christmas. Yup.
You wanna know what I am doing tonight? Going to the flipping Martina McBride Christmas concert with my mom and grandma, that's what. I should rephrase. Being forced to go against my will to the fucking Martina McBride Christmas concert with my mom and grandma, that's what.
I just entered my classroom to find the room had turned into a beauty shop. Leah, one of our freshman students, is braiding my cooperating teacher's hair into corn rows. He is a 44-year-old man with a long, nappy, kinky, white ponytail.
There are twelve students in here watching the action. And Leah keeps shouting, "If this ain't the longest hair!"
William Shakespeare once wrote a poem called "The Seven Ages of Man," but I don't think "buying a crock pot" was included as one of the significant steps in life. Jables, however, insists that a real man should be able to concoct a tasty vat of chili before it's all said and done. He received his crock pot as a recent birthday gift, and he's put it to good use. I can almost see the chest hair sprouting.
Last week, he made a spicy batch of Italian beef, and it slow cooked overnight. Since my bedroom is mere steps from the kitchen, the pungent aroma of simmering cow literally showed up in my dreams. My subconscious kept asking, "What the Sam is that smell?"
Today I came home to a completed vat of cheese, beef, salsa, and jalapenos. Jables found the immediate need to shave.
Jables drove Cheers Heavy and I to Chicago yesterday by way of Highway 57 North. I think it's only fitting that as we passed the Champaign exit (we all went to college at the U of I), Matt found my first ever (noticed) grey hair while I was resting contentedly with my head in his lap. Apparently, this rascal was joined by many other hueless comrades.
I will soon be 27. Isn't that the age that all those musicians died? I mean, I don't do massive amounts of heroine or anything, but I'm dangerously close to 30.Shit.
