One baby, one dog, and one horse

16 Apr

Up until last month, I’d rescued one baby, one dog, and one horse.

The Baby

I know Steve Buscemi isn’t British, but he looks like he maybe could be.

The baby I rescued a few summers ago when I was out for a run. The baby’s British mother was pushing him in a stroller, about to descend a hill, when a large turtle crawling in the weeds next to the sidewalk caught her attention. She stopped to admire it and, when she saw me about to jog by, called me over to join in on the admiration.

“That’s one right good lookin’ turtle, in’t, luv!? Come ‘ave a look at this turtle wiv me!”

I didn’t want to stop, because I was still kinda pissed at her over all that Revolutionary War/William and Kate wedding coverage stuff, but the turtle really was big as eff and deserved a moment’s acknowledgement.

I stopped to check it out. And to keep it one hundred, it was pretty fly. But just as I was about to (reluctantly) give her props for inviting me over, she let go of the baby’s stroller and squatted down, her hand outstretched to the turtle, a blade of grass between her fingers. She was calling to the turtle, trying to entice it to come over for a belly rub or something. Missus was too wrapped up in the turtle baiting to notice that her baby’s stroller was starting to slowly roll down the top of the hill.

I put my hand out and grabbed the stroller… that was it. I didn’t have to chase it or anything. Still, I rescued a baby. A British baby! I let go of old grudges and rescued a British baby.

The Dog

Napoleon complex in the flesh.

Chico the mini schnauzer

The dog I rescued was a young brindle pit bull that attacked me when I was out walking Dizzy one morning. She didn’t really attack—she just ran up to us and started freaking out, jumping on me and trying to get Dizzy to play. I love Dizzy, but he’s a scaredy cat bitchass, and so he started yelping and crying and I had to pick him up, even though the pit bull wasn’t being mean at all. She was just playful and wild as shit.

We were on a super busy street, I was carrying Dizzy in my arms, and the pit bull was jumping on me, sprinting out into the road, and coming back to jump on me again. She chased us for maybe an eighth of a mile until we got back to my house. As soon as I opened the front door, she sneaked through and started running wild in the house. Our other dog, a mini schnauzer with a Napoleon complex and a stankin attitude toward spayed females, immediately started lunging and snapping at her. The pit bull’s snapping back, Dizzy’s running around yelping, my dad’s screaming to get the pit bull outside, and my mom’s trying to find an old collar that’ll fit the pit bull’s neck. Everyone’s in an uproar and the entire house reeks of buttstink and adrenaline.

Finally my mom found a collar big enough, and I leashed stranger dog up and took her outside. I walked her down to the house on the corner, where I thought I’d seen her tied up outside before. That was her home, and apparently she had slipped her collar.

The Horse


Just a pretty horse (via

The horse I rescued my junior year of high school. My friend Lacey and I were driving around in her car to kill time before basketball practice, when a big brown muscly stallion shot out of the woods and in front of the car. Lacey, without a second’s thought, gave chase.

We followed him for a few miles and eventually herded him back to his own barn. There, the horse’s toothless owner garbled something completely unintelligible, but what I imagine was something like, “Thank you, heavenly angel ladygirls, for returning my little pony boy.”

Last Month

I have a decent rescue track record. Remember the baby, the dog, and the horse? So, a few weeks ago when my friend Sarah and I drove past a border collie running loose in the streets, I was down for a rescue mission. At first we saw an old scraggled mofo with a leash looking like he was walking with the dog. But when we drove past a second time and the dog nearly ran straight out and under Sarah’s car, we decided we better stop and try to help.

I got out while Sarah went to park. The second I stepped out of the car, Old Scraggly Ass handed me the leash and said, “Her name’s Riley. Will you catch her? She doesn’t have rabies or Bordetella or nothing. She don’t bite.”

I ran over to an empty parking lot and starting calling Riley’s name. While standing there, holding a leash and calling for a dog I didn’t know, I began to ask myself a few questions.

Why dafuq did Scraggle Ass Snaggle Tooth need to mention that Riley is disease-free? Is this his dog? Why is he not catching his dog? Why does a stranger need me to catch his dog?

I decided these were pretty good questions that deserved an audience bigger than just me.

Me: Excuse me, stranger/monster man. Is this your dog?

Scraggle: …Yes.

Me: Why ain’t you catching your own dog?

Scraggle: She’s… a border collie! (He holds up his hands). Border collies are… (He waves his hands around.) You know!

Within a minute or two Riley ran over to me, Scraggle yelled out for me to grab her, and I did. Then he came over to take the leash from me and the dog cowered away from him, clearly not wanting to return.

Scraggle: Thank you! She just wants to play, that all. Hey, do you… do you live in town? You down to chill?

Me: Hell no, on both accounts.

Scraggle: Oh. Oh okay. Hey, about that down-to-chill part–can I… Can I buy you lunch?

Me: Hell no, again. You’re scaring me, mister. Plus it’s 3pm and I already had lunch. Shit. You got cookies or something?

He didn’t, so I got back into Sarah’s car and we left.

Now, I can say I’ve saved one baby, two dogs, a horse, and myself because that dude was definitely a serial killer.


Author’s note: I wasn’t sure how to end this post.


Breaking and entering

24 Mar

I took Dizzy and his favorite lady friend, Mazie, for a walk a few weekends ago. We had spent the night before at Mazie’s house, and since her parents and uncle (Tyler and Katie and her brother) were skiing in the morning, I said I’d take Mazie out before I left for home.

“Mazie’s parents,” I said to Tyler and Katie. “You’ll be gone by the time we get back. Don’t lock that goddamn front door of yours.”

And with that, Mazie, Dizzy, and I set off for our walk. I went with nary more than a pair of sunglasses, mittens, and a jacket with limited pockets. I didn’t have my cell phone or car keys or nuttin, Jesus. (Remember, my jackets didn’t have many pockets.)

We three walkers did a quick loop around the neighborhood and then set off for the dog park a mile and a half away. Once we got there, Mazie romped with a sheep dog and Dizzy befriended a fat sausage-looking-ass beagle who was covered in frozen poo. We stayed for maybe 20 minutes before leaving to go back to Mazie’s crib.

"Condoms are high in nutrients and help promote ear growth."

“Used condoms found on city streets are high in nutrients and help promote ear growth.” -Dizzy, age 11 mo.

The walk back was stressful. Leashes kept getting tangled, jeans kept rubbing on my love handles, and used condoms kept getting found and eaten by Dizzy. By the time we got back to Mazie’s house, the dogs were thirsty, my backmeat was chaffed, and we were all frozed and ready to get inside. But when I went to open the door, I found that THE DOGGAMN FRONT DOOR WAS LOCKED.

It’s important to note that earlier that same morning I had taken Dizzy outside for a 6am whiz and locked myself out. I had to poop in the baddest way and very nearly shat my own pants looking for an alternate entry into the house. I resorted to knocking on Katie and Tyler’s bedroom window until they woke up and let me in. The second time around, of course, they was gone and I didn’t have that option.

Instead, I put the dogs into the fenced-in yard and started casing the house for easily openable windows. Every window I checked was high up, new, and securely locked.

Do you recall how I didn’t have any car keys or cell phones on me? Because of my lack of jacket pockets? Well, because of that I had no where to go and nothing to call anyone with. I remember saying the F word to myself many times before stopping and thinking, “Hey, come on now! Logic! Use logic and figure this out, baby G.”

My way of figuring it out was to enlist the help of the first person I saw walking down Katie and Tyler’s street. It turned out to be a skinny man and his bull mastiff. I scrambled up a snowbank to shout to him.

“Excuse me, sir!” I shouted from that snowbank I had just scrambled up. “How would you like to help me break into this home?”

Though the explanation I gave him for being locked out was shaky at best, dude was more than willing to do some breaking and entering. He told me his name was Ryan, and we got to popping.

Ryan spent several minutes attempting to use a credit card to unlock first the front door and then the back door. Neither gave, so we took a stroll around the house to look for unlocked windows. And bless my lucky stars, Katie and Tyler’s bedroom window happened to be unlocked!

Unfortunately, the window only opened to about a foot wide, give or take. It was also rather high off the ground. Ryan, the down dude that he was, agreed to give me a boost up. I took off my coat because: 1) Its lack of pockets was really bumming me out and I needed some space from it, and 2) I knew it was finna be a tight squeeze for lil mama (me) and I needed the least amount of bulk as possible.

It was a very tight squeeze.

Luckily, Ryan was happy to help shove me through. Despite everything I had going against me — namely, ungainliness and many well-fed body parts — I eventually thrashed and crashed my way inside and onto Katie and Tyler’s bed.

Feeling triumphant, I asked Ryan if he’d like to say goodbye through the window, or if he wanted to meet out on the front steps for a more formal adieu bidding. I guess, after everything we went through, I thought he’d want to take a moment to celebrate our accomplishments together. He opted for the former – a rushed goodbye through the window – and I haven’t seen him since.

Anyway, that’s the story of how I taught a neighbor how to break into my friends’ home. Here’s a link to a photo of a jacket. It’s not my jacket — you can tell by the deep pockets. It was taken by Jen Dessinger, an excellent photographer whose website once got effed up a little bit because of this blog of mine.


Can a fallopian tube ever bust or break?

14 Feb

After my oldest sister’s first year of college, she substitute taught at an elementary school. One of the classrooms she subbed for was a fifth grade sex education class.

On the teacher’s desk was a box for anonymous sex ed. questions. My sister, wisely, read and recorded all of the questions in the box, spelling errors and all. She recently found them. In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to do my best to answer these fifth graders’ questions.

Could sperms effect your life?
Yes. If you’re a girl, then sperms could affect your life by making you grow a child inside your womby womb. If you’re the boy who owns the sperm, then you’re responsible for half of the developing child. Don’t mess around with sperms. They love affecting lives. Seriously, they’ll affect the crap out of your life if you give them the chance.

Check out Teen Mom on MTV for more information on this subject. In particular, pay attention to Jenelle. She sucks so bad.

Why do guys have niples?
I had to Google this one. Imagine this: You’re a lady, sperm just affected your life, and you now have ANOTHER HUMAN BEING GROWING INSIDE OF YOU. If that person growing inside of you turns out to be a girl, she’ll have nipples so that one day when sperm affects her life, she can feed her babies. On the other hand, if that person is a boy, he’ll have nipples because he would have really needed them if he’d turned out to be a girl. And he had a 50% chance of becoming a girl, so, do the math on that one.

You can read more about it here.

I thought that the testicles were inside of the body, what’s the purpose of an erection?
I also thought that the testicles were inside of the body, so now I’m not so sure what the heck erections are for. Shoot.

How does sperm get into a woman?
Oh, right! That’s what they’re for (re: purpose of erections).

When boys and girls have done everything in puberty have they finished (puberty)?
Yes, of course they have. When you’ve done everything in puberty, what else would be left to do? Stupid question.

What is the most important in the “penis” sort of area?
Excellent question! It depends on what you consider the “penis” sort of area. Do you think the butt is in this area? If so, then the butt is probably the most important. Your need your butt to dispose of your poop. If you couldn’t get rid of that, do you know how uncomfortable you’d be? You’d have an entire lifetime’s worth of poop inside of you at all times. The butt is the most important, definitely.

Where are girls supposed to shave?
Start with your armpits. After that, your legs and then (if you ever want rappers to have anything to do with you), your “bikini” sort of area. Depending on how hairy you are, you might have to shave your happy trail, niples, mustache, etc. Some ladies shave their arms, even! Remember, no one wants to know that girls grow hair anywhere other than their heads/eyebrows/eyelids. It is on your (cleanly shaven) shoulders to maintain this illusion.

Quick tip: When you shave in the shower, always make sure the tub drains fully before you get out. Otherwise, your sister will have a very unpleasant experience when it’s her kids’ bath time.

Do girls get acmey as bad as boys? How bad do boys get it?
It’s a well-known fact that girls do not get acmey. Sadly, boys get it pretty bad. That’s why boys can grow thick beards and most girls can’t muster more than a wispy mustache. It’s because Mother Nature knows that girls don’t have to cover any acmey.

Why do they have so many openings? (girls)
This is the question of the century. It’s like, dang, can’t girls use openings for more than one freaking thing? But, no, they cannot. One bodily fluid per opening, please. Since girls are the ones who carry the babies, they need all types of openings. You know, for the baby, and for the babies’ milk – all that kind of stuff. It’s ridiculous. Such a waste of resources. We need to talk to somebody about this. It’s time for consolidation.

Can a fallopian tube ever bust or break?
Good lord! What is wrong with you? Why would this ever even cross your mind? Now you’ve got me all freaked out. I don’t know if a fallopian tube can bust or break, but that’s all I’m ever going to be able to think about from now on. Thanks for the lifelong fear of blowing out a fallopian, sociopath.

Tuna fish in the morning

21 Jan

I never know what to write about any more. Fortunately, WordPress posts daily and weekly writing prompts on their blog, the Daily Post. I’m going to start taking their advice cause I ain’t know what else to do.

This week’s prompt is: Lunch.

My work gives me nearly two weeks off for Christmas and New Year’s. We leave the office halfway into Christmas Eve and come back on January 2. (Maybe that’s not almost two weeks, I don’t know. I’m not really in the mood to count right now — but if you are, go for it!)

When I got back into the office on the morning of January 2 last year, my day started off poorly. For one, I was wearing a sweater and BOY do I hate sweaters. I know they look nice and they’re warm in the winter, but don’t tell me they don’t suck. They’re so itchy and staticky and if you launder them they turn into belly sweaters and if you don’t launder them, you smell like hot, terrible armpits.

This tiny piece of shit sweater is a medium from the GAP.

Surprise! This infant’s sweater is, in fact, an adult medium from GAP.

In high school I had a couple of Ralph Lauren sweaters. After months of wearing them without washing, my mom got sick of me smelling like sautéed onions and brought them to the dry cleaner. The day she brought the sweaters home, our old dog/my girl, Halle, pooped out her intestines.

Actually, it just looked like she pooped out her intestines, because she took a poop and something long and organ-like stayed hanging from her b-hole. I brought her in the house and was like, “Mom, I think Halle’s poop organs are loose.” My mom was like, “Yes, it appears so.” She grabbed a paper towel and took hold of Halle’s poop organs and started pulling. The organs stretched out to about three feet before they snapped out from her bootyhole and sprayed poop all over the kitchen. They turned out to be pantyhose, not organs (thankfully), and they got poop on my freshly clean sweaters. And you know what I thought? That’s what you get for wearing Ralph Lauren sweaters, you asshole.

I wore a sweater on January 2, 2013, because I’d been given it for Christmas and I thought it was nice looking. Plus, the zipper on my pants was broken and the sweater covered it up. Of course, within minutes of arriving to my office and settling in in front of the computer, I was itchy, oniony, and pissed that I was wearing an effing sweater. I was also hot and, as a result, thirsty. I reached into my bag for my darling Nalgene water bottle and learned that I had forgotten it at home.

I call my water bottle my Nalliegene, a clever little portmanteau pun of Nalgene and Allie. I once made a “Nalliegene” label with a label maker and put it on my water bottle. Then I took it off, because I take Nalliegene with me everywhere and I didn’t want to share our secret with the world. (So, please forget I ever mentioned Nalliegene.)

Me with my number one

Me and my down ass bitch

Sweatered and thirsty or not, I was at work and still had a duty to perform. I logged into my company’s Twitter account, which I’m responsible for, and got ready to do some hashtagging.

Did you know my niece, Heidi, has magic baby fingers? She steals cell phones, swipes around on the screen, and does things with iPhones I didn’t even know could be done. Turns out that when I saw her over Christmas, Heidi used her magic fingers for accidental baby evil.

I’m always logged into two Twitter accounts on my phone – my own account, and my work’s account. My account is the primary one, but work’s is only a few swipes away. At the time I also had an app on my phone called Cinemagram, which is an app that lets you post looping videos. Heidi somehow managed to post my own, personal video from Cinemagram to the Twitter account of the Catholic college that employs me. It was a looping video of me doing a cartwheel, filmed by my father. You could see my underpants a little bit. The video had been up on Twitter for days.

It was probably about 9am when I made the Twitter discovery. I immediately deleted the tweet and then went through the rest of the timeline, making sure Heidi hadn’t posted anything else. I noticed that I couldn’t really understand any of the words on my computer screen. I thought I was just dizzy from all the inappropriate tweeting and dehydration and sweaters, so I took a quick break and ate the tuna fish sandwich I’d brought for lunch.

By the time I finished my sandwich, it must have been 9:10am. I figured I was calm enough to resume computing, but when I looked at the screen, I still couldn’t make anything out. Do you remember seeing words before you learned how to read? That’s what this felt like, but it was horrifying because I knew I had a good two decades of literacy under my belt.

It looked like there was a zigzag line cutting through my left eye. Out of nowhere, I thought, There’s no way I would recognize Janet Jackson if I saw her right now. And then I knew. I struggled through a text to my mom telling her my symptoms and she confirmed my fears. I had my first migraine.

I tried for maybe ten more minutes to do my job, but it’s impossible to answer emails when you’ve lost the ability to read or type. I told my boss my problem and asked if it was all right if I went home. He asked if I was OK to drive, I said probably because my head didn’t hurt very badly yet and I could make out large shapes just fine. He told me to leave and I did.

My commute is 20 miles and takes half an hour. On the drive home, I started feeling really nauseated. Real bad nauseated. Nasty ass nauseated. Fifteen minutes into my drive I began actively telling myself, “You will not throw up, you will not throw up.”

I threw up. *kanye shrug*

I was five minutes from home when I had to pull over and throw up the tuna fish sandwich I’d had for lunch. Then, when I got home, I spent the remainder of the day throwing up tuna fish and dark green liver fluid (“bile”). Turns out my migraines are much more stomach achy than they are headachy. Who would have known!

Moral of the story: It’s OK to eat lunch before 10am. Just make sure if you’re going to do it, don’t make it tuna fish, and don’t get a migraine. And for the love of god don’t wear a sweater.

Working on my fitness

26 Sep

“Hi, excuse me. Are you Theresa?”

“I am!”

“Hi, I’m Allie. You the instructor, right?”

“Yes! Nice to meet you. Is this your first time doing Pilates?”

“I tried Yogalates once. It was hard! I’m super inflexible, it’s a problem.”

“That’s OK! This class will be more about our core, anyway, but just go at your own pace with the stretches. That’s why we’re here – to get better.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I swear, Theresa, this class had me trippin. Thought you was gonna be all up in my jock, mad cause I couldn’t stretch it out.”

I had this conversation Monday afternoon, 15 minutes before my first Pilates class. I had gone early to meet with the instructor and tell her about my disflexability. Theresa had made me feel better; she knew I was stiff, and she was willing to roll widdit.

By the time the rest of the class had showed up and we got started, I was feeling good. Though I knew it’d hurt, I also knew it was good for me. The first move Theresa had us do was a warm-up stretch. She had us sit with our legs sticking straight out and our backs perfectly erect. Then we had to reach our arms out and lean forward, making sure our backs and legs stayed straight. Everyone in the class seemed to be handling the position just fine.

I was dying.

I am the stiffest person I know. When I tell people I can’t bend over and touch my toes, they say, “It’s just because you have long legs.” No it ain’t, mofo.

Just because I’m tall doesn’t mean I have long legs. I actually have disproportionately short legs. I’m approximately one-half torso, one-quarter neck, and only one-quarter legs. If anything, my goonly torso should make it easier to touch my toes. It don’t.


Twenty-fo, thirty-six, twenty-fo

So, while I struggled with the simple warm-up stretch during Pilates class, I noticed that good, sweet Theresa kept on looking in my direction. I thought she would offer encouragement secretly directed toward me. Instead, trick started laughing.

“This isn’t supposed to be the hard part, Allie! Everyone, look. Look how dumb Allie is. That girl right there, with the red shirt and goonly torso. Look!”

And that’s exactly what everyone did. They looked at how dumb I was, and they all started laughing.

Fitness classes generally go this way for me. In college, I tried out Butts and Guts and Yogalates. I had to stop going because the instructor got too pissed at me. Every time I tried a move and messed up the form, the instructor would come over, yell at me, and yank my limbs into the right position.

Last winter I signed up for a 30-day trial at a bikram yoga place in Portland. Bikram yoga is 90 minutes of yoga poses in a 105-degree room. Imagine contorting your body in painful ways for 90 minutes, while breathing in hot, butt-flavored jungle air. That’s bikram yoga.

Surprisingly, it’s not that awful. I mean, it’s the worst thing in the world, but after it’s done you feel like you just did something good for yourself. You feel like Bill Murray at the end of Osmosis Jones. You know, right when he’s about to die and his daughter cries into his mouth and Osmosis Jones the white blood cell gets swept away in her tears and he carries the hypothalamus chromosome back to Bill Murray’s hypothalamus and saves his life.

That’s what bikram yoga feels like. Like all the sweat you just sweated saved your hypothalamus. Probably Bill Murray’s hypothalamus, too. I like that feeling.

What I don’t like is when yoga instructors step all over my bidnass. And by my bidnass, I mean me. I don’t like it when yoga instructors step all over me during the middle of class. They seem to do it a lot.

During my 30-day trial at the bikram place, I only saw one other yoga-goer get treaded upon, and only one time, but I got stepped during almost every class. The instructors would walk right over to me and start dancing jigs on my feet and legs. I’ve done some Googling on the matter, and I haven’t found any explanation for it. Alls I know is that fitness classes ain’t for me. It’s sad, really, considering my aspirations as a child.

(Warning: Actually, this is actually the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever shared on this blog. Who would’ve known that whoa-ing lessons could be so mortifying?)

In case you don’t have Shazam, the song I’m singing during the dance routine is Lil Kim’s “The Jump Off.”

Let me upgrade you

16 Sep

A few weeks ago my brother-in-law, Matt, sent me a link to It’s a blog written by a “freaky financial magician who retired along with a lovely wife at ago 30.”

In his “Start here” post, Mr. Money Mustache (MMM) says if you can save 50-75% of your paychecks, then you’ll be able to retire real quick. The best way to cut costs, says he, is by not buying crap. Luxury and pampering, says he again, is for pansy ass bitches who drive when alls they really need is a bikecycle and some facial hair.

Well, I’ve got me a tricked-out bikecycle, a few black hag hairs on my chin/neck/upper lip, and I’ve read about six of the posts. Plus, I saved 37% of my last paycheck — nearly 50 whole dollars! I figure I’m five years or less from retiring.

And, although I’m looking forward to my retirement, I’m not looking forward to giving up crap. I like crap. You should see the crap I’ve collected over the years! Mini skateboards! Snorkels! Studded boots! Bachelor’s degrees!

Beyond saving money, MMM teaches his readers how to solve problems. I’m proud to say that I’ve figured out a way to save money and keep my crap. You get other people to buy your crap. All it takes is:

Caring friends and family. These are the people who will buy you things.*

A healthy dose of not-giving-a-shiz. By not giving a shiz, you’re committing yourself to dressing poorly and being dirty. Then, the people who care about you will feel bad and/or be embarrassed to know you, and they’ll buy you things to make you less smelly/filthy/rat-like.

There is, however, a fine line between the salvageable and the hopeless, and you’ve got to walk it carefully. If you ever become hopelessly careless, people will give up on you and leave you to your armpit stains and dirt feet. For instance, I have an uncle who keeps a skunk for a pet. The skunk’s name is Francis, and he lives under my uncle’s front porch and eats his leftovers. The same uncle wears hats found on the side of the road and decorates them with feathers and Dunkin’ Donut straws. His name is Uncle Jellyfish.

Uncle Jellyfish don’t care, and nobody tryna make him.

How to barely care just enough:

  • Let your butt crack run wild. Have at least one to two inches of butt crack exposed at all times. If you’re in a setting where you can’t crack your crack, like school or work, wear very high underpants and bend over a lot. Exposed underpants is only one step up from butt cracking.
  • Keep your pits stanky fresh. If you’re lucky like me, then your pits stay ripe all the damn day long, deodorant or not. If deodorant actually works for you, then you’ll have to give it up. Work hard to leave yellow stains in your clothes. Go a week or two without shaving. Flail your arms. Dance like Tiffany. 
  • Wear your parents’ old clothes. Go through the old bureaus in your house. Dig through them until you find your parents’ old T-shirts. When you find them, try them on to make sure they’re baggy and have bleach stains and mouse holes.
  • Walk hard. Actually, no. Don’t walk hard. Stomp hard. Stomp like a mothereffer.

And there you go. That’s all it takes.

Case study:

Since age 11, my butt crack has never not been showing and my pits have never not been sweating.

Two of my four favorite T-shirts are my mom’s from the ‘70s. My other two favorites are my dad’s from the same decade. I’ve worn them to Fourth of July parties, Thanksgiving, Christmas, dates, and dinners with long lost friends. I would have worn them to Disney World, too, except the one time I tried my sister yelled at me.

I also stomp hard. I don’t do it on purpose, I’m just enormous and extremely sensitive to gravity. I also have Haglund’s deformity, which means I have cowboy spurs built into my heel bones. Shoes hurt, so I often have to walk funny to compensate for the pain. As a result, I go through shoes quickly.

Pedicurists love me
Pedicurists love me

What’s so special about that? You see butt cracks, stinkpits, old T-shirts, and busted shoes everyday. However, when you combine them together and throw in a pinch of family love, what was everyday becomes eXtRaOrDiNaRy.

Other than my dad, no one in my family can look at me without making a comment about how poorly dressed and/or smelly I am. Take, for instance, these comments made by my mom. The first is from October 8, 2012, the second from September 11, 2013.

And you know what my mom did after she made those comments?

She also offers me her iPhones.

She offered me her phone, too. I ain’t ask for it.

Every pair of shoes I own were given to me from people who pitied my footwear. Same thang goes for my work clothes.

I get upgraded.

(Those hoop earrings are bracelets taped to my ears.)


*If you don’t have caring friends and family, then I’m sorry. That’s sad and you deserve them.** Maybe I can be a caring friend. I can’t buy you things, because I’m trying to retire, but we can go for bike rides and talk over free coffee and tic tac containers of toenails.

**I don’t actually know if you deserve them or not, I’m just assuming that you do. If you’re evil and mean, then you don’t deserve them. No wonder you don’t have caring friends or family! Quit being so terrible!

What that smell like?

2 Jul

I locked my keys in my car for the first time last week. I got my Vibe gently used from Enterprise the car renters back in oh-five. When they handed over the first set of keys I snatched em from them real quick — never even bothered to ask for a second set. Never bothered to make a second set neither. Dat’s a mistake. 

Last week when I realized I locked my keys in my car I called AAA. Within 25 minutes a teeny tiny triple-A-battery of a man had popped lock n dropped it (the car key) into my hand. Dude shoved a little wedge in the door crack, stuck a rubber pouch in the resulting gap, pumped it up, snaked a hella long rubber coated metal stick in the new, bigger gap, and unlocked my car. I was impressed and would’ve tipped him but 1) I ain’t had no money; 2) I was still bitter about the time one of his AAA colleagues guilted me into tipping him.

A year and a half ago

I went out in Portland. I spent the night dranking dranks, spit drooling, walking down cobblestone streets while rapping Snoop Dogg songs with a truck driving stranger, and eating chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. Needless to say, I did not spend the night driving myself home. Instead, I changed into a T-shirt I had in my car and spent the night in the guestroom at my friends’, Katie and Tyler’s, crib.

Even though I’ve been friends with Katie since college orientation and I once saw Tyler naked, I’m uncomfortable about being awake in their house while they’re still asleep.

Every time I sleep over their house I wake up at 5:30, poop a couple of times, mooch some gummy bear vitamins, clean their sink, write a stupid note on a piece of cardboard, and steal one of their books. On this particular morning I stole Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I read it until about 8:00 am, at which point I decided I’d hung out alone in their house long enough. I left.

On the ride home I got a flat tire. I thought “Oooh, today ain’t yo day,” pulled over, and dialed up AAA. They told me they’d be there within half an hour, but to keep my phone on in case they needed directions. My phone had less than 10% battery life and, having never learned my lesson about keeping a car charger, I had to save its life by not using it. Instead, I whipped out Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and got to reading.

I learned incredibly quickly that this book was about extremely sad things. Namely 9/11, World War II bombings, and lost loved ones. It had me tearing up in no time.

Coincidentally I was also tearing it up — “it” being my car seats. My farts were straight storming. Come to think of it, I don’t know if my eyes were watering because the book was sad or my car was just so stanked up. Either way, when the big, black, muscley AAA man arrived, he was welcomed by a very emotional girl in a very smelly car.

He looked surprised that I was reading a book. I was like, “Bitch you ain’t no nerd? I coulda sworn you was.” He told me he wasn’t, and that he mostly only liked fixing flat tires and shopping. Then he got to work.

When he opened the trunk to get out the donut tire, I could tell by the face he made that he was thinking “WHAT THAT SMELL LIKE?”

Ten minutes later, after he’d finished replacing the flat, I could tell he was still thinking “WHAT THAT SMELL LIKE?”

Self conscious from all his questioning, I looked down. Suddenly everything made sense. He wanted to know what that smell like because the black T-shirt I was wearing — the one I’d drunkenly pulled out of my car and slept in the night before — had “WHAT THAT SMELL LIKE?” written in huge white letters.

Having this photo taken was embarrassing

I had to ask my dad to take this picture. It was embarrassing.

I gave the dude $10 –  five for the farts, five for the decency of not answering what that smelled like.


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