Monthly Archives: August 2011

“Sometimes I wish I could act like a (12-year-old) boy”

I almost always sleep with my hands down my pants. I have poor circulation, and my clammy hands happen to appreciate the coziness of my pants. I don’t think there’s anything weird or wrong about it. In fact, I think it’s one of my more endearing qualities. (My parents agree! When I was little, they even nicknamed me for it!)

"Al"

My brother-in-law Matt, however, doesn’t find it quite as charming. According to him, it makes me seem manly. I know this because, after catching me napping with my hands down my pants twice last weekend, he said, “You know, you’re basically a man.”

How mean is that?! I’m not a man! I’m a lady! A classy lady! I’m not even the tiniest bit manly! Maybe a little prepubescent boy-ly, but come on! Manly?!

Just joshin’ ya. Matt did say that to me, and I maintain that I’m not manly, but — okay — I’m more than a little prepubescent boyish. I’m at least 75% 12-year-old dude.

Growing up, I always knew I was a tomboy. I was interested in sports…

Basketball can be dangerous

…in video games and male companionship…

I stay scowling with the best of them

…even bowl cuts!

Thanks for the haircut, ma!

I never had a problem with my boyish behavior, although I did think I had grown out of it in my late teens. But, as I found out the other day, dat ain’t true.

Remember my neighbors, Jay and Dee, that I mentioned last week? And the week before? Well, they think I’m friendless, so a few nights ago they took pity on me and invited me over for dinner. Dee’s sister was visiting, they were ordering pizza, and they thought it’d be fun for me to join. I wanted to say no (it was really nice of them, but I’m not real sociable around peeps I dunno), but I got distracted by some dropped strawberries in the road and accidentally accepted the invitation (the strawberries tasted delicious, at least). Before I could try to take it back, Dee told me to come over at 6:30 and ran off.

When I got there at 6:30, though, it was a lot more than Jay and Dee and her sister. There were two of her sisters, her 79-year-old dad, her stepmother, her five teenage nieces and her 12-year-old nephew. I was overwhelmed, but Dee insisted I introduce myself to everybody. Then, of course, she forced me to tell them everything about myself.

“I was born in 1989. 80s were so crazy, man. Um… I just graduated from college. Elbows been hurting lately. They can be real bitches sometime. Like to see?”

Other than when prompted by Dee, I didn’t say a single word. I didn’t even correct her family when they called me the dog’s name. Twice.

Yet I did take a special interest in Dee’s 12-year-old nephew, Alex. Not a creepy interest, weirdo, an oh-boy-I-think-we-could-be-real-good-friends interest.

I thought everything Alex did was either super clever or super hilarious. When he latched the dog leash to a chair, I congratulated him on his ingenuity. As he made jokes about vodka and rolled around on the ground in fresh dog pee, I got straight giggle silly. The adults made me uncomfortable, the teenage girls were unbearably lame (as always), and Alex was… Alex was something special. Alex made dinner worth eating.

Sadly, that’s where my relationship with Alex ends. For some reason, his mom didn’t want him hanging out with a full grown lady who’s always got her hands down her pants.

😦

I’ve got crabs :(

Not lady part lice, you sickos — real crabs. Ocean crabs. The kind you mix with cream cheese and make rangoons out of.

This kind!

Though, to be fair, the ocean crabs I’ve got are probably more like the other kind of crab, considering I keep finding them cozied up in my secret regions and whateva.

My crab friend hanging in his new home, my bathing suit. Actually, my friend’s bathing suit that I forgot to return. Say hello to ya new friend, Katie!

The past couple of times I’ve gotten out of the ocean, I’ve felt a prickling on mah boobs, peeked under my bathing suit top, and found four to five newborn crabs posted up on my lady lumps.

I’ve found bugs, dead fish, and live fish in my bathing suit, but before a week ago, I’d never found crabs. Still, I didn’t think they were that bad. Unwelcome, yes, but innocent enough. They were tiny newborn baby crabs, after all! What harm could they do!?

Turns out, when you’re swimming with your married man neighbor, kind of a lot.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned my super nice neighbor, Jay, and his super nice wife, Dee. Jay and I have recently begun triathlon training together. Most evenings after he gets home from work, I’ll run over to ask Dee if he can come out and play. Then, after she says “Hellz yes,” Jay and I will go off on a bike ride or a swim. I know it might sound weird, but I swear it’s as innocent as the little baby crabs I keep finding in my bathing suit. Innocent, anyway, until I inadvertently flashed him my goodies.

Last night, after we finished our bike ride, Jay and I decided to go down to the beach and get some swimming in. We planned to swim out to one sailboat, over to another, and then back in.

About halfway out to the first sailboat, I felt the familiar prickle around my boobal region and knew I was playing host to some crabby guests. A few strokes later and I felt them around my bootal region. A few strokes after that, and I felt them all over my body. Scared if I kept swimming they’d crawl into my earholies, I stopped. And started flailing and shouting and pulling down my bathing suit all over da damn place.

You’d do the same if a million of these buggers were all up in ya business

Jay, who hadn’t felt any crabs, thought I’d stopped because something really bad had happened. He looked so horrified I was afraid I’d given him a heart attack. Then I looked down, saw my glow-in-the-dark booble, and realized the only thing I was giving him was a show.

I had about 200 tiny crabs crawling in my bathing suit, stuck in my hair, pinching my arms, and creeping into my mouth; I didn’t really care if Jay saw scary parts of my body. In fact, I flailed all the way into shore, half-naked, screaming, and completely shameless.

At least until later that night when Jay’s wife directed an oddly accusatory statement at me. It was about peeling the plastic wrappers off hot dogs.

“You sure you don’t want a hot dog, Allie? Jay’s got a really delicious hot dog for ya. You’ve just got to peel the plastic off it, though. It’s exactly like peeling off a… well, you know what I mean, don’t you? Don’t you, you little asshole?”

I gotta big ego (ha ha ha)

Read this sweet acrostic poem I wrote about myself in 4th grade!

Able to be annoying

Lame, most of the time

Likable once in a while

Inhuman never

Everything is fun unless it isn’t

P.S.  This was the cover to the poetry book I found it in:

I hope you can't make out those speech bubbles

P.P.S.

The speech bubbles read:

1) “Once I had a cat. Pat a tat tat. His name was Mat. Rat a tat tat.

2) “That’s my cat. DRAT!”

3) “Really? Is it still alive? Cause if it is I’ll eat it with a knive!”

The end of an era

I’ve loved Patrick Stump, the former lead singer of Fall Out Boy, since my sophomore year of high school.

I (kinda) met him and fellow Fall Out Boiii Pete Wentz a few years ago, but I had drool all over my shirt and forgot how to speak, so it didn’t go too well.

Last Saturday, thanks to my jarb, I got to meet Patrick for the second time. I shall illustrate the night with a series of pictures.

This is our first picture together:

This is our second picture together, after I decided my right thumb would look more casual hooked in my Mom-butt-shorts pocket:

This is when I told him “I had the biggest celebrity crush on you in high school.” Note the demeaning shoulder grab/undeniable chemistry (I have no idea why I grabbed his shoulder — my mouth was really dry and I could barely breathe and I was about one fart away from a pantsful o’ crap. Plus, I think I wanted to continue touching him forever):

This is when Patrick responded to my love confession with, “Well… thanks! For… working the show.” It’s also when I laughed uncontrollably because if I didn’t, I was going to start vomiting:

This is when he was all like, “Damn dat bitch scary, I’m outtie”:

This is when, after my friend Amanda persuaded me to wait after the show for another picture (even though I already felt like a super freak), I asked Patrick for a hug… and then to hold my hand:


And finally, this is when I tweeted the hand holding picture to @PatrickStump and said “sorry if I made you uncomfortable — it was worth it for this picture, though” and he responded with A DIRECT MESSAGE!

The night’s events confirmed my love for him even more. Yet, since I know there’s no chance I’ll ever come back from “Will you hold my hand?,” I’m giving him up. But hot damn is he talented, nice, modest, funktastic (musically), and just generally perfect.

He does, however, make me look like a gigantor. He also brings out my painful shyness, making me sound like a babblin baby quicker than I’d like to admit.

Let’s hope this is the last one

For the second time in less than 30 days, I went to the walk-in clinic to get my funked up skin checked out. Doctor impostor Lloyd wasn’t there, so I met with Dr. Jerry instead. The visit wasn’t great.

Three things you should know. 1) That face grease is Shea butter 2) That rash is gross 3) That bottom lip is MY TONGUE! GOTCHA!

To begin with, there was a really long wait. When I first saw the packed waiting room, though, I wasn’t upset. I’d brought Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire — my favorite of the series — and I was eager to finish the 100 pages or so I had left. I found a chair in the corner, pulled the book out of my way-too-small purse, and got to reading.

Well, I don’t want to ruin it if you haven’t read/watched the 4th Harry Potter, so I’ll just say that the ending’s sad. Really sad.

Sad enough that, even though it’s probably my 5th time reading it, I started bawling like a baby. (Amos running to his son’s body gets me every time. You a monster if you can’t say the same!)

Silently crying in a crowded waiting room while reading a children’s book is kind of uncomfortable, but at least Dr. Jerry called me into his office right when the tears were streaming hardest!

Dr. Jerry: What we have here?

Me: Bumps and tha bidnass. I think the elbows and big toes have granuloma annulare. And my hands — maybe dyshidrotic eczema? I’m a bit of a WebMD whiz, nah mean?

DJ: No.

Me: Yeah, yeah didn’t think so. Celiac disease?

DJ: Have any stomach pain? Diarrhea? Weight loss?

Me: I fart a lot. Shart, occasionally.

DJ: Happens.

Me: Mmm. Leprosy?

DJ: Oh my. Please shut your mouth. Use steroid cream, see a dermatologist if it doesn’t get better. But never come back here because I HATE YOU. LOL though.

Me: Right you are.

Dr. Jerry was right, kind of. But so was I!

The steroid cream helped a little bit, but not enough that I didn’t still need to see a dermatologist. I went to see Dr. Dermatologist a few days later; she took one look at my funk, told me I did in fact have granuloma annulare and dyshidrotic eczema, and suggested I keep using the steroid cream. Then she told me my elbows and toes looked really muscular. And then she told me my teary eyes made me look like an asshole.

The beginning of the 5th Harry Potter book is also really sad, okay?

How to become a lifeguard

Like most people, I go through bouts of super productivity (working, cleaning, exercising) and bouts of super laziness (watching MTV Jams, sleeping, not addressing the sand fleas living in my body). I’ve spent most of the past few years in the latter category, but the other day I ate some high fiber pancakes and decided I was ready to make the switch. It’s finally time to flip modes.

To start off this new era, I set some goals for myself. The first is to become a mascot, and the second is to compete in a triathlon (a short triathlon, I ain’t tryna be one of those pants shizzers).

Since I’ve completed number one…

SEE?

…I’m now focusing all my energy on number two (like I do). It’s time for me to become a triathlete.

I’m already in the process of becoming one, actually. I’ve started swimming and everything!

In fact, the other day as I walked to the beach for a quick swim, my neighbor/fellow triathlete stopped me to ask how my training was going. He and his wife are the most positive people I’ve ever met (I’d accuse them of being on E but the one time I asked them for some they played dumb) so when I told him the distances I’d been doing he was really encouraging. After hearing I’d swam an incredible eight laps, his mouth dropped open, he crapped his pants, and gasped, “You a swimmer!”

Ironically enough, just a few years ago a swim instructor told me the exact opposite. That time, though, it was in the middle of a lifeguard certification course.

Sophomore year of high school, I decided to become a lifeguard. I had no idea where I’d work, but it sounded like a glamorous job and I figured I could pull in 20 thou. a summer, easy. I asked my mom to sign me up for a Saturday certification course at YMCA. She did, and within a few weeks I was parking my car at the Biddeford Y, ready to get my lifeguard on.

I checked in at the front desk and a frizzy haired lady gave me the once over, made me wait ten minutes, and then finally showed me to the locker room. There, after tugging off my clothes and on a striped Target bikini, I headed to the pool where my new Baywatch life awaited me.

Apparently it had been awaiting me for a while. When I burst through the locker room doors and into the pool area, I saw all the other lifeguard hopefuls already sitting on the bleachers, wearing their goggles and swimming caps and one-piece Speedos, listening to the certification coordinator.

And there was me — the late girl, the giant barefoot girl in a striped bikini with not so much as a pair of goggles to keep back her untethered Jesus ‘doo.

After mumbling an apology, the course began. The first test was lap swimming. We had to find a partner to count our laps. All the other kids, who’d been taking swimming lessons for the past few months (I know because I’m a good eavesdropper), paired off with their friends. Having no friends, I timidly asked some redhead  if she’d help a sister out. Her body was telling her no, but her miiind, her miiiiiind was telling her yeee-uuss. She shot me an “I hate you” face, sucked her teeth, spit in my eye, and said, “Sho.”

I totally understand her reluctance. For one, I looked like an idiot. For another, I didn’t even know how to count laps. Most of my swimming experience had been battling waves on a boogey board, not swimming laps in a GD pool. Was I supposed to count each time she got to one end, or just when she went down and back? I didn’t, and still don’t, know the answer to that question. I just didn’t count her laps. She was not thrilled.

Redhead: What am I at?

Allie: Uh… The Y? Go girl! BRB!

After 20 minutes or so, my turn came around. I swam ten minutes without interruption before the instructor yelled at me to tie back my hair. A few more minutes passed before the cramps set in and the doggy paddle took over. Soon after that, the instructor got my attention and beckoned me out of the pool.

I got out but first had to wait for her to finish her conversation with some boy. This kid, dressed in a ridiculous pair of beach trunks, had been struggling with his laps like some poor Joe straight off Old Orchard Beach. She must be telling him to give up, thought I. What a loser, double loser, click to go together, whatever, moron, as. If.

My suspicions were confirmed when he headed for the locker room door with a defeated look upon his bathing cap-less headface. He just didn’t know what to expect — I didn’t fault him for trying but I couldn’t help but chuckle at his embarrassing attempt. I had time to think “Better luck next time, homie,” before it was my turn with the instructor lady.

I didn’t really want to be a lifeguard, anyway.