Monthly Archives: November 2011

The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens

Growing up, Thanksgiving was always a pretty normal holiday at my fambly’s household. Pies would bake, dinner rolls would burn, my dad would spill boiling turkey juice on his bare feet, and I, despite having never gone to a single church service in my life, would force my family to bow their heads in silence as I led a weirdo prayer about God and arrowheads. Nothing too notetwerthy.

In fact, my most memorable Thanksgiving didn’t even happen on Thanksgiving. It happened a few days later, on what I call “The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens.”

The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens

In 2008, my cousins Ira and Holly hosted Thanksgiving, and they did a right fine jarb. There were all the makings of a good Thanksgiving: family, babies, turkey, and sturdy crackers. We talked and played and laughed and did all the things you’re supposed to do on a national holiday. It was fun! Everything was great!

And the greatness continued the next day. My cousin Petey and I woke up early Friday morning for our first ski trip of the season. We left the house around 6 a.m. and drove the two hours to Sunday River. We suited up in our suits, chairlifted up the mountain, and skied down one trail. Then we smiled and high-fived each other and clapped. Then we packed up and drove the two hours back home.

Thang was, I wasn’t feeling so hot.

Actually, I felt the opposite of so hot; I felt craptastic. Craptastic enough that on the drive home, we had to pull over at a gas station so I could run in and break my 10-year puke-free streak. You know what’s unfun? Throwing up in a public bathroom. You know that’s especially unfun? Destroying the one thing you’re proud of, like a 10-year no-vomit record.

Shaking his fist at me n mah stank smells

When we finally got back to my house, after a ride of rolled down windows (by that I mean I farted a whole lot), I learned my mom and sister were sick, too. Apparently, we’d all caught the same bug our baby cousins had had a few days earlier. It sucked, but after a day of rest, a few bowls of chicken noodle soup, and some soda on the side, I was fine. Fine, at least, until the Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens, which happened after I’d returned to college.

Since the day I threw up in a gas station bathroom, I’d been perfectly healthy. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday all passed without incident. So, as I’m sure you’d understand, I didn’t expect Wednesday to be any different. And so, as I’m sure you’d also understand, when I burped a burp smelling of sulphur, rotten eggs, and human poop, I blamed it on the Golden Grahams I’d eaten for breakfast and headed to Writing for Mass Media class.

About four burps into class, my friend Owen whispered sweetly in my ear.

Owen: Daaaayummm. Smell dat? Someone keeps farting in this bitch.

Me: I… I think it’s me. Me burps. I think it’s me burps!

Owen: No, fool! Can’t you smell it? It’s a fart. The smelliest fart smell I’ve ever smelled. It smells so bad it’s scary.

Me: Um… I really think it might be me. I feel a burp coming. Here, let me do it straight in your face so you can tell for sure.

(I burp in his face.)

Owen: Oh my God. It is you. Do it again, it’s incredible. P.S. YA SICK.

And Owen was right — I was sick. Really sick. By 5 p.m., my belly had doubled in size with gas and angry stanks. My appetite was fine, though, so for dinner I ate a cheeseburger, fries, chocolate cake, and a Coke. As a result, my belly quadrupled in size by 6 p.m. and I was stankier and more uncomfortable than ever.

Which is unfortunate, because 6 p.m. was also the time of the college radio meeting — my first meeting as promotions director. Know what promotions directors have to do at college radio meetings? Speak. In front of tens of people!

What I did at that meeting doesn’t even count as public speaking. I could tell you about how I was completely hunched over, or how all I did was grunt, or how I couldn’t help but leak a few fartburps. All you really need to know, though, is that my pants were unzipped and unbuttoned. The whole time.

Then, when it was over, I went back to my dorm and pooped 30 times and let out five 15-second farts.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Why you shouldn’t let me watch your cats/your home/anything you care about

My aunt Patsy, who lives in Florida, visited my family in RI a month or two ago. She spent most of her two days with us drinking wine, talking freaky about Tiki Barber and Spongebob, and hinting she’d like me to babysit her cats when she and my uncle Bob traveled to Ireland in November.

Patsy: Oh it’d be great if you’d babysit the kids when we go to Ireland. I’m so worried about my cat children. Niece of mine, I sure would appreciate it, niece.

Me: Aw heeeeeell nah. NEVA DAT!

Actually, I didn’t said, “NEVA DAT,” but I sure was thinking it. Nothing sounded less fun than going to Florida for more than a week, by myself, to scoop kitty litter and serve gelatinous, fishy stanking food to a couple of cats I’d never met. Still, I didn’t want to be a biz to Patsy, so I just didn’t respond whenever she brought the subject up. She’d ask if I’d watch her cats, I’d distract her with a picture of Tiki. She never got an answer out of me.

I later learned that Patsy named her black cat "Tiki." They have a special relationship.

About a month after Patsy visited, she e-mailed my mom to ask, again, if I’d watch her cats when she and her husband went to Ireland. This time, I gave it a little more thought. While the weather at home was getting shizzy, Florida would still be warm. I’d be kinda close to Miami, maybe I’d run into Rick Ross and he’d explain how to correctly use the phrase “NEVA DAT.” Plus, Patsy spelled my name “Ally” in the e-mail to my mom; she might not know me, but I was going to make damn sure her “kids” did. I accepted.

I got to her house in Fort Lauderdale last Monday. I was greeted with pee on the bed, two litter boxes filled to the brim with cat business, and random nuggets of throw up and poop around the house. After nearly 12 hours of traveling, I spent the next 60 minutes cleaning up cat nasties.

And I’ve since spent the past week cleaning up cat nasties. As I mentioned in my last post, Patsy’s cats, Tiki and Eli, are disgusting assholes. They’re mean, they’re poopy, and they’re demanding. They’re like dumb babies, except evil and barely cute. And they made me miss the birth of a real baby — a smart and nice and super adorable one — my nephew Tyson.

Can't wait to meet this little dude

And Patsy’s not even paying me well for my cat services! Besides the flight, she left me $80 for food/gas for nine days — about $8/day, an opened bag of Whoppers and Milk Duds, and two gifts she described as “crap I’ll throw away if you don’t take ūüôā — keep if you want!”

For a love of America and patriotism

I can tell she put a lot of thought into this gift

One good thing about my trip is my aunt and uncle don’t live together during the week. Patsy lives in Fort Lauderdale, while my uncle has a condo in the Keys. He left me directions and a set of keys to his place, and I decided to go there last Friday. I packed up an overnight bag, left the bastards some extra cat food, grabbed a fluffy white towel out of Patsy’s secret stash (she left out two threadbare ones fa me), and went down to the Keys.

My mood improved as soon as I got there. My uncle’s place was bright and clean and had a bombass ocean view. The beach was a five minute walk away, the pool was right across the parking lot, and there was even a bike I could use! I was deliriously happy.

No, furreal, I was delirious with happiness. At least that’s how I justify the dumbassness of what I did next.

When I walked into the kitchen, I noticed a handwritten note on the counter. On it, there were detailed instructions on how to water the plants. The two big potted plants got 2/3 a large container of water, the small one got 1/2 a large container, and the fern in the sink got a “good soaking” from the faucet. At the bottom of the note, it said “Plants watered Nov. 3 – Bill.”

I assumed that meant my uncle Bill wanted the plants watered on November 3rd. So, when I looked at my watch and saw it was already November 4th, I got to watering right away. As I filled up container after container of water, I thought about the note a little bit more. Bill didn’t even know for sure that I was going to come here — what if I never did, and his plants died of lack of water? Would that be my fault? He’d never mentioned it! Imagine if I’d accidentally killed them!

I didn’t give it any more thought; at least, not until I finished watering, walked to the bathroom to change, and stepped into a huge puddle. When I looked for the source of the water, I saw it was running out from the edge of one of the big potted plants. It was overflowing out the butt.

In fact, it turns out every plant I watered was overflowing out the butt. Water was all over the counter, all over the floor, all over everything. Somehow, the overflowing water from the fern plant even clogged the sink.¬†Within ten minutes of being at my uncle Bill’s, every surface of his perfect little condo was underwater.

Starting with the counter, I grabbed paper towels to soak up what I could. At the same time, I picked up my uncle’s note to re-read the instructions — had I given them too much water? I hadn’t, I’d done all the right amounts… but a day before, so had Bill. If you remember from earlier, my uncle’s name is actually Bob. I realized “Bill” wasn’t my uncle, but someone my uncle Bob had asked to come over to water his plants; the “Hi Bill” at the top confirmed it. So, not only had I dumped a shizload of water all over my uncle’s condo, but I’d overwatered and probably murdered all of his plants, too.

Knowing I’d effed up pretty seriously, I wanted to fix it as quick as I could. I started looking in the closets for something to sop up the water on the floor with — dish towels, regular towels, whatever — but I couldn’t find anything. Other than a few hotel-style-folded, fancy towels in the bathroom, there was nothing. I grabbed the white towel I’d brought from my aunt’s and threw it down to soak up the floor water. Then, I got to¬†ladling¬†the water out of the clogged sink and into one of Bob’s frozen beer mugs. When I was done with that, I grabbed the soaking towel and draped it over the porch railing to dry.

Apparently, the air in the Keys is made out of pure dirt. When I took Patsy’s towel off the railing, it was filthy, and not from the floor. I meant to take a picture of it before I washed it, but I forgot. It’s okay though, cause this is what it came out of the washer looking like:

A little dirty

A lot dirty. I ain't care -- you can tell by my cute face

Now I need some advice — throw the towel away or try to explain?

Also, pee in the kitty litter box before I leave so my aunt has to clean it out, or not?

JK JK NEVA DAT!

…maybe?

I used to like cats

I’m in Florida until Tuesday babysitting my aunt’s cats. Did you know cats are disgusting creatures? They pee on beds and track poop around the house and smell just awful. They steal turkey sandwiches and hiss at ladies when ladies do nice things for them. They make ladies miss the birth of their first nephew, too — an extra bastardly move.

They also rape arms.

They sometimes trip mothers, too.