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!”
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.
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?
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.
A couple of weeks ago I claimed that clams ruined my life.
I lied! They didn’t ruin my life, they just funked it up real good. Funged it up, actually.
Ever since my weekend of clamming, my skin’s been acting a fool. It started with chigger bites and its accompanying lady lymph infection, and now it’s spreading all over my body. I’m currently nursing 30-40 clear warts on my hands, a couple of itchtastic welts on my big toes, and some seriously fungusy-looking rings on my elbows. They’re itchy, they’re fungly, they’re scary, and even though they’re beautifully symmetric, they’re the dirtiest bastards I’ve ever met. They make cold sores look like cankers, for goodness’ sake!
I hate you, rash
I have no idea what’s wrong with me, so I’ve been asking everyone I know what they think it could be. I’ve consulted my family, my friends, Dr. Lloyd (who turned out to be an assistant to a ultrasound technician or something), Google, a pharmacist with neat ears, and a lady in scrubs in the card aisle at Target.
Now it’s your turn. What you think this ish be? Ringworm? Celiac disease? (I was going to write leprosy, but the thought scares me too much).
My sisters and I have never had a close relationship with our maternal grandmother, Baba. On the rare occasions we visited Baba and her boo-boo (our grandpeezy Mott), she’d welcome us, chat for five minutes, apologize for having another engagement, and scoot us out. Birthdays and Christmases passed with generic cards and $25 JCPenney gift certificates, graduations and weddings went unattended.
But now, as our visits become more frequent with her advancing age, I’m starting to notice how alike Baba and I are. First, there’s the resemblance. My pointy chin was molded from her sharp little nub; my premature crow’s feet were traced from her deeply carved face folds.
It’s more than just our looks, though. We share interests, too. I like babies, black men, poop, and art. So does Baba.
One day, I want to have children. Not only did Baba already have children, but she hangs out with babies on a regular basis. When she was living in a nursing home, she became friends was a 4-year-old. A pregnant 4-year-old, nonetheless! Apparently the little girl had come in to warn 89-year-old Baba and the other senior ladies about the realities of pregnancy. She and Baba hit it off.
I have jungle fever. As does Baba. She swears that sometime last year, a black man entered her room in the middle of the night, flipped her on her stomach, and “did something to her butt.” I haven’t heard her complain about it.
I don’t necessarily like poop, but it is one of my favorite dinner table talking points (just ask my dad). It’s also Baba’s favorite subject. She records her bowel movements in a journal. The former clean freak-a-leek will also shamelessly tell anyone who questions the black goo under her fingernails that “IT IS POOP!”
Finally, I doodle and sometimes take pictures. Baba can draw, paint, and take great portraits, both behind and in front of the camera. Just last summer she took out the McCormick family album and showed my family and me a beautiful picture of herself when she was younger. She then remembered she had a picture of my aunt, Bidee, dancing. Knowing the only thing Bidee hates more than dancing is having her picture taken, we asked Baba to show us the photo. After a few moments of searching through the album, she finally found it. It looked something like this:
My dancing aunt
Oh, and this was the picture of infant Baba:
Told you she's artistic!
See the resemblance?
The family album consisted entirely of animal photographs. Clearly, Baba is a little nutso. It’s kind of sad, but she and her pet paper towel roll seem to be having a great time.
P.S. She really is a talented artist, so let’s call her “eccentric” instead of “cray cray.”
I was looking forward to work an appearance at a club from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m. last Saturday. I’d be able to spend all day at the beach and then go out and get paid to ogle bruthas. It was perfect!
Perfect, at least, until I remembered two things: (1) I was the only street teamer scheduled, and (2) since I was the only one scheduled, I’d have to walk across a dark parking lot and into a deserted office building at 1:30 by myself.
That might not sound like much of a problem, but it’s important to know that I really hate the dark, and I really really hate being alone in buildings. If you don’t believe me, peep mah knees — they’re full of scars, permabruises, and dead spots from knocking into walls and careening through glass doors (while fleeing invisible monsters in empty buildings). Add that I just read The Shining – a story about an evil arsehole of a building – and my perfect workday turned to this real quick:
Horrifying, like me
By the time I thought about all this, around 8:30, it was too late to do anything except accept my fate. And be mean to my mom.
Mom: Almost ready for work, baby darling daughter?
Me: No.
Mom: You look so beautiful, my darling babiest of baby daughters.
Me: Quiet, you.
Mom: Those earrings look darling on your baby ears, don’t you think?
Me: NO TRICK MOMMA!! And you know my ears ain’t baby and they ain’t darling. They’re huge and dangling, just like yours.
See?
When she stopped asking questions I knew I’d been a straight up C-unit, and I felt I needed to justify my sasshole behavior. So, I told her what was bothering me, my I-swear-to-lawd belief that I was going to get murdered that night.
I’m not sure if she heard the quaver in my voice, or thought I was actually being rational, or finally felt bad about the time she called me a “dirty piggy bitch,” but my mom said the sweetest words I’d ever heard:
“I’ll go with you!”
Even though my mother is 57-years-old, and was in her pajamas, and isn’t really into the Providence club scene, I took her up on her offer. Five minutes later, we were ready to go. She even let us take her car.
And, although super nice, taking her car caused an entirely new problem. The keys to get into the station are attached to my car keys; I didn’t have my car keys, so I couldn’t get into the building. Fortunately fellow street teamer Nick came to my rescue and let me borrow his.
While waiting a few minutes to get saved, I pulled out my phone to go over the e-mail my boss had sent about the appearance. In it were answers to every question I could’ve possibly had – from what prizes to give away to how to dress. I seemed to be doing everything I was supposeta, but just for fun asked my mom what she thought about my outfit.
Me: This says I should wear something “club appropriate.” I look club appropriate, right?
Mom: Of course not, you dirty, dirty piggy bitch.
I couldn’t believe she didn’t think I was dressed for da club — I was wearing what I’ve worn to every club I’ve ever been to! Flip flops, jeans, and a green scoop neck T-shirt. How was that wrong!? I WAS EVEN WEARING EARRINGS!
After a few minutes of debate on whether or not I was fancy enough, my mom came out victorious, and, for that second time that night, she also came to the rescue.
She said I could wear her clothes (as in the clothes she was wearing) and she’d find something in the trunk to change into. When Nick got there to lend me his keys, I ran inside to grab the prize bag and left my mom outside to do some clothes rearranging.
By the time I got back, she had the top she’d had on waiting for me, and was wearing a wrinkled red T-shirt from 2001 and a purple sweater. Still standing in the parking lot, I stuck my torso into the car and pulled on the black tank top. From Chico’s travelers line.
My hairs are turning black!
It had looked good on my mom – she had the sweater and the pants to make it work – but on me, it was short and shapeless and made my arms age about 20 years. Keep in mind that they look like this on a good day:
I like the way it wobbly wobbly when it wiggle
No matter, my mom was adamant I wear her shirt. She said a forest green T-shirt was not club appropriate. She was right, but the borrowed Chico’s shirt wasn’t club appropriate either. It might have been wrinkle free, but it wasn’t fa me. After yet another few minutes of debate, I was back in my fresh tee.
I still managed to get a bit clubbed up. I found a pair of heels a size too big, slapped on some red lipstick, and tightened my bra straps to hoist my sagboobs and squeeze as much class out of my shirt as possible.
When we finally got to the club, my mom and I mutually decided she might want to sit this one out in the car. It was a real fist pumpy place – lots of stiletto heels and Booty Pops and angry neck veins – and if I had the choice, I probably would’ve stayed in the car, too.
I went into the club and set up the prize table, feeling like a little girl playing dress up. Except I wasn’t a little girl playing dress up — I was a 22-year-old working at a swanky nightclub, hobbling around in ill-fitting heels, clenching my butt to keep from bombing the place with buffalo chicken pizza S.B.D.s, and occasionally checking on my mom to make sure she hadn’t become a victim of a gang crime. Oh, and when I went to the bathroom I saw I’d missed the target when I’d done the lipstick slapping. Cute!
I left two hours later with a sore back, a stained clown face, and a new appreciation for my mom. And the phrase “club appropriate.”
I spent most of last week in my home state, Maine. I’ve lived in Rhode Island for the past four years or so, and I’ve liked it for the most part, but going home had me itching to move back to Vacationland.
I currently have two friends in Rhode Island. I have at least 3 times that in Maine!
The worst I have to worry about in the Saco River (other than the three dead white men curse) is leeches (which recently sucked my blood for the first time) — none of those flesh-dwelling Galilee sand fleas there!
I have a bedroom in Maine. Sure, maybe my oldest sister painted it baby blue and plastered paper dragonflies all over the place without my consent, but it’s a real bedroom! With a real 20-year-old twin bed! No more trailer lofts and air mattresses for me!
I was so ready to reclaim Maine as my home that I actually started cleaning out my bedroom closet in preparation for my return. It was there, in a box jammed in the back corner, that I found my Academic Fair research paper from 3rd grade. If this wasn’t a sign to stay in Rhode Island, then I don’t know what is. Here’s the original copy:
Some highlights:
“Rhode Island in the 1800’s had many governors. There were like 15 or more…or less…governors just in the 1800’s.”
“When they went fishing in the seas, they would catch huge fish. There was one man that I know of who caught a sawfish that was nearly 11 feet long and a little bit more than half a foot wide.”
“There was a battle in the little state of Rhode Island on August 20, 1778. The people of Rhode Island battled and fought against the French. The map of the battle was written in French writing. It must have been the French map or something. On the map there was Newport and Gull Rock and many, many bays, spelled like this ‘baye.’ I’m pretty sure that Rhode Island won the war or battle thing. But, I am not positive.”
“Roger Williams had long hair, a long coat, mean eyes, a girlie skirt, long puffy shorts, and funky looking shoes.”
This paper also explains my choice in higher education.
Last week, after reading what I had to say about my genes (here), my mom explained that my obesity genes are actually more like survivor genes — that back when food was scarce, the bodies that stored fat were the bodies that survived. This new information got me doing some mirror quality self reflecting, and I realized I’m nothing more than a high-functioning Neanderthal. Think about it!
My foot skin is dyed permanently dirty! I have the speaking skills of… a dumb little girl who speaks badly! I find shaving counterproductive! Seeing old ladies pooping in their front yards in broad daylight ain’t faze me! I was born to be a cave woman, for heaven’s sake!
I'm happier to be in this cave than you'd think. I'm also less orange than you'd think
After deciding I was a cavelady stuck inside the body of a 21st Century lamelady, I wanted to connect with my prehistoric self. The first step, of course, was to hunt and gather my own lunch. And, since I live near the ocean, I figured I might as well take advantage of my resources and go fishing.
Armed with poles and store-bought squid, my friend Curtis and I set sail in a couple of kayaks, and started catching flounder by the buttload. Though most of them weren’t long enough to keep, they would’ve been if I were hungry and Neanderthally enough.
As I thought about how awesome and resourceful I was, Curtis reminded me that we’d had lots of semi-modern day technologies – fishing poles, kayaks, etc. – to help us out. Without them, said that mofo Curtis, we probably wouldn’t have caught anything.
Me: Sho you right.
Curtis: Always is.
Me: Les do dis right… We’ll go clamming!
Curtis: A fine idea.
So we clammed. Curtis, my brother-in-law Matt, and I all went clamming. And we sucked.
We were there for more than an hour, and we came home with a dozen dime-sized quahogs. Not quite a feast, but certainly some quality protein. Still, I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to prove I was a survivor — I wanted to prove I could sleep in a cave, poop on the ground, and most importantly, live off the land if I had to. So, I went clamming again.
Turns out, unless cavemen had doctor’s offices and antibiotics, I wouldn’t do so great.
At first, the second trip to the mud flats went better. I wasn’t using any tools – just my feet, knees, and hands – and I was doing well. All it took was some stomping, kneeling, and clawing to produce a perfectly edible quahog. I was a good cave woman! My mom was right!
That night, I had a delicious dinner of clams Stop ‘n’ Shop pork tenderloin and potato chips. (You ever eat clams? Those bastids is narsty).
That following day, I had a delicious case of saltwater chiggers. (A.K.A. sand fleas). (A.K.A. larvae that sneak under your skin and suck your blood for months).
THEMS IS BUGS! If QT were here he'd have to check me all... over. All. Over.
My right knee broke out in a patch of blistery bug bites so bad it required a visit to the doctor’s. If my susceptibility to nature’s wrath isn’t enough to tell me I wouldn’t have survived a couple hundred thousand years ago, my trip to the Dr. Lloyd is.
Dr. Lloyd: Hello, you girl. What’s wrong today?
Me: I went clamming the other day and I think some bugs are living inside my skin. The internet says “maybe.”
Dr. Lloyd: Hmm. Never seen this before. What else does the internet say?
Me: That’s about it.
Dr. Lloyd: Is it itchy? Does it hurt? How bad does it hurt, on a scale from 1-10?
Me: Uhh… Five. Sometimes. A five, sometimes.
Dr. Lloyd: TEN IS DEATH.
Me: Oh! Three then.
Dr. Lloyd: Okay then, liar. Three it is. Well. Is your groin sore at all? Any swelling?
Me: Get your mind out of the gutter, old man.
Dr. Lloyd: Is your lady part throbbing? The area near it, at least?
Me: Yeah it’s sore. And let’s go with a two.
Dr. Lloyd: Huh?
Me: A two! The pain’s a two, sometimes.
Dr. Lloyd: Let’s keep it at a three. You have an infection, here’s a prescription for an antibiotic. It’ll probably cause a really bad, really itchy rash.
Me: Thanks, doc!
So… turns out I’m not very good at hunting and gathering. Bet you I could poop on ground with the best of them, though.
No cave lyfe 4 me
P.S. There are two 2ge+her references in this post. Who can find them!?
classygallie 
