We were off to Miami for the holidays. “I’m in Miami Bitch” “Welcome to Miami” and all other songs that contain “Miami” should now be playing in the background.
The last time I ventured to “party in the city where the heat is on” was during a very poorly planned spring break vacation my sophomore year of college. We stayed at a Howard Johnson that was 50’s themed, smelled of pukes (plural: several pukes), and miles away from the beach. We ate our meals in a booth that was shaped like an old pink Chevy and there was this giant bobbled headed old woman on roller skates that just hovered and stared at you while you dined (I don’t think she even worked there).
On top of the extra shitty accommodations, none of us five girls on the trip (girls vacay! woohoo! eff’ boys) realized that you cant do anything or go anywhere in Miami unless you’re 21. We were 19 and 20 with crappy fake id’s. We ended up buying booze from a sketchy liquor store and just drinking in the hotel room the whole time. We probably could have saved a lot of money if we had just done that locally.
The one time we went to the beach I got severely sun burned and had heat stroke. The tide also brought in an abnormal amount of horse shoe crabs which washed ashore and died on the sand, creating a carcass beach of helmet animals that smelled, and smelled bad. After exhausting the shitty smelly beach, we decided to try our luck at shopping. At the first shop I was instantly “pretty woman-ened” (it’s a new verb) out of the store after the sales clerk looked me up and down wearing my cut of jean skirt and ill fitting slant-off-one-shoulder jersey/tank. He said that there wasn’t anything in the store for me and that I should leave in a hurried manner. I thought, well, fuck that guy. I would be leaving at whatever pace I choose and a side step in extreme slow motion while gingerly touching merchandise on the way out would be the way to go. He rolled his eyes as I exited the store at the pace of a slug stuck in a glob of molasses. I mouthed “ffuuuuucccckkkk yoooouuuuuu” also in slow motion.
I would love to go back and do the whole “you work on commission right?” except I would probably only be flinging around a CVS bag with tons of Wet n’ Wild cosmetics in his face which would completely defeat any purpose of doing any “you work on commission revenge tactics.” Apart from that asshole, there are other assholes in Miami – a place for the over indulgent and over worked male biceps. The only way to participate in anything remotely cool is if you’re Pit Bull himself. At least there is one person having fun. You go Pitbull. You go.
THE MOST GIANT-LY LARGE RAMBLING TANGENT…..is now over.
Back to my most recent trip to Miami:
I flew down with my parents out of DC. I made special arrangements so I would be able to take my luggage as a carry on (by special arrangements I mean put some of my liquid belongings into plastic baggies). For some reason, liquid-baggie-packing always seems like this giant fucking inconvenience when really it’s just like packing your lunch except with toiletries. Actually, that blows too. I packed and repacked for hours knowing that I’m the worst packer ever and tried desperately to make sure that I didn’t pack any bed linens instead of actual clothing, no pillowcases instead of a white shirts for this lady.
We taxied to the airport and my mom was thrilled to find out that she had TSA pre-approval without her knowledge – which seemed to me like a major loop hole. I waited in the long ass “must-take-everything-off-you-are-now-naked-this-is-weird” line for 40 minutes with all the other plebes. I always have to go into the full body scanner and I always forget to wear socks. I also use 45 to 78 plastic bins. Individually stacking and separating out any belts, shoes, socks, jewelry, electronics, coats, hoodies, 6 ml liquid bottles and anything else I could be arrested and shackled for.
I’m sure everyone feels this way but what is it about airports that instantly makes you feel like you are unknowingly a Colombian drug mule? I would never take anything illegal on the plane nor traffic drugs but the paranoia that I’ve swallowed 20 grams of her-oine and am also carrying a stash in between my butt cheeks whilst armed with a loaded gun is how I act – which is suspicious as shit. Sweaty, rambling, beady eyed with severe nausea.
After all of this the flight attendant made me check my bag anyways because it didn’t pass the weakass metal box test. GREAT. Now to look for my aisle while everyone stares are my feet to make sure I’m not wearing 8 inch platforms. I’m not – these are my legs.
I’m by far the most hapless person ever and in classic my no luck style my mom, dad, and I were sat in three different seats sprinkled amongst a family with five kids, their parents, and one twin uncle named Herb. None of the children had flown before and they were all between the ages of 2 and 7 (fml..you’ve got to be kidding me). The mother had to continuously reassure them that we were not going to all die inside a fiery ball of hell. Which in turn kicked my fear of flying up a notch to the point where I also wanted to ask her bunch of questions to calm my nerves:
Will we die when we take off?
Will we die when there is turbulence?
Can the drink cart be used as a weapon?
Why don’t they serve peanuts?
Can I use the barf bag to store things other than barf?
Statement: I only ever order ginger ale or tomato juice on airplanes. Question: Why?
Do the emergency exit people really know what the fuck they’re doing?
The kids covered most of these questions anyways and also felt the need to ask really dumb questions that only children would like: “Hey mom. When we get into the car can we have the windows rolled down?” (What kind of lame ass question is that?) Another was, “Will the people here like us?” in which the mother responded, “Honey, they don’t know us.” I wanted to raise my hand. Oh, actually, excuse me children….. I can answer this one….the answer is no, no they will not.
In addition to the 476 questions, 57 screeching screams from hell, and 19 karate kicks to the back of my seat, all five children were asking the mother rapid fire questions about their cat; Meatball.
“What is Meatball doing?”
“Do you think Meatball would like this plane?”
“Meatball peed on the Christmas tree before we left.”
“What is Meatballs?”
After the plane landed and we de-boarded I wanted to dance on river mountains, twirl around in an open field with a basket of wild lilies, and just breathe in the fresh air that was the Miami airport terminal. That’s how good it felt – to be out.
We were staying at a super flash hotel with loads of people that inconvenienced you by being too helpful. There were also tons of perks and free things to take on daily basis. My mom took a liking to hoarding the free delicious apples that were placed in a giant bowl at the front desk every morning. We would eat them on the beach as a mid-afternoon snack. She felt the strong need to dispose of her apple core by feeding it to the starving seagulls. Everyone gets pissed when you feed seagulls on the beach because they go ape-shit. To do so anyways, my Mom would go on top secret missions to inconspicuously deliver the apple cores to the seagulls in a sort of feeding ritual. To me, this was the most hilarious thing ever. Not only did she look incredibly suspicious as she walked towards the ocean everyday with snack to dispose of in hand – but the quick escape after the seagull mayhem is the best thing since sliced bread. Thank little baby Jesus I recorded it. Please find below for the largest video on earth that I couldn’t figure out how to shrink:
In addition to feeding the seagulls apple cores, she was also really good at recording my brother and only my brother while he was swimming in the ocean. His wife had asked us to take videos of the family vacationing and send them to her – a request which mom took in all seriousness. Day in and day out she would take the same videos of my brother doing close to nothing – just floating in the waves. He would announce that he was going to take a dip and then 3 to 5 minutes later she would follow him down to the beach with her iphone and begin recording. I think the secretiveness came because A) he doesn’t like being filmed and B) the whole thing was creepy as hell. I loved it. With the amount of footage taken we could produce a feature film of my brother swimming back and forth and sometimes just floating in the ocean. I would call it “Finding Nothing,” an epic story of no adventure at all to find something that was never lost.
This is the trailer:
I don’t want to give you a warped impression – my dad is just as hilarious with his antics. He typically decides to abruptly start walking in incredibly abnormal ways. The walks are either the lunge forward hunching with slow leg lifts or fulfilling the dream of being a human duck and waddling. Either one, the family will usually join in and walk through public spaces in a conga line of village idiots. I love every second of it. He will also ask ridiculously difficult, confusing, and mind probing questions to strangers and wait staff in particular. Dining interactions would go something like the following:
Waiter: “Hello, my name is Justin and I will be your server this evening.”
Dad: “Hello Justin. Some have claimed that no true democracies ever go to war with each other. In fact, does history bear that claim out? If so, try to explain how democracy exerts such an effect.”
Waiter: “Well, how about I tell you about our specials?”
Dad: “You are special. Pop Quiz: you are also the CEO of a consumer products company. How would you determine the portion of your budget to devote to advertising?”
Waiter: “Not sure but we do have a lovely entree dish with roasted chicken breast and rosemary potatoes.”
Dad: “Hmmm I’m an admirer of rosemary potatoes. In fact, many admirers of Ronald Reagan credit him and his policies with the fall of Communism. Is that claim justified?
Waiter: “I’m actually here just to take your drink order…”
Dad: “Right. I’m thinking of my drink order. I’ll tell you what beer I would like either telepathically or in pantomime. Go.”
Waiter: “In pantomime?”
Dad: <Acts out a Stella Artois in a can.>
One night when we were out to dinner, my dad noticed a group of people sitting at the lounge table behind us. He had come up with the theory that the one guy in the “goggles” as my mom called them (they were clear thick framed glasses) was being protected by the three larger gentleman and if anyone made any swift movements they would be walloped. The man in the goggles was in his 70’s and was ordering champagne every 5 minutes. He was surround by gorgeous eastern European women who never spoke to him directly. Whoever he was, there was no deceiving the Foster family. We knew those were his bodyguards, we knew he ordered a lot of champagne, we knew he wears goggles even at nighttime…. Billy likes..SODA. Ms Lippy’s car is…GREEN. We could all leave in peace.
The vacation carried on as a series of laughable moments and was a huge success. Not a success in that we got to spend time in a lavish hotel or plop on a sunny beach for 4 hours each day but in that quality family time is the best time you can spend. And there is never enough of it. I could not be more blessed to have a family that is such hilariously good company and are the people that understand me the most. I am definitely my parents daughter. Mom & Dad I hope you know I’m laughing with you – at least sixty percent of the time.
The inappropriate poem I wrote for my Secret Santa (co-worker Corina) and read aloud to everyone at the office holiday party……
DEAR SECRET SANTA:
I heard that you are Beyonce’s biggest fan,
And that you would pick her over any straight man.
A choice that I can admire and definitely agree with
Because good looking guys in D.C.?
That is one big giant myth.
I’m sure you can tell who this poem is coming from,
But I promise you it is not the tall, perpetually single one.
We have lots in common besides horrible dating,
But it is pretty bad, so I am commiserating.
We both have personalities that are always upbeat,
And share a special bond with our larger than average sized feet.
Regardless of your large feet, you are effortlessly beautiful.
You always look dashing. It’s indisputable.
After a long days work or just hanging with your dog,
I’m sure there are times when you just want to hit the grog.
I’m hoping with this gift it will make those special moments easy to open,
It wouldn’t have been pink, if the color I could have chosen.
They call it the rabbit but it’s not what you think,
It’s the best way to open your favorite beverage to drink.
Not sure why I do this to myself but I tend to make things as uncomfortable as possible. Some would say I’m bringing uncomfortable back…..actually, no one said that – ever.
You can get fucked. In a world full of shitty neighbors the three guys that live above us are by far the worst sacks of goose turds that anyone could ever gather. I would prefer a screaming baby or Sean Connery’s amplified voice playing on a rotating continuum saying things like “I’d like some strawberry flavored schnapps” or “I play the glockenspiel.” Anything would be better than listening to these ass muffins march around in what can only be high heeled cowboy boots or performance tap shoes. I cannot imagine how shitty they must be in real life if they’re this shitty just having to listen to them through wooded panels, pink insulation fluffies, beam workings, and… I don’t know what I’m talking about….what the hell are floors made of anyways? Well, through all of that.
I imagine one of them to be a 7 foot tall gormless ogre that lives under the draw bridge that he had specially made to fit in his room. The other two guys think this was a huge waste of time considering drawbridges are way out and that he should be more focused on how to appropriately angle his fedora (this is how tool-ey I suspect them to be).
Not interested in fedoras, ogre man tolls people as they enter his room as only an ogre does, pouncing upon them and demanding the change that nobody cares about. Along with bridge tolling (a dying craft really), he excels in clumsily march/stomping around and terrorizing villagers. It’s the combination of this giant monstrosity of a man, him most likely wearing Frankenstein platforms, and the raising and lowering of his fucking useless drawbridge that creates this inscrutable racket.
When we finally had enough of the douche-clouds carrying on as they please we asked our landlord for the key to the upstairs entrance (I have no clue why they gave this to us ??..we could murder..?) so we could knock on their front door and speak to them like adults rather than filing an loud and stumpy feet complaint (as adults do).
One evening when I was at my wits end listening to the endless stomping, slams, object droppings, whistles, break dancing, man-on-man tussling, and games of bowling ball shot put I decided to go up there and have us a talking with. I knocked on the door to no answer which was perplexing in itself because clearly he/it/they was clearly home. My roommate had since walked up to front of the town home to see me through the glass door aimlessly trying to enter an apartment that wasn’t ours. She came in, asked me what the fuck I was doing and then started to help with the forced entry.
Since the door was no longer an option we began tapping on their window to hopefully spawn some kind of urgency. To our surprise, the lights went off and a face popped in between the window curtains. FINALLY! The ogre. We looked at him completely dumbfounded like, why the fuck aren’t you answering the door? It’s two girls out here and we don’t have any flaming pitchforks so there really isn’t anything to worry about. After luring the ogre out from behind his protective curtain he eventually opened the door. I questioned him as to why he didn’t just open it from the beginning but he avoided giving us an answer other than just looking like a complete asshole hiding from two girls that were completely unarmed. Furthermore, he looked completely apathetic and was giving us kind of a “look at these annoying bitches” vibe before we even started speaking…dick. What he didn’t know was that morning I happened to wake up with a case of the “don’t-fuck-a-arounds.” Which meant today, I really didn’t want to fuck around.
Me, talking from out of my face: “Hello there. We live below you…and…..(my eyes wander towards the floor).. I can see that you’re wearing your boots,” I noted immediately.
Ogre nods, “Well…yes.”
“It would be of great appreciation if you could be a little bit more conscious of when you are pacing to-and-fro wearing your medieval knee boots as it is an incredibly loud noise for us that live beneath you my squire,” I said with a slight curtsy-bow thing. (I’m not sure why I spoke to him in renaissance peasantry. I guess when I’m in uncomfortable situations I use different era accents as a defensive mechanism)
What I wanted to say was: “Can you shut your colossal fucking feet up? How many ogre belongings can you forget in your fucking cavernous room that would call for you to lap it 20 times in an hour wearing man’s heaviest boots?”
He apologized and said he normally paces when he is on the phone, tends to never take his boots off and they have no carpeting. WELL. That would effing’ explain it. He shewed us off to return to his boiling ogre cauldron (or phone call) and briefly said that they would try and not wear boots in the house while pacing. Thank you?
In addition to the ogre, apparently Tootles from Hook also lives upstairs. He, as we’ve always known him, still has the clumsy annoyance of continuously dropping and losing his marbles. Every couple of hours a bang hits the floor quickly followed by what sounds like 50 rolling pieces dispersing from the original source and knees marching into the floor after them in obsessive retrieval. If it is Tootles upstairs, I would like to speak to him about couple things: a) Neverland b) his relationship with Rufio and if I can get an introduction c) bag options for his marbles. There are plenty of other carrying mechanisms (maybe just a normal bag with a zipper?) that would effectively hold the marbles rather than using a crushed velvet cloth rag with a draw string which clearly isn’t working. Basically, we have a lot to go over.
Last but not least, I’m convinced that the rogue fourth member of Creed also lives above us. He has by far the worst taste in music I’ve ever heard and will relentlessly practice songs about picture frames or whatever the fuck Creed actually sings about, maybe arms that are wide open? Whatever the case, he has the musicality of a swamp rat. Which says nothing and everything at the same time. He sucks.
On top of it all, the ogre, Tootles and the lost member of Creed are trying to collectively start a band. Which is horrible news for me and everyone on earth. So, during their weekly band practices or impromptu jam sessions we hear the horrendous beginnings of people trying to learn instruments. I’m all for creativity and jamming but their music sounds like farts.
I don’t mean to be harsh. I can also take criticism. I was told by my guitar teacher who had been teaching for 15 years when I came in strumming all of the cords he taught me at once that he had never seen someone do something so utterly and entirely wrong and that it would be in my best interest to just give up. Which I believe is the only thing a teacher should not share with their student.
All that being said, it will inevitability be a long time until I have a noiseless slumber or no longer fester a fiery rage for the upstairs fuckle tarts. Mainly because as I type this I can hear that the effing’ guy is wearing his boots again, the bag of marbles just dropped, and a song is gearing up that starts with….”Well I just heard….the news today….”
For fucks sake.
“Bugaboos” in the sense of things that bother me not the urban dictionary definition of “a gurl or guy who don’t leave you alone. Callin’ you up every two minutes on your celly and just dont trust you doin nothin – you say you out wit your boiz and she thinks your out creepin’ with some other trick……” Just things I find exceptionally annoying.
Salt shakers that contain rice
I understand that this is a thing with a purpose…but still…no.
People that are assholes and actual assholes.
Those shoes that have individual toes
If we were meant to be marine animals…we would be marine animals….don’t force it by wearing webbed running shoes. Oh, they’re also butts-ugly.
When people say “PLURNT.”
In the grocery sense – NOT putting two condoms on a penis before sexual activity. All of my groceries since the late 90’s have needed double bagging (I guess before then I was buying lighter items). Any chance we could just make thicker bags?
And yes, I do have those cloth bags but I think I’ve actually only remembered to bring them twice. Once, when I needed a cloth bag to carry all of my other cloth bags and decided that it would be a good time to go grocery shopping and one other time when I bought a pack of gum – deeming it completely pointless.
The fresh food’s asshole cousin. They just sit and take up room in the pantry – I forever buy cans of tuna fish and black beans that I will never eat. The only time I use canned goods is when there is a canned food drive. So, basically I’m just buying things and storing them until I need to give them away for the greater good. That reminds me – I’m also a saint.
Egg yolk stuck to plates
Why so effin’ difficult to remove? You were liquidy two seconds ago…
They gather like idle corner muffins and go unnoticed until you have this large assembly of dust, hair, and skin cells stuck to your foot….this is not a bunny, this is gross.
Taxi cab drivers that honk for no reason.
Shut your steering wheels’ trap. I will let you know if I need your services – not vice versa.
Both large and small.
Stop telling me the time from way up there – and you should totes just go digital.
Ice cube trays that are not quite frozen
No matter what – I will peel the thinnest layer of frozen water (ice) off the top of the non frozen water cubes to make my drink feel like it contains some kind of cold something – it does not.
Shallow pant pockets
Everything I put in you just falls out. Worst. Pockets. Ever.
Juniper Breeze scent
For some reason this scent just bugaboos the shit out of me. What is Juniper Breeze? I bet Bath & Body Works doesn’t even know. On that note – I wrote their customer service department and they responded with:
Juniper Breeze is a walk through a pine forest after a summer rain. Lots of pine, ozone, green notes with hints of berry and fruits. A very clean, fresh scent.
Just as I thought…..This. Explains. Nothing.
When there are no seats on the bus
I will never get used to riding the bus without flailing all over everyone and either straddling or butt humping strangers. You call it assault, I call it just trying to stand.
When people say that they went on a “staycation”
You either stayed or went on a vacation – this is not a thing and sh-sh-shut cho mouth.
Just tell me what you’re going to do or I’m going to have a heart attack.
The sound cotton balls make when you tear them apart
It’s like the screams of a thousand hill ants.
Why cant they just be frogs?
A friend of mine brought this to my attention. I’m a huge advocate of guys and beards – they look rustic and manly. With that being said, in recent pasts there has been an upheaval of men growing chin curtains, chinstraps, muttonchops, fu manchus, goat patches, goatees, handlebar mustaches, horseshoe mustaches, soul patches (one of the worst ones – maybe as bad as Nickleback is a band), pencil mustaches and the dreaded neck beards. This was not the idea in mind when women think about the rustic-ness, the manly, and the wood chopping out back before supper. This is a whole new generation of distasteful things that you can grow out of your face – who knew!? Fascinating. It’s like science.
Let’s address the neck beard – “A beard which does not include any hair on the face, but includes the hair of the neck, or under the jaw, or both.” This is both alarming and throw-up-able. I don’t know how these happen – does the neck just grow the beard itself? Is it manicured immediately should any beard try to grow in normal places? It’s like a half ass lion mane – without the lion or the mane part. Or a hair scarf. It’s ugly. See below for ugliness – although, the one below has a great shot of that bamboo ladder and you can kind of get lost in his eyes…until you see the neck beard.
Pencil Mustache – the most skeevey and pedophilely of all men’s facial hair – “A Pencil Mustache is one which is very thin, usually just above the line of the upper lip. It is supposed to look narrow enough to have been drawn on with a pencil (or eyeliner). Often a man wearing a Pencil Mustache will shave the area above it to accentuate the remaining hair.” And why would he do this? I feel like the upper lip is just screaming, “Can we fuck off already? Why are you all up in my business when you got the whole face to work with?” “Newsflash: Hair doesn’t need to be right here and no where else.”
These overtly strange beards are not the point. In addition to mass facial hair growing, it seems as though men are just getting progressively hairier in general. Maybe a case of reverse revolution – who knows (science again). Body hair, also referred to as androgenic hair, is something that needs to be addressed – openly, widely, and possibly with hot wax.
“The Squirrel” is something that has been brought to my attention and is incredibly hard to miss. A lower back gathering of hair that is long enough to braid and thick enough to perm. A nestle of fluffy hair placed right above the buttox as though to protect it. Those who shalt not be named, lets call him Miguel or Mikey for short, is the original squirrel owner. His complete apathy towards how gross it is – can only come from him not having to look at it. The moment it was coined “the squirrel” opinions should have changed. When any portion of the body is referred to as a furry woodland creature – the squirrel, possum, moose head, kola face, ant eater, wilder beast, chinchilla, and the like, I believe it is of the parties involved responsibility to remove accordingly.
If those should not like to remove, suggestions have been made to do the following:
– Jamaican bead the hair to give it a little “umph”
-Trim into some kind of logo or favorite sports team mascot
-Excessively grow hair on other body unpleasantries to detract from initial hair problem spot
-Fake your own death
-Deodorize “squirrel” as it will sweat more than rest of the body and general publics do not want to see glistening sweat in that shit
There is good news for Miguel, 28% of his countrymen share the same “squirrel” fate. Please see below…..
Frequency and Appearance of Terminal Hair in 239 Adult White Males
|Chest||79%||Lower Arm & Leg||97%|
|Upper Arm & Leg||85%||Rear||37%|
||43%||Lower Back or squirrel||28%|
||25%||Fingers and Toes||67%|
After reviewing this – – Stanley Marion Garn must be bored as hell to conduct this study and what is a sacral?
Wait, got it…gross.