"I think I need an Intervention because I'm Obsessed with Hoarders...SEE?! See what I did there??"
...That's genuinely the funniest thing I've read in at least a month. So there's that.
- I've got an incredibly huge thing for bike messengers. They're dirty and sweaty and have sexy tattoos, bulging calf muscles, scruffy beards and one pant leg is always rolled up slightly higher than the other. I don't know what it is about that combination that gets me all hot and bothered, but holy fixed gear—it does. I actually looked into becoming a bike messenger during The Great Job Hunt of '08 in an effort to make money and infiltrate their inner circle. It seemed like a great idea until I found out that a large part of their job is physically moving oneself from one place to another in a quick and timely fashion. That's not really my scene. I'm more into sitting at my desk trying not to get a urinary tract infection while I muster up the energy needed to physically get up and go to the bathroom. More to the point, a bike messenger came into my office this morning to pick up a package and yowzah—he was the hottest person I have ever seen in real life.
That's not him. That's what comes up when you do a google image search for "hot bike messenger," but you get the point. (And you're welcome.) The second he rounded the corner and came into my office, I pardoned myself, ran into the back room and thanked god that this wasn't one of those mornings where I wake up at 8:57am and army crawl my way from my bed to the metro, dressing in whatever clothes and spare scraps I can find along the way. Because of all the mornings not to look homeless, this was definitely one of them. Now, normally when bike messengers come into the office, I'm a hot giggly mess who can only speak in broken English, but today I was on the ball. I managed to get out both "thank you" AND "you too!" without stuttering, spitting or blacking out and hitting my head on the way down. When Hottie Bike Messenger started to walk away from my desk with my package (bwahaha hehe oh my!) I declared it a personal victory and continued browsing through my iphone, looking for the picture I was going to use in today's post. PER CHANCE, the next photo I flipped to was this little doozie of Evie curled up in my mom's arms over Christmas break:
And oh...my...just and gentle God. I was in no way prepared for the extreme adorableness that is that photograph. I mean, look at her little chin resting on my mom's arm!!! And that spicy little chicken wing all curled up, tucked beside her!!!!!!1 I couldn't help myself. Before I knew it, a noise flew was flying out of my mouth that can only be described as a cross between "AWWWWWWWWWWWW" and the cliché French "HAWH HAWH HAWH" laugh. "I'm sorry?" Hottie Bike Messenger asked as he stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, thinking I was still talking to him. "Oh.....no. I [points down to iphone] there was this picture. Of a cat. It's not a big deal. I'm sorry, that's all. You can go now." Hottie Bike Messenger nodded once, turned back around quickly walked out of the office and out of my life forever. So. Good. I meet the man of my dreams on a day when I'm actually looking presentable and I manage to alienate him and make him think I'm a Creepy Cat Lady in one felt swoop. That's cool. I'm not really into having sex anyway.
- Speaking of having sex, if you're reading this and happen to be a bike messenger living in the greater Washington, DC area or know someone who is—I don't want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me, but I also don't not want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me. Let's just say I've got good credit, live near a bank and am very discreet and just leave it at that, shall we? Good. email@example.com.
- Also, speaking of Evie! Did you know that when I was home for Christmas, I found out that my parents bought her from a woman in central New Jersey who they're 99.4% sure is a Neo-Nazi? I don't know why, but this makes the mythology of Evie McBlogger that much more rich to me. Plus, knowing she's part Jersey Neo-Nazi also makes reading Ambien & Evie a much more complex experience that I think is worth another go.
- You know when you save an inside joke as a draft in your phone because you don't want to forget it, but forget it anyway and then when you discover it like, years later it's that much more funny because it's aged like a fine wine? Well that's what happened with this conversation between me and my dad that's been saved in my old phone since April of 2008:
Dad: I don't want to say Jimmy Buffet's a one-trick-pony...
Me: And yet, you just did.
Dad: Well let's just say he made an entire career off of the concept of an incredibly gay town on the tip of Florida.
I am now speaking directly to my future hypothetical children—Maybelle and Henry von Hottie Bike Messenger: You are to read, print and save this blog post until the day I day because that, and only that, is what I want engraved on my tombstone. In 44-point Trajan. Do that for mumsy. Thanks!
- It's been a while since I've done a "You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?" feature, but that's not due to lack of feather ruffling. Because my feathers have been a-rufflin', friends. My panties are in a twist. My bonnet is full of bees. My...thing is all...jacket up...? Point being: I'm pissed off. Specifically, I'm pissed off at two distinct groups of people. And let me tell you, there is a special place in hell reserved for these people. When Hitler and Pol Pot organize their 10th Annual Seventh Circle of Hell Block Party, these are the people they'll send evites to:
1.) People who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines at the gym
2.) People who lean against the metro pole during rush hour
I genuinely have trouble putting into words how irritating I find these people. I've been wanting to do a blog post on them both for quite some time, but every time I start writing it, I get legitimately flustered and overwhelmed and have to stop before I have a brain aneurysm.
Let's start with people at the gym who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines—what the fuck is wrong with you people? There are signs literally everywhere telling you not to do exactly what you're doing. And these signs aren't just afterthoughts jotted down on a post-it note, haphazardly slapped on the mirror. They're typed, printed, framed and nailed to the wall. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure this rule is known, so maybe it's a good idea you respect it. You know, THIS RULE THAT ALL GYMS IN AMERICA HAVE. Don't act like you don't know what's up. And by the way, it is a rule. If you were to take the time to glance up from your John Grisham novel and read the sign that's posted directly in front of your fat fucking face, you'll see that it's not suggested you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not encouraged that you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not preferred that you respect the 30-minute time limit; it's a RULE. I don't mean to be a total Terry Cooper all fallin' in love with the rules or whatever, but that rule is in place for a specific reason—nobody has time to stand around the gym for 45 minutes while you leisurely stroll on the treadmill reading Us Weeklys from the past five weeks. The gym is the kind of heinous place you just want to get in, get out and be done with. I mean, we all have places to go; homes to get home to; episodes of Intervention waiting for us. And you're holding shit up with your own selfishness. You are a Selfish Shellfish and it fucking pisses me off!
Sit down and let me tell you a true story from my life. When I go to the gym, I have a specific routine I like to do: I start with 30 minutes on the elliptical and end with 30 minutes on the arc trainer. The other day I got to the gym and it was oddly packed. I walked past the ellipticals to scope out how much time people had left to see if it was more time efficient to wait or if I should switch up my routine and do the arc trainer first (shudder, shudder). Irritatingly enough, most people had like 18-20 minutes left except for one girl who had 48 MINUTES LEFT! 48 MINUTES! And she was already sweating like a bitch when I got there which I can only assume means she had been there for a while! She also had this huge test prep book draped all over her machine, papers flying everywhere, her jacket and bag strewn about like she fuckin' owned the place—I mean, what the fuck is going on here?! This isn't your apartment; you can't just set up shop and hunker down for the night! And I can understand this behavior if it's 9 o'clock at night and the place is practically empty, but this was seriously at 6:15 in the evening. You could not pick a busier time to raise a leg, spray a machine and make it yours for the night. And I know this has nothing to do with anything, but she was offensively ugly. There, I said it. I know, I know, I'm a horrible human being and I'm no prize piece either and blah blah blah, but seriously—that bitch had a face on her head. And that face looked like scrambled eggs. And for whatever reason it made the situation that much more irritating to be in. By the time I was done with the arc trainer and needed an elliptical, they were all still in use! Including, of course, by Head-Face Girl who had been there for the past babillion years! The fuck?! So then, of course, I was put in a position where I had to decide if I was going to say something to her or not. Did I? Of course not. Because then I'd be That Guy. Did I say something to the manager? No. Because then I'd be That Guy^max. I just don't appreciate being in the position where I have to choose between letting an inconsiderate A-fuck win or risk being That Guy. Because nobody in that situation wins and it's just not fair.
Christ. Now I'm all riled up just in time for Boss #2 to come in for the day. I'll attack Metro Pole Humpers tomorrow...Lord knows I just don't have the strength now. Time to lower my blood pressure with 'Ole Faithful: