Things I Have Learned In The Past Two Weeks

... since I'm all about you know, uh, learning.

Once you have acquired a Stage Five Clinger*, there is NO shaking him.

Seriously. Ladies, I would like to give you some solid, amazing advice: No matter HOW devastated you are when something bad happens to you, do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT seek comfort/friendship/a rebound with a Stage Five Clinger. You will not be able to detach him from your leg. Ever. I'm seriously considering changing my identity, as plainly explaining that I do not want a relationship with him and ignoring his texts/calls/messages did not seem to make it sink into his beady little brain that I would rather chew off my own arm than hang out with him ever again.

Haha, I just had a thought- at least three boys are going to think I am talking about them. I could include a telling detail to put their minds at ease but I'm not that nice. Ha. Ha. Ha. HA!

Artificial Christmas trees ARE easy to assemble...

... if you're not an eager, disorganized jackass like me. I tore into the box of branches like a monkey and spent an hour cursing, throwing things and guzzling wine as I tried to figure out which ones matched and which row said matching branches should go on... only to discover they are color coded at the ends and have corresponding colors on the rows. You know, to make things EASIER.

I can stick my hand in a dark place without freaking out.

For obvious reasons, I have an aversion to sticking my hand in holes, boxes, dark corners, etc. Anything could be lurking there- spiders, a rabid chipmunk, my Stage Five Clinger (see above). My garbage disposal stopped working, see. I immediately called my stepfather and said, "My garbage disposal stopped working, see," fully expecting him to say, "I'll be right over." No. He told me to unplug the bastard and stick my hand down there to fish around for debris that could be stopping the blades.

I actually took the telephone away from my ear and looked at it, just to make sure he was for real.

He was.

I put on six pairs of rubber gloves, unplugged the wretched machine (which I had actually loved up till that point- I could dump stuff and things down there, flip a switch and it would all go bye bye... a genius invention) and peered down the hole. Sick. I shut my eyes and jammed my hand down there (is that what she said??).

I only almost puked one time, because I found a chicken bone and some hair.

After ten minutes of feeling around, it still doesn't work. BUT! BUT! I stuck my hand in a dark place! Go me!

I really suck at beer pong and busting the caps off beer bottles with my hand.

In my defense, I was already pretty tipsy when I started the beer pong. My teammate didn't even want me. I felt like I was in freshman gym class all over again- last one picked (unless my best friend was the team captain) and always dropping the ball. Still, I think I should resign myself to the fact that sports, even of the drinking nature, are something I will never be good at. I am not graceful and I am not good at handling balls (see what I did there? A little word play for my fellow pervs).

As far as popping beer bottles open using my hand and a sturdy surface... this was just a BAD idea. However, when someone, especially a male, encourages or dares me to do something that could potentially showcase just what a bad ass I am, I'm probably going to do it.

Except I couldn't do it. I tried and tried, I really did. I WANTED to pop the bottle cap open, chug it and punt the empty bottle into a raging bonfire with all the smoothness and finesse of a female James Bond. My desire to impress my peers completely overrode my good judgment and I woke up the next day with a giant bruise on my wrist and, worst of all, none of those empty bottles in the still smoldering fire were kicked there by me.

I was not meant to own earrings.

Not pairs anyway. I always lose one, just ONE fucking earring. Sometimes they are returned, other times they are lost forever. I gave up on keeping track of them. Maybe I'll just shut my eyes and reach in my earring martini bowl (yes, I said "earring martini bowl." What, you don't have one? How sad for you!) and grab two earrings, matching or not, to wear when I go places.

Growing a temporary pair of balls CAN get a girl a date (temporary because balls on a girl aren't very attractive).

I recently gave my number to a boy I have been admiring from afar who comes into my work pretty regularly. At first I wasn't going to do it, but I was also very tired of getting all flustered trying to make small talk with him whenever he was there. So, I handed him a piece of paper with my number on it. The delivery sucked ("Uhhh... I don't usually do this but here's my number and uh, I think you're cute, and uh... I'm gonna go away now" then running away like a five year old) but he actually CALLED that very night and we had drinks. Go me!


My ex is a giant douchebag and I am truly better off without him.

Surely you recall my nasty breakup back in October. As it turns out, Mr. Murder couldn't stand it when I actually started to move on. He emailed. He texted. He called. When I informed him I had no interest whatsoever in having contact with him ever again, he informed me his new girl is going to med school and I am a slut.

(I couldn't stop laughing, because he's a such a LIAR- he doesn't have a new girlfriend.)

I went and wrote his new phone number on the bathroom wall of the bar my friends and I were at, with instructions for every female to call and tell him he is a real bastard.

I hope he enjoyed fielding phone calls from drunk, middle-aged cougars. I know the thought of it made me all warm and fuzzy inside and was very enjoyable for me.

The picture below depicts how happy I was.




Ok, that's actually a picture of me when I was drunk. But I'm pretty sure I was happy, so it works.

My, what a productive, educational two weeks I have had! And I haven't even touched on some of the shenanigans I got into- but my fingers hurt from typing and I need to go stare at my garbage disposal in an attempt to will it to work with my mind.




*Stage Five Clinger- an individual who latches onto another individual with deluded, one-sided notions that they were meant to be together. There is currently no cure for a Stage Five Clinger.