Contaminating My Orange Juice: Don't Do It

Here is a perfect example of why I can't be in a relationship. Of course, this involves my younger sister not a significant other BUT it touches on one of my pet peeves: taking something out of the fridge and drinking straight from the container. It's just gross. All the backwash... saliva... germs... Men are notorious for container drinking. Absolutely notorious. My aversion to having a "community container" might be viewed as nagging by some. Doesn't matter. It makes me crazy and I can't deal with it.

See, I bought some orange juice this evening because I did not feel well and it sounded so good. I brought my precious juice home and nestled it safely in the fridge with the intention of pouring myself a glass after I put the other groceries away but then life got in the way (read: I started surfing the internet while drinking a Diet Sunkist) and I did not get to savor any of the orangey goodness.

Knowing it was chilling in the fridge just waiting to fill my body with all that vitamin C was a great comfort to me and about half an hour ago, with much anticipation, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a nice, cold glass of liquid happiness.

As I reached for the container, I noticed the seal was broken and the cap was screwed on at a funny angle. I felt the way victims of burglary must feel when they come home from a nice dinner and see the door to their house is ajar. Further inspection showed a small amount of my precious juice was missing- like the amount one would GULP STRAIGHT OUT OF THE CONTAINER. There was definitely not a glass worth's missing.

Heidi.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed an orange (NOT the same) and padded back into my room. I was going to let it go till the morning but the thought of my delicious orange juice being mouth raped by my careless, flippant, GERM INDIFFERENT sister made sleep impossible.

Being too cold and tired to get up and sucker punch her, I texted her. I wanted a confession and I wanted it now.

Me: Did you drink out of the OJ container?

(no response)

Me: DID YOU??

Me: I know you're awake I can hear you talking on your phone.

I heard her stop talking. Then a response came through.

Heidi: I put a little bit in my Steelers cup.

(FALSE! Her Steelers cup was sitting in the dishwasher with other dirty dishes.)

Me: Really. Where was your Steelers cup?

Heidi: The sink.

AHA! The deception!

Me: WRONG!

Me: You took a swig right out of the container and I want to hear your dirty little mouth admit it!

Her reply came after a moment or two. Clearly she was debating whether she should send a smart-assed reply or not, and whether I was going to come out and sucker punch her. It probably threw her off that I was incorporating quotes from our favorite movie, Step Brothers, into my line of questioning. I wanted to be inside her head like that, making her unsure of her next move...

Heidi: Okay. I'm sorry, I did drink out of it. It was just a sip. I lied because I didn't want you to be mad at me.

I admired her newfound honesty. Perhaps she wouldn't be headed for a life of crime as an Orange Juice Raper after all. Plus, I didn't mind if she drank some of the orange juice as long as she didn't swill it straight from the container like a goddamned cannibal savage assface.

Me: I'm going to put my nutsack on your Steelers cup [again, a movie quote]. DO NOT DRINK STRAIGHT OUT OF FUCKING CONTAINERS THAT WE BOTH USE.

Pretty soon I heard her shout, "Please don't put your nutsack on my Steelers cup, you fucker!"

If I had a nutsack, I TOTALLY would.

UPDATE: Joe put his nutsack on Heidi's Steelers cup. Ah, sweet revenge.

If Marilyn Doesn't Kill Me, The Shots Will

I am in the process of decorating my new room. Everytime I think I have exhausted all my creativity regarding the color scheme and decor, I get a new and even more brilliant idea.

Hence, my black and white photograph of Marilyn Monroe. I had wanted one to hang above my bed but couldn't seem to find the right one till yesterday. I got so excited when I saw it on the rack that I actually dropped some of the stuff I was holding as I frantically tried to grab it before someone else did (there wasn't even anyone on that aisle with me, but there could have been).

The only downfall? This picture was HEAVY. I picked it up and dragged it to the checkout line and ignored the voice in the back of my mind that was telling me the picture was too heavy and that there was no way I'd have the patience to wait for my stepfather to come over and anchor it properly. I'm pretty sure I whistled all the way to my car and possibly skipped, too.

I ended up hanging Marilyn myself. I was too excited about her and I knew my stepdad would tell me where I could shove my picture if I called and demanded he come over right away and hang it. I'm quite proud that there are only a few chunks out of the wall (Marilyn is covering them) and that I had the good sense to measure and center where I hung her rather than just blindly hammering a couple nails in the wall and hoping for the best.

Marilyn is not as securely hung as I would have preferred. I truly believe that at some point in the near future she will come crashing down on my head while I sleep. But as you can see from the extremely dim picture I took, she LOOKS fabulous so who cares? In my mind, my untimely demise at the hands of Marilyn is going to be something like that awful hotel scene in Bride of Chucky when the mirrors break and fall from the ceiling in giant shards and slice the couple in the bed below into itty-bitty bloody pieces.

Except it'll just be me and possibly a cat or four and I'll probably have on stupid pajamas that don't match.

And if Marilyn doesn't kill me, the shots will.

I went out last night for the first time in about ten days. I had repeatedly told myself that I would NOT be imbibing shots, that I would stick to light beer and behave myself.

This went well for the first half hour or so. Pretty soon, though, as more people I knew showed up at the bar, I abandoned ship on the no shots pact I'd made with myself.

I was introduced to a wonderful shot that involves dragons and rum. It smelled like a perfume I own and love so I assumed it would be harmless to drink several of them.

Perhaps this is what lowered my awareness and defenses and allowed for the following conversation between myself and this lady stalker my new friend has (his name shall be left out as I fear he will soon have to enter the Witness Protection Program to escape her) to take place. I must set this up for you by explaining that she and I used to be married into the same family.

She appeared at my side out of nowhere and said, "Hey. Did [name of my ex-husband] have a big penis?"

I blinked at her. "Um. What?"

"Did [blank] have a big penis?"

There was no winning here. I didn't know her angle. If I said yes, maybe she'd try to go rape him then kill him and make a suit out of his skin or something. If I said no, I'd be insulting him. "Well... it wasn't, um, HUGE... it was just... uh... average?" I wanted to be anywhere but in that conversation, people. My brain was soaked in alcohol and just not producing the witty one liners I would've spouted out under normal circumstances. "It wasn't like, massive. It was just... normal."

She looked crestfallen. The next thing she said just blew my damn mind: "Oh. I was just curious because my ex had a small dick and that means there's probably no hope for [name omitted] to have a big one, then."

She was referring to her son. I stared at her for a second to see if she was serious.

She was.

What do you say to that? Should I have told her how sorry I was that her boy would never be hung like a donkey and that I could totally relate to why she'd be concerned with that, because I, too, hoped to someday have a son with a pecker the size of a jumbo rolling pin?

I'm pretty sure I just laughed in response while making slow movements towards someone, anyone else.

Or my pepper spray.

Or my car.

Or my mommy.

Yes, if Marilyn doesn't kill me, the shots will.