Three Kinds of Stupid
Oh, y’all. There is so much Stupid in my life. So much that it merits an entry. So much that I can actually divide it into three whole categories when I write about it. So much that… that I haven’t even the foggiest idea how to finish that sentence or finish this intro, so I am just going to commence writing about the Stupid.
Stupid That Is In No Way My FaultKate discovered this bit of Stupid and kindly shared it with me last night. She does a lot of shipping through UPS for work. And when you do a lot of shipping, the amount of times that the shipping gets fucked up rises proportionately. (Unless you have angered the shipping gods. Or are mailing magic pants, apparently. Because has anyone else seen
Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants? And if so, has anyone else noticed that the pants seemed to fail at the “traveling” part of the equation with alarming frequency? I don’t know, maybe they were just trying to add drama with the whole utterly inexplicable package continually being lost in the mail thing, but all it did was divert my attention from the Teens In Crisis over to, “Holy Crap. I am never mailing anything EVER AGAIN. But I digress. A lot.)
Now one would expect that UPS, being a shipping dynasty, for the love of God, would be aware that shipping problems cause anxiety, and- not
wanting to cause anxiety in their customers (...
Comcast), would have developed an advanced, efficient way of handling said shipping problems. One would be sad and naive, however, if one expected that. Instead, UPS has a policy that works in the way to cause the shipper the maximum stress possible.
UPS refuses to ship for you unless you give them a phone number. Again. You HAVE to give them a PHONE NUMBER. So… they have a phone number. And when a package gets lost and sent back to them, they… call you? Right? At the phone number? That they demanded?
No.
They send a postcard.
Back to the wrong address. Telling the people at the wrong address who already sent the package back that… that the package was delivered to the wrong address.
Why, people? Why?
Stupid That Is Only Partially My FaultScene from last night’s work out with my personal trainer:
Me: (Lying on my back, draped over a large bouncy ball.)
PT: “Ok, now walk out a bit until only your head and neck are on the ball.”
Me: “Um. Ok.”
PT: “Good! Now raise your butt up higher than your knees.”
Me: “I… ow. This isn’t real, is it. You are just seeing exactly how far I will go.”
PT: “Nope! This is real! And fun! Although, maybe my idea of fun is different than yours.
Me: “In that mine tends to NOT involve myself looking like a drunken, upside down crab in public? Yeah.”
PT: (Hands me 2 ten pound barbells.) “Now. Hold these in your hands and straighten your arms, then bend your elbows, bringing them back towards your head for triceps work.”
Me: (To reprise. On my back, on a ball, supported only by my neck and shoulders, ass in the air, and pretty sure my triceps? Stopped working sometime around the 3rd set of lifty things I did with a bar while balanced on the squishy half ball about a half hour ago.) “Um… I am going to hit myself in the head.”
PT: “No you’re not!”
Me: “Um… Look, I’m telling you…”
PT: “Come on! Ten! Nine! Eight! Get your butt up!”
Me: (on the inside) “This is a baaad idea.”
PT: “Seve-“
Weight: “Thunk.”
PT: “OH MY GOD. Are you ok??? I could totally HEAR THAT WEIGHT HIT YOU IN THE HEAD.”
Me: (Butt totally not up.) “Funny, I never could have seen THAT one coming.”
Stupid That is Totally, Entirely My FaultSo, I never got to go see my favorite co-worker yesterday to discuss 24. And… there may be a different show, that even while it is completely awful is also filled with Pretty, and she may have watched it last night and sent me a few e-mails about it. And… maybe I was reading those e-mails while pretending to talk to my boss about work and maybe I sort of busted out laughing mid-conversation. But anyway, even if all of this stuff happened, the point is I was very excited to go talk to her. So excited that I sort of neglected my morning routine. Including the part where I attach my ID to my pants. So I ran to talk to her, and…
Yep. Locked myself in the stairway.
Again.
And this time? No one rescued me. I had to sneak down to the eighth floor, where I hid in a Secret Agent Crouch until the hallway was empty, and then ran to the elevator, trying to look all nonchalantly at the guard and pretend that, yes, Mr. Guard, I TOTALLY BELONG HERE, and I was so busy looking nonchalantly at the guard that I failed to notice that the elevator doors had CLOSED, until I nonchalantly walked right into them. And then I still had to call my co-worker to let me out of the elevator bank.
Sigh.
Aaaannd, the Weekend Ends
With the following conversation:
E: (brings a bowl of plain vanilla ice cream into the living room, where we are watching TV).
Kate: "Why are you eating that without chocolate sauce?"
E: "There is no chocolate sauce."
Kate: "There is chocolate sauce."
E: "I looked. No chocolate sauce."
Kate: "It's a can."
E: "Nope."
Citycat: "Yes, I absolutely
guarentee to you that there IS chocolate sauce. In the fridge."
E: (minorly affronted). "Where?"
Citycat: "Top shelf. In a can, behind a few of the things in front."
E: (with a put out sigh of self rightiousness) "Fine." (stomps into kitchen).
From Kitchen: (Fridge opens. Bangs, bang bang. Crash. Bang. Fridge shuts.)
Citycat: (under her breath to Kate) "Whatever you do, E, don't use your
eyes. Just don't LOOK, with your EYES, or anything."
E: (Tromps back into living room with plain ice cream.) "There is no chocolate sauce."
Citycat: "OH FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST." (Stomps into kitchen opens fridge, reaches in, grabs the chocolate sauce from it's place in PLAIN SIGHT, exactly where we had said it was, returns triumphantly into living room."
E: "Where? Where WAS IT?"
E and Citycat go into kitchen. Citycat returns chocolate sauce to the same spot.
Kate: "I WANT TO SEE THIS." (tromps into kitchen. Sees sauce. Bursts out laughing.)
E: "IT was NOT there. I moved stuff! It wasn't there a minute ago! I swear!"
Kate: (Takes ice cream from E. Picks up chocolate and pours it on ice cream. Takes spoon from E. Leaves room with E's ice cream.).
E: "Wait... but? That's my ice cream?"
Kate: "YOU ARE TOO BLIND TO EAT."
Citycat: "But Kate, it is mean to steal treats from blind people."
E: (on floor, laughing.)
Oh, y'all.
Go Steelers!!!
Insanity Reigns
So, it would be nice to sit here and post a nice, coherent entry about my life. But that? Is SO not going happen, because I don't think my apartment as a collective whole has had a coherent thought all weekend. And that is definitely fun, and makes me want to post, but if you expect me to make any
sense, you are simply out of luck.
Last night E and I read what honestly amounts to an entirely unhealthy amount of Random Funny Things On The Internet, causing the development of nonsensical inside jokes. (ie: After a bumpy landing, the stewardess came on the mic and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to know that that landing was not the pilot's fault. It was not the co-pilot's fault. It was the asphalt.")
Ok, you know what that is? That is Not. Funny. But E and I? Oh, E and I thought it was funny, in fact, we thought it was
hilarious, and now everything that goes wrong in our apartment is promptly blamed on the asphalt. Of course, Kate fell right into this too, because she lives here, and that doesn't leave you much of a choice.
Maybe the problem was the fact that somehow we ended up not eating dinner until insanely late, and low blood sugar makes you stupid. But Kate and Top Model came home from Trader Joe's with food and many, many bottles of wine from around the world. Which we drank while playing a new game Top Model taught us, called the Bowl Game, which yes, is as much fun as it sounds, but no, not for the reasons it sounds like it should be fun. Anyway, this game begins by everyone writing down hundreds of random names, and I am proud to say that Kiefer/Jack Bauer ended up in the bowl
five times. Um, y'all? There were only four of us. Anyway, you then divide into teams and proceed to try to guess names, and Top Model and I lost, because of a combination of several factors, first being that E and Kate have been dating since the Clinton administration and it simply wasn't fair, since they can totally read each others minds. But it was actually even worse than that, because I am totally predictable, and it led to many conversations that went like this:
"The one Citycat is in love with."
"No, the other one."
"No, the
other one."
"KIEFER",
while I promptly lost my mind and when trying to get Top Model to guess "Thomas Jefferson", literally, ALL I COULD COME UP WITH WAS: "Um. He was a president. Um... he was a
good president?" And she might have hated me a little bit. But that was ok because we then watched Daniel and Nick make out on Project Runway in slow motion (oh, YES they DID), and re-wrote Toni Braxton's "Unbreak My Heart" for recently eliminated Andre to "Unsell My Shop".
Yeah.
And while I am just stream of consciousness typing, I would like to mention that it is probably a good thing that I am in love with fictional characters, because again? Me and dating? No. Just.... no. I realized this a few weeks ago at work, when I was eating some chili I had made for lunch and a co-worker mentioned that it smelled good. I mentioned that I use a lot of garlic, and she sort of paused, and said... "Oh. Well. So if you meet a vampire, you are all set."
And I started thinking about that, because Peanut and I had recently had a conversation and she had mentioned eschewing spinach dip at a party because she might run into a guy and didn't want to get spinach on her teeth.
So let's review.
Normal, healthy single girl automatically adjust lifestyle in case she meets: A guy.
I? Unconsciously adjust my lifestyle in case I meet: A Vampire.
But this is probably a good thing, because today a guy I met a few weeks ago called to chat, and proceeded to
get into a car accident while on the phone with me.
Universe?
I get it. And I will stick to vampires. And Kiefer.
And Oh. My. God.
Lost Boys. That JUST occurred to me. And I would be lying if I said I wasn't going to die a little happier because of it.
Anyway, today Kate, E, and I got up, then proceeded to do NOTHING, until
Dragonheart came on. Oh yes,
Dragonheart. Which is a far, far better movie than it has any right to be, because Sean Connery just acts the SHIT out of the animated Dragon part, and Dennis Quaid just goes through the whole movie with this look on his face, like he can't
possibly be
taking this shit seriously, but it's
fucking Sean Connery, and
he is taking it seriously, so he just goes with it.
So we went and had lunch, and then came back and watched Kate get into no fewer than four battles with her keys, all in the space of like 10 minutes and all of which she lost, rather spectacularly. And hilariously, as far as E and I were concerned. And although Kate pointed out that I really should probably have gone out tonight, I chose instead to stay in and watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, eat pizza, and read a new book.
And post, obviously. Because the whole point of a blog is the place you can bringthe Crazy.
