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That Time the Universe Didn’t Want Me to Go to Baltimore

1 Jul

As I sit here, staring at a blank text box… I have no idea where this post is going to go, so I hope y’all aren’t looking for Pulitzer material out of me today. I’m on my lunch break at work and avoiding my accounting homework like the plague, so the way I see it… you’re all helping me procrastinate. Thanks for that, assholes.

Ohh!  I got it. I’ll regale you all with the tale of one of my more recent (and by recent, I mean January or February) trips to Baltimore and how the universe plotted against me the whole way there.

I had off on a rare Sunday, so I figured why the hell shouldn’t I head down to Charm City to see some friends and drink some beers and have a Sunday Funday like everyone else in the world (you know, the ones that don’t work retail and have their lives run by shitty hours)?  Baltimore is roughly a 1.5-2hr drive from the burbs of Philly where I reside, so this trip should’ve been a piece of cake, right? Wrong.

I woke up late, having snoozed through my alarm roughly 137 times (hyperbole is my favorite) and rushed to get showered and dressed and ready. I called Lauren, my BFF that I rarely ever get to see (miss you, smooches!) and let her know I was off to a slow start. After getting perfectly coiffed and made up and ready to roll, I headed out the front door, excited to begin the day’s adventure. Caffeine addict that I am, I decided to stop for coffee on the way. I hit I-95 south, and was on my merry way. As I drove along, I went to grab my coffee and take a sip. Like a dumb ass, I grabbed it from the top, and the next thing you know, I had hot coffee all over my lap. Fucking awesome. In pain and soaking wet, I pulled off the closest exit, which happened to dump me in the lovely city of Chester (note my sarcasm when I say lovely). I hit the nearest surface street, pull over, and jump out of my car, flailing around because I’m covered in coffee and that shit was HOT. What I did not notice was the group of guys sitting out on the front stoop across the street from where I was doing my third-degree burn dance.

“Hey white girl… you ok?” is the phrase that pulled me out of my flailing, and I sheepishly told the very large man looking at me like I’d lost my mind what had happened. Turns out, his name was Jamal, and he was sympathetic to my plight. He offered me a towel, which I graciously accepted, and a shower, which I politely declined. Showering in the homes of strangers isn’t something I make a habit of – that’s how bitches end up as a plot on Criminal Minds. Once I was sufficiently dried off, I  had a decision to make. Drive to Baltimore covered in coffee and buy pants once I got to town, or take the 20min trip back home and change. Erring on the side of frugality, I headed home. I got back to my house in record time, a woman on a mission. I parked my car out front, and went to run inside to change. I didn’t make it halfway up the front walk when I felt something hit my head. SPLAT! A bird took the nastiest shit ever, and it landed directly in my hair. That’s right, after spilling coffee all over myself, I got shit on by a bird whose diet must consist only of purple, sticky berries.

I went inside, determined to make it to Baltimore by the end of the day, and showered, having to wash my hair THREE times to get the bird crap out of it. THREE TIMES. Ridiculous. I headed out the door and hit the road once again, this time opting to stop at 7-11 for a Rockstar, since coffee clearly wasn’t in the cards anymore. I made it down 95 and 495 without incident, and was content to rock out on my way down, keeping my speed probably somewhere around 80-85mph (don’t judge me). I was hell bent on making it to Baltimore before noon. Anyone that is familiar with where route 495 dumps back onto 95 in Christiana can vouch for me that this piece of road is terrible. People forget how to merge, and it’s basically just a huge clusterfuck. Changing lanes is like playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun sometimes, and I have literally never experienced this stretch of highway without uttering something along the lines of “goddamnfuckingDelawaredriverswhatthefuckareyoudoingIhateyougetthefuckoutofmywaybeforeIrunyouoffthegoddamnroad” (road rage may or may not be an issue for me). Anyway, I guess I had forgotten to mention that it had recently snowed. Right.

As I navigated amongst the Delwarians trying to figure out what MERGE means, I got stuck behind a tractor trailer, which large trucks on either side of me. Fantastic. I quickly realized the truck in front of me hadn’t bothered to clear the top of his trailer before getting on the road, and there was a rather large amount of snow hanging on precariously to the top of the trailer. It took me all of three seconds to realize this shit was about to shake loose and head my way, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. Sure enough, AVALANCHE!! The windshield of my car was assaulted by what I figure was 2 tons of snow, and lost visibility for a minute. All I could do was white-knuckle the steering wheel, keep it steady, turn my wipers on, and pray. I narrowly avoided disaster.

I ended up making it to Balitmore just shy of my 12pm goal, and was met at the bar by friends and beer… all’s well that ends well, I guess. I figure I’m a trooper for continuing on when all signs pointed to keeping my ass in Philadelphia for the day. Dedication, friends, that’s what that is. The end.

I warned you all that this wouldn’t be my best material, so… yeah. Just another day in the life, right?

xoxo

That One Time We Got Locked Out (Or, Thanks Officer Friendly, I didn’t need my security deposit back anyway)

17 Jun

The above video has nothing to do with this story other than the fact that the police are involved, but it still makes me giggle. You’re welcome.

Back in college, I lived in a studio apartment above a bowling alley. The entrance I used to get upstairs was a security door on the side of the building. I lived on the third floor, so I’m sure you can imagine what a trek those stairs were, especially when drunk. At the time, I was working part time for T-Mobile, going to class, and was in a relationship with Baltimore (we’ll call him Baltimore since that’s where he lives and I don’t like naming names). We had been together for a few months by then, and since we were long distance we’d split time on weekends between Baltimore and Philly. Because I was working retail, Baltimore would hang out at my apartment while I worked. Because there was only one key to the security door of my building and it couldn’t be copied, I would leave my house keys when I went to work so he wasn’t doomed to stay in the house all day.

One particular Saturday night, I worked a closing shift. I remember getting home tired and mildly cranky, but excited I’d get to see the boy and relax. I called him from the car, letting him know I was home since he had to come downstairs to let me in – the bowling alley wasn’t high tech enough for an intercom system. He greeted me at the door with a smile, and we started up the steps. Up three flights of wooden stairs was a long hallway, and at the end of it was my apartment door. No sooner did we hit the beginning of that hallway did I hear “FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER.” See, the door to apartment number 8 was a little tricky. Because the door was so goddamn old, it had kind of a strange lock on it – in order for it to stay unlocked, you push a little button next to the knob on the inside. If you didn’t push the button, the door would need to be opened from the outside with the key. That night, Baltimore had forgotten this minor detail (as I had once or twice in the past on my own) and gone downstairs behind me to let me in, and didn’t think to leave the door open or push the button on the knob. We were locked out.

My first thought was to go downstairs to call my rental office. When no one answered the emergency line there, Baltimore suggested I go down to the bowling alley to see if they had the landlord’s direct number. As it turned out, they did. I called him, and he was fairly rude in telling me he was an hour away and if the rental office didn’t call me up, I could simply wait until the next morning to be let back into my place. By rude, I mean he was a raging dickhole. Fed up with the lack of action, Baltimore offered to attempt to kick the door in. Tired and hungry, I relented, figuring it was worth a shot. After a few solid kicks, we decided to call the police to see if they could help. He was barefoot and avoiding injury was key.

Two officers showed up and the four of us brainstormed. The police said they could call the fire department to have them put a ladder up to the building so I could climb over the rail of my deck and climb through the window, which we were almost certain was open. After much debate, I decided I would rather try to find another way, mainly because I felt really dumb having to call the fire department to my home, lights and sirens, simply because my boyfriend accidentally locked us out. One of the nice policemen said “Well, I could kick it in if you want. Should swing right open.” Since he was wearing heavy boots and a badge, I figured why not?

Officer Friendly prepared himself with a couple of light bounces on the balls of his feet and kicked HARD… however, instead of aiming for the spot right above the lock, which would have hopefully forced the latch open, he went for the center of the door. Now, if this door had been up to code and had been solid wood, he would have most likely broken his foot. Instead, he put his foot DIRECTLY THROUGH THE TOP PANEL OF MY DOOR. His foot got stuck, and we all stood there for a second staring at one another before completely cracking up. After a solid two minutes of laughing our asses off, the officer reached through the hole in the door and unlocked it for me. I made mention of losing my security deposit, and the officer who hadn’t kicked a whole in my door looked at me and said “Well… here’s my card, but good luck getting the department to cover that. You gave permission for use to forcefully enter the apartment.” He wasn’t wrong… I HAD said they could kick it in. We thanked them and went inside, where I called my dad and asked him if he could come over and fix the door.

After explaining to my dad what happened when he arrived, he simply shook his head and said, “Only you.” He patched the hole with a sheet of plywood, a 2″x4″, and some screws. The rental office called me two days later, and I told them what happened. They told me I had to replace the door or I would lost my deposit. My dad came over and hung a new door a couple days later and hung a new door. The landlord stopped over a week later, and told me the door we hung wasn’t a fire door, and we had to buy a new one. I refused, calling L&I within the township to run the situation by them. They agreed the original door on the building couldn’t have been a fire door if the police had been able to destroy it with one single kick. I refused to replace it, and ended up losing my deposit. Thanks, UDPD.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is my life.

XOXO

A Girl and Her Dog (the Walking Mishap gets a dog…)

27 Jul

*Note: This post has been in the works for ages, and I’ve been slow to get it posted, but my little dude deserves his due. He’s currently curled up next to me, snoozing the day away… spoiled little bastard that he is.

Since the day I moved home from college and into my own apartment, there has been nothing I’ve wanted more than a dog. My own little canine companion, one that would wag his or her tail at me enthusiastically when I get home from work, cheer me up when I was feeling down, and basically be my furry friend. Apartment after apartment, however, pets were not allowed. My family constantly advised me against adopting an animal (mainly because for quite some time, I was rarely ever home), and for a while, the outlook on getting a dog was grim. Upon moving back out of my parents’ place last September, I refocused on adopting a canine companion.

My landlord at the time was dead-set against the idea at first; she had plans to eventually sell the house I was living in, and didn’t want it to smell like dog. The tenant in the upstairs apartment had a dog, so I figured there was hope. After working through the holiday season and stalking petfinder.com and delcospca.org like it was my job, I found a listing for a little guy named Elmer. He was different than the larger bully breeds I had been looking at (I had fallen in love with a deaf American Bulldog the SPCA had listed, but they required he go to a home with a fenced in yard, which I did not have). Weighing in at only 9 lbs, this little guy was listed on the website as a poodle/terrier mix. He had been found as a stray, and came into the shelter in pretty bad shape. He was so horribly matted they had to shave him bare, and he had infections in his ears and eyes.

I immediately called my mom, after shooting her an email with the link to his Petfinder page. She agreed that he might be a good choice… if only I could get permission from my landlord. Early the next morning, I called her up, and laid the situation out for her. He was a tiny little guy that wouldn’t shed (poodles don’t shed) and his online listing said it seemed as though he was housebroken. After some persuasion and hemming and hawing, she agreed to let me have him. One of my favorite people in the world had arrived at my house by this time, watching me make frantic and excited calls to the shelter. As it turned out, the shelter was frantic to find either a foster or permanent home for little Elmer, and I needed to get in there ASAP if I wanted to make him mine.

We piled in the car, and took off to the SPCA. After filling out some paperwork and getting instructions, he was mine!! I had a dog. An old, scared, fully shaved tiny little dude.

Headed home from the SPCA, snug in his new bed.

I decided before even getting to the SPCA that I was going to be renaming this adorable little creature. Elmer didn’t suit him, but I was at a loss. I called him Little Dude for roughly his first 8 hours with me. After much deliberation, I settled on Dexter – yes, I’m an obnoxious fan girl. I’ve read the books and watch the series, but Dexter just fits. As his fur grew in, I learned Dex is a Maltipoo – a Maltese/Poodle mix. He is the sweetest, most loving pup I ever could have chosen. He’s now happy and mostly healthy (he has occasional seizures that scare the everloving shit out of me), and is just an absolute joy.

Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.

Since adopting my little old man, I’ve become a better person. I really, truly believe being a dog owner initiates you into some sort of secret club. Adopting Dex has made me more selfless, and has taught me what it’s like to have to care for someone other than just myself. Owning a dog makes you friendlier when you’re out in public – you stop and say hello to other dog owners while you’re out. You meet people at the dog park (or in the case of my most recent vacation, the dog beach). You find yourself wanting to volunteer or donate to help other animals, because it’s simply not possible to adopt them all. Dex has made me more patient, as caring for a Senior dog takes more care and attention sometimes. He has shown me what absolute, unconditional love is… I’m talking the kind that I’m not even sure humans are capable of feeling.

He’s a strange little guy, this one. In the old apartment, he used to drag his bed around the house for the sole purpose of humping it. He chews his feet and licks the air – both habits are inexplicable, according to the vet. He zips around the house like crazy, right before promptly passing out in my lap. He hates having his feet played with, even though he spends most of his days messing with them himself. He’s got these funny little duck-feet, which have earned him the nickname Scuba Steve from my friends. I really can’t say too much more about this little guy and what he’s done for me – so I’ll leave you with some pictures you can go “AWWWWWWW” over.

Silly Boy.

Dapper after a haircut

Yes, he has a lifejacket.

Happy Boy.

Mini Mishaps

26 Apr

I often stray from the original purpose of this site… to highlight the ridiculous bullshit that happens throughout the course of my daily life. These things are not always huge, drawn out tales of shenanigans and tomfoolery – many times, they are simply bumblings and stumblings that make me laugh… and make everyone else in sight laugh with me (or at me, whatever).

So, for the sake of making fun of myself and/or filling you all in/staying true to the Confessions of a Walking Mishap premise, here are a few recent mishaps for your reading pleasure:

That time I walked around at work with a gigantic hole in my pants…

About a week ago, I realized, while washing my hands in the bathroom, that I had a gaping hole in my pants – right below the zipper… so, basically, I had a gigantic crotch hole in my pants. I saw it in the mirror. I have absolutely no idea how long I walked around like that, nor do I know whether or not anyone saw my goodies and didn’t tell me. The guys I work with say they didn’t notice… here’s hoping they aren’t just saying that.

That time I’m pretty sure my mailman saw me naked…

Okay, so I’m not always the domestic goddess I aspire to be – especially when it comes to laundry/ironing. I’m a menace with an iron. Instead of ironing things, I tend to throw them in the dryer while I’m in the shower (don’t judge). Anyway, this often leads to a dash down to the basement after showering to grab my clothes. Typically, it’s a race against the clock for me to get out the door on time. If my car is parked out back, I’ll often just get dressed in the basement, then off I go. On a particularly pressed-for-time morning, I knew my car was parked out back. I did my hair and makeup as per usual, then decided to forego the towel and just head down to leave. In the nude. Oops. I got down to the living room, and didn’t realize I had forgotten to close the curtains until I saw the mailman through my front window. He turned and walked away, and I made the rest of my dash to get out the door. He hasn’t been able to make eye contact since, so I’m fairly certain he’s seen me bareass. Awesome.

That time I called a Ma’am a Sir…

Sometimes, in working with the public, you run into awkward situations. A few of my coworkers have asked women what their due date was, when in fact, said woman was just a bit rotund. I had an individual come in the other day, and in my greeting, I made the mistake of assuming this short, rather husky individual with the extremely shorn crew cut, broad shoulders and cargo pants/flannel button up ensemble was a sir. Wrong. My “Welcome to ______, sir. My name is Dani, how may I help you?” was met with a VERY angry “My name’s Missy. Does that sound like a man’s name to you?” – OOPS. In my defense, Missy straight up looked like a dude.

 

I’m going to stop here, mainly because I’ve run out of steam and just wanted to make sure I got something posted since it’s been a few weeks.

 

XOXO

 

 

PSA- SAVE UPPER DARBY MUSIC AND ARTS

16 Apr

I’m taking a break from the normal shenanigans around here to address something I feel very passionately about. As a child, pre-teen, and teen, I was very heavily involved in the music program in Upper Darby School District. This very program is now at risk of being cut. Here is my letter to the School Board and District Administration.

Dear Administrators and Members of the Board,
I am an alumna of Garrettford Elementary School, Drexel Hill Middle School, and Upper Darby High School. I am a product of the Upper Darby School District Music Program.  From the time I entered the district in first grade, until the day I graduated from Upper Darby High School, the related arts classes, and more specifically, the music program played an integral role in my education, my personal development, and helped shaped me into who I am today. I am heartbroken to hear that, in the face of a budgeting crisis, your first line of defense and financial recovery is to cut the related arts from our elementary schools.
During my time as a student within Upper Darby School District, I was a proud member of Garrettford’s Fifth Grade Chorus, DHMS’s chorus, Concert Singers, Girls’ Ensemble, and Marching Band, and Upper Darby High School’s Chorus and Concert Choir. As a student who was not athletically inclined, and who was cut from the middle school field hockey team, these groups taught me what it meant to be part of a team. The teachers I encountered during my time in these groups inspired me to be better, to do better, both on stage and as an individual. To Mrs. Pennington, Mr. Pulacik, Mr. Turbedsky, Mr. Rider, Mrs. Schneider-Salhi, and Mrs. Benglian, I say thank you. Thank you for opening doors to me as a student I wouldn’t have known existed without you. Thank you for providing me with a place that I fit in.
As you discuss and debate the merits of keeping or cutting our music program, please consider that the building in which you are holding your board meetings, the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center, was my second home for four years of my life. It was the second home of friends that I considered family, and still do. On the second floor of that building is a room with rows of red chairs sitting on risers, with a piano in the center of it. To many of you, it is just a room. To myself and to so many others, we still consider that room a part of our home. In that room, under the direction of Mrs. Barbara Benglian, we became one voice.
Whether it was choir class, a last minute rehearsal, an actual performance, or a national competition, Mrs. Benglian demanded we give our best. Friends of mine that went to other local high schools joined the chorus because it was an easy “A.” Students at Upper Darby knew better, and joined the music programs because we wanted to be the best. During my time in Concert Choir, we continuously earned the title of Grand Champions at competitions. Our soloists won awards, as did the Encore Singers. Because of the high standard Mrs. Benglian held us to, we held ourselves to the same high standard. It is that high standard that I continue to hold myself to, in everything that I do.
Not only were we held to this high standard musically, but we were also held to an academic standard. Had it not been for that standard, my grades probably would not have been what they were. My main motivation, skewed as it may have been, was to make sure that I stayed academically eligible to perform. My grades that were not the only thing the music program helped me maintain. Without my second home, without Chorus and Concert Choir, I would not have built the confidence I did within those groups. I would not have built the friendships or lasting memories, either. Without the musical foundation built by my elementary and middle school teachers, I do not think I’d have been so strongly committed to the music program as a high-schooler. For so many of us, the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center was our home away from home, and it was where we began to learn who we would be as adults. It kept us off the streets and out of trouble, and more importantly, it gave us something to be proud of.
As a concerned alumna, I implore to you afford current and future students the same opportunities I was given as a student of Upper Darby School District. Allow them to experience greatness, because it is what they deserve.
Thank you,

Danielle
Upper Darby High School, Class of 2003

I cannot begin to describe the level of discipline and excellence that was instilled in me through being involved in this music program. I cannot begin to list the memories, the lessons I learned, or the relationships I forged during my time as a member of this organization. This program saved me, in all honesty. Middle school was an awful time for me – my friends from elementary school had become “too cool” by the time we hit sixth grade – their parents allowed them to dress like baby whores and loiter in convenience store parking lots and mine didn’t.  I was cruelly teased by girls that had once been my best friends and confidants. Upon joining the chorus and later auditioning and being accepted into Concert Singers and Girls’ Ensemble at the middle school level, I found a second home.  I made new friends, ones who didn’t have futures as teen moms and criminals, and I learned about myself. I learned what it was to be a part of something so much bigger than myself.  I gained confidence. I gained a voice. In high school, I think it’s possible I spent more time at the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center than I did my own home . My parents supported and encouraged my involvement, coming to every performance we had to offer. 

If you are from the greater Philadelphia area, and even if you aren’t, PLEASE check out saveudarts.org <— This site has all the information needed to help myself, countless alumni, current students, and district parents take action, and make sure the very voice I was given by this program is heard.

I STAND WITH UPPER DARBY SCHOOL DISTRICT, THEIR RELATED ARTS AND MUSIC FACULTY, ALUMNI AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, CURRENT AND FUTURE STUDENTS WHO DESERVE TO EXPERIENCE AND BE A PART OF EXCELLENCE, JUST AS I WAS.

Weirdos, Creepers, and Tools… (I attract them. Don’t ask why.)

3 Mar

“It puts the lotion on its skin, or it gets the hose again…”

In a crowded room full of people, THIS GUY is the one who would try to approach me. Check out the mangina. Who WOULDN'T want that hitting on them??

That is the phrase I most often expect to hear come out of the mouths of the men (and occasional women) that choose to flatter (or scare) me by hitting on me. I attract more weirdos and creepy strangers than any individual I have ever met. My ability to catch the eye of the strangest person in a room is uncanny; my friends think it’s hysterical and my mother worries for my safety. In an effort to keep my content fresh, I’m going to highlight these winners in a new series of posts, similar to The Automobile Follies. Here’s numero uno, for your reading delight:

The Guy I Pepper-Sprayed on the Subway That One Time.

Super Classy Philly Public Transportation

 During my college years, I relied heavily on public transportation – known in these parts as SEPTA (or the devil’s asshole, whichever you prefer). The university I attended had a parking situation that was less than ideal, so I often commuted to school on pub trans. My route went a little something like this: walk to the trolley, take the trolley to the el, take the el to the subway. Getting home, this was reversed. I digress.

One spring afternoon, I decided to head to campus. I was going to crash with the guy I was seeing, simply to make my life easier (and I missed living on campus – I had moved back to the ‘burbs to save money). I went about my usual excursion. When I ride SEPTA, I typically have my headphones in – it’s normally a “small talk with strangers” deterrent. One stop after I got on, a rather odiferous gentleman took the seat next to mine… in a mostly empty car. If you’ve ever taken public transportation, you should be aware that proper etiquette is as follows: if there are empty seats that are NOT practically in someone else’s lap, you sit in those seats. As the car fills up, and it becomes necessity, THAT is when you sit directly next to someone.

Anyway, the man who smelled like a distillery not only sat right next to me, but once we were on our way, he put his hand on my leg. I politely removed said hand, and said “Please don’t touch me.” When he did this again, clearly ignoring my request, I got up and switched seats. He followed. I politely got up and moved once again, as I was thoroughly creeped out. Clearly not taking my hint, my new friend followed once again.

At the next stop, I got off the car, and moved to a different, slightly more populated car. Wouldn’t you know, at the next stop, he boarded my car. He sat down directly next to me, once again, and put his hand on my leg. I very loudly and very clearly said, “Sir, if you touch me one more time, I’m going to pepperspray the shit out of you.” I got up, and moved to a different seat on the same car. Within 20 seconds, he followed. I warned him once again, and once again, I moved. I was semi-shocked that not a single person on the car came to my aid – then I remembered where I was. Within moments, he was sitting next to me again, and attempted to put his hand on my leg. As we were pulling up to the next stop, I calmly pulled out my trusty can of pepper spray and used it. He screamed like a little girl, and called me a bitch, while taking a swing at me. Thankfully, I had already moved toward the door.

Once we hit the platform, SEPTA’s transit police ended up evacuating the car and arresting my assailant. I went about my day, and vowed to take regional rail from there on out.

 

Things I’m Wicked Bad At (Shocking, right?)

7 Dec

I know, I know. You’d think I would be good at everything and anything I attempt. Truth is, there are a few things I’m simply AWFUL at. Ladies and gentleman, the things I suck at:

Hiding My Emotions

While I am a killer poker player (for real), you’d never know it by my complete inability to keep what I’m thinking/feeling from showing up written all over my face. The guys at work bust on me frequently because I struggle to hide my thoughts when a customer is being stupid/disrespectful/a jagoff/a pain in my ass/whatever. Smiling through it all is one of my biggest challenges, especially when my inner monologue is going off on a wicked diatribe. I cannot tell you how many times a day I have to smile through gritted teeth while thinking “You’re a fucking asshole, please go directly to hell.”  I’ve gotten better at this while at work, but in general, it isn’t pretty.  I scoured my photos on Facebook and on my computer to try and find some candid examples, and didn’t seem to have any. You’ll have to take my word on it.

Being Patient

That’s right, I just linked a GnR video. You’re welcome.
 
Anyway… Patience may be a virtue, but it’s one I don’t possess. Waiting is something I’m awful at. I get irritable and cranky, and GOD FORBID I have to wait for something I’ve been looking forward to. I become a rammy, ornery, obstinate five-year-old when having patience is required. This probably classifies me as an asshole, but I think I’m okay with it. This is partially because I know, try as I might, this is a character trait that is unlikely to change. Leopards don’t change their spots, and I don’t wait if I don’t have to.
 

Peeing in a Cup

Yeah, this one’s probably TMI

Okay, so… if you’re a female, and you’ve ever been to the ER for any reason, you know they will inevitably make you pee in a cup to make sure you’re not pregnant. They do this even if you tell them you’re NOT and that there is NO WAY you’re pregnant. If you’ve ever worked for corporate America, you’ve probably had to pee in a cup for a drug test. If you’ve ever suspected you may have a UTI, you’ve had to pee in a cup. Everyone has had to do this at least once in their life. Given my propensity for injury and my job, I’ve probably had to do this more than most. Here’s the thing, kids… I’m awful at it. Here’s how:

 
– The inevitable missing of the cup. Without fail, I cannot seem to hit the cup first try. This usually results in a wet hand, which is fucking gross.
-Dropping the cup. I have done this more than once… the cup lands in the toilet – also fucking gross.
-PEE BOMB. This is my most recent peeing-in-a-cup mishap. I was at the ER to have my dislocated knee checked out. I managed to NOT miss the cup, and feeling rather accomplished, I hobbled to set the cup on the sink so I could put the lid on it and wash my hands. Fate, elegant, cold-hearted whore that she is, decided there was NO way I was getting off easy. I lost my grip on the cup, and in what can only be described in a slow-motion moment of catastrophe, it dropped to the ground like a brick. Needless to say, a huge mess and my endless mortification followed.
 
Now that you all know far more about me than you’d ever care to, I’ll move it right along…
 
 
Doing Any Sort of Household Chore in a Timely Manner
I’m aware this is not a picture of housework. It’s a picture of a hot maid. You’re welcome. Again.

Okay, so check it out. If there is a way for me to put off laundry, dishes, vacuuming, etc without my house looking like a mess, I will find it. Housework is something I loathe. If I know I am having company, I generally wait until the last possible minute to get any general straightening done -you know, pillow fluffing, spot-dusting, blah blah. This fact probably leads you all to believe I live in  squalor, but this is the farthest thing from the truth – my place is clean. I just HATE cleaning it. I’m great at cleaning… I just prefer to procrastinate in doing so. I need a housekeeper.

 
 
Okay, so I know there is a shit ton more I could put on this list… I just don’t feel like it. I don’t need to give any of you lovely fuckers more of my shortcomings.
 
XOXO
 

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