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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Sunday, January 29, 2006

How I Got My Groove Back - Rather, How My Groove Was Given Back to Me By a Freakish Stranger

Last Thursday I took in the greatest episode of Oprah ever, followed by Thai food, followed by a play - scratch that - a free play, followed by seeing a friend's band play...it was almost too much goodness to handle in one night. As a surprisingly good southern rock band belted out Skynard-esque songs and White Guy Dancing Syndrome (WGDS) began claiming victims one by one, I began thinking that life really couldn't get better than this and that the rest of the weekend was bound to be disappointing. And it did start off that way, with a slow day at work on Friday followed by a brief domestic spat (in which I may or may not have told Chris to get out of the room I was in then cried when he really did get out of the room I was in) followed by an even more writers-blocky day on Saturday followed by sweaty-palmed run-in with this man who kind of hates me at a service station. (There was a lot of "So..." followed by long, unbreakable silences as both of us waited for our cars to get fixed. At one point, the guy even said, "Cars, they need fixing, eh?" and looked at me like, "Whaddayuhgonnado?" with an air of "Rot in hell you hateful bitch" thrown in.) Run-on sentences - yee haw.

All seemed lost until tonight when I ventured to get our mail and I noticed something neon outside. I walked out on our porch and lo and behold, there was a girl wearing a ruffled jean skirt, neon turquoise leggings, brown cowboy boots, and a neon-orange haltar top with a smaller halter top on top of it, just standing beneath a streetlamp outside my door all by herself as if to say, "I'm waiting here in this ridiculous clown outfit to cheer you up." In a flash, I went through the cycle of denial-guilt-anger-acceptance with regards to those leggings and then I learned to let it flow through me like rain and I couldn't help but feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid life*...and for neon leggings. And just to cheer you people up, a neon legging montage.

*Last part may or may not have been from the Academy award-winning film, American Beauty.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

I Take Back Everything

If you people are anything at all like me then you A) have trouble reaching anything in top cabinents and B) have a strong tendency to say things without really thinking them through. When you write things down, you can kind of look at the words and think to yourself, "man, that's way dumb" and if you're writing in pencil (as our elementary school teachers rightfully made us do), you can simply erase and change your sentence to something less dumb. That unfortunately doesn't work in real-life conversation and as a result, I often times find myself thinking things like "what in hell possessed you to ask the fat lady when she was due?" and "How many times do I have to tell you, don't call everyone with a short haircut 'sir?'"

That being said, I should have known a long time ago that the boyfriend was a keeper when, during the first in-depth conversation we ever had, I said, "Man, Veronica is a name for a slutty girl. I mean, who's named Veronica now anyways? High-priced whores, that's who" and he simply countered with, "Veronica is my mother's name." I can't remember why I was talking about whores, high-priced or otherwise, with someone I had never really spoken to before, but the lesson to be learned here is this: If someone wants to date you after you've called their mother a whore, you know they're playing for keeps.

[SIDENOTE: Speaking of whores, today I read a press release about an upcoming book on Paris Hilton in which "Paris' Chihuahua Tinkerbell makes a contribution too, sharing pages from her own secret diary." Thank YOU Touchstone/Fireside Titles.]

Mothers, whores, and squirrel-like dogs notwithstanding, I got offered a decent-sized freelance job, so I ended up taking that instead of the real-world job and now I'm sitting at home, pantsless as usual, eating ice cream from a bowl sitting on my stomach and wondering if I'm an idiot. If you're not wearing pants and wondering if you're a moron, chances are, you are. Cheerier things tomorrow. Je promesse.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Today I got offered a job, like a real, non-freelance job where I have to wear pants into an office and stuff. This is how I feel about that.

Friday, January 20, 2006

All I Want For Christmas Is...

This. Ditch that. All I want for any reason that makes you part with $13 dollars and 50 sweet cents (plus shipping) is this. Here's some visual encouragement:

and again:

And some auditory encouragement as well. (Favorite one, here).

Editor's Note: I should have gone ahead and credited SnakesOnaBlog, but I'm a no-good thief and deserve to be spanked.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Highlight of the Day

Telling someone "Sorry, I can't go tube sledding next Friday because I'll be at a nude performance art exhibit with someone I met over the internet." Creepiness factor: at least 12.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

I Have a Dream Too

Last night I had a dream that I worked in a tiny, tiny office right next door to a 7-11 with all-night bowling. For some reason there was a cafe in the 7-11 manned by this guy:

that served up things you would find at a place with a name like Roadkill Cafe. Above the bowing area, there was a sign that said "do NOT try to pay the Teen Price for bowling if you are an adult." Having a burning desire to bowl and eat grilled cheese sandwiches, I kept trying to pay the adult price, but nobody would believe me. At the end, I ran screaming out of the cafe when patrons started pelting me with rocks covered in rotted meat. Happy MLK day America.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Today's Special

My niece came over on Friday night and every time I hang out with her, I'm forced to remember how completely non-maternal I actually am. It's sincerely difficult for me to relate to her just because I don't have any idea what 7 year-olds are into or even what they're cognitively capable of. I always forget that I'm talking to a child and end up asking stupid questions like "hey, do you like Law and Order?" The answer is no.

To make matters a little more complicated, this kid is smart, sharp-tongued, and not afraid to tell you how she really feels. While playing soccer, she asked me what I wanted my team name to be. Trying to think like a 7 year-old girl, I pondered the question long and hard before finally saying, "I'm going to be The Glitter Ponies." I mean, what's not 7 year-old about that? I personally wasn't into either glitter or ponies when I was 7, but I was a weird kid who once told someone that she wanted to be "the first waitress in space" when she grew up, so I don't assume that other kids are bizarre like that. Instead of excited approval, there was just silence until my niece said with a completely straight face, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Loser name for a loser team." Oh. Well then. It takes a moment to realize that you just got schooled by someone who still believes that fairies pay her for teeth. Not knowing really where to go from there, I asked her what her team name was going to be and she just got this deadpan look and replied, "The ravagers...Because I plan on ravaging you."

I don't know where a 7 year-old learns the word ravage or why she can know the word ravage and not know a damn thing about Law and Order, but vocabulary notwithstanding, The Ravagers did just what they set out to do (hey, her goal was one-eighth the size of mine). When the final goal was scored, a well-deserved itchy victory dance was performed and as she ran up and down the driveway, ponytail flailing, I saw a little, tiny version of me screaming to the neighbors about how she should probably be called "Queen of the Universe" for her mad soccer skills. Walking inside, I told her that she reminded me of myself to which she replied, "yeah, but there is one big difference between you and me." "And what's that?," I asked. She took my hand, and pulled me in close before whispering in my ear, "I'm not the one eating loser soup tonight."

Snark de Triomphe

Dear Whoever Nominated Me for Snarkiest Blog:

Thanks dude(s). The nomination made me blush twenty-five times over. I know because I counted. I don't know who you are, but I'm going to guess that you're probably very attractive and smell good...very good...even when you sweat or are covered in mud. I would bet my life savings (which is only $2.50 and a jawbreaker at this point) that even your farts smell like clean laundry and freshly-baked cinnamon buns. And we ALL love cinammon buns.

To be honest, I've never actually been nominated for anything, unless you count the time in the fourth grade when David Singleton said I was president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, but really, there was surprisingly little electorial process involved in that. I'm not even sure what you're supposed to do after you've been nominated for something. Do you just kind of sit around? If so, here I am doing that, to prove that I'm capable of, you know, doing that:

I don't want you to think that I'm limited to sitting only in my office or only in wooden chairs. Here I am sitting with the cast of Three's Company:

On the milky way, both of them:

On your grandmother:

And she's the world's friggin best. What does THAT tell you? Hell, I've even sat with some of the world's most famous sitters. See:

$20 to the person who knows who that white guy is.

With all this time I've spent sitting around, I've had a chance to check out the other people nominated and quite frankly, they out-snark my snarkiest of days. I mean this site has the S word right in the address. So while I appreciate the nomination and whatnot, I really want to thank you for leading me to people who know how to bring the funny...because you can never have too much funny...or burritos. Thank you once again from the bottom of my cold, adamantium heart.

Your pal,

---Chris Couch---

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Today Chris referred to our bedroom life as a "rare orchid." I'm officially living with an 80 year old woman.

Friday, January 06, 2006

Toasting to the New Year

It's hard to top a New Years Eve so awesome I had to bring duct tape to keep my face from getting rocked right off. Any time you kick off a brand spankin new year seeing a Johnny Cash cover band in a place riddled with more than one ten gallon hat and several bartenders that call you 'darlin', you just know in your drunken, drunken heart that every day simply can't be this awesome. Last night was the first disappointment of 2006 and while I try to measure my life in love and not in moments of heart-crushing dispair, it's hard not to feel wounded when a film named Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator makes me feel like this kid:

Here's the real clencher: NOBODY gets stuffed in the incinerator...not one. single. person. In place of all the red-hot incinerator-on-person action you can handle, you get long-winded dialogue about things that are not incinerating and a plot that's supposed to be high concept.
On a totally unrelated note, why, when you google search "crying boy," do you get this picture:

What in the world is that? It's like a high school art project gone demonic. Who took the time to turn Macauley Culkin into a creepy weeping Lite Brite statue thing? I want someone to fess up here because a little piece of my soul just died.

On that note, I hope your New Year has been incineratingly good and not Lite Brite Culkin-level bad. Here's to 2000 friggin 6.