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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Open Letter - Now With A Fist Full of Footnotes (And Alliteration!)

Dear Guy Who Is Clearly Losing the War With Male Pattern Baldness That Was Walking Down Main Street Today In A Sweatshirt That Featured a Smiling Hokie Bird Holding Up A Foam Finger:

Let me start by apologizing for my dog. She's a dog. She's a big dog. She's a big dog that stands at approximately crotch height. When you came up to pet her today, I apologize that my crotch-heighted* dog leaned her body against your legs and may have zealously sniffed what my best friend in the seventh grade once referred to as "Man Land," capital M, capital L** Unfortunately we have a very liberal crotch-sniffing policy in my house and the poor thing simply didn't know any better. I personally blame the school system and violence in the media.

What I did think was a little unnecessary, Mr. Number One Hokie Fan, was when you gave me an unshakably icy stare and said, even after I apologized profusely, "Maybe you should watch where you walk your dog." When it was clear that no amount of apologizing would make things comfortable again, three fairly nasty phrases came to my head too fast for me to sort through which one would have been the most scathing:

"Maybe you should lay off the steak-scented Summer's Eve."
"Maybe you should fear my ninja moves bitch."
"Maybe you should watch where you walk your balls."

In retrospect, this last one is my favorite because it really makes absolutely no sense and when paired with a completely deadpan expression and the people's eyebrow, I think it could really say Just try and argue with THAT logic. I majored in philosophy suckah. Unfortunately, I didn't say any of those things. I just looked directly into your eyes and started laughing, not at you, but at the idea of steak-scented Summer's Eve...because that's utterly ridiculous. When I walked away giggling and you walked away in a huff, it seemed that we both got what we deserved.

See you around,

Chris





* Oh that is so not a real word
** I also have several notes from that era of my life in which he refers to that area as "the bone yard," "Penistown: Population 1," and "the meat packing district." All of those phrases look hilarious when scrawled in pink pen on pre-algebra worksheets.

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Sunday, February 25, 2007

Shave Her Legs! Get a Cell Phone Ringtone!

Upon seeing this ad from Myspace, the place where all creepy/nonsensical ads have their moment in the sun:

* Click for larger view

Me: What are people thinking? Is there anything on earth more uncomfortable than the idea of helping tiny lab coat-draped scientist-looking guys shave gigantasaurus rex lady's legs and getting rewarded in cell phone rings? That doesn't even remotely make sense. When I see this ad, I'm filled with all of these questions. Does that woman have a fused spine and she can't shave her own legs? And who was like "picture this - there's this huge broad and she's got tree trunk-like leg hair and if you got the cursor skillz to shave that shit off man, you win a ringtone. Sweet right?" I wish I was there for that pitch meeting.

Friend: How about a pair of pants filled with maggots?

Me: What?

Friend: Wearing pants filled with maggots. That would probably be more uncomfortable than thinking about that ad.

Me: It's times like these when I wish I had a summer cottage somewhere in your head.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Let's Buy Some Goats!

No really, let's do it. My only New Year's resolution is to "get awesome," which means spending less time lamely sitting around my apartment and more time being a part of projects larger than myself. Starting today, this terrible excuse for a site is going to feature ads (see stage left). These ads that will hopefully generate revenue, 100% of which will be used to purchase goats...or at least one goat... maybe just half a goat...for poor foreign people through Heifer.org. I dig Heifer.org because they focus on providing third-world people with tools that facilitate self-reliance and sustainable development. Phrases like "self-reliance" and "sustainable development" are like Spanish Fly to idealistic tree-huggers like myself. Goats in particular are good gifts since (goat fact alert!) they can survive in extreme conditions and can produce up to a gallon of milk a day. In fact, there's a whole page on the majesty of the goat titled "Goats: The Most Giving Animal Around." And I always thought your mom held that title. Ba-zing! I have no idea if this project will work out or not. Click the ads, we'll buy some goats, and everyone will feel a little better about themselves. Deal? Deal.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Received Yesterday

This is my friend James. He is amazing. I hope your President's Day was as awesome as his.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Scenes From Saturday

[Setting: Bar]

Me [to bartender]: A lemon drop martini please

Some dude ordering next to me at said bar: That's a pretty girly drink.

Me: Luckily I have the organs requisite to order such a girly drink. Thank YOU fallopian tubes. [flashes double thumbs up]

Dude: Does that drink come with an umbrella?

Me: And a rim of sugar mixed with bits of actual ovaries.

Dude: That's probably what makes it delicious.

Me: Probably.

It wasn't until the next day that I remembered the unwritten rule that if a guy keeps talking to you after you say 'fallopian tubes' and give a double thumbs up, you should probably marry him right there.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Mount Gushmore

As previously stated, I LOVE Valentine's Day. I love it specifically because it's the Mount Rushmore of holidays - it's completely arbitrary, doesn't make any sense whatsoever and is maybe the most unnatural and gaudy thing one can do to a relationship. It's simply fantastic. When I see a photo of Mount Rushmore, all I imagine is mankind standing with a chisel in his hand and a twinkle in his eye thinking to himself "hey, lick my balls Mother Nature. I'm gonna carve some giant fucking faces in that mountain over there JUST BECAUSE I CAN." Valentine's day is the same way. It's one of the few holidays that commemorates absolutely nothing. It's arbitrarily placed in one of the coldest, dreariest and arguably most unromantic months of the year. It's a holiday of choice that defies all logic which, to me, makes it more meaningful than holidays where my extended family forces themselves in close quarters because it's - choose your own adventure here - Christ's birthday, Christ's resurrection day, someone else's birth/resurrection day, Thankgiving, Independence Day, Tuesday.

My favorite part of Valentine's Day is the retail orgasm of all things useless and tacky that happens one time a year. Things you'd normally find at the cheapest, truck stop gift shop in nowheresville, Georgia are tied with a pink ribbon and somehow work their way onto shelves at once respectable stores. This year, my two favorite V-day romance enhancers were these enormous engraved matches one can do absolutely nothing with and the Smitten, a gift that warms both the hands and the heart. Knowing about the Smitten, I was pretty convinced that V-day couldn't get any more romantic until yesterday when I discovered that my local grocer sells heart-shaped hamburger patties...discounted if you buy them the day after Valentine's day. Classy! Last night a (platonic) friend came over for post-V-day-discounted-love-themed-meat-night and gave me this:


for no reason other than he knew it would make me smile from ear to ear. It's not exactly romantic, but it's definitely from the heart.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

My Bloody Valentine

Two years ago today, I shared a 100 square-foot tenement apartment with someone who smelled like blood and fish heads. That's not an exaggeration. He worked for 17 hours a day in a kitchen for no pay, muddling through a foreign language, and really did come home smelling like actual blood and fish heads. We lived in an attic without heat in an immigrant section of Paris above a bar called The Titty Twister where our 17 year old Tunisian neighbor whose only English was rap lyrics from The Game bartended and slipped us drinks we would otherwise not have been able to afford. We were friends with a motley crew of international students who were equally poor and at night, the lot of us would go to a dive bar that served cheap beer and showed a nature documentary featuring a whale leaping up out of the water to eat a seal. The documentary was shown on a 20 minute loop and every time the whale got his seal, we would drink and shout and hug each other as if we hadn't seen our dear, dear friends in years. As the nights wore on and our group gradually turned pink from drinking and laughter, our friends would forget their English and I would forget my French and we would be stuck drawing pictures and trying to communicate in a jumbled up mess of Portuguese and Turkish and Hebrew and wild hand gestures.

Two years ago today in our heatless, spaceless attic apartment, our water was cut off, ruining what promised to be the most perfect home-cooked gourmet Parisian meal that had ever been prepared in a kitchen located in a home office located in a closet located in a bedroom. With no other choice, we went to the only place in the city of love that you can go without a reservation on Valentine's Day - the Indiana Tex Mex Cafe - where for the low, low price of $75 (seriously, that's what we really paid), you can buy two burrito plates that came directly from someone's microwave, two watered down margaritas, and all of the subtitled Nelly videos you can handle. That night my bloody valentine and I walked through a foreign city, holding hands and laughing from our guts at how life was good...no, great...despite the debt and the cold and the language barrier and the fish head smell and the mice who shared our humble abode.

I woke up this morning filled with gratitude to have those memories and smiled all day long, thinking about how good it is to feel alive. I love Valentine's Day from the bottom of my heart.

Saturday, February 10, 2007

A Story That Happened Weeks Ago, But I Was Too Busy Doing Very Important Things Like Trading Stocks And Adjusting My Monocle to Write It Down

I am not a mature person. I'm reminded of this any time I hang out with my niece, hear friends discussing the homes they recently purchased, or find myself using the phrase "like butt" to describe a particular taste or smell. This point was truly driven home recently when a friend, specifically a friend who returned from fighting in Iraq and who is currently waiting to try out for the green berets (Note: these green berets, not these), gave me a wrapped package along with a brief explanation, "I saw this and had to buy it for you." When I opened it, I saw the three little words that will make any 25 year old woman with the sensibilities of a 6th grade boy swoon:

REMOTE CONTROLLED SNAKE

Were my programming prowess as proficient as my a(ll?)esome alliteration skillz, the words REMOTE CONTROLLED SNAKE would explode or dance or be on fire. THAT is how exciting this gift is.

I knew that my maturity level hovered somewhere between 6th and 8th grade, but what I didn't know is that my contemporaries have shot so far past me on the grown-up scale, I can't even see them from where I stand. My last name is Couch and I had a friend in high school whose last name was Cima (pronounced See-ma). When he and I started teaming up and cheating kids in card games on the hour-long bus ride to school every morning, we picked up the nicknames Ciman (pronounced See-man...see what I did there?) and Crotch. Whereas I grew into the kind of person you can basically look at and say 'yeah, I can see her having a name like Crotch," Cima(n) grew up to become a 24 year old minister, armed with the love of God, a wife, a baby on the way, a two-year mission trip to Asia ahead of him, and some very mature-looking facial hair to boot, artistically recreated here:

Sidenote: I think that all messengers of The Lord should have to wear top hats like that at a jaunty angle. It's what HE would want.

When I saw my former cohort in crime standing in the pulpit a few weeks ago, I couldn't help but look at him and think of the word semen. Every time I tried to block the word from my head, I would come up with something even worse (e.g. I bet he went to Semen-ary, ad infinitum). In trying to remove the word and all of its groanable puns from my head, I turned to the family sitting next to me and noticed that the 10 year old child was drawing something. I leaned in to see this game in progress:


Filling in the extra S myself and trying desperately not to note that it was the first letter of the very word I was trying to forget, it became painfully clear who my mental contemporaries are.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Lesser of Two Evils

When I got back to my sweet, sweet apartment in the city, I found not one, but two (TWO!) pieces of non-bill mail waiting for me - an invitation to a friend's baby shower and a copy of my great aunt's will. I am ashamed to say that the copy of the will is what's currently hanging on my fridge (next to a picture of Che Guevara and a drawing a friend made of a grizzly bear getting swallowed by a giant bumble bee) since it freaked me out the least.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

The Burbs

My mom had surgery and I've been stuck in suburbia for three days taking care of her. Oh dear God it feels like this:


Image unjustly stolen from Toothpaste for Dinner.