By All Means, Move at a Glacial Pace.

The transaction is simple. The state gives you a  license, and you are expected to drive like you have both functioning hemispheres. As I drive along an orphaned highway adopted by the local boy scout troop, I feel like there is most certainly something wrong with this process. I admit that sometimes I drive like I'm in a Barbie corvette, but that's only when my ipod shuffles in the COPS theme on my stereo.

I am almost immediately infuriated by the sight of a gold buick, and even moreso by one with a left blinker that has been on for the last half mile. I understand that maybe driving is hard sometimes, but when you don't really get out much (and decide to take your biannual drive at 8am on a weekday): don't. Really, just don't.

I really do have a soft spot for shriveled little old people and adorable hobbit grandparents, but the moment they get behind the wheel and creep forward at a quarter of a mile an hour, we cannot co-exist. Worse (almost) is when you are stuck on a road with two lanes...a "slow" lane and a "passing" lane, and the two cars in front of you choose to drive side by side doing 20 miles below the speed limit. I imagine the two drivers talking to each other on their cell phones, air high-fiving through their closed windows and tapping their feet on the brake to the tune of Flight of the Bumblebee. When I bitchily speed past them, accelerating unnecessarily to let them know that I'm angry, these two drivers have the nerve to step off their brakes and look at me like I just have a car covered in bumper stickers advocating a pechant for buggery.

I'm not going to ram you, gravy-for-brains. But I am most certainly going to cut you off. Move to Iowa.
***

You had 6 margaritas in a hour?

DENNIS, I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT AN ASSHOLE YOU ARE! :'(

Let's not and say we did.

I use this 'turn of phrase' on a fairly regular basis, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I agree with or even understand it.

"Oh my God, I  just threw up in my mouth. That spandex leotard is heinous."


"Oh my God, I literally just threw up in my mouth. Take off that spandex leotard."

Is this entirely necessary? I wouldn't have to tell you about it if I was unable to keep my disgust inside of my mouth.

"Sorry I threw up on you, but in my defense, I told you not to wear spandex."

I didn't sign up for this.

I went to a birthday party once where they had a pony dressed up like a MyLittlePony. Apparently it was for us to ride. I tried my best to tactfully remove myself from the situation.

Exhibit A: Scene of the Party. 

Inside the Box:

Everyone thought the pony was awesome. They looked at him and saw this:

I did not think the pony was in any way awesome. When I looked at him, I saw this:

The pony and I made serious eye contact for a while, each of us daring the other to come closer.

It was at this point that Mom said I should ride him.

Mom doesn't have a double chin. She's just really enthusiastic here.

I seriously did not want any part of that.

Don't ever let the pony see you cry.

The pony was trotting around, dressed in hearts and bows and the other kids were practically pooping their pants to get a ride. The pony was just pooping. Everywhere. 

Seriously. Wtf.

We're going streakin & leavin streaks.

Mom eventually made me do it. She said it was weird to be scared of a pony.

Told you.

Overall, the entire endeavor was going fairly well, and much better than I could have hoped. 

That is, until the beast decided he wanted to lay down ON TOP OF ME. I jumped away from him like I had just been electrocuted and stung by a bee at the same time.

Luckily, I have the reflexes of a cat, and escaped entirely unscathed.

LESSON:  PIZZA PARTIES > PONY PARTIES

$2 Will Get You Crabs

When my sister and I were little, we used to love to go to the Christmas Tree Shops. We would always go during the summer when my mom's parents would visit, and Grampy would give us each one dollar to spend on whatever we wanted.

Fuck nickels.

We would always put both of our dollars in my 101 Dalmatians wallet, for safekeeping, and then put that wallet into Mom's purse. Protection was key.

We would run into the store, get a little hand carriage, and work our way through the aisles, looking at the items on the shelf discerningly.

A nice, scented candle would have added a lovely touch to our fort at home, but Mom said Feng Shui had to be attained through non-flammable means.

And our army of "Puppy in my Pockets" would have totally loved a bunk bed, but it was just slightly above outr $2.00 price range, due to the applicable sales tax.

Fifi, my least favorite Puppy in my Pocket. Her huggability if of no consequence to me because she was an idiot.

We could've gotten upwards of 15 bags of jumbo cotton balls....

Or a badmitton set, (without the net)...

Priority to the stained glass turtle for uselessness.

The possibilities were seemingly endless to our little prepubescent selves.

                                       (Sister)                                 (Me)              

Also, we didn't really wear doll clothes.

In the end, we'd usually end up buying something weird, like a 24 pack of waxy, shitty crayons, a sweater meant for a cat, or one of those fluffy dusters used for getting dust and hair off of fans and cats.

One year, we agreed to pool our money for a big hermit crab and a baby hermit crab. I don't know why or how the Christmas Tree Shop obtained roughly fifty hermit crabs, but that is not the point. The point is, we bought a hermit crab family from the Christmas Tree Shop.

Do hermit crabs lay eggs?

After that year, Mom said Grampy wasn't allowed to give us any more dollars...Fifi didn't deserve a freaking bunk bed anyway.

Luging with the Devil

In celebration of Columbus Day, I tag saled and found the following tagged for sale for $1:

Love me?

You can't tell me that this is not satan. Can you imagine waking up next to this thing in the middle of the night? It has drawn on freckles and devil brows and it is HOLDING A WEAPON. (Not to mention that the 'sellers' had it wearing a real diaper).


In addition to the spawn of satan, I found an informative looking book about proper child rearing.  I tried to barter with the lady selling it, but she was completely unreasonable and unwilling to negotiate. Apparently, the honkin' tight-wad of Bubblicious she was chewing was affecting her ability to bargain.

Artistic Rendition

Regardless, I paid the 50 cents for the book and put it on my bookshelf next to "Your Four Year Old: Conquering the Enemy."

There really is no need for a Caption for this one. This kid is clearly an enemy.

I once taught a kid that I babysat how to street luge on a skateboard. His parents were so proud.

This didn't even result in any permanent disfigurement!

End Result: Good-

Bugs are protein!

End Result: Bad-

"Give me back my quarter."

Et Tu, Brute.

"For starters, I hate when people preempt their comment with, 'I was just gonna say...' Obviously you're going to say it, you are saying it right now."

My friend, Cutwin, found this shriveled up note in her school notebook. Clearly, it was correspondence from me, written in a fit of self-inflicted rage by our decision to enroll in 'The Classical Cleopatra' during college. I know this not because I remember it, but because along with the note was the following:

                       Barf : Classics :: Barf : Barf

I find this evidence to be self-evident.

Cutwin is a particularly excellent source of historical gems. Exhibit A:

Disregarding the steaming pile of crap, Cutwin probably should have assassinated me for my inability to spell out my intentions in accordance with Merriam-Webster.

Either way, in case you know nothing about 'The Classical Cleopatra', or have a limited, apathetically acquired knowledge such as myself, this is essentially all you need to know:

Ides of March - 44 B.C.

I can not even begin to tell you how happy I am to have that part of my life behind me. I am fairly certain that the only thing of consequence that resulted from that seminar was my second self-drafted legal document, binding Cutwin to expend every reasonable effort to entertain me until hell or high water. (Note the purposeful ambiguity or 'hell' and 'high water'. This is not unconscionable. Cutwin is bound for life.)


To date, my magnum opus, so to speak, occurred in 7th grade when we were learning about Hammurabi's Code. Upon returning home one afternoon, I discovered that my younger sister, whom we shall lovingly refer to as Embalikus, had ninja'd one of my butterfly clip hair accessories:

It's not funny. This was a serious offense. These were really popular in the '90's. 

Furious with the recent theft of my personal property that my mother had purchased for me, coupled with my parents laissez-fiare attitude toward punishing Embalikus, my 13 year-old self decided to take matters into my own hands.

Using my dry-erase board, where I typically wrote all important notes to myself, I began the drafting of 'Allie's Code.'

Before drafting, however, I was forced to erase many essential reminders:

      -Do not wear pajamas under clothes to save time

      -A shirt will be necessary

      -Forgetting grape chewable vitamin in the bottom of cereal bowl will  result in cereal vomit

      -Avoid cupping hand over newly budding womanhood while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance

... Essential things like that.

Anyhow, my parents thought that the Code was precious and put it on the fridge. To me, this was triumph - like the sad little bill on School House Rock becoming a law. To my parents, it was one step above the spelling test also posted on the fridge where I correctly spelled the word 'assassinate.'