Sunday, July 24, 2011

No, Cindy

I have perpetual insomnia.  I should really do something productive during these hours like knit sweaters or read books like a good English major.  That's something productive that normal people do, right? I used to run at night when living in suburbia, but have only done that a few times now that I live in the big city.  I am too tired to focus on books and have to re-read sections.  I don't want reading to be associated with being sleepy, so mostly I fill this time with working from home or watching shitty television shows online.  Then, if I am able to sleep mid-episode,  I didn't really miss anything. So instead of being well read or really fit, I can reminisce about your favorite nineties syndicated shows and make dated cultural references in my jokes.

Weekends are special for my insomnia because my roommate is a super online gamer. He has a head-set and enemies that are apparently bitches.  I mean, why would he be shouting it if it wasn't true?  He stays up all night killing imaginary things on teams.  Very loudly.  I used to fight the noise and tell him to keep it down, but it always makes me feel like an old lady.  I really don't have anywhere to be in the morning. 

Tonight I could stop overheating.  I drank four glasses of cold water and kept spraying myself  with water and allowing the fan to pass over me, but I couldn't lower my core temperature.  I ventured to the kitchen in my skivvies and found blessed Fresca in the fridge.  I took one and hid it behind the forearm of my left arm just like I did in junior high to sneak by the janitor in order to get back to my room unseen.  Tim, my roommate, would probably let me have one.  And probably doesn't care that I took one, but I didn't want to risk it because I was drinking one either way.  

I'm all about avoiding confrontation and so is he, so we dance around roommate issues.  From time to time, I passive-aggressively accost him by text or FB message.  All the food minus one cupboard in the apartment is mine.  Tim runs across the street every single day to get food at the tiny convenience store owned by a sweet Korean couple.  So by deductive logic, if he's eating pretty much anything and hasn't made it across the street, it's from my stash.  I'd put my name on things but there are only two of us that live here, so having my initials is almost moot. Seeing my food labeled is still traumatizing to me anyhow.  My mother used to label the food in the fridge that she didn't want me to eat with a CINDY in big black permanent marker with a circle around it and line through it.  The universal sign for "NO CINDY."  Thanks, mom!  That's not humiliating at all.  It would be on things like cheese blocks, ice cream, the good cereals, and lunch meats.  I think it was her way of trying to help me lose weight, but it was never explained to me. With five other people living in that house, I don't think she consider the shame this could possibly induce in a fourth grader.  It also added to the confusion I experienced when visiting other people's houses and, when prodded to take what I wanted from the fridge, I'd always ask what food was off limits.  The answer was always a confused, "none."  I only realized I was being weird later. 

I still ate the cheese because cheese is fucking delicious.  By the way, Cops still has a great theme song.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

I Don't Think I Received Passing Credit for Dating 101

At the suggestion of my friends, I bought "The Rules" and have been reading diligently.  Rather, I've been skimming it, with indignation.  The book gives advice like, "don't be sarcastic" and "wear lipstick while jogging."  How about we compromise and I wear lipstick while being sarcastic?  I'd have to re-evaluate my budget just for lipstick costs.   

 I've never been good with straight boys.  It's like you throw the "straight" into the mix and I feel betrayed by my hormones.  I was sweet sixteen and never been kissed and shamefully begged one of my high school crushes to make out with me before the calendar hit my birthday.  We were in the empty hall, both of us killing time with a hall pass.  He declined and later made out with Karen.  

My first kiss was at a random party with a stranger named...  Shit.  I can't remember his name right now.  My friend Karen and I had this running joke (because she was having problems in the never-been-kissed department) that there was this circle and we were just outside of it and didn't really know what was going on in there.  How did it work?  Why were we on the outside?  Karen and I had too many drinks and were sleeping in the same bed when he came in.  She gifted him to me and left the room.   After leaving his slobbering mess, I saw everyone in the front room. I looked at Karen, grabbed a pillow and drew a circle with my finger.  We immediately busted up laughing. 

Friday, July 15, 2011

This Joke Cost Me $1,000

I my defense, if you don't want me to talk about your prolapsed uterus, you probably shouldn't mention it.  You know I have no boundaries when I think something is funny.  I didn't want to know about it anyhow. First off, it's a uterus falling out of vagina. How is that not funny? And scary. Maybe I'll start wearing a leotard everywhere I go so there is no chance of having to chase a bouncing pink uterus down the street. Secondly, your part of the joke consisted of using the extra space in your guts to save things for later. I can't tell if that was the most disgusting or most hilarious conversation with my mother I've ever had.  I believe she joked about using her vagina as a hiding place for jelly beans and purses causing the prolapsing of her uterus over time.  In retrospect, we have talked about far more disgusting and hilarious things which I should have brought up immediately, but I caved and cowered in mom fear *hiss*.