He ain't afraid of no ghosts.

Fifteen years ago tonight, after our second date, my husband told me he was in love with me and asked me to be his girlfriend. That sounds all sweet and romantic BUT, it is even more so when you take into consideration the fact that I sneezed directly into his hand during said date... and not like a cute little "achoo, 'scuse me!" sneeze. No, it was a full-on first day of the flu, "SHE SLIMED ME!" sneeze... directly into the palm of his hand.

This was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. We were in the theater watching a movie (I Still Know What You Did Last Summer), he was to my right, had his arm around me, and was holding my left hand. I was slightly aware that this horrible flu was coming on, and this terror was building in my mind... it was a very short process, but it was something like, "OH GOD, I HAVE TO SNEEZE! I'M LEFT-HANDED. I NEED MY HAND! SURELY IF I PULL, HE'LL LET GO!!" But he didn't, and instead of being smart and sneezing into my right hand, I turned my head, tugged, met resistance, and the sneeze was there, and so was a ton of snot and slobber on his hand, which I had pulled right over my face.

I was pretty sure he was going to break it off right then, so I was pleasantly surprised when he asked me to be his girl instead of running off before the movie even ended, which, I suspect, is what I would have done had someone deposited that amount of mucus on me during a date. 

The Day I Stopped Smoking Cloves.

A (n unfortunately true) Cautionary Tale

And in case you can't read my chicken scratch:

Remember that time in high school that I went to Dick Clark's American Bandstand 

to hit on my adult neighbor who was DJing there? And I was smoking clove cigarettes? 

And then I threw up in my hair? And  on the dance floor... and in their bathroom sink

because all the bathroom stalls were taken? 

Good times...good times.

Life Lessons - Tire Balancing

There are many things I have learned in life, the hard way, and I thought I would use my stupid mistakes as examples to help all of you, in this new series I've aptly titled, Life Lessons.


This is the first in the series: Tire Balancing



I think that asking if you want a newly mounted tire "balanced" for an additional cost is some sort of mechanics' practical joke.

I learned this lesson in my early 20s while getting a new tire at a used tired place.

I was wrong. Even though I only had $50 to my name, I REALLY did want to spend that extra money, but I was working under the assumption that tires are actually round by nature.  They're not. I think they might be triangular, or hexagonal, but they sure as hell aren't naturally round, which I learned, as my car rocked and wobbled as I drove it away from the shop, fifteen dollars richer, but substantially less comfortable.
I'm surprised they weren't openly laughing at me when I came back a few days later to report there was something wrong with the tire they sold me.

Zed: Well, you said you didn't want it balanced!
Me: Right, because I didn't realize that "balancing" was a secret code word for AN ACTUAL WORKING TIRE!
And then I paid $15 to get my tire made in to a circle.

So here's your lesson:
You want your new tire balanced. It's worth the money. Only an asshole gives you the option to drive away on a triangular tire.

Crazy Mike and the Debbie Stick

Hey, mom and dad, you might want to skip this one…

Yesterday, I was in the gift shop in St. Regis, Montana, which is one of my regular stop-offs when going on road trips because it is roughly 2/3rds of the way from my house to my friend’s house, and because once I took a bus to Washington State and it stopped there, so since professional drivers deemed it a good place to stop, I do too. Also it has a Live Trout Museum, and if you won’t stop for a Live Trout Museum, what the hell will you stop for?

During this particular stop, I was searching this giant gift store for something small and amusing to give to a Cheeseblarg follower on Facebook, because I like rewarding people for paying attention to me and humoring me without my having to actually put a lot of effort into posting. I think of it as Operant Conditional Love.

What I wanted to buy was a flashing solar keychain that said “Debbie” but I realized that I hadn’t told you the story that makes referring to everyone as Debbie hilarious, so I bought something else that was equally as amusing, to me at least, and made a note to tell you guys the story, which is what I am about to do.

When I was in college, I had low self-esteem, which as we all know, leads to some really bad choices and amusing tales, thankfully. This story started at a Drag Show at the gay club in my college town. I sat outside on the porch, smoking (which I no longer do), and was approached by a very handsome guy who I had noticed around town before, due to his handsomeness, and somehow, the details of which are fuzzy, it lead to us making out by the stairs. (Yeah, parents, I told you to stop reading this).  As I was giving him a ride home, it occurred to me that I didn’t really know him and he was leading me down unlit and unpaved roads and that he might be leading me to a dark, out of the way clearing where he was going to murder me, but, as you might have guessed, since I am writing this now, and called it an amusing story, he didn’t kill or rape me, for which I am quite thankful.

I didn’t bother getting his number or anything, I just dropped him off and went back to my dorm because I realized that my stupidity was overwhelming, and that while it was quite an experience, it was really a dumb DUMB choice to let someone into my car who I didn't really know, but I could now cross “make out with random attractive stranger” off my list of things to experience in life, and yay, I survived it.

Except Crazy Mike apparently didn't feel the same way about the experience that I did.

I think it was when he started giving me random presents that he got the nickname, Crazy Mike. The first was a Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch tape. No case, just the tape.  And I should probably mention that this was about 1996 so Marky Mark had not been heard from for about 5 years.

 The next time he gave me a ring. I think it was a man’s ring. He might have found it discarded in the street.

“Oh, that’s nice…” I said sitting on the porch of the gay bar with my friends.
“Yeah, we’re gonna get married.” he told me.
“Oh?”
“You’re my girlfriend now.”
“Oh…” For fuck’s sake.  And THIS is why you are not supposed to make out with random strangers, THIS right here.
Entirely creeped out by this, I tried avoiding  the gay club. Crazy Mike, however, started showing up all over town, usually sitting on the hood of my car when I would come out of Denny‘s or Simon‘s. I drove a big ugly station wagon. It was pretty easy to find apparently.

So after a few weeks of being unable to avoid him, I finally went back to the club, and sitting on the porch was Crazy Mike’s equally crazy brother, Mark.

“Hey, Debbie! Debbie!” I looked around, and then realize he was talking to me.
“That’s not my name.”
“My brother likes you, Debbie.  I think you look like a hippopotamus.”
“Well, thank you, Mark. My name still isn‘t Debbie though.”
“He’s got a present for you…”

Oh yay, another present. How wonderful.

He wasn’t there though, so I went inside and watched the Drag Show, and after a while, I grabbed my friend and went to leave.

“I have something for you.” he said when I came out of the club.
Oh, was pretty much my standard response at the time, because OMG, LEAVE ME ALONE, somehow was not part of my vocabulary, most likely on account of the low self-esteem. I looked up at him, sitting on the top part of the porch, he was holding a knife and something that looked like a very long ax handle.
“I made you this, I’m carving your name into it.”
He handed me the stick, which I really can’t be sure wasn’t a very old ax handle. He had carved two lines all the way around it, kind of intertwining around the length of the stick, and at the top, he was starting to carve the name “Debbie.”
“Yeah, my name is NOT Debbie!”

After I received the Debbie stick, he seemed to lose interest in me, although a few weeks later, he found me outside Denny’s and told me that he had something to show me.  Apparently he had learned my name by then because he had it tattooed really crudely in a misshapen heart on his shoulder. I, on the other hand, really appreciated the gift of the stick, even though I had to change the name to my own, myself, because he had actually given me a weapon that I could use to bludgeon him if he had chosen to take his creepy stalking up to the next level. I actually still have it, because it was a nice stick. And also because it serves as a reminder not to make out with strangers who don’t know your name and who have brothers who tell you that you look like a hippopotamus.

One-Uppers and Grief Shamers

While writing my post about Suffering Magnets, I came to the realization that I may be a One-Upper.

You know, those people who tell you something of equal or greater horror when you tell them something bad that happened to you?


I don't mean to be a One-Upper, it is just that people tell me something has happened to them and then, in an effort to relate, I tell a story about something similar that has happened to me, which usually tends to be a bit more terrible because, as we have established, things are always bafflingly fucked up in my life. So I hear the words just flowing out of my head and I think, 'SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP. They think you are playing the Grief Olympics.. they think you are an asshole, just shut the hell up'... but OMG it just feels so good to share grief, to remove it from your stupid jerk head and let it out into the world like a little grief dragon, to let it stretch and spread its wings after keeping it cooped up in your belfry of a brain ALL THE TIME.

I'd like to quietly listen and say, "Oh jeepers! That is just so awful, you poor person, what can I do?" but it is rarely what ends up happening. Even though I try... really really hard.

 But in no way am I trying to be a Grief Shamer.

Grief Shamers are the type of people who won't let you have a second of complaining without reminding you that no matter what you are are upset about, other people have it 7 billion times worse so you should just STFU and be glad your grandpa was eaten by a tiger because your ENTIRE FAMILY could have been eaten by A STREAK OF TIGERS EQUIPPED WITH LASERS!

I don't even believe in shaming "First World Problems."  I think sharing suffering make it suck less and there is no shame in that. So, if people wanna complain to me about Bravo's Twitter team spoiling the winner of Top Chef for every time zone other than Eastern, like a bunch of assholes, or finding that their bag of chips is lacking in delicious powdered flavor, I have no problem with that. I just have a problem if you don't want to hear about the time my Chili Cheese Fritos were kinda flavorless, too, and were full of bees that stung my throat and I had to go to the emergency room, but I couldn't get in because it was full of wolves... with lasers.

A.A.A.D.D.

Dearest parents (especially mother), you should either not read this or, if you insist upon doing so, you should take a lot of illicit date rape sorts of drugs before reading this so you don't recall it and never discuss it with me. Let's go with never reading it, okay? Awesome. 


I'm not kidding either. 
Okay, on to the post ...


I was just reminded, when the boy I had a crush on in middle school added me on Facebook, that I was a fucking psycho when I was a teenager.  I think I owe pretty much everyone with a penis (who was not an immediate member of my family) that I knew from the ages of 11- 19 a major apology.  See, when I say "the" boy I had a crush on, I mean ONE of the 7 billion boys I had a crush on, but  definitely the one I spent the most time terrorizing, from my recollection. No, wait, the one I spent the most time terrorizing in eighth grade, and also part of 7th. I terrorized the hell out of a bunch of guys. I had a problem... we shall refer to it as attention and affection deficit disorder (AAADD).
I was  really bad, as a teenager, at ascertaining when someone was attracted to me. That is, people for the most part, weren't attracted to me, but if they were willing to make eye contact with me, or respond to me when I spoke and I found them even the remotest bit attractive, I was pretty sure they were in love with me. Or maybe it was that I was pretty sure I was in love with them, and any modicum of attention convinced me that the feeling was mutual or could, through repeated pestering and writing of REALLY bad poetry, be cultivated.

If you could imagine Chris Farley.. hell, you don't have to imagine. Here is a clip.

Yes, that was me, only quite a bit cuter. But the thing is, there was no chance of me having any sort of normal relationship with anyone at that time because responding to me was enough to set me off in a pattern of psychotic smothering attention. If I could just get my foot in the proverbial door, they were sure to adore the ever loving shit out of me... but the reality of it was, they were more than likely terrified of me, because my attention was fairly terrifying. And that was when I wasn't thinking of anything more than just holding hands and pop kisses.  I was probably about 42 times more terrifying when I was trying to seduce every male who interacted with me, not excluding my 9th grade Math substitute, some weird French guy who owned a leather furniture design company who may have been in his late 40s, my best friend, who was a male (the poor guy), C.B. Barnes, and our 25 year old neighbor.

Of course, people who WERE actually attracted to me, I was oblivious of.  If they approached me first, I was suspicious and bitchy.  Yup, bitchy is the word for what I was, in that it is a word that doesn't start with a C that would probably be a better word for how I acted, but people seem to have an aversion to that word for some reason that I am unable to fathom. Anyway, I mean that I was a jerk version of crazy when I wasn't being otherwise crazy and writing, have I mentioned, REALLY horrible poetry... like the kind where each line starts with a letter of the boy's name, and which I carefully calligraphized on floofy purple stationary that I might have rubbed on a perfume sample page of a beauty magazine so he knew it was from a girl and that I then stuck in his locker. After I stalked him and saw that he had seen the poem and hadn't come running to confess his love for me, though he was one of the most sought after boys in school and I had no concept of "out of your league,"  I then carefully extracted said horrible purple calligraphied poem out of his locker while pretending to go to the bathroom, so that it couldn't be used to humiliate me any worse than I had already done myself. Wait that wasn't clear. I meant, I asked my teacher to go to the bathroom so I could stop by his locker and go mission impossible on it, not that I was pretending to pee while I was shoving my fingers through the air holes of the locker to get the embarrassing fucking thing out.

Anyway, yeah, sorry boys, and maybe some girls too, for making you uncomfortable and for being unable to handle having female hormones. I'm much more balanced now, though I am still prone to bouts of adult AAADD... I am just aware of things like restraining orders and mace now, so I have toned it down and there is nothing to be afraid of. And also sorry for the poem. You didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that... nobody.

Evil Mike: A Cautionary Tale

The summer before my 10th grade year, I met my first boyfriend, Evil Mike*, over the phone while at my friend Veronica’s house.  Because I was awkward and weird and had REALLY low self-esteem, I immediately agreed when Evil Mike, after talking to me for a week or so, asked me to be his girlfriend.  This happened over the phone, of course, and I had not actually seen him yet, as the internet didn‘t exist so I couldn‘t force him to send me a picture before I accepted. I thought he was funny enough though, in a fart joke sort of way, and his voice was very attractive, which, you should know, is never indicative of how someone actually looks, but Veronica had assured me that he was “totally fine” so I figured I was good.

Yes, Clint Eastwood is my ultimate measure of sexiness, thank you.

I was still 14 when I agreed to his proposal of datitude, even though I was forbidden from actually dating, so our first date required the “best friend secret rendezvous” maneuver, wherein I’d spend the night at my friend Katriya’s house (because she was the friend my family liked/trusted the most) so I could do things my parents didn’t want me to do because they were bad bad ideas.  I got all dressed up in my sexiest acid wash mom jeans and an off-the-shoulder tube shirt with a horrendous flower pattern and applied my iridescent tan lipstick and off we went to meet him and his friend at Loehmann’s Plaza, where we were going to see Child’s Play III.

Katriya and I sat outside on a planter that doubled for an ashtray, nervously waiting for him to make his first appearance.  “Over there, that’s him!” Her voice was not kind  as she pointed at the pair of heshers coming out of the arcade.  “Veronica LIED!” I hissed at her as she began to laugh. Please let it be the blonde, please let it be the blonde, fuck, of course it’s not the blonde.  His friend was fairly attractive.  He, on the other hand, totally wasn’t.  He wasn’t much taller than I was, fancied himself a body builder, but his frame didn’t support it well so he just looked a bit like a tall little person. Beyond that, he had a mullet, but not just any mullet, it was a super mexi-mullet. And he was wearing a fitted jean jacket with Eddie Van Halen air brushed on the back of it. I wanted to flee. To pretend it wasn’t me, but it was too late. He had spotted me.

We bought tickets.  I can’t remember if he bought my ticket for me or if I had to buy my own. I spent the whole movie alternating between chastising myself for my desire to dump him on the spot because he was so repulsive to me and thinking how incredibly awful the movie was.  Really, have you seen Child’s Play III?! Serious crap! He spent the whole movie trying to touch my boobs and making me very uncomfortable by actually acting like he was my boyfriend. The only high point was that he smelled of Drakkar, which he might have bathed in.

Afterwards, we broke off from our friends and walked around the deserted outdoor mall. “So, what do you think?” I somehow realized he was asking me to assess his attractiveness. “Oh, yeah. You’re as fine they said.” I’m a liar, a dirty liar. Which should pay off right? Flattery and what not…  “And what about you?” Of course, he didn’t hold to the same principles that I did as his response was not flattering in the least. “Well, you’re not the beautiful flower they said you were, but you’re okay.”  He was entirely wrong.  I was an AMAZINGLY beautiful flower, and he was a jackass.

When I got back to Kat’s house, I called Veronica and informed her that she was a lying jerk, and she told me I was shallow (which I took to be a confession that she knew damned well that her pants were on fire) and she convinced me that I should give him a chance, which was a really bad suggestion, but somehow when you are 14 and you have really low self-esteem, you make really bad decisions, and instead of dumping him, like a sane person, I dated him for approximately two years.

Those were not two consecutive years, of course, because he would break up with me every couple of months/weeks/days because he was convinced I was either cheating on him at that moment, or was planning on cheating on him at any second, and I would cry and  plead with him not to dump me and he would declare that I just wanted to be with him because he was “sooooo fine.” Each time this declaration would come and each time it was really hard not to guffaw the moment he’d say it, but I somehow managed not to laugh openly at him and would assure him of all the stupid reasons I didn’t want him to break up with me, my level of attraction to him had ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with it.




* Evil Mike's name was coined after I started dating my husband, who is "good Mike" or just Mike.  But evil Mike was evil... or compared to all other Mikes who did not make my life miserable for 2+ years... Come to think of it, he wasn't really clever enough to be evil, I guess... he was really just a dick.. but Evil Mike has a better ring to it than "Dick Mike." 

_____________________________________________________

Remember, tomorrow is the last day to buy your Limited Edition September Sticker! 

http://cheeseblarg.blogspot.com/2011/09/september-sticker-sale-t-rex-wants-ice.html

Da dun, da dun...

Shark week has been near and dear to my heart since the first time I watched it, the summer before my 11th grade year.  As I've watched it through the years, it has always reminded me of my best high school boyfriend, Alex (who reads this blarg, incidentally, hi, Alex!) because it was in his living room, on his couch, that the greatness that is a week full of terrifying shark facts was introduced to me.
And sharks are friggen awesome.  I mean I wouldn't want to hang out with one necessarily, or like... be eaten by one... though it would make a good story, being eaten by a shark in Montana, far away from places where sharks live... but still, not really up for that. So yes, I like to watch things about sharks, because they are fascinating and it gives me great information on how to avoid being eaten by them... which again, is much less of an issue now, living in Montana, than it was when I was growing up 8 blocks from the Atlantic Ocean.

My favorite shark fact: Sharks use electrical impulses to know where to bite, instead of their eyes, which are covered when they go all bitey to protect them from injury due to animals fighting back, because animals really don't like being bitten.

What's your favorite shark fact?

I Double Dare Ya!

As a kid, I was obsessed with Double Dare, and when I say “as a kid,” I mean,  I was in high school and was WAY too old  to be interested in the show. In particular, it was Family Double Dare that caught my interest, because I figured, if I were able to get on the show, somehow, my family would  be sure to be the biggest winners of all time.

Well, no, not actually.  As long as we never had to do a physical challenge where my mom and I were involved, we would have been the biggest winners of all time.

If you are unaware of the format of the game show “Double Dare” it worked thusly:

You were asked general trivia questions and you could either answer if you knew it, OR if you thought the other family were a bunch of morons, you could DARE them to answer the question, and then of course, they wouldn’t know because they were knuckle-dragging idiots, and they would DOUBLE DARE you back and then you would get four times as much money for knowing the correct answer.

If for some reason, someone in your family didn’t know the answer, which pretty much wouldn’t have happened in my family because, between the four of us, we would have known EVERYTHING because we are all trivia GENIUSES, you could take a “physical challenge.”  And that is where it would have totally screwed us.

Both my sister and my dad are sporty types.  My dad grew up in a family full of boys, the smallest of whom was 6 foot tall, and they were all athletes.  Two of my uncles were professional athletes, in fact.  As I have mentioned before, we lived with our grandparents, the makers of this hoard of hulking jocks,  for a year, and my sister was taught to play football by my uncle Mike, the college all-star professional NFL quarterback.  I, on the other hand, had a penchant for crying when injured, or frustrated, or looked at, so I did a lot of jump roping while everyone else practiced valuable physical skills.  The one skill I did manage to foster was catching, probably to avoid being hit in the face with footballs, but that’s about it.
My mom, apparently, was kept in a cage like veal while growing up because while she is smart and funny and a creative cook, she is about as uncoordinated as they come.

So, we could have answered any question, but when it came to “physical challenges,” which included things like flipping rubber pancakes across a stage onto a tray your parent was holding, using a giant spatula,  while blindfolded and then dowsing them in “maple syrup” or filling a bowl with green slime to a certain fullness using only your head that has a bucket strapped to it, before 25 seconds is up,  it mostly likely would have ended with death and destruction.

And then there was the Obstacle Course at the end.  The winning family (read: MINE, obv.) would go through a course of 8 different stations, alternating family members, where you had to collect (and in many cases, find) an orange flag from each in a total of  60 seconds.  And again, my sister and dad would have done great, though at 6’4” my dad might have had some trouble getting through some of the obstacles.  And I might have done okay (I had serious fantasies about the sundae slide, in which I would conquer it with my mouth… though I was sure it was most likely not edible, it LOOKED like a big sundae.  Hell, I would still like to dig through a giant pool-sized sundae in pursuit of an orange flag) but I had my doubts that my mom would have gotten through her share of the obstacles and we never would have won a 13 inch TV or a Panasonic VCR or a Conair Hair Dryer.

My family doing the obstacle course would have been NOTHING like this, at all

And there was also the fact that I was about 5 years too old to be on the show. But otherwise, biggest winners EVER!

Happy Papa Llama Day!

One of my favorite memories with my dad is also one of my favorite nerd memories- the moment I realized that advanced math has real life applications.
My dad was big on doing home remodeling projects.  As a family, we turned the duplex we owned into a single family house when I was in elementary school, knocking down walls and redecorating everything.
My senior year of high school, my dad had me help him tear out part of our porch to create a storage closet off the dining room. Since there was already a door leading out to the space (that used to be the front door of that unit) I guess he figured it might as well lead to something useful, plus it would cut down on the amount of times we would have to answer the door to solicitors by a third.

 As a teenager who is part of a government experiment, getting to take a sledgehammer to wooden uprights is downright cathartic, but then I got to help frame out the room, building everything from the studs up.  And then, since there was already a roof on the porch, I got to actually use the trigonometry I had learned the year before to figure out what angle my dad needed to miter the wood at to make the roof section fit.
I'm quite certain my dad didn't need me to do the math, he achieved a near perfect score on his SAT, he is brilliant, but I was excited to get to do the math, I even remember it as being my idea to use my trig knowledge to figure it out, and I was excited that he trusted my calculations and didn't (at least in front of me) insist on doing them himself to make sure he wasn't wasting a cut (because you always measure twice, and cut once).

I don't even recall crying once during the whole remodel, which was quite remarkable.
And the roof piece fit perfectly, for the record.

Why broken windows are bad.

Today, I would like to talk about another of my great hatreds.

When I first moved in with my husband, who was then my boyfriend, we lived in a house that belonged to one of his coworkers, who also lived there with his cat named Nigel.  Nigel liked to go outside and hunt in the overgrown jungle that surrounded the house, and so, whether by happy accident, or on purpose, I never asked, one of the panes of the French doors at the entrance of the house was busted out which made a makeshift cat door.

But of course, as the case always is, nature doesn't follow the rules of a house and the cat was not the only thing that was able to enter through that door, no, not just the cat.

There was the night that I walked out towards the bathroom and saw a large raccoon happily eating the cat food in the front room, but that is not what this is about.

This is about the flying creatures that trespassed into the house.

Moths have always bothered me (especially since I share their desire to hurt myself with bright lights) but one evening, it was kicked in to full blown phobia realms.  I went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet to get ingredients for dinner.

 I had cut up some chicken and grabbed a box of seasoned rice to make a quick fry up, and so I melted butter in the pan and poured the rice into the pan to brown it before I added the water.

 Only, some of the rice was moving.

And then I looked in the box and found a moth, obviously a mommy moth, and then I screamed, and cried in a  totally hysterical manner, before throwing the rice away and all of the boxes of rice that were in the pantry.  And then I went out to buy the biggest container of mothballs that I could possibly find.

I've gotten to the point where I no longer need to make my house smell like that of a grandma (it only took a few years), but I still am prone to screaming and flapping when a moth finds its way into my environment, and I call (read: screech)  for its immediate removal and/or murder.

How I learned to wear green on St. Patrick's day.

My mom convinced me, one year in high school, that orange was just as suitable for St. Patrick's Day as green was.  Something about catholic and protestant Irish...

Not unsurprisingly, it takes more time to explain this than it takes someone to pinch you.

It occurs to me now that I may have just pissed my mom off shortly before this (I was a teenager, par for the course, ya know), and it may have been a revenge plot of some sort.

OMG! 100th POST!

HEY! HEY GUISE!!! This is my 100th post! OMG!!! I started this blarg in November because I wanted to bitch about my computer's touchpad. It is still a jerk, for the record. I think it would work better if I only had one finger. Damn my other fingers for being within THREE INCHES of the touch pad, DAMN THEM!


So, I'd like to tell you about one of the most frightening experiences of my teen years.  I grew up in a house in Miami Beach in a kinda middle class neighborhood.  My sister and I were both lucky enough to have our own rooms but we shared a bathroom.  Each night, there was an ongoing battle (that my sister probably didn't know was happening... can't recall ever bringing it up to her).

See, I am taller than my sister, and I'm also neurotic, as I have mentioned, and I was much more reserved than she was back then. So, every night when I went to take a shower, I would carefully stick together the pink plastic curtain that covered the big window in the shower (who the hell puts a giant window in a shower?!?) so that none of our neighbors would accidentally catch of glimpse of me while I was naked in the shower, that had a giant window in it... at my chest level, for some damned reason.  Of course, this meant I had to blindly fish for the shampoo and conditioners that were on the window sill behind the curtain, but it seemed worth it, because I am neurotic. Every single night, I would go in there and the curtain would be wide open and I would stick it back together, and every time my sister used it, being NOT neurotic, she would open it with wild abandon to get to the shampoo like a normal person.

And so it happened that I got up in the middle of the night, one night, to use the bathroom.  I sat down, half asleep, and started to pee.  And then I noticed movement to my left, towards the shower where my sister had left the curtain open.  'Ah,' I thought to myself plainly, 'It's just the shrub under the window.' And then it dawned on me, in slow motion. 'The shrub... is under my bedroom window.... not the bathroom...." at which point I turned my head ever so slowly to the left and saw the following:

Okay, he may not have had a Jason mask on, but I swear to weasels, that is what my brain interpreted in the split second I saw it. And then he was treated to the lovely view of me scrambling off the toilet (thankfully, I had finished peeing), pulling up my pants as I crawled, on all fours, out of the room.

Once I got out in the the hallway and shut the door, I tore through the house towards my parent's room and woke them up shouting that someone was looking in the window. This resulted in my dad pulling on his running shorts, backwards apparently, busting through the front door and chasing the Peeping Tom down our street holding up his shorts (that were threatening to fall off)  with one hand and waving, what I remember as a machete (but could have been either an ax handle or a Louisville Slugger), in his other hand, barefoot. He might have been yelling too.

I can't remember if that stopped the battle of the open curtain, but probably not.  It did give me a sort of kinship with Rockwell though.

Be Cool, My Llamas!

Around midnight, back in 1996, I went down to my friend, Norweiner's, single room in the basement of our dorm at the University of Florida.  After hanging out for a little while, she told me she had to turn on the TV, which was strange since Norweiner was the non-tv-watching type.   I'd never heard of Conan O'Brien before that night, but watching a giant wagon full of whiny business men being dragged through the studio and around 30 Rockefeller was enough to get me hooked. I've been watching him since.

As so, I pay him the highest honor I can bestow upon someone.  I give you, Conan O'Brien as a llama (with doodley background):

You can't see it but he it totally wearing jeggings.