This book is dedicated to:

Peter
Paul
Logan
Kira
Christian
Catie
Billy
Riley

& the ones who haven’t quite gotten here yet

I love kids. I was a kid myself, once. – Tom Cruise

 Prologue

"I think I did pretty well, considering I started out with nothing but a bunch of
blank paper." –Steve Martin

This book is a compilation of diary entries, blog posts, emails, and stories of my
clumsy, idiotic adventures that I would tell to my friends when I had too much to
drink and felt a little too honest.

Make no mistake: mid-2008 to mid-2009 was the worst year of my life. I have
decided to make something good come out of that year. I looked for the funny in
every situation, and I tended to fall ass-first into weird situations that would make
everyone around me laugh. Those are the stories I compiled here for you to read.
Because honestly, in that year, these humorous situations were the only thing
that kept me going as I waded through the hell that was my life at that time.

Sincerely,
Anne Egeland
Aka Enna Stein of KosherPorkchops.com

2
 Making A Good Impression

I try, against all odds, to be ladylike at work. It’s an uphill battle. I am not ladylike
at all. I don’t wear high heels, because I know that I look like a rhino trying to
delicately tiptoe through the marsh when I wear them. I bite my nails. I rarely do
my hair. I abstain from all forms of lipstick since it always ends up on my teeth.
My nylons, when I wear them, frequently get runs and tears in them. I have been
waiting since the age of four to finally grow some facial hair so I can just become
a man already. I am a hot mess in a girl’s body.

I made popcorn at work one day. Why? No reason other than I was hungry and it
was the healthiest thing available in the vending machine. Every time I passed
the vending machine my stomach would remind me that those five Twix bars are
calling for me, yearning for me to accept my fate and just become a fat girl
already.

But I abstain from the Twix bars and pop myself some popcorn instead. I head
back to my office, lean back in my chair and start to toss pieces up into my
mouth. I miss my mouth a lot. Then I suddenly remember there’s a meeting I am
supposed to be in. Pretending to care, I hustle to the meeting.

In the middle of the meeting, I realize there is about a handful of popcorn in my

cleavage. So, when my boss decides it’s time to take a break from the meeting
and everyone gets up to stretch and go check their email, I am left alone in the
room.

You know where this is going.

I reach down my shirt, grab a handful of popcorn, and start eating. What I failed
to realize, however, was that the guy who was late to the meeting came in

3
through the backdoor of the meeting room - the door that was inconveniently
behind me, and saw me take popcorn out of my boobs and eat it.

I look up at him, mouth full of popcorn and say, ” Ehhhy Pfofkern?” This was my
way of saying, with my mouth full, “Want any popcorn?” I know you’re thinking
this sounds like I might be vaguely hitting on him, but let me assure you I am not
nearly attractive enough to pull that line off sexily. I really did not know what else
to say. The guy laughs so hard he starts coughing and leaves back out the door.

The rest of the meeting I had to deal with people asking, “Does anyone smell
popcorn?” The guy who caught me boob-snacking was trying hard not to laugh,
all while I try not to piss myself out of fear that he will tell on me and my secret
boob stash.

All in all, I have to say I think I am making a great impression at this new
company.

4
 Supergirl Strikes Again

We blew a tire recently. Considering the government has yet to identify me as a

national treasure and pay me handsomely for being such, I am still very much
broke.

I took the car to a tire center right by our house and asked if they had any used
tires or how much it would cost to replace one tire. The guy looked at the tires on
my car and told me he has NO IDEA how the car is not sitting on four flats
instead of one. For those of you wondering if the guy was trying to scam me, he
wasn’t. My tires were balder than Mr. Clean.

He gave me a quote for their cheapest tires, and I …well, I started crying. I said I
had almost no money and then I started swearing through my blubbering about
how tires were so expensive.

Then, Mr-Tire-Man-Who-Should-Be-A-Saint offered me the greatest deal under

the sun: $25 for all four. I got coupon on top of discount on top of coupon. The
guy essentially gave me four free tires and just charged me for the install. I was
so happy…I cried again.

The tire salesman said that he knew I would get back on my feet financially soon,
and not to worry, everything would be fine.

Then he went about putting new tires on my car and I chatted with my friend Ann
in the waiting room. I get off the phone and notice my reflection in the store
window.

In my haste to change the tire, I just threw on anything. “Anything” consisted of a

white t-shirt and a Superman bra. The Superman bra is bright blue and has the
red Superman symbol where the nipples would be. And guess what? While I was
outside changing the busted tire and adding the spare, it started raining

5
something fierce. My super white t-shirt was now super see-through. I didn’t
realize it at the time, but I might have gotten this super deal because I
accidentally flashed my Super Goodies at the tire salesman.

It could have been worse, I could have been wearing NO BRA, and mercy would
that have been a sight. But then again, maybe I would have gotten a free CAR.

6
 Don King in a Headlock

I was on my way to a job interview, and I decided to stop at a public bathroom in

downtown Chicago so I could splash my face with cool water and make sure I
wasn’t a hot, sweaty, ghetto mess.

First I go to the bathroom, see no one else is in the bathroom and I have it all to
myself. I am one of those “shy bladder” people. You know the kind of person I am
talking about: they can stop mid-stream if someone comes into the bathroom and
then resume when that person leaves.

I finish up and I hear someone come in and run the water. I exit the stall and
come around the corner and see what only can be described as a homeless bag
lady with no pants or underwear furiously washing her va-jay-jay, to quote Oprah.

Do you ride public transportation? I do. Every so often someone on the public
trans system finds an unattended box or gym bag. Every time this happens, it is
treated as a bomb threat and everyone on the train needs to be evacuated as
quickly as possible. The train conductor announces that an unidentified package
has been found, the bomb squad has been called and please exit the train as
quickly and calmly as possible. There’s this moment of silence and then all hell
breaks loose. People are pushing and shoving their way out of the train as
quickly as possible.

This is what happened to me in the bathroom. I turned the corner, processed

what I was seeing, and then internally – all hell broke loose. I RAN out the door.

And, for the record, the woman had pubic hair from her thighs all the way to her
belly button and it was all soapy. It look like she was wrestling Don King with her
thighs in the middle of a car wash.

7
By the time I got to the job interview, I was a hot, sweaty, FREAKED OUT ghetto
mess. But on the plus side, I remembered to wear deodorant that day and I will
take any little victory where I can find it.

8
 Swearing in Spanish

At one of the delightful jobs I have held in my life, I worked with a Spanish
woman, Sara. She was actually from Spain, came over here, met an American,
got married, popped out a couple of cute kids, and went to work at the same
place where I happened to work.

One of Sara’s jobs was cleaning out the warehouse once a whenever. I say
‘once a whenever’ because it was whenever she felt like it. There were entire
months where she wouldn’t set foot in there. And then there were months where
she cleaned it every week. This particular story happened during one of those
times when she had gone months without cleaning out the warehouse.

In the warehouse, we stored equipment from different locations. One of the

requirements for storage was that if it once held food, it had to be cleaned,
sanitized, and wrapped in plastic wrap on a pallet.

The warehouse workers started to complain about a smell about a month before
we figured out what was really going on. They said it smelled like a rat had
crawled into the wall and died. So naturally we called an exterminator. The
exterminator came out, smelled around, said he couldn’t figure out where it was
coming from and laid some glue traps down.

Then the smell got worse. It got more intense. The warehouse workers started to
really complain, saying they were gagging all the time and that the smell was
definitely coming from a pallet in the storage area. Sara goes to look and decides
that it’s time to figure out where the smell is coming from. I decide to help
because at this particular company, the power would go out frequently, as would
the internet. This happened to be one of the times the power was out.

So Sara and I, armed with flashlight hardhats, descend on the warehouse.

9
The smell was like getting hit with a wave of hot garbage and corpses. After
sniffing various pallets, I finally found which one was the offender and we
unwrapped it.

Inside we find four small refrigerators. Carefully, we unwrap them and open them
up. The second refrigerator we open is filled with mush. We stand in front of it,
while it pours out on our legs and feet, and try to figure out what it is.

It was nothing but maggots and rotting meat. There was a whole ham that was
decomposing inside. Then we found the dead rats, who probably figured out how
to get into the fridge and then couldn’t get out and suffocated. All around, it was a
hot mess, and Sara and I both vomited and swore up a blue streak.

We ended up calling a professional cleaning crew who came into the office in
hazmat gear and cleaned it out. When they were leaving, one of the cleaners
said he has been to crime scenes on hot July days that have been more tolerable
than what he just cleaned for us.

10
 I Owe Leah a New Car

Recently, I was reminded why I no longer drink. My friend Leah was regaling me
of stories of things I have done while drunk.

Once, one of our friends threw a margarita pool party. It’s not what it sounds like.
We took a kiddie pool, filled it with margarita mix and kiddie bathtub toys, and
proceeded to throw a party around the pool. Everyone was given a cup, but by
the end, we were all lying on our backs with large tubes running from the pool to
our mouths.

After a night of heavy drinking, Leah offers me a ride home and I proceed to pour
myself into her backseat. The whole ride home I am belching and drooling
uncontrollably. Leah turns around and asks “Anne, are you about to vomit?” My
response? “I’m thhhhhinkin’ about it!” At which point Leah pulls the car over as
fast as she can. I, in my drunken stupor, try to throw up out the window. The
problem was, I didn’t roll down the window first. I literally pressed my face against
the window and vomited. I was quite the delicate little flower back in the day.

Leah eventually went away to college, which left me on the Chicago bus system.
Let me tell you, they are significantly less forgiving when you press your face
against something and vomit.

11
 Drug Lords

I was helping one of my friends clean out her grandmother’s house after she
died. At the time I was unemployed, and since I cannot get enough of the smells
of cabbage, bleach, and mothballs, this was right up my alley. Plus I figured my
friend would appreciate someone being there with her, especially when she got
to her grandmother’s undergarments. No one wants to handle their own
grandmother’s undergarments. Not that I was exactly looking forward to that part,
but I digress.

My friend never knew this, but her grandmother was a hoarder. You know what I
mean: some people never throw away a newspaper, others their clothes, other
people their pets, etc. For my friend’s grandmother, it was a different collection
for each room.

In the spare room, her grandfather’s old study, it was Elvis and clowns. There
were figurines everywhere. I wasn’t afraid of clowns before, but I am now. She
even had an Elvis Clown, which I am pretty sure my friend is busily looking up on
Ebay to see how much it is worth, because neither of us had seen such an
abortion of a figurine in our entire lives. And therefore it must be worth a nice
sum of money.

In every purse we found sugar packets and cookies that date back to 1979. This
woman also had close to 50 purses, one of which I was allowed to take home
because my friend thought it was a dead animal. Like you could resist a purple
and green shag purse? Don’t act like you could.

But nothing – nothing, I tell you – prepared us for the drugs. The woman had a
bathtub full of pills. Not that we found them in the tub, we just used to tub to store
them as we found them. They were stored by type in large, freezer-sized
sandwich bags. She had antidepressants, she had morphine vials, she had anti-

12
anxiety medications, she had painkillers that would knock out a horse. She had
pills I had never even heard of. She even had unmarked pills that we were afraid
to touch. There was everything from synthetic estrogen to birth control pills to
what I am pretty sure is ecstasy (do any other pills have happy faces on them? I
don’t think so).

We spent half the day using the internet to look up the different pill types. Each
search made us more and more horrified, and more and more sure that her
grandmother was probably an elderly drug lord.

My friend and I were surveying the bathtub o’ pharmaceuticals, and a thought

occurred to me: We are totally street rich! We could sell these on the black
market!

I was kidding, but only a little. I am sure there are people out there who would be
willing to pay us a hefty sum for a handful of these little beauties.

But that idea left us with a question: What do we do with all these drugs? We
couldn’t flush them because the toilet looked like it was from the 1800s. We
couldn’t just throw them away: what if a kid was messing around in the garbage
can?

So, we did what normal women do when they do not know what to do:

We called my friend’s mother.

Her mother called a cop-friend of hers, and then the police showed up and
hauled off our Monty pile of street riches. We had to give our names, which
means somewhere in the system I am listed as a possible drug lord. I am sure
that will buy me some street cred when I am eventually sent to prison. And I will
eventually be sent to prison, since my mind went straight to the illegal
possibilities when I saw all the pills, as it always does when I am in a tricky and
morally ambiguous situation.

13
 Things I Have Done for Minimum Wage

I was once interviewed on the phone, and the interviewer asked me to describe
an instance in any of my previous jobs where I went above and beyond the call of
duty. These following instances are what I thought of, none of which are what I
said because I was not stupid, and actually wanted to work at that company.

I once had to identify an employee of my company after she refused to

give her identity to the police. The police showed up to her branch after
she threw scalding hot coffee in a pregnant woman’s face because she
cut in line in front of her for the sink.

I once had to stop a grease trap from overflowing. I was literally shoveling
grease into garbage bags while standing knee-deep in molding grease. It
smelled far worse than you are imagining. I was a teenage fast food
employee at the time and made no more than five dollars an hour. I was
told by my boss that I had to do it or I would be fired. I drastically
underestimated how good it would have felt to be fired.

I once fell waist-deep into a deep fryer. It was off, and the grease was
cold, but I did not know that at the time. I thought I was about to get
seriously burned and was so scared that I peed when I fell in. My boss
then made me clean out the fryer. In retrospect, I should have just kept my
mouth shut about the peeing thing. Most of the customers at that particular
fast food establishment wouldn’t have noticed anyhow.

I once had federal marshals bust open the door to my place of

employment looking for someone who listed the business’s address as

14
 their last place of residence. Apparently he was wanted for armed robbery.
I got to go home right after that, and yes, it was because I instantly peed. I
tend to pee when I get really frightened. It’s why my family has never
thrown me a surprise party.

I once had to check in an employee’s old uniforms when we fired her. She
graciously filled the bag with thongs. I didn’t realize it until I was arm-deep
into the bag. And yes, they were dirty. And yes, I burned all my arm hair
off with chemical cleansers after that.

Instead of saying any one of these things to the woman interviewing me, I
mumbled something about being a team player and staying late when needed. I
think I need to start being more honest in interviews. “When have I faced
adversity in the workplace? Does having a federal marshal point a gun five
inches from your face and scream at you to get down and tell him which one of
us was Tyrone count? No? Huh. I guess never.”

15
 I Ordered the Fish

Back in my college days, I decided to Rush a sorority. It’s a rite of passage every
girl must go through – not the Rushing, but the learning that pretty much all
sorority girls act exactly like they are portrayed on television and in the movies.

Anyway, one of the last challenges I had to undergo before I joined the sorority
consisted of a loyalty test.

I walked into the room and all the sorority sisters were sitting on one side of the
table. On my side there was a glass with a handkerchief covering it.

I asked, " What is it I am supposed to do?" They said to remove the handkerchief
and I would know what to do.

So, I did. And under the handkerchief, there was a glass with a fish in it.

Thinking there were no other options, and knowing what I had to do - I grabbed
the fish, threw it in my mouth and swallowed it.

The sorority sisters were horrified. They said it was an exercise in trust, and that
normal people usually hem and haw and then finally agree to it. At that point they
usually stop them and give them a diatribe about trusting your sorority sisters.
But instead I just ate the fish and I didn’t give them a chance to stop me. I was
the third person to go into the room, and there were easily ten girls behind me
who still had to undergo this trust test.

One of the sisters was really angry, because now they had to think of something
to do to the rest of the girls Rushing. The rest of the sorority sisters instantly
voted me in. Because really, if I was willing to eat a live (albeit small) fish for
them, there really wasn’t anything else they could test me with that would trump
what I just did.

16
And really? I eat sushi all the time, like eating a small fish was going to bother
me all that much. Still, though, it could have used a little soy sauce and ginger.

17
 Have You Seen This Axe Murderer?

I was happily sitting at my computer, looking up pictures of my favorite stars in

bikinis so I could feel better about my own dimply thighs, and I hear a loud BAM
right next to me. I looked up and saw my patio doors covered in blood.

My reaction was to fall out of my chair and try to figure out if the blood was mine
while writhing around on the floor screaming. My first thought was that a drive-by
had occurred. I had temporarily forgotten that I was living on the top floor of a
large apartment building in the far west, super-safe, whitewashed suburbs of
Chicago.

It turns out that a seagull, or possibly a very large pigeon, smashed into my patio
door and literally splattered everywhere. There was blood and chunks of bird
everywhere.

I fill a bucket full of water, and start to wash the bits over the side, and a little
voice tells me that I am directly above the main walkway for my building and
there are people down there. I am essentially pulling a “Carrie” on the people
below. So, I calmly walk back inside, since I do not want to look over the edge
and therefore give away that I was the one dumping the blood over the side on
them.

For the record, I felt really bad about that. I didn’t think before I acted. It’s like I
am still four years old diving headfirst into the shallow end of the pool.

So, I waited about an hour, and tried to think of how I can clean this mess of bird
remains up off my balcony without chancing bloody water flowing over the side
onto the walkway below.

My fiancé Eric has tyvek suits he wears for work. I grabbed one and I suited up.
You know that scene in E.T. where the government comes for E.T. and they are

18
wearing those weird suits? That’s essentially what I was wearing, only, you know,
without a respirator attached on the back. I grab my cleaning supplies and get to
work. It takes me roughly an hour, but I get all the chunks and blood sopped up.
Then I take it in a bag to the garbage chute. The garbage chute in my building is
in a closet, so I enter the closet, dump it down, and walk out.

Right in front of me is a four-year-old. I am wearing a full white tyvek suit, face

mask and all, with blood smeared all over me. Blood also covered both my hands
up to my elbows. The kid is momentarily shocked, with his eyes wide open and
his mouth in a perfect "O." Then the screaming starts and the kid runs down the
hallway. I rush back into my condo, and I watch out the peephole as the mother
freaks out and runs into the garbage chute room and looks around for what I can
only imagine the child described as a blood-covered monster wandering the
hallways.

I get back into my kitchen, take off the suit, bag it up, wash the floor, and
patiently wait for the police because I was sure the mother was going to call
them. But no. She didn’t. And thank God for small favors. I mean, otherwise I
would be waiting in a jail cell right now while the police waited for the Crime
Scene Investigators to test the blood to make sure it wasn’t human. And really, I
had already had way too much excitement for one day.

19
 Little Faces

My vegetarian friend invited me over to her house. I used her bathroom. As I am

washing my hands, I notice a very large pack of toilet paper in her bathroom.

Then I am struck with what can only be described as mischievous inspiration. I

take out every roll of toilet paper. I unroll them to different lengths. And then? I
draw little cute animal faces on different sheets of each roll. All the animals look
shocked. I then roll them back up, and put them back into the toilet paper roll
pack.

And then I go home and wait.

About 3 days pass, and I get a phone call -

Me: Hello?

Veggie Friend: Did you draw a bunny’s face on my toilet paper?

Me: Yes, yes I did.

Veggie Friend: Why?

Me: No reason. General fun and mischief.

Veggie Friend: Okay.

Then she hangs up. Two days later I get another phone call -

Me: Hello?

Veggie Friend: Dude, what the hell?

Me: What’s up?

20
Veggie Friend: A bear face? On my toilet paper? WHO EVEN DOES THAT?

Me: You go through a lot of toilet paper, you know that, right?

Veggie Friend: You draw a lot of stupid animal faces on my toilet paper, you
know that, right?!

Me: True. You got me there.

Veggie Friend: It’s just disturbing. I don’t eat anything with a face, this is just
throwing my ethics all over the place.

Me: You’d think you’d be disturbed that I touched all your toilet paper.

Veggie Friend: (gasps)

21
 Smashing Nuts on a Saturday Night

I recently borrowed a Bible from the Library, and it is a big, heavy monster of a
Bible.

I went out with some friends on Saturday night, and after many margaritas, we all
decided to have a snack. Because half the people I know are on diets, we
decided to eat some mixed nuts my friend picked up. She mistakenly thought
they were already cracked, but they were not. They were the in-shell, incredibly
frustrating to crack kind.

While I am in the bathroom, I keep hearing loud slamming noises. I come out to
see one of my friends using a book to smash nuts. My friend exclaims that the
book she is using is the best nut smashing book she has ever seen.

“What book are you using?” I ask.

“Some book called ‘The Message,’” She says.

“Dude, you are smashing nuts with my Bible. Not cool,” I reply.

She stops, thinks about it for a second, and replies, “Well, I went through 12
years of Catholic school where nuns busted my nuts every day, I guess
turnabout is fair play.”

I bet all the nuts in hell are the shell-on kind, and I bet when we both get there we
will find that out.

22
 Drinking in the Birth of Jesus

Once, I was driving my cousin home after Christmas with the extended family.
For those of you not aware, “Christmas With The Extended Family” really means
“Heavy Binge Drinking.”

So, after a night of heavy binge drinking (in the name of family and Jesus), we all
decide to leave and head on home to nurse our soon-to-be hangovers.

My cousin sits in the backseat, and away we go. Halfway through the trip he puts
one of his presents on his lap. He looks down at this shirt box, carefully takes off
the top, and proceeds to vomit into it. And no, he did not remove the gift first.That
would have been the smart thing to do.

We stop at his house, he gets out of the car and throws up in the street. He then
totters into his house and proceeds to sleep it off.

I look in the backseat, and I do not see any vomit. But the whole car smells of
vomit. So, in the middle of December in Chicago, we roll down the windows and
proceed to air it out, getting hypothermia in the process. It was the Christmas that
just kept on giving.

Fast forward to the summer. Friends and I decide to all get together and go to the
movies. So we all pile into the car, and since I am psychotic about people
wearing seatbelts, everyone puts one on. Then I hear a shrill scream from the
backseat. Apparently, my cousin had thrown up on the seatbelt, and when he got
out of the car, the seatbelt retracted back into the seat. The vomit dried on it.

We had never thought to look there. But needless to say we scrubbed that
seatbelt until it was almost threadbare after that gruesome discovery.

23
So, the moral of this story is this: when “drinking for Jesus” and someone throws
up in your backseat, make sure to pull out the seat belt and verify it’s spotless.
And then make a mental note to never give your cousin a ride anywhere ever
again.

24
 When is a Car Not a Car?

I have owned a plethora of shitty cars in my day, one of which was not a car.

See, I bought this car off of my cousin and transferred the title to my name. The
car only lasted about two months. When it broke down, I had it towed back to my
friend’s house and into his garage. After my mechanically inclined friend looked
at it he just shook his head. Even if he could get the car to run again, the frame
was entirely made up of rust and therefore unsafe to drive.

I waited for the title to come in the mail so I could just junk it, or donate it and get
the tax write-off. A couple months go by and no title. Nothing. So I head down to
the local currency exchange and pay the money to get a new title, stating that the
old one was “lost.”

Again I wait for a little more time to go by and, without fail, the title doesn’t come
in the mail. In the meantime my friend wants his garage back, so we’re forced to
move the car. My friends and I push it to my friend’s mother’s driveway in the
middle of the night. I leave all the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition. At
this point I am hoping someone just steals the car.

I head to the local DMV, and pay again to try to get a copy of the title. Once
again, months go by, and nothing. Finally I go to the State of Illinois building,
armed with every piece of identifying information a person can have about the
car and myself, and try to get a copy of the title.

“See what your problem is,” says the lady at the state office, “it’s not a car. That
vehicle identification number doesn’t exist.”

25
“What?!” I scream. “Check again, I bought it off my cousin, and she is the
squeakiest, cleanest person I know!” She checks three more times. My car does
not exist.

While all of this is happening, my friend’s mother is growing concerned.

Someone stole the keys out of the car leaving all the doors and windows wide
open. Someone else stole the battery out of the car (a smart move, considering
that was probably the most expensive piece of the car).

I was at a loss as of what to do. No one recognized the car as a car. I couldn’t
junk it without the title, nor could I sell or donate it.

And that was when I realized something: If I took the plates off of it and canceled
the insurance, there was no way of tracking the car back to me.

With the help of my friends, I decided to get rid of the car the only way I knew
how: through the city of Chicago’s towing system.

We pushed the car out into the street, and then I got into the car, put it into
neutral, and my friend slowly pushed from behind with his car. We pushed it
down the block to the local public school, and parked it across three handicapped
spaces in the teacher’s parking lot. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, but I
wanted to absolutely make sure that it was towed.

I opened all the doors, windows and trunk on it. That is when I noticed the family
of possums living in the backseat. Not to mention all the spiders in the car.
Which made me do the heebie jeebie dance in the parking lot.

I ended up screaming at the car after it was all said and done, which made my
friend laugh until he almost peed himself. I was mostly angry that I exposed
myself to black widows and rabies for something that doesn’t exist according to
the government.

26
The next morning, the car was towed by the City of Chicago. I never got so much
as a ticket or phone call. Something tells me they had a hard time finding the title
for the thing.

27
 Party Games

One of my friends has a grandmother who works in AIDS Hospice Care. This
delightful little grandmother gets condoms in bulk that she is required to hand out
to her patients. Here’s the thing – they’re hospice patients. Hospice is a nicer
way of saying “sent home to await death.” Sometimes it is also referred to as
Florida.

Anyway, these patients have very little use for condoms. I mean, come on, they
have advanced AIDS, I am sure sex is the last thing on their minds. But the US
Government says otherwise.

So, grandma has a surplus of condoms. Grandma, being a cool grandma, ships
the extra condoms home to her grandchildren. When I say extra, I mean easily
four boxes of 10,000 condoms.

One of my friends came home for the week from the Air Force, and my friends
and I decided to throw a party in honor of her homecoming.

At some point in the night, I got pretty drunk on champagne. Also at some other
point during the night, a box of condoms got broken into.

And at some later point during the night, I figured out a few truths about condoms
and myself:

1. If you put a condom over a beer, shake it up, and then open it, it fills up
something fierce, and is quite humorous.

2. I can fit a condom up my arms so far that it goes past my elbows.

3. I can cover my whole foot and ankle with condoms.

4. I can make impromptu water wings with condoms.

28
5. Condoms hold a very large amount of drinking-induced vomit.

6. I can make giant flowers out of condoms.

7. All these condom tricks are far more humorous with a stomach full of
champagne.

8. Somewhere, on a military base, there is an entire roll of film with me doing

party tricks with condoms, in a bikini no less, once again proving I am a constant
source of shame for my family.

9. Condoms are, bar none, the greatest party conversation piece I have ever
seen.

The point of this is not to, you know, bar myself from a future job, but mostly to
tell you that if you happen to have a friend who is going overseas, and you
happen to have a bunch of champagne lying around, invite me over, because
apparently, that is all it takes to have a rocking good time.

29
 Putting on a Show

Here’s the thing with my family and friends: whenever one of us calls another
one of us, we instantly have to use the bathroom. It’s like some weird reaction we
all have. All the females I know have the same reaction as well.

They call, I pretty much head to the bathroom.

And I know what you’re thinking – why am I peeing while talking to them on the
phone – well, because we’re just those kind of people. They go to the bathroom
while on the phone with me, so hey, why not.

My friend Leah called me while she was working in her schools newspaper’s
office. We’re talking about things we did over the weekend and I have to pee. So
I go to the bathroom. Leah stops talking while I am doing my business. Then I
flush. Right about the time I start washing my hands, I hear people laughing.

“Anne,” Leah says.

“Yes?” I reply.

“You are on speaker phone, you know that, right?”

“No, I was not aware of that fact. How many other people are in the room?”

“About 12,″ she laughs.

“What, no applause?” Because really, what else could I have said?

On the plus side, it didn’t make the front page of her newspaper, so for that I can
be thankful, I guess.

30
 A Nice Frosting Finish

If there were a remedial class for life skills, I would be in it. I’ll be darned if I don’t
like doing quadratic equations in my spare time, but really, they have never
helped me in real life. I wish instead of teaching advanced algebra, my math
teacher sat me down and told me the following:

Do not wash your car in -9 degree weather.

I was unemployed at the time, which means that I had very little contact with the
outside world that was not through my computer. The weather hit 36 degrees on
average that month. I figured that it would continue to be relatively warm out for a
while. I was wrong. This was Chicago in winter, after all.

I decided, at 6 a.m., after dropping my fiancé off at work, to do something nice for
him. I decided to wash his car for him. The normally dark blue car looked almost
gray from all the salt stuck to it, and I thought to myself, “Heck, that would be an
awfully nice thing to do for him.”

And it was. Awful, that is. Because I learned something else in this little process:
car washes are not heated. They do not use heated water. Or, at least, the one
closest to my house doesn’t.

Afterwards the car was white. There was a layer of water, then a layer of soap,
then another layer of water, then a layer of wax, then a layer of spot-free rinse on
that car. And they all froze. It was like a soapy seven-layer salad happened right
on top of his car.

When I arrived home, I was trapped inside the car, because the door had frozen
shut. It truly was a gift that kept on giving.

31
I learned that day, after much pushing on the door and scraping wax off the
windows, that sometimes the best gift of all is doing nothing.

32
 Hey That’s MY Car!

I once owned a car. I know, shocking, seeing as I am an American and all. It was
a Pontiac Firebird, and it was AWESOME. It was the fastest, prettiest car I ever
owned.

It was so pretty, in fact, that once I came upon a man rubbing himself all over my
car.

The car, although pretty, was a piece of crap. The window would randomly fall
down, and I would need to duct tape it back up, which was no easy task. But it
also meant that I was always carrying at least one roll of industrial-sized duct
tape in my purse. One particular day walking down the block to my car, I saw this
drunk dude, Bud Light in hand, standing on my hood and grinding on my car. If it
were Tawny Kitaen, it would have been hot. But no, it was some random dude in
an Illinois hat, and he was very drunk.

“HEY!” I yelled.

Drunk Car-Molestor Guy turns around, “Wha?”

I don’t exactly know what came over me, but instead of “talking it out,” I just
decide to whip out my industrial roll of duct tape and hurl it at him. It hits him
dead center in his face, and his face EXPLODES in this torrent of blood.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” I said, deciding after that burst of
anger that maybe it is better to just talk it out after all.

“Sorry…I’m sorry. Is this your car? I’m sorry.” He says as he falls off the hood of
my car. He gets up and runs away down the block.

“Drunken crazies,” I say to myself as I walk up to the car.

33
It’s about then that I realize – this is not my car. This is a Camero. A really, really
nice Camero.

Ah well, I just saved someone a really weird experience. Then I duct taped a
smiley face to his driver’s side window, and went on with my night.

34
 Conversations Via Text Message

Gina: You still unemployed?

Me: Yes! Do you know of a job opening? IS YOUR COMPANY HIRING?!

Gina: No. I just wanted to make sure you were at home so I have someone to
talk to. You are so needy!

Me: Dammit. You got my hopes up.

Gina: Sorry. I swear if someone else tells me how powerful my vagina is I am

going on a killing spree.

Me: I’m sorry…what?

Gina: I’m in one of those tolerance and women empowerment seminars.

Remember that joke I emailed you? Not everyone found it funny.

Me: The joke was funny. Do you know who told on you?

Gina: Yes I do. And I am going to shit in the shape of a muffin and give it to her
when I get back to the office.

Me: Daaaaaamn.

Gina: The leader of this shindig is all about women’s empowerment. She keeps
telling everyone that their vaginas are powerful and we as women must stand up
for other women.

Me: Haha! I find it so funny your company is paying for this. She sounds like the
type of girl who couldn’t get into a sorority in college.

35
Gina: DEAD ON. I feel really bad for the men in this thing though. You can tell
they are totally uncomfortable.

Me: THERE ARE MEN THERE?!

Gina: Yeah. And every time they try to have some input the Leader of the Vagina
Army keeps glaring at them and cutting them off.

Me: WOW.

Gina: One guy was trying to tell a story about his wife giving birth and his respect
for women and it didn’t go too well.

Me: Oh please do share I am dying of laughter over here.

Gina: She waits for the poor son of a bitch to finish his story and then she tells us
this is just another way men try to steal an experience from women.
CHILDBIRTH IS A WOMAN’S EXPERIENCE ONLY ANNE.

Me: WOW.

Gina: The guys all learned to keep their heads down and doodle after that.

Me: I bet they’re doodling what their magnificent vaginas would look like if they
could steal them from the women!

(Long pause)

Me: You still there?

Gina: I totally got busted for laughing. The Leader of the Vagina Army came right
over and asked what was funny.

Me: What did you say?

Gina: What could I say? I had no other choice…

36
Me: WHAT DID YOU SAY?

Gina: …penises.

Me: laughs

Gina: Then the guys started laughing. Then she said we were taking a break,
and asked to see me privately.

Me: Uh oh

Gina: She told me I was what was wrong with women these days.

Me: Get out!

Gina: I told her that since this was not a pass/fail situation, and as long as I do
not walk out, this doesn’t go in my file at work. I just have to get through eight
hours of this crap. And IT IS CRAP.

Me: What did she say?

Gina: She went on a tirade about vaginas. I don‘t know. I stopped paying
attention. She was eating up my smoke break time, plus I wanted to go outside
and see what the guys were all saying.

Me: Priceless!

Gina: I only have two more hours of this crap. I should try not to get kicked out
though, so I should stop texting.

Me: Ok, but one last thing before you go…

Gina: What?

Me: Your vagina is magnificent! IT CAN CHANGE THE WORLD GINA! VAGINA
POWER!

Gina: Go to hell.

37
 Hair of the Snuggle Beast

I was once unemployed for a very long stretch, and I had a lot of time on my
hands. This time has been converted into cleaning darn near everything. My
fiancé Eric joked that when he is eating, he isn’t even done yet before I am
loading his plate into the dishwasher.

So, after running out of dishes, I decided to tackle the towels. My towels, and
maybe this is just my towels, smell bad pretty darn quickly. They go from
Snuggle Bear fresh to floor of a men’s rest stop bathroom extremely fast.

My friend Becki was the first to realize this disgusting truth outside of Eric and
myself. She came out of my bathroom once with a perplexed look on her face.
“Anne” she said, “why do your towels smell like John Goodman’s ass after a
serious workout?”

Since then, I try to make sure when people come over the towels smell better.
This usually means a mad dash to the washer and dryer in my building about an
hour before people walk in my door.

So, with this time off, and the dishes being done, I collected all the towels in the
house and proceed to wash them. When the washing is done, I pop them over to
the dryer. I turn it on, and go back to searching the internet for jobs and pictures
of John Goodman‘s ass in the event he does happen to store my towels in that
thing.

I come back to the dryer, pull my towels out and proceed to take the giant layer
of lint out of the lint trap.

As I am pulling this epic lint out of the dryer trap (because towels always leave
epic lint, it‘s their destiny as towels) I notice on the underside of the lint, under the
thick layer of towel lint, there is a layer of hair. Now, layer of hair doesn’t

38
describe this properly. It looks like someone skinned a gray squirrel and put it in
the dryer lint trap.

How, on God’s green earth, I did not notice this when I was putting the towels
INTO the dryer, I will never know.

I promptly flip out, seeing as that is the one rational reaction to have at a moment
like this. I start inspecting my towels for someone else’s hair. I decide at that
point to rewash my towels in another washer and dryer, because I cannot for the
life of me stop freaking out about the idea of toweling off and finding weird gray
hairs all over me. Because you know they would stick to freshly washed skin.

I go to another washer and dryer, and before I start this, I inspect the washing
machine. So far so good, no hair. Then I check the dryer. GOBS OF HAIR. I
mean, how does that even happen? I keep picturing a man looking at a calendar,
noticing the date, and then saying to himself, “Well look at that! It’s time to wash
my bags of hair again!”

Instead of washing my towels once again, I decide against it, and just resign to
the fact that someone else’s hair might be on my towels. I am now trusting in the
blowing power of my dryer.

Also, I cannot for the life of me bring myself to take a shower. I keep waiting for
Eric to do it first, like maybe all the hair will stick to him, and I can get away scott
free.

Or maybe I can wash them in my dishwasher.

39
 Well Lubricated Shopping Machine

When I go shopping, my hands swell up. I don’t know what it is on supermarket

carts that make my hands swell up like stubby little grapes. But whatever it is, it
happens every single time.

I am shopping, and I get to the checkout lane. I look down, see hand sanitizer,
and make an audible “Oooooh!” as I throw it into my cart. The woman in front of
me gives me the pervert eye, and I cannot figure out why. I brush it off, and load
up the contents of my cart onto the conveyor belt. I pay for my purchases, and
head out to the parking lot.

The Pervert Eye woman is loading up her car, and she is parked directly in front
of me. So, I load up my car with my groceries. I get all giddy when I come upon
the hand sanitizer. I whip out my new hand sanitizer, while standing in the
parking lot, and proceed to open the package and put a large dollop on my hand.
I start to rub my hands together excitedly. At this point, the Pervert Eye woman
has stopped loading up her car, and is staring at me in total mouth-open shock.

My hands start to get really warm, and the sanitizer isn’t absorbing or
evaporating.

Then I notice that instead of buying hand sanitizer, I mistakenly bought warming
lubricant.

This would certainly explain the pervert eye that woman gave me.

I mean, from an outsider’s perspective, a girl with large inflamed purplish hands
was so excited about her warming lubricant, she couldn’t even wait to get into her
car before she started to rub it on herself. All while staring at other patrons in the
parking lot with a look that says “Yeah, I like this baby! I like this a lot!”

It’s honestly a wonder I am not arrested more.

40
 When is it Not About the Hookers?

One of my favorite games to play with Eric is the Supermarket Fun game. We try
to make jokes about what everyone else is buying when standing in line. The
weirder or more filthy guess you make, the more points you get. Like, when
someone is buying scotch and diapers, we usually say to each other “That guy is
in for an interesting night – GO!” and he’ll say something along the lines of
“Teething baby.” and I will say something along the lines of “teething baby” while
making motions that the person is going to beat the kid with the bottle of scotch.

The other day, we were standing in line, and in front of us a man starts loading
up the checkout conveyor belt. He had two melons, 14 pairs of queen sized
neutral tones nylons, and 6 jars of herring in cream.

And both our heads exploded at the exact same time.

Not really, but we were too close to the guy to audibly speculate what he could
possibly be doing with that.

We get in the car and we are just flabbergasted. I instantly go for the prostitute
angle, “Perhaps he is trying to create a life sized tetra-decahedron prostitute!”

Eric just shook his head at me, “It’s always about the prostitutes with you, isn’t
it?”

Please people, when is it not all about the prostitutes?

41
 Bear the OSHA Mascot

At a place I used to work, we had a handyman, and for all purposes, I will call
him Bear. Bear is a bit of a character. Once, I walked in on him working. He was
perched on two different-sized aluminum ladders, one leg on each, and was
working on live wires above his head.

The thing about Bear is, he’s deaf. Not the permanent kind of deaf, but the kind
where he is really hard of hearing and the government classifies him as deaf.

So, when I see him doing this ladder stunt, I run over and try to get his attention
without startling him. I finally get his attention, and by this time, I am yelling
hysterically. He looks down and cheerily says, “Oh hi there. What can I do for
you?” I scream “BEAR! OSHA!” He stops for a second, thinks, looks at the
ladders, looks at me, and says, “What about it?”

Bear came in one day and he didn’t have his hearing aid in. When this happens,
it’s comical. He says some of the most ridiculous things, and I cannot quite tell if
he says these things purposely, or if he thinks he is saying them quietly enough
that I cannot hear him. Either way, he came up with some gems yesterday.

When he walked in the door, he quipped, “I’m farting eggrolls.” I put my hand up
to my ear and said, “What did you say Bear?” He yells, “I’M CRAPPING
EGGROLLS.”

Then a little later, my boss left, and left his office door open. Bear walked into my
boss’s office, sighed and said, “Daddy doesn’t love me.”

Bear once mildly electrocuted himself. The warehouse workers came running up
to me freaked out. They said, “I think Bear electrocuted himself. He yelled and
the lights flickered.”

42
I freaked out, ran to the back, and found Bear, who was frazzled, slightly
electrocuted, but otherwise ok. I told him we legally had to take him to the doctor
and he refused. I then told him he was walking, talking, breathing disproof of
Darwin’s theories. Because he was. He should have been extinct years ago.

“No doctor,” he said, “I’m fine. Besides, that would take too long. And me being
electrocuted started a small fire back there, and we should handle that first.”

Which we could have done, if Bear had remembered to bring in the fire
extinguishers he had just bought.

43
 Stealing

When Eric and I were still in the early stages of dating, we went to a New Year’s
Eve Party in Appleton, Wisconsin.

The thing about living in Chicago is everyone knows someone in Appleton,

Wisconsin. It’s not a theory, it’s a fact. I don’t know what it is about that town, but
those folks get around.

Anyway, Eric and I went up to this party. It must have been a great party,
because I remember nothing about it. Well, I remember one thing.

My friend’s roommates bought fish and a hamster as decoration/things to play

with while drunk. They put the hamster in a ball, and blew cigarette smoke at it,
put it right next to the speakers, etc. I think they even fed it vodka. The
roommates decided that at the end of the night, they would put it into a
microwave.

Now, I am not passing judgment on anyone here, I am just stating facts of what
they did and what they intended to do. But all the same, a microwave? That’s a
terrible death.

So, the party was winding down, and I asked my friend if I could take home the
hamster.

"Sure", he said, "but it isn’t mine to give, it’s the roommates', so you should ask
them". So I did. And they said no, but I could have it after they microwaved it.

I then decided to steal it. I mean, I tried to play nice, and they said no. I grabbed
a shoe box out of my friend’s then-girlfriend’s room, dumped her shoes out, and
put the hamster in the box. Then I went to the crudités, and stole a carrot and
some celery. I then told Eric I had everything ready and it was time to go.

44
Keep in mind, however, I neglected to tell him that I was in the process of
stealing a small animal and trying to smuggle it across state lines in his car.

We got in the car and started the long drive back to Chicago. About an hour in,
Eric started asking me about noises coming from my side of the car.

“Do you hear anything? Like a methodical crunching, rustling noise coming from
over there?” he asked, leaning towards my side of the car to hear it a little better.

“Nope” I said, looking straight ahead, hands in my lap, trying to look innocent as
possible.

“Are you sure? I seriously am hearing something over there,” he said, starting to
move his head around to see what is at my feet.

“Yep. I hear nothing. Just the sound of the open road.” I put my hand out in front
of me, as if to say, That crunching noise? That’s the sound of the Great State of
Wisconsin!

Eric grew more concerned. “Alright, I have to pull over, I think there’s something
wrapped around my tire, like a plastic bag or something.” He pulled to the side of
the road.

I couldn’t take anymore, and he was about to find out anyway, so I screamed, “I
stole their hamster!”

Eric looked shocked. “You did what?”

I started talking quickly, like if I got all the words out at once it would be less
weird that I just stole a small animal. “They said they were going to kill it and I
asked if I could have it and they said no so I stole it.” Then I opened the shoe box
and showed him.

“I totally cannot believe you stole their hamster!” replied Eric, looking into the box.

45
“I’m surprised I got away with it!”

We drove it back to Eric’s house, and his mom was quite impressed with us. I
think it was the first time in my life I have a) stolen something, and b) been given
kudos for doing something that is clearly a no-no, I mean, it’s on the Ten
Commandments as one of those “God strongly advises you NOT to do” things.

With my next paycheck, I bought the full gamut: the gigantic habitat, the wheel,
the organic, self cleaning bedding, the organic hamster food. I went all out.

Then it died.

I was so angry. I stole, lied, and dropped a lot of money on the stupid little thing,
and it up and died on me.

I gave away all the stuff I bought, because Eric and I both decided that maybe we
weren’t ready for another hamster quite yet.

We named the little guy Dante, because we figured that he had been through
hell, and then promptly gave it a proper burial in a City of Chicago garbage can in
the alley.

So I guess the moral of this story is don’t let me see you torture an animal,
otherwise I will be forced to steal it in a shoebox, take it home, buy it a bunch of
crap, and then discover it dead.

46
 I Was Recently Offered a Human Hand

One of my friends offered me a human hand because they know I am an artist, or

at least that‘s why she said she offered it to me. This could just be one of those
Monkey’s Paw stories that I just willingly wandered into.

I could not, for the life of me, tell if it was real or not. It’s skeletal, and held
together with little screws. The person who offered it was also an artist, and
picked up the hand at a flea market in the middle of a book fair. She had since
become a vegetarian.

“I just can’t eat meat anymore. I keep staring at this thing, and it’s staring back,”
said my friend, while handing it over to me.

I opened the box. “Well, in fairness, it would be less creepy if you didn’t paint
eyes all over it.”

“Yeah. The eyes give it a perky little face, and now all I can think of is how I have
a perky little face, and someone could eat me.”

“I am really not following your logic. Also, and I mean this as kindly as possible
from one artist to another, two eyes equals a perky little face, seven eyes,
scattered around on skeletal human digits in varying colors and sizes is not
perky. It’s the stuff of nightmares.”

I took the hand out of the box and inspected it. “You know what? I do want it.
Think of the children I could torture! Shit, I would buy an ice cream truck just so I
could travel around the Midwest scaring the crap out of children!”

My friend was slightly disgusted, but more than anything just happy to be rid of it.

47
My friend still doesn’t know my plans for this hand, which I have named Jayme.
Jayme is going to be put on her steering wheel the very next time she leaves her
car unlocked at my house. Or maybe I will just stick it in the top of her toilet tank
as a little surprise-in-waiting.

Whatever I do, in the meantime, I have to paint over the eyes. They’re just sitting
there, staring a hole through my soul, judging me for being a meat eater…

48
 Like a Tampon in a Jelly Doughnut

I was feeling particularly self-destructive one Sunday, so after church I headed

on over to the nearest doughnut shop. After some careful consideration (”What
do I want to feel bad about eating later…hmmm…”), I ordered my fiancé Eric a
breakfast sandwich, and myself a vanilla donut.

It’s not a very busy store, but the drive-thru is always packed and backed up.
There was only one other customer actually in the store, and he was sitting,
reading a paper, and lazily enjoying his coffee. All the employees were
concentrating on the drive-thru, and there was one female employee left to
handle the front of the store by herself. I decided to go into the store area and try
my luck there.

I placed my order and waited. The employee said that my food was just about up,
and I go to the counter to pay. As I pulled singles out, I accidentally flipped a
packaged tampon into the air – like a little missile. And it flipped right into a box
of donuts the she had been boxing up.

I became so stunned I was immobilized.

But, I figured, when she comes back to the counter, she will see the tampon in
the box, and throw it away and start another box of donuts. No harm, no foul, and
I didn’t have to embarrassingly admit to what I just accidentally did.

But then she came back, closed the box without even paying attention or looking
at it, put it in a bag, and said, “Here you go sir!” and the man with the coffee got
up, took the bag, and walked out.

49
I started to panic. In the back of my head, I could hear myself saying “You should
have said something!”

Instead though, I grabbed my food when it came up and ran out of there as fast
as I could, lest the other customer come back all angry and looking for blood. If
he did though, he would have a nice absorbent tampon to help him on his
journey.

50
 Pictures and Memories

When I was a Junior in High School, I went to a dance with my then-boyfriend

and my friends. The dance was fine, I don’t remember much of it.

I wasn’t feeling very well the day before the dance, and when the day of the
dance came, I had been battling diarrhea. But, come hell or high water, we were
going to this dance. I was entirely too cheap then as well, and wasn’t about to
forfeit the tickets.

The next day we all went out to breakfast. We sat down at our favorite restaurant
and I ordered a coke and the fruit plate. I tried to eat, but couldn’t. Then I went to
the bathroom.

So I sat down on the toilet, went another round with the great boxer diarrhea, and
halfway through I had to vomit. I recognized it as an immediate need. But I could
not stop defecating long enough to turn around to vomit, so I leaned forward and
puked in the small garbage can that’s attached to the back of the door.

Then I realized that the garbage can was welded to the door, and that whomever
cleaned this bathroom was now going to have to stick their hand into a very small
space that was now filled with vomit to clean it out. And I felt really, really badly
about it. So, I wrote “sorry” on a five dollar bill and gently placed it on top of the
vomit.

See, this is where things got hazy. I was pretty dehydrated, very ill, and obviously
not thinking clearly ("Here cleaning lady, have a puke-soaked five dollar bill as a
tip”), so I went back to sit down at the table, and next to my table were my
grandparents. My boyfriend looked positively freaked out, and all I could think
was, “Dear Lord, just get me through this without anything spraying out of me.
Please?” I sat down and tried to eat more fruit and drink my Coke. My

51
grandmother knew something was wrong, but couldn’t tell what. And right about
here is where I stop remembering things. My fever got too high.

Luckily, though, I took pictures to memorialize these precious moments.

Apparently, I decided I was done eating, and got up and walked outside. Like,
fuck paying, let’s go home. My grandfather ended up paying for our meal.

Now, the restaurant we were eating at was an octagon building with large
windows on each side, and you could clearly see the customers eating from the
outside. I walked outside, climbed into their flower box next to the largest
window…

…and projectile vomited onto the window.

Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I started to walk through the flower box and
vomit on the other windows too.

People who were just on the other side of the glass were horrified. They got up to
yell and pound on the glass at me. My boyfriend saw this and ran full speed
outside to get me in the car before they called the police.

I fought him tooth and nail, because (and this should speak volumes to how sick I
was) I had pictures left on my camera, and by gosh, I was going to preserve this
moment in photo form!

I broke away from him and started taking pictures of my puke-covered windows
and the VERY ANGRY people inside. I snapped a picture of the waitress with the
broom who started chasing me, and the backseat of my boyfriend’s car as we
peeled out and drove away, then the puke I left for him in the back of the car as a
present.

All around, it was a great night. The moral of the story: if I am sick, I need to stay
home. Or, at the very least, leave my camera at home.

52
 I am an Asshole Who Likes to Stretch Out

I run to catch my daily commuter train and I find a seat. My phone rings, it’s my
friend Tracy.

“Hi Tracy, you want to hear about my day?”

“Sure. Why not. I am stuck here editing this presentation and I knew you would
pick up and keep me company.”

“Today, I got yeast and some sort of baking acid sprayed on me, now I smell like
a litter box.”

“Oh that is disgusting! That must smell terrible!”

“It does. I smell like a litter box that has been sprayed down with water and left in
a dark, humid place.”

At this point, the woman sitting next to me on the train gets up and moves to
another car.

“Ahhh that’s better,” I say.

“What? What’s better? What just happened? Did the smell get worse?”

“No, I just wanted to stretch out and relax, I actually was in meetings all day.” I
say, stretching out now that I have the full train seat to myself.

“You’re one sick bastard, you know that right?”

“One sick comfortable bastard” I correct her.

53
 Internships in Chicago

I used to work for a teenage news channel that is broadcasted in schools all over
the country. It was my first internship, and I am quite honestly amazed I even got
the internship, considering the harrowing ordeal I went through to even get to the
interview.

I went right after school with my friend Melissa. Melissa, hands down, is the
prissiest girl I have ever met. I mean that in a good way. She’s like the anti-me:
her clothes are always clean, she looks good in everything. She is a self-
proclaimed “prissy Melissy.”

We get on the Chicago L Train, and Melissa starts to wipe down her seat. I look
at her like she is crazy, and promptly sit down in my own seat.

The CTA has seats that are covered in a felt-like material that hides moisture
remarkably well.

I notice that the seat is cold, and that is all. So Melissa and I prepare our
speeches about how we are somehow qualified for this position (even though we
are not) and we remove and reapply our makeup.

Halfway through the ride, a riot breaks out among kids from the local horrifyingly
rough public high school, and the train has to be stopped. The riot police rush the
train and make us all move.

We stand up to move, and this is when I realize my butt is wet. Melissa has this
look on her face like someone just spit in her hair. My entire ass is wet. And it is
clearly obvious that it is urine. So, I am stuck waiting with someone else’s urine
on me while the riot police break up a fight. There are no bathrooms on the
Chicago L Trains, or the buses, which, actually, would explain why someone

54
pissed on the seat. But was also wholly inconvenient for me since I just wanted
to wash myself with any chemical agent I could find at that point.

When the train finally starts moving and we get off our stop, we race to the job
interview. I run into the bathroom to see the damage, and it is bad. I decide that
if I was going to be wet, I was going to be CLEAN and wet. So, I take off my skirt,
and put it in the sink, and thoroughly wash it. I realize the back of my underwear
is wet as well. I make the hard decision to just take off my underwear and throw
them away. I do this out in the middle of the bathroom, partially because I am
trying to dry my skirt with the hand dryer and partially because I am in such a
hurry. I did not realize, however, that there was a woman in the stall behind me.

Of course, she comes out and narrowly misses seeing my bare ass. She doesn’t
even wash her hands. She just leaves, which, at the time, makes me think she
has seen everything I have to offer as a young lady, if you catch what I mean.

I go and sit in the waiting room, next to Melissa, who promptly moves one seat
over and mouths to me How do you sit in someone else‘s urine and not realize
it? We are all taken in as a group. Because my luck is so, so very bad…

The lady from the bathroom is the interviewer. The lady who saw everything that
God gave me now has to ask me questions about why I would be a perfect
candidate. The lady whose bathroom garbage can is now the final resting place
of my underwear that was soaked in the back with someone else's urine.

I get the job. I also find out on my first day that she quit that following Friday. This
made me unbelievably happy, since there would be no awkward hallway
conversations about how I have oddly placed tan lines on my butt, you know,
while I was naked from the waist down in her company’s bathroom.

55
 You Smell Like a Summer’s Eve

A male coworker of mine came into work on a hot July day and he was pretty
sweaty. The only reason I noticed this is because he tried to wipe himself off on
me. I worked at one of those rare companies where everyone is friends and
eventually you become like family.

Now, it’s no secret that I take public transportation everywhere. If I can’t get there
on public trans, then I walk. I am pretty clumsy when I walk, so I can only imagine
how clumsy and destructive I could be if I actually drove somewhere. It’s too
frightening to contemplate.

Because of all the walking and public transportation I take, I get pretty sweaty in
the Chicago summers. To combat this, I carry around wet wipes with me
everywhere I go. They are always in my purse.

A local drug store recently had a sale on wipes, and I stocked up. They were 79
cents for one of those re-sealable packs, and I bought six of them! I do not care
about the brand, only that they are portable and cheap.

So, I hand my sweaty male coworker a pack of wet wipes to cool himself down,
and he looks at me with a puzzled look.

“What now, princess?!” I ask.

“What the heck is this?” he replies, all freaked out.

“It’s a wet nap, for you to cool off with. You wipe yourself down with it.” I make
the motions of wiping oneself off while saying this, but he still looks at me like I
handed him a human head.

56
He stares at me with further disbelief, and says “It’s a feminine wash wipe. Who
hands these out to people?! It says right on the package, ‘Perfect for delicate
parts, such as your bottom.’ You handed me a butt wipe. What is wrong with
you?”

I am a little shocked, mostly because I hand them out on the train all the time and
that certainly explains why people on the train look at me like I am a freak. But I
pull myself together, managing to not pee myself, and say, “Look at it this way,
your face will be so fresh…you could go horseback riding!”

He was not amused. But he was quite fresh, he smelled almost like…a summer’s
eve.

57
 So You’ve Decided to Become a Protestant

I grew up Catholic. Not only did I grow up Catholic, but I was sent to twelve years
of Catholic school. My mother was sent through twelve years of Catholic school.
Very often I would come home from school, look at her, and think, “Did Catholic
school suck this badly for you too? Why would you force this upon your
children?” I didn’t understand it and I still don’t.

Unlike everyone else I knew who went to Catholic schools their entire life, I didn’t
become an atheist. I still believed there was a God. But I was pretty sure Jesus
wouldn’t hang out with the Catholics. Or at least not the Catholics I knew, with
the grand exception of my fiancé’s mother, who, if while looking at her you squint
really hard, you can almost make out her halo.

Thus I started to search for a new religion. I went to house of worship to house of
worship, looking for something that fit the bill of what I was looking for. I ended up
deciding on a local Methodist church. The pastor invited me to come out and do
a Meet n’ Greet, which is a nice way of saying come out to the Parsonage and
answer a bunch of questions about yourself while you shift uncomfortably in your
chair because you do not like all the attention. Or at least that’s what I took it to
mean.

Did you know Parsonage means Pastor’s House? I didn‘t. That wasn’t exactly a
word a normal Catholic school would teach its students. I walked around the
church and tried every door. Normal people do not notice this, I am sure of it, but
churches have a lot of doors on them. Finally I figured out that the address I was
given was down the block from the church, and an actual house. I moseyed my
way on over there, and we began the Meet n’ Greet.

I was happy to learn that I wasn’t going to be the only new member, and wasn’t
the only one who had to talk about herself that day. Everyone is given ten

58
minutes to talk about themselves. I can talk to a group. I can give a presentation
in a business environment and keep my cool. I can tell you about facts and
figures and how you are losing/gaining money. But I despise talking about
myself.

It wasn’t like the church ladies took out a stopwatch, pointed at me, and
screamed “GO!” More like everyone else in the group talked about themselves
for ten minutes. So, I started on my list in my head, Where did you grow up?
Where did you go to grammar school? High School? College? Where do you
work? For the love of all that is holy mention your fiancé! Otherwise they might
try to set you up with one of the eligible pervert sons! That sort of thing.

I am a socially awkward person, which makes sense, since I am a physically

awkward person. Whenever I am in a social situation, especially in someone’s
living room, and there is only one entrance and exit, and of course it is to my
back – I make jokes. Making jokes was probably not the way to go when
describing yourself to a Pastor, but I did it anyway. Here is what I said:

“Well, I grew up on the south side of Chicago, and I spent roughly 12 years in
Catholic school, which means I am very good at being silent and sitting still for
long periods of time. I have a Master’s degree in Seen And Not Heard. I also
have the first five pages of the Catechism of the Catholic Church memorized
from passing notes in 6th grade. I went to Lourdes High School, which has since
merged with De La Salle High School, which none of you will probably have ever
heard of, seeing as it is in the ghetto, and the rest of you grew up in the Western
suburbs of Chicago. I know the Hail Mary in Latin, but not English. I know more
Gaelic than Latin, specifically how to call someone a Bastard Asshole." At this
point, in the back of my head, somewhere my conscience is screaming stop now
you’ve gone too far he’s a man of god he’s a man of god he’s a man of god so
then I skip to college, and eventually to what I do for a living.

59
“Oh! I have a fiancé, he’s very nice. He’s a chemist, and Irish Catholic, so you
know, I’m going to hell. He went to Saint John Fisher, which, if any of you grew
up outside the suburbs, in the City, that’s how we identify who you hang out with
and what neighborhood you come from. I don’t know what to say out here in
Downers Grove. I am the only person I know the same age as me who I hung
out with in high school who doesn’t have children.”

It was awkward, it was uncomfortable, but they were nice enough to laugh along
with me while I made fun of myself. I think this is it for me on switching religions,
because I never want to talk about myself in front of a Pastor and a bunch of
Church Ladies ever again.

60
 Nasty Things

My fiancé Eric had to have some teeth extracted, and because of this, he hadn’t
been very hungry for a couple of days. When his appetite came back the
following week, it came back with a thunder, so we went to get pizza from a fast
food chain. In Chicago, choosing fast food pizza over all other pizza places is like
going to Baskin Robins and ordering vanilla. Freezer burned vanilla. But he
couldn’t handle anything too rough and just needed something soft that he could
just swallow, so the fast food pizza would have to do.

While we were waiting for our pizza, we decided to take a walk to the local
pharmacy to get him some yogurt, ice cream and other soft stuff for him to eat.
We came upon the Cookies/Chips aisle, and he became dismayed.

“There’s nothing for me to eat here. Man, I love all this stuff, but I can’t eat any of
it!” he said, looking forlorn.

“You should try these snackie cakes!” I suggested. “They are soft! Although,
they’re possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever put in my mouth.”

“Well thanks honey, I am so looking forward to eating the most disgusting thing
you have ever put in your mouth. Great suggestion, really. Thanks so much.” He
looked at me like I was trying to feed him cyanide.

This made me laugh. And when I say laugh, I mean I brayed like a donkey.

I was just talking with my friends that I am possibly the most unlucky, clumsy
child ever to walk the face of the world.

Eric, however, is built like a steel bullet train. He bumps into the wall, he doesn’t
even bruise. A small breeze blows into the window, I will somehow end up falling
on my collar bone. And then stabbing myself accidentally when I get back up.

61
For whatever reason, Eric’s reply made me laugh. Really hard, if you get what I
am saying. I was snorting and peeing in the middle of a pharmacy.

Eric couldn’t help but laugh because I was laughing. I finally got a hold of myself
and asked him if he can see a wet spot on my pants. He laughs harder.

“No, I can’t see the wet spot“ he said.

But I was laughing so hard, and was so out of breath, that when I asked if he
could see it, I pretty much yelled it across the Walgreen’s. Thus, it didn’t matter if
anyone could see the wet spot, as I had just announced to the whole store that I
had pissed myself.

Sometimes I have so much class I surprise myself.

62
 It IS Always About the Prostitutes

I used to work in a not-so-nice part of Chicago.

There are housing projects all around where I work, and I no longer even answer
the door to my company if I am the only person there.

My female co-worker and I noticed that there is a prostitute who works our block.
We think she might actually work one block over, and just gets dropped off on
our block. We have never seen her get in a car, only out of one. And when I say
one, I mean roughly 23 cars in the last four days.

The other day, I had to go check the trucks in our lot for something I sent out on
the truck that never made it to its final destination.

So I am walking to our secure lot (see above neighborhood description for

reasons for the secure lot) and I see our friendly neighborhood prostitute. She is
getting out of another anonymous rusty sedan, and I think to myself Oh friendly
neighborhood prostitute, you add such character to this neighborhood! I’ll politely
pretend I didn’t see you and you’ll politely pretend like you didn’t see me.

I go check the trucks, and do what I need to do. I come back out of the lot, and
Friendly Neighborhood Prostitute is gargling scope. And I think to myself Oh
good for you! Look at you lowering your chances for AIDS! Good for you! You
add such… AND THAT IS AS FAR AS I GOT BEFORE SHE DID SOMETHING
THAT IS POSSIBLY THE MOST VILE THING I HAVE EVER SEEN.

She reaches up her skirt, pulls out a very used tampon, and flips it over her
shoulder into the street.

I. AM. SHOCKED. My mouth is open. My eyes are VERY WIDE. There is no

amount of polite in me to pretend like I didn’t see what I just saw. I even make a

63
real quick “Ahhh” noise as I’m sucking in air while simultaneously trying not to
scream, because she shot me a look that said, “What, bitch?”

Then, and I am not even ashamed to say this, I run back to my office. I run full
speed. I get inside, and my co-workers ask, “Hey, what’s wrong? Did you see a
drive-by or something?” Because, let’s face it, that is a completely plausible
question for that neighborhood.

I reply, out of breath from the shock and all the running, “I think I just got AIDS of
the eyes. I can never unlearn what I just saw.” I grab my head. “My eye sockets
have been violated!”

When I was laid off from that company, I was actually pretty happy. I knew
wherever I landed, it would be at a better company, and I certainly wouldn’t have
to deal with prostitutes dumping waste that can be classified as a biohazard in
the street.

And I did.

I landed on my feet, I moved on, and I am glad I did too, because my former
friendly neighborhood prostitute has taken to flipping her used condoms and
tampons onto the cars of my co-workers. And my former boss.

That’s a pretty good trade off for having my eye sockets violated, if I do say so
myself.

64
 Amish in Chicago

I passed through Union Station twice every day on my commute to and from
work when I worked on the west side of Chicago. The thing about Union Station
is that there are an awful lot of Amish people there at all hours of the day.
Apparently, it is allowed for Amish to take public transportation when absolutely
needed. Say, when visiting another Amish settlement in Ohio, Pennsylvania,
Utah, wherever the other Amish are.

When I came into Union Station one day, I overheard on the P.A. System, “Jacob
Yoder, please come to the Great Hall to collect your women. Jacob Yoder,
please come to the Great Hall to collect your women.” So I hurried, because I just
had to see what on earth would cause a P.A. announcement like that. I came
around the corner into the great hall and saw a gaggle of Amish teenage girls in
absolute shock.

The police had a homeless man on the ground and were trying desperately to
handcuff him. He was fighting them as hard as he could and screamed profanity
at the cops as well as the girls. The girls were shocked. Their mouths were open
in perfect o’s and they were outright pointing at the man. Which is downright
hysterical because they were all dressed like the Ingalls girls, stupid bonnets and
all.

I am not sure what the homeless man did, as I was constantly running late for my
train as-is, plus I think if a woman with an Ipod blasting wearing pants stopped
and asked the Amish girls what the heck happened, their heads might explode.
Either way, when I got into the boarding area I passed an old Amish man who
was walking as briskly as I have ever seen an Amish person walk, and he looked
pissed off and exasperated.

Something tells me that was Jacob Yoder…

65
Then I got on the train and found out that the homeless man solicited the girls for
$5 each for him to expose himself to them. He apparently did this right in front of
a female police officer, who also thought it was a great deal. So much so that she
wanted to handcuff him and take him into the station so she could have this deal
all to herself.

66
 Lawn Chairs and Their Uses

I worked for a fairly ghetto company at one point in my life, which was
inconveniently located in the ghetto. Frequently, our power would go out. We
couldn’t have a generator on the premises because someone would always
come by and steal the copper wiring out of the machine, rendering it a useless,
ugly paperweight. We also had frequent internet blackouts that lasted for days at
a time because no repair man wanted to venture into the neighborhood, partly
out of fear of being shot (a very valid fear) and partly because every time a repair
man did come out, his truck was broken into and all his tools stolen.

On one of the days we had no internet, but miraculously we still had power. But
the lack of internet access rendered our computers useless because all our
programs were web-based. This was particularly bad because I had to enter
orders with our distribution center online in order for us to continue doing
business for the next week.

Because we had no internet access, everyone who could go home did go home
that day, leaving just myself and my co-workers Ericka and Jason in the office.
Ericka was on the phone with one of our partners. Jason and I were just talking,
seeing as there was nothing else we could do. I was trying to convince him to let
us take a company outing to his house to use his computer since he didn’t live
too far away from the office.

My co-worker Jasonis a web programmer and a 3D graphic artist in his spare

time. He has roughly four computers and one server set up in his apartment. I
was pressuring him to give in and let us work from his apartment since we
needed the internet.

67
My co-worker Ericka, in the meantime, is getting frustrated while talking to the
company’s partner on the phone, since the partner doesn’t exactly speak
English.

“Seriously Jason, can we go to your house. I actually HAVE work to do,” I said,
still trying to convince him of our need for his computers.

“No, for two reasons: one, I live in the studio apartment, and two, you cannot use
my computer that I use for work, my very important work,” replied Jason, while he
tried to reset the server for the sixtieth time.

“For real Jason, I have a LOT of work to do, plus I want to see where the
Programming Magic happens! Please let us use your computers!” I pleaded.

“The magic happens in a leather chair, and no, you cannot touch the magic
computers!”

But before Jason can shoot down my request any further, Ericka puts her phone
call on hold and screams at us, “What the hell are you doing?! That is an
extremely inappropriate topic for the office, let alone while I am on the phone with
a partner!”

Jason and I are both puzzled. We have no idea how my whining to Jason is
inappropriate. Apparently, Ericka was only catching snippets of conversation.
This is what she though Jason and I said to each other:

Me: Jason, let’s go to your house

Jason: No

Me: I want to see where the Masturbation Magic happens.

Jason: It happens in a lawn chair. Touch the Magic.

68
When she recounted this, we both almost died laughing. The internet didn’t come
back up for a week, so I ended up working from home for the rest of the week.
When it finally was fixed, we all came into the office to see that we were robbed,
and that all of our computers were stolen, as well as some of our chairs. The
irony was, until we got new chairs we were all sitting in lawn chairs at work. We
spent the week making fun of Jason because he probably felt right at home in
his.

69
 Scary White Woman Problems

Last year, I joined a pen pal service. The point of it is to send out postcards to the
various addresses the service gives you, and you get postcards from all over the
world. The more you send the more you get.

I am apparently the best friend of Finland, because I keep getting Finnish

addresses to send postcards. I swear I am now sending postcards to half of the
housewives in Finland.

When I signed up for this service, I wasn’t in a very happy place. I was kind of
sad and upset the night I sent my first postcard. So instead of just sending a
postcard, I wrote down everything that was bothering me and sent it to a very
nice woman who probably was just expecting a post card and not some long
diatribe about my life.

So, I tell Ericka, my co-worker, what I had done, and she responded by saying,
“So, let me get this straight, instead of just sending a postcard, like the service
said to do, you sent a postcard in an envelope, along with a letter stating your
problems at the moment.”

“That’s about right.”

“So, this woman, this Finnish woman, who, even though I know European
schools are better than ours and all, is in NO WAY QUALIFIED TO HANDLE
YOUR SCARY ADULT WHITE WOMAN PROBLEMS, you send her a letter
detailing your issues. Even though this woman just wanted a postcard with
flowers or bumble bees or some shit on them?”

“That’s about right.”

70
“Did you just wake up one morning and say ‘GODDAMN FINNISH WOMAN YOU
ARE GOING TO BE MY PENPAL AND YOU’RE GOING TO LIKE IT?’”

“No…see” I start to explain, but Ericka cuts me off mid-sentence.

“Did she write back?”

“Uh…” I say, not wanting to admit that she did, in fact, write back to me.

“She wrote back DIDN’T SHE.”

“She did.”

“AND WHAT DID SHE SAY TO YOU?” Erica was pressing me, and I knew why. I
had overstepped my bounds with this Finnish woman, and Ericka was just trying
to make me see the error of my ways.

“That I have scary adult white woman problems.” I finally admitted.

“You’re damn right she did!” said Ericka, pointing her finger at me.

In fairness, the Finnish woman didn’t say that. She was very nice about it. But
she also told me to not write back, unless it was just a postcard. I wonder how
many of my problems I can fit on a postcard…

71
 Meow

I went down to the roach coach for lunch one day while at work (you know, the
place where you can buy primarily Mexican food from the back of a truck. It‘s
quick, it‘s greasy, and it‘s cheap.)

The lady who runs the roach coach always has her boobs on display, almost like
on a platter. She has to wear some form of animal fur at all times, too.

That day, it was boots that looked like she skinned 25 cats, and kind of hung
them off her feet. She usually has a purple pimp hat on too. And she doesn’t
speak any English. She has got to be Libyan or something. Originally I thought
she was Mexican, but apparently she isn’t any form of Latin American. She also
parks her truck in front of a rehabilitation center, where hookers and pregnant
women who are addicted to God-knows-what receive in-patient care.

Normally, I get chili and cheese tamales from the roach coach. They are 50 cents
each, and a pretty safe bet. But not that day! That day, I ran up to the truck,
waited in line amongst the hookers and pregnant women smoking blunts and
when I get up to the front of the line – what luck! She had RIB TIPS!

My favorite food of all time is rib tips. She was only charging $2 for the whole
meal! WHAT A STEAL!

See, this is where I go wrong. I should know that if the crack-addicted hookers of
the neighborhood won’t put this meal in their mouths, that I should not put it in
mine.

But no. I have not learned that lesson yet. I happily pay for my rib tips, and run
back to my office to eat it.

72
The first thing I notice is that the meat is more like pulled pork, it’s so tender! This
makes me really happy because sometimes rib tips are overcooked, and tough.
Not this. This is shredded meat. There are no actual rib “parts” in this dish.

But what is with all the little, tiny bones in the ribs? Normally, rib tips have gristle
and cartilage in them…but these are actual little tiny bones?

And then I notice that there’s an actual ribcage.

There are tiny, white, flexible ribs. And the rib cage? It’s too small for a pig. It’s
about the size of a …and then it hits me.

I AM EATING A CAT.

With really good BBQ Sauce, but all the same, I AM EATING A CAT.

I took pictures of the fiasco. I promptly sent them to one of my friends, who works
in the Biology department of a state college. She showed them to the department
head, who told her that I was lucky if that was a cat. It was more probable that it
was a rat or possum.

Out of those choices, I am more comfortable with the idea of eating a cat over,
say, eating a city rat. But maybe that’s just me.

73
 Jackie Mac

While I was working at the company that was located in the ghetto, said company
was looking for a new financial Controller, so we had applicants coming in and
out of the office all day long.

We had someone come in yesterday who looked exactly like Jackie Mac.

I should stop the story right now and explain who Jackie Mac is. Jackie
MacMullan is an occasionally featured panelist on Around the Horn on ESPN.
She also is a sports writer for the Boston Globe.

So, when the Human Resources Guy from my company comes to meet with the
Jackie Mac lookalike that is interviewing for the Controller position, I am
mouthing to HR Guy, “OMG LOOK IT IS JACKIE MAC ESPN JACKIE MAC” and
he is looking at me strangely, and as he turns to show her into the conference
room, I make the horn sign to try to tell him, “she‘s from Around the Horn on
ESPN.”

As I am pantomiming this, the interviewee turns around and faces me. She sees
me making horns and an odd face, and looks very confused.

And I respond with “…moo?”

Because, for whatever reason, that seemed like the logical reaction at the time.

74
 Little Debbie is the Devil

On my way to work, I was feeling like I need to do a little retail therapy - you
know, buy myself something nice to make myself feel better about it being
Monday and the fact that I hate my job. I wandered the aisles for a bit, and I
noticed a Little Debbie Strawberry Shortcake.

And that Little Debbie called to me. She sang her siren song, and I listened.

And I ate it.

I hadn’t even paid for it, and I ate it. In the store. LIKE A HOBO.

Next you would expect me to run up and down the deodorant isle rubbing various
deodorants on myself and then put them back on the shelf!

I had to sadly walk up to the register, pay for all my items, and then hand her the
no-longer-sticky-because-I-sucked-that-fucker-dry Little Debbie wrapper with the
UPC code and told her (without looking at her out of sheer shame) to “also ring
this up please.”

The cashier looked at me with mild disgust and rang up my wrapper. I learned
something from this experience though:

Little Debbie is Satan Incarnate for tasting that good. Also, I am never going to
buy deodorant from that store, seeing as how I have already “tested” it anyhow.

75
 The Stabbing

My fiancé Eric accidentally stabbed me through the arm with an antique sword.

He tripped and fell, and had no idea I was standing as close as I was.

When the sword went through my arm, I stood there looking at him with a look
that said I am sorry, but did you just stick a giant piece of metal through my arm?
I am pretty sure this means I get a diamond on every birthday I have for the rest
of my life, buster!

I was relatively calm, which is surprising, considering I had a giant fucking sword
sticking out of my arm. Eric, on the other hand, went batshit. I was mostly
concerned about the fact that I had stupidly decided to have white carpeting
installed the weekend before, and hadn’t had a chance to scotch guard it yet.
Eric’s main concern, if I may summarize it, was the fact that he had stabbed me
with a sword.

When we pulled the sword out, and when I say pulled I mean wiggled back and
forth until it came out of my arm, the river of blood started. I was not aware there
was that much blood in an arm, let alone mine. It was like someone exploded a
water balloon of blood in my living room.

I, again, was horrified that this whole fiasco happened on my new white carpet.
Eric, again, was horrified that he actually stabbed the woman he loved.

The irony of this whole situation was that none of the stabbing hurt. The part that
hurt was the flushing out of the wound. The part that was awesome, however,
was telling everyone I know that Eric stabbed me. Oh, and the fact that I now
officially win every argument we have. I didn’t take out the garbage honey? Oh,
sorry about that, I must have been distracted thinking about that one time you
stabbed me. Yeah, I’ll bet you’ll take out the garbage for me.

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 Pickled Pumpkins

There was a news story on television about a guy who was caught having sex
with pumpkins in a pumpkin patch in a suburb near my house. I saw this on the
news, immediately grabbed my and my fiancé’s coat, and out the door we went.

The pumpkin rapist gave me a very naughty idea: I wanted a pumpkin and I
wanted to carve a penis into the side of it. And then I wanted to put a light in it,
and put it on my friend Katherine’s doorstep. Why? No other reason that I was up
for a little mischief. And I might have possibly been drunk, hence why I dragged
my fiancé along. Someone needed to drive my drunken, mischief-loving ass
around as I defaced a pumpkin with a phallus.

We arrived at the pumpkin patch, and I ran through it like I was four years old
again. I was looking for the perfect pumpkin – the pumpkin that screamed,
“Carve a cock into me Anne!”

And lo and behold, I found it. It was perfectly oblong, thus making for the perfect
vegetable canvas for a penis.

I laid down newspaper on the floor, took off my pants, and started scooping out
pumpkin guts. My fiancé rounded the corner, and saw me, tongue pressed
between my lips, forehead glistening with perspiration, a determined look on my
face, with no pants on. He saw the woman he loves, the woman he is going to
marry, carving a large penis into the side of a pumpkin. He carefully walked
around me, grabbed a beer, and left the room without making a sound.

The next day, we drove out in the middle of the night, dropped the phallic
pumpkin off at Katherine’s house, rang the doorbell, and ran top speed back to
the car and peeled out.

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Thirty seconds later, my cell phone starts ringing. It’s Katherine, and she is
laughing so hard, she can’t breathe.

The next day, Katherine and I went back to the pumpkin patch, bought roughly
twenty pumpkins, picked up a case of beer, and started carving on my kitchen
floor.

Katherine’s logic was this: why should she be the only one to have the joy of a
penis pumpkin on Halloween? There’s so much joy to share with the world,
specifically with her neighbors, who would look at us like we were delinquents
just because we would get drunk and pass out on her lawn.

Her neighbors were pricks, and now, they would have pumpkins to show for it.

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 Jesus Loves Me

I was nervous. I had just cut off a really, really big angry man in traffic. I didn’t
intend to cut him off. I mean, I am a clumsy driver. I am a clumsy walker, it’s a
miracle that I don’t just bounce around like a pinball when driving.

The first chance the angry guy gets, he pulls his car up next to mine. I stare
straight ahead, hoping against hope that just this once if I ignore the problem it
might go away. As always, reality crashes into my fantasy world and ruins
everything. He starts screaming at me, and I inflexibly look over at him.

Oh sweet God he has a teardrop tattoo! I think. He’s probably in one of those
gangs that beats women who cut him off in traffic with tire irons. I tend to think of
the worst thing possible about gangs in any given situation because I know slim
to bupkis about gangs.

So, I smile. I mean, I really have no other leg to stand on. He screams at me,
“What the hell are you smiling about?”

I respond, “Because Jesus loves me! That’s why!”

He rolls his eyes and drives away. I was never so sure that Jesus loved me than
that day, because I managed to drive away without a well-deserved tire iron dent
in my head.

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 Pro-Choice

I was gearing up for a big job interview. I had my bus and train schedule all
ready, and I had rehearsed my positive and negative qualities. The company I
was interviewing at had some innocuous name, so when I plugged it into an
internet search engine, it came up with nothing. I knew nothing about the
company, but I felt I could just wing the interview if needed.

Before I set out on my journey, I called my friend Joe to come pick me up

afterwards, promising him greasy cheeseburgers and gas money as an incentive.
Joe agreed to the ride home, if for no other reason that he enjoys a greasy
cheeseburger as much as me, and I set out to my job interview.

The interview went well enough. I found out that it was some sort of medical
clinic, and though I had no clinic experience on my resume, I figured that the
woman interviewing me liked me enough, and therefore I might have landed the
job.

That was, until, I heard my name blasted over the loudspeaker. It was this loud,
crackly shout of “Anne Egeland, please come to the lobby immediately!” and I
instantly and suddenly stood up, almost shocked at how loud and ugly my name
seems when shouted through a loudspeaker. The interviewer stood up after me,
looked at me with an eye that said what did you do, and together we walked back
out to the lobby.

My friend Joe had arrived early, and decided to enter the building through the
first door he saw. The door was propped open with a box, and in Joe went.

Unfortunately, Joe entered in through the back of the clinic, where clinicians were
sterilizing medical instruments. He lost all color in his face, almost fainted, and
ran out. It was at this point the clinician called the police.

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I was not aware of it, but I was interviewing at a clinic that performed abortions.
Joe was not aware of it either. When the police showed up with a bomb squad
and demanded that he step out of his vehicle, he obliged.

Apparently, the clinic thought Joe was a crazy religious person trying to plant a
bomb in the clinic. They let us off with a warning, but that’s not what Joe let me
off with.

See, Joe was pretty peeved, not only about the police shoving him on the ground
and screaming at him “Where’s the bomb?!” but also because now we would
both be taking the bus and train home, as the police had impounded his car.

“But most of all,” he said, “because you don’t have any goddamned
cheeseburgers on you!”

Joe got his car back, but I never got another ride out of him.

This is a good example of how I choose my friends. If you’re willing to pick me up

from an abortion clinic without asking any questions, get thrown on the ground,
get your car impounded, and even after all that your main concern is that I lied
about cheeseburgers, well then, you’re a friend for life.

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 They Swing Like the 70s Baby!

I don’t drive drunk, partly because my grandfather was killed by a drunk driver
and if I were to ever get a DUI my family would cut me out of the will and then cut
my face, just so I would always have a reminder of how stupid I was. But also
because I am not a particularly good driver when sober. I have hit more
stationary objects in a car than a newly blind person learning to walk with a stick.
I often get told at bars that people who can’t drive well sober are usually pretty
good drunk drivers. I have yet to test out this theory because I really like my
aforementioned face.

I was out drinking one night, and I had a little bit too much. You might say that I
was over-served. So over-served, in fact, that by the end of the night I sat down
on a bar stool that did not exist, and fell flat on my ass.

My normal reaction at this point would be to call Eric to come pick me up.
Unfortunate circumstances led to him being out of the country at that exact
moment, so I had no choice to call my friend Leah. Leah agreed to come pick me
up, assuming I did not vomit in her car.

The thing about people that I never understand, particularly when I have been
over-served is that people are really finicky about their radios. No matter what, if I
have one drop of alcohol in me, I want to play with your radio. Not only do I want
to play with your radio, I want to turn it onto one of those boom-boom-boom-
skee-skee-skee-bow-bow-bow dance radio stations. And I want to turn it up until
your ears bleed.

Leah pulls up, pours me into the passenger side, which has been covered in
plastic bags that have been duct taped to the seat, because she has finally

82
learned that even if I promise not to vomit in her car does not mean I promise to
keep my promises.

The second I enter the car, I immediately reach for the radio.

“No! No way! I do not want to hear some loud ass dance music all the way home!
You are not touching my radio!” She screams at me.

“RADDDDDDDIO!” I respond, hoping to win this argument by being the loudest,

drunkest contestant on the I’m Going to Touch Your Goddamned Radio game
show.

Leah pulls off, and I start the I’m Not Touching The Radio game. It’s very similar
to I’m Not Touching You, only twice as annoying. Leah starts to slap my hand
away, and pays less attention to the road. She zips right through a red light.

Immediately, red and blue lights start flashing behind us, and Leah pulls over.

“For the love of GOD say nothing. JUST SAY NOTHING! I do not want to go to
jail tonight!” Leah hisses at me.

The cop walks up to Leah’s window, and she rolls it down.

“I know I went through that red light, and it is not something I normally do, I was
distracted by the drunk idiot next to me,” Leah stammers out, trying to stay calm.

The cop shines his flashlight in her face. “License and insurance please, ma’am.”

“Thisss guy’s a prick he called you ma’am. He called you OLD!” I slur at her.

Immediately, there is a flashlight in my face. “What did you say young lady?” he
asks, rather sternly.

“She’s drunk,” explains Leah, “and I am her sober ride home. But feel free to take
her in.”

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The cop looks back at me. “Honey, you got the biggest balls I have ever seen on
a woman talking to a police officer like that. Your friend is being nice enough to
drive you home and you’re making trouble for her by messing with a cop.”

“Ssssugar,” I say, “my balls swing like the 70s baby!”

Leah swears that in any other parallel universe, I would have been hauled off to
jail, strip searched, and shackled to a tranny prostitute while I sobered up.

But not in this universe.

The cop laughed so hard he dropped his flashlight when he doubled over. He
had to lean against the car to keep from falling over into the street.

“Lady,” he said to Leah, when he regained his composure, “I’m not even going to
give you a warning. Just a piece of advice – get some new friends. Though that
right there is possibly the funniest thing I have heard all month.”

He let us go. Leah turned the corner, pulled over, and beat the ever-living crap
out of me.

And, seeing as she thought that wasn’t revenge enough, woke me up at six in the
morning with an air horn the next day.

That morning was the day I decided to quit drinking for a while. Or, at least quit
drinking when I have had a really bad day.

That, coincidentally enough, was also the day Leah stopped giving me rides to
places in her car. I guess I can’t blame her.

84
 Dedications

This book is dedicated to the following people, without whom I would not have
half the stories I have told here, and without whom I never would have been able
to write:

Myself – for being the cocky drunk motherfucker that decided one day to write a
book.

Eric – for supporting me and telling me to just keep writing. And for not never, in
almost a decade of me writing, even taking a peek at my journals. For saying that
I am not just your something some of the time, but your everything all of the time.

Becki Thanos Benson, Leah Condon-Guillemette, and Thomas Maluck – for

your fantastic editing skills, and your excitement when I first told you about this
project.

Britt Elrick and Thomas Maluck – for giving me someone to compete with
when it came to writing.

My friends – for letting me exploit our stories for complete strangers time and
time again, both here and online.

My blog readership over at KosherPorkchops.com – by just showing up

every day and clicking on my blog, you inspired me to keep writing.

Vicky Kariolic – you were the first person who said, “Hey, you could turn that
into a book!” and I did! You supported me through this whole process, and I am
eternally thankful for your wisdom.

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And last but not least…My Family – for, above all, giving birth to me, and
teaching me to read and write. You gave me my quirkiness and for that I am
eternally grateful.

"Remember, blood is not only much thicker than water, it's much more difficult to
get out of the carpet." - Phyllis

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