What Did I Tell You?

As you might recall, I've already warned folks about the evil lurking deep within the beloved character Elmo. I had been suspicious about this red, furry angel of darkness for quite some time, but the Elmo that came complete with his own demonic, talking Italian food pushed me over the edge.

To all those who have questioned my Elmophobia, I have been vindicated! The truth is out! Just take a look at this video.

See?? EVIL! That mom should stop worrying about wrangling the demon-toy out of the child's hands and just skip to the part where she finds an old priest, a young priest and a vat of holy water. Because that child is officially with HIM now. And are we really surprised? Did you see how many freaky-ass Elmo toys the kid has? It's a wonder he hasn't already started spewing pea soup or sprouting bat wings or something.

If you or someone you know owns anything Elmo, burn it! I don't care if it's Elmo Pull-Up Pampers--those diapers will soon possess the asses of toddlers everywhere, and then there will be a mass army of babies burning down our cities with the fiery poop of hell.

Consider yourself warned. Again.

Another Glamorous Evening

I came home last night to find a message from my condominium association, alerting me to the fact that my toilets are incessantly running and my neighbor suspects that my shoddy potties might be to blame for a leak in her utility room. I stopped by the neighbor’s place to introduce myself and apologize, but she wasn’t home. I hope she went to Home Depot to get stuff to build an ark, because given my plumbing prowess, this shit is never getting fixed.

And believe me, not for lack of effort. I called my dad to see if he could help me diagnose my toilet issues over the phone. These conversations always go super well, since Dad is an engineer and does not find my description of toilet parts very helpful. “The black thingy is sitting over the grey thingy, next to the tubey-thing and above the big enema-looking bulb. Eck, toilets are grody.”

Still, he tried to walk me through the process as patiently as possible. After ten minutes of poking around in the guest bathroom crapper trying to figure out how to lower the water level, he finally asked me if I saw a screw on the valve. “The valve? You mean the grey thingy? Oh yes, I see a screw! It’s got a note attached to it. It says, ‘adjust screw to control water level.’ Should I do that?” Dad just sighed.

Then it was on to the master toilet. This one did not have a grey-thingy, or an enema-looking bulb thing, so I knew we were in trouble. “Push down on the valve and move it a quarter turn counter-clockwise, then turn it back,” he suggested. The thing was not budging. “Dad, I’m pushing with my entire body weight and the black thingy is not bloody moving,” I muttered. “You shouldn’t have to push that hard,” my dad began, but was soon interrupted by the sound of the cap-thingy flying off the black-thingy and a geyser of toilet water erupting into my face.

“Arrrggghhh!” I gargled. “Dad, it won’t stop! It’s exploding! I can’t see! What do I do?!” I thought I might be on the verge of tears, but it’s hard to tell with a gallon of shitter-water gushing into your eye sockets. “Now Stephanie, you’re a college-educated girl, you should be able to handle this,” he said, calmly. We have the same alma mater, mind you, but by the time I was enrolled, I guess Miami wasn’t offering a course in commode-troubleshooting. He finally mentioned that there was a metal-thingy on the bottom of the toilet-thingy that shuts off the water-thingy (and no, I didn’t know that there was such a thing before. Bite me.)

Old Faithful subsided, but not before giving the walls, the floor, my clothes, my hair and my face a good glazing. Dad wanted to know what position the valve was in when the cap came off, but I didn't take good notes while I was busy trying not to drown. Needless to say, I will not be using the toilet in my master bathroom until I become plumbing-savvy or someone competent comes around to replace the black-thingy that’s attached to the hook-thingy by the chain-thingy. Stupid thingies.

I Think I'm Signed Up For The Wrong Credit Card

The other day I received my Visa 2008 Rewards Program Guide. Huzzah! Time to see what two years of horrifyingly reckless spending has earned me. Since I quit bartending, my credit card has become my primary form of currency (lap dances being a close second), so I could only imagine what wondrous rewards were coming my way.

Eagerly I flip through the beautiful, glossy pages of the book, landing by chance on the section marked “Private Aviation”. Fancy that, I thought. Me on a private jet! Well, it’s the least I deserve for spending myself into a state where I’m forced to eat eggs for every meal and *gasp* go an entire season without purchasing designer jeans. Now let’s see here, how many points do I need?

Hmm…okay here we go. If I wanted to take my friends for a joyride on the Gulfstream 450, I would just need exactly…eight-hundred-and-twenty-four-thousand points. Per hour. Oh, and by the way—one point = one dollar spent on the credit card. Which, by my calculations, means my friends and I could spend exactly one minute and forty-five seconds on the Gulfstream.

I put down the calculator (and the wine) and yelled to no one in particular: “ARE YOU HIGH??” Two years of foolish spending (not to mention flights, hotels and dirty martinis at the Viceroy—God, I love expense accounts) and I get less than a lousy two minutes of luxury?!

Fine. Maybe I should head to the back of the book (past the 9-Night Greek Islands Tour, in which case my points would earn me the equivalent of one gyro) where they must keep the rewards for the not-so-high rollers, like me. Lookie here! A laptop. I could really use my own personal laptop so the IT guys would stop bugging me about my desktop being cluttered with videos of monkeys drinking their own urine. Stiffs.

Unfortunately, it looks like a laptop will set me back 98,000 points. Listen, assholes, if I’m going to pay a hundred-thousand dollars for a laptop, it better do all of my work for me and come complete with its own pee-drinking monkey.

I can’t believe someone thinks I’m actually going to acquire enough points to get anything in this stupid book. Do they know they’re sending this catalog to the same residence that receives the J.B. DollarStretcher, to a girl who will hold up the grocery line with tampon coupons (don’t like it? Hit the self-scanner aisle, jerkoff)? This is ridiculous.

Finally, I settle for the very, very back of the book, where they’ve conveniently listed the merchandise available to me by point level. Turns out I can get a $200 Tiffany & Co. Gift Card (for that keychain I’ve always had my eye on) or a set of Nikon Eagleview Binoculars (which will come in handy when I’m hunting down the person who came up with this stupid program).

Well, now I’m depressed. Thanks, Visa. Now I’m off to the mall to buy myself something to cheer me up—which, now that I think of it, was probably your sinister plan all along! MEANIES!

Oh, and I should probably pick up more eggs.

One Single Year: Part III

Note: This post is the third in a series about a year in the life of a single. If you’d like to read it, you should be sure to check out the previous two posts. If not, fine. Go back to reading Perez Hilton, or working on your Second Life avatar, or whatever it is you do to piss away time at the office. Visit me in a week when I’m back to blogging about more important things, like eating Chef Boyardee out of a hot dog bun.

After a short, but awful period of being courted exclusively by Golden Buckeye Card carriers, it was time to focus on guys closer to my own age. I figured that chances were good that we’d have more in common....like, both being born after the Korean War, for example. It wasn’t long before I realized there was a trick to attracting guys my age—show up to a bar you completely hate and start acting totally, utterly, falling-down drunk.

Of course I didn’t actually do this. But those are the girls I would be contending with for someone’s attention. And while I’m pretty sure I could beat them in a Spelling Bee or even a Who-Can-Stand-Up Contest, they seem to be the first ones to go in the bar hookup draft. And my cynical and sarcastic and “watch me drink you under the table, prissy boy” nature guarantees that I get picked up in the 6th round, right before the girls with missing teeth and the ladies wearing Tazmanian Devil-emblazoned leather bomber jackets.

But Tom Brady (dry heave) was a sixth-round draft pick (dry heave) and look how he turned out (Oh God, I think I’m going to barf, I just compared myself to Tom Brady). So yea, I managed to meet some men my age. A few of them were awesome guys who I now consider good friends. And a few of them were huge, unholy douches (HUD’s).

However, the purpose of this blog isn’t to publicly slander anyone (calling this ‘public’ is a stretch, mind you), even the most vile of HUD’s. No, I’m choosing to use this blog for good. And with a year of the ridiculousness known as dating under my belt, I am simply offering up a few observations, so you can determine if you or someone you know is an HUD—or worse, is dating an HUD.

He wears a wifebeater under everything.
Maybe he has scary salami nipples that require him to clothe himself with at least three layers at all times, or maybe he just likes the way wifebeaters look. Either way it’s cause for concern. He may keep it concealed for while, but you’ll soon realize that the exposed wifebeater is his go-to uniform for barbecues, family reunions, outdoor weddings and those times when the bar gets too hot. And you do not want to be there when that happens.

He owns one of these. With a picture of himself etched in it. That lights up and rotates.

People, I wish I was joking. Imagine being given a tour of someone’s place, and setting your eyes on a luminescent graven image displayed with such hubris that it’s amazing that God himself hasn’t sent all ten plagues to his apartment complex. I mean, honestly? A laser-etched picture of yourself? BY YOURSELF? “Girls think it’s creepy, but I think it’s awesome,” he said after noticing the absolute horror in my eyes. No kidding, I thought. The only thing creepier would be a bloody woodchipper in your living room, guy.


He has no qualms about posing totally inappropriate questions like “What’s it going to take to get you to touch it?”
I don’t think this one needs to be explored any further. Gross.


He refers to you his girlfriend after one date…while talking to his mom.
There are a handful of truly genuine, emotional, sweet guys out there. And chances are you won’t ever see me dating one of them, because frankly—they scare the living bejesus out of me. Blech. He says “I can really see myself getting serious about you.” I hear “You should come over and see the doll I’m making out of your hair.” He says “I can’t wait for you to meet my mom.” I hear “Ever see Misery? Yea, it’s like that.” He says “I can’t get enough of you.” I hear “I don’t care what the judge said about the whole 500 feet away thing.”

Well, that about wraps it up. One full year of singlehood behind me, and what do you know—it’s Valentine’s Day. And even though I might snap and brutally murder a handful of people the next time I hear the words “He went to Jared”, I think I’m handling it pretty well. Because, to be totally honest, this year has been fun as hell. Thank God for all of my friends, who always help me look at everything with a sense of humor.

So to everyone, a very happy Valentine’s Day. And to those of you in relationships: turn on the romantic music, pour the champagne, curl up next to the one you love and picture me making throw up faces at you.

XOXO
Steph

One Single Year: Part II

Note: this is a continuation of the previous post. Hence the "Part II" in the title. So read the previous post before reading this one. Otherwise, it will all be lost on you, the earth will fall out of orbit, Heidi Montag will win a Grammy and all other matter of Doomsday scenarios will come to pass.

Okay then. Where were we? Oh yes, the coma-inducer. During a most awkward hug and air-kiss goodnight, the guy must've spread some sort of "old, boring guy" pheromones on me, because they all started coming out of the woodwork. Really. I felt like I was constantly being tailed by a parade of guys in Jazzy Scooters. Alright, that's an exaggeration. But I was starting to get attention from a much older set than I'm used to (in all fairness, I should point out that I hadn't been single since I was 19, so yea...I guess it makes sense that older guys weren't hitting on me as much). One night, after my friend and I couldn't get a cab to save our lives, we took a ride with an older gentleman (not old old, just older than me by a decade) who had been clumsily hitting on me all damn night. Before you start judging me, I should note two things. One: my friend was flirting with this guy's friend, so I decided to be pleasant to the guy in lieu of throwing my drink on him and calling him a skeevy buttlick. Two: you shouldn't take rides with people you've only just met, unless, like me, you pack a stungun.

Eager to get the whole ordeal over with, the four of us head out to the parking lot. Where we waited. For twenty minutes. As the guy who has been talking about how much he'd like to "take my ass out for dinner and get me wasted" removes not one...not two...but three child safety seats from his backseat. THREE!! Math, people--that means homeboy has three children young enough to require some serious strapping into a vehicle. That's three more children than he mentioned in the two hours I was forced to listen to him (mostly about his quarterly sales. Douche.)

Needless to say, I had had enough. I didn't care if I had to start hanging around a skate park passing out PBRs and wearing nothing but Laffy Taffy, I was determined to find someone who wasn't ten years my senior and hadn't already produced a small legion of children (no offense to the single dads--but I get nervous holding a houseplant. Babies are not really in the picture right now.)

Of course, guys my age come with their own set of issues.

(More bitching to come...aren't you excited?)

One Single Year: Part I

Nearly a year after the fact, and I’m still trying to navigate my singlehood. I’d say it’s been an adventure, but that would imply that it’s been, on the whole, exciting. No—I’d compare it to a carnival ride. At times, you’re laughing at yourself for even getting on a machine operated by a fat, shirtless man with a pair of overalls and a fifth-grade education (before I go any further, let’s not take this metaphor too literally—I did not actually ride a shirtless, overall-wearing carnie with a fifth-grade education). Where was I? Oh yea. So it all seems like a fun, silly little thing to do for a minute, and then the novelty wears off and you realize that you’re on a five-ton death apparatus that could any minute drop a screw and rip you limb from limb.

Perhaps that was a bit dramatic. To be completely honest, it hasn’t been a bad year at all—just a clumsy one. Imagine, if you will, a meth-addicted Bambi on the frozen pond for the first time. That’s about how gracefully I’ve maneuvered through the singles scene.

My first mistake was gravitating toward older men—we’re talking ten years older or more. It’s really no surprise that this was my initial reaction: the chances of them being emotionally unavailable because they were busy recording another metal album are pretty slim. It wasn’t ten minutes into my first date that I realized maturity and emotional stability come with an unfortunate side effect: profound, unfathomable boredom. By the time the salads got there, I was ready to make out with the business end of a flamethrower.

Agony! Pure, unbridled agony. Halfway through dinner, I had rather successfully tuned him out, catching the occasional word—blah blah blah blah ‘Scotchgard’ blah blah blah ‘backgammon’ blah blah ‘Dockers’. Kill me. Of course tuning him out allowed me to eavesdrop on the two women at the neighboring table, who were apparently closely observing the atrocity unfolding at my table and giving us the John Madden/Al Michaels treatment. “They’re so obviously on a first date,” one said. “I know” replied the other, “and she’s a little young, don’t you think? Ka-ching.” Every molecule of my being wanted to turn around and shriek “LISTEN HERE, YOU HEINOUS BITCHES! I WOULD GIVE UP MY ENTIRE SAVINGS ACCOUNT AND EAT A LIVE BARKING CAVE SPIDER IF IT MEANT THIS WOULD BE OVER AND I COULD BE ON MY WAY HOME RIGHT NOW! BUT SOMEONE JUST ORDERED DESSERT WINE AND THE GODDAMNED FLAN AND NOW I’M STUCK HERE FOR ANOTHER GODDAMNED HOUR! OKAAAAAAAY?”

As I fled through the bathroom window--okay, as I politely allowed him to walk me to my car--I wondered: Is this it? Is this life as a single? And if so, where is the nearest nunnery and do you suppose they admit foul-mouthed winos who may or may not know what edible underwear actually tastes like?

And I was only getting started.

(to be continued...)

Me? Really?

A funny thing happened to me this weekend. My best friend and I made the trip to beautiful downtown Parma to watch her dad's band--the guy plays bass like a man possessed by some serious rock devil. I think I've been to Parma twice in my life, so I was just minding my own business and trying to go unnoticed like usual (read: talking loudly to complete strangers, "shaking it" in front of the stage, tipping back a few shots and barely restraining myself from bum-rushing the stage, hijacking the microphone and singing "Green-Eyed Lady.")

So imagine my surprise when I was introduced to an adorable gal who regularly reads my blog, despite the fact that she's never even met me. Here I thought the only people reading this thing were relatives, a handful of friends and the CIA (yea, I know you're watching me, you filthy suits--YOU'VE GOT NOTHING ON ME!). I couldn't believe this seemingly normal, sweet, PTA president would want to subject herself to my smutty stream-of-consciousness, but needless to say I was sincerely flattered. I gave her a hug and literally floated out of the place and into the street as if I were on a cloud. Then of course I was nearly flattened by some asshat in a Camaro, which quickly brought me back to earth.

Back in Lakewood, exhausted from trying to work my way through a crowd of guys with tiny hands and foreheads that just happened to be at the same height as my boobs, any lingering feeling of celebrity completely wore off. But it was fun while it lasted--so I just wanted to quickly thank anyone and everyone reading this, and those of you brave enough to pass this mess on to your friends. It means a lot.

Enough blathering. This week marks one full year of me being single. To commemorate this as well as the abominable holiday that is Valentines Day, my next post will be a "year in review" of sorts, chockfull of interesting guy-related experiences, or as I like to call them, "proof that God holds a grudge." So check back in a day or two, pour a glass of wine, crank up Celine Dion's "All By Myself" and prepare to be left cynical, alone and underwhelmed. Huzzah!

Eating My Words

After I was finished shrieking and jumping around last night, I realized that a retraction was probably in order. Eli, if you're reading this, I'm sorry I didn't think you could make it a close game--let alone beat the Patriots. But let's be honest. You led the league in interceptions and generally played with the confidence, comfort and intensity of someone who had just severely sharted themself on a first date.

So kudos, Eli and the Giants (especially the defense). That being said, I think the big winner Sunday wasn't on the field, in the stands, or even in the state of Arizona.

Congratulations, Bridget Moynahan.