Why I Hate Women

This blog has moved to www.bluntdelivery.com

For all the reasons, please visit Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways.

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The best website of your life

Well, it’s one month shy of my first post here at The Daily Elephant.   I would like to say a big thank you to all of you out there who actually take time out of your extremely busy lives [or so you say..] to read about my ridiculous life.  It has been my pleasure to get to know you all.  As much as I’ve loved my big, oversized, wrinkly elephant skin, – I need some space to breathe.  You know how I get restless.

The time has come to announce my new website, and I thank you for your patience.  Oh wait, you were a bunch of crazy LUNATICS continually griping in my ear everyday. 

I want you to know that in this era of social networking, twittering, and myspacing that YOU are the first ones to know about this wonderous new development.  And let me tell you something, you better come visit me cus that blog is nekkid!!!  And no,  it’s not the kind of nekkid you’d be excited about.   I spend countless hours copying some of my favorite blogs onto the new website so it wouldn’t be empty and now there are ZERO comments.  It’s as if I have the most hated blog on the planet.  Boo hoo.  First one to comment wins… uh… my heart? 

We all know that I’m challenged when it comes to things like choosing names, significant others, or things from the dollar menu.  So you can IMAGINE the heartache I suffered over the name of my new website.  Afterall, I’m pretty hard to please and I’d like to be happy with this for more than a year.  So I thought long and hard about the general nature of my blogs and conversations with friends.  And one thing kept coming to mind- I’m very direct.  And I like it that way.  And I like others to be that way with me.   So I present to you my new website, designed by yours truly:

***FAVOR:  All of you that have The Daily Elephant listed on your blog roll, could you pretty pretty please change that to bluntdelivery.com???  I will love you forever.

And just for that, I have some fabulous new blogs for you right at the top of the pile, including: 

A Post-it Would Have Been Better

Middle School Misfortune

Nitemare on Ex Street

I Dated A Slumdog Millionaire

Not to mention that there is now a picture up of Kenny and I from the actual night in question from my post The Kenny Chronicles: How We Met

BOO-YA!  Told you I’d have it up by today.  There’s all sorts of new things for you to feast your eyes on, so you’ll have to look through the categories.  I am also introducing THE SKINNY, which is where I’ll be telling you the deal about products, websites, and things that will either revolutionize or destroy your life.

See ya around kids.

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A Massage and Some Therapy

So, I took some time out of my busy day, actually took a shower, actually put on some real pants, and went to get a massage.   The entire time I was there, I was writing this blog in my head.  I’ll start from the beginning.

I’m standing there naked (but fully robed)  (although the robes are like paper thin)  (but at least it’s dimly lit)  OK.  I’m standing there and right off the bat the massage girl says:

girl:  So just go ahead and get in the bed, I’ll step out for a second. 

me:  Ok. sounds good.

girl:  Oh, so you’re a massage therapist then? 

me:  (a little bit freaked out that this complete stranger would ask me this)  Um, well… that’s a long story.  But not exactly.

girl:  Oh, well it says in your file that you were going to massage therapy school.

me:  (wondering why in the heck I have a “file” for getting spa services…  Also wondering what else this so-called “file” contains.  Also wondering if every conversation I have with my massage therapists are  recorded in said “file” because I’m pretty sure I remember talking about that last time I was here…)  Yea, well I was going, but I quit. 

girl:  Well I was just nervous that I had a trained professional on my hands and you were gonna be all judgey.

So I get into the bed.  She comes in.  No sooner than the blanket is off my back we are engrossed in a conversation about, what else?  …. relationships.

I said something about my bad experiences and  tendencies to date inappropriate (and sometimes International) men, and she responded with “stop stealing my life.”   It was in that very moment, when she cloned my favorite phrase, that the world stood still.  The clouds parted, and an epiphany shone down from the heavens…. Could it be?

Further conversation would prove that my hypothesis was indeed, correct:

me:  so wait, let me get this straight.  You’ve been floundering around for several years, dating inappropriate men that you were convinced were perfect, avoiding marriage and illegitimate children, went to school for art yet  are now giving me a massage, you’re restless, confused, AND you say things like “stealing my life?”

girl:   Yes.  and I’ve dated inappropriate International men.

me:  (stop talking for a second to catch my breath)… who?  how?  …from where?

girl:  Well, first there was the German.  It was really fun travelling around with him.   Then there was the Costa Rican foreign exchange student.  But thennnnnnn there was the Ecuadorian.  He was trouble.  But we had a good time in Argentina.

me:  (this girl is me…should I be scared?…)  I know this sounds terrible, but have you found that many of your relationships have “overlapped”  because you have mentally moved on but can’t get the guts to break it off with the other person?

girl:  Oh yea… big time.

That sealed the deal.  I was in love.  We had more things in common that I could possibly write about and we ended up talking through the entire massage… but dont’ you worry I’m a master multi-tasker, thus I was able to simultaneously relax.  I gave her my card (because obviously I can’t let this one get away)  and immediately headed over to Panera where Kenny was chillin.   I storm in, sit down and say:

me:  OK.  You’re not going to BELIEVE this!?!#$%   After all these years, I have managed to find the female equivalent of myself!

kenny:  But…. you are female.

me:  I know that I’m female.  But you’re the male equivalent of me, right?  So she’s the female. 

kenny:  Oh.  Well good for you. 

this blog has officially moved to: www.bluntdelivery.com

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Please address me by my rapper name

First of all, I’m implementing a new rule here at The Daily Elephant.  And that is that you address me by my rapper name:  ‘Lil Phant.  [pronounced ‘font’] 

There are two planetary certainties which occur ever time I leave the comfort of my surroundings and venture out into the cold, harsh reality that is our world:

1. I will step in gum that I myself spat out merely five seconds prior.

2. I will have an awkward encounter with an astranged friend I haven’t seen since the late 90’s. 

If you are one of these estranged friends, I’d like to take this moment to apologize for the abrupt conversation that just took place.  Cus see, I have avoidance issues.  Simply put, I wanted to avoid you, but you made it impossible by cornering me next to the tomato sauce.  Then you prodded me with questions all interrogation style and it made me uncomfortable.  Not uncomfortable because I am afraid to discuss my life with you, but uncomfortable in the sense that you were wasting my time.  And you don’t care what I’ve been up to and I’m [hopefully] not going to see you for another decade so do we really have to do this?  Yes?    Aw, crap.

 

estranged friend: Oh hey! haven’t seen you in forever.  What on earth have you been up to?   Married?  Kids?

me:   It’s been awhile, for sure.  No.  No thanks on the married thing.  And no illegitimate children. ..

[what I’m thinking:  Well, let’s see.  I went to college after avoiding it for a solid year, then ran away to Mexico for while, changed my major 6 times because I can’t commit to anything, then moved to London and travelled the world for a little bit,  came back,  dropped out of college to open a retail store,  successfully warded off two engagements, dated a british guy who turned out to be a bajillionaire, got sick of retail store….]

me:  Yea.  Just same old.  same old…

[still thinking:  then discovered british guys like heroin, rebounded with a bipolar crazypants, stood by as all my friends got married/ knocked up/ or both, started massage therapy school for fun, dropped out of massage therapy school for fun,  worked out once, got my house and my store robbed/  my purse stolen twice/ my car broken into all within a 6 month span, lost my mind, got some stories published, bought a condo..]

me:   Yea.  nothing to report here.  You?

estranged friend:  Well, Bobby and I got married after college and we’ve got little Joshy and Abigail at home.  We’re expecting our third in the fall.  You know, I’ve been reading your blog and I love it!

me:  Oh, really?  thanks

[what I’m thinking:  crap…. crap… CRAP!!#$%^!  what did I write about her?  There had to be something.  And she has to know it’s her.  UGH  WHY can’t I just not write offensive but truthful blogs about everyone in my past?  Well, cus they provide cheap entertainment.  ….Wait.  Hold the phone.  I don’t even talk to this girl, how does she know I have a blog?  Well.   In that case, it looks like we just took a turn to creeptown  -so she deserves everything I said about her.  In fact, I think I’ll write something about this when I get home.]

me:  Alright, well, see ya in another ten years.

In conclusion, it would really help me out if anyone that I personally know would avoid reading my blog.  Because see, you are what fans the flames of this blog, for without you, I would have nothing to criticize.  Then, I could be free to use you as comic relief without fear of awkward reprecussions, and you could live your life blissfully unaware that you are the source of public mockery.

Today is the last day to enter my totally rad featured blog contest!  To quality for this week, you must leave a comment on this post, and on each of these:

Skeezy ‘R Us

I’m just not that into him

What not to buy for Valentine’s day

Want more traffic?  Let me feature your blog

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Skeezy ‘R Us

Recently, I was recruited by someone to put my freelance writing profile on IList.com.  Because I’m awesome, and for no other reason.  Don’t worry, the place is legit, it’s like a craigslist of sorts.  I checked it out and I thought, well since they had already set up everything for me and I only had to put in my web address – ok, fine.  Any more work than that and this elephant would have went right back to bed.  No longer than  12 hrs. after I listed my profile, I get this exact email to my personal address:

 

_____________________________

Yo!  I saw your writing ad on Ilist…. and I was wondering if you were open to anything other than “work”?  You’re REALLY cute and I’d like know something about you. You’re lookin’ damn sexy in those tight jeans!

‘Write’ on!!……………………………

Please reply to me at this address.

Phillip

legman1947@yahoo.com

____________________________

So, I thought given the extreme intelligence of this person to email me in attempt to lure me into some kind of perverted cyber relationship, when he was reading a listing for a freelance WRITER,  I thought I’d post it here for everyone to enjoy.  Along with his real email. 

 

On that note, I’d like to say a big “thank you” to Phillip over at Skeezy ‘R US, because I was totally at a loss of what to write about tonight.

Need More Blog Traffic? Let me feature your blog 

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What women really want

 

 

Harry:  “You were going to be a gymnast.”

Sally:  “A journalist.”

Harry: “Right, that’s what I said.”

 

 

 

Guys, if you’ve ever been perplexed and confounded by the ways of women, I understand.  I do.  Although I might be one, I only understand our ways about 45% of the time.   But within that 45% of understanding, I am going to try to share this secret knowledge with all of you poor, pathetic, and tortured souls out there.  Of course, the degree at which you need to execute the following steps varies drastically from one woman to the next, so in that aspect you’re on your own.

1.  We want you to be nice.  But we don’t.  If you’re too nice to us then we will slowly grow to hate you.  And by hate, I mean lose all repect for and view you as a pushover who can only be considered a good friend.

2. We want you to pay attention to us.  But not too much attention.  This is a very important one because if you don’t give us attention when we need it [aka when other attractive girls are around or when we’re crying about something ridiculous] then it’s done.  But if you get all clingy on a daily basis when we just want some FRIGGEN SPACE for the love of everything then it’s also over.

3.  We want you to give us our way.  But not all the time.  See, if you don’t ever give us our way then you’re a cold-hearted, insensitive, selfish bastard.  But if you give us our way all the time then you’re not enough of a man to be worthy of our respect.   And most likely, you’d be an awful father who’d let the kids do whatever they want just because they make that pouty face.

Stay tuned for the second intallment of what women want.  I’ll be bringing that to you as soon as I figure it out myself.

this blog has officially moved to: www.bluntdelivery.com

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Superbowl psychoanalysis: the yellow team won

Superbowl Sunday.  Afternoon.  Conversation:

him:  I have to pick up some pop for the superbowl party later.

me:  We’re going to a superbowl party?

him:  Yea, I told you that.

me:  What?  I’m not so sure about that. 

him:  I did.  You don’t remember.

me:  No, I wasn’t listening.  Well, I didn’t know that was today.  What’s the date today?

him:  It’s February 1st.

me:  WHAT?  SONOFA  #$%^!   That means my $10 off Gordmans coupon expired.   DANGIT!!!!!

him: So I have to get pop.

me:  Well, what are my chances of getting out of going cus I have alot of crap to do?

him:  About as good as my chances of getting a back rub tonight.

me:  But what if I’m suuuuper tired? 

him:   ….

me:  Well that’s some b.s. right there.  You know how I get sick when I’m sleep deprived.

him:  Well good thing you work from HOME.  Sleep in.   Clearly, you need to get out of the house, you didn’t know what day it was. 

[cut to three hours later at the Superbowl party……..]

 me:  so who’s playing anyway?

him:   Steelers and the Cardinals.

me:  Ok, well, I hate yellow so on principle I have to hope the red team wins.

him:  Good, we want the red team to win.

me:  and have you ever smelt pittsburg?  seriously. what a crap hole.

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Daily Dilemmas: Can you run to the store for me?

The other day, when I was hard at work on the internet,  I accidentally came across a salad recipe that commanded my undivided atttention.  I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not one of those birds who eats salads and drinks skim milk.  I had just polished off an entire box of Peppermint ice cream (cus you have to get enough while it’s still in season) when I came across the recipe.   And it fit my criteria perfectly – it had linguini in it.  Cus if I’m going to have salad, you better believe there’s gotta be some pasta in there somewhere.

Unfortunately, this salad is so unique and appealing that it contains not one solitary ingredient that I actually own.  So I make the list of random ingredients that I’ll only use half of and then have to throw away because I don’t make anything else cool enough to warrant such ingredients as “nappa cabbage.”   So I send the boyfriend to the store.  He was going ANYWAY, chill out. 

He comes back, and a shock of excitement runs through my veins as I think of the new creation I will be making.  Oddly, he walked in with one bag.  I was thinking, huh, that just doesn’t seem like it would have enough stuff in it for this salad.  Then, I start to put the stuff away and this is the following conversation:

me: um, honey, why isn’t there any of the ingredients in here?

him: well, when i got there they were remodeling the store and they had everything moved around. 

me:  but there was still food there, right? 

him:  yea, but I couldn’t find anything.

me: so you couldn’t manage to find ONE ingredient on my list, yet you were able to navigate through the terrain and locate the frozen pizza and the Coke zero?

him:  no.  i got you cilantro.

me:  oh, thats right.  thank you.  but WHAT THE HECK am I supposed to do with a gigantic bunch of cilantro?

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The WTF blanket

[OR The Secret to Financial Freedom]

When all you do is write for a living, you become a hermit by default.  When I say hermit, I mean that I’m skeptical as to whether or not my car will even start due to how long it’s been sitting in my garage.   Between the endless writing and working on my new business [which I hope to launch in the Spring but will not announce because as soon as there is a deadline I will crack under the pressure that only I have imposed upon myself]  I have no choice but to sit in front of a computer all day, unshowered and in sweats. 

It’s really okay though, for I have found the secret to financial freedom is in not going anywhere.  It’s 99.2% affective that you will not spend money if you don’t leave your house.   I say 99.2% because there are those of you out there who will find ways to scam the system and buy things via the internet or Home Shopping Network.  In which case, you are a lost cause anyway because you are attracted to things like Snuggies  (or as the YouTube video below refers to them – the WTF blanket) and ShamWows.  There is no hope of you ever saving money when you buy crap like that.  Enjoy your lifetime of financial ruin.

 

Today, I reached the breaking point;  the point at which I had no choice but to leave the “den” as my friends lovingly refer to it.  And I say lovingly because they too LOVE the den.  There’s something magical about my room that forces people to be lazy, maybe it’s the fact that I allow nothing other than ambient lighting.  In fact, I don’t think any of my friends have sat on my couch.  As soon as they enter the door, they head straight for the bed, where they can be assured to view mindless daytime TV, feast on an assortment of leftover holiday chocolates conventiently located on the nightstand, and check this blog from my laptop to see how I embarrassed them recently.  When you enter my life as an acquaintance or luckier yet a friend, you run the risk of me publicizing your life in any way I see fit.  And usually, the way I see fit is to make a mockery out of it.   OK.  Will you stop distracting me?   Anyway, today I realized that I’d eaten everything in my fridge except a very questionable  rotten pomegranite and some Ferro Rocher’s in the shape of a Christmas Tree.   I had to leave.

So I went to the grocery store and just as I suspected, I spent money.  If I would have just stuck to my plan I’d still be on top of the game.   So now that I have offically conducted a double blind experiement of my hypothesis, I will be re-writing this cost saving plan into an e-book, which will be available for purchase on my website.

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Breast pumping your way to a free mocha

[This is a 100% true blog, that chronicles my outing yesterday with my best friend, who is a new mom.  I did warn her that I was writing this blog and there was nothing she could really do to keep that from happening.  don’t be scared by the length of this post, it is worth every moment]

There’s something magical that happens the very instant you become a mom.  I’m not sure of the details because I have not yet crossed that ravine, but genereally speaking: you become the cheapest person alive. 

I get in her car yesterday and immediately she throws the largest coupon organizer of ALL TIME onto my lap.  The coupons were alphabetically organized.  She says, “this is going to get us through the day.”   She’s starving and so we roll up to McDonalds because she has a buy one extra value meal, get one free sandwich coupon.   I thought, ok, thats fine, free sandwich.  For the next 10 (and I am NOT exaggerating) mins, I was but an innocent bystander to the following drive thru conversation:

friend:  Yes, can i get the grilled chicken value meal? 

lady:   sure.   drink?

friend: I’d just like water and actually I dont want any fries with that cus I’m trying to lose weight.  And then I’d like another grilled chicken sandwich, lettuce only. 

lady: okaaaaay.  $9.42. 

friend:  And no mayonnaise on both.  (we pull ahead to the window and she hands over the coupon)  Okay, I have a coupon, so I should get the second sandwich free.

lady:  OKAY. SO  your new total is $6.12

friend: UM.  Now, shouldn’t the total be less than that?  because the sandwich is free and i only ordered an extra value meal -but I didn’t even get fries and I only got water.

lady:  Well, why don’t you just order two sandwiches then? 

friend: Because the coupon says I have to order an extra value meal in order to get the other sandwich free.

lady: OKAY. SO you want the extra value meal, with just the sandwich and the water?

friend: yes.

lady: well, the bottled water is actually more expensive than the other drinks, so it’s still going to be that amt.

friend: ok, then no water.

lady: OKAY. SO you just want  the extra value meal – with no fries and no drink?

friend: yes.

(at this point, the lady is rendered speechless and has to get the manager)

(this is also the point when i call my dad and have a five minute conversation, while trying not to leap out the car window and thrust myself into moving traffic.)

Finally, they tell her just to pay three dollars and they hand over the sandwiches.  As we’re leaving, she tells me that later we’ll have to go back cus the Mochas are buy one get one free from 2:00-5.   Then we go to Babys R Us.  She rolls up to the checkout with a cart full of stuff and hands the elderly cashier AN ENTIRE STACK  of coupons.  Then, she says:

friend: but here’s the thing, they are all expired.

cashier: um, so you want to use a stack of expired coupons for your purchases?

friend: yes.  George said it was okay because I live out of town and only come around once a week.

cashier:  George doesn’t work here anymore.  Let me get the manager.  (at this point, I start to get uncomfortable)

friend:  Oh, and I’m supposed to get a free box of diapers because I bought three Pamper products.

(Knowing what is about to come, I just walk away.  I stand by the door for a good 15 mins before going to the car, where I waited for another 10 minutes.)

As soon as she gets in the car, I tell her that she took so long that we might miss the 2-5 timeframe in which to get the free mocha at McDonalds.   I start driving, when I notice some rustling in the passenger seat.  Before I know it, she has plugged in her breast pump and was holding two empty bottles.  I just looked over  and she says, “Don’t you worry, I got this under control.”   We ended the day by going to JCPenny, where the clearance items were also buy one get one free.  Then there was yet another confrontation with an elderly cashier when my friend asked if she could do two separate purchases in order to get more things free.  The lady said that wasn’t really fair to JCPenny, to which my friend replied that she has to do what’s fair for her wallet. 

Who’s the Elephant?

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Teenage acne and an Italian boyfriend

its not quite this bad

Let me start by saying that I currently drive a plum-colored Saturn with duct tape on the hood.  The reason for the duct tape is to cover an actual hole in my hood that was created by veering off the road and crashing into a road sign, which fell on my car and poked a hole straight through it. 

So heed my advice at your own discretion.

So back to this whole matter of me being in a beauty pageant.  Typing that very sentence makes my skin crawl, but you brought it up.  Let me first say, that I hate pageants and all the creepy girls and moms associated with them.  Okay.

Once upon a time, I was dating a charming young Italian gentleman, who I thought at the time was my long awaited knight in shining armor.  Ok.  Let’s start over.  Once upon a time, before developing my completely pessimistic realistic views on the ways of the world and men, I happened to get the wool pulled over my eyes by an Italian nutjob in preppy clothing who sang in a band.

As most young women who pay their way through private college, I was broke beyond my wildest dreams.  My brilliant nutjob was friends with the director of the local Miss America pageant sector, and they came to the ridiculous conclusion that I should be in a pageant.  My immediate protest was stiffled by the mention of  “but you can win alot of money.”    I have a habit of doing things spur of the moment, without much thought or consideration to what said thing will entail, so after a couple weeks I said, “fine. what do I have to do?”   Let me interrupt this story to comment on the time line for a moment.   Pageant = August.  When I was informed of said pageant = July.

After having said yes, but then realizing the pageant was one month away, I recanted my admission.  Then I was further coerced by the boyfriend and director that it would be no big deal to prepare for.  Lies so big even Satan was shocked.   In one month I had to:  find a pageant gown [um, haven’t seen any of those around town lately] and 4 inch clear  heels [am I a stripper?], figure out a “talent” [I can’t sing, dance, or do anything requiring hand-eye coordination], get a professional picture for the program, learn how to walk in 4 inch clear heels [again. can’t do this], learn the group dance routine [there’s a what?],  get a swimsuit that I’d be comfortable wearing in front of thousands of people, freak out, and actually stop eating enough food for a small lacrosse team so that I could not embarass myself while wearing the swimsuit.  

My first problem is that I make impulsive decisions, my second problem is backing out of them.  I can’t do it.   So after one month of freaking out, chewing the Italian a new one, and eating nothing but apples – I competed in the pageant.

My talent?  A comedic monologue about my teenage acne.  Yes.     And you are correct if you are thinking that you’ve never seen anyone do a comedic monologue at a pageant before.  I don’t believe anyone ever has.  Probably because they can sing and dance like all the other pageant freaks.  Did they love it?   Does Geraldo Rivera love his mustache?

Swimsuit competition?  You know I rocked that.

Who’s the Elephant?

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I was told there’d be cake

Today, I conquered the world.   Or so it seemed.  Granted, my own imaginary world, where only I exist, but it was still something to behold.  It started with me actually prying myself from the computer which I have been diligently placed in front of for the better half of a month.  First, I returned the dvd’s which had been patiently awaiting next to my door since New Year’s Eve.

  Then, I mailed three books that I sold on Amazon two weeks ago, but agreed to ship within 2 business days.  After this, followed a triumphant moment in which I deposited my check from Chicken Soup for the Soul.  Triumphant only to me, I realize.  Then, as I was driving home, I attempted to read the book that was glaring up at me from my passenger seat. 

<—–not me, but a good likeness on any given day.

I think I’ve made it clear before that I don’t read books.  And that still holds true, except in the event I find a book that offers me some sort of meaningless and hilarious commentary.  Books which have fit into this category include: 

Couplehood by Paul Riser,  Sein Language by Jerry Seinfeld, and He’s Just Not That Into You by [whatever guy helped write Sex and the City].  That’s about it.  Of all the stacks of amazing books that I own, these are the only ones I have actually cracked open.  Add to that list: I Was Told There’d Be Cake by Sloane Crosley.   With a title like that, you can imagine why I was willing to risk my life  [and the lives of several others] today in order to read the first paragraph.

Exciting things happening in the Elephant’s life these days.  New clients, a new business on the rise, and most excitingly I’m starting to take this whole book writing thing more seriously.  The problem is with creative people is that we have TOO many ideas.  Know what I mean?  The thought of choosing one, just one measley little topic to write a book on is the most daunting challenge I can imagine.  Which is exactly why I’m not doing it.  I’ve come to the conclusion that my book will be:  a) non-fiction of course;  b) non-serious of course;  c) either short stories or essays compiled with some cohesive theme.   Choosing that theme will probably take another couple years… yea. 

 

Okay, so I really didn’t get anywhere today.

www.wordsbybrit.com

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Black Friday, depression, and a Salvation Army chair

I woke up the day after Thanksgiving with a massive headache.  No, I wasn’t hungover.  No, I wasn’t getting sick.  It’s just the after effects of a very stressful week.  Friends visiting, friends having babies, grandpas in the hospital, the usual.  Of course, as you know, I witnessed my best friend give birth to a child, which was at the very least:  horrific.  But not as horrifying as it is two days later when the images keep popping into the forefront of your mind.  Then my Thanksgiving consisted of watching my grandma, who is a self-proclaimed Wii bowling champion at her assisted living home, battle it out with my uncle and dad.  Well, she currently has a bad hip and wears frog green polyester pants, and everytime she pulled her arm back to release the bowling ball, she let out a fart.   Pretty soon I had to move to the other side of the couch, where my mom and my aunt were having a huge fight about who was going to host Christmas.  

 [Let me preface the next section by saying that my 99 saturn with duck tape covering a hole in the hood, although esthetically phenomenal, is not an all-terrain vehicle.  More on that later. ]

So I had made my annual plan to go shopping on Black Friday.  But when the morning came I called my girlfriend, who was supposed to accompany me, but she actually was hungover.  And depressed.  So I called Kenny.  Kenny’s always up for shopping.  Well, Kenny was depressed too.  I guess depression rates really do rise around the Holidays.  So after five hours of trudging through crowds of unruly shoppers by myself, I had seven bags on my arm cutting off the circulation to my heart.  After narrowly escaping a heart attack, I went to pick up my yellow Salvation Army chair with Kenny.

So I accidentally wandered into the Salvation Army again last week, and took a liking to a yellow chair, which I asked if i could pick it up later that day.  Of course, five days had passed since that conversation took place.  So Kenny had no choice but to help me.  For over 30 minutes, we were shivering in the parking lot (with several onlookers) having the following conversation:

me:  its GOING to fit

kenny:  no.  no it’s NOT.  how in the world can you think this is going to fit?

me: cus it’s not that big!

kenny: thats what she said.  haha.  ok seriously, yes it IS THAT BIG, because we can’t get it in!

me: thats what she said.  haha. ok, seriously, if we could just take the legs off it would be fine.

kenny: yea, thats a really good idea.  except they are attached.

me: well, lets try it diagonal in the backdoor again.

random guy:  you know, I used to move furniture for a living.  .. do you guys need some help? 

Kenny and me:  NO, we’re fine.

random guy:  well, do you mind if i just stand here and watch?  cus this is pretty entertaining.

kenny:  we’re just gonna have to put it in the trunk.

me:  but i won’t be able to close it AT ALL.  isn’t that illegal?  isn’t that a hazard?

kenny:  we’re gonna have to come back then

me:  it’s already been sitting here 5 days, i have to take it.  but how will we tie it down?  I don’t have anything.  Go find some twine.

[kenny goes back inside, comes back after ten minutes, holding what appears to be rope]

me: you are AWESOME!  this is why i love you.   [ I grab the rope and start putting it around the chair]  wait, what is this?

kenny:  a telephone cord.

me: A TELEPHONE CORD?  what the?!  how am i supposed to tie anything with a telephone cord? 

kenny:  Don’t worry, i got two of them.  and a scarf.

me: SO?@$%

Check out more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How to talk yourself out of dating almost anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

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The Kenny Chronicles: A conversation at Starbucks

I shall now introduce to you the newest category here at The Daily Elephant:  The Kenny Chronicles.   What exactly are the Kenny Chronicles?  Well, due to overwhelming feedback on the blog I wrote last week referencing a dating conversation between my best friend “Kenny” and I, I will now be dispensing more blogs of this nature.  I’ve always got your best interest in mind.  If you didn’t get a chance to read the first one, please do so here because the second installment is comin at ya faster than an outta shape asthmatic kid chasing after an ice cream cart.

Kenny and I meet at a bookstore or Starbucks on a quasi-regular basis to discuss our issues.  I think we feel that the bookstore-ish surroundings make us more intellectual than we actually are, which in turn helps us more quickly penetrate to the heart of our problems.  Of course, this isn’t really successful because everyone (except us) acknowledges that merely sitting in a bookstore does not make you more intellectual.

I arrive to find Kenny sitting out on the patio, sipping on an overly-priced mountain of coffee flavored whipped cream and looking rather introspective.  As I park my car, I instantly notice a drastic change upon my friend’s all too familiar face.  I don’t like change.  Before I sit down, I go inside and purchase the ridiculously too-big cookie of the day, which is always some random shape that makes no sense.  That day it was a lemon wedge.   And the following conversation begins: 

me:  seriously?  you got your hair cut.

kenny:   i couldn’t stand it anymore.

me: but Richie’s wedding is next week.

kenny:  I know.  but it’s sooooo hot outside.

me:  sooo hot?  my hair is black and 3 feet long  and you don’t see me buzzing it off do you?

kenny:  relax.  IT’S HAIR.  it’ll grow back.

me:  not in ONE WEEK!   how many months have I been saying that we need to get some good pictures at this wedding?  and you keep it long this entire time and a week before the wedding you get too hot.

kenny:  i know we need some new pictures.  we’ll get some.

me:  no we won’t.  because we cannot possibly have cute pictures with your hair hacked off like that. 

kenny:  it doesn’t look that bad?

me:  well it doesn’t look that good.  you don’t even look like yourself. 

kenny:  Yes i do?  how can i not look like myself.

me:   you know I like your hair longer and spikey.  when was the last time we took a good picture?  like two years ago? 

kenny:  oh, get over it. 

me:   I can’t believe you did this to me.

After we got that out of the way, I brushed the cookie crumbs off my sweatshirt and referenced how I seriously need to start working out.    Kenny talked about another girl that he isn’t dating, but if he was dating anyone right now, it might be her.

Check out more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How to talk yourself out of dating almost anyone

Black Friday, depression, and a Salvation army chair

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

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The Science of Dating: Finding The One

Lately, I’ve received alot of questions to the effect of “how do I find the one?”  Well, it just so happens that I have more than a few answers up my very svelte sleeve.  I’ve spent weeks, possibly even months [if I were to have logged all my time] researching and compiling data for what I am about reveal to you.  As per usual, you can expect to pay not a single PENNY for the knowledge that I am about to impart upon you!  It is but merely the beginning of a lifetime of benefits that you will reap by reading this blog.  How shall I be compensated, you ask?  The smile on your face.

For many of you, it’s not that you’re unlucky, you’re just looking in all the wrong places.  As I’ve repeatedly said, you’re never going to find creme brulee on the Taco Bell menu, and unfortunately, you never will  [because it would be awesome to be able to get a Chalupa and creme brulee all in one stop].  I will further demonstrate my point in the following chart.  Please study it with ravenous desire.  memorize it.  picturize it.  dream about it at night.  frame it on your wall.  tape it to your fridge.  fold it up into a teeny tiny piece and carry it next to your heart… for contained therein you will find the answer to one of life’s most perplexing questions. 

 

 

Now, if you look carefully, you will observe that you have equal chances of meeting your future mate in: rehab, space camp, a safari, solitary confinement, or your mailbox.  But now I want you all to take out your microscopes because we’re going to delve into this and chizzle away to find out how this affects your dating life.  With closer analyzation, you will discover that you actually have a greater chance of meeting your future mate in solitary confinement, than you do at the bar.

staggering?  perhaps groundbreaking?

  something to think about.

For more on this popular dating series, please read: The Science of Dating: Know who you are.

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Daily Dilemmas: “But You Left Spit on My Spoon”

[DISCLAIMER:  I take the issues discussed in the following blog very, very seriously]

 

I have had a longstanding issue with dairy products.  My contempt for said products may be the result of some deep-rooted childhood suppression that my shrink has yet to pry out, I’m not so sure.  Lactose intolerance?  No.  Vegan? Over my dead, very carnivorous body.  Alas, I wish the answer were that easy.

 

My taste buds do not discriminate against all dairy products, only a large majority.  Products currently on the black list: eggs, cottage cheese, yogurt, and milk.  Don’t even get me started on milk.  The reason why I despise the forementioned food items is because they possess one of the following qualities: slimy-ness, creaminess, or both.  But here’s the real thorn in my side– ice cream.  Love it, when it’s actually frozen [as God intended]; hate it when it starts to melt; and can’t DEAL with sharing it in any capacity or watching someone consume it.   I used to have a friend that microwaved his ice cream into a sort of soup.  Keyword “used to.”

 

Now, to me it seems pretty simple.  Certain foods make me gag = I don’t eat them.   Apparently, the individuals of the male gender cannot accept this as you will see displayed in the following dialogue.

 

Me: [sitting down on the couch with a huge bowl full of delectable oreo ice cream]

 

Him: dang. That looks good. Gimme a bite.

Me: no.  I can’t do that.  sorry.

Him:  why? I bought it.  I just want a bite.

Me:  I know, thanks.  You can go get your own, but I can’t give you a bite.

Him: i don’t wanna whole bowl.  what’s your problem?

Me:  I don’t share dairy products.

Him: I don’t want to share it, I just want one bite.

Me: i understand. but you know how when someone takes a bite and there is some melty residue left on the spoon? 

 

Him: yea?

Me: well so do i.  and I can’t deal with it.

Him: ok. I won’t leave any residue then.

Me:  but yes, yes you will.  It is an impossible feat to not leave residue.

Him: what the heck? why does it bother you so much?  You need to get over that.

Me:  because it’s gross and I hate it.

Him: but why? That makes no sense.

Me:  it makes no sense why you care.

Him: because it’s annoying.

Me: it’s annoying that you’re trying to psychoanalyze my paranoia of melty ice cream.  

Him: [walks over to get his own spoon, comes over and sticks it in my bowl]

Me:  what are you doing?!?

Him: I’m not sharing your spoon.

Me: but you’re eating from my bowl!

Him: I thought it was the spoon that bothered you?

Me:  it is.  But now you have your own spoon with your own melty residue and are scooping across the ice cream that I’m eating.  That’s still going to be a problem. 

Him: you have issues.

Me: yes.

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Daily Dilemmas: “How Can I Avoid My Dentist for Life?”

Throughout the ages,  many philosophers have attempted to answer the question, “Why would I rather be tied up in a glass box and left for dead in the Sahari desert than go to the Dentist?”

For me, it started when I was six.  It’s bad enough that I inherited my mother’s unbelievably awful teeth, and I always had an average of three cavities EVERY visit and they could never get the novocaine right.  As horrible as that was, it is not what drove me to camp out by the mailbox so I could tear up the “time for a checkup” postcards the minute they arrived and bury them in the garbage before my mom would notice. 

Flouride.  Do any of you recall having trays oozing with “grape” bubblegum” or “mint“ flavored flouride shoved into your mouth to protect your teeth from cavities?  Then once the trays were in place you had to sit there struggling not to gag as the slimey goo (which resembled windex more than it did any of the above mentioned flavors) started trailing down your throat,  all the while you’re gasping for air because that ridiculous vaccuum was sucking it from your airway.  I remember each visit (which ended up being once every two years, when the postcard sabotoge went according to plan) lying there, staring up at the ridiculous poster of toothbrushes hidden in the forest,  shuttering in fear, and wondering if maybe – just maybe – they would forget the flouride this time.  But they never did.  It’s as if they possessed some other -earthly -futuristic -robot memory. and i didn’t stand a chance.  Eventually, I started pleading with them.  “come ooooon, my teeth are going to have cavities no matter what, don’t you see?  Look at my mom.  That’s just my lot in life.  I’ve made my peace with it.  it’s time you got on board.”   But all my attempts proved futile.

Flossing.  I have done this section in red.  Red, for the color of the blood that my gums have shed at the hands of various hygenists throughout my childhood.   As i grew into my adult teeth, I was relieved to find that flouride would no longer be a part of my torture.  FREEDOM AT LAST!  That was until I discovered a whole new world of anguish. Flossing.  Throughout the duration of high school, every conversation with my hygenist would follow this format:

her: “hmm..  how often do you floss?”

me: “bout once every couple days.”  [lies. lies.  all lies. straight from the pit of hell!]

her: “you really need to do it at least once a day.  not flossing can lead to Gingevitis and gum disease.  do you know how to properly floss?”

[then she does the whole demonstration with the index finger blah blah]

me: “yea.  yea I know.  I just forget sometimes.”

her: “hmm.. I’m a little concerned.  do your gums normally bleed when you floss?”

me: “no, no actually they don’t.  only those times when I tug on them with the power of Hercules and probe them with sharp metal objects.”

Root Canals. Finally, when I was “of age” and “of my own insurance” I could choose my own dentist.  So i set out with my suitcase in hand and all the optimism in the world.  I didn’t stop searching until I found a guy who specialized in gentle, no drill dentistry.   plus, he was chinese.  I don’t know what it is about chinese people, but I automatically assume they are smart.  This guy won’t be shoving tubes down my throat and destroying my gums for no good reason, he’s above that.  He also informed me that ALL my fillings were leaking and  and that the reason I couldn’t chew on the left side of my mouth for the past two years was because my root was dead and I needed a root canal.  Smart dentist? maybe.  More costly than adopting my own chinese baby and putting him through dental school?  definately.

After shuffling around to the better half of all the dentists in the white pages, my dad recommended his childhood dentist,  Castrogiovanni.   On my first visit, I was pleased to discover that Mr. C’s hygenist was as gentle as a feather blowing in the summer breeze.  I smiled on the inside..  Could it be?  Then the dentist comes in and as he’s examining my mouth I realize he’s not wearing a mask, his face is really close to my mouth, and he is really old.   afterall, he was my dad’s dentist.  Thats ok, that means he has lots of experience.  Experience? maybe.  Halitosis? definately.

The search continues…

 

 

 

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The Bachelorette, hot flashes, and a hail storm.

So for any of you complete losers out there, tonight was a big night in the way of reality TV.  In a three-hour drama fest, The Bachelorette choses Jesse over Jason to be her fiance in one of the most shocking rose ceremonies to date.  Although every rose ceremony is the most shocking to date, this one really was.  

Even if you have no clue what i’m talking about, you can appreciate the story thats about to come. 

Its 8:45.  the Bachelorette had just told the first guy ( as he was getting down on one knee) “too bad so sad,” and then it was all a startling blur and somehow i was watching a burger king commercial -which was equally as intriguing to me.  i noticed 5 missed calls from my mom.  This was strange since we’d already talked today.  I got seriously worried thinking i must have a close relative lying in a ditch, dark alley, or jail cell somewhere.  

I call her and the following conversation takes place (my mom’s statements are in CAPS to emphasize the freaking out):

me: “I saw you called me 5 times, whats wrong?”

mom: “I’M ABOUT TO HAVE A SERIOUS CORONARY, YOU HAVE NO IDEA”

me: “what happened?”

mom: “IS YOUR POWER OUT?  MY POWER IS OUT.  THE LAST THING I SAW WAS WHEN SHE BROUGHT THE GUYS HOME TO MEET HER PARENTS.  I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT IS HAPPENING.  ARE YOU TAPING IT?”

me: “i’m watching it.  why would i be taping it?”

mom: “YOU AREN’T TAPING IT?  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?  I’VE BEEN WATCHING THIS SHOW FOR 6 WEEKS AND ON THE FINALE MY POWER GOES OUT.  AND WE HAVE A HAIL STORM.  AND NOW I’M HAVING HOT FLASHES CUZ THE AIR IS OFF.”

me: “well, you didn’t miss that much.  she rejected jason.”

mom: “SHE WHAT?!?!”

me: “yea.  i was pretty surprised.  so now she’s gotta talk to the other guy.”

mom: “ARE YOU SERIOUS?  I THOUGHT FOR SURE SHE WAS PICKING JASON?  OH MY GOOOOOOSH. WELL, WHAT CAN I DO?  CAN YOU TURN IT UP SO I CAN HEAR IT?”

me: “um, i guess i could.  i don’t know if you can hear it through a cell phone.  maybe i’ll put it on speaker.”

[standing the phone up on my desk and facing it toward the tv…. meanwhile, my boyfriend sitting in the corner gets confirmation that i have the most ridiculous family to ever exist.]

me: “can you hear it ok?”

mom: “YEA.  YEA. I CAN. OK.  BE QUIET NOW.”

[she picks jesse, he purposes, the show ends…]

me: “ok, well, at least you heard that part”

mom: “OH MAN.  I AM SO MAD YOU CAN’T IMAGINE.  MY HEAD IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE. ITS GOING TO LITERALLY EXPLODE.”

me: ” WAIT A MINUTE…it looks like it’s on for another hour!  its the After the Rose Ceremony.   she’s gonna confront the guy she dumped, reunite with her fiance, and make a special announcement!”

mom: “@%$#@^@!!”

me: “OK OK. SERIOUSLY.   i don’t have time for this.  i’ll tape it. bye.”

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A Hot Ghetto Mess.

I moved in my condo about a year ago.   Finally, last month i  got all the rooms painted.  About a week after that, I decided the living room wasn’t exciting enough.  I mean, it was this goldish yellow.  it was nice.  and soothing.  but come on.  the surrounding walls are pale yellow, the main wall is goldish yellow, and the couch is like some other form of yellow. 

i have no idea how this happened.

green. 

green is what i needed.  so i went to Home Depot, which in all actuality isn’t really the greatest paint store in the world as they train any Tom, Dick, and almost Hairy eighteen yr old boy to be a “paint specialist” after viewing  a 10 minute video.  i think at one point i was even a paint specialist.   but as a former employee i still can’t bring myself to save big money at Menards.

 after many days of searching for the perfect green, i purchase a can and go home with my hopes set high.  i stared at the paint for a good two weeks, then finally got up the motivation to actually paint the paint. 

Of course, it is my living room that i’m painting, so this requires me to move and rearrange everything in my entire house in order to make this one wall more exciting.  I crack open the can only to be greeted with an all too harsh reality.  the paint looks nothing like the color on the swatch but everything like the color already on my wall- with a tiny smidge of green.  so its diarrhea yellow. 

The can sits in my car for another week.  then i go back to HD and tell the guy the situation..  of course he gives me the spiel about how colors look different in different lighting, blah blah blah.  really?  well what if i dipped you in a giant vat of shut up because i don’t care?  what color would you be then? 

i have him re-mix it.  he adds more black to make it less yellow.  then just it looked grey.  to which i replied, “i’m not an artist or anything, but what about adding more green?”  he tells me it will be fine, but i should use a blue primer underneath to counteract the yellow surface.  so he just mixes a random concoction of blues.  fair enough.

So i get home with my very green paint and my very blue primer.   this time i find a nice cozy home for it on my kitchen table right next to the rotten bananas.  Another week goes by and its July 3rd- my day off.   I wake up, get a far off look in my eye and think, Today is the day.    Today is the day my house will be forever changed.  I get out all my supplies, call in some help from mom, get on my painting clothes, and slap on the primer.   its a crazy  blue… and as i’m putting it on i’m thinking, now this is exciting.  Then, with the first swipe of my brush onto the freshly primed wall, all that comes to mind is peas.  mashed baby food peas. or mashed baby food peas throw up.  this isn’t going to work. 

I decided that i’ll just go with blue since apparently green paint is far too hefty of a request.  Finally, I decide on a nice aqua-ish / quasi-exciting color.  While i’m waiting for the guy to mix it, i tear off a $5 rebate coupon, which normally i’d never take the time to mess with – but after realizing that i’m burning through paint cans like hilary burns through pantsuits – i could start working on a future child’s college fund or something. 

i get home.  After doing a test spot on my wall, drying it, and analyzing it from afar… i notice that it is actually electric blue. it doesn’t even have a distant cousin named aqua.

The primer actually looked good next to that ridiculousness, so i put on a second coat.  and now my walls are blue primer blue.  and i kinda like it. 

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Anatomy of a Creeptown Part 2: Conversion Vans

 

 

 

In Anatomy of a Creeptown, Part 1, I brokedown the definition of a creeptown, and rolled out the number one indication that you might be involved with one – the molestache. [pronounced molest-ache]

 

 

 

 

(note: there is a very distinct difference between the mustache and the molestache, please refer to my previous post so that you are completely clear on this matter)

 

Once again, life as a banker exposes me to hundreds of America’s finest each and every day.  This not only provides me with much concern about the general intelligence levels of our society, but also allows me to have a heightened sense of creeptown detection.  I will now dispense the second installment of my knowledge.

 

Although there are hundreds of indicators that you might be dealing with a creeptown such as:

*long fingernails

*lazy eyes

*names like Chester

*profuse sweating

 

the main issue I’d like to address is conversion vans.  If anyone rolls up in a conversion van, remember the words i am saying to you: you betta run.  and run like you’re life depends on it.  cus maybe, just maybe, it does.

 

Conversion vans can allude to a plethera of creeptown activities including:

 

1. kidnapping

2. molesting

3. robbing

4. carnies

5. lonely retired men who live inside

 

 

 

Thought to ponder:  if the back of a vehicle is large enough to contain a meth lab, its certainly large enough to contain you.

 

 

 “come on in, i’ve got some candy in the back”

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