True Tales of the Parental Roomies - Part 1

Scene - post-dinner conversation as mom sifts thru the guide listings on the TV for her favorite primetime shows (Tuesdays during the summer is always a big night for their demographic, or more like them specifically) and notices that Hell's Kitchen will not be on during its regularly scheduled slot next to Master Chef because tonight's M.C. is a special 2 HOUR episode. The reaction goes as follows...

 

Mom (venting): I hate how Master Chef stretches it out so much. I time it now.

Dad (more worked up): Oh and America's Got Talent doesn't stretch it out?! If that guy waits any longer to make the winner announcements... I COULD DIE.

 

[Sidenote: that result would probably bum him out even more so considering his current manifestation is to croak while working at his desk in the office. So no, he doesn't plan to retire.]

Deep Citi Lights

Dear Citi,

I miss you already, only not at all. Twelve years we lasted together? I still can't believe it. Just short of a baker's dozen, bummer. We had a good run though, this I can't deny.

I can remember meeting you when I was just a late teen gettin' jazzed for my roaring twenties. You were there posted up on BruinWalk and I was yet another collegial passerby that took the bait. When I saw that sweet beach chair on display, you caught me staring, handed me a pen and clipboard, and told me to just take it. It was serendipity, only not on the silver screen for once. But then you took me under your wing and showed me how much you cared.

You took me out all the time, paid for all my Hooters meals, bought me my first cruiser bike, and then after Howling at the Moon you'd treat us to late night 7-Eleven. And I'll never forget the time we started another globetrot around earth with a cup of morning joe from Urth Cafe - purefection. We definitely had our good times indeed.

But just like any set of scales, the ups come with the downs. Sometimes you rejected me when I asked for more, but I didn't get mad at you. And other times I was late to dates, and you'd just waive me off like it was no big deal. I will say we did our best to work through the good and the bad together, we were a good team - bound by those gold handcuffs you gifted me early on (thanks again btw, the scars still haven't gone away). But with all that said and done, it's time to move on. I think we'd both agree that we've each grown immensely since, and for the best.

I'm sorry I left last year without saying goodbye, but it hurt too much to even talk about. I was in a bad place. And I appreciate all the diligent followup just to check in on me and make sure I was ok, although I will say five calls a day may have been a wee bit overboard (weekends too? really?). At least you stopped calling my parent's line. I do though sincerely wanna say thank you for your final offer. It was a gift really, and the timing was impeccable. I'm glad we got to end it on good terms.

Citi, you taught me things I never would've known were it not for you, and for that I'll always be indebted to you. I hate you. Goodbye, for good.

-Acct#...2424; SSN...8939

Recurring themes

I love that a tweet of mine which included the words 'college' and 'university' illicited a spambot tweet response with a link where I can find nearby places to get a fake I.D. Spam is taking on a whole new chapter now. That's great. Fortunately I'm no longer short of a good fake ID when in need of one, but there was a time when I did need said identification. I did have a fake ID for my college years, but it was a Maryland driver's license and I lived in California, and the guy was 6 years older than me and 50 pounds heavier and 4 inches taller and had a goatee (which isn't exactly my steez). It worked a few times. Didn't work a couple. But ultimately I didn't chance it too often for fear of rejection. Why am I not surprised that that's where this post just ended.

Sincerely, wa waa waaaaaaa

Savvy vet

The deets:
-a concert and post-party, everything's comp'd
-a 1 hour and 15 minute drive to and from
-2 guys: A Bolivian and a Greek. This means 1 gets to keep partying, and the other has to slow down so he's good to drive
-a coin-flip game at the beginning of the night to determine the above

The Bolivian flips the coin. He calls tails. The quarter lands. Tails up. Who wins? The Bolivian, right? Well apparently not in this game. The Greek proceeds to convince him that because Tails came up, he lost and therefore the Greek gets to keep partying into the night. Huh? There's zero sense in this argument. However that's exactly how the night played out. And the Bolivian just went along with it, kind as can be.

The kicker: the Bolivian was the one who hooked up the tix and post-party in the first place! Those wily Greeks.

I know you feel me (if you're a dude). Or maybe you don't

You walk into an empty one-hitter unisex bathroom and you discover that the seat was left down and doused in yellow pee droplets - as in a torrential downpour but with piss instead of acid rain. There may or may not also be a standalone urinal in there. And if there's not and all you went in there for was to pee (or pish as mom would say), then ordinarily you'd undoubtedly raise the seat with your shoe (or a paper towel or loads of T.P. if you have sandals on like I do 97% of the time) and do your thing. But then this thought strikes you: "What if I waltz outta this nasty boxed room and a lady is standing outside waiting to go next? Then she's gonna think I just did that damage on the seat!" 


I suppose I could just leave the seat up, but that kinda goes against my programming considering I lived with a chick post-college for several years and we shared 1 bathroom. Now you could clean up some other douche-bayg's pissy mess but that's eff'ing gross, or you could just leave said urine on said seat and simply risk walking out and getting a dirty look later on because of some previous assholamillo's dickiness. 


Stuck in a quandary. I'm just gonna stay in here til the bar closes.

Its a new day (just like Sting or Celine would say)

Today I joined the ranks of a new army, an army of adult soldiers who use baby wipes to finish the job. My first purchase was a medium size pack, 42 to be exact. I chose the hard shell plastic case instead of the resealable ziplocky bag because it just seemed a lot cleanlier that way. And isn't that the whole point of this market and purpose. Anyway so far so good. My form can still use some refining, but I just got a hot tip from a fellow wiper friend and I'm greatly looking forward to my next movement. I know people who say once you go flushable-wipe you never go back. I kinda get it now, already. Cheers to new beginnings...

Musings from a new friend. And she's right.

The deets:
-there was a party
-there was a deep-fryer
-there were drinks
-there was a volcano

I made a new friend that night that already knew other new friends of mine, and I met her sister too. When we met however, the evening was already long in the tooth and the volcano had erupted a few times. Here's the followup emails the next week:

ME: Ps I honestly have little recollection of our nightcap dealings. Things started turning brown right around that time. Hope I didn't offer up anything too inane nor insane. And if I did, what a helluva way to kick it off.

HER: Does this mean anything to you, 'fudgesicles are like frozen poop.' If you do remember, then you know my sister very well; and if it doesn't, maybe cut down on the boos because a line like that should never be blacked out.