Wait...what?

So I caught an episode of True Life on MTV today focusing on people with a second life on the internet. The show followed three people, but there was one girl in particular that just boggled my mind.

Meet Judy.

She's an 18 year old senior in high school. She moved out of her house and decided to finish her schooling at home. She has a host of social anxiety disorders and phobias. She rarely leaves her apartment. Her internet life consists of blogging (which, what the hell could you possibly have to blog about if you don't leave your home?) and removing her clothes for a paying audience of internet pervs.


I'm confused. You are horrified by a trip to the grocery store because you're convinced that everyone is staring at you, but you'll get tits and ass naked on the web for literally millions of people? Don't get me wrong, i could care less who gets nekked on their web cam, i am merely fascinated that someone with severe social anxiety is comfortable rocking the internet porn scene.


Be careful who you meet on the internet. She could be an 18 year old socially handicapped highschooler dabbling in soft core porn.

A Walk Down Memory Lane.

I was perusing the web last week and I happened upon an old blog of mine circa 2002. Don't get your hopes up, I am under no circumstances revealing the internet location of said blog. I was in high school, my writing skills were complete tripe, and the content was appalling. It lead me to ask myself this question:

Why do we bitch so much more during the times when we have so little to bitch about? Are we *that* bored?

Believe you me, I have PLENTY that I could be bitching about at the present moment but I am restraining myself on behalf of all three of my readers (one of them being myself). Furthermore, I know that bitching on a blog isn't going to accomplish anything other than losing my other two readers.

Gone Fishing?

Jesus H. So i am looking for a subletter for my house in Dinkytown this summer. Naturally, i have posted ads on Facebook and Craig's List. I was sketched out posting on Craig's List in the first place and then i got this email.

Hello,
I'm Colly Dave of smith Ventures from United Kingdom.I came across your profile for your place to be rented out.I am interested in renting your place for my neice who will be coming to the US.Please answer my following questions below:
1) I will like to know if your appartment is still available
2) I will like to know the rent fee per month and if you require deposit.
3) I want to know if you accept cashier check for payment so I can make an advance payment before her arrival that will stand as commitment
4) Lastly, I will like to know more about you.
I will be very glad to have all this questions answered.
NOTE;REPLY TO collysmith2006@gmail.com

Hope to hear from you soon
Best Regards
Colly

Horrifying grammar mistakes aside, it's not such a far fetched story. I emailed back asking a few questions about the potential subletter and how we would handle the situation considering the fact that we wouldn't get a chance to meet before she moved in. This is the email i got back:

Hello Amanda ,
Thanks for your response.Its okay by me and am paying 3 months rent upfront.My neice name is sarah kelly.She is 22 years old student of Universty of East London.she is responsible,neat,non-smoker and easy going.I will send you my US cashier cheque of $3650 which i bought the last time i visited U.S.I am sending you that much money because my dad is very sick at the moment and i need to go out of town to take care of him and i need to go with all the money i have with me because i dont know how much money am going to spend for his hospital bill and take care of neccessary things.The cashier cheque is for US which is cashable at your bank and its not cashable here in UK.I made promise to my neice that if she performs very well in her Final year exams in the University that am going to send her to the US for her vacation.she has performed very well and i dont want to dissapoint her.So once you receive cashier cheque,take it to the bank and cash it,remove the 3 months rent payment and Send the balance down to my neice through western union money transfer so she can buy her ticket and buy necessary things she will need to bring along because i will be away from town to take care of my dad because he is sick at the moment.Send me your name, address and phone number so i can write the cheque payable to your name.

Hope to hear from you as soon as possible so i can send the cheque to you before i leave town to my dad's place

Regards

Colly

Can you say MONEY LAUNDERING?! Good lord! Thank god i have half a brain and didn't fall for this crap. Needless to say i wrote back explaining that my roomates and i were not comfortable with this transaction and her niece was going to have to find a different living situation. Sketchy as hell, but a little bit exciting!

Word to the wise; If you want to successfully launder some money, avoid these two things:

1) A sob story about your sick dad

2) The words: CASHIER'S CHECK.

My years as a Rochester, NY drug lord and mafia boss have trained me for these types of things.

My Cat is the Cutest.

this is Calypso. She likes it when i sing her Ella Fitzgerald songs and dangle a catnip mouse in front of her sweet little nose. She is the greatest cat ever. You are green with envy.

Zoo Porn.

Be very careful bringing your young children to the zoo. I captured this video today on my cell phone at the Como Park Zoo in St. Paul, Minnesota. It is epic. Viewer Discretion is Advised.

Horror On The Jersey Turnpike.

Diarrhea. Even the word sounds disgusting. Pair it up with a six hour car ride from New Jersey to Upstate New York. Complete Entrapment. And when it hits you there is no stopping it. You know the feeling. It starts with your stomach rumbling, speaking to you, desperately trying to warn you that something utterly horrifying is on its way to your colon. You pass it off as gas, neglecting the signs as you fart toward your impending doom. I entered the car in my comfiest jeans and all of my snacks lined up, iPod set to the perfect tunes, ready for an easy ride back upstate. Forty five minutes pass. I start to feel an urge, but think i'll be able to control it. Thirty more seconds pass and i feel my face begin to heat up. Ten more and i am sweating. Five more and i am screaming at my mother to pull over. I grab a handful of tissues from my purse and make a mad dash for a tree-laden embankment a few yards ahead. Unbuttoning my jeans as i run i, devise my defecation plan. When i finally reach a spot where i will be well hidden i drop down into crab stance and kick off my jeans. that's when i let it go. i let it all go. It kept coming for what felt like forever before i finally finished. Cleaning my hands with a bottle of travel mouth wash i got back into the car, one giant crap released, and in its place, an incredible story.

Canada Has Hicks, Too!

I'm pretty sure I have witnessed this scene several times on my drives out to South Dakota...

Toronto police announced in February that they had arrested the man who had stolen a backhoe with the intention of driving it to a car wash in order to break down a wall and get at the facility's coin machine. The call to police came from a snow plow that was hot on the backhoe's heels, the driver having diverted from his route to chase the thief. [Toronto Star, 2-13-08]

amazing.

Flying is Hell.

Remember when you were little and traveling was such an adventure? Remember the butterflies you'd get taking off in that jet plane to some far off destination like Disney World or a sunny california beach? When does traveling transform from glamour to insufferable pain? I'll tell you when. It's when the dyslexic guy at the travel agency books your flight, accidentally arranging for your connection to leave the next day, stranding you at the JFK airport. It's when you are so desperate to leave the airport that Sparta, New Jersey is a saught after destination (No offense to Dad and Kenneth, I hear Sparta is lovely this time of year).
There is no easier way to put a person in a rage than by telling them that their flight plans have gone sour. The last thing I want to do after having been awake since 4:30 in the morning is hear from Janet, the spindly woman with a bad dye job and more listick on her teeth than her lips tell me that i'm "just not coming up in the computer. Are you SURE your flight leaves today?" HELL YES I'M SURE! DON'T YOU DARE MAKE ME MISS THE SEASON PREMIER OF THE HILLS! I gave myself a minute to regroup before calling my Dad and arranging to take the 2 and a half hours worth of trains fron JFK to his Jersey abode. (Hills Spoiler Alert! DO NOT READ ON if you have yet to see the premier!) I made it in time to see Lauren Conrad and her Coworker Whitney go to Paris, learn that Brody got a new girlfriend while Lauren was away, Heidi kicked Spencer out of the apartment and went to stay with her parents in Colorado, and Whitney is choosing a new career path in fashion design and leaving Teen Vogue magazine. So what did I learn today? For the love of God, book your own flight.

So, I Farted at Work.

It was a bad week all around. I was home to some heinous germ that caused a cough, headaches, and uncontrollable gas. You know the type. You also know that holding in said gas causes the worst stomach cramps and aches imaginable, therefore I had to find a stealth way to release the gas while i was at work. Within a day I had trained the muscles in my ass to release the farts in complete silence, only allowing my ass to relax and audibly produce flatulance when I was sitting at the front desk completely alone.
Day two was not so smoothe. When I went to sort the daily mail that morning, disaster struck. I farted. I farted LOUD. And it wasn't just any ld fart, it was a motor fart. The worst possible species of fart next to WET motor fart that one could release in a public place or around co-workers. I stood completely still, my body rigid from the shock of it all, and I realized that someone was behind me. Far too horrified to turn, I still to this day do not know for sure who heard this incredible release of gas, but I do have my speculations. There was an asian guy with dreadlocks in accounting who gave me guilty embarassed looks every time he walked past the front desk. I had taken my place as the gross receptionist who had a nasty cold and farted freely in the office, seemingly without shame.
I had to continue to go about my duties trying to ignore it, assuming that we were all adult enough to just let it go...but still... I fucking farted in the office. Needless to say, I resigned that position and left that job shortly thereafter. I didn't even return to pick up my iPod speakers.

Maybe I Should've Gone With The Fruit Flavor.

It wasn’t my first kiss, it was his. We’d been “dating” by the high school definition for a week or two and only a few innocent pecks had been exchanged. We’d done some seriously hardcore hand-holding, and he’d done an extremely generous amount of book-carrying, so it was time to reward him with a little tongue-on-tongue action. Seeing as how this was to be his very first frenching experience, I wanted to plan it out just right. Friday night was date night so I went gum shopping that Thursday. I perused Cub Grocery’s extensive gum selection for at least 45 minutes trying to choose between fruity or minty, all the while cursing the gods that I couldn’t sample the flavors for a more educated decision. I finally decided on a classic spearmint gum and rushed home to begin the agonizing process of choosing a date outfit. This was November in Minnesota, which does not leave much room for cute and sexy, seeing as how every inch of flesh needs to be covered to ward off frostbite, wind burn, and potential hypothermia. Dating in extreme conditions such as these requires great skill. I settled on some sweater or another and called it a night; I needed my beauty sleep.
The date itself was as uneventful as they come. We chose a horrible romantic comedy, shared popcorn and a soda, and held hands. Little did my adorable date know that this would be the night our tongues would be introduced and intertwined. Oh, the excitement! The drive home seemed painfully long. I kept up conversation nervously, chewing my minty gum, praying to the sweet Lord that he didn’t notice how antsy I was. Of course, being of the male species, he was completely oblivious to what was running through my head.
Finally we reached my driveway. He pulled in and parked the car. I glanced at him for a moment, trying to give him that “come-hither” stare, but instead looked like a crazed maniac.
“Um…are you okay?” He asked politely.
“Hold this,” I responded in my most dramatic and sultry tone of voice as I pulled the wad of gum out of my mouth and dropped it in the palm of his hand. Our eyes locked and I leaned in for what was sure to be an earth-shattering first kiss. But as I leaned in I realized that we were both picking up speed, careening toward each other at an unstoppable pace and all of a sudden our teeth smacked together with an audible crack. We jerked our heads back in shock and for a few moments shared a stunned silence. That’s when I felt it coming. The awkward, uncontrollable laughter. I tried to stop it but it came spewing out like vomit. Before I could control myself I was laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face. My date sat there patiently, waiting to see if we were going to give it another go, but I was clearly in no state to proceed. I absolutely could not get a hold of myself. I had to flee.
“I’m sorry,” I chuckled, “but we’re just going to have to try this another time!”
I exited the vehicle like a bat out of hell and left him in the driveway…still holding my gum.

I Became a Woman in a Chico's.

There are three turning points in a woman’s life that are strictly for us chicks. getting our periods, getting married, and getting preggers. Now, let’s be honest, our wedding day has nothing to do with our man. We get to dress up like a sparkly marshmallow and talk about our feelings all day to anyone who will listen, and then pig out on cake and get drunk without being judged by our peers. When it comes to popping out an eight-pound infant, the last thing on our minds is the miracle of conception. As a matter of fact, we’re more than likely screaming at our sweaty, nervous, sissy husbands, blaming them for our pain and the loss of our perfect bodies. But the one thing we women own above all else is menstruation. That one is ours. Men have no place in the cycle of menstruation. Yes, it is a painful event that causes us to go bat-shit crazy, bloat to twice our natural size, eat a diabetic-coma-sized amount of chocolate and watch lifetime movies with reckless abandon for one agonizing week a month, but it’s our agonizing week.
A girl’s first visit from “Aunt Flo” can be confusing, scary, exciting, and a bit embarrassing. It’s one of those “please don’t tell Dad” moments that you think you’re sharing with your mother in confidence; that is until Bunko night when the entire neighborhood learns that you’ve become a woman.
Mine didn’t happen quite like that.
Don’t get me wrong, it certainly wasn’t the classic “why the HELL did I wear khakis that day” menstrual nightmare that everyone expects. Quite frankly, I knew it was coming. I was thirteen and my gal-pals were all menstruating like wild dogs all around me, so I got a far too graphic description of what to look forward to. Sure enough, my pre-menstrual week of bloating and cramps had arrived…and so had my aunt Pam, cousin Jessica, and grandma Ilene. I felt like a fucking freak show.
Now, my grandmother is not the classic picture of a dainty, knitting, slipper-wearing, bunt cake-baking, doting and gift-giving grandma. Oh no. Mine is more like a vodka-drinking, ambien-using, silk-robe-no-panty-wearing grandma. She loves to tell you the same story eighteen times and upon my graduation from high school she grabbed my breasts and wisely advised: “Don’ evuh let those go down. Boobs’ll getchyuh anywhe-uh.”
In retrospect, I’m sure my mother was aware of my delicate feminine state. This must have been why she gathered up the woman-folk and took us out shopping. Everything was normal until we hit Chico’s. While my grandmother tried on yet another pair of wool pants sans underwear, complaining about how “they give her the itch,” I slink off to the ladies room to discover that the time had finally come. Thickest damn pad in tow, I feel oh so mature and strut out of the bathroom wearing my cramps and diaper-esque pad like a badge of honor.
When we get home that evening I pull my mom aside to share the news with her. Like any thirteen-year-old girl, I begged her not to tell my dad or the rest of the visiting family, and she assures me she won’t. I am lulled to sleep that night by the comfort of a well-kept secret. I still remember the crinkle of that god-forsaken pad every time I rolled over.
I awoke the next morning confident that everyone would notice how mature and womanly I was. When I landed on the bottom stair leading to the kitchen, the room fell silent. They…Effing…Knew. Glaring daggers at my mother I approached the table. Maybe no one will mention it. I am reaching for a cup of juice when, with a smirk and a quick scratch of her bra-less sagging boob, my grandmother croaks in her Boston dialect: “Amander. How’s ya period?” The table watched me intently, expecting me to explode in a menstrual rage.
“It’s great, Grandma,” I said.