Category: humor

Practical Jokesters

MissM3 Comments

I have developed a theory over the past month and a half of my debut in the adultish-professional world.

The Illusionistic Theory of Selective Adulthoodism: there is no such thing as a transition from child to grown-up. Rather, with age and experience, one simply becomes more and more capable of discerning when situations demand a stiff, boring bloke. The rest of the time, they are free to continue being the REAL them.

I will now describe my visual observations in a highly scientific and intelligent manner.

At work the other day, after assisting a customer like the diligent little worker bee that I am, I turned around to find that my cell phone had been completely saran-wrapped and placed on the counter behind me, and my adultish-aged coworker leaning against the counter with an ear-to-ear grin on his face. Naturally, after freeing my 4S from its plastic captivity, I threw the remains, along with a note that formally declared war, at his noggin.

That same day, another coworker decided to mess with MY computer. Apparently, with the proper strokes of a keyboard, you are able to flip the display on the screen completely upside-down. And apparently, putting tape on the bottom of one’s mouse interferes with its functionality.

This is what I get for being the sole female in a workplace full of non-females.

Naturally, I must seek revenge from these quipsters. This is war. I am the alpha.

I now extend to you, dear reader, an invitation to provide me with pranks of equal value to inflict upon the enemies.

Please leave your suggestions in the comments box below. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.

Over and out.

M.

Car-Gazing

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I am a girl of many hobbies. My list of hobbies is topped off by items such as, but not limited to, sweatpants-wearing, carbohydrate-consuming, and, of course, people-watching.

My homosapien-observing abilities seem to amplify when I am behind the wheel of my adorably typical, silver Toyota Camry. If I am going to be frank (and I’m going to), I probably shouldn’t ever be occupying the driver’s seat in the first place. Let’s just say my driving record isn’t exactly spotless and leave it at that. Okay?

Anyway, I don’t know what it is about driving, but it becomes exceedingly easy to become distracted while commuting alone in your vehicle. Naturally, I always have my Panic! At The Disco CD’s blaring through my speakers to help me stay alert while on the road. My little car has a surprisingly strong base if you crank the volume loud enough.

Yes, I’m that girl. The one with all of her windows down, one foot on the dash, left arm hanging out the window in a thug-like manner, while the entire car rattles in sync with the beat of This Is Gospel. And, of course, belting not only the lyrics, but the guitar, drums, bass, and back-up vocals simultaneously. What can I say? I’m a one-man show.

While veering in and out of traffic on the highway on the way to viva la university or wherever else I’m going (Probably the library, or some place that sells edible substances), my eyes tend to wander off the road and into the windows of other peoples’ cars. Is that creepy?

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they drive their cars. For example, by observing me through the windshield, you can correctly infer that I am a delightfully happy, glamorous, musically-inclined beauty.

Have you ever been at a stoplight and looked over to the car next to you and caught someone in the midst of a car-cry? It’s best to sympathetically look away and pretend you never saw them and make sure that as soon as that freakin’ light turns green, you get yourself out of that situation.

The best kind of people to catch eye-contact with on the road are the wavers. The ones who are happy campers just like yourself, probably lip-syncing some totally rad track (woah, sorry bout the 90’s lingo), and give you the “nod of fellowship” or the “wave of brotherhood.” (Or sisterhood, I am in no mood to get technical.) We should all collectively drive like this.

Then there’s the texters. I feel like a substitute teacher catching an ignorant teenager grinning at his crotch while he thumbs some stupid message to his homeboys in another class when I see someone texting and driving. Except for the fact that I can’t send the culprit to the principal’s office for immediate disciplinary action like the sub can.

Don’t text and drive, people. Just don’t do it.

Where was I?

Other types of drivers… Oh! The eaters. They’re my favorite. I once witnessed a woman down 3/4ths of an entire cheeseburger in one bite while stopped at an intersection. She must be a human-chipmunk hybrid of sorts. And a hungry one at that. No judgement, just pure admiration.

Stay weird while driving, my friends.

M.

Mr. No-Good-For-Me

MissM7 Comments

Scenario: Boy finds girl on Facebook. Boy initiates small talk with girl via online messaging. Boy showers girl in compliments regarding her beauty and flawless sense of humor. Boy offers girl number and suggests that girl texts him. She does. Boy and girl continue flirtatious conversations over text message for a day or two before boy decides to ask girl on date.

Girl accepts boy’s offer. Boy picks girl up, does all the right things, makes all the right moves, and sweeps her off her feet. On this first date, boy kisses girl. A lot.

Boy and girl continue to “get to know one another” through virtually every medium, besides face-to-face interaction. Boy “likes” all of girl’s photos on social networking sites, continually complimenting her on her “foxiness” and playing the part of a gentleman with an infatuation for a lady. Leading her to believe that he has a liking for her. Girl decides that she likes boy, too, and begins to feel genuine fondness toward him. Gradually, the texts from boy decrease and the depth of their conversations shallow to virtually nothing. Weeks pass by before boy decides he’d like to see girl again. She agrees, and they meet up for ice cream. Boy kisses girl again. A lot.

But the interest that boy had in girl is no longer there. It takes some time, but girl finally realizes that again, she has been used and objectified. She realizes that the only motivation boy has in getting to know girl is so that boy can kiss her. Girl is hurt.

Okay, that’s not a scenario. It’s a real-life situation.”Girl” is me. And let me tell you, I am sick and tired of this scenario. I don’t know if this is a personal issue, but all of my latest suitors tend to think that it’s okay to kiss me on the first date. That it’s okay to string me along just long enough for me to think that there’s something there, and then back up until they feel like an M.O. session.

Admittedly, I am a phenomenal kisser. It really is no wonder why boys gravitate to my lips. (Joking, everybody.) But what boy is doing to girl is WRONG and unjustifiable.

Let’s start with the root of the problem: the kiss. And the lack of meaning behind it. I don’t know about you, dear reader, and I may be old-fashioned, but to me, a kiss signifies mutual feelings of affection toward each other. Notice I used the word “affection,” not “attraction.”

Unfortunately, far too often, the kiss is no longer a signifier for anything more than lust. But it still seems to hold its power to reinforce feelings of affection for the kissee to the kisser.

That was a lot of mumbo-jumbo. What i’m trying to get at here, is don’t kiss me until you are confident that you like me for who I am as a person rather than a pretty little thing to lay your eyes on, and are ready to show me that those feelings are there.

So here I am, confused, hurt, and frustrated, at myself, mostly. I am never one to initiate a kiss. But i’m not exactly one to stop one, either. But if he and I are not on the same page as to what  the kiss even means, then I am left to hope that our feelings are the same, and discover later that it was nothing more than a shallow action.

I guess that’s just one method of figuring out if a guy is going to be good for me or not. And now I know why my mom always insisted that I wait until the third date to kiss a boy. You were right, mom. I am now committing the three-date rule to a policy.

Good news is, I now know that boy is no good for me, and will no longer be giving him the authority to be not good for me. Lesson learned.

In summary, people suck. Watch out for the selfish and shallow. Trust only those who have proven worthy. It’s an every-man-for-himself type of world. And keep your walls high.

I apologize for my excessively cynical attitude. But I feel much better now.(:

Over and out.

M.

 

The Harm In Formality

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First dates are so formal. If you think about it, you spend three or four hours engaging in some sort of structured activity with another person, nervously and anxiously trying to impress the dude and try to get to know him at the same time.

My question is, how are you supposed to get to know someone when they are putting on a front just like you are in order to impress you? I know i’m guilty of spending an extra half hour making sure my hair has more bounce and shine than usual and that my eye makeup is just slightly darker in attempt to make my eyes that much more alluring, and sucking on breath mints until he arrives.

Then he comes to the door, wearing a just-more-than-casual button-up shirt that he may or may not have ironed beforehand, and wouldn’t be caught dead in on a typical day. You exchange a stiff “hello” and follow him to his car, where, if he is a “gentleman”, he will open the passenger door and wait for you to self-consciously climb inside before jogging around the automobile to climb in through the driver’s side.

I don’t care how much of a “gentleman” your date is, there is no way that he regularly opens the car door for his passengers. It’s just not natural.

As the time passes, slowly at first, but progressively faster, you anxiously and cautiously engage in a conversation in which all you can think about is the kind of person you’re coming across as and anticipating possible conversation-starters just in case, heaven forbid, the current topic of conversation dies out and you both end up sitting across the table in an awkward stupor of speechlessness, and how you only get one first impression and oh gosh now it’s raining and he’s going to see your hair transform into an untamed, frizzy mess and nobody is into an untamed frizzy mess.

Again, I thought the point of dating was to get to know someone and see if they make the cut for a second date, and eventually, a relationship. But it’s really hard to do that when you’re putting on a faker-than-fake persona that you THINK he will like. Let’s be honest, people. You can only hide your crazy for so long.

So there you are, sitting across the table with someone that you can now call an acquaintance, and the conversation is beginning to flow a little more freely. The tension is gradually being lifted and you feel yourself relax. That is, until it’s time to order, but luckily you’ve premeditated appropriate food options in order to avoid getting food on your attire, face, or worse, in between your teeth. And also, it can’t be a hamburger or else he’ll think you’re a total fatty.

Then there’s the matter of how much you should eat. You can’t possibly finish the entire dish in front of a GUY, even though you skipped out on lunch today and can feel your tummy eating itself it’s that hungry. And you better not eat more than he does. And you better not eat too fast, but you can’t take too long and make him wait for you, either.

What’s the big deal? If a guy is gonna treat me to a 12-dollar dinner at my favorite restaurant, you better believe I’m gonna enjoy it. ALL of it.

The date comes to a close, and let’s say hypothetically he does like this fake-o person you improvised, based on your assumptions of what he likes, and you get a second date with this suitor. How long are you going to play the part of the well-mannered, exceedingly polite, normal girl that you were on your first date? And by the way, he’s doing the same thing. Where does the formality stop, and a couple decides to be themselves instead?

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good, well-planned, structured date. But I HATE the pressure that comes with it. All it is is two people putting on a show for one another while out for a night of public entertainment. Maybe I’m the only one with this problem. I just find it immensely difficult to be myself on a date when there is a mutual expectation to behave as a proper, formal person who is just talkative enough to make herself interesting, but doesn’t give too much away, and is instantly intrigued with everything that comes out of her date’s mouth.

I guess everyone’s different, and some people just need some time to break out of their little shells when they’re around new people. But I just wish there weren’t so much pressure to impress people. On dates. In everyday life. Like I said, you can only hide your crazy for so long, and after spending X amount of time with the same person, they’re bound to meet the REAL you. And the faster you can be the REAL you around someone, the faster you can weed out the ones who aren’t going to stick around when they meet you in your entirety.

Can I get an amen?

M.

 

Porcelain Envy

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I love myself. I do. I love that my my skin is the lightest of ivory white and lightly speckled with orange sun kisses. I love my lack of athletic ability and the way I avoid physical activity like the plague. I like that I purposely try to use the biggest words that I can think of in place of ordinary, everyday words. I love that I don’t have an ounce of muscle on my body. I love that I am relatively short and that I don’t have protruding cheekbones. I love that my eyes are a mixture of both emerald and sapphire and have specks in them where the color is less intense.

Despite all the parts of me that I love, I still turn green with envy on occasion. The occasion where this happens most is SOCCER GAMES.

Let me explain further.

My little sister is 16 years old. Beautiful, tall, with darkened skin and an athletic build. The brat.

She’s been playing soccer since longer than I can remember, and she’s good. She currently plays on my former high school’s team, and on a competition team as well. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel to the classy city of Las Vegas, Nevada, to spectate at one of her tournaments.

My pasty complexion is extremely sensitive to the sun, and laying outside on a blanket for three hours a day surely didn’t do my derma any favors. But while I was laying there, letting my flesh turn the color of a ripe tomato, and attempting to follow my sister’s soccer match, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of those stupid soccer chicks.

They ALL had naturally bronzed skin, a lean, slender build, and the ability to run after a stupid ball for hours on end. The direct and exact opposite of myself, in other words.

Like I said, I’m happy with the way that I am. But gosh dang it I wish I were a sporty girl. It doesn’t even matter what sport, really. I just wish that my limbs were capable of enough coordination that I could at least be capable of playing a casual game of catch or pass or whatever soccer players do… (dribble?) without causing myself any physical harm, or kicking the ball into the neighboring soccer field.

I can’t help but wonder, if I would have stuck with the recreational sports my parents signed me up for in my elementary school years, if I would have had the potential to become a sporty girl. The world may never know.

Me wanting to be an athlete is about as ridiculous as Jenna from 13 Going On 30 wanting to be 30.

So I will continue to embrace my clumsy, uncoordinated, and awkward self, and watching my sister’s sporting games from indoors in effort to save my fair skin from acquiring melanoma. And I will stop wishing I were a sporty girl, and love the fact that I’m the dorky, pasty-white girl who can hardly walk in a straight line. Because she is just as good as every last one of those jock chicks. Chick jocks?

I think that’s how you learn to be happy in this world. If you can figure out who you are and then learn to embrace that person, and love her for her faults, flaws, and positive qualities alike, regardless of what the girl next to you has, you’ve got it made.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, comparison is the thief of joy.

This post was all over the place. Kind of like me.

M.

Wisdom

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I agree with my parents. I am growing up too fast. The time has come for me to endure wisdom tooth extraction surgery. I have never been more terrified in my entire life.

Why in the h*ll do we have wisdom teeth, anyway? I just really want to understand why the human body would be given bones that will cause the body harm and require surgical removal. The way I see it, the only good these stupid teeth do are give me a real good reason to live off of Jamba Juice for an entire week.

I had a “consultation” with my oral surgeon today. I put the word “consultation” in quotes because I don’t feel like I even consulted with the man at all. First, his little receptionist had me sit in this quaint little waiting room and fill out a pile of paperwork. The chairs in that office had to have been from the civil war era, I swear. Then they stuck my head in this futuristic-looking machine that revolved all the way around my noggin and took X-rays of my teeth.

After that, they showed me the X-rays and bluntly informed me that I have four wisdom teeth that require extraction and instructed me to take a seat in one of those high-tech dentist chairs that make you lay all the way down so the dentist guy can shine a giant light in your mouth and stick his fingers in there.

They made me sit through this 20-minute long video that informed me of all the things that could go wrong  with my procedure, including, but not limited to, death.  At this point, I was ready to vomit. Or pass out. Or both.

Naturally, I had my mother attend this “consultation” with me. Something about mouth doctors makes me transform from an 18-year-old young adult to a quivering, 4-year-old child. After the video ended, I looked at her from across the room, matching the panicked look on her face.

“Let’s leave.” I said to her, and began gathering my things to stand up and get the Q out of there, but to my dismay, the surgeon himself had entered the room.

What kind of sicko decides he wants to be an oral surgeon in the first place?

The man was literally in the room with us for 4 minutes. All he told me was no food or drink after midnight tonight and that my mom had to drive me to and from the surgery site. Oh, and that they would be using an IV to administer the anesthetic. My favorite.

That appointment did way more harm than good. I am now well informed of the many risks that can come to pass as consequence of getting this dang surgery, and I now know that I won’t be able to eat solid foods for a week.(Which is most definitely the worst news of all.)

Needless to say, I will be going on a late night pancake run at IHOP this evening.

I am one scared, little girl. May the force be with me tomorrow.

Wish me luck…

Wander

MissM2 Comments

One of my biggest dreams is to go somewhere, totally unheard of, totally spontaneous, and without a plan. I want to literally lose track of time. Lose the phone. Lose everything but the shoes on my feet, the clothes on my back, and a couple bucks to get by.

This year, I refuse to endure yet another one of Utah’s merciless, endless summers with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I’ve been begging my parents to let me fly across the world to embark on an adventure in a new country somewhere, by myself. I’ve got the funding and even found a program especially for wanderers like me.

How fantastic would that be? To jump on a plane to a foreign destination all alone to spend 20 days exploring, seeing, and experiencing a whole new culture?

Here’s my parents’ argument as to why it wouldn’t be the best idea:

1. I’m a 5’2 blonde girl.

2. There is no number two. That’s it.

Now, my naive, teenagery mind says “so what? What’s the worst that could possibly happen?” To which my parents respond “neither of us are Liam Neeson. We lack the resources and smarts to come rescue you if you get taken.”

Anyway, the whole summer travel thing is a work-in-progress. Wish me luck with that.

Today, I was feeling particularly adventurous, so I drove my little self to the city to do some aimless roaming.(I am a self-admitted loner. I love doing things by myself. I’ve become an expert at keeping myself company.) I started at the mall, thinking I’d just mindlessly browse the clothing shops and try on articles way out of my price range as I usually would on a day when I have a few hours to kill. But then, I started browsing through Barnes and Noble. Let me tell you, I could spend an entire day in a book store, just reading the backs of novels.

Also located on the back of the book is Barnes and Nobles’ price sticker. Those suckers are the most discouraging, heart-breaking numbers to a girl after she’s immersed herself in the excerpt from a book. And I’m sorry, but $17.99 for a paperback novel is just plain ridiculous.

Stay with me, this story relates to the topic of this post. I’m getting there, I swear.

After getting my heart broken by too many overpriced books at Barnes and Noble, I decided to go searching for a used book store. So I set out on the streets of Salt Lake City in pursuit of a reasonably priced read.

I walked maybe two miles before finding one. And I crossed some very interesting, somewhat frightening people on my way. But it was well worth it once I found that bookstore. It was a labyrinth of shelves and shelves of used books. The selection was slightly overwhelming. I spent a solid two and a half hours raiding those shelves.

The Best Book Ever Written
The Best Book Ever Written

There were two young sports browsing the shelves of the store rather close to me. After a few minutes of awkwardly browsing the same shelves simultaneously, one of them finally broke the ice and introduced himself. We shook hands and immediately after telling him my name, he asked me if i’d ever seen the basement. I hadn’t.

He explained to me that the bookstore used to be a dance club, and that the basement still had contents from the building’s night club days. I asked him to show me, so the three of us-me, him, and his friend- went down into the basement and he gave me a tour of the entire bottom floor.We talked for a while before I decided it was time to wander myself back to my car.

In summary, today was a blissful, unscheduled, and spontaneous day. I made two friends of whom I may never see again, discovered a location at which I can purchase discounted novels, and lost myself in time and place.

That’s the kind of “vacation” I want. I want to go somewhere previously unknown to me and just wander. Go where the wind blows me. And one of these days, I’m going to do just that.

Measurement

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Who decided that we need to quantify everything? I realize that in some circumstances, measurement is absolutely essential. These circumstances can include building a house, baking, and all that mathematical crap they teach us in high school that we’re supposedly going to HAVE to know to function efficiently in today’s world. We have an obsession with sticking a number on literally EVERYTHING.

And I guess there’s nothing wrong with quantification. But then we apply that quantity to certain contexts and our interpretations of them are entirely skewed, and we shape our entire lives over these measurements. Allow me to further explain with examples:

1. TIME: Y’know, before the invention of the ever-constantly ticking clock, people got along just fine by using the sunrise and sunset as their method of time measurement. I’ll bet times were a lot less stressful, urgent, and structured back then. But now, we have the clock. The dictator that tells us how much time we have left. The circle on the wall or on our wrist which we constantly watch, making sure we don’t linger in one place too long, or counting down the seconds until we can move on to our day’s next appointment. Imagine what life would be like if we didn’t have such a definite measurement of time, or at least didn’t make it such a central, definite, and authoritative factor in our lives. I feel like I’m always wishing my time away so that I can move on to the next mundane activity I have penciled in to my stupid, little planner. I wish I knew how to enjoy where I am. The “right here, right now.”

 

2. THE BATHROOM SCALE: I hate that thing. Hate it with all of my guts. And yet, I am a daily user of that dreaded thief of happiness. By standing on that stupid glass square, I am giving it power to dictate how much I like myself that day. Those stupid LED numbers have the power to change my entire mood. Again, too much value is placed on numbers. I get that measuring one’s weight is important if her weight is causing her health issues, whether she be too light or too heavy. But for your average young adult with a healthy weight and healthy lifestyle habits like me, there is no need for a daily weigh-in. I know, I do it to myself. But I blame society and it’s emphasis on numbers and “ideal weight” for making me this way. So thanks , society, for screwing me up.

3. CALORIES AND SERVING SIZES: BOO. I hate calorie-counters. I have this theory that if we all just ate when we were hungry and stopped when we were satisfied, we’d all be happy, healthy-weighted individuals. Unfortunately, we don’t know how to listen to our own bodily signals. So then we become food addicts and eat an entire box of Oreo’s and wash them down with a big glass of self-loathing. Hence the need for serious attention to our dietary intake. I, too, participate in this nonsense. I use this dreaded app called MyFitnessPal, and it tells me I can only eat 1200 calories a day. That thing doesn’t know me. I always end up exceeding my “limit” by the time 4:00 PM rolls around, anyway.

4. DRESS SIZES: I’m talking small, medium, large, extra large, XXL, XXXXXXL, etc. Nothing says “you’re a human cow” like sticking a tag in the back with multiple “X’s” on it. What’s wrong with the numeral sizing method? I don’t even know what those numbers indicate, anyway. Centimeters? Inches? Doesn’t matter. All I know is that buying a size 4 feels much better than buying a size “Medium.” Medium is relative, anyway. This might be the single instance that I prefer the use of numbers for measurement.

I recognize the significance of measuring stuff. It’s a good idea, really, and a lot of our daily situations depend on our ability to measure stuff. All I’m saying is I wish measurement didn’t have such significance or rank so high on our priority lists and we just learned to let go and live a little.