I’ve never had so much fun as I did in these 5 minutes. I am Kim Crossman’s latest guest in her awesome new series, “Bucket of Life Advice”. Catch me in the episode below and catch up on all old episodes on her channel.
Sometimes you just need a drink at 8am. Sometimes that drink is at a golf course club house with your work acquaintances and a hot bartender who is going to feed you vodka like water all day. Sometimes you’re a hot mess.
I’ve learned a lot of morals in my 25 years. Things like; don’t swim after a fin in the ocean because you think it’s a dolphin that you want to name Cornelius and become friends with. Or don’t go out on a rooftop in NY in January when you’re drunk and its covered in ice. Or most importantly; don’t talk to someone dressed as a nun with no legs playing electronic ‘Wheel of Fortune’ games in a New York City hotel lobby. I suppose those are stories for other times. In this story the moral was…..um…..well how about I just tell the story and then we can figure out the moral together. It will be like a team building exercise.
The company I was working for had a golfing event in Rochester, NY which was about an hour or so from Syracuse where I was living. I will use code names as to protect everyone’s identity. I drove out with my co workers, Dom and Queen Beatrice. Dom was the Dirty Old Man of the group, hence my name for him. You know this guy, we all know this guy; the old guy who is the most helpful person you know, but also has the most dirty jokes. We all love this guy. And I don’t feel the need to explain Queen Beatrice, mainly because I’m not 100% sure where I got it from. We were playing in foursomes and our fourth was already there. We’ll call him Babaloo.
We were early for our 9am tee time and walked into the club. The bartender was just walking in and Dom was the first to break the ice. “Welp, it’s almost 9. Get me a scotch.” Once he had ordered I knew I had to represent for the non AARP card holding members of the group so I ordered myself a vodka tonic. The bartender was young, hot and serving me vodka. The only thing that can be assumed from this point on is that I was going to be in intoxicatingly intoxicated trouble. Say that 5 times fast…while intoxicated.
We had a phenomenal time golfing. I hit things, I drank, I tanned, I flirted with my boss; it was a superb day. After the first 9 holes we were all getting loose. And by loose, I mean me and Babaloo were pulling 360’s down hills in our golf cart. Throughout the day we indulged from the lovely little man driving around the course with adult beverages and stopping back to the club house to see my shot serving boyfriend. Then it happened. The tipping point came. If I drink all day at a steady pace; I’m an all star, no worries. But all of that went out the window when I met my match: The Travel Mug. Queen Beatrice had brought vodka and cranberry juice to make our own cocktails on the course because we’re classy bitches like that. She had decided to call it a day, knowing she had to drive us home that night. So she offered me what was left, saying it wasn’t much. She handed me the travel mug. I assumed it was the pre-mixed cocktail and figured I’d just slam what was left. I was parched and didn’t want it to get warm, ok? What happened next was a series of Darth Vader breaths mixed with squeaking and severe eye watering. I had just gulped down roughly 3 shots of straight vodka. Oops.
After Queen Beatrice picked her jaw off the fairway she told me that was straight vodka. I thanked her for warning me by tipping over and falling directly on my ass. After the game wrapped up we headed to the club house for a complimentary buffet dinner where they had give aways and speeches…I think. The dinner portion of the evening is a little foggy. I do remember heading to the bar to see boy toy bartender and do shots with Dom. As cute bartender poured more lemon drops for me and shots of Jameson for Dom, I could feel my balance, speech and chance of keeping my job after this weekend all slipping away. But I hung in there. I’m Princess Champion, damn it. (By the way, I did end up keeping my job. I think it’s my lovable charm that saved me once again.) With Dom being the oldest on the team in the state and me being the youngest; it only made sense that we were the group’s alcoholics. Once they stopped eating “dinner” and I stopped eating ice cubes and limes at the bottom of my cocktails we had to head home. My sexy drink retriever gave me his number and I left with Dom and Queen Beatrice. It took me a solid 20 minutes to remember we were in Rochester and had a drive home ahead of us. Then it also hit me that I live an hour away from bar boy. Yelping, “What city are we in?!” was my subtle way of figuring this out. Needless to say; bartender’s napkin phone number went out the window. The drive home would prove to be my kryptonite. There was far too much vodka swishing around in my tum tum with far too much nothing else. Every time we hit a speed bump it sounded like a water jug when it bubbles after pouring yourself a cup. I believe I made Queen Beatrice stop at one point for something…or something. Then I also believe that I got rid of the only thing in my system; vodka. I did this by throwing up in case you couldn’t figure that out. It was basically like someone spitting up water after they’ve drowned. I bet Queen Beatrice was pretty happy I opted for a liquid dinner at this point. I’m not typically a ‘sicky’ when I drink. So this came as a surprise to me. So now when I drink on a golf course for 10 hours I tend to avoid long car rides immediately following. I’m not stupid.
When we got to my apartment I had one last task I would be faced with. I had to get my golf clubs up the stairs to my 2nd level apartment. I convinced Queen Beatrice I’d be fine on my own. I can be very persuasive, although also very wrong. I got on the first step and immediately was dragged backwards by the clubs and fell, once again, directly on my ass. Attempt two looked painfully similar. This wasn’t going to work. But I’m a thinker; an idea woman. So, I took out each and every club and carried them upstairs separately and the bag also. It took roughly 6 trips and 30 minutes but, ahoy! I made it! It was so exciting that I’m using the word ahoy! It was still only about 10pm at this point and I was supposed to attend a surprise party. I decided to take a quick power nap on the couch and then make someone come get my drunk ass and take me to the party. This power nap of course turned in to me sleeping until around 2:30am and being woken up by my roommate when she got home from work. I was confused, I was thirsty and I had 16 missed calls / texts, give or take, asking where I was. I had to respond before drifting back off to dreamland and wasn’t really sure what to say. But decided honesty was the best policy. “Sorry I missed your party. I was drunk golfing in Rochester for the past 10 hours and then passed out. I understand if you want to find better friends. Love, Amy.”
So I guess there are a few morals I could take away. I’ll tell you what my biggest moral take away was. I’ll also let you in on the real “kicker” of the night. Remember my struggle to get the golf clubs upstairs? My moral of the story is to always, always make sure you walk around the corner…………..
to the elevator.
I think I failed life.
I have accomplished many great things in my life. I have……hm……give me a second….
I have performed in shows. I have been told I have the best white girl crip walk in my suburban middle class hometown. I have been given prestigious titles such as “Class Clown” and “Night Surfing Champion of The World and Most of The Universe” (that one may be self-proclaimed).
And teachers assumed I would never amount to anything……Suck it.
But none of these “achievements” are as glorious as the goal I am aiming to achieve now. Ok, I may be overplaying this a bit. Let’s get to it.
I want to spend a day in a forest baking cookies with Ginnifer Goodwin and a group of well behaved magical elves.
I know what you’re thinking. Trust me, I do. And I thought the same thing for awhile; how could I possibly find enough activities in the forest to span over the entire day!? Let me share…
First Ginny and I (we’re good chums now at this point so I can call her Ginny) will meet up at the forest’s edge with the elves. We’ll begin our day at the crack of 11:35 am. I will name each elf based on their appearance and demeanor then we will be on our merry way. After a fun walk skip through the woods we will come across a field where Ginny and I decide to have a frolic. The elves will set up our baking station in the trees while Ginny and I pick daises and prance about the field singing whimsical songs about fairy tales which we will make up on the spot.
Next, once the elves have assembled our baking station we will begin! We’ll bake all sorts of glorious cookies in fantasy blumpkin shapes. (I’m unsure what ‘fantasy blumpkin shapes’ are, but I really like them and am determined to figure it out) Once they’re done the fairies and nymphs come out of the trees to dance in the wind because they see Ginny and of course want to be a part of this magical day.
All of this singing, cooking and eating will obviously tire us. So we will all take happy naps in the field. I’ll most likely spoon with the elf I inevitably name Lord Snugglekins.
After our naps it will be time for pictures! Ginny and I will take pictures with bunnies and chipmunks and squirrels who all comply of course because of Ginny’s magical powers over all that is cute in the world. We will take a good mix of posing with the animals and also some action shots. If you’re wondering why I want the variations it’s because we need a good mix for the photo album…don’t be silly. Eventually, the elves will join but they will not…I repeat will not…make this about them.
And alas, when the day is done we will walk skip back through the forest to civilization. The fairies and nymphs will fly back to the forest after accompanying us on our journey back. The elves will disperse and go back to their elf families and elf homes which I envision to be a combination of miniature Santa workshops and Smurf mushroom houses. And I’ll tell Lord Snugglekins I enjoyed our time together but we should just stay friends.
Then it will be time for Ginny and I to part ways. We’ll make plans to tag each other in all the pictures and look into booking a recording studio for our fairy tale improv songs. I’ll gush over what a great actress she is and what a fan I am and thank her for spending the day with me. She’ll ask for my number and email to keep in touch but then giggle because she knows she can just send a hummingbird or a forest fairy with a message. Then we live happily ever after knowing we have lived a perfect day amongst magical elves, forest fairies, pretty daisies and fantasy blumkpin cookies.
Yes, you are correct…I am speaking of the younger sister on Family Matters who suddenly disappeared. We all remember Eddie, we all remember Laura, but what happened to younger sister, Judy? We all remember the hard hitting serious episodes of Laura getting hooked on ‘pep pills’ to fit in with the cheerleaders and when Eddie was beat up by the Dragons gang. But where was Judy’s after school special episode? That’s right, we never got to see one before she up and vanished. The only theory I can come up with on this one is that there is some sort of vault where forgotten characters go to never be seen again. Let’s all just hope Judy, Minkus from Boy Meets World and each one of the Becky’s from Roseanne (every other week) are all safe and happy together in the Forgotten Characters Vault.
Debate #1: JTT or Zachary Ty Bryan?
A question as old as time…who was cuter? Johnathan Taylor Thomas or Zachary Ty Bryan? They played brothers on Home Improvement which made it all the more juicy. Brother vs brother. Who would win? The cute little shaggy haired one with a funny personality or the older, blonde athletic one with a mullet that made girls near and far quiver. As they got older on the show it just kept getting harder and harder to decide. As they got hotter, the younger one got more and more odd looking, emphasizing the beautiful features these two had to offer. I myself was torn for quite awhile before officially going “Team Zachary”. I realize putting this bold statement out there could affect me in the public eye, but I have to be honest. But I do believe there will never be a clear cut verdict in this debate amongst the masses.
Mystery #2: What in the hell is ‘Mmmbop’ about?
From the chorus which is nothing but noises and sounds, to the verses which are not only confusing but also slightly depressing to the ending where they just keep asking questions…none of it seems to make sense. The first verse basically says you will see a lot of people but only one or two will stick around and then you’re going to have lots of pain, lose all your hair and they are unsure who will still care about you at that point. Then they make melodic gibberish for a little while and then they become metaphorical with a flower reference before more harmonious gibberish. As a child listening to Casey Kasem’s Top 40 on a Saturday morning I would sit with fingers crossed praying for this song to be #1. It had brainwashed me with its happy go lucky feel but it has also left me wondering for over a decade…what is the secret they speak of in the song? What is the true meaning of the song and the secret? The line goes, “It’s a secret no one knows.” And I believe it remains true to this day. Well done Hanson, well done.
Debate #2: Britney or Christina?
I’m sorry Christina, I don’t even really consider this one a debate. Even though Britney went bat shit crazy after awhile, she wins this one for me. I can still do 93% of the dance moves to classic jams such as Baby One More Time, Oops I Did It Again, Crazy, and Sometimes. I even scouted a location to do a re-creation of the Sometimes dance sequence on a pier somewhere. Christina, as much as I loved Genie in a Bottle and those bright orange pants you wore in that video, I’m sorry, but Britney comes first. I feel this one needs no further discussion. If you disagree then I guess that means I will not be sharing my Capri Sun with you at lunch tomorrow and you can forget about being in my Sometimes redo music video. So talk to the hand.
There are so many more unanswered questions out there that I don’t have the time to go into right now. But briefly I’ll leave you with a few more to ponder: Where was that music coming from every time Sam climbed in Clarissa’s window? How exactly did Urkel’s port-a-potty machine turn him into a guy WITHOUT glasses? Jessie Spano: The drug moments, where did it all go wrong? Who was responsible for the creepy idea of Uncle Jesse singing the Beach Boys classic “Forever” to his naked twin babies in a music video? In Sister Act 2 was it Frank K because his last name began with a K or was it Frankay? How does Homeward Bound get every single solitary person who watches it, to cry? Who was appointed to research Lori Beth Denburg’s Vital Information, and how were they so stinking smart? Some of these may never be answered and we will have to live with that. So for now, I put these topics to rest although I do intend to continue my research. I will file this research into my Lisa Frank trapper keeper and ponder these mysteries while sipping on a blue kool aid and feeling the cool, calming snap of a snap bracelet against my wrist. Until next time, thanks for reading; you’re all that and a bag of chips.
Chelsea Handler is one of my favorite comedians. Not only because she makes fun of Angelina Jolie and drinks more vodka than any human ever should, but also because she makes fun of Tori Spelling and drinks more vodka than any human ever should. I have gotten to see her perform her stand up live 4 times and loved each one.
I heard Chelsea would be performing in New Hampshire and decided it was a must that I be in attendance. I asked a few of my friends if they wanted to go by telling them they were going. So we bought the tickets, booked the hotel and hit the road from Syracuse, NY. It was me and my friend Rhac (Yes, pronounced like ‘rock’ and yes, his real name) and our friends the super couple, Shaun and Evangeline. They were one of those couples that were either super fun or super lame. So Rhac was there as my safety in case the lame couple showed up. I mean, his name is Rhac- you know he is a good time. We were planning on getting into town the night before the show, spending the following day exploring New Hampshire, go to the show that night and then drive back the next day. The plan took a detour when we found a fun moose statue and Santa Claus. Let me explain.
We were driving through Vermont, right on schedule to get to our hotel in New Hampshire around 7pm when Rhac noticed a moose statue he wanted to get a picture with of course. Rhac and I had been drinking for most of the trip already while Shaun drove. So we were basically like drunk children wanting to take every detour possible that seemed fun. We turned around, took some pictures with the moose and then tried to get back on track. But since we are all directionally impaired and in backwoods Vermont where there is no service for our GPS we did not. Instead we asked some guy for directions and while walking back to the car Santa spotted us. There was a tavern across the street and a man who looked like Santa Claus (if Santa was from the sticks and it was the off season so he trimmed his beard a bit). He was wearing jeans, a white tee, and American Flag suspenders. He called out, “What are you doing? I’m drinking! You should come do the same!” I’m not one to disobey Santa, so we adhered. It was a stereotypical small Vermont town. Everyone in the bar knew each other and accepted us like we were all old friends. Right down to Kathy the bartender and all of the beer vendors there who got drunk with us giving us free swag. We barely spent a penny with all the free drinks we were getting and also walked away with shirts, beads, beer buckets, and lots of stories from Santa Claus. We came to find out Santa’s name was Bob. We also came to find out Bob was a bit of a creeper which still to this day taints Christmas for me a little bit. I’ve never had so much fun with a bunch of strangers in my life. Evangeline was the responsible one to step up and say she would stay sober to get us to New Hampshire. I think we had all forgotten we still had to get to New Hampshire.
So after a night of drinks, taking 100’s of pictures with the locals, singing to classic 80’s jams on the jukebox, free swag, and creepy looks from Bob; we headed to New Hampshire. When we got there Rhac and I went to check in. Rhac was wearing every shirt we got at the bar, his sunglasses, and a Bud Light bucket on his head. I was sophisticatedly dressed with about 3 pounds of beads around my neck, Land Shark sunglasses and Hawaiian leis around my head. We got checked in, Rhac got the keys and I hit on the bell boy. Successful check in for sure.
The following day we took it easy and just drove around the town finding some little diners and shops to go to. We got back to the room with some time to pregame and get ready for the show. Chelsea was hilarious as always and put on an amazing show. Heather McDonald opened for her and was funny as always too. I had gotten to see Heather open for her when I saw Chelsea in New Jersey too. After that show I asked Heather for her autograph by brilliantly saying, “I have a book and you should sign it right now because you’re funny and I like your face.” I shouldn’t be allowed to meet famous people. They were doing a book signing after the Jersey show and I was convinced if I met Chelsea she would see what a talent I was and hire me for her show. I decided I would wing it and say something fabulous off the top of my head when I met her. I had brought her book to get signed but they were only allowing people to get signatures who bought the book at the store that day. Mine no longer had the book cover on it and was obviously not bought there. So I forced my boyfriend to buy one so we could get in line. Then we found out they were giving post-its with the correct spelling of your name to make it easier on Chelsea. So they only gave Jarrid one since he bought the book. I kept asking for one but that miserable woman was not budging and kept saying I couldn’t get the autograph since I didn’t buy the book there. So we moved up in line a bit and then I noticed my nemesis, the angry lady, was gone. So I grabbed Jarrid’s book that was bought there, went back to them and told them that the lady that was there before didn’t give me a post-it after I bought my book and that she should probably be fired due to a bad attitude and a slight lisp. It was a success. I got my post-it. When we finally got to Chelsea the fabulous thing I came up with was, “I lied to get in this line. Here is a post it with my name on it – It’s for you! I didn’t buy this here.” Then I spilled all the ice out of my empty rum and coke that I forgot I was holding and told the security guy to take a picture for me as I threw my camera at him. This is why I can’t have nice things.
But back to New Hampshire – we watched the show and were on a funny high. Afterwards we walked around looking for a fun spot to spend the night at and came across a group outside of a place that had some live music. It was a super chill bar with a really funnlive jam band playing. Rhac and Shaun are both huge jam band fans and I can tell you with 100% confidence if one of the band members asked them to go home with them they would have. I have never seen two grown men turn into groupies so quickly. While they threw their unmentionables on stage obsessing over the band I had my eyes set on Purple Shirt. This is still what we call him because none of us remember his name. He looked like a hot modern day Greaser minus the literal greasy hair and cigarette pack wrapped up in his sleeve. He was playing pool and kept looking over so I decided I would give him the privilege to buy the rest of my drinks that night. Purple Shirt hung out with us the rest of the night while we danced and partied with the band who Rhac and Shaun had of course become friends with. After the bar closed we headed back to the hotel where we kept the party going with some more drinks, pizza, and a giant kickball that had appeared at some point. Somehow we didn’t break anything in the hotel room from our drunken kickball / soccer game we were playing until around 5 am. When I woke the next morning I was lying with my head off the foot of the bed, Rhac was sleeping in the desk chair, and the room looked like a tornado hit it. A giant, drunk, tornado. This is the effect Chelsea Handler has on people.
It had been a great trip but it was time to go home. The ride home was a bit tamer than the ride there of course. We each had to take turns driving due to the lack of sleep and liver function. People always ask me what bars we went to and if we ever went back and the answers are – no idea and no. I would love to know the names of those bars so we could revisit them but sadly I do not. Hell, I can’t even tell you the name of the town we were in, in Vermont. But I can tell you that road trips and Chelsea Handler put together are always going to be a really, really great time for you and your friends and a really, really bad time for your liver.
Code red! I repeat code red! Red is the worst one right? That’s the highest threat level, correct? If it isn’t, please insert the correct color and then send help. I was about to do my usual superman dive into bed under my covers to go to sleep when I noticed a giant spider all up in my business. He was just chilling on my bed, looking up at me, taunting me like the little bastard spider that he is. This is especially disappointing tonight though, more than other nights. It was a cold rainy day in Los Angeles today and I have been looking forward to snuggling under my covers all day. And now this little prick is trying to ruin that for me. For he knows that I only have three fears in life: Snakes, alligators and spiders. I knew what had to be done. He must die.
So I grabbed a shoe and once he made his way to my head board I swatted at him with all my might. I missed with all my might. He scurried away and I could no longer see him. I can’t go to bed knowing he is still alive in my room though. So now, we are forced into war. I shall hunt him until I am the victor. I will not rest until he is dead. Well, except for right now where I am sitting out on my couch writing this. I decided to quarantine the room and assess the situation. I also had a craving for some crunchy peanut butter. But now it’s back to business. I think my best approach will be to equip myself with a shoe in one hand and a frying pan in the other. For battle armor I will of course put on my soccer shin guards, a helmet, and a golf glove. I also think I should narrate this adventure to find him in an Australian accent. (Side note: I should totally be on Animal Planet or Discovery channel) Now that I think about all this, I should quite possibly look for my sanity as I look for the spider. As you can see, I may have lost that at some point a long time ago. Either way, I’m off to battle. I shall return upon my victory.
Ok, so it’s now the next morning. I fell asleep. Let me fill you in on the epic battle that occurred. I crept into my room, battle armor on, frying pan and shoe in hand narrating my every step in my Aussie accent. He was hard to find, a worthy opponent. But nevertheless, I found him. I took the mattress off my bed frame and found him hiding like the communist coward spider that he is, under my bed. I had a major decision to make; shoe or frying pan? Shoe had failed me the first time so I tossed it aside and clutched the frying pan. As I kept on with my narration I noticed it turning slightly western. I went with it. So with my western accent and frying pan; I moved in. I will spare you the gory details, but that there spider ain’t never comin’ back to this here town again, ya hear y’all?
The battle was won. The commie spider is dead. (Yes in case you missed that, at some point I did decide he was a communist) Time of death: 3:56am. After I had won, I did a quick little “USA! USA! USA!” chant of course, put my mattress back on my bed, and got my cozy comforter back on it. Taking my battle armor off I felt accomplished…proud…brave…and sleepy. So I triumphantly did my superman dive into bed, curled up in my comforter, and drifted off to a spider free dreamland.
To all communist spiders trying to infiltrate my apartment– This is a warning. You do not want to meet the same fate your friend did. My frying pan of doom and I, will end you.
To all who bet money on me finding my sanity– You lose. Sanity: still at large.
USA! USA! USA!
I’m having one of those nights where I feel like writing. I’m not necessarily sure I have anything to write about, but why the hell not? I have fingers perfectly capable of typing, a laptop perfectly capable of receiving said typing and turning it into words on my screen and a half empty bottle of Merlot. (The other half already being in my tummy of course.) All of these things obviously add up to being primed and ready to write. I mean look at me go…I’ve already been writing for a solid minute now and I think it’s going fairly well.
I was flipping channels and saw America’s Next Top Model listed earlier. I switched over to it, but then once I remembered it was a real show and it wasn’t going to be Maya Rudolph doing her Tyra Banks impression I got really depressed. Then I realized what was happening on the show and it made me feel better. They are doing a season called America’s Next Top Model “All Stars”. Apparently on reality TV when you lose at something you become an all star. This season is made up of girls who have already tried doing the show before, and lost. Some of them seem fairly normal, well as normal as you can be to be a contestant on a competition based reality show. But most of them just seem to be the really loud ghetto girls who yelled at everyone because they didn’t “reck-a-nize”. So thank you Tyra Banks for showing us that no matter how illiterate you may be, or how un-classy you may act, or how badly you may lose at something; anyone can be an all star. And I do mean anyone.
Ok, there is either a skunk outside my apartment or Cheech and Chong are sparking up some skunk weed under my couch right now because I just caught a strong whiff of one of the two things. Everyone cross your fingers for Cheech and Chong.
I decided today that I would go through the giant box which has not been touched since it got put in the corner the day I moved in after moving here from New York. It’s that box of things that you really don’t have a need for, but you keep anyways. You know what I’m talking about – when you’re moving or cleaning and you just keep finding boxes inside of boxes inside of boxes which you tell yourself you will look through next time…but you never do. Well today I did. And I am beyond glad that I did. One of the boxes contained around a dozen cassette tapes of radio mixes I did when I was younger. They are all titled either DJ Amy Hot Jams or DJ Aim-Dog Jazzy Jams. I can’t say I’m partial to one title or the other, because they’re both obviously brilliant. These tapes contain the best pop mixes from the 90’s and very early 2000’s you will ever hear in your life. I’m talking everything from Boyz II Men to Brandy to All 4 One to Robyn to Mya. Mya! Come on now, if you didn’t know every word to ‘Ghetto Superstar’ including Ole Dirty Bastard’s part then I don’t know that we could ever be friends. I for one, as a 12 year old white girl living in the suburbs, totally owned the ODB parts as you can probably imagine. I really need to find a cassette tape player now though. These tapes are just sitting there taunting me. Now that I know of their existence in my apartment I need to listen to them. I can’t talk about this anymore…the sweet, sweet sounds of Shaggy and TLC are ringing in my ears and it’s too much to handle.
While looking through these boxes I also discovered a hard copy of the script I wrote when I was probably around 10 or 11 years old. In my post “Back to School” I speak of how I tried to cast this movie during classes at my elementary school. It didn’t go so hot. But I haven’t read this script in years. As soon as I found it today I sat right down with a cup of coffee and started reading. As I read I realized from a young age I was meant to be a comedian. Either that or a crack head. It was quite clear to me. It also became clear that the above mentioned pop artists had a great impact on my life because every single character in my movie was named after a 90’s pop star. Except for 3 characters named Peppy, Poppy, and Pappy. Correct, I was great with names. It also included Barbara Walters, a bomb scare, saving stuffed animals from a fire, a who-done-it murder plotline, two old British sisters who were always bickering and an astonishingly unprepared police staff. I would say it all makes sense once you read it, but that would be a lie.
I went for a hike at Runyon Canyon today and remembered just how much I hate how everyone does the little smile and nod at strangers when you’re hiking. Why is it that people feel the need to do that when on any type of walking trail or path? Just because we are walking through a pretty little canyon doesn’t mean I want to say hello with a close mouthed half smile and a “I don’t know you so instead of speaking the word hello I will just politely nod”, head nod. I avoid eye contact at all times with strangers. I’m that person who always somehow manages to get into weird and awkward staring contests unknowingly. So I just avoid it all together. When I do end up accidently making eye contact it always ends up being with the homeless guy standing a foot from my car staring directly into my eyes as I roll up my window and pretend not to see him and look away. (Keep in mind I drive a convertible so rolling the window up doesn’t seem to dissuade them much.) So I don’t care if we are on a walking trail where everyone else got shot up with the happy drug and feels the need to say hi to everyone or if we are on the street walking through West Hollywood trying to avoid the creepy guy playing Spiderman on Hollywood Blvd. Either way, I will be wearing sunglasses and avoiding your face at all costs.
It’s now after 2am which means everything on TV is infomercials, 90’s sitcoms, or religious shows. So I can keep rambling incessantly here, purchase a miracle weight loss pill from an 800 number, watch Married With Children, or be reborn with the salt and pepper haired gentleman who hosts the 700 Club. All options sound quite tempting but I think I’ll throw a curve ball in here and just finish the rest of this Merlot in bed until I fall asleep or decide to get more Merlot. I know you are all probably concerned because if I am already cozy in bed, traveling back to the kitchen could be quite a nuisance to get more wine. No need to fret, I keep emergency sleepy time wine under the bed. I’m no amateur.
Good night and good luck. (Good night is directed towards you, the reader, and good luck is directed towards me in case you were wondering. I have white sheets so the Merlot is always a little risky. I need the luck more than you. Deal with it.)
With all the back to school commercials and specials going on it makes me think back to when I was in school. Without realizing it at the time, school helped make me the person I am today. I never thought I would say that when I was younger, but it’s true. It molded and guided me to the person I have become. Don’t get me wrong though. I’m not talking about all the “studying” and “hard work”. I’m talking more about the day to day shenanigans which prepared me for a life of entertaining people. Also because of my general lack of concern for my overall safety and of those around me.
Gym was always fun. I was athletic, I played sports, I could run forever and yet I still refused to participate in most activities. Because I was a strong athlete at my school, gym teachers initially thought I would be one of the good ones who would always step up to show a good example. Turned out I was more the one who would step up to show a bad example just because I thought it would be more beneficial to the overall feeling of the class. See, I knew I would be getting my exercise after school at soccer. So gym was more or less a time to wear ridiculous outfits from the 80’s I found at thrift stores and drive my gym teachers crazy. It has been scientifically proven that laughter extends life and burns calories. So when all of the fat kids who refused to participate would sit down in protest, I would step up to the plate. Sometimes I would break out in interpretive dance during badminton to express my deep emotional connection to the game. Other times I would swing like an ape from the climbing rope from side to side in the gym yelling to the gym teachers, “This monkey wants a banana!” I was doing my small part in making America healthier. You don’t want to run with the rest of us? No problem! I will make sure you at least have an entertaining class and burn a couple hundred calories. Obese America: You’re welcome.
English and Social Studies Classes:
My favorite classes in school were probably English and Social Studies. I mean out of the real classes obviously. Art and gym were clear winners overall, but out of the core subjects I’d go with English or Social Studies. English was always fun for me because I loved writing. Granted, I never actually wrote what they asked me to, but I loved it. Keep in mind I’m talking about elementary school right now. Also, it’s not like I totally disregarded the directions. For example if we had to do a book report on assigned reading: I would do a book report, but I would do it on a book I wanted to read. If the assigned reading was of no interest to me I deemed it beneath me. I had better things to read. So it would be a little confusing for the teacher when they would assign a book about climbing to the top of Mount Everest and my report was about Mia Hamm in her North Carolina Tarheel Days. I always did the assignment on time, but I would do it my way. If a teacher didn’t like the subject I chose I would eventually have to cave and do their report. But I wouldn’t go down without a fight. So when it was a typed report I would turn it in with the smallest possible font. This would then make the teacher ask for me to make it bigger and bring it back in. This would then make me go home and change it to the largest possible font. This then lead to a dangerously high blood pressure for every teacher I had.
I also loved Social Studies because I really like history, mainly American history. I also liked learning about the English because come on, who doesn’t love a British accent? So basically if you were an English speaking land, I liked you and your history. My bread and butter was when they would assign projects where they allowed creativity; when they would give you a list of different ways to present. My favorites were always dioramas or presenting a report as like a character from that time period. I would always give it a modern twist too though. So if I was giving a report on The Revolutionary War I would be Paul Revere telling everyone the British were coming, but instead of acting like I was riding in on a horse I would act like I was riding in on a motorcycle, or dancing to the Backstreet Boys. Or on the Civil War, instead of trying to free the slaves through battle we were trying to free the baby lions from the zoo through luring them out with enticing cheerleader moves and chants. This gave it a certain flair I thought.
Currently Holding Casting Calls:
I was 10 when I wrote my first movie. It was a “who-done-it” comedy taking place partially in a school and then back at an old haunted mansion. It was called “The Bomb Scare Killer” and I decided I needed to cast it immediately. Problem was; I just didn’t have the time. After school I always had soccer practice or was busy playing “Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen” with my best friend. The schedule of a 10 year old is exhausting. I was also working on my sketch comedy videos. They consisted of me and my two best friends basically looking like 10 year old crack heads wearing wigs with ADHD attempting Saturday Night Live. So with such a busy and fabulous lifestyle, it was hard to find time to cast my movie. I was in the cafeteria one day overseeing a trade between two kids of a peanut butter sandwich for a bag of chips. (I was kind of the food trading bookie in elementary school. Obviously you can see I was meant for big things at an early age. Very entrepreneurial.) That’s when it hit me. Our cafeteria was perfect for casting. It was one of those cafeteria’s that also had a stage on one end. I could have my choice of 300 tables to set up at and watch the auditions on the stage. So I got right to work and started spreading the word about auditions to friends and other students. Once they were scheduled they were advised to “need to go to the nurse’s office for a head ache” at that time and meet me in the cafeteria. I snuck out of class for my first audition and was feeling pretty damn good if I do say so. I set up with my script in the cafeteria and waited. But soon found my appointment had bailed. If you’re not willing to skip out on class for an audition, what good are you at life? I was disgusted, and was about to pack up everything when a hall monitor came in. I was all alone, sitting on 4 stacked chairs, (because I thought it looked more authoritative if I was up high) had scripts spread all over the table, a mini Harlem Globe Trotters megaphone for directing, was wearing a beret, had a mug of water which I pretended was coffee and a directors chop block. Granted, I was very good from a young age at talking my way out of situations but I didn’t see a way out of this one. So when the principal asked me what I was doing I simply tried to bargain. I offered her a role in the movie if she let me go with a warning. I found this to be an extremely kind offer. She was not the best looking and I am sure would have been very stiff in front of camera. I needed beautiful actors, not ugly failed college professors. As kind as I thought the offer was; shockingly she declined. I was also in a whole other world of trouble seeing as how I was in a school, casting a movie, called The Bomb Scare Killer. They seemed to frown upon that. So my directing career had to be put on a bit of a hold. While I was in trouble and not able to cast or do my sketch comedy I decided I should reflect on my actions as they had asked I do. They wanted me to think about what I had done and learn from it. Which I did. If I was going to shoot a movie at school it needed to be less risqué and not involve the words “bomb scare”. So I wrote a new movie about a group of upper middle class white kids in a rollerblading gang loosely based on my own life, of course. This later became a musical complete with dance numbers and a score full of nothing but Britney Spears songs. I never did get to film it though. It’s a shame, because as you can see from this brief description, it was obviously dripping in brilliance. It could have been our generation’s West Side Story.
If you are a former teacher of mine reading this, you don’t even need to say it. I’ll be the bigger person here and step up and just say what needs to be said to you…You are all very, very welcome.
A few disclaimers to begin: If you have not read my entry “My First Job”, you will not understand a lot of this. Also as much as you may be led to believe it by the title; this is not a story about cartoon characters named Amy and JoJo. We are real people. Thank you for your time.
Last time I spoke of Byrne Dairy and my first job I had told you about my buddy Scruffy Tubs. I think it is appropriate we start this off with a good Tubs story. There were two restrooms in the store, both single stall, one for men and one for women. When the women’s was out of order we were obviously forced to use the men’s. When I was in there one time I noticed the paper towel dispenser was missing and instead there was just a giant gaping hole in the wall. If you are thinking Scruffy Tubs may have something to do with this, you are correct. I came out and asked Hot Boss what had happened. Hot Boss turns into a 12 year old girl sometimes with giggle fits and this was one of those times. (Quite Anderson Cooper-esque) He shuffled me into the back room giggling and then proceeded to tell me what happened. Scruffy Tubs was in the bathroom and there was no one in the store other than him and Hot Boss. All of a sudden Hot Boss heard a crashing sound and Tubs screaming and groaning. Then he heard nothing for a couple minutes, then some more groaning and now swearing. Soon, Scruffy came around the corner from the restrooms with that look that your dog gives you when they have just come from eating your shoe or pissing all over your carpet. With his tail between his legs Scruffy Tubs said, “So, uh, boss. Uh, I um, da paper towel dispensa, uh well it’s not in da wall no mo’. See, da floor was wet and I uh, well I slipped and da paper towel dispensa broke my fall. But then it came outta da wall and then I kept fallin. And then it fell on top a me. So there’s no mo’ paper towel dispensa.” After hearing this, if I was having a bad day I would just walk past the rest room to remind myself of such a glorious story and it was an immediate pick me up.
JoJo and I were becoming better and better friends and we started hanging out outside of work. We were tired of only sharing experiences such as Tubs mooning us or Witchcraft trying to put a spell on us. Or the crazy mom of the group, who I affectionately referred to last time as Pecan Glasses (Due to her smearing pecan ice cream all over her glasses and still wearing them) telling us we shouldn’t be drinking beer in the cooler. So we began setting out on our own adventures which normally consisted of us crashing someone’s party, creating our own party, stealing beer and dressing in Mexican ponchos and sombreros of course. One specific experience comes to mind right away. JoJo and I had enjoyed one of our normal evenings of going to a party and mooching off of everyone before going back to my house. We decided we weren’t done for the evening and wanted to have a camp fire. We had a fire pit in my back yard and were all about continuing drinking and lighting that bitch up. The problem being; neither of us could make a fire that lasted more than 30 seconds. If we were lost in the woods together I would give us roughly a day and a half before death occurs. We would build up the logs and toss a match or two in and then some news paper but it just would never catch. So being the drunken resourceful little thinker that I am, I went inside and grabbed anything I could find in an aerosol can that said “Highly Flammable”. When I came back out I just started spraying everything in the fire pit with said cans, took another sip of beer, prayed to the fire gods, and then tossed a match in. It basically created 4 seconds of massive flames which tried attacking my face and then went back to nothing. Fail. But after some perseverance, another 6 pack between us, and some more flammable liquids we finally had a fire going.
We were sitting on a picnic bench with our backs to the fire having a few drinks. All I can really say about what happened next is that gravity and I were just not on the same page that night. Gravity won. To be fair, gravity had a 12 pack on its side working against me as well. I fell backwards, basically inches from the fire. My legs were still up on the picnic bench while my elbows were holding my body up from lying in fire basically. JoJo decided as this was all happening that she had to pee. This couldn’t wait apparently. Not only did she choose the bathroom over her fallen sidekick, but she chose it while laughing hysterically at me lying in a fire. Granted, I was laughing as well. I’ll be fair here; it wasn’t like I was being burned at the stake when she left. I was a moderately safe distance from the flames. So as I lay in my back yard, by myself, at 3am, inches from flames eating my face; I thought about my options. I realized if I moved either of my arms it would result in me falling directly into the flames because they were all that was supporting me. I also realized I was way too drunk to navigate this situation on my own. I don’t make the best decisions sober, so when I need to make them while drinking I usually just don’t decide and wait for someone else to do it for me. But once again, being the smart little drunken resourceful thinker that I am, I discovered a beer close by. It was close enough that I could keep my arm planted to hold my body away from ensuing death, but also grab the refreshing beverage. I mean, I was lying in a fire…it was hot, give me a break. So when JoJo came back out she found me still lying in the fire pit, but drinking a beer. As she continued hysterically laughing at me she came over to help now that her bladder was empty and she was capable of doing such. Thanks JoJo, you saved not only me, but also that Bud Light. You’re a true friend for life.
When we weren’t crusading around town dressing as Mexicans and drinking we were back to the grind at work watching the circus ensue. Pecan Glasses and Scruffy Tubs were working the ice cream stand one night and they were both on their ‘A’ game. Pecan Glasses no longer wanted to be Pecan Glasses. She had gotten contacts but still hadn’t mastered them. When I say she hadn’t mastered them I mean she looked like a rabid monkey trying to put them in. She would make all sorts of noises and swat her arms around in the air while they were settling into her eyes. I know this, because she wouldn’t go to the bath room to put them in. She would do it right out in the store. But don’t get me wrong, she was very sanitary when doing it. She literally would poor half of a mini bottle of hand sanitizer into her hands, push it around for 2 seconds and then, with her hands dripping in sanitizer would put her contacts in. She would then complain about her eyes stinging saying her contacts were “broken”. Just a guess here, Pecan Glasses…the burning could have to do with the rubbing alcohol you’re smearing your eye balls with. I’m no doctor, but just a thought. So on this particular night Scruffy Tubs took his usual 13 minutes to make one milkshake and when he gave it to the customer she asked him if he had to go milk the cow. He didn’t quite understand she was upset and making fun of how long he had taken and just grunted at her and walked away. This was his normal routine if someone confused him. So Pecan Glasses had to come over and finish the order. The customer’s friend asked for a hot fudge sundae. The customer said no nuts I believe 3 times, and I was across the store and heard it. Pecan Glasses then proceeded to pile nuts all over the sundae. As she was doing this the customer stated one last time no nuts. Pecan finally heard it, giggled a little, then pushed all the nuts off into the trash and handed her the sundae. When the customers started complaining about how bad their whole experience was, Pecan Glasses just up and walked away scratching at her eyes like a meth head who hadn’t slept in 9 days and then started yelling her eyes were on fire. This is when I decided I would swoop in to try and save the situation and get a tip. This was always the perfect situation because the second the customer realizes you’re normal and even just a little better than the last two, they instantly love you. It’s like after Bush left the White House. My dog could have gotten elected after him and everyone would have said President Muffin was the chosen savior of our country and would lead us to prosperity. It’s not exactly a tough act to follow.
Ok, all this talk of ice cream, now I want some. So I’ll end this story so I can go get some but again, I will most likely revisit more adventures of the Byrne Dairy and also of me and the one and only JoJo. I still haven’t even told you about how we metaphorically ‘dunked the shit out of one fat donut.’ Yes…it is as weird as it sounds.