Assume the Condition

This morning I awoke in my boyfriend's bed after a long night of semi-erotic nightmares only to hear the twinkling voice of a female person, followed by the monotone voice of a male person that would not stop talking. This, I knew, was one of my man's roommates, let's call him- Banana Rama. Naturally when I heard Banana Rama blathering on about gkw (God Knows What), I ASSUMED the female listener was his girlfriend, let's call her- Peanut. Peanut is a friend of mine, and I was surprised that she was over at 9:30 in the morning since she teaches high school, which starts at the ungodly hour of 7:15. I also noted to myself that Peanut has been playing hooky quite a bit lately and I thought, "Man, Peanut's really pushing it. I didn't know she was such a Ferris Bueller"

I sat and listened intently to the female voice, which had become less of a voice and more of a validating squeak to Banana Rama's morning soliloquy. Hmm. Peanut is more of a squawker than a squeaker and this, this was quite odd. My boyf- lets call him- Mister E.- had left and I was alone with my suspicions. Who the hell was out there if not Peanut? Did Banana Rama have a strange high-pitched girl come over at 9:30 am for a quick one-sided convo over coffee and facebook? Who would want to do that? It's a Wednesday! Did Banana Rama have a friend from out of town staying over? An early-rising college pal, passing through? Catching Up? Moving On? OR WAS BANANA RAMA A SHAMELESS CHATTEROX SCUM MAGGOT CHEAT??!??!!!

I had to pee.

I left the room and yes, my friends, yes, it was as my imagination imagined. No Peanut. Not one pad thai inkling of a Peanut. Just the Squeaker- Let's call her- Cookie Two Shoes- listening squeakily to Banana Rama banana ramble on about dinosaurs. I had never seen Cookie Two Shoes before in my life. Who was this minx? This home-wrecker? This bar-hopping Banana Rama lovin' tartlette?

I muffled a fast Hi. to Cookie Two, who cheerfully Good Morning'ed me back, and shuffled nervously to the bathroom. Pondering my deep moral dilemma as I peed, I noted with paranoia that Banana Rama had not looked me in the eye, had not said hello, and in fact, did not introduce me to his fair concubine. This was big, bad, and shit: That scum maggot cheat!!!!

On my way back to the bedroom, I passed the happy hanky-pankers without a word and immediately texted Mister E.


Me: Who is this Cookie Two Shoes?

Mister E.: Banana Rama's Fuck Buddy.

Me: *&^%*%$$%@#!!!!!

Mister E.: J/K. Cookie Two is (Mister E.'s other roommate- Let's call him- Duncan D.) Duncan D.'s lovey dove.

Me: Oh. Ha. I assumed Cookie Two was Banana Rama's newest side of scum maggot slaw. Ha. My bad.

Mister E.: I knew you would.


Thankfully, I had this text exchange with Mister E. before I could hop on the 'ol g chat and ruin Peanut's day with graphic Cookie Two Shoes Banana Rama Split with extra whip cream and hot fudge cherry on top imagery. Crisis averted. Case closed.

I learned a valuable lesson today, One that the wise and best selling author Don Miguel Ruiz has thoroughly divulged in his self-helper- The 4 Agreements:

The Big Number 3: DON'T MAKE ASSUMPTIONS.

DO NOT MAKE ASSUMPTIONS. Hmmph. Fine. Good plan. Good Solid Plan. I'm on it like frosting on a cupcake. Although, Poo: That doesn't sound very fun. And wait, does this mean I have to stop living my life like I'm going to win the lottery in 2012 and consequentially end world hunger? Crap.

FIND CHEWY!

My boyf's friends just lost their precious Chewy in an horrible rest stop nightmare. If you see Chewy, grab her. But don't touch her headband.

Mortal Flesh

In the past weeks I have suffered from the following ailments:

1.) Tennis Elbow
2.) Huge Juicy heel Blisters (*&%#!! cute shoes!)
3.) Broken Cat scratched skin
4.) 1st degree hand burns from boiling hot Italian Wedding Soup
5.) A purple to blue to green to yellow bruise the size of a Ritz cracker on my thigh
6.) Mild Dehydration
7.) 1st degree arm burns from a toaster oven
8.) Menstration
9.) Vodka/Tequila housewarming hangover from hell
10.) Voracious Hunger

All evidence that I am mortal. While humbling, this, indeed, is no way to live. My hand is Swamp thing right now. And I'm pretty sure I won't be able to fall asleep for a while tonight because I'll be too overstimulated by staring at the computer all day.

It's times like these I wish I was a cat. But then again, I'd have to wait for my asshole owner to feed me, take a shower with my tongue, and not be able to force my boyfriend to massage my elbow while cruising ebay for a decent set of printed bedsheets that are not toile, flower related, sports fannery, or "ethnic."

Life. "What a doozy."

My Grandma Was A Hipster

My grandma recently passed away and left behind a trail of hipster goods. Jewelry being the main source: Little pins with painted birds, all kinds of animal broaches, gold chains, 70's pendants...a bunch a stuff. This could mean several things:

A.) My Grandma was a hipster.
B.) All old people are hipsters.
C.) My Grandma was friends with a hipster who liked to give her gifts- A Giftster.
D.) I'm a hipster.
E.) The word hipster is a controversial and somewhat derogatory term that should not be thrown around lightly.
F.) Walter Meownez is #1.

I'd like to think that all of these with the exception of D is true. I took a test in the Hipster handbook once in college and did not qualify into hipsterdom. It was because I answered yes to a question that was something like, "Do you like to drink beer in the back of trucks." Therefore putting me into the hick category. I scored high on Hick. Then my friend Nick and I decided hipsters were racist, and classist so we drank a liter of Gin and chased it with water. Then I threw up all over this Glaswegian club named the Art School, called one of the employees with a massive unibrow "Frida," and had to be dragged home by my legwarmers. Go Figure.

Obama is My Friend

Last night I had a wonderful dream that Barak Obama was at my family Thanksgiving feast. At first it was awkward. Hey...Mr...President...do you want a....thigh...bone? Then it was exciting. Hey! Obama's at my house! Obama's at my house! WOOO HOOO Obama's at my house! I called my friend Stacy and I said, "Stacy, you will never guess who came to Thanksgiving!" Obama. OH BAMA.

I never thought of Obama as the kind of guy you would invite to Thanksgiving. Everyone knows to avoid politics at the dinner table. And if Obamas in the house, sucking down Cold Duck and deviled eggs, looking all Presidential and Democratic and well, political, a convo without politics may be damn near impossible. "So your house...it's white..."

BUT THEN, I heard about Obama's "Special Olympics" comment on Jay Leno, and I was like..damn, I could really hang out with this dude. Obama is a funny dude. I read in the barely credible In Touch Magazine that 27% of pollees lost respect for Obama after that comment. He actually gained my respect, and my friendship if he were ever to want it. Political correctness is pretty much the last thing I care about in a person. And it's not like he said, Jay, I bowl like a retard Jay. A fucking mongoloid. Or when asked what he though about Bush, "Oh that crazy cracker, he's going straight to hell with all of those other Nazis." No, he used Special Olympics as an adjective, and it was funny.

I also read in the barely credible United Airlines in flight magazine, that he occassionly smokes a cigarette to release stress. Cool, we can smoke the errant socially stress-free cigarette, use nouns as adjectives and chillax out on my roof.

This is the kind of friendship I've been looking for. Obama, your humanity is astounding. Let's hang.

YAWP!CiTY