Your Sniffer!

SHORT POST TODAY!

I was standing in my kitchen when suddenly I got a whiff of Apple Jacks.

I’m not sure where the scent came from but in that moment I was consumed by my cinnamon-y enchantress. I immediately left and bought a box (and some Cinnamon Toast Crunch) and have been eating cereal every day for lunch and dinner. Update: My teeth have NOT fallen out yet.

After my sugary shame-eating, I started thinking about all the different types of smells that trigger strong emotional responses from me. In this case Apple Jacks = ENVY/LUST/SLOTH/WRATH.

Then there are scents like the shampoo I used in college which reminds me of when I starved myself for 3 months out of depression. Just image a little skeleton weeping softly onto her twin extra long mattress but with beautifully full and flowing hair. An emaciated Rapunzel, if you will.

The smell of Burt’s Bees Grapeseed and Honey Hand Lotion reminds me of when I got my first tattoo (it’s what they used to keep the burning dead flesh moisturized before it falls off). It also brings up the memories of what was going on at the time. What kind of hobbies I had, what restaurants I was going to consistently (obsessive personality, I just bought 5 flannels because I liked the first one I bought so obviously I needed ALL OF THEM), and obviously the glaring reality of WHO I WAS SECRETLY IN LOVE WITH at the time.

Sometimes I’ll get a whiff of what my first elementary school smelled like, which surprisingly isn’t barf and embarrassment. Maybe a little bit of embarrassment. Thank Christ I never barfed at school, I’d never be able to live that down. One time I got stuck in my school uniform after gym class (dresses are hard) and I sat in the bathroom and cried for 20 minutes (probably 2 minutes) until someone found me and dressed me. My mom did my hair until I was 14, lay off.

I really want to know, What scents bring back strong memories or feelings for you? Do you have a strong emotional connection from another one of your senses?

Jet fuel-ish smells makes me nervous that I’m going to get shoved onto a plane then shoved off it mid-flight. My heart rate just spiked thinking about.

I was listening to a guided mediation and the man narrating began by asking what dominates how you think. Do you think in pictures? Words? Do you react to smells more? Touch/physical feeling more? I have a big honker (toot toot, sniff sniff, where’s the Zicam?) so it came to no surprise that smell came easier to me than trying to “taste” something. Also, I definitely think in words more than pictures because pictures I end up morphing into something sexual because I’m a pre-teen boy trapped in a 25 year old woman’s body. Hehe.

Okay it’s time for bed I love you I can smell you from across the internet with my nose wow is that Irish Springs?

DAY 13! Blog Challenge.

Hi my sweet little mangoes.

Did you think I would abandon my dedication to this blog challenge?

You did? Me too…oh well! Here’s number 13.

My earliest memory.

I remember lying in a crib during a house party. I was probably 1-2 years old. That’s about it. *sets off fireworks*

Other than that I remember playing with our Fisher Price Little People Parking Garage while listening to “We are the Champions” on repeat. That and Alvin and the Chipmunks covers of Tom Jones songs.

Seems fitting as to how I turned out now.

***

In other news, I’ve been riding on a rainbow wave of comedy lately.

I went to my first open mic. I didn’t perform but I stayed to observe. Not as scary as I thought it was. Even the people who didn’t get laughs were treated well. No pitchforks or torches.

Brian Regan is coming to a venue nearby so maybe I’ll get to meet him. WHO KNOWS. When I got to meet Bill Burr I slobbered all over myself and gushed about all the things he doesn’t care about. But it was a fun experience. I don’t know why I think I don’t get starstruck. Me not sure if thart sketence waz kurect?

Oh well.

Until next time, my thunder babies!

Please Haunt Me, Greg Giraldo

I’ve had a talent for willing bizarre things in my life. That includes both good and bad.

Some include:

  • Getting my favorite comedians to retweet me or mention me on a podcast.
  • Getting caught in the middle of a shootout.
  • Dancing around as a Van Halen girl on a movie set for 5 hours.
  • Having a homeless guy chase me through a parking lot and jangle his junk around while pointing at me.

All  instances that I followed coincidences to get to.

I like the idea of synchronicity and every time I’ve followed it, I’ve come out the other end with some sort of story to tell about it.

Greg Giraldo, an awesome comedian, keeps popping up.  In conversations, books,  and on TV. More than I’ve ever seen before, especially considering he died three years ago. I can’t turn a corner without someone mentioning him or some outlet referencing his stand-up.

It’s great, but it’s becoming unavoidable.

So I pulled up some video from his tribute special on Comedy Central. There’s a small segment of him describing his stand-up as “puckish.” I instantly thought of Puck from the Real World circa 1994. That and a Midsummer’s Night Dream poster with Michelle Pfeiffer on it, that hung in my 8th grade English class.

My ability to retain information has gone down since a six month stint in college, so I looked up “puckish.”

Essentially: “playful, in mischievous way.”

An adorable way to describe his comedy.

Then I thought to myself, I wish Greg Giraldo would haunt me and be my spirit guide in the world of comedy.

I thought on it for a while and thought of all the fun adventures we’d have.

Then I went and packed my crap up to go gym.

About ten minutes later, I went outside and opened the driver side door of my car and leaned across it. I threw my gym back to the passenger side, my ass is hanging out the door.

PSSST!

I turned around and looked at my house, thinking maybe my mom was trying to get my attention. Nothing was there.I turned back and started to climb into the car, ass still hanging out, I heard it again.

PSSSSST!

I turned around again, embarrassed, thinking someone was making fun of my ass and I hadn’t been sharp enough to catch them the first time. I turned back to the car.

PSST!!!

I looked around again, at the door of the house, the windows, the neighbors houses, behind the cars. I felt like an asshole. Was someone playing a joke on me and my ass?

It wasn’t an animal, there was no one around, and I haven’t smelt burning feathers recently. It sounded like someone was trying to get my attention.

Awfully, PUCKISH, amiright?

I scrambled into the car, locked the doors, and drove on the lawn.

Could this be another stepping stone on the synchronicity trail?

I’m going to meditate more on this and I’ll let you know if I conjure up anything else.

Until next time, fart-ners.

Attempting Normal

Hooray!

Marc Maron’s new book, “Attempting Normal” comes out today.

I pre-ordered mine in hopes to get the signed poster that was being offered. I sent my e-mail requesting one last week but didn’t get a response (to confirm or deny) being able to get one. My neurosis and paranoia set in, so I figured I’d e-mail them today. I was panicking that they would hate me for my pestering persistence.

I tried to make the e-mail sound polite and professional as possible, but I accidentally left the subject as “FWD: YOUR BARNES AND NOBLE ORDER HAS SHIPPED.”

Shit. They might think it’s spam. But I’m not spam! Just a girl who wants a poster. Why do you think I bought the complete Rocko’s Modern Life DVD set? Free poster. Why do you think I sign up for road races and never run them. Free t-shirts. Any event I ever went to in college regardless of what it was in support of? Free. Friggen. T-SHIRTS.

LIVE FREE OR DIE NAKED/POSTERLESS.

I think there are still some posters left or if you just like reading printed words on dead trees, go here: http://www.wtfpod.com/dispatches/entries/pre_order_attempting_normal

I don’t know how to get links to say a phrase and not just say the whole link, so ignore my quackery*.

In other news, I left my granola bar on my desk and a sunbeam warmed it up so the yogurt part of it tasted like warm frosting. Normally, warm yogurt would make me want to throw up out my ass, but this was really good.

I also recently found out my favorite place to get coffee doesn’t sell strawberry or vanilla frosted doughnuts. I also recently found out I am not confident when writing the word “doughnut.” I figured I can at least get the strawberry ones around Valentine’s Day or maybe ever Breast Cancer Awareness month. I can’t really think of a holiday that would warrant vanilla frosted doughnuts.

Okay, my little circus freaks, until next time!

*I’m not entirely sure that’s a word, but WordPress isn’t telling me I’m wrong so I MUST be right.

Dude, Where’d My Face Go?

Hey my Cabbage Patch Squids,

I think I may be having an identity crisis, but mainly just at my gym.

Every time I walk in and buzz my little card at the scanner, I get greeted with “HEY! You haven’t been around lately!” by one of the staff members. What? No! I was here yesterday and you said the same thing to me then. Maybe they’ve mistaken me for someone else? I smile and lie “I know, right?!” and I head over to the boxing area.

“Hello! How are you?!” asks a lovely woman I’ve maybe smiled at once or twice when she looked in my general direction.  Is she talking to me? She’s staring at me. Maybe she remembers me from the last thirty sessions we’ve had together? I haven’t answered her yet. Oh God. “Um, hi! Good! How are you?” Maybe she does remember me and she’s being friendly. There are a lot of new people here today.

“How’s your shop doing?” she asks as she wraps up her hands. I don’t have a shop, do I? Did I tell her I had a shop? Have we spoken before? Is there a woman who looks exactly like me and coincidentally comes into boxing every time I’m not there and talks about her shop? I wonder what kind of shop it is. Does she sell doughnuts or scarves? Thankfully the instructor started shouting drills at us so I couldn’t answer, and I made sure to ignore and avoid all eye contact for the next 45 minutes of class.

As the instructor was calling out drills, I saw him do a double take of me out of my peripheral. Oh Lord, unwanted conversation in three…two…

“Hey! How are you doing? You’ve been out lately.” Guh. No I haven’t. Who are you people? Who am I? What’s happening here?

I just kept smiling and answering his questions of my whereabouts. “Oh, you know,  just busy.” Nope, I’ve been here the past three days. Right there, on that treadmill and over there on the yoga mat and right here, right now for my example tomorrow when you don’t realize who I am. This does bring attention to all the times he called all the other girls names out in class and then stared at me and said “and you.”

It began to dawn on me that maybe I’m just another face in the crowd, easily mistaken for anybody and everybody else. “I just saw your sister!” I don’t have a sister. “How was the swim meet?” I don’t own a bathing suit. I’m beginning to see myself as a body with one of those fencing masks on. Nothing distinguishable, nothing unique.

But I am, I am! I yell in my mirror as I outline my lips with black lip liner and toss glitter into the air. I’m different! Look, a big nose! And look, a lazy eye! How are these things not jumping out at you? I mean, my nose is practically touching your face, sniffing all those little invisible hairs.

I think my quarter-life crisis has been rearing it’s over/underqualified, resume-hating, attention-wanting head.

Belching Bride

Yay! Usually I write out and proofread my essays first, but hey- you know, you’re cute. I’m going to work Doug Funnie stream of consciousness for you. But only you. Shh no more words. My turn. Don’t forget to lock the door and turn the AC on high.

The other day I was necking with a honey BBQ sandwich at a fine local eating establishment, when my mother and I got to talking about weddings. Now considering that most men are repulsed by my, *belch* ‘scuse me, by my forwardness, “wedding” is a delusion from WEtv that David Tutera is going to come to my house, pay for everything, hand sew my dress, and be my BFF. However, the topic came up and it was revealed to me that my mother has been hiding money away for my wedding. I use “my wedding” loosely, as the thought of it makes me “lawlz.” Although I am terribly humbled that her sweet/naive mind envisioned me as a blushing bride, I had to tell her to please take that money and either invest in it in the scented candle business, or to buy off the waiter who just told me he liked my “rockabilly” look. Either way, that wedding fund should be making interest for the next 5-10 years, figuring I get the corrective surgery and physical therapy I need for my hunchback that has been forming since the 2nd grade, after I caught my teacher stealing SunChips out of my RugRats lunchbox. I digress. The moral of the story kids, is that your mom, dad, guardian, caretaker, or whomever, does very nice things for you, even if you don’t know. It still doesn’t change the fact you’re never getting married and that you’re a disgusting slob with Donette powder caked under her fingernails, but at least it’s nice gesture.