So we've established that I can't make appointments and attend them without awkwardness ensuing. I can barely go to the grocery store without being sexually harassed (just today, a creepy man at the store asked if I wanted a kiss, and I said no thank you, and then he showed me a basket of Hershey Kisses, so I said never mind, yes I'd like one, and he said "of course you changed your mind.")
On Friday, I had my wisdom teeth taken out. The entire ordeal started when I was about 17 years old and my orthodontist told me I should get them out while I was still on my parents' insurance. Of course I relayed the message to them, like an idiot, and they assured me it could wait. I'm not much for pain or blood or surgery, so I agreed with them. Eight years later I have four erupted wisdom teeth that cause me to bite the inside of my cheek at every meal, a dentist scare tactic-ing me into getting them out ASAP, and my own insurance plan (and either my insurance sucks or wisdom teeth removal is the most expensive thing in the world). $700 and four teeth later, and I'm sitting here eating a milkshake with a spoon, telling you all about my travails.
Has my obsession with slipping on banana peels gone too far? I mentioned it here and here and in my About Me page, and I realized I mentioned my goal of seeing someone slip on a banana peel in an "about me" once way back in high school too. Everyone who has ever had the pleasure of calling me a co-worker knows about my sick fancy. Friends are always alerting me to abandoned banana peels they saw on various roads, as if expecting me to go stake it out in case anyone should trip on it.
And then this happened.
That made my lyfe too. Why does it bring such joy to me when I picture people slipping and falling, especially on banana peels? Here are my theories:
Did you know Rupert Grint, which is to say Ron Weasley, is a savvy investor these days? It's a good thing too, because he hasn't really done much with his acting career since the days of Harry Potter (incidentally, many of us also haven't done much with our lives since the Potterpocalypse). If you saw Rupert Grint in a movie, would you be able to suspend your disbelief that he was anyone but Ron Weasley, the ginger comic relief with the tattered, hand-me-down robes? No, because he's typecast. It's like that time Harry Potter had sex with a horse. No one enjoyed that. Well, it's possible the horse enjoyed that. But he couldn't be reached for comment because he's a horse, and thus does not speak English. Or any language.
Anyway...back to Ron. Let's say he gets a guest starring role on Breaking Bad. Now, I'm still working my way through season four, watching from behind my hands mostly, so for all I know, he actually is in season five. This is how I imagine it to be:
Walt: It's time to cook. We have a job to do, you little shit. Jesse: Bitch! Yo! Ron Weasley [in a British accent]: Crikey, Jesse! You sound like you need a bit of a lie-down. Walt [struggling to operate the forklift]: He can't have a BIT OF A LIE-DOWN. This is a two man job! Ron Weasley: Wingardium Leviosa! I'm an experienced sidekick. Don't worry, ol' chap.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a famous actress, or maybe a singer or a fashion model. I fancied myself the 6th Spice Girl, or the 4th Charmed sister (5th, if you count Paige). I thought maybe I could carve out a place for myself in the modeling world in the niche short-and-fat market.
But even then I was a realist, so instead I decided I needed to be an architect. Mike Brady from The Brady Bunch was an architect, and their house was really cool, and I wanted to design cool houses too. My role model growing up was that lady from Beethoven who, when asked if she had any kids, responded with "We have a career."
I wanted my career to be as important as her lapel was large.
I later learned that I had confused architecture with interior design, or better yet, professional Pinterest browsing. But by then I had moved on to writing.
There’s a story in my book about Barbie dolls, so I decided to get some dolls and pose awkwardly with them for a possible cover photo. I figured Barbies would be easy to come by in the world, so it wouldn’t be a problem to get my hands on a few for cheap.
But apparently Barbies aren’t that easy to come by. The thrift stores I checked out all had no Barbies, none of my friends had kept their old dolls, and I wasn’t about to pay full price at Toys R Us for a photo-shoot that may not even make it into the book. As a last ditch effort, I headed to the dollar store. I had seen knockoff Barbie dolls there in the past, and although they were definitely the very poor man’s version, they should be able to get the job done.