Archive for the ‘Wangs’ Category

You should know that everything and nothing has happened since I spilled my jumping beans about retarded werewolves five months ago.

I fell in and out of like with a few people on my accidental quest for a new teammate in life.  The good news is that I’m pretty sure that only One Third of that bunch is still harboring adverse feelings toward me.  I regret leaving a grubby little snail trail of feelings behind me.  Don’t think I haven’t slid around on them myself.

You could trace them all the way back to Six Flags Over Texas circa 1995.  That was the time my internet boyfriend from AOL Teen Chat: The Half Pipe was going to meet me, Daisy1356, in the flesh for the first time.  I can’t believe there was actually a time in which we had to rely solely on strangers’ descriptions of themselves, and man were they idealistic.  I’m pretty sure mine was wholly inaccurate, too.  And by “pretty sure” I mean I was at least four years older with a tan just a smidge lighter than Idi Amin’s.  Anyway, Adrian was unsurprisingly nothing close to what he’d described.  Instead of respectfully explaining myself face to face, I tucked tail, ran the opposite direction toward all things Mommy and Daddy, and changed my screen name upon returning home.

That was a very long path to something I wanted to address:  the fact that explaining undesirable feelings in person doesn’t seem to have a more positive effect.  But I’m an adult and I can’t go on letting just everyone assume I’ve been disemboweled in a freakish amusement park accident (or can I) never to be seen or heard from again.

However painful and embarrassing, I want to remember the moment in which the aforementioned One Third said, “Normally I’d say that’s a beautiful sky, but right now it just looks like a shitty watercolor” while gazing upward. That was obviously immediately after I spewed some unpleasant feelings aloud.  There is no smooth way to tell someone that you’re not the right fit for them, but that was definitely the smoothest way anyone has ever called me an asshole.

A couple days later I met with the manager of a local Italian market where I was hoping to score some weekend catering work (this was all part of my grand scheme to gather extra funds for traveling and so far it’s granted me one ticket to Chicago come September where I’ll visit with an extraordinary friend and wangle my very first tattoo).

I was instantly distracted by a handsome vision behind the deli counter.  He was back lit bright, nestled between cheeses, and stood tall beneath a dangling halo of authentic Italian meats that swung slightly in the recycled air.

I was hired on the spot and it took a dreadfully (probably karmically deserved) long time for Meat Halo to even notice me, let alone ask me out.

After one of our first dates to a Thai restaurant he left his pineapple fried rice with extra cashews in my fridge.  Realizing this the following day, he sweetly offered the remnants to me.  I accepted the offer and sent them directly to what I’d originally thought to be a quaint home, the inside of my growling tummy.


I hadn’t eaten a cashew in a couple decades.  In fact, the last time I’d eaten cashews was quite memorable for everyone involved.  My parents had taken me to some boring wedding where I’d taken the liberty of emptying an entire bowl of these complimentary, oily, tropical treats into my seven year old gob.  I brought that reception back to life by tossing them right back up on the pool deck about a half hour later.  At least I was able to shout, “I THINK I’M GONNA…” beforehand.

A similar feeling washed over me this time, Hulk-like in its particular shade of green coupled with abnormally high body temperatures.  Just imagine that instead of raging super human strength, Bruce produced raging super human puke and there you have me.  I snuggled my water conserving toilet all night long.  Go green!  Awesome, I did.

I visited a local allergist after this episode, apparently through a super secret worm hole to the year 1987.  Could it be that I’d died and gone to mauve heaven?  The examination table was newborn baby bulb syringe blue and while the nurse dutifully demonstrated how to use an epipen I noticed the top supply drawer had a label on it that read:  FACIAL TISSUE.  Frightening!  Phew.  The drama I’d longed for in her performance was found there instead.

On my way out, clutching epinephrine prescription and pamphlet advertising medic alert bracelets with MOOD CHANGING BEADS, I noticed a lunatic, framed photo above the hand washing station.  It captured a mystery person from the waist down, top portion of their body covered by the full branches of a tree they stood behind.  As I stepped closer to inspect what I’d originally thought to be a foggy spot on the glass caused by moisture damage, I realized that the tree in this photograph was on FIRE and the foggy spot was actually a cloud of smoke billowing forth.

At the time it didn’t make a lick of sense, but I realize that the joke was on me and this mystery man is what one might warmly refer to as a Tree Nut.



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I’m in a real pickle. 

I was invited to a friend’s going away celebration this weekend and the invite clearly specifies the theme as “BLT”.  You might be as disappointed as I was to learn that this acronym doesn’t actually stand for BACON, LETTUCE, AND TOMATO.

It stands for black tie, lingerie, or toga.  A toga?  What?  I don’t even own white sheets.  I do have brown sheets which just sounds downright offensive out loud. 


“Hey!  Have you seen my friend, April?

“Perhaps I have!  What is she wearing?” 

“She’s covered in brown sheets.”

“Ew!  Has she seen a doctor about that?”

I’m toying with the idea of showing up as a terribly confused sandwich.  If the others don’t see the humor in it I picture myself awkwardly double fisting too many appletinis in the corner and becoming every host’s least favorite guest, the dreaded belligerent sandwich.

By the end of the night I’ll have lost my crust to a skuzzy Roman with Heineken breath.  You’ll find me in the front lawn yowling at some jezebel decked out in a lacey, Fredericks of Hollywood teddy to hold my mayo.

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Stranger Danger

If you see this man, please bring him to me.  I want to slide him down a razor blade slide into a vat of hydrochloric acid and afterward don his shriveled, trifling testicles as earring trophies.

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“I’ll take care of the squealing, wretched, pinhead puppets of Gotham!”

I was followed from the gym all the way through the parking garage and up to my car last Friday.  It was raining, so I had my hood up, and my umbrella in a grip so tight I lost feeling in my pinky. 

(Here’s a shocker:  I can be a bit too big for my britches at times.  I tend to believe I’m a lot tougher than I am because I spent many years of my childhood faking my older sister out so she would stop giving me dutch ovens in our Alvin & the Chipmunks tent.  And Erika, if you’re out there, I sincerely hope you’re not doing this to your children as an alternative to a time out.)

I was in complete denial until I approached my car door and he stopped, stood there, and watched me.  He had his hood up and I’m crazy enough to say he was the Grim Reaper.  I carry a stun gun in my purse, but my idiot instinct was to hit him with my umbrella.  I’ve seen Batman Returns too many times.  

He said, “Hi!”  then pretended to look around and up toward the ceiling.  I barked “HI!” back, but in a most threatening, gatekeeper-y voice similar to that of demigod, Zuul

It was that, the “I Love Brains” sticker on my car, or the person who just happened to stroll past the two of us in a Greeting/Staring Match at the perfect moment that sent him walking lickety-split on out of the parking garage.

Knock it off, universe.

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During the first (Mormon and caffeine free) decade of my childhood, watching anything other than asexual, happily ever after films was strictly verboten. 

I can’t complain because my cousins had it far worse.  They weren’t even allowed to say the word, “butt”. 

You can only imagine the horror in my aunt’s eyes the evening she walked in on me confessing to her children how I desperately wanted to be the piano seat beneath Richard Marx’s butt in the Christian music video we were all watching. 

In hindsight that certainly seems like more of a nightmare (to be smothered by Richard Marx’ ass) than a turn-on, but love does work in mysterious ways. 

It should also come as no surprise now that during this time no one ever discussed “the birds and the bees” with me. 

Instead I took notes from actors and actresses in a plethora of late 80’s to early 90’s erotic/thriller/contraband VHS tapes my parents kept tucked behind the Disney collection. 

Bear necessities vs. bare necessities.  Guess which ones I chose?

Basic Instinct (Spoiler:  It turns out to be not so basic.)

Nine 1/2 Weeks (Mickey Rourke as the naked Wrestler.)

Sliver (A Baldwin!)

Bitter Harvest (Another Baldwin!)

No Way Out (My favorite at the time for the erotic limousine tour of the Washington DC monuments and memorials.  Somebody hose me down over here.)

Flash forward to last week in Production class where the teacher announced our homework, to describe the use of dramatic lighting throughout the movie, Basic Instinct

I blushed and forgot for a moment that she wasn’t asking us to watch porn. 

I honestly couldn’t even tell you what the movie was about.  My ten year old review would read simply: “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBS!!!”

Will my twenty six year old review be any different?

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Mace car.

Life lessons have and will always be clearly laid out in front of me in a stinky pile so large I trip and crash into them.  It sounds painful because it is.

Example:  I made fun of a disabled classmate in middle school and the very next day she grabbed me by the hair and smashed my head into a rock.  Do you have any questions?

Well, last year while visiting my family in Texas I came down with a nasty case of pink eye.  My father was convinced it came from doodoo and they called me “Brown Eyed Girl” for the duration of my stay.  As if it wasn’t obvious by now that I was raised on poop, dick, and fart jokes.  It’s all part of the Mormon backlash.

Anyway, the more it swelled the more it began looking like Thom Yorke’s eye.  And that’s what I referred to it as.  Jeepers, did I think that was clever or what?

You can flash forward a year from then and find me learning two lessons in one.  

I’m babysitting my mom’s car while she’s living in Romania.  I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded had I asked, but I drove it around during The Great Charlotte Gas Crisis of ’08.  It had a full tank of gas when my poor Honda was running on fumes without an operating petrol station in sight.

So I drove it home from work one day and noticed the interior had a bit of a muggy odor.  I opened the glove compartment (surprise – no gloves) and pulled out what I thought to be a tiny can of air freshener.  Whoa no, was a tiny can of mace!  I laughed to myself and thought, “How hilarious would it have been if I’d pulled that puppy out in the dark and sprayed it?”   The traffic light changed to green, so I quickly tossed the can back inside and slammed the door shut. 


What the?  The sound was coming from the glove compartment.  And it was followed by a thin, creepy, cartoon-like trail of smoke and the scent of peppery hell demons.  I was merging onto the highway while this is happening, so I stayed in the far right lane just in case I lost my eyesight.  My first instinct was to cry, but I centered my girl brain, rolled the windows down, and pointed the vents away from myself at full blast. 

I made it all the way home in one piece and unleashed the little beast from the glove compartment.  When it popped open nothing happened, but I still let out one of those embarrassing, instinctual, Scooby screams. 

And then I realized I was listening to Radiohead, The Bends, and Thom Yorke sang the Just chorus mockingly loud into my big, dumb, wiener-y face. 

You do it to yourself you do

And that’s what really hurts

I get it.  If there’s a next time I’ll call it pink eye.  And I’ll ask permission before I drive my mom’s car. 

I feel like sometimes I’ll always be a 13 year old girl inside. 

Please don’t transpose that last sentence.

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Due to recent design improvements and clever marketing my once empty (and sacred) local fitness center has gained several new lady members.  And one of them has quickly become my gym enemy. 

We’ll call her Jiminy. 

Now I know I don’t own the place, but I’ve been changing the channel from the local Charlotte news to The Ellen Degeneres show for two whole years.  She makes me laugh and forget about the panic stricken dolts in my city pulling guns on each other at the gas station due to the recent shortage.

I ask the other women before I do it and they’ve always responded with, “Yes, please change the channel!”  That was until Jiminy showed up. 

She was busy sweating her horns off the other evening when I went about this routine and didn’t respond when I asked if anyone was watching the news.  Everyone but Jiminy shook their heads, so I assumed I had a green light.  I turned, put my finger on the button, and jumped clean out of my skin when I heard her yell, “WHAAAAAAT ARE YOU DOING?!!!!!!???!!!!!”  As if I had just committed a preposterous crime nothing short of crapping on the leg press.

I thought someone would back me up like in the movies, but I am not Tom Cruise and no one was “coming with me”. 

I froze with both hands high in the air as she began asking the women around her, “WHAT IS SHE DOING??!!!!!!”   No one said a word or even blinked, so I tucked tail and ran to an elliptical machine near the back of the room.  On my way (a whole four feet) I mentally prepared myself to respond to this stranger who had just yelled at me in public. 

But too much time had passed by the time I opened my mouth.  I squealed “SAAAAAH—RRRRRY” with a sudden change in volume toward the middle to emphasize the fact that I wasn’t actually sorry at all.  Ridiculous, I know. 

It’s been a week or so since then and ever since I’ve been trying to find a way to make things right between us.  I don’t care if she wants to watch the news.  As long as no one is yelling at me I could really care less what’s on the tube. 

Here’s something we have in common: we’re the only two brave enough to use the infrared sauna

Possible Coincidences: 

1.  There’s only room for two in the sauna.

2.  The latest assignment in my Production class is to interview a stranger. 

I can’t think of a more impressing interview to bring to the table next week. 

Possible Questions:

1.  Have you ever been bitten by an animal?  How about a human? 

2.  If given the choice would you rather a.) Punch me in the collar bone?  Or b.) Glue a small refrigerator to my backside?

Possible Statements I’ll keep to myself:

1.  I wrote about you in my online journal.

2.  You’re like a hot plate I can’t help but touch.

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