I accidentally joined a cult

Life is full of "whoops" moments.

"I left the cookies in the oven too long and they burned. Whoops."
"I forgot to do laundry yesterday and now I have no clean socks. Whoops"
"I watched an episode of Laguna Beach. Whoops".

All acceptable, daily whoopses that could happen to anyone. But "I joined a cult by accident. Whoops" does not have the same day to day acceptability factor. And so therefore I feel the need to explain myself. It truly was an accident. I would NEVER join a cult on purpose; I barely tolerate widely accepted and practiced organized religions (and Jesus fish bumper stickers) as it is. I'm way to cynical to be brainwashed. So here's how it happened.

It was during my bi-weekly trip to Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins to get a pint of chocolate Oreo ice cream and an iced coffee, that I came across a stack of pamphlets by the straws that said

"DAHN YOGA: BRAIN RESPIRATION"

And I thought, hmm, Yoga... what a novel Idea! And yoga that teaches you to breathe with your brain? How interesting... I don't think my brain is breathing nearly as much as it should be. And it keeps promising to quit smoking... but it never really does. "Brain" (I say to my brain) "Just because you're smoking ultra lights does not mean you're any closer to quitting." and with that, I convinced my brain to grab a pamphlet and stick it in my ice cream bag. On the way home, between sips of iced coffee, my brain and I decided that maybe yoga would help me get a little more inspired to step up my much needed health kick. I mean, as much as I love Donut holes and Ice cream, it's not exactly a well rounded meal plan. Aside from the fact that Donut holes are round, of course.

So the next day I called the number on the back of the pamphlet and was greeted by an elderly sounding Chinese man, which I was quite pleased with because I desperately wanted to learn yoga from that dude from the karate kid and as far as I was concerned I was just one step closer to realizing that dream. He told me to come in on Sunday for an "assessment" which I thought was a little strange but hey, if little Chinese man needed to asses my unflexible ice cream filled ass before admitting me into his brain breathing program, who was I to argue.

So here's the part of the story where I run into a whole bunch of red flags, and choose to ignore them for whatever reason. Let's count the red flags in this paragraph. I arrive at noon on Sunday which was exactly when Mr. Miyagi told me to be there and no one was there. In fact, the shop was closed and the sign on the door said "Closed on Sundays". Red flag number one. So I was a little confused, but decided to pop into the neighboring Panera Bread for my 3rd cup of coffee of the day and wait it out. Sure enough, 10 minutes after noon I see Mr Miyagi saunter through the parking lot and shuffle with some keys in the door. Was he opening the store on his day off for my assessment? I guess so. Red flag number 2. So I chug the rest of my caramel latte and head over to the Dahn Yoga center for brain respiration, where I was greeted by Mr. Miyagi and handed a large stack of text books. Red flag number 3. These text books, which seemed to be all about opening my mind up to healing powers (red flag number 4) were my reading materials. Right off the bat I had homework??? Not only was my brain not breathing, it was trying to grow hands and smother itself to death. Then Mr Miyagi had me sit down and put my hands on a big square thing that looked like a broken flat screen TV so he could use his computer to "read the color of my aura". Red flag number 5. As far as I'm concerned, computers can barely read the color of their own printer cartridges, let alone my freaking aura. So after the magic computer read that my aura was defiantly orange (and the witty quips about the fact that my living room is painted orange and thus leading to my inner orangeness fell upon def ears), we moved on to the next activity. I was moved to a big room with padded walls (red flag number 6) and told to remove my shoes. Then Mr. Miyagi commanded me to do a series of imposable balancing exercises which would have only been feasible if I had powers of levitation and a 3rd fricking arm, and I became acutely aware of a sneaking suspicion that the exercises were being made up for the little Chinese mans personal amusement. Red flag number 7. After it was confirmed that I was as flexible and balanced as a one eyed hippopotamus with downs syndrome, we moved on to the next section of my assessment. A full body massage. Where it was required by Mr. Miyagi that I be completely naked. Red flag number 8, and maybe the reddest of all flags. What does a naked full body massage have to do with yoga? Nothing. Was I willing to receive one from weird little Chinese man? Ironically yes.

So I paid the 50 bucks entry fee and with that, I was a student of Dahn Yoga. And believe it or not, here is where it starts to get really weird... and outlandishly hilarious.

I went in the following week for what Mr. Miyagi told me was "Orientation", and walked smack into a room full of middle aged women (and one extremely crabby looking old guy) in white robes. I was all of a sudden acutely aware of my gym shorts and black Myspace T-shirt that says "Myspace... Add+ me to your Friends list" on the front. I felt very put out. How come no one told me there was a bathrobe-esk wardrobe requirement? I wanted to do Yoga in a bathrobe too! Of course, I stuck out like a sore thumb and everyone stared at me as I pulled up a blue kindergarten nap time mat and joined the oldie farts in the padded room. I realized right away that no one was going to Add+ me to their friends list when they got home.

A young looking Asian woman walked in and immediately everyone stood and bowed. This is when I realized that I was the only one being "orientated", everyone else was well into the bathrobe program and light years ahead of me in stretchiness and messed up mind washing protocol. I jumped to my feet. Everyone wordlessly gathered in a giant circle and began humming with their eyes closed. "HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM" and a few seconds into this, everyone started rubbing their tummies with both hands. This is the moment in my story where I stifled a giant giggle, and tried not to pee in my gym shorts.

After about 5 minutes of this, with small breaks in the tummy rubbing (and occasional patting) to go around the circle and allow each participant to count to ten out loud for no reason, I was half expecting to hear each person shout out the planet they flew in from, and how many gargolightyears of Torobulons they have in their galaxies. The amount of crazy I was witnessing was way, way beyond matching bathrobes.

After the tummy love, humming, and repetitive counts of ten, we all went back to our mats. It's hard to effectively sum up the following 45 minutes, but I'm fairly sure there was no yoga in it. There was a lot of rolling around on the floor, some kicking at the air, and repeating of words in a language that sounded like what would happen if a Chinese made zombie movie was badly dubbed in Spanglish. Then, for a finale, the lights were dimmed and a basket of little plastic brains were handed out, and once everyone received said brains, they lay down on their backs and placed the brains right above their crotches. Then Mr. Miyagi walked around and soundlessly flipped little switches on the brains, causing them to buzz softly. Then it occurred to me all at once. They were vibrating. They were baseball sized vibrating brains that everyone had perched on top of their crotches during what seemed to be yoga meditation nap time masturbation. At this point, my brain was not only respirating, it was hyperventilating.

I have never put sneakers on and run out of a place so fast since my morning after blackout drinking days in college... which is pretty fast but apparently not fast enough for the old crabby robe dude to catch me on my way out. He scowled at me like I had failed initiation and said "MYSPACE? EH? WHATS THAT?" to which I replied "it's a website, you share pictures and writing and stuff on it." as I was backing out the door, he quipped "Isn't that a little arrogant, having a website all about you and your pictures? What makes you interesting enough to make people want to look at your pictures?" and at this point, It was clearly on. I pushed the door open, chucked my textbooks into the corner and said "What makes you arrogant enough to think anyone wants to watch you masturbate in a bathrobe using a vibrating plastic brain on your balls?"

It took me 5 phone calls and 1 threat of calling the police to get the Dahn Yoga Center to stop charging my credit card. There was a point where the weird shriveled up old receptionist lady who I never met was leaving voicemails on my cell phone 4 and 5 times a day in a language that I don't speak. About a month later I was leafing through a Jane magazine and came across an article about a girl who had escaped from a cult and on the last page there was a section of "up and coming cults to look out for" and guess what was third down on the list. You got it. Dahn Yoga. It even said that someone DIED of DEHYDRATION at one of the centers retreat camps. DEHYDRATION??? I thought we were supposed to be respirating here! I guess I got off easy I suppose. After all, I did get a naked full body massage AND got to witness the sheer brilliance in comedy motion that is a room full of oldie farts masturbating with brain shaped sex toys. The only thing I almost died of is laughter.

So there you have it folks. How I accidentally joined a cult once when I was trying to take yoga classes. Could've happened to anyone. Or... maybe just me.

The product of Sudafed and red wine

Having a cold turns pretty much every human being into a useless sack of shit. Case and point; the way I just opened this blog. If I were in a healthier state, I would have taken the time to properly formulate and articulate a less vulgar introductory line... but as it happens, I have one hell of a cold and don't really feel like putting fourth the effort. So "useless sack of shit" it is.

Since I got home from work (roughly 9:30pm) I have been pumping myself full of Sudafed and a steady stream of red wine, which is having the exact opposite effects on my system that I was intending. Hence the reason why it's 1:43 in the morning, and I'm sitting naked in my living room staring at the computer screen. The following statements are a direct result of my previous statements.

Having a cold is the ultimate universal excuse. A few weeks ago, I was at an open mic night in Chicago, where a girl came up on stage to do her 2 song set and before she sang she prefaced her performance with "usually my singing is a lot better, but I have a cold." My initial response was, oh poor thing! A cold on her open mic night performance, what shitty luck! Then, I thought, wait a minute, is that a palatable excuse? I have to admit, there were times in high school where I faked sick to try and somehow excuse my sub par performance on exams or attendance (or falling asleep on my desk during any and all classes involving math and/or numbers). In fact, "having a cold" got me out of a few mishaps in college, up until my teachers grew skeptical of my ever failing immune system, at which time I had to switch to "I have allergies". Then "I have allergies and no medical insurance" excuse was finally laid to a permanent rest after Claritin became available over the counter. But when it comes down to it, having a cold just makes you uncomfortable. Sneezing and coughing and the inability to breath without making choking and spluttering noises is both ridiculously inconvenient to every day chores AND generally very socially unacceptable. Would you want to be the one to sit next to my puffy drippy face on a bus? No. Can I still go to work and get my shit done? Yes. With exuberance and gusto? No. But still, not a good excuse to fail miserably. Really, when all is said and done, colds just make it a little harder then normal to focus... mainly because all of your focus is centered upon feeling very, very bad for yourself. When I started getting this cold, my brain went right into self pity mode. POOR ME! I HAVE A 3 DAY LONG RUNNY NOSE! But then my logical side chimed right in to remind me that things like Cancer last way longer then 3 days, and you cant take Sudafed for that. My logical side can be a real downer, so I try not to bring it to parties.

A cold is a one way ticket to an extended crappy mood, but lucky for me, crappy moods help me build up irrational irritation, which feeds into my ever blackening sense of humor and sarcasm. So in this way, I am thanking the cold fairy for the following rant.

While blowing my nose into a paper towel roll, I decided to make a cup of tea with honey (the second most popular "I'm feeling sorry for myself" culinary masterpiece next to chicken soup) and sit down to flip through a good magazine. Unfortunately, I didn't have any good magazines in the house so I had to read Cosmo. Now, Cosmo magazine might just be the single most anti-women piece of trash on the market today. The magazine claims to be all about women and what women want, but really its nowhere even close. It's completely 100% geared towards turning women into what MEN want them to be. Every article sent me further into a cold induced fury, making me realize that my inner feminist somehow got out of her shackles and was running wildly around in my brain wearing black GI Jane boots and singing Alanis Morissette songs from her Jagged Little Pill album. There are a million examples to choose from, but just for the sake of time I'll choose my personal favorite.

"50 WAYS TO PLEASE YOUR MAN"

This article had the balls to be almost 3 pages long, which was the first thing about it that made me chuckle. Really, the article could have been summed up in 3 short sentences. I will dub them "The 3 F's"

1. Feed him.
2. Flatter him.
3. Fuck him.

Why the article ended up 2 1/2 pages seemed like some serious lack of editing to me, and I have half a mind to write to the editor of Cosmo and complain about the needless amount of reading they are forcing their poor readers to do, when my "3 F's" cliff noted version summed up their entire article in 2 inches of page space. If I were hired as their columnist, I could save the magazine even more space to run adds for cigarettes, perfume, and personal lubricant that heats on contact. Oh the joys of being a woman knows no bounds.

But a liberated and forward thinking womans magazine wouldn't be complete without the quintessential article about how to achieve a "blended orgasm" which honestly just made me think of "blending" which made me think of "blenders" which made me think of "smoothies". And now I wanted a smoothie orgasm, which wasn't at all what the article was about. I skimmed the directions for said smoothie orgasm, which suggested that you follow a series of completely physically imposable steps (unless you are an overachieving contortionist with a powerful drive in the self stimulating department and too much free time). The article also suggested that you "practice on your own before attempting a blended orgasm with your man" and this thought automatically popped into my mind: If the art of achieving the smoothie orgasm is so difficult that you must first practice on your own before attempting it with another human being, chances are neither you nor you blundering neanderthal of a love making partner will be able to stumble anywhere near the correct smoothie making spot to achieve blending. Although if by some Cosmo cosmic force it were to actually happen, I would assume the elusive blended orgasm might be called "Berry Blast". I'd like to patent that idea, before 7-eleven gets their greedy corporate hands on it.

So there you have it. This blog brought to you by the makers of Sudafed, red wine, the Walgreens version of Clairitin (cleverly called Wal-itin), and the chauvinistic idiots who put create Cosmo magazine. I hope I get sued for this, because in court I'll just tell the judge "I had a cold when I wrote it" and thusly winning my freedom.

7 Deadly Sins

So again, I haven't written a blog in a while. Usually when I take a blog writing hiatus, its a good thing. I haven't been finding time to sit around feeling manic and depressed, eating stale Oreos in my underpants. Alas, I've been too busy to partake in such high class downtime entertainment. Without delving too much into my own personal boring agenda, I've gone part time at work (down from 6 days a week to 3) and fallen upon some extremely uncharted territory: Free time. It's afforded me the ability to actually get things done! Laundry, groceries, vacuuming, all other domestic activities including learning to cook... Fish. I like fish. I'm even experimenting with seasoning and nuts. You shut up.

So basically, all of this free time has gotten me thinking. If left to my own devices, if time is no longer a constraining issue and all of the "unfun" necessary chores of living are taken care of, what does one DO with ones time should it suddenly become bountiful? This question lead me right into the theory that you can really tell a lot about a person by what they do when there is nothing TO do. Following me so far? Allow me to clarify.

Some people chose to improve society. They volunteer, they work for a noteworthy organization, they help a charity or local cause. Some people chose to improve themselves. They go jogging, take a class, learn a skill, or take up a challenging hobby. To all of these people, I commend you. But one of these people... I am not.

It turns out I have little to no interest in working towards bettering society or myself in any literal or figurative shape/form. What I have discovered about myself in the short time I have been blessed with an abundance of hours upon hours of nothingness, is I appreciate nothingness as somethigness. Did that sentence make me seem "unmotivated" to you? This is not the case. I am plenty motivated, just not motivated directionally towards productivity in the original definition of the word. Again, I'm getting very wordy. Allow me to become even wordier.

Websters dictionary supplies a handful of synonyms for the word "productive" including "fruitful", "fertile" and "prolific". I think that even though I have shown complete and utter disregard for using my time in the aforementioned "positive" ways, I have still been extremely prolific AND fruitful. I don't know about fertile. I assume so.

Without further adieu, the title of this blog is "The 7 deadly sins... Loving every minute" and its possible that since up until now I've just been rambling, you've forgotten that I may indeed be working tirelessly to something that resembles a point. The 7 deadly sins are as follows, listed in the very same order as the Pope Gregory the Great in the 16th century AD (except his list was in Latin): Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. I'm sure you've all seen the movie "Seven", and if you try and tell me that it didn't deeply disturb and freak the shit out of you, you're a dirty lier and we are no longer friends. But I digress.

Since I have been experimenting with enjoying all the thrills and perks life has to offer without actually making any contributions to society or personal wellness, I have stumbled upon a catch 22 of sorts. Supposedly, the 7 deadly sins are huge and unforgivable character flaws. Here's where I tend to disagree. I have personally partaken in all 7 sins, but haven't felt less like a sinner in my life! Confusing. Lets break it down.

LUST
Lust is really one of the more self explanatory of the so called sins, and really can be easily defined as the urge to have sex. You could even go as far as to say it's the act of wanting and/or having excessive amounts of sex. Ok... fabulous, right? I hate to sound obvious here, but what's wrong with excessive sex if its consensual, safe, and for lack of better terminology here, damn good! If you were having some of the most mind blowing sex of your life and you wanted it all the time and thought of close to nothing else, where would the issue lie? Both parties are thoroughly enjoying themselves, engrossed in a mutual respect for their own and their partners body, and discovering new and exciting things about sensation as it relates to closeness and the human experience. Yummy.

GLUTTONY
The act of over consumption, a very broad idea but I think it more closely hones into the idea of food and eating. Over eating; to be a glutton. The early church leader Thomas Aquinas went as far as to break down the different ways of being a glutton into 6 parts.
1. Eating too soon
2. Eating too expensively
3. Eating too much
4. Eating too eagerly
5. Eating too daintily
6. Eating too fervently
I hate to use an obvious pun, but I'm going to dive right into this one.

Too soon: I think "mealtime" is a ridiculous idea. You shouldn't eat at a pre-set time of day. You should eat when you're hungry. If you have a muffin at 12 noon (like I did today) and then get hungry at 2:00pm and go to Panera Bread for a sandwich and some soup, then you're still fulfilling your basic need to eat. Had I gotten up 3 hours earlier to eat the muffin or waited an extra hour to have the soup, I would have been equally as hungry and maybe slightly crankier and agitated. Lets clarify here- no one wants that.

Too expensively: I went to Ann Arbor Michigan with my very favorite person as of late, for a long weekend a few weeks ago. While we were there, we did nothing but eat out at nice restaurants and sample the glorious food that a swanky Midwestern college town has to offer tourists. Did we spend an extravagant amount of cash of dinner at a steak house one night? Yes we did. Did we have the best fillet and crab/lobster cakes we have ever put in our mouthes? Yes. Was it worth it? You'd have to ask my traveling companion since he paid, but I already know his answer. YES. It was the best food we've ever had. We talked about it all the way home. In fact we still talk about it, and compare it to everything we eat as the pedestal upon which all other foods be judged. As I type this, my mouth is watering. I will most likely be talking about that mean to my grandchildren who will be idly kicking me in my old decrepit ankles wishing id shut up about the damn cakes already. Worth every penny.

Too much: If you eat too much all the time, I can see that as a problem. But if I had 6 of those crab cakes in front of me right now, I'd eat every bite and then lick the plate. No questions asked. You would too. Trust me.

Too eagerly: Same general issue here. If I'm hungry and the food is good, I'm going to be eager. Whats more is, if I cook for someone and they eat my food eagerly, I see it as a compliment.

Too daintily: Firstly, if you're eating "daintily" then either the food sucks or you're not hungry or you're one of those really annoying people who picks at their salad after they complain about the spinach being too dark and the dressing not being on the side and you don't deserve food. Go outside and eat grass.

Too fervently: I'm not even going to get into this one, mainly because I think fervent is too close to eager by definition, and I think ol' Thomas Aquinas was reaching here. Take 5 Tom, you're an overachiever.

GREED
People, by nature, are greedy. Now I know this isn't an excuse because people by nature are a lot of negative things, but if you USE greed in a way that doesn't hurt others but betters your quality of life, then I don't see any obtrusive issue. The most common example: Money. If you make a ton of money doing something you enjoy and it doesnt multiply in your bank account at the expense of others, then more power to you. I'm sure Bill Gates started working because, to put it simply, hes a big dork who loves computers. I'm sure it never occurred to him back in the proverbial day that he would become one of the richest men on the planet. But now he is swimming in an obscene amount of cash, he's happy, his employees are happy, and the world has computers. One of which I'm typing this blog on right now. This particular computer is a Mac. But again, digression.

SLOTH
Sometimes I sleep until 2pm on my day off. I freaking love sleep. I have many a friend and acquaintance who does the same thing, and shares my admiration for snoozing. Ask anyone if they like sleeping. If they say no, then you can be pretty sure they are an alien or someone with artificial intelligence and either way, they need to be destroyed. In fact, once I slept through an entire day. I went to bed Saturday night and woke up and it was Monday morning. Yes I did. And no one died because of it.

WRATH
Here's a tricky one. I almost cant argue in favor of wrath, only because I am a peaceful person by nature. This is hard for me to admit. Not my predilection for peacefulness of course, but my inability to argue in favor of something and play "devils advocate". Wrath is almost never acceptable, although harmless and humerus getting even quips and pranks can be quite satisfying. Here's a great example. When I was in college, my roommate and I had a falling out. To make a boring story short, she decided that we could no longer be friends half way through the year (and we were very close up until this point) because her other friends told her that I would not aid her in her juvenile quest to become popular. My anger for her sudden display of complete shallowness, and my sadness for losing someone who I thought was a great friend lead me to seek a certain revenge. It involved soup. Bare with me. She had once told me that she had been on a cruise with her parents where a clam chowder soup was served that had salmonella (or some other tainted thing) and then entire boat got food poisoning. She went on to say that to this day when she smells clam chowder it makes her want to vomit. This is the kind of story you can't expect to tell a person like me, piss me off, and then not regret it. The day after she told me we couldn't be friends due to my lack of social standings, she came back to our room to find 60 cans of opened clam chowder that had been baking there in the 90 degree dorm heat all through her morning classes. Her face was priceless. She moved out that night, although her friends moved her things and washed all her clothes until they stopped smelling like the chowder cruise of doom. BUT at the end of the day I had my very own room and she got to move into someone else who was going to help her fulfill her goals of living out the college version of the movie "Mean Girls", Lindsay Lohan not included. So everyone wins. No sin there.

ENVY
I think being jealous and wanting something only serves as motivation to get it. If you want something bad enough, you make it happen for yourself. Envy without action, useless. Envy serving as a stepping stone to turn life into something worth living, completely justifiable. I;m not necessarily talking about material things. More the idea behind possessing. For example, I've always been insanely jealous of people with really nice well done tattoo art. The hours of pain and money involved always slowed my motivation down, but after years of looking at the great body murals of others, I finally started on my own backpiece. Now I don't have to be envious of the tattoos of others, because as Cartman would say, mine's "hella cool".

PRIDE
This is something I am full of, and I make no apologies for this fact at all. I am proud of the work that I do. I'm a great rider, and gifted teacher, and a talented horse person. I'm a good writer, at least sometimes. I am the kind of friend anyone would be lucky to have, and a lover that you would never want to let go if you had. I'm a peace keeper, a comedian, a poet and a thrill seeker. I am proud of the things I've said and done, the people I've touched and loved, and the past and everything in it I cannot and desire not to change. Pride seems like the silliest sin of all, because who in their right mind would have all of this pride and want to swallow it? No one.

"I can't feel my face" and other dental adventures

Just got home from the dentist... 2 fillings and a whole lot of novacain later, im looking a little stroke victem-ish on the right side. A little lispy, a little drooly... am I turning you on yet?

I used to be a dental receptionist. In fact, it was the first job I ever had. So I am totally used to the sound of the evil tooth drill. It dosnt bother me as much as it gets to some people. Whats more, is I'm used to the attitude that a trip to the dentist can drudge up in a person. Door shoving, coat throwing, foot dragging, sullen faces come in and out of dental offices all day long. People HATE it, and for good reasons. No one looks forward to some strange person sticking their hands into your mouth attached to sharp metal torture impliments and shredding at your gums until they look like pink confetti robbon. Razor like X-rays? Here you go, how about 17 of them. Want some strawberry flavored cleaning paste? How about chocolate? Well, they actually both taste like doodie so it dosnt matter which one you choose. Oh, and I think I might ask you a few questions while I have a good part of my arm down your throat, do your best to answer them... Do you floss regularly? Excuse me what? I cant understand you. Stop gagging, I'm feeling around in your small intestine for cavities.

But I dont mind it. Maybe its because I did spend a good long time as an kid freaking out in the dentist chair and getting it all out of my system. At the age of 4 I had to be straight jacketed into the dentist chair with the whole staff holding me down just so I wouldnt assault the dental assistants. I was a fan of scratching, kicking, and my own person favorite, the finger chomping bite! Seems a bit animalistic to straight jacket me, but having worked with kids after being a dental receptionist, I was lucky no one ever hauled off and back handed me. Damn kids.

So now, on my best behavior, I grit my teeth against the razor X-rays and manage to compliment the assistants earings from underneith the crushing weight of the seemingly concrete filled X-ray proof body bib... I guess in case of unknown pregnancy it keeps the harmful rays from exterminating your baby into fetus dust... or at least prevents it from growing extra heads and flipper fins. But going to the dentist now is very different then it was even a few years ago. For example, I got to watch Caddy Shack on my own personal screen while being drilled on. When I was a kid, the best they would do was hand you one of those stuffed animals packing GIANT chomper teeth, which only sent me into further hysterics as it looked like it was on its way to chewing straight through my terrified little body.

You ALL know what I'm talking about. What WERE those things anyway? Who ever stuck an oversized set of dentures into Kermit the Frogs mouth and said "Yes, this looks like a demon straight from the depths of childhood nightmare hell! Lets give one to every pediatric dentist in the world."

I guess the moral of this blog (oh my god, there is one today) is that life is chalk full of shit that you dont want to do, but you have to. The more we avoid things like the dentist, the more you run into more serious issues down the line. Like all of your teeth rot and fall out of your head and you end up looking like poor mutated kermit, wearing dentures that will undoubtedly scare the neighborhood children out of your back yard ("Get out of my yard, you damn kids! Chomp chomp chomp!"). Might as well just suck it up and put on a happy face. Being bitter and crabby just makes you less tolerable for everyone else involved. And let me tell you, having worked one on one with a dentist, there are special dentist ways of letting you know youre attitude is not appriciated. Said dentist not wearing deoderant for your appointment might be one of them. eww. So smile, open up wide, and say AHHHH.

Because you asked for it: My most embarrassing moment

"Awkward" seems to be the most fitting word when trying to describe myself in middle school years, yet at the same time "awkward" doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of what I was.

I was the kid with the inward turned knees, greasy curly bangs that crookedly hid my eyes, and braces. I was the one who carried a tiny rubber dinosaur in her pocket for good luck and grew my fingernails freakishly long so that I could paint them neon blue. I was the target of all the lunch period pranksters who asked me on dates and ran away laughing, coincidentally also the same boys who farted loudly during history class and blamed it on me.

It wasn't a secret that I was tragically different, but my stubbornly unaware nature kept me from giving up hope. I dawned loudly striped T-shirts, too tight and too short for my boyishly built body, in my own special attempt at bringing sexy back (even though looking back in it simultaneously explaining why sexy left in the first place). I matched my nails to my shirts, and my shirts to my scrunchies in an attempt at drawing attention away from the oil factory that was my head. I was a hero among the lunch room dork table, and in this respect I was not without friends. The "popular" girls teased me mercilessly every day of the week and every 42 minute class period of the day all the way through 8th period, but it was not them I was trying to impress.

Of course, there was a boy. The dark haired, mysteriously quiet boy in the popular crowd who was untouchable to a vast majority of the adolescent female population, let alone me. The one who was so beautiful he was hard to look at but you couldn't look away either, so cool he never had to try, and so effortlessly perfect in my eyes he was the only thing I ever felt resembled saintliness in human form. I would hold my breath walking by him in school, and find a reason to walk by his house (only 5 houses down from mine) almost every day hoping for a glimpse. What made it worse was my mother was friends with his, and my little sister friends with his little sister, so every once in a while they would invite us over to their house to watch a movie or have dinner. On these occasions I washed my hair 3 times in preparation and laid out the perfect outfit the night before, yet every time we were over there he would ignore me, leaving to ride his bike or play basketball with a friend. I was as invisible as my own breasts, at that point.

Ever a tragically clueless optimist, I decided to ask the object of my tireless obsessing to a school dance. I picked up the phone, dialed, hung up. Paced across my room. Walked down the stairs. Walked up the stairs. Dialed the phone. Hung up. 3 hours later, I let it ring. He picked up. I stumbled all over myself, letting my well rehearsed and flawlessly memorized speech go straight to hell, and managed to stutter something closely resembling an epileptic asking someone to a d-d-dance. He politely declined, saying he was going to be going with a group of friends. I was shot down.

The next day at the dance (a social event in middle school I frequented alone sitting in the metal bleachers until I got a leg cramp) my heart broke to see him slow dancing with another girl. A girl who never wore scrunchies and had bracket less smile. Thus began my hatred for the band Boyz 2 Men and my curiosity for why the DJ felt the need to play "I'll Make Love To You" at a 7th grade dance. I was crushed.

I spent the rest of the week hiding from the boy and wallowing in my own shame, ending the following Thursday in the yellow painted bathroom stall at school staring blankly at my friend Jen. "Jen, we're in 7th grade. I just got my period. I don't feel like a woman though." Jen replied "I got mine last year actually, and I didn't feel like one then either."

"Oh."

But I thought still everyone must know, they must see it in me, I must look older and more mature all of a sudden somehow. It was a new bravery boost, and that afternoon my newfound womanhood went to my head a little to quickly.

Everyone lined up to get on the bus to go home, and I became instantaneously aware that standing in line right behind me to climb the bus steps was none other then the boy who was responsible for my broken heart and the sudden onset of my unpreparedness for adult life. My heart was going about a mile a minute, and when I reached up to grab the metal railing of the school bus steps I made the fatal flaw of deciding to give the boy a little show. I was determined to shake and wiggle my non existent bottom up the steps in an attempt at making him realize what he was obviously missing by not dating my seductive boodylicious self. In my enthusiasm, I must have forgotten to factor in the inward turned knees or the 50 pound jansport backpack or a combination of both, because on the 3rd step my ankle decided to abort the mission.

Backwards I went, in a flash of bangs and backpacks and braces I toppled literally heals over head into the boy, taking us both into the concrete driveway below. I ended up lying side by side with him, a world of throbbing pain coming from somewhere on my leg and a stinging embarrassment that was ten thousand times worse. He jumped to his feet and I sat up slowly, watching a little pool of blood gather around my ankle and stain my purple socks.

"You're bleeding." He said.

"Yea, I know." I said.

And with that, he got on the bus.

The bus driver helped me get up, grabbing me a gauze pad from his first aid kit and muddering something in Russian. I sat in the front seat all the way home, sobbing into it.

I have a little scar on my ankle to this day serving as a constant reminder of the day I became a woman, and even though I can now openly laugh about my slowly developed social ability in my youth, theres still a bit of a sting every time I touch it. That which does not kill is makes us stronger, a statement which I now live by, because 10 years after this happened I met the boy again in a restaurant, went to a movie with him, and slept with him the same night.

High five, little lunch room dork table girl. High five.

Fuck You Liberty Tax Guy

Unbeknownst to me, the worst thing a single person can possibly do on valentines day is go grocery shopping. The place was PACKED with last minute valentines day shoppers. The entire store seemed to be pink and red, candy boxes on every shelf, red roses all over the aisles... and forget about the card section. You couldn't even walk through it without getting mauled for the last heart shaped envelope. Now, I wasn't shopping for valentines day, I made the honest mistake of picking today (Wednesday, my only day off) to get more microwave pizzas and bottled water. Stupid, stupid me.

So I'm walking up and down the aisles, trying to ignore the gaudy hallmark color schemes and chalky "be mine" heart candy displays, and I couldn't help but look around at the scrambling Romeos and Juliettes. Mostly Romeos actually, but when you think about it, the women get their valentines day shopping done before 5:00 the day of, so not a huge surprise there. But it was actually quite the sight. It kind of snuck up on me, and then hit me all at once.

There were old men scooting around in their walkers clutching bouquets and glitter covered cards. There were high school kids in their football jackets picking quarters out of their pants pockets and staring at the rose prices in disbelief. One big burly looking lumberjack guy picked out the most expensive flower assortment in the store, grabbed a handful of "I love you" balloons and sauntered to the checkout line, scratching his beard absent mindedly. A father with 2 small kids bends down and says "Go find something for mommy that's really special" and they jog off to fulfill their important mission.

I got in line with my pizzas, water, kitty litter, and bottle of JD (wants on the list, I improvised that one) and wedged myself in with the love-struck citizens of Jewel Osco. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young looking Santa Claus guy get in line behind me. I eyed his purchases. Box of chocolates, half dozen roses, and a card. I looked at him and said "Lucky girl". He smiled at me and said "Valentines day is the one day a year I can buy flowers for her and not have to say I'm sorry about anything." I wanted to say yeah you better knock on some wood, the day isn't over yet buddy... but I didn't. Instead I just said "yeah" and turned around again to make sure my purchases hadn't gone over $56 bucks, which is all I had in my wallet.

So while I was heaving my groceries into the back of my car, I told myself that next year I should mark the calendar on February 14th "Don't go grocery shopping day". The entire experience was too overwhelming. I was happy for everyone in there, and sad for me. I mean, even that old guy with the scooty walker and the glitter card is probably going to pop some stiffy pills and get laid tonight. I'll be playing party poker on the Internet and drinking JD straight out of the bottle.

On the drive home I was mulling over all the Jewel love birds and how they have no idea who lucky they are to have someone to spend obscene amounts of cash on today, and I passed the Liberty Tax office. Its tax season, so every year around this time they hire some poor ass hole to stand outside in the blistering cold and snow to wear a ridiculous stature of liberty costume and waving at all the passing cars. Now, I always feel bad for these people, they probably get paid 5 bucks an hour to look like a retarded person on Halloween for hours on end in sub zero weather, waving like the opening ceremony at the special Olympics with a giant shit eating grin on their faces. I'm sure they would all secretly like to burn the Liberty Tax building to the ground, right after repeatedly ass raping the manager who thought up the waving costume idea... but they don't. Every year its the same thing. The same 3 people, rain or shine.

So when I passed the enthusiastically waving statue of liberty guy, I had to fight the urge to flip him off with every ounce of my being. My right hand actually left the steering wheel and the nerve endings in my middle finger began to tingle with the electric energy of a thousand suns. The liberty guy looked me right in the eye, waving spaztically as he realized I was looking right back at him and my hand was poised in the air ready to do the unthinkable. I swallowed hard and forced the other 4 fingers up to form a cross between a very stiff wave and a pimp getting ready to bitch-slap someone. I waved. He smiled. I was very, very relieved.