Surprises don’t exist in my life. Neither does moderation when it comes to bacon, but bacon is only partially involved this time. I’ve ruined every surprise ever planned for me, usually by guessing ‘cake’ or ‘petting zoo’, but it’s even worse when I’m the one with the surprise.
This time, my surprise came in the form of a hot air balloon ride. I’ve always wanted to go up in one because it just seems like something a circus ringleader would do on their day off and since my goals closely resemble that of a circus performer, it sounded like the perfect Saturday morning activity. All I had to do was keep it under wraps for two days. I was pretty successful, until about the sixth hour after making the reservation. I had already slipped by emailing my boyfriend and telling him I was bursting about my surprise, but that was a pretty subtle pun so I was at least temporarily safe. Then he came home and I started telling him, in very selective terms, that I was flying high about this surprise and how much of a basket case I was because I couldn’t tell him. He finally ended what was turning into a very Life Goes On moment and said, “It’s a hot air balloon ride, isn’t it?”
With another successfully spoiled surprise under my belt, I was free to let my mind wander about how rough and tumble the pilot would be and if he had been involved in any hijackings. Unfortunately, what I ended up getting was a guy with a Nickelback ringtone and a decent knowledge of the crops that are grown in Napa Valley.
Despite having to wake up at 4am that morning, I was giddy once we finally got there. I was doing all of my best dances, trying to remember the lyrics to ‘Electric Avenue’ and making everyone around me wish that they could reschedule. Right as I was about to do what is admittedly a pretty weak Elmo impression, my boyfriend looks at me and says, “I can’t believe you’re allowed to have a credit card.” I thought about making him look like a total ass by listing the responsible things I buy on a regular basis, but all I could come up with was a sketchbook and even that is used solely for drawing cats eating different kinds of snack foods. Seconds after this realization, he unearthed the truth I was trying to hide and said, “All you use it for is candy and balloon rides.”
After promising to change my account passwords since he must’ve beenlooking at my statements, I finished my second muffin and boarded the van that was driving us to the lift-off site.
I wish I could say more about the balloon ride itself. It was like being in a marshmallow that sometimes emitted fire and everything below looked like a series of Josef Albers paintings. More importantly though, there was bacon at the brunch afterward, which is what I was paying for anyway.
Once I was done eating my boat of candied pork, I bought chocolate covered toffee almonds. Partially because I really wanted them, but mostly so my credit card company wouldn’t detect any unusual activity.
E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen. The reason for this is because when that fucking desiccated tootsie roll RUSHED out of those corn fields like they were on fire, my four-year-old heart couldn’t take it and from that point on, I would only watch movies that guaranteed carbon based characters or ideally, plots entirely absent of science. For years, E.T. haunted me. Every dark hallway or stairwell was an invitation for him to come hurdling toward me. To do what, I’m not sure. The most diabolical thing he ever did in the movie was befriend a 10-year-old boy and dress in women’s clothes. And while that’s unsettling for some, it’s not necessarily scary.
Still, I was petrified of him. A few years later, however, I saw a behind the scenes special that revealed the means of locomotion for E.T. – wheels. Even at eight years old, where my world allowed a reality in which The Muppets were living beings, I knew what wheels were. I knew they weren’t scary and even though there was a screeching uterus with a nose attached to them, I was able to watch the movie and meet E.T.’s beady eyes without turning away until the Reese’s Pieces showed up.
Despite my victory over E.T., I was ruined for any future interest in the horror genre. Movies that depend almost entirely on the inevitability that something is going to be forcibly removed by a sharp object or vagina dentata are not something my anxiety has the aptitude to deal with. The only horror movies I watch, understandably, are ones so bad that they reveal their parlor tricks as they go along. Films starring wrestlers or Gary Busey, usually. From the beginning, they admit to the fact that they’re full of shit, instead of attempting to peddle the idea that corn syrup and red food coloring are worthy of soiling yourself or more importantly, real.
I’m not a fan of severity, which is why I’m struggling with the fact that in less than two weeks, I’ll be moving. Again. A little over six months ago, I moved from Florida to Oregon. It was my ‘fuck you Southeast I’m going to live in the Pacific Northwest and eat fresh sustainable fish not because I like fish since I really don’t but just because I can‘ tour. It’s been successful so far, but I’m realizing that more than anything, I was simply proving to myself that I could escape from the straight jacket that manifested itself from the familiarity of my former surroundings. Somehow, I did it. But the point is, I’ve done it and I need to move on.
It’s uncomfortable to stare into a future so fertile with doubt and the unavoidable truth that I will ingest Nyquil at least once to comfortably fall asleep before 9pm. But since I have a poor sense of impulse control and an insatiable need to challenge the limits of a rapidly dwindling savings account, I will be Danny Tanner-ing it into San Francisco before January ends.
The way I see it, if I can overcome that creep E.T., I can do just about anything. All I need is for the situation to reveal its wheels.
A few years ago, I went to Las Vegas with my ex one month after breaking up. Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but it’s not like I would’ve even considered it if we hadn’t still been living together and sharing the same bed. Come on, guys. I’m not an idiot.
Seriously though, we (I) had already paid for the trip before deciding to make the whole loveless no sex thing official and no amount of “I just don’t have feelings for you anymore…now please stop touching me” was going to keep me away from those buffets. There were also plenty of opportunities to get plastered and since I had it on good authority that my life was falling apart, I knew I could capitalize. Sadly, the closest I ever got was half a strawberry daiquiri at this raunchy little acrobatic show where all of the men let their cock and balls hang out while they juggle over-sized root vegetables. This is primarily because Cirque du Soleil grossly overcharges for their drinks and also because I didn’t want to be hungover for the next day because I had plans to go to an exhibit of Picasso’s ceramics at the Bellagio. Yeah.
The only thing that could’ve made my trip a little more Lance Bass would’ve been well…another Cirque du Soleil show, probably. But after two hours of low lighting, creaky floors and unnaturally rendered breasts, I couldn’t convince myself that I was plunging into a stripper’s fjord of glittery flesh instead of quietly assessing the influence of African art on Picasso’s work. Mostly because I wasn’t wearing my boner concealing sweat pants. But also because I was distracted by a nagging sharp pain above my rib cage.
There was no mistaking what this was, even though I had never technically encountered it before. The underwire in the bra that I bought for $11.99 and wore every day for at least one year had escaped from its garish weave of faded maroon lace. At that time, I didn’t wear bras based on how sexy they were (clearly), I wore them so that my nipples wouldn’t get caught in the waistband of my pants. After numerous futile attempts to reunite the wire with the fabric, I decided it was time for a new bra. Luckily, there was a Victoria’s Secret nearby and while the only thing I’d ever bought from them was a pink polka-dot pajama set for my first year of college (you can imagine how popular I was), I was determined to figure out how to house my boobs. I avoided their pushy and intrusive staff at all costs, not wanting to potentially come to terms with the fact that I would be better suited attaching two bowling ball shammies to a seat belt, and headed straight for their line of wireless bras.
Now without what used to be my boyfriend and what used to be my bra, I was left to weigh my options alone. It was a small step, sure, but it ended up being the first one in what eventually blossomed into an appreciation for my body and its potential to be sexy instead of simply utilitarian. It was also what turned me into a loyal Victoria’s Secret customer.
Even though I don’t believe in the first (and only) tenet of Victoria’s Secret that BIGGER BOOBS = BIGGER DOWRY, I can’t argue with their ability to make a bra that combines fit, longevity and boner appeal. Other things I can’t argue with? The fact that they have testicles so large that they make a Level 5 padded bra in 36DD. The only thing more illogical and useless would be a Broadway production of Kindergarten Cop. So of course I bought one.
This is my first padded bra and although it’s not something I plan on wearing everyday, I’m amazed at its comfort level and how dramatic the effect is. The bra claims to add up to two cup sizes, and from my experience, it delivers on that promise. Oh, and if you want to wear this with a freakum dress or something, the straps can be worn as halter or racer-back.
Left: Clown tits in VS Miraculous push-up, Right: Regular tits in VS Angels Ipex demi bra
The VS Miraculous push-up truly surpassed my expectations. I actually had a lot of fun turning my breasts into something comically large enough to appear in Cirque du Soleil, but still realistic enough to suggest that I just got it like that. With any luck, the next time I go to Vegas, I can be the stripper instead of making a halfhearted attempt to pretend that I touched one.
I’m just now realizing that my birthday is one week away and that most of it will probably be spent trying not to cry. I’m paying my bills with birthday money (yeah, I’m 11) and I’ll probably either have to strip or fingers crossed find a guy who is willing to pay $20 an hour to brush my hair. So I’m bummed. Not in a hey that ceiling fan looks like it could support my weight way, but in a general why did I even go to college I could’ve been a nail tech way. I know, boo hoo, I don’t get to eat my ‘Best Birth Ever’ buttercream cake in front of poor people like I do every year. Mostly because I am the poor people. But that’s ok because I have something that tastes way better than sugar, butter and the tears of people I’ve never met. Giant Cheetos.
I tried to get a sense of scale with these by putting one in my mouth but it began to look like I was starting a new kind of porn so you’ll just have to take my word for it that they’re fucking huge. The only downside is that they have a built in Loser Detector that turns your tongue green. For me, this means thateveryonehas to know that I spent my night eating Cheetos larger than the average testicle and watching Gilmore Girls while convincing myself that my life could’ve been so much better if only I had gotten knocked up at 16.
Missed opportunities aside, I will never love another snack the way I love Giant Cheetos. Unless of course Frito-Lay decides to finally return my calls and take me up on my Doritos Stuffed Pizza idea because I am sick of making them from scratch.
There’s a particular strain of insanity that encourages the kind of decision making that involves breaking up, reconciling, and buying tickets to Madrid all in the same night, but it should come as no surprise that I’m right there in the middle of it.
Moving my life to a coast where the concept of pizza is a sliced tomato on focaccia has made it really easy to start throwing punches while making any sort of life choice impossible to make. It’s like being high while trying to do your taxes, only replace ‘high’ with ‘poor’ and ‘taxes’ with nothing because I’m pretty sure eating graham crackers in my underwear doesn’t bring in any reportable income. This doesn’t mean that there’s a guaranteed happy ending (dirty), it just means that as usual, I don’t know what I’m doing.
So, I’m leaving today with my former ex but now current boyfriend for a two week trip to Europe. If I don’t make it back, you guys can fight it out for my copy of Son in Law.
