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Olive Garden

No one wants to have sex with me and that’s okay I swear

April 19, 2011

One time, I read a quote popularly attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I was around 14 at the time and thought it would ensure lots of dates somehow, or at the very least, get people to stop thinking I was a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe.

But for the most part, it’s a guidepost that has worked well for me. Mostly because everything aside from television scares me, so I’d otherwise lead a life solely dedicated to figuring out which Desperate Housewife has had the most plastic surgery (Teri Hatcher) or why that chick from those Olive Garden commercials seems familiar (Haley from Modern Family).

In addition to my ‘Hell yeah I’ll try that cinnamon roll frozen yogurt’ attitude is the fact that I am brutally honest. Now, when I say that I’m brutally honest, what I really mean is that I probably have some sort of social anxiety disorder where I say things I shouldn’t and then get the urge to eat a lot of french fries.

So, given that information, here’s where I expertly set myself on fire with my brain playing the part of the kerosene soaked blankets and technology as the torch.

Saturday night, I went to a comedy show put on by a group of very nice guys who wear neat hats, make fresh juice and use their apartment (specifically, attic) as a venue for intimate events. My friend* curated a group of comedians from San Francisco and LA to perform and took it upon himself to host.

I was taking somewhat of a risk, since I hadn’t technically met him in person and there was a possibility that he could be completely unfunny. Then I’d have to be one of those assholes who, in response to something utterly humorless, says, “That’s funny” instead of actually laughing. I didn’t want that. But, as it happens, I did want something else.

When the show started, he got up on stage (two rugs stacked on top of each other) and did his warm up. He was actually really funny. And most of his material had to do with his dick or sex or a combination of both. Those three things together, for reasons most likely related to my late night viewings of Shipmates, really turned me on.

And I thought, “I’d fuck him. No wait, I’d totally fuck him.” So that’s what I told him. In an email. I know. But the show was in progress and he was hosting and there was this Serbian guy next to me who kept asking, “What do you like to be doing in the city of San Francisco” and I couldn’t find his phone number so I could do the right thing and call him to whisper it into the phone so I’M SORRY but I emailed him.

He didn’t email me back immediately, but I was okay with that. What kind of freak would do that, right? We talked after the show and I kept thinking, “Does he know about how I want to see his penis and maybe hug it with my mouth a little? Does he? I mean, I thought I saw that he had a smart phone but maybe he has one of those older flip phones that can’t receive email. Yeah, that’s it – he just hasn’t seen it yet. OH BUT WHEN HE DOES, IT’S FUCK CITY FOR ME.”

And anyway, I couldn’t further embarrass myself by asking him something like, “So…did you get that email I sent? You know, the one about how I said I would fuck you and then HA HA I joked about being sweaty? I mean I swear I wasn’t actually sweating because that’s not sexy but I guess this is technically an attic so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Anyway, what’d you think?”

An hour or so later, I got my answer. He texted me and said, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Allow me to translate what that actually means:

“Wow so I just got your email and what the fuck is wrong with you? First of all, you’re too tall and I bet your boobs are kind of saggy, too. That bra isn’t fooling anyone. Beyond that, I don’t even know you. Also, you look like the kind of person who listens to Hootie & the Blowfish and that alone makes my penis want to tunnel inside of me and press itself up against my belly button until you move to another state. So, thanks but no thanks. Have a good night.”

In hindsight, I guess I understand that he didn’t directly address the email. If I got an email like that from a creepy internet half-stranger who I had just met, I’d probably run home, put my phone underneath six pillows and then not look at it again until I got the urge to take a picture of my cat sleeping in a really cute position like this:

Either way, I’m pretty sure that when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you” she didn’t mean, “Offer your body to someone you hardly know just because he is funny and talks about his dick.” It’s not like that’s going to stop me though. I mean, she was probably a lesbian anyway.

 

*We follow each other on Twitter

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Pizza Emissary

April 23, 2010

I’m pretty impulsive, especially when it comes to food. Usually I just have to see a photo of something edible and minutes later, it’s already halfway down my throat. Sometimes I’ll just hear “Olive Garden bread sticks” and I’m in the car weaving in and out of lanes in such a frenetic way that it looks like I’m either giving birth or driving to the beat of Come On Eileen.

Yesterday, I succumbed to a photo of a piece of pizza which I may or may not have been actively searching for. So naturally, I avoided the 10 slightly better than average pizza parlors within one mile of my apartment and ordered from the place that makes pizza about as well as Daewoo makes cars. RedBrick Pizza, a place claiming that, “centuries ago only the finest pizzas were baked in a brick oven.” Then they go on to say that instead of using a method guaranteed to produce “only the finest pizzas,”  they use “new world technology” which says to me that they’re only a few notches up from something made out of scented Play-Doh.

As soon I saw, “Pizza Ambassador,” I knew I was definitely fucked.

But their monarchy must be fairly organized because, as promised, a Pizza Ambassador called me a few minutes later to confirm my order. Then he said, “You can pick it up in about 15 minutes.” I thought, “Pick…it…up?” Because really, what about ordering pizza online says anything about putting on pants or sitting upright? I’m lucky I was able to keep the sleeves of my Snuggie rolled up long enough to type in my phone number.

But, not wanting to reveal my ignorance of Red Brick Pizza’s government policies, I said, “Yeah…OK so I’m picking it up in 15 minutes, right? Unless you tell me otherwise, I will be there in 15 minutes to PICK UP my pizza.” I probably said “pick up” three or four times in hopes that he would be like, “Pick up?? Ha ha no, we bring the pizza to you.”

But he didn’t. He did, however, call me back before I could even find my socks to tell me that he would probably have the pizza ready before the agreed upon 15 minutes. I wanted to laugh in a way that implied we were both in on this joke together, but realized that, unlike myself, he couldn’t actually see me walking the half mile back to my apartment carrying a pizza on my hip as if it were a mozzarella covered toddler. But it was unreasonable for me to expect him to know that I was walking there, considering that our bond was held together with the $12 I was willing to spend on substandard pizza.

Now I was really up against the clock. The only chance shitty pizza has at edibility is being so hot that it wipes the memory of your taste buds so you don’t technically know how bad it is. I absolutely needed to show up as soon as that pizza was exiting the open-air microwave they refer to as their “RedBrick stone.”

I had just enough time to pull my hair back in a tidy Steven Seagal ponytail before I started my power walk to retrieve a pizza I now resented. I spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out my strategy. I figured I could do one of two things: find a public place to sit and eat a whole pizza by myself or carry it back all the way home and eat it there. The first option had too much potential to be semi-pornographic and mildly depressing, so I eliminated that almost immediately. The second option was a bit more appealing but, knowing that I’d be rushing back to eat pizza alone on the couch, I was certain that I couldn’t pull it off without doing my own ambulatory version of a dog scooting its asshole across 2,640 feet of carpet.

But then I realized that I could eat as I walked. Kind of like I always imagined Fat Albert doing. It was actually better that way because the pizza was minutes away from cooling off, which meant that it wasn’t long before it turned into the equivalent of ketchup on bread. So that’s what I did, using the box as my plate and the sidewalk as my runway for displaying how well sauce meshes with cotton.

The only reaction I got was from a chain smoking teenager, who laughed as I walked by. It was one of those I can’t believe you actually exist outside of a Cathy comic laughs. But whatever, she had a Pantera backpack strapped to her that I assume she actually paid for.

She clearly doesn’t know a good idea when she sees one.

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Let’s talk about what’s been on ALF’s face for the last 23 years

September 21, 2009

The other day, I was at Red Robin for what was at least the fifth time this month because I can’t just kill myself in one afternoon like everyone else, I have to do it as slowly and with as much ranch dressing as possible. While trying to pretend my turkey burger was something more than a feeble attempt to offer the illusion that I’m health conscious as long as there’s cheese, I was told that I should start writing about gender misconceptions but…in a way that’s funny.

I chewed on it, but couldn’t get excited about it. Mostly because repeating patriarchy over and over again or spelling ‘woman’ with a ‘y’ is never funny or even remotely enlightening. The last time I boarded that ship, I tried convincing my ex’s best friend that women are equal to men, but the response I got was something along the lines of, “Yeah, but that doesn’t apply in the real world.” I shrugged it off, because since this was coming from someone in their fourth year of community college, their concept of the real world was not one I was concerned with. But then I started thinking about what I could get excited about, and that, of course, is uncircumcised cock.

Continue reading…

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I learned everything I know about job hunting from watching the first half of Nine to Five

August 10, 2009

Ever since I rolled into Oregon with a filthy Jeep and a stash of stolen hotel soap hidden where the spare tire should’ve been, I’ve been trying to look for a job. Not just any job though. The kind of job that really only requires a GED and maybe a firm understanding that professional wrestling exists only as a manufactured outlet for the simultaneous repression and fulfillment of homosexual urges. So far, I’ve come up with nothing. Part time jobs aren’t necessarily rare here, but already, I can tell this is going to be kind of like the time I purposely deprived myself of Olive Garden for a really long time, thinking it would taste extra sweet, but as usual I walked out thinking, “That sucked, but somehow I still want to go back.”

In other words, my job hunt has been disappointing. Mostly because of things like this (click to enlarge):

CL

Ever since I rolled into Oregon with a filthy Jeep and a stash of stolen hotel soap hidden where the spare tire should’ve been, I’ve been trying to look for a job. Not just any job though. The kind of job that really only requires a GED and maybe a firm understanding that wrestling exists only as a manufactured outlet for the simultaneous repression and fulfillment of homosexual urges. So far, I’ve come up with nothing. Part time jobs aren’t necessarily rare here, but already, I can tell this is going to be kind of like the time I purposely deprived myself of Olive Garden for a really long time, thinking it would taste extra sweet, but as usual I walked out thinking, “That sucked, but somehow I still want to go back.”
In other words, my job hunt has been disappointing. Mostly because of things like this:
Notice the repeat misspellings of ‘expereince’, as well as the arbitrary capitalization of ‘Applications.’ Other offenses include ‘prefered’, ‘apperence’ and the curiously possessive ‘bonus’s.’ So, not only am I expected to work any days and shifts, but I also have to do it for someone who never quite made it to their 8th grade graduation. This person could be my new boss.
I moved on to what I hoped to be more literate opportunities. This is when I noticed a posting for a front desk attendant at a nearby fitness center. I was particularly excited about this one because minimally, I figured there had to be a membership discount. However, when I tried to access the website provided to actually start the application process, I discovered that the link was broken. After troubleshooting for a few minutes, I decided to call in order to sort things out. This is when Rachel informed me that the ad expressly stated “no phone calls” and that they do that to see if “people can follow directions.” Taking that as a subtle hint that I was doing it wrong, what I really wanted to tell her was that if they had followed directions, I wouldn’t have to call in the first place. But, instead, I kind of just opened my asshole a little bit and said “Thank you very much.”
Then, I finally got a call from someone offering me a job. I use the word job loosely because it was actually just an opportunity for me to make about $70 in a day to clean and organize the house of a disabled couple, which after all, is why I went to college. In my naivete, the kind of disabled people I pictured were less pretentious versions of Stephen Hawking–meaning that they had Master’s degrees and wore nice sweaters but weren’t all uppity about it. In reality, I was dealing with a dysfunctional lesbian couple living in what was described to me as a “filthy dirty” trailer and a mysterious teenager who would be joining me, but “for one day only.” Worried that they had some sort of indentured servitude turned murder-suicide planned for me, I did my best to put my mind at ease about either dying in a filthy trailer or having to service these women sexually and decided to go anyway. However, when I received an unsolicited email from one of them, telling me that she has a problem with emotions “…like crying???” and that if I don’t “walk out”, I should “TAKE SHARON [her partner] WITH YOU AS IT’S SCARY FOR ME ALSO!!!!!!”, self preservation kicked in and I told her I didn’t feel comfortable and would not be available for the job.
I was a bit anxious after that encounter, because I had foolishly left my phone number and address in the signature of my email. Even if they did want to come to my house to harm me, their colostomy bags would weigh them down anyway and I would get to wrap myself in an American flag and dance around them as the victor. Still, this didn’t stop me from jumping when I heard a mysterious rustling at the door days later. Turns out it was just someone putting a hang tag for Dominos Pizza coupons on my door knob, which is actually a lot worse than the alternative.
Despite all of this, there is a silver lining. I got an email the other day requesting to set up an interview at a spa I applied to downtown. Turns out, it was an identity theft scam which I realized long before any social security numbers were entered. So, while I may not have a job, at least I still have my identity…and pants.

Notice the repeat misspellings of ‘expereince’, as well as the arbitrary capitalization of ‘Applications.’ Other offenses include ‘prefered’, ‘apperence’ and the curiously possessive ‘bonus’s.’ So, not only am I expected to work any days and shifts, but I also have to do it for someone who never quite made it to their 8th grade graduation. This person could be my new boss.

I moved on to what I hoped to be more literate opportunities. This is when I noticed a posting for a front desk attendant at a nearby fitness center. I was particularly excited about this one because minimally, I figured there had to be a membership discount. However, when I tried to access the website provided to actually start the application process, I discovered that the link was broken. After troubleshooting for a few minutes, I decided to call in order to sort things out. This is when Rachel informed me that the ad expressly stated “no phone calls” and that they do that to see if “people can follow directions.” Taking that as a subtle hint that I was doing it wrong, what I really wanted to tell her was that if they had followed directions, I wouldn’t have to call in the first place. But, instead, I kind of just opened my asshole a little bit and said “Thank you very much.”

Then, I finally got a call from someone offering me a job. I use the word job loosely because it was actually just an opportunity for me to make about $70 in a day to clean and organize the house of a disabled couple, which after all, is why I went to college. In my naivete, the kind of disabled people I pictured were less pretentious versions of Stephen Hawking–meaning that they had Master’s degrees and wore nice sweaters but weren’t all uppity about it. In reality, I was dealing with a dysfunctional lesbian couple living in what was described to me as a “filthy dirty” trailer and a mysterious teenager who would be joining me, but “for one day only.” Worried that they had some sort of indentured servitude turned murder-suicide planned for me, I did my best to put my mind at ease about either dying in a filthy trailer or having to service these women sexually and decided to go anyway. However, when I received an unsolicited email from one of them, telling me that she has a problem with emotions “…like crying???” and that if I don’t “walk out”, I should “TAKE SHARON [her partner] WITH YOU AS IT’S SCARY FOR ME ALSO!!!!!!”, self preservation kicked in and I told her I didn’t feel comfortable and would not be available for the job.

I was a bit anxious after that encounter, because I had foolishly left my phone number and address in the signature of my email. But, even if they did want to come to my house to harm me, their colostomy bags would probably weigh them down anyway and I would get to wrap myself in an American flag and dance around them as the victor. Still, this didn’t stop me from jumping when I heard a mysterious rustling at the door days later. Turns out it was just someone putting a hang tag for Dominos Pizza coupons on my door knob, which as it turns out, is actually a lot worse than the alternative.

Despite all of this, there is a silver lining. I got an email the other day requesting to set up an interview at a spa I applied to downtown. Turns out, it was an identity theft scam which I realized long before any social security numbers were entered. So, while I may not have a job, at least I still have my identity…and pants.

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