I am, shall we say, sensitive, to sleep deprivation. Not getting enough sleep results in a noticeable drop in my energy levels, which tends to lead to a noticeable drop in my mood and an increase in the amount I complain. Which is pretty typical of most tired people. I also get what I call “foggy brain” after relatively small amounts of sleep deprivation. Foggy brain makes me forget why I walked into a room or what the heck I was going to say. Foggy brain has also made me do some pretty spectacularly absent-minded and bizarre things.
For example, I once stood up after using the toilet, and pressed the toggle switch on my bathroom wall. I was hugely startled when the light went out. I had been expecting the toilet to flush. That’s right. I tried to flush my toilet with my light switch.
More recently, I drove through the entire McDonald’s drive-thru without ordering, paying, or picking up any food, or even rolling down my window. My brain was so fogged that I went for a joy ride through the drive-thru, when I had fully intended on getting some food. I don’t know what the McDonald’s employees must have thought of the strange lady who just drove past all the windows without even looking at them. It didn’t dawn on me until I was pulling out and had no food that I had missed a few vital steps of the drive-thru procedure.
I’d hate to see what happens if I ever have a new-born baby to care for. I’d probably accidentally leave it somewhere and wouldn’t notice until I couldn’t get it to feed. Then I’d realize I was trying to nurse a loaf of bread.
Heaven help the poor man who ever makes babies with me.
In an interesting turn of events, my dad wished me a happy Father’s Day this year. I suppose he might be trying to make up for the fact that my mom never wished me a happy Mother’s Day. (Note: I am not a mother.) (A second note: I am also not a father, JUST TO BE CLEAR.)
I did not coin the term “cordial boys” used in this post. Erika did. However, I do not know if she prefers the rudes or the gentlemen, just so we are clear. Both gentlemen and rudes alike should feel free to “holla” at her.
“So what are you up to now?
Nothing really. Just back in L.A., having lots of meetings about stuff, trying to figure out what my next project is. Oh, the coolest thing is that I’m going to Belize for a couple weeks in a few days to shoot this thing with the Outdoor Network about fishing. It’s me, Yvon Chouinard who started Patagonia, Tom Brokaw, and Michael Keaton.”—
There are some neat Dutch world cup shirts. You know how they pull their shirts over their head when they score? These shirts have a player's face printed on the inside so you can pull the shirt over your head and run around looking like one of them. http://www.coolhunting.com/culture/world-cup.php Scroll down a bit. Shirts are orange.
I decide to not watch the games that come on in the wee morning hours, since they are not even in my team’s group (I went with the Netherlands, for all kinds of reasons, one of them being my tiny bit of Dutch heritage). I do, however, decide to go over to a friend’s house this morning to watch the USA vs. England match. I get there and the apartment is PACKED with 20 something year old dudes and sorta smells that way. They’ve been up since 4am watching soccer and some of them have just been up all night. This guy, Nick, is there, who I hate. That’s right, I HATE Nick. The list of people I actually hate is extremely short and he has the dubious distinction of being on it.
Guess who rudely evicts some guy out of his seat so that he can sit next to me on the couch before the game has even started? That’s right. Nick. Douchebag of my life. Guess who gets into a wrestling match while seated on the couch with the guy on his other side? NICK. OF COURSE. Guess who elbows me in the face and gives me a bloody nose?* AND THEN MAKES A HUGELY RUDE AND MISOGYNISTIC REMARK ABOUT IT, without apologizing? That’s right, the failure of a human being, NICK.
Guess who gets up and leaves? I wish I could say Nick, but this time the answer is, THIS LADY.
I’m in my car, my nose is bleeding, and I’m trying to ebb the flow with an old receipt from my purse since I have no tissues. The nearest place to watch the match would be the Cat and the Fiddle on Sunset, so I park my car and head toward it, blood on my face and hand.
I just want to watch some soccer. In theory, it should not be this difficult.
I get to the pub, and they are not letting any more people in. Of course. I ask the guy at the door if I can go in and use their bathroom. He takes one look at my face, and says YES, but leave me your ID. I tell him he can have my whole purse, dump it in his arms, and go inside. I ask the first person in the pub if they can tell me where the bathroom is. This nice British gent directs me and I’m off. At this point, I don’t even care about soccer. I just want to get the blood off my face. That’s it. And you know what? The ladies’ room is full of girls changing into their England soccer jerseys so I can’t even get near the sinks and the toilets are out of paper. OF COURSE THE TOILETS ARE OUT OF PAPER.
I exit the ladies’ room, thinking I will go to the bar and ask for a wet napkin, PLEASE, but before I can do that the aforementioned nice British gent sees me exit the bathroom and stops me.
He enters the men’s room and exits almost immediately. He hands me his now wet handkerchief and I immediately start to cry right there in the tiny little hallway by the bathrooms.
After I get cleaned up and explain to the nice British gent that at this point I just want to go home and the doorman/bouncer guy has my purse anyway, I retrieve said purse, drive myself home and proceed to take a nap.
Who knew watching soccer would be so difficult?
*I bruise like a peach, and a piece of dust can give me a bloody nose. So it’s not as if the horrid Nick gave me a black eye or broke my nose, but still! Blood! NOT COOL!
I have decided to become an avid World Cup fan, despite knowing nothing about it. I may or may not be doing this in order to cope with other changes in my life. Avoidance! That’s healthy, right?
My only problem (ok, my MAIN problem regarding World Cup viewing) is that I do not have television until Monday. I am thinking about finding a bar that is open all night in Hollywood and being the strange girl sitting in there at 4:30am going nuts for soccer. Who’s with me!?
I voted today (and so should you). At the polls, a gentleman asked me what my name was, because he wanted to write me as his vote (for what, I don’t know.) He claimed to think I was so pretty, I should be in charge, because everyone would listen to me.
There are so many flaws with his logic, I don’t even know where to start.
Please, don’t write me in as a candidate for anything, ever, you guys. I promise you, that is a bad idea.
When I first moved in with my former Sparkle of a Roommate, we were sophomores in college. We had a total of four girls living in a three bedroom apartment. She and I were the two who shared a room. And the summer Olympics were on.
In the first week or two we were living together, I sang the Olympics theme song in my sleep.
Not that there are lyrics to sing, but you know, “da, da, da da da da dum, dum duh-duh-duh-dum,” etc.
I also threw a kleenex box at her in the middle of the night once.
I’m amazed she stuck around for as long as she did.
While walking down Main downtown last night at approximately 8pm, a gentleman stopped me and asked if I could help him with something. Feeling generous and good-willed to my fellow man, I responded, “sure,” thinking he might need directions or something.
It took him a few attempts to phrase his question to his liking, and what eventually came out of his mouth was this: “Let me ask you something. Is it weird to have a foot fetish?”
Before I could answer, he told me his name was Garamond. Like the font (my words, not his.)
(P.S. I told him it’s not that weird, as long as you have a partner that is understanding or is in to that sort of thing, which I am not.)
You see why it’s a good thing I don’t live with her anymore? How on earth was I supposed to get any boyz with a beauty like this walking around the apartment in heels and cooking? Also: I want to go to there.