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Nov
14
2012
Man to English Dictionary

I’ve written about my awkward first kiss before. Except for a brief glimpse, I haven’t written about what happened next. Because what happened next is I was a moron.

I told myself a relationship with this guy was risk-free practice since he already had a girlfriend (long-distance, “agreed to see other people,” blah, blah, blah). I was sick of the lateness of my blooming, I needed to get my mind off of an unrequited love interest, and this guy’s attention was intoxicating. These are shitty reasons to date someone. I can admit I was a hypocrite (neither of us were in it “for the right reasons”).

But just because I was a hypocrite doesn’t mean my ex wasn’t a douche.

I was naive. But it didn’t seem possible that he could just want me for sex, especially since he wasn’t getting any. Even looking back on it, I’m still amazed by his patience and persistence. Good for you, buddy. You had a goal, and you went after it with single-minded determination. I over-analyzed everything he said to me, searching for deep meaning that wasn’t there. I didn’t understand the male mind…yet. How could I have known so little rattled around in there?

The good news? You don’t need to date a douche to learn what you need to know about men. Just read my Man-English Dictionary.

I’m not saying men aren’t capable of love and commitment. I’m saying even then they’re still thinking about banging you 97 percent of the time. The other 3 percent of the time they’re thinking about food or banging Kate Winslet (exact percentages and celebrity fantasies may vary).

Here are some phrases in “man-speak” and their English translations. If you have more to add, please share in the comments because I’m finding this very amusing.

MAN ENGLISH
“You’re too smart to play games with.” “I wonder how difficult it will be to get you to sleep with me.”
“You’re gorgeous/irresistible/important to me/I’ve been thinking about you a lot.” “I want to have sex with you.”
“I find you intriguing.” “Challenge accepted.”
“I want to get to know you better…see where this leads.” “Vagina or bust.”
“If I wanted to be with her, I would be.” “I’m taking a break from my girlfriend because I want to have sex with other women before settling down.”
“I’m not in this for sex.” “I’m also willing to spend time with you doing things that could reasonably lead to sex, or having an occasional meal if you pay.”
“Don’t be afraid to let your guard down. You don’t have to be so strong all the time.” “Seriously, let your guard down. This will only take a minute.”
“I’ve never had a problem with commitment.” “I’m totally committed to having sex with everyone I’m simultaneously dating.”
“I’ve never had a one night stand.” “I’m interested in having sex with you the entire time I’m apart from my girlfriend.”
“You seem to be holding back emotionally, the last seven or eight girls I’ve dated told me they loved me within a month.” “Does using the word love in any context help? Also, 8 of 9 girlfriends dentists gave it up within a month, what’s with you?”
“I’m not secure in how you feel about me.” “I’m pretending to be emotionally vulnerable to see if you’ll reassure me with sex.”
“You can let go of your morals and no one will know.” “I’ve run out of things to say to convince you to have sex.”
“Whatever is between us will likely be forcibly reduced to a strong friendship next year.” “I’m moving in with my girlfriend next year, but plan to keep pursuing you sexually until then and want to assuage my guilt by pretending to be clear about my intentions.”
“We will always be friends.” “Once having sex with you is no longer a possibility, you will never hear from me again, until the check I wrote to repay the money you lent me bounces.”

The pinnacle of my ex’s douchiness came during his rehearsed “letting me down easy” speech. We took a walk around campus late one evening right before the end of the semester and he offered, “if you want someone to notice you, get him to see you in the moonlight.”

It was the night of a new moon. I shit you not.

What a douche.

For the record, he still owes me $105. And I want it.

——————

For auditory learners, here is what men want:

Oct
31
2012
Published!

Yesterday I made my publishing debut! Well, outside of my high school’s literacy magazine and the (up until now!) anonymous writing I’ve done here.

Earlier this year, I submitted a memoir piece to the lovely people at Write on Edge for the first edition of their literary anthology. As I mentioned here, I spent quite some time mining my memory reserves in service of the writing. I’m thrilled that my piece was accepted and to announce that the anthology, Precipice, is now available for your reading pleasure. I’m honored and, quite frankly, surprised to be in the company of such talented writers.

You can click on the link above or on the picture below (Amazon) to obtain your own copy of Precipice. For a low fee, you can read my teenage angst in print or on your e-reader.

 

I’d like to thank Dave for his patience while I did little but type for several weeks and for being willing to read so many drafts of different stories about my relationship with an ex. That can’t have been fun. I’d also like to thank my friend Erin for the support and encouragement, and for steering me in a more authentic direction.

My piece is titled “Good Enough,” and recounts the circumstances leading to my first kiss. This is fertile writing ground I’ve covered before in a different context. It seems the early college phase of my life is my low hanging writing fruit — suitably dramatic, but not lingeringly painful. The diary I kept religiously during this time preserved the memories while they were still fresh. Unfortunately for everyone involved with me during this time, I have pretty accurate dialogue. 

People have asked me what happened after that first kiss. I’ve written a little about that before, but two things got in the way of expanding this story for Precipice:

1.) the word limit,

2.) an overwhelming urge not to look dumb.

And, oh, how dumb I was. But I learned useful lessons…lessons in the critical art of understanding the inner thoughts of men. In honor of the release of Precipice, I will share these lessons in a future post, so stay tuned. It’s a must read for any of you who have ever been confused by the words of that special dude in your life. A companion piece, perhaps, to He’s Just Not That Into You. Because, believe me, he is into you. Sort of. If only men weren’t so complicated

Oct
19
2012
Photo Friday: Lucky 13

In the words of my Dad, I’ve been “steady busy.” I’ve been planning a new ice cream blog. Because when you can’t find the time or energy to update your first blog, why not start another one?  I’ve also been: making ice cream, taking a small business workshop (see also: ice cream), worrying about my dog (he’s fine, don’t worry, but there’s been stuff), basking in the glow of my Craft Whores win, and celebrating anniversaries.

Last Wednesday was my 13th wedding anniversary. Dave had his usual Wednesday night jam class thing, and that means on Wednesdays, Dave is gone before I get home. This means that Wednesday is not the night we make sweet weekly love, but rather Wednesday nights I have to not only walk the dog, but also provide my own dinner (my life is hard).

But I found these on the counter when I got home.

I assumed there were 12, because a dozen roses is a thing, right? Later Dave told me there were 13 because we’ve been married 13 years and I was touched in my cold black heart by his  uncharacteristic romantic symbolism. But the best part of my anniversary present was the note on the counter saying “Chuck walk: check.” When I realized I could report directly to the couch, plant my ass there and watch TV, my eyes welled up with tears of joy. ‘Twas a happy anniversary indeed!

Last week was also our 20-year dating anniversary which, holy crap, is a long time, no? We celebrated by seeing Peter Gabriel on his last “Back to Front” tour stop. He performed the album “So” in its entirety in honor of the 25th anniversary of its release. Which occurred when I was FOURTEEN years old and Peter Gabriel didn’t look like an elderly Druid. But he sounded awesome. He also played two other non-“So” sets, including songs from the album “Us” that came out the month I met Dave (11 days before we officially started dating, not that I looked it up and counted). I assume he played “Come Talk to Me” in honor of our 20th anniversary, right?

As I rested my head on Dave’s shoulder and listened to the song, memories of that CD playing over and over as we fell in love came flooding back to me like 20 years hadn’t passed. How the hell did 20 years pass so quickly? Add Peter Gabriel to the growing list of bastards who made me cry at a concert.

Please to enjoy this video (this wasn’t our show, but the only video from our show on YouTube gave me vertigo). Song starts around 2:15:

Sep
7
2012
Garbage In…

In between sips of my Amaretto Sour, I kept gingerly clinking my teeth together.

One of my hallmates suggested going to Nick’s, and I realized my usual response of “I’m not drunk enough to eat at Nick’s” was not accurate.

“I can’t feel my teeth,” I offered.

“Great, let’s go!”

Janice was the only person on the hall who was sober and awake. She graciously and foolishly agreed to drive a bunch of drunk people to Nick’s.

Surveying the crowd of us, she responsibly pointed out, “you won’t all fit in the car.”

Fro’s argument was clear and strong as he tossed her the keys, “Nick’s!”

We entered the car in shifts. The last available space was horizontal. Two of us had to wedge ourselves like Tetris pieces onto the laps of those already on the back seat.

My neck bent awkwardly and my head was jammed into the ceiling.

The Nick’s virgins got a briefing on the proper etiquette. Be ready by the time you get to the front of the line. No substitutions. Yes, you had to eat the macaroni salad. Don’t look, just eat.

We debated the merits of pouring ketchup over everything. We sang along with the radio. We accidentally poked each other in sensitive areas whenever Janice took a sharp corner.

Before I’d taken one bite, that first garbage plate from Nick’s turned out to be one of the most nourishing meals I’d ever had.

 ——————————————

​This post is a response to this week’s writing prompt at Write on Edge.

“Certain local items linger in your mind and weave together with memories and stories you remember with an almost possessive type of nostalgia. This week you have 350 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece in which a local or regional item or industry plays a role.”

My college-era nostalgia is possessive indeed! As stated in the video, a garbage plate from Nick Tahou’s is a rite of passage for college students in Rochester, NY. He neglected to mention the drunk in the wee hours of the morning part.

 

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

Jul
20
2012
Destroy My Sweater

I once believed I’d look smaller if I wore clothes that were too big. In high school, the Gap sold a cardigan sweater that ran ridiculously large. Boom! I could have the satisfaction of buying a medium and still have it be two sizes too big. I got the foamy green color and my friend Sarah got the dusty rose, or maybe it was coral. Why does it irritate me that I can’t remember the color of Sarah’s sweater? All I know is the sweater looked cute on her. On me…not so much.

I got rid of it, right?

No. Being the pack rat I am, I still had the foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater five years later when I started my job. I soon learned I needed to leave a sweater at work permanently to protect me from the arctic air conditioning in the summer. The hoarder in me was thrilled to finally have a use for the otherwise unworn foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater. See, it is good to hang onto things (let’s reinforce my hoarding!). Over the years the foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater slowly started to disintegrate, starting at the cuffs.

I threw it out, right?

No. I rolled up the sleeves to hide the fraying edges and the growing holes. The sweater was too big, remember? I could roll the cuffs a few times and still get full arm coverage.

I have next to no fashion sense. But even I couldn’t keep wearing that sweater. My colleagues were going to think I was homeless.

I threw it out, right?

No. Even though I wouldn’t wear it, it could still come in handy. Like that time last winter when a cold rain pummeled me sideways in the wind tunnel that is the walk from the subway to my office. After removing my soaked wool pants, I sat on my chair with the foamy green (mercifully) over-sized Gap cardigan sweater draped over my lap until my pants dried. And I believe I updated my Facebook status to say I wasn’t wearing pants. Praise all that is holy my office has a door.

During my office cleaning in May, I faced a critical decision.

Maybe it looks better on…like, on fire.

I decided it was time for the foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater to go. But not before documenting it’s foamy green over-sizedness. You can see why I had to keep this sweater for 21 years, no? The fabric to cost ratio alone made it worthwhile. I love how it hangs all heavy and ill-fitting. The extra fabric bunching under my elbow is particularly fetching.

Thank God no one came into the bathroom during this photo shoot.

Dave likes this close up shot of the holes.

It might be time to admit I have a problem.

I threw it out, right?

R.I.P. foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater

I couldn’t get this song out of my head while writing this post, so here you go.

Jun
14
2012
Like It’s 1999

You can accumulate a lot of crap when you work at the same job for over 15 years. I’ve brought a lot of personal stuff into the office. I figured if I was going to spend so much time there, I could at least make it more comfortable. But perhaps all the stuff made me become too comfortable, entrenched even. So I had to laugh when I read Margaret’s post about starting her new job.

She is the anti-me regarding personal stuff at work: “I don’t like to bring anything to work that I can’t fit in my handbag and carry out with me on a moment’s notice.” She concluded she’d like to “leave a little more of myself at work.” But I realized I needed to do the opposite…begin to extract myself. This is one of the reasons I cleaned my office recently. I was so ruthless in my commitment to cleaning, I kept waiting for my coworkers to ask me if I was leaving. I even had a snappy comeback ready: “Is it that obvious?”

I may not be leaving imminently, but I’m creating an environment in which leaving would be a hell of a lot easier.

Here is an assortment of the crap I found in one of my desk drawers, some of it lovingly scanned for your amusement (actually I hoped having scans would make me willing to throw this stuff out). While some accumulation of crap is forgivable in my situation, my physical office has changed locations three times. So all this stuff made it through at least one cull. Some of it I bothered to pack and move three times.

This drawer contained:

Menus for closed restaurants, obsolete carbon paper forms, a handwritten list of blogs I read circa 2007, and a Day Runner I haven’t used since 2001. Of the 37 contacts written into the address section, I have spoken to only six in the last year. I have no idea who one of them is, even after Googling.

The drawer also contained miscellaneous decorations, none of which have been displayed since at least 2006. These include:

1.) The dream catcher Dave’s parents brought back for me from Alaska. It’s been in the drawer since my last office move and the disintegrating leather left dust all over the drawer. Yet I still had trouble throwing it out because Dave’s Mom had given it to me and she’s gone now.

2.) At least three dozen postcards from my travels, many from my 1994 study abroad semester. Anytime I saw a painting I’d learned about in Art History, I bought the postcard. Why wouldn’t you want to look at this during your work day?

Or how about a picture of the Danish Queen, circa 1992. I need to hang on to that, right?

Tracy is very jealous of these emeralds.

3.) Precious child artwork. I can’t say exactly when these masterpieces were created, but since my older nephews are now 20 and 17, I’m guessing it was at least five years ago. Ha.

The black hole in the tree symbolizes man’s search for meaning.

I like the bold use of empty space.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4.) Print out of a 2000 article from the Onion that mentions my favorite element. The yellow highlighting of the relevant line (“Rumors of a longtime feud with molybdenum…”) is now too faded to see…perhaps because this piece of paper is 12 frigging years old.

5.) A yellowed clipping about my favorite tennis player’s 2001 Wimbledon win, which made me cry big fat tears of joy (in 2001, not when I cleaned my office).

6.) Several cards from my Mom, back when she still loved me and sent me cards for no reason (in other words, ten years ago).

Boomerang Bear is sad because Tracy’s Mom doesn’t send random cards anymore.

7.) I have no idea where or when I got this, but I love Paddington Bear and should totally keep this in case my boss gives me a coloring assignment.

8.) Original works of art by yours truly. Meet Knookie the Computer Chip, a comic I made up in 1985. Apparently I got swept away by nostalgia for the 20th anniversary of Knookie’s creation (and/or was really bored on work travel). I have no artistic talent whatsoever…enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9.) And finally, the best thing I found while cleaning out my office, this page from the 2001 Onion calendar (Moses, Moses, Moses). I’m probably not going to throw this out.

How much personal crap do you have at work? Are you entrenched or could you make a quick get-away if necessary?

Jun
7
2012
If I Wanted to Read, I’d Go to School

Yesterday, I was the featured writer on the Studio30 Plus community blog. It’s a great community of writers that used to be for people 30 and older, but now is open to anyone who wants to connect with other writers. As promised, here is my featured post.

********************

Writing advice often includes a recommendation to read more. But these days…

It wasn’t always this way. I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t read. In kindergarten my classmates and I sat in a circle on the floor. We took turns reading aloud from a Dick and Jane book.  When some students struggled to sound out the words, I blinked in confusion. The words somehow made sense to me already.

I read so quickly I had to rifle through my Mom’s bookshelves for reading material. As an innocent 12-year old attending Catholic school, reading The Thorn Birds was an ironic way to learn about sex.

So what happened to my love of reading? I’d like to take a moment to thank my high school. They took my youthful love of reading and stomped it into the ground, set it on fire, pissed on it, then buried it while it still had a slight pulse so it could suffocate and die a more painful death.

Here’s a helpful hint for any educators out there: there is such a thing as too much required reading. Maybe I shouldn’t complain about the volume of reading I had to do in high school. It exposed me to so many classic books I probably would not have chosen to read on my own.

But my teachers were more interested in trying to verify we’d read every word in the books than whether we understood them. That is the only way I can explain the bizarre questions on our tests.

Take this question about The Red Badge of Courage, for example: “How many pairs of socks did Henry have in his bag?”

Dude, seriously? Presumably the teacher asked us this question because we couldn’t answer it having read only the Cliffs Notes. But no one needs to know this detail. I resent the space the answer (eight) takes up in my brain.

In addition to random details, they also liked asking us to reproduce entire quotes. One teacher tested us on the number of lines we could remember from The Merchant of Venice. I still laugh over trying to get her to count “My daughter!” “O my ducats!” as two quotes.

This type of testing required committing as much of the text to memory as possible. In response, I forced my eyes to stop racing ahead, sometimes using a sheet of paper to isolate the lines as I read. If I thought I hadn’t really absorbed something, I’d go back and read it out loud. My speed plummeted, but I aced the tests.

Soon I could read no other way. Whether I read Moby-Dick or an article in Cosmo, I read it laboriously.

If high school killed my love of reading, my job hammers nails into its coffin. I get paid to read and edit a lot of stiff research writing, which doesn’t motivate me to look at more words in my free time. Other people seek me out to read yet still more technical writing because of my attention to detail…ironically, the same attention to detail that made reading so maddening for me in high school.

I’ve tried several things to reignite my love of reading. Years ago, I joined several book clubs. Now I have one rule about book clubs:  I don’t like book clubs. Reading books that other people select (does any book club use a democratic process?) is too much like school, thank you very much.

I’ve tried carrying books with me everywhere I go, including taking seven to the beach last year. During my week-long vacation, I read about seven percent of them. I had trouble absorbing the words. Watching the waves crash onto the shore was much more soothing.

Starting my blog has helped me more than anything else I’ve tried. Through writing, I’ve pinpointed what I’m most interested in reading. I’m giving myself permission to read what I want.

There’s nothing wrong with my preference for non-fiction (take that high school and ex-book clubs!). Not everything I read has to be “literary,” or even a book. I love reading blogs. I’ve found exquisite examples of memoir, poetry, and fiction, as well as writing that makes me laugh out loud. Blogs are worth reading.

So much of what I’ve read during my life has been chosen for me. Now it’s my turn.

By the way, I do still occasionally finish a book. Sometimes I even read fiction…taking it back full circle to my childhood days…

Yes, I read this. Shockingly, it wasn't very good.

How have your reading habits changed throughout your life?

May
4
2012
Piercing

Teenage girls need to make a personal fashion statement, something to set them apart. I was a teenager long before there were sweatpants with writing on the ass. And clearly my trouble attracting guys had to do with the single piercing of my ears. So I decided to get my ears double pierced. But that was not the statement, oh no. The statement was wearing both earrings of a pair in the same ear. You can’t say I didn’t live on the edge.

I convinced my Mom to take me to have it done. She thought I was nuts, but the passion of my argument allowed me to block out how much I hate pain. As soon as we got in the car, the reality of having holes created in my flesh where there weren’t any before started to hit me.

By the time we entered the jewelry store I was somewhere else entirely. This is silly, my hair will cover the second holes anyway. One piercing is plenty.

I could hear my Mom making small talk with the staple gun operator, torturer piercing technician. She had to arrange for my mutilation because I wasn’t saying anything.

I don’t even remember getting into the chair of doom, but once seated there the time allowed for perseverating over another set of piercings was over.

I braced for impact, white-knuckling the arms of the chair. I shot a look of panic at my Mom, who rolled her eyes in response. She probably said something helpful like, “you don’t even know what real pain is,” and also, “this was your idea, remember?”

So I turned to the technician and decided I’d have to use my “be gentle with me, I’m a baby” pain disclaimer. Freely admitting you cannot handle pain to people about to inflict pain rarely backfires (I’ve admittedly never been a hostage or prisoner of war, so I can’t vouch for this in all circumstances). Even if your whining annoys the person, it still disarms them into being nicer, even if they have to fake it.

The technician was a seasoned professional. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk you through it.”

She marked my ears. “OK, now hold your breath and you won’t feel a thing.”

It seemed like a strange request, but I would’ve done anything she asked to avoid feeling pain. I filled my lungs with air and concentrated on holding it in until she gave the all clear. Or until my ear exploded with pain, whichever came first.

I heard a snapping noise and felt a slight pinch, but no pain. I let out all the air I’d sucked in and smiled in relief.

The technician beamed. “See, I told you, no pain.”

I just knew the breath thing had made the difference. I waited for her to tell me when to start holding my breath for the other ear, but she didn’t say anything. She kept fiddling with the gun right by my other ear.

Is she going to tell me when to hold my breath? It’s going to hurt if I don’t hold my breath. I’ll just start holding my breath now. What the hell is taking so long?

Snap!

“All done!” My Mom took a quick look at my ears and then walked over to the counter with the technician to pay.

It hadn’t hurt, but I felt strange. Mom was talking and I could tell she thought I was right behind her. I tried to catch up, but I felt warm, tingly, and dizzy.

My new earrings started to burn in my ears and the backs felt so sharp. I couldn’t help thinking about how those pointed tips had torn new holes in my ear lobes.

Mom is the only one of the two of us who knows what happened next. While paying the technician she heard a commotion across the store. Only then did Mom notice I wasn’t right behind her. I was no longer sitting in the chair either.

I hadn’t made it three steps before passing out.

———————-

This post is in response to the writing prompt at Studio 30 Plus this week:  “She held her breath.”

What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done in the name of fashion?

Apr
20
2012
My Life’s Just Not That Interesting

This is one of those posts no one gives a shit about. I’ve been away from here long enough that I had to log in. The past few weeks, I’ve been trapped in a nostalgia sinkhole and it’s been harder to climb out than usual, because I’m deliberately trying to immerse myself in memories for something I want to submit to a literacy review.

This latest bout of nostalgia started when Dave and I went to see the Wedding Present play Seamonsters to celebrate its 21st anniversary (like that isn’t enough to make a person feel old). Dave loves the music so much and it reminds me of when we met, but it’s weird that these songs about relationship angst have somehow become “our songs.” I think Dave just doesn’t pay much attention to lyrics. But good lord, those lyrics. I obsess over them. I desperately wish I could write half as well as David Gedge. In 200 words, he can convey a feeling that needs no additional explanation. Of course, I’m guessing his life has actually been interesting. Having to go back twenty years to find some drama to write about, as I’ve done, means it’s time to admit your life just isn’t that interesting.

My writing, like my thinking, is heavy with detail, explanation, and analysis, not to mention an introspection that I believe blocks people from finding it resonant themselves. Part of me wants to delete every word I’ve written for the literary review and copy and paste the lyrics to Seamonsters into the submission box instead. Think they’d notice?

Then friends offered us free tickets to the National Symphony Orchestra. When I found out what we’d be seeing (Mendelssohn’s Elijah), I thought it sounded familiar. I looked it up and found the video below and recognized it. In fact, it contains a line that gets lodged in my head all the time and not remembering where the hell it came from has driven me nuts for years (“And a mighty wind rent the mountains around, brake in pieces the rocks, brake them before the Lord. But yet the Lord was not in the tempest.”).

My friends asked me if I’d sung the whole thing or just excerpts and I couldn’t remember. Of course, when I finally dug up the program, (like I would’ve thrown it out) it was during college–the same time I’m currently grinding over. My chorus sang it in its entirety–twice. Plus two excerpts at another concert. I can’t believe how much better I feel having figured this out. I can’t stand forgetting. Just try to imagine having to look for a choral program from 1992 and you can start to understand how exhausting it is to be me.

Then, this week there was something else, something maybe I shouldn’t even mention. But it’s contributed to why I’m spending so much of my time thinking about the past rather than functioning at all well in the present (I said fuck in one form or another at work today at least 20 times, loudly, because I am professional). I don’t even fully understand what the hell went on and it’s none of my damn business, but someone in my childhood best friend’s life was just murdered. There have been all kinds of murders on the side of town where I grew up and I can’t help but wonder what the hell made me so lucky.

So I’m busy writing, just not stuff for here (unless it’s not selected, in which case I might dump those 1,500 words–cause you know I won’t be under the word limit–here). And I’m busy thinking about my past as if it were a “Choose Your Own Adventure Book” rather than the prologue to my present. And I’m working with a designer to make this shit hole look more attractive and hopefully speak more accurately to what I’m trying to do here (which is actually to be funny, which you’d never know from this post).  

Mar
6
2012
Ignorance and Malt Liquor

They say laughter is the best medicine. So when I laugh at people, I’m just looking out for my health.

One of many reasons I’ll be in hell if it exists is laughing at an impassioned speaker during high school who said, “we will no longer take your condensation!” Expressing frustration with condescension but messing up the word…now that’s ironic, Alanis. To this day, when I want to feign indignation, I say:  “I will take your sublimation, I will suffer through your precipitation, but by God, I will no longer stand for your condensation.”

So I’m a pain in the ass. But lest ye think I have no embarrassing moments of stupidity, I’m here to invite you to laugh at me.

Most of my highlights are the result of being naive. I have lived a pretty sheltered life. Although I’ve always had a mouth like a sewer, that came from growing up around my older brother and his friends, not the result of experience. I was, and sometimes still am, an innocent Catholic school girl at heart.

Sophomore year of high school, I was startled at the change in appearance of one of our classmates. I turned to my friend and whispered, “Wow, she really got fat!” And my friend looked at me incredulously and said, “She’s pregnant!” I can’t remember if she added, “you moron,” but if not, I deserved it. I was still a little confused even after the explanation (uh, isn’t sex required to get pregnant?!?), but managed to hold it in.

My specialty is misinterpreting song lyrics.

Sometimes I take things too literally. I’m embarrassed to report it was only a few years ago I finally realized “Santa Claus” was actually Daddy dressed up as Santa Claus in the song “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” Before that, I had always just thought Mommy was a slut.

One of my favorite songs ever is “Mama Said Knock You Out,” by L.L. Cool J. It came out during my senior year of high school, when I was immersed in English literature (immersed as in having to memorize some of the prologue of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English). So when L.L. said, “Old English filled my mind, and I came up with a funky rhyme,” I was terribly impressed at such an allusion in a rap song.

Because clearly L.L. Cool J meant this Old English:

Of course, I learned later about an alternative “Olde English.” Perhaps this is the origin of the funky rhyme?

I still prefer to believe it’s a double entendre.

For all I know, the line might have been a triple entendre…

I could have swiped stock photos, but I am committed to my craft. Beowulf came from the library (buy it? bitch, please!), furniture polish from the grocery store, and the malt liquor…let’s say finding Olde English 800 in my neck of the woods was not as easy. We’d pretty much given up when we happened upon a little corner store with “wine and beer” in the title. On the way in, I had a premonition that our purchase of Olde English 800 would not go without comment. The guy behind us didn’t disappoint: “OE 800?!?! Kickin’ it old school like Dr. Dre!”

Nope, taking a picture of it for my blog. Dave’s excited to take it to his next band practice. He insisted I put it back in the fridge as soon I was finished taking photos so it wouldn’t be exposed to light. Something about degrading the quality…ahem. “Sweetie, I put the 40 of OE 800 next to your imported Belgian Trappist Ale.”

What’s your best moment of ignorance?