That one Time that I was Jack Nicholson

Do any of you recall the 70’s classic, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Well, I was THAT Jack Nicholson – only I was never a criminal. I couldn’t be a criminal if I tried. One time, as a kid, I thought about what it would be like to take a Butterfingers from the grocery store without asking, and I got so worked up over the sheer possibility of stealing it that I almost cried. I felt guilty for thinking about the act, not for actually doing it.

But everything else was the same – I met some really nutty people in the Psych ward of the hospital.

Wait a minute, you say, I didn’t know Kelsey was a crazy person.

Well I’m not!

Eccentric, odd, sarcastic, over emotional, under emotional, and weird, yes, but not crazy.

I also live with a condition called: Depression. Ever heard of it? I’m NOT depressed, I HAVE depression. There’s a difference, you know, and the way you look at it says a lot about how well you handle it. I also have anxiety, clearly, if you didn’t crack the nut on that obvious mystery through the URL of my blog.

But I’m doing okay, I’m doing wonderful in fact, and that really isn’t what this story is about. This story is about my week long experience locked in a small area with people constantly reminding me just how normal and sane I really am. Because, to be honest, a lot of things that happened while I was there were pretty funny.

I was in there completely voluntarily, mind you, after the biggest mistake of my life – just to get that out of the way for all my curious readers.  

So.

I’ve just been checked in and someone points lazily in the direction of my room. My parents and I sit on what we perceive to be an unoccupied bed in the room, and we wait. No one comes to greet us. It starts to feel like an episode of the Twilight Zone, before finally, a smiling young woman comes in and starts to chat with us. While certainly friendly, she’s not actually giving us any direction, and my poor father, who’s been put through the ringer for the last several hours, somewhat abruptly asks her when someone is going to give me something to eat. She looked a bit startled, mumbled something along the lines of, “I’m not sure I can go check?” and tottered off.

We realized a couple minutes later when a nurse came over that the friendly woman had been a patient.

Oops.

My dad is an incredibly nice man, and I think he felt genuinely bad for assuming what we all had.

Dad, have yourself a cookie.

So now that we’ve successfully scared off one of my fellow prisoners, I have something to eat and go to sleep for the rest of the night. What I did not expect when going to sleep in my private room was to wake up with someone standing next to me, staring down at my face.

RIGHT AT THE SIDE OF MY BED.

“Hey,” she said, nonchalantly. “I’m pissed. I can’t even have my mascara in this place. What do they think I’m going to do with mascara, stab you in the eye with it?”

Holy, sweet son of a biscuit. This was not a great way to start off my morning.

As it turns out, she wanted to my friend because she was also my roommate, and when she wasn’t having an episode of swearing and screaming at the nurses as they threatened to “give” her something if she didn’t settle down, she was…nice.

Yeah, we’ll go with that. She was nice, but only to me.

And, to prove to you how nice she could be, the second day I was there I sat down at a table in the common room, prepared to work on a puzzle that was laid out. My fingers hovered over a piece, but before I could pick it up in a sore attempt to amuse myself, my roommate yelled “STOP!” right next to my ear.

I jumped in my seat. I’m glad it’s the only thing I did.

“You don’t want to touch that. You know that other lady who’s always sitting here? Her?” She pointed across the room to an unkempt, fifty-something woman with grey hair. “She never washes her hands, and she constantly puts her hands into her pants.”

Oh my gosh, I had almost touched the “Urine Puzzle.”

Needless to say, I avoided that.

The same lady who I shall call Judy, also did not appreciate the fine art of bath taking. I couldn’t say how long it had been since she last had a bath, only that everyone was immediately aware of it after walking past her. I witnessed a showdown in the doorway of her room as a couple of nurses threatened to throw her into the shower themselves if she didn’t do it on her own.

Judy had the mouth of a sailor.

Having semi-befriended some of the nursing staff (it wasn’t difficult. I simply smiled nicely, said “thank you”, and never yelled at them), I usually got first dibs on snack time.  Yes, I had snack time, like a toddler still in Kindergarten.

Now looking back on it, I feel like I should have milked this. I could have had nap time, arts and crafts time, play time…

Oh wait, that’s right, I had all of those too.

Not only this, but other than a random group session where we watched motivating “Discovery Channel” videos to lift our spirits, it was really quite dull in there.

Good thing I had my fellow patients to amuse me. One girl was sitting at the table for breakfast one morning whom I didn’t recognize, who must have slipped into the facility in the dead of night. She was possibly even younger than myself, and came across, at first glance, as immensely normal.

It wasn’t until she explained why she was in there that it all started to make perfect sense.

“I don’t have anything wrong with me, I’m just in here because of the Saudis.”

My brows knitted together as I looked at her over my pancakes. “Sorry?”

“For my protection, from the Saudi Arabians,” she said matter-of-factly. “I ran in a bad group with them for a while. They kidnapped me, they made me take drugs too. It wasn’t my fault. So I’m in here for my personal safety until the police know where to hide me. I’m only going to be here for like, a day.”

Since we lived in a state that had more white people in it than just about anywhere else, my bull crap sensor was tingling. Though I’m sure there are some people living here who happen to be from Saudi Arabia, I was almost certain there was not an entire gang of them, running around, forcing people to take their expensive drugs for free.

The girl stood up suddenly, turned around to face a decorative plant, and started coughing before she spat a whole bunch of nasty into it. This wouldn’t have been as shocking to me considering where I was, if it wasn’t for the fact that this girl was a dainty blonde, ninety pounds soaking wet, who had just hawked a loogie into a fern.

Wiping off her mouth with the back of her hand, she smiled as if nothing had happened and returned to her seat. Despite all the food placed in front of her, I never once saw her actually eat, well, anything.

It wasn’t until I was leaving the hospital that I saw how Saudi girl’s attitude changed. I was waiting in the commons to be picked up, and the Saudi girl’s sister had come to visit her. The girl was livid, and the sister was calmly if not somewhat apprehensively trying to dodge her questions. “I don’t understand why I’m still in here! Why can’t the arrest them or find somewhere for me to go? SHE gets to leave” she hissed, looking at me with murderous eyes.

I gulped, looked back up at the clock, and pretended not to notice.

Her sister averted her eyes, picking at a spot on the chair. “They’re not looking for anywhere for you to go…don’t be mad…”

My roommate came to say goodbye to me and complained about being left alone with all the crazy people. She said she was going to try to see if she could move into Saudi girl’s room, at least. I wished her luck with that. I reminded her to be nice to the nurses because they were the ones in control of the snacks. J

Judy walked out of her room with her sneakers on her hands instead of her feet, and left. She had been released.

I shuddered.

And then I was gone.

I for one, had a much better ending than Jack Nicholson did. 

*pictures to their respective owners.

Continue reading →

I Can Computer, too

The daily drudgery of customer service can make you feel old before your time, but occasionally, you’re offered one of these rare gems that promises a good story for years to come. I call it:

“When you want to tell someone to just Give Up, but you’re contractually obligated not to.”

I can’t make this stuff up – it’s simply too stupid to fabricate.

In order to avoid this getting back to my workplace and receiving a solid reprimand, I have developed a very surreptitious, fool-proof method of identity protection. Prepare to be amazed.

I work in a setting that is certainly not customer service, training what are the opposite of teachers in how to use our non-product.

(How am I doing so far?)

In this completely fabricated position, I received a phone call from one such individual that went something as follows:

Me: “Thank you for calling, how may I help you today?”

Non-Teacher: “Yes I need help.”

Me: (didn’t I just…?) What can I help you with?

Non-Teacher: “I’m trying to register on your site and it’s just not wor –sit down! (brief silence) All of ya’ll sit down, I’m on the phone…..sit! Good golly….” (more silence before addressing moi). “I’m sorry, I’m trying to register but I can’t figure this out.”

Me, relieved that she wasn’t yelling at me to sit down: “That’s alright. To register a personal account, please go to (names website) and click on the “Register” button in the right hand corner of the page. It should open up another page that will ask you some questions, including your name, address, etc.”

Non-Teacher: “Should I put my real name here?”

Me: “Um, yes. That would be helpful.”

Non-Teacher: “Because I’m not taking the test I’m just doing it for my (non) class.”

Me: “No worries, but we’ll still need you to create an account with your actual name.”

Non-Teacher: “I don’t see a register button anywhere.”

Me: “It’s going to be in the top right hand corner of the page, in large green letters.”

Non-Teacher: “Which page?”

Me: “The webpage.”

Non-Teacher: “Which page of the webpage?”

Me: “The main page, after you type the url address in….do you see the Announcements? Now look up a little…okay, now you see Support section? Lift your eyes up the page a little more until you can’t go any further.”

-Ten minutes later –

Non-Teacher:  “Ooooooh, I see it. Do I just click on it?”

-          A few minutes into the call –

Non-Teacher: “There’s this little thing at the bottom of the page with numbers.”

Me: “(pause) Are you referring to the security code?”

Non-Teacher: “I don’t know what the thing is there’s just a bunch of blurry numbers.”

Me: “Does it say Security Code above it?”

Non-Teacher: “Yes, it does.”

Me: “Okay, so…it’s the security code. All you need to do is type those numbers into the white box below exactly as you see them. It’s to help the computer know you aren’t a robot.”

Non-Teacher: “A robot? Now why would I be a robot?”

Me: “I don’t know, ma’am.”

Non-Teacher: “Well how do I get some of the numbers to be up and the others to be down? – sit down! I AM ON THE PHONE! Hush, ya’ll are gonna have me rip my hair out.”

Me: “You can just type it exactly how you see it into the little white box.”

Non-Teacher: “Am I supposed to have the number five be above the letter Q all zig-zaggy like that?”

Me: “No, it’s just shown that way because it would confuse a robot.”

Non-Teacher: “Why would I be a robot?”

Me: “……….”

Non-Teacher: “I typed it and nothing happened.”

Me: “Did you happen to capitalize some of the letters? It is case-sensitive.”

Non-Teacher: “Oh I know what I did. I didn’t need the little spaces.”

Me: (???)

Non-Teacher: “Now what. It’s stuck on the page.”

Me: “You can press “enter”

Non-Teacher: “Alright I am registered. Now, how do I download your software?”

Me: (crying inside)

"*images to their respective owners.

Continue reading →

The Awkward moment of the Week

For our very first "Awkward Moment of the Week" on the blog, I present to you:

"Lil' Miss Porta Potty" 

According to the U.K. based online news site Mirror, a very unfortunate woman attending a beer festival in England found herself in deep doo-doo (I had to) this week, when she was trapped in a portable bathroom. 

Talk about getting caught with your pants down. I, for one, come up empty when trying to fathom a more vulnerable situation to be in. 

A security team apparently forgot to check the bathroom before raising it up to cart away on a truck with the other "loos", in an attempt to clear the area for an emergency vehicle to pass through. 

The woman started screaming (understandably) when she realized her John was in mid-flight, alerting the crew to her presence. I am happy to report that the woman was uninjured and found the whole thing quite funny - or maybe she was just laughing so nobody else would laugh at her. 

And if you're all wondering the same horrific thing I am - what state did they find her and her clothes in? I guess we'll be forever left in suspense, as no further information was given about this stinky near-disaster.

Continue reading →

'Twas a Carriage Ride of Horrors

Gather round, friends and family dear, as I speak of a tale that may (not) be worth reading….

My hubby, who hath requested to be henceforth referred to in this monologue as “The Gallant Knight”, drove our carriage through the mountainside known as “Alpine Loop”, for an evening of scenic merriment and tasteful frivolity. Twas Wednesday Eve when we set out, but the horrors we encountered on the road were unlike anything we had expected.  

“Hark!” The Gallant Knight proclaimed, “Another carriage approaches.” My eyes widened against it came, galloping around the corner at a frightening speed. “Anon!” I screamed, assailed by the driver who, overtaking both sides of the path, nearly sent our carriage toppling over a scraggily cliff. “The Knave hath nearly colored my trousers,” I growled, a delicate hand upon my breast.

No sooner had determination fitted his brow before two more carriages came, brazenly towing the line, nearly dispatching the mirror of reflection on the side of our transport as they blew past. “What base creatures are these, tempting our deaths on the narrow road? Large carriage or naught, such daring is a folly,” my muttering mouth decreed, as I cursed the rogues under my breath.

The Knight of Gallantry remained absolute in his cause, braving our perilous journey until we reached civilization and, what I hoped would be good manners.

Despite the near spillage of our innards among the cobblestone, we gleaned happiness from the fine sights of colored leaves and fanciful animals, even producing high quality images from a contraption given the name of a “Camera”.  

 Anyways.

Have you ever had the burning desire to follow behind a serious bicyclist on a mountain road and play some theme music for them?

Apparently my husband The Andrew does. I think it’s a marvelous idea. As they climb a steep hill on the final stretch, their faces red from exertion, their breath pushing out of exhausted lungs in gasping puffs, the serene sound of the running river filling their ears, and all of a sudden…..

“IT’S THE EYE OF THE TIGER IT’S THE THRILL OF THE FIGHT, RISING UP TO THE CHALLENGE OF OUR RIVALS!”

And of course, if you don’t just happen to have this inspiring tune on your IPod, you can just sing it at the top of your lungs while your head lolls out the window.

“AND THE LAST KNOWN SURVIVOR STALKS HIS PREY IN THE NIGHT (that’s us, the car), AND HE’S WATCHING US ALL WITH THE EYE OF THE TIIIIIIIIGER.”

On second that, those lyrics are kind of creepy, considering. But you get the general idea.

Who wouldn’t want their own personal cheerleading team stalking them up the hill when they’re looking and feeling their absolute worst?

Exactly. A crazy person, that’s who.

So the next time you come across a bicyclist all on their own, be kind, have charity in your heart, and crank up the stereo system to full power.

(For the kill with the skill to suuuuurvive!)

Eye of the tiger. 

Continue reading →

Stranger Things

You thought this was about the Netflix original t.v. series, didn’t you? Don’t lie, I know it’s true.

Did I just click bait you?

Yes, yes I did.

Moving on.

Everybody does strange things – or so our therapists like to tell us. If I am being perfectly, selfishly honest, I don’t care if anyone else is weird, I just care if I’M weird or not. Something about the universe revolving around me, etc, etc…

I’m already aware of some of the peculiar habits many members of the human race share. For example, checking to make sure the front door is really locked three times before you can leave for the day, or having the tempting, hair-pulling desire to push anything that explicitly states “DO NOT PUSH.” I guess we all have that dangerous, innate sense of curiosity that wants to know if the world really end in bloodshed and chaos if we press that innocent appearing button. It seems worth it, at the time.

But then, so does eating that second donut.

What’s important to me – I mean really, truly excruciatingly important, is whether or not the strange things I do are done by anyone else. So, shall we? If any of these apply to you, be a pal and post a comment below, so I don’t feel so alone in this sad, cruel world.

1. While riding shotgun in the car, I count the number of words on billboards and can’t stop until one billboard ends in an even number of words. This could take a long, long, long time.

2. Sometimes, if I touch something with one hand, I simply have to touch it with the other, too. I haven’t tested it, but I think I might drop dead if I resist.

3.  I’m visiting a friend’s house, and I notice the painting on the wall is slightly askew. Excuse me, I just I have to – wait, wait – there. That’s better. Now, what were you saying?

4. I need to eat an even number of M&M’s. I’ll throw away the last one in the bottom of the bag, if necessary, to achieve my goal.

5.  I generally hate when people poke me. If they simply must do it, and they poke me in the shoulder, then they need to poke me on the other shoulder too. Otherwise, you might hurt the other shoulder’s feelings by making it feel left out.

 6. I obstinately refer to myself as a “Cat Whisperer.” They follow me wherever I go. Even though I’ve never had a pet cat, and sometimes they scratch and hiss at me, somehow, I refuse to let go of this self-bestowed title from my childhood. I AM the Cat Whisperer. Fight me.

 7. I get embarrassed for movie characters, to the point where I can’t even watch some movies because I feel so embarrassed on their behalf. For example – Elf. The humiliation, it’s just too much.

 8. If someone I don’t know very well leaves me a message and asks me to call them back, I’ll still text them. I’m not going to socially interact with you, I don’t know you like that!

9.  Along the same vein, if I have to call a business for a repair, sometimes I’ll write myself a script beforehand, just so I can get out everything I need to say in a timely manner. When the employee on the other end of the line veers off this script, I stumble all over myself. Stick to the script, Stan. Stop asking me how the weather is over here, Stan. I just need to fix my water heater, Stan.

So, are there other extra-terrestrials out there like me, or am I the only one?

Continue reading →

I'm Chubby, and You're Chubby Too

While working at a temp agency a year or so ago, I came across the most glamorous of temporary job opportunities. It had everything I had ever wanted: Warehouse? Check. No air conditioning? Yes.  The possibility of having my job terminated at any moment? Check (I liked living on the edge).  An all-male environment of coworkers with criminal backgrounds? Check! Heavy, backbreaking labor? You betcha. Low wages? Always.

I knew I had to act fast before my spot was filled. I scooped that position up like a cheesesteak in Jersey and never looked back.   After all, I love sweating myself a shower.

The work was simple and straightforward – take all the heavy boxes off of the pallet that was sent, arrange them in numerical order by shipping code on the floor, and put them back up on a new pallet in order. Seems mundane? Counter-productive? My friends, you simply do not understand the sheer genius of this design. Why should the shippers put the boxes in numerical order in the first place, when the receivers could hire a bunch of people to redo it all for them?

Exactly. It makes perfect sense.

Day Two: The only floor fan we had to blow warm air across our slave-driven backs has broken. No plans of bringing in a new one. The foreman refuses to open the windows or doors for ventilation. Morale is low. The crew grumbles, but to no avail.

The work must go on.

A few hours in, we receive a fresh recruit. A short, rounded male, possibly younger than myself. I smile at him in a half-grimace as I lug a box more than half my weight over to a pallet. I wanted to offer a polite gesture of comradery, nothing more. After all, we were in an inhospitable land.

He smiled back, and I carried on. As we past one another back and forth from one pallet to the next, he tried to start up some small chat. I did my best to follow, but since we only walked by one another for a couple seconds at a time, it made for difficult conversation. He didn’t talk to anyone else, but then, no one else was very forthcoming. They just didn’t operate that way, my merry band of criminals.

Despite all the other luxuries of the job, we were still offered a half an hour lunch break on top of it. Once the words “Break!” came screeching out of the foreman’s hoarse, smoke-riddled lungs, I promptly scooped up my lunch bag and headed for the door. On my way out, I was intercepted by the new guy – named Ted (why not?).

“Man, I wish I had packed a lunch, I’m starving. I thought this place was going to be closer to fast food.”

I looked at him, and nodded sympathetically as I made my way to Clifford, the Big Red Truck, whom I drove to work. Ted followed, like a lost puppy.

“I rode my bike, so I can’t even go get anything….” He sighed dramatically, staring with envious eyes at my vehicle, his possible salvation.

Oh crap. I so looked forward to eating my lunch in air-conditioned silence, but that nagging Good Samaritan in the back of my head wouldn’t let up.

“I could…drive you to get something,” I offered hesitantly, not meeting him in the eye. Ted did not need to be asked twice. He hopped into the passenger seat and stated that he wanted some Kentucky Fried Chicken - KFC.

I blinked a few times at the request.  I wasn’t sure if he was messing with me and was about to tell me not to be so prejudiced, that he was just kidding and that whole thing is a stereotype. After seeing he was perfectly serious, I got more comfortable and drove off for the land of chicken-y goodness.

After picking up some food and returning to our warehouse parking lot, I parked and we sat in awkward silence for a moment or two. Was he going to get out of my car?

Nope, he liked the air conditioning too. Okay, fair enough. He was still a stranger but at least he was friendly. We both starting eating our respective lunches, enjoying a little casual conversation. I had already mentioned I had a boyfriend at the time, but it didn’t dissuade him from what he would say next.

“I was kind of drawn to you when we first met.”

Two hours ago??

I squirmed in my chair. “Oh, yeah?” Maybe he wasn’t getting at what I thought he was getting at.

“Y’know your smile, and you’re the only girl. Plus, I’m chubby, and you’re chubby too.”

I almost choked on my Doritos.

“I’m not sure what to say?” I mumbled awkwardly, still trying to appear nice. I had this problem, I’m going to call it “Nice Girl Syndrome”, where I was still kind to someone after they directly insulted me.

He chuckled as he bit into another piece of chicken. “Usually I don’t like girls like you who seem really preppy, like that bratty (I’m editing that) cheerleader type. But you’re so down to earth, I think because you’re a little fat and it makes you more relatable.”

GTFO. If I had the kind of self-respect that I have today, I would have drop kicked him in the face and knocked him out of the side of the truck, then backed up and run over him twice.

Instead, I nodded my head and returned to my Doritos, which I promptly stuffed into my lunchbox. For some super weird and totally unrelated reason, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

The next day, and the day after that, he tried to eat lunch with me again, but I evaded Ted for the most part. Although, he did come up to my truck window and smack his hands against it while I sat quietly eating, almost making me spit apple juice across my windshield in a “World of Colors” moment, Disney style.

Despite his declaration that he “also had a girlfriend”, somehow, I wasn’t buying it. Maybe because, when carrying boxes around the warehouse, he kept coming up behind me and flirtatiously poking me in the sides. I didn’t encourage it, but then, I didn’t exactly stop it either. I wasn’t sure WHAT I was supposed to do in this situation. I could have reported him, sure, but this place didn’t exactly have an HR Department set up in it. I appeased myself with the knowledge that this job would soon come to an end, and spent most of my focus on thinking up ways to avoid Ted altogether.

I may or may not have hit the all-time low of eating my lunch in an abandoned, cobwebbed filled part of the warehouse to hide like a little girl. Maybe, but I’m not on trial here.

Ted still tried asking me for rides home, since I had a truck and he could theoretically put his bike in the back of it. You know, if I didn’t hate his guts. I made up a plethora of excuses as to why I couldn’t help him, including that I was going in the opposite direction, or was headed straight for an appointment, etc. You know the drill, ladies.

Finally, after poking my stomach like I was the Pillsbury Doughboy one too many times, I snapped at him (in a nice way, naturally). I told him, somewhat jokingly, that pointing out a woman’s weight was not doing him any favors, while I made certain he could see the warning look in my eyes.

Ted finally got some sort of hint, because he at least started to let me eat my lunch in peace. He still had his moments, but I smirked smugly when he asked how old I was, and he looked appalled when I said twenty-three. He was eighteen. I was too old for him….or was I? I could see the words “sugar momma” forming in the clouds of his eyes before I quickly scurried off.

Half-way through the work day on a Friday, we were told that our job was finished, and we would need to return to the temp agency to find a new position.

Trumpets blew, a chorus sang merrily, Hallelujah reverberated against the walls!

Chelsey (he couldn’t quite get my name figured out), the spinster, flabby cheerleader of old, was free.

Until next week, when I started a new temp job and Ted waved at me from the end of the assembly line.

Oh, I am fortune’s fool. 

Continue reading →

Seen on Google Earth....

While exploring Google Earth in South Korea, I came upon....

          Happy monks enjoying a leisurely walk. Nothing out of the ordinary, here.

                          Uh-oh, they've spotted Godzilla.

Continue reading →

The Boy who Loved my Shoes too Much, or The Boy who fell in Love with my Feet

This is the story about the boy that loved my shoes too much.

Around this time six years ago, when I was still a naïve, shy, blushing eighteen-year-old college student (do not mock me, sir!), I bravely departed the place of my childhood and struck out on my own, going where no man had gone before – a small town college a whole hour and a half away. Supplied with little more than my knowledge of higher education gained from MTV dramas and my parents’ endless supply of laundry room quarters, I was ready to be a grownup.

Yes, I had finally gained my independence. This was going to ROCK.

After the initial teary-eyed, crying-into-my-pillow breakdown the first night, things seemed to be going in the right direction. I liked my roommates, I had remarkably easy classes more comparable to Middle School than even High School level work, and I was making friends. In fact, the first person I befriended (after my roomie) was even a real, live native of the 3,000 population town.*

Let’s call him…Adam.

Adam was cute, so to speak, and my roommate and I met him at a duller than dirt barbecue. We all exchanged numbers and looked forward to the next time we could get together and “hang out”. As it would turn out, our first experience was not the most promising of events, and I should have seen the warning signs that hit me in the head like a lawn flamingo in a wind storm. Basically, my roommate, her friend, and I all smashed together on a couch opposite from Adam while he glowered at us with if-looks-could-kill eyes as “Ernest goes to Camp” played on insufferably in the background. We were seriously reprimanded later by Adam as he explained he had been very upset because he, quote, “was just taken by surprise that we had invited another boy to hang out.”

Alrighty, then.

As I happen to be just about the luckiest person alive, I was welcomed into my first Spanish class of the semester by none other than Adam, who grinned a little like I imagine Ted Bundy would. Not wanting to be rude, I smiled nervously in return and sat down next to him, which is how we would remain for the rest of the semester. Behaving like his chipper, pre-Ernest fiasco self, I let down my own defenses and slowly eased back into pleasant conversations with him. Maybe it had been a fluke? Maybe, just maybe, he was having a really off day that evening. After all, he was just starting college too, and college is weird, man.

He occasionally paid me friendly complements, and even offered to drive me, or at least walk me, back to my apartment after class several times, despite my living a mere block away. I learned that he had lived there his entire life, and he missed his friends who had recently sailed off to other destinations after graduating from High School. I felt bad, because it didn’t seem like he had many friends. I agreed that we could “totally” be friends, and that weird, fateful night on his parents’ couch seemed to fade from memory.

That is, until, he wanted to wear my shoes.

Fun sized, vertically challenged, specially packaged – whatever you want to call it, I’m short. I thought it would be a brilliant idea to buy black, knee-high boots with large heels for the upcoming winter, so that I could be stylish and just a mite taller in the process. I guess I hadn’t taken into consideration that high heels almost always wreaked havoc on my feet, and falling flat on my face on a roadway-turned-ice-skating-rink wasn’t particularly graceful. On one of our walks back to my apartment after morning class, I bemoaned my foot pain to Adam, and told him that because of how hard they were to walk in, I would probably scrap them altogether and buy some practical winter boots.

Please bear in mind that these are very feminine boots, and could in no way be mistaken for anything other. They looked something like this: 

After a brief moment of silence, Adam spoke up. “I bet I could walk in them,” he said jokingly. I chuckled, and raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “I doubt it, it takes practice.” Adam didn’t seem to like the doubt in my expression, because he then told me that he would try them on and prove to me that he could. Still thinking he was pulling my leg, I laughed loudly and said he could come over after school tomorrow and strut around my bedroom in them. He agreed. I stared. “They wouldn’t fit you” I mumbled, feeling myself beginning to shrink after he took on the proposition. Looking thoroughly offended, Adam replied that they would too fit, even though I was a size seven in women’s.

The following day was not significantly unusual, until there was a knock on my bedroom door in the afternoon. I opened it to a very paranoid looking Adam, who looked as if he were about to be caught and interrogated by some 1950s version of communists. He had on an empty backpack, and no sooner had I opened my door had he wedged his way nervously inside.

“Where are they?” He asked anxiously. Before I could reply, our eyes in tandem slowly dropped to the black zipper boots sitting on the floor next to my closet.

My spider senses were tingling. Something very weird was about to happen…

Less than a minute later, Adam had successfully zipped the boots up the length of his calves and was walking around my bedroom, only after I promised to lock the door so a roommate couldn’t catch him in the act. “I told you I could walk in them,” he said haughtily, to which I had zero response. After a while, Adam’s faced turned hesitant again. “Can I have them?” He almost whispered.

“Um, well. They cost me like, forty dollars”, I explained, not fully converted to parting with them yet, and feeling increasingly uncomfortable as each moment passed.

“That’s okay, I’ll pay for them.”  Before I could protest, Adam pulled two twenties out of his pocket and held it out to me. Not knowing what else to do, I slowly reached out to accept the bills. Adam’s fingers suddenly clamped down on the wad like a hungry hippo. “Are you really going to charge me?” He asked incredulously, expecting a free gift.

I shrugged, muttering something about needing money to buy new boots as I took it, and Adam quickly took them off his feet before stuffing them into his backpack. Ah, so that’s what was with the empty bag. A thief in the night, Adam sprinted out of my room and on for home, while I still stood in shocked confusion at the foot of my bed.

It was only after class the next day when I was walking to the Commons did I receive a text message from Adam, asking me if I had noticed anything different about him in Spanish. I replied in the negative, and had to re-read his reply at least three times before it sunk it. “The boots! I was wearing them today. They’re really comfortable. Don’t tell anyone.” I bit my lip, shook my head, and moved on.

Adam caused me to have a complex about my shoes. As in, I became extremely protective of my footwear for a while. You see, not long after, I did buy new shoes with the money he paid me (even though the original boots only cost me twenty-five dollars, because I’m an evil genius), and one day he commented on how good they looked. I responded happily until he asked if he could try them on, at which point, I almost had myself a conniption. “I’m sorry, but you might stretch them out.” Miffed at the audacity of my assertion, Adam didn’t talk to me the rest of the way home. He did, however, constantly remind me not to tell anyone about his high heeled boots, especially his girlfriend – whom I was not even acquainted with, as she lived in the next town over.

Yes, a girlfriend. I think a lot of you believed you knew where I was going with this – but no.

A month passed with increasingly bizarre behavior. Besides Adam begging me to photograph him posing in his shoes (which I reluctantly did), he also began hounding my phone, frequently calling me at two in the morning to talk to me about trivial matters. I did my best to lay down the law but, nothing stuck. Whenever I didn’t respond to one of his text messages within five minutes, he would shoot me a handful more asking me why I was ignoring him, and who was I with? Was I hanging out with a guy? Am I mad? And didn’t I know it was rude to ignore him?

I didn’t ignore him, but I really, REALLY wanted to.

It must have been near the end of the semester when I finally lost my proverbial marbles. I was attending a free outdoor movie with my roommate on a Friday night, hosted by my school in the soccer field, and we were bundled up in blankets because of the cold. I received a text message from Adam asking me if I wanted to go and do something, so I told him honestly that I was actually busy at the school party. Less than thirty seconds later my phone buzzed again, and with an angry emoji this time, Adam asked me why I didn’t invite him. I scowled at the text, typing something snarky back, and turned off my phone for the rest of the night.

The next couple of days were the most blissful, carefree days of the semester, because Adam wasn’t talking to me. I thought, just perhaps, school might become a little normal for me, until my doorbell rang. I opened the door and rolled my eyes – doorbell ditchers. “Very mature!” I shouted down the empty hall, before glancing down to see an envelope by my feet. Perplexed, I took it inside and flipped it over, reading my name scrawled across the front. It looked just like Adam’s handwriting, and my stomach dropped.

I half-expected to find Vincent Van Gogh’s long-lost ear inside. Instead, what I discovered when I carefully ripped open the top of the letter was something much more startling.

A glittering ring fell out onto the counter.

I almost screamed. You can probably imagine my first thought, considering its diamond appearance. Was I getting proposed to by Adam via doorbell ditch? Was I going to have to move to Africa after this?

My hands may have shook a little when I opened the attached letter, and relief swarmed through me as the words finally began to make sense. He had written a rather uncomfortable, rambling apology, and he indicated that he wanted me to wear the ring because it was a “friendship ring” for me.

Again, I felt bad for him, but I also felt a feeling that had been growing louder and louder inside me – anxiety and fear. Why was he so possessive, when he had a girlfriend? Why was he hot and cold? Why did he feel the need to wear my shoes and call me in the middle of the night? Why did he follow me around, and show up at my apartment even after I told him I couldn’t go out to see him because I was trying to study?

The next day, I told him that I would forgive him but I really needed him to give me space. He complied, but only hesitatingly. My roommate had long since tossed him to the curb, something that I probably should have done way before this. He did desist in hounding my phone, for which I was grateful, and his oddities simmered down to a level that I thought I would be able to handle.

Until that night, when he came to my apartment sobbing because his girlfriend had broken up with him, and he really needed someone to talk to. Not wanting to interrupt my roommates and their movie night in the living room, I ushered him outside and we went to go speak by his truck in the parking lot. He explained that his girlfriend didn’t like that he was my friend anymore, because her friends lived in my apartment complex and they said I was “coming onto him”. I tell you, if the whole scenario hadn’t felt so much like a scene in a Stalker Lifetime movie, I would have laughed at the assertion. Who knows, maybe I would have still gotten out a chuckle or two if his ex-girlfriend’s friends hadn’t walked through the parking lot at that precise moment. After sarcastically shouting to Adam that he “really looked broken up” and calling me a number of unfavorable names, I may or may not have strutted my stuff over to the pair and threatened their loss of limb if they didn’t skedaddle right on out of there.

I suppose I’ve had finer moments.

Somehow, I managed to finish out the semester without getting sent to the funny farm, and a little miracle came my way. You see, I just barely lost my free ride scholarship to the school, despite having straight A’s and one D. The D just barely put me below the GPA line, even though I ended up having one of the higher grades in that class – harsh, huh? After going home for Christmas break, I decided that, due to lack of funds, I wouldn’t return to the two-year college and instead, I would save up money and apply to a local university, to which I was accepted.

I only returned once after the semester started, to pick up my things.

Since he was such a fan of texting, I sent Adam a text at two am to tell him I was gone for good. Farewell, adios amigo, arrivederci.

Let’s keep in touch. 

Continue reading →

Top Ten Reasons why Geese are Terrifying

     1. Picture this – it’s a beautiful, crisp morning, and you’ve just stepped out onto your front porch to breathe in the delightful fresh air. A content smile spreads over your face as you feel the warm sun tickle your skin. You know, without a doubt that today is going to be a marvelous, wonderful day. Ever so slowly, with no sense of urgency, you open your still sleepy eyes……and you’re suddenly slapped in the face with the image of a rabid gaggle of geese flapping their wings ferociously at you in your own yard, staring at you with the eyes of a natural born killer. The second they hone in on your person is when the swarm begins.

Nowhere is safe. They’ve apparently mistaken your humble abode for a lake or other large body of water, the stupid creatures. Now, without your consent, they have taken over your lawn, your driveway, even the very rose bushes you planted with loving care last year. Your eyes take in an endless sea of feathers and webbed feet, and whenever you try to take a step forward through the throng, they beat their contentious wings once more and ward you off with an evil squawking that would make Stephen King’s blood run cold.

There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You have been officially imprisoned in your own home.

                            http://i1094.photobucket.com/albums/i441/birdbgone/get-rid-of-geese.jpg

What…Are you saying this hasn’t happened to you? I am honestly the only person who has been terrorized like this?

Well then, never mind.

2. The sound of geese squawking is best described as a delightful combination of nails on a chalkboard, howling cats in a dirty Chicago alley, and a toddler throwing the tantrum of all tantrums in your local grocery store. If you don’t believe me, check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3xiEUQLzRA     

      3. They run in a pack, like Gangs of New York, like the Mean Girls Plastics, like the snot-nosed Newsies from that Broadway musical. Er, forget that last one. They seem so perfectly laughable on their own, until they realize the power of the angry mob (or “gaggle”, in this case) and they band together to take over the world.

     4. And they breed like rabbits, so it’s very possible that they will take over the world someday if allowed to carry on as they do. You don’t believe me? Geese mate every year and have as many as 10-12 goslings (hey girl) per season, each. Google told me so.

      

     -P.S. – they also attack innocent, unsuspecting humans who happen to be unfortunate enough to         walk in the general vicinity of their nest, unawares.

5.  Geese prey on the weak. When I was four, I was enjoying a life shaping experience feeding the little duckies at my local pond, when all of a sudden, a goose pushed its way to the front of the pack. I had just run out of my once bountiful supply of Wonder bread and vocalized this lamentably to the goose who, not taking no for an answer, proceeded to bite me on the finger and chase me around the lake, while the ducks started on in bewildered amazement. I’m just saying, between this and the home takeover, geese nearly ruined my childhood.

http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/05/19/article-2327212-19D6C97B000005DC-60_634x334.jpg

      6. Because I am not alone: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MAeS2HhjPII This time, their terrorism has reached the news and escalated to Anderson Cooper. You know it’s serious when the Silver Fox is on the scene with the latest.

      7. Have you ever watched the television series Gilmore Girls? And, if not, are you even human? Poor Jess is given a black eye by a swan with murder on the brain and, well, swans are sort of like geese, aren’t they? They have to be first cousins, at least. Second cousins, tops.

-          Third cousins?

      8. A day old gosling can dive up to forty feet deep in water, and that’s just a baby!: http://www.interestingfunfacts.com/cool-facts-about-goose.html. Just picture a fully grown goose with its dirty little beak around your ankle, pulling you under. Unless you have gills, you’re a goner, buddy.

      9. Meanwhile, somewhere in Canada (probably), a gaggle of geese are reading this essay and plotting my demise. If they’re intelligent enough to fly in perfect V formations, they’re intelligent enough to read. It was nice knowing you all. Farewell, cruel world.

      10.   Does number ten really matter?

Fine, picky, picky. Take a gander at this:   

https://s3-eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/clickasnap/3669/goose-mouth-open.jpg

And that, my friends, is the reason why geese are the Devil’s spawn.

Disclaimer: No geese were harmed in the making of this rant. Thank you.

Continue reading →