Our Thursday

Category: Danielle

  • Rip Your Own Heart Out

    Rip Your Own Heart Out

    He swept you off your feet, romanced you and made you feel like his Queen.  Granted, he began the fling with an honest confession you chose to ignore, “I’m trouble. Can you handle that?”  Of course you said yes…You wanted fun and finally had someone to blame for the bad deeds!

    Not surprisingly, the brilliance dwindled and he swept you under the rug, ignored you and made you feel like an idiot.  Like most girls though, your heart continues to foster the feelings that sprouted at the beginning and you want him around because the two of you have a friken blast together!

    But do you understand that his existence depended on your ability to strangle your emotions? Probably not, we never do…This means one thing- ripping out your heart and coveting him as a NON-significant other for the sake of fun…

    Follow these not-so-simple reminders of reality and clutch your heart in your fist my sweet dear, and yank it out before he does it for you:

    “If You Want Me, Come and Get Me”

    Don’t ignore the obvious signs that this person only wants you for one reason.  If he isn’t making plans in advance, and only inviting you over for a boomboom, then the chances are his half-hearted invites do not derive from an emotional pulse!!!  Out of respect to your heart, understand full-heartedly that his heart’s involvement dissipated along with his initial chivalry.  Yah, you like this person…being with him, seeing him, laughing with him, cuddling with him, listening to him sing silly songs about the benefits of drinking water, EVERY SECOND OF IT….but only…ONLY when you are with him.  PHYSICALLY WITH HIM.

    Remind yourself: His heart is out…keep my heart out…why waste energy alone, thinking of “what could be” when I can save it up for the fun times with him.  Don’t use my energy setting up a lala fantasy, when it will ultimately cause hurt.

    “It Takes Two to Tango”

    A tango is a dance…a very sexy dance between two people engrossed in seduction, sultry music and barely any clothing.  When the music ends, the two walk off together, leaving neither behind.  Imagine if you stood alone on the dance floor, sullen, head down, waiting for the music to start again without a partner…While your partner walked off– head up, proud and satisfied, knowing that “it is only a dance.”

    Remind Yourself: If he is only in for the dance, then you shall only dance. Don’t be left on the dance floor alone, it’s embarrassing and scores you zero points.

    NO! It's not…stop thinking that way!!!


    “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new”:

    Take this literally, if it helps the carnage.  Otherwise, if you maintain a prude morale, force yourself to preserve other leads by responding to their texts/calls, accepting an invite to a date, and spending time with other fun people that make you laugh (even if none make you laugh “like him.”)  Hold your head up in the grocery store and make eye contact with other prospects.  Flirt, laugh and converse with anyone and everyone so that your focus isn’t desperately seeking attention from your careless “fun one.”

    Remind yourself: Other people exist who can entertain and make me giddy.

    “A Watched Pot Never Boils”

    Same is true for a phone! Test out the theory…Stare at your phone! It won’t ring!

    Emotionally and physically wondering, wandering, tracing and pacing whether or not this person will contact you is a pathetic state of being, isn’t it?  I urge you to become conscious of the times you think about texting him or why he hasn’t texted you- if you catch yourself in a trance mustering up anger from a blank phone, think of someone positive and text him/her, friend/family member.  This will become a regular occurrence and you will start reconnecting with people from the past.  Soon, you will build friendships you forgot you had.

    Remind yourself: It is NOT him texting me every time my phone chimes.  His heart isn’t pitter-patting with anticipation with every text notification, so why is mine?

    “Carry On Your Wayward Son”

    “There will be peace when you are gone”…If someone tells you, “I’m trouble,” or “I’m not looking for a relationship” than that person is CLEARLY wayward with 99 problems that does not include you.  Transform heart flutters into excitement elsewhere, (depending on the foundation of this fling, that may mean your groin region).  Do NOT get excited about thoughts of the future, because a future with this person most likely doesn’t exist.  Rip the word out of your repertoire along with your beating heart.

    Remind yourself:  Get excited in the presence of him…Live in the moment.

    The Bottom Line: Don’t feel like crap all the time over the inner turmoil of your emotional flurry.  Letting someone control your emotions based off a situation in your head that does not exist is a sad and lonely thing. When you finally disconnect your worries and stop swaying on the rocking chair, he will simply become your guilty pleasure and you will strut again, not for him but for the world.

    The next text invite that thoughtlessly enters your inbox, think “heck, why not! I’ll have a fun time and new memories!!!”  And no longer will you think, “Of course. Yes! I hope he asks me to be his girlfriend!! WOOOHOO!”

    Make it a dance together…A sexy dance that is short and sweet.  And until he requests the next song, please be free.

  • Takin’ a Huge Bite Off the Boot

    Takin’ a Huge Bite Off the Boot

    Many years and many pounds ago, I studied abroad in Florence, Italy.  The classes I took did nothing for my curriculum; I had no focus on art, or language, or human relations… as a matter of fact, I had no focus at all (I credit my ADHD). I ventured there because my well-traveled uncle told me to one night while gifting me “The Alchemist,” by Paulo Coehlo.

     

    I practically devoured the words in the book, “It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting,” Despite the fact I hadn’t yet nailed down a “dream,” I knew after reading that book that a journey impended my bubble dwelling in my parent’s home.

     

    I worked at a makeup counter during the holidays to earn the funds needed, I learned Italian in my car via Pimsluer CD Lessons, and took counseling to prepare emotionally.  With financial and mental prep in tact, I headed to the country that holds my heritage (on my dad’s side. My mom is scattered all over Europe- perhaps she is the spawn of my fleeting attention).

     

    The first night we arrived in Firenze, my roommates and I ate at a restaurant near our apartment.  I ordered gnocchi with a gorgonzola cream sauce because I saw it on Food Network once and it looked like glistening diamonds.  I don’t remember much about that night (because as Americans, we also ordered a gallon of wine) aside from the moment my mouth touched down on the clouds of creamy heaven… and those diamond dumplings became my best friend…as well as the birth of my dream- to eat Italy.

     

    From that day forward, I found myself not walking to historical sites, but instead searching for the best pasticerria or café or gelataria and while on the way to those eateries, I stopped in to see the David (what a stud!) or “The Birth of Venus” (all of Boticielli’s women figures have prehensile toes, like me!)  or Giotto’s “Stigmata of St. Francis” (Giotto seemed like a mighty fine chum!).  I nibbled my way through the streets of Florence and other cities, exposing the countries most authentic flavors and ultimately exposing my underpanties while busting the zipper of my favorite pair of jeans.

    Woopsy Daisy…

    Gelato- I ate if for breakfast dessert, lunch dessert and dinner dessert.  If a gelato hat existed, one equivalent to that which holds two beer cans with funnels, I proudly would’ve worn it for the sake of constant satisfaction – that or a gelato I.V. The Pan di Stella flavor at Corona’s Cafe in Florence was my drug and eventually my stomach. Trust me, I tried everywhere and should be an ambassador for gelato and this place had me at “How many scoops?”…Three please, for now.

    Culinary Velvet

    Panini- “Walk into the central market from the main entrance and walk all the way to the right.  If there is not a line at the food joint you turned left and ended up in the wrong place,” my uncle so passionately advised before my departure.  I took his advice to stomach and made that trek once or twice a week for the “Panini con salsa verde.”  I described this meteor of flavor in a haiku for my creative writing class:

    Wet Sloppy pork fat

    Lying within soaked bread

    And stuck in between my teeth

    Pork Sandwiches Unite

    Ribolita Soup- A peasant dish tenderly simmered with broth, white beans, day old bread soaked to the point of creaminess, and a garnish of freshly shaved parmiggiano and olive oil.  Locals recommended this dish at Trattoria Mario right behind the Central Market.  The taste is so genuine it warmed my soul.

    The Menu is Hand Written Daily, on Papyrus

    Farinata- It is a garbanzo bean “flat bread,” if you will.  You must travel to the Genoa region for this treat.  I did and ate a bakery’s worth of it.  While you’re up there, savor the pesto.

    Bart Supports Farinata. So should you!

    Pizza- Napoli.  The city is run down, scary and disappointing (unless you fancy porn museums of the ancient kind..Dave Glenn, are you reading?).  Yet I will travel there the rest of my life for what is the most radiant expression of pizza in all of Italy. The crust both crispy and chewy, the cheese both light and creamy, the olive oil both pure and succulent- each bite is both a dance and a symphony.

    "Nothing Compares to You"

    Pastry- You can’t go wrong, unless the pasticierria has photo copied pictures of its menu. Run.  In any case, in any place…run.

    I Tried All of These. Especially Loved Torta della Nonna

    Poor Student Food- Nutella and a knife (or your index finger); canned tuna packed in olive oil; fresh bread, which I would demolish before reaching my apartment; befriend a local who happens to also be your family member (more stories to follow on this).  Creativity is easy in Italy because even the packaged items are exquisite.

     

    YAH!!!

    This boot, this Gucci boot of food is the center of my universe. The lingering textures and flavors still tickle my mouth and dazzle my heart…One morning after I returned to America, I fell onto the floor into a pool of tears while making myself scrambled eggs.  Even with the presence of a yoke, our eggs lacked color and vibrancy when Italian eggs, once scrambled, are orange.  I noticed that our balsamic vinegar tasted watered down and our prosciutto contained so much salt that I was forced to drink buckets of water following the consumption of merely five slices.  My devastation wore me down and whittled me back into a slim woman.

     

    I hope to soon walk a mile in that boot once again, packing on two calories for each one I burn.  Until then, I will relish in places that supply me with like flavors, including Jones for spaghetti and meatballs and Mozza2Go for lasagna.  Osteria Boca on Melrose, Cube on La Brea, my nona’s kitchen in Gallup, and Bay Cities on Lincoln all make my digestive track go pitter.

     

    Bon appetito! If you don’t know already, that means “good eats.”  Please, if you eat…make it good!

    Pesto at its Finest
    "Day Trip to Rome Eat Fest"- I Overate that Day..
    You want-a meat-a ball-a?! Yes. Duh

     

    Snack Time

  • Challenge Blog: Oh Man, I’m going to piss you SOO off!

    Challenge Blog: Oh Man, I’m going to piss you SOO off!

    The OurThursday authors love the readers. I mean we really love you and some of us are even prepared to take that to the next level. But recently, in a heated fit of commenting passion, we realized that sometimes if you really want to show your love for someone, you got to make them so angry that new veins will permanently remain on their forehead and small rips will appear in their clothes as their body bulges in maniacal hatred.

    The Challenge

    In 400 words or less, irritate, piss off, molest, disturb, and/or ruin the day of the reader. Audio, video, images, signal flares, are all permitted. No reusing angry villager material like Wheelchair Bicycle or Cat Abortion.

    The Challengers

    Everyone

    ———————————————————–

    Dave Glenn

    As some of you may know, Stanford University recently offered me, a self-proclaimed expert, a position to teach a new course called “Economics of Life” (which I turned down because I didn’t want live there–I’d get so bored I’d end up buying a piano or something). So instead, I would like to offer a five-point crash course on how to live your life, since nine out of ten people reading this probably suck at life. YES, YOU.

    1. When partying, do not begin drinking until 9 p.m. Be patient with your buzz. Too often I see my friends start drinking at four p.m.; and they’re long gone by ten (Remember, the sober moments in life are fun too.). As opposed to: Enjoying the day, partying at night, and passing out at two a.m. Way more optimal.
    2. Get at least eight hours of sleep every day. Take naps if you have to; it relieves stress, and why be tired at night, when you could have easily taken a nap earlier and been living your day at a 100% energy rate? If you’re at a job with crappy hours (8 a.m.-8 p.m.), get a new job. You only have one life (Seriously, this is it.). Stop slaving away and being so damn tired all the time; it’s affecting your attitude and turning you into a mope.
    3. Exercise and eat right. Respect.
    4. Are you under 30 and in some sort of committed relationship? YIKES! What the fuck are you doing? You have the second half of your life to do that. Travel the world, take adventures, explore your creativity, discover yourself! You can’t do those things with another human being nagging at you. And if you think you can, then that explains everything–you lost the human spirit long ago.
    5. Do you feel like you’re living a dull, meaningless existence? Or stumped on the question, “What’s the meaning of life?” Well here’s your problem: Do something! I’m not talking about a high-paying job. I’m talking about doing something you’re passionate about. And no, golf and working out don’t count. Start a business. Start a blog. Help the homeless. Join the Peace Corps. Raise money for a cause. Write a book. Work on a movie. Invent something. There are a ton of ways to avoid simply…existing, and having a lasting impact on the world. Discover your passion, work hard, and do it.

    If this blog has pissed you off in any way, it’s because of you, not me, and you really are sucking at life. Sorry I had to be the one to make you realize this.

    ———————————————————–

    Danielle Burner

    Ginger Snap

    Gingers: a particular breed with a distinct hair type unlike yours and mine (unless, of course, you are a ginger).  Ginger hair is complex and can be strange to the touch.  You never know what’s going on under that Ginger noggin (or stereotypically, under one’s trousers), so tread carefully.

    I know a decent Ginger when I see one, but unfortunately as a minority, Gingers get a bad rap. However, like in any other small group, a strong Ginger will find his/her way to work through diversity and perhaps one day become a president.

    Gingers- don’t knock ’em til you try ’em. You never know, you might not go back!

    Words with Friends challenge- see if you can make a new word using the letters in “GINGER” …if so, reread with whatever kind word(s) you find. If not, I’m guessing you’re a blonde.
    ———————————————————–

    Brian Pratt

    2491 Tivoli Ave.

    I recognized the address. All of the drivers at Vincenzo’s Pizza knew it. It belonged to the handicapped lady who’s “aid” always answered the door. He’d put an X through the tip column of the receipt and hand over the exact amount in change. It wasn’t that they didn’t give, it’s that they went out of their way to leave you with nothing. “Perhaps she’s foreign and unaware of our implied gratuity. . . maybe the assistant is too scared to tell her.” A co-worker hypothesized. Bullshit. They were both stiffs. It was time they got a sneeze-pizza.

    The “extra pepperoni” came out of the oven piping hot, just minutes after the order was placed. I boxed it, bagged it, and walked outside. I placed the steaming box inside my truck bed and opened the cardboard cover. I looked around the empty parking lot as if a drug deal were about to go down. I swashed saliva inside my mouth like it was Listerine before spraying it all over the cheesy surface. A few slices were missed so I churned up some more and hit them with a concentrated load. I clapped off the imaginary dust from my hands and walked back into the restaurant, leaving the pizza out to cool in the chilly night air. If you’re disgusted right now, relax. I didn’t cough up any phlegm or mucus, just a little spit. It’s like cheating on your girlfriend – okay if it’s only a blow job.

    When I pulled up to the house forty-five minutes later, I noticed something was off. I had the wrong address. 2473 was foreign handicapped lady’s place. 2491 was further down. I parked out front the correct spot, peering into the brightly lit entryway. The entire family greeted me at the door with warm smiles- Mom, Dad, and their adorable seven-year-old son. They handed me a twenty for the fifteen dollar pizza and told me to keep the change. I thanked them and quickly left. When I got back to the restaurant I noticed the tip and total columns on the receipt were left blank. I added another two dollars.

    ———————————————————–

    Luke Ollett

    Piss them off? Fuck that.

    These robotic scavengers of life have sent me to the brink of insanity filled rage and I fear I will never return.

    So you’re a teacher and hope to reach that one student … sounds like a 99% failure rate to me.

    So you’re a lawyer … you are the reason for the loss of trust in this world and you make money off it. Urchin.

    So you’re a politician … you are the undulating mass of uselessness spawning lawyers making you a larger urchin than they are.

    So you’re an artist … your shit looks just like that guy I saw down by the pier.

    So you move intangible money … I loathe you and most people in the world do as well. You like that feeling big guy? Hmmm?

    So you’re a chef … ya me too. You don’t see me begging people to pay me for it.

    So you play poker … go whine to someone else about the obvious conspiracy against you … and put some pants on.

    So you are in the middle of a giant corporation managing something that you don’t really understand … you fucked up.

    So you’re an engineer … that baller salary looks like shite when you are working 70 hours a week effectively putting you at the same pay level as the dude who cuts your lawn.

    So you’re a doctor … stop fucking with evolution and let them die. You are single handedly annihilating the human race through your efforts to prolong a single life. Emergency medicine or quit.

    So you own a business … how dare you skimp your taxes to negatively affect the people that give you money.

    So you’re an accountant … your job is to hide the simplicity in what you do. You are useless.

    So you sell real estate … I look at you and see a salivating wolf mask with cocaine eyes and polished teeth.

    So you’re an entrepreneur … if you still call yourself that then you’re failing at life and cannot entrepreneur your way into anything. Douche.

    I live a gratifying, productive, and genuine life and I have these helpless drones floating around trying to fuck up my chi and you want me to piss them off? Well fuck you Mr. Blog. I have enough “pissed off” in me to piss on all these jokers.

    ———————————————————–

    Matt Zbrog

    Abortions should be mandatory across the board for at least a decade.

    “Be fruitful and multiply.” I think even God would be startled at how far we’ve taken that directive. It’s like, your mom told you to brush your teeth… but you did stop brushing them at some point right? You took 6-8 hour breaks before brushing them again, yes?

    We are facing countless problems on Earth. Adding more people is not the answer.

    For reference, here are the problems a mandatory abortion law would solve:

    1. Food
    2. Water
    3. Pollution
    4. Poverty
    5. Unemployment

    We, as a race, are a pregnant 12 year old… with octuplets. We don’t have the education, the funds, or the maturity to handle our situation. We are greedy and irresponsible, and our children are going to pay the price. So instead, let’s take a break, mature a little bit, maybe come up with a 5 year plan, and then go on with creating another few billion lives.

    If we could cut the baby-making for even a decade — the tiniest time out in terms of history — imagine how great the world would look.

    If your brain can’t fathom the big picture of that utopia, let me offer you a few small scale improvements:

    1. Shorter lines… for everything
    2. More stuff… for everyone
    3. More space… for things

    There would be so much extra stuff, we could start giving old shit away. I’ll take this apartment building. You take that one. Fire sale on 1 grade classrooms. No bathroom lines. Want a pineapple? The Dole family has 300,000,000 extra now.

    Like Thoreau said, Simplify, Simplify.

    Quality, not quantity. Progress, shmogress. We have iPads. We have super computers. We have the internet. We can cruise control for X amount of years until we plug a few leaks. We don’t have to fix everything. Like Bill Hicks said, let’s just solve the whole food/air deal first.

    But still, some idiots will convince themselves they are different so they are going to have a baby or four because they’re giving the gift of life… When really they’re only contributing to the starvation and suffocation of billions… stroking their ego with somes trange delusion of eternal life or escape from boredom.

    Hence the mandatory part.

    I understand that some will find the concept offensive.

    Wallace said kneejerk reactions could kill a person.

    If only.

    [poll id=”4″]

  • Empty Promises Lead to Empty Stomach

    Empty Promises Lead to Empty Stomach

    Awhile ago, I encountered two startling qualities in men- empty promises and laziness.  The following is a letter I wrote to Mario Batali’s restaurant, Osteria Mozza, that emerged from my discouragement…I ain’t to proud to beg, yo!

     

    To Whom It May Bring Sympathy:

    I hope this finds you in the same state I find myself- content and full from a lunch at Pizzeria Mozza.  As far as my stomach is concerned, it wants more.  As far as my heart is concerned, it wants more…but with whom will these wants be satisfied?

    The day I heard about the Mozza establishment that regally adorns the corner of Melrose and Highland, I fantasized dining there under romantic intentions with a fine gentleman.  I am single and a personal chef; a very tantalizing name tag to those I meet.  When I reveal my profession to a man for the first time their reaction, without a doubt, is always the same: “Have you ever been to Mozza? No? That is where we shall go for our first date!”

    Without a doubt, I muster up an embarrassing excitement believing that my fantasy will transform into a reality.  And without a doubt, this special promise always vanishes.  It is an incredible phenomenon that rivals that of the death of chivalry!

    I recently took matters upon myself to treat my grumbling stomach and my impatient taste buds to Mario Batali’s creations- I ordered from Pizza Mozza 2go with my gay best friend- the only male that can commit.  We shared the pizza with buffalo mozzarella (a close second to the one I tasted in Napoli, Italia) and the lasagna.  To compare that lasagna to anything I’ve ever eaten would be an insult.  The layers are married to such perfection!  Both made me yearning for more and fantasizing, yet again, of what has turned into an elusive dream.

    Today, one of my best girl friend’s surprised me by taking me to lunch at Pizzeria Mozza for the $20 pizza, wine and dessert special.  My smile hurt my face as I took my seat and opened the envelope containing my cutlery and napkin; what a charming treat to kick off a scrumptious feast!

    I left feeling beyond full and thoroughly pleased.  As we walked back to the car, we touched our noses to the windows (sorry for the smudges) of the empty Osteria Mozza, which I pictured full of boisterous patrons sharing rustic Italian bites with their special someone. My wistful eyes drifted from the classic white tables and I wondered when my girlish dream would become a proper date.

    I want to thank the Mozza Corporation for quickening the process of weeding out the boys from the men.  It is with the one quick promise they always make, “I will take you to Mozza,” that has changed my dating life…and it is the lasagna that has made me wanting more, with someone that will offer more than an empty promise.

    Do you know anyone as scrumptious and authentic as your menu?

    Thank you for your kind consideration and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

     

    Perpetually hungry and hopelessly romantic,

    Danielle

  • No Bliss First Kiss

    No Bliss First Kiss

    May we please skip the first kiss?

    I’m awkward.  Yesterday, I tried teaching my sister table etiquette while at an upscale dinner fundraiser with Los Angeles elite fluttering around every corner.  While explaining proper fork grippage, my knife plummeted toward my chest in fury and stabbed my purple satin dress with crème fraiche.

    I inadvertently create awkward situations and a few years ago, while experiencing the new world of singlehood, I crafted a hefty collection of goofed up stories…primarily during first kisses.

    Bamboozled Smooch

    I don’t like bringing booze to a person’s house because it runs the risk of there being more for me to drink and more embarrassing moments to happen. Instead, I peruse the local bakery and purchase something sweet, like for this occasion- Monday Night Football at a boy’s house.  I brought a variety of Sprinkles cupcakes (a delightfully popular cupcakery that’s hype and expectations are met with every crumb and morsel wrapped in its paper).  Football and cupcakes…exactly.  I’m awkward.

    When I arrived late, after an excruciatingly frustrating commute in Los Angeles traffic, I wished I brought vodka and not the dumb cupcakes. For the first time in a long time I had a one-on-one at a boy’s house and between that and the drive, I desperately needed something to ease the anxiety. And a normally appropriate gift of Pinot Noir would NOT have worked fast enough.

    He opened the door and I did a little dip and said, “I come bearing gifts.”   I showed the dainty box of treats and the bewildered look on his face sent a jolt through my body. Diabetes? Allergies? Bad memory of an ex who used to work at Sprinkles? Vegan?  He turned his back without saying a word, leaving me, red velvet, peanut butter, chocolate chocolate and vanilla behind. He walked to the kitchen and revealed a box of cupcakes that HE had bought for the occasion. We now had six cupcakes and a promising future in the palm of both of our hands.

    The football game had run half of its course by the time we acquainted ourselves and sat on the couch. Due to my anxiety, my appetite had died, but I didn’t want to seem like an anorexic so I did the opposite and shoved my face with the Asian soiree that he spread on the coffee table.  I made it through the eating portion of the night with just a little bit of soy sauce on my shirt and a chocolate sprinkle in my tooth. When the game concluded, we presented ourselves with the “Now what?” moment. We weren’t ready for the big kiss, I mean, I wasn’t. I had my legs and arms crossed on the opposite side of the couch and for some reason, I couldn’t find my chapstick. My lips had no right kissing anyone in their condition and with each sip of my night’s painkiller of choice (the wine HE provided) they became redder and drier. I had to switch to water and for the life of me and my future, I HAD to find my chapstick.

    I switched to water (I eventually needed to drive home) and suggested watching Sweeney Todd (to kill time). I bragged that I saw it on Broadway and I’m cultured and well-traveled and love to cook, because all of this is relevant..right? Well, until I found my chapstick, you better believe it!!!

    Then the movie ended and we watched the “Nigthman Cometh” episode of the show, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia four times (the second, third and forth time per my nerve’s request). After that completion, he scurried upstairs, promising a quick return.  He returned and cuddled up next to me with fresh minty breath. ugh! Colgate vs. Dried Up Rainbow Roll.

    We snuggled for a second as I made small talk, avoiding the obvious. “You know, we should make red velvet cupcakes out of human blood …like a spin off of Sweeney Todd! No?..”

    Finally, he shut me up with his lips- pulling me in, tilting my head and pressing his soft mint clouds onto mine, both chapped and salty. He took it slow, half mouth kiss while I forcefully tried to slip in some tongue (not because I wanted to french him, but because his slowness made me anxious). He didn’t want any of that though, he only smooched delicately, one after the other. Minute after minute. No tongue, no frisky business.  It felt like a handshake of the lips, “Peace be with you”.

    After my self-provoked confusing kiss sesh, I proceeded to the door, some how securing another date. Goodness gracious the kiss seemed so bland and friendly.

    Birthday Kiss
    Some girlfriends and I walked into the very trendy Roosevelt Hotel a few years ago sometime in December.  I noticed that everyone adorned themselves in black except for me, the spring chicken- naive, confused, wearing a pink slip dress in the dead of winter. The mood of the patrons reflected their attire; I quickly became bored and couldn’t wait to leave. Until…

    He, the 6’4″dapper goofy charm king summoned me with googly eyes. I approached him with a collective swagger that somehow overpowered my intense inebriation. We instantly hit it off, and soon exchanged contact information and details for his birthday party the next day.

    “You need to be there,” he coyly pleaded.  “My birthday will be a bust without your presence.”

    “I already have plans, but I will see if I can switch them around,” I slyly lied, acting partially unavailable.  The fact is I had never been more available and began counting down the minutes.

    When I arrived the next evening, the party boy beamed with a smile so big it almost knocked me down.  He continued the night by showering me with a cluster fuck of ideas and sentiments that would ultimately bewilder me: He introduced me to his friends as his future girlfriend, told me our common interests made us a perfect pair, and basically promised me the world.

    He desperately wanted me to be his “birthday snuggle.” As much as that sounded fun, I knew what “snuggle” meant and I pride myself on my sacred hoohoo so I talked him into a “birthday kiss” instead. As I left, he walked me to valet and we engaged in our first kiss- think lips meet mustard bottle. For some reason, I took him as a mustard bottle: him open and ready while I anticipated a sour sloppy mess—reluctantly opening my mouth for a taste…I think I might’ve been squinting too, not closing my eyes, but squinting.

    “You kiss like a friend,” he sourly admitted.

    I succussfully denied him a birthday fuck for a friend kiss. Poor guy.

    That explains the confusion of cupcake kiss…I’m the worst first kisser ever.

    Pity Pat

    I met a short man at a networking event.  We bickered about our residential preferences- I love the Westside and he loves Hollywood.  At the time, I lived in Santa Monica.  For the few weeks that followed we dined at fancy restaurants and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s complete opposite interests.  We hadn’t kissed because I was not attracted to him.

    On date four, I met him at his place and he took me to Harold and Maude at a the ArcLight- a brilliant idea/experience.  I sat next to him fidgety, not wanting to hold his hand.  He didn’t try, so I didn’t try.

    We grabbed a bite to eat at a nearby place I had never been to, Jones Café.  I pointed out my friend’s apartment on the way and told him I would be staying there that night because I had to work close in the morning and didn’t want to commute.

    “There’s a ‘for rent’ sign on the building!  You should move there!”

    “It’s HOLLYWOOD! Never!!!”  I lied again, knowing secretly about the charm of the building and the vacant apartment that I had already considered moving into.

    “You should just give it a try, you live once.”

    After eating at Jones and falling in love with it, I realized that I really wanted that apartment and that restaurant/bar/café as my corner bar.  I kept that to myself and quickly remembered, “we are now driving to his place…he will kiss me, I know it…I can’t deny it…he’s too nice…and picks perfect dates…”

    He gave me the grand tour of his beautiful home that stood regally on the hill overlooking the twinkling lights and stars of Hollywood- Santa Monica at a verrrry far distance.  He led me to his downstairs and showed me photography from his travels; I looked while keeping my arms crossed.  He offered me a drink and I kindly declined, and excused myself to the restroom.  I slapped my face and tried to pull it together; I felt awful because I still did not want to kiss him.

    After returning to his presence I explained that I had a long day ahead of me and needed to return to the Jones area for my night of rest.

    “That is fine.  I’ll walk you to your car.”

    Ok…so the kiss will happen outside…by my car.  A quick exit.

    “Well, thanks again.  I really enjoyed myself. You think of the best ideas.  And dinner was great too.  What a nice café.  And you know everyone.  I want to know everyone at a bar sometime.  Like Cheers, ya know?  What a fun thing.  They know your order…”

    “Yes, I do.” He interrupted me and pulled me in for a kiss.  A tender kiss to the lips- both sweet and kind.

    I couldn’t take it.  My heart did not want to return the kiss.

    Which meant I had to stop.

    I pulled away slowly and gazed into his eyes while my arms and hands instinctively rose up towards his biceps and above.  I smiled at him innocently and patted him on his shoulders.

    “Thank you.  You’re nice.”

    He led me to my car and bid me farewell.  I cried the whole way back to my friend’s apartment…Such a gentle man deserves more than a pat, and that’s all I could give.

    I never heard from him after that and I moved into the vacant Hollywood apartment two weeks later, making Jones Café my corner bar, my cheers.

    Clearly, at age 27 I am still not a proficient first kisser.  But I guess the thrill of the first kiss is receiving a unique hint that leads you to what lies within, lies beneath, lies beyond the lips.  For me, it is an awkward gal that will inevitably and endearingly break your water glass while stretching, fall on the stairs with the shoes you helped pick out, or smack your face during a flirty twirl.

    Please know, however, that all the wounds I accidentally cause will always be carefully mended with a kiss…after the first one, I promise they get better…

    MUAH!

    …and Happy Valentine’s Day, suckers!

  • Emotionally Unstable Prospective Juror

    Emotionally Unstable Prospective Juror

    I love jury duty and jury duty loves me.  Almost every year, I receive a summons in the mail and my stomach flutters with butterflies as my service date approaches.  I don’t really understand the love connection- maybe it’s the cubby I call home in the business center off in the distant corner with the business men; maybe it’s the idea of an 8-5 day that I’m not used to; maybe it’s the rush of being in a court room around a uniformed bailiff?  I can’t pin point the reason, all I know is that there are sparks.

    Today, I write this from jury duty.  My report center is in Ventura because I never legally changed my residency from my parents’ house.  Maybe because it’s expected that I’ll move back one day or maybe because I’d rather report to gentle Ventura than rough downtown Los Angeles. 

    My first time at jury duty, the lawyers picked me to be on a jury.  The case didn’t deem anything substantial, just a simple statute of limitations lawsuit.  However, the experience, both one of unique fascination and significant learning, resonated in my soul and forever left me craving this civic obligation.

    My third time, they called me for a panel and I thought “if there’s one type of case I can’t handle, it’s a drunk driving case.”  I hate drunk drivers for very personal reasons, no offense to probably most of you, and I just knew that my mind would swing negatively regardless of the case.  Lo and behold, the trial involved a drunk driver who blew a .07 but got arrested anyway.  Well, when the judge began the interview process with me, in front of approximately 100 common folk, I became flustered and emotional and started crying.

    “You clearly do not have the emotional capacity for this case,” the judge scrutinized.  “Although, I’m sure you do realize the driver wasn’t actually drunk.  Either way, you are excused. Please leave the court room.”

    My heavy boots and I made the sluggish walk of shame down the hall to the exit.  I didn’t look back…why would I? My vision…blocked by tears.

    "I do now…."

    This time, I received my summons and replied enthusiastically despite the emotional debacle of yesteryear.   As the date approached, I realized that I conflicted my jury week with a trip to Vegas for my sister’s 21st birthday.  So I called to reschedule and the kind woman let me know that I had 90 days to set a new date- that would be mid December.

    The 90 days rushed at me like the dickens!!!  And I had to set a date quickly.  The new lady on the phone’s rude diction jilted me and my adoration for the process.  “You failed to appear almost 90 days ago. What do you want?”

    “Well, geez.  I want to set a date.  I love jury duty so much. I don’t know why you’re being so rude”

    She scoffed and led herself to the end of the call, “Next Tuesday. It’s your last chance.”

    I spent the night at my parent’s house last night to alleviate the morning commute.  The dog woke me up at 4:30 am to excuse his morning bowels and I simply could not fall back asleep.

    On minimal sleep, I arrived at the government center.  Initially, the security guard scolded me for entering through the wrong security line.  I also ignored the “do not place food through xrays” and did so with my apple and peanut butter snack pack.

    During the orientation, a woman talked about lunch protocol and stupid past jurors who did bone-head things including driving to Santa Barbara for lunch or venturing to Olive Garden because they use a ‘page system’ to call waiting patrons to their table (“stay within the page system, we are instructed as jurors). I ignored the majority of speech (being a veteran, I didn’t need to hear it) and texted instead.

    “This woman is talking to us like we’re 7 years old,” I complained to a friend.

    “Well, that’s because 90% of the people there have a brain capacity of that age,” my friend countered.

    “Good point. Pshhh”   

    Roll call for the first panel quickly occurred and the lady called my name.  I didn’t pay attention to the room number I had to report to, so I instead followed the crowd to the one piece of information I had heard: “floor four”.  Then I led myself to the restroom where I lollygagged for a few minutes.  Then I emerged from the bathroom to find 100 new people in the hall.  I stood in front of courtroom 45 but didn’t recognize anyone, so I asked the guy next to me if they called more than one panel.  He said no, which relieved me while I sat down to wait and eat my radiating apple.

    Twenty minutes passed when I finally saw the familiar faces…Unfortunately, they surfaced not from the waiting crowd, but from courtroom 47.  I realized that I missed my calling while popping my chin zit in the bathroom.  Sweat began to trickle under my arm and confusion rushed through my brain…I rushed downstairs.

    Exiting the elevator, I heard the voice of god talking to me “Danielle Bar-nabe please report to the jury services window immediately!!”

    “Shit…shit…oh…shit….” I said with every step until I reached the window.  “Hi…I’m Danielle…you just called me.” 

    “Get over here!”

    “Oh my. Of course. Where? Where’s the door? Let me in.”

    I entered the Jury Service office where five people glared at me from their desks.

    “Can I just say, I’m mortified.  This really is embarrassing. I was in the hallway the whole time eating my apple and peanut butter snack, but in front of the wrong court room.”  Subtle tears welled up in my eyes.

    “You realize young lady, we’re probably gonna reschedule you,” she commanded.  “Now wait here.”

    “Of course you should reschedule me!!! I’m an idiot! I deserve this!!!”

    She stopped dead in her track and turned to me with tender eyes.  “Really?”

    “Well, of course!  I clearly didn’t follow the rules…I’m just so embarrassed!”

    She continued her path and brought back a burly man of important stature.

    “Get this girl a tissue! She has tears!”

    As I dabbed my humiliated eyes, he lectured me how the judge, the lawyers and all the prospective jurors waited for me to enter the courtroom.  They waited 15 minutes.  “Maybe she’s in the restroom?”  “Maybe she got lost?” 

    He enlightened me with a guilt trip, “I called your cell and you didn’t answer.  We needed you in there promptly.”

    “I know sir.  I ignored the call because I didn’t recognize the number.  I’m truly embarrassed.  I cried last time I was here too.. Oh, Ms.! Please don’t tell this story during orientation.  That would just kill me!  Although I deserve it.”

    At that point, the whole office sat with chuckles.  They let me off with a warning and promised not to reschedule me because of my blunt honesty and tears. 

    Now I sit in the business center next to an 18-year-old girl who I befriended at lunch who was being stalked by an 70-year-old man, both of us hiding from reality…and tucking ourselves far from the man snoring abruptly in the room next door.

    I now hate jury duty…and I’m hopeful that jury duty hates me.

  • Once Upon a Baby Jesuses

    Once Upon a Baby Jesuses

    April Fools’ Day has narrowly inched its way to become my favorite holiday (Christmas is a very close second).  I wake up on that day, every year with the same enthusiasm as I once did on Christmas morning.

    The jolt of April Fools joy reminds me of when my little feet would scamper down the stairs passing the presents and filled stockings for evidence of leftover cookie crumbs Santa Claus missed or possibly touched with his own hand, awing at the fact that the Master of Gifts set foot in my house.  Except now, specifically when I still lived at my parents’ house (ehhmmm..6 months ago), I run down the stairs to ensure the rubber band securing the push button on the kitchen sink’s spray hose had not been tampered with so that my father would get sprayed while innocently attempting to wash his hands. 

    Oh, the delight of pranks.  I am moved by the idea of a successful hoax, but seldom do I execute one without excruciating remorse. Yah, it’s hilarious knowing that my dad will be sprayed with water at 5 a.m., but shit! Does that mean he’ll have to change his suit?  I’m sorry dad.

    There is one woman, a master of tom foolery that I will forever admire for her witty tricks.  One trick in particular that delighted me so, combining both of my darling holidays into one crazy night.

    It came upon a midnight clear, several days before Christmas, when Jenny and her friend discussed a peculiar pattern that itched at their nerves- manger scenes scattered about her fellow residents’ yards had baby Jesus peacefully lying in his crib…before Christmas Day!

    They discussed the story of the birth of baby Jesus and concluded that the community is partaking in sacrilegious behavior possibly unbeknownst to them.  Jenny’s memory recalled that her mother, thank baby Jesus, waits until Christmas to place the holy doll in his hay-cushioned bed, and leading up to that day hides him in a serene spot somewhere in the house still immaculately, and theoretically, kicking away in his Mother Mary’s womb…rightfully so!

    They contemplated how to teach the small town how to respect the story of Christmas. Send out a newsletter?  Too boring!  Throw eggs at the manger scenes? Too cruel!  Forget about it completely? Too weak!   

    And finally, genius sparked…the moment of truth struck both of their minds…the plan, so obvious…so brilliant…and so true to the birth of Jesus…

    On Christmas Eve, Jenny and four friends dressed in dark colors, hopped in a Jeep and traveled from home to home, swiping swaddled styrofoam, Cabbage Patch, metal or plastic mannequin infants from their cradled cots, replacing them with lesson-filled notes:

    “Do not worry for baby Jesus is not gone! He is just not born yet. You can find your dear Jesus at Our Lady of Perpetual Peace church on his birthday.  —Sincerely, your friendly neighborhood Jew.”

    WRONG!!!

     They filled the car with 15-20 baby Jesuses, all innocently stacked on top of each other, driving away from their ruthless premature births.  Some houses had to be overlooked due to grassy inclines, barking dogs and to Jenny’s utter dismay- inn keepers who had either bolted down baby Jesus or wired him with lights,  “What is the world coming to?!” she questioned at the thought of a twinkling savior.

     

    On their way home, they pulled to the side of the road because the trunk had not been closed, probably due to a speedy and excited departure from the final house.  They wiggled the dolls that dwelled in the orphanage trunk, making sure each little baby had a secure spot, they shut the door and then noticed a cop car pulling up next to them.  In eye shot, several of baby Jesuses rested in the back seat.  The cops asked the standard “where did you come from?”  “were you drinking?” “blah blah blah” questions.  Having just stole Christ from houses around town, they fibbed…to the cop…explaining that the designated driver felt a possible flat tire and pulled over to check and that they would proceed home to their families for holiday celebration.  The “man” believed them and set them and the clan of Jesuses free, unscathed and unnoticed. 

    RIGHT!!!

     

    Instead of returning home, of course, they continued to Our Lady of Perpetual Peace, as promised on the notes, and placed the pile of babies underneath a statue of their dear Mother Mary. 

    The next day, Jenny’s prank riddled her conscious, not because of the guilt of borrowing from manger scenes across town; not because she shammed a police office; but because she did not want to be prosecuted for preserving the Word.  She confessed to only a few luckies of her flawless endeavor and although her nerves burdened her, she couldn’t have been prouder of her accomplishment had she tried. 

    The newspapers and local news channels caught wind of the Jesuses-nappings and the town unified in the wonderment of “Who would do such a thing? Sick thieves!” 

    If they only knew a mastermind of brilliant pranks and a teacher stood behind the swiping of each baby Jesus- a woman who simply favored the education of those otherwise careless beings- simple townspeople who stood oblivious to one of life’s most precious stories. 

    My plan this year is to muster up the courage and strength to perform duties such as this, to lie to a cop and then rejoice in a victorious/remorseless prank!!!  For the sake of Christmas, for the sake of pranksters and most importantly to honor a woman of upmost brilliance, unrivaled valor and incredible wit- Ms. Jenny S.

    Her and her friends’ identity remained concealed and the town would forever, hopefully, remember and respect the actual timeline of baby Jesus.

  • Ollett vs Burner : Dark Days

    Ollett vs Burner : Dark Days

    Welcome to this addition of “Thursday Threat” where we pit author versus author in a challenging game of mesmerizing malarky and wit flavored mumbo jumbo. An author will select a prompt, write a 300 word or less response to that prompt, and then send this bundle to a challenger. The challenger will then be expected to reply or live in shame and sudden cultural abandonment. Winner is decided by the sudden fan fare we expect them to receive.

    The Prompt

    You are walking down the neon lit street of Hong Kong one summer evening. You gaze up to see an electronic message scrolling across the screen saying “We are sorry to inform you that the world has run out of electricity and a dark chaotic life will ensue. Good luck and Thank You.” You look around to lock eyes with other pedestrians who read the same thing. You hold eye contact for a few seconds, and then in a cold instant, the  lights go out.

    Ollett’s Response

    “Really? You would build yourself a bathroom that had a switch that fogged the windows up when you turned it on? Wow. You are a dummy.”

    “Well what would you pick then?”

    “Man, if I could have one hour with anything that had the spark… easy, it would be this little plastic case my dad brought back from some country without safety standards. It had two jelly pads and wires connecting these pads back to a softly rounded base station with two spinning dials. There were no instructions but the two distinct icons of a set of wavy lines and a man looking as though he is vibrating could only mean one thing, automatic electronic massage pads of course! I would spend hours researching the pain threshold at various points of the body. One day I decided to place one pad on my lower left rib, and the other pad on my lower right rib. I began the experiment and increased the power. Without warning I had lost all bodily control and was engulfed with the biggest and most powerful tickle of my life! I was floundering on the ground with my arms contorted into obtuse angles and my gasps for air just breaking through a piercing laugh that sounded like a cackle of young teenage girls all telling the same story at the same time. After eight minutes my mom entered my room to find me in this exorcist state and quickly unplugged me from the pads. I can remember that moment well. I just laid there. I laid there and smiled and I genuinely felt good. Give me the spark and I would have a laughing orgasm for one hour.”

    Burners Response (8 hours after challenge)

    “That is sweet, kind sir. A hand held massager?  Me and other women worldwide are very familiar with this device, using it during lonesome nights, mornings, in traffic, and sometimes even during coffee breaks.  We in fact utilize it often in lieu of,” her eyes instinctively glance down where she catches a ‘tent’-like shape forming in her acquaintances trousers.  “Well…in lieu of pricks, like you.”

    Embarrassed by his nature’s reaction, he refutes “My dear, you realize that little massager you speak of has done nothing great for the male species?”

    “Oh please, if anything it has made you work harder!  Anyway, the spark would not be necessary for my hand held massager, as it is battery operated.  I will simply steal my AAs from the remote, when need be, which will ultimately render me with these ‘laughing orgasms’ without interruption from my mother, of course, because I live solo…alone…by myself”, she shudders at the thought of both the laughing orgasms and the desolate living situation as she whispers under her breath, “If only that thing would cuddle…”

    “Excuse me?”  he interrupts.

    “Oh nothing…the spark.  Yes, the spark.  Considering the cold and dark world we live in now I would take my hour of spark time to charge my iPod touch.  With that external speaker, the world can experience a music and picture show in the palm of my hands.  I will be popular, for once.  Also, during that hour I will download songs and video to prompt me during “hand held massager” time because clearly you can’t sanctify me.”

    After that jab, her fantasies retreat while she ponders that, regardless of this man’s self-proclaimed inept skill, she will return home to her massager, giggle tirelessly until she falls asleep holding her pillow, once a again.  To cuddle or not to cuddle, that is the compromise…

  • Trick and/or Treat

    Trick and/or Treat

    Halloween has always held a special place in my senses.  The way the vast assortment of candy tickles my taste buds, the mystery behind selecting and crafting a unique costume, and the pure and distinct smell of a pillow case full of candy…MmmmMmm it surely is an appetizing holiday (with the exception of the gooey feel of carving a pumpkin- gross!).

    Wine bottle and glass pumpkin.
    Wine bottle and glass pumpkin. Carving (especially gutting it)- mundantory activity!!!!!

    I think we can all agree that there is that extraordinary house in the neighborhood memorable for one reason or another on Halloween. Some houses are appealing because of the extra large candy while others are appalling because of the extra small candy.  Some are attractive with their elaborate décor while others are repulsive with their lights off… 

    I want to be the house known for the crazy lady who answers the door. 

    A few years ago, I stayed home on Halloween due to some physical ailment (I’m a hypochondriac so who knows the diagnosis that particular day?!) and handed out candy.  The whole procedure of candy giving, as the giver, was incredibly boring.  The costumes were NOT cute (despite my most kind and insincere compliments with an encouraging smile), the kids seemed ungrateful (despite the king size candy I delicately dropped in their bags), and not one child shouted “trick or treat” with passion. 

    After noticing this decrepit pattern, my sister and I changed the pace immediately to save ourselves and Halloween with some tricks of our own. 

    Knock knock…We opened the door without a candy bowl: 

    “Trick or Treat…” they said. 

    “Trick,” as I solemnly pretended to pull my thumb apart from the middle. 

    The kids stood perplexed and clearly didn’t know whether to laugh or throw an egg at my face.  I caved and gave them candy that I enthusiastically made appear from the back of their ear! 

    “Well…you asked, and I chose trick…but here, take a candy” 

    Knock knock…We opened the door holding a bowl full of canned goods and gleaming with smiles from ear to ear: 

    “Trick or treat…” they said.  

    “Oh!! Hi! Snow White!  Ghost!  Here you go kids, pick a can! Any can! Personally, I like the garbanzo beans. They are SO versatile!  But it’s not my day, it’s yours! Hope you know how to use a can opener..” 

    As to not hurt my feelings, each kid slowly dipped their hand into the canned-bowl and chose between corn, pickled beets or chopped olives.  

    “Really?  Do you actually think a young lady like me is gonna hand out canned goods?  Take a candy…geez” 

    With the same confusion, they took the candy while we giggled. 

    Knock knock…We opened the door again, without a candy bowl: 

    “Trick or Treat…” they said….  

    “We’ll take a treat.  What you got?” 

    We then proceeded to rummage through their pillow cases for a Charleston Chew or Milk Duds.  Not one child seemed amused, nor did they actually let us take their candy, so I instead gave them two candies for the trouble. 

    Knock knock…Before opening the door, we made noises and flickered the lights on and off spastically like a spectacular spook fest: 

    “TRICCCKKK!!!”  We screamed before they could mutter it, opened the door and handed the candy to them with straight faces and no words. 

    Knock knock…We opened the door to a cluster of fresh faces, masks and ghouls:

    “Trick or Treat…” 

    “Wait a gosh darn second,” I said with utmost seriousness.  “I’ve seen you kids already!” 

    “No! I swear! This is the first time!!” 

    “It’s because of the huge candy isn’t it?  I knew this would happen,” I became very serious. “I hoped it wouldn’t but it did…Trick-or-Treaters lying and thieving my candy. Worst Halloween ever.” 

    “But!” 

    “It’s ok” 

    “We!” 

    “Take another” 

    “But” 

    “Have a good night.  Although I’m sure I’ll see you again.” 

    Knock knock…With a loaded candy bowl. 

    “Trick or treat!” 

    “Knock knock,” I responded after slightly opening the door. 

    Silence. 

    “Everyone circle your left arm over your head until the joke is over…Knock knock,” I repeated. 

    “Who’s there?” one child responded with grave hesitation while circling his arm. 

    “Yaw!” I said back. 

    “Yaw whoooo?” as they continued circling their arms. 

    I again gave them two candies because no one but me and my sister laughed. Yahoooo!!! Get it? No?

    Staying home to catch the looks on the kids’ faces when they see the bowl full of canned food is PRICELESS and I prefer that instead of a bar outting any time!  I will be in D.C. this year for this special day and will inevitably miss out on the buffoonery of handing out candy.  I hope dearly that someone will take my place as the crazy lady by implementing these tricks into the treat-giving experience and to make fools of themselves, the princesses, goblins and Harry Potter characters that beg for candy.  

    On a side note, if a kid ever knocks on my door dressed as Oliver Twist and says “Please, ma’am, may I have some more?”  I will dump the entire bowl of king sized Butterfingers into his pillow case without playing one trick.  How creative! Kids these days aren’t that smart though, are they?  No, they’re not…they just aren’t, and I blame the lack of quality television programing like You Can’t Do That On Television, Pete and Pete, and Doug.

    My Wine Bottle and Wine Glass pumpkin...Carving sucks!!
    Day 3- fermented wine glass a little too tipsy…worst EVER

  • Mundantory Activities

    Certain mandatory things in life make me absolutely cringe.  Although I understand the undeniable necessity of such things, I find them outright boring, mundane and a waste of my time.  

    1. Brushing my Teeth- It boggles my mind that people can brush their teeth longer than ten seconds without seeming to be irritated.  Personally, I can’t just stand in front of the sink while staring at myself in the mirror with foam dripping down my lip for a minute, or whatever the dentist recommends.  I become stir crazy.  So instead, I walk around my apartment and with my free hand I’ll fluff pillows, pour myself a glass of water, lay out my clothes for the next day…even then, that minute would be more efficient with the other hand.  (Side note: I floss my teeth in the car with those tiny floss picks. Yah, I know it’s gross! So is my car! Judge me…)
    2. Taking a Shower- I don’t take anything from the shower…it takes me! TWENTY MINUTES (start to finish…undress to dressed)!  If not longer, depending on the state of my dirty hair and if I need to shave my legs (I’ll save that one for another prompt).  I’m just STANDING there…in what feels like a cage.
    3. Filling My Gas Tank– UGH!  First of all, I detest the unsanitary pumps.  Some stations provide its patrons with hand sanitizing amenities, but they are seldom full.  Secondly, I’m just standing there (again) and if I use my phone I might blow up the place.  Or if I walk inside, someone might steal my car.  It’s an awful time for me.
    4. Doing Laundry– I don’t even know where to begin with this one.  I go weeks without washing my jeans…maybe not weeks, but I will wait until the time I wiggle into them and I can smell the dirt.  I’m very meticulous and proper about the cleaning of my clothes, so things become complicated- delicates are placed in safe washing bags, blouses and dresses are line dried, sheets need once-a-week care (the fitted sheet is the bane of my existence), towels, missing socks, intimates, hangers, folding, time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I would solely hire a laundress if I could for this task, but instead I spend my money on things like trips to Jones…at this point, I’m not sure what will make me happier.
    5. Plucking Eyebrows-Not only is it excruciating, it is crucial to pluck with precision!!! One measly hair tweezed wrongly will make me look lopsided.  Also, if the tool is not of quality then it doesn’t grip the hairs properly and it takes forever.  I do recommend a Swiss Army Knife for such grooming- it plucks and trims.
    6. Shaving my Legs-I understand the appeal of a smooth leg, ok?  I also understand that no matter how hard I try, I will inevitably miss a spot!!! No, not a spot…a patch.  And please! I’m single and it’s winter…so really? 

    Please know that despite my huffing and puffing, I compose myself as a socially acceptable and cleanly woman on a daily basis.  As a matter of fact, I used to suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder, so I “get it”.   I know that cleanliness is next to Godliness and the last thing I want to do is go to hell, (as far as I’m concerned, showering is hell but what I’ve learned about hell, it is much worse than a shower, so I can’t even imagine…perhaps hell is a bath?) so I guess you can consider me a sufferer of someone who compulsively obsesses over avoiding obsessive compulsive things?   Maybe I’m just ADD?

    And by the way, on a trip to grab some lunch I noticed my “check engine light” blaring its eager flash at me. 

    …the list never ends…