Monday, January 7, 2013

This Wasn't Supposed to be My Socialist Regime

For starters: my room looks like this right now:

        I think I’m supposed to be embarrassed about it. I don’t even know why I feel it necessary/relevant to include a picture of my messy room; there’s nothing new about it. Oh, and yes – that IS a bag of cookies on top of a pile of laundry –
        I picked up a box of fresh sugar cookies at Ralph’s last night - the dude by the cash register at the Self Checkout looked at me at one point and said, “ Weren't you in here last night? You was whinin’ about somethin’ with the cookies last night. What’s a pretty lady like you doin’ in unstable relationships?”
…..You know that moment when you realize that one of your jokes hasn't been landing and you have to backtrack, and explain, step by step, what you’d been talking about?

This was one of those moments.

        And it’s so very unfortunate, the bad-joke-explanation/backtrack, because not only do you feel like an idiot, for having to explain something that you thought was funny at one point, but you also understand that you’re making the other person feel like a moron, for not getting the joke.
        I had to explain to my main man Ron that I was referring to the Ralph’s bakery as the abusive boyfriend: never knowing what the score was, always having to walk on eggshells… etc. Because the bakery seems to function on whim: there’s no set cookie schedule (ie: sugar cookies will be fresh on this day of the week; we make chocolate chip cookies on this day) IT’S ALL A GIANT GUESSING GAME, and I feel like the fragile girlfriend, who’s forced to tread lightly (or forced to go to Ralph’s almost DAILY, to rummage through the cookie collection, trying to find fresh ones.)
        Eventually Ron got my joke, chortled, and proceeded to give me waaaay more hippie points (points toward cheaper gas) than necessary, but who’s counting?

So my room looks like a war zone – what else is new?

        Maybe I feel inclined to point this out to comically reiterate my relationship status (or lack thereof). Because I’m pretty sure that some days, I’m convinced that I’m going to be married to the Josef Stalin of neatness and cookie cravings, who will pluck the cookies right out of my hand like Stalin plucked the feathers off that chicken…

        I… I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. But now that I've written it, there seems to be too much comedic potential to back away from it. Grace, WHO SAID A STALIN REFERENCE WAS OK?! (If you don’t know the chicken story, don’t look it up. It’s terrible. I don’t know WHY that seems to be a primary piece I retained from Dr. Echerd’s European History class…

        Wait I promise this is the last Stalin reference, but I just googled him to make sure I was correct on the Russian spelling of his first name, and THIS picture came up:
I will not comment on what appear to be luscious locks of Socialist hair… For fear of anyone thinking I’m promoting anything Socialist – I’M NOT. But dude. That picture. I’m just saying.

The point I was getting at, seven socialist rabbit trails ago, is that until I marry Napoleon the pig, THE ROOM STAYS AS MESSY AS I WANT IT TO.

Just… please, please tell me someone got that George Orwell reference.


        I must now invoke the slowclap, for a one Josh and Amanda Miller, Moorpark’s very own Renaissance couple, as it were. More specifically: Josh, who came over with the patience of Job last night, to… fix things I’d nearly destroyed.

Exhibit A:

I texted him this picture yesterday and said something to the effect of: “So the charger still works, I’m just trying to avoid the whole thing bursting into flame – am I wrong to assume that I should just bind it with electrical tape?”

Clearly I don’t have any electrical tape in my possession, so Josh came over with the electrical tape, as well as a lesson in Physics, explaining the polarity of the charge and what kind of damage could be done, and how the electrical tape was fixing it.

        At one point I was scratching my head while he was talking about negative and positive charges and his expression told me he’d seen my eyes glazing over and I suddenly felt the need to assure us both that I wasn't a complete idiot: “Oh I've taken Physics. Well… I took a physics class. Once. In high school.”

        Ladies and gentlemen, I'm about to give you: Grace, at the peak of her career in Physics.

        I was a junior in high school and this demo was to prove that if an object is traveling  in a circle and the centripetal force is abruptly removed, the object will go tangent to the circle. (I didn't look this up just now: clearly the law stuck with me, after this demo) For some unknown reason, I volunteered to be the object that flies tangential to the circle when the force is removed. Mr. Myrick had one end of the rope, the other was tied to the scooter on which I was sitting. Lacy Magee (who I'm pretty sure was one of the fastest sprinters in our age group in the state at the time) had the end of another rope that was also tied to the fateful scooter. She ran around in a circle, and when she let go, I was supposed to go tangent and hit a set of bowling pins.

........But Lacy accidentally stepped on the rope, after she dropped it, causing the scooter to stop where it was, and for Grace to fly off the scooter...

        (The sound is really grainy, for whatever reason – just do yourself a favor and turn the volume off, otherwise your eardrums WILL bleed. What you will miss is Carolyn hollering, “She has a show tonight!” Sure, I’ll go ahead and take a moment to promote myself as a Jack of All Trades: I demonstrated centripetal force (or lack thereof) during the day and played Mrs. Malaprop at night, it’s casual. You’ll also miss me barking, “I’M GONNA DIE. I’M GONNA DIEEEEE.” But you’ll definitely see that the space for physical activity was so vacant in my life, that I had ZERO flexibility and my body stays as straight as a plank the whole time… )

So Josh used tape to bind up not only the charger to my computer, but also my phone charger. And when I showed him that the computer charger still worked, I had to acknowledge the fact that the ground plug (it was one of those three-pronged plugs) had come out some time over Christmas, but hey, the thing still worked like a charm! (This was after I admitted that this was the second charger for this computer: the first had become frayed to the point of no longer working…)

Josh finally asked the question that we’d both been wondering, “What do you do to these things?”


(…And in case you're wondering: that myspace reference is a joke. I don’t remember the last time I was on that site. But don’t tell me I’m the only one who tried to smash that darn watermelon once or twice…)

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