What will kill me first?
Wedding date saga, or this marathon headache?
I have a dream that today one of the two will come to an end.
Power in the money, money in the power
One Christmas long ago, CD players were all the rage. Santa Clause left me a stereo/CD player combo that year and I. WAS. THRILLED. But as days and weeks went by, I began to tire of my lone CD—a Garth Brooks album, I do recall. To remedy this, I waited with watchful eyes, many days a week, for my big brother Bryan to leave the house. And when he did, I fled my bedroom for his with nothing but pilfering on my little mind.
But all I could ever get my hands on was his copy of the “Gangsta’s Paradise” single. Which was fine. I listened to its 3 tracks on repeat—album version, radio edit, instrumental—until thoughts of Bryan’s impending return became too overwhelming. I’d run downstairs, ditch the stolen merch, and hightail it to my daybed.
I was the most cultured 8-year-old livin’ in sin da projects suburbia.
Maybe
if I stare at her with my eyeballs huge and my neck at a stiff 90 degree angle she’ll stop ninja clicking her mouse repeatedly like click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click CLICK CLICK.
I found this in my Drafts folder.
Today, at work, I sought exile in the employee bathroom when things got really dull. I took my favorite green and white wide-toothed comb with me to pass the time in front of the mirror. I like experimenting with different parts when the mood strikes. A part on my left looks better than a part on the right. A straight part in the middle is so ‘95 but sometimes I rock it anyway. Zig zags are my favorite. I was zagging, in fact, when my wide-toothed comb went flying through the air on a crash-course with the stinking urinal! In horror I watched. In shock. I dove for it while it was still mid-air and moving in slow-mo, and wham-bam, I intercepted it with my hand. SAVED! It was madness! Now, it hit my hand and landed hard on the floor and lost two (2) teef in the process, but it could’ve been worse. Much worse. I would never use a wide-toothed comb that had been submerged in toilet—neigh—disgusting urinal water, NOT EVAR!!!!!1111 Looking back I’m not so sure it didn’t at one point shimmy off the urinal cake. It all happened so fast.
College guy,
Sorry I grimaced when you called the drunk girls getting naked in your dorm room “bitches” and also for mentally throwing up my PB & J all over your plaid Abercrombie shorts when I heard you say for the second time today “I’m a natural athlete”.
Barf,
Lindy
PS: The magic trick you described isn’t magic. This is a college town as slutty as they come. I could ask any girl in this computer lab to choose a card, any card, and get her to take off her crop top by telling her it’s the wrong card. Sorry you aren’t more special. Now go wait for the IT people to fix the paper jam from someplace far far away.
I’d rather be known as Linda
What’s in a name? For some people, uninvited idiocy.
I, like many people with half a brain, detest some of the names that are being given to newborns these days. Abcde (AB-SID-EE). Blayze. Zayde. Paylin. Olive (P. Mento?). Brodyn. Teiyairnyn. GIZZEL! But aside from the moronic parents burdened with the trouble of choosing a name suitable for a human life independent of their own who have no choice but to live it down for the next 80+ years, there are the rest of us with normal names who still must listen to Panera Bread cashiers butcher them for no logical reason.
For instance, today at Coral Ridge Mall, the girl ahead of me, who spelled her name for the cashier (S-E-R-E-N-A) was called out on the microphone as Syria—SYRIA!—the Middle Eastern country.
At the same location, I once spelled my name for the teenage cashier (“Lindy. L-I-N-D-Y.”) only to become known to the sandwich makers down the counter as Lingay. LINGAY! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!
I will never understand.
There’s a special place in hell for moped operators who try to run me down in front of the library.
For real.
Somebody stop John Quiñones
Coercing unassuming bystanders into stealing infants? Prodding them to drug a human at the urging of fake federal agents?
This show is getting creepy.
Back-to-school shopping
Skinny mirror, skinny mirror, on the dressing room wall,
Since when are my proportions that of a Barbie doll?
Note to brides-to-be: DON’T watch “Left at the Altar” on TLC right before bed like I did last night.
Nightmares will ensue.
Eggs-actly.
Found my dream purse for $389.
Showed Cory.
Watched his jaw drop at the price.
Told him I bought it!
Reminded him that he said I should stop buying cheap purses.
Said “And you never would’ve let me buy it had I asked you first!”
Nodded with each “Are you being serious?” that followed.
Offered to show him the shipping confirmation.
Watched as he was consumed with helpless disbelief.
Showed him the dimensions to prove it’s worth every penny.
Noticed him growing more nauseous by the nanosecond.
Became more and more giddy as I showed him alternate views.
Smiled when he reminded me we have a wedding to pay for.
Told him I was just kidding, SILLY!
Watched his head explode and laughed and laughed.
“Do you suffer from facial grimacing?”
The law-firm voice on my TV screen suggests I have Tardive Dyskonesia but I think my facial grimacing comes from paying my Von Maur bill.
FAQ: Life of Lindy
Q. Can we register for our wedding at Bass Pro Shops?
A. No. Wait are you serious?
Q. But on their website I can create a wish list and email it to guests. Can I?
A. You really are serious! And no.
Q. Can I tell you a secret?
A. Yes. Everyone else does! I’ve got secrets coming out of my ears—most them ‘em are doozies…
Q. What’s wrong? You seem upset.
A. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just my face. The more and more I have to explain to people that I’m in a good mood and defend the look on my face, the more upset I’ll be.
Q. Are the Shrimp Jammers any good?
A. I highly doubt it but I don’t have time right now to wait for you to pick something else because that girl wants ranch, and that lady needs change, and a group of ten just walked in and need menus, drinks, a highchair, and crayons, and that table needs Mountain Dew refills and extra napkins, and I have two appetizers to run before that table’s dinner is ready and so-and-so want their bills—conveniently split into eighths thankyouverymuch and can they get some salsa to take home for their leftovers?, and some brainless newbie took out the wrong Chicken Caesar Wrap and now I have to go panic in the kitchen because that Chicken Caesar Wrap was for the regulars who hate to wait for food to be prepared so yes, the Shrimp Jammers are excellent!!!! THEY ARE SO GOOD YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW JUST MMMMMMMM NOW GIVE ME YOUR MENUS AND DON’T TALK TO ME FOR ELEVEN MINUTES.
Q. Can you change this TV to NASCAR?
A. GD IT! Of course I can change your TV. Do I have time right now? No. Shut up and WAIT.
Q. Are you even old enough to be serving beer?
A. Yes.
Q. What’s hotter—the buffalo, or the mild buffalo?
A. ….
Q. Does the pope shit in the woods?
A. I think you have your expressions mixed up.
Q. Have you had your breasts enhanced?
A. Don’t talk to me.
Q. What should we have for dinner?
A. Watermelon, sweet corn, and a cheese dog.
Q. Is ‘Lindy’ short for something? Lindsey?
A. No.
Q. Girl you break up witch yo bo’frin yiiiit?
A. Barf.
Q. Since when do you have a loaner phone?
A. It’s not.
Q. Do you want to go fishing today?
A. Yes.
Q. What should we have for breakfast?
A. Cinnamon toast and a banana.
KCRG: Apology Issued After Mix Up With School Lunch Policy At South Tama →
This reminds me of that time I was invited to a Young Writers Conference at Cornell when I was in first grade. I was the only kid from my whole school that was going, and I wasn’t exactly delighted by that. Nobody told me to bring a sack lunch, so when the noon hour came and all the kids whipped out their ham-and-cheeses and Fruit by the Foots, I started to cry. Some presidential-type administrator walked me to her office, leaving me in a mammoth Naugahyde chair while she retreated to find me food. I never did get a lunch. In fact, I’m pretty sure she forgot about me, because I seem to have blacked out everything after that moment.
There may be some unresolved issues here.
