Friday, August 26, 2011

Oh Text Message Delay…You So Crazy!

Disclaimer: What you are about to read might be disgusting to some viewers.  Especially if you’re eating lunch or take issue with excrement humor.  (And if you fall into the latter category, are we friends in real life?  If so, how?!)

I’m pretty good at texting.  As a matter of fact, I’ve got very agile thumbs in addition to an agile mind.  This combination typically allows me to carry on multiple conversations in one text session with the same person.  And if it gets too backed up or starts to get confusing, I’ll just send a  text with a list of numbered or lettered responses to each topic being discussed, which usually gets things back on track pretty quickly.

So when I found myself in a text conversation with a good friend today, and  I had only introduced one new idea into the mix, I was confident I could handle it.

The main conversation was in regard to said friend’s current situation with a member of the opposite sex, whom she’s been talking with and seeing.  Long story short, and without giving too many of her personal details, some plans she had were throw off kilter, so she had to rearrange some things and check to make sure other things with this dude were still in order for something coming up. 

So I asked if the guy responded to her initial inquiry.

She relayed that he had.

And I responded with a “Well, there you go.”

A few moments had passed, and I realized that the Taco Bell I had eaten this past Wednesday was just about done scrubbing clean the walls of my colon.  In other words, I really needed to use the bathroom. 
There’s something you should know about my friend and I: a lot of our random texts to each other, in addition to being about guys or what’s on tv or other random nonsense, revolve around farts and poop.  (So yes, fellas, girls do indeed fart and poop.  And we even sit around and talk and laugh about it or compare notes.  I hope I haven’t shattered all of your fantasies.  But look, you ever get married or at the very least get serious with a woman, I’m sure these fantasies would be shattered in that respect anyways.  So just consider this divulging of information a service to you.  Preparedness for the future if you will.  And really, it’s not all that bad.  Far better than menstruation talk.  But I digress…)

Like I was saying, we text about shit sometimes.  Literal shit.  And since I took my phone in the restroom to catch up on Words With and Hanging With Friends, when I noticed that my shit smelled like sauerkraut, I of course wanted to tell her.  So I did.

“I had Taco Bell the other day.  And now, I believe it is clearing my tunnels.  Omg.
And why does my shit smell like sauerkraut?!?!”

After a few seconds, my friend wrote back: “Good sign, right?”

Um, excuse me but...whaaaaat?! 
 Now, in my mind I went back through all of the WebMD pages my borderline hypochondriac self has scoured over the years.   

Is it a good sign when your BM smells like grandma’s kitchen on Easter?  (I’m Slovak and Hungarian…sauerkraut in my family is just as natural for a big holiday dinner as potatoes or deviled eggs, or some sort of main meat dish…) 

And a sign of what exactly?  That my colon is in happyland? That I likely won’t be shitting myself on the way to Chicago tonight---or worse, forced to shit in a public place because my bowels have now been sufficiently evacuated?

My shit…smells like sauerkraut. 


I haven’t even eaten cabbage…let alone sauerkraut…in over two months.  Is it in my DNA somehow?  Did a Slovakian gnome somehow sneak into my bedroom at night and sleep-feed me copious amounts of kraut without my knowledge?





What is going on?!?!?!  I simply just don't understand how this can be a good sign?!

It wasn't until panic and confusion had almost completely taken hold that I finally realized:

My friend was not responding to my short-short story on sauerkraut craps.  She was responding to the situation with her guy from earlier.  

I had lost control of my text conversation.

Serves me right for texting on the shitter I guess.  Especially since I've already lost one phone to "death by toilet drowning."

So I immediately wrote back, “I hope you meant that about *guy’s name withheld* and not my shit smelling like sauerkraut. Lol”  (I added the "lol" in order to hide the fact that I had just spent 2 full minutes trying to diagnose the cause of my cabbage crap and what kind of mystical sign it was giving me.  "How about you just give me winning lottery numbers?  Not the smell of a staple food from my heritage...")

And followed up with, “If so, yes.”

Almost immediately she wrote back, “Bwwwwhahaha. My farts smelled so weird yesterday.  And yes I meant “guy’s name withheld.” 

And with that, all was well again. Text conversation back on track.  The world can carry on as usual. 

Save for the fact that I still can’t figure out why my shit smelled like sauerkraut…


Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Why I’m excited for my birthday…already.

A little under a year ago, I started Bye-Bye Twenties in the hopes of chronicling my 30th year.  I somehow thought that this year would be completely different because I was entering a new decade.

And in some ways, I guess it was different.  I fostered a new sense of self, moved beyond being trapped in negative thoughts and emotions, and realized I have every opportunity to take this life and do with it what I choose.  

There was a part of me that feared that 30 meant I was getting past my prime…

…but that’s total bullshit.  As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure I’m just stepping into it.  And I love it.

So pushing the 30’s Boat off the dock and setting sail into 31 and beyond is part of the reason I’m excited, but there’s actually something else that almost makes me wish I could push fast forward to October 23, 2011.  (That's right...almost.  Because actually, I don’t want to rush past anything…but if there was also a rewind button, I might consider fast forwarding and then rewinding back.  Holy Fuck.  DeLorean.)

Here’s the thing: months ago, I don’t even remember how many actually, I watched a movie called “P.S. I Love You.”

Now, it wasn’t the greatest movie in the world, and there were parts of it that would not allow me to suspend my disbelief.  Just kind of like

“Yeah, that’s sweet but…

Wait.  What the fuuuuu….”

But there was a part that did resonate:  Here was this 30-year-old woman, trying to figure out who she was now and what she wanted to do about it.  And to that I could (and still can, actually) totally relate.

Of course, me being one of those people who cries super easily when I’m touched emotionally (and physically, I guess…if it’s a bad touch…too much?  Probably.  Gross.  Uh…anyways), of course when the credits rolled, I was bawling, thinking about my own 30-year-old self and who I was and what I wanted to do about it.

So, I made a list.

RAWRRRRRRRR!!!  I love lists!
 I made a list of things I wanted to accomplish or try or do while I was 30.  And it’s been under my pillow ever since.  I haven’t even peeked at it once.  Sure, I’ve  had ample opportunity when changing the sheets, but each time, I keep it folded, place it aside, and put it right back under my pillow.

I don’t remember everything that’s on it.  There is one thing I remember, but I know there were specifics that I can’t quite bring to mind.  The funny thing is, I’m pretty sure I can check that one off.  So now, here I am,
super excited to wake up on the morning of October 23rd, pull back my pillows like a child opening a birthday present…

…sorry, like a rabid child with octopus tentacle arms opening up the first and only birthday present she has ever gotten in her life…and it’s from Daddy Warbucks, so it’s probably pretty good.

I find myself thinking about that list a lot lately.  I’ll just be working or sitting quietly, and I find myself going back to writing the list, folding it up, and placing it under the pillow with the promise to myself that I wouldn’t think about it or open it until I had officially crossed the threshold into 31.

I’ve got about 60 days until I can look that baby over, and I can’t wait.  It’s almost like a birthday present to myself.  I mean, even if I didn’t accomplish most of the things on that list, it just means I now have some more goals for 31.

So now we wait.  And I say “we” because I plan to reveal the list, with annotations and thoughts about each item and whether or not it was actually accomplished.  

It will be the final post of Bye-Bye Twenties, save for an epilogue.  But don’t worry…I have plans for next year’s blog.  (One of which is to actually post in it on a regular basis.  No really.  I mean it.)

Until then, I’m just looking forward to this weekend where amongst a slew of rehearsals, shows (one of which is a fundraiser), and the normal hustle and bustle, I’ll be making time for a little wine, Van Morrison, and possibly chop busting. 

Hopefully chop busting.

Almost certainly definitely chop busting.

Hallelujah to all of that.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Off the market

Look closely.  Wait, nope.  I'm not there anymore.
Okay, okay, maybe I was never actually "on the market" to begin with.  More like, I was kind of tucked away on a dusty bottom shelf somewhere, going about my business when BAM! Someone noticed me (and took me out to a Polish buffet).

Okay, so I guess that is technically on the market...just not in an "on display, advertising myself as 'Redhead seeks gentleman caller to spend time, laugh, and tell the occasional fart joke" kind of way.

Ugh.  Semantics.  Anyways...

...Laughs and I have been having a really great time the past couple months.  I don't want to gag you with all the juicy details, but in summary: when I'm around him, I feel like I'm the best version of myself (which is the version I am in front of the people who know me best).  You really can't ask for more than that, right?

So...long story short, I'm no longer on the store shelf.  I'm off the market.  I like this thing Laughs and I have going on.  And to be honest, I kind of just want to put some of my attention (the part that isn't focused on Max and improv and karaoke and all that other stuff) in his general direction for a while.

And yes, I find myself smiling into space like an idiot sometimes.

Deal with it.