Am I the Only Person Who Gets Randomly Accosted by Crazy-Pants McGhees at Connecticut Bookstores?

One thing I really like to do with my life is watch Super Soul Sunday on the OWN Network every weekend and then immediately haul ass to the New Age section of my local Barnes and Noble in order to impulsively buy every book ever related to that day’s topic while telling myself that it doesn’t count as spending money because it’s food for my spirit, and spirit knows no money so I’m good. Or something.

Anyway. So this is what I was doing recently when, out of the fucking blue, some random dude tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I don’t much care for it.”

If you’re craving a little more context right now, here’s the set up:

  • Me: Wearing a dark gray hoodie-tee-shirt (yes, I dress like a tween on the weekends) and a Patriots hat. I have an open copy of The Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav in my hand and, up until the aggressive shoulder-tap from the rando in aisle seven, am reading it with zeal.
  • The Shoulder-Tapper: White male. Appears to be in his forties or fifties. Kind of out of shape but not necessarily fat. Wearing a blue sweatshirt, jeans, and Nike running sneakers. Is kind of twitchy but has the general look of a normal person.

One might reasonably assume that by saying “I don’t much care for it,” the guy was informing me that he had read The Seat of the Soul and was not a fan. Which is what I assumed (and took major offense to, side note, because anybody who “doesn’t much care” for a book that Oprah credits as changing the very direction of her life back in 1989 is clearly a bad a person and probably a hazard to society) at first.

But then he was like, “I used to live in New Rochelle.” And then he paused and took a dramatic breath in, and I was like…?

My first thought was that maybe he was going to say something about my Patriots hat – something along the lines of “I used to live in New Rochelle… and I too am a Patriots fan, so it was rough being in New York during that time. But then I moved to Connecticut and now people are slightly more open to my New England affiliation, but we’re still close enough to the New York border that, well, I don’t much care for it.“

But no.

Instead he followed up with “…until my house got flooded.”

So then in my head I was all, Okay so either he’s going to ask me to make a donation to his cause, or he’s going to murder me.

Help

“And then after the house got flooded,” he continued, “I left and moved to a really nice place up in the Catskills. It was beautiful, new, and surrounded by nature. But then that house got flooded too. So I got another house right after that, but then that one went up in flames and I was put in jail for two weeks until they were able to prove that the fire actually started from the dryer and I had nothing to do with it – which is what I told them all along, but nobody believed me.”

What I might have said in my head if I was as enlightened as I hope to someday be:

  • Aw, I’m honored that this nice man is sharing such personal details of his history with me. We’re all one, and I see myself in him. I sincerely wish him luck in finding a living situation that doesn’t involve catastrophe and disaster. I shall hug and bless him now.

What I actually said in my head:

  • WHY IS NOBODY COMING TO MY RESCUE?! OMG, I feel like Sarah Michelle Gellar in I Know What You Did Last Summer when the killer is like, maiming her with a hook by the large stack of tires and nobody knows about it even though it’s all happening in the midst of a busy parade and you would THINK that one couldn’t get murdered during something as public as a fucking PARADE but somehow there was no one else there in that little area with all the tires at the time, much like how there’s no one else here in the NEW AGE BOOK SECTION OF AN OTHERWISE WELL-POPULATED BARNES AND NOBLE.

What I said out loud:

  • “Oof. That’s rough, man. Sorry to hear it.”

And then he was all, “Yeah—” and then I cut him off and said, “Okay, well, take it easy!” and I immediately darted to the bargain books because there were a solid four people in that section.

I managed to avoid him for the rest of my duration in the store until I left to go have pizza with two friends of mine, both of whom were as confused as I was when I gave a dramatic retelling of the event.

“Why does weird shit always happen to you?” they both asked.

“I don’t know…” I replied. “Maybe because the Universe knows I’m always running out of things to blog about?”

And then we all nodded in agreement.

 

Advertisements

I Was Home During a Psycho Intruder’s Break-In Attempt, and I Survived

I recently spent a week reading Augusten Burroughs’ classic memoir Dry, which, in a nutshell, is a humorous yet very dark account of his experience recovering from alcoholism in NYC.

(Side note: After using the phrase “in a nutshell” just now, I was reminded of that scene in Austin Powers where what’s-her-name-with-the-machine-gun-boobs was all, “That’s you in a nutshell, Austin, isn’t it?” and then he was like, “No. THIS is me in a nutshell: HELP! I’M IN A NUTSHELL. HOW IS THIS NUTSHELL SO LARGE?” and I legitimately laughed out loud, which was fun for two seconds but then became highly embarrassing because I’m currently writing this post from a crowded train.)

Also during the week in question, I dealt with a literary rejection (the aftermath of which led me to impulse-buy a two hundred dollar toothbrush, because that’s how I do), suffered from a debilitating cold, and had like, three existential crises in a period of ten minutes after watching The Life of Pi.

So by the time I went to bed on Friday night – after drinking probably about a third of a box of wine, which, yes, I just said “box” right now, because economy – I was in a pretty dark mental space. I was basically Dakota Fanning’s evil, Volturi, capable-of-inflicting-pain-with-only-her-thoughts character in The Twilight Saga. (This comparison works on multiple levels, by the way, because I had purchased and worn a sweater with an inexplicably large hood just like hers that week, too.)

IMG_20140301_115711

Or maybe I’m more so that creepy dude from The Da Vinci Code. Or maybe just a Franciscan Friar? No. I’m Dakota.

Anyway. So I’m in bed, right? And I fall asleep pretty easily, because wine. It’s one in the morning, let’s say. I’m dreaming about, I don’t know, Jafar from Aladdin naked in a cold prison cell (because dark), and getting closer and closer to REM status with each passing minute.

Well, about three hours into this cycle I was abruptly awoken by an insanely loud banging noise coming from my front door. It sounded like POUND-POUND-BOOM… POUND! BOOM! POUND-BOOM!  And then BOOM again. And so on.

At this point, I was all delirious and like, “Whaaa…t?” (When really I should have probably just stayed in character as Jafar and screamed “WHO DISTURBS MY SLUMBER?!” …That was Jafar, right? As the Cave of Wonders? Or am I getting Aladdin all wrong? Steven, can you help?)

I slowly got up and made my way toward the door, but stopped about ten feet shy of it, because that’s when the handle started violently shaking from the outside in conjunction with the aggressive banging, and I realized that there was a crazy person there trying to pull a Miley and come in like a wrecking ball.

At first I was all, OH MY GOD, IT’S A PSYCHO MURDERER COME TO MAIM ME IN MY SLEEP. But then I was like, Wait. Clearly this person wants to be heard. Maybe I know who it is. But then why isn’t he or she yelling, “Nic! Let me in!”?

I checked my phone to see if any friends (or, let’s be honest, ex-boyfriends) had texted me with something about how they were drunk and in crazy mode and stranded in my town, but there was nothing.

Upon deciding that it was indeed a stranger, I really wanted to go look through the peephole. But then the thought of possibly creating a shadow at the crack of the door, which would indicate to the intruder that I was home and standing right in front of them, was frightening. So I just stayed where I was, bewildered and scared and a little ready to run to the bathroom and hide in my shower while pitifully crouching with a bottle of shampoo in one hand and a toilet plunger (I lack a baseball bat) in the other.

But then the banging and handle-shaking came to a sudden halt, so I waited a few minutes and tip-toed my way to the door to surreptitiously get a view of the hallway. I did consider that Crazy Pants McGhee might still be there, diabolically waiting for me to creep up and put my face up to the peephole so that he or she could creep up and put his or her face up to the peephole, with like, his or her one eyeball (all eerie and fish bowl-like) giving me a cursing look while he or she let out an evil/threatening/maniacal laugh, but I decided to take my chances and hope that he or she in fact wasn’t the Joker from Batman.

(Side note: Can we talk about how incredibly sick I am of saying “he or she” right now? I really wanted to just say “they,” but I think that’s grammatically incorrect. Right? I suppose I could have just arbitrarily chosen a gender for the sake of flow and ran with it, but I feel like, in terms of offending people, that’s a screwed-either-way situation.)

When I finally looked through the peephole, I saw that the psycho intruder was still there. Except ON THE FLOOR, LIKE, SLEEPING. All I could really make out was the back of his or her red coat. And the fact that he or she was basically in the fetal position.

As bizarre as this was, though, it didn’t bother me as much as it probably should have.

In fact, it gave me enough comfort to be able to be like, Okay, I guess if my psycho intruder is going to bed, that means I should too, and so I did. And then I woke up six hours later, and he or she was gone altogether, leaving me incredibly relieved that the nightmare was over but also confused and somewhat dissatisfied with the lack of a resolution. It was akin to what I imagine sex with Newt Gingrich might be like.

When I started telling other people about this experience, I realized that my reaction was totally not as extreme as it should have been and I probably should have called the cops. But who thinks of these things in the heat of the moment? (Normal people?)

In retrospect, I think what happened was the result of one of the following possible scenarios:

  1. Someone who lives in my building was severely intoxicated and/or on some really good drugs and thought they were actually locked out of their own apartment.
  2. Someone who is involved in a highly illegal international drug ring was given my address as a fake from someone who owes them money, and so this was a drug lord’s suburban crony coming to collect. (Think Piper’s ex-lesbian lover from Orange Is The New Black, except more violent.) This would explain why she staked out my front door after failing to break in, but it would not explain why she vanished in the morning without notice.
  3. Remember that married guy I made out with a couple months ago? I suppose it could have been his wife dramatically seeking retribution.

Or maybe my dark energy from the preceding week’s events sent out a negative frequency signal to the universe and simply drew this entire experience right to me, and so the whole thing was just a big testament to the importance of staying positive and light.

You know what? I should probably burn that Dakota Fanning sweater.

 

How to Not Have Nipples Show

I don’t mean to get too personal, but lately my nipples have been like, really unruly.

I normally have nothing but love for my nips, but it seems that nowadays they’re always inexplicably visible for no good reason. It’s exhausting. Even when it’s totally not cold and my shirt is totally not thin and I’m totally not pregnant, they just keep appearing through all varieties of fabric as if to say, “HEY GURL! WANNA GET SOME DRAAANKS?”

I can’t get them to calm down. The whole thing reminds me of the old adage that goes, “After a nuclear holocaust there will only be cockroaches and Cher left.” Or something? Did I make up the Cher part? I feel like I remember her saying that on Behind the Music one time. Or maybe I’m getting Cher confused with underground bomb shelters? In any case, what I’m trying to say here is that the real version of the saying should be, “After a nuclear holocaust there will only be cockroaches and Cher and bomb shelters and Nic’s relentless nipples left.”

The other day, I was having a particularly nippular morning.

(Yes, I’m making up words now. And you’re welcome because don’t even try to pretend that you’re not going to start describing everything ever as “nippular” – especially female puppies in heat and Anne Hathaway in general.)

Fed up with my unfortunate circumstance, I took to Google and searched for “how to not have nipples show,” which yielded very few relevant results because apparently I don’t know how to formulate proper sentences. It’s totally fine now though, because the next person to perform a poorly-worded search on this subject will at least be directed to the title of this post and then realize that their life isn’t so bad because (a) they’re not alone in their nippular struggles, and (b) they’ll get to add their name to that famous apocalypse quote, and cockroaches notwithstanding, who doesn’t want to be in the same category as Cher and my nipples?

The information I did manage to find via Google was so, just… not what I was looking for.

I ended up on a site maintained by a woman who calls herself “Linda the Bra Lady,” which actually sounds like the name of someone I could totally be best friends with, but not someone who would have any solutions to male nipple problems – unless of course her advice would be for me to wear a bra, in which case I’d have to tear my shirt off to show her that I absolutely do not have moobs while simultaneously Christina Aguilera-ing her with a melodramatic screaming of, “I AM BEAUTIFUL NO MATTER WHAT YOU SAY!”

(Can we just talk about using Christina Aguilera as a verb for a second? I’m obsessed and now plan on Christina Aguilera-ing at least two people in real life today.)

After I recovered from Linda calling me fat in my head, I ended up on Yahoo! Answers, which was a terrible mistake because THIS:

Screen shot 2013-05-24 at 3.25.39 PMA few things:

  1. Yahoo, what exactly do you mean by “resolved”? Did you give Princess nipples? If so, then can you give me new ones?
  2. Something — and by “something” I mean the spelling and punctuation in this query — makes me wonder if Princess actually had nipples all along but just wasn’t looking in the right place.
  3. I thought the question itself was absurd, but then I read the responses. Click that link at your own risk, y’all.

I surveyed some coworkers about my dilemma, and at some point the whole scene took a highly inappropriate turn when I started obnoxiously massaging my chest in thought and then shot out of my chair and proclaimed, “I’ve got it! SIGN HERE STICKERS.”

You know, those stickers you’d put on a letter and/or legal agreement (and/or nipple) to ensure they get properly endorsed? Well, I took two of them out and put them down my shirt and I wish I were kidding but they actually worked wonders and even solicited a puzzled-yet-really-really-impressed look from one of my work-wives.

She stood quietly in awe for a moment, seemingly trying to figure out what planet I’m from, but then finally just said, “You know what? That’s actually kind of brilliant.”

IMG_20130524_114628_348

Sign here… ON MY OVERACTIVE NIPPLE.

You. Are. All. Welcome.

Don’t Let Me Near Your Wine Bottles (Because I Might Have Anger Issues)

Do I strike you as a repressed psychopath with the propensity to unravel at any given moment?

I’m asking because I don’t know how else to explain this:

                                                 Someone needs Yoga.                       

Please note that the cork is still encapsulated by glass. I’m fairly certain that things like this don’t normally happen to people who haven’t been to prison at least twice.

                  Don’t let his smile fool you, Scrubber Ducky (right) is not amused.

I don’t recall exerting too much force during the uncorking process, but that’s probably because my mind was busy wandering into a pleasant daydream that involved me marrying Bradley Cooper and therefore having a practical need for this fantastic just-released home buying guide for same sex couples.

It is clear, though, that I eventually snapped out of the daydream, shed a single tear for reality, and went all Incredible Hulk on the unsuspecting wine bottle.

                                          Care for a glass of pent-up rage?

No, I did not drink it.

Or. Well. I might have had three sips, but each one was tainted by the possibility of glass shards scraping my esophagus and wreaking havoc on my digestive tract, so I stopped. Painfully, I poured the rest of the wine down the drain.

I wonder if those three sips are reason enough for me to bring up “internal bleeding” as a valid concern at my next physical. I’m gonna go with yes. I may also have to bring up my seemingly superhuman strength — something that’s especially bizarre given the fact that I’ve allowed myself to skip the gym for the past several weeks because I took the stairs at work one morning two Fridays ago.

In any case, in regards to that question I asked at the beginning of this post — please take your time answering, because if you say the wrong thing I MIGHT RIP YOUR FACE OFF!!!

Carry on.

 

%d bloggers like this: