Essa Alroc's Blog, page 21

A Great Recovery

This morning, I took my tiny 9 pound dog for a walk, as I do every morning. Our morning walk is generally a little blurry, with Sophia attempting to rip my arm off every time she sees a lizard, and my watching the skies suspiciously for hawks.

My dog looks far too much like a rabbit for my liking and I suffer from regular nightmares where some evil hawk carries her off to be breakfast. FYI; if this shit were to happen in real life, I would embark on a vendetta against that striped bird of prey that would make ‘Rambo’ look like ‘The Notebook’. Can’t take revenge on nature my ass, Melville. I would hunt down that hawk; I would kill it, then eat it and make a hat out of its feathers.

Sorry, I got a little off track. But if any hawks were reading, take note and tell your friends. Essa Alroc doesn’t fuck around and she looks fantastic in feathers.

Anyway, it’s sundress season here in Florida. This is a great time for me, as I love being able to wear something that I can work in, sleep in and still get doors opened for me at the convenience store.

This morning, I was wearing my personal favorite, a red little number with a dangerously low bust line. As I walked my dog, I made it past the tennis court, where two muscular men were playing a couple of rounds. As I walked by, they both raced over to the fence, damn near coming through it to try and get my attention.

“Hey lady?” They were both smiling. I assumed it was because I was so very adorable.

“Yeah?” I turned to look at them.

The taller one snickered. “Can you throw us our ball? It went over the fence.” They were still snickering and I couldn’t figure out what was so damn funny.

Then, I realized that my entire left breast was hanging out of my top.

I could have just rushed away red faced. I could have yanked up my shirt and headed for the hills. Instead, I left the boob hanging out as I tossed the ball back to them. Then, I dropped on of my patented one liners.

“You boys should come back tomorrow. I take the right boob out on Saturdays, and that one is way better.” Then I walked away.

Always leave them wanting more.

I have one superhuman skill. It’s not x-ray vision. It’s not supermodel looks. It’s not a high IQ. It’s my recovery ability.

Have you ever got into an argument with someone? Then, later on, long after the argument, you think of a great comeback and say “I should have said that!” Yeah, that really sucks.

Luckily, that’s never happened to me. At least not since I was twelve.

Growing up, I was blessed with a chubby physique and a smart assed older brother, with a lot of smart assed older friends. At first, their barbs hurt, but then I learned how to respond. For that, I can only thank them, as they taught me a valuable skill.

Never take yourself too seriously.

As I got older, and infinitely hotter, that ability never left me. I’m never without a response and I know how to banter like a pro. It’s why I can walk around with my left tit hanging out all morning, and still look like I’m doing on purpose.

There is one rule that I have that has helped me along the way. Don’t react…just respond.

Look, 100 years from now, is anyone going to care that two random dudes saw my left tit on a morning walk? Probably not. Don’t get me wrong, my tit is great, but it’s not that great. It was my response that makes it a great story.

Never underestimate the power of a great recovery. When these two college boys tell this story (and you know they will) how do you think its going to end? My pathetic boob hanging out? Or, is my last sentence going to be the punch line to a truly awesome joke?

If I have to be anything before leaving this world, I’ll take being the punch line to a truly awesome joke. That’s the kind of shit that makes you immortal. Just ask the rabbi, the Catholic priest and the carpenter that walked into a bar.

Street Smart = About as Dumb as Concrete

The next person who tells me they’re street smart is getting run over with my car.

Look, it just needs to be said. Generally, someone who describes themselves as ‘street smart’ is right on the money. They’re about as smart as asphalt. ‘Street smart’ isn’t a catch all phrase to describe anyone who doesn’t want to admit their dumb. It’s actually a very specific phrase used to describe a very specific group of people. Criminals.

Need some perspective? This guy is probably street smart.

Whenever someone tells me they’re street smart, I ask them three questions.

What’s the going rate for a quarter ounce of NYC Diesel?
What’s the most popular vehicle to steal?
What does ‘chasing the dragon’ mean?

Then, they give me three dead wrong answers.

Their answer to number 1 tells me that their dealer definitely doesn’t think they’re ‘street smart’ and has been gouging them for years. If they’re really fucking dumb, they’ll give me the price of gas in New York.

They usually answer number 2 wrong as well, by tossing out some high value sports car. For the past 5 years or so, the most popular car to steal has been the 1994 Honda Accord. Car thieves don’t steal cars to drive them or sell them whole. That’s damn near impossible. They steal cars to sell for parts. Honda Accord parts are the most in demand, so Honda Accords are the most popular vehicles to steal.

And finally, they always say ‘doing heroin’ for number three and still manage to be technically wrong. ‘Chasing the dragon’ isn’t shooting up. It’s the process before shooting up, where the heroin user inhales the vapors that result from the heroin being heated on a piece of tinfoil.

Guess what, I’m not street smart. I’m not a criminal (petty misdemeanors and civil disobedience aside). I know this shit because I’m a phrase I like to call ‘real smart’. ‘Real smart’ involves knowing that I’m intelligent enough to be able to answer general knowledge questions. When I can’t, I’m able to research those questions to come up with the right answers. I don’t need to use the phrase ‘street smart’ because I’m actually smart.

Having basic common sense doesn’t mean you’re street smart. It just means, so far, you’ve managed to not kill yourself by wandering into traffic or spraying glass cleaner in your eyes. You’re not ‘street smart’. You’re slightly above borderline retarded. Congrats, you could probably beat Forrest Gump at checkers. Welcome to mediocrity.

Also, get rid of that ‘School of Life’ shit as well. If you didn’t go to college, just say you didn’t go to college. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Trust me, I have a Masters degree and every day, I wish I didn’t go to college. My degree was 100% useless and I’ll probably be paying for it for the rest of my life. Having life experiences doesn’t mean you ‘attended the School of Life’. Everyone but dead people attends the ‘School of Life’. What will you want credit for next? Managing to breathe and walk at the same time?

There is no shame in not being smart. People can be good at other things. Maybe you’re really attractive. Maybe you’re good with people. Maybe you’re good at making shadow puppets. I don’t know and I don’t care. What I do know is that if I drop you off in a gang controlled area of Brooklyn at 3am, and you can’t get out alive, you’re not street smart. You’re just an average, law abiding citizen.

And smart people know that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Short Lived – Essa Writes a Sitcom

So I’ve been offline for a bit and the blog and my writing have taken a back seat. But I have a very good reason for this.

I’ve been watching TV.

I recently got a Roku. In case you don’t know what it is, it’s one of those delightful little boxes that allows you to stream internet shows right to your TV, so you don’t have to watch TV on your laptop and get 3rd degree burns on your thighs. Anyway, I’ve been busy doing some important research.

I call it research because after 18 hours of straight TV watching, I had to put on my glasses. In my world, glasses = ‘I’m a scientist’ and ‘I’m a scientist’ = any mundane task counts as research.

Anyway, during all my scientific research, I managed to watch every single episode made of ‘Arrested Development’, ‘Malcolm in the Middle’, ‘My Name is Earl’ and ‘Perfect Strangers’. All of these fantastic shows ended about a decade ago and it leads me to one final conclusion.

The American sitcom is dead.

I bring up those four sitcoms because they strayed from the pack when it came to sitcom making. They weren’t the standard ‘group of friends trying to make it in the city’ or ‘middle class (ethic or non, depending on channel) American family’ formulas. They were different. They did something different. They took a new perspective.

No one seems to do anything different anymore. Instead, television producers keep churning out the same fucking reality shows because they’re easy. I mean, anyone can make a reality show. All you need is 5 people who would do anything for money, some cameras, an unlimited alcohol budget, and you’re done. No wonder no one writes decent sitcoms anymore.

I’ll be the first one to admit that I like “How I Met Your Mother’, but I’m pretty sure the only reason I like it is because I liked it when it was still called “Friends”. No joke, the similarities are creepy. Replace a coffee shop with a bar and they’re practically fucking identical.

I’m tired of the same formulas getting tossed around. I’m tired of laughing, then getting a weird feeling of déjà vu, when I realize that I watched the same fucking thing happen on a television show 10 years ago. I’m tired of feeling like television executives are making fun of me.

So I made my own sitcom. Enjoy.

 

Short Lived

An Essa Alroc Production

The camera pans over a large white building during the opening credits. It lands on a sign. “Shady Oaks Hospice; As Good a Place to Die as Any”. The camera continues. It enters the building and lands on two terminally ill patients, sitting in chairs in a common room. Their names at Leland and Russell.

Leland: What’s that you got there? (He eyes a small baggy that Russell just pulled out of his pocket)

Russell: Black tar heroine. I got it from one of the orderlies.

Leland: Don’t tell me you’re going to try to kill yourself again.

(note to studio execs, Russell’s continued suicide attempts will be a running gag during the show.)

Russell: Just because the last fourteen attempts failed doesn’t mean I have to give up now. How many times do I have to tell you? I put the ‘can’ in ‘cancer’. Now if only I could figure out how to use this stuff. (He pulls out a small black capsule shaped object and looks at it in confusion.)

Leland: (eyes the capsule as well) It looks too big to swallow. Maybe you’re supposed to smoke it?

Russell: (snorts derisively) I don’t smoke, that shit will kill you. Maybe its one of them suppository things?

Leland: (nods) You know, I did see a documentary about people putting heroin in their butts on the discovery channel. Weirdly, they always did it at airports though.

Russell: Yeah, that’s sounds about right. (Russell stands to go to the bathroom. On his way, he runs into non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma Larry. Larry is pounding down handfuls of candy that his niece just brought him during visiting hours. He isn’t paying attention and they both crash and fall to the floor. Russell drops his black tar heroine and then grabs a small black capsule off the floor)

Larry: Watch where you’re going man. You nearly made me loose all my black licorice ‘Mike and Ike’s’. You know how hard it is to find this stuff? (A grumpy Larry takes his candy and pops one in his mouth. He ambles off.)

Russell emerges from the bathroom, looking triumphant, after inserting what he thought was black tar heroine into his rectum. He walks back to his chair and sits with only moderate difficulty. Suddenly, Larry goes running past him. He’s screaming.

Larry: Spiders! They’re all over me man! They’re all over me! (He drops to the ground and rolls around, while clawing at his eyes)

Leland: Wow, I seen this on the discovery channel too! It’s what happened when the heroine addicts overdosed.

Russell: (His eyes get wide and he has a flashback to the capsule he picked up off the floor. He realizes he accidentally switched his heroine and Larry’s candy) Aww man, I swore after prison, I’d never have a Mike or an Ike in my ass again. (He lets out an audible fart)

Leland: (sniffs) Do you smell black licorice?

There we go. It took me twelve minutes to write a scene that has never been done on TV before. It included cancer jokes, people putting things in their butts, hilarious mishaps involving people putting things in their butts, man on man prison sex and fart jokes.

Beat that, ABC execs. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have 217 hours of “Hogan’s Heroes” to watch.

Making Your WordPress Life a Bit Easier – How to Block Idiots

If you all can believe it, I get a ton of hate mail. Weird, because I am such a dainty, retiring flower. Despite this, I already have a large following of idiots who regularly read my page and wish for my death on a daily basis.

Here’s the thing. I don’t have time to read all the hate messages I get or even to delete them from my page. I write novels. I have several full time freelancing clients that keep me more than busy. Sometimes, I can’t even squeeze in the time to drink until I pass out!

So I had to start letting my site do a little moderation for me. I initially started doing this when I was running a WordPress.com site, and I know most of my followers are WordPress.com users, so the tips I’m going to help you with are designed to use on a WordPress.com platform.

If you need to ban users or comments on an .org platform, I highly recommend Ban User By IP, which makes it so you can ban certain users from your entire page just by entering their IP. It’s kinda awesome. Instead of my page, they get a 404 error page. But I actually only use this plugin as a last resort.

See, I want these users coming to my page. Even if their coming to my page because they hate me, it’s still a site hit. Their still doing me a service, because there is no such thing as a bad site hit, just like there is allegedly no such thing as bad publicity.

The bad publicity thing is bullshit, by the way. Ask any BP exec.

But I really don’t want them being able to share their idiotic opinions. Why? Because we will all be dumber for having listened to them.

This is my page. That means that I get to decide who posts on it. If I don’t feel like letting someone share their opinion on here, that’s all there is to it. I don’t owe you the opportunity to voice your opinion. If you feel that passionately about it, I suggest that you write your own post about whatever the hell I’m bitching about. It will still be stupid, but at least it will be yours.

So, if you’ve started to develop a problem with idiots commenting on your page, I’m going to show a super easy way using an example from someone I recently banned because I felt they were too stupid to fully appreciate my comedic genius.

The first thing you will need is their IP address. For that, go to manage your comments and find their most recent comment. The last line under their gravitar will be their IP address. Here’s a screenshot showing you exactly where it is;

You’ll notice I did the courtesy of blocking out that persons email address. Lets all consider that my good deed for the day. Copy that IP address and paste it into a word doc. A quick highlight and a ‘CTRL+C” is the fastest way. Paste is “CTRL+V”.

Next, go to ‘Settings” and click on “Discussion’. Here’s another screen shot, because I’m feeling generous;

Finally, copy and paste that IP address into this box.

You’ll notice that I have my entire box blacked out. This is because it is chock full of keywords and IP addresses that have been permanently banned from commenting on my site. For example, when someone types the phase ‘ur a cunt’, they automatically go to my spam box. While it might not prevent all hatemail, it does require that they think of a more eloquently worded way to insult me. Either way, I kept this hidden because I didn’t really want to give my haters a listing of words to avoid when they were trying to post to my page.

In this box, you can ban users by their emails, by any keywords, by their user names and by their IP addresses. This will make all their comments that they try to leave go to your spam box immediately. Then, if you’re like me, you let those hate comments get buried by spam. You never even see them as you click your ‘empty all spam’ button in your spam folder once a month.

It’s really a great way to get back at them, because you know those idiots are probably getting furious knowing that you never see any of their messages. No matter how long they sit there trying to type out eloquent responses calling you a ‘fat ugly bich’ or some other equally genius reply.

Using this process, I haven’t had to deal with a hate message in weeks. In fact, the only time I actually see any of my hate messages is when I’m drunk, angry and digging through my spam box for someone to start a fight with. Then, I pick out a comment at random and attack. Good times.

It is so much fun owning the internet.

But I Didn’t Mean it That Way…

In case you all have missed it, I get into a lot of fights in my comments section. Because of this, I regularly post helpful public service announcements to help people who are planning to comment on my page. This is going to be one of those public service announcements.

‘Tongue in cheek, no offense intended’ humor, does not translate well in writing. Let me toss out a couple of screen shots from people who have been attacked by me in the past, then claim that they did not intend to offend me.

When I read both of these comments, I did not say ‘oh, they’re making a funny simile or using some gentle tongue in cheek humor. They didn’t intent to offend me.”

Instead what I read was ‘this motherfucker just called me stupid. Did this motherfucker really just call me stupid? On my god, I am going to ruin their fucking lives. I’m going to write the most scathing response I can think of. Then, I’m going to track them by their IP address, drive to their fucking houses and …”

When you post a comment on my page I don’t know that you were ‘smiling as you wrote it’. Instead, I’m reading it in black and white and if it offends me, that’s all there is to it. It’s not about what you intended to imply. It’s about how I decide to react.

And how I react most of the time is ‘you do not get to come to my page and treat me like I’m fucking stupid’. I think we can all agree that I’m dangerously unstable. Mix in a little booze, and I’m a meth lab in a rusty trailer filled with leaking beakers.

From here on out, there will be no apologies if I overreact. I’m tired of all this ‘personal responsibility’ bullshit when people show up being rude, condescending assholes, even if that wasn’t their intent.  Please read the following disclaimer prior to considering posting on my page;

DISCALIMER: By posting on Essa’s page, I understand that I might be randomly attacked if she takes offense at something I said, even if I did not mean it in an offensive way. I understand that even Essa can’t predict how she will react most of the time. She might just fall asleep after reading my post, or she might beat her garbage man to death with an empty beer bottle for clanking her trash cans too loudly. Sometimes, she’s just itching for a fight and she will latch on to anything. I understand that I might be that anything she latches onto. I understand that sending her posts insulting her in the first sentence might be reason to get my figurative ass kicked in a lyrical war that will haunt me to my grave. I also understand that posts correcting her grammar will immediately call for my banning from her entire page.

And yes, I can ban you from my page. I have a plugin for that. You want proof? Feel free to contact my grandmother. She pissed me off one to many times too. Yes, I know the difference between ‘you’re and your’,  Memere. Sometimes, I just choose not to proofread. Correct my ass again and you will find yourself living in one of those crooked nursing homes featured on ’60 Minutes’.

In the future, if you post something condescending, if you’re lucky, I’ll just delete it. However, you might get me when I’m in a bad mood. If you do, I will respond in a way that will probably make you name me in your suicide note.

Read what you’re writing. It’s not the world’s problem to figure out what you meant when you posted something. It doesn’t matter if you ‘didn’t intend to offend’. All that matters is that you actually offended.

So be prepared to be offended right back. Trust me; I’m way better at it.

Choose Your Own Adventure – Escape From Zimmerman Jury Duty!

I’ve had two things on my mind for the past few days. The first is a current event. Namely, its jury selection for the George Zimmerman trial, currently in progress here in central Florida.

If you have no idea who George Zimmerman is, please leave my page immediately, as I fear that you might be too stupid to know how to work my blog.

Anyway, today the judge announced that the jury would be sequestered for the anticipated 1 month trial. As we all know, the legal system generally doesn’t work that fast and I highly question their ability to wrap this stuff up in under 8 weeks. So for an indefinite amount of time, the jury in the case will have no access to internet or current news programming. They won’t even be allowed to leave whatever fleabag motel the state decides to put them up in.

Not even that isolation is going to be the biggest problem. While there are some people who will get employer required reimbursement, others might not be so lucky. People who are self employed, or who need the internet to work, stand a strong chance of being financially ruined by being stuck on jury duty that long. Personally, if I were to get stuck on jury duty like that, I would probably lose all my clients and wind up living on the street.

So it occurred to me that many of the people who have been called for jury duty are desperate to get out of it by any means necessary.

The next thing I’ve been thinking about is those ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ books that were so popular when I was a kid. In case you don’t remember them, or were born after 1986, I’ll give you the run down.

‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ books were designed to put the reader into the story. It was usually some kind of old west or mystery story. At certain points in the book, you would have to make a decision between several choices. Depending on the decision you made, you would be sent to a different section of the book, where you would learn the consequences of that decision. The ultimate goal was to solve the mystery, but sometimes, you would make the wrong decision and wind up ending the story early by getting killed or going to jail.

So today, I have decided to combine both ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’, and getting out of Zimmerman jury duty. You will be given the start of the story. At the end of each section of the story, you will need to decide between several options. Once you click on that option, you will be taken to the rest of the story.

Your ultimate goal is to be excused as a juror from the Zimmerman murder trail.

Without further ado, I present you with the fully interactive;

Choose Your Own Adventure – Escape From Zimmerman Jury Duty

It is late in the afternoon on a Thursday when you go to check your mail. You throw out approximately 700 pounds of flyers, coupon offers and insurance notifications. You begin to flick through your mail when your eyes fall on a slim envelope, and the return address is the State of Florida – Judicial Department.

Your stomach turns icy cold with dread and you immediately think about your internet search history. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that website.

You rip open the envelope with shaking hands and yank out the sheet of paper inside. You are relieved, but only a little. You are being summoned for jury duty.

That will teach you to vote.

The last thing you want is to be stuck on jury duty. You decide to;

Just not show up. They summon so many people for juries these days, they probably won’t even notice you’re not there.

Show up, but try to find a way to get disqualified.

Essa’s Adventures – “Bienvenue” is French for “Trees Outnumber People 500 to 1″

Whenever you cross a border into New Hampshire, you’ll usually see a “Bienvenue” welcome sign. Those welcome signs will probably be the most exotic things you will see in New Hampshire.

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“Live Free or Die”…because “Famous Potatoes” was already taken.

I’ve been living the simple life for 12 hours so far and I have another 12 to go. Here’s a listing of things I’ve learned about the simple life.

Simple involves walking a quarter mile to the bathroom, because the septic system only gets pumped once a month at the camp.
Simple involves repeatedly stabbing myself with a fish hook, to catch a meal that I could usually buy  pre-gutted and pre-breaded at the supermarket
Simple involves spending all day chopping wood to heat your home, rather than just flicking a switch on a thermostat.
Simple involves traveling 5 miles to a local Dunkin Donuts, so I can latch onto the one hotspot in town, so my clients don’t fire my simple ass.

In short, the simple life is a fuckload of complicated.

I spend my day in town, shopping at ‘general stores’ that only sell specialty items and ’5 and Dimes” where everything costs 29.99. During my time out, I’m treated with a level of politeness usually only reserved for foreign dignitaries.

A jeeps full of hippies, decked out in Grateful Dead bears, tries to pick me up as I’m sitting at a picturesque picnic table, chain smoking.  They’re surprisingly cute and I realize they wouldn’t be bothered by my stretch marks. In fact, they’d probably be impressed that I had all my original teeth.

In the kingdom of the fours, the ‘sober 6, drunk 7′ is Queen.

I return to my mom’s place. Tomorrow, I’m flying out of Manchester airport. I’m arriving about 2 hours early, so the security goat will have time to decide if I’m evil or not.

I don’t mind New England. It’s not a terrible place. The people are friendly, most of the guys are taller than me, and apparently, they love smokers here. Both nicotine smokers and anything else. But this is not the place for me.

I need a loud city, where its too damn hot all the time, and occasionally, a naked man holds up a convenience store. I miss uninterrupted wi-fi, 24 hour delivery, buying my oranges from an off-ramp and buying my hair from India.

I miss black people.

I know Florida isn’t the safest place, I know that the people can be crazy, the crime rate is high, and the economy is shit but I can’t help but love it. Florida gives me more inspiration than any other place ever has.  The laid back lifestyle of the north could never offer me that, unless I was into writing stories about Moose.

Most of my books are over the top fiction. I have people who take advice from Gary Busey hallucinations. I have diamond smuggling and alpaca theft. I even have rats with radio transmitters in their heads. Sometimes, I get called out for being too ‘over the top’ or ‘unrealistic’, but people, where the hell do you think I’m getting this shit from? I might have a vivid imagination, but I also have eyes that open.

Where else but a city could I,

See a drag queen steal a wheel chair. She was racing down the street, looking behind her. I remember wondering why, as I was pretty sure the person she stole it from couldn’t pursue her.
Get invited to become part of a three way couple at a gays only leather bar.
Be involved in a car accident with a drunken clown.
Get offered a job as a drug mule at an unemployment office.

I’ve only been in New Hampshire one day, but that one day is enough to tell me that I just don’t belong anymore. Yeah, the crime rates are lower and it’s fun being the hottest girl in town, but that kind of fun wears off.

There’s a problem with small towns that people just don’t see unless they live there. The only way to explain it is to give some advice from a magician I met once.

“Never sit in the front row. You’ll be able to see the smoke and mirrors and it will ruin the illusion. If you truly want to be amazed, then the back seats are actually the best seats.”

From the outside looking in, you see the quaintness of it all. It always looks a little like a Rockwell painting.  But on the inside, you see the seedy underbelly that is a small town. You see the bigotry and the meth labs. You see the lack of opportunity and the big business monopolies. A small town is a lot like a person who says one thing, but does another.

At least cities are honest. My neighbors don’t give a shit about me and I don’t give a shit about them. Just a few days ago, I found out the guy I’ve been calling Todd for the past year is actually named Tom.  I didn’t apologize and he didn’t care. We don’t need to fake it because we’re city people and we don’t care what strangers think about us.

As I board a plane back to Florida, there’s a small part of me that is taken in by the romantic notion of living as a solitary writer in a little mountain shack. Then I shake my head. Who the fuck do I think I am? Thoreau?

Hell no. I’m Essa Alroc and I write stories, not literature. And those stories are often loosely based on real life events that I’ve witnessed.

And only in the city can I get a front row seat.

***Updated to add a welcome back gift from my friend and fellow comedic blogger, Mr. Tom Nardone***

 

Essa’s Adventures – The Road Virus Heads North

You know those fish-out-of water stories? The city girl who returns to her roots, has some wackyness and shenanigans ensue, and comes out of it all wiser and forgiving? By returning to her roots, she learns to be a better person and eventually decides to move back home to make the world a better place. You know, that super inspirational, ‘small town girl makes good’ stuff?

Yeah, this isn’t going to be one of those stories.

I’m at approximately thirty thousand feet in the air and I’m watching a group of women with headscarves suspiciously. I’m trying not to look like I’m suspicious of them. I’m trying to be all cool an PC, but I can’t help but being a little freaked out.

What can I say? I’m a little bit of a racial profiler. Especially at airports.

They turn around and I’m a little relieved that they’re white, but now I’m confused. Are they Amish? Are Amish people allowed to ride on airplanes? I start to Google that, then I realize the random dude behind me is trying to read over my shoulder. I decide to bump my font size to help him out.

Shit, I hope that guy behind me with the weirdly small mustache, in the striped shirt, doesn’t know about the coke in my rectum. I might have to kill this dude in the bathroom. I’m going to try and see if I can make a shank out of these nail clippers that they let me bring on the plane. I’ll turn around to flirt with him, then try to lure him to the bathroom with me so I can stab him in his jugular.

I turn around to wink at the guy. He immediately looks down and learns to mind his business.

Ok, good, now that that guy is gone, let me get back to the story. I’m going to pick up my son. He went to visit his grandma for a week in New Hampshire. This is where I was born. I was brought up in a small little town of around 9000. Everyone in the town was French Canadian and most of the kids learned how to swear in French earlier on, from their parents.

The area that I’m from is very blue collar. Everyone works in the woods, and all there is is friggen woods. And it was always fucking cold. Seriously, even as I’m looking outside in June, I can see snow.

This is where I sent my son for a week. I don’t know why, maybe I was mad at him.

I arrive at the Manchester airport and it’s one of the smallest airports I’ve even seen. I literally walk down a short hallway, down one flight of stairs and I’m out of the airport. Security is a card table and a goat chewing on a plastic bottle. The townspeople say that he can tell if someone is evil just by looking at them. That’s why they hired him.

Ok, so it’s not that bad, but you get my drift.

Everyone nods and smiles at me as I walk out of the airport, and people keep starting conversations.

I’m not used to this. In Florida, everyone avoids eye contact and niceness is treated with suspicion. Why? Because serial killers always start out by being nice. We have no shortage of those in Florida.

Here, no one is nice to me because they hope to trick me into getting into their car so they can turn me into a skin suit. They seem to genuinely care if I’m ‘having a nice day’. A man attempts to help me with my bag and I rip it out of his hands, nearly hissing as I do. He smiles, apologizes, and wishes me a nice day.

This place is weird. I immediately head to the smoking enclosure and it is the most beautiful smoking section I’ve seen in a long time. Hell, not since I was in France.

It’s heated. Its the only heated enclosure out here and I’m amazed. Apparently, they love smokers in New Hampshire. People start conversations with me as I wait for my ride. I’m not sure how to respond so I chain smoke and make comments about the weather. Finally, my mom’s car pulls up.

I see my son in the passenger seat…and yes, my son rides in the passenger seat of most vehicles. He’s 11, but he’s also 5’4 and 110 pounds. My Northcountry genes pulled through on that one. I gave birth to a giant.

He hugs me. “I miss technology” he hisses in my ear.

“Soon son, soon….” The drive to where I’m going is about an hour and a half from the airport. Manchester is actually a major metropolitan area in NH. I still have quite a while to go before I reach my destination…in the damn woods. All the houses are tiny and everyone’s nearest neighbor is 10 minutes away. It’s about 60 degrees, but I’m shivering like it’s 20 below. People should not be forced to live like this.

The car pulls onto a two lane highway, and I steel myself for the adventure that is sure to lie ahead.

To be continued…

The Morning After

Holy shit, what the hell did I do last night?

That was the feeling I woke up with this morning and I’m sharing it now because I’m pretty sure we’ve all felt that way after losing time.

Let me give you some background details. Yesterday, my son went to New Hampshire to visit his grandmother. This was the first time I’ve been childless since, well, probably before I gave birth to my son.

So I did what any adult who suddenly find themselves living the bachelorette life again would do. I started drinking…. And I did not practice moderation.

Around, um, 500 beers in, I decided it would be a great idea to jump on the internet.

Note to self, next time you drink, disconnect the wi-fi.

First, some poor innocent bastard made the mistake of sending me a comment. It was not a hate comment, it was just a little on the snippy side. I responded and my first response was reasonable. Then, the more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. So I commented again, with another message filled with verbal abuse. Then I went to their page and left yet another verbally abusive message. Honestly, it was a massive overreaction. To the person who I attacked, know that you probably didn’t deserve it. At the same time, if you had taken a little time to review my page, you might have noticed that I’m dangerously unstable.

I think we should probably both take a lesson from this. You, don’t poke the bear. Me, don’t drink and comment.

But that wasn’t enough. Oh god, I wish I had just fucking passed out then. Instead, I went on Facebook. I went on Facebook and I started sending messages.

Namely, I started sending messages to an old friend that I haven’t spoken to in months, if not years. It was just my unfortunate luck that he was online.

To start, let me explain the relationship that I had with this guy. We were friendly, but we weren’t like super friendly friends. We were like work buddies. See, in real life I’m a massive bitch as well. Because of that, I generally get along with nice guys. Why? Because nice guys don’t call me out on my bitchiness. I was mean to him and he tolerated me.

But we were hardly the ‘confidant’ knowing a bunch of personal shit about each other types.

All that shit changed last night when I drunkenly word vomited all over that poor dude. This guy now knows shit about me that even my mother doesn’t friggen know! Fucking everything! Everything! I know you all think I’m pretty open on here, but there is stuff you don’t know and there is stuff you will never know.

But someone who I was a straight up bitch to for about 4 years straight now knows every fucking personal detail. Just to clarify, someone who has every reason to want to destroy my ass has more personal information on me than anyone ever has. Seriously, this dude knows me better than my fucking gynecologist.

My only consolation is he’s a pretty nice guy and I really doubt that he’d share it.

While I do enjoy beer, I rarely get rip roaring drunk. I don’t do it because shit like this happens. In real life, I have very little impulse control. Mix in a drug that loosens the very few inhibitions I have and you get the recipe for the perfect storm.

So, to summarize, much of last night was blurry. These two things I did, I know I did because I have written proof of them. I also had quite a few outgoing calls on my cell phone but I don’t recognize the numbers. I can only fucking pray that I was calling the psychic hotline or something. However, if you noticed an incoming call from a 407 area code, please delete any message that I sent without listening.

To the commenter that I randomly attacked, I’m sorry. I’m sure I would have still bitched you out sober, but I would have been less vicious about it. I already deleted some of my more bitchy messages and I’m sure my comments went right to your trash bin, as they should have.

To the guy that I appointed as my shrink last night, no one should have the burden of knowing that much shit about me. I’m currently working on a time machine so I can return to last night and bitch slap that 12th beer out of my hand before I started getting crazy. In the very likely event that my attempt fails, please for the love of god, delete any messages you got from me. Do not save them to sell to TMZ when I get famous.

In exchange, I promise that I will lock up my cell phone and my laptop whenever I go on a bender and will keep any future conversations I have with you to nothing more than surface talk about the weather.

Looking Terrible at Twice the Price

It’s about damn time everyone realized how much Abercrombie & Fitch sucks.

Today, A&F announced sales declining and lower stock prices. The world is blaming this on statements made by CEO, the plastic faced Mike Jeffries, who only wants hot people wearing their clothes, which is why they don’t carry plus sizes.

Well, duh! My weight fluctuates, putting me in a size 6 to 8 depending on season, mood and alcohol consumption level. Regardless of my single digit size, I’ve never been into an Abercrombie & Fitch store. This is for several reasons, and none of them have anything to do with what some overly botoxed asshole says.

Reason one, despite my smaller than average size, nothing makes me feel like a fat cow more than walking past one of their stores. Seriously, they must be carrying negative sizes in there! Usually, I think I look pretty good. But nothing is a kick in my self esteem like walking past a mannequin whose waist is the same diameter as one of my wrists.

Next, their clothes are just plain ugly. Take a look at the below ‘look’ put together by the incredibly discerning fashion staff at A&F.

For the low, low price of $217, you too can look like you just threw on whatever was laying on your floor. Seriously, this is not an outfit that I would spend $200 on. This is an outfit that I would wear on laundry day, if my maternity sweatpants were dirty.

Also, the smell. Here’s a tip A&F, if I can fucking taste your perfume, you’re wearing too damn much. For some reason, the marketers at A&F decided it was a good idea to spray down every inch of the store with cheap cologne. Every time I walk past the store, I have flashbacks to the time I was dating an Italian guy who thought using Ax Body Spray was an excuse not to shower. Again, I’ve never been into an A&F. This is what I smell when I’m walking past the store at the mall. I can only imagine how bad it is inside.

Next, the sales staff. They all have that creepy, heroin chic look that went out in the 90’s and most of them are half fucking naked! How does it make sense to have a half naked person selling clothes? That’s like having an anorexic chef or a blind eye doctor.

Again, I’ve never been into a store. However, if I did go into one, I imagine my conversation with the sales staff would go something like this.

Essa enters Abercrombie & Fitch and looks around nervously. She is immediately spotted by a 19 year old, shirtless Adonis and backs away towards the door, in case she is about to be shooed away for being too fat to shop.

Blond, Shirtless Adonis: (Tossed his hair and gives Essa a disdainful once over) Can I help you with something today?

Essa: (eyes are fixated on his chest) You’re not wearing a shirt.

Blonde Shirtless Adonis: That is correct. Perhaps I can show you something from our ‘Happening Homeless” collection.

Essa: (still completely unable to look up) Why aren’t you wearing a shirt? There are so many shirts here. Don’t you like them?

Blonde, Shirtless Adonis: It’s store policy.

Essa: (Shakes her head) Sorry, it’s just, usually when I’m confronted with a shirtless male, it’s because I’m slipping a $5 into his G String. (Essa averts her eyes) Can you put something on please? It’s very distracting.

Blonde, Shirtless Adonis: Sorry, but I have to stay this way. Our CEO is afraid that if women actually start paying attention to the clothes they buy here, they’ll realize how shitty they are.

Essa: (nods dumbly. The cologne and shirtless man are starting to get to her. The music is pounding and she’s starting to feel very, very stupid) Good point. I would like to spend a lot of money on something that looks like I got it at Goodwill. Do you guys sell anything like that?

Blonde, Shirtless Adonis: (He gives Essa another disdainful once over) Yes, but I have to warn you, we don’t sell plus sizes.

Abercrombie & Fitch had one thing going for them before this incident. Sensory overload. You would go into the store and be confronted with cloying cologne, loud pumping music, and freakishly beautiful people. With all these things combined, you were numbed enough to buy a piece of shit, torn shirt that cost 40 cents to make and $89.99 to buy.

The CEO made a mistake. Not just because he pissed off the plus sized, who make up the majority of the buying public, but because he shined a spotlight on the terrible clothes. Without the loud pumping music and distracting salespeople, most shoppers are noticing that many of Abercrombie & Fitch’s selections look dangerously similar to the Jacqueline Smith collection at WalMart.

I’ve noticed that for years, because I’ve always been on the outside looking in. But now, everyone else has noticed it as well and its only a matter of time before Abercrombie & Fitch becomes a distant, painful memory.

And I’ll be able to walk through the mall without having a damn allergy attack.