Fresh Clean Sheets

The Sad Playdoh

2012-02-17T23:21:00.000-05:00

Before I flew to visit my niece, I bought her the best possible birthday gift for a 2 year old...Playdoh. She'd never experienced Playdoh, and Playdoh is almost as awesome as penguins, so I felt it was my duty as her Aunt to educate her in the vast wonders of the world. With playdoh. Because I'm a fucking genius.

But apparently, the dudes who created playdoh hate children. Or they failed as nuclear scientists. Because guess what? Playdoh has the same consistency of explosives. This means that it sets off a red-alert on the security scanner and gets your bag dragged out of line by a pissed TSA agent.

Here's the thing.

It's PLAYDOH. I mean, come on.
It was in its original packaging
It had copyright marks all over it
It's fucking Playdoh
It wasn't tampered with at ALL
Did I mention it was Playdoh?

I guess the TSA agents hate children, too. Because they took my Playdoh away. And threw it in the garbage.

So I, being the college-educated individual that I am, walked over to the TSA help desk for a rational and reasonable discussion.

In my head, the conversation played out like this:

Me: Excuse me, I just had my Playdoh taken away.

Agent: Well, Playdoh has the same consistency of--

Me: --explosives, I know. But, isn't that why you have people here? Humans, who are able to make a judgement decision that the machines can't. Otherwise people wouldn't be able to get through with some medicine, or baby formula, because the machines don't have brains like humans do. I think that humans should be able to interpret the machine, make a judgement decision, and allow me to have my playdoh.

Agent: Of course! I'll get it right away. Also, you're really pretty. Can I introduce you to my super-hot, single son? He's a millionaire doctor with great fashion sense, and he just cured cancer.

In reality, my coherent, intelligent argument was more similar to this...

And then, when that didn't seem to get through to them...

I repeated those two images a couple times, (in no particular order) and then my beautiful angel, an Awesome TSA Agent, took pity on me and went to ask someone else about it.

At this point, I, an adult, am wandering around the airport babbling to any TSA agent in sight about wanting my Playdoh back, and "WHY DID YOU TAKE MY PLAYDOH?" I probably should have explained that it was for my niece... I just looked like I was really, really attached to my Playdoh... (and possibly mentally retarded.)

Everyone said no. And gave me really weird looks. And told me that they were sorry I "missed my playdoh", but they couldn't give it back to me. And then they backed away slowly and fled the area.

I eventually was forced to abandon my playdoh. I imagined it, sitting among nasty garbage, wondering what it had done wrong, why I had deserted it, and what would become of it.

Moral of the story: Playdoh inventors and TSA agents hate children.

And the life of a Playdoh is sometimes a tragic tale.

And sometimes you make a fool out of yourself in airports. It's inevitable. And when that happens, the best thing to do is just to keep living. (And try not to miss your plane.) Because you still have a life. Unlike the Playdoh you cherished and loved, only to helplessly witness its untimely death.

RIP Playdoh. You taught me to live life to the fullest. Because you never know when you might be left to decompose in a trash bag for all eternity.

Clawing up a Monster’s esophagus

2012-01-26T18:34:00.000-05:00

Do you remember the Responsibility Monster? Well, he reared his fat, ugly head again the past couple months, which is why I haven’t been around. I really am terrible at responsibilities, you guys. The monster once again tried to suffocate me under its weight.

But this time, I decided to take initiative, come out of hiding, and declare a final, epic, badass war on the Responsibility Monster.

I viciously stabbed him with my Deadly Spear.

I thought I was making progress, when…

Shit.

Annnnd that’s why I didn’t post for so long. I was fully occupied clawing my way back up the Responsibility Monster’s esophagus. The usual.

Next time I disappear, just assume I was eaten alive by a terrible monster conjured from my own failures. I mean really, where else would I be?

Why I hate Boyfriends

2011-10-12T01:30:00.001-04:00

I'm sitting in my college cafe having Midnight Pancakes.

I wish I had more time to blog. It would be nice to have people like my blog when everything else is shit.
"You hate the art I spent 10X the required amount of time on, Mr. Professor? Well... my blog has 10 followers, so suck it."
But I need 10 followers to make that dream a reality.

I don't know what the fuck to write right now. Prepare for randomness!

I hate the words "boyfriend" and "girlfriend". If a six year old has a crush on a boy, the adults will be like, "Awwwww.....you have a boyfriend!"
When you're 12, this happens:
"OMG, Adam says that Tracy says that Nick TOTALLY LIKES YOU!"
"He does not!"
"Does too!"
"Does not!"
"Does too!"
"OMG, do you really think so?"
"OMG, you totally like him back!!!"
"No I don't!"
"Yes you do!"
"No I don't"
"Yes, you do!"
"No, I don't!"
"Yes, you do!"
"Well....only if HE likes ME."
And then Claire tells Tracy to tell Adam to tell Nick that you like him...and then Adam comes over and 'asks you out' on Nick's behalf because his testicles haven't fully developed yet, and you awkwardly avoid Nick for 2 weeks until he talks to you for the first time to 'dump' you for Claire.
Nick was your "boyfriend" for those 2 weeks.

And if you're 27, and living with a partner you've been with for six years, and they know how to scratch your back in just the right way, and you know how to cheer them up from a bad day, and their hand squeezing yours is enough to keep you from completely losing it when your grandma dies, and you have enough wonderful memories together to entertain yourselves for hours, talking and laughing and loving, and waking up next to them gives you the courage to go out and face the world each day,
well,
that's called a "boyfriend", too.

See what I mean? I really want a different word for that last one.

What is worse is when people call their boyfriends or girlfriends "boyfriend" or "girlfriend". Instead of their names. ALL the time.
My roommate does this.
"Yeah, so...I got a boyfriend tonight." (WTF?)
"My boyfriend is coming over."
"I'm going to go meet my boyfriend somewhere"
"My boyfriend thinks that..."

Because guess what? She cares more about having a "boyfriend" than she does about him. I think that's disgusting. The label means more to her than the person.

Here is the difference.
A Boyfriend: A generic male who you go places with and talk to your friends about. He keeps you from being lonely and maybe makes you feel special because he likes you. He is replaceable.
Logan: (an Actual Example about an 'ex'): Someone who is awkwardly funny, and ridiculous around his friends, and stupid about emotions, but really smart in other things, sometimes is so observant it floors me, and who understood things about me that I didn't think anyone ever would.

(Substitute whoever you're dating for the "Logan". That was just my personal example. I probably shouldn't have told him about this blog).

Everyone is different. Every relationship is different. People who see a "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" instead of that unique person are missing out on so much.
Call your partner by their name. See the person that they are. Throw out the label.

I have no idea how the fuck this turned into a serious post, but if you read this far, go out today and find out something about your partner that you didn't already know. Whether you have been together for 2 weeks or 20 years.
And if you don't have a partner, go do something awesome today, something that will help a future partner, when you tell them about it, see YOU, and not just their 'boyfriend' or 'girlfriend'.

(Yes, there are people out there who refer to their partner as boyfriend or girlfriend but still see past the label. If you are one of them, I applaud you, but those words still annoy me.)

Raining and Peeing

2011-10-07T10:32:00.000-04:00

Even though I live in the dorms, I'm lucky enough to only share a bathroom with 3 other people. In Alaska, I shared a bathroom with 20 other people.

It's not really a bathroom, though. It's more like a box. It doesn't even have an outlet.

I'm not sure why, but water collects on the ceiling. And sometimes stays there for a really long time.

There is also a used cake pan on the floor. I'm not sure why.

This morning, I was going to the bathroom, and it started raining on me.

The water was too much, so it started raining INSIDE the bathroom.

There's not a story here, other than THAT IS CRAZY.

I guess our bathroom is sort of a greenhouse.

Maybe I should put my plant in there. I keep forgetting to water it.

I'm a fucking humanitarian

2011-10-01T07:34:00.000-04:00

Last spring break, Logan (boyfriend) and I towed his broken car 300 miles to get to another broken car.

HIS car had a bad engine. The other broken car had a good engine. See the symmetry? We proceeded to actually disconnect and remove the engine from both cars, and then hook up the good engine to his car. It was probably a miracle because we had no idea what the hell we were doing, but we ended up actually fixing his car.

We saved a ton of money, which is good, because neither of us could afford to get that car fixed unless we suddenly developed the capacity to live without food. So, because I’m a humanitarian, I’m going to provide step be step instructions so that, in the event that this ever happens to your car, you’ll be completely set. And you’ll be able to keep buying food.

All you have to do is carefully follow these 6 steps, and your car will be fixed at no cost. You’re welcome.

Step 1: Acquire a car of the same model with a good engine. People are actually willing to give away bad cars for free so they don’t have to pay to have it “put down” or whatever it is they do with cars.

Step 2: If you’re awesome like us, your car looks like this.

Whether or not you’re awesome, your car will look like this under the hood. What you want to do is disconnect wires, pipes, and rainbows that connect to the gray blob (the engine.)

Step 3: After you’ve done that, it should look like this.

Step 4: Do this with both cars. When you’re done, put the good engine from the other car into your car.

Step 5: Reattach the wires, pipes, and rainbows. I’m pretty sure we just attached them randomly, and it totally worked. So, don’t worry too much about what goes where.

Step 6: Close your hood. Your car will now work.

Every one of these carefully detailed pictures is highly accurate, and can be used as a reference when disconnecting and reconnecting wires.

In the event your car’s engine fails, I just saved you hundred of dollars. You should probably send me $15. It’s the polite thing to do.

Yes, we actually fixed Logan's car. I basically just tightened bolts they told me to tighten. But I was fucking great at it.

A sad tale of animal crackers

2011-09-27T14:07:00.001-04:00

When you're in college, there's nothing better than getting mail. My mom is great about sending me random things. It doesn't matter if it's just a couple cheap hot chocolate packets in an envelope, it's still super exciting.

The other day, I got a package! She had ordered me a box of animal crackers. I love animal crackers! It was one of those legit colorful boxes for kids. I couldn't eat them right away, so I put them in my backpack.
A little later I get a sarcastic text from my mom that said, "Don't eat them! They're dog treats!"

And I was like, "What, because they're *ANIMAL* crackers? Lame joke, mom."

When I had some free time, I quickly ate the whole box. I could tell they were an off-brand, but the best brand is really hard to find nowadays.

I talked to my mom later, and found. out. something. horrible.

Guess what?

THEY WERE ACTUALLY DOG TREATS.

(*startling)

She wasn't joking at all. She ordered the wrong box by accident. And I didn't know, thought her warning was a joke, and ate them all.

ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

I looked at the box more carefully. The ingredients list includes Crude Protein, Crude Fat, Crude Fiber and Vegetable fat. Um, EWWW.

But what was worse was that the box actually said they were dog treats. It said it on the box and I missed it because I was so excited about having "animal crackers".

My camera is shitty, but the words under "The Barking Bus" say "Animal Shaped Dog Treats".

But...but...NORMAL animals crackers typically come in fun colored little boxes like this. And my MOM sent it to me. I didn't have any reason to be skeptical. I don't live my life like,

"Hmm, this looks like an apple, but I better check the ingredients to make sure it's not actually a fucking dog treat."

Also, they looked like normal children's animal crackers!

See?

But then, today I checked my mail, and I had another package! Animal crackers again! I thought that my mom felt bad about the mix up and had sent me human treats this time.

Unfortunately, the reality wasn't so happy. I checked the box before I dug in, and they were dog treats again. But this time she had sent them on purpose. Because she thought it would be funny.

And so I still don't have the animal crackers that I love.

And then I was like,

(Every single bit of this shit actually happened, you guys.)

Efficiency, motherfuckers

2011-09-24T12:06:00.001-04:00

*(If you don't like words, don't give up on me yet! There is a picture if you scroll down. A Picture! OMG!)

I'm in a conservatory. Conservatories are like controlling boyfriends. If you want to do anything without them, or if they don't know exactly where you are every single second, they get pissed.

Me: I'm going to take a Sign Language class!

Conservatory/Controlling boyfriend: Yeah, you're not allowed to do that.

Me: What? Why?

You need to focus on our work. Even though we just met you and have no idea what you can actually handle. I demand your attention! I NEEEEEEED you!

Well, I was thinking of joining the marching band...

Your choice. But you won't be able to attend most of the practices. You're mine, bitch.

Um... I guess I can deal with that, but I really wanted to be in the fencing club.

You won't be able to go to their practices either. And you BETTER not be talking to any other boys. I WILL find out.

Oh, but that's ok! They're chill, I just need to let them know when I can and can't make it.

You can't make commitments anywhere else, period. Why are you still arguing with me, bitch?

But you have a schedule...can't I plan things...around that schedule?

The schedule is random and ever-changing. And it's our religion. If we call you on saturday and tell you to come in, you'd better fucking come in, no matter who else is depending on you. You're not allowed to have a life. And you know how you woke up at 5:30 AM today and won't go to bed until 2:30 AM, with only a total 2 hour break to eat food and shit and stuff? We also expect you to do 4 hours of homework for tomorrow.

How is that even possible?

Shut up! Women aren't allowed to ask questions!

Me: Fuck you.

(Women=Freshman when you remove the metaphor)

That's my life. I'm not even exaggerating. So, one thing I quickly learned how to do in order to survive is maximize efficiency.

The other day, I had like a minute and a half of free time, and I had to pee really bad, but I was also so thirsty I was convinced I was going to die any minute.
Normally this would be a problem.
But I, being brilliant, found the perfect solution. I grabbed my water cup and just fucking CHUGGED it while I peed.

EFFICIENCY, MOTHERFUCKERS.

The Responsibility Monster will ruin your lollipop

2011-09-15T08:44:00.001-04:00

This is one of those posts from my old blog where I wasn't allowed to say "fuck". I'm sticking it in here while I finish working on a new post. Teaser: It has a toilet in it. You should probably subscribe or follow me so you can read that shit.

This is the story of the Responsibility Monster.

Here I am, being happy about life and enjoying my lollipop, when…

Oh, crap. There’s stuff I have to do, isn’t there?

And stuff I should have done a long time ago.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

I keep hoping that if I forget about, hide from it, and don’t do any of it,

it will somehow just take care of itself.

(I like to imagine "PKMN" is a real choice during these times)

This strategy rarely works. More often, the responsibilities will evolve into a Responsibility Monster with the unique capability to find me, even if I am hiding under a Protection Blanket.

The Responsibility Monster isn’t able to penetrate my Protection Blanket, but he can sit on me and slowly suffocate me, until there is nothing I can do but throw off the blanket and face him and all the responsibilities he’s made of. Usually the sheer amount terrifies me, and I find some other way to hide, making the situation worse. It’s a vicious cycle.

Guys, I don’t even have a job. The ridiculous simplicity of the few Responsibilities I do have just makes this pathetic. I mean, there are people in the world like this:

These people have stabbed their Responsibility Monster with a Fiery Torch of Eternal Death a long time ago. I am amazed by these people. If you are one of them, you’re my hero. You’re awesome. I don’t know how you do it. I stand in awe with my mouth gaping open while the Responsibility Monster tries to eat my foot and you’re juggling your computer, a full plate of food, and your baby in the air.

Update: Logan (boyfriend) very helpfully pointed out the irony of writing this post while I have actual Responsibilities I should be working on.

Me: I’m drawing a picture of the responsibility monster!

L: How responsible.

Me: Shut up.

How to be a successful blogger

2011-09-09T10:14:00.003-04:00

Every single "How to be successful in blogging" article I read has the same major piece of advice.

Find a niche, and stick to that niche. The smaller and more unique the niche, the better.

I'm obviously doing things wrong here, so I've been brainstorming tiny, unique niches exclusively write about so I can WIN THE INTERNET.

Tiny niches I could blog about...

The Secret Society of German Midgets

My dog's back left leg

Opera singers between 130 and 140 pounds

What my mom is doing every day at 4:48 pm

The different kinds of bricks

The second vending machine in the 3rd row of vending machines in the 7rd truck stop after entering Canada from Montana

Disabled penguins

The color blue

HOLY CRAP you guys, I'M GOING TO BE SO FAMOUS!

What ridiculous 'tiny niche' ideas do you have? Comment!

(I wrote this post in a bathroom stall in-between classes. Keepin' it real.)

a series of Awkward Encounters

2011-09-07T22:59:00.003-04:00

Note: I had a different blog a little bit ago, but I had to abandon it because I was stupid and let my family find out about it, and started feeling weird about anything I wrote. So some posts, like this one, will be from that. But they're updated and shit! So, all's good.

Several months ago, I moved to Alaska for a college semester. I moved away from a town I’ve lived in my entire life and people I’ve known for forever. But instead of being daunted by the idea of not knowing anyone, I was excited about the prospect of meeting new people. Perhaps a little…too excited.

And that builds...

And builds...

And then reality stabbed me in the face and twisted the knife and cast a million hungry spiders into the wound and then set my skin on fire. Literally.

Awkward “Let’s be friends!” encounter # 1:

Setting: Cafeteria. Girl I vaguely recognize is sitting alone at table. I summon up my courage and go in for the attack.

Me: Hi!

Vague Girl: Hey…?

Me: Um…don’t you live in my dorm?

Vague Girl: (long awkward pause) Yeah?

(even longer awkward pause)

Me: So, I see you’re eating food…

Vague Girl: (Probably hooking her ankles around the other chair so I can’t sit down) Uh huh.

Me: (Overly enthusiastic) I like food too!!

Vague Girl: …………..

Me: (Walks away in shame)

Awkward “Let’s be friends!” encounter # 2:

I set my goal way lower this time. A short, chubby guy in my Ballroom Dancing class who I’m pretty sure doesn’t shower. Or wash his hands. Or wear deodorant. Gross as this was, I knew I was going to win this one. He looked like a dude willing to be friends with anyone.
This was the first time we danced together, and in the first few days of this class you’re frequently suddenly in really close contact with someone you’ve never met. My “easy” friendship conquest played out like this:

Eventually I befriended a group of people, and then solidified that friendship by almost killing myself on a sled when it was -20 degrees at one in the morning. True story.

Blood and Love and DDR

2011-09-06T19:49:00.000-04:00

I've been pressuring my boyfriend, Logan, to donate blood with me for about a year. A few weeks ago, he finally agreed to it, but he was still pretty nervous so I spent a lot of time talking it up.
"Don't worry, it's SUPER DUPER FUN! It's more fun than a ROLLER COASTER!"

He very politely reminded me that he couldn't eat cookies.

We went to the red cross, and I was being like,
"This is the greatest bonding time EVER!"
and Logan was being like, "Ummmmmm"

The lady I talked to asked, "Do you have AIDS? No, really, do you have AIDS? Are you sure? Well...have you ever had sex? At all? Ok, you probably have AIDS."
She asked me my name NINE times.I'm not exaggerating, you guys. I counted.

"Can you tell me your name again?"
"Please confirm your name and address for me."
"Spell your name one more time."
"Say your name backwards for me now."
"Burp each letter in this order: second, first, third."

It's protocol. I don't understand why. I think they were waiting for me to "slip up" and be like,
"My name's Juhainah. And I have AIDS. And I'm a terrorist. And I hate strawberry-banana smoothies. And--OH SHIT YOU CAUGHT ME. Crap, that just slipped out. Fuck. Do you still want my blood? BECAUSE I WANT YOUR BLOOD"

Flash forward. I was already on the table losing shit-tons of blood when they started hooking him up. Something distracted me and I glanced away for a second, and when I looked back I saw this:
[sdjhfbalsfasblfjsbf]

He was unconscious and shaking and tangling up all the tubes and he spilled his water on himself, and the nurses all ran over and held his arms down so he wouldn't rip the needle out of his arm in a bad way, and they kept saying,
"Logan? Can you hear me, Logan? Logan?"
He had just fainted, which is fairly common and not life-threatening at all. But I had never seen someone faint before, and I didn't know there was shaking involved. (Blame Hollywood.)

SO I THOUGHT HE WAS HAVING A SEIZURE.

I'm tense as fuck, sitting up in my bed watching the action intensely, getting ready to rip the needle out of my arm and leap over there and preform some secret Seizure-Curing Magic that somehow I know about but the medical professionals don't. (Fear: It's not rational.)

It didn't come to that, but I almost wish it had, because if we ever break up and he dates someone else, I could be in her face like, "Did you ever RIP A HUGE BLOODY PAINFUL needle out of your arm vein for him? Hmmm? No? Getouttahere, bitch."

He came to, they confirmed he was ok, and then made the Super Professional Executive Medical Decision to keep taking his blood. That lasted for about 3 seconds before he fainted and started flailing again.

Needless to say, that was the end of that. I finished bleeding profusely and spent the next 15 minutes bringing him food and alternating between, "Are you SURE you're ok?" and "Haha, you fainted, you big baby. I NEVER faint."
(That sounds really mean, but if you hung out with us you'd understand. We just do that).
Also, mixed signals are sexy. I just made that up. But it's probably true.

That evening, we decided to walk to a restaurant 50 feet away. 10 feet into the walk I started to feel nauseous, and 30 feet in, I collapsed. It was the worst feeling. ever. My stomach felt violently sick, and the entire world was spinning, and my head was pounding, and I couldn't stand up at all. Logan decided to flag down a car to ask for a ride back to the house. Instead, someone stopped and asked if we needed help. It was an off-duty ambulance. I still couldn't stand up, so Logan (after fainting twice a couple hours ago) picked me up and carried me to the ambulance. He's a Manly Man.

The ambulance dude said I really, really pale. I felt better after laying down (in the house) for awhile, and then Logan and I argued about who should take care of who. And he got to make fun of me for (almost) fainting, especially after I bragged about how I was always great after giving blood.

Later that night, we were both feeling better and went to a video arcade to kill some time. In spite of the clear warning about exercise and blood loss, I decided that it would be a good to play a super intense game of Dance Dance Revolution. (It was not a good idea to play a super intense game of Dance Dance Revolution). I realized that after I got horrible dizzy and lost my dignity and had to lay down on the filthy, sticky, concrete floor in front of a bunch of people. But it was ok, because I won the game.

The moral of this story is that guys who carry you into ambulances after fainting are keepers. And when you go to donate blood, you should maybe just tell the Red Cross you have AIDS and still get to feel good about yourself "for trying". They'll probably give you a cookie anyways. And that winning Dance Dance Revolution is more important than your health. Always.
At least I know my priorities are in the right order.

What the hell, me?

2011-09-06T12:36:00.000-04:00

I take naps.
Today, I was taking a nap outside, on campus, on wet ground. I had my sleeping bag and a pillow and battery-operated alarm clock. People kept passing by, seeing this, and looking at me weird. I figured I was ruining any chance I ever had at making friends.
And then I realized that my dorm was right there, and I owned a bed in it. And I thought, "What the hell, me? How could you be so stupid?" I tried to decide whether or not to move and generate more attention on myself.

And then I woke up in my bed.

awkward introductions

2011-09-05T03:22:00.000-04:00

Hi.

This is my blog.

If you hate it, I'll send my elephant to trample your most precious flowers.

And honestly,
If I'm in a certain womanly monthly mood, I may send my elephant to trample your second most precious flowers anyway. Just because.

The safest way to go is just to share this with your friends, really. I love that. That kind of shit makes me vomit freaking rainbows. And it's difficult to say, "I need you to go trample some flowers, Pico" while vomiting. It's actually one of the top three hardest phrases to say while vomiting.
(Try it if you don't believe me. But I hold no responsibility if someone hears and thinks you're so sick you're delusional and starts dividing up your CD's.)

You've been warned.

--Rai
(Here is a picture of me.)