A Christmas Proposal

Drug dealers and Christmas? Oh yes.

The Christmas movies keep coming. I saw two on the Dish guide today. "An Accidental Christmas" and "A Christmas Proposal". Wow.

So. This post is being made from my new iPod Touch! How exciting.
I'm spending Christmas at my grandma's. We have no Christmas tree at my house, so we're having a foster Christmas at her house.

Typing on my itouch is getting progressively easier unless I'm tired. Then it looks like crap.

This is more like a stream of consciousness post than anything relevant. Christmas brings out the best and worst of people sometimes. And I love my itouch. End of story.

/end rant

Of Hallmark, Lifetime, and Paula Deen

I haven't posted in over a month, so I shall announce my re-entry into the blog-space with a post about the Hallmark Channel and Paula Deen (and maybe some Lifetime Channel ).

These three things are the bane of my existence.
Seriously.

They're terrifying, they're horrific, and a huge part of my life (except Paula Deen. She just annoys the fuck out of me).

Lifetime and the Hallmark Channel are the only two channels, besides the news, that are on our TV in my house. My mother is addicted.

And if it's not Lifetime/Hallmark, it's WE TV or Oh! Oxygen! Or I-ON. Ugh.

Seriously? It's like an orgasm or something. 

So. My mother is a bona fide addict.
And right now?

It's the Christmas season.




RUN. RUN, BITCHES, RUN. THESE NETWORKS ARE IN FULL FUCKING FORCE.


The movies that are currently in the line-up for Hallmark: "Silver Bells" , "When Angels Come to Town" , "Moonlight and Mistletoe" and then The Martha Stewart Show.

As I was perusing our Dish catalog for those movies, my mother sees "When Angels Come to Town" and screeches: "GO BACK! I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT 'WHEN ANGELS COME TO TOWN' MOVIE IS ALL ABOUT!" -snatches the remote-


Terrifying.


She is terrifying.

But what's more terrifying is that within the United States, there are millions of housewives and single women sitting on their couches, curled up with a carton of Ben & Jerry's or any other ice cream substitute, or maybe a martini (if they're classy housewives) hanging onto every message that these movies convey.

These movies talk about 'fairy tales'. The girl always meets the guy, and her child either breaks an arm, or they have some kind of issue that serves as the movie's climactic ending before the man comes and sweeps her off her feet and they shag each other in the back of a van, or they get married while the snow falls and soft music plays.

Lifetime shakes it up a bit. Their movies are about murder, intrigue, and mistresses. But don't be fooled. Lifetime has it's own holiday pitch...

Oh yes.

For years now, Lifetime has had "Falalala Lifetime", featuring any number of Christmas themed movies sure to wrench your heart and bring tears to your eyes.
Usually it's hosted by some bright eyed blonde and her gay cohort and they prance around filming commercials and ads for the Lifetime holiday festivities. Sometimes they have sleds.



My point is, these networks prey on troubled women looking for stories of flight and fancy where it always works out.

But it doesn't. 






Next: Paula Deen


This is mostly just a side note, but Paula Deen terrifies me. And you know why?

HER SOULLESS EYES. AND BUTTER. 

That is all. 

Stranger Danger

Today was an average Saturday for me. I’m home for fall break from college, and have been suffering since Thursday, and I’m taking a much needed reprieve from my crazy mother at my grandmother’s house. But before I can even get there, my Pay It Forward sense of morality was tested.

I was headed to Wal-Mart at around  9:40 this evening. Driving down my street, things were normal. It was dark, and I was plugging right on along. Until I passed this street called Forest Drive (names changed for coolness). Now Forest Drive is like….a 45 degree angle hill. To the left is the VDOT sanctuary of the surrounding counties and to the right is a 45 degree ascent into heaven.

As I’m passing by Forest Drive and the VDOT yard, I see a figure in the middle of the road. The figure swayed and attempted to flag me down, and on a split second decision I stopped.

The alarm bells are going off in my head as I crack my window ,and I’m looking to make sure my phone and something bludgeon-worthy are within reach as the figure approaches my drivers’ side window.

Now, I’m sure you’re thinking: STRANGER DANGER!!! STRANGER DANGER, DAMMIT!!!111

Yeah. I wish I’d told myself that too.

So I crack my window, and this guy clad in brown (we’ll call him Jay, which is short for Jackass) appears, the left side of his face bloodied. His eye is already swollen shut, his face is a mess, and the first words out of his mouth were: “I’m drunk, I crashed my bike, and I need a ride to 7-11. Can you help me?”

Being the resourceful platypus that I am, I had already prepared an answer.
“What?”

“Seriously, man, I am so drunk. I crashed my bike, and I really need a ride.”

I consider his proposal. He’s bleeding. How do I say no to that? How do I even begin to justify telling this poor, bleeding jackass no?

Looking around my car, I look back at him and cut him a deal.
“Promise not to kill me or anything, and I’ll give you a ride.”

Great deal. Or anything.

Jesus.

So I unlock the door to my car. Because after all, it’s less than a mile to 7-11. What’s the harm?

He gets in the back, and I drive on. I can smell the booze on his breath, and I make the remark of: “Dude, you really are drunk.”
“Yeeeaahh….I’m really drunk…I wrecked my bike. My face hurts.”

“Well…you’re bleeding pretty badly. It looks like it hurts.”
“I hit my face…my head hurts. Fuck.”

Jay is so coherent, I’m falling in love with his slurs and his cussing in the back seat. No. I'm not. I'm really not.

“Hey…hey,” Jay says, leaning forward slightly.

I glance at him in the rearview mirror, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

“Do you think I’ll need stitches?” He asks, utterly serious.
I think about it for a moment.

“Well…it depends. It looks pretty bad.”
“FUCK!” He yells, throwing himself back against the seat. “I can’t go to my girlfriend’s like this!”

Quick to appease his outburst, I continue.

“Well…head wounds tend to bleed a lot, you see. So it could look really bad, but not be all that bad. It could be worse than it really is,” I reply, the epitome of encouragement.

“Whaaaaat?!?! Worse than it really is?!” He cries, incredulous.

“No, no! I meant that it’s probably not as bad as it looks! My bad, my bad.”

“Maaan…..fuck. I was so drunk…I probably blacked out…”

The stoplight across from the 7-11 was gloriously short, and as I rolled into the parking lot Jay leans forward again. “Aw, man. I’m sorry. I totally meant the other 7-11.”

THE OTHER 7-11

I look over my shoulder at him in disbelief, though my voice is nothing but confidence and full of ‘go-with-the-flow’ vibes. “Really? Huh. Well, I’m heading that way anyways, so it’s chill.”

We pull out of the parking lot, and go across the bridge. His booze-breath is stinking up the back of my car, but I’m still cheerful and optimistic. I’m doing a good deed! I’m saving a bleeding drunk from the likes of something much more terrible, like death or the human trafficking network of my hometown. (It totally exists…I know it does…)

So we drive across the bridge when I hear him mutter expletives in the back seat.

“I’m sorry, man,” he begins. “My bud’s driving down from Burg Road…you know? So he’ll probably go to the 7-11 at the bottom of the hill…man, I’m sorry.”

I begin to feel as though the laws of Good Samaritanism are turning against me, and that Chaos is playing into this somehow, but I remain cheerful. I am Job, I am unshakeable, unmoveable. I will get Jay’s ass to 7-11, dammit!

I make a turnaround at a nearby road that leads down to the dark boat landing, reminiscing about sketchier times as the cop that I had been following drives on, unknowing of my plight.

Jay is still bleeding, and I’m praying that he doesn’t decide halfway through that his turn of good luck has been all for naught and that I’d be better off with a bullet in my head or my throat slit.

He had made a call to his friend earlier, which had let me know of his benign intentions.

I recalled the conversation, trying to let it comfort me as we crossed the bridge yet again.

Jay:  Hey, man. I need you to come pick me up.

….

Jay: Yeah, man. I crashed my damn bike. I’m so fucking drunk. Yeah…yeah…I got wasted, then tried to ride my bike.

….

I don't know what it really looked like.

Jay: The bike? Man, I left that mothafucka’ there. We’re going to have to get the damned thing. Fuck, man, I’m fucked up.

….

Jay: Yeah, 7-11. I need a ride.

He then hung up the phone and cussed again.

“I’m sorry, man. Fuck, my head hurts.”

Yeah. Jay is eloquent.

SO.

We make it to the 7-11, finally. I had spent most of the ride consoling him, letting him know that it wasn’t that bad (though he looked pretty effed up.)

“Yeah , yeah…it’s probably not that bad. Clean yourself up in 7-11…you know, if they’ll let you in,” I told him.

I was met with silence.

“But…I bet if you clean yourself up, it won’t look so bad!” I continued on a cheery note.

“Thanks so much for giving me a ride, man. Like…you actually stopped. I was so surprised. Why’d you stop?” He asked.

I had been preparing for this moment. I had been waiting for it with eager anticipation. This was going to be it. The moment that I changed this mofo’s life. Damn it, I was going to effing PAY IT FORWARD. YEAH!

GO GO GO! PAY IT FORWARD!!!

But I fell flat on my face. This punk had no idea what was going on. He had blacked out and crashed his damned bike. I wasn’t going to suddenly instil morals in him. Pffft.

“Well…sometimes you just have to do something nice,” I replied.

“Hmm…yeah,” he muttered. “Aggh…my head hurts,” he groaned once more, flailing in my back seat.

I prayed he didn’t get blood everywhere, and considered the application of peroxide to the upholstery in my Ford Taurus.

As we waited in the parking lot, he looked up groggily. “Heeeey….can I see how bad it is?”

I nod, reiterating how shitty he really looked.
“It looks pretty damn bad,”  I say as I angle the sun visor mirror towards him.

He squints through the dim light of my car, cursing once more.

Jay gets out, and I think that it’s all over. I’m free, I can go to Walmart and pick up the 2% milk I had originally set out for, and that will be that.

But no.

He lingers, then shuts the back door to my car, opening the front door instead.

I look over in alarm, eyes wide as he jerks the sun visor around with a bloodied hand. In this light, Jay looks really effing bad. Blacktop is embedded in his cheeks and temples, the entire left side is covered in blood, while there’s more matted in his hair. I can’t quite detect the source of the bleeding, but I’m pretty sure he lost part of his eyebrow.

With his eye swollen shut, he looks like he just got jumped by the local gang.

But no. He was drunk. And he wrecked his BICYCLE. Not even a motorcycle. A bike.

Damn.

He cussed a bit more, but just as he was settling into my front seat, Jay’s friend rolls up, looking much more sober than he.

I wave to Jay as he leans in the doorway, smiling slightly. “You look familiar,” he says with a grin.

I shrug, leaning back nonchalantly. “Well, I do live around here.”

He nods, digesting that information as he thanks me again, slamming the door and stumbling over to his buddy’s car.

They take about half a minute to turn on his buddy’s light and assess the damage and then pull out as I continue my journey to Walmart.

I reflected upon my experience, decided that my mentor and anyone I’ve ever talked to would probably thrash me for letting the drunk into my car.

But I drove off with a profound sense of doing something right.

And besides, who leaves a bleeding guy?!

Someone smarter than me.

Impulsivity : A Love Story

As a college student, it would be safe to assume that self-control isn't one of my strong points. I am a repeated victim and facilitator of impulsivity.

I find my ventures with impulsivity as a beautiful story of love and hate, success and failure, good choices and some that are...not so good.


There are some days that I love my impulsivity. Some of the greatest things in my life are products of impulsivity and a low attention span. (And not thinking through my decisions xD)

My Zune, Toshirou (when he works), brings me much joy, and was a product of a bank card and an ebay spree. So. Effing. Dangerous.

There are plenty of regrets there, to be sure. Dear God, there are regrets. I have wasted so much money on my impulsive conquests. Without fail, not long after I've made the purchase or ill-fated decision, my brain screams: FAIL!!!! BUYER'S REMORSE OMFG!!!111!!

RANDOM SIDE STORY ALERT!

 Buyer's Remorse is a driving force in my life. We are well acquainted, and have been good friends since my elementary school years.
As a kid in a relatively small (not relatively, really, we were TINY) elementary school, the bi-annual book fair was the SHIT. I'm not talking about, oh yay, a little book fair.

No.
This was fucking huge. This was on a level that only deities attain. This was the book fair.

Look at that. It looks EPIC. Those children are engaged in reading. Holy hell.

With the book fair came ridiculous amounts of competition for the little trinkets and toys that were sold. Namely, erasers.
These erasers came in all shapes and forms, but namely I remember the frog erasers, which everyone wanted because they were so damned cool.

I remember getting into a piggy bank that my mom had been keeping for me since my birth. I knew that this piggy bank (it was actually a bear in a sunhat) was meant for greatness. But my impulsivity and id were saying: GO, ROO, GO FORTH AND BUY YOURSELF THOSE FROG ERASERS.

And I did. I scrounged for change everywhere I could. I brought PENNIES to my poor librarians, who patiently counted them out. It was magic.
Though I regretted my purchases almost instantly, I had frog erasers. 

At the time, my impulsivity could be attributed to childlike wonder and innocence.
Today it marks the beginning of the end where my bad decisions come back to haunt me daily. (Namely college. J/K. Maybe.)

I came to later find out that my sun bear piggy bank had held like...$100 in change. To this day my mother has no idea what happened to it and is convinced the delinquent down the street took it. 

It really isn't pretty.
I like to think that I have some class with my impulsivity. Buying a car, a house? NAH! Screw that, those are useless investments. My education? Ehhh, whatevs. Maybe.

But me, I buy cool stuff. Like FISH.

-DIGRESSION!-
My goal my freshman year of college had been to have a happy tank full of fish, guppies and cute neon tetras that would swim around and keep me company in my pathetic existence.

That dream never came true, because my asshole of a cat broke the free aquarium I had found. I cussed him. And chased him for awhile. Then cussed him some more.

^Asshole cat

SO....I was pissed.
I had a random Jimmy Buffet reference lined up, but we don't always get what we want, do we?




WELL THEN.
Back to the topic at hand. Fish.

A trip to Walmart in the next town over yielded various results last Friday night.

1. I bought $30 more than I intended to. 
2. I walked out with a fish.
3. I walked out with a fish tank, colorful gravel, and bloodworms WTH.
4. I regretted it almost instantly, but my glee was too great to be overcome by that bitch Regret.
5. I set up the tank and realized that my fish is brain damaged. 

My fish is a wonderful little guy. But again, brain damaged. 

This is Asher! Isn't he pretty?! 

I love him. He's so awesome. Just having a fish has made me ridiculously happy. 

He is one of my most impulsive decisions ever. I was in Walmart, and I wanted him, and that was the end of it. I picked him out, fell in love, and named him there in the aisle after some prodding by my roommate.

His Irish name is Saoirse, which is a feminine form of "freedom". I call him my transgenderal fish <3

AND TONIGHT I AM GOING TO GET ASHER A FRIEND.

And yes, I am fully aware that you don't mix male betta fish. Jeebus. People keep effing telling me this, and I'm just like wtf?! SRSLY?!

No. Just no. Stfu. 

Asher's friend is going to be named Khalil. (Kah-leel). His Irish name has already been picked out by my awesome authentic-Irish friend, Caza. I fucking love this girl. 

She named Khalil after the Irish mythical hero, Cuchulainn. I'm so excited :D

Yeah. 

Impulsivity is a bitch. 

But I love it. 

 This post has been sponsored in part by Attention Deficit Disorder and Pretend Catholic Guilt.

Facething: Villainy in Disguise

The Facething upsets me. (See Facebook if you just can’t get the connection.)

On occasion I’ll have friends that post tons of sappy love quotes when they’re especially drunk and emo. This same friend had previously started bugging one of our mutual friends for tickets to see Eclipse. (Mutual Friend works at the movie theatres in our town, so who hasn’t been bugging her for those tickets?) What does she do all day besides obsess about Eclipse? Hang out on Facething, obviously. Currently this friend is posting sappy love quotes from Moulin Rouge and misspelled “fools” as “fouls”. Good job, friend. Good job. Ruin my favourite movie with your illiteracy.

See the joy that Facething brings?

 ^This is me being confused about this supposed 'joy'

Last night I disabled Farmville, Mafia Wars, Cafe World, and Treasure Isle from posting annoying updates in my News Feed. (WHAT DOES ANY OF THAT MEAN?! I KNOW THE WORDS, BUT NOT THE MEANING. UGH.) Anyways. Now that all these annoying Facething applications are gone from my life, I can breathe easy. I feel my back straightening, am able to lift my head up high once more, proud to be alive. Shoulders back, chest forward, spine straight. I’ll walk tall now, knowing that these applications will no longer burden my life.

I’m so happy.

*crickets and an awkward shuffle*

Facething presents more complications in my life than I’m comfortable putting up with. First there are all the implications of the applications. They always scare me. Then there are the friends who go through and click that pesky LIKE button on damned near everything that strikes their fancy.
_______ LIKES WEARING PANTS.

_______ LIKES BREATHING AND NOT DYING. YOU KNOW, LIVING.

_______ LIKES SPARKLY VAMPIRES AND DRINKING WATER. MAYBE SPARKLY VAMPIRES DRINKING WATER. LOLOLOLOL

And then my News Feed page will be assaulted by the one friend that went and clicked LIKE on 20 different things. And each one of those things shows up. Each. One.

Wading through Facething is an exercise in itself. Burning net calories by the second! Keep scrolling, maybe we’ll lose some cookies from the cache! (I obviously know this is faulty logic. Stfu. )

When it comes to posting statuses on Facething, I tend to overthink/overcomplicate things. With a desire to remain clever in my musings, I can’t post ‘stupid’ statuses. I want to exude confidence and cleverness. I want people to think, “Oh, that Platyroo...I’m so floored by her poetic and moving Facething status...*sob* “

I also have important people from college watching me, like professors and Student Leadership and Engagement. Possibly my Honor’s Society. I’m being forced to step up to the plate, here. I can’t screw up. NO PRESSURE.

But if the status I’m planning on posting doesn’t fit that framework, I don’t post it.

Along the lines of that same framework, I refuse to post a Facething status along the lines of: OMG I LOVE LIKE, FACETHING. AND I LOVE BREATHING. ITZ SO GR8, OMG. I WENT TO WORK TODAY, STRIP TEASED MAH BOSS, MISSPELLED FOOLS. YAH, IM SO GR8. TWEET ME, BITCHES.

No.
Just no.

I have my pride. I have my dignity. The day I post something like that –angry gesturing at above faux status- is the day that you have my explicit permission to run me over.

So screw you, Facething. I shan’t spend hours perusing your depths. I refuse to give you my life, OR my clever statuses. I WILL CONTINUE TO SPEND LESS THAN AN HOUR A DAY CHILLIN’ WIT YOU.

Suck it, Facething. I’m cooler than you.

Who Pissed In My Cornflakes?!

Today my mother asked me “Who pissed in your cornflakes today?” Following this , she gave me a face that resembled this:  >: |   It wasn’t very nice.

The truth is, she pisses in my cornflakes every day. It’s just not that often when I actually express how upset I am that my cornflakes are repeatedly being pee’ed on.

Today is one of those days where the repeated pissing on my breakfast cereal has finally made me snap. Most days I can take it. I just toss the cereal, bleach the bowl, and get another helping of a different cereal and go about my business. But not today. Today is a day when I can’t stand her. I CAN’T STAND HER FACE. UGH.

Anything she says or asks is met with a D:< face on my part. She could be saying that we won a million dollars. I would still look like this:  D:<

This isn’t to say that I’m being completely unfair, peeps. My mother is insane. Several professionals/my co-workers/her co-workers or anyone who has had prolonged contact with my mother will tell you this.

My anecdotes are enough to keep my college friends from ever visiting my house on break. She is THAT crazy.

So my anger at the piss/cornflakes issue is not unwarranted.

We were getting milkshakes for her gimpy boyfriend at Sonic. I was driving (because she’s lazy) and I had pulled up to the order thingy, grumbling. I hate confrontation (as seen here), and even ordering milkshakes is traumatic for me. I ask her what she wants, and she says, “Gimpy wants banana, and I want chocolate.”
Me: D:<
Her: .....-hands the money- YOU’RE SO PISSY. WHY’D YOU COME TODAY?! YOU ACTED LIKE YOU WANTED TO!
Me: -orders the shakes then looks at her- YOU MADE IT SOUND LIKE YOU REALLY NEEDED ME. I LEFT MY PHONE BEHIND FOR YOU. OMFG, WOMAN!! DDD:<<<

After she gets her shakes and sees me eyeing them she makes a big point of saying: YOU COULD’VE ORDERED ONE FOR YOU, TOO!

Me: ....BITCH. WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?! YOU MADE IT SOUND LIKE I COULDN’T!!!!!11!!! D:<

This is due to the fact that my mother makes me you feel as though you’re not entitled to eat anything. Or ask for anything. THAT EATING MY CORNFLAKES WITHOUT PISS IS TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR. GAWD.

Digression: I’m afraid to eat anything in my house. It’s been like that for years. I told my grandmother that and she was horrified.

Usually I ask if I can eat things with a sort of reverence, with my head bowed and tone quiet.

Me: Mom...can I have some yogurt? (She’s protective of that shit.)
Her: Well, duh! You don’t have to ask! Geez, what’s wrong with you?
*My inner monologue*: What’s wrong with ME?! YOU’VE FLIPPED SHIT IN THE PAST!! I’M JUST COVERING MY ASS HERE.*
Me: Oh, okay.

It’s this way with everything. If there’s soda in the fridge (which is a rare occurrence) I’ll ask if I can have a glass. She flips out one time, saying it’s Gimpy’s and I can’t have any. Other times she’s like: SURE! POUR ME A GLASS TOO!!! :DDDD

D:<

I just don’t get her.

So today I am pissy. Because there is pee in my cornflakes. EVERY. EFFING. DAY.

You’d be pissy too.

Idyllic Delusions

Yay, blog post!

I've been pondering a career change lately.



PFFT.
No I haven't. I'm a full-time college student, working at a country club on the weekends over the summer/breaks to pay for gas. I have no other options.
So this post will be spent griping about useless coworkers and supervisors, and the delusions that people have about my profession.


Adventures in Waitstaffery!
Why yes, I just made up the word waitstaffery. I think it sounds robust and descriptive.

I have been working at a country club for the past 3-4 years. I honestly love this job. It constantly challenges me, engages my attention, and it pleases my ADD. Constantly being on the move is something that really suits my jittery side, and I enjoy the RUSHOMFGRUSH atmosphere.

We will call my employer FML Country Club. Specializing in all your snobbish needs. You want to throw a birthday party at $1000 for room rental, not including the $35+ per plate dinner? Be my guest. Invite 500 of your closest friends for your birthday bash!

Want to throw a Quinceañera?

Go right ahead! I'll only hate you for the rest of your life! Inviting 600 of your closest relatives straight from Mexico is notokay with me! 

I mostly work wedding receptions. There is often alcohol, with open bars paid for by in-laws, and beautifully decorated cakes that occasionally look like this: 

                                            

Don't worry, honey. The cake isn't leaning! I promise! It's just pulling a fun house mirror trick! Look at it from the other side and it's perfect! The guests won't know a thing!

Yes, they do.
They gossip about it while the wedding couple is making rounds. They go tsk-tsk-tsk about the sorry state of that cake, and how awful it must be to be the bride with a sagging wedding cake. It's the equivalent of premature sagging breasts. Perhaps even an indicator.
So here is the lesson: don't have a saggy cake. Bad juju.


I used to have this idyllic delusion about waitstaff. Other people may join in on this delusion. I once believed that the waitstaff at country clubs/catered parties were the epitome of grace and professionalism. They were always calm and collected, full of smiles and good manners. They would take my plate and be more than attentive to my needs.

Something like this ^

I've even done this. I doubt I looked half that composed.

They were graceful and exuded confidence and charm like an x-ray technician exudes radiation.
Clad in white and black, they would always stand out from the crowd, easily identifiable. They would sweep across the room, refilling drinks and doing their jobs with such zeal and vigor that I could only be enviable of their energy, or how crisp their uniforms looked despite the stifling heat of the ballroom, or how fantastically they handled that contrary relative of mine.



This is all a lie. The reassurances about the sagging cake breasts  is a lie. LIES!!!!111!!


I will often work long shifts under incredulous amounts of stress and vexation, dealing with lazy coworkers and recalcitrant supervisors. My job is equivalent to waitressing, only I don't work half as often. Thank goodnes my job is only sporadic. If I worked every day for hours on end, I'd go crazy. Working three nights in a row is tantamount to  taking my soul, running it over, stabbing it, running it over again for good measure, putting it under a steamroller just because you weren't really sure your tires did  a good enough job, poking it with a knife just to make sure it's dead, and then tossing it in the river to drown. Yeah. That's how it feels. No pressure :DDD

My coworkers are all my age. They're teenagers on the verge of adulthood gigglesnort , with no work ethic. I was like that once. I started working at FML Country Club when I was 16 and foolish. At first I liked to goof off just like everyone else.
Eventually exhaustion put an end to that. I wanted to get out on time, earlier if possible, dammit! Screwing around just wasn't an option anymore when time was of the essence. Sure, my time card would be shiny. But who the f*ck cares about hours when it's 2 AM and you want to go the hell home?

No one. That's who.

So now that I have grown up and realized that actually working is cool, like sliced bread, I have begun to notice that my fellow employees do not share the same work ethic. When I'm all: GO GO GO! :D
They're all: NO NO NO!
See what I did there? ^ Rhyming. Yeah, bitches. 


It irritates me to no end. I want to work. I'm an active person who likes to move, get stuff done, and not f*ck around unless I've had a terrible day. But no. They won't do it.

*sigh*
How terrible it is for me to be so mature at 19. *terribly dramatic sigh*
J/k, guys :D

*cough*
Ahem.
Anyways.

This has been a terrible post about how my illusions have been shattered. I deluded myself into thinking that my job was noble, and that I was truly making people happy.

More lies...-grumble-

So here's the skinny:

• Your parties/weddings/wakes make me miserable.
• I eat your food in the kitchen.
• I have and never plan on spitting in your food, so cut that gossip out right now. 
• Everyone on the waitstaff secretly hates you for rearranging the room at the last minute, even though we're terribly gracious about it and act as though we're unfazed. 
• We hate it when your wedding cake is disgusting, so get a good one. (We eat that too)
• Without fail we trash talk your decorations and your overweight mother-in law. We will most likely gossip about bastard children as well, so don't bring them along.  (No offense intended to anyone...wedlock just isn't pretty.)
• Your DJ needs to be decent. The Cupid Shuffle, Cha-Cha Slide, Electric Slide are must-plays on your special day. 
• Open bars are dangerous things. Cash bars are the way to go. 
• After parties will probably end badly. 
• At some point in the night, the entire waitstaff will hate you. This depends on if you've stayed later than you paid for, or if you're just plain out rude and bitchy. In any case, we secretly hated you anyways (for that last minute rearrangement), and this just solidified our hate.
• Leaving on time is next to godliness, so do it. I will bend over backwards to get your asses out at the scheduled time, so do me a favor--leave an hour early ;D
• And finally, TIP US. TIP US WELL. PLEASE, TIP US. I DON'T CARE IF IT'S TEN $1 BILLS STUFFED INTO MY BRA, JUST DO IT! I actually care a lot--so don't touch me

And that is all. I hope you have enjoyed this insight into the world of waitstaffery. 

(And my new layout/banner :D  I hope you enjoy that too.)

-sob- MY DREAMS. MY BEAUTIFUL, DELUDED DREAMS

Adventures in Jackass Sitting (and Awkwardness)

From this past Saturday up until next Saturday, possibly longer, I have been given free reign over my former piano teacher's house.

She skated off to New Orleans to have fun with her husband, drink one of these:

and get totally wasted and just enjoy herself.
(Her kid graduated from college two years ago. She hasn't a care in the world.)

So she, looking for a responsible person, called me pfffffft up. Offered me good money to watch her two golden retrievers, Jackass 1 and Jackass 2, if I would stay at her house every night and keep her dogs from dying.

Thank the lawd there aren't that many *sob*

Because I love money (and her, she's pretty great) I agreed.
So I have been at this for 3 days, and have made some observations...

• Sleeping with a dog is weird and awkward, let alone sleeping with two dogs.
• Getting OMGFACELICK'ed every morning is awkward and annoying
• Not knowing when her son might stroll in is semi-awkward and kind of terrifying
• There is no food here
• But there is alcohol
• So it's okay (Psst, I'm joking. Teehee.)
• Being away from my mother is fantastic :D
• Yelling at dogs is not a crime--half the time they deserve it
• Don't worry, I'm not actually that cruel. They think I love them LIES
• The shower here is amazing
• The bathtub is amazing
• Did I mention sleeping with dogs is awkward? 

Adventures in Babysitting? I think not. Adventures in Jackass Sitting? Bingo.

At 9 AM sharp the house cleaner was supposed to come. I think she started calling the house around 8:50 AM, but I'm a pansy and hate answering the phone.

It was one of those things where I wake up to hear the phone ringing, and hatred is my first thought.
Me: zzzz zzzzzzz
Phone: RING :DDD
Me: .....zzzzzzzz
Phone: Ring! :D....ring?
Me: -glares- .....
Phone: D: -falls silent-
Me: ...f*ck...-gets molested by golden retreivers in bed- I HATE YOU, DOGS
Dogs: :DDDD
Me: -lets them out and goes and sits on bed rather forlornly- House cleaner is supposed to be here at 9...(*Clock: 8:51*)
Phone: RING >:DDDD BITCH I BE RINGING AGAIN!!
Me: -horror- O_O.....I'M NOT ANSWERING IT. -hides-
Phone: -stops ringing in lieu of knocking on the door-
*Horror music plays in background*

Don't worry, I didn't get raped or murdered or anything. The house cleaner came in, in all her sketchiness (she's a shady lady, dressed in varying shades of coral) and went about her business.

It can only continue.

Whenever the phone rings I stare bleakly at the receiver and die inside. So I sit there, waiting, praying...praying that they'll decide to go to the answering machine, and it won't be important. 

Because seriously--these people are gone for a week. They've alerted their friends, family, and crazy church folk. No one should be calling here. 

I CAN'T HANDLE THE PRESSURE

The phone rang again, and it happened to be my piano teacher's husband. He waited for the answering machine and started chorusing: Roo, Rooooooo! Wake up! I'm sorry to wake you up! Roooooo! Are you there, Roo? ROO! PICK UP!

I answered it that time.

Thankfully these dogs are semi-well behaved. They whine and groan at me when I'm not paying enough attention to them, so I just glare and refuse them my lap space in favor of my laptop. I continue by staying up terribly late and exhausting them and by the time they crawl into bed with me they're ready to pass out and not do anything impolite, like hump me in my sleep. (Roo would not be pleased if she woke up to that.)

What I'm dealing with:

Jackass 1 is an older dog. He's been shaved down in some kind of cruel joke, so he looks like a yellow lab whose mother took a wrong turn and drowned in the inbred gene pool. 

But it's okay--I've seen pictures of him with his normal fur, and he doesn't look so weird there. 

Jackass 1 is excitable. You say : Outside? and he bolts from wherever he's at in the house to the front door, keening and carrying on. Howling gets thrown into the mix, along with jumping up and down and making a nuisance of himself. But he's more polite than Jackass 2, which I appreciate. Jackass 1 just wants him 'sum 'lovin .

Jackass 2 is the puppy. Less than two years old, he has very few manners. He may know how to sit properly, but he just uses it as a cover for his real motive: stupidity. 

Jackass 2 is clever. If he doesn't want to go outside, he'll pretend to barrel towards the door with Jackass 1, but he's really not interested. So he'll sit there and make ME look like an ass, holding the door open and making stupid baby noises to try and entice him outside.

Jackass 2 has also had several surgeries in his lifetime, one set before he was 9 months old. Now at first I said: Awww, poor baby...

But it's also a cover. He wants you to feel sorry for him. He pretends to limp and be all gimpy and such, but I know his real game...well, no I don't. 

BUT HE'S UP TO SOMETHING. 

I'm making fun of a crippled dog. Shame on me. *shot*

--------------------

Update--6 hours after initially typing this draft....

Yeah, no.
I come back to the house after having ran back to my own home to hurriedly clean my room. The dogs are happy as can be, and are bouncing around like idiots.

As I get out of my car, I see that Jackass 2 has something that resembles dirt on his back.
"Jackass 2, were you under a car or something?!" was the first thing I shouted. But it wasn't dark enough to be oil/grease.

So with a resigned sigh I poked it, did the *BIG SNIFF/WHIFF* test and sure enough, it was shit. Jackass 2 had rolled around in shit.
His expression was that of a three year old bouncing up and down, showing you how pretty his finger poop-painting is on the bathroom wall.
I was not pleased.

Me: -gets out of the car- Hey, boys. I hate you :D
Jackass 1: Hey, lady! Let's go inside! I'm hungry!
Jackass 2: :DDDD HEY, BABYSITTER LADY! GUESS WHAT I DID?! *prance*
Me: .... .....what....
Jackass 2: I ROLLED AROUND IN SHIT! YEAH, YEAH, IT WAS SUPER FUN!
Me: -face palm- F*ck....FML.
Jackass 2: Isn't it great?! :DDDD
Me: .....BATHTUB. NAO. -scrubs him down-

So Jackass 2 got a half-assed bath. I washed him down, and he gimped his way out of the tub like the cripple he is, and then I banished him outside with Jackass 1 to dry off.


*sigh*
4 more days. 

I Should Be Cleaning

I should be cleaning. But I'm not.

I'm listening to Rob Thomas songs and reading blog posts by people who are funnier than I am.
I'm also feeling a little down about my abhorrent lack of musical knowledge. I can't make clever musical jokes or references. (This saddens me D: )

Me:Yeah! You know that...that song! About the guy...and the girl...and..um...yeah. LOLZ :DD
Anyone within hearing range:... ... No. -walks off-

Reaffirming my belief that I'm not funny . Because I'm not.

***DIGRESSION!!! :DDD***

I realized as I roll around in my filthy room and contemplate cleaning that I never explained the name of my blog. Isn't that traditional or something? Explaining your madness in starting a blog and entitling it the way you did.
Or awkward sentence structure. That's pretty traditional as well.

I'm obsessed with platypi. They're adorable.

YES. Who wouldn't want one of those?
Someone who's lame and doesn't have any inkling of proper pet choices, that's who.

I want one. I want one baaaaaad.
BUT IT'S ILLEGAL AND I'M UPSET!!!!11!!

So I can only placate my feelings of desolation and depression by drawing platypus comics and pretending I'm clever.

After reading Allie, Sarah P, and Miss Yvonne's sexy blogs, I was inspired. So then I began thinking about names. I thought about names while driving, showering, and petting my cat.

Depraved had popped up in my vocabulary recently. Why not use it? Depraved...Platypus? Platyroo? Is it ridiculous that I giggle immaturely whenever I say platypus? Should I really create a blog that I can't look at straightfaced?

Depraved Platypi it became, after a quick exchange with mah BFF Keru about which title seemed clevererest...or something. I'm planning something witty with the pi. You know, like 3.14etc. Because I'm witty and clever like that. Not really

So yeah. That's it. It's not particularly clever. But I believe that before I created this blog, if I had seen a link to a place called Depraved Platypi...I might have just gone there. No, I totally would've gone there. It only makes logical sense that other people would too. (Assuming everyone has an obsession with platypi, which they should, so obviously this conclusion is well founded.)

 

***DIGRESSION!!! AGAIN!!!***
I'm not clever enough to tie an entire blog post together. I jump around and my ADD won't let me pick a concrete topic set.

And now I want to talk about being ADD. Lack of concrete topic set right 'thur.
(Or discipline. That is also a viable excuse for myself.)

I'm still not cleaning. Our house goes on the market tomorrow. Perhaps the potential buyers would like to see an example of a what NOT to do with a room? (I'm equivalent to a hoarder. Maybe I'll post pictures.)

Right. End the blog post. Kill it before it multiplies.
>:D

I sometimes think I'm funny....

It all began nearly two weeks ago when I was introduced to Hyperbole and a Half by my college friend.

College friend (henceforth referred to as CF until I find something funnier / less boring to call her) is amazing, and knew that Hyperbole was just what I needed to smile again. (And find interesting things do with a brick.) Things began spiraling out of control from there. Hyperbole led me to Naked Cupcakes , which led me to various other funny blogs and so on. DAMN YOU, CF. DAMN YOU TO "LANGUAGE" HELL! (An inside joke she'll probably never see :c )

It was contagious and mind blowing. THERE ARE FUNNY PEOPLE ON THE INTERNET. HOLY HELL.
I just kept finding funny blogs that I related to. They got the gears in my brain going, and I began sarcastic inner monologues for just about everything.
Sarcastic monologues led to me thinking I'm funny.


I'm really not. Honest to goodness I'm not. But I like to think I am. So Depraved Platypi was born.
I mean, seriously. I'm an administrator on a Pokémon forum. That has to automatically take me out of the running for funny. (But I do love Pokémon...) Or else it adds me to the running for funny.
Who the hell knows. I don't.

I'm just blogging, and praying Allie at Hyperbole someday becomes Champion of the Internet.
It seemed like a good outlet and a hobby. ALLIE I LOVE YOU.


So this is me...


That's right. I'm a platypus. AN EFFING PURPLE PLATYPUS. Deal with it. =3
There's even an introductory name card that I'm holding up for you. Aren't I sweet? Then the name next to it for a seemingly seamless transition between Platypus and Roo. Platyroo. I'm just fantastic. (And not really this egotistical. The Internet makes me feel ballsy.)


I don't pwn in MS Paint like Allie or SarahP , so I'll just be scanning in the Platyroo comics I draw from time to time and telling stories that I think are amusing BUT REALLY AREN'T about them.

I'm too lazy to actually draw something in MS Paint...I have a tablet and everything. BUT DAMN I'M LAZY. *cough*

Maybe someday.

Now that this amazingly groundbreaking post has been made and its awesomeness has washed over you like Zombie Jesus's love, I think I'll end this. (I love me some Big J, dun worry.)


Depraved Platypi lives :D

*UPDATE*
Do you people see that first comment down there? It exists solely to be awesome. Because it was made by Keru, Platyroo's bestest friend like...EVAH.

This is fanservice to her comment, because she's so damned awesome. Thank you, Keru. I effing love you.