Don't Laugh: It could happen to YOU.

Well folks, it's happened. Believe it or not, I am now fabulously 21 years old! Well, okay, like...a week ago today. So I'm 21 and 7 days. Anyway, remember that post where I talked about growing up and how at 21 I'd be running low on excuses? Well let me just say, while all of that may still be true, I don't feel any different. I'm thinking I should have known, because really when does any birthday really feel like you're older? Technically, you're only a day older than you were the day before. It's just been a year since that day...the year before. I suppose it's much more mental than anything. Like, it may have only been one more day, but it was also the day that I became 21. I was thinking about it, and I realized that sometimes the dignity and grace that come with "growing up" isn't always optional.

Yes, that means I have an anecdote. Are you ready for this? And I'll preface it - this didn't happen to me after 21...but come on, 20 is still pretty "adult", right? Okay, now it's time to casually transition from "I'm 21! Huzzah!" to "Can you believe this happened? Me either!"

So this particular incident happened at work. I got to work, all was well. In fact, I was bookin' it pretty well that night (I change the "on sale for ___" signs) and decided I had enough time to make a potty break. I don't think it's necessary to go into that except to say that that too went fine. In fact, I was unaware that there was an issue until...oh...I don't know, about twenty minutes later. Again, since I was making good time, I paused at the shoe department to quickly browse through the clearance shoes. I don't remember what I found, but I know I tried one on because I had to track down a mirror. Can't buy shoes without seeing how they look on ya, right? So there I am, with my one black shoe and my one try-on shoe, and I turn to get a profile view and that's when I see it.

The toilet paper.

No, not stuck to the bottom of my shoe, that would be too normal.

No, this particular length of toilet paper is tucked in the back of my pants.

IN THE BACK OF MY PANTS.

I didn't even know what to say. It was a good four squares long-- don't ask me how that happened-- and centered pretty flawlessly. 

So I'm busy thanking my lucky stars that I decided to me a not-so-model employee by perusing the shoes when I start to think back on how long it had been since I went to the restroom. That's when I realize it was at least fifteen minutes, probably more like twenty. Then I realize that right before I hit the shoe department, I had a conversation with one of my co-workers. And it hits me. Not only did I have a lengthy piece of toilet paper stuck in the back of my pants, but also that the chances that someone (probably multiple someones) saw it --and didn't say anything-- are pretty darn high.

Wow.

So, I told that story to some of my friends because I mean really, that's a pretty good story. How many people can tell that story? Sure, stuck to the shoe is most common, and maybe even in the pants isn't too rare, but at work? On the job? For half of half an hour, or more? Top that!

Then I sort of forgot (repressed) about it. I thought, "Hey, that'd be kind of funny to blog about but...meh!"

But then it happened again. Not at work, no that would have been too abysmally perfect. This time it was at home. And it was nowhere near fifteen minutes. But just the same. Having it happen twice was just too much not to share.

So I've shared it. My ultimate Humiliation at Work story. Plus a little bonus tidbit. For your pleasure, enjoyment, to cheer you up, or make you happier you're you and not me. Whatever the case may be, there it is. My secret shame.

Laugh. By all means, laugh. It's funny.

Just don't laugh too hard... It could happen to you! :-)

Bill, the Darkness, My Laptop, and Booze. A Collection of Traits I Think You Should Know.

Once upon a time there was this cockroach. For the sake of the story, we will call him Bill. One day Bill moved into a new home. My home. And on one fateful evening, Bill found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Which was, incidentally, on my kitchen counter in the p.m. I had no choice - the cockroach must perish! WHAP! My fly swatter brutally wacked the cockroach, but just once. Bill couldn't have seen it coming. Then, as I studied my results, I was overwhelmed with guilt and sorrow. Poor little Bill was still alive, struggling to walk, battered but not defeated.  And I am ashamed to admit it but here it is anyway - I started to cry. That's right, you heard me. I cried. I had to put the poor Bill out of his misery. The misery that I had inflicted. The moral of this story is; never name any insect whose life you are about to end. Because a name in itself gives the bug a personality, and a personality is painful to destroy.

I can't walk through my house when it's all dark. I have a night light in my bathroom, and if I could sleep with a light without it driving me nuts, I'd probably have one in my room, too. I systematically use lights to 'keep myself safe' when I'm heading from the livingroom to my room, but only if I'm the last one up. As long as someone else is awake, I'm fine. I have the kitchen light on, then I go to my bathroom and turn that light on, and then on to my room. Then I head back to the living room, cell phone lit up (for some extra light, of course!) and switch off that light, then look over my shoulder the entire (short) walk to my bathroom, where I flip off that light and pull the door to, and then hurry to my room, checking the hall behind me before I close the door. And even then, I turn on my overhead light, then the light on my nightstand, THEN I turn off my overhead light, crawl into bed, make sure my phone is lit up before I turn off my nightstand light, and then get comfy all in the time it takes for my cell phone to dim and lock itself. Yes, I'm an absolute chicken. No doubt about it.

I love keychains. I have like...six keychains...and only one key. It's an addiction. At the very least, I should get more keys so that all of the keychains make a little more sense. 

I almost always trip when I wear shoes that are too big for me...Probably partly because I drag my feet, a bad habit that I can't seem to break myself of. Oh, and yes - I wear shoes that are too big for me sometimes. Hey, it happens! Also, I love Uggs. And that's just the way it is.

I didn't have my first beer until I was 20 years old. Which I still am. So really, I didn't have my first beer until...late last year? Yeah, I'm a good freakin' kid. :)

I collect cell phones. Right now, I have...seven? Eight? Something like that. Regardless of the fact that I rarely switch them out anymore...since I got my dream phone for Christmas... ^_^

Even still, I don't like to get rid of my old phones. For some reason I feel validated by having so many. Maybe I just like to keep my options open. Or maybe I'm a pack rat. Who's to say? All I know is I keep them in a drawer and I've only ever sold one, and that was because I was (and still am) in WAY over my head with the whole credit-card-debt thing. Let's just say I don't "act my wage," as one of my favorite radio personalities would say. And boy-oh-boy would he be disappointed if he knew of my shameful financial behavior...

Anything and everything that Apple puts out I will love without question. I am completely 100% sold on any product that they put out and I will always use Macs. I've used them for my entire life and I've always loved it. In my house alone there are at least five Macs, I would quite possibly die without my iPod, and I am desperately in love with my iPhone. I wish there was an Apple store closer to me so that I could seek employment there, share my love for Macs with the world. It always tickles me when I have my PowerBook with me at, oh, let's say Starbucks, and people stop and ask me if I like my computer. My response? How could I not!? Yes, I am a die-hard Apple FanGirl. I speak the truth.

I have a terrible memory and one of the reasons I like to blog/journal/take photos/etc. is because I'm afraid that I won't remember something that I wanted to.

I have never eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Ever.

I'm frighteningly UN-self sufficient. I don't know how to do laundry, or a load of dishes, or cook... Were I to live on my own right now, I surely would perish within the first week.

Him's a Lover Poochie, Yes Hims is!

The title is from a Luann comic strip that we saw. Mom clipped it out and put it on the fridge, and we always used to say it to Cowboy.

I really miss my dog. And you know, I really don't think it's fair. I mean sure, technically it is. And he had a really long, really good life. He was loved, he was spoiled, he was happy. But I just wish I could have had a little bit longer.Although I'm sure I'm not the first nor will I be the last person to wish that about anything. I guess I just still hate the fact that I wasn't home when it happened. I think in the long run it's best because I can't imagine how hard it would have been. Mom said he couldn't even stand up, and that it was very pitiful and heartbreaking, but I wish I could have at least rode with him to the vet's, sort of had the chance to "say goodbye". I think I'm just lacking closure. Since the last time I saw him he looked fine, normal - maybe just a little stiff in the hind legs, but he'd been laying down for awhile - it's just so difficult to believe even now that between when I left and when I came back he got so sick that he had to go to the vet to be put on an IV. And it's even more unexpected that the next day he was gone. Just gone, just like that.

I suppose "that's life," it's "how the cookie crumbles," just "the way things are," or whatever other cliche phrase you can think up. But when it all comes down to it, that just doesn't help, does it? I mean does that actually make anyone feel better? Maybe in time, but when it's still in the first few months?

I can shake my head and tell myself, "Don't be silly. That's just life," 

but I get no satisfaction or comfort out of it. I'm glad that it happened naturally because I just don't know if I would have been able to make the choice to put him down, even if it was what would have been best. Maybe if I'd been there when he got bad; if I saw that it could have been different. But as it is, I just don't know. I think I would have been too selfish, I would have wanted to him to stay as long as possible. 

Cowboy was the best dog ever. I desperately miss him. Every time I see puppies I want one. I don't want to replace him, or put off the grief. If you know me, you know I already cry plenty over EVERYTHING, and my best friend is no exception. But I desperately miss feeling like I have a dog of my own. We still have another dog, and I feel bad for maybe...not appreciating her as much as I could. But the difference between her and Cowboy (besides the fact that I grew up with Cowboy) is that I know Cowboy was all mine, specifically, because I begged and begged. 

I feel like I don't have a buddy anymore. It's just...different. It's different than if he had just shown up.

I know it's not an easy thing to get over, and it never will be. But I just wish that somehow it could be. I don't think I'll ever not miss Cowboy. He was special, he was incredibly unique. He was protective but gentle, loving, smart, playful. I hate that he's not here right now. But I don't hate that he's no longer in pain. And at least he knew I loved him.

R.I.P. Cowboy

The Best Dog That Ever Lived

and my best friend.

October 1995 - February 25, 2008