My Stupid Mouth

My doorman, Umar, is the nicest guy. He's a little older than me, from Nigeria, and always has the hugest smile on his face. He's the only one of our guards that I ever talk to.

"Hi, Malanie," he says, as I walk in the door on Saturday afternoon.
"Hey, Umar," I say, "what's up?"
"Nothing. Nice day," he says.
"Yeah," I say.

I approach his desk and notice that he's reading a thick, hard-covered, dark blue book that's missing its jacket.

"Hey Umar, what are you reading? The dictionary?" I ask, then laugh aloud at my own joke.

Omar looks perplexed. "Ackshilly, Malanie, yes. Yes I am. I read it so I can read the English newspaper," Umar says matter-of-factly, as he lifts up his dictionary to point out what's spread open beneath it: the newspaper.

Aggggh! Shit, I am such an asshole!, I shout inside my own head.

"Oh really?" I ask, attempting to save myself from yet another unfiltered remark, "I was just kidding, I didn't really think you'd be reading the dictionary!"

"Heh. Heh. Heh." A nervous giggle escapes my mouth. Umar joins in, and grins widely. I take that as a sign that he doesn't hate me. Phew!

"Have a good one," I say, as I walk away and head for the elevators.

I look at the ground, and shake my head back and forth. My stupid mouth almost gets me in trouble once again.

"Oprah's sampled every biscuit in Boston."

Sometimes I forget to breathe. No joke. Like I'll be concentrating so hard on something that I don't realize I'd been holding my breath the entire time.

Sometimes I talk aloud and don't realize it. I know, hard to believe for a sane girl like me. When I realize I have been talking out loud, I just pretend I'd been singing to myself, and people usually buy it. What? That's not weird.

Sometimes I wake up with the strangest thoughts in my head. Monday's thought? "Oprah's sampled every biscuit in Boston." Really, Mel??? Really?!?! Where did that even come from?

Sometimes I pretend that walking around NYC during rush hour is an obstacle course, and I find myself dashing and darting around people. Then I realize that I am a total shmuck and I need to calm the fuck down.

Sometimes, in real life, I pretend I am in one of my improv classes. This tends to piss people off. I was having an argument with my sister the other night, about nothing just because I was enjoying the banter. Then I realized that she was getting really pissed off (and spoiling my fun).

Sometimes I think about random things, try to remember to tell people about them, and then never do. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is... thanks for humoring me as I make my poor and subtle attempts to humor you.

Until next time, kids.

I Do Not Wish I Could Quit You

Are these things random? Or is the universe trying to tell me something?



Because I really do have a sweet spot in my heart for Italy - the language, the culture, the food... is this the universe's way of telling me that it's time to let go? But I can't!! I love Italy!

Or is this mere coincidence? I can't seem to figure it out!

WTF?!

'I Love Jesus' Meets 'Young Mother'

It's approximately 7:37am. You're seated near the back of an eastbound M96 bus. An older woman is standing next to you. You don't make eye contact with her, but you notice that she is carrying a very large tote bag. The bag keeps digging into you but you keep your mouth shut. It's only a 5 minute ride, only a 5 minute ride..., you think to yourself.

You look up at the woman and begin to study her. You notice her mismatched clothing, nappy hair, and orange baseball cap. It reads: "I Love Jesus"

Hah, you think to yourself, she seems like quite the character. (Little did you know that would be some improvisational foreshadowing.)

You notice that the volume on your iPod seems to be a little low, and that there's some background noise that's beginning to be a nuisance. As you reach for the volume control on your iPod, you notice "I Love Jesus" lady brawling with another passenger. Like most New Yorkers, you mute your iPod and pretend to still be listening.

"You're squashing my child!", the Young Mother exclaims.

"No I ain't!", shouts "I Love Jesus".

"Yes you are!! You got pushed, but then you pushed directly onto my child! Why would you do that! You squashed my child!", yells the young mother.

"No I didn't. You stupid!", shouts "I Love Jesus". The whole bus is listening at this point.

"Excuse me, you squashed my child," the Young Mother says cooly.

"You stupid. You stupid. YOU STUPID. You stupid, you know 'dat? You stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!!!!!", shouts the crazy "I Love Jesus" lady.

At this point, the Young Mother tells her daughter to stand up and move a few rows ahead, far away from "I Love Jesus". Young Mother looks back at "I Love Jesus".

She is fired up.

"You stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!!!!!", shouts "I Love Jesus".

Finally, the bus stops and the doors open. "I Love Jesus" exits, all the while muttering to herself, "You stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Your opinion on the whole scenario?

Poor Jesus. He's being so poorly represented by this crazy old bat. He probably wishes that she'd never purchased that silly hat. It's so not his style anyway.

Salmon, you disgust me.

Dear Salmon,

Hey there, pal. How are ya?

Not too good I hear. I'm doing well though, but I'll save that for another time. I wanted to bring up something very important, and I hope you're willing to hear me out. Remember how we used to be really good friends and hang out all the time? Well, this has caused me to question my loyalty. And quite frankly, I'm not sorry. My own well-being could be at risk, and it would be all your fault!

Please explain to me how some dude in Chicago ate one of you and got a 9-foot long tapeworm. That is just plain guh-ross. Can't you keep it together, Salmon? I'd hate to stop ordering the raw version of you every time I go for sushi. Seriously, my selection will become extremely limited. You're one of the few raw fish I enjoy, so please stay clean.

Also, they say that tapeworm resonates in your muscles, so maybe if you worked out a little more they wouldn't be able to burrow deep inside? They also say that tapeworm comes from dog shit, but I don't even want to go there with you right now.

Please get your act together, Salmon, or else I don't think we can be friends anymore.

I hope you understand.

Regards,
Mel

Haiku Monday: Elation

This is the place where I passive-aggressively talk about stuff that bothers me. And there's a lot of little things that peeve me. The list is endless. So, hooray, it's Haiku Monday!

thank goodness for malfunctioning workstations // there's cause for celebration // today i barely notice your mastication, AMEN

Fantasy Friday

Cue dream sequence.

It's near sunset. I'm sitting on a purple and white striped beach chair, 20 feet from the shoreline of Waikiki Beach. The beach is deserted. I'm staring out at the water, sipping on a really strong cocktail that barely tastes like it contains any alcohol. I dig my toes into the sand, until the cold, damp particles envelope both my feet. In the distance I see a figure walking towards me. I can't really tell who it is. He looks strangely familiar, wearing a fedora-type hat, sunglasses, a brown t-shirt, and plaid shorts; he's carrying a brown messenger bag and a green beach chair. When he gets about 30 feet from my chair, I gasp. It's Jason Mraz!

"H..hi," I stammer tipsily.

He comes closer and extends his hand.

"I'm Jason," he says softly.

We shake hands.

"Mel, my name is Melanie. Well, Mel. Or whatever you want." I nervously giggle.

"Cool," he says. "Okay if I set up my beach chair right here, Mel?" he points to the space right next to mine.

"Sure!!!! I mean suuuurrreeee," I say.

He sets down his messenger bag, unfolds his chair, and casually sits down. He removes his fedora and places it on top of his messenger bag. He turns towards me, removes his sunglasses, and says, "So whatcha drinking?"

"Oh, it's nothing," I say. "Just 'Sex on the Beach'."

You idiot, Melanie!! That's awkward!! Why would you say that!! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

But Jason just looks over at me and says, "That's cool. My favorite drink is actually 'Sex on the Beach' with you."

I spit out my mouthful of 'Sex' in a hose-like spray.

"W..what did you just say?" I stammer.

"You heard me," Jason says.

And he grabs my hand and...

SNORE!

THEN I WAKE UP.

Oh, shit!!!!! I just dozed off at my desk again. Damn it, Melanie! Damn it! I hope no one noticed.

I look around just to make sure and luck for me everyone seems to be immersed in their work. Close one. Phew!

That's what I get for sleeping on the job. TGIF.

Hooked on'a Peelin'

I suck at peeling bananas. I just can't seem to get it right. I end up either splitting the banana peel on the side or squishing the top by ripping the stem in the wrong direction.

Does this mean something?

I went to ask.com in hopes of finding the answer to my peeling problems, and came across this article. As I began reading it, my eyes slowly started closing, and I drifted into a banana daydream. I quickly snapped out of it and realized, "Oh God! I'm reading an article about peeling bananas!"

I sped-read the rest of the article and started to shake my head back and forth. "How can someone write a whole article about bananas and peeling methods? And who the hell would read it?" Oh, wait, that would be me.

All in all, I gained very little from this experience. I have learned that some people peel the banana from the top which is actually the bottom (trippy), some people have issues with the "stringy" pieces left over from the peel (please go see a shrink), and some people peel bananas from the middle and scoop out the seeds (freaks), but there's no mention of people like me. People who just end up mushing the hell out of the banana, and getting sticky banana guts all over their hands. I guess there's no hope for me and my poor banana peeling techniques.

But the show must go on. I will still eat my daily breakfast banana. I might not peel it according to conventional (or unconventional) methods, but... I think I'm okay with that.

WTF Wednesday: Music to My (F)ears

Watch, listen, enjoy (?), and learn a valuable lesson: frogs are not born singers. And this guy's not even a frog. Ponder that.

Greta and the Staredown

I take late lunchbreaks. Everyone knows that. Even Greta, which is probably why today she tried to take advantage of me.

As I'm walking back to my desk today, I see Greta from afar, shuffling about near my desk. As I get even closer, I see that she is dusting my desk. I approach my desk and Greta turns to face me.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

She looks at her garbage can and back at me (which I did not take offensively at that point in time but now, looking back on it, could be kind of insulting).

"Sorry, so sorry," says Greta. She smiles, nods her head ever so slightly, grabs hold of her can, and drives it away.

"That's right, Greta," I think to myself, "Walk away. Walk away and never come back... unless you come before 8am or after 5pm."

I smile satisfactorily, pull my chair out, sit down at my desk, and stare right at today's afternoon snack: a green apple. Mind you, an exposed green apple.

Did you dust it today, Greta? Did you!?! Damn you, Greta. Damn you.

Finally! A practical and OCD-friendly bathroom accessory!

Are you obsessed with Purell? Hate dealing with your personal hygiene day in and day out? Do you wish that you had a bidet? Ever have that not-so-fresh feeling? Well Comfort Wipe has come along to assuage* your worries. Finally, a solution!

If you'd prefer a stick up your ass to your own hand, this product is for you.

Do you think that, in the "olden days" people used a stick with leaves wrapped around it? NO. They probably just used a leaf because no one had thought of using a stick! The Comfort Wipe inventor is going to totally strike it rich. Lucky bastard. Wish I'd thought of it myself. I can't even comprehend the mind-boggling-ness! To put it simply: it took thousands of years for someone to finally invent a tool that makes ass-wiping easier, cleaner, and more-efficient. This is one for the books, kids! A HISTORICAL BREAKTHROUGH!

It's official. My mind is blown.

I am so excited I could pee. Actually, I have to pee. Wish I had my very own Comfort Wipe at the office, stowed away in my desk drawer, alongside my paperclips. If I had my very own Ass-Wipe (for short), I'd take it right out of my drawer, carry it the 200 feet to the bathroom, whilst beaming with pride. "That's right, assholes," I'd think to myself. "I have a 'Comfort Wipe' and you don't!" Then I would cackle to myself, walk past my coworkers, down the hall, and all the way to the last stall. "Chumps!"



[*Assuage: one of my high school vocabulary words. My friends and I used a very special mnemonic to remember its meaning. "Assuage. Kind of sounds like 'sewage'. Sewage is soothing. Assuage." I kid you not. So it was only fitting for this word to be used in such a circumstance.]

The Gay Test

In the spirit of Haiku Monday, all I have to say about this link is:

suck it, you ignoramus // why don't you crawl inside your son's closet // and hide away

Haiku Monday: Tweet, Tweet

Shout out to, well, me! I've been turning to Twitter lately to vent my work frustrations, and it's sure been paying off. I've become a poet of sorts - a lyrical truth-teller - as I like to call myself, and I have found it to be amusing and therapeutic.

So, in case you've missed out on my haiku-"tweets" over the past week, a couple of them have been posted below. Stay tuned for many, many more to come. (FML)

why must i spell everything out // for the stupid people // they will drive me to drink on the job
8:24 AM Jun 12th

the way you chew your pretzel nuggets // makes me want to fall in love // with my workload
about 2 hours ago

P-O-R-N spells lawsuit! Very good, kids!

This story almost makes me wish I worked in a school. I would KILL to watch Camp Rock during my work day. Even better than Camp Rock? PORN. Seriously though, if these pre-schoolers' parents are this upset by a 45-second showing of hardcore, explicit porn, then they should really get over it. According to my own scientific research, exposure to pornography before the age of 8 might just be the best form of contraception. Imagine... you're a poor, little naive 5-year old, sitting with your classmates, all excited to watch your favorite Disney movie. No job to worry about. No bad economy to keep you awake at night wondering if you'll have a penny to your name the next day. Not a care in the world. Now imagine a hardcore sex scene appearing on the screen in place of Demi Lovato and The Jonas Brothers. Confused? YES. Scared? INDEEDY. Intrigued? NO.

My scientific findings show that it takes just 45-seconds of porn-watching to scar a pre-schooler for life. So, really, their parents should be happy. They needn't worry about giving the dreaded "birds and the bees" talk, and furthermore teenage pregnancy and sexual experimentation at a young age aren't even options. Sex will be feared by these kids throughout childhood, adolescence, college, adulthood, and senior citizenry. They just may never want to have sex. EVER. Parents, rejoice!

But this theory now begs the question: how to prevent drug/substance abuse? My answer: take the 5-year-olds on a trip to an AA-meeting. If that doesn't do the trick, then take them to a rehab center during detox. That should do it.

Israeli Kugel

I came across an interesting news story today about a "kosher" search engine that was created for the Ultra-Orthodox Jews, specifically in Israel. And guess what it's called? No, not Jewgle or Joogle... but Koogle! Like Kosher Google! Except that I'd rather it stood for Kugel, a traditional Jewish dish because, let's face it, kugel (or "koogle") would be cooler and kugel is awesome.

Side note: The New York Times article that I read spoke about how Koogle was created for safer-browsing, to eliminate the temptation that the vast world of the internet has to offer (i.e. scantily clad women, inappropriate surfing - read: porn, and making purchases on the Sabbath - forbidden by Jewish law). I found it totally ironic that there was a racy (well, sorta) Canon ad along the right side of the article.

Greta and the Green Apple

Yesterday, as I'm working at my desk, Greta comes by with her yellow duster and garbage can in tow. I shrug my shoulders and carry on with my work. Usually Greta comes by to dust the empty desks. But yesterday, well yesterday, was a special day.

Greta shuffles over to me, pushing a tall garbage can, and holding a yellow duster in her right hand.

Greta: "Em, ekskuse me. Please to get up from desk."

I stare at Greta in disbelief.

Greta: "Please to get up. Must clean area."

I take my iPod with me and roll my chair back a couple of feet. Greta looks at my desk , then looks at me. She tilts her head downward and looks at me above the frames of her eyeglasses.

Greta: "Please take cup of water."

I fearfully scurry over to my desk and take my cup of water. Greta smiles smugly and I watch as she proceeds to dust her yellow duster all across the surface of my desk, my phone, my computer, my tape dispenser, my scissors, my cell phone, and my apple. WHAT, MY APPLE!??!!?

Greta finishes dusting, looks at me, and gestures to me that it's safe to go back to my desk. I follow suit. I look at my clean desk, surveying the area to see if her yellow duster really did the trick. As I scan the surface of my desk, I come across my afternoon snack. My green apple. My poor green apple. I shake my head, and take a sip of my water.

"Oh, Greta," I think to myself, "you just had to dust my fucking apple, didn't you?"

Greta walks away, rolling the tall garbage can, holding the yellow duster in her right hand, humming to herself. I then sneeze from all of the dust.

"Fucking Greta," I mutter aloud.

Animal Abuse is Just Not Funny

This is what happens when scientists run out of money and have to keep using the same test subject day in and day out. Poor Mendel, all cancer-ridden and covered in lipstick. At least he looks pretty...ish.