Thursday, May 22, 2014

True Life: How I Almost got Regina George'd

Happy Thursday dingleberriez.   

Have you ever been asleep and awake at the same time?  Like, you’re asleep and at the same time cognizant of the fact that you have to be awake but your body physically won’t let you be?  That’s what happened to me this morning.  I couldn’t will myself out of bed; I couldn’t force my eyes to open and I couldn’t plant my feet onto the floor.  It’s a pretty scary experience and one I would dramatically equate with waking up in the middle of surgery and not being able to alert your surgeons.  It was as if I had slept myself into a state of paralysis.  Finally, at around 9am (120 minutes after my alarm had gone off) my body jolted upright in high alert and I realized I was fucked.  The potent morning sun shone brightly through my window, birds were chirping loudly almost as if to celebrate my predicament, and my neighbor’s lawn mower roared as if to say “You’re screwed!  You’ve already missed your meeting with your boss!  You should have never stopped taking adderral!  You don’t have enough time to shower or blow dry your hair so you’re going to show up to work with a Jheri curl and everyone will ask you “Are you doing something different with your hair!?”, You’ve slept so late that the Price Is Right is probably halfway done you malfunctioning dick!, UP AND ADAM!” 

Who’s Adam?

I sprung from my bed, threw on my go-to Banana Repube-lic pantsuit from circa Two Thousand and Fugly, slipped on two different shoes and hurled myself into my bathroom to brush my teeth and try and “fix” myself.  If you’ve ever slept with me (that felt awkward to write) or seen me directly after I wake up then you’re familiar with The BuntNest.  Whenever I sleep, it’s as if the hair Godz descend upon my person and set up shop on my head on a mission to create the knottiest, most disheveled, tangled afro ever in existence.  I attribute my unruly post slumber ‘do to a rather severe, yet undiagnosed case of RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome) – something I’ve been suffering from ever since I was in the womb (belated sorry for all the rib kicking, mom).   All that tossing and turning takes a toll on the ol’ mane in ways you cannot imagine.  It’s the kind of shit nightmares are made of.    In college, I frequently enlisted my friend Sarah to blow-dry my hair and tame the B-Nest.   She would approach the challenge much like a soldier would a battle armed with a double barrel hair dryer, anti-frizz serum, 2 round brushes and a paddle brush.  In the end, she got tennis elbow and had to retire her post.  My point: I need a blow dryer like R. Kelly needs golden showers.



Given my AM tress terrors, it is imperative that I allot myself about 45 minutes to wash the beast that is the BuntNest, detangle it and then blow dry it.  So this morning, I tried my breast to depuff the BuntNest but it was really no use.  I called a spade a spade and tied it up into a high pony tail, slathered on some lip gloss and bolted.  There’s actually something liberating about leaving the house looking like complete shit.  I charged out of my front door, nearly tumbling down my steps as I passed my neighbor who surveyed my “situation” thrice.  That’s right, the worm lamb did a triple take.  I rulked down Fillmore street and all of the sudden a Volvo station wagon pulled up next to me  “Hi Awexandwaaaa!”  I heard a little voice yell.  It was the kids I babysit for and their mother who looked at me as if to say “I cannot believe I entrust this gurl with my children sometimes.” “Hi little Tomothan, gotta run!”  I yelled as I leapt across the street to try and catch the bus.  I was so frazzled I didn’t realize that the bus had begun moving just as I crept in front of it.  That’s right, I nearly got hit by a bus this morning.  I almost became Regina George.


via
I boarded my nemesis the bus and was wildly reprimanded by the driver, a big black man who didn’t seem to give one fuck about the fact that I had almost just kicked it.  ‘Gurrrrl, WHAT DA HAAAAILLL IS WRONG WITCHU!?  Das not how you CATCH A BUS!”  He berated me for another 3 minutes as my fellow passengers looked on, psyched that they got front row seats to a Jheri Curl gurl getting taught a life lesson by a bus driver who looked like SinBad

This is how I felt as Sinbad yelled at me

Despite the traumatic events of the morning and the adrenalin pumping through my veins, I was still tired.  So tired, in fact that I decided to pick up some coffee.  It had been probably 3 years since I’d had coffee.  In shart short, I hate coffee.  When God designed me he decided he was going to make me a person who couldn’t withstand the effects of coffee.  But, I needed to wake up and desperate times called for desperate measures.  Also, YOLO (this sentiment really hit home with me especially after the bus debacle).  I waltzed into Starbucks amongst the masses of suited businessmen and aggressive ladies in their Ann Taylor suits and began assessing the menu.  I’m actually a regular at this particular Starbucks.  I go in there almost everyday to pick up breakfast.  They’ve recently sharted to sell hard boiled eggs so normally I’ll grab a couple of those, place them onto the counter like a generous chicken would, pay up, take my eggs like an Indian giving chicken would, and get the fuck out of everyone’s way because I always get the feeling that me getting my measly eggs is not nearly as important as Carl the Banker getting his triple shot of venti espresso or whatever. 
THE DREADED SHORT CUP 

The baristas generally recognize me.  I assume this based upon the "no coffee right, just the eggs?" I get from several of them.  That's right, I'm the fucking egg gurl amongst a sea of Varsity coffee drinkers.  I actually felt excited to finally be able to fit in with my fellow patrons.  The first thing that entered my mind: What the fuck do I order? "Yes hi I'll have a tall half-skinny half-1 percent extra hot split latte with two shots of decaf and one shot of regular with whip cream," I heard people screaming at the baristas.  I panicked when the Starbucks midget asked me for my order. "Coffee." I answered, sounding like a caveman. "I want some coffee."   She looked surprised and I gave her an “I know.  Don’t shart with me” look and then asked her what the smallest cup they had was.  “You’re going to want to go with the “short” cup.  Something about the way she said it felt degrading.  Drinking the “short” coffee felt like the equivalent of riding the “short" bus (AKA the bastard stepchild of the bus that almost hit me this morning). 

One day later... 


Let's just make a long story shart, shall we?  I made it into work.  I drank my coffee.  I took breaks throughout the morning to pace back and forth down the hallway much like a hamster running in a wheel.  I had to interview 3 candidates in a row (fyi, I'm a recruiter.)  You're familiar with speed dating, correct?  Welp, I think based on my preformance yesterday I've earned the right to coin the term "speed interviewing."  Moral of the story: I am never drinking coffee again, nor am I ever planning to almost get hit by a bus again.  I like Haribo gummi bears too much. 

Finally, I would like to apologize for clogging your facebook newsfeedz last week but I was really excited to share my first ever Toe Pick interview featured on my very cool friend Summer's amazing site Rapture&Relish.  Check it out HERE and please like her page by clicking HERE.  She is the shizzzz.  

I am ready to take this blog to the next level so if anyone has experience in graphic design and wants to help me change this ghetto format, I would be grateful and will pay you in egg rollz.  E-mail me: toepicksf@gmail.com
me and my faves
xo, 
Nige