The Coleslaw Incident

One thing that you would probably enjoy knowing about me, is that I am a fucking clumsy ass mess. Really, at any given time or place, I'm a 108lb bull in a china shop. By body is perpetually covered in horrifically unsexy bruises from run-ins with furniture, gym equipment, walls, canines, and any other object that might have a chance encounter with my person. I am not exaggerating this whatsoever -- to the extent that my doctor once prodded me to admit that I was a victim of domestic abuse. The latest crop of bruises include some scabby ones on my wrist and forearm from falling off a barstool. It was not one of my finer moments, considering that I wasn't exactly drunk at the time.

Luckily for me, I'm also fairly resilient. I've never broken a bone despite various feats of injury, which include getting thrown on my face by a wave as a kid, and having my braces insert themselves into my lower lip, getting hit head-on by a truck (a truck!) on my bike when I was 15, and the recent incident with a patch of ice that sent the bone in my elbow tearing through both my skin and a $150 cashmere sweater.

Some of the clumsiness is inherent -- after all, I was born pigeon toed. This was self corrected after the torment of junior high set in coupled with threats of surgery from my parents, who hated having a "defective" kid. But some of it is just plain laziness. One thing I would probably benefit from learning is not to pick up containers by their lids. This morning while preparing breakfast, I sent an entire canister of oatmeal careening to the floor. Sophie looked at the mess, and then with perfect comedic timing, darted her head up to look at me, eyes as wide as dinner plates. Since it was just oatmeal, (and not broken glass like the last time this happened) I laughed. This seemed to rest her nerves, and she tentatively approached the mess on the floor. Only after I said, "It's okay, you can have some" she gingerly tasted a nibble and then looked up at me again, confused as to whether or not she was supposed be be enjoying this impromptu snack.

As I was cleaning up dry oatmeal this morning, I got to thinking about the Coleslaw Incident. The Coleslaw Incident was one of the most fantastically outstanding messes I've ever had the good fortune of making in my entire life. I can't think of too many complimentary things to say about my mother, but if nothing else the woman makes a mean fucking coleslaw. The perfect combination of sweet and savory -- my mother's coleslaw is a finely-shredded (no prepared bags for this lady) work of art.

It was on Easter Sunday a few years ago, and Mr. Salty and I were once again grudgingly spending the holiday at my parents house. We got there early as usual, with the intention of pulling our typical "eat and run." So the two of us sat in the family room, bored out of our skulls while my dad was upstairs getting showered and dressed and my mother was in some stage of holiday meal preparation. It suddenly occurred to me that the kitchen was unoccupied, so I decided to sneak the coleslaw out of the fridge to score a little taste.

It should be duly noted, that when my mother makes coleslaw, she doesn't fuck around with quantity. If she's gonna shred and chop all of the shit, she's gonna make it worth her time. So I pull an enormous, lidded tupperware bowl out of the refrigerator containing no less than a gallon of coleslaw. I am not making this up. I set it down on the counter, and with a serving spoon dug out a heaping spoonful. Instead of doing the rational thing, which would eating the spoonful of coleslaw, and then putting away the bowl of coleslaw with two unoccupied hands, I instead chose to attempt to hold the bowl still with the elbow of the hand holding the spoon while I tried to squeeze the lid back on with my free hand.

Well. As I pressed on the lid trying to affix it to the lip of the far side of the bowl, the bowl did pretty much exactly what the laws of physics would have it do -- which would be shoot out like a greased pig from between my elbow and side, coming to a brief Wile E. Coyote stop in mid air, before plummeting straight down to the kitchen floor.

Now this is where the fantastic part comes in -- somehow, amazingly -- the trajectory, velocity, and position of the Earth around the sun made the conditions just right for the bowl of coleslaw to literally explode. It looked like a coleslaw bomb went off in my parents kitchen. There was not a conceivable surface in the room that was not completely covered in coleslaw. It was on the floor. It was on the ceiling. It was on the counter. It was on the underside of the counter. It was in the crevices of the cupboard doors. It was on me, totally caking up my right leg. It was matted in Sophie's fur (who was present for the day's festivities) and from earlier in this story, is pretty much accustomed to the sort of thing happening by now. If Mr. Wizard (God rest his soul) tried to recreate this scene, I assure you he would fail. It was just fucking incredible.

And I was just fucking horrified. I think a little wheeze of air came out from between my lips as blinding panic set in. As I took in the state of my parent's coleslaw covered kitchen, for a moment I completely forgot that I was a 26 year old who could leave whenever I wanted and imagined the obscene degree of ass kicking I was about to receive. But then as the menagerie of animals came running in for their Easter feast, and I witnessed the now two dogs and two cats furiously eating coleslaw off of the floor -- I remembered that I was an adult, so, tough shit mom and dad. Only then did I burst out hysterically and manically laughing before going to find my mother by calling, "Ohhh Mo-om!" in a sing-songy voice.

The the end, there was still enough coleslaw left in the bottom on the bowl (I told you, it was a lot of fucking coleslaw) to salvage for dinner; and I have to say it will probably go down in the chronicles of my personal history as the best Easter ever.

Salty Dogs

I'm going to follow in TK's lead, mostly because I haven't posted all week and I'm sick of looking at that fucking plate.

These are the Salty Dogs. And before anyone makes any dipshit jokes -- the fisherman came with the house. Dammit. As to why anyone would have thought a giant nautical themed statue would make an appropriate addition to a cabin in the woods of Eastern Pennsylvania is anyone's best guess. But we decided to keep him anyway.

Moving on! This is Sophie -- a full bred Australian Shepherd. Sophie in a nutshell, is pretty much the awesomest dog ever. We're talking Lassie or Rin Tin Tin quality of dog, here. She has an uncanny knack at following verbal instructions, even if they're spoken in an offbeat, "Sophie, be a pal and go lay down over there" kind of way. Unfortunately for Mr. Salty she only follows my verbal commands, so after getting ignored while pleading with her to do something, he'll usually ask me to grace her with a request, to which she always immediately complies. She also catches frisbees like a pro.

Here she is blending in. I think she thinks she's a lioness...

And here she is enjoying the bed of her human counterparts, per usual.

Ivy is a Pitty Bull/Boxer mixed breed. She's very, very naughty and will often do things such as munch on plants and throw them up all over the house, or run away in the middle of a snowstorm so I get my car stuck in a snow embankment trying to retrieve her. But she makes up for her naughty behavior by being extremely patient and mild mannered, as evidenced by these photos.

"Take this fucking thing off me." Playing dress-up in Mommy's old tank top.

I like to refer to this as her "Mr. Burns" pose because she reminds me of that time Marge painted Mr. Burns naked. I swear we feed her.

Anita Shower

Let's get something out the the way real quick. Why yes, I am a horrible person! If you're not a regular, and feel as though you may have a problem with this; go ahead and just skip out now.

Everyone else, thanks for sticking around! From time to time, both on this site and in real life, I make reference to a blind roommate I had in college. Because it's pretty much always a hit, over the past decade I've told the story of my blind roommate more times than I can count. And now, armed with my newfound powers of wordsmithery, I think it's about time I shared the story with the rest of the world.

It was the summer of 1996, and I was anticipating my Freshman year of college. Like most resident Freshman I was eagerly awaiting my roommate assignment, my head filled with fantasies of a new Best Friend or partner in crime. Although more realistically I should have expected that fate and luck would continue to shit on me as it had done much of my first 18 years of life, which naturally turned out to be the case.

Anita was from Leet, West Virginia. The phone number given with her contact information led me to her Aunt's residence, who in turn gave me a number to contact Anita where she currently inhabited at an Institution for the Blind. I was horrified. When I told my parents, my father pitched a fit and threatened to call the school. Somehow that horrified even me more. Inevitably, since my nature to rebel against my parents overrode my not wanting to live with a blind girl, I decided to be Mother fucking Theresa and step up to the plate.

My first encounter with Anita was at 5:00AM, the day after all the other Freshman moved in. I was sleeping in nothing but a T-shirt and underwear when Anita, her redneck uncle, bleach blonde cousin (wearing jeans with cut-outs going the whole way up the leg) and the Resident Assistant came crashing in without notice. It was a dreadful harbinger of what the next four months were to bring.

Living with Anita was awful. She was for one thing, a nasty and unpleasant person. After a week I gave up trying to make conversation with her. From my observations, I'm also pretty sure she was kind of faking the whole "being blind" thing. She had even admitted to me once that she wasn't 100% blind! To watch her walk by herself, she would breezily swing her cane back and forth; when people approached she would hastily smack it around. I can't even tell you how many times people told me she hit them with her cane.

Blindness notwithstanding, by far the worst aspect of living with Anita was her deplorable hygiene, (or lack thereof.) Anita smelled. Anita smelled bad. Anita didn't brush her teeth, or wear deodorant. Anita didn't shower once the entire semester, hence the nickname. Sunday through Thursday nights Anita would take baths. In the dorm bathtub. Aside from the whole "stewing in your own filth" argument against taking baths; it should be noted that the dorm bathtub was also a shower combo. And for some reason, it was the only shower that didn't go scalding hot when someone flushed the toilet. So since it was being used as a public shower all day long, not only was Anita stewing in her own filth, but everyone elses, as well. And yes, even when it was "her time of the month." Let that sink in for a hot minute while your gag reflex spasms.

Anita also had hair down to butt. I wouldn't call it a style, per se... More like, 'God gave me this hair and I'm just gonna let nature fucking run with it. So after her bath every night, she would attempt to run a brush through the sopping ghastly mess, and immediately go to sleep. Let me tell you, the smell that cultivated from that damp hair overnight... If you've ever bathed a dog, imagine that smell only ripened to the Nth degree by being trapped in a tiny concrete dorm room. And since she didn't bathe at all on the weekends (suffice to say I went home every weekend that semester) when I'd arrive back to the room Sunday night after she'd been holed in there all weekend, opening that door was like unleashing the odor of something dead. I had to wash every article of my clothing after I moved out.

So after hearing all that, it probably won't surprise you that Anita's nutritional habits were equally as appalling. The three food groups were: pizza, Pepsi and candy. Despite being lazy and rather unintelligent, between her low income status and disability Anita was getting a totally free ride at the University. And although her room and board were fully covered, she spent all of her disposable grant money on junk food. To watch the girl eat Skittles was like Chinese Water Torture. Since her teeth were basically rotting out of her mouth, she ate them with her face contorting in pain as if she were chewing pieces of glass.

One day, out of what I believe was a combination of boredom and curiosity at the reckless abandon of a blind person who was so carelessly sloppy and unorganized, I went through some of Anita's belongings. I know. Horrible person. We've covered it already. In the bottom of her closet I found a toothbrush collecting dust, mint in package. In her desk, an unorganized mess of braille papers and the ID card pictured above. I don't know what it was, but something about that slightly confused, slack-jawed expression of a poor blind person getting their ID photo taken made me absolutely squee with uncontrollable giggles. I'd like to say what happened next came as a result of my adolescence, but let's face it; at 29 I'd probably do it again. Apprehending the ID card, I ran down the hall to a friends room, where we both squee'ed with laughter, then ran out to the lobby photocopier and proceeded to copy and enlarge the ID until it was the size of a sheet of paper. Over a decade later, I still hold onto this tattered little scrap of paper in remembrance of this one fond memory of my time with Anita.

Moral of the story? Not all blind people are stinky, and not all people from West Virginia are simpleminded yokels. (Or, I'm assuming, anyway. I don't believe I've ever met any other blind people and/or West Virginians.) But if you happen across someone who meets all four classifications? Do not even think about living with them.

Thanks for Watermarking My Face, Asshole!

So here's an interesting thing. Apparently now at sporting events they have photographers come around and take your picture, which you can later view on their website and have printed on a variety of tacky crap for an exorbitant fee. As you see, the images are carefully watermarked, (so don't even think of stealing it for your myspace page-- thief!) and embedded so you can't even yank them off the page. As if I don't know how to use a simple screen grab.

Mr. Salted organizes these group baseball events once a year for his work buddies, and makes sure to always plan them on "dollar dog night." The hot dogs themselves are wrapped in foil, kind of burnt and squished, and on occasion shot out of a cannon by that lovable big green nutsack, the Phillie Phanatic. But they're a dollar, people! And that? Is all you need to know.

Q: How many hot dogs can 110lb girl eat in one sitting?
A: That, my friends, is my dirty little secret.

Last night was a bit different than previous years events, because it just so happened that "dollar dog night" fell upon "college night." And you know that can mean only one thing: hot dogs on the field! I learned something else; if you think the average sports fan acts like an asshole at sporting events? (Or is that just a Philly thing?) Try attending one filled with college kid sports fans.

To give you some insight, last night there were a record breaking 11,000 walk-up tickets sold. A particularly meatheaded attendee actually berated the "lemon ice" guy (in a tone of voice which normally precedes fisticuffs) after he told him that there was no "walk up" beer service on account that it was college night; blissfully unaware that he himself had just completely justified the "no walk up beer service on college night" rule.

We made what was probably a sound decision to cut out an inning early. Although we missed the thrilling end of the game, we also missed the drunken post-game rioting which undoubtedly took place. I imagine it looked something like a giant arena-sized Slip 'N Slide made of beer and hog dog mush. Baseball rules.