WOO HOO! Three more! Enjoy.
Okay, here's a question... It's personal, so don't answer it if you don't want to. What exactly do you take the Welbutrin for? I mean, have you been diagnosed with anything specific? I ask because it sounds like maybe you take it for reasons similar to why I take anti-bitch pills--PMDD.
Is General Bitchery a diagnosis? Nah, I've been diagnosed with depression several years ago, but I think I'm actually bipolar. Seriously, when I read back over my blog, it's pretty clear to me. Wellbutrin kinda helps take out the peaks and valleys and keeps me feeling steady. When I haven't taken them for a while and then I start again, I can totaly feel the difference.
Beebie calls them my Happy Pills ever since she saw the episode of My Name Is Earl in which Joy goes on medication ("Snapitty snap snap snap!") and CrabMan misses the old Joy. Fine with me.
Interesting coincidence, I never needed meds until FIL entered my life. But I guess the argument could be made that that would have been roughly the same time that R entered my life. Next -
What is your favorite thing to say when cursing like a pirate and why?
I like to say, "Johnny, my love, why don't you put on your damn sexy eyeliner and your damn Jack Sparrow costume and fuck me like the fuckin dirty whore that I am!"
That was an easy one.
I've been trying to come up with a question that a) I want to know the answer too, b) that is blog-worthy, and c) that would be something interesting for the great PK to answer.
Oh! I got it! And turn-about is fair play!
Oh, Penny Karma, what was your most embarassing moment. Please, tell us all about it. Because I know that in order for it to embarrass you, it must be a doozy.
Thanks you so much.
Ah, I've been waiting for this one, especially from Poops, and I actually have one that I consider to be THE most embarrassing thing, and then there are a couple of sub-embarrassing moments that kinda help illustrate the enormity of the BIG one.
Let me start by saying that I am ALWAYS saying shit that just comes out wrong. I have no filter. I talk faster than I can think. This, I imagine, is why I prefer writing to talking. I can always go back and edit something I wrote, I can't un-say something I said. And there are many times when I wish I could.
One such time happened when I was in high school. I was assigned to do a group project with two of my best guy friends Bob and Scott.
Anyway, it was in 10th grade Western Civ class or some other class I had no interest in, and my friends probably knew I wasn't going to be much help (I was always a smart kid but I wasn't studious, big difference), so they basically told me flat out, don't worry about it, we got your back, we know what we're doing and you don't have to do anything and we're all going to get an A. Don't sweat it. And what am I going to say to that? Um... okay.
So it got to be the day of the presentation, and I literally had done NO work on this project, and I kinda felt a little bad about it. Mostly because I was afraid the teacher was going to ask me some random question just to see if I had any idea what the rest of the group was even talking about. I suddenly felt desperate to contribute.
Bob began copying the written outline he was holding in his hand onto the board so the class could follow along. Our teacher had an annoying habit of writing really crooked and slopey on the board all the time, and we used to give him shit about it. So Bob says, "Look, Mr. Belding, it's really easy to write in a straight line!! See??"
Mr. Belding answers, "Well, Bob, wait till you get to about your waist level, then it's considerably more difficult."
And then I said, loud enough for the entire class to hear,
"Oh, don't worry, Bob, I'll take care of everything below your waist."
And I wanted to die.
Yeah, so that's one example. There's another one from senior year when I was in my French class. There was some guy who came in as a guest speaker a few times, I forget why he was supposed to be interesting, but it was meant to be an immersion experience, where the teacher speaks no English at all (our regular teacher spoke English to us when necessary).
So this guest lecturer dude was talking and I was picking up bits and pieces and trying to formulate what he was saying into something I could understand. I thought at one point I was pretty sure he was talking about his family, and he said a word I didn't recognize, Jumeaux, which I looked up and found that it means twins. Great, I thought, I kindof get it. Sweet.
And then the guy came back a few weeks later or something, and I decided I was going to show him and the teacher that I had been paying attention. I was going to blow their minds and whip out this great new vocab word I'd learned. I was psyched.
I waited patiently throughout the dude's lecture, kinda not even listening to what he was saying, because I was so fixated on making sure I remembered the word right and visualizing my teacher's face when the guest guy patted me on the head and commended her stellar teaching skills. Seriously, I was all worked up and waiting for the end so he could ask us all Aves-vous des questiones?
And then my moment came. He asked us if we had questions. And I sat up really straight in my desk and raised my hand like Arnold Horshack. You don't need to understand French to get this next scene:
ME: Merci, monsieur. Comment vont vos gentiaux?
He looked puzzled.
Perhaps he hadn't heard me. Fuckin' French people.
ME: COMMENT VONT VOS GENITAUX?
I looked over at my teacher, who suddenly looked a lot paler and slack-jawed than she had in my imagination.
ME: Y'know... your twins? How are your twins?
And then I realized what I had said. It was the word that I had actually prayed I wouldn't accidentally say instead of the one I was supposed to say. Yes, I had asked the man how his genitals were. And I was absolutely fucking mortified.
But that's not the best one.
One summer when I came home from college I worked at a snack bar at the St. Louis Zoo. I was one of the few workers who was 21, so my manager, whose name was Dick Tuey (which I always thought was the sound a pube makes when you spit it out, but anyway), put me to work in the beer window.
And as a public service to all of you, I'll let you in on a little secret. The beer at the zoo has less alcohol in it than the beer you would buy in a store. That was the summer I learned about 3-2 beer.
As you can imagine, I loved working the beer window. The only thing was that I couldn't lift those kegs and change them out by myself. Still can't.
So one particularly hot day just as a Zoo Guest walked up to my window, about to order a cold frosty Budweiser Product (if you're from St. Louis, you can read that in a Mike Shannon voice, if you want), and right before he could order I remembered that the last beer I had poured had been the tell-tale end-of-the-keg foam.
Here's the scene. And it actually helps if you read my part out loud. You'll see why.
Zoo Guest: I'll have a -
ME: Just a second, sir, I have to go get Dick because my Busch is empty.
Dick, my boss. Busch, the beer.
True story, swear to God.
It's a much better story after many beers, but yes, folks, that is the absolute most embarrassed I have ever been.
Friday, August 10, 2007
WOO HOO! Three more! Enjoy.