Dining Alone

Catherine: Hey guys. I meant to write this post over the holidays, because that’s when this story takes place but guess what – I didn’t.

So – here it is now.

When I was about 8 or 9, I got a bright pink matching long-sleeved Barbie shirt and Barbie pants from a friend for my birthday. They were pajamas, but I didn’t understand that – I thought it was an outfit. My birthday was in March, but I so revered this outfit that I SAVED IT UNTIL THE FOLLOWING DECEMBER – Christmas Eve, to be exact. I wanted to debut the shit out of this because it was FIERCE.

Growing up, I didn’t have my own bedroom, I shared a room with my brothers that had no door, so I would have to change in the bathroom. On this particular Christmas Eve, once my entire family had arrived for dinner, I went into the bathroom to make my move. For the first time in my life, I also locked the door – I thought this was suuuuuper grown up. I put on my Barbie ensemble and was ready to greet the family, expecting nothing if not an obscene amount of praise. But. I couldn’t unlock the door.

The lock, you see, was a weird turnkey thingy, and I couldn’t get it to work. It wasn’t until people started to need to use the (only) bathroom that I had to sort of explain, um… I can’t open the door… It was horrifying. I thought I was going to be in there FOREVER. My family was coaching me, trying to explain, “Just turn it to the left, and lift it a little.” Nothing. I was crying. I was going to die, alone, in a bathroom, in my Barbie outfit that I now HATED. Finally, after probably 45 minutes, I was free, having unlocked the door successfully moments before my dad was going to unscrew the doorknob. But I was also humiliated. I had since changed out of my Barbie outfit, so I emerged in what I had been wearing before. I got a plate of food, and too embarassed to talk to anyone, I took it into the bathroom where I shut the door (I didn’t lock it, of course) and ate alone. I remember looking at the discarded pink ensemble with SO MUCH HATE and no, I never wore it again.

This was the first in a string of being locked in bathrooms moment in my life – another memorable one was locking myself in a bathroom in Lithuania and giving myself a full-blown panic attack. So. Now I always test a lock before I lock it to see how it works. Like, I still do that. Y’all, I got problems.

Jana: Oh lil Cath. Poor lil Cath.

I wish you still had the Barbie outfit. Did it have Barbie’s face on it? Or was it a million little Barbies in a pattern that covered all the cloth? I just wish I knew, for some reason. Either way, I’m delighted to picture you sitting on a toilet, face over your plate of food, refusing to leave the bathroom. And I’m happy to report that, just a few miles away, I was probably doing something similar right at that very moment, unaware that parallel me (you) existed.

Happy Anniversary: We Embarrass Ourselves In Song

Did you guys know that today is our blog anniversary?

Well, not today, specifically, but around this time. Ok fine, it was last week and we missed it. We forgot. We’re sorry. We’re busy people!

Anyway, to celebrate one year of sharing all of our embarrassments in this public forum (which, by the way, has meant a great deal to us), here are more embarrassments for you, the public, to consume.

Jana: As a high schooler, I took voice lessons. I took them SERIOUSLY, too, because I believed that I was a talented singer, as evidenced by the accolades I’d received for my starring role in “Peter Pan” in eighth grade, if not by the fact that I’d never been given a solo or been admitted into any select singing groups since entering high school (not because I didn’t audition, guys). This, I believed, was a great injustice; my cross to bear. My parents and voice teacher agreed with me.

My voice teacher was (and is) a wonderful woman who gave voice and piano lessons in her living room. Once a week, I stood there and sang various scales and “On My Own” from Les Mis and felt like – NO ONE KNOWS, but I am Very Talented. Sometimes the kid who had a lesson after me would overhear the end of whatever I was singing, and tell me I had “a nice voice!” as I exited the house. I lived for those moments.

Once a year, in the spring, my teacher held a recital. I participated in all of them, but the one that I want to talk about occurred in the spring of my final year as a voice student, and as a high school student, and as a legal child. That’s right: I was eighteen. A full five to ten years older than every other recital participant, whose ages ranged from about six to about sixth grade. I WAS THE OLDEST ONE.

My teacher’s son, who was in maaaybe 5th grade, had put together a band for this recital, and they had all learned to play Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated,” which was a big hit that year. Would I be the vocalist? My teacher asked me. YES, I SAID. I said yes. I have no idea why I said yes to this. I just said yes, and went to one rehearsal, and then showed up at the UU church on a Saturday afternoon to sing lead vocals to Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated” against a backing band of fifth graders.

And, I invited friends.

That’s right, two of my best friends were there. They heard me belt out “why you gotta go and make things so complicated? I see the way you actin like you’re somebody else gets me frustrated…” while wearing a floor length black skirt and a purple cardigan from Weathervane. Listen: they saw me. People saw me. I WAS EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD.

That’s all. Happy Anniversary! Here’s to another full year’s worth of horrible memories.

We hate ourselves.

Catherine: I love this. I obviously just fucking love this. And you idiots are lucky I let Jana post that picture of us. It’s a real doozy.

Dear readers, I am going to share with you a brief tale from my own singing misadventures. As you may recall I went to Catholic Lithuanian Heritage Camp (if you’re just joining us… that happened.) Every year there was a Talent Night that people would be all shy about being into, but then be really into it, but not like, SHOW that they were into it. There were a lot of repressed feelings is what I’m saying.

One year I had sang “Somewhere Out There” for the “audition” (nobody got turned down, ever, so it was just a rouse) and afterwards I was bullied by the camp bully to SING IT FOR HER. She had heard someone say I sang well and she THREATENED ME TO SING in a VERY SCARY WAY outside by the fire pit during free time before swimming. Terrified, I obliged. This was the same bully who later stole my disposable camera. When I told a counselor about it, she was confronted, at which point she claimed that the last name written on the camera in Sharpie – my distinctive Lithuanian last name – was her cousin’s last name and they had given her the camera. These were lies, people, and when I developed my film there were about five pictures she took of herself, selfies. I digress.

Flash forward a year, I had come to camp prepared. I had spent hours on AOL searching for the song lyrics to all my favorite songs – Alanis, Natalie Imbruglia, Jewel – the ladies of the 90s. This was all in preparation for that year’s talent night, because I was an artist, and that meant having my act together. Feeling wise beyond my years at 15, I settled on singing a Belle and Sebastian song, because I was different, see. I wasn’t going to sing “On My Own” (as someone always did, out of tune, and with a little bit too much fervor.) I was going to sing a song that spoke to me, that expressed my deep, deep feelings, and my immense  maturity. I was going to sing, “Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying.” So sing I did, a capella, to a crowd of people who DIDN’T KNOW THE FUCK WAS GOING ON. As I started the refrain – I shit you not – an immense thunderstorm started and the lights went out for a moment. Should I keep singing? Everyone was suddenly chattering to themselves, startled, and looking out the windows. I powered through because I was an ARTIST and this song was REALLY IMPORTANT. I fell asleep in my cabin that night with my discman on, listening to Miss Saigon, thinking about how nobody understood me (this wasn’t in fact a particularly unique truth, but it was certainly the case.)

Locked in Like Animals

Catherine: Oh hai. I know I promised you facebookers I’d have this story to you this past weekend, but guess what? JANA WAS IN TOWN so I didn’t have time to write because our lives were falling apart together for once. Nothing terribly disastrous happened, you’ll be sad to know. The nearest disaster was avoided so, mischief managed.

Anyways.

Last week I was on Lake Tahoe. More specifically, I was NOT on Lake Tahoe, but I was on Donner Lake. Of the Donner party, which you may recognize as the last known example of cannibalism in the United States. I’m not sure what that has to do with my story, other than it’s a pretty bad thing, and perhaps will help to set the stage as it were. Anyway, I was with a group of old friends, reunion-style, and we were staying at Donner Lake for a week to drink too much and get sunburns on the backs of our (my) legs.

We’re going to get into some sexy stuff, guys, so if you’re not up to it, OR IF YOU’RE MY MOTHER, stop reading.

We still here?

Mom, go away.

Ok.

I was at the supermarket in a little group trip to stock up on snacks and food for our mini army of 10 people. I very discreetly snuck away as we checked out as a group – “I forgot something! How SILLY of me!” And ugh, I hate this story. I hate telling it. Maybe you hate reading it.

But I needed to get like, UGH, condoms. UGH. SO ANYWAYS. I went to the aisle I had seen them in and reached up. But – they were locked up, like little sex prisoners. I was displeased. I went to the pharmacist stationed nearby and very meekly asked, “Uh, um” (dies inside) “How do I get … in there” (I point ashamedly in the general direction, I am not mature, not at all.) Without so much as giving two shits, the pharmacist calls over the intercom “Customer assistance, aisle 8.”

Me, carrying pickles, moments before the incident.

Not one minute later, the teenage boy with the Bieber cut who had been bagging my groceries saunters – like, really saunters – down the aisle. At the moment of impact (having arrived at the um, ‘penis covers’), ANOTHER employee, in her 50s, disgruntled, arrives.

“Whatdya need?”

“Hi, um, yeah, I needed some of the ………………. condoms.”

“Which ones?”

(Points, dies inside, teenage boy smirks)

The woman reaches up and retrieves them. Without so much as a key. No key needed. SPOILER ALERT: THEY WEREN’T LOCKED UP AT ALL. I AM JUST REALLY STUPID. I had not been able to get them down, not because they were locked up, but because I am terrible and not very bright.

The woman laughs, “They weren’t locked up.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok. I want to die, like, ok.”

“We’ll be talking about this in the breakroom later!”

“Oh, yeah? Cool…”

The teenage boy and I walk back towards the registers together because it’s a grocery store and there aren’t emergency exits for when you embarass yourself less for having sex than for being an idiot. As we pass the self check-out, I call to the boy, just behind me, “I’m just gonna do the self-checkout. I want to die right now.” (verbatim, guys.) He laughs at me, pointedly.

The self-checkout is packed, as it would be, but I spy an open register and throw the (cough) CONDOMS on the thingymajig JUST as the teenage boy saunters by (seriously, kid was a serial saunterer.) “Self-checkout, huh?” Cue him laughing, sauntering away. Cue him also probably thinking, “Does she know she has zits on her mouth right now? Like, 70? Poor girl.”

And scene.

Jana: This story makes me want to kill myself.

Here is a penis drawn on my leg LATER THAT DAY. I turned it into a cat.

Six Miniature Tales All Rolled Over and One Fell Out

Jana: Recently I was talking on the phone with my boyfriend, and he told me about his Friday night. “Pretty standard, just had a beer and a shower and watched part of Wall-E and fell asleep,” he said. A beer and a shower? Or a beer IN the shower? Oh yeah, it was a shower beer. This reminded me of the only time that I’ve tried this “shower beer” thing. Here’s what happened: I bought six raspberry beers on a Friday afternoon. Feeling like hey! I’m an adult who can do what I want!, I brought one into the shower with me. Within two minutes, I reached for it with a slippery, wet hand, and the bottle broke and there was glass everywhere and I had to get out of the shower and carefully step over the glass and then get dressed and clean it up immediately.

Catherine: Jana, I recommend you try shower beers again, perhaps with a can this time? It’s an exquisite experience and I don’t want your brokenglassplosion to deter you. But more importantly, this reminded me of the first time I ever shaved. I was in middle school, taking a bath (I only took baths until I got to college – I often would put in a CD, something like Missy Elliott or Alanis Morissette’s Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie – and listen to the entire thing and THEN get out. I also had a little remote for my CD player so I could skip tracks if I wanted. I have since learned these patterns are highly irregular.) BUT ANYWAYS  – I took my mom’s razor and shaving cream and shaved my legs. Blood going EVERYWHERE. But I didn’t stop there, I also shaved my stomach (???) and my arms. Bleeding. Surprised I didn’t bleed out.

Jana: Catherine. I cannot believe that you shaved your stomach. That is too good, and I am never going to stop picturing it, and next time we’re together I’m going to need to feel your stomach and see if it has weird stubbly hair on it because of this shaving incident?

Anyway, this reminds me of something that happened to ME with sharp things and blood! This past Monday, I went to the dentist for a regular teeth cleaning. It was standard: the hygienist prodded at me with that sharp metal tool they have, my gums gushed massive amounts of blood, she asked me questions knowing full well that it was impossible for me to answer while my mouth was stretched open. But then, her hand slipped and she dropped the sharp metal tool, and it hit my shoulder. “Oh lord, are you ok?” she asked quickly. I thought about my shoulder and couldn’t discern any issues, so I assured her I was fine. The examination continued, she told me I have a cavity and my gums are frighteningly weak, I left. No big deal.

But then the next morning I woke up and there was a little weird pimple-like dot on my shoulder, and it hurt. So what I’m saying is: I think I’m fine, let’s not get alarmed. But, I did go to the dentist for an average, normal, human visit, and ended up being stabbed and likely having MY OWN TOOTH GERMS injected into MY SHOULDER.

Catherine: I’ve never had a cavity! But I think I need to get my wisdom teeth pulled, meaning that I definitely do, a dentist told me, but I’m putting it off because it will cost me $28976048237604 and I don’t have that money (this is the same reason I am ignoring my last mechanic’s assertion that “your brakes don’t really work” before handing me a work order for $600 which I scoffed at.) But anyways, when I was growing up, my dentist had a thick Italian accent and referred to me as “Little Miss Muffet”. I don’t think he ever called me by my name, ever. He also refused to give me braces when I desperately wanted them, a behavior that confuses me on both my and his part.

Jana: Maybe he didn’t give you braces because you have straight teeth and didn’t need them, Cath. That would be my educated guess. But, ah well. Yes, childhood. Remember playdates? There is one from my childhood that I remember quite well for its simple agony. It was just a bike ride; on the Sunday after a sleepover, me, my friend, and my friend’s entire family went on a bike ride. I didn’t have a bike, but they had an extra one! So, I borrowed it. We biked for what felt like hours, and I was WAY behind and just SWEATING and working so, so hard to keep up. They yelled encouragement at me and I tried to act like it was fine and not draw attention to myself. When the ride somehow came to an end, it was discovered that there was essentially no air in the tires of  the bike I had been so kindly loaned, thus making my pedaling job as difficult as lifting huge weights with my tiny, weak legs. Everyone felt bad and apologized to me. I don’t remember feeling much of anything except just sheer exhaustion from continually being alive and in some variation of this scenario.

Catherine: I would like to VERY BRIEFLY tell of one of the first days I was still learning to ride a bike. I was in the elementary school parking lot and heading towards a wall and couldn’t stop, so I hit it full speed. The pain was intense. My brother ran to me to help but I was so humiliated that I pretended I was fine as tears welled up in my eyes and I handed him Swedish Fish from the brown paper bag that I had in my basket. This has been a theme of my life, pretending I’m fine as I’m about to cry and eating to mask the pain. Shit just got real, y’all. This blog is DEEP.

See? We’re deep. Also creepy, vacant, and wearing a see-through dress and a fluorescent necklace.

I Don’t Know You, But I’m Dying

Catherine: Were you around, dear reader, when I posted about Target? Yes? If you hated that post, don’t read on.

Two weekends ago, something bad happened. It caused me to actually PRAY TO GOD as it was transpiring, because I was in hell. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was in a show on Saturday that rehearses basically all day. That morning, I stayed in bed a little longer than I should have cuddling with my cat, and as a result had no time to make a smoothie for breakfast. Instead, I grabbed two brownies from the pan I had made the night prior (shut up.)

When I got to rehearsal, my friend had brought in two dozen donuts. Friday had been “National Donut Day,” and I hadn’t had a SINGLE donut, so I had half a donut. Feeling bold, I ate the other half shortly after. Four hours later, I had eaten three and a half donuts.

I went home for break and heated up some leftover brussel sprout pasta and yes, had some more brownies.

Following our final part of rehearsal, I went out with some castmates and ordered a veggie plate with falafel. I didn’t eat most of it (because it came literally ten minutes after everyone had already finished basically,) but I ate the falafel. I then went back to the theater to await the show, and yes, I did have another part of a donut.

Come show time, as I’m waiting backstage, my stomach starts to be all like, “HEY. HEY YOU!” And I do my best to ignore her (my stomach is a she.) She won’t shut up, so I pop two extra strength tylenol.

The show begins.

After the opening, I sit down and start to SWEAT PROFUSELY. Why? BECAUSE I NEED TO GO. I am PANICKED. The show has started, and JESUSCHRIST, I don’t think I can get on that stage because my stomach is EXPLODING and it wants me to PAY ATTENTION.

I realize that I may not make it onstage. I realize I may have to run off the stage in the middle of a scene. MotherFUCK. I have no choice but to tell my scene partner, (WHOM I HAD ONLY JUST MET – The show has a rotating cast, so I’m constantly meeting new members) that I was not feelin’ so great. She took it like a champ but was all like, “I don’t know your lines!” Fair. She didn’t. I had to impress upon her, and now the OTHER girl in the scene standing there waiting to go on in 30 seconds, that I might have to leave the scene.

I made it through the scene by the SKIN OF MY TEETH, and promptly ran backstage to the bathroom, but not before informing yet ANOTHER new person in the show that, “If I’m not back in time for this sketch, cover me??!! I will try to make it back!”

Stomach explosions ensue.

I get back backstage. There is still time before my next sketch. I promptly run to the bathroom again.

This time, I literally PRAYED in the stall. “God,” I said, “I’m SORRY that I ate 5 donuts, 4+ brownies, pasta, and a falafel. I WON’T DO IT AGAIN. I know you wanted some vegetable, I know you like nutrition, AND I’M REALLY VERY SORRY.”

I run back to the show, just in time to go onstage for a short monologue I have to do. As I step into the light, I begin to speak and then – the pain strikes – and my mind goes blank. I fear that I am about to SHIT MYSELF in front of an audience. Needless to say, I forgot my lines. If you’ve never forgotten your lines onstage you 1) must not be me and 2) know that it is NOT a good feeling. It is verrrrrry bad.

Somehow, SOMEHOW, I made up something vaguely similar to what I was supposed to say, survived the monologue, and collapsed backstage into a chair. There, I contemplated how many more relative strangers I would have to warn “I am having issues and I may have to run offstage at a moment’s notice. Nice to have metcha, by the way!”

In lieu of a picture, here is the footage of this monolgue from youtube. Now that you know what was going on on the INSIDE, watch this at the 27:37 marker and you can re-live my horrible, horrible 20 second hell:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4vnNtm4sGUg

The rest of the shower was a struggle. After it was over, I left the theater with a speed my body was utterly confused by – “Girl,” it said, “How you moving so fast after you ate all that shit today, huh? Why you do this?” I screamed back at it, “YOU MADE ME DO THIS. I am TAKING YOU HOME.”

Once home, still feeling horrible but only now with a LOT of self-loathing, I ate most of the rest of the brownies and watched “Young Adult,” which is a fucking stressful ass movie.

Jana: Catherine. I know there’s no need to point out the obvious, but … why did you get that falafel? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? Falafel, while a dear gift to the earth, is also straight from the devil: we know this. We’ve learned this. I just… I can’t believe you didn’t text me for my input on that. NEVER A FALAFEL BEFORE YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING. That is quite legitimately something that I live by.

That said, I’m very sorry for what you went through. And I’m sorry that you decided to watch “Young Adult” when it was all over. Would that Patton Oswald could have been there to help you out, like he helped out Charlize Theron by weirdly sleeping with her. Although I can see how, in this situation, it would have been better if he’d just been around to burp you or something.

How Did You All Get Here?: Relationship Edition

Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s back! That’s right, people KEEP FINDING US without meaning to. And, those people keep on being just so very weird and troubled. They are dating losers, their friends sound like real jerks, and a lot of them appear to have cold sores. It is an honor to count them as our own.

Here, for you, are some of the most recent searches that directed people to our blog.

Actual Search #1: “can you get a cold sore from someone passing gas in your face”

Catherine: Why are you hanging around this person?? DID THIS REALLY HAPPEN TO YOU?

Jana: Ok first of all, no. That’s ridiculous. Secondly, let’s talk about this relationship. Was this whimsical, or was it cruel? Take a look at the situation and really assess. And then either way, probably, get out of it and never look back.

Actual Search #2: “what did i do in my past life to deserve not to have a boyfriend”

Catherine: This is so tragic. I want to reach out to you through the internet and hold your little hand. He’s out there! But he may be, or probably is, dating somebody else.

Jana: Oh noo. I’m so saaad. Person, you’re probably ok! But with that attitude, it’s just not gonna work out for you. Be less sad. You’re making me sad. Stop it.

Actual Seach #3: “will he love me with cold sores”

Catherine: Less so.

Jana: Yes! Yes! Yes! (not guaranteed).

Actual Search #4: “why do my friends tell me to be loving when my boyfriend is cold fuck it”

Catherine: You’re confusing me. Fuck what, exactly?

Jana: Your friends are wrong maybe? Or, what do you mean by “my boyfriend is cold”? If he’s cold as in, calls you names and beats you, then your friends are very wrong – don’t be loving, the guy’s an asshole! If he’s cold as in, doesn’t buy you diamonds, but does make you dinner, then maybe you’re just a bitch.

Either way, it seems like you’ve already made up your mind, as you didn’t even put any extra punctuation around “fuck it,” implying that you’ve just decided to fuck it with no hesitation.

Actual Search #5: “get drunk enough to call her”

Catherine: PUT THE PHONE DOWN. If you wanna talk to her so bad, call her sober. She probably doesn’t want to talk to you though, you sound like a real mess. Go eat a Snickers or something.

Jana: Good idea man. That’ll definitely work. Do it.

Actual Search #6: “how to get your first kiss in elementary school”

Catherine: JESUS Christ. If you aren’t even wearing a training bra, you need to apply the brakes. Chill the F out and watch some SpongeBob.

Jana: I am not qualified to address this question.

Actual Search #7: “can u give someone herpes if u suck their wily when u have a cold sore”

Catherine: This is too gross. I’m sure the answer is yes? And please don’t refer to that uh, thing, as a willy? And if you do, spell it right? But don’t call it that, ever. So actually don’t worry about the spelling. Refer to it as a “lollipop,” “hot dog,” or “cheese stick.” Food items work best, I find.

Jana: CATHY EW THOSE FOODS AS PENIS WORDS MAKES ME WANT TO DIE.

Reader: Yes, you can, so don’t do it. Also, if you call it a willy and you spell it wrong, you’re not even allowed to leave the house. You have to stay home alone, forever. Sorry.

Actual Search #8: “we had sex in a neck brace”

Catherine: On one? Wearing one? Too vague, but you have my attention.

Jana: Impressive.

Actual Search #9: “if your a straight guy in a bathroom and no one’s home what are some sexy hot and very naughty things you could do to your self”

Catherine: Learn to spell?

Jana: Why do you have to stay in the bathroom if no one’s home? Don’t punish yourself just because you don’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re.” Get out there and use those other rooms! But um, I have no idea what you should do in them. Usually when I’m home alone I make a bowl of brown rice and eat it in bed while watching stuff on Hulu?

Actual Search #10: “do we need to isolate with people who have cold sores?”

Catherine: Isolate with? No, that’s not a thing. Isolate, yes. Isolate people with cold sores, but if you are WITH them, that’s not isolation.

Jana: We’re not LEPERS, and this isn’t Nazi Germany, so NO. Let’s isolate with from YOU. YOU need to be isolated with. I dislike you.

BONUS SEARCH: “i’m allergic to dust and but not to cats”

Catherine: THANK GOD! How many cats do you have? I live with TWO cats. Do you have more cats?? Are they so cute and do they cuddle with you in the morning before work, often making you late?

Jana: Stop complaining? Go hang out with your cats and invest in some medical masks for when you have to dust stuff. Your life is awesome, so leave the google search alone.

If You Like a Boy, Let Him Know. Drink A Lot First.

Catherine: Jana and I like to drink, that should be clear by now. Sometimes, we drink too much – this, I feel/fear, should be obvious. Anyways.

The summer of 2010, several of our friends moved into a large, run-down piece of shit house that was self-titled “The Butchershop.” Our friend had found it on Craigslist, where it was advertised as “an artist community” which meant “some of us are in a shitty metal band, and the rest of us like to get high and draw inappropriate things on the walls.” It had been all guys, but then, through a series of events, the top floor had slowly become vacated – enter our three good girl friends, who quickly moved in.

It became clear, as the months wore on, that there wasn’t more than one roommate who could correctly name everyone else.  Once, someone made a sign listing the residents. Of our friends, they correctly identified one, completely missed the mark on the second, and simply wrote “etc.” for the third.

Second line from the bottom: “Sabs, Max, Abbs, Etc…”. They got two out of four, guessed on the third, and then just said fuck it. Etc.

There was a boy living on the second floor, let’s call him Jake, that I thought was a DREAM COME TRUE. He had adorable freckles, a wonderful quiet yet sexy disposition, and an impossibly gorgeous face – for. reals. He also read books and was realllllllllly into tea. Being “into tea” myself, I figured we might be soulmates. Him, being really, really, really hot and me bring really into deep stuff like tea and books.

Suffice it to say, we never spoke.

Until one night. I got nice and boozed up on the third floor and headed back downstairs to get some ice. On the way back up, I noticed that Jake’s door was open, he  inside. Logic escaping me, I let myself in. Putting on my best sexy/coy act (this is a painful thing to watch, guys. It is ROUGH.), I drunkenly blabbered on about how I really liked tea too. And what books are you reading? Oh, Vonnegut? He is GREAT. What an amazing writer. I loved “Slaughterhouse 5.” What was my favorite part? (Drunkenly searches mind for anything having to do with a book I just lied about having read) (Fails) You know WHAT. I THINK YOU ARE CUTE, I say. Yea, I think you’re a really interesting person. I’m not just saying this cuz I’m drunk, I’m hardly drunk at all! (Lies, lies, lies.) Jake blushes his adorable smile. I seat myself on his bed and he imperceptibly moves his chair further away. No matter. This goes on FAR too long. I finally excuse myself and run upstairs to tell my friend of my misadventures, where I am met with “SERIOUSLY?” and “GOOD FOR YOU!” She was drunk, too.

Jake and I never spoke again.

Jana: Ohhh Cathy. Cathy, who loves tea. Or, in my experience, drinks tea sometimes but not frequently? Anyway, yes, Cathy was obsessed with Jake, strangely freckled boy of the second floor. I didn’t personally see the appeal, but I DID one time stop her from RUNNING home from a bar to confess her love for him. As I recall, we made it to the field behind the Butchershop, where I was able to get her to stop, sit on the baseball diamond, and just tell ME about how beautiful he was, instead.

I will also just say that during our summer at the Butchershop, I once overheard one of the young artists who lived there (whose name, of course, I did not know) say this: “Texting is like saying: ‘I wanna go halfsies on a baby with you, but I ain’t gonna pay for SHIT!'”

How Did You All Get Here?: An Exploration Of Our Readership.

Hello, readers. So, now that we’re a big deal, something new is happening: wordpress informs us that we are being found via google. Hooray!, you might think we’re thinking. But, let me clarify. It’s not that we’re being found via google ON PURPOSE; no, we are being found via google by people who are in really weird, gross, or sad situations. They are stumbling upon us, because what we write about is weird, gross, and sad. Through the magic of the internet, we’re being connected with our people. 

Since these poor suckers aren’t getting the answers that they’ve probably expected when clicking our link, we thought we would try to provide some now. Listen and learn.

First, we shall address some of the MANY search queries relating to cold sores.

 

Actual Search #1: “did people notice my cold sore on my wedding day”

 

Catherine: Most definitely.

Jana: Did you seriously not postpone your wedding?

Catherine: You know there are hundreds of pictures, right?

 

Actual Search #2: “I have a bad cold and sore throat should I hang with my friends or just stay home”

Catherine: Just stay home. You didn’t say it explicitly, but I’m assuming your face is also broken out and you’ve been wearing the same underwear/sweatpants for a few days now. Nobody wants to see that.

Jana: Listen, guy, I’m not gonna tell you that I haven’t on occasion rallied through a little sore throat by chugging airborne and taking tequila shots. That said, I was much younger. So this really depends on your age. How old are you? Do you often get into conversations about “Fraggle Rock?” Did you love “Empire Records?” Where were you on 9/11 – High School bio class, right? Stay home.

 

Actual Search #3: “what can my cold sore do to me?”

Catherine: What can’t it do is a better question. Offer you the fine company of solace and isolation? No, it can do that. Embitter your soul? It invariably does. Expect that it can, and will, do anything to bring you down.

Jana: Your cold sore can fuck you up.

 

 

Actual Search #4: “why do cold sores take chunks from lips”

Catherine: I don’t think that is supposed to happen…

Jana: IT DOES HAPPEN. It’s because they have to dry up first and then the dry stuff comes off, bringing chunks with it. TOO MUCH, I know. Real answer: It’s because the world is cold. Stay inside.

Catherine: Jana, TMI, buddy.

 

Actual Search #5: “if a cashier has a cold sore and touches you do you get herpes”

Catherine: Geez, I don’t know, probably? At least if it were me that would happen, because man, that would really suck.

Jana: Speaking as a former cashier with cold sores: No, bitch.

 

 

Actual Search #6: “I have some cold sores”

Catherine: Oh, really?

Jana: I understand the impulse to just type this into google as a stand-alone statement; I really do. Let me know if you need a hug or a valtrex.

 

 

Actual Search #7: “I don’t have cold sores”

Catherine: Congratulations! Read about Jana’s!

Jana: Cool, congratulations. Why did you put this in google? Is there a problem?

 

 

Actual Search #8: “people comment on my cold sores”

Catherine: Of course they do.

Jana: They talk about them behind your back too, I’m sure. Why is it that you’ve been going outside?

 

 

Actual Search #9: “nearly almost get cold sored during the night”

Catherine: Now, I assume this was a typo, but it’s so good to think of it NOT as a typo. Like, “coldsore” the verb. As in, “Man, I had a date, but I got coldsored so I stayed home and watched Hugh Grant movies while contemplating why nobody likes me.”

Jana: I’ve said this. I have actually said this.

 

BONUS ACTUAL SEARCH HAVING NOTHING TO DO WITH COLD SORES: “he stopped in middle of having sex then told me he wasn’t ready for a new relationship”

Catherine: I can only hope that reading our blog helped this poor person feel a little better, because DAMN.

Jana: Did you cry? I would have cried. Man, sex is great.

 

 

Maybe I (Definitely) Shouldn’t Go To Nightclubs

Catherine: Here I will detail the first of MANY reasons why I should really just stop going to nightclubs.

We open on an 18 year old Catherine, freshman year of college. I had a relentless ability to rage long and hard every single night of the week and still manage to wake up the next day and 1) live and 2) accept any and all drinks, any time of day (luke warm vodka at 3pm? Sounds fun!). One night, I ventured out to downtown Burlington, VT (no doubt taking the off-campus bus and saving myself the approximately 1.2 mile walk) with some fellow dormmates (that was a thing, guys). We headed to the (only?) 18+ nightclub, and I was brandished with big fat X-marks on both of my hands. I am ASSUMING that I was already drunk, but to be fair, that part of the story escapes me. What’s important is this: It was a time in my life where I wore, and loved, Gap jeans I had owned since 8th grade, despite their having holes in both knees and the butt. And the fact that they could no longer zip up all the way. That, I determined, was no problem at all. Instead, I safety-pinned them open and wore them with black underwear. It was a look, it was intentional, and yes, I am glad there are no pictures.

At said nightclub, it was all top 40s which was my JAM. So I was alloverthatshit. I don’t wanna get ahead of myself, but I’m a pretty sick dancer (in terms of grinding, dancing awkwardly provocatively, hair flipping, etc.) My talents were not wasted on the fine men who chose to go to an 18+ nightclub despite being mainly over 21. One such man began dancing with me, citing my “sick moves!” This went on a while, culminating in the ever-sexy “I will dance LITERALLY ON YOU with my feet off the floor as you dip me and I think I look really good most likely.” It was hot.

Upon leaving, it came to my attention that my dance date was missing a tooth. A front one. Prominently in the very center of his mouth. I literally had no idea. The ridicule I endured was appropriate because like, seriously, people. How did I not see that. My friend wrote this poem of the incident:

Hmmmmm…Cathy.
Oh Cathy oh Cathy.
Toothless Willy will never be the same because I bet he never danced with
a chick that didn’t think he was lame.You said he was sick danca’
and that’s all there is to it
because for real, he looked like pranca’
… and you know he wanted to do it.I called his friend Pedro,
maybe that wasn’t right.
But it all seemed just fine
at the end of the night!

I should mention that his friend was called Pedro solely because he was Mexican, and Napoleon Dynamite was really huge at the time.

Jana: Poor Pedro – I’m sure he got that all the TIME that year. And, I can see why toothless man liked you: it was because your outfit was so classy.

Romance Isn’t Dead, It Just Watches Bad Movies.

Catherine: Isn’t young romance cute? Except not when you are the 12-year old couple GOING FOR IT on a street corner in the middle of the day whom I encountered the other week. Those two need to shut. it. down. If you’ve been reading, you already know about my deodorant-obsessed first boyfriend but perhaps noticed no tales of a first kiss? Perhaps? Well, that’s because there was no kiss (thankfully.) That “special” moment was reserved for the summer after 8th grade. That’s probably PRETTY late. I get that. I understand. And we all need to deal with it and know that given my awkward social behavior, it was a real no-brainer.

My SECOND boyfriend, let’s call him Timmy (no relation to his real name, but I think the name Timmy is funny and a little tragic, like this story) and we were in love, I think. I base this on the fact that he gave my Cherry Chapstick once at a movie theater. And that is all I ever want, really. I have a chapstick addiction, and we were dating before it even started, so he was really ahead of the curve. All my friends at the movie (group date, clearly) thought it was very romantic. As did I.

So, one spring day we trek to the local elementary school fair where I win a goldfish which would go on to live for over a year and would be named Spot, because it had a spot. Its death would break my mother’s heart. After the fair, we headed to my friend “Sarah”‘s house, where she was hanging out with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, whose name I THINK was actually Sacha, was in middle school despite being maybe 16 years old, had facial hair, and was a Russian drugdealer. I am making zero of this up. Suffice it to say, Timmy was impressed.

We all settled down to watch “Starship Troopers,” Sara and Sacha on an opposing couch very obviously doing things. Sexy things. It was gross, but fascinating. At one point Timmy leans over and whispers in my ear, “I wanna kiss you.” I think to myself, WE ARE IN LOVE! FUTURE HUSBAND (truly believed that, guys.) I AM EXCITED BUT MOSTLY NERVOUS. Maybe 10 minutes later, “the kiss” happens. It is disgusting, wet, and wrought with bad breath. I complete the movie by snuggling into the crook of his arm at such an angle that he cannot possibly kiss me again. And he never would. We broke up days later.

Still, I know I am beat by my friend who lost her v-card whilst watching “Spaceballs.” That’s alright.

Jana: I love the fact that your first kiss took place in such close proximity to a 16-year old Russian drug dealer/middle school student. He seems to embody, for me, what’s really beneath a first kiss: fear, darkness, danger, inappropriate behavior given maturity level, etc.

And my first kiss didn’t happen until I was 16 (REALLY edgin up on 17. It’s like I was in The Sound of Music, except it was 2003), so. Don’t feel too bad.