The Case of the Unclaimed Vomit

29 10 2009

In my effort to reinvigorate my abilities to “blog” and “document” and “beat the unemployment boredom”, this story is one I meant to write about a month ago, when it first happened and when it was still a big mystery. Correction: it still IS a big mystery, but not necessarily one that I think about anymore.

Which is probably good, because I believe I think about throw-up far too often.

The Crime Scene: Ms. Lady’s apartment. Ridge and Davis. Heavenston.

The Set Up: Several friends who have not seen each other in months, some in nearly a year, are gathered for a reunion of sorts. Like any good reunion, this reunion involves yelling and screaming into all hours of the morning and attempting to stay up drinking until 9 AM, when the Lady of the House has to leave to attend the first class of the school year. Flawed? Certainly. But some of us died trying. We made it pretty far into the night. Visits from other people we’ve known throughout our college years peppered the evening, replete with a lot of random pictures taken on a Nintendo DSi, of all things. There was singing. There was dancing. There was a secret tryst or three. There. Was. Chaos.

Circa 6 AM, all of the non-sleepover revelers had dispersed back to their selected homes and those left were the travelers staying over. We all survived another hour or two staying up. The Brothers Maguire passed out first. I stayed up with Ms. Lady until she actually did “pull herself together” (quotes because the effort was strong, but ultimately, not great) and go to class. Thus, I went to sleep around 9 AM, when she was gone and everyone else slumbering.

Dilemma: Sometime between that 9 AM parting and re-awakening around 1 PM to pee, someone in our midsts puked all over the bathroom.

And I don’t mean a little bit. I mean like, swamp conditions. You sunk my battleship sort of puke. It was everywhere. Too drunk/tired/confused/disgusted to do anything about it, I left it, used all of my leg muscles to pee without touching the puke, and went back to my spot on the futon.

Around 4 or 5 pm, everyone woke up and suddenly, the vomit was not as easy to ignore. This is a 3 BR, 1 Bath set-up, my friends. There is only so long that a bathroom can be out of commission with insides debris. After the Lady of the House cleaned up, the question still remained: who woke up in the middle of the night (or mid-morning, to most people), puked all over the place without waking anyone, left it without even an attempt to clean it, went back to bed, and then completely forgot about it?

The case was afoot.

Suspects:

1. Myself. I DIDN’T DO IT. Not only did I not eat enough to do all of that biz, I was asleep last, awake first, and apparently starting to sober up by the time 9 AM rolled around. Also I would’ve at least wiped the seat off. Probably would have left the peripheries as they were, but the seat would’ve been sittable.

2. Lady of the House. Doesn’t remember it. Went to class during the time that she would’ve puked. Although, curiously, she never made it to class and returned from her full day of classes circa 11 AM after giving up on going to class and having brunch with a homeless man instead. Curious indeed. She had the food. She had the time frame. But why wouldn’t she clean up her own bathroom? It doesn’t quite add up.

3. Brother #2. Passed out first, woke up last. Slept through at least 2 hours of conversation taking place right next to him. Didn’t feel this kid even roll over in his sleep on the futon, let alone get up and puke and come back down. Unlikely.

4. Brother #1. Our main suspect. Not the kind of kid who would ever clean up his own puke. Also definitely the kind of kid who pukes everywhere (one time while we were roommates he puked all over his bed and instead of cleaning it up, just put his sheets in a garbage bag and went back to sleep. Left the garbage bag in front of a fan to waft the smell throughout the rest of the house. Awesome). Spilled a glass of wine all over himself and the Lady’s bed and continued to sleep in it that very night. But does not remember vom-ing.

5. The roommate. This kid’s a wildcard. Everyone had just met him. He went to a bar for a long time and then came back – who knows what he could have eaten and dranken there? Pretty sure he puked at the bar though, so would he have had the stamina to continue to puke later in the evening? Seemed to stay in his bedroom throughout the evening. Claims it wasn’t him. Hard to tell.

6. The mystery roommate. In my four days at this apartment, I did not see the third roommate once. Is it possible that she came home for a few hours, puked, didn’t clean it up because she knew she could get away with it, and then left again? Possumbly. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t rule it out, and neither will Sherlock Hayden.

Case Status: Still unsolved. No one will admit to it. The Lady of the House eventually cleaned it up (why was she so comfortable cleaning up the vomit unless it was her own HMMMM?) and the day continued eventually. All fingers point to Brother #1, even though he will deny it up and down. That shit-eating grin and past experience with projectile lots-of-things-ing in beds/bathrooms/bushes make it a little tough to believe this repeat offender.

All suggestions to solving the case welcome.

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Understanding the Dirt Squirrel

28 10 2009

When I was in Chicago last month, a turn of phrase was thrown into conversation maybe 5, 10 times. A minute.

That phrase? “Dirt Squirrel.”

The party of friends I was with refused to tell me what the phrase meant, but a quick look on Urban Dictionary informed me that on some level, I was meant to be offended and on another level, I was meant to take this word, celebrate it, and make it my own. Kind of like the n word I guess, but NOT AT ALL.

According to UrbanDictionary.com:

Dirt Squirrel

1. a female of questionable character

2. a female with a scandalous sexual past
3. a dirty dirty slut

Examples:

‘that fem be a dirt squirrel’
‘that girl is a dirt squirrel for sure!’

As far as I can tell and due to the circumstances in which I heard it (after some friends had spent the summer in upstate New York) I can only assume that this term originated in upstate New York. It is a fantastic term because you can tell what it means without having any idea what it means, really. I’m not sure if a dirt squirrel is a real animal, but part of me hopes so.

Go forth. Use “dirt squirrel.” Have a slutty male friend? Call them the male equivalent of a dirt squirrel, which is a male dirt squirrel. It is multi-faceted, multi-functional, and multi-super-fun-to-hear-in-a-sentence.





Hey, do you remember that time that I started a blog?

27 10 2009

Me too.

It seems so long ago now, so very very long ago.

Since the last time I have given you thoughts of a ridiculous persuasion, several big things have happened to me. Really, one big thing:

I moved across the country to Los Angeles.

That’s right, I (finally)(sadly)(regrettably) left my warm cozy “living at home after college” nest and decided to spread my wings as a REAL LIVE ADULT. With mixed results, natch.

Pro: I can do whatever I want now without worry of what my parents will think!
Con: I don’t have a job.

Pro: It is so sunny and nice out here!
Con: My skin and general temperament are more suited to winters and street sludge, turns out.

Pro: Many more people that I know and like that are my own age live here!
Con: I legitimately and unironically miss my parent-roommates. Namely their company and well-rounded meals.

So, it is an experience thus far. I live in the ghetto – seriously, I smelled bleach last night and heard someone washing the sidewalk circa 1:30 AM, clearly the tail end of a murder mystery. I am experiencing for the first time in my life being a minority, as we are the only white people on the street. I am also experiencing this weird thing where there is a vegetable truck on our street as opposed to an ice cream truck. I would give like, 25 cents for the vegetable truck to go pick me up some ice cream and bring it back here. Lastly, I am experiencing once again what it is like to not live in a regularly cleaned house. I did not miss blobs of food in microwaves and half eaten bananas sitting around (not mine, to the surprise of my dad.)

Lastly, I miss my dog. This dog here, I’m sorry to say, is not up to snuff. Or not up to RUFF, as a dog would say. And all of the rest of the dogs on this street are cold blooded murderers. In fact, it may have been the dog that murdered someone then bleached and scrubbed the sidewalk last night. Who knows? Los Angeles doesn’t.





A Salty Engagement: Episode Six

2 10 2009

Things are starting to get weird. I think I really enjoy writing from the perspective of Tom Arnold. I really hope he’ll let me write his comeback.

And yes, I’m aware that writing fan fiction about yourself is nothing short of self-centered. But I can’t help how interested I am in my own improbably futures.

A Modest Proposal

“I think you know what I want, Ramos. What we both want.” Tom Arnold stepped over the dead Pole, placing an arm precariously over Telly’s shoulders.

Surprisingly, Telly did not shrug him off. She found herself torn between what her body was feeling and what the insides of her body were feeling. Was that nausea? Or the sting of a love long lost?

“I’m with my little man now, T Arns.”

“I love when you call me that.”

“I can’t leave him behind for something that should have been, but wasn’t,” Telly said, letting a tear slip from her lids and a small sliver of boogs drip from her feminine nostrils. At this point, Tom removed his arm of his own volition. He had lost her.

He stepped back over the Pole, who had started to melt slightly in the hot New Jersey sun, like a wayward drop of ice cream. Shaped like a dead body. Tom Arnold reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook, replete with personalized Tweety Bird checks. He chuckled at the sight of that yellow bird. That cheerful, scheming, yellow bird. Mr. Arnold liked to think that he was much like Tweety. Always been chased, always outsmarting the competition. What was he doing? He was wasting this great comparison, nay, metaphor on his internal monologue instead of spouting it to the adoring public in front of him! Fool, Tom. You are a fool!

Tom took another glance at the screen, where Eric was starting to stir a bit from the bed on which he resided. “We are going to play this my way. Since, you’ve clearly chosen this Skinny Glasses Man over me, I don’t think there’s much I can do to change your heart, but maybe I can do something else. Add a little spice to your life. Make it so you never look at him without thinking of me.”

No one had any idea what he was talking about.

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked, his eyes glued to Eric on the television screen.

“The only thing bigger than my heart is my checkbook. Are you aware of how relevant I was in the early to mid 90s? Let’s just say Old Tom made some wise investments, and I am prepared to write a huge check – HUGE – to anyone here in exchange for one thing.”

Paul and Sarah looked at each other, salivating. They would do anything for money. They loved each other very much, but nothing says true love like millions of dollars. Besides, Sarah thought, Paul had neglected to have her sign a pre-nup. So “what’s yours is mine” could potentially become very much hers.

“In exchange for WHAT!” Paul yelled, hardly noticing how loud his voice had become. He hoped not to sound too eager, but Papa needs a new leather money sack.

“For that little man’s head. Unattached to his body.”

To catch up and read Paul’s parts, check out A Salty Engagement: The Blog.





Reasons Why I Am So Advanced

2 10 2009

I am fairly convinced that I am more evolved than most humans on earth. Not in a Hitler-y, “You know who I’m better than? Everyone” sort of way, but in a straight up, scientific sort of way.

If you don’t believe in evolution (I’m looking at you, 18 Kids and Counting family, because I know you use your monitored computer time to read this blog and who could blame you?) I think you’re crazy, but I will also respect your right not to believe in basic logic.

1. No appendix. You know what the appendix is good for? nothing. I was told during a routine look at my insides that they couldn’t find any appendix. Pretty sure that is the first step to evolution – losing vestigial organs.

2. No wisdom teeth. Never had to get them removed because they don’t exist. Missing out on what I’m told is a rite of passage into adulthood is fine with me because it led to another rite of passage into adulthood – braces. Not only do I not have wisdom teeth, I don’t have bottom 12 year molars. Not necessary since humans can (and, fingers crossed, will) survive on easily chewed macaroni and cheese.

3. Pale, pale skin. Why would they invent sunscreen if we weren’t supposed to use it? Pale skin = I am literally evolved not to do any work at all that involves toiling in the sun. That IS my doctor’s note, Dad.

4. Small ears. What are the outside of your ears even used for? Nothing, I say. My ears are so small as to be tiptoeing the line of bizarroland. Maybe not that small because they are still pretty adorbs. But, they are small enough to hear (their job) and not much else like get caught on things or cause childhood trauma (not their job).

5. Immune system wackiness. As I understand it, my immune system is so good that it attacks itself. Clearly, a gift from dear Mr. Darwin. In high school, we hypothesized that if I were to contract HIV, I would probably be perfectly healthy, as my crazy immune system and HIV’s immunodeficiencies would cancel each other out. I do not want to test that hypothesis.

——

What is a dentist’s favorite movie?

Answer: LAND OF THE FLOSS.

Acceptable Alternatives: Teeth, Gum and Gumber, Flouriding in Cars with Boys.