Unapologetically Mundane » too much information

The Impression That I Give

plumpdumpling — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 16:00:35 +0000

Kamran and I try not to do gross couple-y things around our friends, but it’s kind of hilarious that this is how people think of us:

The Private Lives of City Dwellers

plumpdumpling — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 17:00:05 +0000

Kamran is officially finished with law school and the bar exam! Now he has great plans for his free time:

I’m not sure you want to know the story behind that.

But obviously I’m going to tell the first person who asks in the comments.

I Always Want to Be Looked at, Except When I Don’t

plumpdumpling — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 16:00:47 +0000

Sometimes when I’m in the elevator up to Kamran’s apartment, I’ll dig around in my bag for my keys for so long without finding them that I’ll start to believe everyone’s noticing it, and it becomes embarrassing for me to the point that I’ll pull something else entirely unrelated out with an expression of triumph like, “Ah-ha! Found what I was looking for all along, you guys!”

And it’ll end up being, like, my checkbook. Or a baggie of ice, because yes, I steal ice from my workplace. I somehow believe this is better than continuing to dig.

When I Was Young in the Mountains: Ett Family Outhouse Edition

plumpdumpling — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 19:30:18 +0000

When I was growing up in Ohio, our little farmhouse had an outhouse. We didn’t use it, of course, but we would paint it when it started chipping, knock the wasp’s nests off of it when they began to show up in the summers, and peer curiously into its butt-size seat hole when we’d use it for concealment in games of Hide & Seek.

My mom used to tell my sister and me about the days just after she and my dad got married in the 70s, before they built a bathroom onto our house. The two of them actually did use the outhouse as if it was a normal toilet back then and would just drive up the road to my grandparents’ house to shower every morning. Sometimes when my mom would have a hard time pushing her poop out–and I can tell you this because she’s dead now and likely won’t be able to do anything about it–my dad would bring a glass of hot water or milk to the outhouse in the middle of the night to help her out.

Can you imagine this? It’s the dead of winter, the ground is covered in snow, and you have to trek out across the yard in your parka to get to the bathroom. And once you’re there, you have to sit in this unheated little wooden room, shivering and still half-asleep.

AMAZING! And, you know, my parents only did it for a year, I think, which is crazy enough. But I wondered to myself today: who lived in our farmhouse before us, and what the hell were they doing without a bathroom?

No Man Can Resist a Lady Who Looks Good in a Sportsbra

plumpdumpling — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 17:00:52 +0000

If I was ever looking for someone convenient to cheat on Kamran with, it’d be with this neighbor of his I see in the mornings when I come upstairs from the gym in their building’s basement. I don’t think the guy is particularly good-looking–too tall, too gangly, too bowl-haircutted–but he interests me, because every time I see him, he’s shuffling down the hallway at the slowest speed possible. He’s always wearing different colors of plaid flannel pajama pants, a coordinating t-shirt, padded slippers, and wired-rimmed glasses. He carries a book with the cover folded back so he can hold it in one hand and read while he saunters along.

I always see him from behind and then from the side as he turns the corner next to Kamran’s apartment, but earlier this week, I happened to come up from the gym a minute early, and he was just passing by the elevator. He hung back so I could go ahead, and I looked toward him and closed-mouth smiled, but I don’t wear my contacts or glasses to the gym, so I had no idea if he was smiling back or thinking about how happy he is not to be the one who has to touch my sweating, stinking body.

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Even in New York City, People are Nice to You When You Vomit

plumpdumpling — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 17:00:02 +0000

Two days ago, I was on the green line express to Grand Central on my way home from work, leaning against the doorway as I meticulously typed a blog post about my newfound (and belated) love for Band of Horses on my BlackBerry, when a woman a foot away from me screamed, “Oh, my god!” and pushed everyone around her back toward the opposite end of the car. I looked up from my writing to see that the man sitting on the seat closest to me was vomiting all over the train floor, quietly but forcefully.

Read the rest here IF YOU DARE.

Incidentally, we watched the “Golden Girls” episode about the nudist club last night.

plumpdumpling — Fri, 01 May 2009 16:29:29 +0000

I’m a member of the online dating site OkCupid.com in the hope that when Dr. Boyfriend and I break up some day, you’ll look me up on there and woo me hardcore. Due to the fact that I’m not supposed to appeal to anyone in my current state of relationshipness, I’ve agreed to not change my horrible photos and to fill my profile with totally unattractive drivel such as:

Nobody’s really just looking for friends and activity partners on here, right? But I am! Seriously! And just think of all the activities we can engage in! That don’t in any way involve our genitals! Except, like, if we specifically decide to engage in genital-related non-sexual activities! Like by joining a nudist colony and shaving our genitals! Together! To get to know each other a little better! And to have the best-looking genitals in the entire colony!

AND YET. I receive messages all of the time from men who make me feel sad for people who are actually looking for dates. Such as this one, from a user in his 50s:

I used to live in Brookyn, in the Bushwick area. I thought I would write and get to know you. I notice you say about joining a nude club and shaving each other’s genitals. I would love to do that with you. Or at least to join a nude club together. I would love to smell your vagina too. I am sure it smells sweet!!

I mean, thank you and all, but no. I think the rule should be that if you wouldn’t walk up to me in a bar and say it to my face, you shouldn’t say it online, either.

And now you should tell me about the even awesomer messages you’ve received.

Haute Butt

plumpdumpling — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 15:02:08 +0000

Do you spend all sorts of money on totally useless crap but feel unwilling to pay basically nothing for necessities?

I ask, because I was wearing a pair of really comfortable underwear yesterday, and whilst admiring their fabric and construction on the toilet, I realized that they belong to my best friend, Tracey. My first thought was, “I have to get these back to her!” Because really great underwear are not something I have in abundance, and I assume that’s true for everyone else, too.

But as I thought more about it, I realized that normal people probably don’t think of underwear like I do. My absolute favourite pairs, for instance, are from American Eagle. I don’t normally shop at that store and would have never thought to buy underwear from it, but my non-wicked stepmother took me there to return some of my step-siblings’ jeans after Christmas ’07 and forced me to pick out some for myself. I was generally skeptical despite the super-cute polka-dot and sailboat patterns, but I soon discovered that they’re the best underwear in life–soft, thick, durable, and generally not skanky.

Yet I’ve never owned any past those three pairs, appalled at the idea of spending $7.50 on something no one but Kamran will ever see. (Or, if my dad’s reading this, something NO ONE BUT ME will ever see.) I’m absolutely aware of the fact that these underwear are now two years old and are in perfect condition, yet $7.50 still seems crazy somehow. Even when I’ll drop $7.50 on a Chipotle burrito–something I’ll enjoy for a maximum of an hour, if you don’t count the four days’ worth of black bean burps–without a second thought.

So I went crazy on Friday and used a Visa giftcard from my work to buy 11 pairs of underwear online. I felt like such a badass money-waster. Even though I bought them on clearance, of course.

The Seat-Smearers Strike Again

plumpdumpling — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 15:27:19 +0000

I think it’s pretty common to have a favourite stall in the bathroom, but I’m nearly obsessive about mine. I monitor who else is using it, which of the two toilet paper rolls is getting utilized more, what time of day it gets visited for the first time, and so on and so on. These things are especially important considering that I work next to an office of women who POOP ON TOILET SEATS.

It’s the perfect stall, too. The first one has the air vent in it, and while I appreciate a little noise while I’m doing my business, I can’t handle that there’s a huge space on the right side where everyone can look in and see you. The second one is too cramped. The third one is too spacious. The fifth one is handicapped, for God’s sake. And so I take the fourth. I used to try and play it cool and not use my special stall if someone was already in the third or fifth out of respect for their peeing privacy, but in my old age, I’ve come to care much more about my own comfort.

Anyway, the other day, I innocently went to my stall and found THE HUGEST PUBIC HAIR EVER CULTIVATED just lying there, sprawling across the whole seat. You can imagine my horror. And so I typed up the following sign in the biggest font possible:

TO SEE THE LARGEST PUBIC HAIR IN EXISTENCE,
PLEASE VISIT STALL #4

I thought about adding something about taking a Weedwhacker to a bush but thought better of it, being intensely concerned about my professionality and all.

When I came back after lunch, I followed a woman down the hall who stooped to pick up the sign, which had been tossed to the floor. I thought it very apropos that these seat-smearing women would take down the sign but not take the extra two seconds to throw it away. The woman–who doesn’t seem to speak a lot of English–looked at the paper as if she was confused by it, so I said, “What an awesome sign,” and she stuck it back on the door without a second thought.

And so my legacy lives on.

If He Couldn’t Pick His Nose, Would You Still Love Him?

plumpdumpling — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 17:08:51 +0000

Tell me the truth: would you date someone who was missing a finger?

Does it make a difference if, say, only a section of the finger was missing?

I spent most of my train ride this morning considering it, and I’m still not sure. On one hand, I’d really like to introduce people to my boyfriend by saying, “Barbara, this is my boyfriend Stan, and we can never get married because he’s missing his ring finger.” And whereas I call Kamran “Dr. Boyfriend” here, I could call this finger-lacking guy “Four-and-a-Half-Fingered Boyfriend”. It has a ring to it, right?

But on the other hand, I feel like we’d have to set way too many ground rules for a healthy relationship to ever develop. I’d constantly be saying things like, “Okay, you can touch me with your nub, but if it so much as comes within an inch of my mouth, I swear I’ll cut the other nine off.”

Happy Birthday to Me! and I’m Sorry About the Smell

plumpdumpling — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 18:17:35 +0000

My dear Dr. Boyfriend has a series of uplifting catchphrases, my favourites being “everything’s coming up Kamran” and “it’s your world, squirrel”. For my birthday today, he sent me this:

And while I have no idea who invited the guy in the cowboy hat to my party, I appreciate the sentiment.

But I’ll tell you what–it’s rough having a birthday when you’re lactose intolerant. As you may remember, I’ve been working on becoming lactose tolerant, and while I do believe I’m making strides, what’s coming out of my bum today smells nasty. I keep running out of the bathroom as soon as I’m finished, because I don’t want to hang around and have to explain to my co-workers who weren’t in New Orleans with me this week, “I’m lactose intolerant, but there was an ice cream bar at lunch yesterday, and what was I supposed to do?! It’s my goddamned birthday!”

Take My Ovaries, Jesus

plumpdumpling — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 15:24:02 +0000

Last night, I cried when my portion of our karaoke bill came to $48.

This morning, I cried while watching an insurance commercial:

I’m about to leave to get my hair trimmed, and I really hope to cry during that, too.

With any luck, I’ll make a sobby scene during dinner tonight and get us kicked out of the restaurant.

Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, HORMONES!

Controlling What Comes Out of My Bum

plumpdumpling — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 20:57:21 +0000

I used to be the lactose tolerant-est. I was raised to think there’s no point in eating a meal if you don’t follow it up with ice cream for dessert, that Dannon’s Fruit on the Bottom yogurt provided great surprises at every turn, and that chips simply don’t exist without nacho cheese. For the first 23 years of my life, I drank a glass of Nestle’s Quik for breakfast every morning, and to this day my dad still does, first stirring it loud enough to wake up everyone within a mile radius and then drinking it spoonful by spoonful.

During my last year of college, though, I cut out most of the ice cream so I could at least pretend to want to be healthy and started drinking soy milk because my family farm makes a pretty penny off soybean sales. And now I’m f-ig lactose intolerant. For a while I didn’t put two and two together, but now I recognise that the moment I put the smalled bite of /eks/ frozen yogurt in my mouth, I’m a burblinggurbling gas machine.

Sexy?

My co-worker who goes on week-long colon cleanses where she poos ten to twelve times per minute tells me that adults aren’t meant to process milk and that I should give it up, but I think that’s a load of horse hockey, and I’m now on a mission to make myself lactose tolerant again. I’ve been reading up on it, and apparently you can re-train your lower intestine to grow the right lactose-processing bacteria if you drink a little bit of milk several times a day. 1/4 cup at a time with food, they say.

I’m pretty pumped about the possibility of getting my life back, of not having to ask myself, Is this cup of dulce de leche Haagen-Dazs worth a day of nonstop flatulence? But while I’m working milk back into my diet little by little, I suggest that, um, you think twice about sniffing near my bum.

Unapologetically Mundane » too much information

The Impression That I Give

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Incidentally, we watched the “Golden Girls” episode about the nudist club last night.

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Happy Birthday to Me! and I’m Sorry About the Smell

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