You Have Lovely Hair

This holiday weekend, I memorialized nothing besides my ability to ingest copious amounts of alcohol and creep people out. And also the fact that I need to seriously look into my bladder control issues/ the inappropriate places I choose to relieve them. Apparently, after two roofie margs and some pincones (gin dranks) I believed it was completely appropriate to begin running my fingers through a taxi cab driver’s hair. And no, I was not being soberly driven home by a Pantene ProV model; HE looked more like Hagred from Harry Potter’s ginger twin. And I felt the need to stroke him like a velour teddy bear. But I’m not ashamed of my actions. If any embarrassment should have ensued it would be that fact that while I delicately fondled Grizzly Adams’ hair and repeated “You have lovely hair. You should be a hair model. Have you ever thought of growing it longer and selling it?” he responded with:

“Well actually, when it was really long, I considered selling it. Figured I could get about $500 for it.”

Any normal human would know that I was being an asshole and effing with them, but not this man. Nooo, he deeply believes that his woolen mane holds the steep price tag of an expensive kitchen appliance. “Don’t worry hunny, I can just use the cash just I made selling my hair to the weave factory to buy the new Frigidaire.”

Sir I wouldn’t give you 500 doll-hairs for your doll hair… unless of course it came with special powers like mystical unicorn fur. Then we’ll talk cheddar for your locks. But then again I don’t have much room to talk. The Disney film “Tangled” is a biography about the struggles I endure each day combing the squirrel’s nests from my scalp. But that’s not as bad as those weird ass girls that sit there taking pieces of their hair and pulling it underneath their noses pretending they just like the feel of human hair beneath their nostrils. We all know you’re sniffing your hair you weirdos. Now go take your insane-chick-pills and quit it.

Today at work my nice boss is gone and I’m stuck doing things on my own like a real girl. And wondering WHY the lady in charge of releasing the office supplies has to be such a glacial bitch. The one person I have to collaborate with in the office to get my work done and every time I ask her to order anything she either blatantly ignores me until I retreat from her office doorway with my tail between my legs or asks: “well, WHO is it for” and then huffs and looks away when I answer. Lady, I’m not going to steal your laminating sheets and paste them on my naked body like a Lucite catsuit, I have more important things to do with my time— like type up sexual harassment policy fliers and strategically place them throughout the office, particularly near the mechanic break room.  I even have to ask her for a “code” to make color fucking copies. And she shields the keypad with her hand as she enters it. Yes, my mission as a Soviet infiltrator is to retrieve the color copy code from the angry lady in the floor length peasant skirts and sour face that works at a bus station. You caught me red handed.

Hands Off the Hardhat

Yesterday I was instructed to “stuff” folders all day for a ‘Mobility Summit.’ I left with so many paper cuts that it looked as if I had spent the better part of the afternoon playing patty cake with Edward Scissorhands. The only thing I would enjoy stuffing is my face full of Chick-fil-A. They told me before I left that I would be expected to attend/work this aforementioned mobility summit. Twitchy informed me (on five different occasions) that there would be Mexican food served for lunch. For once, Spaz Master and I agree on something—Mexican food. So I figured I would be sitting at a table all day passing out brochures while fake smiling like I normally do during events. When I arrived this morning, they informed me that I would be registering people for the summit… and that I would be doing this dressed like Bob the Builder.

I’m not sure if it went with some theme or if they are into public humiliation of interns, but either way my coworkers decided that I would don a bright orange traffic vest and hardhat for this event. And when people asked me why I was dressed like one of the Village People, I could only shrug and keep from karate chopping them when they flicked at the plastic yellow hat. No I cannot feel that sir. I’m actually pretty sure these were invented to keep construction workers from head injuries caused by falling construction debris, tools, etc… so, once again, no I cannot feel you flicking my hardhat you senile bastard. Now roll away in your hoverround before I sue you for sexual harassment and collect your $30 social security check each month.

Apparently the “goal” of the summit was to have 300 boring ass people give boring ass speeches, eat 50lbs of refried beans and then break off into confined quarters where they discuss the trials and tribulations of public transportation while the incontinent old lady in the corner shits her pants full of Paco’s Tacos. I can pretty much sum up how to “improve” this bus system in one simple sentence: when the buses smell like piss and bums, the only people that ride are crackheads and scum. I should be the one giving these damn speeches.

In other news, my eye twitch has transformed from sporadic to chronic and I am contemplating seeking the advice of a professional. I will not be the girl with the lazy eye and/or eye patch that works at the bus station. I refuse. I would just as soon apply to work at Disney as an extra on the pirates of the Caribbean ride. But seriously, not only am I worried about people thinking that I have Tourette’s, it’s also just plain irritating to have my left eyelid salsa dancing on my face all day long.

But if worst comes to worst, Bill Cosby told me today that I would always have a job at StarMetro. Actually he said:

“I heard yew lookin’ for a job. I need some more operators for the buses.”

I’ll most likely be the first middle-class blonde chick with a college degree and a full set of teeth to drive these buses. Maybe I’ll get into the Guinness Book of World Records.

Pop 12 Benadryl and STFU

Week two of playing “pass the intern” began with Twitchy showing me his wasp stings aka his excuse for the embarrassing red splotches covering his frumpy, pale, hairy not-yet-proved-to-be-human body. We are not, nor will ever be on a level where it is appropriate to pull up your pant leg displaying a repulsive skin disease you contracted while “mowing your lawn.” And apparently when this middle aged idiot was attacked by a hornet’s nest and swelled up like a balloon, his first instinct was to phone his mother for a remedy. Sir, you are about three decades beyond calling mommy for help—so just Google “wasp stings” before you stain your StarTrek shirt with muddy tears.

The day actually started out fine until the Pasty Exhibitionist felt compelled to display his insect bites an hour before my lunch break. Then instructs me to play around on one of those tablets and make a PowerPoint about how it works. What is it with these idiots and PowerPoint presentations? I could YouTube an effing demo video in 1/100^th the time it takes to make a PowerPoint presentation. But apparently Helen Keller and Associates need a slideshow in order to fully comprehend the inner workings of the technology world. Sometimes I pity the fact that your underdeveloped brain makes it difficult to understand simple ideas featured on PBS daily; the other 99.9% of the time, I dream of selling you to a visually impaired Iranian organ harvester and telling him to go wild. 

Not to mention I’m already rather cranky because my hair hasn’t been properly brushed in about a week now. Some little hairbrush gremlin came into my room and ate it, (I definitely did not misplace it somewhere in the dark abyss of the landfill I call a bedroom) so now I’ve developed dreadlocks and am too stubborn to purchase another. Which reminds me, I’ve seen like twelve girls with feathers implanted into their hair in the past month. I doubt Dog the Bounty Hunter realizes he is such a trendsetter in the fashion world. I could easily be an installer of hair feathers, there are like 3000 on the ground at Lake Ella from those nasty turkeyduck hybrids that mercilessly attack people on romantic picnics until they forfeit their sandwiches to the angry feathered bastards and sprint back to their Subaru station wagons. So if you want a turkeyduck feather in your hair, holla. Because 1. I need money and 2. You don’t need a hairdresser to install a feather in your body. Natalie Portman can grow them herself… and that skinny freak won an Oscar.

Until then, I will pretend I work in a professional establishment where a grown man doesn’t play with himself while listening to Rush Limbaugh and simultaneously picking his bug bites. 

My Sweaty, Sweaty Cocoa Puff

My Choco Bear

Yesterday afternoon we shot the video commercials that I wrote for the bus depot. My chocolate teddy bear acted his little heart out in the bus driver uniform we had specially made for his chubby butt. He is actually a very nice man and once again my judgments led me astray because now I want him to be my best black friend. We could be like Rob and Big but instead it would be Big and gangly white girl who makes weird faces. We could go on adventures and each adventure would be a different TV episode. “Big Black and White Girl do drive bys… Big and White Gurl take the mall—but mostly lids and Finish Line… Big and White Girl teach Big to swim and face his puppy fear… Big and White Girl shop for mother’s day gifts at Nordstrom while being closely followed by every employee on shift.” I would gladly rescind my friendships with every other blackie at the bus depot if it meant I could roll my oversized Hershey Kiss all throughout America on a series of cheeky adventures.

Anyway, his real name is Rod—like my liverspotted Grandpa with the bitchy Ginger wife that puts teddy bears in birdcages like pets. I used to throw a fit any time my parents would make us have sleepovers there with my brother as a child because I’d have to share a twin bed with 800 effing stuffed animals and pretend that I don’t want to give GrandmaYou’reNotMyRealGrandmaBitch an atomic wedgie with her massive underpants that she tucks her shirts into, which also double as parachutes and/or reusable shopping bags for Shrek. Lady, you are over seventy years old, I think the teddy bear fetish needs to go. It’s beyond creepy, and honestly it may solve the issue that occurs each holiday when ‘SOOOOMEONE’ takes all of your stuffed friends and places them in inappropriate positions on that heinous couch of yours post stealing all of your mini alcohol bottles. The psychopath refused to speak to me for over a year because I giggled when I realized she put ‘Merry Christmas and Happy New York’ on the Christmas card. And then miraculously, everyone had a Christmas gift this year except for me. I don’t want your blood money anyway, Vampira. I digress… my new friend Rod shares a name with Grandpa Cheetah-Skin, but not much else.

During the shoot, I was in charge of holding the white towel that Rod used to wipe his bald head every five minutes. I’ve never seen a sweatier human other than myself. He managed to drench that entire towel one hour into the shoot. And I’m not talking about a hand towel… this was a full sized bath towel straight from the Martha Stewart Plus-Size Bath Accessories from K-Mart. Each time he handed it back to me--dripping with sweat--a little part of me died inside. Halfway through the shoot, my boss and the little brown cameraman in the jorts with the curly grey goatee decided that I should make my acting debut in the commercials. So not only do I have to tell people I work at the bus station (“no, not the greyhound station where bums with luggage congregate—another bus station. yes, there’s another one. no, I don’t drive the buses, I just market them.”) But now my face has to be shown in commercials for this shitty ass bus system. I get to be seen crossing streets and standing at the bus stops while my Sweaty, Sweaty Cocoa Puff does voiceovers. This is worse than making a cameo in one of those awful student housing solutions commercials.

Apparently my job of “crossing the street” proved to be more difficult than initially anticipated. I had to wait for the squirrel with the camera to give me the O.K. while also timing it so I didn’t become a pancake crossing Thomasville road. At one point I realized that the cop I’d seen drive by five different times must’ve thought I was a nightwalker minus the stilettos and self-degradation because no one could actually see the camera man that was stationed two blocks to the left. So instead it just looked like I’d disappear from the corner, then reappear, then disappear, then reappear again. Yeah, I would probably think I was either a homeless crazy or a hooker too. 

Relationships are like a Dead Fish... Wait, that's not right...

Today at work… a weird thing happened. I actually learned something worthwhile. From two bus drivers, believe it or not. I was updating the trivia question downtown in the driver break room. The questions that no one actually answers, instead drawing penises and things of that nature under the “answer” column. If your answer is that you’re a hairy dick, then congratulations, you got it correct! Anyway, the two male bus drivers were having a deep conversation about the ups and downs of relationships with their significant others. The first driver, a fat white man with three chins and a grayish ginger beard was comparing women to elephants. Not in the sense that we’re all fat with leathery skin and tusks, but alluding to the saying ‘an elephant never forgets,’ stating that he and his wife have been married for forty two years and she still brings up fights they got in thirty-two years ago. The skinny black man with the goatee down to his sternum responds saying:

“I think instead of the whole ‘for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health’ bullshit they should replace the reverend with a cop and just read us our Miranda rights. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do WILL be used against you every single day for the rest of your life.’ And the girl just nod and say ‘Dat’s right now, go on n tell him how it’s gone be!’”

They both burst out laughing, realize I’m standing there and look at me to see how offended I am. I think they expected me to say something defending my gender, but instead I just burst out laughing, dropping the papers and tape dispenser I was holding.

“See, man. Womens is crazy!” says blackie and they erupt in laughter again.

The whole ride back to the bus depot in the Impala, I was thinking about how weddings would sound if the priest or pastor actually told the truth and let them know what they’re really getting into.

“Dearly beloved we are here to join together two special people for a life of one-sided arguments, curtain-shopping and pretending to like sports. Mark, Susie is going to regulate your ‘guy time’ to once a month, force you to spend hours in Bed Bath and Beyond and pick fights with you about that time in 10th grade when you ditched her to play Xbox with your friends. Susie, Mark is going to pretend he’s listening to you ramble on about a sale at Shoe Carnival while he’s really watching the same episode of SportsCenter he watched this morning and try not to roll his eyes when you accuse him of having a crush on his 27 year old secretary and demand to know who he thinks is prettier.”

At the end of the day, I guess relationships are a lot like fishing. You need a pole and reel to make it work. (A man and a woman...woman/woman...man/man... or whatever you're into- you get the picture) And the two components have to work together for it to work. Sometimes the line gets tangled, the pole doesn't bend, the reel gets old and starts sticking. You bait the pole the same time every time and you either catch something or you don’t. Some spots are filled with fish and sometimes you don’t catch a thing. But for every time you don’t catch a thing, there’s always that one day when the sun’s out, the water is calm and the all of fish are biting. And that one day seems to cancel out all that day. It keeps you coming back for more. It gives you hope.

I guess in that sense job searching is a lot like fishing too. Seeing my friends leaving sucks, but it gives me hope that a job is out there that won’t involve me putting on a green jumpsuit and hanging off the back of a truck with “SANITATION” inscribed on the side. So I guess I’ll harness those tiny shreds of hope and apply them to ensuring that I don’t rot to death inside the walls of this bus depot. Or maybe I’ll get Tubby and Wesley snipes to start a column for Cosmo and I can exploit their undeniable talents in the field of relationships for some extra cash. 

Chubby BusMan

Back at the bus depot today and I’ve only wished a gruesome torturous death on three people. That’s less than Christmas this year, so I’d say today’s a great day. I’ve even been more sociable with coworkers. I had a twenty-minute long conversation yesterday with the cave troll wearing the goggles with the two-inch thick lenses in the break room. She told me all about her frozen shoulder while simultaneously doing her physical therapy exercises. I nodded, offered encouraging comments and even fought back judgmental stares when Jabba the Hut in the pink sweatsuit started doing weird stretches against the wall. She’s a nice troll after all, like the one from the movie ‘A Troll in Central Park.’ Not an evil troll like Rumple Stiltskin. I’m not actually sure Rumple Stiltskin was a troll, but he looked like one and haunted my dreams for the first five or six years of my life. I would always put the book behind all the others on my bookshelf… and somehow little wrinkly Rumple was always in front winking at me the next time I looked. I’m not sure if my parents were actively trying to ensure that I’d need therapy as an adult or if the book was actually possessed by the Demon spirit of Ole Rumplyskin. But anyways, Googly eyes is a nice troll and I would gladly converse with her again. So that’s my good deed for the week. Don’t call me Ghandi. But, no one is going to dispute the obvious similarities.

Today I’m laminating in the copy room so I get to watch the front of the office and judge everyone that walks past. I think my black (wannabe)friends are warming up to me. Even the scary lady in the Cadberry Egg skirt suits says hi to me every day instead of giving me the stank eye while I cower around a corner like our past relationship. Either my social skills have improved or the urban bus community had a meeting and collectively decided that the little white girl may not be Lucifer with a blonde ponytail. I’m also excited because I get to run errands today all around town. Errands = staff car. Staff car = Impala. Impala = instant acceptance into the black community. And I like to take the back roads so no one I know sees me in an Impala. And back roads are code for underdeveloped ghetto streets with no actual names. So in a sense it’s like killing two birds with one Impala. Or two-hundred love bugs.

Yesterday we auditioned people for a “mascot” for the bus system. What kind of mascot you ask? Well… my boss had the very original vision of our mascot being a bus driver. A large, bald, black bus driver with a voice like the Zataran’s guy. Way to fight the stereotypes of public transportation. You could’ve at least chosen a little puppy dog and dressed him like a bus driver. Or even a pit bull if you wanted to target our usual customers. If a talking dog drove the bus I would be far more inclined to ride than if Mike Tyson’s bitter, overweight, unathletic brother was navigating a speeding vehicular manslaughter through the streets of Tallahassee.  But despite my objections—which were more like mumbled insults and inaudible huffs—they chose Fatty McBlackerson and I’m stuck photographing him for his next “shoot.” The first shoot was just a few head shots for a poster they did when I was gone and I’m pretty sure Cedric the Entertainer in the bus uniform thought he was a Victoria’s Secret model posing on a beach in Fiji. Yesterday while my boss proudly clicked through the digital slideshow of Chubby BusMan, I channeled every fiber of social graces in my asshole being to try and choke back convulsing fits of laughter. This fat man in a little blue uniform honestly thought he was Tyra Banks before she ate the old Tyra Banks. I wonder if the photographer asked him to do the coy sexy face, or if he did it on his own thinking that THIS face is what the transit people of Tallahassee are missing in their lives.

So now I’m laminated 200 posters with a large black man giving a coy sexy face to place in dirty buses that drive around bums and crackheads. Poor fella probably thinks this is his big break. 

Grajumacation Nayshun

Graduation is supposed to be one of the most monumental and memorable times in a person’s life, yet I sit there in the Leon Civic Center wondering what genius would make a college graduation ceremony at 9 am. I kept having to apologize to the chick next to me every time I burped up beer and 3 am Papa John’s from the night before. I couldn’t even listen to the speeches because I was too busy sweating to my belly button while Tallahassee tries to save a couple bucks and not turn the air down to “there’s a massive mosh pit of hungover kids in heavy ass robes and their extended families crammed in here” setting. So instead, I get to look like a migrant farm worker in my graduation photos. Now those are memories I’d like to treasure.

And after 20 minutes my dehydration set in and I could think of nothing other than scaling the side of the bleachers and attacking some poor family for some water or digging until I hit pipes. While everyone is craning their necks trying to spot their families in the stands, I try to locate a rogue Diet Coke I can emancipate from its owner. Then I start getting the “STAND UP SO WE CAN SEE YOU!” texts from my family. “We’re at the very top to the left.” Okay I can barely see street signs 30 feet in front of me let alone amoeba-sized humans in the nosebleed section. Sorry I left my binoculars in my other sorcerer’s robe. Then, by some miracle of God, I spot my entire family in the stands. Actually, I only really spotted my stepmom--who was wearing a shiny gold suit and glittered in the sky like a disco ball-- and located the rest of my family by default. Call me a barracuda, but if you want my attention, wear something shiny or hold a glow stick. Evidently my mom caught on years ago… her entire closet is comprised of gemstones, sequins, beads, feathers and embellished sweaters for every occasion imaginable.

For people with ADD or merely any human with an attention span shorter than the Great Wall of China, graduation ceremonies are about as interesting as watching any show Mario Lopez is hosting, starring in or even walking through set. An hour and a half in, I realized that the waving from families to graduates and vice versa was going to continue through the entire ceremony… apparently the 5000 double-handed epilepsy waves for the first 30 minutes didn’t suffice. So I took it upon myself to make a game out of waving to random peoples’ families. Five points for blank stares, ten for a confused return wave and fifty for the grandma that gave me the double arm in the air victory dance. ‘Preciate that granny, even if you are just too blind to realize that I’m not your Indian grandson. And what I would like to know is where the guy in the second row managed to get a jumbo bag of popcorn that he chowed down in 5 mins flat. If I had known the concession stands were open, I would’ve stocked up on ball parks and hid them in my gown sleeves.

Post wave game I found myself listening to the names being called and without looking up, trying and mentally picture the person whom the name belonged to. I also realized that I want to name my all of children names that say: “I deserve some extra cheers just because my name is fucking awesome.” Like what would happen if I had a child with the first name President? I mean Spanish people name their kids Jesus and pronounce it weird, why can’t I name my kid President and put an accent on the ‘i’? “Pres-ee-dent Schwartzengger Faubel.” Yes my last name will still be Faubel because no one is going to marry me (says John Mayer) and I will inevitably have to employ a sperm donor to spread my seed (accepting early applications). How could you not respect someone with the first name President? It’s like foreshadowing… in addition the fact that my children will be prodigies because they are half mine.

About halfway through the ceremony, I notice a man in a fishing shirt in the very corner of the stands holding a cup and teetering back and forth, using the hand rail to brace himself every once in awhile. I notice him because he is the only other human waving more than myself… or senile ass granny goin' hard with the fist pumps. I watch him closely and realize that this man is indeed inebriated beyond belief and probably mistook the multitude of people and cars to indicate that the civic center was holding a monster truck rally or Toby Keith concert instead of a graduation ceremony. He claps and woops and waves, breaking only to take a gulp from the cup he is holding—but never once takes a picture or engages in contact with any other human in the building. Three-quarters of the way through he apparently got the hint and stumbled out of the building.

“Dude I went to the Civic Center today cus I saw all these people and know they gots beer, but I got in there and it was just a bunch of kids in capes and old people takin pictures. I thought there’d at least be a UFC match!”

            “It was probably one of those Klan meetins”

“I dunno. They was black robes.”

            “Man that’s that Twilight witchcraft shit, stay outta there!”