Tag Archives: memories

Hello Sexy Pants


Thought I’d send you a little catch up email since I miss you terribly! Let’s see..my hair is getting long, awesome. I lost 12 pounds on this “Biggest Winner Ultimate Thinner” challenge the Club I work at put together, dad lost 30 POUNDS!!!! He looks tiny, so proud of him, and I am hung over, fucking typical. We have this staff party tonight at the Garage up on capitol hill and lord knows I’m about to get my drunk on. Can we talk about how we both have boyfriends?! What the hell, who knew, I thought we’d just grow old together chucking eggs at each other’s houses and drinking gin and tonics on our front porches swearing at kids. Well, we’re probably still going to be doing just that, but there might be men to hold us back when we threaten to beat little shits with our walkers.

Instead of catching up, I’d like to reminisce a bit, because let’s be honest, we have some amazing, pee your pants its so funny stories, that are probably only funny to us but who cares:

Remember when I came to visit you in Berkeley and the first night I dumped beer on your frumpy mop of hair after we won in beer pong? Or when you put a fat sombrero on my head and made me drink 151 and then I chucked my stupid ass phone at Jigga George the cat code name BO JANGLES! Or how about when I woke up and honestly believed there was a hunched backed Mexican with a pistol staring at me when it really was the fucking cat litter and that goddamn sombrero, and no…you didn’t tell me to turn on the light, you told me to turn on the Leg. Or when I slept in your roommates bed and I couldn’t find the door to get out for a mid sleep pee, so I hoisted the biggest mirror in the world off of the wall thinking there was some goddamn witch and the wardrobe curse on me and I knocked and knocked trying to wake your snoring ass up.

Lets take this back even further to when mom asked us to water the lawn so we made vodka lemonades and brought lawn chairs out to the front, turned on the sprinkler, and drank ourselves silly while watering the already dead grass. Or how about that same day when we couldn’t find you, only to see you googly eyed with vino in hand in the hot tub- BY YOURSELF!

Jumping forward to my 23rd birthday where we got our “chef” on, raiding the Island and City with our crazy duo. AGAIN, I cannot find you because alas you went off to probably suck on a bottle of red to your lonesome and when I asked you where you’d been you gave me the most honest answer anyone has ever given me, “Oh you know, here…there…here” I didn’t even question it. Oh and let’s not forget that I woke up half in the kitchen half in the living room and almost chest bumped Greg’s roommate at 6am.

Okay, moving backwards now…way backwards, remember when you went off roading on your Schwinn? And by offroading we mean you went up a hill and almost popped a wheely while we biked to our usual Tacobell/Coffee Bean/TCBY date, and lets not forget the jelly bean raid, buttered popcorn jelly beans for life. Or how about when I slapped you so hard with a DVD sign when we spotted Bobby Schubert, your gay Brooklyn lover in a Blockbuster, I wonder what that crazy kid is up to now.
And let’s just bring this elephant out of the closet, we made home videos for English class- me about camping, you about water polo. And I will never, ever forget your rendition to Joan Jett’s I Love Rock and Roll. I had to literally think about the title just now because I Love Water Polo was the only thing that came to me. And stupid Jenna, that perfectionist, with her little strut while we ran around throwing raw hotdogs at each other and eating oreos with an old camcorder. I guess while it’s all coming out, I should say I’m sorry for giving you a black eye, but hey for the record- I did strap you with pillows and a helmet before I chucked lacrosse balls at you, convincing you it was helping me become a better player. And who said there were rules in tomato wars?! Those dumb bitches were just too dumb and bitchy to think about stuffing their tomatoes with rocks like we did. Yes Mook- we were tomato terrorists. And when they ceased fire we just said fuck it and started throwing them at ourselves- classy broads we are. I guess since word vomit is the name of the game let’s also lay down the fact that we watched a Knights Tale and danced and danced and danced, and then watched Brittany Spears in Crosseroads at 3am. And I have to just say this, I did hear Charlie pissing in the house, I just couldn’t get enough of you thinking you were the only one listening to that flood gate of a pee while I fake snored on the couch. (I’m laughing so hard I’m crying right now…by myself, in my office, picturing your sleepy bug eyes yelling ‘JANE, CHARLIE IS PEEING IN THE HOUSE!’) Also the fact that you called that 6 foot ginger monster mormon Katherine a bitch was the best thing ever- I supported it 100%. And the fact that we will forever know that 4:45 means a steamroll is pure beauty- I think I’m going to get that tattooed, and you know I aint lying.

Oh the good old days, 8th grade…where SSR was really code for writing hilarious notes to each other and getting kicked out of class. And when throwing our food at each other was way better than eating it. And playing hand ball really meant, let’s watch Meghan fucking boot this ball over the 3 story gym wall and not even play because you fucking put our ball on the roof.

And Rich Corso would wrap your grilled cheese in tin foil and I would get a perfectly stapled brown bag lunch with flowers drawn all over it. I knew we’d be best friends when you pulled out your sister’s underwear from your coat pocket and waved it around like a flag (or maybe I was the one that did that) – better yet I knew we’d be old hags together when you pulled out a goddamn tv remote from your binder and then proceeded to laugh saying, I wonder if I’m fucking with my dad, while clicking all the buttons. But let’s be honest, when I saw you looking like a homeless woman with a broken backpack and a torn brown grocery bag full of your school supplies I knew we were a match made for absolute craziness and mayhem. And even though you fell on your ass post pasta war, you still defended me, and even though you let those boys put me in the trash can, with the lid on, I held my beer up proud and you helped me out of the cest pool. Lord baby jesus Love us.


Miss you Mook like you don’t even know. Stay Gold you crazy fuck.

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Cheers to Birthdays-the Evil Eye-and Fart Humour

For all my fellow bloggers out there, who can relate to the struggle of finding inspiration… I’m sitting on the Washington State Ferry, a love/hate commute for Bainbridge Island locals and I think of all those “funny” things I forgot to write down. So now, shifting on the hideous red vinyl seats while the night crew vacuums and closes off sections for cleaning, the only word than runs through my head is “Blog, blog blog, blog, blog blog blog”. And I am hoping and praying that the juices start flowing. All writing becomes a daily routine, like working out; we gotta continue the pattern, even if it’s moot just to keep our fingers clicking along.

I guess a story worth telling that I honestly was too little to remember accurately but have seen on home videos repeatedly is the relationship I had with my dad. My god, I worshiped the man, I guess I still do but I no longer smell his feet when he asks, just to see his response of laughing so hard he cries while I poke my nose near his big toe and crinkle my face in disgust.

We were living in Australia, and I was enjoying my 6th birthday. We had cake, balloons, obnoxious cone hats – it was glorious. My parents had built me my very own playhouse outside, with a sand floor and a play kitchen. Little did my parents know that building a tin shed playhouse during the beginning of Australia’s summer would result in the ultimate hot lava game of “don’t fucking touch the sides kids”. So it became a communal kitty litter box.

We got by, we had what we needed, and what we didn’t have we would either figure out how to get it at a cheaper cost or say screw it. My dad was suffering from some severe chapped lips, and with Carmex being 5 bucks a stick, he opted for the cheaper version. The result? My dad staring at the camera, flaunting fluorescent pink lips, and begging his parents to send some manly Chapstick. I sat next to my dad and hand him a book my grandparents had given me as a gift, “Good Families Don’t Fart”. I urged him to read it aloud while I tapped off another large piece of cake. My mother, who was the filming guru tried to discretely ask questions about my birthday while capturing my father reading to me about a Canadian family who gets eaten by a fart monster.

“Jane, what are you reading?” I looked up from my cake and fart jokes and stare at my mother with the ultimate double stink eye and ignore her. My dad continues to read about the fart monster eating all the cans of beans in the house. My mother attempts again, “Jane, are you having a good birthday?” I look up at her again, crinkle my nose and make a face only imaginable as an ugly dog’s. Five times I did this to the camera and my mom, and the clincher was right when I finished my six-year-old “fuck off” face, I would look back at my dad and laugh about farts and keep eating cake. What can I say? Don’t come between a daughter and her father while sharing a good laugh about Canadian families being devoured by a fart.

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The Beauty of Sports

The inch long scar on my left calf from a rough game of seaweed wars. The two off white circles on my left index finger from playing defense at a Cal lacrosse camp. The ones on my palms that can only be seen when it’s cold from falling on a run home. The three on my left forearm from that cigarette butt. The one in my belly button from my emergency appendectomy. The four straight lines on my thigh from falling through a rotten deck on the Oregon coast. The countless ones around my ankles from sloppy rushed shaving jobs. My fractured eardrum from diving into our California swimming pool, not noticing my sister and her surprisingly hard head in the way. The fifteen or so overlapping scars on my knees from turf burns, hiking, and falling purely out of clumsiness. The one on my left foot from a beer bottle the summer before my sophomore year of college. My two knotted bumps on my ankles that have been sprained for almost four years. And my meniscus that is now missing in my right knee; if I don’t crack it to move the bone every thirty minutes or so it locks up.

Our skeletal muscle is the largest single organ of the human body and accounts for nearly 50% of the body’s weight. We put this organ through some of the toughest challenges. We can feel our ATP pumping through our body, replenishing tired muscles. Muscles work through an anaerobic and aerobic cycle. When we are sprinting up and down, digging into the grass to ask for the ball, we switch into our anaerobic cycle. When this begins our oxygen flow to our muscles is cut off, causing us to heave, grip our thighs for that extra gulp, and eventually get those aching muscles that make even walking to the bathroom a challenge. We breathe in, and the oxygen is distributed through our blood into the capillaries and cells. Oxygen would be toxic to our body if we didn’t have specialized organelles to put it to use, instantly throwing other atoms on it to make oxygen in our body useful. What makes a body push through everything? How have we been trained to fight through pain, add stories to our injuries, and still be on the playing field fighting a war with our own joints?

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Hold your breath and dive in

I want to share a piece of a piece I wrote about when I lived in Aussie land way back when- when I say way back when, I mean I was about five and in a bath with my sister- while my mum video taped this moment:

“It’s my mother’s late twenty something voice commentating for the night as she films us in our half filled murky tub water. Her voice reminds me of mine today. “Jane?” my mother says, “Do you want to tell us why I came in here with the video camera?” Her accent isn’t as strong as ours, but each word ends slightly higher pitched. I stare at her with my legs hanging over the edge, using a large plastic cup to dump large amounts of bath water over my hair, but choose the silent treatment.

“Well,” my mom decides to add in, “I came in here because I heard my oldest daughter yell, ‘Oh my god–Help!’ Isn’t that right Jane?” I still sit in the tub shifting my miniature ass from left to right. “Poop!” I yell, exhausted from my mom’s version of the story, “Sally pooped in the tub!” Sally lays on her baby belly and slides up and down the tub, her legs kicking up behind her, able to understand everything but unable to comment on her bathroom accident.

I hop out of the tub to check the window leading to the back stairs porch for any possums, showing the camera my entire backside. The excitement of the “oh my god. help- poop” moment subsides and my mom begins to wrap things up. “Okay, well I think I’ll leave you two to finish,” she chuckles and begins to back up from the bathroom. Sally stares desperately into the lens for my mom as she backs out, “Baaaa, Baaaa! Pbbaaa!” She yells while pointing a chunky index finger to the water, and there it is.

The small perfect circle of poop, forgotten during cleanup; floating freely in the water. Sally kicks furiously at it, and my mom makes those “Oh, oh no, oh, ok” motherly sounds. The camera focus goes in and out, “I’ll get it”, my mom says, but she isn’t fast enough. “Don’t worry Sal! I’ll get it,” I slip back into the tub, stiff-arm Sally’s head and step over her body, nearly slipping during my mid Heisman. I sit there, eyeing the nugget with defiance, and take my plastic cup for the capturing. I splash half the water out and scream, “Sally move!” as I dive for the perfect catch. I hold the entire cup of bath water full to the brim with my sister’s tiny poop floating at the top; I was so proud.”

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