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Mini Mishaps

26 Apr

I often stray from the original purpose of this site… to highlight the ridiculous bullshit that happens throughout the course of my daily life. These things are not always huge, drawn out tales of shenanigans and tomfoolery – many times, they are simply bumblings and stumblings that make me laugh… and make everyone else in sight laugh with me (or at me, whatever).

So, for the sake of making fun of myself and/or filling you all in/staying true to the Confessions of a Walking Mishap premise, here are a few recent mishaps for your reading pleasure:

That time I walked around at work with a gigantic hole in my pants…

About a week ago, I realized, while washing my hands in the bathroom, that I had a gaping hole in my pants – right below the zipper… so, basically, I had a gigantic crotch hole in my pants. I saw it in the mirror. I have absolutely no idea how long I walked around like that, nor do I know whether or not anyone saw my goodies and didn’t tell me. The guys I work with say they didn’t notice… here’s hoping they aren’t just saying that.

That time I’m pretty sure my mailman saw me naked…

Okay, so I’m not always the domestic goddess I aspire to be – especially when it comes to laundry/ironing. I’m a menace with an iron. Instead of ironing things, I tend to throw them in the dryer while I’m in the shower (don’t judge). Anyway, this often leads to a dash down to the basement after showering to grab my clothes. Typically, it’s a race against the clock for me to get out the door on time. If my car is parked out back, I’ll often just get dressed in the basement, then off I go. On a particularly pressed-for-time morning, I knew my car was parked out back. I did my hair and makeup as per usual, then decided to forego the towel and just head down to leave. In the nude. Oops. I got down to the living room, and didn’t realize I had forgotten to close the curtains until I saw the mailman through my front window. He turned and walked away, and I made the rest of my dash to get out the door. He hasn’t been able to make eye contact since, so I’m fairly certain he’s seen me bareass. Awesome.

That time I called a Ma’am a Sir…

Sometimes, in working with the public, you run into awkward situations. A few of my coworkers have asked women what their due date was, when in fact, said woman was just a bit rotund. I had an individual come in the other day, and in my greeting, I made the mistake of assuming this short, rather husky individual with the extremely shorn crew cut, broad shoulders and cargo pants/flannel button up ensemble was a sir. Wrong. My “Welcome to ______, sir. My name is Dani, how may I help you?” was met with a VERY angry “My name’s Missy. Does that sound like a man’s name to you?” – OOPS. In my defense, Missy straight up looked like a dude.

 

I’m going to stop here, mainly because I’ve run out of steam and just wanted to make sure I got something posted since it’s been a few weeks.

 

XOXO

 

 

PSA- SAVE UPPER DARBY MUSIC AND ARTS

16 Apr

I’m taking a break from the normal shenanigans around here to address something I feel very passionately about. As a child, pre-teen, and teen, I was very heavily involved in the music program in Upper Darby School District. This very program is now at risk of being cut. Here is my letter to the School Board and District Administration.

Dear Administrators and Members of the Board,
I am an alumna of Garrettford Elementary School, Drexel Hill Middle School, and Upper Darby High School. I am a product of the Upper Darby School District Music Program.  From the time I entered the district in first grade, until the day I graduated from Upper Darby High School, the related arts classes, and more specifically, the music program played an integral role in my education, my personal development, and helped shaped me into who I am today. I am heartbroken to hear that, in the face of a budgeting crisis, your first line of defense and financial recovery is to cut the related arts from our elementary schools.
During my time as a student within Upper Darby School District, I was a proud member of Garrettford’s Fifth Grade Chorus, DHMS’s chorus, Concert Singers, Girls’ Ensemble, and Marching Band, and Upper Darby High School’s Chorus and Concert Choir. As a student who was not athletically inclined, and who was cut from the middle school field hockey team, these groups taught me what it meant to be part of a team. The teachers I encountered during my time in these groups inspired me to be better, to do better, both on stage and as an individual. To Mrs. Pennington, Mr. Pulacik, Mr. Turbedsky, Mr. Rider, Mrs. Schneider-Salhi, and Mrs. Benglian, I say thank you. Thank you for opening doors to me as a student I wouldn’t have known existed without you. Thank you for providing me with a place that I fit in.
As you discuss and debate the merits of keeping or cutting our music program, please consider that the building in which you are holding your board meetings, the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center, was my second home for four years of my life. It was the second home of friends that I considered family, and still do. On the second floor of that building is a room with rows of red chairs sitting on risers, with a piano in the center of it. To many of you, it is just a room. To myself and to so many others, we still consider that room a part of our home. In that room, under the direction of Mrs. Barbara Benglian, we became one voice.
Whether it was choir class, a last minute rehearsal, an actual performance, or a national competition, Mrs. Benglian demanded we give our best. Friends of mine that went to other local high schools joined the chorus because it was an easy “A.” Students at Upper Darby knew better, and joined the music programs because we wanted to be the best. During my time in Concert Choir, we continuously earned the title of Grand Champions at competitions. Our soloists won awards, as did the Encore Singers. Because of the high standard Mrs. Benglian held us to, we held ourselves to the same high standard. It is that high standard that I continue to hold myself to, in everything that I do.
Not only were we held to this high standard musically, but we were also held to an academic standard. Had it not been for that standard, my grades probably would not have been what they were. My main motivation, skewed as it may have been, was to make sure that I stayed academically eligible to perform. My grades that were not the only thing the music program helped me maintain. Without my second home, without Chorus and Concert Choir, I would not have built the confidence I did within those groups. I would not have built the friendships or lasting memories, either. Without the musical foundation built by my elementary and middle school teachers, I do not think I’d have been so strongly committed to the music program as a high-schooler. For so many of us, the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center was our home away from home, and it was where we began to learn who we would be as adults. It kept us off the streets and out of trouble, and more importantly, it gave us something to be proud of.
As a concerned alumna, I implore to you afford current and future students the same opportunities I was given as a student of Upper Darby School District. Allow them to experience greatness, because it is what they deserve.
Thank you,

Danielle
Upper Darby High School, Class of 2003

I cannot begin to describe the level of discipline and excellence that was instilled in me through being involved in this music program. I cannot begin to list the memories, the lessons I learned, or the relationships I forged during my time as a member of this organization. This program saved me, in all honesty. Middle school was an awful time for me – my friends from elementary school had become “too cool” by the time we hit sixth grade – their parents allowed them to dress like baby whores and loiter in convenience store parking lots and mine didn’t.  I was cruelly teased by girls that had once been my best friends and confidants. Upon joining the chorus and later auditioning and being accepted into Concert Singers and Girls’ Ensemble at the middle school level, I found a second home.  I made new friends, ones who didn’t have futures as teen moms and criminals, and I learned about myself. I learned what it was to be a part of something so much bigger than myself.  I gained confidence. I gained a voice. In high school, I think it’s possible I spent more time at the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center than I did my own home . My parents supported and encouraged my involvement, coming to every performance we had to offer. 

If you are from the greater Philadelphia area, and even if you aren’t, PLEASE check out saveudarts.org <— This site has all the information needed to help myself, countless alumni, current students, and district parents take action, and make sure the very voice I was given by this program is heard.

I STAND WITH UPPER DARBY SCHOOL DISTRICT, THEIR RELATED ARTS AND MUSIC FACULTY, ALUMNI AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, CURRENT AND FUTURE STUDENTS WHO DESERVE TO EXPERIENCE AND BE A PART OF EXCELLENCE, JUST AS I WAS.

Weirdos, Creepers, and Tools… (I attract them. Don’t ask why.)

3 Mar

“It puts the lotion on its skin, or it gets the hose again…”

In a crowded room full of people, THIS GUY is the one who would try to approach me. Check out the mangina. Who WOULDN'T want that hitting on them??

That is the phrase I most often expect to hear come out of the mouths of the men (and occasional women) that choose to flatter (or scare) me by hitting on me. I attract more weirdos and creepy strangers than any individual I have ever met. My ability to catch the eye of the strangest person in a room is uncanny; my friends think it’s hysterical and my mother worries for my safety. In an effort to keep my content fresh, I’m going to highlight these winners in a new series of posts, similar to The Automobile Follies. Here’s numero uno, for your reading delight:

The Guy I Pepper-Sprayed on the Subway That One Time.

Super Classy Philly Public Transportation

 During my college years, I relied heavily on public transportation – known in these parts as SEPTA (or the devil’s asshole, whichever you prefer). The university I attended had a parking situation that was less than ideal, so I often commuted to school on pub trans. My route went a little something like this: walk to the trolley, take the trolley to the el, take the el to the subway. Getting home, this was reversed. I digress.

One spring afternoon, I decided to head to campus. I was going to crash with the guy I was seeing, simply to make my life easier (and I missed living on campus – I had moved back to the ‘burbs to save money). I went about my usual excursion. When I ride SEPTA, I typically have my headphones in – it’s normally a “small talk with strangers” deterrent. One stop after I got on, a rather odiferous gentleman took the seat next to mine… in a mostly empty car. If you’ve ever taken public transportation, you should be aware that proper etiquette is as follows: if there are empty seats that are NOT practically in someone else’s lap, you sit in those seats. As the car fills up, and it becomes necessity, THAT is when you sit directly next to someone.

Anyway, the man who smelled like a distillery not only sat right next to me, but once we were on our way, he put his hand on my leg. I politely removed said hand, and said “Please don’t touch me.” When he did this again, clearly ignoring my request, I got up and switched seats. He followed. I politely got up and moved once again, as I was thoroughly creeped out. Clearly not taking my hint, my new friend followed once again.

At the next stop, I got off the car, and moved to a different, slightly more populated car. Wouldn’t you know, at the next stop, he boarded my car. He sat down directly next to me, once again, and put his hand on my leg. I very loudly and very clearly said, “Sir, if you touch me one more time, I’m going to pepperspray the shit out of you.” I got up, and moved to a different seat on the same car. Within 20 seconds, he followed. I warned him once again, and once again, I moved. I was semi-shocked that not a single person on the car came to my aid – then I remembered where I was. Within moments, he was sitting next to me again, and attempted to put his hand on my leg. As we were pulling up to the next stop, I calmly pulled out my trusty can of pepper spray and used it. He screamed like a little girl, and called me a bitch, while taking a swing at me. Thankfully, I had already moved toward the door.

Once we hit the platform, SEPTA’s transit police ended up evacuating the car and arresting my assailant. I went about my day, and vowed to take regional rail from there on out.

 

Things I’m Wicked Bad At (Shocking, right?)

7 Dec

I know, I know. You’d think I would be good at everything and anything I attempt. Truth is, there are a few things I’m simply AWFUL at. Ladies and gentleman, the things I suck at:

Hiding My Emotions

While I am a killer poker player (for real), you’d never know it by my complete inability to keep what I’m thinking/feeling from showing up written all over my face. The guys at work bust on me frequently because I struggle to hide my thoughts when a customer is being stupid/disrespectful/a jagoff/a pain in my ass/whatever. Smiling through it all is one of my biggest challenges, especially when my inner monologue is going off on a wicked diatribe. I cannot tell you how many times a day I have to smile through gritted teeth while thinking “You’re a fucking asshole, please go directly to hell.”  I’ve gotten better at this while at work, but in general, it isn’t pretty.  I scoured my photos on Facebook and on my computer to try and find some candid examples, and didn’t seem to have any. You’ll have to take my word on it.

Being Patient

That’s right, I just linked a GnR video. You’re welcome.
 
Anyway… Patience may be a virtue, but it’s one I don’t possess. Waiting is something I’m awful at. I get irritable and cranky, and GOD FORBID I have to wait for something I’ve been looking forward to. I become a rammy, ornery, obstinate five-year-old when having patience is required. This probably classifies me as an asshole, but I think I’m okay with it. This is partially because I know, try as I might, this is a character trait that is unlikely to change. Leopards don’t change their spots, and I don’t wait if I don’t have to.
 

Peeing in a Cup

Yeah, this one’s probably TMI

Okay, so… if you’re a female, and you’ve ever been to the ER for any reason, you know they will inevitably make you pee in a cup to make sure you’re not pregnant. They do this even if you tell them you’re NOT and that there is NO WAY you’re pregnant. If you’ve ever worked for corporate America, you’ve probably had to pee in a cup for a drug test. If you’ve ever suspected you may have a UTI, you’ve had to pee in a cup. Everyone has had to do this at least once in their life. Given my propensity for injury and my job, I’ve probably had to do this more than most. Here’s the thing, kids… I’m awful at it. Here’s how:

 
- The inevitable missing of the cup. Without fail, I cannot seem to hit the cup first try. This usually results in a wet hand, which is fucking gross.
-Dropping the cup. I have done this more than once… the cup lands in the toilet – also fucking gross.
-PEE BOMB. This is my most recent peeing-in-a-cup mishap. I was at the ER to have my dislocated knee checked out. I managed to NOT miss the cup, and feeling rather accomplished, I hobbled to set the cup on the sink so I could put the lid on it and wash my hands. Fate, elegant, cold-hearted whore that she is, decided there was NO way I was getting off easy. I lost my grip on the cup, and in what can only be described in a slow-motion moment of catastrophe, it dropped to the ground like a brick. Needless to say, a huge mess and my endless mortification followed.
 
Now that you all know far more about me than you’d ever care to, I’ll move it right along…
 
 
Doing Any Sort of Household Chore in a Timely Manner
I’m aware this is not a picture of housework. It’s a picture of a hot maid. You’re welcome. Again.

Okay, so check it out. If there is a way for me to put off laundry, dishes, vacuuming, etc without my house looking like a mess, I will find it. Housework is something I loathe. If I know I am having company, I generally wait until the last possible minute to get any general straightening done -you know, pillow fluffing, spot-dusting, blah blah. This fact probably leads you all to believe I live in  squalor, but this is the farthest thing from the truth – my place is clean. I just HATE cleaning it. I’m great at cleaning… I just prefer to procrastinate in doing so. I need a housekeeper.

 
 
Okay, so I know there is a shit ton more I could put on this list… I just don’t feel like it. I don’t need to give any of you lovely fuckers more of my shortcomings.
 
XOXO
 

Being Grown Isn’t Half as Fun as Growing Up. (Random Musings from The Walking Mishap)

12 Oct

It’s been awhile since I’ve done a random musings post, so here it is.

  • I believe that owning a dog is a better antidepressant than any pharmaceutical company could ever manufacture. There is nothing like coming home to Dexter, my 9lb Maltipoo, after a bad day and seeing that little tail wagging, knowing he’s happy to have me home.
  • I am fairly certain I’m part psychic. Okay, so that may be a load of horseshit, but my intuition is creepily accurate, and I often go to pick up the phone to call someone just before it rings, with them calling me. This is probably coincidence, but it happens all the damn time.
  • I think Occupy Wall Street is a hypocritical clusterfuck. Let’s all protest America while tweeting from our iPhones and drinking Starbucks Venti Mocha Triple-Shot Vanilla Swill Lattes while mommy and daddy foot the bill for our educations and living expenses. I may be in the “99%” they speak of, but they don’t speak for me.
  • My car is named Bruce. I’m really not going to elaborate here, but it’s got something to do with the fact that some people seem to think it’s a Transformer and that it, being an inanimate object, actually has a sexual orientation. I’m leaving this one alone.
  • I seem to be migrating hardcore from Facebook onto Twitter. Since Facebook is trying to be what MySpace was, Twitter seems to be the new cool-kid hangout. Sure, it has its trolls and twatwaffles that you don’t want to associate with, but it’s pretty nifty.  Follow me… @walkingmishap
  • People have a penchant for calling me Sunshine. I cannot tell you how many people have called me this at one point or another, fairly consistently. I’d like to think it most often has to do with my sunny disposition, but have a feeling it is more related in a smart-assed way to my cynicism and loathing of mornings. I’ve been called this by many, but it holds special meaning for only one of them.
  • I have an addictive personality. Whether it comes to listening to the same album over and over again, my ever-growing coffee/Diet Coke dependency, food (by now you should have read my “I Refuse to Be a Fatty Ever Again” post), booze (not so much these days… moreso when I was younger), I get fixated. Some of these may classify as an actual addiction (my dependency on caffeine is a physical one at this point), while others may not, but I get very single-minded at times. A therapist once described this as having “addictive tendencies” and occasionally being “single-minded to the point of recklessness.”  I prefer the term “focused.” Considering parts of my family history, none of this is surprising.
  • I have this nagging, insatiable need to get another tattoo. The only thing holding me back is a lack of funds and my indecision on what I want/where I want to put it. I’ve got more than one idea, and I don’t know which I want to go for first.
  • Adele and The Horrible Crowes have both been on constant playlist repeat. If you haven’t listened to either of them, you need to. Now.
  • People don’t rock out nearly enough. One of my biggest cathartic activities is blasting angry boy rock at full volume and simply rocking the fuck out and singing along at the top of my lungs, no matter how off key I am. It may not fix my problems, but it sure as shit lets me get some aggression out. If more people did this, maybe there wouldn’t be so many angry motherfuckers out there.
  • As much as people think I play fast and loose with relationships and emotions, I really do believe in life-changing, heart-breaking, gut-wrenching love.  I’ve been there. I’ve felt it. I know it exists. Part of the reason I occasionally get ribbed for “dating like a guy” (this does not mean slut – this means I am not one to really get caught up in the games) is because I refuse to settle, and I’m not going to waste time on someone I’m not interested in.
  • I suffer from a touch of hypochondria. I used to suffer from more than just a touch – my family and friends had to ban me from WebMd a while back. All I can say about this is that it runs in the family, the hypochondria thing. Also, I’ve gotten much better… seeing as I haven’t diagnosed myself with a brain tumor in at least two years.

That’s all you’re getting for now… more to come soon, I’m sure.

Laid Up, and it BLOWS.

2 Oct

Warning, kids. This one’s probably going to be boring since I’m hopped up on pain meds and can barely feel my face.

It wouldn’t be a day in the life of the Walking Mishap if I didn’t somehow get bumped or bruised… however, this morning, I took it to a whole new level and dislocated my knee, doing nothing more than getting out of the shower. I have a history of knee problems with my left knee, and the last time it did this, it was at 2am when I was getting out of bed to go to the bathroom. Anyway… I got out of the shower this morning, and POP! My knee made a sound that could potentially wake the dead, and I crumpled to the ground. After a trip to the ER, lots of pain, and meds that have me feeling all warm and fuzzy like I should be stroking the furry walls, I’m home and trying to figure out my week. I’m off tomorrow, but I have work Tues-Thurs, Sat, and Sun… and I drive stick. Having a huge immobilizer on my leg isn’t exactly conducive to using the clutch. Basically, it looks as though I’ll be depending on others for rides this week, and I’ll be needing to figure out how the hell I’m going to be able to do 10hr shifts on my feet at work. Le sigh.

For your viewing pleasure, my fashion statement of the year:

Here’s hoping the orthopedic surgeon I have an appointment with tomorrow tells me there’s no meniscus damage.

 

I Refuse to Be a Fatty Ever Again.

29 Jun

Disclaimer: This post is not meant to disparage people who struggle with their weight, or who are heavy. I am writing about ME, about MY experiences, and my views about MYSELF when I was overweight – aka FAT. It’s obnoxious that I even feel compelled to add a disclaimer to this post, but lord knows how sensitive society can be. Additionally, I’ll try hard not to make this some triumphant feel good kind of post – that’s not what it’s supposed to be, but who knows the direction it may take.

Having been fat in the past (seriously, I was chunky… maybe someday I’ll post pictures – for now, you’ll have to take my word for it), I’m determined to not let myself get there again. I’ve had people tell me that saying I was fat in the past is offensive – that I should say I was “very overweight” or that I was “carrying extra pounds,” but fuck that. I was fat. I had no medical condition that made me that way (in a moment of denial and self-delusion, I had blood panels run to check my metabolism and thyroid function and a bunch of other stuff), and I can make all the excuses I’d like, but there IS no excuse. I worked a job where I sat on my ass all day, paid no mind to the food I ate, and avoided exercise like the black plague. I’ve got a fairly petite frame, so it’s not like I was born built to carry extra weight. I was never heavy as a child – if anything, I was underweight. Plainly and simply, I let myself get fat.

To cut a rather long and painful story short, I’ve dropped well over 60 lbs in about a year and a half. Some of it was through hard work and exercise, some weight loss was through meticulously watching what I ate. Some of it can be attributed to getting back into a field where work requires being on my feet for 8+ hours per day, and some can most definitely be credited to a short stint in the hospital for mysterious abdominal issues that turned out to be gall bladder related.

Anyway, over the winter, I seem to have gained about 15 lbs back. I know why – I’ve paid less attention to what I eat (I order out at work waaaaay too much), and my workout habits are awful (Is hating exercise genetic or something? Seriously, I LOATHE the gym). Having learned from past experience, I know I need to get this under control before it snowballs and I’m buying clothes in sizes I’m ashamed to even admit I ever owned.

Here’s the thing about being fat that people who have never been fat may not know. It’s uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing. At least, for me it was. It took me a while to even acknowledge how big I had gotten. If I acknowledged it, it meant it was true… and if it was true, it meant I had to either do something about it, or be okay with it. Once I did acknowledge it and decided to do something about it, I became obsessed. I weighed myself two to three times a day, and tried every fad diet that came down the pike. Nutri-System tasted like dead ass (no, I’ve never tasted dead ass – it’s called a simile, people), but it worked. Well, it worked as long as I was on the program. As soon as I started eating real food again, I started gaining again. Jenny Craig was expensive and gross. South Beach made me cranky and bitchy and wretched – woman cannot subsist without carbs, as far as I’m concerned. The harder I tried, it seemed, the more I set myself up for failure.

After beating my head against the figurative wall for months, I came to a realization. The more obsessed I was, the unhappier I became. The vicious cycle I was trapped in influenced my eating habits… or triggered what I like to call “eating my feelings.” I’m not sure what opened my eyes to this fact, but thank God for whatever it was. From that point on, the obsession began to fade. What I learned was that making healthy, common sense decisions was what would help me shed the bulk of my weight. Once I stopped trying so damn hard – trying TOO damn hard, it became more about becoming healthy and happy than it did becoming thin again. Once that happened, the weight started to almost fall off.

After gradually yet almost completely altering the food and portion choices I make and integrating exercise here and there, I lost 20% of my body weight. And then I lost some more. I successfully shed, in essence, a SMALL CHILD worth of weight. As the weight started to come off, I started to feel like ME again. I was more inclined to go out with my friends without feeling like I was the fat one in the group. I was more confident at work, and I was more confident in general. When more and more people began mentioning my weight loss, I embraced it, thank them for their compliments instead of shying away from them like I used to. It feels damn good to be told how great you look, how happy you look. Losing weight changed my mindset, and the positive feedback I was getting kept me going.

Even though I gained some weight back of the winter/spring, I can say I’m still comfortable with the way I look. At a healthy weight, I’m hour-glass shaped, and I’m happy with that. I love having curves… lord knows it took them long enough to show up (I was built like a 12 yr old boy up until about my senior year of high school). I think there is something inherently feminine about having an hour-glass figure, and don’t quite understand women who want to shed ALL body fat. Most men I know openly admit they like a girl with at least a little meat on her bones – no one wants to cuddle up to a skeleton.

Getting back to the title of this post, I refuse to be a fatty ever again. Being aware that I’ve gained 15 lbs, my ass is now on Weight Watchers (started today – I’m doing it online because group meetings where everyone shares their feelings are totally not my thing). WW seems to be a solidly built program that won’t force me to give up foods I love, but will help hold me accountable for what I put in my mouth (insert pithy oral sex joke here). I’ve done pretty well on my own in the past, but I know how slippery a slope weight gain can be. I think, right now, I need the food journaling and weekly weigh-in to get back into the habit of being aware of what I’m eating and when.  Starting tomorrow, I’m getting back into the gym I loathe so much, armed with a playlist that embarrasses me (shitty pop music is great for keeping cardio pace – so is punk rock – makes for a very… eclectic mix) and the strong desire to shed some lbs. What I need to watch is the obsession end of things. Since WW online will only accept one weigh-in per week, on the same day every week, I need to try to make sure I only weigh myself once a week. Gone are the days when I kept my scale in the kitchen next to the fridge… it only made me step on at every opportunity.

So, guys, please be patient if you see a weight loss post pop up here and there on occasion – motivation is something I’ve always struggled with, and putting it on here where I know at least a few people I know are reading helps me set my mind to it.

An Open Letter to Sallie Mae

7 May

Dear Sallie Mae,

I wish I could be kind, but that is simply not an option here. You have effectively and efficiently secured your place in my life as “bane of my existence.” There is no bill I loathe paying more every month than yours. Your exorbitantly high payments are painful and cut me to the core. While I appreciate you financing my education (you know, for that Advertising degree I’m not really using), I did not realize it was simply a ploy to fuck me over in the long run.

On more than one occasion, you have screwed up my account – sending me notices that I am past due, when in reality, I made my payment early and for more than what was due. You keep me from squirreling away a substantial amount of money into my savings account, hindering me from saving for my future. When I call to discuss my account, I am met with speakers of a foreign language. They do not understand me, nor do I understand them. Your customer service is atrocious. When I call in with questions, it is generally because I need help with something so I do not further wreck my already recovering credit score. I certainly understand that outsourcing your customer support saves you money… however, I do not feel that you NEED to save money, considering the filthy amount you bleed myself and hundred of thousands of other college students for every single month.

Many of us went to college in hopes of not only bettering ourselves and learning, but to ensure that we could someday achieve financial stability. We got degrees because it’s been proven that people who have them make more in a year than people who don’t. What we didn’t expect, however, was to be up to our ears in debt the minute we moved our tassels to the other side of our cap. Your high interest rates and unwillingness to bend or work with your borrowers can be financially crippling for many of us, making us wonder why it is we went to college in the first place.

Rarely can I log into Facebook or Twitter without seeing a friend lamenting on their wall about your lack of concern for their financial health. You rape and pillage us for our hard-earned wages, while shipping our calls for help to India to force us to face a language barrier that is thicker than the Great Wall of China. It saddens me that the bulk of my educational debt is owed to you, because American Education Services (who hold a third of my loans) is always a pleasure to work with. They are helpful and friendly, and they speak my language (that would be English, in case it isn’t clear).

Your practices are unethical and cruel, and frankly, I can only hope you somehow get taken out. Other major financial institutions have collapsed in recent years. You’ll have to forgive me for hoping that you’re next.

With Disgust and Mistrust,

The Walking Mishap

PS – GO FUCK YOURSELF.

With Age, Comes Wisdom (and all that other shit they say to make you feel better about getting older)

8 Jan

For those of you who aren’t my friend on Facebook (because, let’s face it, that’s how we all remember birthdays these days) or who don’t know me personally enough to know I make my birthday a big deal, I turned 26 on January 6th. Another year older, I figure I should share some wisdom with you all, whether you be older, the same age, or younger than myself. This is stuff everyone should know.

The Older You Get, The More Your Friends Suck

They don’t do it on purpose. They really don’t. As we all get older, we find more and more excuses to not meet a friend at a bar or restaurant for their birthday, or to not show up for a social gathering at their home, or to not show up, period. We can’t afford it, we have work the next day, we’re too tired, we don’t feel good, we didn’t want to drive that far, etc. The excuses are innumerable. When we were younger, not a single one of these things would have stood in our way. As we enter our mid to late twenties and beyond, something as minor as sneezing the wrong way equate to reason enough to stay home. It sucks, but let’s face it, it’s the truth. Canceled plans aren’t personal these days, folks. They’re a sign of aging.

Hangovers After Age 25 = HELL ON EARTH

I always thought this one to be nothing but myth… but goddamn was I wrong. Last year, I remember wondering why my headaches were lasting much longer into my days, why my body ached worse than ever before, and why my stomach did the goddamn tango the day after drinking. In my early twenties, I could party with the best of them at wake up at 9 am, refreshed and ready to start a new day, without repercussions from the night prior. After turning 25? BAM! Hangover city. I have discussed this phenomenon with more than one close friend of mine, and they all agree… Hitting the quarter century mark means getting the worst hangovers of your life. Either quit drinking or learn to deal with it, because this is a fact of life.

You Learn Who Your Real Friends Are

Shockingly enough, the older you get, the more you begin to align your priorities with your lifestyle. Instead of getting a thrill out of booking Spring Break in Cancun, loose funds are put into savings. Days off are spent cleaning the house or doing laundry or running errands you always thought to be boring and trite. Even more shockingly, you realize the people you have spent years partying your ass off with aren’t necessarily the people you have the most in common with. Sometimes, you find that you have moved on from the days of raging all night, instead landing yourself in bed most evenings by the end of the 11 o’clock news, and some of the people you were close with are still focused on intoxication rather than moving forward in life. It hurts to let go and acknowledge that you’ve perhaps outgrown their companionship, but it’s even more damaging to pretend nothing’s changed. The people who show up for you on special occasions, listen to your tales of stress and adulthood worries and actually relate, and who still recognize the occasional need for youthful debauchery are the ones you’ll end up keeping around – even if you all need to commiserate about that post-25 hangover the next day.

There’s Nothing Like BS’ing Over Breakfast Food at a Diner

Whether it be after a rare night of drinking, or once a week with a good friend, there’s something Seinfeld-esque about sitting in a diner eating sub-par food and catching up with an old friend. Whether it be to blow off steam, to sober up, or simply to get out of the house, reverting to hanging out in diners like you’re back in high school can be oddly cathartic. They call it comfort food for a reason.

Last But Not Least, Tequila Can STILL Go Fuck Itself

I do not know a single person who enjoys the taste of tequila or its inevitable effects. I once had a college roommate who would drink more of the stuff than could ever be recommended, and her nights rarely ended well. I myself find that tequila takes my nights down roads it need not go, and many friends would agree. Just this evening, for my birthday celebration, shots of tequila showed up at our table (Thanks, Tom), and they did not go down easily. All but one of us “took it like a champ”, and I know at least two of us suffered later in the night for pretending like we can still hang. I hate the smell, I hate the taste, and yet, I decided to partake in such shenanigans. Lesson learned. If you are past the age of 21 and are tempted to drink tequila, just remember: it tastes even worse coming back up than it did going down, no one at the bar thinks it’s cool if you lose your clothes, and you’re going to feel like shit in the morning.

 

All of that being said, I would like to thank the people who joined me this evening to celebrate. You are true friends, and I love that fact that even as we get older, we still manage to find the time to stay young.

 

I Am Not Cinderella (Or, Mice are NOT My Friends and They Don’t Help Me With Chores)

2 Jan

If only the real ones were this innocent...

It was a tame Thursday night, and my friend Brandy and I were hanging out at my apartment, eating some Papa John’s and watching shitty reality TV. The temperature outside had angrily dipped into the low 30s, making us acutely aware that winter was upon us. Nice and toasty in my apartment, nothing was out of the ordinary. Until we heard it.

Scratch, scramble, scratch.

Wide eyed, Brandy looked at me. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

Calmly, I shushed her and listened some more.

Scratch, scramble, scratch. IN MY CEILING.

Trying to remain calm, I explained to Brandy that the tenant upstairs had mice on occasion. We were both thoroughly skeeved, and went back about our business. Brandy went home, and I went to bed, hearing no more from the furry critters living above me. I should have known better than to think that would be the end of it.

Over the course of the following week, the scurrying in my ceiling worsened. One morning, while foraging for breakfast I opened my snack/cereal cabinet to find crumbs and shredded boxes. The little bastards had committed the cardinal sin: they ate my Cap’n Crunch. And my Lucky Charms. Not cool.

Determined to fix the problem myself, I set traps. Lots of traps. The first night after setting them, eight mice met their early demise. EIGHT. In one night. The two empty traps had clearly been encountered by mice that were smarter than the average bear, because they were tripped, with no mouse in sight. I disposed of the deceased furry creatures, feeling a slight pang of guilt for killing them. Notice I said slight – not nearly overwhelming enough to deter me from setting ten more traps.

Before going to bed, I decided to get a glass of water. Upon flicking the light switch on, I locked eyes with a mouse who was clinging for dear life to the corner of one of my cabinets. He looked just as shocked as I, dangling there upside down, like a teenager caught sneaking out in the middle of the night. His grip failed, and he fell, causing me to flee the kitchen like a baby. I went to bed, spending a sleepless night straining to see if I could hear the satisfying “SNAP!” of traps going off.

I called my landlord, who vowed to get the exterminator out the very next day. He sounded sufficiently mortified that the problem had gotten so bad, and sprung into action. In the meantime, I set more traps. And caught more mice. When the exterminator came out, she determined the mice were breeding in between the floor upstairs and my ceiling… and that there were quite a few. She put poison in the drop ceiling in my kitchen, and behind my washer, dryer, and stove.

Before the little critters took that bait, I was lucky enough to open a cabinet one day to find a particularly brazen mouse sitting atop a new box of Cap’n Crunch, eating a single crunch nugget. Had he been able to speak, I’m pretty sure he would have said “Excuse me, bitch, I’m trying to eat.” Not knowing what else to do, I let him go about his business and went to work, thoroughly disgusted and ready to move.

To cut this little tale short, I’ll sum it up here:

Total Trapped Mouse Count: 37

Total Dead, Poisoned Mice Found on My Kitchen Floor: 9

Total Live Mice Found This Week: 0

I think my little problem has been solved… for now. The exterminator is due back in a week, and we’ll see what she finds. I can say, if the issue continues, I’ll be moving.

 

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