Day two = poo!

Sorry for the childish rhyme, had to get it out.

WHERE did I get so many clothes?!  The amount of shirts, jeans, dresses, skirts, shoes,  belts (<– hehe I do own some, never wear them, sorry to those of you who have been casualties of that one) is beyond ridiculous.  And if you asked me right now, of COURSE I need new clothes.  I don’t wear most of what I have, and while I often go through my closet to give stuff away, I tend to keep a lot of things for hypothetical situations that happen at most twice a year (i.e. intense cardio, high class afternoon tea with government officials, job shadowing an auto mechanic.) It is ALL currently dumped on the floor in my room (and has spilled into the hallway) and I have no plans of organizing anything before I leave (I bet you $1,000,000.50 that my mother just read that and shouted at my somewhere in the house something about ‘Get your ASS upstairs and hang up that stuff.  I’m not going through it when you’re gone.’).  There will be two piles: cruise, Germany.  Luckily I’m much more prepared for the cruise since all of my “going out” clothes for IC don’t involve much material, I have zero idea how much/what I should be packing for Europe.  I plan on just wearing my 713 shirt day in and out until people stop trying to befriend me and start whispering behind my back about “the smelly American who bursts into tears at the mention of bratwurst or Miley Cyrus.”  I’m really planning on making quite the international reputation for myself.

DO.YOU.KNOW. where I’m going tonight?  Wine Tea.  Not just any tea, THE TEA my mother attends every Monday night with a handful of friends.  They only call it “tea” because, I don’t know, they don’t want everyone to know there’s anything BUT tea flowing, and that the conversations are much more tame than “I’m going to smack my child <insert name> because they are such a <insert deragatory adjective> and while I’m at it, so is <insert name of significant other.>” (Haaa, I kid… kind of.)  My brother calls it the DMC — Drunken Mother’s Club– but that’s not very nice.  I suppose what they’re doing is no different than what NPH and I do on a nightly regular basis, or why Lauren and I get together usually once a week and bitch about our lives and our lack of male attention and ever-increasing waistlines.  ANYWAY– I’m pretty pscyhed for this because 1.) I freakin’ love those ladies.  They are bat shit crazy, in the nicest way possible.  2.) I will be getting out of this house.  3.) They will be all “Oooh fresh meat” and ask me questions about myself– and I hope you’ve all realized by now, I’m my number one favorite topic– that will probably center around “WHO is this Neil kid and WHEN are you getting married?!?!?!”  And then I will calmly answer, “Never” and then text him “It’s happening again” and then he’ll offer to drive to Adel and run me down with his car to prove to the world that, in fact, we have ne’er seen each other naked.

Well now that I’ve completely forgotten any thesis I may have been trying to conclude upon, I will leave you and go FIND KAYLA since apparently she’s DIED en route or doesn’t realize this is our ONE DAY to hang out before I LEAVE possibly FOREVER.  Or until May, whichever comes first.

Things I don’t like: sunsets.  They make me sad.  Not like boo-hoo cry sad, but you know, sad.  Sunrises and I are a-ok, but their nighttime counterpart and I have some beef.  Methinks this is because when I was a little kid, I had a freakishly early bedtime during the summer.  It would often still be light out (the damn sun was starting it’s horrid setting) and I’d sit at my window and hear other kids playing and thinkof all the stuff I was missing out on and be really upset.  I’m one of those people who has zero problem with it getting dark out at like 5 pm now that it’s not Daylight Savings Time.  The sun sets in like two seconds– HA!  Take that, dusk. 

Man am I gonna be sore tomorrow.  From the GYM, get your mind outta the gutter.  My aunt is a personal trainer (or as one could call her, a freak anomaly in the sea of ”not-exactly-what-you’d-call-active/ could-I-just-get-a-trough-instead-of-a-plate”-ers who hail from the same gene pool.)  She honored us with the privilege of getting up at a single-digit hour in the morning to sweat out yesterday’s shameful show of How Many More Ribs will Brittney Eat Before she Actually Passes Out?  Which I’m glad she did because the answer to that question is a much higher number than even I was expecting.  So, an hour on the elliptical followed with some fun ab/arm/leg contortions will leave me feeling absolutely peachy tomorrow.  Don’t worry– I know you’re all probably quite concerned– I’m eating jerky as we speak.  (Oh, PS Mom, I found some jerky in the fridge.  Hope you weren’t saving it for anyone else.)

We have returned from the land of the south, and after about two minutes in the house I realized I was going to be here for a week.  A WEEK.  Do you know the last time I spent a week at home?  Uhhh maybe Christmas Break freshman year?  Oy vey.  When grumbling about this aloud to the one they call T-Bone, she told me I could separate the laundry for her.  HA.  What is this “laundry” you speak of?  And I certainly can’t figure out why anyone would “separate it”– isn’t it just a dump in magic machine, pour three cups of pretty blue soap on, hit a button & pray for the best activity?  Uh-oh, the jerky’s gone.  That doesn’t bode well for the rest of the week.

Today I’m thankful for… airplanes.  I hatey-hate-HATE flying, but damn it’d be a long walk to Germany.  (For those of you counting at home, t-minus 45 days until departure.)  Oh wow, so this is what hyperventilation feels like.

As many of you know (partly in thanks to an after-bar post that you can read here) a classmate of mine passed away ONE YEAR AGO today.  So I went up to hang out with him in the cemetary today, seeing as I have a WEEK here and all.  It wasn’t really sad, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” was on the radio and really that song’s so awesome it could bring war-torn nations apart, so I was in no Debbie Downer mood.  Someone had brought flowers up there today, but there was also a new pack of Swisher Sweets (the kid smoked em like they were going out of style, long story).  This was in addition to the OLD pack of Swisher Sweets someone had put there.  On top of the MULTIPLE DOLLARS IN QUARTERS that are just chillin there.  Am I missing something?  Is this some sick joke and Boner’s gonna come back, need a bunch of smokes, and have a shit ton of dirty clothes to clean at a Landromat?  He’s dead.  First of all, if you’re making wishes with coins (which I always thought there needed to be a fountain involved, but whatever) wouldn’t pennies be more of a recession-savvy coin to use?  Also, anything tobacco-related ain’t cheap anymore, go ahead and save yourself the couple dollars on the smokes for the dead guy because I guranTEE some high school hooligan from ADMHS will lift those babies within a week.  Those were just my thoughts. 

Methinks tomorrow I will accompany my mother to “tea” with her friends.  I have not been invited, but feel it would be kosher pickles if I showed up anyway.  Those crazy pre-menopausal vino-freak ladies are the shit.  I baby-sat for most all of their kids who were younger than me, and I illegally drank in barns, cornfields, and parent-less houses with the ones who were my age or older.  Ahh, the unbreakable bonds of the Tea Kids.  Perhaps we’ll get a cheaper rate on group therapy.