Thursday, February 14, 2013

Every day is Not Valentine's Day. I Will Stab You with an Arrow.

I woke up Matt/the dude I tricked into loving me at 6:30 in the morning with the following:

Allie: Happy Valentine's day!

Matt: (murmurs something unintelligible due to his face being smashed into a pillow)

Allie: Huh? I can't hear you, because YOU'RE SLEEPING!

Matt: Oh. My. God. Happy Valentine's day, baby.

I'm seeing a lot of "Every day is Valentine's Day in my house" on social media today, and I think it's time to call bullshit.

As someone who is in a looonnggg-term, live-in relationship I can say, for certain, that most days are not Valentine's Day.

Most days are like Guy Fawkes Day. Or President's Day. Or World Aids Day. Or "I'm going to kill you if I have to replace another empty toilet paper roll" Day.

Maybe if you said "Every day is like St. Patrick's Day" and you're in a relationship with an alcoholic, I'd believe you--but Valentine's Day?!?

Get out of here with that shit.

I love Matt. But most days are like Arbor Day. Or Canadian Thanksgiving.

Allie: I'm going to stab you in the face with an arrow ... like Cupid. It will be romantic.

Matt: You would stab yourself with the arrow. You would never hit me.

Allie: Oh, I would hit you! It would be like The Hunger Games.

Matt: Really? Because I don't remember Katniss tripping and impaling herself with her arrows.

Today was Administrative Professionals Day, at best.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

I'm Giving Up Awesome Shit for Lent in Hopes to Become the New Pope.

My friend Lisa loves to participate in Lent. Just to be clear, she is not a Catholic, she is a masochist.

Last year, she gave up Facebook. The year before, she went without potatoes/potato products. So while having a lovely breakfast with my dear friend last week, I was not surprised when she shared that she'd be giving up bread and grains (basically doing the whole paleolithic eating thing) this year.

"So you're doing it with me, right?" she asked.

"Um..."

"Because I saw that you've been eating really clean lately, and it will be fun to do it together."

There's something about Lisa. She has a type of contagious and boundless enthusiasm that could make water-boarding sound super rad.

"Sure," I said, as I shoveled a homefry in my mouth. "How long is it?"

"40 days."

"Oh, that will be easy." I said, wondering if I should suck off the hollandaise that spilled on my shirt.

Hours later, after the Stockholm's wore off, I was contemplating my exit strategy. See, I'm not a big fan of deprivation. Or Catholicism. I am, however, a huge fan of cookies, which I learned are not considered paleo. That little fact makes me very suspicious of anyone who would do this shit voluntarily, but that is another post for another time.

I was all ready to tell Lisa that I'm not a Catholic and the only thing I want to give up is that pedophile-propagating, Nazi pope.

And sure enough, the bastard resigns.

Goddammit.

I guess when a former Baptist claims she'll only give up delicious, delicious carbs when the pope hangs up his silly hat, and then he does.

She's got to follow through.

So there you have it. Tonight I cried over a bowl of Mac and Cheese. Tomorrow I will be a ... Lent-ee, Lent-er, huge bitch.

I plan on keeping you guys abreast of the situation, mainly on Twitter and Instagram, so you should follow me (and crazypants Lisa). Also feel free to join in on the abuse by using #Lent2013 and #NotReallyaCatholic.

Find me on Twitter and Instagram @AllieOopsie

Find Lisa on Twitter @LisaDirtyMoney and on Instagram @austill

Sunday, February 10, 2013

I Wish a Mother F**ker Would and Other Thoughts on Serving Customers

Most days I dream about a customer punching me in the face.

No, not because I have whatever Please-Beat-the-Shit-Out-of-Me fetish Rihanna seems to be suffering from.

But because I would love to go full-force spider monkey crazy on some mulleted son-of-a-bitch who asks me if I'm retarded or tells me I've got "tig ol' bitties" and being punched first is the only way I can legally go about it, I believe.

If you can think of another way, please share it with me in the comments.

But day-dreaming about getting assaulted by a grown man only fills so much of the day and the rest is pretty much assholes on parade.

Basically it's been a rough couple of days to not really be a barista. It's making me want to become not really an alcoholic.

But what can you do? Times are tough. Your journalism degree might as well be written in crayon for all the good it's doing you. And making over-priced coffee drinks pays the bills and provides health insurance until someone decides they want to pay you for being snarky or to talk about blowjobs.

It's not that bad, I guess. But still some days I can't help but think "I wish a Mother Fucker would. I've got 27 dysfunctional years that has left me chock full of crazy. Come at me, bro!"


And I promise, if and when this goes down, it will be recorded and put on the internet.

Because I'm a considerate person--a considerate and extremely angry person.