Friday, May 28, 2010

Vending Machine Addict

My husband and I are vacationing in Tokyo this week, so writing out this blog means I`m spending roughly 100 yen for just 30 minutes on the hostel computer. 100 yen is something like, $100.00 US dollars and is not something we budgeted for, but I thought, the blog- I must write on the blog.

(100 Yen could also amount to more like one dollar, but either way- you`re welcome.)

Tokyo is everything one could hope for- a loud, stunning, awesome city full of culture and excitement. The food is amazing, the people are wonderful, the sights are spectacular. But the one thing that really stands out to me- are the vending machines.

Japan has something like 2 million vending machines, and they sell everything in them-drinks mostly, but also food, toys, underwear- you name it, you can get it in a vending machine- and they are addicting.

`Look, another vending machine!` I shout excitedly, pointing.
`Hmm...?` My husband was ignoring me and staring at a gaggle of extremely hot Japanese women coming up from the subway, their hair glossy, their legs gleaming under short shirts, high heels clicking against the concrete like a beautiful herd of supermodels. I was guzzling down some type of mango juice I had just purchased from a previous vending machine and looked like hell. Jet-lagged and sweating, sunscreen pouring into my eyes, my jeans sticking to the insides of my legs, shirt stained with deodorant marks and mango juice. My running shoes, which I had chosen to wear for comfort and durability, now looked like a bag of dirty marshmallows I had duct-taped to my feet. I will be genuinely shocked if my husband ever has sex with me again.

`VENDING- machine....right there.` I pointed again. We were lost somewhere between Ryogoku Kokugikan and Asakusa, which is as confusing as it sounds, and I was getting both exhausted and irritable- an ideal formula for an international vacation meltdown.

`I`m going to have a boner for the next week straight,` my husband sighs, looking wistfully at the retreating pack of gorgeous women. He finally looks down at me clutching at his shirt, over-heated and foaming at the mouth. `Haven`t you had like, ten vending machine drinks today?`
`One more, and that`s it,` I said, like a true addict. I would probably go through at least six to seven more. He handed me a pile of coins and I ran to the glittering, brightly lit machine for my fix.

The lowest point came yesterday, when I managed to get my forearm caught in a vending machine door.
`Help....` I grunted, my arm caught in between a cold milk chocolate and the Plexiglas. I withered on the concrete in pain.
`Oh god, they`re going to deport us.` My husband managed to wrestle my arm free of the beast, and finally victorious, I clutched the chocolate milk in my sweaty, blood-soaked hand. `You are DONE with the vending machines,` he said, mad now. `DONE.`

I agreed, sucking down the delicious ice-cold drink with a flourish. I was done.

Until our next trip to Tokyo, of course.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Scent of a Woman

Ugh, I shouldn't write about this, because it really doesn't put me in the best light- but I hate to shower.

I realize that saying you hate to shower is about as repulsive as it gets. And mind you, I didn't say I DON'T shower- I just said I hate it. Like I hate hiking (boring) or working late (yuck) or social conservatives (bigots).

For most people, showering is probably a fun, happy, ordeal full of bubbles and warm water and relaxation. For me, it's a torture chamber of awkward shaving, soap in my eyes, and creepy prune hands. Am I watching Saw II?

Getting me to shower is a three step process.

1. Husband says, "When's the last time you showered?"
2. I say, "Last night." (A lie.)
3. Husband says, "I think you should shower."

Ugh, the PROCESS. Shampoo, conditioner, apply shave gel, shaving, soap, weird loofah brush- jeez, Alcoholics Anonymous has less steps. And unlike AA, I don't always come out clean.

"Did you use soap on your armpits?" My husband asks, accusingly.
"Um...yes?" (Another lie.)
"Get back in there."

A couple weeks ago I was using Febreze Air Freshener on my couch cushions, and for good measure, I sprayed myself down as well. The label on the bottle said "eliminates odors and freshens fabric, carpet, and air", and I figured, well, I'm wearing fabric, breathing air, and the carpet? Well, that's just a really obvious obscene joke I'm not going to even bother with.

"You smell so good!" My friend Kristin greeted me with a big hug and a compliment, and I thought, wow- Febreze does work. Eat my dust, Soap! (No pun intended.)

The downside of replacing showering with Febrezeing is, well- it's really weird, and also- people start to catch on.

"You smell like a wet dog trapped in a Glade factory," my sister said, which was pretty rude. It was also the truth. I broke down and took a shower that night, after 5 days and 4 nights of Febrezeing my rotting, putrid, dirty body down. Finally clean, I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped outside of the bathroom.

"Did you use soap on your armpits?" My husband asks- again.


Sunday, May 9, 2010

There's a Pill for That

I just LOVE abusing prescription drugs.

I realize some people might not find that very cool, but those are the people that aren't rolling Prozac. Because if you're on Prozac, EVERYTHING is cool.

Mind you, nothing is actually wrong with me- nothing obvious, anyway. I abuse prescription drugs because it's the incredibly hip thing to do. Everybody and their mom in Hollywood does it- like when the hot young starlet pulls a bottle Ritalin out of her Gucci clutch and passes it around at da' club- so sexy.

Coke is too 80's, alcohol is too 90's, pot isn't elegant- but prescription drugs? That's what It Girls take- right before they go on stage/act in an indie film/make love to a rock star/shop.

The key to getting your hands on the stuff is to A) Lie, and B) Have Multiple Doctors. The rest is easy.

Me: "I'm depressed."
Doctor #1: "You're depressed?"
(Of course I'm not depressed. I am way, way, too shallow to actually feel any real human emotion- clearly Doctor #1 doesn't know me at all. Depression to me when I find a skirt I like at Nordstrom and they don't have my size.)
Me: "Yes. I am VERY depressed."
(Read- Prozac makes me lose weight, and I really, really, want Kate Bosworth's emaciated body- you know Kate Bosworth, right? She looks like ET, in that scene where the government catches him, and he's all white in that coffin incubator? THAT'S the weight I want to be at.)

Me: "I'm having panic attacks- I think I need Xanax."
Doctor #2: "You're having panic attacks?"
(Yes, I'm having panic attacks. When I don't have Xanax, I panic. Cue laughter.)
Me: "HUGE panic attacks."
(Read- Popping a Xanax is like downing a six-pack of beer- without the calories!)

Me: "I can't concentrate."
Doctor #3: "You can't concentrate?"
(I can concentrate, but only on stuff like gossip magazines, episodes of The Real Housewives of New York, gorgeous jeweled sandals, and devising a plan to make Christian Bale fall in love with me. I can't concentrate on stuff like my job, paying bills, nurturing healthy relationships with my husband/family/friends, or living in reality.)
Me: "Nope. Can't concen- what did you say again?"
(Read- Adderall is a psychostimulant that makes me sharp as a tack- with it, I can shop for 12 hours straight- without stopping. Thanks for calling, Visa, but no, my credit card wasn't stolen.)

I told my coworker how awesome Ambien is as a sleep aid, and she goes, "I would NEVER get on anything like that- I would be afraid I'd get addicted."

Oh, okay, so this evening you enjoy a boring night's sleep, and meanwhile, in MY dreams I'll be flying across space on a unicorn's back. Apparently, some people are too good for prescription drug abuse. What, you want a gold medal? And by the way, getting addicted IS the whole point- duh.

Eventually I'll have to stop, and get my highs naturally- through really lame shit like eating right, exercising, and maintaining healthy relationships.

Until then, I'll just find a pill for that.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

RIP Irish/Cop Jokes

I just love beating a joke to death.

I am the Grim Reaper of jokes, puns, sarcasm, and wit. An idea, a situation arises and my mind just goes and goes and goes and I can't stop. It's totally OCD- I should get some medication for that.

My friend, I'll call her Angus, (because really, Angus is the Jennifer of 1923) told us that her new boyfriend is a police officer...and, he's from Ireland. It was like being handed a Christmas gift.

Let the rain begin!

Me: "I guess if you're being arrested by an Irish're not so lucky after all!"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Is that a gun in your pocket-literally-....or are you just happy as a leprechaun to see me?"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Be careful where you're shooting that thing (comparing his gun to his cock)- unless it's at me!"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Four leaf clover? More like four leaf HOLSTER!"

Angus: "HA...?....does that rhyme?"

Me: "What does an Irish Cop find at the end of a rainbow? A pot full of donuts?"

Angus: "Um, that's not really funny."

Me: "So you're saying no to gun control, but yes to PUN control?"

Angus: "Okay, please stop."

I could fill an entire page full of Irish/Cop jokes, but really, I want you all to keep reading my blog, so I'll end the torture.


Okay one more- How do you get out of a speeding ticket with an Irish Cop? By using your lucky charms, of course!

HA HA HA!!!!