Just some more typical texts from my atypical bestie:
"I'm at Goodwill and over the intercom that the music plays on someone is throwing up in the background..."
09/01/2009 11:01 pm
"Um a seagull took 3 craps on my windshield in quick succession while I was driving and I freaked out and accidentally hit the windshield wipers and now my windshield is entirely covered in hardened seagull crap. I can barely see out the windshield. And people laugh at me."
09/23/2009 7:12 pm
"My car is dying. Also two middle aged women are yelling 'Chloe' at me. So I started walking away and they're calling after me"
11/02/2009 2:27 am
"Um I'm listening to Christopher Walken recite 'Pokerface' while the music is playing in the background..."
11/03/2009 3:15 pm
"I'm about to get a pot o' gold." ***
11/07/2009 4:19 pm
"Newspaper is probably the hardest paper out of all the paper to rip in straight line. Even when cardboard is thrown into the mix."
11/23/2009 12:56 pm
"SMORES. There is no better way to start the morning."
11/24/2009 11:07 am
And, a personal recent favorite:
"A man just sneezed on my head."
12/08/2009 1:59 pm
*** When I asked, in more or less words, what the crap she was talking about, she offered this explanation:
"There was a rainbow that ended at Marshall's. And I was at Marshall's."
11/07/2009 5:26 pm
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Complete with mustache and a windowless van
My bestie is really a very cute girl. This is sometimes unfortunate for her, as it can cause Airplane Bite-type situations, and often unfortunate for me, as I, in the course of bestiehood, end up standing next to her at parties or posing with her for photos and am forced to live as the virtual side-by-side comparison of someone who can't take a bad picture. Until now.
My bestie's new phone, which is infinitely more advanced than her old one, has a handy feature that allows you to take a picture without the phone even being open--you just hit one little button on the side and you've got yourself a photo. It's great until you're walking along in Fred Meyer, holding your phone in your hand, maybe making a fish face just for kicks, and your finger slips and hits that one little button and you get this:
Or, my finger slips and you get this:
I can't remember the occasion for this one but let's just assume it was the debut of her registered sex offender impression.
***My bestie did not send me these pictures of her own volition. I stole her phone and sent them to myself. Had to be done.
My bestie's new phone, which is infinitely more advanced than her old one, has a handy feature that allows you to take a picture without the phone even being open--you just hit one little button on the side and you've got yourself a photo. It's great until you're walking along in Fred Meyer, holding your phone in your hand, maybe making a fish face just for kicks, and your finger slips and hits that one little button and you get this:
Or, my finger slips and you get this:
I can't remember the occasion for this one but let's just assume it was the debut of her registered sex offender impression.
***My bestie did not send me these pictures of her own volition. I stole her phone and sent them to myself. Had to be done.
Monday, October 19, 2009
This is what undiagnosed ADD looks like.
"Umm I was just thinking about Jordan and the thought process ended in a mutant vs. beautiful people war. For real. Also I hate beautiful people."
11:35 pm 10/18/09
"How long can tuna fish be left out before going bad?"
Moments later
11:35 pm 10/18/09
"How long can tuna fish be left out before going bad?"
Moments later
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Aaaaand she's back.
"Texting. Texting. Texting. Texting. I have texting!"
9/14/09 3:14 pm
It's true, folks. My bestie's mom finally broke down and bought her a new, clam-water-free phone. And it didn't take long for the fun to begin.
I started a job a while back with a company that does school photography ("tilt your head a little further... just a little more...aaand perfect") and have recently been doing shoots in elementary schools. I'm here to tell you that kids really do say the darnedest things. The photographers and I were set up in the hallway and had an hour window to eat lunch when the PM kindergartners came tromping by. Many said hi, some were too shy or didn't care, but one little boy got the best running start his 5-year-old-legs could manage, and leaped in front of us, shouting "My shoes are made out of goodness!"
Upon sharing this encounter with my bestie, who has been pretty agitated lately with the kids at the childcare center where she works, I softened her up and started this text exchange, where she began by repeating one of the weird things one of her daycare kids had said:
Bestie: "'The monster lives and hops in the closet.' Just kidding, I love me some kids."
Me: "That sounds like some weird CIA code."
Bestie: "Someone secretly works for the CIA...undercover midget, anyone?"
Me: "Umm holy crap I already had that discussion once today, no joke. Kindergarten narc."***
Bestie: "YES. Of all conversations, that one SHOULD be had twice."
09/15/09 8:45ish pm
***When a group of what I thought was kindergartners came down for their scheduled shoot, one girl looked suspiciously out of place--she must have been a foot taller than all of the other kids and had a much better fashion sense. Baffled, I began discussing with my co-workers the possibility of her being a kindergarten narc. Turns out I was mistaken and it was a first/second grade split class. Still...
9/14/09 3:14 pm
It's true, folks. My bestie's mom finally broke down and bought her a new, clam-water-free phone. And it didn't take long for the fun to begin.
I started a job a while back with a company that does school photography ("tilt your head a little further... just a little more...aaand perfect") and have recently been doing shoots in elementary schools. I'm here to tell you that kids really do say the darnedest things. The photographers and I were set up in the hallway and had an hour window to eat lunch when the PM kindergartners came tromping by. Many said hi, some were too shy or didn't care, but one little boy got the best running start his 5-year-old-legs could manage, and leaped in front of us, shouting "My shoes are made out of goodness!"
Upon sharing this encounter with my bestie, who has been pretty agitated lately with the kids at the childcare center where she works, I softened her up and started this text exchange, where she began by repeating one of the weird things one of her daycare kids had said:
Bestie: "'The monster lives and hops in the closet.' Just kidding, I love me some kids."
Me: "That sounds like some weird CIA code."
Bestie: "Someone secretly works for the CIA...undercover midget, anyone?"
Me: "Umm holy crap I already had that discussion once today, no joke. Kindergarten narc."***
Bestie: "YES. Of all conversations, that one SHOULD be had twice."
09/15/09 8:45ish pm
***When a group of what I thought was kindergartners came down for their scheduled shoot, one girl looked suspiciously out of place--she must have been a foot taller than all of the other kids and had a much better fashion sense. Baffled, I began discussing with my co-workers the possibility of her being a kindergarten narc. Turns out I was mistaken and it was a first/second grade split class. Still...
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Adventures in House-sitting.
"Hey homie, listen, best set-up ever: a little bit of Risky except better because it's Penny and it's not a cat and she's crazy--also she has that crazy stomach issue.
Anyway ummm Debra Petersen called me --HOMIE GET A MOVE ON! This guy's going like 20-- umm Debra Petersen called me and asked me -- DUDE BLINKER HOMES. Yikers.-- Debra Petersen-- sorry-- Debra Petersen called me and asked me to house-sit for her this Saturday to Tuesday so clear your schedule...not actually, I mean just at nights or whatever. We're gonna have tons of fun: she has huge screens and stuff and it'll be awesome and Papa Murphy's up the wazoo... It's gonna be the shiz and you're gonna be there and it's gonna be awesome.
And she has a crazy-a** pig--swine flu, anyone, right? So anyway call me...I was talking about...I'm gonna run out of time...gorgeous eyed guy, that's what I said, it made my day and I hope it made yours and then I forgot to call you back. Alright, call me, goodbye."
08/28/2009 3:14 pm
And now, the four separate back-stories that you would have to know for this to seem more sane than not:
--The summer after we graduated from high school, I was asked to house-sit for a family friend. She had a huge TV, the extended versions of the Lord of the Rings movies, and a cat. We had all the free pizza we wanted from Papa Murhpy's, where my bestie worked at the time, elastic-waist shorts, and no desire to sleep. We settled in nicely, and were halfway through the first movie and all the way in love with Legolas when Rikki, the cat, went crazy.
I neglected to mention two other things we had: an irrational fear of cats, and two baby gates. Rikki got bored and began to pester us, then to hide in dark corners of the room and jump out at inopportune moments, and finally waged a full-scale assault on our toes. We put him in the hall, put up one of the baby gates, and rewound to the last good Orlando Bloom-filled scene. Cats can jump, as it turns out. And jump he did. Over the baby gate, over the two baby gates stacked on top of each other, over the two baby gates stacked on top of each other and the cusion wedged on top of those, and when it finally got too tall for him to jump, he climbed. And when we threw blankets over the gates, thinking that he wouldn't make it without proper paw-holds, we had only a minute's rest before we saw tiny claws poking through the fabric: using only his nails and momentum, Rikki made it to the top. This is where we conceded our defeat, tore down our barrier, and gave the cat his nickname: Risky.
-- I was on the phone late one night with my bestie, when, from the other end, I heard a series of things like "Uggghhh...How big could your bladder even be?" and "Penny, no! Stop rubbing your butt on my sandal!" She had neglected to mention that she was house-sitting for one Debra Petersen, a trailer-trash chick turned suburban house wife who owns a little dog, Penny, and a huge pig, Spunky. While on the phone with me, my bestie had let Penny out to use the...yard...and when she came back she began rolling all over the carpet, dragging her stomach along the floor. Then the phone dropped to the ground and I heard my bestie screaming. When she came back to the phone it was to tell me in all seriousness that the dog might be dying. What led her to this conclusion? It's stomach had started making weird noises. I tried to calm her down but she insisted that something was wrong and finally held the receiver up to the dog's stomach for my diagnosis. The sound I heard can only be described as a sucking-squelching-gasping-rumbling-rolling moan and my bestie and I agreed that the only explanation was this: Penny had swallowed a live rat.
--Shortly after my bestie had completed that session of house-sitting, she was over at my house and was coughing up a small storm. My dad happened to walk into the kitchen during one particularly bad round, and, in his typical way, said "what're you sick?" My bestie could not but hack in reply and my dad said, jokingly, "maybe it's the swine flu." There was a moment's laughter before our faces fell and we turned at the same moment, our eyes wide with the realization: Spunky.
The picture is a recent snapshot of my bestie in the sty with Spunky.
--As freshman in high school, my bestie and I were often wonderstruck with the beauty of some of the upperclassmen. One, whose name we didn't know all year, was simply stunning. He was cut and confident, with a head of short, thick hair, and the most piercing blue eyes you've ever seen. My bestie, always one for codes, began calling him GEG (gāg), short for Gorgeous Eyed Guy. This frequently put us in embarrassing situations, as she, looking out the bus window or spotting him in the cafeteria, would become so excited that all she could do was point and say (shout) over and over, GEG! GEG!, not realizing that to everyone else, the sound would be more closely linked to baby gibberish than the sighting of a hot senior. The last part of that voicemail was telling me that she had recently seen him around town and it had made her day.
GEG, if you're reading this, we're not retarded. Mostly.
Anyway ummm Debra Petersen called me --HOMIE GET A MOVE ON! This guy's going like 20-- umm Debra Petersen called me and asked me -- DUDE BLINKER HOMES. Yikers.-- Debra Petersen-- sorry-- Debra Petersen called me and asked me to house-sit for her this Saturday to Tuesday so clear your schedule...not actually, I mean just at nights or whatever. We're gonna have tons of fun: she has huge screens and stuff and it'll be awesome and Papa Murphy's up the wazoo... It's gonna be the shiz and you're gonna be there and it's gonna be awesome.
And she has a crazy-a** pig--swine flu, anyone, right? So anyway call me...I was talking about...I'm gonna run out of time...gorgeous eyed guy, that's what I said, it made my day and I hope it made yours and then I forgot to call you back. Alright, call me, goodbye."
08/28/2009 3:14 pm
And now, the four separate back-stories that you would have to know for this to seem more sane than not:
--The summer after we graduated from high school, I was asked to house-sit for a family friend. She had a huge TV, the extended versions of the Lord of the Rings movies, and a cat. We had all the free pizza we wanted from Papa Murhpy's, where my bestie worked at the time, elastic-waist shorts, and no desire to sleep. We settled in nicely, and were halfway through the first movie and all the way in love with Legolas when Rikki, the cat, went crazy.
I neglected to mention two other things we had: an irrational fear of cats, and two baby gates. Rikki got bored and began to pester us, then to hide in dark corners of the room and jump out at inopportune moments, and finally waged a full-scale assault on our toes. We put him in the hall, put up one of the baby gates, and rewound to the last good Orlando Bloom-filled scene. Cats can jump, as it turns out. And jump he did. Over the baby gate, over the two baby gates stacked on top of each other, over the two baby gates stacked on top of each other and the cusion wedged on top of those, and when it finally got too tall for him to jump, he climbed. And when we threw blankets over the gates, thinking that he wouldn't make it without proper paw-holds, we had only a minute's rest before we saw tiny claws poking through the fabric: using only his nails and momentum, Rikki made it to the top. This is where we conceded our defeat, tore down our barrier, and gave the cat his nickname: Risky.
-- I was on the phone late one night with my bestie, when, from the other end, I heard a series of things like "Uggghhh...How big could your bladder even be?" and "Penny, no! Stop rubbing your butt on my sandal!" She had neglected to mention that she was house-sitting for one Debra Petersen, a trailer-trash chick turned suburban house wife who owns a little dog, Penny, and a huge pig, Spunky. While on the phone with me, my bestie had let Penny out to use the...yard...and when she came back she began rolling all over the carpet, dragging her stomach along the floor. Then the phone dropped to the ground and I heard my bestie screaming. When she came back to the phone it was to tell me in all seriousness that the dog might be dying. What led her to this conclusion? It's stomach had started making weird noises. I tried to calm her down but she insisted that something was wrong and finally held the receiver up to the dog's stomach for my diagnosis. The sound I heard can only be described as a sucking-squelching-gasping-rumbling-rolling moan and my bestie and I agreed that the only explanation was this: Penny had swallowed a live rat.
--Shortly after my bestie had completed that session of house-sitting, she was over at my house and was coughing up a small storm. My dad happened to walk into the kitchen during one particularly bad round, and, in his typical way, said "what're you sick?" My bestie could not but hack in reply and my dad said, jokingly, "maybe it's the swine flu." There was a moment's laughter before our faces fell and we turned at the same moment, our eyes wide with the realization: Spunky.
The picture is a recent snapshot of my bestie in the sty with Spunky.
--As freshman in high school, my bestie and I were often wonderstruck with the beauty of some of the upperclassmen. One, whose name we didn't know all year, was simply stunning. He was cut and confident, with a head of short, thick hair, and the most piercing blue eyes you've ever seen. My bestie, always one for codes, began calling him GEG (gāg), short for Gorgeous Eyed Guy. This frequently put us in embarrassing situations, as she, looking out the bus window or spotting him in the cafeteria, would become so excited that all she could do was point and say (shout) over and over, GEG! GEG!, not realizing that to everyone else, the sound would be more closely linked to baby gibberish than the sighting of a hot senior. The last part of that voicemail was telling me that she had recently seen him around town and it had made her day.
GEG, if you're reading this, we're not retarded. Mostly.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The best Rosemary story in ALL THE LAND.
Still no texts. For a while, to fill the void, I would leave my bestie voicemails that just said the things I normally would have texted. Like, "Do you ever think that maybe walruses aren't real?" or, "What was the name of that one obscenely greasy kid in our Euro class?" But it just wasn't the same.
Last night, though, when we were at a stage past delirium and cracking up in the middle of my bestie's kitchen, I thought to myself, these things should be recorded somewhere. Here, in fact.
" (in passenger seat, talking about how hungry she is) Oh man I am so excited for this key lime pie yogurt times.* Except I need your help reading the expiration date first--I think it's written in code."
Bestie (slicing cheese for a snack): "Do you want more than that?"
Me: "Yes."
Bestie, adding another slice: "More?"
Me (with flat voice): "Yes."
Bestie: "Geez, you sound like a cheese robot."
Me: "Haha...ha... wait... wouldn't that be a robot made of cheese?
Bestie: "No..."
Me: "Then that would be the worst robot ever. You give it electricity to power it and all it does is eat your cheese?"
Bestie: "Yeah, AKA, no one even likes you, Spinelli."
The title of this post is another good story, but must be told in person, as there are accompanying hand gestures.
*We use the word "times" to replace any of various verbs. So, 'I am so excited to eat this key lime pie yogurt' becomes 'I am so excited for this key lime pie yogurt times.'
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Hiatus.
Some of you may have noticed that it has been nearly two months since my last post. And you probably figured that I was being my lazy self and moved on. You would have been only partially correct. Shortly after my last post, events transpired that put a damper on my blogging abilities, or at least my ability to sustain this particular blog.
April 7th, around 6 pm
I'm in the women's locker room, getting ready for an intramural tennis match, when my phone rings and shows that my bestie is calling (this is unusual in itself because we normally only talk after 9, when minutes are free). I answer.
"Hey fatface."
"ccsssssxssxxxhhhhhhhhhh. CRR-CRRRRR-CRRRRR. csssscxrrrrssshhhh."
"Hello???
"(muffly muffle mcmufflerson.....)"
"Uhhh... bestie?"
Click.
Fifteen seconds later, she calls again and the same thing happens. Another fifteen seconds and I'm getting a call from a mutual friend, K-Town. Except when I answer, it's not K-Town but my bestie, clear as day.
"Umm I think you pocket-dialed me. Twice."
"No, I real-dialed you. Twice."
"Oh, well you were muffly mcmufflerson."
"Yeah, I dropped my phone in a clam pool."
"...In a... what?"
"A clam pool. Listen it doesn't matter. What are you doing May 6th?"
"Umm I don't know, that's in like a month. Why?"
"I may or may not have a mandatory court appearance in Cannon Beach that day..."
So, to recap, my bestie was calling me from a borrowed phone to tell me that hers was no longer working because she had dropped it in a clam pool in Cannon Beach, where she was going to have to re-venture in a month for a court appearance.
The indictment, you ask? The illegal climbing of Haystack Rock, which is apparently a wildlife refuge for things like mussels and probably the clams of the aforementioned clam pool. So, the conversation ended with an understanding that I would be travelling to Cannon Beach in a month and that, given that it got clammed, my bestie's phone would be out of commission for at least a week.
It actually took a surprisingly short time for her to get another phone, but the news (sent in an email) was bittersweet. Actually just funny :
I got my new phone in the mail and I may or may not have dropped it and it may or may not have a broken screen...I am honestly thinking about not having a cell phone and just having my number and then checking my voicemail from other phones or something...Cell phones and I just do not mix, homie.
04/18/09 6:08 am
So there you have it. Clam pool muffling and cracked screens. She did exactly what she said she would, by the way, and just checks her voicemail from work. She still uses her phone to call me and her mom (the only two numbers she has memorized) but sadly, can't text anymore so, sadly, the future of this blog is looking insecure. I did, however, come across an archive of texts from my bestie, last-year edition, and I can always post recountings of our various and always ridiculous adventures. Perhaps I'll start with judgment day, Cannon Beach style.
April 7th, around 6 pm
I'm in the women's locker room, getting ready for an intramural tennis match, when my phone rings and shows that my bestie is calling (this is unusual in itself because we normally only talk after 9, when minutes are free). I answer.
"Hey fatface."
"ccsssssxssxxxhhhhhhhhhh. CRR-CRRRRR-CRRRRR. csssscxrrrrssshhhh."
"Hello???
"(muffly muffle mcmufflerson.....)"
"Uhhh... bestie?"
Click.
Fifteen seconds later, she calls again and the same thing happens. Another fifteen seconds and I'm getting a call from a mutual friend, K-Town. Except when I answer, it's not K-Town but my bestie, clear as day.
"Umm I think you pocket-dialed me. Twice."
"No, I real-dialed you. Twice."
"Oh, well you were muffly mcmufflerson."
"Yeah, I dropped my phone in a clam pool."
"...In a... what?"
"A clam pool. Listen it doesn't matter. What are you doing May 6th?"
"Umm I don't know, that's in like a month. Why?"
"I may or may not have a mandatory court appearance in Cannon Beach that day..."
So, to recap, my bestie was calling me from a borrowed phone to tell me that hers was no longer working because she had dropped it in a clam pool in Cannon Beach, where she was going to have to re-venture in a month for a court appearance.
The indictment, you ask? The illegal climbing of Haystack Rock, which is apparently a wildlife refuge for things like mussels and probably the clams of the aforementioned clam pool. So, the conversation ended with an understanding that I would be travelling to Cannon Beach in a month and that, given that it got clammed, my bestie's phone would be out of commission for at least a week.
It actually took a surprisingly short time for her to get another phone, but the news (sent in an email) was bittersweet. Actually just funny :
I got my new phone in the mail and I may or may not have dropped it and it may or may not have a broken screen...I am honestly thinking about not having a cell phone and just having my number and then checking my voicemail from other phones or something...Cell phones and I just do not mix, homie.
04/18/09 6:08 am
So there you have it. Clam pool muffling and cracked screens. She did exactly what she said she would, by the way, and just checks her voicemail from work. She still uses her phone to call me and her mom (the only two numbers she has memorized) but sadly, can't text anymore so, sadly, the future of this blog is looking insecure. I did, however, come across an archive of texts from my bestie, last-year edition, and I can always post recountings of our various and always ridiculous adventures. Perhaps I'll start with judgment day, Cannon Beach style.
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