(See what I did there? Works on so many levels).
If you haven't been here in a few days or are just arriving from ICLW - I must insist that you go back and participate in our do-him game from Tuesday.
I have had so... much... fun.. reading the comments. To briefly catch you up - ask a group of women the top 5 people they would do, and shit gets crazy. There's drooling, specific instructions to google so-and-so shirtless, weaves being pulled off and earrings being taken out in preparation for a fight... Amazing.
I am seriously going to tally all of this up. It feels like there should be some Olympic Finality to this.
Important life lesson: Ryan Gosling vs. Ryan Reynolds is the do-him equivalent to The Rolling Stones vs. The Beatles, or Elvis vs. The Beatles. Yes you can like them both but you cannot like them equally.
And on that note, clearly some of you have been roofied (no idea how to spell that and I'm not looking it up in case I'm ever falsely accused of a crime and someone has to look up my google searches - thank you, Dateline) by Ryan Reynolds.
I fully intend on writing to congress on your clearly confused behalves.
So yesterday I had three - yes, 3! - near death experiences in the span of 30 minutes.
Near Death Experience 1:
I arrive at Chipotle at 10:29 for my usual take-home brunch which is actually making me lose weight (and yes, I am fully available, Chipotle, for some Jared-a-la-Subway commercials) one minute before they open. As per usual, it's me and about 5 other Mexican-food loving psychos pawing at the front door.
On this occasion, however, there is a lovely homeless man singing to himself and emptying nearby trash bins of recyclables. He walks by our group, and says "hey, how is everybody doing today!"
Crickets chirp, everyone pretends they're looking at their phones. I think to myself 'what a bunch of assholes' and so I reply:
Stupid Stork: Pretty good, how about yourself?
Homeless man: Sober! ::dramatic gesture of disgust::
Stupid: Well, that sucks!
HM: Exactly! What's so good about it? Have a good day, love.
So as I'm having this riveting discussion, there's another homeless man (to be fair, not quite sure if he's homeless or is just a backpacking hitchhiker which we tend to get in our neighborhood) about 20 feet away. He yells.. Something.
I think I catch the tail end of it which I believe was "what did he say?" (did I mention I'm not so good with hearing?). But it was one of those situations where you're not exactly sure what this person is saying, or that they're even talking to you. So rather than shout 20 feet away to a hitchhiker who may not have been talking to me and reveal my insanity to 5 people who are clearly so riveted by their phones they have no idea what's going on I'm sure, I stay silent.
He starts shouting.. Something. He is red faced, foaming at the mouth, and even with my shotty eyes I can see spit bubbles. All I can catch is the very few words that have managed to travel the 20 feet via spit bubble - "fucking!" "Shitty!" "Assholes!". He looks like a cartoon bull that is about to charge me.
I didn't catch the jist of of his rant on me, but I caught the end of the last sentence before he stomped off which was:
"Oh well, I guess I'll just have to go and jerk off about you later!"
Mind you, my fellow food lovers apparently didn't hear any of that, but once the door to Chipotle softly squeaked open they all jumped up. Bastards.
One of them was kind enough to open the door and cursed me by saying "Well, you're having a morning."
Near Death Experience 2:
I am waiting to turn left into a Starbucks drive-thru, and the oncoming traffic is backed up. Some lovely person decides to let me in, I see no one coming in the furthest lane I have to cross through, so I go. Fancy man listening to loud rap music comes speeding along, doesn't see me until the last minute, and by screeching on his brakes narrowly missed me by a few inches.
The lovely best friend Mr. T likes to say something a-la-Mean-Girls (and yes, he can basically perform the entire movie for you) when someone trips or does something clumsy. "And that's how so and so died..."
It is a testimony to what a good mood a nooky-related debate puts me in that one of my first thoughts was not "oh sweet Jesus I'm going to get hit" but was instead "And that's how Jenny died..."
Near Death Experience 3:
I turn out of Starbucks having collected myself and improved my mood with the acquisition of coffee (and by 'coffee' I basically mean milkshake), and two intersections over discover I have missed a giant accident (a regular car vs. one of those giant trucks carrying cars) by about five minutes.
In other news, my ovaries have decided to become very painful for absolutely no reason. I am, theoretically 8dpo (but who knows - I'm thinking 0dpo is more accurate) and it. hurts. It reminds me of Clomid or when I was full of eggs for IVF - you know that feeling like you did some ridiculously intense work out yesterday, but for some reason all of the soreness has decided to be centrally located in your uterus? No me gusta.
And no, there's not one part of me - not one tiny bit! - that thinks this is a pregnancy symptom. Not even convinced I ovulated. I am fully anticipating a period of death.
The sister-in-law arrives on Monday. I must clean house. I am handling this as I normally would, by staring at the mess from my couch and thinking "shit I should probably do something about this soon".
So I predict a weekend full of everyone's favorite game, "What's that smell coming from the fridge?"
I'm also hurling my husband on the roof. Not for any domestic purpose other than to figure out what the fuck that damn neighbor is still digging for. Koi pond my ass! And yes, this is a brilliant plan that will in no way result in my husband breaking something.
And last but not least - I am low on secrets for Secret Sunday. Send me some! C'mon. Pretty please? Isn't it enough that I've narrowly escaped death?