Gerbert, the Porch Opossum

I have to pay for my studio space somehow. Taking on new jobs it definitely the way to do it, right? So when I get offered a job, I jump on it. The job I got to do yesterday was great fun.

It involved a party.

And desserts.

Citrus fruit.

And an apron.

I was cupcake caterer.

I got the job because my step-mom is friends with the bride, and suggested me as slave labor. Thankfully, Sharon's friend told me she was paying me $75.

Basically, I had to fill up the cupcake trays when they were near emptied for a wedding. The cupcakes were each supposed to represent some kind of drink, because the bride likes desserts and drinking. There was a wide variety of cupcakes.

I asked Regina if she wanted to come along too, even though she had had surgery the day before. She agreed, because the wedding reception was at the Magic House. (How could anyone say no?)

We all went and set up, riding the elevator more times than necessary. We carted stuff around, like boxes of flowers and jugs of water. We helped set up tables by arguing what color streamers should go where to make things aesthetically pleasing. Finally, we got to set up the cupcake trays. Regina and I even donned our aprons. To explain what happened frankly, it was one cupcake for me, one for the tray. I have never eaten so much sugar. And it wasn't even six thirty.

Apparently, the party started at seven. I was not privy to such information, and somehow got it in my head that this party must, without a doubt, start at seven thirty. With this false information, I proceeded to run about the Magic House like a semi-crazed lunatic, reliving my childhood within the walls of the most fantastic place on Earth.

After going through the Lewis and Clark Adventure, which was quite an energy suck for poor Regina who waddled like a freshly pregnant woman, we raced up stairs. We smashed ourselves against the giant red wall of plastic needles, (making a relief on the other side,) charged through the bubble station, squealed our way through the maze of mirrors and up and down the plushy slides. After Regina and I exchanged manic, sugar induced stares, we scurried like slavering dogs to the musical bench, and finally upstairs.

With a howl of triumph, we found the X-Ray Room. That is not what it is really called, but since I was "this big" I have always called it that. Basically, all the kids make an elaborate pose when the bell goes off, and then a camera light flashes, making a silhouette where the shadows hit the wall. When there are ten or fifteen kids in there, its like a weird shadowy picket fence of children bodies.

Regina and I posed for almost ten minutes. We were sugar high.

We scrambled off to another room, where there is a camera on the floor that also takes the silhouette and projects it live, changing the backgrounds on the screen so sometimes it would be like a freaking dancing rainbow.

We skipped the "feats of strength" department and went straight to the physics room. There, we had bottle races, filling them up with air and releasing them with a POP! In the next room, we found the golf-ball-parabola-ramp-loop-de-loop station. We were laughing and talking really loudly, when I realized that there was a person, sitting quietly by himself in the next room. My eyes grew wide like saucers, and I pointed.

"There is someone over there." We fell into a mass of cackling like a small pack of hyenas. He was the guard of the swirl slide that was an amazing three stories tall. I was terribly excited, until my phone started to vibrate.

Regina had already begun her decent when I picked up to Sharon harping in my ear.

"Where are you! Tammy didn't hire you so you could play! Get your ass back here this instant⎯"

"But⎯"

"You are so disrespectful⎯"

"I didn⎯"

"Other people are doing your job!" *Click*

"When did this party start? Oh, she hung up..."

So I launched myself down the three story slide, bumping and jostled all the way down, squeaking when I started to get turned around. We jogged back to the classroom where the cupcakes were hidden and grabbed armfuls of trays. Unluckily, I had to be stuck in the elevator with Sharon, who tried to reprimand me for being so discourteous to her friend, but there were party goers in with us, so she had to only shoot me glares. My eyes were still glazed over in a sugar shock, so I didn't register it as much as I could have.

Regina and I then slipped into work mode, restocking the trays as needed. We quickly had everything under control, and the happy, red faces of the party patrons filled our view. Sadly, neither Regina or I spotted any hot guys.

We secluded ourselves to the classroom, grazing on treats as we saw fit, and talking about all kinds of things. Needless to say, it was mostly inappropriate.

Finally, nine thirty rolled around, and almost everyone cleared out. Regina and I made our way upstairs and made trays of cupcakes for the people who were left over, encouraging them (rather forcefully) to take home as much food as possible. My temporary employer Tammy looked relieved to see she would be the one taking the food home.

We began the clean up of the room, and got out of there by eleven. Tammy even paid me an extra five dollars. Regina and I had made our own trays of cupcakes to take home. After juggling two trays onto Regina's lap so as to not spill said cupcakes, we drove to Schnucks to get me some make-up remover.

And that is when it happened.

First of all, there is a back story to this. I babysit a little girl named Taylor. She is about ten or so now, but is still stuck in the "Why" phase. Sometimes when I babysit her, she stays the night, and she was with us the weekend of the wedding reception. My dad and I were home and watching her, ordering pizza. When she asked for the billionth time, "Why?" I told her that if she asked "why" one more time, she was going to have to sleep under the porch with the opossum.

Unnaturally, she asked, "What's his name?"

"Gerbert," I replied.

She smiled knowingly, "Well that's a nice name. I can sleep under the porch."

Needless to say, she slept with me, putting her creepily warm feet against my thighs all night long.

So, on Regina's and my way to Schnucks, I had the misfortune of being distracted.

That's when I heard it.

It was the sick thump under my car.

My wheels riding over an irregular bump in the road. I looked behind me, horror writ clear across my face.

There, in a crushed, gray heap, was a dead Gerbert.

Regina

So, my friend Regina I love very, very much. Like this is the point where I am holding her in a headlock and give her a noogie. But sometimes she annoys the freaking crap out of me.

Now, I think I annoy her just as equally, as justification.

The thing about Regina is, she is just a little crazy. Now, she could have taken a much bigger hit off the crazy bong, so I am not complaining...for the most part.

See, she does this one thing she does. She likes guys. Which is a good thing, because she might be trying to hook up with me if she was into the ladies. Usually how things go down is like this: She sees a guy. Guy sees her. She makes sexy eyes at him. He makes a shy grin. They may talk. Its more likely they won't.

See what happens next is usually wrestling of the tongue variety.

Now, making out with someone, even if they are random, is not bad. I mean, there are plenty of girls out there who will just sleep with anyone. Regina shouldn't feel bad that she likes to make out with people. I certainly don't feel bad when I do.

But she does feel bad. Which is the huge problem here.

She is getting way more action than I am. If I had half as many menfolk that were after her goodies after mine, I would be feeling like a freaking queen. I mean, all these guys are just moping at her feet, hoping, possibly praying to get a little Regina time, when they know it probably won't be happening anytime soon.

She should be wielding this power she has over the opposite sex like a butcher wields his meat cleavers. Instead, she chooses to give me the "woe is me" story.

I don't want to hear how guilty she feels about making out with random people.

Solution number one: Stop making out with people.

She can't, because she doesn't want to feel like a one-night stand.

Solution number two: Make out with whoever you want.

She doesn't want to do that; she feels like she is being a harlot.

Solution number three: Stop complaining to me.

I am about two steps away from ripping her face off.

Okay, I wouldn't really rip her face off. But she needs to figure something out, because her complaining to me that guys are really interested in her all the time everywhere like it's a bad thing is going to make me go a little crazy.

So here is my last proposed solution.

Watch this video, and make it a mantra for everything in life.

Plumbing 101

I went to visit my grandma last weekend. The original plan was to go to Kansas City for my brother's birthday, but after he was moved into my mom's house permanently, those plans fell through on account of money issues. So instead I went with my step-mom, Sharon, to go see her mom.

Luckily enough, my younger cousin Madeline was in town to see grandma too, so we got to hand out. The first night there, Sharon and I went to the fair. I got a huge funnel cake, because there is practically nothing better than powdered fried dough. We walked around and watched little kids ride the rides that were missing lights and lurched precariously to and fro. I made the decision to not hop into a metal death machine. One of the rides was held together by electric cord wrapped around one of the legs.

I had good reason to be scared.

I did play darts though, and won a fat, blue dolphin. I just had to pop the balloons.

I had a chance to play another game, where you throw these really heavy balls at metal milk bottles. I am a terrible shot though, and cant throw very hard, so I passed up my chance to win a confederate flag. I totally need one of those anyway.

As we left the fair, Sharon got an elephant ear. Its this flattened piece of dough the old and creepy carnies flatten out with their bare hands and fry like a funnel cake. Then they use a paint brush and coat it in cinnamon goo. If I hadn't been full of hot funnel cake, I would have had more than a few bites.

Our last stop was at the taffy maker. I was amazed to see taffy actually being made on this huge, spinning turning thing. I watched the taffy just stretch and collapse for five minutes. It was the coolest thing at the fair.

We eventually went back to the car and drove back to grandma's house.

Madeline, my step-brother Nathaniel and my grandma had gone to an a cappella musical play at the theatre instead of the fair. Nathaniel didn't enjoy the play one bit. But he was also a huge critic of everything. Music, movies, television, books. I wasn't sure he actually enjoyed anything.

I tried to stay in the conversation with everyone, but I grew bored and instead sat on the couch and read my book. At around one in the morning, everyone finally decided to go to bed.

The next day, it rained all morning. Our original plan was to go to the pool, but because of the rain, we had changed out plans to instead go see a movie. It was after that decision that the rain cleared up, but I didn't want to go to the pool at that point in time anyways.

Madeline, Nathaniel and I decided to ride around in the new golf cart, (it's electric!). We drove to the river and back around town for hours and hours. We also chased the copious amount of stray cats that littler my grandma's town. To say the least, it was a hoot. We had even come up with aliases so if we were caught by the "coppers," we couldn't possibly get into trouble.

The "coppers" is a single cop who drives around telling people what a nice day it is.

For the rest of the weekend I called Nathaniel, Cleatus, and Madeline, Mary Louis. They called me Jo Anne.

We didn't get into any trouble, except when after I was done running around in the park bare foot I tracked in dirt all over grandma's carpet.

When Sunday morning came around, I just about died.

I have had a lot of bad mornings. Like the time the water bill hadn't been paid, and it was the one morning I really needed a shower. Or when the power went out and I had to put on eyeliner by candle light. Or even the one time I got soap in my eye three times in twenty minutes. Those were bad days.

This last Sunday though, was the worst.

It started when the toilet got clogged.

Thinking, Oh, I'll just flush it again! was a terrible idea.

It overflowed. I switched into survivor mode, and started throwing down wads of toilet paper. I went through one roll of the really nice kind of toilet paper by the time it stopped. I was literally having a spaz attack. Or maybe possibly an asthma attack. I couldn't freaking breathe!

I went searching for the plunger, which was hidden in the attic. It was a fancy kind of plunger, with this accordion like plunge part. The insane part of me was going, Wow! Would you look at that? That's so cool! The sane part was going, Fuck, fuck, fuck. Because I had to unclog a toilet. Something I had never done in my life.

All while this episode is going on, Sharon and her mom are sitting downstairs looking at Facebook pictures.

I try to unclog the toilet. I tried really hard. But I didn't know a damn thing about clogged toilets. There was really no reason I would know anything about it anyways, but some other part of me, not the sane or insane parts, was going, You've watched enough TV to have seen something useful. Well after racking my brain for any useful information, I came up blank and had to simply wing it. All while standing in overflowed toilet water.

After another half hour of plunging with the plunger, I tried to flush the toilet once more. (There was two other previous tries.)

The toilet made usual toilet sounds, the water rising...rising...rising...And oh my God, it was still clogged...then TRIUMPH! The water was sucked down the drain!

I was sweaty and hot, and still standing in toilet water, but I cannot even explain how joyous I was that I had fixed the toilet.

I was like, "That's right, you porcelain bastard! I fucking fixed you!" Needless to say, the toilet didn't talk back.

Then it was clean up time. I wished I had some secret power that I could have just made the mess poof away, but I didn't. So I was down on my knees, soaking up the mess. Then I was disinfecting everything, spraying down every surface in the bathroom. And to make sure everything was back to normal, I sprayed a ton of Febreze in the bathroom. Everything was just dandy.

I cleaned myself up, too. Nobody knew a thing.

We left grandma's house, nobody the wiser.

Well maybe except for me, who I can say is now certified in toilet unclogging.

The Eggs Are BAD

When I had gone out to visit my grandma, she gave me a box of chocolate cake from her stash of about five cake boxes. First of all, she and grandpa are diabetic. They don't need cake. Secondly, they don't remember birthdays for anyone. Why do they have cake?

Anyways, mom decided that because my little brother Alex is having a birthday tomorrow, that I should make the cake. While I usually don't mind making cake, (it means I get to eat copious amounts of chocolate batter,) Alex has been especially annoying. He doesn't deserve the wonderful cake I can bake.

While debating making the cake in question, I thought about cleaning my room. Maybe organizing stuff that I'll be moving with me into the studio. Instead, I made myself some cereal and watched MTV. I may not be cut out for the whole planning things in advance that other people seem perfectly capable of doing.

I finally dredged my lazy ass off the couch and set to the cake baking. After literally twenty minutes of looking for the red box, and me thinking It's a red box, it should be noticeable! I found it in the pantry next to three other red boxes of similar sizes. Except they were rice.

Scowling, I also grabbed the vegetable oil then pulled out the carton of eggs.

To my utter disbelief, and horror, I read the expiration date on the eggs.

In nice, blue computer like script, it read:

SELL BY MAY 10 2011

EXP BY MAY 17 2011

As most people can imagine, I threw the eggs in the trash.

After pulling the new carton out, (EXP BY AUG 18 2011) I made another realization.

Those were the same eggs mom had not only made french toast with, but a huge bowl of scrambled eggs.

It was only after I did a thorough assessment of the previous week did I decide that I probably wasn't going to die of Toxic Eggy Death Syndrome.

So I might be making up the whole TEDS, but honestly, who keeps eggs in the fridge that expired mid May, until August? I really am starting to worry about the habits of our food keeping. Plus, I am not the best at cleaning. I can't keep my room tidy; how will I keep a fridge clean? I might leave something in there for months, and then BAM! They find me dead the next day.

It could happen.