Trauma

Something terrible happened tonight.

Just a few short hours ago, something so abominable, so odious, so traumatizing happened and folks, I may never recover.

Tonight was this ridiculous dinner/conference thing for my dad's business. A very, very long time ago, I promised my dad I would go with him after my mom backed me into a corner at gunpoint and made me swear she wouldn't have to attend this year.

She forced my dad and I to pose for a stream of really embarrassing father-daughter-in-front-of-the-fireplace pictures, none of which really communicated either of our attitudes toward the social calisthenics to come- except for this one, which nailed it:

My dad assured me he does the exact same thing before attending these things.

It was your typical catered dinner where you're seated at a round table with a bunch of weirdos you don't know who chew with their mouths open and talk about American Idol and the great weather we've been having lately and the stock market. This was followed by a bevy of pants-suited women and Hair Club For Men members leaning on a podium making terrible, terrible jokes and awkwardly trying to tie them into their assigned subject matter. Following this was a "dance", which, thank god, my dad and I weaseled our way out of by explaining that I'm crippled and have to be getting home now, good night.

The horrible thing, however, happened about an hour before any of this went down.

My dad had been eyeing some shirt at some store but wasn't sure if it was age-appropriate or not (it wasn't) and wanted me to come to the store with him to make sure he wasn't about to buy some ridiculous item which would cause my mom to pretend she didn't know him (he was). I was looking through the racks, trying to find some acceptable alternatives when a saleswoman approached us.

"Hello!" she crooned, "are you two doing alright?" I assured her we were. She walked away and came back a few moments later, complimenting me on the shirt I had picked out for my dad. Then she turned to my dad and dropped this gem:

"Should we head over to jewelry and pick out something equally nice for your girlfriend?"

This was my thought progression:

What? Oh, there must be some older woman standing behind us/Wait, she's staring at me/Wait, why isn't my dad wearing a wedding ring/Oh, my parents dropped their wedding rings off at the cleaners tonight/Wait, she's still staring at me/OH MY F-ING JESUS CHRIST SHE'S TALKING ABOUT ME.

At the same moment that I nearly fell into the rack of wrinkle-free chinos while simultaneously dry-heaving, my dad lost. his. shit. and start laughing like a maniac.

While I was curled up in a fetal position on the floor, my dad explained the situation to the saleswoman who began apologizing profusely.

The second we left the store, my dad got on the horn and called my mom and every telephone-owning English speaker on the continent to recount the story. He literally did not stop talking about it the entire night, and keeps walking around the house saying things like "I still got it! I knew it! I still got it!" to himself.

If anyone needs me for the next 24-72 hours, I'll be in therapy.

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Inside The Belly Of The Beast

Over the past few years, my friends and I have spent several hours arguing one question, that question being "What would it feel like to be digested?". Many late nights we have burned the proverbial midnight oil dissecting possible scenarios and exact causes of death. I have always maintained that one would first suffocate- cause of death- and then slowly be dissolved by stomach acids.

As of yesterday afternoon, the dynamics of this argument have changed significantly as I have experienced a very parallel pain and can now argue with my own qualia backing me up.

Let me explain.

I typically opt for the razor avenue of leg hair removal, but yesterday I thought it would be fun to try something new. That something is known commercially as "Veet Rasera Hair Removal Gel Cream", and colloquially as "Veet Rasera Chemical Burn Torture Cream".

Despite everything your occipital lobe is telling you, that is in fact my hand holding the can and not a lobster claw.

Here's how it works:

Step One: Let your leg hair grow out a little. I'm not talking middle school long, but just long enough so that if you were to put on a pair of tights, your leg hair would poke out of the little holes in the weave. Delightful.

Step Two: Self-medicate. This is an important step that I missed as the Veet company apparently forgot to print this on the batch of product I bought. Not to worry, I've sent a very strongly worded letter to the company along with my recommendations on simple anesthetic (Absinthe, PCP, roofies, Propofol, bilateral leg amputation.)

Step Three: Apply product directly to legs. Did you ever see that scene in Dante's Peak where the family is rowing their metal boat through the river of acid and the grandmother jumps out to push and her legs get dissolved in the acid water? This is approximately what you can expect here, except Pierce Brosnan will not be rocking you into your death in his arms. Upon applying, you will feel a cool, tingly sensation and you will say to yourself, "Self, this is actually kind of nice". Immediately after, the hydrochloric acid/bleach/volcanic lava/fire ant/bear trap concoction you've just slathered on your stems will kick into action and you will say to yourself, "Self, perhaps drowning you, right now, in this tub, is a much better alternative."

Step Four: Now it's time to remove both the actual hair follicles and the actual top layer of your skin. Veet has provided you with this wonderfully bendy little tool which you are now expected to drag across your burnt, sizzling, tender flesh, scraping off those nasty leg hairs and that nasty epidermis. Fortunately, your brain comes with this cool gating mechanism, meaning it will send the most pain signals to the area of your body that hurts the most, which means it is now time for your assistant to step in and slowly slide razor blades under each of your fingernails, effectively directing the pain away from your gorgeous hairless, newly skinless legs.

Although it appears friendly and harmless, this is actually a weapons-grade weapon.

Step Five: Sometimes, really, really bad burn victims are placed in chemically-induced comas to save them from feeling the pain of their wounds healing. This will also be necessary for you, so grab your favorite anesthesiologist (I recommend the good Dr. Conrad Murray) and say goodbye to consciousness for the next five or six days.

Step Six: Congratulations! You've awoken from your coma, and it is now time to repeat steps 1-5 until there is no trace of skin left on your legs and thus you have no more annoying leg hair problems.

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The Accidental Woo

This is not a dating blog. This is, however, a human blog- that is, a blog about humans and the bizarre behaviors exhibited by said bipeds. This particular human- me, I'm talking about me- once spent a few months "dating"- if that's what it was, and I'm not sure exactly where we were on my sister's patented Relationship Timeline*- another human- but only after the following humiliating event took place.

Our first "date" was accidental. Apparently, the owners of some new restaurant in Columbus had given my hospital a fistful of $20 coupons to their establishment, and I happened to get my hands on one. On my lunch break one day, I casually mentioned to this young man that we should go grab something to eat at this place and take advantage of what would surely be a free meal.

I had this place pictured in my head as a sort of fancier, maybe more expensive Panera. I thought it was a casual, simple cafe-type place that would in no way have any type of a date-like atmosphere. It was a safe, non-datey lunchtime meeting place. No big deal.

I picked him up- my first mistake. While I am an excellent driver, I am terrible with directions. So of course we got lost. We finally found the place, and to my horror, there was a valet. This is never, ever a good sign when you're looking for a cheap, non-formal meal.

We walked in and it was as formal as you can get. Waiters in tuxes, the other diners were in dresses and suits, bottles of expensive-looking wine sitting on tables. It was awful. We were shown to our table, my accidental-date looking slightly bewildered and me avoiding eye contact at all costs.

I was presented with the worst menu I could have imagined. It was the kind of menu with only five or six dishes, and no prices listed. And we all know what no-prices-listed means. Furthermore, every one of the five or six dishes contained some sort of exotic meat. I sat there, in my dirty scrubs and Crocs, hoping the fire alarm would go off or something and save both of us from this terrible, terrible situation that had, from the moment we walked in the door, morphed into a date.

I had to order off the menu. There is nothing, nothing worse than having to order off the menu on a first date. Nothing. The last first-impression I want to give my date is that I'm high maintenance, and nothing screams "HIGH MAINTENANCE PRINCESS!" like having to order something not on the menu. The waiter assured me he would talk to the chef and they would come up with some sort of "special vegetarian paella". And by special, I'm sure he meant "extra-specially expensive".

As a strict rule, I never, ever order anything expensive on a first date when I know he is going to be paying. I always stick to soups and salads. Always. Regardless of his profession. I think it's rude to do otherwise.

So to summarize the awfulness, so far I had:

1. Forced this guy to take me on a date

2. Forced this guy to take me on a date to an extremely nice restaurant

3. Showed up to the date wearing dirty scrubs and Crocs

4. Broken the cardinal rule of first-date etiquette and committed the crime of High Maintenance

5. Forced this guy to pay for my pricey off-menu order.

We finished eating. I tried not to cry when the waiter presented my date with the check and I quickly scanned his face for signs of anger or despair. He played it cool. To this day, he has refused to tell me what the damage was.

We walked outside to the valet. I never carry cash, so he also had to tip the valet for me. Because I am an idiot incapable of making any type of mental map in my brain, we got lost and I made him late for his meeting.

When I dropped him off at his work, he said the words all women are hoping to hear at the end of a first date:

"We should definitely do this again sometime".

Which is, of course, code for "I want to see you again"- the appropriate response to which is always "Yeah, I had a great time. We'll do this again soon."

All I heard, however, was "We should go out on a spectacularly terrible date in which you force me to empty my 401k into some fancy gross restaurant that only serves fish eyeballs and cow tongue, and then make me late for another meeting so I can maybe get fired and have no way to pay for your stupid vegetarian paella".

So, without thinking, I laughed in his face and blurted out something obnoxious like "HA! yeah, right. This will never, ever happen again", and sped off. Jesus christ, Molly.

It ended amicably and we laugh (he laughs, I cry) about this every now and then. I would like to end this post by saying I've improved my game since then, but as I'm currently living with my parents and therefore am an unofficial nun, we will have to wait and see.

*Checking out- cruising- talking- hanging out- seeing- dating- engaged- married- divorced.

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The situation is deteriorating.

It was Saturday morning. I was feeling good. I had on my most mammoth sweat pants, so you better believe I was lookin' good. My back, although slightly volcanic and troublesome the night before, was functioning on the lower half of the pain scale. Everything was good.

Wii time.

When you're a professional athlete like myself, your body is your trade. You learn to condition and mold it to the highest athletic standards. You slide on that wrist strap, give the remote a few healthy shakes, and then sit on the couch while your brother goes through the lengthy and laborious process of turning on the television, and then turning off the HDMI, and then turning on Component 1, and then typing in several secret Russian passcodes, and then scanning retinas and fingerprints, and then whispering "The eagle is in the henhouse", and whatever else you have to do to make the stupid thing turn on.

The game that morning was Wii Baseball with a little Wii Tennis mixed in whenever I grew tired of hearing some cartoony voice yell "STEEERRRIKKKE!" at me.

We athletes are a different breed. We do whatever it takes to get the points, and thus get the stats, and thus the title, and thus the right to sneer "better step it up, princess" when our brothers propose a Wii battle.

In retrospect, yes, perhaps I did get a little too intense. Yes, maybe, just maybe, that pitch was a little over-enthusiastic.

And yes, perhaps the excruciating back pain I experienced during the dismount of my throw had something to do with this pathological over-enthusiasm.

To add insult to injury, the next day, today, I woke up with... sore biceps.

I am sore from playing Wii Baseball.

* * * * *

Did you really hurt yourself playing Wii Baseball?

No, I hurt myself climbing a mountain in Virginia. And playing Wii Baseball.

Are you an old person?

I am roughly the size of a Muppet and regularly require assistance opening Gatorade bottles, but I assure you I am a young, vivacious twenty-something full of life and vigor and stupidity.

Are you okay?

I spent all day Saturday lying on top of several ice packs in bed and Googling "Wii+injury+lawsuit", but yes, as of tonight, Sunday night, I am marginally better.

Did you win?

Hell. Yes.

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Soup Math

Soup is defined here as: a round container, with a diameter of at least four inches and a depth of no more than four inches, full of a thin, hot liquid in which the main ingredient is salt.

Soup plus one or more inches to the depth is a beverage.

Soup minus one or more inches to the diameter, is a shot.

Soup plus thickness is chili.

Chili minus salt, minus 1/2 hot, is casserole.

Soup minus salt, minus hot, plus cold, is melted ice cream.

Soup divided by ([-2 inches diameter] + [-1 inch depth]) plus thickness, minus hot, minus salt, is muffins.

Soup plus bread is soggy bread.

Soup plus (hot x hot x hot) is hellfire and brimstone.

Hellfire and brimstone plus beverage plus third-degree burns plus garbage is Campbell's Soup At Hand:

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My Degree of Separation is Unfortunately An Acute Angle

Disclaimer: I realize that, by telling this tale, I am without a doubt lowering your opinion of me by at least 10 points (or two stars). Nevertheless, the facts I'm about to divulge have been making my pathetic existence slightly more bearable and I have a desperate need to broadcast my victories to the world. If I am trashy by association, so be it.

Sometimes, in life, we come into contact with those unsavory people who live their lives pushing the limits of today's definition of "respectable." You know- the one or two halter-topped girls in the bar sluggishly heaving their 155-pound frames up on the counter, and then lying there like beached she-whales while Dudes and Bros lick tequila out of their C-section scars? The shirtless crack-pipe-spit-drenched Good Ol' Boy making us laugh and feel better about ourselves on Cops?

The sluts from Vh1 reality shows?

I've spent the past thirty minutes and every ounce of writing know-how I possess trying to figure out how to begin this story. My usual tactics (a photograph stolen from someone else's blog, a long, wordy set-up leading to a not particularly funny ending, an anecdote from a few years ago, when I was much cooler) are no good here. As such, I've decided to just dive straight into the gritty wonderfulness, and open the whole seeping wound with an in-your-face, tabloid-style headline:

LOCAL OHIO WOMAN ACTUALLY KNOWS ONE OF THE SLUTS FROM "ROCK OF LOVE"; IS SHOCKINGLY NOT A SOCIAL WORKER OR FREE-CLINIC GYNECOLOGIST.

The very first season of Rock of Love with Brett Michaels premiered a few years ago. How many, I'm not sure- I've simply timelined it as "the year my self-esteem skyrocketed". This season featured a busload of worn-out, strung-out, boob-popping-out semen receptacles who were, as we were made to believe, just dying to fall in love with Brett Michaels.

One of these "ladies" is someone who spent three years making me miserable.

How did I come to know a young woman who would eventually find fame as a booze-soaked tube-top display?

The same way many of us meet obnoxious women of ill repute: our brothers sleep with them.

No, that isn't fair. I have no evidence that any such event occurred between my young, stupid brother and this woman. All I have is an instinct and several gag-inducing memories of sloppy flirtations between the two.

They were co-workers at a company priding itself on hiring hotties of all race and social class. As so often happens when a group of attractive people are forced into formal situations together, the employees at this company made a habit of sticking together like glue- they ate together, they partied together, they crashed at each other's studio apartments and parents basements. My brother and I, at this stage in life, were very close and often hung out together, the unfortunate result being that I often found myself at these work-parties.

The slut in question hated me nearly as much as I hated her. She wanted to date my brother- not like "date" in the way that Tiger Woods "dates" every cocktail waitress he can get his hands on, but "date" in the way that no young, good-looking 21 year-old male is really interested in at that point in his life.

As all women know, when you really want to be in a relationship with a guy, one of the linchpins to securing "exclusive" status is getting the approval of the sister(s). If the young man's sisters don't like you, it's over. You'll be a late-night booty call every now and then, perhaps, but you'll never wear his class ring.

My obvious detest for her enraged her to the point of brain aneurysm- that is, she exploded several thousand brain cells trying to come up with clever digs, criticism, sarcastic comments, etc., to throw at me. This, as you can imagine, was extremely entertaining. While she screwed her forehead up for twenty minutes before finally blurting out something like "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get boobs soon. You won't look like a boy forever" I delighted in asking her- in front of my brother, of course- her opinion on current events and politics, to which she would turn bright red and mumble something about needing to go to the ladies room.

When she made her Vh1 debut, one of the reasons I was so excited and enthralled was because of her blatant lies. When I knew her, she had this whole set-up where she would insist on saying grace before eating, carried a Bible around, refused to swear, and often invited random strangers at bars to church with her. On this television show, she can be seen drinking to the point of blacking out, swearing, having phone-sex, swinging around a stripper pole, and stuffing herself into child-sized clothing.

Oh, absolution is the sweetest substance of all.

I never actually watched an episode of this debauchery, just viewed select clips on the Vh1 website emailed to me by my brother. However, I have just yesterday discovered that Hulu has uploaded every episode of her season for my viewing pleasure.

And what pleasure it is.

Why? Why is watching an old enemy throw herself down the road of failure and public humiliation so spectacularly satisfying? I'm not sure. I may be injured, unemployed, living with my parents, and spending my time watching terrible reality shows on Hulu, but at least I'm not drunk, half-naked, and gold-digging on aging rock stars for the entire world to see.

Vindication.

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Del Potro: The Todd of Tennis?

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