Peoples Republic of Julia

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Dingos stole my Underpants!

Okay, not really. But somebody did.

A number of years ago, I lived in a decrepit apartment building located in the college ghetto of BG. It was one of those buildings that people say “have character” to make you feel better about living there. It was a hole. Everything inside it looked like it hadn’t been replaced in years. The ceiling over the shower had cracks which would leak whenever the people upstairs showered. I kept waiting for the day that the upstairs tub would just finally fall through my bathroom ceiling with a naked person in it. Luckily, that never happened. The carpet was so dirty, the soles of my feet turned black if I walked on it for too long without socks. Totally disgusting I know, but I guess that’s what happens when you sign a lease at the last minute without even taking a look at the place.

Every few nights or so, a fight usually occurred in the hallways or outside in the parking lot. It was usually girls fighting with their boyfriends or if we were lucky, girls fighting each other. (Aren’t those the best kind?) We heard all sorts of dirty laundry about everyone because the walls were so thin. It was like living in the middle of an ongoing soap opera.

The neighbors to my right we’re the classiest of the bunch. It was a guy and a girl in their 20’s and they had a baby. Many mornings found me being awakened by the sound of a woman screaming/pounding loudly at my neighbor’s door. Her rants usually consisted of the same two themes: “My son’s too good for you” and “You’re a terrible mother”. After several concurrent days of this, it began to grow tiring. And she was like clockwork. Every day, 9 o’clock sharp.

One morning, after several minutes of this, I poked my head out of my door to see what the hell was going on. A leviathan of a woman was pounding on my neighbors door with her meaty fists. She was dressed in all of her trailer park finery.

Woman (to me): Hey! You know the girl that lives in this apartment? She’s a bad mother. If you hear anything going on in there, you call the fucking cops!
*resumes pounding on door*

Me: Uh….Okay?

Woman: *Yelling into closed door* You hear that bitch? This girl next door is going to call the cops on you if you do anything funny in there!

Me: Um, excuse me? Excuse me! Maam? I never said that…. *trails off, tries inching back into door*

Woman: Hey! You call the cops if you hear anything at all! You hear me? I ain’t jokin around!

Me: I have to go now.

:::::::::

One evening before leaving for work, I decided to put in a load of laundry. It was mostly bras, underwear, and socks, with a few sweatshirts and some towels. My boyfriend at the time was staying at the apartment while I worked, so I asked him if he could grab my clothes out of the dryer when they were done, since they would be finished in about an hour and a half. He agreed, and I left.

Upon returning from work, I found that he had in fact forgotten to grab my clothes because he had been busy putting together a new entertainment center for me. So I trudged up to the third floor to retrieve them. Much to my dismay, I found the dryer to be empty, with none of my clothes in sight. Not even so much as a wayward sock or even a dryer sheet. My clothes had totally disappeared.

I immediately began freaking out. Mostly because all of my bras and just about every pair of underwear I owned had been in the wash, leaving me with only the bra and underwear I wore to sustain me. Frantically, I knocked on everyone’s doors telling them my sob story hoping that one of them would tell me that they’d accidentally grabbed them. No one did. Most of the people were really nice about it, and genuinely sorry that they didn’t know where they were. Everyone, that is, except my next door neighbor.

As I spoke with her about my clothes, I glimpsed a suspect basket of laundry in the hallway of her apartment. When it became apparent that I was trying to look around her and at the clothes in the basket, she quickly told me that she hadn’t seen my clothes and promptly closed her door in my face. Stunned, I was left both pantiless (pantyless?) and without hope. My clothes were gone. Gone forever.

I couldn’t understand. Who would steal someone else’s lingerie? It’s like buying used underwear at the Goodwill. You don’t know where they’ve been or what that person had going on down there. I realize that mine were clean because I’d washed them, but I had worn them. They had touched my private parts. I of course began to envision the worst. A fat, sweaty, bald guy watching Baywatch, wearing my underwear on his head, sniffing the crotches and rubbing them on his face. It was enough to give me the chills.

Grudgingly, I went to the store and purchased more underwear, socks, and bras. I was very angry because buying all that stuff at once is really expensive. So angry, in fact, I considered putting a sign up by the mailboxes.

:::::::::

Dear underwear thief:

I hope you are enjoying your ill gotten undergarments. I just wanted to let you know that I have a raging case of the herpes.

Enjoy.


::::::::::

Of course everyone at work thought the whole incident was hilarious. They would pantomime wearing my underwear on their heads and do their best silence of the lambs impressions. My misery was their utmost joy.

Months went by, and eventually the incident faded from memory. Until one day, it all caming screaming back to me.

While vaccuming my living room one afternoon, I happened to see my next door neighbor walking through the parking lot. She was pushing a baby stroller. It wouldn't have been a big deal except she was wearing a pair of my sweatpants. Can you believe it? That bold white trash tart had the nerve to wear my clothes around the apartment building where I could see her in plain sight.

And it didn't end there. The following week while doing my laundry, I discovered a pair of my underwear in a load of laundry that she'd left in the dryer. I began rooting through the clothes. Sure enough, I found one of my towels, a pair of my sweatpants, four more pairs of my underwear, and a bra. (I left the bras and underwear, but took the other stuff back). I briefly entertained the idea of putting all of her clothes into a trashbag and throwing them in the dumpster, but changed my mind when I saw the baby clothes. (too nice, I know. Fuck that baby! j/k of course).

She got the message. She never left her clothes in the dryer ever again, and made sure to avoid me at all costs around the apartment. In retrospect, I wish I would've thrown her damn clothes away, the bitch.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

I Heart Epileptics

When I was a kid growing up in the small town of Lawton, Oklahoma, my family lived in a three bedroom house across the street from the local playground.

Located in the middle of a rectangular one acre plot, this recreational wonderland consisted of two swing sets, a see saw, slides, jungle gym, and merry go round. The perimeter was surrounded by thin, elongated logs, and the inside was filled with rocks. (A strange filler to choose--it would seem to me that grass would be far safer for small children than thousands of tiny sharp stones. But I digress.)

Most days, a trip to the playground was uneventful. On this particular day however, that would not be the case.

It was a typical Saturday morning. My brothers and I had just finished getting our dose of early morning cartoons and decided to go to the playground to play a game of cops and robbers. I rode over on my bicycle, my brothers walked. Making sure that it was in plain sight, I leaned my bike against a nearby tree where I could keep an eye on it.

About fifteen minutes later, I noticed a strange girl in a blue dress attempting to get on my bike. Thinking that she was trying to steal it, I began picking up large handfuls of rocks and pelting her with them. This caused her to lose her balance and fall off of the bike and onto the ground. I continued my rocky assault, while she shielded her face with her arms.

Then without warning, the girl began to convulse violently and started foaming at the mouth. My youngest brother looked at me in panic and said "WHAT DID YOU DO??" I just shrugged my shoulders unsure of what exactly was going on. At this point, a crowd had begun to gather around us. A dark haired woman and man ran up from a nearby house and tried to calm the girl down. They said they were her parents and that she was an epileptic.

My father showed up just as the paramedics arrived. I couldn't understand why he was so angry at me. "But she tried to steal my bike daddy!" I kept telling him. I was still holding a big handful of rocks when he came to drag me away. "That girl is very sick," he told me. "You don't throw rocks at people. It's not very nice. " No matter how much he tried to explain it to me, I was convinced that the rock throwing had been justified.

It wasn't until years later that I would understand what it meant to be an epileptic, and would sheepishly realize that I threw rocks at an epileptic while they were seizing. Pretty fucked up, huh?

Monday, November 13, 2006

Awkward Dinner Conversation

Over the weekend some friends and I went to see the Borat movie. Fantastic! I haven't laughed that hard at a movie for a while. If you love crude humor and laughter at other people's expense, then I highly suggest you watch it.

It made me think of an interesting Thanksgiving dinner conversation I once had with my mother:

Me: So this friend of mine likes to sit on her porch and watch the people walk by....
Mom: Oh you mean like monkey?.....Umm...what do you say? Like Porch Monkey?

Awkward Silence.

Me: Did you really just say Porch Monkey?? Where ever did you hear that?
Mom: I don't remember.
Me: Do you even know what it means?
Mom: Yeah, people who like to sit on their porch.
Me: (Shakes head) Mom, it's a racial slur for African Americans.
Mom: Oh. (Resumes eating turkey)

That was a classic. I can never tell when a gem like that will pass over my mother's lips. You see, my mom was born and raised in Korea. She didn't come to the United States until she was in her mid twenties, so due to cultural differences, she often says things that are inappropriate and doesn't even realize it. Luckily she's a cute little asian woman, so people find her endearing. She's my mom, so I find her terribly embarrassing.

In other news, I got my hair cut, and I absolutely love it!





Hooray!

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Chinese Voodoo

The setting: an average run of the mill video store located in the center of a strip mall. Two employees stand behind the counter, looking extremely bored. A loop tape plays a preview for spy kids 2 and advertises various popcorn and soda rental packages. Adjacent to the video store is a small buffet style chinese restaurant. The parking lot is empty with the exception of a couple of cars and a lonely shopping cart that has found its way over from a nearby grocery store. Two chinese gentlemen enter the video store. They are the proprieters of the fine dining establishment next door. They browse the movies available and bring their choices to the front counter.

Clerk: Hello. may I see your id please?

The man looks confused. He shakes his head.

Clerk: I can't rent to you without your id sir.

The second man says something to the first man in Chinese. Understanding dawns on his face and he produces his identification. The clerk types in his information.

Clerk: Just so you know there is a five dollar late fee on your account. You will have to pay this in order to rent these movies.

Again, the man looks confused. Fee? He shakes his head no and pushes the dvds toward the clerk to indicate that he would like to rent said movies.

Clerk: I'm sorry sir. You have to first pay the fee, then I can rent you these movies.

The two men begin to converse back and forth in chinese. As the conversation progresses, they begin to talk faster and faster, the decibels increasing with each passing moment. The clerks observe with amusement/apprehension. The man at the counter becomes visibly angry and yells at the clerk in broken english and stalks away.

Clerk #2: That was interesting. I wonder if he'll be back?

A week goes by. The man doesn't come back. The same two clerks are working again. Their manager stops in to rent some movies.

Manager: Hey, just so you know, the other day when I was working the owner of the restaurant next door called. He said that he's tired of us throwing our trash into their dumpster. They don't have enough room to throw out their trash. He said that if we don't stop, he's going to call the owner of our store and complain to them about it. So make sure you are throwing out the trash into the correct dumpster. Ok?

(Now I just would like to take a moment to explain why there was confusion about the dumpsters. For some unknown reason, the dumpster for the restaurant was directly behind the back door of the video store. Our dumpster was further down by the next door. How silly of us to think that the dumpster directly behind our door was ours. We're so stupid. )

Upon hearing this, Clerk #2 gets an uncomfortable "oops" look on her face.

Manager: What's wrong?

Clerk #2: Wellll.... when I opened this morning... I took out the trash. I put it in the dumpster behind the back door. Sorry! I didn't know it was the wrong one.

Clerk #1: They probably won't notice anyway.

Manager: Yeah, I'm sure it'll be okay. Just make sure you put it in the right one from now on.

The next morning the manager opens the store. She boots up the computers and turns on the t.v. sets. She picks up the trash in the back room and goes out the back door. She makes sure she throws the bags into the correct dumpster. She turns to go back inside.

Manager: What the hell?

On the knob of the door is a wire coat hanger. Hanging from it are three fish heads, eyes wide and unblinking. The manager looks around and sees no one. Everything is silent.

Monday, November 06, 2006

stressed

So my boss recently got a promotion and her position is now available. Over the last couple of weeks, I have found myself the target of multiple inquiries as to whether I will be applying for her position. It would be a promotion, with more responsibility and a little bit more pay. I also would gain managerial experience, something, which I do not currently have, and it would look good on my resume.

Despite all of these things I find myself hesitating. Why? Because if given the choice, I would rather be the worker bee as opposed to the big cheese. I don't particularly like telling people what to do, and I especially hate confrontations. I know that I’m just being a big chicken about the whole thing, but I can’t help it. It’s not that I don’t think I can do the job; it’s more like I’m comfortable where I am. I work full time, I have benefits, and things are good.

So I’ve been stressing over this for the last few days. Tomorrow is the last day to apply. I have my resume and cover letter printed and signed. It sits waiting, mocking me. Blerg.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Internet fighting is FUN!!

Apparently according to some, I am a Bitch. With a capital B.

A couple of months ago, someone that I was formerly friends with in high school tried to contact me via my space. I’ll call this person Jane.

Jane and I met in junior high. I befriended her out of pity, which was a big mistake, and one that has taken many years to rectify. During our high school years, Jane took it upon herself to act as my shrink. She was constantly telling me how screwed up I was, and how she was just trying to help me. Personally, I think she had a girl crush on me. She was extremely jealous of my other friends and often referred to our friendship as a “relationship”. Constantly picking fights with me, she was always trying to make me look bad so she would look/feel better about herself.

Ever have one of those kinds of friends? They suck balls.

Anyways, after I moved away to go to college, my contact with her began to dwindle. I hung out with her a few times, but they proved to be affairs that I didn’t care to repeat. Eventually, I cut off contact completely. No explanation, I just didn’t talk to her again. She sent me a couple of letters, but I never responded. Now I realize that I probably should have let her know what was going on and just been honest about my distaste for her. But every time I ever tried to end the friendship, it always concluded with her crying and begging me to remain friends with her. This happened several times in high school, and I just didn’t want to deal with the guilt trips and the goading.

Fast forward about four years. Jane sees my profile on my space, and sends me a message, via her husband’s account. It basically says “hey it’s been awhile, here’s what’s going on with me, I’m not sure if you want to talk to me, if you do, message me here.” I interpret this as meaning if you want to talk to me send me a message, if you don’t then don’t.

Apparently, this is not what that meant. While she indicated to me that it didn’t really matter, it obviously did. I was expected to respond whether I wanted to talk to her or not. A couple of days later, she sent me another message. She had created her own account and wanted me to message her there. Also, she wanted to know if I had gotten the last message. I chose to ignore this message as well.

A few months went by. I found out that my friend was dying of cancer. This friend was someone that had also formerly been “friends” (and I use the term loosely) with Jane. After her death, Jane’s husband sent me another message. It basically said that he thought I should know about what had happened, and that Jane really wanted to be friends with me again. In closing, he basically used my friend’s death as a reason for me to renew contact with her stating: “She would want you to at least talk to her.” Pretty fucked in my opinion. I mulled it over for a couple of days, trying to decide what I wanted to write back and if it was worth it when three days later, he sent me a new message, this one much more hostile than the first.

All i havet to say is u are fucked up really you are.Im nice enought to let you know about (*******) and stuff,not to mention thtat (Jane) misses u as a friend and shit.But she told me when i wrote the last message to you was that if she didnt reply then she wasnt a friend in the first place.Beyond all that If you dont want to talk to me or her then just let me know alright and we will leave u alone. I just dont know why u get off being a bitch to your"best friend" in highschool.Well im not gonna waste anymore time here im just gonna let you go if u care at all then write me back and let me know!whether u want to or not!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So I decided to write back.

Okay. First of all, you think you know what is going on here, but you don't. All you know is what you've heard which is very one sided. I did know about (*******), because I have always been close to her family. She actually WAS like a sister to me. I knew about it back in March when she was first diagnosed. I visited her in the hospital, I saw her the day before she died. So thanks for your concern, but I already knew. I think it's pretty low of you to try and use her death as a reason for me to renew contact.

Second of all, I didn't stop talking to (Jane) because of (*******). It had nothing to do with all the bullshit going on between them. I stopped talking to (Jane) because she was always treating me like shit and lying to me. My "best friend" in high school? Please. I'm sorry, but I have better things to do with my time than have friends like that. I don't need it, I don't want it. I am not the same person she used to know, so stop trying to guilt trip me into talking to her again. It is not going to work. I do not bear any bad feelings toward her, I just do not have any interest in maintaining a friendship of any form with her.

In closing, I think that you are very rude to pester me with your emails. If I wanted to talk to you I would. Obviously it needs to be spelled out to you. So here it is: Fuck Off.

That is all.


Jane then decided to take the high road and send me a message back basically saying that she slept with my ex after we’d broken up and all the things he’d allegedly said about me. Pretty classy huh? It’s really quite sad that she felt she had to stoop to that level to hurt my feelings. Honestly, it was five years ago, and I don’t even care. I’ve also received another message from her husband this morning basically saying that I’m a bitch and that I’ll want to be friends with her again someday and she'll tell me to shove it up my ass. Fat chance. But hey, whatever. They'd know better than me right? Four years hasn't changed my mind but apparently they think that the passing of time will somehow change that.

So….that’s what’s been going on with me over the last couple of days. Being harassed by mongoloids via the internet.

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