“I said squeeze your anus, not your butt!”

Ah yes, folks. Squeeze your anus. It is harder than it sounds. Or maybe it isn’t? It is definitely a complicated thought when you are upside down. That, I can guarantee.

The fact that I am squeezing my anus right now and relaxing my glutes is testament to the fact that because I managed to sort it out in a handstand with a particularly nice-assed male giving directions, anyone can – eventually – sort it out with their head above their groin.

So – if anyone is curious – if you’d like to stay in a handstand, SQUEEZE YOUR ANUS. Check? Check! Great activity – applicable to many things. Werk it. Put it on your resume.

On the subject of nice asses, Spain is ripe with them. I am fairly sure I’ve even made myself blush with the primordial ravaging passing through my brain like a pornographic View-Master while watching the boys at CrossFit Fuengirola do, well, anything.

Show me that prisoner’s squat again, not sure I got it. Also, definitely need at least seven more examples of the proper body positioning for a dead lift. Matter of fact, better review the power snatch for three consecutive days. (<- that actually happened; its like the owners had a pow-wow about just how sad it is for those of us (me) who can’t figure out how to do it without looking like C-3PO is trying out Crossfit.) Three glorious days.

In a summer filled with juicy, sensual fruit, beautiful yogis and rock hard beaches? it is no wonder my lips stay open just a little too long in awe of all of the mouth-watering goodness.

Also, here is a less-sexy behind view sent from a friend who was abroad; you are welcome.

IMG_9560

 

Advertisements

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

Today I locked myself out of my parents’ house. I tried all of the windows and ran my hand over the ledge above the front door to no avail.

I bet you are wondering how I got locked out. Well, I’ll tell you but it is TOP SECRET. (Only Sarah knows. And you, of course.)

This Thursday I have dinner reservations in the city and I am SO PUMPED! Except we booked three months in advance and OMG I don’t have a date. Because I’m (mildly) deranged, I started pouring through Facebook friends that went to Pennsbury HS and then looking at friend’s of friends. It got a bit messy. Finally, I texted my sister to ask her if there was anyone I had a crush on in High School because I couldn’t think of anyone. Really? No cursive heart bubbles on my brown paper bag wrapped books?

<Side note: Do kids still do that? A lot of stores don’t even use paper bags anymore…>

Anyway, I went to the storage above the garage in my leggings, glasses, loose fitting sheer top (no bra) to find my yearbook for clues. [editors note: my sister thinks that this is what I wear every day…she might be right.]

When my parents moved, basically we each got a container. Maybe two. Our lives, boiled down to two containers. I guess that is fair – though no one can find a baby picture of me if you asked them to.

Digging around, I found a yearbook with no signatures. Did that stop? Did I really have no friends my senior year? Possibly – I had an older boyfriend… I don’t know.

But here is the crazy thing. I came down carrying an armful of diaries and a huge tin of (what looks like) every note from the 90s that I ever passed back and forth that ended in my hands, nearly tripping over a bin of gardening tools obstructing the stairs.

Sweaty but amused by my find, I tried to open the door I came from. Locked. It turns out all of the doors were locked. And the windows. (Note: I just got in yesterday so every window is locked because I haven’t been using the windows to lean my body out to smoke weed or anything.)

Fuuuuuck. I start walking to my dad’s university which is pretty close. Then I realize there is a bike!!! I ride like a madwoman. Here’s the thing, though: the bike seat was incredibly low. The helmet incredibly old. The hill! Oh my god, the hill!!! I had to walk the bike up. And then the terror of going down…horrifying.

Pedal. Pedal. Pedal. I’m at campus now and I kind of remember… I see the science building but when I get close, it doesn’t look familiar. Oh yeah, I think. Dooling Hall. Undergraduate Dean’s Office is is Dooling. I pedal. The bike seat shifts awkwardly because after I raised it, I didn’t tighten it enough.

Surprise, DAD!

I had him snap a photo:

FullSizeRender

My dad didn’t actually have a key? So I told him to wait ten minutes and meet me back home. I figured, might as well flip through these diaries that caused all this trouble.

So, if you made it this far in the post, here is a little treat:

  1. Apparently I’ve been eating Chinese food and cleaning up in costumes since the 90s:FullSizeRender_2

Also, I ❤ Kyle! and Who the fuck took that picture?! Oy vey! << also, who is Kyle? >>

2: FROM THE INTERNET!!! FullSizeRender_1

TTYL!!

Love,

Andrea

 

Partners-N-Crime and PB&J

There are two main kinds of PB&J. The first, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jameson. The second, that delicious sandwich. Both types of PB&J can fall anywhere within the range of “YESSSS! This is ahhhmaazing!!!” to “Just fucking shoot me.” The latter part of 2016 was asphyxiated by PB&J.

And, while usually names are omitted from the lovely Bananas, it is a little hard to do with this one because I’m talking about Jameson (but not that whiskey shot that may or may not kill me one day) – I’m talking about a human.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that 2016 was a particularly low point in Andrea-land. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my mother and I said something like, “Ugh… October was really really fucking hard.” And my mom said without malice (but a tinge of irony), “Just October?” BITCH. Okay, not a bitch. But really, though. I know that my life is full of ups and downs. Maybe it is because I’m so wildly passionate? I found a great image to depict my life:

12305117-heart-beat-monitor-or-ekg

I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like the above image. Totally and completely unique.

Anyway, in August I reconnected with an old friend who used to run in the same party circle as me. We’ve known each other ten years and (after my first spout of shit talking) it was nice to hang out. He’s a bit of an enabler but also incredibly smart. Smart and likes to party. AKA Trouble.

Additionally, for a long time I was searching for (what I thought was) a Nelly song – “Hot Boys,” but that is a different thing. What I really wanted was this song:

So I have to thank him for solving that mystery. (Also, I guess thanks for the threesome. I dig it.)

But, back to the main point. My messed-up-as-fuck almost attorney “friend” who really and truly sucks.

I thought I could help him. Get his shit together. Finish law school. Sometimes I am better at giving a fuck about other people than myself. If you ask, I’m happy to help. But, despite the time spent together (he was homeless, I let him stay with me a few times), nothing ever moved forward. It was always someone’s fault – just definitely not his. It was some reason outside of his control that he didn’t have a job. (Not that he was drunk, late and maybe stealing.) Not his fault that he couldn’t finish his thesis. Not his fault that he has (another) child that he can’t afford.

Finally (we are talking about not that long of a time), I was over it. I didn’t want free drugs and I didn’t want (probably) stolen booze without mixers. I had no interest in staying up past 9 or 10 p.m. and I can’t stand falling asleep to TV. *

*For the record: This is deal breaker territory. I suffered through it with Hot Chef but not again and certainly not when you are rolling in drunk and staying for free in my bed and you are going to drive me crazy by drinking and smoking (helllo, I asked you to go outside a gazillion times with that cigarette!) and watching shit on my laptop. Woof.

I really didn’t think he should give up his dream. In every success, there are casualties along the way. I was willing, if he put out any effort, to potentially be one. But, we’d slept together. >>I’m human!!!<< And it made things messy because he is the definition of Bad News Bears and he totally fell for me. But, he wanted to keep it a “secret” because “what would people think?”

I didn’t keep it a secret, but I didn’t talk about it. It only happened a few times and I consistently and firmly told him that I was not interested in dating him and had no romantic feelings whatsoever. It just happened that he was party to a situation that I couldn’t immediately surgically remove from my life so it seemed easier to just let it ride.

Jameson is in the music industry (unemployed) and thought that because I like this song, I was obviously trying to send him a message through the lyrics. He clearly doesn’t read my blog. Let me summarize: a) I like the song and b) I actually don’t always listen to the lyrics of pop songs that much and c) 5 years of Sometimes Boyfriend might connect him to that song now that I am implored to pay more attention to the lyrics but *certainly* not crazy dude.

So, a few messy phone calls later… (him to my voicemail) many, many mean texts. (As my bestie, she got some fucked up shit typed on little phone keys too…) Horrific actually. Followed by me blocking his number… (I thought messages from a blocked number just go to LaLa Land, but I have 5 messages from his 985 # and I refuse to listen.)  and a bit of violence later, I was cleaning up my trashed apartment (he dumped multiple bottles of water on my bed because since I didn’t want to spend the night with him, he was *sure* I was inviting someone else over and proceeded to make a mess of my bed as a precautionary measure.) including flipping over the coffee table and just making a giant mess.

I wasn’t there for that – I left (because he wouldn’t) and then – he finally quit it.

He also posted this on my Facebook later:

screen-shot-2016-11-21-at-6-26-03-pm

^ Don’t know why I was Googling “Billy Crudup” and the search for “rehab” came from a looking at the multitude of bottles of Taaka bottles and the disaster that Jmo made when he broke into my apartment and threw a bunch of shit around.

** also, I would say that the very, very public Facebook page made all of this OFFICIALLY NOT A FUCKING SECRET. (And potentially a cause for concern…)

He tried to call me for awhile from other numbers but, since he never listened to anything I said, did not attempt between the hours when I am awake. Seriously. Get out of bed before 3 p.m. (or don’t!) but if you are crashing at my place because you can’t get your shit together and I go workout at 7am, at least when you *finally* leave my house around 4, take the trash down. It’s your mess anyway. Also, cool it on the nasty text messages to me. Definitely don’t nasty text my best friend. And mostly, stay the fuck away.

BTW, I’m moving. Let’s all say goodbye to my apartment for the past 5 years. It wreaks of the past anyway.

The Letter P

P is for Portland. And also for Pabst. And Poboy. And Playboy. (Oh, shit! And for Pinot Grigio, too!!)

It is also for pussy. And pizza since I’m being tangential. But most importantly (today, anyway), P is for Parkway!

This photo is when they surprised everyone with a turkey day in May:

img_0950

Every November, Parkway dishes out their signature Thanksgiving Poboy. It used to happen throughout the month leading up to Thanksgiving (and would sell out daily) and then one sad year they only did it at the Oak Street Poboy Festival (YES I made it out that year. With a hot date, thank you.) They have since changed.

Today they are back to a more consistent schedule: They serve it on Wednesdays during the month of November.

So, thanks to a tip from social media (love you, Instagram!) I was made aware of the opportunity to indulge while at the peak of my hunger on the first Wednesday in November. Move over, world. I have a sandwich to inhale.

To be honest, November crept up on me. I was busy!

School? Definitely.

Boys? They are the worst! (But oh so tempting.)

Apartment? I can’t even.

Then, after working all day, I ended up at Felipe’s (again) in line (again) scrolling through Instagram (okay, again).  But instead of ordering (again) magic happened. I found out that 1) tomorrow is national sandwich day — hashtagnationalsandwichday and 2) Parkway is celebrating it a day early because it is also Thanksgiving Poboy Wednesday. Yassss. So, I immediately left the line for the greater good – turkey. (hashtagblessed. hashtagthewritelife.)

It was an almost-full crayon box of a bar when I walked in. There were just a few of the reject (favorite!) slots open. But, I know better than to queue up at the sandwich line outside. That is for novices. Solo diners, especially, should eat at the bar. It is super fast. And great!

Mike was behind the bar (he always is) and I squeezed myself into my favorite seat (no one likes it; it is in the sun and the bartender can’t see you. < Or that is what other people say. I’ve never had a problem ordering) with my newly delivered Playboy.

Hello, favorite corner seat.

I ordered quickly because I was a lady with a plan. I also threw in some regular fries and a PBR (self explanatory) and started reading an article about fried chicken. Yum and thank you.

Not two minutes in, there is a comment: “I’m sure you are just reading that for the articles.” Laugh, joke. The guy is from Portland…I’d encountered him briefly when I had to stick my head under the bar to find the hooks to hang my bag.

I offered that no, in fact, they don’t do nudes anymore (see below) but my dream as a writer is to be published in Playboy and I do, in fact, read the articles. They are great.

img_4028

(Not. Nudity.)

His hair was dark and hung in almost curls around his face. Pale, of course. Did I say Portland? He looks like a guy in a band that I can’t place.

Anyway, he was flirting. Heavy. You know, taking any opportunity to brush against my leg. Asking questions. The dark, artsy type. You can imagine how he was stoked when I revealed that I was a writer. (No matter that my genre isn’t literary. Although his diatribe when I said I wasn’t into poetry was something for the books…

My sandwich arrived and, full-on in a white t-shirt, I beasted the most delicious (messiest) sandwich without spilling on myself a single bit of cranberry. I washed my (admittedly half) order down with a bottle of PBR. < Drank it cold!! And all the while, Mr. Portland is talking to me. Flirting with me. I literally didn’t have a fork and was shoveling stuffing and turkey and bread dripping with gravy toward my open mouth with a dexterity I only have when dealing with my favorite sandwich. (Okay I’ve got similar skills with human body parts that I’m a fan of.)

Anyway, the level of flirting was off the charts considering the food consumption of the moment.

I then made a few really un-sexy (sexy?) stretch moves to make room for the second beer I was drinking. Mr. Portland kept hinting to wanting to hang out while he was in town. I would have loved to say I had a boyfriend, but I don’t (sigh) so I had to continue with the “I’m super busy…” Because I am! —  Busy unabashedly shoving a sandwich in my face.

I do also have several current/pressing/omfuckinggod work projects on my plate.

His friend finished work so he should have been “done” but ordered another round because he wanted to sit with me longer. He asked about the seasonal Abita. I warned him against the peach beer because I assumed that it probably tasted like baby food. He declined a taste and suffered through that whole pint. Whatever. I was right. Baby food.

Beer. Digestion.

Beer. Digestion.

I checked my phone a few times though generally enjoying the group conversation – me, Mr. Portland, Mike and the other guy next to me.

Finally, out of the mildest curiosity, I looked over after returning from the bathroom to see what book was propped open in front of my new friend. (Beer makes me have to pee.) Scratch that…Everything makes me have to pee.

Long story not-so-short, he flat out asked for my number. And said he’d love to see me while I in town. He quit with the subtle (not subtle) hints and just went for it. He was like, “How are you so tiny?” “Do you always eat like this?”  (Me: no and I work out all the time.) “You’re so pretty.” … it went on.

He was reading The Bell Jar. I thought of my best friend. I thought of me. I wondered how old he is, but since I had no intention of meeting him later, I didn’t bother to ask.

He told me he likes to say “YES” and aims to live fully his week in New Orleans. He wants to sleep under bridges (okay maybe my memory is wrong on that one – but that is the idea.) His friend, he says, just got his master’s in film and (omg) works at a pizza place.

Is that the fate for us all? He wants to know. He also wants to know how I got into writing. He wants to tell me how pretty I am some more. I bet he wants to do more than that. I decide he is most definitely under 25.

I wonder if I did hang out with him, how fast his enamor would last. I think I hold the record for guys falling hard and fast for me and then immediately thinking, “Better not.”

 

Hey, What Are You Reading?

So, I’m sitting at the pizza place across the street slowly sipping a giant glass of Pinot Grigio and reading my book when a bunch of sexy firefighters come in to pick up pizza. And by pizza I mean a stack of large pizzas. (There is a football game on, the place is getting crowed with pick-up orders.)

img_2936

Full Disclosure: That pizza/wine photo was from the pre-cleanse send off. But I love to rip the bubble off so I took this photo and would also like to say I’m sorry to everyone across the street for past and future impropriety.

BUT, back to my story. Saints Game! WHO DAT!

This very sexy guy in uniform interrupts my reading with a “Hey, what are you reading?!”

And I flash a copy of Technical Editing, Fifth Edition. And then he says “Wow that is so cool, I’m actually looking for someone to edit my dissertation and none of my friends will help me.”

(Insertion: I look super hot because before studying I went out to brunch with one of my favorite ladies and then got my nails done. I’m still rockin’ an all-black super cute skirt and tank combo and have on and this amazing purple shade of lip gloss.)

I have no idea what I would charge or what it would entail but it seemed pretty flirty. No man has ever asked me “What are you reading” when I am clearly not seeking attention unless they are actually trying to flirt. But I don’t know. He actually might need help? But who interrupts someone clearly not aware that there is a game on just trying to carb binge and who says “cool” to Technical Editing, Fifth Edition who isn’t flirting?

In any case, I wrote down my phone number and my email. (I mean, hottie fighting fires while he finished his PhD. SWOON.)

They walk out.

And then the woman next to me GUSHES about how he was just flirting with me and OMG yadda yadda yadda.

THEN, I get an email. Like within minutes!?

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-18-58-pm

Ummm what does that mean? That was so fast. Did he think he was going to forget?! So I waited like an hour… finished my wine and wrote back. Because I assumed he meant “editing” and maybe more… wink, wink.

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-19-21-pm

And then since I had his name I looked him up on Facebook. (UGHGHHG) And sent this:

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-19-34-pm

And then this happened:

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-19-47-pm

Ahhhh I am so awkward. ALSO: “Not too many New Orleanians interested in reading and writing” is a big fucking red flag. NOLA is where so many famous writers come to write and there are a slew of us competing for the same limited jobs.

I don’t even know. I was confused. Was he really looking for help? Who the fuck reads a Technical Editing book at a pizza place during a football match? (Me.) Or, as the rest of the crowd seemed to think, was he hitting on me? Or just wanting to fuck because he totally just got kicked out and no one was misreading the situation, I just have no filter and made it weird??

Who knows because at this point I’m drunk even though I ate a whole calzone the shape of a football because I was just finishing a cleanse. (Makes total sense, don’t judge me.) BUT JUDGE ME FOR THIS: and never, ever again wonder why I am single.

First I wrote, “Interesting.” SEND

Then I wrote, “I am confused” SEND

THEN I WROTE:

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-35-27-pm

Shockingly, he never wrote back. And that doesn’t even make sense? Anyway. Curtain call on that one. Sorry hot fire fighter, it wasn’t meant to be.

 

Y Tu Mamá También

And, “We’re all going to die!!!”

When Y Tu Mamá También made its theatrical release in the United States, I was in high school and belatedly getting my driver’s permit several months after my 16th birthday. I was never huge into films but I’d go to the local video store and rent movies on occasion. Regardless, the most sex in a movie I’d experienced was the the PG stuff in James Bond films.

My mother heard an interview about the movie (probably on NPR) and suggested that we all go see it. I didn’t bother to look it up and maybe my dad didn’t either? That part I’m not sure because why my sister, who is two years older, and I got in the car that night to go see a movie with my parents has been lost in the folds of time. We had to drive to a theater in New Jersey that was probably 45 minutes away since the movie had a limited US release (I’m going to guess that is because of a combination of subtitles and mature sexual content.)

But what I do remember, is this:

The movie had a lot of sex in it. Graphic sex. And for some reason, the scene of Julio and Tenoch masturbating on separate diving boards at a vacant country club is one of the images that is burned into my memory.

y-tu-mama-tambien-pool-scene-o

Also there were drugs. And a lot of pot smoking.

I also remember sitting next to my dad with palpable uncomfortable tension while we watched this coming of age journey about the meaning of life, sex, friendship with a little bit of Mexican politics. I’m not kidding, I don’t even know if I’d be any less uncomfortable now that I’m 31 than when I was a teenager. You could cut the rigidity with a knife, although if you asked my mother, she probably didn’t feel that way at all.

After the movie let out, neither my dad, my sister nor I said anything. We just kind of walked in awkward silence out to the parking lot. My mom, on the other hand, had a lot to say.

If you recall, I had my learner’s permit so I was still in the “practice” phase of driving that is required for 6 months in the state of Pennsylvania. This was new for those of us born in 1985, but honestly, I hate driving so I don’t think I cared as much as many others would in a similar transition era.

My parents thought that it would be GREAT for me to practice on the drive home because it was nighttime, the way back was pretty straightforward but also highway driving so I’d have to practice merging into traffic. (I still can’t merge very well and there is nothing I hate more than driving about 45 miles per hour.)

Anyway, we get in the car and my mom wants to talk about the movie. Just kill me. It is kind of her thing to have conversations that she knows we probably don’t want to have when we are stuck in the car. I’m not usually the driver though.

This is a guess, but I was driving and my dad was probably in the front passenger seat. My mom and sister in the back. And my mom was so excited and loved the movie so much that all she wanted to do was talk about it.

Meanwhile, there was construction and my right lane is ending. But I was white knuckled wondering who was more uncomfortable: me, my dad or my sister. I guess I’ll never know but I was having trouble getting over because traffic was moving really fast and the orange cones signifying the closed lane were slowly approaching when out of the back seat my older sister started screaming “OH MY GOD, WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!” More than once.

I don’t know about how near to death we were, but I did get over and we are all still around to know that 15 years later, I’m still just as bad as I was on that night. On the plus side, it shut my mom up so I could pay attention to driving. Whew.

I recently watched it and (probably because a lot happened if 15 years) much of it was new to me. I remembered the general feeling of discomfort and now I know why. It isn’t just sex, it is Louisa teaching them how to have sex. I’m talking about a finger well placed in the butt, how to eat pussy, their cum faces and all the rest of things. I almost feel like all boys should watch the movie just to give him a a preview because porn does not always represent sex realistically and maybe they should all learn how to last a little longer and not jackhammer a girl without having any notion of female pleasure.

I fucking love that movie. It was so good. Insightful. Tender. Louisa has the most insane body too. Wow, girl. But mostly, I feel like there is probably so much more than I could ever grasp on one or two viewings about what the movie is actually saying. What the omniscent narrator adds to the road trip. Some of the haunting glimpses of the future.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be pondering the meaning of Louisa’s last words to Tenoch and Julio.

“Life is like foam, so give yourself away like the sea.”

 

 

The Fly That Broke the Camel’s Back

There are a few things that have happened to me since I moved to the South. First and foremost, I got over my fear of bugs. Okay, I didn’t get over my very rational fear of bugs, but I can deal with it like the quasi-adult that I am.

This is not to say that they don’t eat me alive if they can because apparently my pheromones are exactly what the want and need. However, bug bites aside, I can now kill them with a murderous rage that has no hesitation. Barehanded sometimes. (Of course only if they are inside and a threat to humanity/mental health – I guarantee you couldn’t sleep at night if your roommate didn’t know about the termite invasion and left the front door light on and the door ajar and thirty of them set up camp underneath your lamp on your bedside table until they were all dead.)

Flash back to 2006. Katrina just ravaged the city and I’m pretty sure there was a larger population of rats and cockroaches than humans. My mother, being the amazing human that she is (and also former city dweller) taught me the pro tips about lights. Turn them off when you leave a room to not be wasteful, but keep them on when it’s important. Meaning – don’t do anything in the dark that you wouldn’t do in the light. (She was talking about sex.) And then later, “If you turn on the lights and give them a minute, they will go away.” – in regard to kitchen roaches and whatever the fuck else lives in my dilapidated but very cute kitchen.

When I was 19, I had to put on a special outfit to kill roaches. In the south they fly. No one warns you that. I’d take my white faux leather belt with studs on it (so Emo) and put on rain books and attempt to wreak havoc by wildly swinging the belt through the air. And then miss repeatedly. Not very effective; better is to turn on every light and leave for a while so it goes back to wherever it was hiding.

Five years later I was crushing them barehanded, with adrenaline pumping and a meat tenderizer or even underfoot without hesitation. The other day, I killed a bee on a beer can with one hand while everyone else ran away.

But you know what. Regardless of my dexterity with the scary bugs, the fruit fly (and termite) situation here might be my undoing. Sure they are tiny, but your roommate doesn’t take out the trash when you are away one weekend, and next thing you know you lift a plate and mushroom cloud of tiny bugs erupts, I can’t deal.

I mean LOST. MY. SHIT.

I scrubbed, I cleaned and still, they resisted. Fortunately the roommate is pretty chill and responded quite well to my note (we have different schedules!) asking him to please MacGyver the bartender-style fruit fly traps in some shot glasses around the kitchen.

Seriously, it doesn’t matter how many times I tried his magic trick of red wine vinegar (we didn’t have apple cider) topped with a little bit of Palmolive and sealed with plastic wrap with holes. Oh yeah, you also put a piece of fruit in the bottom. **My traps were a complete and utter failure. As a matter of fact, I think I made them a snack**

However, I am not happy to report that the fly population is zero. (Or close to it.) And I found joy in wiping their fallen carcasses from the bottom of the refrigerator when I cleaned it the other day. And even more so when I peered into their final fluorescent bath. So much so, that I took a photo!

FullSizeRender(6)

SO MANY.

Also, in case your roommate can’t solve the problem he created, find out how to cure yourself here.