Call Me

I don’t like the term “wiggle room.” It implies some sort of…wiggling, which in such an abstract context can sound sort of pervy, right? Or like there’s some sort of giant room full of wiggling things, like dogs and worms and piles of Jello, although come to think of it, that sounds kind of appealing. A Jello room! Yummy! They’ve used the term more times than I can even count during the NBA Draft this evening, which is why it’s on my mind. Wiggle room! (Also: Ray Allen!)

Moving on. Since you’re all likely getting your asses in gear for some delightful July 4 holiday plans, I must ask: am I the only person who just has WEDNESDAY off? How incredibly useless is that, I ask you? Oh, I just have a random Wednesday off. Great! GREAT. How festive. I don’t know what I’ll do with my free Wednesday when nothing is open and it’s hot as blazing hell, thank you, rigid nature of Independence Day, THANK YOU.

I’m procrastinating with ridiculous observations of nothing, because I have to tell you: I asked a girl out today, and it was extremely dramatic and ridiculous, and somehow, I managed to make it as dorky as possible, and I’m shocked, frankly, just FLOORED that this woman still talks to me. I met her at work–we work in completely different departments–and the office move put us in close proximity, and the thing is I like her very much and would like to see her outside of work. So I asked her to lunch or “go out sometime” or something like that (smooth!), which was SO HARD, and so…fraught with drama and involved an e-mail (AN E-MAIL) where I think actually told her that I really like her (I think I said that honestly. I think I said “I really like you!” like some kind of dumbass) and then basically asked her out, like this is a dating situation or something, Jesus.

It sounded like a come-on, really it did, but the thing is, she said yes, and we chatted again, and it turned out fine, but in retrospect, what else could she say after I propositioned her like that? WHAT COULD SHE SAY? “I realize you really like me, however I do not like you. I caught you picking your nose earlier, and your hair is the wrong shade for your skintone. Thanks, though!”

Making friends in adulthood is almost worse than junior high. Seriously. And I am so incredibly unnatural at it.

But, um, I think we’re having lunch or going out or something next week. I will probably fart or take my shirt off or something equally fetching. What makes this worse is that I actually got myself so worked up about the whole ridiculousness of asking out another person, much less a girl, that I sent a copy of the e-mail to my friend Erica, asking, “Is this dorky? Would you go out with me if you were her?” (She said she would, but then again, I feel certain there was a time several years ago when I made the same announcement to Erica, that gee, I liked her a whole lot. But she did go out with me nonetheless.)

I have this strange compulsion that when I like people, I have to tell them. I do this to bloggers, friends, family, co-workers. It’s awful. I say it so simply and stupidly, “I like you a lot!” as though their personality is a sweater or something that they can say, wow, thanks, I got it at Marshall’s, can you believe it? $5.99! I do the same thing if I think someone is pretty. One day, out of the blue, I will dorkily announce, “You’re pretty!” And then they will run off and tell their friends that the mentally challenged girl in the corner has a crush on them, and oh my God, get her away from me. GET HER AWAY FROM ME.

Speaking of Erica, she e-mailed me yesterday to see if I was around so that she could call me, and honestly, I was figuring it was something critical, like her pregnancy, or baby names or something, you know, important. No no. We made small talk for a few minutes, when she finally confessed that look, really, she wants to talk about Poop on a Plane–no no, I’m sorry, I think she said the Pile High Club. She actually said that: “My big news is this Pile High stuff, and I’ve been dying to talk to you about it.”

It was one of the greatest phone calls I’ve ever received, not only because she called me solely to talk about poop on a plane (love), but because um, have you seen this? HAVE YOU SEEN THIS? I mean, my God. The honest truth is that for me, as Erica so eloquently put it, poop never ceases to be funny. I mean, look, I realize that I wouldn’t want to be on a plane with feces floating down the aisles (FECES IN THE AISLES! BROKEN TOILETS!), but the fact that they were told to control “what comes out the other end”? Horribly hilarious. I feel for them, I really do, and man, I hope they sue the pants off of the airline, but poop! on! a! plane! I can’t stop thinking about it! I am five-years-old. I know. I’ve always been this way, and chances are, I always will be. Poop! On a plane!

Anyway. In further dorkitude, I am a hypocrite. Surprise! Remember that whole impassioned boob talk I gave one of my co-workers, and then followed it up by exposing my boob? And then the whole lack of fashion sense yesterday? I made a last-minute shirt change today, and completely forgot to change bras, and at around 11 a.m., I realized my bra was fully sticking out of my shirt in its entirety.

I hope you have a great holiday weekend. I’m going to try to pretend to be marginally cool, in every sense of the word. Wish me luck.

*Blondie

35 comments June 28th, 2007