Making an Impression on the Garbage Man

Being at home this week has been…interesting. I’ve been working hard on finishing stuff up for school and run a couple of obligatory errands, but mostly I’m home alone. I’ve forced myself to shower, but other than that, grooming and regular maintenance have been…lacking. I even skipped out of cap and gown pictures with a fancy college backdrop because I hadn’t washed my hair or put on makeup.

This morning, as I returned home from driving Brian to the train like a good little housewife, I realized that I needed to collect the 27 thousand cardboard boxes that the wind was whisking down the street. Brian had placed the garbage can on top of said boxes to “secure” them, but the can just fell over. Luckily, it was packed with styrofoam from our new TV and not much fell out. So I meandered down the driveway wearing my boyfriend’s long sleeve grey t-shirt, a bright purple pencil skirt and black faux patent leather flats. I was not wearing pants to cover my wooly mammoth calves, nor was I wearing a bra. I was pretty much the epitome of the Polish war bride look, as my dad would say.

My original plans (and the reason for my ridiculous ensemble) were to roll out of bed, get in the car inside the garage, drive Brian to the train, get out of the car inside the garage and go back to bed. But life never works out the way you plan. Even quick morning jaunts to the train station.

As I walked down the driveway, I took stock of my outfit as several cars drove past, and I mentally flipped them off for judging me. I don’t normally dress like this! And then I thought for a minute…oh…wait…STOP JUDGING ME. 

Sometimes I make a strong impression on people like the garbage man...it's not always a good impression though

So there I was, running up and down the block bending over to pick up cardboard boxes with a wonky back, a crazy outfit, and quite possibly rocking the commando thing, worrying about what my neighbors would think of me if any of them happened to look out their windows…when the garbage truck pulled up.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, it was garbage day. He greeted me with a smile (or a smirk) and I started walking back toward the house. He called to me, and said, “You may want to bring these cans in now [so they don’t blow away].” And so there I was, dressed for success, making polite conversation about the weather with the garbage man as he dumped two weeks worth of trash into the bin. Bloody spider webs, stinky food, lady things…you get the picture. It was awkward. I watched him pull the garbage stickers and throw them in the bins before dumping each bin. I thought about asking for his name; I thought about leaving him a tip at Christmas like my parents do. I thought about a lot of random things as this very pleasant man with the radio blaring from the inside of the truck trashed my trash. Instead, I thanked him each time he handed me a can, and I made my way back up the driveway. Thankful that if I wasn’t wearing pants, at least I had a fur lining.

Do you randomly throw on clothes from your clothes pile in the morning? What’s the strangest outfit you’ve left the house in? How do you handle awkward conversations?

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Maybe You Guys Can Figure Out What This Meant

So I was garage sailing this weekend and walked up to a house with a guy in his late 30’s-early 40’s. I did a quick lap and noticed all baby things, and was about to check out (as obviously, I don’t need any of those things), when the guy said to me, “You look like a Baby GAP person.”

I’m sorry…What?

This comment has resonated with me for 2 days now. Because I can’t seem to figure out what the hell he meant by that. I was wearing all Victoria’s Secret PINK clothing and Skechers gym shoes. What about that screamed GAP? Even more so, what about me screamed “baby?”

Was it an insult or a compliment? I didn’t examine the clothing closely, so I don’t know if he had a vast selection of Baby GAP crap or not. My response was just, “nope, no babies.”

What do you think blog friends? Compliment or Insult? Or just plain weird?

 

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This Shit Seriously Just…Happens to Me

Pepperidge Farm Goldfish

I love the fishes ‘cuz they’re so delicious. Gotta go fishin’

Pepperidge Farm Goldfish

When we drove by this on Saturday afternoon, the conversation went like this, “BlahblahblahunrelatedHOLYCRAPTHATSAWESOME WEHAVETOTURNAROUND” And Brian turned around. And yes, I do talk that fast.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Know How to Pick ‘Em (Eye Doctors That Is)

I went to the eye doc this week in order to renew my contact prescription (you know, because my the script for my specs is like 7 years old, maybe older…like 9…and I have no desire to get new glasses…) And this is the conversation that transpired.

Doc: Something tells me that your glasses aren’t from the prescription we had last year.

Me: No…they may be a little older than that…But…I mean, it’s okay, because I NEVER wear my glasses (this is kind of a little white lie).

Doc: Well, you know…in the zombie apocalypse, no one’s going to be running out to find contact solution. Update. Your. Glasses.

Me: *Internal SQUEE!* OK, you’ve got me there…

Doc: I’ve been watching The Walking Dead…

Me: Don’t tell me; we haven’t watched this week’s episode yet.

Doc: After 3 years, the zombies don’t scare me anymore…it’s the people. That backpacker from a few weeks ago? Yeah. Horrible.

Me: Right?! When I have my zombie nightmares on Sunday/Monday nights depending on when we watch it…I don’t dream about the zombies…it’s the people that really get to me.

Doc: You know, I’m not very prepared for it either. No gun. Maybe a few kitchen knives.  Then there are the people who save up food and water and supplies getting themselves prepared for anything…except that they have no weapons. They don’t realize they’re stocking up for the fully stocked armory that is one of their neighbors.

Me: True story, Doc.

Doc: Great show, The Walking Dead. I’ll see you in a year. Get some new glasses, alright?

Me: Sure thing, Doc.

I must be doing something right. Best. Eye Doctor. Ever.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How I Sprained My Knee 3 Times in One Semester AKA The Fucking Strawberry

Confession Friday: I sprained my knee…slipping on a strawberry.

“A what?!” You may be asking yourself…and yes, I said a strawberry.

If you aren’t caught up on the fact that this is part 3 of a series of blog posts, you can read the first two, about my skiing injury and then my epic battle with an icy alley.

Now that you can see what you’re dealing with here (you know, the biggest klutz in the history of ever…), let’s move on, shall we?

So I was finally out of physical therapy for the second time…thank God for Bradley and their fancy pants PT department because we had no insurance…and I was walking a little bit better. My physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major was making me do regular exercises to regain mobility (Sit on the ground with your legs straight out. See how they both look normal? Now pop one knee up about 4-5 inches… And imagine that you have a hyper-extended other knee…because I have hyper-extended joints… That’s what my knee looked like. It would not straighten out completely. And it still hurts a little bit to this day Oh, hey! We’re still inside a parenthetical statement. Sorry about that…)

So I was doing everything she told me. Even though it was essentially healing really well, I still iced it…and used elevators…and was late to math class (okay, I was late to all classes, but math was the best. Math 101: the only math class I took at Bradley. Math 101: in which I hobbled in late on crutches every day. Math 101: in which I walked over to the far side of the room after class started, pulled out the left-handed desk, and pulled up a chair to rest my knee on… Math 101: where I was the biggest asshole in the history of ever.)

I may have mentioned that I’m a stubborn ass Polak…and I like to do things for myself. I don’t like to rely on other people, and I certainly like to push my limits. So I always wanted to keep moving and get my mobility back. But I did what my physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major said. I even used the elevator when I wanted to take the stairs (Yes, there was a time when I wanted to take the stairs! (I don’t particularly care for elevators. After you’ve been in a few too many over-stuffed elevators that have ever gotten stuck or *gasp* dropped a few floors, you wouldn’t either!)

So I was feeling a little pain after a long day of walking to class…and I thought to myself, Self, you should ice your knee. So I got up from watching bad college TV (at one point we had a lava lamp channel!) and started to head toward the stairs. I thought twice and decided…No, Chrissy…it’s already been a long day. Suck it up and take the elevator. So I walked to the elevator. Rode up to the second floor. Made my way to the laundry room, which had two doors on either side of the floor (girls on one side, guys on the other). I walked into the laundry room with the sound of dudes’ laughter on the other side. But the second step, I slipped comic-style with one foot in the air and my ass going toward the ground. My knee was shot. Again. I screamed the way that I scream when I injure myself or see a spider or accidentally forget to take cookies out of the oven and burn them. And the boys on the other side of the door looked at me like I was crazy.

And I panicked.

Again.

And when I saw the apparatus of my demise…I was like, why the fuck is there a rotten strawberry on the floor of the Willy 2 laundry room? And then I remembered that one of my dear friends had also banged some dude in that same tiny laundry room and decided that it was better not to ask questions like that.

I crawled back downstairs and handled myself…and called my physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major…she came over and told me I was an idiot and had sprained myself again. I whined, “But I took the elevator and was getting ice and everything!!! It was that fucking strawberry!!”

A fucking strawberry.
Not a banana; that would be too cliche.

A fucking strawberry.

9 years ago.

And yet, just this year, Katie, my favorite little bookworm, Katie decided to tell me that she saw the strawberry…a few days before my little slip. And didn’t like…tell maintenance or anything. So, you know…if you don’t visit her blog today in solidarity with me and the strawberry incident… And she’s been begging me to tell this story. (I’m not going to lie, it was my favorite to tell on first dates. It gave me an idea of whether a dude could handle my shit or not.)

A fucking strawberry. In a laundry room.

Are you kidding me?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!