i’m being serious again

Today marked the last day I would have the pleasure of working with a co-worker of mine.  More correctly:  now ex-co-worker.  He is leaving the job to join the Navy.  Respect and admiration he may yield from this decision, I can’t help but be saddened by his departure.

He was just a nice fellow.  A simple statement for a man who was never all that simple.  He was soft-spoken and half of what left his mouth went unheard by myself, and I’m sure many others.  But as quiet as he talked, he could hear just about everything.  Including my thoughts.  Which actually worked out great on the job.  Any moments of panic were quickly erased when he shuffled to my side to aid in preventing my impending mental breakdowns.

Since day one, he puzzled me.  The way the temperatures dropped to single digits and he would continue to wear shorts and short sleeves, never once showing the capacity to feel the New England cold.  The first time I saw him outside of work, he was actually sporting pants.  (Though, it should be noted, not sport pants.  That would make him lame.  And he’s not lame.  They were jeans.  If we’re being specific.)

But back to him sporting pants…I did not realize it was him until he waved his big paw in my face.

A big paw because he’s a few solid inches over 6 feet.  How many inches I’m not sure given my short stature makes my inability to access heights over 5′10″ insufficient.  And he works out.  A lot.  But not that beefy, gross type of working out.  He runs and swims, and does more push ups than he does weight lifting.

The push ups.  He talks about all the push ups he does.  At first, I wondered why, why is this kid constantly going on about push ups?  Then I started to actually listen and I was fascinated with the way he could make these push ups stories more gripping than a Denzel Washington movie.  Suddenly, I spent my lunch breaks starring at his arms, trying to imagine these push ups taking place.  Yea, sure, it made me a creep.  But he invited it with his vivid workout descriptions.

More than his physical attributes, he was just a nice guy.  But not in the way you normally perceive nice guys.  That annoying, overly vocal niceness.  A niceness that is laced with motive and needed approval.  Sometimes tinged with a yearning for an equally vocal plethora of thanks in response to their supposed niceness.  Really just niceness given so you’ll say, “You’re SO nice.” On repeat.  Seventeen times.

With him, you never thought, “Oh, wow, this kid is really nice.” It took a while.  Like the next day when you were watching your recorded episode of Bones.  It would hit you:  “That really was nice of him yesterday.” But it would be too late.  You couldn’t give him thanks for his kindness two days late.  Especially when you spent your entire day eye-googling his body parts.

I guess you could just say he is overlooked.  Underappreciated even.  I never realized how much I enjoyed working with him until he told us he was leaving.  Never processed the relief or joy I felt when I saw our schedules aligning on certain days.  Knowing that it didn’t matter how busy the day was because I would have the best worker by my side to strap me in my straight jacket when it went down.

And now he is leaving to join the Navy.  To be the nice guy he truly is, and hopefully get the respect he finally deserves.

Although there is no humor in this post, no sarcasm, and no potential for this soon-to-be stranger’s exit from my life to read it and understand his impact, I wanted to pay tribute to a person who deserves a tribute.

And today he walked out of work with a simple goodbye.  A simple goodbye from a guy who really isn’t all that simple at all.  A person who deserves more than simple blog post.  But probably won’t receive it.  Because by the time we acknowledge his goodness, he will be on that plane headed for boot camp.  And we don’t want to feel like the creeps we are by thanking him for what now is months, years too late.  Especially after all that eye raping took place.

I’m just happy he can read my mind.

salami

This just in:  I gave up a portion of my lung in order to sleep until 5 a.m.   And it was totally worth it.

After working 12 days straight, each day awaking between the time period of 3:30 a.m. and 3:50 a.m., I suddenly came to the realization I was physically exhausted.  So – being the rational being that I am – I agreed to work yesterday, on what should have been my day off.

Oh and also just in:  I have a severe drug addiction that fuels my inability to say no when lured by cash payment.

I also lack the ability the say no to people offering an opportunity to hang out since my life has become utterly empty and lonesome without running.  That and my parents went away, suddenly making the activity of hanging out in the hot tub on a Wednesday night by myself feel just kind of creepy.

Saying yes looks great in the movie Yes Man. Jim Carey gets the girl and a new lease on life.  But in my reality, it just results in a regrets and a miserable weekend.

I am a vegan and I know this makes dating difficult.  I’m not openly vegan in real life.  I don’t walk around verbally abusing meat eaters while trying to convert them to my holier-than-thou lifestyle.  I don’t throw red paint on innocent old ladies trying to keep out the winter chill with their chinchilla jackets and I don’t bring baked tofu to potluck dinners.  If offered a non-vegan delectable, I politely decline instead of using it as an opening to lay the groundwork to my vegan cult initiation.  I can’t tell you who runs PETA and I’d rather berate you on the pitfalls of moderate Christianity than animal slaughter any day.

In a nutshell:  I am a terrible vegan not worthy of the title.

But if you want to impress me, don’t invite me on a date and drag me into a meat shop to purchase 46 dollars worth of salami.

It’s not that hard.  I don’t mind eating a salad if you can’t plan ahead to find a restaurant offering vegan options.  I’m aware I’m not of significant stature and my body mass index is on the lower side.  But I’m also aware I won’t die of starvation if I miss a meal. My cabinets and freezer are stocked with enough canned goods and frozen vegetables to maintain my current body weight for at least a month.  I fully intend on eating said canned goods and frozen vegetables upon returning home.  And chances are I binge ate an entire jar of almond butter before even arriving.  I’ll be fine with a few pieces of lettuce for the night.  But don’t drag me from this fancy, overpriced slaughter house to a swanky restaurant only to spend the entire night mocking my food choices.  Don’t berate my beliefs while stuffing your face with rotting flesh.

Please, I don’t think I’m asking too much here.

But if you must – if you must partake in these activities then don’t, upon any circumstances, expect me to accept your invitation for another date.

Especially if that date involves you inviting me over for dinner.

Because I know that the only thing you’ll have to offer is 46 dollars worth of salami.  And though terrible vegan I may be, I do have standards.

Suddenly, you meet none of them.

And suddenly, I again possess the ability to say no.

festive festivas and fiestas

In high school my sister pimped a red Ford Festiva.  This car was sick.  The riding lawn mower my dad uses to mow the back lawn weighs more than this compact vehicle did and I’m pretty sure the safety ratings on our John Deere are higher.

I remember driving to a Third Eye Blind concert one evening in the back of this red crumple box and passing drivers were taking great pleasure in pointing and laughing.  An occurance that happened often.  My first reaction to these very occurances would be sudden fear the car was in flames or missing a tire.  But I soon learned those were just looks of jealously.

My entire family, sadly, has fond memories of this car.  The gas mileage was terrific.  It taught me to avoid squirrels at all costs, as impact with a critter of that size and stature would cause the entire car to be totaled.  It was the car I was tought to drive a stick on.

I had not yet mastered driving a standard until one day when I was trapped at home, with only the Festiva providing me an escape.  So I hoped in the driver’s seat and took her for a spin.  Sure, I rolled through just about every stop sign and the occasional red light and stalled out more times than Amy Winehouse has broken out of rehab, a rebellious move given the Used Cars Safety Ratings 2006 assessment that the Festiva provided “significantly worse than average” protection for their occupants in the event of a crash.  But it was worth it.

The Festiva has since been sold but has not been forgotten.  In the search of a new car recently, my sister went out and purchased the closest thing she could find to a Festiva.  In the form of a Honda Fit.  If only the Ford Fiesta was currently available for sale in the US she could have went with that.  I’m still crossing my fingers that the 2011 model of the Festiva will be released as planned.  With a whopping 119-planned horsepower, I’m going to be whipping that baby around town.

Why am I talking about Fords?  Because Phampants and his friend Karen want to be Ford Fiesta agents.  Phampants is a commenter on my blog and earned my respect when he was able to record a marathon video that was both interesting and respectful to the sport of running.  I say respectful because a lot of video-blogging “runners” attempt to film videos that infurient running snobs like myself.  And although I may find great pleasure in the mockery of these blogs, it does not mean I support them.  But maybe it’s because they don’t have the brash balls to drag their video cams into the porter potty like Phampants did.  That’s the kind of respect I’m looking for.

I watch a lot of video blogs, wasting a good part of my life doing so.  As in, I’d probably be married with 3 children, a house, and a respectable paying job if I didn’t waste all my time watching said video blogs.  But I have addiction problems, which you know if you have read any one of my many blog entries.  And wasting time is one of them.  Point is:  I know my stuff, Phampants is a great video blogger, and we should support his quest.  Oh, and his friend Karen has actual, real life friends.  Something I find impressive given my lack of them.

And at the end of the day, if we can’t have the Festiva back (still crossing my fingers for 2011!), then I’ll take the Fiesta.  Mixed with video blogs.  By a clever fellow blogger like Phampants.

remote laziness

I’m beat.  I just watched last night’s episode of The Biggest Loser courtesy of my DVR and failed to fast forward through any of the commercials.  I’m not sure if this was due to exhaustion or sheer laziness.

I should be grateful either way because I learned a lot from the experience.  Like how Michael Phelps fuels with Subway turkey melts or how Rod Blagojevich is going to be on the next season of The Apprentice.  A show I never would have watched had I not been informed on this information.

Sadly, the commercials were the most exciting part of this week’s episode.  This entire season has done nothing but disappoint me while failing to hold any of my interest.  Let’s just say last week I used the fast forward feature not to skip commercials but to skim past telephone conversations home.  Why would I be interested in listening to heart-to-hearts with people I feel no connection with?  No connection because no one seems to be opening up and getting into romantic situations like Rebecca and Daniel did last season.  And why isn’t anyone stepping up to fill the villanous role Tracey coveted so tightly just a few months prior?

To top off the disappointment, Trainer Bob decided to stop playing favorites like he did with former pink-team player Amanda.  So instead of trainer-contestant strolls through the park talking about how you can find self-love by chewing Extra 5-calorie gum, all we see are forgettable treadmill workouts.  With a little Jeanie-O product placement thrown in for good measure.

The only people being sent home are old ladies who can’t seem to manage losing 5-pounds post-Ranch.  Last week someone under the age of 60 actually was sent on her way and instead of losing weight, she gained 10.  That is not why I tune into this show.  I tune in to see people transform themselves while I sit comfortably on my couch stubbornly embracing my bad habits.

I tune in to these very contestants in the attempts to find my own self-motivation.  To ignite some form of inspiration in myself in order to let go of a gripping laziness that won’t even let me use the fast forward button.  But the only thing I feel motivated or inspired to do after watching last night’s episode is head on over to Subway and purchase myself a sub for some Phelp’s-like fueling.

But that would require me to actually remove my body from the comfort of my couch.  So I think I’ll stay here and wait until The Apprentice starts.  Maybe someone like Blago will give me the strength to transform my life.

Now if only I had a Senate seat to sell…

strike a pose

You may not know where I was yesterday but I know where you were.  Sitting at the computer waiting for me to post.  Admit it.

In all honesty, I got accosted at work by a chick who needed a “model” at the hair salon she worked at.  Some big, fancy hair salon that just opened up two doors down from my work.  This place is throwing out eyelash extensions longer than MoNique’s leg hair, haircuts that not even John Edwards would find reasonably priced, and an questionably large staff of Asian masseuses and older gentlemen spending a lot of time in backrooms.

I spent the entire past 2 weeks of its opening trashing the place with my fellow employees, proclaiming I would never dare set foot in such a pretentious establishment.  Mainly it was just my aggression toward the employees parking their BMWs and Range Rovers in what used to be my parking spot, forcing me to find parking on the street for 25 cents an hour.  Which is a lot given my salary.

But I was accosted by this chick in her desperate search to find a model.  And let’s admit it – I’m just model material.  Or she was just really desperate.  Because when you can walk down the middle of Macy’s without once getting harassed by a sales lady to try a new perfume or partake in a makeover, you know your outward appearance speaks more to the Outdoor Magazine crowd than it does Vogue.  But I never say no to a free haircut.

Thus, immediately after work, I made my way over to Sarah who awed me with a tour of the fancy salon.  I was sporting my grungy work clothes, attired in no makeup (as always), and had not showered since the night before given I had woken up at 3:30 for work.  Let’s just say I looked a little out of place.

But it was hard to care when she began given me a head massage while I dosed off in a heated chair.   The entire environment was so relaxing, I let Sarah have at it with my hair and gave her the go-ahead to do as she so pleased.  She vocally admitted her desire to make me a blond but I think my striken look convinced her otherwise.  She admitted that having me satisfied enough to return would be worth more than filling her brazen fantasies to transform me.

We settled on some highlights of some color in the caramel world and lowlights in the copper world.  Then a gloss that supposedly “enhanced” the remaining portion of my hair.  She was throwing around all kinds of numbers and color swatches that went completely over my untrained head.  Followed by a lengthy explanation of essential oils and quality products that would make my hair capable of feats not even Taylor Swift could achieve.  I simply smiled and said it sounded terrific.  All the while trying to maintain my smile throughout the entire process, trusting that fancy salons knew how to cut and color hair.

The results?  After a good 4 hours, I left completely satisfied.  And a little too relaxed, as I couldn’t seem to find the strength to craft a blog post after a day of pampering.  I want to say I’ll be back to see Sarah for the “maintenance” she spoke of and the possibilities to step up to a higher copper-colored grade – something I’m still confused about.  But unfortunately when you’re complaining about spending 25 cents on parking, you don’t have 300 bucks to throw out for a haircut.  We can’t all be John Edwards.  And that’s probably for the best because the last thing I need is an illegitimate child.

I felt bad.  (About probably not returning – not the whole without-child thing.)  But I felt worse when Sarah meandered her way into my place of employment this morning to see my greasy mane slicked back in a ponytail, attired with 2 dollar black headband I purchased at CVS in 1997.  I explained it was the best I could do given she told me not to wash it for 48 hours.

I told her to check back Thursday after she again reminded me: 48 hours of no washing.  That’s the easy part.  Now I have an excuse to go another day without showering.  A look I’m rocking.

Just like the model I truly am.

can you hear me now

Last night I somehow stumbled into a deaf bar.  Or, more specifically, a random bar that happened to be occupied entirely by the hearing impaired.

Let’s just say it was awkward.  Someone approached me and tried to strike up a conversation and instead of focusing on the words leaving his mouth, my mind was filled with questions as to whether he knew I didn’t know how to sign.

I safely removed myself from the situation – situation because I can’t actually call it a conversation.  But I spent the rest of the night with my eyes firmly affixed to the floor so it wouldn’t happen again.  When I did find the strength to lift my head, I found myself involuntarily moving my hands.  As though faking I was mid-sign conversation.  I don’t know who I was trying to fool as my hand movements resembled the Hey Macarena! dance more than “Hi, my name is Michelle and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Seeking a moment of solace from my clearly offensive behaviors, I made my way to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and desperately tried to rack my brain for any lingering sign language lessons from fifth grade.  Where I was taught how to sign “I am 11 years old.”  But before I was graced with flashbacks from my middle school days, I was struck with the reality that there was no toilet paper left.

I tried to inform the ladies in line but my words were lost.  And by inform, I mean I resumed my indecipherable hand gesturing.  Except this time they were focused near my crotch region.  Their reaction displayed signs of fear.  The very signs of fear I display when I’m being harassed by men older than my dad.  I know that look and I knew immediately they thought I was offering to accompany them to the stall to move my hand gestures to their crotch reason.  Suddenly, the Macarena seemed like a classy move.

This is why next weekend I vow to stay in my basement.  A vow I’m pretty sure I made last weekend and broke.  But despite my inability to hold true to my statements, I’m pretty confident I’m making progress.  Progress in the sense at no point during the night did I have to brush off any men over the age of 47.

Except I’m pretty sure there is now a blog post out there in the blogosphere about the creepy girl who tried to assault an entire bar of the hard of hearing.  After spending the entire night performing a dance that stopped being popular in 1996.

Yup.  Still calling it progress.

defining character

After much berating, incessant phone calls, and physical threats, I reluctantly agreed to go on a date tonight.  Because I’m tired of wasting my time erasing voicemails and I’m fed up with all the questions about my facial bruises.

But a Whole Foods in a 25-mile radius of my house has just received a fresh shipment of my carrot cake.  THE carrot cake that has been missing from my life for over a month.

I have cancelled my date.  Because I have priorities.  And sometimes we just can’t let go of our first loves.  No matter how hard we try.

That or I’m just a terribly shitty person.  With gluttonous tendencies.

You decide.

Note: Upon making your decision, please take knowledge that my should-be date reads my blog. To him I want to apologize. But I won’t lie – totally worth it.

let’s be serious

Seriously.  But it’s only for about 10 minutes.  And it won’t happen again.

expecting

Dear Blog World,

I’m pregnant.  Exciting news I know.  Stirring news, yes, but the father of the child is still unknown.  If you think it’s you please drop me an email.  Maybe send a text my way.  Cash would also be appreciated.  Oh and some beets.  I’m craving beets.  Preferably roasted.

All the best,

-Your child’s birther (let’s not be foolish throw around the “mom” label just yet)

p.s.  I’m totally not kidding about the cash.  Legit, it’s the least you could do after knocking me up.

Editor’s Note: The Vegan-Anti Hero is not actually pregnant.  Nor is she naïve enough to think the people who willingly sleep with her care enough to actually read her blog.  If at any time she does become pregnant, should will not actually inform the father – if the identication of said father is actually known – of the pregnancy for fear he would try to score some of the cash she plans on collecting from the sale of the baby on the black market.  Don’t judge.  Better to sell that thing off before social services comes and snatches it away from her irresponsible hands.

uncensored

I don’t know how to plug my mouth.  My ability to censor what spews from my hole vanished years ago when I left high school.  With the absence of detention threats came the absence of my justification to sanitize my slander.

My inappropriate drivel covers a range of topics.  Ask me if I want to hit up your house for a party and I’ll probably respond with a yes but only after first asking you to drop me off at my car so I can pick up the coke and acid I have stashed in my trunk.

Questions about my lunch schedule will be answered with a comment about me not keeping track of everything I put inside of me.

Ask me if I would care for a cigarette and I’ll show mock disgust at your filthy habit before saying that I personally restrain myself solely to heroine.

Inquires about my early work schedule usually are answered with comments about my second job.  Working the corner.  Next to your mom’s house.

A lot of my conversations are focused around old men hitting on me.  But it is only because I invite this behavior.  When I tell them their Old Spice smells delicious, follow it up by asking them where they are taking me for dinner, and then informing them it’s a pay first service.  Just so we’re clear.

My text messaging history alone would disqualify me from just about any job.  Including one at Hooters.  That is, if I had the requisite goods needed to land a job at Hooters to begin with.

I call everyone a “fool”.  Not just friends and family but religious figures and business professionals alike.  As in, “Sweet service this Sunday, ya fool.”  Or, “Sounds great, fool, but what are the tax consequences with this kind of investment?”  Any attempts to gather serious answers from my sarcastic facade will only result in me telling you to suck it.  Which will be accompanied by a hand gesture in my crotch region.

I am trashy, uncensored and highly inappropriate in the most inappropriate situations.  Because I don’t feel comfortable unless you feel uncomfortable.  And, if we’re being honest, my feelings come first.  Always.

But I know there are lines.  I know the difference between joking about a job as a prostitute, references an habitual drug habit, or yelling out I need to take a pee in the middle of a quiet room and making an honest statement about my bowel movements to a complete stranger.  I know not to approach someone I have only said hello to on random occasions and tell them the tale of my recent failed attempts to pass a brown baby.  Failed because my body had tricked me.  Tricked me into spending the past 20 minutes on the toilet with nothing to show for it.  I know that telling them I occasionally have anxiety and find the use of my iPod helps alleviate these kinds of situations – situations where I’m trying to pass something fruitlessly through my colon – is not okay.  I know that speaking about this to said stranger would probably result in more anxiety.  Not less.  iPod or not.

The real question is, how do some people not know this?  How does one go through life, reach their 20’s and think maybe – just maybe – I should start a conversation about my bodily functions with the utmost honesty to this random girl who I have never actually spoken to before besides the occasional hello.  To think that maybe – just maybe – we have the chance to be great friends, possibly even date one day, if I could just think of something clever to get her to remember me.  Maybe – just maybe – if I tell her about my recent constipation issues, she won’t think I’m weird or unusual.  But instead, surprisingly intriguing.  Maybe – just maybe- she will respond with a giggle.  And the rest will be history.

But this fool didn’t know I, much like himself, also lack the ability to censor.  And I responded back the only way I felt right given the circumstances.  By telling him to suck it.  Then gesturing to my crotch as I made my way trunk to drop some acid before I settled in for a long night parked at my corner.  Because even his mom has more class.