Super Fly

Before I tell this story I want to give you a little context...
My friend and I have a morning commuting routine, (for the sake of anonymity, let's call her Argela). It started with her sending a text at 7:11 that said "Do you want to commute this morning?" then degressed to a 7:32 text that said "Commute together?" then 7:45, "Commute?" then "C?" and now I'm pretty sure we just meet at the same corner every day at 7:50 after a "?" text for a powerwalk to the train.

It's a precious bonding moment we share. She usually asks me if I went out last night, implying that I look like a trainwreck, and I mumble something about how I didn't think I needed to wash my hair today, or yesterday, "but I swear I took a bod shower." The other thing I should note is that Argela is a very graceful person and is one of those few people who roll out of bed and look cute. Normally I despise those people but for some reason our friendship remains intact.

In fact, the only time I've seen her really uncomfortable was when our neighbor's bulldog was humping her leg, and let me tell you that image will live on forever.

Which is why I thought I was soooo lucky that I was able to witness Argela's second awkward moment at 8:01am Tuesday, June1, when a stranger approached her on the Southport brown line platform to very seriously inform her that her "fly was open." Of course I got a good chuckle out of it, then got a little creeped out because the woman was obviously staring at her crotch for too long, and then got another good chuckle out of it, and I thought to myself "Holy monkeys, that happens to me! I'm the one who walks around with my fly unzipped!! What a treat!"

And then I looked down and my fly was unzipped.

Take that Dr.I'm-Too-Good-For-Your-Noodles

If there's one piece of advice I'd give you kids, it would be this: don't ever think it's a good idea to try and impress a special man friend, who happens to have his PhD and matching ego, by cooking him noodles and sphagetti sauce, and only noodles and spaghetti sauce (from Aldi, no big deal). Apparently that signifies a lack of committment, care, and focus that some guys really appreciate in their lady friend. Since when did the presence of a head of lettuce become the deciding factor on whether or not the relationship will last?

You should have seen the reaction from 95% of the people I talked to about the situation. The conversation was the same every time:
[Insert name of family member, friend, dentist]: How'd your cooking date night go Jordan?
Me: Went pretty well I think, made pasta.
[Insert name of family member, friend, gyno]: Nice, what else did you make?
Me: What do you mean what else did I make? I made pasta. Noodles and spaghetti sauce? Was I supposed to make something else?
[Insert name of family member, friend, boss]: (heads bow and shake) Oh Jord.

I think that other 5% may have been my Pop who reacted the way dad's are supposed to react, "what a schmuck."

Granted, could I ever see myself with a guy who is scared/turned off by noodles and Ragu? No. Probably means that he makes his bed every day and wears sweatpants with tapered elastic bottoms. The point is that he should be content with my ability to entertain him while he cooks for me! Besides, my one redeeming quality is that this girl can bake (see image below, crumbly top courtesy of Ang and Steph).




Now this was a couple years ago and let me tell you, I have certainly matured. Next time I cook for a guy, I'm totally inviting my buddies over an hour before he arrives to work their culinary magic in my kitchen. It's amazing what some people will do for a lifetime supply of Glee DVRing.

B-Banana-B-B-Banana

You know all those splendid memories you have of high school, some might call them the glory days, others might call them paradise. Perfect skin, smokin bod, flowing locks...really, if you could just picture the epitome of grace and then picture the exact opposite of that, you've got me. I had four growth spurts that eventually added up to 6'1" of woman...one in the 4th grade, one in the 7th, another in the 9th and one perfectly timed inch added my freshman year of college. I didn't have a Pink Locker Society to tell me what the trouble with wearing see through shirts was, I had a Justin who was probably more than happy to tell me what that trouble was, and then tell everyone else.

I kid, because high school was actually great despite my abnormally large wingspan, but the older I get, I realize that in the twitch of an eye, the most awkward high school memories can come flooding back to you when you least expect. Like today, when eating a banana on the train I had a pretty freakin mortifying flashback of a banana peel and me.

I remember it so well: Feeling pretty good, probably just totally rocked my clarinet playing skills, maybe aced another "Great Gatsby" exam, definitely got a wink from that guy...cruising the halls on my way to lunch, I round the corner (the same corner I had rounded 837 times before) and before I could even hold the loser L up to my forehead, land really hard on the ole caboose. Okay now picture Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, Orlando Bloom, Patrick Dempsey, and Andy Roddick eating paper-bagged lunches together in the cafeteria. Yeah, I fell in front of Salem Central's 12th grade equivalent.

From then on, I knew I was different.

Oooo baby, I love the way you pay those taxes.

I just heard a totally rad lyric in the song "Nothin On You" by B.o.B (feat. Bruno Mars), and no, I have no idea who Bruno Mars is. So the song is about this one girl who is on like a whole other playing field than all the other girls on the whole planet Earth, yeah even better than like Paris and Tokyo and London and Georgia because Bruno's been there and, like, they don't really compare and don't shave and what not. So like, all these girls got nothin' on this one other girl (I think this might be where the song title is derived) and he gives a few more examples about how she's like the coolest thing EVER but then all of a sudden he drops a bomb. Like woah...

"Baby you the whole package, plus you pay your taxes."

Okay if I had known that paying my taxes was so sexy to a man, I would obviously publicize a little more. Just wait, next year around the second week in April, the guys will be like flies to honey (or poop) with me.

The Stuff Rap Stars are Made of, Rap Snacks Duh.

All these years I've spent trying to figure out the key to rapping (you know the countless nights I've spent laying in bed trying to figure out how to replicate that robotic sound Kanye has in 808s and Heartbreaks). Well hold on to your low-riders and put away the cough medicine Weezy, I think I finally found the "magic stuff" on the Blue Line yesterday.

Two words: Rap Snacks.

How could I miss this little gem of an empty wrapper what with those pearly whites of Romeo (formarly known as Lil Romeo pre-voice change) shining back at me from the floor?

Hey Romeo, way to sex it up a bit, turns out I would like to try your flaming bbq HONEY sauced chips...but only if it makes me rap, change outfits, and play basketball like this.

In reality, little finds like this make me pretty bitter. Chips that make you rap better? I totally could have thought of that. What's next? Mysterious juices that make you play sports better? Ridiculous.

I kid, but Rap Snacks actually serve to benefit society. Besides what I'm sure are extremely healthy ingredients, each bag features positive messages for young hip-hop dreamers like "stay in school," "don't sell drugs," "respect your elders." But there seems to be one important lesson missing on these chips, oh I don't know, maybe "don't litter"??