Non e di qui, vero? (You’re not from here, are you?)

You’re going to need to learn some Italian, Internet.  Because I’m going to start blogging in Italian and if you want to have any idea what in the Hell I’m talking about, you’re gonna have to get up to speed.

I’m trying to learn some very basic Italian so I can find restrooms and monkeys while I’m in Italy. 

What?!  Don’t you dare even suggest that there aren’t monkeys in Italy!  I’m not blowing thousands of dollars to go somewhere to not see monkeys!  I will FIND a monkey.  Damnit.

In case you’re wondering, “monkey” in Italian is “scimmia”.  You say it like this:  sheem-mee-ah.  That doesn’t even sound remotely as fun as “monkey”, so I’m thinking that Italian monkeys are probably not as fun as American monkeys.  Based simply on the word “scimmia”, I’m guessing that Italian monkeys are sort of lazy and arrogant and sit around smoking skinny cigarettes and making inappropriate comments at ladies that pass by.  Oh, and they were little berets.  And, they have mustaches.  And little red and white striped shirts.

That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.  Because I’d love to see that. 

ATTENTION! MISSING FISH!

Again, if you don’t know my very sincerely fucked up family, you probably aren’t going to find as much humor in this as there really is.  But, since I’ve stopped acting like such a jackass, I don’t have nearly as many fun stories about me to share (pretend like I did not wear leggings with a mini-skirt to the bowl-a-thon, because that would actually make for a good topic all by itself).

My 27 year old  sister (coincidentally, the one with the funny friend who provided the video below) never calls me.  EVER.  Like once every couple of months, I’ll hear from her randomly, and it’ll be because she accidentally hit my name in her address book or she can’t get ahold of Mom. 

So, the other day, she called.  Completely out of the blue.  And the conversation goes like this:

Snippy:  Hello?
Sister:  Hey.  I don’t know what to do.
Snippy:  What do you mean?
Sister:  I think someone stole my fish.
Snippy: . . .
Snippy:  What do you mean?
Sister:  Well, we just got home and I told the kids we could feed the fish when we got home, and I just went to feed the fish, but he’s not there.
Snippy:  Are you sure?
Sister:  YES. 
Snippy:  Did you look under the rocks?
Sister:  He’s a beta.  He just has a little bowl.  There’s nowhere to hide.  He’s gone.  I think someone came in my house and took him.
Snippy:  Um.  You think someone  broke into your house to steal your fish.  Not the fish and it’s bowl.  Just the fish.
Sister:  Well, what if someone was trying to scare me?  They probably just wanted me to know they were here.
Snippy:  So, you think someone came into your house, put their hand in your fish bowl, took out the fish, and left.  Just to let you know they were there?
Sister:  I’m pretty sure he was here when we left!  I don’t know where else he would’ve gone!
Snippy:  Don’t you have a cat?

A reasonable person would think the discussion ended there, but they’d be wrong.  It continued:

Sister:  Yes.  Hold on, let me check his paws.  …  His paws aren’t wet.
Snippy:  Well, how long were you gone?
Sister:  I don’t know.  Like 2 hours.
Snippy:  Um, that’s totally enough time for the cat’s paws to dry.  I’m pretty sure no one broke in to steal your fish.  I’m gonna go with the cat.
Sister:  Whatever.

I’ll go to Hell for you, Internet.

I don’t mind, really.  Not if it means making you laugh your head off.  And, if you don’t laugh your head off at this, then I’m afraid we can no longer be friends. 

Courtesy of my sister’s apparently very funny friend, I present to you a demonstration of what I secretly wanted to do at every Thanksgiving of my life (and I’m relatively certain that saying that not only gets me a one-way ticket directly to Hell, but I bet Grandma will now haunt me for a bit just to have the last word).

Seriously.  If you’re not pissing your pants laughing, we can’t be friends anymore. 

I love how the other guy doesn’t jump up to help her.  He just kinda leans over slowly like he’s a little concerned about the old lady, but he really wants to eat.

I’ve watched it 762,005 times and tears still pour from my eyes EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.   Every time, I imagine that I’m the kicking guy, and the old lady is my grandma.  And, that’s pretty funny. 

Before you get too upset about how mean I am to my dead grandmother, you should know that she’d make her mean, disapproving face and probably say something like, “Stephanie” in a very disappointed tone, but I know, deep down, she’d be laughing inside.  Because I know all of this attitude I have, I get from my mom, who GOT IT FROM HER MOM.  She tried to make us think she was a little old lady, but I knew better.  And, I bet there are more than a few people that Grandma would like to have karate kicked out of their Thanksgiving dinner chairs.

Which suddenly makes it A LOT more hilarious.  Imagine the kicking guy is Grandma and the old lady is Uncle PriestPants.  Pretend like Uncle PriestPants is wearing the priest dress and cowboy hat!  How funny is it NOW?!  I mean, I don’t think Grandma would have karate kicked Uncle PriestPants, but wouldn’t it be funny if she would have? 

I have an entirely too easy time entertaining myself.

Sorry, Internets who don’t know my grandma, or my Uncle PriestPants, and therefore, aren’t fully able to appreciate the insane levels of humor in my ramblings.  Just trust me.  It’s pretty damned funny. 

*runs off to say 7,252 Hail Marys*

Insulting helpfulness

Last month, I went to my mailbox and found an issue of Fitness magazine.  That might be normal if I had subscribed to Fitness magazine.  But, I had not. 

My first thought was that it was a mistake, so I flipped it over to check the address label, and sure enough, it was addressed to me.

Clearly, someone was trying to tell me something.  Something like, “Hey!  I just noticed that you’re a fat cow, so I thought I’d help you out with this subscription to a fitness magazine!”.  I’ll admit, I was a little offended.

Days later, my baby sis called to ask if I’d received anything I wasn’t expecting. . . as she’d been telling me for weeks that my Christmas gift was in the mail.  I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t want to assume the magazine subscription was from her, but then I did want to assume that, too.  Between sisters, things like that are WAY more acceptable.

Turns out, she did, indeed, send me a Fitness subscription, and she did so because we’d had numerous discussions about all of the exercising I’ve been doing in the past year.  So, it was a thoughtful gift, and not insulting at all. 

With that cleared up, I apparently got a little too cocky about my appearance.  Or, at least, I got a little too comfortable with the belief that other people don’t think I’m hideous.

So, when I got an email, just now, from someone I barely know, recommending a hair stylist, you can imagine my reaction.  Now that I’ve retrieved my monitor from the ditch just beyond my balcony, pieced it back together, and turned it back on, I can tell you that I didn’t react kindly. 

I wonder how he’ll like my recommendations for a sex change specialist.

No thanks to you, Cheap Internet,

I just want you to know that the group I headed up for tonight’s event was able to raise over $7,000 for Big Brothers Big Sisters.  EVEN WITHOUT 5 OF YOUR DOLLARS, YOU CHEAP BASTARDS!

That’s right.  I’m calling you cheap.  If you’re looking around wondering who this could possibly be directed at, look within.  You child hating, kitten eating, selfish asshole.  Yes, YOU.

Oh, unless you’re one of the very, very, very few people who did donate.  In which case, Holy Jeez, you!  Thank you so much! 

In honor of your selfless contribution, I’ll have you know I sang you a song.  Loudly.  Painfully.  On a stage.  Into a microphone. 

More importantly, I haven’t had a single alcoholic beverage in a week’s time, so I was completely, stone cold sober when I did it.

Nevermind that the entire group of people I came with had left, so the only people in the place who knew me were the two men on stage with me (Mr. Universe & Mr. Salsa).  Also nevermind that it was 1:30am, and the place had mostly cleared out. 

I boldly marched directly on stage and screamed some Love Shack into the microphone with such flair that ears bled, speakers blew, and glass broke.

For you, Internet donater of money to children.

And, for you, Jumpee aka MOG.  Mostly, for you.

Wildlife lesson #1: Peacocks

For actual information on peacocks, click here.  That will help make up for the shit I’m about to write.

How many of you know where peacocks come from?  Would you guess that they roam freely in areas like, ooooh, saaaaay, the streets of Austin, TX?

I wouldn’t have guessed that.  And, if you wouldn’t have guessed that, then we’re apparently both stupid.  Let me tell you a story.

This Wednesday afternoon, I attended an organized lunch function to listen to a woman discuss the trend towards flexible jobs (you know, the kind you can bend like Gumby!), as I so regularly do as part of my “job”.

I sat, patiently, quietly, through the very uninteresting presentation, and then proceeded to haul ass directly out of the place to my car at the first sign of the event’s end.  I had to park out on the street for this event, as the parking lost was full.  So, I made my merry little jaunt down the street, and returned a phone call on the way because I so love to multi-task.

I’m just gabbing away to my poor friend, Mr. Salsa (you’ve seen him here), not paying much attention to anything going on around me.  As I approach my vehicle, I realize there’s something right in the way of my driver’s side door.  I look, while still talking, and make a half-assed attempt at figuring out what it might be.  A golf bag?  A homeless guy?  Why would either be there? 

As I neared my vehicle, I realized, quite surprisingly, that the object blocking my entrance to my own motor vehicle was in fact, a peacock. 

People.  Did you hear me?  There was a PEACOCK in the street, preventing me from accessing my motor vehicle.  What the Hell is a PEACOCK doing in the streets of Austin, TX?! 

I interrupt Mr. Salsa, as I’m known to do with regularity, and exclaim, “There’s a peacock by my car”.  He responds with laughter and says, “You’re funny.  I’m gonna go, I’ll see you tonight”.  Which, if you don’t know, means he thought I was LYING.  I tried to repeatedly assure him that I was, indeed, NOT lying, and that there was, in fact, a living, breathing, gigantic peacock in the way of my access to my motor vehicle.  He refused to believe me.

As I stood and looked on in confusion and with no idea what to do (if I try to move the peacock, will it bite me?  Will it get into my car?  Will it scream and have a fit and draw attention?), a very nice older gentleman approached.  He clearly had not noticed the peacock, and that seemed to be the norm, which was causing me to wonder if I’d just gone a little bit insane.  I see a peacock, but no one else sees a peacock. 

I watch the man approach, waiting for him to see the peacock.  Instead, he seems far more concerned about me staring at him.  When I see the look of irritation on his face, I say to him, “There’s a peacock”.  He seems to concur that I’ve lost my mind and walks a few more steps, cautiously watching me as if I’m some nutjob crazy who might knock him down and take his wallet.

But then, THEN, he sees the peacock!  And, all of the sudden, I’m not so crazy anymore!   The man, who had to easily be in his 70s, was elated.  You’d think he’d never seen a peacock before in his life.  And, so he proclaimed, “We should try to make him fan his feathers!” and with that, he was off.  Off to where, you might wonder?

He was off, chasing the peacock, screaming what I pressume was his impression of a peacock call, and flapping his arms wildly, in an apparent attempt to get the peacock to fan his feathers.

While I had great concern for the peacock, and why he would possibly be in the street, and where he might belong, and that he was being chased by a clearly insane, old man with no comprehension of reality, I was also pretty happy that the guy got the damned bird away from my car.

So I went home.

Have I mentioned. . . I’m going to Italy!

Um.  It’s booked. 

My heart is racing, and I’m pretty sure I’m having a mild panic attack because I have no idea how I’m going to navigate a country whose language I do not speak.

But, in 26 days, I’m going to Italy.

I’M GOING TO ITALY!!! 

Please do not be surprised if I never come back.

Redirected energy

The past two days have possibly been the most awesome, gorgeous, fantastic two days that I have had in a long damned time.  I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m having an amazing week.  AMAZING.

I’m having the kind of days that make me want to weep with joy.  Seriously.  I’ve been so happy I’ve almost cried.  That’s a lot of happy, y’all.

What I’ve learned is this:

There is great power in redirecting energy.  A few weeks ago, I made a conscious decision to rearrange my priorities.  In doing so, I completely changed the focus of my energy. 

I was expending a significant amount of energy on unproductive things like drama and gossip.  I was devoting energy to maintaining peace by means of keeping my big mouth shut, which led to frustration, which propagated negative energy that was seeping into all arenas of my life.

With the simple act of choosing to no longer devote my energy to those things, and to instead direct it towards business and volunteer work and fitness, a complete shift has taken place.  The amount of positive energy that’s spewing from my pores is disgusting.  I’m bouncing from cloud to cloud, having the most ridiculously wonderful interactions with people, making progress all over the place in areas that had been stagnant, and just feeling lighter as a result of letting that negative energy go.

I am very encouraged and enthusiastic about a lot of the moving pieces in my life right now.  I don’t have the time I used to have to bullshit with friends, but I know that those friends worth keeping will be there when I’m done changing the world and will be anxiously waiting to hear all about it. 

Jumpee Wednesday

Sorry for the lateness of jumpee wednesday.  Todays entry comes from the car wash as I get ready for my evening out.  I wanted to tell one story, but felt I needed to introduce the character of Baby A first before I jumped right into the middle of our greatest tandem adventure.  So here is the story of how Baby A and Jumpee took over Polly Esther’s Austin.

Right after the turn of the millennium I was hitting my stride as a party animal of sorts.  I had finally extricated myself from my first serious relationship and was on my way to drinking my liver into an early retirement.  Now I’m sort of an eccentric music aficionado.  I love all kinds, but most of all I love something that you can move to.  A friend of mine had a party that ended up at Polly Esther’s and I fell in love.  There was a crazy door girl, an accessible DJ AND A STAGE WHERE I COULD DANCE.  I don’t know if you realize this fact about me, but my ego is bigger than whatever room you are currently residing in right now.  So to be seen by the whole club as I did my “thang” was the biggest draw to this club for me.

Since Polly’s is no longer standing (fuck Vicci), I’ll describe it for you.  It had two stages with sort of a stair stepping quality.  There were three steps to walk up to the stages *this is where THE SNIPER was born* and two more raised corner squares.  The main dance floor, which consisted of flashing color squares, was roughly two-feet below the stage.  This place was 70’s gold and I loved every bit of it.  They played several genres of music and it was the only club that stayed open until 4am.

Over the years I begin to entrench myself with everyone that worked there.  The bouncers were called, The Peace Patrol, and they were all muscle bound.  I knew everyone and over the years my $200 tabs became less and less.  Eventually I didn’t have to pay for anything and when I walked into the club it was like I was in the mob.  Everyone would hug me and come shake me and my crews hands.  The DJ would even announce when I got there and if I showed up after midnight would say, “Nice of you to show up Sterling.”  I loved that they had karaoke in the back area.  This place had it all. 

*these are all facts that can easily be verified DoL*

ENTER MY BROTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER

I owned that club, but one day while I was dancing my ass off in the EXACT MIDDLE of the stage a little white guy kept getting in my way.  He too wanted the middle of the stage.  More surprising than that was the fact that he could actually dance AS WELL AS ME.  It was an outrage.  He dressed as well as me, he could dance as well as me and we even had the exact metallic chain necklace.  Once we realized that if we worked together we could get even more women, Baby A and I were inseparable.  He was the ying to my yang…or is that yang to my ying.  Either way, with our tandem dance moves *I always contend that having back up dancers makes you way cooler…look at New Edition* made us even more legendary.  We had drinks delivered to us on the dance floor.  We partied with the bar staff after hours.  It was epic.

But what really let me know how awesome it was to run a club was on Baby A’s 30th birthday.  You see Baby A is 5 years older than me.  And of course for his birthday we would go to our favorite place and both get just plastered for free.  Now Baby A is about 5′5″, but he was recon in Dessert Storm and was undefeated wrestler in high school.  Apparently he was legen…wait for it…dary.   Well on his 30th birthday this drunk college kid decided he would dance directly behind Baby A as the stage was a little crowded.  The kid kept bumping into Baby A.  All of a sudden I see Baby A turn around and tell the guy to give him some room…  The guy pushes Baby A off the stage.

*for legal purposes, the following never happened and is completely made up*

I don’t think I’ve ever hit someone as hard as I hit this kid.  People who saw the punch say that it looked like it was in slow motion.  I was probably hoping someone would get a picture of it.  Anyway, I lay out the first guy, but I suddenly realize that this guy had friends…big drunk college frat guy friends.  Now I don’t like to be punch in or about the face as that’s how I make my money PLUS I bruise easily, so I do the smart thing and hop off the stage to better gauge my adversaries.  On my way off the stage I see this little flash of angry man fly by me as he hops back onto the stage.  Baby A has fought his way through the crowd and grabs the kid that I knocked out and starts trying to plant his head through the stage. 

At this point I notice frat guys friend pulling back ready to hit Baby A.  I hop back up on stage…looking rather dashing in my steel toed black and white wing tips… and punch the hugest guy in the side of the head.  He falls over and I feel someone from behind grab me.  Then in a blur I see all of the Peace Patrol surround all of us and they start trying to take us off stage.  At this point, like I’m a celebrity, I start yelling, “Let me go, do you know who I am…I’m *Jumpee*.”

*it has been verified that I actually said, do you know who I am…LOL* 

The head of security comes over and informs the Peace Patrol to let me and Baby A go and to toss all of the college kids.  That’s when I started laughing in the frat guys faces…   Funny epilogue to that story.  The frat guys wanted some more…as they just had their asses handed to them by a short white guy and black guy wearing black and white wing tips (I mean, come on…they had to feel horrible right… ).  They waited outside and one of the Peace Patrol told us to go outside.  The head of security said, “If you wanna do this, we can go whoop their asses for you.”  I thought better of it and told everyone to head back into the club and let’s all just finish partying and that I was buying a round.  Baby A and I spent the rest of the night laughing at our other friends that ran to get security instead of helping out….buncha pansies. 

And that’s the one and only fight that I’ve been in as an adult.

Peafe Nation

I love Presidents’ Day! and LAST CALL

I love a solid excuse to not work.  Especially on a gorgeous day like today!  Oh, sorry, Indiana people.  Is it still cold there?  Do you still have 2 feet of snow?  HA!  HA!  SUCKERS!  I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to move here. 

So, I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned the Big Brothers Big Sisters Bowl for Kids’ Sake.  And, I’m pretty sure none of you have donated anything.  And, I’m starting to think that the only people who read this blog are really horrible, mean, children hating people who eat kittens for breakfast.  That doesn’t make me very happy, Internet.  Kittens are not for breakfast.

We’re in the home stretch now, with only 5 days until the big event.  You may or may not have noticed that my team has still not reached it’s fundraising goal.  I’m not sure if you realize how bad that’s going to make me look. 

I’m making my final plea to you, Internet.  PLEASE, for the love of all things good in this world, go donate $5.  Just $5!  Consider it payment for the endless hours of entertainment I provide you via this ridiculous blog!  PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE.

Do it for the kids.  Do it for the kittens.  Do it for the PRESIDENTS!

It feels so good to be back.

Mission accomplished. 

I forgot what it was like to be pushed far enough that I actually push back.  I forgot how much fun it is to screw with someone just enough to be effective, yet unassumingly and innocently enough to not be noticed. 

My favorite is when people realize they shouldn’t screw with me, but they can’t figure out why they came to that realization. 

How much easier would life be if people would just listen to me when I tell them?

Here’s the problem. . . it was entirely too wildly entertaining for me.  I had a blast in my endeavor last night.  That’s not good.  That’s going to make me want to screw with people more, and we just can’t have that.  Well, I mean, not unless it’s warranted. 

Half of me wants to dare you to give me good reason to screw with you, Internet.  The other half. . . the other half is preoccupied with all of the boys.

I wish I could tell you more. . .

Tonight is going to be fantastic.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned it, but I think it’s hilarious when people try to fuck with me.  I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with much of this since I’ve moved to Austin, and so I’m delighted to announce that I’ll be donning my full-bitch attitude this evening. . . and the best part is that the idiot on the receiving end sincerely has no idea what’s about to happen, and, I’m pretty sure, thinks I’m incapable of the kind of overall screwing with that will occur.

*shakes head*

Silly, silly people.

What’s even more fun is that this is just the beginning.  Apparently, February is National Fuck with Snippy Month.  I wish I’d have known so I would have been more adequately prepared.  But, don’t you worry, dear Internet.  Now that I do know, I’m on it.

Sometimes, when people fuck with me, and more particularly, when they think they’re being clever or sneaky about it, I feel sorry for them.  Generally, I’m disappointed in their pure lack of creativity, skill, and overall competence at fucking with people.  Occasionally, I just laugh and let them go on about their ridiculous, small-minded, pathetic attempts at fucking with me, allowing them to continue living their little lives without the pain of my wrath. 

In February, however, and specifically the February after which I’ve just turned old and have an attitude about it, I have far less mercy.  Thus, my pity.  The best part is, these people who think they’re doing the fucking with?  They’re not even going to know they’re being fucked with. . . which is sort of the entire concept of it all.  But, alas, if they knew that, they’d be better at it.

Let the games begin!  And, may God have mercy on the souls who didn’t have the good sense to heed warning.  I am not to be fucked with.