Slow Claps Are For Amateurs

Out of everything I saw in Texas last weekend, one incident stands out the most. It happened at my boyfriend's sister's nursing school graduation. The graduation itself was pretty unorganized and boring, so I'll save you the details of that and go straight to what I now refer to as the greatest moment of my life.

The graduates were split up into two columns with three rows each. If I remember correctly, there were about seven women in each row. At some point in the ceremony, one of these women went up to accept an award for being awesome in some nature or other. When she did the other students began to clap because they were so proud of her. In fact, the superb feelings they had for this student were so great that they tried to give her a standing ovation.

As soon as her name was called and she joyfully sauntered up to the podium, the clapping began. With the very first congratulatory hand thrust, one of the graduates in the back row shot up like she had been strapped to an amusement park ride. Unfortunately, this ride only had one turn because it slowly brought her back into a sitting position after she realized that no one else was standing with her. The clapping continued and eventually, after what seemed like hours to my attention span at this point, a few people in the back row of the left column began to stand. Slowly, oh slowly, other students sitting in the left column began to rise into the standing ovation as well. Only after everyone on that side of the stage had stood did the right column of students begin to join in as well. It started in the back row again, and made it to the middle of the second row before the appropriate time allotted for congratulating their fellow graduate ran out. The girl sitting in the middle of the second row must not have known if she had time to join, because she kind of squatted up and down like she was bobbing on a pool floatie for a few seconds until everyone sat back down.

I sat there laughing inappropriately the entire time, and finally leaned over and whispered into my boyfriend's ear:

You know how you've always wanted to start a slow clap? I think we've just witnessed the slow clap version of the standing ovation. I'm not sure if there's any way to ever top this.

I Am A Whore

Not that kind of whore.

An award whore!!

I love them.

And I love Bruce.

Cause he gave me one.

And said nice things about me.

The award is pretty. It has strawberries on it. And it calls me sweet.

(By the way, the internet is probably the only safe way to call me sweet. Any other way will get you a suckerpunch to the face.)

I need to go claim it so I can tell you all about five of my guiltiest pleasures, and give it to three awesome people, but I am about to start drinking some whiskey and don't want to get pulled over on my way over there for swerving.

Plus I need to keep appearing clever so I am going to think of really weird/funny guilty pleasures before I claim it.

It's not my fault. Bruce put me up to that standard by lying to you and telling you I'm funny. Now there's just so much pressure!

*Sip*

Better.

Now I'm going to go drink a few stiff ones and make up think up some guilty pleasures.

Blog Love And A Thanksgiving Feast Of Bitchiness

I think that sufficient time has passed that I can tell you about my Thanksgiving without seeming like a serial killer in the making (which I might have been on that day. Hey, we're all allowed to be crazy once in awhile).

But first....

Blog Love!!!

Mustang Sally over at Functinal Kaos gave me some. And it made me smile. You should go check her out because her posts are hella funny and her photography will make you want to go buy a camera in hopes that you can be half as good as her some day. Check out the photos of the carnival. The last one in the post is my favorite.

This is what I received from her:

Thanks Mustang Sally!

Yeah. It totally has cupcakes on it. WITH sprinkles! And who the hell doesn't love cupcakes with sprinkles?

In the spirit of these things (awesome awards), I would like to pass this on to Mrs. Hyde at A Bitch Called Mom. I just started following her blog recently and love it! She is not afraid to talk about the side of motherhood that sucks ass (and the side that is the most hilarious). I really enjoy the bitchiness honesty in the voice she uses to describe those who step in and out of her life. Plus, she makes a hell of a cake judging by the pictures.

Now to talk about Thanksgiving. I got to work at five-thirty. Thank God, because there was a seat in that restaurant that really needed to be warmed by my ass for about an hour straight. I kept it to beer (mostly) before the shift, with the exception of a few shots of whiskey. The last one was not my idea. I gave in fairly (totally) easily, but it wasn't my idea.

I would like you to know that the only incident I had was knocking the basket of bev naps onto the floor. I am clumsy anyway so no one knew it was due to my Thanksgiving celebration right before work. Even if they did know, I doubt anyone working that night would have cared.

So I warmed a seat up, played hangman (the girl totally cheated), and drank a lot of diet pepsi. Finally, about an hour or so after I got there my first table was sat. The lady asked me if the turkey was prepared in the store that day, to which I replied, "...kind of..." She didn't get the turkey dinner. I didn't blame her.

We're going to blur the rest of the night together into a whirlwind of scattered tables, cigarette breaks, crappy tips, cigarette breaks, rude service on my part, and a few cigarette breaks. Seriously, I think I have cancer from that night alone.

Fast-forward to my last table. The kitchen closed at eight-thirty. A man and his wife came in and sat in my recently swept (I still had the broom in my hand. I had literally just finished) section at eight-twenty six (I'm not sure where the hyphen goes on that one. If someone would like to correct me it'd probably be a good idea because I don't like being wrong on those things).

I know there were a lot of parenthesis, so I'm going to say that again. Eight-thirty equals the magical time that I get to retreat to the back and put everything away. Eight-twenty six equals the time that Deuchy McDeucherson sat down at my immaculately clean table. I hate him.

This guy has the audacity (emphasize that word when you read this sentence) to make this joke:

"I just came in so late that you'd have to stay here later. Har-de-har-har." Add a leg slap for good measure (he didn't really leg slap but add one in your mind anyway because it'll make him look even more like a jackass and that will make me happy).

I mustered up a laugh after a few awkward seconds of staring him down, but I think I sounded like a wounded hyena.

Yeah, what a jerk, right?!

I pretty much ignored them for most of the time they were in there. You don't make jokes about the loss of my Thanksgiving to me on Thanksgiving. I will not want to talk to you.

Plus, I was eating my free Shmupplebees meal and planning out the fastest way to make myself drunk after work so I was busy.

And no, I didn't have the turkey dinner either. It looked nasty.