in our box

he was a sunken chest
over hollow ribs
a rise and fall of a ghost ship of a man
his ice blue eyes were never that lifeless

we lived in a burning cardboard fort those years
built of half-truths and childhood passion
a doldrum of a waltz in the middle of winter
static rain on the electric thump of a pulse

For Julia and Tanner

About a month ago, one of my dear friends from back home in Oregon, Julia, got hitched to her college sweetheart, Tanner. The girls and I have seen this coming for years, and excitedly accepted our “bids” as bridesmaids last January. The wedding happened. It was beautiful, incredibly organized, and had every sort of tiny disaster we expect weddings to have.

I don’t remember when exactly over the course of the weekend, but Julia put in a formal request for me to write her something… “ON THE BLOG!” Julia has been an avid reader of my blog for as long as I remember, and is one of the only people I know who mentions that she misses me writing on the blog… it’s nice to know someone is listening, and Julia has ALWAYS been there. I have always admired (AND ENVIED) her confidence, incredible intellect, and fun-loving, comforting personality. Julia can go from mothering suppor to personal warrior in 30 seconds flat – incredibly loyal and protective of the people she loves…

As I got to know Tanner over the weekend, (after 5 years of hearing how awesome he was from EVERYONE) I found the qualities I love so much about Julia to be traits reflected in him: an insanely loyal friend to his brotherhood of football team groomsmen and high school besties. A fun loving personality that has no reservations about jumping on a dance floor. A competitive streak that won’t back down from an impossible dream or a silly challenge.

Within minutes of seeing them together for the first time, there was no doubt in my mind that they are a beautiful match.

The funniest part about this, is that on the flight home from the wedding (about 2 hours) I spent the entire time writing about how I felt about their relationship and the wedding. Writing about love, about faith… about why I sobbed through the entire ceremony like a big baby (so did the other bridesmaids, bitches!)… what it broke down to was commitment. This is a huge thing, something I take seriously, and something I know Julia and Tanner take very seriously.

There was a part of the ceremony where the minister (it was a minister right?) asked everyone to commit to being part of a convenant protecting their marriage. At first, I didn’t get it. I was just thrilled to finally get into the ceremony and wear the dress I had tailored about 900 times.

Then Bev, Julia’s mother and champion wedding planner, explained what exactly this meant. We were committing to protecting their union… if they fight, we support them. We support their marriage. We do what we can within our means to support something that is important to them. I laughed and thought “Oh yeah, Julia is gonna call me when she and Tanner get in a huge fight so I can support their marriage…”

By the time the ceremony rolled around, I had stewed myself in to a bit of lonely psycho-single girl mental behaviors (I was doing a good job ignoring it by grinning ear to ear – ugh just wait for the pictures – and constantly bursting into happy tears.) But when we were asked for our support, we all confirmed (70 or so voices in unison), and it occurred to me that I DO understand how much Tanner means to Julia, and at the drop of the hat, if anything went wrong, I would do everything within my power to support her through it, even at 3000 miles away… I might not be the first call, but if I was, I would be ready.

The weekend is now fading from our short term memories – little insides jokes about reimagined verticality and pockets full of sunshine will be memorialized in facebook albums and speckling of post-wedding emails. The thing that sticks with me most was the energy. Like most important moments in my life, I remember more how the environment made me feel, moreso than if it actually rained or how great the dinner was (IT WAS, for the record.) I remember everyone being happy and how great that made me feel. I remember Julia’s smile – effortless and perfect (Julia really has always had this perfect, pearly-white, grin.) I remember the feeling I got when they arrived for the barbecue the day after the wedding… they felt like such… adults. I might not be able to tell you what color the groomsmen’s ties were. I might not be able to tell you EXACTLY what type of cake there was (there was an almond and raspberry one, a peanut butter mocha thing? and a vegan chocolate cake. I DEFINITELY REMEMBERED NOW.) But my GOD, I don’t think I will ever be able to measure the warmth of that beautiful Chicago day… not in the sunshine or because I sweat through my dress on the dance floor, but the kindness of strangers, the closeness of family, and the overall love that seemed to flood the space.

As I am young, and will probably attend weddings for years to come, I can’t help but point out that “you never forget your first.” Even if this wasn’t my first wedding (it was), I think I am still riding high off that weekend… a break from my sad New York City single-life and a window into happiness and love. A window into something I might have been losing faith in prior to that weekend.

Congratulations Julia and Tanner. I am happier for you than any blog post could ever translate into words and await the day when I am called upon to support you in your marriage, whether it’s answering my phone at exactly the right time or sending homemade baby blankets down the road… all my love and support to you and your future together.

For Julia Park and Tanner Highlen, married on June 25th, 2011, in Chicago, Illinois.

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I went on home to my skyscrapers

Becoming an adult has been dumb. Really dumb. I don’t like it. Making hard decisions and being responsible is about as fun as taking out the trash and remembering to go to the dentist (which are two responsible adult things I hate doing.) I’m awful at being an adult, even though I’ve considered myself to be pretty “adult” for most of my life, but I also thought that being an adult meant you behave a certain way… I’m realizing I don’t have to turn that on anymore or put on that show. It’s not karaoke night at club Natalie; I get to make up the words this time.

I was taking the train back from Westchester yesterday and had a couple of harsh life-realizations. Anyone who has spoken to me about writing knows I do my best writing when I’m uncomfortable, and more specifically, claustrophobic. Put me in a closet, on an airplane/bus/train, under a bed, bag over my head… 10,000 words will fly out of my fingers, no problem. Yesterday, while trapped three seats in (ohhh yeah window seat), I got to thinking and couldn’t find a pen. So I dabbled a little on my ipod notepad (I hate writing on cell phones/ipods/digitally/whatever) and had a couple things that stuck:

1. I have wonderful friends. I’m finally hitting a stride where I have a friendfamily that isn’t a compiled of people of convenience. People I want to see. People that like seeing me. This morning, the starbucks lady recognizes me during corporate coffee rush hour, and I almost cried with happiness. My happy network is growing by the day and it’s making me feel not so alone.

2. The hardest part of making a mistake is recognizing it and learning from it. My greatest challenge is not bottling up what I feel, or being so delusional that I’m caught up in something to the point where I feel trapped. You know when you have a toothache and you’re thinking “hey, this might be a cavity, I should go to the dentist.” A normal person would make an appointment and go to the dentist. I, on the other hand, will think about going to the dentist 24-7 for about three months, tell myself what a pussy I am, and then after I bite down on some olive pit and break my tooth in half will I go to the dentist. I will lie to myself to get through the day. I grew up witnessing the “stay together for the kids” mentality, and subsequently my entire life has been based on a decision making process that consists of putting up with a situation until I’m ready to kill myself. (Examples: Daniel, my last apartment, and my last stint in “dating”.)
I am breaking this habit now. This past week has been my last mistake on that ledger. Yeah, I’m gonna make mistakes where I hate myself, but let it be known that this is the last time I allow myself to be THAT delusional and refuse to learn from it. I will not settle. I will not compromise in my relationships anymore, friend or foe. I am about to say the scariest thing in the world for someone who is as self-deprecating and insecure as I am, but I might, I JUST MIGHT, deserve better. I hate saying that because I hate the idea that I “deserve” something. I think people “deserve” what they’ve earned. I haven’t earned that happiness, so why do I deserve it? I guess the new perspective is that unhappiness isn’t deserved or earned. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Ugh I’m awful with emotional logic, but it makes sense in my own head, goddamnit. I deserve to not be unhappy aka I don’t deserve to be unhappy. Yes, I’m not strong enough (or delusional enough) to scream from the rooftops that we all deserve happiness and blahblahblah, but this is the first step in a huge mind fuck I’ve been trying to get a grasp on for as long as I can remember.

3. Just because you’re being honest, doesn’t mean you’re being clear. Example: I can be honest and say I don’t like your shirt – yes, brutal, “but I’m being honest!” – but it doesn’t tell you I don’t like that shirt because my ex-boyfriend had the same one and used to tell me what a worthless whore I was whenever he was wearing it so now every time I see you wearing it I want to cry and be emotionally distant while telling you I still maybe care. Woof.

From now on, we continue to fly by the seat of our pants. Fall in love easily and get hurt regularly. Jump off of high places not knowing if we’re going to be caught or shatter every bone in our bodies. We don’t dance like nobody’s watching because DUH big brother is (we’re not crazy goddamnit.) My trauma will scar me, but I’ll learn from it the way I’m supposed to this time. I refuse to let it drag me down and give up hope. On my wall I’ve written, “thank you. i had a lovely time” to remind me to keep getting high of the happy moments, accepting the good with the horrible. It’s the truth: I had a great time, so thanks, but all good, bad, tolerable and mediocre things must come to an end to make room for better things. That’s where we’re going. See you when we get there.

Surviving Coachella

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Southern Californian persuasion, it has arrived… COACHELLA.

And no, I am not going this year. But I figured it was in my best interest to give you some tips about attending. Things I learned. Things you might not know. I’m not an old timer by any means, but I figure I spent three days sleeping in a Subaru behind the Del Taco, so its like I did 2 Coachellas at once. Yeah. Camping is for pussies. So here are things:

1. Sunscreen. I can not emphasize this enough. I for one and am albino, but I can not tell you how many sad looking pink people joined me by Sunday. I turn pink at the THOUGHT of sun, so being in direct sun for 3 LONG days was a stretch. There are maybe 2 places with shade, most of them made out of metal (retaining all of the day’s heat) and the one kind of loungey chair thing is usually covered in half naked coeds wearing those fucking hipster animal hats. You know, the ones made out of raccoon tails and deer ears. Like an MGMT video. But more glitter. And triangles.

2. Backpacks and purses are just one more thing to lose. I rocked a fanny pack. Did not wear it like a traditional fanny pack, but fanny pack nonetheless, and it held everything I needed, which was: my id, a debit card, my chapstick, my sunscreen, cash, a lighter, and I think I rocked some lifesavers or something. Don’t bring a bunch of stuff you MIGHT need. Yes, it will get chilly at night so if you must, bring a light sweater or something. Your shortest shorts will be brilliant for the day, but your enemy at night. However, I made the mistake of wearing jeans the first day because it was going to be cold at night, so everyone thought I was important, because wearing jeans apparently means you have access to air conditioning. In reality, I was just warm (wasn’t as bad as I suspected it would be) and at night I was comfortable. But I definitely drew some attention. EVERYONE LOOK AT HOW PINK I AM!

3. IF you choose to smuggle something into the grounds, put it in your underwear. They WILL frisk you in line (men, especially your pockets). They WILL look inside your fanny pack AND inside your cigarettes AND confiscate everything you’ve got. Asking every sweaty burn out if they’ve got some papers you could bum during the Cold War Kids set is not going to go over well. Bring backups.

4. Get used to the fact that you will be buying $2 water all weekend, and take advantage of the stands out in the middle of the field rather than the ones right near the tents that have really long lines. Do not chug the entire bottle at once even though that sweet sweet nectar might be the best thing you’ve had all day. PACE YOURSELF. The bathrooms are surprisingly large and accessible, but that is no reason to drink the whole thing at once. Those $3 frozen lemonades will do you right also. The food there isn’t too shabby and isn’t that expensive (I’m from New York. It’s not any worse than a street cart or midtown deli) so indulge. You’re on vacation. Ice cream for lunch and french fries for dinner is a great idea.

5. Timing is everything. Be prepared to be sitting in a car line for at least an hour. When you leave, you’ll be lucky if you get out of the grounds in under an hour. Once you enter, you can’t leave (unless you’re camping…) Driving is a nightmare. Also know when to leave a set. if the set starts to slow down, go see something else. You are at a shmorgasbourg of music, and there is no reason to stand in the same tent for 45 minutes bumping into that kid from Charlie St. Cloud. Efron. Yeah. That’s his name. He was there last year with Vanessa whats her face. They were both short and orange. Don’t freak out if you realize you’re dancing next to Kirsten Dunst or Mischa Barton. It will likely happen. A lot of bands enter and exit on the left side of the mainstage, so stake that our if you’re really looking to hug Katy Perry or Earl Sweatshirt. RUN WILD. AVOID ANYONE WEARING NEON. IF YOU ARE TIRED, LIE IN LE GRASS AND TAKE A NAP (stake out a good spot at one of the outdoor stages for a later set.)

This festival is actually a triathlon. I hope you’ve practiced.

Everyone have a lovely time. Don’t overdo it. Dying in the desert isn’t worth it. Also, take a look around. Enjoy the fresh air. You’re in a really beautiful place.

Free Ride

We’re 10 months in and I’m only getting the message now.
A lack of reciprocation has been such a droning busy signal.
I’ve been waiting on the line
mistaking curiosity for interest.
Respect in place of lust for the same thing.
Our love not for each other, but for our favorite sex positions.

I put my feelings on the table:
Three courses. Expensive wine.
You refuse to buy into romance.
I told myself it was charming
and made excuses time after time
I’m laughing in my own face

took advantage of my willingness to please
my inability to say no, cry emotional rape.
I’m left whining like some 16 year old
who doesn’t understand why adults are the way they are
still thinking that our parents are flawless, that they don’t make mistakes
our only difference is we don’t have children to embarrass ourselves in front of.
instead our children get to look back
and laugh at our facebook pages
and shitty prose we once posted on the internet.

I hope my children realize I’m not perfect early so they’re slightly less judgmental
less cruel and critical, less like me.
the only thing I can imagine that could be worse
is waking up next to the bad boy
and him telling me it’s my turn to get up feed the baby

so the next time you call
dont be shocked if i hang up the phone
after telling you I’m tired of waiting
tired of giving you a free ride, void of emotion and respect.
I know it’s what I signed up for, but it’s not what I want anymore.

Death by Hypochondria

Children of the Lewis household learned to not fake sick. False ailments were met with threats of strep cultures performed in my parents bathroom; that frightening cotton swab smacking against the gag reflex in the backs of our throats. Spawn of Lewis were hypochondriacs by nature, as our father could diagnose our ailments at the drop of the hat.

My sister, a ballerina (the family diagnosed “house hypochondriac”), and I, a lazy motherfucker slash theater kid, often developed some sort of pain somewhere that our father would poke and prod at. The “does this hurt?” questionnaire would consist on him pressing on joints with his over-sized fingers hard enough that it hurt regardless of if there was something wrong or not. While my sister had several joint strains and muscle pulls, and my brother had the occasional mistep (think he “broke” his knee once while skiing), I was the accident prone one, breaking both of my wrists and ankles over the course of 15 years (in order of appearance: sledding, running backwards on concrete and tripping, learning to skateboard on brick, and rolling my ankle in the first minute of a basketball game.)

“Chondromalacia patella,” my father once declared. My sister and I claimed to both suffer from the stiff grinding kneecap tendons and shared multiple knee braces over the years. I thought he had possibly made this up, like my French teacher inventing “poisson d’Avril.” My father was an excellent bullshitter, and even if he had no idea what it actually was, he could probably give it some complicated Latin name and some list of symptoms I had experienced. My mother and I figured out he could probably win “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” regardless of if he knew the answer or not; he was very convincing. For all we know, I was a very sick child. Well, I definitely was a sick – I’ve always been morbid and a serious case of sarcasm – there’s no question there. Maybe my sickness brought out the caged genius in me; My mother occasionally still shows off a watercolor painting of a flamingo I did when I was 7 and home sick with a cold; she swears it’s some of the best work I’ve ever done. I think this is further proof that I do my best work when incredibly uncomfortable.

I was a spoiled hypochondriac as my father indulged our medical needs. I was 19 before I realized not everyone got in and out of an emergency room in 30 minutes. (Except for Tufts Medical Center in Boston, which is still the highest rated hospital in the emergency room zagat I wrote a few years ago.) I remember once entering my hometown hospital on a Saturday – a ghost town – and being submitted to the terrible experience of being tested for whooping cough (there was an outbreak at my high school and one of the sources sat near me in French class. When I came down with a sinus infection, whooping cough was an immediate suspect.) For those of you that don’t know (or haven’t heard my traumatic story already) here’s what happens: they stick a giant metal q-tip all the way up your nose (kind of like the strep culture) and dig around in what feels like your brain and then send that puppy to the lab. Mine came back negative, but it’s the only time in my entire life I almost kicked someone in the balls. Yep. Almost kicked my dad in the balls. That’s how uncomfortable whooping cough tests are. Instead I threw a temper tantrum like a 2 year old. You can do that when your dad is submitting you to terrible medical experiences.

I guess all of this is brought up by the fact that now that I’m stuck finding my own doctors and developing my own medical relationships (and constantly ignoring my own diagnoses), I’m realizing a lot of doctors could be my dad, coming up with an answer regardless of its validity. The feeling of being medically bamboozled came up today, as I’m seeing a new allergist, who determined (after 44 shots beneath my skin and 110 scratch tests over 3 days) that I have zero allergies. Last year, I was diagnosed as allergic to everything except dogs and foods (THANK GOD) and given a variety of medicines, which when mixed with everything else I was taking resulted some suicidal tenancies. (Listen guys, this DOES happen so don’t laugh at your doctor if they ask you if you’re feeling suicidal. It was fucking scary as fuck.) So this year, I tried somebody new, who determined that out of my 23 years of living (age drop!), that only one of those years has been affected by allergies. Well great. So me feeling shitty every spring is just a general disgust for “spring fever” and the PDA landmine, Williamsburg, I live in.

I’m young. I’ve got a good 40+ years ahead of me to hate everything… health related (unless the Mayans are right and we’re all gonna die next year) but I’m realizing the older I get, the faster I’m deteriorating. I’m worried by 30 I’m gonna have a limp or something – which I’m going to tell everyone is a mean street swagger – but between my current ailing respiratory system and my terrible arch support, I’m pretty sure I’m medically doomed. Regardless of some horrible health genetics on both sides of my family, I’ve gotten pretty lucky. I’m putting off all the serious genetic testing (I’m reminded every time I see a doctor that the day will come…) until after the predicted end of the world for my own amusement. (Notes: No, I do not have a predisposition for some untreatable genetic disease that will kill me before I hit 30 and for the record, I also just got my first credit card so that I can establish shit tons of credit and then max that sucker when the world is supposed to end (saving up in the meantime just in case it doesnt…).)

I’ve talked about my medical history in public forums many time. I’ve been able to occasionally diagnose friends and can determine my touch whether your wrists or ankles are broken. Most of you have heard/read these stories a million times by now (see? I’m already becoming a grandma.) I question sometimes why I didn’t follow my father into the medical field… there’s something about being able to help people by being so smart that really appeals to me. Then I remember steak-gate, when watching my father slice bloody steak and talk about surgery scared me off the stuff for 10 years. The time he told me he reinflated lungs like marshmallows kept me from ever putting one in a microwave. I also can’t watch the surgery channel, and watching the film “Taxidermia” made me almost vomit in my mouth. (On a related note: I’ve been planning on watching it again as now that I’m past the gory stuff I might be able to figure out what that movie is really about.) I can’t watch needles entering skin, although watching Intervention, True Life, and oddly enough, Teen Mom makes me want to do drugs. The idea of having a collection of rotating scrubs and crocs (exception: the mary janes) and not being able to show off a pedicure terrifies me. I also suck at memorizing things, so I feel like I would do a pretty shit job. I’m sure my dad would love it, but it’s a lot of pressure there in the medical field. I’ll leave it to the bullshitters and people with steady hands instead. I’ve got my money on the apocalypse that it’ll kill me before a doctor does.

Sleepover

After my last breakup I couldn’t sleep alone.
My full-size bed had somehow grown into a California king and
I couldn’t touch both edges at the same time without it feeling empty.
My girlfriends took turns staying over and having movie marathons to
fill the silence and kick me every so often in my sleep to remind me that
someone was there.
And we slept.

Time passed and I remembered how to sleep alone.
Spread-eagle on my stomach, arms outstretched,
enjoying the vastness of my private property.
I ate toast in bed.
Now if I climb under the sheets with someone I’m suddenly restless
a tangle of spagetti limbs
I can’t sleep next to you
You refuse to sleep with me anymore
as you’ve realized it’s not about the constant tossing and turning
or the claustrophobia that comes with wrapping your arms around someone
and burrowing into the back of their neck.
it’s about the false sense of intimacy, the trust that comes with sharing your bed
having to tell where i am based on touch instead of sight,
eyes closed.
it’ll take weeks before we sleep comfortably.

we don’t sleep together anymore and I feel like I’m about to be short sheeted.

I Hate April Fools Day

I hate April Fools Day. I am not shy about it. I think it is a foolish holiday and really, who is having a good time getting pranked? Nobody likes it when Ashton Kutcher likes it, so why would I like it when some Tom, Dick, or Harry is pranking me? (Exceptions to this rule are George Clooney and Brad Pitt, because they are far above average and are apparently excellent pranksters.) But listen, there’s a real reason why I hate April Fools Day, and it’s trauma related, so lets just get this over with…

I used to love April Fools Day. As a child, my mother would encourage us to wake my father up and tell him that he had parked his car in the rosebushes when he got home from the operating room last night. We always thought this was the best joke ever and would crack up when he would jump out of bed and look out the window desperately. Looking back, he probably faked it after the first or second year.

One of my French teachers growing up taught me about “Poisson D’Avril” (“April Fish”), which is their version of April Fools. You apparently cut fish out of pieces of paper and stick them on people’s backs like “Kick Me” signs. My mom and I did this to each other for a few years, but it got old when someone in the family got me and I wore it to school and got really upset when everyone pointed it out. It just occurred to me that maybe the French teacher had told me this as an April Fools joke, but I guess at the time I had no way of knowing cause Google wasn’t really a big deal then. I just googled it. It’s real. I’m feeling a bit better. I was planning on going home and asking my Rosetta Stone teacher if it was real but then I remembered domestic computers still have their collars on and don’t talk back. (I’m on board with the conspiracy that computers are actually much further advanced than we have access to, and they would talk back and maybe bitch slap us but they got those crazy intel chips in em that keep them on leash. Seen THX1138? Yeah, it’s like that but we keep our computers on the drugs to keep em down.)

Last year was the end of April Fools for me. I hung up my prankster shoes for good. Taking into consideration how sarcastic I am on a regular basis, tricking people with said sarcasm was taken off the table. I am now flat and boring, and it’s all because I made my mother cry last year.

Yep. Sorry, Mom. Half of the audience (like 2 people, one of them being my Mom) are booing me because I made her cry. The other half is laughing, because it’s totally ridiculous, and in the polar opposite direction, I pranked the shit out of my Dad and he had a great laugh. Regardless, I have removed myself from the game (you just lost, fyi) because my prank hurt someone.

I was still working for the temp agency then and had been placed on the lower floor reception area (we’re talking the worker drone floor) of a large corporation that built bombs and aircraft carriers. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to know what they did there (nobody would tell me) but I didn’t sign a confidentiality agreement or anything. At least I think that’s what they did. It was either that or glue (they shared a name with a well known adhesive company. Not Elmers.) Don’t ask me how I know that. I don’t want to jeopardize anything if I did sign a confidentiality agreement.

Anywho, I was working the drone floor. I was supposed to sign for packages, juggle about 50 phone lines (my largest switchboard to date) and gchat all day. I also worked upstairs from Just Salads, my favorite place in midtown for lunch, so it wasn’t too shabby of a gig. I did get about 60 calls an hour, and probably signed for more packages than I could possibly ever be responsible for (what do you do if a temp signs for your package and then it disappears?!) but I had a little bit of down time on my lunch and decided it was time to call my parents. I’m sure your first question is “why the hell would you prank call your parents from work?” OH BUT MY FRIENDS, WHEN YOU HAVE ACCESS TO A RESTRICTED PHONE NUMBER YOU MUST TAKE ADVANTAGE OF IT.

I don’t remember exactly, but I think I called my Mom first. This logically doesn’t make sense, because I would have never tried the prank on my Dad after traumatizing my mom so much. I blame drugs. Or something. The following is basically our phone conversation; it’s slightly adjusted because its been a year and I’m not a fucking tape recorder.

Mom: Hello?* (*this was in the voice my mom uses to answer the phone when she doesn’t know whos calling. it’s the voice she uses when she talks to people she isn’t related to by blood when she’s mad and doesn’t want to show it. all sing-songy. I’ve got one too. I use it for tenants that annoy the shit out of me on the phone.)
Me: Mom?
Mom: Natalie?
Me: Hi.
Mom: What’s up?
Me: Um… well…
Mom: What?
Me: Mom. I’m in jail.
*beat*
Me: APRIL FOOLS
Mom: That’s not funny.
Me: What?
Mom: That’s not funny.
Me: It’s just joke.
Mom: That’s not funny. (by this point her voice has really changed and she is AUDIBLY upset. I think she started to cry here.)
Me: I’m sorry, Mom. It was just a joke. I didn’t let it go on for very long. I thought you’d laugh.
Mom: I don’t think it’s very funny at all. One day when you have a child and they do something like this to you, then you will understand how this feels.
*click*

YEP. Made my mom cry AND hang up on me. Good going, Nat.

So then, in a moment of insanity, I decide to try the same thing on my dad.

Dad: Hello?* (*Dad uses his professional doctor voice when I call from a number he doesn’t recognize. His voice changes IMMEDIATELY when he knows its me into more of a giggily thing. He sounds awfully official when I call his cell from an unregistered number though.)
Me: Hi Dad.
Dad: Natalie! Hi! How are you?
Me: Not good. I have a problem.
Dad: Uh oh. Whats up?* (*My Dad often says “what’s up” even when he’s legitimately concerned about something. It’s a really serious “what’s up” like “whats up with this slipped disk in your back and it’s exploded so we cant put it back together you’re going to be in pain forever sorry.” Read that aloud and you’ll heard what “whats up” sounds like when you’re serious.)
Me: I’m in jail.
Dad: Uh oh.* (*YES HE SAID THAT)
Me: I know.
Dad: So um what did they arrest you for?
Me: Pulling the best April Fools Joke on my Dad EVER?!

My dad laughed. He thought it was funny. I think the real difference with my parents here is that my mom really believes deep down somewhere that I hold the potential to get myself arrested for something retarded while my dad knows in the back of his mind that I’m too much of a goodie twoshoes to get arrested and if I did I could probably bamboozle my way out of it. Nice to know my dad remains calm in crisis.

I did call my mom back and apologize some more. She gave me a lecture on “if you had a child…” and blah blah blah I’m terrible and she didn’t talk to me for a week and then got over it. I might call my dad today and tell him I’m in jail today just to see how he reacts… in fact, it’s early enough on the west coast I might call and prank him before he realizes it’s april first. Maybe I should call and squirrel some stuff up through his assistant…

Things I learned (and hope you have too):
– Don’t prank your mom.
– Call Dad if you go to jail.
– When I have a child, I will hate them for all of the miserable things they do to me on April Fools Day, and probably every other day of the year.
– Poisson D’Avil is a real thing.

Happy April Fools everyone. This post is super real and not a joke like that improv everywhere JarJar bullshit. Don’t prank me cause I’ll kick you in the balls and lecture you on how when you have children you’ll hate this. Also, call your mother and say hi. She misses you.

Flirting in Bars

“Ask me anything.”
“Oh yeah? How many toes do you have?”
“Good question. 10.”
“That’s excellent news.”
“Can I ask you anything?”
“Well ask me and we’ll go from there.”
“What do you want to do with your life?”
“I’m gonna be an astronaut.”
“I’m serious. What do you want to do with your life? Like when you grow up.”
“I’ve stopped caring what I’m doing. I just hope I get to grow up.”