No I did not "make" my skirt.

Today a coworker told me my skirt was cute. Then, he asked if I "made" it. Did I make it? No! I purchased it! At a real store thank you! My g.

I've never been this verbally abused in my life.

It's Sunday late afternoon. I'm driving over to Rainbow from my friend's house in order to purchase a delicious supper of frozen pizza rolls. I pull into the parking lot and select a spot that is a bit of a squeeze, but not too bad. Plus, I was only going to be in the grocery store for a few minutes.

Four minutes later, I walk back to my car and stand next to it for a moment in order to complete a text message. Then, I hear someone within five feet of me scream:

"Hey BITCH, is that your f*cking car?!"

I slowly close my phone and look to the right. There is a mid-20's white male, sitting in his car beside mine, waiting for me. He is staring at me with all of the rage that one person could possibly cram into a face. His girlfriend sits beside him, mute. "Excuse me?" I say.

"Is that your F*CKING CAR parked next to MY F*ING CAR?!?!?!?!" he screams.

I tell him that yes, it is my car and that it is in between the alloted yellow lines.

"No, you BITCH, it is NOT! I had to climb through my F*ING passenger door to GET IN!" he screamed louder than most humans are even able to expel noise.

I tell him there's no reason to get upset, that we were both leaving anyway.

"Shut up you F*CKING BITCH WHORE!!!!" he shrieked.

Then he peeled out of his spot, sliding his car alongside the side of mine intentionally. Then, once his car was behind mine, he started THROWING THINGS out of his his car, as hard is he could, at my back window! Then, as I stared at him completely dumbfounded, he peeled out of the row STRAIGHT INTO ANOTHER CAR. He sat there, frozen for a second, then peeled out of the parking lot!

Then I texted myself his license plate and reported a reckless and insane driver to 911.

Hot dog of death.

So many people who know me have heard this story. But I've avoided writing about it because it's that disgusting.

Well the time is nigh.

You probably remember Subaruby. Turns out, she came with a present. The car - reeked. I mean reeked. And it seemed like I was the only one that was truly offended by the funk. My parents, who sold me the car, claimed they really couldn't smell anything. But after a few weeks, I bucked up and peered into the open moon roof.

The "present" that was giving off the stench of death was deeply embedded into the mechanics and grooves of the moon roof. And it was at least six months old.

A hot dog. Simple, harmless, right? WRONG! When hot dogs get old, they mold, then decay, then turn into a liquidy, revolting, mass of foul substance. I attempted to fork the frank and bring it out of the moon roof but instead, the utensil simply mashed it up a little, bringing only a mere morsel up to the surface. The fresh smell of rot was enough to make me vom.

Over a period of an hour, I knifed it, I spooned it, I paper toweled it, I 409'd it, I smaller knifed it, I penciled it, I yelled at it. Yet, remnants remained, so I covered the rest with baking soda because word on the street is it covers up smell. And don't even ask me how the damn meat stick got there because I simply cannot provide you with any sort of answer.

Here is an actual photo of the actual hot dog wedged in my actual sun roof, prior to my attack.

Banged and bemused.

I've been meaning to tell you something for a while now, but I couldn't find the words to tell you.

I've been banged against my will.

I sauntered in to my regular hair salon on Saturday, May 17. It was an unusually warm day. I was mentally and physically preparing myself for my first ever work trip. It was to be a week-long training in the sunny state of Florida. But you've heard me talk about that.

Basically, I trust this crazy lady. She's been chopping my hair into beautiful pieces of artwork for nearly two years. But when I sat down in her chair that day, I had no idea she would bang me without permission. And that's exactly what happened. She quietly murmured, "You had bangs, right? Man they're getting long." Of course, I did not have bangs before, and of course, she was asking me this AS she was gingerly chopping off the front half of my head of thick hair.

People like me cannot have bangs. Our hair is too thick and we have cowlicks that will not be tamed by any man or beast. I tried explaining this to her, and she looked at me like I was demented. There was nothing I could do except nervously try to accept it and tip well because I'm a chicken when it comes to being honest with someone's artwork (even if it's attached to my head).

So I'm stuck with this for a long time, as my hair grows excruciatingly slow. Notice the four points of varying bang lengths she graciously left me with.

Breaking up frickin stickin sucks.

Why? Because you have to constantly relive that shit over and over.

Case: family reunion. Last week I caught the tail end of a gigantic week-long family reunion. This happens once a year, the same time every year, and I haven't gone to the last couple. My family on that side is huge. We're talking something like 40 cousins, 20 aunts and uncles, and a load of other people that are somehow related to me. And every single one wants to know "the scoop".

What is my scoop? I have a new, great job. I graduated college. I had two internships at national publications on either side of the country. I purchased my first car. I have a nice apartment. But do they want to hear about that? No. They want to know who is my boyfriend, what happened to him, why I am single, who the next person I'm going to date is, and how long it's going to take until I date him.

Is this a Catholic thing or is this just the plight of catching up with distant relatives? Is my life really not interesting enough that they brush past everything I say until I am forced to reveal my relationship status to them? And once I reveal it to them, is it really appropriate for them to seem visibly let down?

Thank the baby g this reunion only happens once a year.

Person #6: Sweet ol' grandma.

I dropped the "odd" on this one because she's a total classic grandma.

My roommate and I participated in a wedding this weekend. She performed the ceremony; I played piano and sang. After the wedding, a very old lady ambled up to me, took my arm, and said "Hello. I am the bride's grandmother. Your song was lovely. You perform very romantically." I said thank you and joked "well it's not working too well for me!"

Without smiling, she looked deeply into my eyes and very seriously said, "Would you like me to shop around a little for you?"

Oh grandma lady. So sweet. So good-natured.