Hot Box of Jokes

It turns out the single 20-somethings are so competitively average, that desperation drives us to resort to the obvious, extreme, and sometimes dangerous.

Last night a group of us co-ed average 20s crammed into an old elevator after a party. There were mirrors, weight capacity warnings, and it was hot so the air was ripe with typical single-20s humor. 

Problems arose, though, when no jokes were really hitting a home run. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe too many 20s were talking at once. Or maybe t

he 1500 weight capacity was just too obvious to make a fat joke about the skinny guy, but someone got desperate and pushed the emergency stop button.

We halted. Waited. It didn’t start again. No one would admit to the execution of the push, but we were all guilty of joking about it. In theory, we all pushed the button that night. We pushed it when it stopped and we kept pushing it when 

we continued to make procreation (guilty) and irrational fear jokes about our predicament. Just for a little attention, and maybe to push ahead of our own banality. In fact I probably push that button on a daily basis. 

I’m just glad, though, that I got to experience a quasi-disaster and assess the awesome roles** of hero, fixer, and comic relief as we had to work togeth

er to pry the box down to safety and jump to our escape.

So I am convinced, now more than ever, that if I am to die in my twenties it will surely be the punch line to a joke. I just hope it’s a better one than the emergency stop.

**A big thanks to Jane for asking me what the probability was of us dying in that elevator. All of the sudden I was the statistician of the tragedy. I only apologize for being the worst disaster-movie-professor-called-to-the-scene-to-assess-damage ever when I said two percent with reassuring confidence. It actually turns out that's a lot. We have about a two percent chance of dying while skydiving, riding a motorcycle, or hiking Mt. Timp. Not standing still in an elevator for five extra minutes. Sorry Jane. You were the cute girl by the way. So was your doppelganger. 

I Want that Flow

There have been times in my life when I have wished I were more... exotic.

In third grade, Nina: hip, bossy, glorious and black, just had a way with people that I don't think I will ever be able to harness. She would often come up to one of the girls, sass coming out of her ears, and ask, "You got a boyfriend?" If the answer was yes* she would continue, "Well drop the zero and get with the hero." I never knew what that meant. I don't think Nina ever knew what that meant. But if I'd had a boyfriend, he'd be gone yesterday.

This morning the same yearning came listening to Obama tell the NAACP that underprivileged teens may face more challenges than the wealthy population, but it was no reason to "get bad grades! Cut class! [or] Drop out of school!" I was all of the sudden transported to a dilapidated porch swing, fanning myself from the heat of life, struggling to get by, abandoning my dreams of becoming a rapper/baller to pursue America's dream for me of becoming a teacher, and loving me for it.

I decided that whether it be Nina Making single ladies out of us all, or Obama making me a scientist/doctor/teacher, I want in. Most of the time. Or at the very least I want Nina's approval of my boyfriend, and Obama to tell me I've got flow.

*Amendment to previous wish: There have been times in my life when I have wished I were more... exotic and had a boyfriend.

6 Cakes

Our neighbors, we'll call them... Bob and Janet*... have enchanted me from day one. Not only do they spend 40% of their time here, smoking,


but 40% in the backyard enjoying life, and 20% doing heaven knows what inside that house I sometimes dream about touring, but usually never want to see for fear it will ruin the fantasy I have imagined for them in there. I hope that some day I can enjoy life as much as the two of them and only need a cigarette, a dog, and American Idol to be happy.

Yesterday I made cupcakes for them for being so fantastic, and for six cupcakes, Tom gave me:

1 Big hug
2 Trips from the front of the house to bring in our trash cans
3 offers to give us his old microwave (which he is getting rid of because apparently its popcorn capabilities have recently diminished)
4 minutes of his time, anytime, to come over and make popcorn on his new microwave
5 Invitations to his Fourth of July barbecue
and 6 ''you're awesome''s.

(Tom repeats himself a lot when he's drunk)... (Tom is always drunk).

I may be more in love with our neighbors at this point than I will ever be capable of loving a family of my own. And I think the common man would agree if he had been called awesome six times in under six minutes for six sub-par cupcakes left on his door step.

*I just realized that's the only time I used the psuedonym for my all-American neighbors, but it just doesn't seem right to not use their real and befitting names.

Havasupai: The Outcome

There are a lot of things that I won't do again because they almost killed me the first time, but Havasupai is not one of them.

In fact, there are a lot of things that drunk Indians, rabies-ridden guard dogs, and ten miles of feces might keep me from, but not the Shangri-la where I spent my weekend. I felt like Pocahontas off the drugs and with more logical camping gear.

On the way down, I wasn't too convinced. My Tomogatchi kept me about as alive as our "protective Havasupai native rangers" might have: by falling asleep within the first five minutes of the hike only to remain completely unconscious for the hardest part of the trek, dozing in his own defecation like the undignified bastard he turned out to be.

I didn't need him though; the few days spent in Supai were so marvelous, I would pass up the following trips just to go back:

1. New Zealand (actual country, or glorified movie set? I'm dying to find out... just like everyone else)
2. Time travel
3. The moon
4. Kolob
5. The Swiss Family Robinson tree house
6. My own wedding

Havasupai: the Prediction

My roommates, some scattered friends and I are headed to this paradise to hike this weekend. It's ten miles down, ten up, over three days. Here are my predictions:

Things that will surely kill me:
1. Packing in 15 minutes while talking (undoubtedly loudly) on the phone. (See also, things that will surely lose friends and influence roommates to move)
2. Eating half my trail mix while packing my lunch just now.
3. Prioritizing survival just beneath proving a skinwalkers' ability to show up on film.
4. My inability to ration.
5. Draining my Camel Pak for funzies within the first hour because the nostalgia of drinking out of a super soaker it provides is just too blissful to resist.

Things that will surely save my life:
1. Carb loading since Saturday, just in case.
2. The Tamagotchi my friend Rachel sent me for my 23rd birthday circa 1999 from a garage sale. (Original box, original Wal-Mart price tag for $14.00, original dream come true after years of settling for Nano babies and Giga pets). When he eats, I eat, and If I die, he dies.

So my chances of survival are about two to five. Which is also 40%. Which is also the amount of americans born in the 80s who own or have owned a Tamagatchi. Which is also me as of a week ago, so I'm pretty confident about the whole thing. Wish me luck!

I Always Knew I Liked You

‘If you tell a funny story at the dinner table in front of 10 people, nine will laugh, and one will say: that’s not true. I’ve always hated that person’

--David Sedaris

Here's to You, Roomates

All of my roommates are gone for various reasons this weekend, leaving me alone with my own thoughts. Here is what I've come up with.

1. NO ONE did romance like the early 90s
2. NO ONE did the loose braid/wispy bang combo like Meg Ryan.

Thank you 90s. Thank you Sleepless in Seattle. And thank you roommates, for leaving me alone, but not so alone with your fantastic collections of 90s romance DVDs. You were missed, but your legends lived on in our living room.

Oh and happy birthday. In advanced, thanks for not letting me wear a braid and over-sized blazer to work this week. You girls are the best.