Misunderstood Youth Are Trouble

The following is a conversation I had with a seventeen year old future actuary yesterday

The Great Unwashed “What program are you in?”

(We had already established that I was an old lady in a first year French course and I was majoring in being tired and grouchy.)

Seventeen Year Old– “Actuarial Sciences”

The Great Unwashed– Wait, are you going to become an actuary?

Seventeen Year Old a little shocked that anyone would be excited by math and actuarial science – “Yes”

The Great Unwashed– “Statistically what is the most dangerous activity in the world? Is it riding an elephant up Mount Everest?” Crossing my fingers and grinning because I’m excited about being right “I bet it’s riding an elephant up Mount Everest.”

Seventeen Year Old – “That’s not really what I do.”

The Great Unwashed in a disappointed tone – “Oh.”  Perks up “That’s what I would do if I was an actuary. It’s probably best that I’m not an actuary, we’d have people water skiing on the backs of those terrifying arctic seals for kicks, to see if my math was correct.”

(Photo Credit : thesealsofnam.org)

You should see me slalom ski on one of these.(Photo Credit : thesealsofnam.org)

Seventeen Year Old who is confused about why I’m talking about water sports with killer mammals- “Actuaries make their calculations based on someone’s  gender, where they live, what they do and then say how likely it is that they’d die in one year or five years or”

The Great Unwashed jumps in “So like if I was a thirty eight year old man living in a cave on the side of a cliff, who rode a unicycle to work, you could tell me when I was going to take a dirt nap?”

Seventeen Year Old who is now backing towards the exit- “No, it doesn’t work like that.”

The Great Unwashed visibly disappointed “Oh, that’s too bad. Here I was going to pack up and move to a cave to make hemp bracelets to sell with him.”

I was about to ask the young gentleman more math questions but he ran out suddenly, I imagine it was due to excitement from last night being the final class of the course.

Emily Post Couldn’t Have Said It Better Herself

I started a new job this past week. With new jobs comes training. Some of it was paperwork but part of the training included a self defense component. Hence the following conversation at Sula’s house.

The Great Unwashed in my bright and cheerful tone- “A giant man put me in a headlock today. And I got out!” The last sentence was said with a certain amount of pride.

Sula– “Did he smell nice?” said in a way that indicated that this was a reasonable follow up question.

The Great Unwashed– “Pardon?”

Sula– “If you are going to put a lady in your armpit, you should make sure there are no odors first.” This was stated in the same haughty manner that one might instruct someone where to put the oyster forks.

The oyster fork sits adjacent to the grapefruit spoon and one must always apply "Old Spice" before putting a co-worker in a half nelson. (Photo Credit : www.bexfield.co.uk)

The oyster fork sits adjacent to the grapefruit spoon and one must always apply “Old Spice” before putting a co-worker in a half nelson. (Photo Credit : http://www.bexfield.co.uk)

I burst out laughing because it never occurred to me to check for scents while my head was sandwiched between a large forearm and sturdy midsection.

So for my readers, if you are planning to attend the Unwashed Head Lock Cotillion you will need to wear deoderant.

This Confirms It- I’d Rather Strip than Do Paperwork

I’m buying a house. For those of you who have never undergone the endless paperwork associated with this endeavor, I’ll describe it. First you find lots of papers. Remember all those documents the government sent you last year that you stuffed between the cushions of the couch? You’ll need those; so start pulling the remains of them out from the vacuum bag and sponging the pudding off the pages because those documents will need to be scanned and faxed. In triplicate.

Then once you’re finished with that, you have to find more important documents that you never thought you’d need. You may discover them filed with your Christmas cards from three years ago. Please note your mortgage broker will not accept a photo of a naked back in lieu of your most recent tax return. Offers of accompanying naked men in exchange for less paperwork will also be declined.

Then you’ll find a house. Goodness help you at this part because if you thought there was a lot of scanning and paper signing before, roll up your sleeves- you’re about to go down the paperwork rabbit hole. Multiple people will now want pages. Before it was just your mortgage broker, but now your lawyer, your insurance agent and your realtor will want some of that flattened tree action.

So you sign, you sign until your initials lose their forms and become some sort of chicken scrawl. Sometimes you sign forms online and then your signature really looks wonky. And you must always sign new forms if anything changes. If someone has mistakenly forgotten a letter in their middle name, a new form is needed, if you want insurance on the shed as well as the house, three new forms are required. You’re done for if the pricing of your house changes, then you have to start the process all over again.

That’s where I am right now, surrounded by all sorts of professionals who would really like to help me and a stack of papers telling me where all the redwoods have gone.

My Auntie Camelia* is acting as my mortgage broker. This is both a blessing and a curse, by that I mean I’m having a great time of it and the air in my Aunt’s house is slowly turning blue from the profanity.

I’ll share an exchange that occurred early on today

The Great Unwashed calls her aunt after discovering that six new files of eighteen pages a piece have now turned up in her email inbox to be printed, signed and read, ideally not in that order.

The Great Unwashed– “Auntie Camelia, I’m rereading “Little House on the Prairie” and seeing those new documents, I’m about two steps away from taking off and building my own log cabin in the woods.”

Auntie Camelia laughs good naturedly even though she’s been dealing with a surly and uncooperative Unwashed niece for almost six months now.

The Great Unwashed – “Do they need to be signed by tomorrow?”

Auntie Camelia – “No they can be done this weekend”

The Great Unwashed – “Also I don’t want a line of credit if it means more paperwork; I’ll strip on street corners to bring in money rather than signing more pages.”

Auntie Camelia – “There are only two more pages to be completed for the line of credit and as soon as you sign the rest, you are DONE.”

The Great Unwashed in a slightly less bitey-scratchy tone- “Just two pages? And then a couple more then I’m done?”

Auntie Camelia – “Yes”

The Great Unwashed – “Ok, I’ll hold off on hauling logs through the woods then, that paperwork requires less heavy lifting than I thought.”

Thus my dear readers, I have yet to take off into the brush to live with Ma, Pa and Laura although I have not yet ruled that option out. We’ll see what paperwork tomorrow brings before I do that.

My new home? (Photo Credit : wikipedia)

My new home? (Photo Credit : wikipedia)

*This post is dedicated to my Aunt who has worked with me when I was grumpy, confused and utterly tired of documents. She even continued to help me after I threatened to paint rainbows and butterflies on my mortgage application out of frustration. She’s an exceedingly patient woman in both her ability to track endless streams of paperwork and in dealing with people like myself.

Thank you Auntie Camelia.

**Names have been changed to protect the identities of people who currently possess all of my personal information. In my experience it’s best not to tick these types off by splashing their name across the interweb.

March Sweat Showers Bring April Flowers

I smell like a den of raccoons, I’m also sopping wet. In the grand scheme of life, this isn’t an unsolvable problem. It is however affecting my popularity with family members. This sort of issue has happened before, well, ish.

You see it’s a packing problem. I suck at packing. If there was a packing Olympics I would be the lonely, small country of Estonia. This miniature country tries really hard and packs with all of its might but in the end, it’s really only good for being the spot that future Polish grooms fly to for wild bachelor parties.  No one ever hears about Estonia going to the packing Olympics. Or any kind of Olympics. That’s me. I’m terrible at packing. Although that wasn’t a very good analogy because I’m not good at throwing wild, naked parties either.

Once for a nine day long trip, I packed two pairs of underwear, twelve shirts and no pants. This would have been fine if I was headed to a partial nudist camp for a week or maybe to one of those wild, naked parties I never throw, but as it was my grandparents were a little alarmed by my lack of clothing. My grandfather ordered me out of the house and to the nearest Walmart on the third day to purchase extra items to wear.

I’m visiting my grandparents again and to be honest I’ve done a bit better this go round; I packed twenty-six pairs of underwear, three shirts and one pair of neon tights for my overnight stay. Tragically I’ve forgotten antiperspirant. For normal people this wouldn’t be an issue but for me whose underarms did a convincing impression of Niagara Falls from the ages of fourteen to twenty-two, this is a problem.

My armpits put on a fantastic light show. (Photo Credit : globeholidays.net)

My armpits put on a fantastic light show. (Photo Credit : globeholidays.net)

Having exited puberty, although one could no longer shower in my sweat, I still produce a lot of it. Hence my grandmother and I are once more being sent forth to the local Walmart in the interest of not wringing out my shirts every couple of hours.

*Also don’t be upset or feel unworldly if you haven’t heard of Estonia. The only reason I have heard of Estonia is because I went on a cruise with my grandmother and three thousand other old people.

When my grandmother was booking the trip, the travel agents asked “Do you want to stop in Estonia?” to which my grandmother replied “Pardon me?”, as she had never heard of the country. The agents took this as a “yes” because “pardon me” is a great deal better than “Where the heck is that?” which is the standard response to that question. Hence my grandmother and I stopped there, and learned all about their Polish bachelor party industry.

Also the grooms might not be from Poland, I wasn’t listening very well to the tour Estonian tour guide because I was too busy trying to figure out where I was.

The Crackhouse Chronicles 3

I’m on vacation. I’ve traded the stress of the roaring, fast-paced student ghetto for a cuddle and a glass of wine by a fireplace.

Tragic that Roscoe wasn’t able to come. Fortunately this fact doesn’t bother me or Maddie, my canine cuddle-buddy one bit.

Just looking at this I want to snuggle her. (Photo Credit : Sula's Camera with permission. )

Just looking at this I want to snuggle her. (Photo Credit: Sula’s Camera with permission. )

My friend who crouches in the woods at night with bears is out of the country for the week, climbing mountains, flying in helicopters and engaging in all kinds of activities that cause Unwashed anxiety.

She has kindly lent me her home and her puppy for that time. Supposedly it’s called house sitting but the house hasn’t been doing much sitting. Mostly I have, on my friend Sula’s* glorious plush couch in front of her roaring fireplace.

A photo of the much beloved fireplace being photo bombed by my furry cohort. (Photo Credit: Sula's camera)

A photo of the much beloved fireplace being photo bombed by my furry cohort. (Photo Credit: Sula’s camera)

I intersperse this inactivity with walks with Maddie with more sitting. And then sometimes I wander about Sula’s home trying to figure out what everything does.

The first night here I had a disastrous encounter with her mattress. Namely it tried to kill me in my sleep. Since then I’ve taken the precautionary measure of unplugging everything in her home. Although at some points I’ll work up the courage and attempt to use one of the many gadgets in the house.

My first morning at the house, the Keurig and I had a run in. I examined the machine carefully. Each time that I had visited Sula, the machine had been illuminated with a blue light. I pressed the “Brew” button. No light. I lifted up the hatch to put the plastic coffee container in. No light. Occasionally my computer pulls these kinds of antics so I was well versed in the “I refuse to turn on game” I unplugged the coffeemaker and then plugged it back in. No dice. It was at this point that I was forced to throw in the towel and accept my uncaffeinated state.

My loss with the coffee maker doesn’t bode well for my goal to use the ceramic huts which, according to my friend, are used for cooking meat but that I think are actually houses for tiny, tiny people.

This post is a part of the Crackhouse Chronicles series. To read more about my adventures on the wrong side of the tracks and being offered nefarious substances click the links below.

Crackhouse Chronicles

Crackhouse Chronicles 2: Mattress Warmers

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those braver than I. If Sula is able to fly in a helicopter, I don’t doubt her ability to strong arm me into a half nelson for putting her name on the internet.


My Painful, Stiff, Beaverless Death -Part Two

Surprise of all surprises I did not die. Although my muscles are still so tight that my toe touch in yoga has become a “reach just past your hips” touch. I’ve also developed the ungainly habit of rubbing my inner thighs in public. This wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t pair it with groaning “Oh God that’s good” while I massage my sore legs.

After hearing about all the fun I had cross country skiing with Natalie*, my friend Sula* decided she wanted to try the sport. Even after I showed her my almost death note, she kept insisting that it sounded like a good time. Seeing as Sula thinks that weekends spent in shacks without running water and indoor plumbing are a “getaway”,  it was unlikely I could convince her otherwise.

Away we went at eight thirty in the morning. Sula insists on arriving a minimum of thirty minutes early to any destination, so we pulled into the park before it opened. Rather than waiting thirty minutes for the rental shop staff to appear, we decided to embark on a five kilometer hike through the snow to add to our day of excessive physical activity.

When we returned, the chalet had opened, so we suited ourselves up and away we went.  Once again I did two trails. And once again it was exhausting and long. At one point the trail seemed so endless that I laid down in the snow and waited to freeze to death. Unfortunately this proved to be a slow way to go, even slower than my speed of skiing, so I sat up and continued on. At last Sula’s truck came into view and the torture was over.

With all three of my layers sopping wet and squishing with every step, I made my way toward the rental hut. Having marinated in my own juices on the car ride home with Natalie last time, I came prepared with dry clothes to change into for the ride back. What I had not bargained on was how tired I would feel and my lack of desire to walk the two hundred feet to the change room after skiing.

Out of the corner of her eye, while unlacing her boots Sula thought “I think Unwashed is changing in the middle of the rental shop”. A flash of my fleshy, pasty midriff confirmed this a moment later. Luckily I had just pulled on my clean, dry-fit shirt when a bus full of tourists burst into the shop.

The point of this post was to say I am fine, I am still probably coated in sweat and other disgusting things and I have kept up my habit of giving unsolicited shows of nudity. Essentially all is well in the Unwashed world.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who chose not to throw society’s shackles to the wind and eat me alive on the cross country ski trail for energy giving sustenance.