Some rich white dude is ROFL.

This is kind of indicative of how my life has gone so far....

My adventures today led me to Marshall's with Katie to buy some dress pants for Glee Club, or rather, the closest possible thing we can get to yoga pants that still bear some semblance to dress pants. 

Watch yourselves, Pajama Jeans, because Pajama Slacks are hot on your heels

I'm standing in line to purchase a pair of just about the ugliest pants I've ever bought (they don't have butt pockets, like ghetto slut jeans but dressier) and I'm admiring the big wall o' fragrance they strategically place at the checkout along with the socks and the water bottles and the stupidly cute boxes of jelly beans to make you go "holy mother eff I need these things."

One little blue box on the wall o' fragrance catches my eye because I happen to love this particular scent and this particular scent has been off the market since like, 2006. I hoarded some samples of it a while back but I just used up the last of it yesterday trying to get the Mexican food smell out of my pajamas.

The checkout line is doing its little black magic trick on my mind and making me think that I must buy it or I will lose my soul. The checkout line reminds me of all the bottles of smell-goods I still have that are mostly empty except for the little puddle at the bottom that can never seem to get through the straw, rendering them all useless. I need this.

The perfumey shtuff is sixteen bucks, which is no chump change to a starving college student, but I figure you only live once and you might as well live smelling like a pristine beach with clear turquoise water and a light breeze and hints of citrus and green tea. I want Katie to smell it because I have a deep and unresolved need for approval, but they put all the perfumes in those strait-jacket boxes so you can't smell them before you buy them, which I think is absurd. You get to try on clothes and shoes before you buy them. You get to test drive a car before you buy it, even though you could potentially just dent the salesman's skull and drive off in it (not that I've thought about it). But you can't dab a little goshdamn eu de toilette on your wrist before you spend sixteen dollars plus sales tax on it? EFF CENTRALIZED GOVERNMENT AND BIG CORPORATIONS (college has taught me that it's always their fault).

I take a leap of faith because those always work out reeeeally well for me. When we get back to Katie's I take it out of the box so I can spritz some on and maybe cover up the potent smell of Jergen's Natural Glow. And...

It isn't even the right perfume. It's some Kimora Lee Simmons shit that smells like flowers dipped in syrup wrapped in your grandmother's panties.

Which just makes me wonder, who has the audacity to put garbage in a costume and sell it off as something entirely different from what it really is?
Oh wait...

HI MY NAME IS BRETT AND I AM A VICTIM OF CORPORATE AMERICA.

(Epilogue: Brett decides to keep the Kimora Lee Simmons because the bottle is pretty)

"Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder, tooday"

So I've been a tad bit busy the past couple of weeks...
...
...
(you know sarcasm is being implemented when someone says "tad bit," because no one under 50 uses "tad bit" under any other circumstances)


Anywhoseywhatsit, even through all the excitement of hauling ass to dozens of appointments, getting my wisdom teeth yanked out of my skull, convalescing from getting my wisdom teeth yanked out of my skull, fighting with Matt, trying desperately to contact my friends, driving twelve hours on virtually no sleep, and somehow making it back to LA in one piece, there is one event that trumps all.
And that is that....


MY DARLING BESTIE ALEXA MAE CRANDALL IS ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED.

Time has done some good things for us

Sorry gents, that means she's off the market.
"Already?!" you say. "It's totally the norm where I come from," I respond.


(Lex I hope you don't mind that I'm making it a big spectacle. It's just funny because I know you're going to read this. T and I already have plans in the works to hit up Blue Boutique and buy you some absurdly skanky lingerie that will make you really uncomfortable)


It's funny how our lives diverge from the lives of our friends as we get older. It seems like just yesterday Lexa and I were making up dances to "Wannabe" and pretending to play tennis. And then all of a sudden she was out getting tethered to the love of her life while I was high on Lortab and yelling incoherently through mouthfuls of KFC fake mashed spuds at Megavideo for only letting me watch 72 minutes of White Collar.


I'm feeling a little nostalgic and a little melancholy, not prime conditions for blog-posting. I also have a study abroad application that I should probably go stare at and then decide not to do before getting up to watch TV with Katie, so I'm going to postpone the toooootalllly awweeeesoommmme rant I had in mind for...some other time maybe I guess? 


I hate people who are vague and uncommitted.


If you happen to see Alexa, tell her congratulations but don't ask to see her ring because it is PUNY and totally NOT gorgeous AT ALL.


psh.

"Wherefore art thou Brett?" they ask. She asks herself the same thing, every day

Hallloooo lovays! Before I embark on this post of all posts, I want to wish a GINORMOUS happy birthday to my best friend in the whole world, Danica Nicole Moran!!! She is the greatest so if you see her today or within the next 5 days (the approximate length of "birth week") congratulate her on making it to 20 and give her things!

So today is a happy day for that reason ^
But it is also a sad day because I am currently incarcerated.
Not literally incarcerated, but I can't leave my room because there are contractors and movers all about the house (getting remodeled, Matt and Andra refused to wait until after I go back to school), and I can't leave the house because the left side of my face isn't working properly yet (just returned triumphantly from getting a root canal, novacaine makes me look like a Bassett hound, or at least makes me feel like I do)

Do you love meh? Are you playin your love games with meh?

So I am going to take this opportunity to sit here and reflect on my life and pull some gud cautionary tales out of my butt because I promised I would. It shouldn't' be that hard because my life is like one end-to-end awkward moment. I imagine that if my life were a TV show, it would be one of those shows that makes you really uneasy and embarrassed but you watch it anyway because you secretly like feeling that way. It's how I feel when I watch The Glee Project.

I DVR this every week and sometimes watch it more than once

As promised, here it is, The Third Installment of "Dealing with Awkward Situations and Not Getting Burned, Only a Little Charred" Series:

Cautionary Tales

If no one minds, I'll start with my favorite. Most people who have heard me talk have already heard it, but this is the exclusive tell-all edition that I've never told because it literally makes my skin crawl. Like, my skin is gearing up to run for the hills right about now. 

What Not to Do at a "Dance" (or whatever they call em these days):

The year is 2010. It is my first year at Oxy and I am still painfully socially underdeveloped (let's be serious, some things never change). I am about to attend my first ever college dance, Winter Formal (dun dun DUN). Technically it wasn't my first college dance, but Toga 2009 is disqualified from the running for being the biggest shitshow I've ever seen in my life. 

Ahem.

So it was my FIRST college dance. I'd been to dances in high school, but dances at Bountiful High were a bit different from the fabled high school dances I hear about from my peers, for several reasons:

1. Each student had to abide by the provisions of the "Dance Contract" which stated that skin must be appropriately covered, there could be no grinding moshing or disorderly conduct, and there had to be enough space between a boy and a girl for Jesus to cut in at any time. The contract had to be signed in blood, sealed with spinal fluid, and delivered via purebred centaur to the office of Sue Baylis. If provisions were not met, Sue would sic her band of goons with scythes on you and you would never see the light of a strobe ever again.

2. We often dressed like this:

So I didn't really know what I was getting myself into. College dances don't come with a syllabus. No one tells you that the only reason you go to a dance is so some bro who is freshly drunk on CVS vodka can slobber all over your H&M cocktail dress in the hopes that he will get to pass out on you in the top bunk of his forced triple while his roommates have drunken wheelbarrow races in the hall. You have to figure all this out for yourself. 

That fateful night, Melissa and I donned our hot girl masks and kitten heels and took off to have some genuine fun. 

The only picture from that night. You can't tell but I  was actually wearing the same hot pink tights from the previous picture, taken 2 years earlier

We spent the first few minutes stashing our purses and jackets in a potted plant and indulging in free desserty things and whore durves (liberties taken with spelling). Once we actually started dancing I was already ready to leave. That is, until I caught the eye of a dashing young gentleman who I will refer to as PSDMH for reasons that will become evident in due time. 

PSDMH asked me to dance and I accepted, but it became obvious in less than twelve seconds that I didn't know what "dance" meant in this scenario. I was trying to get my Napoleon Dynamite on to whatever indiscernible T-Pain remix was playing, but grope-y pincer hands put me in a vice grip and then tried to funnel slobbery small talk directly into my earlobe. 

--What's your name?

--Brett. Please don't make me repeat it.

--Like from Hemingway?

--Yeah! English major or prep school pansy? Toss-up. 

--Where are you from?

pause.

--Salt Lake City. Hopefully he's never heard of Mormons.

pause. 

--Are you Mormon?

pause. 

--Shit. I uh...I do...I mean...I am...

silence.

The vice grip loosened and PSDMH was gone in a flash.

It was that moment they'd been talking about in Sunday School since I was a little girl in patent mary-janes. The moment where you get to stand up for what you believe in and you will be respected for it and you will feel great about yourself. Except I didn't feel great about myself. For a second I saw myself how PSDMH must have seen me. In a pioneer gown with a lace collar and a waist-length french braid and a chastity belt. It felt awful. I slinked back to Melissa and Friends and told them about it. They were sympathetic, but I knew they didn't really get it.

When douchebag #2 asked me to dance I should've said no. 

Everything I need to know I learned from Taylor

I said okay. 

Douchebag #2 found it in his heart to keep a Jesus-approved distance until he at least knew my name. 

--What's your name?

--Brett. Please don't make me say it again.

--Sorry, what?

--This isn't gonna work. Brett.

--Brett?

--Yes. I will never understand why it's always this difficult.

--Oh cool. Where are you from?

It was a moment of weakness. I didn't want to deal with the baggage of being from Utah again. 

--San Diego. I was born there, so it's not a TOTAL lie

--Oh yeah? What part?

I don't like the expression "deer in headlights" because I've never actually seen a deer in headlights, so I will opt for the expression "sad fool who just pooped their pants in public."

I imagine I looked very much like a sad fool who just pooped their pants in public. 

I racked my brains trying to remember which part of San Diego I wasn't from. All my energy was going to my brain so I was momentarily paralyzed. I just stood. And stared. At some distant point past D2's shoulder. 

--Are you okay?

--Yeah sorry. What'd you say? Please do not repeat your previous question. It's not like you even actually care.

--What part of San Diego are you from? 

More standing. More staring. I think I thought that if I stood there all stoic like a British guard for long enough it would all go away. 

--Are you sure you're okay?

--Yeah I uh, I thought I just saw someone I was looking for

I don't remember what D2 looked like, but I remember his expression. Concern mixed with pity mixed with resignation with a splash of I've-never-spoken-to-someone-with-a-social-handicap-and-I-don't-plan-to-now. He patted my shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

PATTED my SHOULDER.

My shoulder still resents me for telling someone I was from San Diego when I am not, in fact, from San Diego. My shoulder likes to remind me often that when these situations arise, I should, at the very least, know where in San Diego I am pretending to be from. 

If anything else happened after that my memory has repressed it. I have a blurry snapshot of PSDMH (Pre-San Diego Mormon Hater, you should know now) making out with a girl with mom hair and a tube dress. I also remember fishing my blazer and purse out of the potted plant and trying to storm out, but almost running smack into the douchebro I was kinda crushing on at the time( we actually became decent friends much later. He would still hook up with just about anyone but me). I finally made it out, sweaty, teary, and covered in potted plant dirt, but I made it out. And I swore I would never go to another dance.

But I totally have. And everyone already knows I'm from Utah. 

So I guess the moral of the story is...

Well...

Don't be ashamed of your awkwardness. Because if you try to hack the head off of your awkwardness, ten more heads will spring up in its place. And then you will have a Hydra of awkwardness. I named my Hydra of awkwardness Ernest after Ernest Hemingway. 

And if anyone is still wondering....

Tierra Santa. I'm from Tierra Santa.