Shit Happens

A little over a month ago, I had something happen to me that I never thought could happen to me; something I like to believe happens to more people than you would think. I contemplated on whether or not I should come forward and tell my story, and after a lot of reflection and inner-turmoil, I've decided that it is time. I do not tell this story to make you laugh and/or chuckle--though I'm assuming that some of you will. I tell this story so that others with the same story will feel comfortable coming forth and telling theirs.

There's a lot of difficult things that come with adulthood: bills, work, household duties, increased responsibility across the board, relationships--especially relationships. The bonds you share with friends and family and significant others (you know, if you're into that whole sister wives kind of situation), become more complex with the strain on your time and attention. Inevitably, complications arise and your relationships become more and more taxing. You start to feel resentment for those around you because they're not coming through for you in the ways they used to--you're essentially left with just yourself. It's bad enough when your friends shit on you--but it's even worse when you shit on yourself.
After an exciting episode of Grey's Anatomy, I decided to step outside and give my mom a call, because that's what my life has turned into--watching my shows, then giving my mom a call to do a thirty minute recap of an hour long program. I noticed that I was starting to get off track about this season's constant turmoil between Meredith and Cristina, so I told my mom, in my standard candid fashion, that I needed to get off the phone, go inside, and take a poop. In her standard fashion, she said, "Thank you for that overshare," and then I went inside.

As I stepped in the doorway, I thought to myself, Oh gosh, I really have to go to the bathroom, and then a couple steps later, standing in the living room right there in front of Kerry Washington and the entire cast of Scandal it happened: I pooped on myself. It was as if my body had just completely abandoned all communication with my mind. My body had gone full-Sarah-Palin-rogue, and all I could do was stand there and take it all in. You always imagine what it might be like if you pooped on yourself, but from personal experience, you really have no idea what it's actually like until, well, it happens.
I shuffled (because full fledged running seemed like a terrible idea) to the downstairs bathroom so that I could assess the damage and do as much ground zero clean up as possible. I looked over and saw the most terrifying thing that you can see post-tragedy: no toilet paper. At this point, I was completely out of options other than relocation. However, that meant going upstairs--the downstairs is so much safer because everything is hardwood, but everything upstairs is carpeted, and that just seemed like I was asking for a disaster. Plus, no one was downstairs, and if I trudged up the stairs, I ran the risk of running into someone and potentially having to explain what happened--I wasn't ready for that, not then. Without any other solution, I opened the door and started to leave and there stood my roommate, David. Where the hell did he come from? Feeling like I needed to explain why I was in the downstairs bathroom, I quickly said, "No toilet paper." I'm not really sure why I said it because he never asked why I was in there or why I was leaving, but it felt right at the time. Then he reached over to the counter and said, "Wanna try out the paper towels?" Um, no David. I don't want to try the paper towels. I want to go back in time seven minutes and undo all of this. That's what I want. I laughed and started to walk away and he said, "Dude, you okay? You're walking like you have a stick up your ass." Ironically, that was the complete opposite of the situation.
I made it to the upstairs bathroom, but the damage was worse now. The only surefire way to deal with this was just to evacuate the situation entirely and dispose of any evidence that it ever happened. I got into the shower to try and wash away all of the shame, but no matter how hard I scrubbed, the disappointment was there for good. I imagine that anyone who defecates in their pants is never quite the person they were before the incident. Something inside of you, not outside, changes... maybe it's that you're incredibly humbled by the unpredictability of bodily functions. Either way, I finished showering and stepped onto the bathroom mat and realized there was a whole other situation at my feet... literally. The jeans I was wearing escaped any damage, but it's faithful friend on the inside was not so lucky. They were the Bubba of this Forrest Gump story, and much like Bubba, we had to tell the skivvies goodbye.
So I ran to my room and grabbed an extra bag from 7-11 that I had laying around. I placed our faithful friend in the bag and decided that once everyone had gone to bed, I would take them away and dispose of them--because no self-respecting man can put his dirty business in his own trash can. I sat down to get on my laptop, and I felt them sitting over there in the corner... staring at me or something, so I went downstairs back to the living room. I couldn't bear the guilt of having them right there in front of me, whilst Facebook-ing. They would be fine on their own until later when I would run them off to a public dumpster or something.
I stayed up and watched Carrie that night, and at 1:00am, I knew it was time. The deed had to be carried out. I called my mom again, because it only seemed appropriate as she was the first person I called when it happened. She got all the laughs in that she needed to, so she was going to stay up and be my phone accomplice as I put an end to the horror story that was my fateful Thursday evening. I had pre-decided upon 7-11, since I already had the evidence in the appropriate bag. As I started to pull in, a cop pulled in behind me really close and followed me into the parking lot. He pulled up beside of me and sat there, staring. It was as if an officer had been watching me all night, and as I got in my car, he radio-ed in and said, Um, we have a number 2 on our hands. Follow the suspect to see if he disposes on his messy drawers. Copy? 
Under pressure, especially from cops, I do what most Americans do and act suspiciously as possible. Suddenly, I started using overly-active hand gestures and laughing for no apparent reason to try and look "natural," but in retrospect, I just looked crazy. The cop was not leaving. After talking on the phone for about five minutes, I decided I had to go in and buy something. After I got back out to my car, he just sat there looking at me, and I realized--I'm going to have to bear this burden for a few more hours. I drove home and put the evidence in my trunk, simply because there was no other place to put it. Eventually, I did dispose of what needed to be taken care of nearly 24 hours after the original incident took place.
In short, shitting your pants is actually a lot more complex, humiliating, and difficult than you would think. I hear my friends talk about scary situations or really intense movies and respond with, "I almost shit my pants." But to me, it's not a joke. It's not something you laugh at, and it's not something you can relate to. Shitting your pants is a unique experience like fighting in the Vietnam War or watching the Lifetime remake of Steel Magnolias in one continuous sitting. Shitting your pants is not something that you ever truly come back from, and it's definitely not something that you joke about. But like a lot of the hardships that I've overcome in my life, I'm a better person for it. If you've pooped on yourself, be brave and remember that you're not alone. Be strong enough to tell your story, because like most things in life, we can only move forward by moving together.

What Happens to Italy, Stays in Los Angeles

The night I got to Los Angeles, Italy stopped me and asked me for a cigarette. Not the country, the fashion designer.

***

Today, I hopped on a plane to LAX with a dream and a cardigan, and from there, that's pretty much where the similarities between Miley Cyrus' experience and mine stops. I was placed in a middle seat, which is not equipped for a man my size to sit in, and then I became best friends with a young man who sat beside me on the plane. He touched my leg a lot and since Prop 8 was overturned, I'm fairly certain that means that we're married, so that's exciting. After I got off the plane, my friend Kara asked about how the trip went, and I was so delirious from the time difference and the journey and being in the land of Jennifer Lawrence that all I could say was, "He looked like a young Frankie Muniz, and he smelled like dreams."

Los Angeles is the closest thing I've seen to Panem from The Hunger Games. It's full of tall buildings and the city is surrounded by mountains, which absolutely blows my mind because I somehow feel like mountains only belong to the East coast. In short, I'm actually in The Hunger Games. Beyond the skyscrapers and the mountains though, my favorite part of the city is the people. They dress oddly, yet professionally at the same time. Though I feel like at any moment I might have to fight someone to my death, at the same time, I feel like the people of L.A. would be sad that I died. They may be kind of crazy, but the plasticky, tanned people of L.A. stole my heart, and that's probably why when Italy asked me for a cigarette, I didn't think twice about stopping.
She was sitting outside of the only 7-11 I could find in the downtown area, and I was jonesing for a Coke so there was really no avoiding her. She was in a skirt, but that didn't stop her from sitting open legged, with no inhibitions about showing off her lady business to the world. I'm not saying I endorse that kind of behavior, but I do have a certain amount of respect for someone when they say, "You might be able to see my bits and pieces, but that doesn't define me as a person." Anyway, Italy stopped me as I was walking down the sidewalk and said, "Baby, do you have a cigarette?" Anyone who calls me baby, particularly women in the 35-60 age range, automatically get whatever they want from me. I gave her a cigarette, and she said that I looked Irish, which is a nice way of saying, I'm sorry you were born without pigment.
After I spoke back to her, she asked where I was from and what I did, and it was on. I told her that I was in town for an event and that I helped plan it, and that's when she told me about her big plan--or rather, her big comeback. Some background: Italy was once one of the biggest fashion designers in the world. She told me to look her up, but unfortunately when you Google "Italy fashion designer," the results are not very narrowed. Unfortunately, a while back, Italy's luck had changed. At this point in the conversation, I had moved from standing in front of her to leaning against the brick wall beside her to eventually taking a seat next to her on the pavement outside of 7-11. As she was lighting up the second cigarette I gave her, she said, "You want to listen to my story because if you walk away, you'll see me on TV in a year and say to yourself, Goddamn, that bitch knew what she was talking about." Little did she know, I had no intention of walking away. Like that little girl in the AT&T commercials, I wanted more. I wanted more. I want it now.
She told me about her downfall: one night, a gang came to her house and pulled her out of it. They beat her and beat her and then told her she could never go back into her house. So, naturally, when a gang tells you what to do, you do it. She didn't go back into her house. With strict orders from the game, Italy didn't get any of her stuff so she took to the streets. When she returned to check on her house, it had been burned down. With no other leads, she assumed it was the gang. I guess I would have thought it was the gang, too, but I also probably would not have left my house to begin with. That's neither here nor there. Since the initial gang attack, Italy's house was burned down nine more times. Again, I'm unsure how your house gets burned down an additional nine times, but it did.
I pulled out my phone to start taking notes because there was a lot of information being thrown my way, and I was too deep in the game at this point to walk away. Occasionally, Italy would reach into her bag which was full of files and papers, most of the time not pulling anything out... just doing collateral to make sure everything was there, I guess. Except one time she did completely divert away from the story and told me how she was going to sue the subway system for emotional damages, which actually makes a lot of sense. If she's successful, I am probably going to sue my local metro system for emotional damages as well.
I truly felt sympathy for Italy because I hate the idea of anyone getting beaten up for no reason. I hated that she had it all and it was taken away from her so quickly. I hated that her sister lives with Bon Jovi now (oh, I didn't mention that before? Yeah, apparently that's a thing, too) and that she's making no moves to bring Italy  into her Livin on a Prayer life. I hated it all.
But that's when the story took a turn. I'm sitting there on pins and needles (considering that it was the streets of Downtown LA, I might have actually been sitting on a needle. God only knows), waiting for what happens next when Italy says, verbatim, "But it wasn't the gang who burned my house down 9 times. You see, there's a mysterious incinerator under my house, and every couple of months, it sets itself on fire and burns the house down again." Classic pit-of-Hell-plot-device. I was eating it up. It took me back to my preteen days of watching the short-lived soap opera Passions on NBC, when Charity was sent to the fires of Hell conveniently located in someone's basement. At that point, I think Italy realized that she had told me enough, and that I was pretty much hooked, so she launched into her plan.
She asked me if I would help her promote her comeback (duh) where she would walk from LA to Virginia (what?!) where her mother lives, and she wanted to market it in the same style that Oprah publicized her and Gayle's road trip across America (signed, sealed, delivered). All that she wanted was someone to tell her story on Twitter because that's how everyone communicates these days. I really don't know exactly what she needed my help with because it sounded like she had everything planned out. I wanted on board though because by the time the conversation was over, I wondered for a moment myself if this woman might actually end up on television. Because I lack any professional credentials, I gave her my email and Twitter handle (as if she has access to the Internet). I wished her the best, and I almost shook her hand, but I remembered that at one point mid-conversation that she reached up inside of her skirt... and I don't play that game.
It's been almost two weeks now, and I haven't heard from Italy. I imagine she's still out there, hustlin' the streets looking for people to listen to her story whilst stifling her rage toward Bon Jovi. She might be back at her house, if it's burned itself down again that is. Wherever she is, a piece of her is lingering with me, and one day when I turn on the news and see that large woman in her puffy jacket and mini skirt on the television, I can say that I knew Italy back when: in that awkward interim between her first rise to stardom and her second.

Live Blog: Group Project

Group projects are the pits, you know? Someone is always doing the majority of the work, while at least two other people are sitting around not doing anything. One person is begrudgingly holding back the desire to kill the one proactive person and the two bodies of dead weight, and well, it's just gets complicated. Teamwork is apparently one of the cornerstones to life, and if that's any signification of how the rest of life is going to go, then... well... we're all screwed.
Graduate school is especially hard because you think you're smarter than everyone else, including the people that you have class with. The Georgetown air doesn't help because that makes you feel even more elitist. It's tough. So, that makes group projects harder than they've ever been before. The first week we collaborated together, one girl felt entirely left out, and the entire group got frigid cold with akwardness. Yikes! The second week, I felt like everyone ignored my ideas, and then I left class without speaking to anyone. Double Yikes! Now, as a class, we're discussing the final idea that we will present as a class, and it's getting heated. I'm coming to you live:

9:20pm: Emerald Mini Dress talked to me before class about how she felt shunned from her group and bullied out of the idea she actually created--she just started speaking, and I was pretty sure she was going to go Sarah Palin rogue on us. Crisis averted.

9:23pm: Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat looks like she might be constipated. We have officially found the bully in question.

9:26pm: I have officially started transforming my scribbled notes into this blog. You're welcome.

9:32pm: The professor and I are in a throat clearing battle. If I'm being honest, he's wiping the floor with me.

9:33pm: I'm seeing an alliance forming among Emerald Mini Dress, The Pastel Aryan, and Established Coffee Drinker.

9:35pm: Everyone agrees that "life in motion" is cliche and worthless. I think someone is escorting the girl who mentioned it out of the class room. This is a classroom of distinguished public relations professionals--no room here for cliche.

9:37pm: Millenial zing! 3 people laugh. I come up with a formidable idea and no one likes it. No one really knows what's going on, but everyone feels like they're right... how very Washington D.C. The professor seems potentially unimpressed with all ideas that are being given. Or maybe he just wants to go home. I understand your feels, bro.

9:41pm: My classroom crush just gave me props. #swoon #SMITTENBARF

9:43pm: The Pastel Aryan is going into something about maps and stuff, but all I want to see is Emerald Mini Dress and Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat engage in fisticuffs in front of the class. I, personally, would put money on Emerald Mini Dress based on her audacity to wear an emerald mini dress alone. Only one chair separates them... God, the tension is unreal, y'all.

9:45pm: Established Coffee Drinker/classroom crush just explained why we should never support Comcast, even though they're kind of great. Whatever you say, Established Coffee Drinker. #PRKISSES

9:48pm: Photosesh.

9:49pm: UPDATE: It appears that Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat is drumming up an alliance against Emerald Mini Dress. It's becoming less and less like Survivor and potentially like West Side Story. I'm eating it up.

9:50pm: Beth Jarvis has a fantastic new haircut! Snaps for Beth Jarvis y'all!

9:52pm: I came up with a cool idea, and The Pastel Aryan was NOT having it, so I came up with a new slogan for the car company we're representing, "If you don't have a car, you don't deserve a car." It got moderate to high laughter. I feel accomplished. In other news, if a real West Side Story type rumble breaks out, I'm going to push him in the middle. #GangViolence

9:55pm: Kob's Moving Castle is speaking. No, seriously. That's his Facebook name.

10:00pm When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Becky comes to me.

10:02pm: So, I just dropped a truth bomb and said that I didn't understand what anyone was saying or where we were headed, which in my mind, sounded elitist and powerful, but it actually translated into something more like, "I'm not paying attention--will someone give me a recap?" So, they did, and I guess I lost. Touché, class.

10:05pm: Krystal has literally turned her back to the class. She's looking for snacks, I believe, but in the process, she's really giving off that "screw you guys, I'm going home" vibe. I suppose that happens sometimes.

10:07pm: Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat has officially fallen into her Resting Bitch Face (RBF). She's over it, and you know what? Maybe I'm over it, too. If I were a Survivor swing vote or the one wielding the knife in this rumble, I'm not sure who I would side with. OOOH GIRL, I was wrong. This is not Survivor or West Side Story. There are notes being passed with intermittent giggles. This is Mean Girls. Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat will here on forward simply be referred to as Regina.

10:11pm: Somehow, we've turned from conversation about cars to ping pong, particularly beating your boss at ping pong. I think it's kind of like revenge porn, except less illegal. #RevengePong

10:14pm: The Pastel Aryan totes just blasted Emerald Mini Dress. Though she doesn't have many supporters, I don't think we would vote her out first. She's playing a solid social game of not talking when people interrupt her.

10:16pm: EMERALD GREEN DRESS JUST TOOK ONE OF THE TWO POSITIONS TO LEAD THE CLASS PRESENTATION ON ALL THESE IDEAS!! TOLD YOU GUYS!! #SURVIVOR

10:17pm: Regina looks like she is literally about to plant a picture of herself in The Burn Book, make copies, throw it around the school, and get Coach Carr suspended.

10:20pm: Class is over. I just referenced Sophisticated Coffee Drinker aloud without knowing I was only 2 feet away. #SMITTENBARF and NOT in the good way.

So, there you have it. That's the quick and dirty of what happens when you put 20-40 somethings in a room and tell them to be collaborative and creative. We all get buck nasty, and then I take notes on it and decide to turn it into blog form. Maybe we should all work on our social skills a bit more. Maybe Emerald Mini Dress just needs to realize that hoop earrings were Regina's thing after all and let her take all the glory whether she deserves it or not. Or maybe... just maybe, I need to start taking notes in class over pertinent topics instead of you know, the sociology of Georgetown students.