Hang on, Let me Pack My Stride-of-Pride Survival Kit

How do I look in my Hater Blockerz?

Some people have elaborate collections of agates they paint with clear nail polish from the North Shore, bars of organic soap from the East Coast, or locks of celebrity hair.  Some people have collections of stamps, mini-McDonald’s beanie babies, ceramic elephants, freaky ass doll clowns, Christmas ornaments, or Humble plates.  I have heard stories about the weirdest and freakiest collections.  Uncovering collections is like uncovering someone’s freakiest bed fantasy.  They really dispose someone’s deepest needs, and likings.  On a good day, the only thing I’m collecting is my own personal bullshit I deal with on a daily basis. Well, that and the best collection of all; a collection of walks of shame.

I imagine walks of shame like raising a child.  When your little chap gets a ‘C’ in high school; you don’t know if you should be proud he’s passing or saddened by his lack of effort.  Walks of Shame are the same way.  I endure in one, and I’m not sure if you should bask in the glory of seeing an old lady drive by in her station wagon while I’m wearing Jessica Simpson pumps, or if I should slap myself in the face and sleep for the remainder of the month in embarrassment.

I embrace the art.  The only thing you should be worried about with walks of shame is if you aren’t having them.  They are the perfect excuse to skip church, wave at people like you are the pageant queen of a parade, and utilize for a fabulous story later on.  Embracing life’s little mistakes, is the only way to get through life sparing yourself of mysterious wrinkles and surprise zits.

Once I got older and hopefully less mature, like around the age of twenty-three, chivalrous hook-ups started to offer me a ride home in their brand new Jetta or their mother’s Kia. That’s why I learned to embrace walks of shame during my early years of college, when my friends didn’t have sales jobs to pay their car payment.  Because much like taught breast skin, and effortless metabolism, the next minute, poof, funny stories and shameful jaunts, are gone.

All those “nifty” articles about making my own ‘walk of shame’ kit are complete bogus.  They almost never worked (except when I packed my Clearasil wipes) and ended up using them to wipe my ass when they guy I was staying with didn’t have toilet paper.  When I’m getting ready to go out in the town, the last thing to cross my mind is considering shoving a pair of disposable flip-flops, Dior eyeliner, and a multi-vitamin in my clutch.  In fact, the only thing I’m thinking about is my license and my five dollars for a successful evening of keg beer or two-for-ones.  College kids are the most under-prepared human beings on this planet besides squirrels who run into oncoming traffic.  I’m not going to begin packing a ‘walk of shame’ kit while I’m rushing to make it to the shuttle bus to the local dive bar.  Therefore, my entire collection of walks of shame went completely un-prepared and un-announced.  That’s why they threaten shamefulness. I can successfully look back now and understand those shameful strolls were a mere learning lesson; and I always smiled at my passing counterparts and during Halloween, carried a big enough purse to shove my Superwoman cape in come morning, and folded my hair on the left side of my neck, where the hickey was.

One of my favorite walks of shame happened after a glorious evening at a local bar my junior year after Taryn and I told an innocent, yet creepy gentleman we were going to school to be pediatric brain surgeons.  He was so intrigued by our future as non-gold digging nymphos; he stuck around for round two of ‘Are These Broads Really Serious?’ Or as I like to call it; a drunk-girl version of ‘Who Wants to be A Self-Made Millionaire?’  He didn’t want to ask the audience, he wanted to listen to use compulsively lie about our identity, values, and dreams.

“I want to be a pediatric brain surgeon because old people hardly have any life to live, and children have so much life and opportunities before them…” Taryn began, waving her hands in the air and tossing her blonde bangs around.

“I had eight hours of lab today,” I announced.  In reality, I had arrived to my Communications class fifteen minutes late, only to find out it had been cancelled.

“High five,” the man said and lifted his arm.

I basked in my victory.

Later, the guy I had been checking out for the past three months in the on-campus restaurant, arrived.  His name was James. He was the Assistant hockey captain and resembled a hairier version of Chris Messina in a way that he had a receding hairline but enough scruff and pouty lip to make up for a single fault.  I had an inner fantasy that I wanted to cook him Bruschetta just like Julie Powell in Julie and Julia.  We would eat it in our New York apartment and he would lick little tomato chunks and basil from the corners of my mouth; rich from sampling the Trader Joes olive oil. He was a blue-eyed husky hunk and I wanted to include him in every one of my extensive Chris Messina fantasies.  Sans whipping out my pediatric future lie, we immediately hit it off,

“I have four questions I need to ask you before we even think about dating.” I said like a crazy physco path.  I had made a list before I left the house of all my top qualities in a man and had full intentions on finding the right man for me by scrolling through the personal list in person, like an interview, only creeper and more intrusive.  Unfortunately for the general public my internal dating list became my new dating tactic.  I considered it a vocal Match.com.  I was tired of dating a guy for a few weeks and completely wasting my time when I found out he hated something I physically and emotionally needed him to love, like steak.  Thus, ruining our chances as a compatible couple in the future.

“Ok,” he laughed nervously and leaned forward.  I give him credit for acting into it.

“Red Sox or Yankees?”

“Red Sox.”

Good, this proved his was not a self-conceded prick that was hated by his own mother.  He had passed the first question.

“Correct answer. Next question; Taco Bell or Taco Johns?”

“Taco Bell.”

This kid was on a roll.  This proved he had quality taste in food and we had prime first date material on our hands.

“You passed the second question. Ok, number three.” I shoved three fingers in his face, “Hockey or basketball?”

“Oh, hockey.”

YES. I conducted a mini-celebration in my chest.  This man was so perfect for me.  Hockey proved he wasn’t a white boy who thought he was black.  In return, I hoped he felt the same way about me.

“Good job! Number four; Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Aniston?”

“Mmhmm, Jennifer.”

I nearly fainted. He was perfect. I knew many would never be willing to date me after a bizarre interview session like that happened.  Regardless, he wanted to walk me home. He must have been dry for months by this point.  Therefore, I decided he either felt bad for me, or thought I was going to start interviewing the prostitutes down the street from the bar, in hopes I would find ‘the one’ if he did not.  We took it upon ourselves to walk all the way from the bar, to his little house across the street from campus.  To get an idea how long our walk was, I’m pretty sure I could have shared with him my entire life story, including some of my future aspirations and an in-depth list of my favorite songs since child birth if we hadn’t been so busy gazing into each others eyes.  Thank God I was wearing my Aerosoles.

The next morning was pretty delightful.  I had told him the night before I had to get up early to go to a Vikings football game the next afternoon and he wanted me to wake him up to say goodbye.  This was cute because I was going to the game with Leo, the guy I thought I fell more in love with than Shark Week, and the fact I could momentarily forget about him because of another man – was pure amusement. That mistake of judgment of course, had been a glitch and I was sure to never let it happen again.

I was really glad James and his preference in sports, women, and food had softened the blow of my excitement to spend some time with Lance.  Leo and I were in that terrible phase where were trying to be friends and I wasn’t sure if I could handle the same captivation I felt during a fireworks show (equal to the one Taylor Swift felt when she looked at Taylor Lautner with his shirt off) whenever I was with Leo.

The entire night after I announced my new major as a pediatric brain surgeon, James told me he was going to take me on a date and teach me how to stop in my ice skates like a hockey player.  I was so busy imagining him skating behind me, and constantly giving me demonstrations where he would stop and spray icy glitter in my face – I had nearly completely forgotten about Leo and I’s Vikings date.  Leo was like a black man; he couldn’t skate and he probably couldn’t swim.  I believe that to be Leo’s inner reason for disliking both sports, and probably hating Michael Phelps.

Of course, I woke James when my alarm went off.

I looked in the mirror across his room at my frizzy hairdo,

“I look like a character from ‘Where the Wild Things Are.’” I said and patted my head.

“You look, beautiful.” He pushed my hair behind my cheekbones while he kissed me, his hands heating up my chin and lower neck.  The way he kissed me was how I imagined Jake Gyllenhaal would kiss me if I were Jennifer Aniston in ‘The Good Girl.’  His kiss was forbidden and naughty, but sweet and innocent at the same time.  I floated away for a moment, silently blessed him, and got up to leave. I had finally found a man whom loved me in the morning, even when I look like Tzippy. Just like Max had, James stared into my yellow-green eyes without blinking once and conquered the monster inside of me.

I borrowed his extra large North Face jacket and crawled out of his house like a creature from the underground.  It was so bright outside, for the first time I got a sense of what it was like when I was birthed from the wome.  I was wearing a short black dress and James’ North Face completely covered it up.  I loved wearing boy clothes; they made me feel protected and sexy.  My hair felt longer in his jacket, my legs felt skinnier, and my wrists felt daintier.  My long tan legs were protruding from the North Face drawstring middle, and the steel bottoms of my blown out Aerosoles scrapped against the concrete as I trudged home.  His clothes and the morning made me feel like a brand new woman.

The walk wasn’t that long; I had to cruise down a side street and a short section of sidewalk to my on-campus apartment.  But low and behold, an old lady in her station wagon drove by my un-classy existence.  She shook her fist at me. I smiled and debated blowing her a kiss.  Once I arrived back at the apartment, I had a short hour to get crazy, uncomfortable hot for my “date” with Leo to the football game.  I wanted him to look at me and see his future wife.  When I walked towards his car, I wanted him to see me in a white dress walking down the aisle.  I wanted a miracle.  I tried to look like I wasn’t trying too hard and wore a cute pair of jeans with a zip up, and a Vikings baseball cap.

Leo text me when he was outside in his Lexus, waiting.  However, he didn’t tell me the ‘in his Lexus’ part. I was just imagining his jeaned legs rubbing up against the heated leather interior. So, I ran to grab my wallet with the Vikings tickets so I could head out the door. I wanted to look as graceful as a synchronized swimmer the first minute Leo saw me run from my apartment.  And gracefulness was not going to be conquered if I was having a small panic attack. I couldn’t find my wallet.  I started digging in weird places it would never be, like my shower catty, and my microwave.  I started worrying Leo had left to go get a McGriddle in anger of my failed effort at timeliness.  Of course, it failed to enter my mind Vikings tickets on the goal line were far more important than the dollar menu on a Saturday morning. For a moment, I wished I were Asian. I had never met an Asian who was fashionably late.  I needed to start being timelier.  My mom always told me timing said a lot about a person.  If one was always late, it proved they didn’t give a shit about anyone else.  I didn’t want to be that type of person, or a disappointment to my mother.  I surely gave a shit about Leo.  I wanted to prove this to him, without having to say a word.

In the midst of making my room look like the set of ‘Twister,’ I realized something; the snippet in the previous evening where I had forgot to grab my wallet before buzzing out of James’ front door.  Shit. It wasn’t like I had left my morals there either, because I could get those another time.  I had left the tickets, which would eventually open the revolving doors into the Metrodome for Leo and I’s awesome day-date and a possibly rekindled saga of romance.

Retrieving the tickets and a re-kindled romance would be simple really; I’d just have to tell Lance to take a little detour down some side roads so I could wander into another guys house to get my wallet.  He would never suspect I had slept there the night before!

I hadn’t seen Leo in a long time, so crawling in his car was refreshing.  The scent of his Fierce cologne seeped into my nostrils and made me a little woozy.  I never knew such a gay-man perfume could do that to me. “Hey toots!” I yelled as I crawled into his super hot ride and slide across the seat on the heated leather like a fish out of water, only less sporadic.

“Hey!” Leo was wearing a zip up and jeans, but to me, it was a king’s cape and crown.  I had forgotten how much I liked him.  All of his physical features fit like a puzzle in my emotional heart.   Connecting them was more satisfying than putting together a 500-piece puzzle of a rainforest. Therefore, I was getting really excited to make him drive to my “friends house” so I could retrieve my wallet and pause the puzzle fitting process.

“Could we do a drive-by at my…friend’s house?  I left something there, I need.”  I didn’t know why I wasn’t specifying what it was I needed.  Maybe I thought he would immediately fill in the blank with a nail file, or better yet – my Snuggie or towel robe; something as non-sexual as possible.

“Sure. Tell me where to go!”  I had forgotten how chipper Leo always was.  He flashed me one of those Crest Whitening smiles and I imagined myself licking his teeth.

We drove like the happy couple we were not to James’ house, a pile of white and brown shingled shit on the corner.  I dove out of Leo’s car without explanation and ran to the front of the house.  James answered the door, looking like he’d just crawled out of a deep slumber.  His unshaven face was full of sheet marks.  I tried to use my curvy body to cover him up so maybe Leo would mistake him for all the very hairy college woman I obviously associate myself with on Saturday nights.

“Miss me already?” James answered rather coyly for how early it was.

“Hi! Um, I forgot my wallet…could I get that from you?”

“Oh you mean, with these?”  James waved the tickets in front of my face like a brother would wave Reese’s Butter Cups in your face three days before Halloween.  James wasn’t my puzzle piece, so that annoyed me.

“Yes! Wow, you’re really great!  Thanks for the hospitality and stuff!”  I realized I was yelling, but like a Tickle Me Elmo or a Furby, I couldn’t make it stop.  I snatched the tickets from his fingers and he leaned down to kiss me good-bye.  If Leo hadn’t been in his Lexus ten feet away, adjusting the bass on the Tupac song that was playing, I wouldn’t have been so fidgety, and the kiss would have been pretty sweet.  Regrettably, I was acting like I was on a downward spiral from a Salvia high.

“Ok, bye!” I turned on one heal like McLovin in Superbad, and rushed for the Lexus.

I dove in and took a deep breath, trying not to look at the weird expression on James’ face from his perch on his ghetto front step.

“What was that all about?” Leo asked, looking at me with a creased brow and pursed lips.  I debated pressing my forefinger on the cute little rosy cushions of his lips and tell him to ‘Shhh. Be silent, be still.’

Instead, I said,

“Huh, she was weird.”


By my junior year, I had a weird college-swagger-complex about everything I did, a weird grasp on how life worked, and a swollen ego the size of an Egyptian pyramid.  I would walk into Subway and expect everyone to know I was hung over and wanted my sandwich, not toasted, and with no cheese.  I would drive down the highway and expect everyone to know I had spent three hours in lab drawing spirals on my College Ruled notebook, and they needed to “get out the way bitch.”  I felt everyone understood walks of shame were completely normal and expected.  The saddest part was I thought I was the Vin Diesel of Sunday mornings and I could handle everything and anything that came my way. I didn’t consider the fact I wasn’t bald, hairless, and ripping neck muscles.  I should have never compared myself to Vin Diesel, especially on a ripe Sunday morning. Therefore, it wasn’t until Taryn and I dressed up as slutty referees together, where we decided we really didn’t know a damned thing about anything filed under the word “swagger” and “swollen ego.”

We were so excited to prance around looking like sluts in our high tops and fake tans; we thought it would be kosher and kind of cute to go home with the same guy.  This, of course, never worked.  I don’t care how valuable my wing woman was; when I went home with one guy – there was going to be some kind of mis-communication in the midst of it all and a price to pay.  Especially because the guy we went home with was a running back on the varsity football team.  I was proudly a jersey chaser.  He was the perfect blend of cool confidence and suave shyness.  You might as well have set a piece of medium well New York strip on my leg and let me watch the juice trickle down my thigh.

Our awkward plan ended up working out pretty nicely.  We both lay in bed with John, Taryn punched a hole in his saran-wrapped window so she could set her cell phone in the window sill, and we ended up talking about high school the whole night.  It was so cute I wanted to vomit, on myself.  Not exactly where we both imagined the night going, but you win some and you sit some out on the bench.

After we all fell asleep, I noticed Taryn get up to go to the bathroom and never come back.  I found her lying on the bathroom floor two hours later.  She was so pathetic and weak.  I pushed her to the couch and we fell asleep spooning together in their family room.

I can only imagine in my dreams the scene that was the next morning.  The entire football team was coming to their house for a team brunch before their football banquet at the fitness building.  Lucky for them, they had two chicks already dressed as referees drooling on each other, so they were covered.  Unluckily for us, there wasn’t a game that afternoon and they didn’t need anyone to call a first down, a touchdown, or a man down.

I opened one eye to the scene and surveyed it for one second before I knew Taryn and I were dead meatloaf.

“Psstt.  Hey bitch, wake up.”  I shoved her and half the skull and crossbones Snuggie drooped off our well-exposed thighs.

Taryn later told me she would have rather died in a monsoon of Garter snakes than witness a slew of men our age, dressed in suits and ties, standing kitty corner to their immediate families fill the same room we were currently occupying. And she’s more scarred of snakes then Princess Mia’s horse on the Princess Diaries II.  She usually went up in hives and thrashed around like Emily Rose whenever she saw a cluster of them.  Therefore, this was a scary time for us.

I knew a few guys from the team had seen us that morning, because I woke up to a few dudes poking our sides and this conversation,

“Hmmm, what have we got ourselves here?  Johnny, did you get us strippers for this morning?”

“What, they’re still here?”

Once they were all huddled in the kitchen like some kind of football team or something, Taryn and I made a beeline for the front door.  Fresh air and freedom had never tasted better on my cotton-mouthed lips.  I wanted Vitamin water and a pew so I could pray.

The scene only got worse.  We both didn’t have any shoes because we had forgotten them in the front porch during the happenings of our escape.  I really needed to stop forgetting clothing items at random men’s houses.  I was running out of booze money, and couldn’t utilize shopping sprees as a valid excuse to replace them.  I had various different types of maple leaves stuck to my tall socks by the time we reached the first major roadway we had to cross.  Unfortunately, we attended a very Catholic private school, and it was a lovely Sunday afternoon.  I think I saw a nun cruise by in a Corolla, but sometimes I pretend I’m still really drunk in the morning when I see something of that amplitude destructing my view of reality.

Our mid-morning jaunt confused many patrons because the closest football game was probably somewhere in Wisconsin and the closest strip club was definitely five miles out, downtown.  I was equally confused, because I was still living – despite really wanting to breathe my last breath.

After numerous catcalls and debating tripping Taryn on the yellow dotted line, we ran up the street and passed another major roadway.  This roadway wasn’t so bad, because I was already numb with embarrassment and shame from the forehead down from passing three beforehand.  The next obstacle we were faced with involved being homeless and was worse than an unexpected speed bump if I’m drinking hot Pikes coffee from Starbucks. We didn’t have our room keys.  We had to travel farther to our friend’s house to retrieve them, and hope they were home to toss us our dignity in steel key form.

I knew Louis and Clark had it better than Taryn and I did, and for the first time I felt jealous of someone that lived in the 1800’s.  They were excited about their journey and adventurous at best.  They were traveling the world, after all – discovering new ways of life and bonding between swooping rows of their canoe paddles.  In no way was I feeling adventurous and excited after drinking Wondrous Punch and blowing my referee whistle in people’s faces all night.  At least Louis and Clark probably had a very stable relationship where they could tell each other anything.  I was no way in a stable relationship with Taryn at the moment enough to appreciate our ‘adventure,’ especially after she had farted on me in her sleep all night.

When we arrived at our friend Paula’s house, we resorted to throwing leftover beer cans at her window to wake her from her hung-over slumber.  Waking someone up from a drunk-sleep was like waking Charlie Sheen after he calls an escort a whore and locks her in a closet.  She came down looking like she wanted to string us both up by Dental Floss, bury us in a snow bank, and handed us our keys,

“You guy’s make me so sad to be alive.”

We were in business.

We made it home after only a few more cat calls and maple leaf stems borrowed so far up into my socks I thought I had gotten my foot stuck in a gutter. I also had misplaced my whistle.  I always look back on this night when I’m having a really hard day.  The story usually makes my day ten volumes and five pride points brighter.  Especially when I discovered I put myself through that, especially when I spent the night under a skull and crossbones’ Snuggie, next to my friend Taryn.  No wonder everyone thought we were lesbians.


The street running through our college had the same butterscotch sweet persona as a street Katherine Heigl would live on in one of her many romantic comedies.  The houses were big, the roads were wide, and the people living in them were assholes.  Summit Avenue is the type of place old people walk their huskies in large groups and people run down the grass median with no shoes and 80’s slit short shorts; which, offended me to the eighth degree, and more.  Along with the turkey before it’s cooked, I don’t need to see any man thighs in the morning; especially when the only thing marinating them is nervous sweat, stuffing, and prominent goose bumps.  Squirrels frolic across the road as station wagons slowly putter along the avenue and the tall trees blow in the wind in rhythm to ‘A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes’ in Cinderella.  Summit Avenue really is a beautiful place.

Taryn and I found it hilarious to join the Summit Avenue hubbub that was a Sunday morning on our many epic excursions home, and violently polluted the perfect air with our existence.  Usually, we picked side streets to lead us to our natural habitat, or Punch Pizza, but this time and in celebration of it being Palm Sunday, we took the high rode via Summit Avenue.  It wasn’t so bad if I hadn’t failed to pack myself the proper Walk of Shame kit.  Because I wasn’t anywhere near concerned about being prepared, I was sporting someone else’s XXL Columbia jacket to cover up my sequins tank from Express, and my heels were slung on my pinky finger like a slutty accessory.

“You are an evil little hobbit for making us sleep there last night,” Taryn garbled, like a Hobbit, as we crossed over Summit and dodged a few lingering squirrels.  Squirrels were everywhere. It was the brim of fall, so naturally, the squirrels were very busy building their leaf nests and stocking up on acorns. Taryn and I were getting in the way of their intense labor.  Clearly, these squirrel minions weren’t under the government Obama was running.  They were all working intensely for their keep.

“I didn’t have a choice.  You were locked in Adam’s room the entire night,” I countered back like a little bitch.  Adam was a high school guy friend of ours.  The high school friendship transferred into a college friendship, which meant they were mutually sexually active.

“That was completely against my own will.”

“Excuses are like assholes…”

Taryn snorted and almost tripped on a rut.  That’s what she get’s for being a sweetie bitch bitch.  We had been down this road before, figuratively and literally.  The tolerance of our walks of shame was blissfully running out of jet fuel.  A flock of geese had ignorantly flown into our stride of pride engines and we weren’t anywhere near the Hudson for a successful landing.  Therefore, the duration of our walk included lots of complaining and moaning.  We sounded like a CNN newscast.  For one, I had blisters upon blisters from my patent leather Xhilaration pumps, and Taryn couldn’t stop complaining about her bowel movements.  We had become completely numb to the fact people were driving by in their Jeep Cherokees from Church with large palms hanging out their window and blowing in the breeze.

“Maybe we should go to the night church service.” Taryn suggested.

“I’m going to need more than a night service after this walk of shame. And a band aid.”

“I’m having burning farts. God help me.”

We eventually arrived in our back yard.  I stopped, stared at the back of our shitty duplex and praised the Lord.  And luckily for us, our nice portly neighbor, who was also a father, a son, and probably a best friend.  He was raking his yard. His black lab was running around next to him, biting the ground and rolling in his own shit.  I loved the dopey, selfless demeanor of a lab.  The dog ran a zig-zagged pattern in the yard, lifting his big paws and slapped the fall earth, bouncing like he was bound with springs.  He ran up to me and shoved his gooey snout in my coochie cooch.

Our neighbor didn’t seem to be raking any leaves so this turned me suspicious.  He usually had a purpose for being outside, but that morning struck my funny bone.  I always had intentions he thought I was a nice, responsible woman.  On most accounts, I liked to set a good example for my neighbors.  I always shut my blinds when I moisturized and never tried to pretend I was best friends with their dog.  The moment standing behind my house at 9 A.M. threatened to shatter his positive visual of me as a neighbor.

“Well, good morning ladies!” he yelled.

“Good morning!” Taryn said with the same excitement as if had just told her mother she peed the bed.

“Don’t worry ladies, I won’t tell your mothers!”

This frightened me.  He didn’t have a personal relationship with my mother, where he would have to worry about disposing valuable information.  Besides the fact I blew my cover by writing a book about my occasionally scary life, my mother did not need to know about this morning.   I was about to shadow all of the positive light I had shown on my relationship with my neighbor and I couldn’t believe I was exposing this side of me, the side that was outdoorsy, slutty, and not very crafty.

Then, as if in slow motion, his son came around the corner, shirtless, and holding a lacrosse stick. Which was conveniently erect from his hips and pointing at Taryn and I.  I looked at Taryn, “Who me?”  Then I bashfully fluttered my eyelashes and fanned my face before he could see.

His name was Preston.  Naturally, my roommates referred to him as Hot Preston because we were original and descriptive.  Kind of like a Hot Pocket only better, and with less calories. He was the hot-neighbor-kid-fantasy everybody wants to stalk, get their rocks off on, and occasionally bump into on the way to something positive; like a job interview or a double date.  Just so we could have solid points of conversation when he was picking up leaves in his yard and fixing machines.  A few weeks before, he pumped Taryn and I’s tired before we went on our bi-weekly period bike ride.  We watched him bend over that bike pump and listened to him talk to us about eating Oreo ice cream.  I thought I was taken right from my PG-13, safe lifestyle and set right into a soft porno with my neighbor.  It was awesome and I will never forget it.

We usually watched him play lacrosse from our perch in my attic window.  It was creepy and completely safe.  Now, we were standing in our backyard – exposed and vulnerable. Despite being open to the elements of complete shame, Hot Preston waved at us and flashed his million-dollar smile.  I would have rather time traveled and ended up naked in Jamba Juice than be standing there at that very moment.  My fantasy about telling him how I had just landed the dream interview, while wearing my dress suit from Macy’s, flew out the back door, and I needed to find the back door quick, before I turned into a pumpkin.

Awkwardly, Taryn and I walked into our house, with our heads down and without saying a single word to Hot Preston.  He stood in his yard staring at us questionably.  He spun the lacrosse stick and the frayed tape fluttered in the morning breeze.  Once we were inside, we completely exploded, screaming obscenities and wishing we’d gone in the front door or better, had been wearing more clothes.

I warmed up a Hot Pocket and we watched Hot Preston play lacrosse with himself and the roof, from the comfort of my own window.  It was my best decision since deciding to open my eyes that morning, watch Teen Mom re-runs all afternoon, and consume another Hot Pocket by early dusk.

I never again apologized for my misfortunes in life.  Mistakes and hard luck tell one helluva story, and creeping on Hot Preston was the most satisfying activity since dodging a banana on Mario Kart. I wanted to re-live my Hot Preston over, and over, again.

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University of Saint Thomas graduate. Minnesota-bred and happy to talk about the weather any time you’d like! Strongly believes any situation can be bettered by a slice of generously buttered toast or Phil Dunphy. Would get arrested to touch Justin Timberlake’s face. Always trying to be a better person by not wishing horrible karma on people driving slow in the fast lane. Hear more: @twitter @instagram


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One Comment on “Hang on, Let me Pack My Stride-of-Pride Survival Kit”

  1. June 26, 2011 at 11:17 pm #

    I wanted to thank you for this great read!! I definitely enjoying every little bit of it I have you bookmarked to check out new stuff you post

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