All posts tagged humor

Gone Swimming (don’t know if I’ll be back)

Published 10 August 2012 by Miss Dilly

Itching and regretting are great ways to wrap up a night.   I realize that could get very dirty, very fast but I’m afraid today this is not a sex story.  I know many of you might have a life on Saturday night, but I had no plans, no prospects and no work last weekend.  So around 8:30 I decide that I wanted to go swimming.  I choose a spot I had never been before.  I walked out the door and down the block to catch a bus and it crossed my mind that I may have forgotten to lock the apartment.  I should have gone back while I had the chance.

From the bus it was a twenty minute walk to get to the lake.  The sun was setting, the sky was beautiful, the weather was comfortable and I was looking forward to a swim.  I get down to the water and there’s people swimming about, eating picnics, tossing a Frisbee, a classic summer scene.  I sat down on the outskirts watching, okay lets me honest, glaring.  I wanted these people to go home.  Wasn’t it time for them to fall asleep on the couch watching Disney movies with their hyped up kids only to be woken up the dog licking their faces instead of their long-detached-yet-what-they-believed-to-be-suitable mate?

At some point I decided the time was right.  I stripped to my bathing suit. Went down to the water, and waded in quickly. The water was the perfect temperature after warming all day.  As soon as I started swimming a tornado of black bugs swarmed my face.  I splashed water around and they backed off some, but stay close enough that when my arms tired they could pounce on my soft, vulnerable flesh. At the rate I was going, it would be a matter of seconds for that to happen.  Somehow my legs pushed me forward, as I got farther out the number of insects died down, leaving a few brave ones hoping for their big break.  I felt a gentle caress on my leg, and then another and then something fuzzy and I’m kicking around as if Bruce himself, the almighty Jaws, was biting my leg.  All I can think of is Creature of the Black Laguna grabbing me and pulling me underwater to his grotto. So I attempt to avoid the seaweed and god knows what else by planking in the water (I’m, like, totes, like, cool – so why not kill two birds with one stone?).

My experience exactly!

There was a wooden dock in the middle of the water, only reachable by swimming. It may have been my only salvation, so I swam another 50 feet and reached it.  There were ducks following me and the bugs had returned.  I climb out, hoping I had bested them both.  Alas, duck poop coated the entire surface of the dock and the bugs only seemed to be bigger and meaner on top.  I pace, trying to not to be eaten alive, I think maybe there is a corner of paradise somewhere on this island.  I look down and two large black insects have landed on my shoulder and chest.  I blow and flick and jump around, utilizing all my knowledge of outdoor survival skills in one grand swoop.  I decide it’s safer in the water than out. That, and to get back I had to swim.  I wobbled down the step latter, turned to gently easy myself in and do a face-plant right through the cloud of bugs to the duck poop infested waters where the lake’s hands-y seaweed feels me up.  I come up sputtering and in full motion.  There was no time to lose.  I swam back, continuously flipping from my stomach, to my right side, to my back, to left side trying to avoid the seaweed touching me in one place too long.  Had anyone observed me I probably looked like I was trying to launch myself to space via aqua-duck method, if such a thing existed.  I finally got enough close to shore to stand, as I dragged myself out of the water I stubbed my toe on the loose rocks and trip once again reuniting me with my  perpetrator.  A couple that was standing not ten feet away audibly laughs.

I sit and air dry for a few minutes reflecting on my near death experience, admittedly a bit sad that my life didn’t flash before my eyes.  I decided I wanted to take off my suit. So I get up and go the restroom. As I’m changing, I look at the inside of the bathing suit top and it has a layer of green goo covering the material.  And then in the bottoms there are green clumps all over.  My mouth is frozen in an ‘eww’ position.  I don’t even know where I should start the worry –Skin infection? A rash? Uncontrollable bowels? Bad hair days for the rest of my life? I might have to get married someday? Gross!

As the generally known, yet unspoken, bathroom law goes, a woman entered the stall right next to me despite four others completely unoccupied. So I have a bit of fun with her, I ring out my suit onto the ground, it makes the perfect noise and splashes, I’m pretty sure a little bit of water got on her toes and I could hear the lady make a sound as she thinks someone is peeing on the floor.  I smile.  I walk out of the bathroom with the grace of a drag queen after a long night of disco dancing, sans glitter and with an itchy bum instead.



It is better to keep your mouth closed…

Published 6 May 2012 by Miss Dilly

“It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt”

 – Mark Twain

Oh wise words, if only I had followed them for once.  I was on campus, exiting the ladies restrooms.  It was one of those awkward door opening moments where someone is standing right on the other side, and the awkwardness continued as we tried to figure out who was going where.  This was the first time I actually kind of looked at the person.  It was a guy! Young, somewhat effeminate with short hair, baggy jeans, sweatshirt and glasses.  In those brief moments I debated saying something, sometimes people just get confused and accidently go to the wrong side, but ‘No’, I think, ‘it could be a guy who identifies as a female and who am I to say anything..?’ We’re lucky, in the ladies room we have stalls so it doesn’t really matter anyways.  As I pass by and hold the door for him, he takes it, I walk a step he’s just holding the door to walk in. I open my mouth and remove all doubt of my being a fool.

I say “Do you know this is the ladies bathroom?”

He says “I know. I’m… “ and gestures to their chest and then kind of mumbles something that indicates that he is in fact a she.  I am mortified.  She could totally read it on my face.

She says “it’s okay, it’s probably my hair and stuff”

Me – “I’m so sorry”

Her – “it’s okay”

Me – “I’m sorry” and do a little head bow, to emphasize my sorry-ness.

I walked away, so embarrassed.  And as life normally does, I now see her around campus fairly regularly.

The Hike of Death

Published 17 April 2012 by Miss Dilly

I took this one! The actual day of horror (and only here shall I admit, some enjoyment).

 Before I go on, like all my stories, the title was the most frightening part.  I tend to exaggerate and probably have let a lot people down with the fact that I didn’t actually almost die.  But never mind that, keep reading, who knows what could happen.  I’ll die someday.

This is another Australia story.  As many have probably heard Australia has some of the most dangerous animals in the world.  And like the paranoia of being caught wearing mismatching socks by Tim Gunn, I was a tad worried of these famous buggers.

Now I hadn’t completely willingly signed up for this bush walk.  There was an information session.  And let me tell you- they are fronts, not for human trafficking, but clever plots to force people to experience nature whatever the cost.  I went by myself, it was in the upstairs of some rickety building.  There was loads of people there actually (a good ruse to throw me off the kidnapping track) and three small tables with 55 plus year old men sitting at each one.  They tell you about the various places they’re going, about the guides and the difficulty, blah blah blah.  Here’s where it gets crafty, he says to me ‘it’s an 18 K (about 11 miles) walk with hills and maybe would I like to go on the beginner one instead?’ Pft! I say I’m a third of your age and have been hiking since I’ve 6, I think I can handle it.  Okay, I’m much more polite in person, but he still had me right where he wanted me- the ego trip.  The next thing I know I’m thirty dollars poorer and awake at a god forsaken hour where I am loading on the bus with the other sad saps.

The group contained a variety of people. Some other visitors in this dangerous land, a few veterans of bushwalking and the locals who decided they wanted to get out of the city and meet people, generally in the 40-60 year age range.  A very friendly woman sat next to me on the bus, we talked about lots of things.  I’ve never had a problem with talking with people older than me, I always find they have so many more stories to tell.  And older generations don’t normally tell their stories like they’re trying to show you up and try to prove their life is so much more exciting than mine.  I also get to avoid the annoying drunk stories where the young story teller always has this strange juxtaposition of ‘I did something pretty bad and I’m ashamed, but it’s so funny and cool, obviously.’ Then they look at me ‘like why aren’t you laughing?’ Oh yeah I forgot, I just thought you were being an idiot.  ‘Ha ha’.

So after a couple hours on the bus we arrive and start the hike.  The environment is so unique.  I love it.  Do you know what is also unique?  Leeches.  It was a heavily treed area and a fairly moist day.  You walk, minding your own business and leeches fall from the leaves and land on your hand, arm, neck, leg – any exposed skin and suck your blood.  I kid you not.  They’re the size of your pinky and are dark black.  The key is to let them finish their business because if you knock them off before they’re done you just bleed and bleed. When they finish they will clot the bite so they can save you for an after dinner snack.  As you may have guessed, you shrewd reader you, the reason I know this is because not 10 minutes into the walk I was visited by the leech from hell.  I was agile; the first thing I did was scream.  The second thing was wave my hand back and forth wishing it away.  The third was flicking it off with my other hand.  Luckily I actually saved myself, it hadn’t bitten me yet. I laugh, recovering quickly, hiding my inner torment at the incident.  Everyone had a nice laugh at me and we walked on.

Brown Snake. Sound innocent? Look innocent? Think again! One of Australia's most dangerous snakes.

Farther down the way we’re getting spread few and far between.  There is a bit of a commotion up a head and the few people I’m with as well as myself have no idea what they’re saying.  One person stays behind and as we approach they put their hands out like they’re about to stop a train and say quietly there’s a snake on the trail.  We all freeze.  Looking around, I don’t see anything, which is not exactly a good sign.  I say ‘where is it?’ she put down her crossing guard hands and looks around.  The lady literally shrugs, says ‘walk carefully’ and walks off.  I mean I don’t think she realized that she just created an invisible wall that none of us really wanted to cross after that.  I mean what if the snake leaped (yes leaped with legs) out of the long side grass as we passed? An older man who hadn’t heard about the snake passes us and walks on by.  We hold our breath and say goodbye- he was a brave man who gave his life so we could pass and continue on our walk.  But he lives (major plot twist, I know)! So a couple people tread carefully, then this Irish lady I had been talking with goes and then I follow.  I didn’t want to be the last one, that’s always a bad sign in horror movies – I’ve done my homework. I thought I heard a rustle as I walk by and I peer closely, well as closely as one can when one is dashing by like a maniac.  I’m convinced the snake was still there and I’m also convinced it was Australia’s deadliest snake.

The next scariest thing was a hiker’s worst nightmare.  Blisters.  I was borrowing hiking boots, not a very good idea at all. Stupid, stupid, stupid, in fact. If you learn anything from my story today- never borrow shoes for an 18K hike it’s just… anyone, anyone? Yep, stupid.  Remember that first 10 minutes?  Well my heels were already rubbing.  By the second hour I was in agony, limping.  I brought up the end and I’m surprised I made the whole walk without taking off my shoes.  I didn’t look, I did not want to see the horrible wounds I had inflicted upon myself.  Some people cut their wrists, I do blisters apparently.  As much as I love complaining to my friends, I try not to inflict it on the general population.  So no one really knows that my feet are killing me so much. Towards the end one of the guides comes to me and says ‘can you go a little faster, please?’ I was in the back straggling with the dreamy eyed metaphysical-ist and the out of shape Hawaiian shirt grandpa.  So when he said this to me I must admit I felt a bit targeted – what about these guys?! ‘No! I’m not going to go any faster, you don’t know the pain I’m in and you hat is bothering me’.  Obviously, I am much more polite in person because I cannot really ever come up with witty poignant comebacks.  When we were back on the bus, I take off my shoes and peel off my socks which are sticking to the back of my feet.  The blisters cover my entire heels and they’re ripped open and honestly just sad looking.

So I made it out alive, by a fairly wide hair, but a hair none the less.  When I got home, I was changing out of my muddy clothes and on the back of my right calf I found a lovely reminder of the day: a large dried blob of blood and then tracks of blood down my leg.  The second leech from hell had been more successful than the first. Brilliant.

Disclaimer: This isn’t my mother, really

Published 9 April 2012 by Miss Dilly

“Your sister’s a bitch.” 

I was happily eating chips and yellowish, liquid, food-ish thing that passes for cheese (which can, sadly completely make my day), when I nearly choked on my last bite.  I turn casually around and see this woman. Small in stature and very lean, made up and dressed too young for her age.  Looked like one of those ladies who carries an oversized rat in her handbag and looks in the mirror and says something like “people are lucky to know you”.  I smirk to myself and continue to listen to her conversation.  She’s talking to her son, and ranting about something her daughter did.  I’m not even sure what it was.  I do remember thinking that she probably created a mini-me and couldn’t understand for the life of her why the girl was being so awful now.  People really are a mystery. 

I Choose to Believe

Published 31 March 2012 by Miss Dilly

Every once and a while things happen that we’d all probably rather forget.  Now I love driving.  I don’t so much like getting where I’m going as much as the ride there. Looking out the window, watching other cars, listening to music, signing loudly and just the general act of driving- it all thrills me. Many of the lovely drivers who gesture rudely, yell profanities, go below the speed limit or cut you off and then brake here in the US surprisingly don’t really know how to drive roundabouts.  I don’t want to seem like I have a huge ego, but I know how use a roundabout (and if you think so anyway, don’t worry my actions should compensate for the audacity of my claiming to know how to drive in a roundabout).

So one afternoon I was driving a friend home, and we approach a roundabout.  We’re talking about Kirk and why he hadn’t called her back and I was enthusiastically spouting my theory that he probably actually had been abducted by Hannibal Lector, who was enjoying his brain at the moment (what little there was of it) with a nice Chianti. We had watched it recently and I couldn’t even walk her out to her car that night, so at the time it seemed like a possibility, I’m sorry.  Anyways, I slow down as I approach the roundabout, finishing up my theory, I didn’t see a car so I gas it, I feel the car sway a little as I make the tight turn.  There was an extra-long beat as I wait for her to reply.  I look over and her hands are in little fists, squeezed tightly and the expression on her face looks as if she’s just been accused of beastiality.  I look in my rearview mirror and there’s a little red car on my my tail so close that I can’t see their headlights with this girl driving who is rudely gesturing and making mean faces. 

I start to laugh, “where did you she come from?”  My friend wasn’t quite as amused, she doesn’t really say anything.  I say “they weren’t there when I pulled out were they?” She nods and looks at me like—as one would expect I suppose—I nearly killed her.  I shake my head and laugh a little uncertain this time.  I had been pretty sure there wasn’t anyone there, I wasn’t that into my silly story. 

I say “No, I don’t think they were.  Whatever, they weren’t.”

She recovered a little and laughed and shook her head saying, “Nooo I’m pretty sure they were”.  

I retort “I choose to believe that car was not there.” Case closed.  Now, we use that saying once and a while, try it sometime just say “I choose to believe…” and magically history uses a Pink Pearl eraser and gets rid of your life blemish.

So, apparently once and a while I am one of those drivers who don’t know how to use a roundabout, it was a sad day.  A scrape with death really wisens one, I learned how to make excuses and not take responsibility for my actions- it’s great. 

Aussie Rules Football Virgin

Published 25 March 2012 by Miss Dilly

Australian Rules Football is huge.  Every man, woman and child watch the Grand Final in Australia, except of course for those that don’t…regardless, it’s a big deal.  For those of you unfamiliar with the sport, it has some similarities to American Football, and absolutely no similarity to what most of the rest of the world considers football (aka soccer).  Aussie Rules is fast moving, chaos where they score points and it involves very muscular young men in tight, short, shorts running around.  It’s fantastic really.

So I was in Australia during the climax of this national sport.  The day of the Grand Final I’m walking around a in a suburb of Melbourne and I see a sign at a restaurant saying ‘help wanted- inquire within’.  I was just visiting, but I kind of wanted to find a job to make a little extra money.  I inquire within.  I spoke to a rather tall, large man of 30 or so years who asks what I’m doing that night.  I had to choose between making a few bucks and watching the Grand Final on TV.  In a panic (decisions!), I blurt “nothing”, crass money wins again.  So he says I can come in for a paid trial. It was just a sport, which I really knew nothing about, so might as well try to get a job.

I arrive promptly at 5:00 at the restaurant. I’m led to the kitchen in the back, it’s kind of quiet.  A server told me to go in the back and look for the man I met earlier, we’ll call him George.  I walk into the blindly bright kitchen and ask for if George is around. A young man doing prep nods toward a hallway on the side and says he’s probably out there.  I start to walk down a dark hallway, I was about to put my hand up to the wall to sense where I was going, but there was just enough light to see the wall and I decided to risk tripping, bumping or squashing something in lieu of touching the wall.  Down the hall there was a store room and a door a jar, I open it.  I had just opened the door on quite the vignette; three men huddled around the small outside space.  The only thing making it seem less like a boy scouts meeting and more like a Godfather scene was the cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. As I opened the door the conversation stopped immediately, despite me feeling of uncomfortableness I say “I’m looking for George”. The guy I had met earlier got an expression on his face that looked like he picked the shortest straw and then realized it was worm.  I’d found my mark. He leads me back to the kitchen, I don’t know what it was about him, maybe his stature maybe the faint scent of smoke he emitted or maybe the snaggle tooth and eye patch (that he didn’t have, but based on his personality I think he could have worked the look pretty well) that made me uneasy.  He hands me over to another man who is person who will be giving me directions from now on. Apparently, I was already a handful.  I’d be washing dishes and doing prep work.

The Boys

The Boyscouts (if you can use your imagination to mix the two of these)

The grand final was being broadcasted on the radio.  There area few other younger guys in the back doing some prep work and then putting plates together.  We all listened in respectful silence to the match and no one could touch the radio except the main chef who was one of ‘the boys’. I felt very out of place amongst these guys, I looked around at the thought of returning to this kitchen and nearly put my head in the industrial dishwasher. Now you may be thinking I‘m exaggerating and was being introverted, and you would be right.  But cross my heart, it felt very much like I would need some sort of initiation involving candles and tall buildings before they would accept me being there and actually carry on a conversation.

I focused on working, the only thing that broke up the mundane work was listening to the game, it turned out be an exciting match.  I was rooting for the Geelong Cats.  I wasn’t quite familiar enough with game to picture what they were describing so most of what was being said sounded like something like this: “Mulligan runs around Randall for the kill, releves towards the backside of the queen and somersaults for the crowd, the crowd goes crazy he runs like a snake on a barbie and ends with a beautiful butterfly finish- two and three-quarters points for Geelong”.  It sounded like the appropriate time for me to ‘woo hoo’, so I did, quietly.  And I continued to listen and enjoy what few words I could manage to understand.

What I didn't get to see..

I was cutting up an assortment of herbs as the game was finishing up.  One of the servers, who stopped in to get a listen when he could, missed the end. He asked me who won and I told him Geelong. I asked which team he was barracking for and he seemed slightly surprised that I knew anything about Aussie rules football.  For a brief moment I thought maybe I could pull off being ‘one of the guys’, but that feeling quickly faded as a streak of panic crossed over me- I thought I may have told him the wrong team won. And as I went back to cutting my herbs I listened with the fine-tuned skill that many of us master in relationships- selective listening.  Who knew it would come in handy? But I listened intently for key words, luckily I told him the right team! If I hadn’t I think I probably would have been hoisted then and there right out of the restaurant, banned for life from the establishment anywhere within 25 feet.

So I got to spend my first experience with Australian Rules Football was in the back of a hot kitchen with a bunch of sweaty guys.  While it would have been nice to actually see the match, it was still the saving grace for a rather miserable evening. And by the way the restaurant never called me back, can’t say I was surprised- my herb cutting left a lot to be desired.

Over Night, Part II

Published 18 March 2012 by Miss Dilly

[continued from previous post, with the medium sized cliff hanger, where you probably would survive if you let go]

However, with the bridge in sight and the panic attack going off in my head he pulls the bus over to a dark building with a couple of cars in the lot.

After ‘adieus’ and my purposefully tripping over the bag in the isle, as to make sure everyone remembered me, he walks me inside the hostel.  It is a small lobby decorated in youthful eco-looking chairs and happy backpacker posters.  He finds a small envelope with my name on it, hands it to me and says thanks for coming and if I want there’s a bar just over the bridge about half a mile.  Cool – I would love to walk in the dark by myself over a bridge with no foot path to the bar, excellent suggestion. Never the less those were his final words as he leaves me standing there in the dead quiet hostel in the black night. I watched the bus drive away through the glass doors and then I opened the envelope.  A cheery note and a keycard to get in through the next doors was all that was in the envelope on it.

I had felt like it was kind of lonely, but I was actually glad that it was just me and the cheery posters watching me, I mean who knew a piece of plastic trying to recognize another piece of plastic would be so difficult.  After jiggling the door and the required kick to the door that all electronic equipment require I “beeped in”.  On the other side of the door there were no rooms insight, only another door- who I am supposed to be, Barbie from Secret Agent Barbie for Gameboy?  I beeped in with more skill and my brain registered the sign that said Close Door Carefully after 9’o clock as I let the door slam, that’s how I roll after 9 pm (I’m generally a morning person). The door opened to a cold, dimly lit stairwell with my only option being up.  So up I went up, coming around the first corner I thought maybe an evil Ken would jump out at me, or at least a Kelly minion with green eyes.  Oh well, I wondered where my privileged keycard would take me next.

I probably should mention that I hadn’t stayed in a hostel in a very long time, and much less by myself so I wasn’t really sure what to expect.  When I found my floor I opened the door to a bright space that had a hallway with room door and then another door on my left to the kitchen and lounge area.  Even though I was exhausted, I couldn’t help myself; I beeped my way into the kitchen.  My curiosity was satisfied with a whole two and half minutes of looking through the other lodgers’ groceries and resisting the temptation to take a cookie.

It’s still very quiet, I haven’t passed another soul I find my room and beep in like a pro.  It’s dark, I stand in the doorway for a minute waiting for signs of life.  I don’t hear anything, my eyes are adjusting to the darkness and I all I can see is a disheveled, but empty bunk bed.  I’m alone, I switch on the lights.  My eyes do a quick survey of the room, to meet another pair of eyes watching me.  A youngish man is in the far bunk bed and he looked greatly disturbed, and then I quickly switch off the lights and say ‘Sorry!’  I wasn’t expecting a guy, I thought hostels separated by gender in the sleeping areas quarters.  He says it’s alright I can turn the lights back on if I need; he just has to get up early to bike the next day.  He turns over and I say “okay, thanks” and turn the lights back on, set down my backpack. I feel rushed now, like I didn’t really belong there, the guide sure didn’t think so.  I feel like he’s watching me, so quickly take out things to change into, my toothbrush and my keycard that I’ve grown so attached to and go to the bathroom.  I soon return to the room, I get into the available bed.  I look at the other empty bed and wonder who is sleeping there.  I am hoping it’s a girl, this guy in the bed right across from me makes me think of some sort of eighties slasher movie where the antagonist is a mysterious biker targeting hostels.  And knowing my luck I’d be the first victim that illustrates how evil this guy is, not the lovely surviving heroine that wears cute little shorts and a tank top when she goes to bed, I was wearing sweatpants for god sakes- I didn’t have a chance!

I’m finally relaxing and falling asleep when our door is opened and another young man opens the door.  Fantastic.  He doesn’t turn the light on just rustles around some and then gets into bed.  Now I’m the creepy one watching, well at least that is a real twist to the story, I could definitely consider taking on the bad-guy role.  I’m starting to fall asleep again when there’s a loud beep of a cellphone proceeded by the clickity-clack of a keys which comes from our newest arrival.  So, no slashers to end this story, just the inconsiderate new generation of travelers who just have to know that Gary is eating a sandwich now.