Funny for All Archives - Girls Aren't Funny

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

A month ago I decided I wanted to transition this blog into an online magazine. The GAF team is still working very hard towards that goal, but in the meantime, I missed having a platform where I can write.

So I’m back and in a new city. Again. I just moved to NYC! It all happened very quickly and wasn’t planned at all. Essentially I got a remote job and Nick landed a contract for six months and we just took off.

While we were in the process of getting an apartment we hopped around AirBnB’s and hotels. When we reached out to our first host she messaged me back with an ominous warning of “It’s a fourth-floor walk up… can you handle that?”.

I took it as a challenge. Mostly because I forgot “walk up” is a fancy New York way of saying “a shit ton of stairs and no elevator even if you beg the gods halfway up”.

So I arrived with five bags of luggage, two backpacks and a look of determination on my face. The driver, Sean, who unknowingly was acting as a cheaper version of a moving company kindly asked if I wanted help with the bags. Poor man. Poor, poor, guy. It was awful.

Apparently, the apartment building had “high ceilings” so each floor had incredibly steep stairs with at least 30 to a bazillion steps. No exaggeration.

Sean looked like he wanted to run back to the safety of his car. The host probably wanted to close the door in my face.

Then we began the climb with 50-pound bags in the position of our choosing. Sean went for a “head-carrying” position similar to women balancing jugs of water, except with more cursing because he was from Queens.

I hoisted the bags on my hip and essentially dragged it sideways. The host made lots of noises as she watched me ruin her wood stairs.

When we made it to the top I thanked the NYC apartment gods that I wasn’t going to have to deal with those bags for at least two weeks. But alas, the gods had their own plan.

The host walked me through her apartment, she was a designer and it was decorated so meticulously I was afraid to touch anything. Sharp objects everywhere, vintage glassware, white bed linen, etc. Everything breakable or stainable.

“And if you drop even water on the couch it has to be professionally cleaned for $400.”

I audibly gulped and hugged my arms around myself to crush the clutz in me. Within the few minutes there I only managed to gather a few bruises on my shins from bumping into artsy furniture.

Later that night Nick sat down on the couch with a beer. I screamed like I had witnessed a murder.

He lept up and looked around himself as if maybe there was a dead animal he hadn’t seen while lounging around.

“No drinking on the couch. Don’t eat, breath or look at that couch. That couch is only an art installation from now on.”

We agreed and settled into the new place for our first week in the city. But then that fateful Friday, the rain came.

We had just finished dinner and I went to the bathroom. When I closed the door behind me I began to hear the rain. As if it was raining inside. I pulled at the door but it was jammed. I yanked and yanked at the door to no avail. The heavy trickling continued on the other side. It felt like I was in the bathroom at the Rainforest Cafe.

I yelled for Nick and when he released me I was greeted with an indoor shower. The roof was leaking profusely. We gathered all the pots and pans but it was no use. The place was soaked.

The water soaked into the walls and eventually a wall of mirrors, so artfully placed, came crashing down. I’m a superstitious person so I began to count the years of bad luck that surrounded our feet.

Our host came into the apartment to assess the damage. She looked at me with despair and all I could say was,”At least no water landed on the couch!”

We are now in a new location.

My brain is a bad landlord

When I was nine I moved to Texas. At school I was immediately embraced by everyone and the popularity was overwhelming.

I’m kidding. I was bullied. Relatable right?

Mistakenly I had befriended a very popular girl with very loyal/territorial friends who weren’t happy that we were spending so much time together.

At recess, each of her friends (single file) approached me and told me they hated me. Kids are so sweet.

Out of all the mean girls, there was, of course, the leader. Her name was Talon, as in a claw, especially one belonging to a bird of prey. Suitable, huh?

Well, one day as my dad and I passed the ol’ pigskin around (a football for those who don’t know… or at least I think that’s what it means… what if I’ve been wrong all these years and ol’ pigskin actually meant something horrid and not very vegan). He asked me how school was going and I told him about The Claw.

To this day I remember what he said. He said, “Don’t let anyone rent space in your head. You’re only giving them power over you”.

I remember this because it was so damn annoying. What bullied nine-year-old wants to hear that she is part of the problem?

But I took the advice and moved on. I made friends and learned a few jokes to distract bullies with, similar to throwing meat in the opposite direction and running. With less running. And not enough meat, frankly.

I’m still struggling with this though. Not bullies. That would be uncomfortable for two reasons.

Why am I still attending recess as a grown woman?
I recently took a self-defense class and I’m way too eager to use the moves

I’m struggling with not letting people rent space in my head. People say something harmless or purposely mean and I chew it over for days!

I’ve held grudges for years. Then I think about how that can’t be good for my skin long term, or my digestive system short term and then it makes me even angrier. The cycle is vicious.

I realized, my brain has just been a terrible landlord. It’s letting the tenants paint the walls a horrendous yellow and bringing in oversized dogs without a pet deposit.

This metaphor is getting lengthy.

I guess what I’m trying to say is enough is enough. Get the hell out of my head!

I figured I’d start where I always have when I’m facing anything scary. (Besides burying myself in rom-coms). Logic my way back.

Does it make sense that the librarian hates you because you’re a repeat offender of overdue books?

Possibly, librarians aren’t portrayed in movies as having a positive attitude. They like to shush people.

Has a real librarian ever shushed you?

No, they’ve asked me nicely to not walk them through the plot of the entire Twilight Saga.

You need to let that go.

Deal.

Hey, it’s a start.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

Would you like a clown nose?

“Do you have any kids?”

The cashier waited patiently for my answer.

I scanned my body. I still get ID’d at restaurants and bars. I don’t look old, do I? I mean I guess I could’ve had kids by now. I technically have had the capability for years.

“How about cats? Do you have any cats?”

I scanned myself again. Am I already at the point of no return? Where my option is either kid or cat? How do I explain to this woman I have neither and I still have a hard time taking care of just myself.

“No, just me,” I said but with a peppy voice to ensure I was not sad/lonely/pathetic because I’m not but it still made me strangely defensive.

“Oh okay, I just have a box of clown noses I’m trying to get rid of.”

She didn’t explain herself any further. I assumed it was originally a fundraiser. For clowns.

I said I’d take one for myself so she gave me two as if I have two noses or I was lying the whole time about the kid/cat I may or may not have.

I sat in the car with the clown nose but it made it hard to see while driving. And even worse than that it forced me to become a mouth-breather and no wants that. Especially my possible kid/cat.

On an unrelated note that I will forcefully mesh together: I had a flashback to when I was in kindergarten. Birthday kids had to lay down on a long roll of construction paper and then the teacher drew a line around the current birthday kid’s body. Like a crime scene.

Maybe it was to teach us about our own mortality. Maybe it was a therapy tool for our teacher.

Then the rest of the class would write nice things about the birthday kid inside the lines of the body. Because that’s what I wanted on my birthday. A bunch of sticky kindergartners writing adjectives all over a symbol of my body. Maybe this is how Jesus feels when people take communion. I probably just offended somebody.

Moving on.

I volunteered to cut the construction paper above the kid’s head. The last kid in charge of the scissors cut some hair in the process so I was watched intently.

My teacher spoke gently about how to hold the scissors and I rolled my eyes internally.

How old did she think I was? Four? Well, I was five, lady, and I was familiar with arts and crafts.

Right before the ceremony was to begin (I promise my mother assures me we weren’t in a cult and this wasn’t a school in a Lifetime movie) the child lay down on the crinkly paper and the teacher methodically drew around his body.

As the ink dried in between his fingers my arch nemesis (not really but it makes it more dramatic) chucked a marker at me. I was outraged. I was the scissor-carrier, the cutter, the one-that-released-the-paper-from-the-rest-of-the-paper. How dare he?!

So I threw the scissors at his head.

Ok, I threw a wooden block but the scissors would have been more thematic.

The block hit our teacher in the back of the head and the sound of marker against paper squiggled to a stop.

“Who did this?” she seethed with the block in her hand.

I stepped forward to apologize and be forgiven quickly because I was such a big person for admitting my mistake.

The scissors were taken away and I was sent to a corner to think about what I’d done.

I thought to myself, “I will never forgive any of them and I will remember for years the shame they have caused me. My children will one day know this story.”

Here I am almost two decades later with no kid or cat to share this tragic tale too.

So I offer to you my woes and an extra clown nose. You’re welcome.

Discussion questions:

Why are clown noses funny?
What happened in your childhood that you could turn into a Lifetime movie?
Don’t answer that second question unless you were in a cult. Lifetime only wants cults. Give up now.

Cats, wolves, cows, oh my!

My brilliant and highly amusing aunt, Deirdre Whyte, submitted this tiny story of hilarity that I will now share with all of you. If you do not find it relatable, it may be because you don’t live in the countryside of Dublin, Ireland and that’s okay. She doesn’t want to live there either.

This evening on the way home, I’m all bright and breezy strolling down the road toward my parked car. Walking past a gas station, a white van pulls out behind me and I hear ‘mooooooooooo’.

So used to catcalls and wolf whistles through my life I roll my eyes and think ‘that’s original’.

Ten seconds later I realize there’s a trailer on the back of the van – full of cows.

Oh, how I laughed. So much I had to stop in the middle of the street doubled up. Ah, you had to be there.

If you have your own story, light anecdote or personal essay, submit them to gaf.submissions@gmail.com. Then we can all laugh at you/with you. It’s cheaper than therapy/wine.

xoxo,

Funny Girl

What if we just played Kanye’s Graduation instead of the actual graduation song?

Yesterday I went hiking with Nick and our friend, Marisa (with one ‘S’) and it nearly killed us. It was seven miles roundtrip and we left in the afternoon while the sun was high and dangerous. Every single step of the way I wanted to give up. Put a pin in that.

*erratic segue*

I am filled with fear and excitement. I want to simultaneously throw up and eat a lot of cake at the same time. I am freaking out with all of the possibilities before me. It has finally hit me that me deciding to forgo getting a job directly after graduation to travel the world doesn’t have to end here.

Well, okay yes my savings were running out so it technically needed to end, but the metaphor didn’t need to end.

I’m only 22 so I recognize that I’m in the fairy tale head-space of “the world is my oyster” and an “a dream is a wish your heart makes” so I don’t need an angry 39-year-old to run in and crush me right now with cynicism. I get it. I’m young and naive but I want to take hold of this power and see where it takes me.

Many of my friends graduated college in May and we’re all trying to figure out what our next steps are.

A high percentage of my friends graduated as nurses (I think ahead) and are more than happy to take care of our sick and injured. Others graduated with the question of, should I go to graduate school, was this theater degree as bad of an idea as my parents said it would be, should I never have trusted my 18-year-old self with deciding to pay all this money for a degree I may never use?

It’s scary and usually expensive business (without any actual business because we’re all unemployed).

Luckily I still feel pretty good about my degree in journalism and mass communication, and my certificate in creative writing only makes me that much spicier.

Every day I wake up with newfound optimism or crippling anxiety that makes me want to cry and throw childhood stuffed animals at a TV playing The Office because it only reminds me that I do not have an office to go to, nor any crazy but lovable co-workers to call my own.

I don’t even have access to childhood stuffed animals because I’m not even staying with my own parents. So I’m not even doing the “living at home in my parent’s basement” thing right. Where is my basement? Are you my mother? Did anyone read that book as a child? Can someone relate to me and stop my annoying rhetorical questions?

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Barnes and Nobles applying for jobs and reading all of the books in the “Fresh graduates” section as well as one cookbook to read recipes about chocolate chip cookies when I feel sad and/or hungry.

Where was I going? Oh yes, feeling optimistic about my future. At least in this brief moment.

So anyway, Nick, Marisa and I were braving nature yesterday and as we were walking back down the trail I recognized two things:

Horse poop is a good marker for finding your way back
We’ve already gone through this shit, literally

All this to say, every one of us, no matter how young or old has most likely gone through some shit. Whether it was literal horse shit or crappy life experiences, but we can keep pushing on. At the end of the trail there will be a car that can drive you to Sonic and there you will be rewarded with a sweet, sweet Cherry Limeade served by a teenager in roller blades. Another metaphor for success.

If you’re still following what I’m saying, we can do this.

We can do this.

This story is about a peacock, but not a real peacock, a metaphorical peacock

I almost got stuck in the bathroom today. I had been wandering around all day waiting for something embarrassing to happen to me as it usually does. And then it hit me.

I locked myself into a one person bathroom in a “coffeeshop” in Amsterdam so thankfully everyone was too high to notice a panicked woman stumble out of the bathroom after MINUTES of clicking the lock back and forth unsuccessfully.

What I really wanted to talk to you about is drug dealers. (This is called a segue.)

Tonight when my brother, Nick and I were walking home after a night at an Amsterdam local food festival we had the joy of approaching a group of men. Don’t you love that feeling that crawls all over you when you see a group of territorial-looking guys who are too old to be hanging out outside fast food restaurants but too young for old men bars?

Anyway, we eased through them and one (the peacock) spoke to us in English, “Welcome to Amsterdam”. I didn’t realize we had ‘tourist’ written on our foreheads but apparently it was evident we weren’t from around there.

Of course, Nick and I used our ‘ignore everything’ technique but I soon realized my brother was no longer with us. I looked back to see him and the peacock essentially circling each other, similar to boxing or Pokémon battles.

My first thought, “How will we carry the body of a 19-year-old, 6’7” man back to our place when this guy knocks him out?”.

Just kidding my first thought was, “rape”. I calculated every possible way it could end at that point. There were 6 grown men vs us. Does anyone else immediately go there?

I feel like as a woman we immediate calculate the chance of rape in any given scenario. Maybe that’s just me. I tend to selfishly think about my well-being.

Once we pulled my brother away he wouldn’t explain what the guy wanted. As we pushed into the Airbnb, the peacock drove around the corner in a neon green Vespa. It was the most European moment I’ve experienced so far in Europe.

This man followed us in his tiny green Vespa. That means if his friends all had multicolored Vespas he’d be in a biker’s gang. But with neon Vespas.

It was intimidating as hell.

We locked the door behind us but my brother refused to follow us into the apartment. He wanted to go out to this guy.

Nick and I went upstairs to look out the window and waited for my brother to join us. After what felt like forever he came back.

“What did that guy want?” I yelled.

“Oh, he just wanted to know if I wanted to buy drugs,” he said.

Was I in the “what not do” part of a DARE video?

Kids, when a drug dealer approaches you don’t interact with them, especially if they drive a green Vespa. If they were any good at being a drug dealer, they’d be driving something better than a green Vespa.

I waited be the window and prayed I wasn’t going to be part of Taken 4. Partially because I think Liam Neeson is slightly overrated.

The peacock hasn’t shown his face or his green Vespa since. So naturally I’ll just lay in a puddle of anxiety all night.

Oh the good all days when the most exciting part of my day was almost getting stuck in a toilet.

Cat pâté and other catastrophes/forced puns

I didn’t post yesterday because I was packing for my trip to Amsterdam with my brother and Nick so stop yelling at me guilty conscience and let me live my life!

The key is organizational piles.

The “fun mom” pile wouldn’t be complete without responsible but cute shirts typically from Old Navy. Then you’ve got your “I’ll need this to cover up my erotic vibes” which consists of cardigans and black tights. Then there’s the “when did I become a person who wears leather?” pile which only holds a leather jacket I stole from my 12-year-old sister and a scandalous/business casual leather skirt my grandma bought me.

Did I mention I’m cool?

Anyways that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. We arrived at the AirBnB we’re staying at and two cats stared back at me from the couch. That’s when I vaguely remembered that to get such a cheap place in the city I agreed to petsit the host’s cats. I was confused too.

I took the list of instructions including a recipe for their dinner! Cat pâté! Freaking cat pâté.

Nick is allergic so we’ve been keeping him in a corner. Allergic to cats, not pâté. That man loves a mean pâté. And nice pâtés too.

I feel like I usually get paid with free housing when I pet sit but instead I’m paying her to take care of her cats. I’m great at negotiations. This explains my fear of car dealerships.

Anyways we spent the evening doing what people do in Amsterdam. When in Rome, amirite?

We both know I’m talking about walking in the bike line? Man, they love their bikes here. And they do aim.

When we came home last night we weren’t the most sober we could be. We probably could’ve been more. Just a little more.

That’s what I told myself when I woke up this morning and realized I mixed kitty kibble with hot water and then instructed Nick to mash it together with a fork to make “cat pâté”.

I found the actually pâté in tin cans this morning. I also found that the mush had hardened over night so the cats laughed at me silently while I scraped it out. #budgettravel

You know what they say. When in Rome, make cat pâté?

Update: So I assumed we were taking care of these cats because the hosts were going on their own vacation/they were staying with a friend/ living in a cardboard box while we rented their place.

Wrong.

We walked downstairs and as we were about to walk out, the door to the apartment on the ground floor opened and our host stepped out.

“Have a great day, guys!”

I was flabbergasted.

“You mean to tell me that you are living downstairs and I’m taking care of your cats upstairs?! Are you and your cats on a break? Should I drop off your cats later? I’m sure you guys can work it out over some pâté,” I said.

Except I only said that in my head because I’m a pussy.

Yes, that was a cat pun. Excuse me while I go feed the cats.

How do you sponsor a child? Catholic edition

I promise the Catholic posts will stop soon once I leave Ireland. My sister has finally gone through the last round of becoming the holiest she can possibly get. There’s no way she’s becoming a saint so it’s all downhill from here.

The day was going fine until my family got into a tug-of-war battle over the pew we were assigned to with one other family. We were each given one half of a pew reserved for as many members of your family that you could fit.

We took this as a challenge.

The four of us spread out to save spots for the seven of us. It became tense when the family we were up against arrived early like little bitches (really they were on time but fuck them).

At first, I was feeling confident. I was wearing a new dress that was both tight and made me look like a mermaid. Also, I was wearing a fresh pair of flesh-colored tights my Nana described as the “palest you can get”.

I was the last person on my family’s side so I was shoulder to shoulder with the mother of the opposing family. A mama bear. A woman with long fake nails and fake tanner that was rubbing off on my pale tights. A fighter.

Over the course of a few minutes, she managed to slowly scoot her butt down the pew effectively using me as a domino for my family’s demise. Without making eye contact she repeatedly muttered under her breath, “We each get half the pew” as if she was confrontational but not good with eye contact.

My Nana pushed back to no avail. I was too much of a pussy. I just wanted everyone to get along in the house of God, partially because I like being better than Catholics. It’s good for the soul.

During the mass when everyone turns to their neighbor and says, “Peace be with you” with a handshake I decided to extend an olive branch. Terrible idea. I broke rank. My family felt betrayed and I lost my seat.

With just one buttcheek on the pew, I looked at the wooden Jesus on the cross and thought “Now I know what you went through”. Sacrifice.

Finally, it was time to go up with Abigail to act as her sponsor and escort her to the priest to be blessed or something. Don’t ask me what a sponsor is or does because I have no idea. I was just told to put one hand on her shoulder.

You’d think this simple instruction would be easy to follow. I immediately began to panic on which hand and what shoulder. In line, I started massaging her shoulders just to be safe. I felt like I was getting her ready for a boxing match.

Apparently, it’s easier to find a gif of an elephant massage than a boxer getting prepped for the ring.

After the beautiful ceremony, the Catholic school teachers were thanked with gifts from the students. The male teachers received an expensive bottle of wine and the female teachers got flowers. Freaking flowers.

The girls dispatched to deliver the bouquets had difficulty finding the female teachers in the audience. I can guarantee you they wouldn’t have had this problem if it was wine. They’d be tracking the kids down to grab that prize.

The sponsors got a measly prayer for our well being. I call bullshit.

I want wine. And new tights.

Hire me: Skills include catfishing

I’m currently applying for big-kid jobs and while I was trying to find the latest copy of my resume I found pictures of old cards I wrote during an internship while in college. (First day on the job and the only thing on my desk was a dinosaur head (see image above) which was never explained. Ever.)

Background: I worked for a utility company and it was Linemen Appreciation Day so as the intern I gave people pens to fill out the cards. I soon become bored and wrote a couple myself under different pen names while literally using different pens. When I was done I shuffled them throughout the deck and went on my merry way.

To my horror, before they were sent off to the linemen my coworker went through and read every damn card in the 700 pile stack because he casually read one that happened to be mine and was determined to find others like it.

My team got an email a couple hours later with photographs of the most ridiculous ones (all done by me without their knowledge). I basically sent a reply admitting to writing all of the cards and asked them nicely not to fire me.

Here they are:

I’m not a teenage mother but if I was you shouldn’t judge me

My kid sister* has been sick the last few days so we set up an appointment at the doctor’s office. My parents stuck their head into my room (my nana’s living room**) and asked if I’d take her that afternoon. Half-asleep I agreed. With ten years between us, I had always been seen as an understudy to my mother.

*The featured image was chosen for two reasons: it was a picture of my sister when she was still cute enough to get away with things and also because this story takes place in Ireland and for some reason, she looks like a leprechaun.

**I always have to clarify this but I’m only staying for a couple weeks before I continue my travels so I’m not couch surfing indefinitely. I clarify this for you and border control. They were mean and made me show them proof I plan to leave. Jokes on them, I’m actually an Irish citizen who made the mistake of traveling with her American passport instead of her EU passport so she could stay in line for customs with her sexy American boyfriend. The stupid shit you do for a guy to carry your luggage.

The neighborhood doctor has a tiny office attached to the side of his house down the street from Nana’s place. His daughter is also a doctor and they are a badass duo. (Why isn’t there a superhero who writes prescriptions?)

You could maybe fit two American-size fridges in their tiny waiting room. (That’s now how I scale things now.)

An older woman and I were bumping knees and I felt her staring at the side of my face. She’d hurumph and click her tongue in disapproval when I’d hand Abigail a tissue or push hair behind her ear (all motherly like). This is when I realized she thought I was her mother.***

***Abigail’s mother, not this woman’s mother, that would be time travel and I’m not that talented. Just talented enough to get pregnant before my first period. Call me Mary. That was a biblical reference. It was incorrect but it was a reference. (Apparently, I don’t know how to use footnotes.)

She was angry at me for possibly birthing a child as a teenager. I’m obviously not a teenager anymore. This means this woman was holding a grudge against me for something that may or may not have happened 12 years ago. When I was 10.

I actually found myself hiding my left hand because I didn’t have a ring on my finger! I was kicking myself for not wearing more rings. Should’ve put a ring on it. By the time the doctor came to get us I was humming Beyonce.

We sat down in her office and I immediately started sweating. I’m still not used to going to the doctor by myself, let alone another person. I’m so adult I wrote down a list of her symptoms and kept checking it when she looked away.

She had Abigail lay down so she can press all over her lower abdomen and do doctor things. When she sent Abigail to the bathroom for a urine sample I twiddled my thumbs in silence. I attempted doctor small talk.

“So what organs were you pressing?” I said.

“Organs?”

“Yeah, organs! Like what were you feeling her for?”

“Well uh, there’s bladders and tubes and the whole female reproductive system down there. You do know where babies form right?”

“Oh well yeah! I know how babies are made.”

Should’ve stayed silent.

“I’m just going to go check on Abigail.”

I banged on the bathroom door to hurry my sick sister and came back after counting 60 Mississippi’s.

“She’s fine! Should be with us shortly.”

Once she got back I continued to not know the answers necessary to confirm her medical history. I felt like it was exam day but if you fail so does your sister’s appendix. I’m not equipped for that kind of pressure, and neither was my deodorant. (Insert deodorant commercial that makes me rich and I buy robot doctors I can rent to third world countries for a fee because there’s no such thing as a free lunch!)

She asked who she should call in the morning to further discuss Abigail’s symptoms.

“If your mom is working who would be the best person to call [because you’re useless]?” she said.

“Oh just call Nana,” I said like a freaking three-year-old.

“Nana [you toddler in a woman’s body]? ”

“I mean, Adrienne. I mean her grandmother [jesus, let me off the hook and give me a lollipop].”

She nodded and wrote something down. I like to think she wrote down a reminder to splurge for the nice alcohol tonight because she has to deal with patients’ family members like me.

We left with the possibility Abigail either has a minor virus or appendicitis.

All that work and I didn’t even get a lollipop.