Funny for All Archives - Page 2 of 2

DARE but for Catholics

So as I’ve mentioned before, I’m currently in Dublin, Ireland, visiting my family. My sister is attending a Catholic school (as you do in Ireland) and she’s being fast-tracked through the process of becoming as holy as possible.

She asked me to be her sponsor for her confirmation (a ceremony for being “confirmed in the Catholic church”, it’s not as cult-like as it sounds) and I said, “Does that mean I have to give you money or something?” No one exactly explained what my role was other than show up for the ceremony but I didn’t have to write a check so I agreed.

As part of the ceremony being run by her school, they decided to take the opportunity to scare children away from drugs and alcohol. The whole family was invited down to the church to light a candle and listen to kids chant about not touching the good stuff until they’re at least 18.

We, of course, arrive about 20 minutes late in the middle of the sponsor’s oath. A decent amount of the crowd was standing but we didn’t understand whether we were to sit or stand so we bobbed up and down for about a minute in confusion with one hand up like we were boy scouts. I almost put my hand over my heart for the pledge of allegiance.

Once we settled into our seats a priest got up to tell us all a story.

“Now children, have you heard about American Indians? I mean Native Indians, I mean Native American Indians…”

It went on for a while until he settled on the most politically correct term he could muster.

“Well, do you know the happiest place in the world? I’ll give you a hint, it’s in Florida.”

Kids squirmed with excitement, “Disney World!” they said in unison.

“Exactly, well that beautiful theme park is sitting on what used to be the home of thousands of Indian Americans (he still didn’t understand the concept).”

Where was he going with this? Well, he proceeded to tell the story of how Disney basically stepped on the necks of Native Americans and how you can’t assume everything beautiful is without flaw. I think. I think that’s what his metaphor was. I got lost and couldn’t find my way back.

But that was only the first of three Native American metaphors. Apparently, it was a theme for the night.

Then he starts talking about a Native American paddling in a canoe down a river but he’s surrounded with plastic bottles but with one teardrop all the trash disappears. This may have been related to Earth Day but no one questioned him.

The last one he spoke of a Native American boy who climbed a mountain, met a rattlesnake who asked to be carried down the mountain because he was cold. The boy was like, no you’ll bite me and the snake was like, “Nah”. So he carried the snake down the mountain and it bit him. The boy was like, “Ah! You promised!” and the snake was like “Sorry kid, you saw what I was. You knew what you were getting into.”

The snake was a representation of drugs the whole time. Or maybe the boy was on drugs. I forgot the metaphor already.

The priest then listed out a bunch of alcohol brands, like almost all of them. Like, he sounded hella thirsty.

“Yeah, marijuana, speed, cocaine, all beautiful stuff. But not until you’re 18 okay?”

They then all chanted together not to touch this beautiful stuff and lit candles. The wax was dripping all over Abigail but it was in the name of God and meth so it was fine.

“OK, let’s wrap this thing up. If we leave now we can catch the second half of the game.”

Afterward, I needed a drink.

Trip to fairytale land but with more cardio

Because Nick and I are so spontaneous and fun (not bad planners who sleep in) we decided last minute (late afternoon) to take a couple trains a few hours to basically the border of Germany and Austria.

We had a purpose, we wanted to see the Neuschwanstein Castle, the fairytale castle Walt Disney based Sleeping Beauty’s palace* on.

*Sidenote: I was trying to brainstorm a synonym for ‘castle’ because that sentence repeated it too many times (brilliant writing skills) and my brain went, “Oh, pastle!” instead of the word ‘palace’ because I’ve been drinking too much (actually quite the opposite, I think I’m dehydrated) (where is this going?). It then autocorrected to “pastry” which was even less accurate and slightly offensive because yes I use that word in my vocabulary a lot more than I would like to admit Google!

After hours of travel we arrived and to our dismay were told the last train going back to Munich was in two hours. This meant we only had two hours to make it up the mountain and down to the station for the LAST TRAIN FOR THE NIGHT. I didn’t know what to emphasize in caps because it was all very dramatic. So the countdown began.

We hiked up the hill, nay, mountain, and soaked in the views. And it was magical.

Not exactly.

I wanted to take the shuttle because I despise sweating but Nick didn’t want to waste time waiting for it. Naturally, I complained all the way up for good measure.

It’s the small things in life that matter – like this splinter here.

Children with their grandparents passed me. At some points, I’d take breaks and say, “Look at the view from here! Honestly, it would be dumb to get any closer.” Yet, we prevailed.

Well, I crawled.

Not only did we hike up to the castle but continued past it. We hiked to the bridge so we could take picturesque photos like this one for your viewing pleasure. (Anything that pushes me physically is usually Nick’s idea) (that sounded dirty).

While we were on the bridge I was finally able to ask someone else to take a photo of us. I felt glorious, maybe even superior, as you know if you’ve read ‘Stop approaching me, I could have rabies‘. The bubble burst when she asked me to take a photo of her. We said goodbye and soon realized we’d overstayed. We only had 30 minutes to get back down the mountain, catch a bus to the station to make the last train.

This, of course, led to Nick and I fighting over whether to wait for the shuttle back down or run all the way down to the bus stop. Did we wait for the shuttle? Did I think I was going to die in that beautiful Bavarian forest? Are Emma Stone/Watson magical people? Yes, by all accounts.

Let me make it clear my hatred for running. When I was in school and we’d have to run a mile for gym class I’d run next to the slowest person on the track and speak loudly when we passed the coach,”You’re doing so well! Don’t worry I won’t run ahead and leave you behind.”

What. A. Star.

I bought running shoes because they were cute, not because I thought I’d do any running in them. (Do you do running?).

I was wearing those said running shoes as I fought against tumbling down the hill. I’d stop every few feet convinced I had appendicitis, or an ovarian cyst or a grumpy tourist stabbed me as I ran past. It was just my body reminding me I shouldn’t be running. It’s bad for my health.

I cursed Nick all the way down (because you do that when there’s no one else to blame) and begged God for Pringles. Fellow tourists stared and thanked their lucky stars they paid out for that fancy tour group. Tour guide Nancy would never make them run back to their bus. Screw you, Nancy.

We saw the bus in the distance and sprinted. It hissed and readjusted with the weight of the last few tourists. We reached out our hands in prayer and/or to wave down the attention of the bus driver. Whoever would respond first, I guess.

But we made it.

We walked into the train station triumphant with five minutes to spare. We bought a full canister of Pringles to celebrate.

We walked by the girl who took our photo on the bridge (she obviously took the shuttle down because there weren’t any leaves and twigs in her hair). I waved at her but she hesitated. I definitely didn’t look like the same woman she met on the bridge. That woman was confident, this woman looked like a sweaty lobster.

Travel tip: take the damn shuttle.

The wind tunnel will serve you now

We decided to venture out for brunch while were in beautiful Nice, France. The weather predicted sunny skies and I was feeling particularly brunchy. You know the feeling, it’s a Sunday and you deserve a freaking quiche.

The cafe, Déli Bo, was recommended to us and we were willing to wait for a table. The host approached us and said ominously, “We only have tables outside.” By this point, rain clouds had rolled in and I waved them away with only thoughts of my quiche.

I soon realized my mistake. The wind left no prisoners. Lettuce from our salad littered the ground like leaves. Napkins floated in the air like birds of dark omen. Receipts floated away – did we still have to pay?

Children and adults alike couldn’t be saved. Strollers rolled away with babies still in it.

Parched mouths reached for their drinks only to find unknown bits and someone else’s hair at the bottom of their glass.

Menus were blown off tables and people would throw up their hands and say, “Just surprise me!”. Waiters shielded their customers’ eyes from debris as they ordered. Quality customer service.

Customers would hold down napkins while waiters placed down silverware in vain – teamwork was at play here.

No one felt like a plastic bag drifting in the wind, but they were certainly attacked by one or two, entangling them like tumbleweeds from the dumpster down the road.

Though there was not a ray of sunshine people donned sunglasses to act as lab goggles to protect themselves.

One intelligent woman used her turtleneck to its full potential by pulling it up and over the lower half of her face. A classic move I’ve now coined, ‘the turtle-shell’. Genius.

It could almost be seen as an experience.

Come dine in the wind tunnel, we’ll blow you away!

Then there would be a moment of pure bliss – the eye of the storm if you will – when the wind would cease, but only briefly. Fathers gripped their children to their chest in suspense.

A family of four who just wanted a nice Nice brunch (see what I did there?) was hit the worst. Waters and juices crashed around them drenching both parents and child. The baby was removed from her stroller only to have her cries carried off by the wind.

Yet there was still a line to get onto that patio of hell. I’d honestly still recommend it. Great quiche.

Nick cowering from the wind. The table in the back left is an accurate portrayal to how we all felt.

I’m feeling 22

When I woke up in Nice, France on my birthday my initial thought was, “I’m going to ride a rental bike along the coast with a french baguette dangling between my teeth.” But alas, my dream was not to come true. I looked out the window and buckets of rain poured down.

It literally looked like a movie scene where the behind-the-scenes guy turned on the sprinklers just a little too much. You’re sitting there watching this movie funeral thinking, “There is no way the sky could physically produce that much precipitation.” Well, apparently it can. On my birthday. I’m so special.

So instead of sitting glumly inside, I took inspiration from my girl T-Swift and made a music video. Because I’m feeling 22, bitches.

Wet pants and not the good kind

Let me set the scene. We had just arrived in Nice, France. I had dreamt of this moment ever since I watched a rom-com/action spy movie with Ashton Kutcher. It’s based in Nice. Also, he’s topless, a lot. I’m very cultured.

Moving on.

Topless Ashton Kutcher in the movie Killers. You’re welcome.

After dropping off our stuff (precious, precious stuff) at our Airbnb, we headed to the coast. It was evening by this point and the tide was in, this is an important detail we overlooked. (God, I’ve spent way too much time in Arizona, a landlocked, desert state). I wore a swimsuit underneath my sweater and jeans in the small chance it would be warm enough to swim. It wasn’t. It was cold and no one along the beach was dumb enough to expose any skin to the sea breeze (foreshadowing).

We leaned against the wall that separated the ocean from the city like the locals were doing (we fit in so well). Above the seawall, people looked out from their perch on the boardwalk. Old couples growled at each other, teenagers in roller blades ran them over, the good stuff.

I slipped my shoes off and dug my toes into the sand. My phone was sticking out of my back pocket so I slipped it into my shoe for safekeeping (oh, the irony) while I readjusted my place on the wall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a woman play with fire (not literally, actually she was playing with water). She would get really close to the water and then run back to the safety of the sand. I watched a huge wave crash down on the beach and essentially swallowed her whole. Like a 4-D movie, seconds after I watched this woman be demolished I was soaked by the same wave.

To my horror I watched my shoes be pulled out to sea. I grabbed them and plunged my hand inside only to come up empty. Further down the coast, I saw my phone sticking out of the sand like an ostrich (or another animal who burrows idk). I darted after it with my soggy pants and dripping sweater as the crowd above made gasps as they discovered this truth with me.

Imagine a phone sticking out of that. Imagine it’s yours. Share in my horror.

This became a show for these people. I heard faint clapping as I tugged it free and basically dried it with my hair (which miraculously remained dry and still looked damn good that day). Once I secured my phone, I had to acknowledge my drenched body. I remembered I had a swimsuit underneath and began to peel my clothes off.

Remember, everyone else was fully clothed. Because it was cold AF. This is an important detail. Apparently, just because I’m in France doesn’t mean people don’t stare at half-naked women in bizarre temperatures. The entire crowd stared down at me as I shivered and laid out my clothes.

When I thought it couldn’t get worse, another wave hit and the time on my [sun] dryer was restarted. I looked up and the grumpy old couples had turned their anger towards me. I waved as they pointed at me and frowned. Looking back they were probably more concerned with the fact that I was this dumb tourist in a swimsuit in the late winter while the tide was moving in. In my shame and experience with angry, religious people I assumed they had something against my body exposure (sexy).

Effective drying technique until another wave hit.

But the cherry on top, the real crowd pleaser (literally), was when the police came. Yes, the police came. This is when I was able to pull my head out of my ass and realize the tide had risen dangerously high and people weren’t just staring at me for no reason. I took a moment to look around and in my self-absorption, I hadn’t realized all the smart people (and by that I mean basically everyone) had left our section of the beach.

A group of five police officers approached us, one was wearing a motorcycle helmet. (That was an important detail, why the hell was he wearing a helmet on the beach? Protection from sun exposure? Seagull poo? Recognition as actor Ashton Kutcher?) We were then escorted off the beach as my swimsuit gave me the biggest wedgie imaginable (but I wasn’t going to pick it in front of helmet guy! He wasn’t getting the satisfaction).

The crowd watched on from above as we finished Act III. I tippy-toed across Nice’s signature pebbles and stones (wonderful souvenirs) and my wedgie only worsened. Soon my butt cheeks had their time in the sun.

Now that I’m safe from French crowds I have come to terms that water damage doesn’t begin to describe my phone’s experience. So I am now the person who doesn’t have a phone thousand of miles from home. It’s thrilling, it adds another layer of adventure, right? Sure, sure.