When did this happen? What was I so busy doing that September just flew past me like my sister at a shoe sale? We'll get to that later. For now, let's talk about slivers.
Slivers?
Yes, slivers.
I know with my favorite bloggers and vloggers, I try to remember that whatever appears on their page is only a sliver of their everyday life; mind you, some slivers are bigger and more detailed than others, but the fact remains that there's an entire world behind the posts or the videos that viewers and readers never see.
Welcome to a behind the scenes sliver, staring yours truly! No, I'm not taking you through my daily drudgery, or showing you my vacation slides (that will come in due course, on another sliver); I'm talking about guilt, people. Guilt. I know about guilt, I was raised Catholic.
Being that I am one of Earth's more awkward creatures, I tend to feel guilty about a lot of things: "was I nice enough?"; "was the bitchy comment just a little too bitchy?"; or, "did I pay enough attention to this/that/him/her/it/them/whatever?". Most of the time, these mini guilt trips pass within a few minutes, and I'm back to making the bitchy comment.
There are times, though, when the guilt just keeps on comin'. Take, for example, last Tuesday. My in-person class is Tuesday and Thursday nights; the general routine is that my mother will drop me off, spend some time tending to her dad/errands, and pick me up. As such, we have an elaborate system of calls set up, since we're too bloody cheap to add texting to our phone plan.
Imagine the scene: I'm sitting on a bench underneath a tree, enjoying the cool breezes. No one is there, but the elaborate call system is 2/3 complete, and I've still got my cell in my lap. I'm just minding my own business, reading a pamphlet I picked up from the English department; there were poems and short stories in it, and I had forgotten my favorite poetry anthology at home, so I was strapped for interesting reading material. As I'm trying to figure out a particular poetaster's style and methods, I hear loud singing and the shuff-scuffing of dancing feet on the pathway in front of me. I didn't pay much attention to it, because I figured the singer assumed he was alone -- and, let's be honest, don't we all sing when we're alone (I can't mention dancing, because I do that in front of people)? Especially if there is a space where echo-y acoustics pick up your voice? It wasn't until he snapped his fingers, ending in a clap, and said "that just happened" that I realized things had escalated to awkward in 0.29 seconds. This awkwardness was driven home by the pure coincidence that he looked exactly like Joe Trohman, tattoos and all.
"Yes, it did," I replied.
"Write it down, get it out, share it with the world," he said, his hands fidgeting and wringing, and trepidation showing through the heaps of hair.
"Put it on the Internet, it's good publicity," I told him, erring on the side of making the snarky comment (odds are always about 80% that I'll make the snarky comment).
"Yeah, that's true," he said, adding, "what'cha readin'?"
And -- as the story of my life has always gone -- just as I was about to speak...
...which is odd, because my phone still shows that it's set to silent mode. Regardless, phase three of three was in effect.
And this is what happens when two awkward people try to interact.
Fast forward two hours.
I am one of those people that has to be reminded to partake in regular meals. "You need to eat, dear" has been the anthem of my life. I'm fortunate that I don't have any body issues, and that it's simple forgetfulness. At any rate, it was nearing ten o'clock, and the familiar battle cry was sounding from every angle.
"I'll just have a doughnut. I loves me some doughnuts. Them there doughnuts need eatin', and I'm just the girl for the job."
"You need more than just a doughnut."
To appease my keepers, I stuck a sandwich in the microwave, and patiently waited. That is, until I saw thick clouds of clay colored smoke billowing out of the edges of the microwave.
In reality, it was probably like this...
...but in the moment I ran to stop the machine, it looked like this to me...
Long story short, I blew up the bloody microwave. What didn't fry left a permanent smell of burnt pretzel bread in the microwave, the cubby it used to sit in, the cabinet behind it, and the majority of our house. I'm just glad the smoke didn't kill Nigel, because it was so thick that the three of us, said canary, and our girls were standing near the open back door just to get a breath of fresh air.
So, for the last two days, our microwave has lived in the back garden...
...and this wax burner thing stays at the scene of the incident...
We bought a new microwave today, but there's been a touch of trouble, and we need to return it for a different one.
Now, I can hear you asking yourselves "what the hell did I just read all of that piffle for?"
And I can tell you that I really don't know. On one count, they were both fun stories for me to tell with a common theme -- and we all know I like a good theme. On the other, it's a public atonement to settle my mind. For example, I've been apologizing about the microwave about three times an hour since the blowing up occurred. In that vein, I have come to realize that I have no technology etiquette, and I feel just horrible about the Joe Trohman-alike incident; I should very much have enjoyed where that crazy train was headed -- particularly since the last time I was chatted up can be measured in years (I would say how long, but that makes it look like I've been counting) -- but modern technology provides us with improper timing, and several unexplained glitches.
So, Trohman-alike, I am sorry I lack tech couth. And, to my family, I'm sorry everything smells like charred pretzel and swiss cheese.
I can say I learned something from these guilt trips, though. For starters, if you know a microwave is on its last leg, keep a close eye on it when it's working.
For another, if Tuesday's outfit is any indication, I really need to rethink what I'm wearing to All Time Low in November.
