Every time I am in line behind someone who is purchasing something cool or noteworthy at the grocery store
Let me pose you this, sir: How can you lean on a shopping cart containing four bags of Brach’s Circus Peanuts, three bottles of Arbor Mist, and not one but two neon orange Funnoodles and not expect me to say something? I mean, you have clearly won the Life Jackpot because not only do you (presumably) have a valid, not-expired ID and access to a swimming pool, but you have the refined taste in old-fashioned candies that can only come from sepia summers spent with nurturing, Werther’s-commercial grandparents who don’t eat Salisbury steaks for dinner every night in the smoking section of the Porky’s All-You-Can-Eat and refer to their grandchildren as “those little shits.” I therefore want to know you and all of your secrets. To expedite that process, I will open my mouth and say something. Unfortunately, what comes out, in a voice that sounds like that of The Fonz, is, “I wanna go to your house eyyyy.” Not surprisingly, you, sir, do not confirm my creepy self-invite, but instead direct a sympathetic snort-laugh-hybrid in my general direction and avoid eye contact with me for the rest of the time we’re in line together. But you know what, fine, that’s cool. I’m just going to kind of reach over you here and pick out a pack of Orbit. No, you know what? Move over, I’m going for the three-pack tonight. You’re not the only one who can party. It’s going to be Gum Fest ‘011 in my parents’ front yard, baby, and we even have Porta-Potties just like Coachella because both of our bathrooms are out of commission, but don’t worry because the pipes are probably being fixed right now, like as we speak. But I guess we’re not exactly speaking, are we? And that’s probably for the best because I tend to spray spit everywhere when I try to talk with nine slices of gum in my mouth.
Any time I drive or walk past someone’s house and can see inside
Look, I’m sorry, but if you don’t want me to peek through your window, don’t hang those googly-eyed girl paintings from the 70s all over your walls. Don’t invite someone with an interesting haircut and good posture to sit on your wicker loveseat. Don’t place a bookshelf lined with Budweiser cans from the Cold War Era to Present in your dining room. Don’t have a dance party to “Mambo No. 5” in aerobics gear with all three of your obese friends and a hyper pug puppy. Don’t leave your TV on with She’s the Man playing at full volume. Don’t buy blinds that leave a quarter-inch gap even when they’re shut. Don’t buy semi-sheer curtains and leave them slightly parted. And if you don’t like my “creepy” rules, call the cops and let them tell you. Rules are rules.
The time a little person on roller skates brought me my drink at Sonic’s Happy Hour
So I’m at Sonic looking to score a Diet Cherry Limeade, and in complete violation of all my expectations re: everything, an African-American little person riding roller skates and wearing a nametag that reads “Lil Lenny” starts rolling towards my car. There is nothing in this world so delightful, and he knows it. Good on him. This experience is so delightful in fact, that as he approaches my window, I begin sweating profusely, which is the same creepy reaction of pure delight that I get from my Little Darling Box Set of Shirley Temple movies, which are all so uncomfortably cute that I can only handle watching them in twenty-minute increments. Anyhow, Lil Lenny hands me my drink and when he tells me my total, I get the shakes and drop a quarter between my seat and the center console, and I wedge my hand down there to feel around for it, all the while not breaking eye contact with him. In case you’re wondering, yes, there were more quarters in my cup holder, but my head wasn’t on right. I was too delighted. And just when I think things can’t get anymore delightful, Lil Lenny quips, “What’s wrong? A little short?” and I seriously start to shit my pants. Like, a little comes out. And, apropos of nothing: Fielding questions about a seemingly-inexplicable mid-day pants-change? Also creepy.
Every time I have a Juicy Eye spell
To clarify: I did not cry because you didn’t properly acknowledge and praise the booby cake I made for your baby shower (though we all talked about it afterward and everyone agreed that you really didn’t give me adequate props re: the startlingly-realistic nipple [fyi: I used a grapefruit Jelly Belly]). I did not cry when the old man with cat hair all over his shirt who works at Thrift Village refused to sell me the handbag from Monica Lewinsky’s line The Real Monica because it didn’t have a price tag, even after I offered to pay twenty dollars, which is way more than any of the other handbags there cost. I did not cry when the Papa John’s delivery guy forgot to give us parmesan packets. I did not cry during the Mother’s Day episode of Rugrats. I did not cry over that chain email about the Pillsbury Doughboy dying of a yeast infection. I wasn’t crying, okay? Sometimes my eyes just water. It’s called Juicy Eye. And it’s a condition. And everyone should really get off it because the thing about conditions is that if you make fun of someone with a condition, karma will see to it that you later develop a worse condition. For example, my brother used to tease me with the name Wheezy because I had mild asthma, but then he developed acid reflux and everyone started calling him Ashlee Simpson. I even heard about some jerk who made fun of a cancer kid and later developed Split Dick, which is exactly what it sounds like–two skinny tootsie-roll dicks where a regular-sized one used to be. That’s the universe for you. But let me tell you, if I ever had the good fortune to win a Young Life raffle and the prize was to eat at the Olive Garden with God and ask him one question, I wouldn’t even use my one question to ask God why the Olive Garden here sort of smells like dysentery diarrhea, which is a Great Mystery to us all. No, you know what I’d ask him? I’d ask him why he decided to afflict me with Juicy Eye. And he’d probably answer, “To make you feel creepy, Carly.” And I’d say, “Touché, God.” And then I’d feel nervous because I’d have to be careful to henceforth only speak in statements, or risk going to Hell. And then I’d probably start to shake and randomly well up and be forced to explain to the waiter that I’m not crying because I’m contemplating the infiniteness of Endless Soup, Salad, and Breadsticks. Not this time. Nor, waiter, am I crying because I can’t talk to cool dudes without sounding like The Fonz, nor because I shit myself at Sonic, nor because I’m too weird to function and even God doesn’t care. I’m not crying, okay? It’s a creepy condition, and it’s how God made me. He’s sitting right there. Why don’t you ask him eyyyy?