Why did the state of Ohio give me a license to operate an automobile?

 (No pictures in this one either, folks. They take too much work and I'm lazy.)

 ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t know.

Y’see, both of my parents were born and raised in Michigan. I was born in Michigan. I am a Michigan driver by blood and birth. For those of you who don’t know, for Michigan drivers, a car is a lethal weapon. That’s why they require a license to drive in that state. The state of Ohio should have realized this when my siblings and I applied for our licenses and said, “STFU GTFO.”

Honestly, with as many stupid things as I’ve done while operating an automobile, I should not have a license (and if you’re my mother, and you’re reading this – all of this is totally fictional. I’m writing it just for laughs. Promise). It took me three tries to pass my driver’s test. Three. And you would think it would be the maneuverability section (the equivalent of parallel parking elsewhere) I would fail on. Nope. It was the actual driving part. First time, I made a shitty left turn and nearly backed into a car. Second time, I made a rolling stop…. Twice. Third time? I passed! Hooray!

I’ve run over a cement parking block, driven the wrong way down a one way street, made a U-turn in the middle of the road (it was in the country. Not ENTIRELY unsafe), and purposefully run a red light.

Yes. I purposefully drove through an intersection when I was not supposed to, risking my life, and the life of others. My god, I am a terrible person.

Of course, those are not the thoughts that went through my head at the time. My thoughts at the time were more along the lines of, “Yellow light, yellow light, yellow light – can I make it? Red light. Fuck. Any red light cameras? No? Keep going!”

Let this be a lesson to you kiddies. If you’re thinking about running a red light, you can’t just assume you’ll make it through the intersection and everything will be okay. And if you’re gonna go the route I did, and check for red light cameras and run the intersection anyways, make sure you don’t make the same mistake I did.

Make sure you check for cops as well. Otherwise you’ll get a $120 ticket that will drain your bank account the way Dracula drains your mom.

And it wasn’t even a, “Oh, the light changed as I was going through the intersection! It’s up for debate.” No. The light was blatantly red and I said, “Fuck it, I’m not stopping!” And then the police officer was like, “Hahaha! Got you! >:D” 

And let me tell you, being pulled over is a terrifying experience, especially if you’ve never been pulled over before. But a strange, strange thing has happened.

Ever since then, I swear, I pass a police car every time I’m on the road.

No joke. It’s as if their, “Laura is nearing a car… starting a ca- OH SHIT GET IN THE CAR WE HAVE ROADS TO PROTECT!” senses go off every time I'm near a mode of transportation.

And after being pulled over, the sight of a cop scares you shitless. I once saw a police car at an intersection and immediately slowed down. I then realized I was going the speed limit and there was no need for me to slow down.

In fact, yesterday, I was heading over to my favorite coffee house, and there was a police officer in front of me and was in front of me for ten minutes. The fucker knew where I was going! JK he really didn’t, he eventually turned. And you know what? When I had pulled up to a stoplight – there was another one beside me. (He did tell me my right tail light was out though - and if you're my mom and reading this, your car's right tail light is out). THEY HAD ME SURROUNDED. It was terrifying. It was if they were saying, “Laura – we’re watching. Don’t fuck things up.”

But folks, let me tell you. This experience has taught me two things. The first is how not to get caught running a red light (check for red light cameras AND police officers). The second, is how to get out of a ticket. Yes, I know I didn’t get out of my ticket, but I thought of the perfect way to do so.

Kindness.

Don’t laugh. Listen - my idea is genius.

See, what you do, is you keep a stash of thank you notes with you at all times (or at least while you’re operating a motor vehicle). When you get pulled over, ask for the officer’s name, and address your thank you card to him/her. The pre-written message should say something like, “Dear ______, Thank you for keeping our city safe! I appreciate it :)” Then put the card in the envelope, and hand it to the officer.

See, no one is EVER happy to see a police officer – ‘cause it usually means the shit has hit the fan. By giving the officer a thank you card, he and/or she will be so happy and full of warm fuzzies that he and/or she will be like, “Aw, shucks. You don’t need no ticket.” (In a southern accent. I don’t know why. I’m in Ohio – I shouldn’t picture any imaginative person with a southern accent) and let you off the hook.

And if that doesn’t work, well… I told you to look for cops before running the red light. It’s your own damn fault.

This is what happens when you drink: A graphical representation

Break Up Therapy

(Sorry folks, no pictures in this one. I was too lazy to add them in.)

 Most of us have been there. The world sucks. Babies are no longer adorable. Cute couples make you want to shank a toddler. Puppies are suddenly as annoying as Fran Drescher’s voice. You want to punch every romantic comedy in the face and scream, “IT’S NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL.”

Ladies and/or gentlemen, I am talking about break ups.

Everyone always says, “Break ups are hard,” and “Break ups suck – they hurt so much.” But until you have to go through one, you have no idea how much it fucking hurts. It feels like someone cut open your chest, put a rabid squirrel in there, and closed you back up. It feels like someone replaced your blood with a mixture of Coke and Mentos. It feels like all the happy in you was replaced with dead puppies and drowning kittens. It’s awful, and can be a difficult thing to get through.

Lucky for you, your favorite blogger is highly inexperienced in the area of relationships and getting over break ups. I have put together a comprehensive list of therapies you need to partake in in order to get over your break up. A weekend* of nothing but these activities and you’ll be good as new.

*Note: This varies depending on the length of the relationship that has ended.

Crying -Like-A-Baby Therapy

Ex-Significant Other Sam has left after saying, “I think we should stop seeing each other.” You’re crushed. You numbly close the door behind Sam. It feels like there’s a mixture of marshmallows and lead in your stomach.

You know what you need to do. So do it.

Go ahead. Let it all out. Cry. Cry after he and/or she has walked out the door after just dumping you. Cry when “our song” comes on the radio. Cry when you’re eating his and/or her favorite flavor of ice cream. Just. Fucking. Cry. You’ll feel better.

Throwing-Shit-Around-the-House Therapy

It’s the morning after Sam has dumped you. You haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday because you haven’t been hungry since. After crying some more, you decide to make toast for two reasons: 1 – because you’re finally hungry, and 2 – because toast is good. Toast doesn’t leave you. Toast has been there for you when you were sick as a child, in the morning to send you off to school or work, when you were hungry and needed something quick. Toast is always there – toast doesn’t break up with you.

You open up the bag of bread. The first few slices on top are a bit dry and stale, so you take them out, set them on the counter, and reach for the better bread – the fresh bread. You put the bread in the toaster oven, and wait for your friend, toast, to comfort you.

You don’t know how it happens, but all of the sudden, the stale bread is in your hand and in seconds it’s on the floor. You threw it. You don’t know why you threw it, but you do know this – it fucking felt good. So you pick it up and throw it again. And again. You see the water bottle that has been sitting on the counter for weeks and throw that too. You see a stack of papers and throw that. You find shoes, bags, more water bottles, pillows, babies and throw them all. The house is now a mess, but goddammit that felt good.

Note that Throwing-Shit-Around-the-House Therapy is more effective when accompanied by Crying-Like-A-Baby Therapy.

Blasting-Music-so-Loud-You-Burst-Your-Neighbor’s-Eardrums Therapy

Your temper tantrum is done, and your friend, toast, has arrived. You sit down on the floor of the living room with toast. It’s quiet. You feel alone because it’s so quiet. Feeling alone un-does all the progress you’ve made in therapy. So what do you do? You turn on music. Loud music. There is only one rule – the music cannot be sad. It has to be music you associate with happy times – times filled with daffodils, puppies, daisies, kittens, sunshine and rainbows.

Note that Blasting-Music-so-Loud-You-Burst-Your-Neighbor’s-Eardrums Therapy is more effective when accompanied by Crying-Like-A-Baby Therapy and Throwing-Shit-Around-the-House Therapy.

Retail Therapy

After crying, throwing, and developing hearing loss, you feel like getting up and doing something. You don’t want to mope around. There’s a world out there! A world out there, ready for the taking! A world full of things to be bought! So, call up your friends and go shopping. Go to the most expensive store you know of and shop. It doesn’t matter if you can’t afford the clothes – try on fabulous garments that even the vapid women on Sex and the City couldn’t afford.  And take pictures of yourself in these garments. And if you just so happen to post them on facebook and your ex just so happens to see how mind-blowingly hot you look, well, kudos.

Or you could go to Target and buy a new bikini and some cute tops. That also works.

Note that Crying -Like-A-Baby Therapy, Throwing-Shit-Around-the-House Therapy, and Blasting-Music-so-Loud-You-Burst-Your-Neighbor’s-Eardrums Therapy probably wouldn’t make Retail Therapy any more effective. In fact, you would probably get a lot of worried looks from people if you started crying, throwing shit around the store, and turning your iPod on full blast. You would also probably be escorted off the premises by security.

Devouring-a-Burrito-the-Size-of-a-Baby Therapy

At this point, you’re starting to feel better. You’re smiling, you’re laughing. Yeah it still hurts, but you have friends and shopping to take your mind off things. Now that you’re feeling better, you’re realizing how hungry your friend, toast, left you.

This, my friends, is where Chipotle* comes into play.

There are two steps to this one:

Step 1 - Buy a burrito the size of a small baby.
Step 2 - Devour said burrito. All of it.

Life is now magical.

Again, the first three therapies probably would not work well in Chipotle. In fact, you would probably get banned from Chipotle for life. This is not cool. Don’t do it.

*Can be substituted with other Mexican restaurants that serve burritos the size of babies.

Tequila Therapy

It’s a Saturday night. Go out and get blitzed.* Just remember to stop after three shots of tequila. After three, you’re on the floor.

Note that the first therapy works pretty well with Tequila Therapy – but throwing things around the bar/club/party you’re at might scare some people, and get you taken away by the cops. In handcuffs.

*And by “Go out and get blitzed,” I mean, “Drink responsibly.”

Get-the-Fuck-Out-of-Here Therapy

Go somewhere – anywhere. I don’t mean go to the store or to a spa. I mean travel. See things, meet people, commit crimes have fun. Go to Dallas, Cleveland, Thailand – wherever. Sure you may just be trying to literally run away from your feelings, or seeing how far you have to travel to forget about Ex-Significant Other Sam, but as long as you get some new, awesome experiences out of it, I don’t see what the problem is.

Well, there you have it folks, a comprehensive list of therapies to help you get over your Ex-Significant Other Sam. All of these therapies may be repeated as many times as necessary – except Tequila Therapy. After repeating Tequila Therapy so many times, it stops being known as “therapy” and becomes known as “alcoholism.” That’s not cool, so don’t do it.

Lesbians: A Terror Upon Today's Society

Have you ever met a woman and instinctively been afraid of her? She has given you no reason to fear her – she’s nice, polite, and friendly. But for whatever reason, she scares you shitless and you avoid her the way you avoid a rabid elephant (I’ve never seen a rabid elephant, but I imagine it would be a petrifying animal).

This is because she is a lesbian.

“What? Laura, you’ve clearly had too many shrooms today. Lesbians aren’t scary!”

That, my dear Watson, is a lie. If lesbians weren’t scary, people wouldn’t be making claims such as, “ZOMG GAY MARAIGE KILED TEH DINOSORES!!!!!1!!1!!!ONE!” and everyone would be fine and dandy with Teh Gays. But people aren’t fine and dandy with Teh Gays. Therefore, lesbians are terrifying.

I could analyze why lesbians are terrifying on a theoretical level in that they’re completely like, “FUCK YOU PATRIARCHY!” by diggin’ the ladies instead of the dudes and therefore threaten the patriarchal structure that we all live in and love on a bizarre, perverse, masochistic level, but I won’t even though I just did. Instead, I shall make ridiculous comparisons.

THE FAUXHAWK

S

So, this isn't actually a fauxhawk. I woke up and my hair looked like this. Close enough.

Yes. That is a picture of me and my unmade bed. I couldn’t find decent pictures of females sporting fauxhawks, so I used my own. Plus, I’m narcissistic and totally rock the hawk and want you all to know how much of a BAMF I am - I mean, who goes to bed without a fauxhawk and wakes up with one? ME. That's who! I digress.

In case you aren’t up-to-date on lesbian culture, lesbians OWN the fauxhawk. Yes. They own it. If you are straight and sporting a fauxhawk, you are subject to copyright laws. No joke. So, don’t do it. Anyways, you might be wondering, “Laura, why on earth is a fauxhawk terrifying?” Well, I shall tell you. Sporting a fauxhawk adds – depending on the length of your hair – 3 to 23.96 inches to your height, making you terrifying if you are 5’10”, like I am. It is the equivalent to birds puffing up their feathers to make themselves appear bigger and scarier than they actually. Or those frilled lizards. The fauxhawk says, “I AM A LESBIAN. I TALK ABOUT FEMINISM AND CATS AND ANGELINA JOLIE. DO NOT MESS WITH ME,” to everyone. It also acts as a weapon to fend off unwanted attention from boys – like a rhinoceros horn, or elephant tusks, or fake nails. However, an untrained person sporting a fauxhawk can result in unintentional casualties – this is why the lesbians own the fauxhawk. They are the only ones trained in the ways of the fauxhawk and know how to wield its power.

NOTE: The above also applies to mohawks – except maybe the part about lesbians owning them. I don’t know that lesbians own mohawks.

FLANNEL

O

OH GOD IT'S SO SCARY. LOOK AWAY! LOOK AWAY! HIDE THE CHILDREN!

Now, you might be saying, “Laura! Flannel is not scary! It’s warm, cozy, and comfy! What’s scary about that?”

Well, I’ll tell you.

Aside from lesbians, who else wears flannel? No, not Donna Pinciotti! Think harder. That’s right. Lumberjacks. Lumberjacks carry around axes and chop down wood and eat stacks of pancakes and have big blue oxen. So when a lesbian wears flannel, and there’s no wood to chop, it sends a message. It says, “I AM A LESBIAN AND I CARRY AROUND AN AXE SO YOU BETTER WATCH YOUR BALLS.” People see lesbians wearing flannel, realize that there are no trees around to be chopped (especially if you’re in a city), and flip a shit. They stay the fuck away from the scary lesbians. Flannel also acts as the frill on a frilled lizard thingy. It sends a warning.

RUGBY

T

Hardcore. You don't mess with these girls. They'll fucking punch you in the face... with their elbows.

“Laura, rugby is a SPORT. Sports and athletes aren’t terrifying!”

That, sir and/or madam, is a lie. Sports are absolutely terrifying, which makes the people who play them walking pure and utter horror. For one, sports take an immense amount of WORK and EFFORT. We’re talking physical labor here. Exercise – it’s awful. Modern day form of torture. It should be outlawed. In addition to that, sports are VIOLENT. Not only do you become exhausted when partaking in them, but you also get HURT. And these are just sports in general – we haven’t even started talking about RUGBY.

Have you ever seen a rugby match? No? Neither have I. In fact, I know next to nothing about rugby, except that it’s like football – therefore, it must be violent. You have to be tough as a wolf who wrestles rabid moose in volcanoes for fun to play rugby.

Rugby – like the fauxhawk – is owned by the lesbians. Lesbians like to break bones, get bruised, and get scratched up… for fun. At least, lesbians who play rugby do. Lesbians who don’t play rugby? They still like to watch it. It’s like back in the day, with coliseums and gladiators. Lesbians are tough. You don’t mess with them.

BAGGY PANTS

 What secrets are they hiding???

By now, you might be saying, “Laura! Baggy pants aren’t – forget it. Why do baggy pants make lesbians terrifying?” Well, my friend, I am glad you asked.

Baggy pants can hide almost ANYTHING. You don’t know what could be underneath/inside them. Hips, legs and ankles? Perhaps. A syphilis-ridden armadillo? It’s possible. Secret portal to Narnia? Maybe. You just don’t know what they’re hiding. Which is why you should be on guard around a lesbian in baggy pants – don’t say anything that might offend her. Otherwise, she might whip out a giant isopod and command it to attack you. That would be traumatizing.

You thought I was being silly. You thought I was trippin’ on shrooms. You thought my claims were unjustified. But I have told you, and you understand now. You understand the threat, safety hazard, and terror that are lesbians. And you are safer having read this blog.

Where are all the ninjas?

Now, you might be thinking, "Laura, it's impossible to know where ninjas are PERIOD. I mean, they're NINJAS."

Yes, yes, I know. Ninjas. Super sneaky and all that jazz. But why hasn't someone died from a mysterious neck wound? Why hasn't anyone found a dead body with shurikens stuck in it? Why hasn't anyone been poisoned lately?

Where are the ninjas?! I ask you.

I'll tell you where.

They're in your churches, your convents, your catholic high schools. They're praying for you and beating teaching your children.

That's right. I'm accusing NUNS of being NINJAS. They are-

NUNJAS!

A nunja in her natural habitat.

"Laura, are you on acid? That's just ridiculous!"

Yes, yes, ridiculous, I know. But I'm sure you thought my claim about the love of squirrels for catholics was ridiculous, didn't you? And then you read, and understood and thought, "BY GOD! SHE'S RIGHT!" So, my friends, read and understand.

As I have said before, I'm a bit of a Catholic school expert. I have had the opportunity to view nuns in their natural habitat (I worked as a secretary for the nuns on my high school's campus a few years ago), and I must say, they're... suspicious, to say the least.

For one, they are quiet. FAR too quiet. You never see or hear a nun coming until they make themselves known. This happened to me many a time when I worked for them. I would never see a nun approach the front doors of the Provincial Center (where they lived on my high school campus) until they rang the doorbell (which was LOUD and scared me shitless countless times). Futhermore, if a nun was walking behind you, you would never know. If they were approaching you from behind, you wouldn't be able to tell. Even if it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, you would not notice them until they said, "Hello, Laura (or whatever YOUR name may be), how are you today?"

Which usually results in a, "JESUS CHRIST! ... Thank you for this beautiful day. Please bless the sisters. Amen. Oh, hello, Sister. I'm wonderful - just doing a little praying to good ol' JC, y'know. How are you?"

But that is beside the point.

See? Nuns are so ninja-like that they have figured out how to get into the men's room!

"Laura, you're being silly. Some people are just really quiet!"

Uh huh. Sure. Then let me present to you, Exhibit B - Sr. Charleen.

Sr. Charleen was one of my Theology teachers in high school. She was this little, elderly nun who taught Prayer and Theology III, as well as other classes, I'm sure. Sr. Charleen, however, was in a motorized wheel chair.

"A motorized wheel chair? What does that have to do with anything?"

Well, I will tell you. Sr. Charleen told us that she has a condition (I can't remember what it's called, or exactly what it is [I know it has to do with her spine], but that's not important), so she can't walk very well, or very far, which is why she is in the wheel chair.

SPINE CONDITION MY FOOT.

She clearly injured her back in an epic ninja battle involving swords, poison, and shurikens. Doesn't that make more sense than a silly spine condition? After her injury, clearly, she had to retire as a ninja. BUT her enemies were still after her. Where could she retire to? Where would she be safe? With the NUNS of course! No one would suspect her to retire and live in hiding with the nuns, teaching religion to the most intelligent young women ever. No one would ever think of that!

"Laura, you're ridiculous. Maybe she just has an actual spine condition? You know, those DO exist."

Alright then. Let me tell you about Sr. O'Neil.

I met Sr. O'Neil when I was but a wee (the irish-ness of "O'Neil" gave me an irresistable urge to use "wee." STFU) freshman at UD. Back when I was still a Music Ed major and had to take pedagogy classes. Sr. O'Neil taught Low String Pedagogy as well as other string instrument-related classes. She is a cellist, and expained to us that her hands are so strong from turning the tuning pegs on her cello that she can open jars even full grown men have trouble opening.

Strong hands from tuning pegs?! I THINK NOT!

PROOF! I TOLD YOU!

Obviously, she got her strong hands from her NINJA TRAINING AND EXPERTISE. I bet she can crush someone's skull in a fraction of a second with her hands.

And, think back to the good old days when teachers were allowed to use physical abuse as punishment. How do you think nuns got so good at detecting when you were doing something bad? How do you think they got so good at making those ruler-smacks hurt so much? IT'S BECAUSE THEY ARE NINJAS. Only to keep up with their ninja skills while worshipping Jeebus, they've practiced using every day objects - rulers in place of nunchucks. Crucifixes in place of shurikens. CANES IN PLACE OF SWORDS! This way, no one is suspicious of them. No one can ask, "Sr. O'Neil! Why is there a sword in your cello case?" "Sr. Charleen! Why are there a pair of nunchucks on your desk?" Even look at the word "nunchucks." THEY WERE NAMED AFTER NUNS! It's so obvious!

And if all that evidence doesn't convince you, then maybe this will.

JUST LOOK AT THE SIMILARITIES! ARE YOU CONVINCED NOW?!

Dear Self: Why did you do that?

^This is generally the feeling you have after a “Why did I do that?” moment.

There comes a time – or, if you’re me, several times – in everyone’s life where you do something. That something may be smart, stupid, at a Samuel L. Jackson level of kickass, lame or none of those creative adjectives. However, after this something has been done, by you, you will ask yourself one question and one question only. This question –

Why did I do that?

Actually, depending on what you have done, you may ask yourself this variation of the question –

Why the fuck did I do that?

For instance:

I forgot to take my blood pressure medication and drank a gianormous caffeinated beverage the size of my face and could possibly have a stroke because of it. Why the fuck did I do that?

I drunkingly kissed a cute girl who was on her last day of antibiotics for strep throat last night and am now developing a sinus infection. Why did I do that?

I had a dream that I was roundhouse kicking a nun in the face, proceeded to kick the ceiling in my sleep and consequently broke my toe. Why did I do that?

I started my 12 page paper at midnight the night before it was due and consequently stayed up for 34 hours straight. Why did I do that?

I offered a bear a stack of hot, delicious, homemade, buttermilk waffles and then decided that I wanted them moar than he did and ate them all. Why the fuck did I do that?

In my experience, this question occurs to me several times daily. About as often as I have to pee. A lot of the time it occurs because I’m playing Tetris. Food-related crises come in at a close second – “Why did I eat that last breadstick? [groan] I’m going to explooooooooooooooooooo-BOOM.” Very rarely is it ever seriously panic-attack worthy (sadly, my definition of “rarely” when it comes to panic attack-worthy crises is about once every week or so. General anxiety disorder FTW!) And when it is panic attack-worthy, it’s usually a homework assignment that I didn’t feel like doing because it caused me too much anxiety, and then because I put it off it causes me even more anxiety because I have less time to do it, and then I have a panic attack because I have so little time to do it and I start hyperventilating and then I explo-BOOM.

This happens a lot when I play tetris. Unfortunately.

Of course, you already know why you did whatever it is that you did – because you wanted to. Because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Because you weren’t paying attention. Because Jasper – your green, invisible pet chiweenie – said it would be a good idea. The question merely calls to your attention the fact that

YOU
WERE
DUMB

and regret whatever it is that you did.

Anyways, my point is, is I’m having a “Why did I do that?” moment. Right now. And you get to witness it. Aren’t you ecstatic? Don’t be. It’s not that exciting. It’s actually kinda gross.

So, as my lack of wisdom teeth heals up, I am able to eat moar and moar foods (more on my use of the word “moar” another time). Currently, I am still unable to eat rice, which means I am unable to eat a burrito or Chinese food – but the day when I can have my feast of unhealthiness is quickly approaching. Now that I can eat pizza, subs, cookies, pasta and CEREAL MOTHERFUCKERS, I can patiently wait on the burrito and Chinese – mainly because I can eat CEREAL MOTHERFUCKERS. I could go on and on about my love for CEREAL MOTHERFUCKERS, but I won’t. I may devote an entire post to that. Another time, though.

Back to the topic at hand.

I can eat moar food than I used to – hard crunchy things, such as potato chips. Normally, I don’t like potato chips, but when you go forever and half of eternity without eating anything substantial I can guarantee that even goat poo would taste like a steak to you. So tonight, I decided to devour some potato chips – sour cream and onion flavored. This is where part one of my “Why did I do that?” moment occurs. Everyone knows that onion anything is impossible to get rid of – no matter how many times you brush your teeth, floss, use mouthwash, and chew that spearmint gum, the oniony grossity is still there. But I demolished those chips. And they were delicious. For whatever reason, though, they left me feeling dirty, unclean, and un…healthy. So, to compensate, I eat something healthy. What is healthy?

Yogurt.

Strawberry yogurt (let’s face it – what other flavor yogurt is there? None. Because strawberry flavored anything is superior to all other flavors).

This is where part 2 of my “Why did I do that?” moment occurs. Because, yeah, my mouth is all nice and strawberry flavored for the time being, but later, what happens?

I – as all human beings do after eating food that is 23,984 different kinds of delicious – burped.

And what did that burp taste like?

Sour cream and onion potato chips. Plus strawberry yogurt.

YUM. SO DELICIOUS.

…

SORRY. I JUST THREW UP IN MY MOUTH A LITTLE.

Squirrels love Catholics

Folks, I am about to make a claim that may be too ridiculous to believe. A claim so ridiculous, you may laugh. A claim so unbelievable, you won't believe it.

Squirrels love Catholics.

He found out you aren't Catholic. And he is NOT happy about it.

So, if you don't already know, I was born and raised Catholic. This fall will start my 16th year of Catholic school. You could call me a bit of a Catholic school expert, I suppose. I know quite a bit about their rules, uniforms, as well as their oddities.

I knew my high school was different for many reasons. 1 - I loved the place. That in itself meant that it had to be somewhat odd (I was a HUGE oddball when I was just entering high school. Now, still so, but less). And 2 - It was a Catholic school.

"Hey now," some of my more religious readers may be thinking, "Catholics aren't all that bad."

No, they aren't all that bad.

But they are weird.

If a teacher saw you with your hand in your pocket for longer than the amount of time it takes to grab a pen or pencil or whatever may be in there, she was allowed to give you a demerit - because having your hand in your pocket meant that you had a cell phone in there, and you were texting someone (What? Yeah. Cellphones. What did you think I was going to say they thought we were doing? You dirty, dirty people!) Cellphones and texting during school hours was a big no-no. Nevermind that some people have made a habit of sticking their hands in their pockets (i.e. ME, GODDAMMIT). But if a girl was sitting in glass with her purse in front of her, "rummaging" through it for the duration of the hour and twenty-five minute class? Yeah. That was totally fine. That didn't mean she was texting AT ALL.

Walking into class thirty seconds after the bell rang meant you were tardy and had to go get a tardy slip (Seriously, Sr. Irene?)

Jesus, don't even get me started on the nuns.

One of the more entertaining events of my Catholic high school occurred when I was but a mere sophomore. By then I had learned most of the oddities of Catholic high schools, but not all of them. One day, as I was sitting in class, waiting for the announcements to end so I could head over to my next class, the dean of students (Ms. Cousino or as we liked to call her - The Cous) came over the PA system.

"I understand that our students are very environment-friendly, but I'm afraid I have to ask you to refrain from feeding the squirrels."

What?

"A squirrel managed to get into the building yesterday..."

Seriously? Dont' feed the squirrels?

I died laughing. At least, I thought I did.

A couple days later, I was doing the same thing - waiting for the announcements to end so I could go to my next class, but The Cous came over the PA system again.

"I understand that some of the students here are concerned about the well-being of the squirrels on campus, which is why we have installed a brand new squirrel feeder."

... What? Seriously?

Yes. They installed one of these contraptions at my high school.

You all know the squirrels are like, "FUCK YEAH! CATHOLIC SCHOOL GIRLS ROCK! Party at the Catholic high school! FREE FOOD MOTHERFUCKERS!"

"Okay, well, that's only one instance," you may be thinking. "That's no reason to make a ridiculous statement about the love of squirrels for Catholics."

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you, exhibit B.

My parents are devout Catholics (granted, a little on the odd side, but devout Catholics none the less). Now, a number of different factors may have contributed to exhibit B - such as 3/4 my parents children going off to college (AKA nearly empty nest syndrome), their old age and boredom, blah blah blah

OR

It could have EVERYTHING to do with the fact that they are CATHOLIC (yeah. Let's go with that reason, 'cause it fits into my argument quite well).

Exhibit B:

My parents feed the animals in out backyard. Usually, my dad will throw some walnuts, almonds, pecans, whathaveyou on to the patio in our backyard. A variety of animals eat these nuts - birds, chipmunks, etc - but I guarantee you the animal that gets to the food first is the - you guessed it! - squirrels. The squirrels fucking LOVE us because of this. So much so that they've begun to come up to our back door and look all fat and adorable until we give them food.

Yes. They've learned how to beg!

Now, I don't consider myself Catholic, but Catholics must have a certain scent or something which has rubbed off on me. Whenever I'm mindlessly staring out the back door (it's one of those sliding glass door thingies. I don't know what they're called), a squirrel will come up to the door, and sit there. It smells the Catholic on me and knows that if it looks cute enough, I must eventually feed it.

NO SQUIRREL. I AM NOT CATHOLIC.

I WILL NOT GIVE YOU FOOD.

This is what's going on in my backyard. My parents are enabling the squirrels!

So what do I do?

I mess with those squirrels. I keep them on their toes. I'll open the door and chase them away. I'll fill up a glass of water and throw it at them (the water. Not the glass. And it's room temp, I promise - I'm no animal abuser. I just like screwing with their minds). I'll yell at them and scare them away. Eventually, they won't know what the expect when they come up to our back door. Food? Maybe (and with my parents in the house, quite likely). Terror? Perhaps. Water flying at them? Fuck yeah. I mean... Perhaps.

"Still, only two pieces of evidence?" You're thinking. "Not much of an argument."

I present to you - my university.

The University of Dayton is a Catholic University in Dayton, OH (Woooooo Ohio! ... not). Students on my campus play something called "squirrel tag" where you run up to a squirrel, touch it, and earn points.

The squirrels love Catholics enough to let them touch them.

SEE? Squirrels fucking LOVE Catholics!

I was not jesting when I made this claim!