Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

stories

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Standing at the deli counter in the middle of Ft. Lauderdale on Christmas Eve wearing board shorts and a bright orange t-shirt that i had inadvertently shrunk to a prepubescent size in the wash, it occurred to me immediately that the striking blond man with the “Got Lube?” shirt was going to hit on me. I just knew. It was like a sign from god.

Christmas in Florida was absolutely bizarre, to say the least. At three in the afternoon on C-day i found myself firmly planted on my grandmother’s couch eating bonbons while attentively viewing the Trading Spaces Marathon while my mother lounged out by the pool. I eventually walked down the hall to the condominium of my retired lesbian 2nd-cousins to borrow a deck of cards, and proceeded to play solitaire.

Those two incidents pretty much sum up my trip to Florida, aside from how my mother was flagged down at the airport and — after an extensive search of her person and property — was forced to discard her “bang’s scissors.” Which, honestly, she was more likely to kill someone with in Florida than she was on the way back from it, but safety regulations are safety regulations for a reason.

Happy New Year.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/01/390155447/

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I just narrowly averted doing the stupidest thing that i’ve ever done in my life… not ‘bad decision’ stupid, or ‘i can’t believe you just said that’ stupid. Just plain dumb.

I, of course, blame my mother.

Some people’s parents are deadbeats, weekend warriors, or dirty hippies. My mother is a middle-class shopaholic. She is too good to shop in bargain department stores, but would hardly know what to do with herself in an honest to goodness designer outlet. Somewhere between those two poles falls her two current vices: Walmart & Old Navy

::shudder::

Though i definitely live in fear of any location that involves that disturbing foreshortened version of ‘market,’ the former is innocent enough; after all, where else can you buy laundry detergent, cereal, Christmas decorations, and tube socks all in one shopping trip? I can’t begrudge those luxuries to a working woman, but the latter is infinitely more bothersome.

Apparently, everyone’s favorite low-rent Gap ::shudder:: decided to set up shop just three blocks from our house which, you know, is just beautiful for all those South Philly children who had previously been forced to schlep all the way to a mall for their fleece hoody pullover fuck-if-i-cares. Of course, within three months my mother had an Old Navy credit card. Yes, that’s right, plastic especially dedicated to going into debt to the company who uses the losers from American Idol as its spokespeople. And Morgan Fairchild.

As a result, she is constantly trying to buy me the low-quality logo-bearing crap that the store is packed to the gills with. So far she’s succeeded in buying me exactly one piece of clothing, of off which two buttons have already fallen. Honestly, i think she’s really reached the Middle Age when she starts conversations about how cheap she can buy sweatpants and wouldn’t i love some soft sweatpants, wouldn’t i?

No mom. Anyhow, mother issues aside, all this means to her poor collegiate son is that all of her wonderful care-grams come wrapped in a plastic Walmart bag inside of an Old Navy shopping bag, regardless of their source or content. Mail? Eggplant Sandwich? Girlfriend’s Christmas gifts that i had been hiding at home? The aforementioned tubesocks? New discman so i can survive my yearly plane ride to Florida, plus my electronic plane ticket for said flight? All presents delivered in her unique idea of gift-wrap along with, if i’m super-lucky, a tale of what she original brought home in the bags.

Of course, being a college student, all of these bags typically wind up dumped out in the middle of my floor, at which point they are promptly used to throw trash into. Term papers, tissues, pop-tart packages, and all the other things lying around on my floor. Also due to my lazy college nature, said bags typically accumulate into a pile numbering about a half-dozen before it occurs to me that they can be safely expelled from my room. The pile of Walmart and Old Navy bags containing collegiate trash had today grown to the size of a dozing Bengal Tiger, and in my fear that it would awake and pounce upon me in my sleep i decided it was time to throw them out

And, out they went. Hours ago. However, it wasn’t until just a few minutes ago that i began looking for my new discman and my nonrefundable electronic airline ticket that i realized i had rid my room of all those sinister blue plastic degraders of Earth and their paper-handled brethren when i took out the trash. All. Of. Them.

For those keeping score, that’s upward of $420 dollars in prizes that i put out on the curb, along with a bag of tube socks and a four-pack of batteries.

Down the stairs i went. Out to the curb i ran. There, i was faced with two identical bags that i had casually tossed into trashcans on my way to have margaritas with Amy & Isabelle earlier this evening. One bag contained a dead rodent complete with shavings and q-tips used to examine her bizarre ailment, and the other was full of neatly tied shopping bags full of innocuous trash and one bag that was worth nearly half-a-grand. And, faced with my poor dead rodent or some fabulous parting gifts, did i pick the right bag?

Of course i didn’t. Why the hell should i? So, after gingerly re-twisting the twist-tie of poor Stoli’s proverbial plastic coffin, i then made off with the second bag, which i promptly dumped in our vestibule and kicked until i made contact with something that felt like a fairly expensive Sony discman, at which point i scooped all of the other nearly sealed non-dead-rodent-containing bags back into the momma-bag, put it back on the curb, and slunk back up the stairs to my room to open my early Christmas gift.

How i managed to tell this story before the story about the drag queens in Walmart or Gina and I shopping for toys in Target i can’t tell you, but rest assured both are in the works. And, yes, i blame my mother for the entire thing, and as a penalty have taken her lovely Sage & Citrus scented Christmas gift for my very own.

Goodnight.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/12/90065737/

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My hamster’s ass fell off.


I don’t know how else to explain it, really. In the day and a half i was gone she apparently escaped twice, and maybe she licked up some Clorox or ate some mouse poison, but when i picked her up tonight her bottom half was a mess of fur matted in blood and strange inside out shapes and i put her back into the cage before Gina came back out of her room because i couldn’t look anymore.

I took her out just now, and it seems to have gotten even worse… she just gave me a blank hamster stare from her black marble eyes as i tried to discern what was the matter, but i quickly gave up and let her go back to sleep.

I hate this day already.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/12/90047262/

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I didn’t go on too many college tours when i was looking at schools (possibly to my detriment), but of the ones i saw i was almost wholly unimpressed. Sure, the concept is good: pair a couple dozen visitors with one friendly student and let the campus speak for itself. In my experience, it never really works out that way; the worst case scenario typically involves the campus saying very little and the tour guide following suit, but being bored definitely isn’t the worst possible result of a tour.

The best tour i saw was at my first choice school, Boston University. Our tourguide was a petite sophomore wearing two inch thick chunky heels who walked backwards and just-short-of screamed at us for a two mile circuit of the campus. As tour guides go i consider her my role-model, and i try my best to do her proud. In fact, i did so twice today.


In case you haven’t picked it up from context, i’m not exactly ecstatic about my college; after four years the same old mistakes and scheduling problems are tiring, especially pared with the fact that i should’ve shopped around more extensively for colleges to start with. However, just because i’m wearying of my collegiate experience doesn’t mean that i should pass on anything other than enthusiasm to incoming students — not only for the sake of being a good salesperson, but because i owe it to them to give them the best possible idea of why they might want to come here.

Some days that best example includes climbing onto desks, singing acappella in the middle of our bookstore’s lobby, telling my group that i’ll be making up a name for the athletic field until i can remember what it’s actually called, and making used-car-salesman like guarantees about our housing policies. It’s unorthodox, to say the least, but people never fail to smile, laugh, ask questions, and shake my hand when i give a tour in my own special fashion. And, while i would never suggest hiring an entire staff of maniacs like myself, there is definitely something to be said for being able to frankly discuss a campus in a way that’s both endearing and amusing … as well as entirely unscripted.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/09/385456151/

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Trying to decided if my sprained ankle would support a leap of the river-like puddle or if i should give up and ford it, it occurred to me that i couldn’t remember the last time i had felt rain on my toes. It’s not the sort of thing that happens too often to me, as i’m not often found frolicking in dewy fields or dancing in the rain. My toes were definitely being rained on, though, enough to make up for my length of neglect.

I leapt, as though it really made a difference. Three blocks later and i was sopping wet from head to toe, above and below my silver vinyl jacket. No one in the apartment was awake to see my soggy return, and in minutes i was day and freshly clothed – the dancing pitter patter above me on the roof the only reminder of my intrepid journey. That and the pile of soaked through clothing outside my door, and the sleepy smile on my face.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/08/85393065/