1: When he asked me out (not via FaceBook, I assure you), we went and changed our relationship status’. Did you know that FaceBook sends you a relationship request? Did you? Because it’s hilarious:

“Kevin said on Facebook that you two are in a relationship.  We need you to confirm that you are, in fact, in a relationship with Kevin.”

So I confirmed it, and was told that I had no more pending relationship requests – and I’ve been tempted to send relationship requests to people ever since just to freak them out.

Add to the fact that I went and “liked” his status, and we can’t stop laughing.

Yep. We are nerds, and I love it.

2: I aced my English paper. . .which I wrote the day the rough draft was due, and edited the day the final was due.

Note to self, don’t do that again, ever.

3: Aspen told me the other night that she has a baby in her tummy, since Ashley is pregnant.

4: Ashley is pregnant! And I’ve known for a while but I’m still excited. She’s naming it Aubrey.

Just teasing.

But she could name it Arby’s, since that’s what Aspen thinks my name is. She’s went from ‘Aubrey’ to ‘Aurabrey’ to ‘Arby’s’. It makes me want to say, “May I take your order?” when I hear it. Anyone else try and call me that and I’ll deck ya.

5: I finished a spreadsheet I’d been working on all week, and it was a success.

6: I went to my friend Liz’s house for a Halloween party. I hadn’t seen her for two months so we had time to catch up and carve pumpkins.  The best part? She had a lot of people there, so I have new friends!

7: Kevin had a bad day the other day (history test. . . I don’t envy that) and showed up on my door with roses.

Let me restate: He had a bad day, and still made my day awesome. I love being with someone who loves making me happy.

8: Met his friend Nikki and her boyfriend last night, and can I just say I love that gal? She was awesome.

9: We went late night bowling, and we all got strikes. I’ve decided Kevin is my good luck charm, because I got three strikes in a row.

More like, I got two in a row and the machine gave me a freebie (the ball went in the gutter).

The bowling alley turned the lights off and the music up. Bowling in neon lights? It’s pretty much the best thing ever, especially when they even have neon pins, and you have a bright pink bowling ball.

Can we make a rule that all bowling alleys have to do that, at all times? Because normal bowling is so lame now.

10: We’re going ice skating later today, and if I’m lucky I won’t even fall too hard.

Did you just start singing, “Fallin’ for You” by Colbie Calliat in your head? Me too.

]]> http://www.aubreymo.com/best-week-ever/feed/ 1 http://www.aubreymo.com/mid-hall-melodies/ http://www.aubreymo.com/mid-hall-melodies/#comments Fri, 09 Oct 2009 13:02:36 +0000 Aubrey http://www.aubreymo.com/?p=1357 JUST WHEN I THINK I HAVE COLLEGE FIGURED OUT something goes and surprises me. I take night classes, which leaves me with about an hour or so inbetween work and school before my first class starts. I usually spend that hour wandering, and this past Tuesday found me wandering the same main hall. It’s become a hobby of mine to watch the people as they go past and try and figure out what they’re like – super chic, emo, trendy, social, unsocial (did I just walk past a mirror?).

So there I am, minding my own business when I hear music. A guy in a florescent pink shirt was strumming a guitar and playing peacemeal music with his croonies standing nearby. I guess I hadn’t really noticed that nobody else was walking past them, but I had to, my class was that way.

“Hey!! Hey you? Yea, YOU! You wanna hear a new song?” the shaggy-haired, pink-shirted guy called out to me. Not that there was any need for him to shout, seeing as I was only five feet in front of him.

Now don’t get me confused, I may seem over-confident online but in person I’m full of boring lines and awkward pauses. This was one of those moments where I tried to act invisible, tucking my head against my chest and moving forward thinking, Don’t pick me, don’t pick me, please don’t pick me. Shaggy-haired, pink-shirted guy literally ran after me down the hall, jumped in front of me and asked again if I would like to hear his song.

“Sure,” I mumbled. What else was I supposed to do? I needed to go that way and he was blocking my path.

“I’m going to sing you a song,” he paused, strumming his guitar for dramatic effect, “and it’s called, Getting Stoned.” One last strum finished up the intro before he began into a fast-paced tempo. It would have been catchy, had I been able to focus. I was too preoccupied trying to backpedal to clear my personal forcefield. You see, Shaggy-Haired, Pink-Shirted Guy was in the building and he was rocking out – in my face, singing like he was Steven Tyler of Aerosmith in front of crowds of millions, but the only thing he was crowding was my personal bubble.

“Erm, that’s great!” I said, cutting him off mid chord. I wanted desperately to dissapear, sink into the floor, anything to get me away from Shaggy-Haired, Pink-Shirted Guy, his guitar and most imporantly the crowds that had begun to gather and congest the hallway.

“You really liked it?!” He asked. I’m not a good liar at all, so I huffed a quiet “Sure” and walked away as fast as I could. The looks I got continuing down that hall was priceless, and I’m now regretting not getting his autograph and photo with him. That could be my lame clame to fame someday! Reporters would ask me how I met Shaggy-Haired, Pink-Shirted Guy and I’d gush, “well it all began back in college, when he exclusively sang me his hit song about getting stoned. . .”

But seriously, if you are ever in need of entertainment, don’t go to the TV, go to your local community college.

But that doesn’t matter. I’d just finished my makeup. Not about to smudge my eyeliner just for the sake of comfort. I’d already spent ten minutes searching for that little tube of black raccoon paint, I was not about to spend another ten minutes reapplying it. Not that I had the time to spare anyway. The alarm clock got my extra safety cushion of time this morning.

So I lied to myself. I squinted, did a few quick blinks and convinced myself I could see perfectly fine. What’s the blur on the side of the road? Surely not my contact. No. It’s the dirt on my sunglasses. Or on my car. Or a bad reflection of the sun.

I’m a good self-liar.

When I got to work I adopted the same  ‘I can see just fine’ mantra that I had on the drive over. Every few minutes my vision would fog over while looking at the computer screen, so I’d blink, rub my eye and then look out the window. Viola. Insta fix.

Around 10:00AM I came to the realization that it’s not so easy to pull a quick contact adjustment during a company meeting. It’s like picking a wedgie in public  – sorry, blame the radio for that comparison, they have a Hanes No Ride Underwear sale going on at Wal-Mart apparently – all I mean is, if it’s in a public place, people will notice any movement. So there I am, in the middle of a large meeting rubbing my eye, dabbing at the corners, tugging at the lashes. And for some odd reason my nose starts running in a knee-jerk type of reaction every time I touch my eyes, and I realize I have to sniff.

I opt to quit breathing instead.

That lasted about two seconds. I pause until someone is talking, duck my head and let out what I thought was a quiet sniffle. Not even the full blown, loud, elephant trumpet-like snort that my body is telling me I need to do. Just a “this only will work for two seconds and my nose will run again” type of sniff. Turns out the talker was posing a question and not a statement. My sniff was perfectly synchronized with the post question silence.

And now people believe that I cry during meetings.

Think this could get better? Oh yes. It gets so much better. I run to my car to get a little contact solution. I admit it.  SO MY CONTACT IS A LITTLE DIRTY, OKAY?! And now, after cleaning it, it’s a tad bit torn.

T-O-R-N.

Ripped. Deceased. Cut right down the middle. And I’m standing in the bathroom, literally holding my vision in my hand and realizing that without this little clear dome I am almost legally blind. You could be right in front of my face and I wouldn’t be able to recognize you. Which also means I am one contact away from not being able to drive anywhere. So next thing I know I’m flying down the freeway, blaring Beyoncé and squinting trying to get a full 180 degree view with one eye. And I start doing this thing. Don’t deny it, you do it too. I’m closing the good eye to see how well I can see out of the bad one. But I don’t just do it once, no. I keep at it like it’s suddenly going to fix itself. The clincher? I’m doing the same thing AT THE SAME TIME with my car alignment. Letting go of the wheel, feeling my car start to pull to the right, nudging it back over, letting go, drifting, moving back, while closing one eye, going blind, opening the good one. Rinse and repeat.

I finally realized I need to be more understanding of other people. To the person at Wal-Mart with the instructional note on his windshield from me stating “Learn how to park!!” I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that you were half blind and had a bad alignment too. Besides, you were probably just there for the Hanes No Ride Underwear.

Don’t even try to tell me that it’s not stuck in yours now too.

In case you were wondering what song we’re referring to, here is the original, less-cute version.

Since I swore from the very first post that I wouldn’t use this blog to rant about my issues I’ve found a way to circumvent that and still let you know what has been going on. It’s funny, in a desperate maniacal type of way.

Anyone heard that Rascal Fags Flatts song “Backwards”? The one part that goes:

” . . .you wanna know what you get
When you play a country song backwards

You get your house back
You get your dog back
You get your best friend Jackson back
You get your truck back
You get your hair back
Ya get your first and second wives back
Your front porch swing
Your pretty little thing
Your bling bling bling and a diamond ring”

Well this is my version of it – AubreyMo style. So what do you get when you play my day backwards?

I’d get my car back,
my cash back,
my first and second oil filter back.
I’d get my lunch break,
not have a car shake
and finally my head don’t ache.
I’d turn off the cold air,
be comfy in my chair
and probably tie up my hair.
The zoo wouldn’t double charge me,
the bank wouldn’t have robbed me,
and my credit card might not have barged me.
I’d take a long nap,
Find out I can’t rap,
and then just quit this crap”

You think it’s funny, don’t you? Don’t you? Wait. Don’t answer that.

Okay, I will tell you something that truly is funny. My car has been having issues (don’t laugh yet. This is not funny). It started having seizures on the way to work today. The engine started doing it’s own version of the shimmy-shimmy-shake, all the while making this beautiful knocking noise, while the idle goes up and down and makes me wonder if it was going to die. At first this didn’t seem to be a bad thing, it’s like a redneck’s definition of a free massage when your car vibrates your arms, legs, butt and back on the drive home. Dale replaced my fuel filter, but we decided to drop it off overnight at my auto shop just in case. He followed me up in his truck and waited while I went to go drop off the key.

These two things are very important for what I am going to tell you next.

It was pitch black.

His truck is loud.

Remember where I said “attacked by dogs”? I wasn’t just being sarcastic. I stepped away from his truck, and all the sudden there was a blur of blue and white fur, nipping at my heels and snarling. I screamed like a proper damsel in distress, swatted at my legs and tripped over my own two feet. Get back in the truck, Aub, get back in the truck! I fought my spaghetti legs, my knees knocking together as I tried to scramble over and grab the latch.

Mr. Snarls wasn’t having that. He stood by the door. Crap.

I run around to try and get in Dale’s side of the truck. This is when dog number two enters the fray, a big white beady eyed monstrosity that had it’s lips curled back. I’m like a deer in headlights, literally and figuratively. There is a dog on both sides and I am stuck. I’ve already proven that I can hardly walk away without tripping, let alone run. I’m screwed.

But wait! What is that silvery thing on the front of Dale’s truck? A bumper guard? Is it for a winch? Before I even finish that thought, my most primal instinct kicks in to move very, very far away from that awful noise coming from their throats, and I jumped, feet, hands and torso all wrapped around this savior of metal and silver coating.

“The dogs are going to get me! THEY’RE GOING TO EAT ME ALIVE!!!” I scream. For the first time, I rip my eyes away from the beasts and glance at Dale. Is he. . .?No. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be. . .

HE IS.

He is laughing at me, and I’m stuck here with my tush exposed for Cujo and the Dog From Hell.

I guess the dogs felt satisfied for scaring me off, because after a minute they left and I was finally able to pry myself off of the front end of the truck. Dale told me later that was the funniest thing he’d seen all day, and that he had been wondering if he was going to have to change my diaper.

And I’m still shaking.