Category Archives: Funny Stuff

The Strange Things People Buy


You may remember a few weeks ago I told you about how I cleaned out my house using the Konmari Method, and how all this stuff was now piled up on my back patio. Well, we finally had our garage sale.

It was weird!

Okay, I’ll clarify that a little bit. If you’ve never had a garage sale, I’m here to tell you they are a HELLUVA lot of work. Oh my goodness. Pricing everything, posting ads, hanging up signs, getting change from the bank, waking up before dawn to set up, and then sitting there all day in the heat while strangers paw through your personal belongings. It made me feel tired and WEIRD.

I didn’t have a strong emotional response when I went through the big purge. But putting all those discarded items out for the world to see was kind of like getting punched in the gut. It takes the wind out of you a little bit. It’s strange to see what people buy and what they don’t. For example:

The Things People DIDN’T Buy

  • The almost brand-new telescope
  • The brand-new Osterizer blender
  • Designer clothes
  • Outdoor furniture
  • Board games
  • Not ONE SINGLE BOOK and I had out boxes of them

Some of these things I thought FOR SURE would sell. We priced everything ROCK BOTTOM, but people still wanted to haggle over something marked 25 cents. It makes me feel kind of icky when something that I once valued so highly isn’t even worth 25 cents to someone. I’m telling you, it’s WEIRD!

The Things People DID Buy

  • 8x10s of U2, Molly Ringwald and Britny Fox (for those who don’t know, they were a glam band from the 80s)*
  • ALL of the underwear literally SOLD OUT**
  • Fur-lined handcuffs*** & ****

The People You Meet

It’s also WEIRD to be held captive in your garage while people haggle over your stuff and then want to stand there and chat for half an hour. We met so many different and interesting people.

There was the Air Force vet who bought my softball glove so he could play catch with the neighbor boy who was starting Little League. He told us several stories about serving in the Korean War.

There was the elderly woman who showed up at my house a full hour before the sale started who was specifically interested in my vintage brooches. She then stayed for an hour and got to talking about baking bread with Adam. She came back on Sunday just to tell us that she had visited a local café we told her about that bakes fresh bread, and that they were making a loaf of rye special for her.

There was the 7 year old kid from across the street who came over several times over the course of two days and literally picked up every single thing we were selling and asked us, “How much is this?”

I don’t know, that garage sale took a lot out of me. I think I may be out of commission for awhile. But we did sell some stuff and managed to make a couple hundred dollars, so it was worth it in the end, since it was going to be donated anyway.

Have you ever had a garage sale? Did it make you feel weird, too?

* – These were one of the first things to sell, purchased by a middle-aged man who didn’t buy anything else. I didn’t think anybody would buy them, I was surprised they went so fast.

** – Okay, they were BRAND NEW underwear, and some still had tags on but some didn’t. Adam thought it was gross that I was putting underwear in the garage sale, but I’m telling you, they were a hot commodity! I had over a dozen pairs for sale at $1 each and EVERY SINGLE PAIR sold. (And for those of you with dirty minds, it wasn’t like in “Orange Is The New Black,” I’m pretty sure all the women I sold the underwear to were planning on wearing them).

*** – That 7 year old boy from across the street I was telling you about? Yeah, he convinced his mom to buy him the handcuffs. Luckily, several people were present to witness the event, especially because he thought they were $100, not $1, so he was carrying them around, shouting “These are $100??!” like it was totally blowing his mind.

**** – Don’t tell me you don’t have fur-lined handcuffs at your house, too. Okay, you might not sell them in your garage sale, but then you’d miss out on watching a young boy convince his mom that he HAD TO HAVE THEM.




The Perils of Creature Comforts While Traveling Abroad

Okay, you guys, I’m going to admit to something REALLY embarrassing.

I went to Starbucks. In Istanbul.

Now, I almost never go to Starbucks in the US. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I did. I prefer the coffee I make at home – nice and weak. Starbucks is generally too strong for me, and I refuse to pay that much for a coffee. I’m cheap and I have bad taste, what can I say?

But I do like my morning coffee – two to three cups with 2% milk and a teaspoon of sugar. It’s my ritual. It’s my way of alerting my brain and my body that it is time to get moving for the day. I look forward to it when I get out of bed.

I’ve been traveling abroad for a week now, and my routine is shot to hell. As it should be while traveling. Travel provides an opportunity to get outside oneself, to see things from a new perspective. And the only way to do that is to get outside the regular routine.

Except yesterday I was really tired and had a headache and I hadn’t had a coffee in the morning the way I like it in a few days and I have PMS and I’m grumpy. So when we surfaced from the Metro in Instanbul on our way to Ferikoy flea market, there was a Starbucks RIGHT THERE OUTSIDE THE STATION, and I ABSOLUTELY HAD TO HAVE A LATTE. Like my life depended on it.

I went whole hog. I opted for the Venti. Hubs didn’t want anything (he would not stoop to get a Starbucks in a foreign land), so I got in line and ordered my latte. And I felt pretty good because I could order it without knowing any Turkish because Starbucks is the same everywhere. “Venti Café Latte,” was all I had to say. Though I did end it with “teshekkur ederim” which, I’m told, is Turkish for “thank you” and is the only Turkish thing I know how to say on the spot.

I paid with my debit card instead of using up the lira I had in my pocket, which I thought would be better put to use at the flea market where they likely didn’t take credit cards. Between hubs and me, that card is the only one that works everywhere we are traveling because it has the chip and pin. All our other cards are the stupid American swipey kind that only work in some places in Europe that have the swipey thingy. Many of you who have traveled abroad have likely encountered that quizzical look someone gives you when you take your card and pretend to swipe it to try to convey the idea that the person needs the swipey machine instead of the regular machine.

Americans must look like lunatics to other people.

I paid and waited for my receipt. I stood there for a few moments, but when I noticed a long chain of receipts that had been spit out before mine, I realized the cashier had no intention of giving me a receipt. And since I couldn’t ask him in Turkish, I just let it go and moved on.

That was a terrible mistake.

You fucking delicious latte, you.
You fucking delicious latte, you.

I enjoyed the latte, my headache abated, my mood improved and we went about our day. We had hoped to visit Taksim Square in addition to the flea market, but it was completely cordoned off because of possible demonstrations. It was the anniversary of the conflict there between civilians and the government/military about bulldozing a park and the police were preparing for the worst. We read they had water cannons at the ready, and our host thought there might be conflict and possibly tear gas to dispel crowds. As fun as that sounds, we opted to skip Taksim Square. So after the flea market we hopped on the metro over to the old town and walked around.

It was a beautiful evening and we decided to treat ourselves to a special dinner at one of the rooftop restaurants in the area that offered stunning 360 degree views of Istanbul. Mostly I just wanted some wine. Not only had I not had coffee in a few days, I also had not had wine. It’s not that easy to come by in the areas of Istanbul outside the tourist center, and most of our stay has been visiting and staying in the not-so-touristy areas.

The beautiful sunset right before I realized what an idiot I am. Still, it's very pretty. It's too bad I kinda ruined it by being stupid.
The beautiful sunset right before I realized what an idiot I am. Still, it’s very pretty. It’s too bad I kinda ruined it by being stupid.

Since a touristy dinner was my idea, I told hubs I would pay. At the end of the meal, I got out my wallet, and to my dismay my debit card was missing.

You know that feeling you get when you realize you have done something terribly, terribly stupid? Yeah, that’s the feeling that gripped me in that moment. Tears instantly spilled down my cheeks (hey, I said I had PMS). I frantically searched my bag but knew I wasn’t going to find it. I knew where it was. At that FUCKING STARBUCKS.

Oh, the divine retribution, the perfect kharma of it all. I have NEVER IN MY WHOLE LIFE lost a credit card. I’m super persnickety about keeping tabs on stuff like that. My punishment for having a Starbucks in a foreign land was the stressful and irrevocable separation of my person from my one reliable source of funds, for the first time in my adult life.

Fuck me. If only I had insisted on a receipt. I probably would have gotten the card back.

I made a call to the Starbucks, but the person who answered didn’t speak English, and since I can only say “thank you” that wasn’t very helpful. Our waiter spoke to him briefly and asked if they had my card, but they said no. Another call to the Starbucks the following morning by our wonderful Turkish host confirmed that my card was indeed gone forever.

The call to the bank was super fun, too, let me tell you. Surprisingly, you actually talk to an American person when you call the fraud hotline to report your card lost or stolen. And the three Americans I talked to could not quite wrap their heads around the idea that I’m in TURKEY (where is that? I assume they asked themselves) and needed my card shipped to my next location in BULGARIA (even more head scratching ensued, I’m sure).

So, I will wait. Luckily, I am a “prepare for the worst case scenario” kind of person so I am not in any kind of bind without the card. I just feel INCREDIBLY STUPID.

I promise I will NEVER GET STARBUCKS AGAIN. No more creature comforts for me whilst traveling, dear friends. No more giving in to the familiar while exploring distant lands. That’s not what this journey is about.

And maybe it’s time to stop using the coffee as a crutch, anyway. Got it, Universe, thank you. Note taken.

My First Celebrity Crushes


Valentine’s Day is here! In honor of the holiday that celebrates love, I thought I’d dig back into the vault of my pre-teen years and unearth some of the celebrity crushes I had. Or rather, the celebrities I obsessed over. Some of these are pretty obvious and mainstream, others a little offbeat perhaps. Some might even make you question what kind of kid I was, exactly. Anyway, here goes:

Corey Haim


This one is so obvious I’m not even sure I should include it. EVERYBODY loved Corey Haim. I suppose some loved the other Corey, too, but Feldman was a little rough-and-tumble for my taste. I craved the dimpled sincerity and foppish hair of my one true Corey. I really wanted him to be my boyfriend.


Tim Curry


Fun fact: when I was a kid, around 10 years old, I would fantasize that if I became terminally ill and the Make a Wish Foundation granted me one final wish, it would be to meet Tim Curry. I had vivid imaginary encounters with him – me in my hospital bed, him dressed as Wadsworth from Clue. What 10 year old has a crush on middle-aged Tim Curry in a tuxedo? This one, apparently.

Michael Jackson

Michael-Jackson-and-ETOh, Michael. You and I had such awesome dance parties in my yellow bedroom with the green shag carpet that made my butt itch when I sat on it. I would gaze upon your picture tacked to my hollow-core bedroom door, and pretend that it was me you were holding hands with, not E.T.


Judd Nelson


You know there has to be a bad boy in the mix, right? And who was badder than John Bender? That hair! Those boots! The soulful brown eyes belying his sensitive inner life!

Ken Ober

remote-control-ober_l1The host of MTV’s Remote Control? Really?

Yeah, really.







Andrew McCarthy

andrewmccarthy-medAgain, duh. Maybe I should just blanket cover all the cute boys from John Hughes movies. Although I liked him best in Heaven Help Us. He was good at the whole vulnerability thing.

Side story: I did have a real-life geek out moment as an adult when I went to see a play in Nyack, New York. I saw Andrew McCarthy in the parking lot before the show. When I took my seat, the seat next to me remained empty. Right before the curtain went up, he took that seat. I don’t remember what play I saw that night, who was in it, how I got home, nothing. But I do remember the feeling I had when I realized that Andrew McCarthy would be sitting next to me for over two hours in the dark.

Bill Murray


There’s something kind of warm and fuzzy about Bill Murray that I really liked even as a kid. This is why it doesn’t surprise me that I married someone who is sometimes mistaken for Bill Murray in public. But you know what? “It just doesn’t matter! It just doesn’t matter! It just doesn’t matter!”

Tom Hulce


I guess I had a thing for mentally unstable guys in powdered wigs and fancy dress.

Arnold Schwarzenegger

Arnold-Schwarzenegger-Young-Photos-29I would imagine us stranded on an uninhabited island together. Please don’t ask me to elaborate. It would embarrass us both.






John Cusack


NOONE holds a candle to Lloyd Dobler. He’s just looking for a dare-to-be-great situation.

John Malkovich

still-of-john-malkovich-in-dangerous-liaisons-(1988)-large-pictureIs it the powdered wigs?

John Malkovich was the peanut butter to my jelly. When I took acting classes at Steppenwolf Theater in Chicago in high school, it was practically orgasmic to know that I was occupying the same space that he occupies (not at the same time, mind you, but still). I even went into the men’s bathroom at the theater, and marveled that John Malkovich had actually peed in there!

 Alright, your turn. What celebrities did you have crushes on as a kid?

The Great Bedroom Switcheroo of 1985

(originally posted on on 9/6/14)

I played the bass in Junior High, until I fell down an entire flight of stairs with it at a concert and broke it in half. That seemed like as good a time to quit as any.

I was so excited when I was in fifth grade because my brother decided to switch bedrooms with me. I don’t know why. I had the tiny, closet-like bedroom and his bedroom was much bigger. His was also farther away from Mom and Dad’s room, which really wasn’t that far because our house was tiny, it was maybe like five feet farther away, but it didn’t share a wall. My closet bedroom was right next to Mom and Dad’s room and didn’t have a closet. But he wanted to switch. I won’t question his motives.

Shortly after we did the switch my parents said I could redecorate it. I was SO EXCITED. But we couldn’t tell my grandpa. He would want to help and I guess he wasn’t particularly great at carpentry. One night when he was over for dinner (he came over for dinner a lot, as I recall), I had forgotten I wasn’t supposed to tell him and I was so excited to see the progress that was being made that I blurted out at the table how my room was looking. That opened up a whole can of worms. I remember my mom and dad giving me the stink eye. I remember having to all get up from the dinner table to inspect my Dad’s work. I don’t remember if Grandpa ended up helping or not.

I decided to go full-out princess with my “new room”. My favorite color at the time was baby blue, so I chose baby blue carpet and white paneling for the walls (my family was really big into the paneling, it was in every room except the bathroom). My dad installed a drop ceiling – you know, the kind you find in office buildings with fluorescent lights overhead. We went to Sears to pick out new furniture, and I picked out the set that every girl in the 1980s had, it’s white with gold trim and looks vaguely French Country/Midwest Chic. You can now find it at garage sales across America. What was most exciting was my canopy bed. For some reason, having a canopy bed made me feel like I was rich.

As I got older and started to outgrow the princess look, I started filling the walls with posters. I know for sure I had a Martin Luther King, Jr, poster in my room, I think perhaps it had a quote from his “I Have a Dream” speech on it. Where I got it is anybody’s guess since I grew up in one of the whitest cities in US. I likely put up the posters from all my high school plays. I can be fairly certain I also adorned the walls with tear-out pictures from magazines like Metal Edge. I was in love with Sebastian Bach from Skid Row, so no doubt he was somewhere up there among the mélange, rubbing elbows with Jesus from Godspell.

Although the furniture has disappeared from the room (most likely donated to someone in my family or a family friend), the room still has the baby blue carpet, the white paneling, and the fluorescent, drop-ceiling lighting which I have come to loathe, and which has made me really sensitive to lighting ever since. The carpet even still has the big stain/bleach mark where I had accidentally projectile-vomitted late one night when suffering from the flu, almost immediately after the carpet was installed. That barf went everywhere except in the toilet. All over the floor, the walls, the furniture, sprayed down the hallway as I dashed to the bathroom. Not one drop made it to its desired location.

Now when I go home to visit my parents, I stay in the closet bedroom. My room is now Dad’s office and a place to put things that don’t otherwise have a home. I end up leaving every time with a few new bruises from bumping into furniture that has been squeezed into a shoebox-sized space. There’s just enough room to put my suitcase on the floor, but not enough room to step around it. You have to step over it. You’d think in such a small space the furniture would have nice, rounded corners, conducive to accidental human contact. It doesn’t. It’s all sharp corners and unyielding surfaces. It’s a full-time lesson in grace and agility.

I have daydreams about redecorating my old room for my parents. I could take them to Sears and they could pick out new furniture. I’d take off the paneling, spackle the walls and paint. I’d rip out the drop ceiling and install less seizure-inducing lighting. I’d turn the closet bedroom into a cozy office for my dad, a place where he’d enjoy browsing CraigsList for used riding lawnmowers (my dad collects lawnmowers like other people collect angel figurines or WWII memorabilia).

But for now the room remains the same, stuck in a perpetual “transitional phase” that is emblematic of my entire life. It’s not quite a bedroom and not quite an office. While it may be on the verge of becoming a permanent “junk room”, I have hopes that one day it will be the room of dreams. I don’t know whose dreams, but I have high hopes.

It’s Vag-tastic!

(originally posted on on 4/28/12)

For the second year, I participated in the V-Day Downtown LA 2012 production of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues.  What an amazing event!  V-Day is a global movement inspired by the play that works to help women and girls who are victims of violence.  Over 6000 productions a year are produced around the world with all proceeds benefiting V-Day and the local charity of your choice.  Our production helped A Window Between Worlds, a wonderful non-profit in Venice, CA, that uses art to help women and children in abusive relationships.

With this being an evening designed to raise money and awareness, we decided to hop on the cupcake trend and sell vagina cupcakes (or “pussycakes”)….


The cupcakes were a huge hit, and elicited all kinds of interesting responses.  Some people couldn’t wait to get their mouths on one.  Others were a bit more hesitant.  Some were mildly grossed out.  Nonetheless, it certainly shines a spotlight on the vagina, which is of course the whole point of the show, so I’d say overall they were a success!

I baked both vanilla and chocolate cupcakes.  The vaginas are made out of homemade fondant .  And did you know that if you Google “how to make vagina cupcakes” you are led directly to this amazing video from Chaos Bakery?  Oh, the wonders of the internet.  Thank you, Chef Bev!



In Vag We Trust!

Even Billboard Queens Like Arts & Crafts

(originally posted on on 9/15/11)

I had my weirdest “celebrity” sighting in LA today.  Okay, I didn’t even know this person was famous until I came home and told Adam the story, but she certainly caught my attention, so it’s not too surprising that people know who she is.  As soon as I began to describe her, Adam shouted, “Oh my god, that was Angelyne!”

My response, of course, was “who the fuck is Angelyne?”  Well, this is Angelyne:


I guess I’m too new to Los Angeles to have seen her billboards, but Angelyne became famous in the 1980s for a series of billboards throughout LA funded by “investors” (when talking about Angelyne, alot of things need to be in quotes, like she’s “blonde” or “pretty” or has “good taste”).

All I know is that I went to the Michaels in Encino this afternoon to buy Martha Stewart labels for my fig jam, and happened to notice two firemen in uniform in line talking to this bleach blond hottie with neon pink fabric in her hair wearing a tight pink mini-skirt, pink pattern jacket and pink wedges (remember, this is a Michaels craft store).  As I approached this funky trio in line, I could only see the woman from behind, and I took her to be about oh, twenty three.  She was a piece of work, I’ll grant you, but she had nice legs – no cellulite, no varicose veins.  But then she turned around.  She may have had Tina Turner – like gams and a set of the biggest tits I’ve ever seen, but her face was  like post-plastic surgery Barry Manilow with a bad blonde wig.  She looked at least 70 from the front.  I nearly gasped out loud and dropped my jam labels.  It was one of those things where I didn’t want to stare but I couldn’t not look at her, she was a walking contradiction.  And a total freak show.

As we made our way up the line I tried to keep my eyes averted by watching the Paula Deen look-alike on the TV at the check out giving instructions in how to paint on a t-shirt with a stencil.  Riveting stuff, let me tell you.  It was finally my turn, and I made my way up to the cashier right next to the Pink Nightmare.  I could hear Pink and the cashier having a “disagreement” of some sort, and as I casually tried to “not listen” I came to understand that Pink thought the cashier didn’t understand store policies and that the cashier thought that after working there for five years that she, in fact, did.

“I hope I never see you again” Pink replied as she took her leave.

“Feeling’s mutual” retorted the cashier.

As the doors swooshed shut behind the Nightmare, my cashier, who was casually “not listening” like me, could barely contain her amusement.

“What was that about?” she asked he co-worker.

“She tried to tell me that she didn’t use this” she said as she showed us a half-used bottle of Mod Podge.  “Gimme a break.  You think I’m gonna trust a porn star?”

With that I took my change and exited Michaels just in time to see Pink pulling out of the parking lot in her pink Corvette.  Of course she has a pink corvette, I thought.  Then I put it all out of my mind until later this evening when I thought to tell Adam the story and learned that Pink was the notorious Angelyne and that I was probably the only person in the store who didn’t know who she was.

Which just goes to show you, even billboard queens like arts & crafts.  And firemen too, apparently.  And that everyone is pinching pennies these days, even going so far as to return used glue.  And that you can’t go anywhere in this town without the threat of running into people like this.

This Is Not An Exit

(originally posted on on 3/10/11)

I got a sense the other day of what it feels like to be trapped.

Not trapped emotionally, like in a bad relationship, or trapped mentally with some problem or other that seems unsolvable. No, I was trapped physically, and in a pretty disgusting place: a public bathroom.

Yeah, I managed to get myself locked inside a public bathroom.

You see, I was at an audition, and like the good student I am, when I arrived at the audition location I went directly to the bathroom before checking in, just like they taught me in grad school. Have a pee, check the hair, apply a little lipstick, you know the routine. At this particular casting location, they have a co-ed bathroom. You walk in, and there’s the sinks and a mirror and then down a short hallway are two bathroom stalls, completely enclosed with locking doors. The first time I went to this particular office, I had a moment of complete embarassment when I walked into the bathroom and was immediately confronted with a man standing there. I assumed I had walked into the men’s bathroom by mistake and was just about to make my mortified apology when a woman walked out of one of the stalls. Oh. Co-ed. How forward-thinking of them. Or cheap. The only other time I’ve been in a co-ed bathroom like this was on a party boat in Amsterdam, which was not only co-ed but had urinals to boot. What do you men do with that? How do you navigate without actually directly focusing on anything? How do you find the toilet or the sink without accidentally looking at a penis? And how do you think women feel walking into this situation, completely unprepared? Needless to say I ended up holding it all night. But I digress.

It was pretty late in the day, so the casting office was mostly cleared out. There wasn’t a soul in the bathroom, which was unusual. The Modest Mouse part of me (yes, I do have one) was thankful that I wouldn’t be running into a man in there, and that I didn’t need to rush since there was no line. I chose the first stall, painted a nauseating lime green, and noticed that, of course, the seat was up. Men! I was tempted to try the other stall, because there’s something about using a men’s bathroom that kinda skeevs me out, but I though, hey, that’s ridiculous, just get over your damn self, Amy. So into that first stall I went, closed and locked the door, and went about my business. I won’t get into those details, of course, but in no time I was finished, hands washed, and ready to have my leave of this germ-ridden toilet closet. I unlocked the handle, pushed the door and….the door wouldn’t open. Wait a minute, I thought, maybe I didn’t unlock the door all the way. So I jiggled the handle a little bit, turning the lock this was and that and tried to open the door again. Again, the door wasn’t budging. Perhaps it’s just stuck, I thought. I gave it a good shove. No dice. The door didn’t move.

At this point, my brain went into overdrive. Am I stupid? I thought. Am I missing something really obvious? If I start banging on the door to have someone let me out, am I going to embarass myself in front of everyone? This office has a distinct funereal atmosphere – there may be 50 people waiting in the lobby, but you’d still be able to hear someone fart down the street. So I paused a moment to figure out the best way to proceed. Clearly I’m stuck. I examined the door, I pulled up on the knob as I pushed the door, thinking perhaps the door is just a bit out of alignment. Nope. Still stuck. I thought about getting out my credit card to jimmy the lock open, but I could see that the plunger in the knob was turning, so that wasn’t what was keeping me trapped. Is there a door open on the other side maybe? Is that forcing my door closed? What time does this place close? Do they check the bathrooms before they leave at night? Will someone not find me until morning?

At this point, I started to feel a bit panicked. I only had a couple of minutes before my scheduled audition slot. If I was late, would they believe that I was really stuck in the bathroom? Or just chalk it up to some lame actor excuse? Suddenly this germ-infested man toilet starting feeling really small. I started imagining what it might be like to be trapped in the rubble after an earthquake. Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but I could imagine it! Fuck it, I thought, I’ve exhausted all my ideas for getting out of here, save breaking the door down (which probably wouldn’t have been to hard, it was a cheap hollow-core door anyway). It’s time to start knocking.

Knock, knock, knock. Nothing. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, a little louder this time. Seriously? Is there noone out there? Or is everyone so wrapped up in prepping for their audition that noone will come save me. KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK!!!!!!!!!!

“Hello?” comes a voice from the other side. Finally!

“Hey, hi, um, I’m stuck in here, the door won’t open even though it’s unlocked.”

“Oh. Hmmmm. Do you want me to get someone?”

No, asshole, I want to spend the night in here. “Yes, could you please? Thank you!”

I hear the clueless guy walk away and seconds later that door magically opens, completely unhindered. On the other side is the befuddled Asian guy who found me in there and the girl from the desk.

“This happens alot” the girl said, completely deadpan.

“Oh. Hm. Well, thanks. I was starting to get a little panicky.”

The girl gives me a vague stink-eye as I high-tail it out of there. How’d the audition go? I can barely remember. As a friend suggested to me, perhaps the bathroom interlude was my audition for No Exit. Or my introduction to an existential crisis. Or just some silly story I can now entertain my friends with.

Regardless, I’m never using that stall again.