Now, I don't usually serenade people. Not even those of whom I love. (Including you, Wolverine. Remember that dream I had when we were in the shower and you couldn't get it up? Yeah, I'm still not over that. If you can't do it in a fantasy, you sure as hell can't do it in reality. No jingles for you, Wolfboy.) I'm more of a Lloyd Dobler type. Sure, I'll stand outside your bedroom window with a boombox held over my head blasting some Peter Gabriel - but sing? Nah. I'll leave that to the professionals. The Judy Garlands. The Mama Cass's. The Wiggles.
(If I've lost you with my references...GO EDUCATE YOURSELF.)
I don't even know if serenading is a thing anymore.
"Will you sing me to sleep, baby?"
"Uh...how bout a blowjob instead?"
ROMANCE IS DEAD. We live in a society of chat roulette and snap chats, and we're going to have to accept that. At least, you will. I 'll continue on with my archaic courting. Like today. When I sang to the gas station cashier.
"I love your shirt! My husband and I were just watching that movie last night!"
"WHAT! NO way! What a weird coincidence!"
"Yeah, we love Beetlejuice! I've had that one song stuck in my head...that one when they're at the dinner table..."
This is your chance. Natasha. She appreciates your shirt. Return the favor.
"Ahem. DAYYYYYYYY-O! DAY-AY-AY-O!"
Okay, Natasha. That's enough.
No, really. Please stop.
"AND ME WANNA GO HOMEEEEE!"
You just don't know when to quit, do you.
"Yes, that's the one!" she said laughing.
But really she was just interrupting you so you'd stop singing. There's a man with a 12-pack in line behind you. You just got between a man and his beer. NEVER get between a man and his beer.
I've been wanting to make business cards for a few weeks now. I go out a lot, and my blog never fails to come into conversation. Whether it's me explaining what I do, or someone coming up to me and saying, "Natasha Ferrier?! I read your blog!," it tends to get mentioned. I figure business cards would make this all easier for me.
"Name's Ferrier. Natasha Ferrier. Here. I have a card."
Bam! GOT EM.
The problem is, I'm having trouble figuring out what to put on the card. Every time I get an idea, something tells me that it's just not appropriate.
"Natasha Ferrier - I'm funny and you're not."
I just don't know if I want to rudely offend people I'm trying to recruit.
"'Natasha Ferrier is absolutely HILARIOUS!' - Natasha Ferrier, blogger and self-quoter."
I just don't know if I want to quote myself. And then point out that I'm quoting myself.
"Natasha Ferrier - The man, the myth, the legend. Except I'm only one of those things. (Hint: my vagina is real.)"
I just don't know if I want to mention my vagina.
My backpack gets so heavy sometimes that both of my arms fall asleep. Do you know what it's like to have both your upper limbs go numb? It's like backtracking millions of years and becoming a neanderthal. Cro-Magnon man. King of the apes. Fred Flintstone. Ooh, me like fire.
Since I can't feel my arms once this happens, they tend to dangle at my sides. I have no control over them whatsoever. They just hang there. Like enormous, limp noodles. Picture this, please.
Picture this, and pity me.
And please pity the person who made their facebook status: MAKE GOOD CHOSES. #choses
I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with this word. Let me ask Webster. Oh wait, he doesn't know, either. AND he just shot himself.
Within the past week, I have been called "Mufasa," "Snow White," and "Tupac." I'm not sure how any of these relate. The only thing I can think of is that they were all dead, and in some way or another, they came back to life. I can only imagine what nickname will pop up next. It's between Jesus and Frankenweenie.
I got a phone call the other day from I number I did not recognize.
"Hey there, bayyyyybuh!"
"How are you?"
I took an entire video imitating this conversation, but for some reason, it wouldn't upload. So you're going to have to use your imagination. If it helps you at all, the woman had a voice that made me wonder, "Aunt Jemima? Is that you?"
"I'm good! How are you?"
"Mighty fine, sweetie, mighty fine!"
"That's good, that's good."
"Whachu doin, shugah?"
"I'm just...walkin! What're you doing?"
Look. I realize this is when I probably should have inquired who was calling. But I was very bored. And this is what boredom leads to. Conversations with anonymous Django extras.
"I'm just hopin' I don't sleep alone tonight..."
"You know I don't like tuh sleep alone!"
"No, no...I mean, who does?"
"So are you gonna sleep wif me tonight, baybuh?"
"I...uh...who is this?"
Better late than never.
"This is Natasha. Just...Natasha."
"Lemme talk to Ray!"
You think she would have realized much earlier that I was not "Ray." Unless Ray sounds like a 12-year-old girl.
"There's no Ray here. I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number, ma'am."
I'm so polite.
"Ooh wee, I'm sorry, hunnay!"
"It's okay! Good luck!"
And then she hung up. Honestly, I would have liked to continue our conversation. I was very bored and I had an hour-long walk ahead of me. I could have used the company. But...I guess she had to find Ray. So he could sleep with her. Or pour syrup on her jemima. I guess we'll never know.