Tag Archives: post-grad

True Life: I Let A Man Pay Me 100 Dollars To See My Foot

23 Sep

I was paid 100 dollars to show my foot to a stranger.

There. I said it. Finally. And I actually feel an intensely confusing sense of pride and shame from finally typing that sentence and releasing it into the interweb. But it’s true. Some dude paid me 100 dollars. For my foot. I wish I could just tell you the story starting from the point where the guy said, “How much would I have to pay you to show me your foot?” But I want you to get the full effect of the story. So, I have to make like Julie Andrews and “Start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.”

The day I was paid 100 dollars to show my foot to a stranger started like any other day. Which is to say I woke up to my half-naked sister dancing in my room blasting Will Smith’s “Welcome To Miami.”

You see, we were going to make the four hour trip to Miami the next day, and she wanted me to get up early before work and go shopping with her. I didn’t really need anything, but work had been uncharacteristically lucrative recently, and I wanted to get a new swimsuit. I agreed to go with her.

We stopped at American Apparel first in hopes of finding a baby shirt for Sister to wear. I was flipping through the articles of clothing, scoffing at the ridiculous prices and wondering who on this planet would pay 40 dollars for a piece of cloth that could barely cover a newborn baby, when suddenly I saw them: Thigh high black socks.

I work at a pub, where I am required to wear a kilt and black socks. I had been searching for thigh high black socks for ages, and was finally convinced that they didn’t exist, until this pivotal moment. Now when I say thigh-high black socks, I mean thigh high black SOCKS. Not panty hose. Not fish nets. I don’t want to look like a Scottish street walker while delivering Belhaven Beer Cheese. I just want to look stylish and have warm legs in the coming colder months.

Needless to say, I purchased said socks immediately… in three different colors… and was feeling pretty accomplished. I couldn’t wait to let the socks make their debut that evening at work!

Work started slowly enough, with me getting about 3 tables an hour. (For a waitress, this is EXTREMELY slow.) I hoped the dinner rush would prove to be a bit more exciting. Despite the slow business, I was still feeling pretty good. After all, I was sporting my brand new black thigh-high socks, and they were saying up on my legs without me pulling at them every four minutes. Success.

The dinner rush did prove to be a bit more exciting. As it started to die down, three middle-aged white men approached the rail. I could immediately tell three things about them:

1. They were going to drink a lot of beer.
2. They were going to have a large bill, and quite possibly tip me very well.
3. They were going to make sexual jokes and be generally inappropriate all night, and if I wanted the large tip, I would have to not only endure this embarrassment, but also hold my own.

What I didn’t know, was that one of them had a foot fetish and would, in time, offer to pay me 100 dollars to see my foot. I also did not know that I would find it in myself to agree to this absurd proposition.

They introduced themselves. As a waitress, when a group of men actually take the time to introduce themselves to you, you immediately know that these humans wish to get to know you on a more personal level. Usually, as long as I deliver the alcohol in a timely manner, people don’t care if my name is Carolyn, Coco Chanel, or Captain America. They just don’t. And I can respect that.

I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t remember their names. I’m horrible with names, and if I knew they were going to pay me 100 dollars, I probably would have made more of an effort to remember them. BUT! For the sake of the story, I’m going to rename them.

Don was a large man. Don was also a drunk man. He struck me as the tag-along friend, the one that is never the center of attention, but tags along anyway to see what he can get from the trickle down effect of his more out spoken and better looking friends. He was very handsy, meaning he liked to experience the world through touch. He liked touching my arm, he liked touching his beer glass, he liked touching his own thigh. And as he drank more beer, he realized he very much liked touching my waist. I tried to keep three feet between Don and myself at all times.

Pete was the most normal of the three males. He also seemed to be the most sober. Pete was polite, generous, and generally well behaved. Unlike Don, he never attempted to touch any part of my body at any point in time. He was an averagely built gentleman, with a full head of hair and those little wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. He was probably in his forties.

Last, but not least, was the Big Spender himself. He was a built gentleman, with big arms and dark spikey hair. He was the type who would look into your eyes when you were speaking to him directly, but then would let his eyes wonder to other parts of you the moment you looked at one of his friends. He seemed to be harmless enough, despite his sexual joking and louder-than-a-gorilla’s-mating-call laughter.

Me: Hey guys! My name’s Carolyn, I’ll be taking care of you today.
Big Spender: Oh WILL you, now?
Don: We want beer!
Pete: (Sheepish look as if to say, “I’m so sorry for what you’re about to experience.”)
Me: (Looking back at Pete as if to say, “Don’t worry, dude. I’ve got this.”) I certainly will be.
Big Spender: (Holding out his hand) I’m Big Spender.
Pete: Pete.
Me: Nice to meet you guys. You look pretty thirsty.
Big Spender: Carolyn! What a beautiful name. Why YES Carolyn, we ARE very thirsty. Are you going to bring us something to wet the whistle?
Me: (Mentally picturing myself stepping in front of a bus, rather than waiting on these people) That is why they pay me the big bucks.
Me: So what can I get you gentleman?
Big Spender: Carolyn, come’ere a sec.
Me: What?
Big Spender: Come here.
(I step a tiny, miniscule, less-than-an-inch closer.)
Big Spender: (Lowering his voice as if he’s revealing an issue of national security.) I hear… that you guys have… beer samplers.
Me: Why, yes we do! It’s actually a great deal.
Big Spender: Explain that to me a little bit, would you?
Me: Well… you get four five ounce samples of beer for a little bit more than five bucks. It’s a good deal because you’re basically getting a pint of beer, but you get to try different kinds.
Big Spender: So… you get five beers?
Me: Uh… no-
Me: Oh, no, you just get four five-ounce samples.
Big Spender: So you don’t get a big pint.
Pete: No. She just said you get four little samples on a sampler.
Don: We want beer. Bring us beer.
Me: We have a lot of beer. What kinds do you guys want?
Big Spender: We want to do the beer sampler.
Me: (Already dreading this because entering in beer samplers into the computer system is HORRIFYING and makes my bartender’s lives difficult and annoying) Okay. You want to do one beer sampler?
Don: NO. We want three of them!
Me: Okay. What kind of beer do you guys want?
Pete: Just surprise us.
Me: Do you guys like lagers? Ales? Stouts?
Don: I like beer.
Big Spender: I like Blue Moon.
Pete: I like stouts. I want to try your Young’s Double Chocolate Stout.
Me: (Mentally thanking Pete for his direct and specific request, mentally shooting Don for being a troll.) Okay! I’ll just surprise you.

I walked away from the three of them feeling like I had just been kicked a few times by a stranger; I felt ashamed and confused and a little angry. But I would prevail! After all, I could tell that they were going to have a pretty large tab, and would probably tip me well, if I could stomach their crap.

I brought them three beer samplers, separated by type. A lager sampler, an IPA sampler, and a stout sampler. They seemed excited and impressed with my knowledge of the different beers.

Me: So! There you go. Do you guys need food menus?
Pete: Why don’t you just come back in a few minutes and we’ll let you know how we’re feeling.
Me: Okay! Sounds great. Thanks!

They continued to drink, order more samplers, and get a few appetizers. Every time they ordered something new, Big Spender would ask me to come closer so he could murmur a question about a desired item, and get my opinion.  I wondered if he actually thought quiet conversations about spring rolls and goat cheese turned me on.

I tried to keep my distance, but check on them enough to make them feel like I cherished their presence. It’s a delicate balance, a precarious walk on a social tight rope, if you will. It’s sometimes important to make men feel like they complete you, especially when those men are the ones paying your utility bills.

After they had finished their beers and appetizers, I decided to check on them again.

Me: You guys still okay?
Don: We want more beer!
Me: Okay, well-
Big Spender: Carolyn! Carolyn. Com’ere.
Me: (Stepping a centimeter closer.) Yes, Big Spender? What is it this time?
Big Spender: I have to ask you something, but I’m afraid of your reaction.
Me: (Thinking: For the love of all things alcoholic, how much longer do I have to put up with this bull shit?) Well, I won’t bite. I can assure you of that.
Big Spender: And you know, I believe in just saying it. You know? Just coming out and saying it!
(At this point, Pete and Don are dying laughing, so I know something ridiculous is going to follow.)
Me: Hit me.
Big Spender: Okay. Well. I…
Me: You…
Big Spender: I have a foot fetish.
Big Spender:
Don: HAH!
Pete: Bluhrderhaha…
Big Spender:
Big Spender:
Me: … Seriously?
Big Spender: Yes.
Me: Haha. Like, an actual fetish? With women’s feet?
Big Spender: Exactly.
Me: (Trying to make my voice sound as accepting as possible.) Okay! Cool.
Big Spender: And we’ve been talking, and we all have voted, and we all agree that you’d probably have really, REALLY nice feet.
Me: Heh heh heh… Oh really!?  (Thinking: What the hell?)
Big Spender: I noticed you have really pretty nails.
Me: Oh, yeah, I just did them, actually. You see I’m going to Miami with my sister and our best friend tomorrow.
Big Spender: You ARE!?
Me: Yeah. I actually just painted my toes too, heh heh…
Big Spender:
Me: Um.. yeah. So. Eerm…
Big Spender: So I was wondering… how much money would I have to pay you to have you let me see your feet?
Me: Haha! … What.
Big Spender: How much would it cost to let me see your feet?

At this point, Don and Pete are laughing so hard I can’t really tell if Big Spender is being serious or not. This could all be a joke, this could be them setting me up, trying to play a joke on me. I feel, for a second, that Ashton Kutcher and the film crew are going to come sprinting out from behind the bar saying “GOTCHA!”

Me: Are you serious?
Big Spender: (Completely serious face) I’m serious.
Pete: He’s actually not lying. It’s been a joke for years that he has this thing with feet.
Me: But… why? Feet are so weird!
Big Spender: I don’t know! It’s just the way God made them, I guess. I just LOVE feet.
Me: Okay…
Big Spender: So how much?
Me: How much is it to see my foot?
Big Spender: Yeah.
Me: Just to see it?
Big Spender: Yeah. Would 40 bucks do?

Now, at this point, I was positively thrilled because I probably would have shown him my foot for five dollars, lesbihonest. But he offered me FORTY dollars. I couldn’t even handle it.

Me: You’re telling me you’re going to pay me forty dollars just to SHOW you my foot?
Big Spender: Yep. See? Here’s the money right here.
(He shows me two twenties, and I suddenly feel like I’m involved in a drug deal… but the drug is the promise of a foot sighting.)
Big Spender: I’ll even pay you right now so you know I’m serious.
Me: You’re really not joking about any of this, are you?
Big Spender: Not at all.
Me: (Already knowing I’m going to show this man my foot.) Okay, well, I have a few other tables to check on. Let me go check on them and I’ll come back, okay?

I check on my other tables, all the while a little voice in my head is saying, “Are you seriously going to let this man pay you to see your foot?” As I’m heading back to the kitchen to drop off some dirty dishes, I run into Don who is coming out of the bathroom. He blunders over to me and throws his arm around my shoulders.

Don: Lishten. Cawolin, lishten.
Me: Woah Don!
Don: If he ashks to tuhch yah faht, ashk to dubble aht.
Me: Double it?
Don: Dubble tha prysh. Ashk fa eighty.
Me: Eighty dollars to touch my foot?
Don: HAHA! Yah!!

I disentangled myself from Don’s clutches and continued on my way to the kitchen, laughing at him like he was crazy. Would Big Spender actually ask to touch my foot? What the heck? If he did, would I have the guts to double the price? Was I actually sitting here, contemplating bartering the price of my friggin’ foot with a patron of my place of employment?

I returned to their table, and Big Spender did indeed ask about the price to touch my foot. Let me reiterate this again: A man that I was serving asked me about the price of my FOOT. I laughed at him like he was crazy, but behind his back Don was waving like a moron mouthing: “DUBBLE AHT!” Just for kicks, I said, “Well, if you wanted to touch my foot I would have to double the price.”

Big Spender: Eighty dollars to touch your foot? Done.
Me: WHAT!? You cannot be serious!
Big Spender: Absolutely serious.
Me: You haven’t even SEEN my foot yet! What if you think it’s gross?
Big Spender: I seriously doubt your foot is gross. So do we have a deal?
Me: (Pretending to be considering this) Uh… look, this is crazy! Haha, I gotta check on my other tables again. I’ll be back, okay?
Big Spender: Okay! I’m serious. Eighty big ones.

I walked away from them, and inside a moral battle was raging. One side of me was screaming “NO! THIS CREEP WITH A FETISH WANTS TO ACTUALLY TOUCH YOUR FOOT FOR MONEY!” The other side of me was saying, “I like money. All of the money.”

Do I seriously let this man pay me eighty dollars to TOUCH my foot? Is this gross? Yes. Is this weird? Yes. Am I a horrible person for even considering this? Probably, yes. How many other people would actually even consider this? No idea. Does this qualify as prostitution? Debatable. Will I be a foot prostitute if I go through with this? Also debatable.

Good Carolyn: I don’t want to be a foot prostitute!
Bad Carolyn: It’s not prostitution! He’s just looking at your FOOT. If you were wearing sandals he’d look at it for free.
Good Carolyn: YEAH, but he’s asking to PAY to touch it. HE IS TRYING TO TOUCH MY FOOT.
Bad Carolyn: It’s not like he’s asking to suck on your toes.
Good Carolyn: EW!
Bad Carolyn: Do you want money to go to Miami?
Good Carolyn: Well, yes, but-
Bad Carolyn: And if you DON’T do this, how much will you have made tonight?
Good Carolyn: … Probably less than 50 bucks.
Bad Carolyn: Exactly. Woo! Fifty dollars, awesome sauce. Now get over there and bear your foot to that man!
Good Carolyn: But… I have on this thigh-high sock! This brand new, black, sock-
Good Carolyn: Oh no- The BRAND NEW SOCK!
Bad Carolyn: You get your butt to the bathroom and clean off your foot NOW!
Good Carolyn: Right away!!!!

You KNOW I rushed my kilted tush to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and removed that thigh-high sock faster than you could say “foot whore.” At this point, I wasn’t sure if I was going to let Big Spender touch it, but I knew for forty bucks I’d at least let him see it. And I wouldn’t be caught DEAD with black lint all up over my foot.

Holy. Brand new. Sock lint. I could have probably filled up half of a shot glass with all of the black fibers I removed from my toes, toe nails, and heels. If Big Spender could see me now… As soon as I decided my foot was clean enough to view, I gently, carefully put the sock back on my foot. As I washed my hands in the sink, I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw two green eyes staring back at me, two eyes that seemed to be urging me forward and judging me all at once. It was now, or never.

I left the bathroom and approached the three of them.

Me: Alright.
Big Spender: Alright?
Me: (complete, no-nonsense attitude) Alright, for eighty dollars you can see… and touch… my foot.
MALE HUMANS: (Collective explosion of laughter and general celebration.)
Me: But listen! You can’t be gross about this. You can see it, you can hold it in your hand. THAT’S IT. No rubbing, no caressing. See the foot, touch it, and it goes back in my sock and into my boot. And if I tell you to stop, you stop. Got that?
Big Spender: (Laughing) Aw man, you’re such a good sport. You’re a sweetheart. Alright.

I leaned against a near-by bar stool. As I did all of this, it was like I was watching myself do it. I watched myself take off my combat boot and step out of my sock. I watched myself reveal my (what I consider to be a positively disgusting) foot to Big Spender. I watched myself watch Big Spender examine my foot. There was a moment of heightened silence… for a split second, I was mortified. Not because I was showing this man my foot… but because for a moment, I was afraid he would find my foot to be as disgusting and repulsive as I thought my own foot was… The four of us hovered in that heightened silence for what seemed to be an eternity. Pete covered his mouth to hide his smile. Don drank a sip of beer and looked expectantly at Big Spender. Big Spender gazed at my foot. I stood perfectly still. Finally, someone spoke.

Big Spender: Wow.
Me: …Wow?
Big Spender: You have AMAZING feet.

At this point, Big Spender reached down… and touched my foot. The second his hand came in contact with my foot skin, I thought, “It is finished.” He held my foot in his hand, gently, like he was holding something delicate. Like a baby hummingbird or something. And then, he looked up into my eyes and smiled. And yes, it was sort of creepy. But it was also fascinating, and kind of cute (?) in a weird, what-the-hell-is-happening-to-me-right-now-is-this-real-life sort of way. “Cute” really isn’t the right word… Actually it’s a terrible word, but I don’t know what other word would describe it. To be honest, I didn’t feel grossed out, or threatened, or violated. I just felt indifferent. And I wanted my money.

I removed my foot from his hand and laughed the whole thing off. Don and Pete cheered and hugged me, and all three of them told me how hilarious and easy-going I was. They kept saying “You’re such a good sport!” And then, the moment I had been waiting for happened. Big Spender got out his wallet.

Big Spender: You’re such a good sport! Seriously, you’re great! Here! (He started flipping through his stack of 20 dollar bills) Twenty, fourty, sixty, eighty, one hundred. Here you go. You were awesome. I’d like to give you more, but that’s all the cash I have.
Me: Are you serious!?
Big Spender: Absolutely. You were hysterical and you’ve made our entire trip.
Me: You just gave me one hundred dollars cash because I let you touch my foot.
Big Spender: Yep!
Me: You understand that my friends are NEVER going to let me live this down? Like… ever.
Big Spender: Haha! That’s great!
Me: No, I don’t think you understand. When my grandchildren ask me to tell them a story about when I was younger, I am going to tell them about this night.
Me: I’m not joking.

And that is how it happened. That is how I let a man pay me one hundred dollars to see and touch my foot. After this happened, I ran to the bathroom and took this picture. I sent it to my sister immediately.

The caption read, “It is finished.”


Oh, and I was right about the other thing- about the whole “My friends will never let me live this down” thing. The entire weekend in Miami, my sister would finish anything I said with, “Your opinion doesn’t matter anymore, you sold your foot to a man,” or, “You’re a footstitute.” We would also chant, “Shake, shake, shake yo money-maker!” and I would shake my left foot around and smack it while biting my lower lip.

Now that it’s all said and done, I don’t know if I should feel an immense sense of accomplishment, or an overwhelming feeling of shame. Maybe a little bit of both is healthy. The good news is, I haven’t spent any of the money yet! I’m saving it for something. For what? I don’t know… I kind of just want to frame the five twenty-dollar bills as a memento. But lets be honest- that probably won’t happen.


An Evening With The Muggles: Leaving Hogsmeade With A Bang.

14 Jun



After working at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter for a solid seven months and making a generous $8.00 an hour, I decided that it was probably better for my lifestyle to find a different job. And so, with a heavy heart and a hidden wand, I expelled myself from Hogwarts. I now work at a restaurant called “The Pub.” More updates on that to come.

I was cleaning out my disgusting old gold purse today, and I came across all of my old snippets of receipt paper with various scribbles on them. These are the gems that brought the magic of the muggles from the wizarding world to the magical realm of my blog and facebook pages. I thought at first I would write a huge blog post, showcasing each one separately, and elaborating on the stories they represent. But I think instead I’ll just type them out here exactly how they appear on the receipt paper. Keep in mind I also used the little slips of paper to brainstorm for stories or future blog posts, and general note-taking. Enjoy.


“Oscar! Phoebe! Linus!” -Mother calling to her young.

“They’ve got straight wands… curvy wands… wands with big butts…” -40-year-old Father to his 4-year-old son.

“How much” owl boy
What is that? (Pointing to post card)
—It’s a post card.

(Reverse Side)
Why I love Barnes & Noble
The Merchandise Woes
How it feels to see your ex happy
Dear Vicky Ross (Woman who bought 2 post cards and had them sent to the front of the park.)
Why Spyro The Dragon was the best game ever
How I’d like to see Geoffery Baratheon killed
The Post Card Games
How I feel about people who ask “How much is this?”
OMG little black boy who keeps molesting the owls JUST. STOP.
Top 5 Ways to be Trapped
1. In a shark cage
2. In a porta potty in June
3. Being held down by a guy dressed as a piece of corn.
4. In an elevator with your dad’s new girlfriend, who is your age.
5. In the back seat of a clown car being driven by (insert certain co-worker’s name.)
This next list is a list of sayings I saw on people’s actual shirts. It was part of a weekly game I liked to call “They Actually Chose To Wear This Today.”

  • How can I think outside the box when they won’t even let me out of it?
  • Lary Legend (Bird is the WORD!)
  • Pinch me, I dare you. (T-Rex pictured.)
  • Bite This (Flat Iron w/ Nike swish)
  • Party Animals (Pictured were a bear, a giraffe, a penguin w/ sunclasses, and a toad grilling hamburgers)
  • I Do It For The $ (Pictured was Han Solo.)


  • Beware of Doom (Pictured was Invader Zim.)
  • College 96 (Worn by a 7 year old.)
  • We are young, wild, free. Leprechaun Class of ’14.
  • Hooters (Worn by an 8 year old.)
  • Keep dreaming… Even if it BREAKS your HEART.
  • I’m just one big fricken ray of sunshine, aren’t I? Worn by a middle aged man with a beer belly and a beard that rivaled Santa’s.

And, my personal favorite:

  • Sectional… And we know it.

Then, this was scribbled at the bottom of that list:

“What is Harry’s owl named?”
“OH YEAH that’s right, now I remember.”

Girl: I’m a SLYTHERIN.
Me: I know! I can see that. Who is your favorite Slytherin?
Girl: PROBABLY Professor SNAKE.
Me: Yes- Professor Snape is a great man.
Girl: Didya know that he DATED Harry’s MOM?
Me: … I, did.
Girl: Well, he LIKED her. That’s why he can talk to snakes!
Me: Who, Snape?
Girl: NO!!! Harry.
Girl: Well, ALL Slytherins can.
(Girl exits.)

Co-Worker Mike: (Bouncing, literally BOUNCING, with a $250 dollar collectible broom wedged between his legs) Is the stamper station pulled in from outside yet???
Me: Yes.
(Mike exits, still bouncing on the broom, leaving behind a very quiet and empty Owl Post, save for me and Attractive Father.)
Attractive Father: (Looks at me, looks down at sleeping baby, looks back up at me, very confused.)
Me: This is my life.

“Professor Dumb… Dumb….Dumble… Dumbledorf.”
“Mom, can I get the snitch?”
“The who?”
“OH LOOK! Are these DRAGONS!?!?!?!” (While holding up a pack of dragons.)
Rant about “We thought that EVERY KID got chosen!”
(Holding up a Tri-Wizard Cup) “No no, the cup has pointy edges, we can’t get that for- IT LIGHTS UP!!!!” (slams it on the counter to pay for it.)
Forces Dad into a student robe, 3 feet too short. Didn’t even take a picture.
Hotel card fiasco.
Me: No using magic in front of muggles!
4 Year Old: Can we practice in the car?

Arianna (Age 5): Mom, can I hahv Hermione’s wand?
Mom: You already HAHV Hermione’s wand, love.
Arianna: (Considers this.) Can I hahv Ronald’s wand, mummy?

“Wouldn’t it be cool to get me one of these here robes?”

“The first thing I would do, I’d take my wand up to the cat and be like BAM you’re a dog, and then I’d take it up to the dog and be like BAM you’re a CAT! HAHAHA!!!!” -14 year old girl. Unacceptable.

“Is this the castle?”

“Don’t you think these robes are a bit much? Like, a bit too much money?” – 7 year old girl.

Bryan: Carolyn, tonight at Grad Bash, when you feel like killing someone-
Me: -Or myself-
Bryan: Yes, or yourself, please refrain.
Me: But Bryan… how?
Bryan: You know Carolyn, I really don’t have an answer for that. Especially when there are kids walking around wearing You Only Live Once t-shirts.

M: Is this the exit for Harry Potter?
Me: Harry Potter… what?
M: The Harry Potter…
Wife: The dragons.
Me: The Dragon Challenge Roller Coaster?
M: Yes, the Harry Potter ride.
Wife: (Entering store) The exit is in here.
Me: Oh, the exit for the Dragon Challenge is actually up the hill a bit.
(They both enter the store.)

Son: I’m gonna ROCK out with my WAND out!
Mom: That… that is so wrong, on so many levels.

Natasha: Can I help you?
Person: Do you sell invisibility cloaks?
N: Why YES. They’re right here! (Points to nothing.)
N: Actually the muggles have come up with something a bit similar.
P: The what?
N: The muggles. I hear they can be quite smart. Apparently it’s called “Camo” and they sell it at Bass Pro Shops.

Monologue of Kid to Dad
Dad, look. I’m exhausted. You ask “what’s wrong?” like you have no ******* clue. Allow me to illuminate you. Change my diaper. Feed me. Let me pass out. It’s not that hard.

Three Asian guests approach me.
Them: So… if we, want to send…? A post card?
Me: Yeah.
Them: Do you send it or do we?
Me: I… you, can send them. Around the corner to the right.
Them: Where?
Me: Around the corner to the right, there is a witch standing at a podium, you’ll mail it from there.
Them: Which corner?
Me: This corner. Go around the little windows.
Them: And they post it?
Me: They can give you the decorative Hogsmeade post mark, for free.
Them: But that’s enough, to send… to China?
Me: No, as I said that is strictly decorative. You’ll need 3 stamps to send to china. We sell them in packs of ten.
Them: So… 3, to China?
Me: Yes. 3 stamps per card.
Them: Okay, we’ll take 3 of them.
Me: No. As I said, we only sell them in packs. Of ten. Do you want to buy a pack of ten?
Them: (Silence, as they turn the pack over and stare at the price tag.) How much?
Me: It should say on the price tag.
Them: So, how much… for three?
Me: For a PACK of TEN it is 14.95.
Them: Oh. Okay. So I want to.. send the card. To China.
Me: …Okay.
Them: (Blank stare)
Me: (Blank stare)
Them: I’ll just buy the card and get the stamp over there at the podium.
Me: So, you’re not going to put it in the mail to China?
Them: Yes. I am.
Me: Okay.
(Ten minutes later.)
Them: (Incredibly cheesy smile) We need stamps!
Me: You DOOOO???
Them: Yes! 3 stamps please, for China.
Me: (Picking up pack) Okay. That will be 14.95 for the three stamps.
Me: TEN. No three. If you want single stamps, you’ll have to go to the front of the park to the Trading Company. We sell single stamps there. But they aren’t Harry Potter.
Them: HARRY POTTER!?!?!?!
Me: Yes. Harry Potter.
Them: (Cheesy smile.)
Me: That will be 14.95.

New Jersey Man: Why can’t you just, ya know, wave that little stick around and make some magic happen?
Me: Muggle hours.

Man: (Holding up a tiny leather suitcase) Is this a map?
Me: No, actually. If you open it up it reveals letters and envelopes! (Opening the suitcase to show him the stationary set.)
Man: (Closes the suitcase and holds it. Studies it.) So… it’s not a map…?

Muggle: Wait! Let’s video it! (“It” referring to them paying for the wand.)
Natalie: (Looks at their phone) Is that one of those little magic muggle boxes?
Me: I hear that they can send each other messages with those little things!
Natalie: Really? How does that work? Are there tiny little invisible owls?
Muggle: (Giggling) Well, there’s an app for that.
Me: What is an app?
Muggle: A, spell. For it.
Me: You have spells for the muggle box?!
Natalie: Oh wow, this is so cool.
Me: This is almost as fascinating as the day they explained how a toaster works.

British child on a monkey leash: THOMAS AND FRIENDSSS!!!
British Dad: No, sweetie, this is Harry Potter Land.
British Brother: We’re BROFERS!
Me: You are?
British Brother: (Holds up the Harry Potter wand he just got) NOW I have the powah of HARRY POTTAAA!Me: Are you going to fight bad guys?
British Brother: YEAH!
British child on a monkey leash: (Indistinguishable screaming babble with a British accent.)

Are these real wands?
Do they light up?
I’m not magical!
Well, I’m only 6.
So… what you’re saying is… when I’m 11… I can come back here and get a wand and practice magic?
Well. Now I’m scared.
Because these wands are REAL and they do magic!

Literal butterbeer sip out of boyfriend’s tongue… I. CAN. NOT.

“Higrid- no, I mean Hogreed, has the book as a pet, and then he gives it to Harry.”
False, muggle. False.



Goodbye for now, magical world. I will never, EVER, forget what you taught me.





The 7 Most Frequently Asked Wizarding World Questions, And Their Answers, Respectively.

7 May

1.) What is the line outside of Olivander’s for?

Answer: The line outside of Olivander’s wand shop is for the Olivander’s Wand Experience. It’s a constant live demonstration, showing how a wand can choose a wizard. 20 to 30 people get pulled into the room, and one person of those is chosen to experience what it’s like to have their first wand choose them. It’s a very special room, being the only Ministry-approved room where real magic is allowed to happen in all of Hogsmeade!

Answer I’d Like To Give: The line outside of Olivander’s is for Ihop. Wizards love pancakes.

2.) Where is the castle?

Answer:  (Points to Hogwarts.) That is the castle.

Answer I’d Like To Give: The castle is actually lost right now. Oh, yes. A very unfortunate accident involving a very large shipment of invisibility cloaks. Ministry personnel are currently on the search. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Can I offer you a key chain?

3.) Where is the closest bathroom?

Answer: Right down the path to your right, under the hanging cauldron.

Answer I’d Like To Give: (Points to trees.)

4.) Where is the exit for the Dragon Challenge Roller Coaster?

Answer: The exit is directly up this path. There, you will find a shaded seating area where you can wait for your party.

Answer I’d Like To Give: There is no exit. That is why it’s called the Dragon CHALLENGE. You didn’t want to see your family again anyway, did you?

5.) Do you guys have anything Dobby-related, other than this pin?

Answer: Unfortunately not, I’m so sorry! Everyone always asks that. Dobby’s one of my favorites, too! It’s so sad that we don’t have more merchandise featuring him.

Answer I’d Like To Give: I have an iron at my house, which is an item that I believe Dobby once used to punish himself for disobeying his masters. I don’t use it to punish myself. Much… Just when my boyfriend comes over. (Rubs backside.) Also, I’m wearing socks. Can I help you find anything else?

5.) Where are the Ravenclaw Journals?

Answer: We actually don’t make Ravenclaw journals, which is very silly, considering Ravenclaws are the most studious of the houses! I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.

Answer I’d Like To Give: The Ravenclaw journals are with the Dobby For President T-Shirts, right next to the stuffed animal Dobby’s, and the Dobby Sock Freedom Four Pack. That’s all actually located under the statue of Dobby, inside of the Tribute To Dobby Museum of Dobby.

6.) How much are the wands?

Answer: Wands are 31.92. After Ministry tax, that amounts to an even 34.00 dollars.

Answer I’d Like To Give: The wands are free to anyone who can perform a Patronus Charm. Any charm, for that matter. Do it. I dare you.

7.) (Points up) …Harry Potter?

Answer: I’m sorry? I’m not quite sure what you’re asking.

Answer I’d Like To Give: You know what? No. Just, no. Not today, not now, not ever. People like you make me want to dress up like an owl and hang myself from the rafters of the Owl Post. I don’t even know what you’re asking. I just… I really… Just… GTFO.

7 Reasons Why Life Would Significantly Improve During A Zombie Apocalypse

8 Apr

1. Money would basically cease to exist. Forever. Worried about your current financial situation? Wondering how the hell you’re going to pay your rent this month? STILL paying off your car? Well recent 20-something college grads, go ahead and let out a collective sigh of relief. The Zombie Apocalypse is upon us, and we no longer have to worry about any of that! Think about it. Career plans would be tossed out of the window. “Oh, boo hoo, I went to college for four years to be this one thing and now I’m getting paid minimum wage to be something completely different from that one thing I wanted so badly but now don’t even know if I want it anymore, blah blah blah the world is so unfair to me it’s so hard being young and 20-something in this world” ZOMBIES ARE ROAMING THE STREETS. Ain’t NOBODY got time for that kind of thinking! Get a gun, get some food, get to high ground. Seriously. No body cares if you studied to be a lawyer or… a BRAIN SURGEON. (See what I did there?)

2.) All of the stupid people would die right away, or become Zombies, which (in turn) are acceptable to shoot in the head. Admit it. You’ve met some stupid people in your life. You’re not necessarily a VIOLENT person, but… given the option to fart in the general direction of the guy who cut in front of you in McDonald’s who then proceeded to ask how much a “Dollar Menu Fry” was, or just keep walking, you’d probably choose to fart on or around him. And what if… what if that guy just happened to become a soul-less zombie? Well then what? Are you just going to let him waddle around the McDonald’s, aimlessly staring off into the distance, groaning, and maybe infecting the chicken McNuggets with his rotting flayed flesh? Aw HELL nah! You’re going to get a cross bow, and you’re going to shoot that drooling idiot in his dollar menu head. How much is a dollar menu fry? THE PRICE OF YOUR BRAINS SPLATTERED ON THE GLASS DOORS OF MCDONALD’S, YOU UNDYING GROAN FACTORY OF ROT.

3.) We would all learn to use so many kick-ass weapons it wouldn’t even be funny. Cross bows. Rifles. Hand guns. Axes. Baseball bats. Swords. Broken branches of trees. Bombs. Fire throwers. Fricken NUMCHUCKS. And those really heavy spiky metal balls on the ends of chains that they used to use in the olden days!!!! I am not a violent person, but given the chance to seriously hurt or kill something in self defense… I’m not going to lie. I’d probably go pretty ape shit with it all and get really into it, like the overprotected 18 year old girls who literally go insane during their first semester of college. Only I’d be going insane during my first Zombie Apocalypse…. Seriously, my arms would be so toned. Which brings me to my next general life improvement…

4.) My arms would FINALLY be toned, due to the excessive lifting of heavy objects, like guns, limp bodies of our recently deceased loved ones, and the debris of decaying buildings. No, but really… EVERYONE would be sexier, due to the immediate demand of intense physical activity. EVERYONE would start getting in shape! And if they weren’t getting in shape, it’s because they were too fat to out run the zombies, and now they’re basically doing what they did while they were alive: roaming the earth in search of food. So we’d just get to shoot the fat useless zombies, and enjoy the sexy transformations of all the agile humans around us. Which brings me to my next point…

5.) Relationships would suddenly feel more intense, due to never knowing if you’re going to live for years or die tomorrow. It’s kind of like the entire idea of love would become that moment, that single night before the love of your life ships off to war in the morning. Think about how intense and interesting that would be. “Oh, you’re one of the last few living people on this earth who isn’t trying to eat my brains out, and you’re a (insert preferred sex), AND you have sexy arms!?!? Let’s do this thang.” Say goodbye to the bro code, the pick up lines, the bars and second-guessing. Hell! Forget dating games, period. This shit’s serious. Absolutely no body would care if you’re 28, lost your job, still can’t spell “restaurant” without using spell check, and don’t have a car. Guess what? You can finally act out that Grand Theft Auto fantasy and STEAL ONE like a BOSS.

Then again, I guess first dates wouldn’t change too much. They would still consist of grabbing a bite to eat (foraging for food in remote/abandoned places while in fear of your lives), telling each other about your families and pasts (“Well, my mom got bitten, you know… and almost ate off my left arm, well- that is- until my little 8-year-old brother picked up a near-by pitchfork and stabbed her in her head before she could bite down. That was kind of a lot. But we were all really proud of him that day… That was actually yesterday. Night.”)  and the timid goodnight kiss at the front door (“So… should we like, climb up this tree and attempt to do it before more zombies come this way?”)

6.) Pop culture would FINALLY cease to exist. Let’s just take a moment to imagine this, okay?

Justin Beiber… as a ZOMBIE.

I’m just saying…

If I was your boyfriend, I’d never eat your brains. Unless I was a Zombie. And then I’d eat your brains.

Imagine shooting your least favorite pop stars in the head. How fun would that be?!? And you wouldn’t have to feel guilty at ALL because you’re doing the world a grand service by shooting Kim Kardashian’s brains out!!!


7.) I could finally prove to everyone that I really WOULD win the Hunger Games. Well, okay I’ll be honest: I don’t really think I’d win the Hunger Games. I can’t stab other kids and shoot them and cut their throats out just because the government tells me to do that. But if I had to protect my family or the people I loved from other people or ZOMBIES trying to kill them? Lesbihonest. I’d probs win the Hunger Games. Like, if the Hunger Games were actually a Zombie Apocalypse that didn’t take place in a huge stadium, but rather… like, the world? I’d win the Hunger Games. For sure. No doubt.

Would You Rather… ?

1 Mar

Sometimes when I’m bored at work, I like to make up terrifying, disturbing, and/or thoughtful hypothetical scenarios in my mind and ponder which I would rather experience. These are some of the most recent:

Would you rather be life-affectingly afraid of electrical appliances, or be allergic to paper?

Would you rather have hair as long as your arms, or arms as long as your hair?

Would you rather live in today’s time with dinosaurs and no memory of your current life, or live in the dinosaur’s time with today’s memories? (Yeah… I know.)

Would you rather drench yourself in Manwhich meat sauce and battle a pack of ravenous police dogs naked in the middle of times square, or live three months with a baby arm?

Would you rather eat with your feet for the rest of your life, or walk on your hands for the rest of your life?

Would you rather be a muggle in a world where real wizards exist, or live in a magic-free world where Harry Potter was never written? (This literally keeps me up at night.)

Would you rather lose your sense of smell and work at a flower shop, or lose your sense of touch and work at a place with a lot of bubble wrap?

Would you rather be a pirate, or date a pirate?

Would you rather become rich and famous because of something you never actually did, or do something absolutely amazing and have no one ever know about it?

Would you rather have to wear socks forever, or cry tears of pepperoni?

Would you rather run a marathon in a gorilla suit, or be sexually attracted to scissors?

Would you rather be able to see in complete darkness, or breathe underwater?

Would you rather receive a text message every single time someone in this world thinks about you, or never receive text messages from the ones you love ever again?

Would you rather go on a three year tour with Dora the Explorer LIVE! and get your equity card, or be an interactive piece of scenery on Broadway for literally no pay?

Would you rather meet the love of your life and never be able to have children, or marry someone who isn’t completely perfect for you and have kids with them?

Would you rather have your favorite celebrity/mentor/ idol treat you terribly in real life, resulting in you realizing that every good thing you ever thought about them was a lie, or get a paper cut between your toes every day until next Tuesday?

Would you rather be blindfolded while race car driving, or fly an airplane without any prior experience?

Would you rather go on a date with Andrew Garfield, or be force-fed 37 pancakes by Tina Fey? (I KNOW…)

Would you rather have Taylor Swift stuck in your head for six hours, or not eat for twelve hours? (I. KNOOOWWW!!!!)

Feel free to answer any of these questions below.




TurboTax: Created by Baboons, for Baboons.

16 Feb

The longer I am out of college, the more time I’m having to realize that I’m kind of an adult. Like seriously becoming someone who supports themselves financially and makes all of their own decisions. And with this title comes new responsibility.

Now don’t get me wrong. When you’re a kid, you have responsibilities, too. You have to do your chores. You have to feed the cat. You have to get an A+ on your 6th grade spelling test because if you don’t, your mom won’t get you a Furby for Easter. You hear your parents say things like, “Have you SEEN gas prices!?” and “Welp, gotta file my taxes! I wonder if my W2 is in the mail yet…” But you don’t really process any of these statements.

Perhaps, as a child, I thought a W2 was the name of R2D2’s dearest droid friend or something. Now that I am… AN ADULT! (Dun dun DUN!!! cue: lightening and thunder) I’ve realized that I have new responsibilities, and a W2 isn’t the adorable droid friend of R2D2. A W2 is basically the scariest piece of paper in the world.

I mean has anyone ever SEEN any more boxes, numbers, letters, or combinations of the three on one sheet of paper before?!? Not only is it intimidating, but like… this is MY MONEY. The stuff I work hard for all year. If I mess up, accidentally type some wrong number into my TurboTax thing, that could mess up my entire tax return! I WANT MY MONEY, Y’ALL!

So I log on to TurboTax feeling slightly intimidated. I mean other than voting for our president, or paying tolls, I don’t usually have any direct contact with the government, you know? Talk about super duper adult stuff.

So. I have all of my W2’s laying on the table, in neat little organized sections, and I log in.

Me: Okay TurboTax… let’s see what you got!
TurboTax: Welcome to TurboTax! Don’t worry… we make this really easy!
Me: (Thinking) Okay, cool.
TurboTax: First, we have to ask you some personal information!
Me: Okay. Obviously, I understand that.
TurboTax: What is your FIRST name? (Shows a box where you type in your first name with a caption that reads: Type your FIRST name here.)
(I type my first name, and click NEXT.)
TurboTax: GREAT!
Me: (Beaming to myself.) Maybe this won’t be as scary as I think it will be!
TurboTax: OKAY! Next question. What is your LAST name!? (Shows a box where you type in your last name with a caption that reads: Type your LAST name here.)
(I type in my last name, and click NEXT.)
TurboTax: NICE JOB!

TurboTax sure was doing a good job of making me feel awesome. While I did appreciate the constant flow of reassurance, the further along I went with the whole process, the more I started to feel like the programers of TurboTax had programed it for baboons. And not just any baboons. Baboons who had been the test subjects of a mind-altering drug whose side effects make you lose all common sense or reason.

TurboTax: Okay. Are you ready for this next question? Where… do you live? (Shows a box to fill in with your current state.)
Me: (Selects “FLORIDA”)
TurboTax: YES!!! MAN YOU ARE GOOD!!!
TurboTax: Next, we need your social security number. It is taxes, after all!
Me: (Types in my social security number, clicks NEXT.)
TurboTax: Okay! Do you have your W2? Let’s start filling that out!
Me: (picks up the first w2 that I want to file.)
TurboTax: What is the IDENTIFICATION NUMBER of your EMPLOYER? (This is the number that identifies who employed you!)
Me: Yeah… I get that. (I locate the number on the form, and type it into the little box. I press NEXT.)
TurboTax: Okay next question. Fill out the corresponding boxes below. If nothing, leave blank.

(I look down and see empty spaces for boxes 1-20.)

BOX 1: Hey girl! I’m the box for your WAGES. Type your WAGES in me! Do you UNDERSTAND!? WAGES GIRL! WAGES!!!!!
Me: (I locate Box 1 on my W2, and type in my wages.)
BOX 2: Wassup!!?!?! I’m the box for FEDERAL INCOME TAX WITHHELD! This is like, all of your money the government has already taken out of your paycheck, chick. YA FEEL ME!?
Me: (I type in the Federal Income Tax Withheld.)
BOX 2: Are you a descendant from Einstein? No, but seriously…. Either that… or BABE RUTH. Because you are honestly just KNOCKING THIS OUT OF THE BALL PARK!!!! WOOO!!!! WAY TO GO CAR-O-LYN!!!!

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. It just felt like I was sooo apprehensive and intimidated about my taxes, and then I finally just went onto TurboTax… and it was a program actually designed for baby crackheads. Which, you know what? Works for me and my life style. That’s okay. As long as I get my money back from The Man, that is just peachy.

A Conversation With My Sister.

16 Feb

Caitlyn: Why don’t you audition for Star Wars Weekends with me? You could stand next to me so they could see our similarities.
Me: Yeah… I mean why not? It’s not like I’d have anything to lose.
Caitlyn: Exactly.
Me: But I couldn’t be Slave Leia.
Caitlyn: Probs not. They’d be like “Well… here’s the bikini from last year. Why don’t you try this on.”
Me: And I’d be all, “And here’s my cellulite from THIS year!” (Big cheesy smile and thumbs-up sign while sticking butt out)
Caitlyn: (Laughter)
Me: No seriously, who else could I possibly play, besides Jabba?
Caitlyn: Um.. Maybe you could be Zam Wesell.
Me: Who in the world is “Zam Wesell?”
Caitlyn: The bounty hunter! She’s the one who wears the sexy purple body suit, remember? She’d also wears that cloth thing that basically covers her entire face…
Me: Can you imagine!?
Caitlyn: Hey! At least it would cover your nose!
Me: (Imitating the audition) “Mm, yes, Caitlyn looking good as always… and… Oh? We see you brought your… sister. Carolyn, is it? Okay, Carolyn if you could… just… Yeah, take your hand… that’s right. Take your hand and just… (Puts hand over bottom half of face.) Right, yes… and now, with the other one…? (Takes the other hand and covers forehead so now all that is showing are my eyes.) Yes… hm… Steph, could we work with that?”
Caitlyn: Oh stop! She’s really sexy, she wears purple!
Me: And her entire face is covered! It’ll cover the Crow Nose!
Caitlyn: HAHAHAHA!!!
Me: Caitlyn if I didn’t get considered for something that covers my entire face I think… I think I’d probably just jump off  our balcony.

Annnnnnd for those of you who don’t know Star Wars, here is a picture of Zam Wesell. The girl I’d want (?) to play:


And, here is a picture of the character I would most likely play:



105_2294Maybe I’ll just use this picture as my headshot for the audition.