The inner dialogue of every chance I take

"Andrea, you should send an email to that person you admire/introduce yourself to that intimidating individual/ask that cute boy to hang out/strike up a conversation with a stranger/saddle up to the bar next to that ridiculously attractive hipster. What's the harm? You know you want to and the curiosity of not doing it will (someday) kill you."

"No, you shouldn't, and here's why: Your chances always end badly. You have more strikes than successes, my friend, and as one half of your psyche, I'd rather not deal with aftermath of yet another heartbreak."

"But not all of those chances went terribly. Some of them ended quite well! And maybe this could be one of those times. You never know!"

"Oh, you optimist, I do know. Think of all the past humiliation, was it really worth it? And even more importantly, if these people wanted interaction, wouldn't they have approached you?"

"Maybe they're shy! Maybe they're scared! Maybe that's why I have to be the brave one!"

"Maybe they don't care! Maybe they want to be left alone! Maybe they think you're weird and gross!"

"It's better to know for sure than to never know at all. Plus, all those horrible moments make for great stories."

"Ugh, you and your stories. "

"Fortune favors the bold!"

"Just leave well alone!"

"Coward!"

"Creep!"

(Around this point, I typically flip a mental coin to silence them both.)

Ordinary moments in our ordinary lives

This week, you guys.

MCA passed away. You're the worst, cancer.

Maurice Sendak died, that salty ol' storyteller.

Vidal Sasson too. I feel bad for thinking he was already dead.

Citizens voted. It did not go the way most of us wanted it to and the effects of this will be felt for years.

The President said what many of us had a feeling he must have been thinking for a long time.

The guy who wants to be president was an awful son of a bitch as a teenager.

There were some pink funnel clouds, ndb.

In much smaller news, a certain slightly awkward yet charming person whom everyone either loves or loathes* told a true tale as part of a storytelling slam.

I'm one of those weirdos who likes talking in front of large groups of people. I always have, even in elementary school. I think it's fun and obviously, I like the attention.

Don't think I'm the picture of confidence. I still get nervous. I usually I think I'm going to throw up, even though I have yet to do so (I first wrote "even though I never do", but that's the quickest way to a jinx if I ever typed one).

I had this bottle of water that was three-quarters gone and I decided if they called my name, I'd take a big swig before going up on stage to keep from getting nervously dry mouthed. I even took the cap off so I would be ready.

My mind's going, "Okay, name, drink, get up, go, name, drink, get up, go, name, drink, get up, and oh god, don't knock over the water or trip over your chair or the stairs or over your own two feet..."

Before I could mentally spiral down into my dark worrywart world, the sensible side of myself spoke up. It usually likes to make its presence known at the most inconvenient times when I really don't want it coming around ("It's 3 a.m. on a Friday night. You have to work tomorrow. Coffee and Greek fries are a bad idea."). This time, I didn't dismiss it.

"Listen up. You know this thing. This isn't your first time talking in front of strangers. It'll be fine."

And it was. I think it went better than all the times I practiced it.

I don't have a video of me telling the story, however, if you buy me a few drinks the next time I see you, I'll happily retell it, hand gestures and all.

It's so small in comparison in everything else that happened in the world this week, but this was my favorite. Don't tell the pink clouds, they'll probably get jealous.

*If there's a heaven, I'm pretty sure that's how I'll be described on Saint Peter's guest list.

One pest leaves and another one moves in

Mouse Update: I have not seen it since I screamed and ran away. So no, I did not kill it and neither did Harold. My landlord put down some traps, but since I've gotten rid of all the perishable food that can't be put in my fridge, my apartment isn't quite as appealing as it used to be annnd I don't know if I'll ever buy rice again. It's probably harassing one of my neighbors now. Adios, Squeaker.

And anyway, I have a new... visitor.

I went thrifting this morning, came back a bit later than I intended and still needed to shower before work. I was singing the Captain Planet theme song when I spotted something floating above me out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head and found nothing. Whatever, I'm seeing things, NBD. Turned the water off a few minutes later to the sound of a loud BUZZZZZZZZZZ.

I'm horribly, horribly nearsighted. All I can see is a flying black dot and I'm pretty damn petrified. I slowly reach over to my glasses a couple feet away and put them on my face. The largest yellowjacket I have ever seen is circling my bathroom light.

I've been stung by bees twice. Once when I was seven while picking a flower and the second when I was 18 and trying to plug in a boom box under my cousin's deck. Both times on my right middle finger. Both times hurt like hell. Both times by honeybees. I've heard horror stories about people being stung by yellowjackets hundreds of times. I'd rather not be an anecdote for my acquaintances to tell when they're trying to one-up people at bars ("I knew this really dorky girl once, her name might have been Amanda or something, anyway, she got stung by a yellowjacket 250 times!").

The yellowjacket stops flying and hangs from the ceiling with its legs and wings curled up like a little vampire. Okay, its sleeping. Or dying. So long as we leave each other alone, we'll be fine. I turn the light off and leave the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I'm getting ready for work, and I go back into the bathroom to get my shoes. I don't turn on the light. I don't scream and wave my arms. I don't go anywhere near the ceiling. I thought we were on neutral terms, the yellowjacket and I. I thought we could co-exist. The bathtub, sink and toilet would be my area and the ceiling would be Yellowjacket Territory.

Nope.

Just like a real vampire, this yellowjacket is out for blood. My blood. It divebomed, furious at me for stepping into its sacred space. And it was relentless.

Out of instinct, I bend over, trying to get my head as low as possible, and walk back into the kitchen. The yellowjacket is at my right ear, buzzing angrily. I can feel it's wings. My hair is in my face and my glasses fall off. After a second or two, I don't hear any buzzing. I open my eyes. The yellowjacket is hanging from my hair, a few inches from my eyes.

I know I overdid it with the italics when I wrote about the mouse, but seriously, you guys: The yellowjacket is hanging from my hair, a few inches from my eyes.

The first thing in my head is not how close it is to blinding me or that it could sting me until I'm unrecognizable. No, instead I wonder how long I'll have to have my head down until it flies off. I picture this lasting hours until I collapse on the floor and its stinger finally wins. I immediately closed my eyes again after seeing it and waited.

A second or two (but really it felt like an hour) later, I hear it buzzing again, though a little softer this time. I slowly open my eyes and I pick my glasses off the floor. The kitchen light is its new obession. It bobs around the light and finally settles on the top of the fridge. I slowly got everything else I need for work without disturbing the balance.

I left for work a minute or two later, and by then it was back to its vampire curl position. You're not going to get me next time, buddy. The kitchen is all yours, mouse included.