The good news is that these brain farts tend to be pretty funny. Here are the top four:
1. The Light in my Room
This is the incident that spurred this post. The light in my room is located about three-quarters up one of the walls. When I lie down on my bed to read, this light is shining directly into my eyes, and I have to hold my book at an awkward height to shield myself. If my arm strength wavers (particularly embarrassing when I’m using my Kindle), the book shifts, and I get a blast of light directly in my eyes.
For the past four months, I had to deal with this first world problem every night. Then, about a week ago, a solution came to me as I was trying to read. I slowly sat up in my bed, turned around, and proceeded to lie down with my head facing the other direction, so that the light was at my back instead of in my face. Over the course of four short months, with some critical analysis on the interaction of light photons and my eyes, and, in the end, a huge leap of faith on the positioning of my body, I was able to successfully determine that light does not get into my eyes when I’m not looking at it.
2. Razor Blades
I began shaving when I was 15, and for the first year, it was pure misery. This was not because the shaving hurt, but because changing out an old blade was a huge pain in my ass. New blades come in a tight plastic casing like this:
In order to free a blade, I would have to use my fingernails to poke and pry through tiny gaps in the plastic. It was incredibly tedious and frustrating work that left my finger tips rubbed raw; on the most of annoying of days, it could take me upwards of ten minutes to pop out a new blade. I started to dread the process, and would sometimes choose shaving with a dull blade over the hell that was switching to a new one.
Then one day when I was 16, something happened – a critical neuron snapped to life, and an epiphany struck me the likes of which I’d imagine only men like Einstein and Stephen Hawking could understand. I removed the old blade from my razor and held the handle in my right hand; I grabbed the case of new blades and held it in my left. I slowly, delicately brought them closer together – my hands were trembling from excitement. I pressed the handle into the back of the new blade, heard an immensely satisfying *click* sound, and then pulled the razor handle back out – now with a fresh new blade securely attached to the top. It was as if the cartridge of razor blades and the handle WERE DESIGNED FOR THIS VERY FUCKING PURPOSE.
I have a small scar on my forehead. When I see it in the mirror, it makes me think, “ah yes, that’s right. I’m an idiot sometimes.”
This one occurred when I was quite young, so it’s more pardonable than the rest. However, it is the only one that’s created a permanent marring of my otherwise porcelain-esque forehead skin, so it’s harder to forgive.
If you remember the T.V. show Rugrats, the family had a dog named Spike. I thought Spike was awesome, so I decided one day to imagine him and to play with him that way – a similar strategy I use today for Victoria’s Secret Models. I was throwing Spike the imaginary frisbee, when I thought it would be funny to run away from him. Spike chased after me, the little scamp, and we hurried down the hallway. I could hear his imaginary panting getting closer when I turned a corner, slipped, and smacked my face against the corner of a wall. Unfortunately, the blood that poured forth was real, and my mom had to take me to the E.R.
As my mom would later say of the incident: “I thought it was weird that you were playing with an imaginary dog when we had a real one.”
You may know it by it’s traditional name, Tupperware. For the first 21 years of my life, I thought that it was called TuppleWare, despite using the product nearly every day, and despite the fact that the name was clearly written on the top of every piece.
It wasn’t until my parents came to visit me in college that this mispronunciation was brought to light. I asked my mom to, “Grab me some Tuppleware.”
Mom “Some what?”
Me “Some Tuppleware.”
Mom “….You mean, Tupperware.”
Me “Looks like the Alzheimer’s is setting in early Mom, because you are talking gibberish.”
She very quickly proved me wrong. My question is, HOW DID THIS GO UNNOTICED BY ALL FAMILY MEMBERS AND FRIENDS FOR THE FIRST 21 YEARS OF MY LIFE? Who knows what else I’ve been saying wrong? Is colonel really pronounced the way that I think it is?! Have people been fucking with me about how you say rendezvous? Oh god….bologna. WHAT ABOUT BOLOGNA??
If you ever want to shatter my brain, place a razor inside a piece of Tupperware, shine a light in my eyes, and tell me I’ve got 15 seconds to change out the blade before Spike from Rugrats bites me.If you enjoyed the post, please give it a share!