arrested development.

Guilford County: home of heinous criminal activity and sexual promiscuity.

I mean, I'm sure that isn't completely true, but as far as the courthouse goes, no truer statement has ever been made.

Just your average Thursday morning. Driving two and half hours before dawn has broken to wait in line with those who have fallen victim to Greensboro hoodlife, female wangsters, three pimps in Easter suits, a pregnant woman demanding a restraining order against her ex-boyfriend on behalf of her unborn child, and many others wishing nothing more than to wreak havoc on the brains of the innocent.

Never allow a man with braces to catch you speeding. He will give you a ticket, be very unappreciative of your compliment of his braces, and because of this, you will be mandated to a court date that will put your life, your health and your emotional stability at stake.

I met a nice young fellow named T'ray. Not "Trey," but "Tuh-ray." He told me that I looked all kinds of professional and offered his protective services if I felt endangered. Thanks, man.

I had a nice long conversation with Sasha who explained "the system" to me. Because, "If Obama knew about this shit, them making us wait two hours for a judge when the judge is probably eatin' his white ass breakfast somewhere and making us wait on purpose because his white ass don't care about any of us and our lives and where we need to be, he'd be pissed that they were doin' this to us. White people ain't got no consideration for those of us with jobs and kids and obligations that we need to be doin'." Firstly, yes. I am sure Barack would be mortified that Greensboro law enforcers were not being prompt on their Thursday morning prosecutions. Also, did you by chance notice that, I myself, am white? Because I am. Just because I am in Guilford County and my hair is this texture does not mean I am on your team.

During roll call, I was lucky enough to come across quite a few winning names that will no doubt be front runners when it comes to naming my first child. My favorite was probably Spontaneous. Yes, that's right. First name: Spontaneous. Last name: Dixon. Middle initial: T. For those of you who were too caught up on the fact that her name legitimately left no room for doubt as to whether her conception was an accident, let me draw attention to her initials. Homegirl is living with the label - STD. Now, I'm sure you all thought SLY was about as good as it could get when it came to initials, but uhh... I'm pretty sure we found a winner. In fact, pun optional, I'd say it's positive.

I assumed everyone in the room with me was there for the same purpose. Traffic violations are pretty common in these parts, so I figured my bench neighbors were just as harmless as I. That is until Lisa, to my left, began to explain to the ADA that her husband deserved his "whoopin', and he shoulda known what (she) was capable of." As her argument continued, I learned that her capabilities included a lamp, a television and the threat of a knife. Lisa told me that I was overdressed and would probably let a boy "beat up on" me if he wanted to. Apparently I was to learn from her violent ways and defend myself just as she did.. in Big Lots. That's right. The assault happened in Big Lots. Her defense was that he pulled out a patch of her hair, and she then decided it was the appropriate time to tell him that she knew he had been cheating on her and she was "done wit his shit." After taking mental notes on her life lessons, I decided it was a good time to introduce myself. "Hi, I'm Stephanie. It's nice to meet you." "Hey girl, I'm Lisa. People call me Blondie, but only people that I know. Do you have a lighter?" She's going to be in my wedding, no doubt.

Due to my incredible last name initial falling at the end of the alphabet, and my offense being one of the more minor ones in the room, my case was placed at the end of the docket. Little did I know that dockets in Guilford County tend to overlap. As I waited and listened to everyone receive their new court dates, including the arrest of one man with a foul mouth, a foul driving record and a foul odor.. the group of people began to dwindle down. It was almost my turn to face the judge when the police officers on duty decided to make my session with Judge Judy one more fitting for Law and Order: SVU. I am sitting on the edge of bench, awaiting my turn, when in shuffles four unfortunate looking men, one after the other. Ankles shackled, hands cuffed and jumpsuits buttoned tight, the four newcomers raped me of my innocence with their criminal eyes... all seven of them. The Hispanic man with the tattoo of something resembling a ghetto poinsettia on the side of his neck was wearing an eye patch. Although his pirate days may have been over, let's just say he was still looking for his booty. Me, being the only female in the room without an angry lesbian haircut, I seemed to be the treasure of choice on his map of conviction.

In conclusion.. I still have my license, but there is a good chance I lost my soul.

serious inquiries only.

Never judge a book by its cover, never judge a lady by her lover, and never judge a house by its Craigslist ad.

You know how some people have this amusive ability to alter their Facebook pictures until they actually look like someone you would be envious of? I'm not referring to blurred out acne scars or red eye control. I'm talking full-fledged appearance transformations with the aid of a mouse and a lack of social commitments. Alright, now that you've got that in your mind.. Imagine an unfortunate middle aged man who enjoys beans out of the can and decided to clean all of the dead bodies out of his basement last month. This same man accessed a computer at the public library, Googled pictures of a legitimate home, and used his masterful copy and paste skills to create his very own Craigslist ad. Beautiful work, Beans.

Now, imagine a girl whose biggest concerns in life thus far have been big feet, gangrene and piano lessons. This sweet girl has a little bit of an attitude and a slight aversion to commitment, but all in all, she means well. How is she to know that you cannot trust Craigslist? Obviously never believe anything in the Free section, whether it is a dental exam, virginity or a collection of Smurf posters in mint condition. When it comes to housing and someone's well being though, shouldn't people be up front? This is America, after all. Land of the free, home of the people should make things easy for Stephanie.

I would prefer that my landlord not have his modeling debut on the National Sex Offender Registry.

In the midst of apartment tours, house inspections and canceling appointments for places that forgot to mention their backyard shared a fence with a questionable power plant, my roommate and I have begun to consider expanding our horizons. Maybe a bigger house in a nicer community would keep us safe and give us enough room to only see each other when we are watching television or baking the latest recipes on Pinterest. However, this may require us to find an additional roommate since neither of us possess the Midas touch or are open to selling plasma (quite yet). As we considered our options, we slowly realized the brainwashing of our fathers had finally soaked in. This is a business and we are hot commodities. (Well, extremely warm. I'm pretty emotional, so the temperature fluctuates seasonally.) With a bit of venture capital under our J.Crew belts, we need a business plan.

Dear Potential Roommate,

Laura and I are holding interviews for potential roommates. The interviews will be conducted in a professional setting. We require at least three previous roommate references. We would also like to see pictures of your furniture and clothes. If you are slightly heavy, that is great. Nothing gross, but we love people who will make us look thinner. We prefer that your attractiveness level fall between somewhere in the 5-8 range. Personality is included in this since we are girls and have no intention of hitting on you. We just want you to say funny things and share your pretty clothes. Please provide the information requested and answer any questions that follow. Complete sentences, please. If you are wondering if grammar is important, you should spend the next ten minutes of your life doing something else.

1. We would like to see pictures of your past boyfriends. Also, please explain why the relationship didn't work out.

2. What are your drinking habits?

3. Do you share your alcohol? If so, do you expect us to share in return?

4. What is your parking agility?

5. Tell us a joke.

6. Do you understand sarcasm? Shut up. You are not important.

7. Did you recognize that that was sarcasm?

8. Did you laugh?

9. If you spilled a bag of flour in the kitchen, explain in great detail how you would go about cleaning it up.

10. How many one night stands have you had? Please know that no matter the number, we will not judge you as long as you know their last names and are friends with them on Facebook.

11. Do you remember to lock the doors when you come home drunk?

12. Do you remember to lock the doors when you come home sober?

13. If you are intelligent, that is awesome. However, we will not be humored or patronized.

14. Describe your perfect man.

15. Now, describe what he is wearing.

16. New Balance or Asics? Please note that Saucony is not an option.

17. Full bottom underwear or thong? A happy medium between the two is acceptable, but you can only pick one of the provided options.

18. Are your Nike shorts Medium or Large? If you wear Small, I am sorry. You are out of the running of being Raleigh's Next Top Roommate.

19. Do you return clothes when you borrow them?

20. Do you ask before you borrow them in the first place?

21. Will you be judgmental if I wear the same outfit six days in a row? You will be allowed to make a comment once the seventh day has been reached.

22. What are your thoughts on raves?

23. What kind of hangers do you use? Are you willing to replace them all with the white ones from Target? We like consistency.

24. Do you cook things that smell weird? If so, are you willing to never cook it again? Like, ever?

25. What size shoe do you wear?

26. Do you have a double name or a second middle name? If so, please choose your favorite so our monograms will be balanced.

27. Do you put your name in your white v-necks? Laura doesn't like for there to be confusion.

28. I occasionally choose to not follow social standards for hygiene. Is that ok with you?

29. Do you know who Cake is?

30. Can you beatbox?

31. What are your thoughts on impromptu rap battles?

32. Coke or Pepsi products?

33. Supply and explain the meaning behind every nickname you have ever had.

34. What was your first AIM screenname?

35. Provide a haiku explaining why you are the perfect candidate.

Although, we prefer that 32 out of 35 of the requests above be to our liking, we also may need you available for move-in in approximately three days. Please email all inquiries to Laura. I am not providing her email address because your ability to find it says everything about your character.

Just in case we become desperate, let me give you the approach I would take.

- Look through all previous blog posts to find my last name or some information about my college experience that could be possible university matches under the name Stephanie.

- Find the picture of a Stephanie with that last name beginning with a Y in that network that looks like she would have a blog about things that do not matter and place more importance on her monogram than her hair.

- View all friends and search for, "Laura."

- Eliminate all Lauras in this list that are not the same age as Stephanie or are not in her most recent network.

- Email every single Laura on that list until one responds and actually knows what you are talking about.

i declare thumb war.

I have gotten quite the number of text messages this evening. Although some were standard conversations with those whom I speak with often.. some were not. At all. The first message I received that indicated some sort of foul play was this:

• Unknown Number: Hey babe it's me. What's up?

Naturally, you assume wrong number. Correct? Yep me too.

• SLY: The ceiling. I'm afraid you may have the wrong number though.

I thought the problem was solved. However, the conversation continued. As did the stream of messages from unknown numbers. As people began to identify themselves and explain their incentive for contacting me, things started to click. It took six people awkwardly forcing conversation under 160 characters for it to dawn on me:

You figured out my password.

Allow me to continue on with the first conversation:

• Unknown Number: Is this not Stephanie?
• SLY: Yes?
• Unknown Number: Ok cool. What's up?
• SLY: Out of curiosity.. Am I to know who this is?
• Unknown Number: You told me to text you?
• SLY: That was a statement, but I still don't follow.
• Unknown Number: Facebook.....
• SLY: Yes, I have one. Who is this?
• SLY: Wait, what Stephanie are you looking for?
• Unknown Number: Yarboro. I know it's you. It sounds like you. What did you need?
• SLY: Let's pretend I don't know who you are or what you're talking about. How would you go about explaining it to me? Hypothetically, of course.
• Unknown Number: Are you messing with me?
• Unknown Number: Hello?
• Unknown Number: Steph...
• SLY: Yes.
• Unknown Number: You sent me a Facebook message with your number telling me to text you.
• SLY: What? When? And again, who?
• Unknown Number: It's David. You sent it a little bit ago.
• SLY: Hahahaha
• SLY: Shut up. Who is this for real?
• Unknown Number: Steph.. it's David.
• SLY: Wait, what!? No. I didn't send that. Wait. My Facebook?
• SLY: Are you sure?
• Unknown Number: Yeeaahh. I know it's out of the blue. I thought it was random too.

Don't worry. He kept texting. Go ahead, laugh. You won.

But like. First of all. Not only did you find out my password, but you legitimately sent Facebook messages to avoid damage control? Deleting activity and sent messages, cool. Covering your tracks, awesome. Hey, guess what? I hate you.

One, of the people that responded from who knows how many got the message, woah damn. Way to be THOROUGH. Two, a few people responded to the actual Facebook message so I got to see just how many smiley faces were necessary to pimp out my number. Three, I prefer solicitation. Four, your precious choice from Virginia gave you away. Five, I changed my password. Six, boom.

Seven? Well, I would say the war has now begun, but I would be lying. The war began three hours ago when I accidentally dropped the hint of where you would be visiting next weekend, what concert you'd be attending and what your new number is because I remember you saying you wish you had more people to go with you.

This isn't cyber-bullying anymore. This is the game of life.

Don't lose.

lare bear, baby.

White girl 'til death, I've always had a passion for rhyming and picking up beats that have been dropped. I once tried to drop a beat, but several were injured in the process. Cleaning my room is always fun because like many projects I begin, I never finish it. An artist at heart, I'd like to think that cleaning my room is ongoing endeavor due to the fact that when I decide that I have finally hit a true stopping point, it will be a masterpiece. Either that, or I will die before I ever get a chance to finish. History shows that both outcomes are promising in an artist's career.

I could continue on about all the great finds in my room over the past years. Honestly though, I just end up keeping most of the clothes I had planned to get rid of. This time around, I had a new approach. Throw everything in the floor, and put what I want back in the closet, drawer, or shelf where it belonged. I get fed up with things quite easily, so let's just say there are four boxes of useless items I've collected over my lifetime just sitting in Bonnie's room right now waiting for someone else to deal with them. Needless to say, I will not be that someone else.

Ladies and gentlemen, I finally finished with the clothes. I am not lying, I swear. My clothes have been dealt with. I accomplished something today that I haven't done since middle school. I made it to the bookshelf. That's right. The bookshelf. Apologies to all of you who have ever given me picture albums or handcrafted sheets with quotes and memories we've shared on them. They were the first things I threw away. Sorry 'bout it. Just think though! If I wouldn't have gotten rid of those babies, I never would have come across the true treasure.

A notebook filled with every inappropriate poem, condescending rap and lustful limerick I ever composed in high school. Well, the ones that weren't thrown away out of fear, confiscated or given away. Don't worry, there are still dozens. Don't underestimate the power of Stephanie with new pens in AP History. Although there were pages and pages of these little gems, only one page was laminated. Printed, text centered.. and yes, laminated.

Larry Gardner taught History, but for me, he taught much more. What exactly? That as long as you make good grades and follow directions, you can literally make fun of your teacher as much as you want with no repercussions. I gave him a nickname: Lare Bear. Much to his dismay, it stuck. We even made t-shirts. I gave him a slogan: Every Gardner needs a hoe. That stuck too. The only thing that didn't stick was the Care Bear material we barricaded his driveway with one Sunday afternoon.

Laminated in all its glory, I give you:

LARE BEAR.

The poem.

Lare Bear Baby, what ever is wrong?

You're a bit ill and your face is so long.

Long as in sad, not length or in size;

When you act in this way, your first period cries.

When you're in this mood, you just complain and pick fights.

Nothing the smart kids say or do ever seems right.

We care about your happiness, welfare and youth.

Go home. Hold your baby! Pull your other daughter's tooth.

You could go to the zoo! We know you'll have a blast.

Just leave. Walk out the door! No one cares about America's past.

Okay, so some people do, but not us! We're AP.

We're only in this class for the credit. Oh wait, maybe that's just me.

You just want us to do well on the exam, that's why you yell and you cuss.

But according to others, even if we fail, Jesus still has to love us.

"TRIAL BY JURY!!!" is what you're currently screaming about now.

I sure wish I knew what you were soap box preaching about.

You have supported and motivated us all throughout this year,

But face it.. we go to Burns. Instead of learning history, we'd prefer to shoot deer.

Please don't take offense. This is a poem made with love, not aggravation.

Despite what you may think, we kind of enjoy listening to you blab about our nation.

At the beginning of the year we learned about the Jacksonian Era and the Souix Indian tribe,

But now we just discuss Braie's choice of clothing and who in the county office to bribe.

I know you're mad because I wrote this instead of going over that test,

But the thing is I wasn't here Friday, so I don't have the answers. I'm not trying to be a pest.

Mid-semester, I got lazy in your class. My participation grade was given, how you say, "with grace."

I should just go join the EC Department down the hall, it's probably more my pace.

You shall always know me as, "Stephanie, the girl who started to take the EOC, but immediately died."

If I ever told you I knew something about history, I think it's probably best that I tell you that I lied.

Not being able to list presidents or recall random dates, believe me, it makes me sick.

I've actually only memorized one thing. The preamble to the Constitution.. last year in Civics.

Even if failing the EOC involves taking this class over again,

I will do what I have to do, and I will take it like a man.

I know this is terribly disappointing and even down right sad,

But don't worry, Lare. We both know you could never stay mad.

When I remember our time together, I won't remember your bad attitude, lack of optimism or hostile lectures spoken,

No, baby. I will just remember all the wonderful memories with you; because you, Lare Bear, are my love token.

-

Much love to your wife and kids. I'm sorry for ruining the class curve. I plan to draw a picture of the exam, so I hope you like it. Let me know if you want a t-shirt with your name on it. We have some extras. For some reason nobody else wanted one. Weird.

In conclusion, some things change and some things don't. This, unfortunately, is one of those things. Happy reading.

country cosmetology.

Haircuts. They seem so simple, no?

Yes. You're right. No.

It is not white hair that engenders wisdom. Apparently it is a high school degree, a cosmetology license, a Forever 21 top and a neck tattoo of a pair of scissors. If you love it, own it. Right?

The last time I got a haircut in Shelby, I almost lost an ear from a woman who lost her driver's license 15 years ago, and her astuteness not long after. I stopped her mid-cut after she mistook a 12 year old's black hair as my own. Note to all hairdressers: Please do not answer the phone in the middle of a job if you can't remember what chair to go back to. It tends to be unsettling to those vulnerable to your sharp, pointy tools. After a certain age, they should probably be considered a weapon. Just saying.

When choosing a hairdresser in Shelby, you have two options.

One, you can go back to the same old place where everybody knows your name, is glad you came, and all that jazz. Perks? They know your name. They're glad you came. Simple enough. Downside? They know your name. They know your parents. They know you just graduated. They want to hear all about your plans. Do you have a job? What was your degree, again? Do you still talk to those girls you used to hang out with? I just loved you girls. Do you miss being able to go on youth trips? Do you ever think about being a chaperone for any of the youth trips? You should be a chaperone for some of the youth trips. Are you going to the early service this Sunday? Do you have a boyfriend? Did you meet him at church?

Two, you can risk trying a new place. You may strike gold and end up in the styling hands of someone new in town. She just moved here, didn't go to Cleveland Community College and has no interest in the blinking question mark lingering above your head. Gold is the goal. However, with this risk, the stakes are high. Going into a new place, there is also the chance of landing in the chair of someone with a familiar face. You know them well. Their gel penned handwriting is in your yearbook. Your mortarboard sailed into the air just yards away from theirs. I don't know what color this option would be considered, but it is definitely not gold and it is definitely not the goal.

What's worse than being forced under the knife (scissors, whatever) of someone who feels compelled to encourage you that everything is just fine even though you don't have a job? Being held hair liable to someone who finally feels there is justice in this town now that their college graduated pupil doesn't have a clue as to what her future holds. I can hear the phone call they'll make to their mother as soon as I leave, "So what if I didn't go to college? Stephanie did, and she doesn't have a job. At least I have a job." Yes. You are so right. You do, in fact, have a job. However, you also have two illegitimate children and you got more action on the Ferris Wheel sophomore year of high school than I've ever gotten in my entire life. You just keep on winning.

Hairdresser: 1

College Graduate: 0

I tried my luck. What can I say? Big girl + Big feet + Big steps = Enormous strides in maturity. It's my new approach slash mathematic equation to life. I weally hope you wike it.

MONEY. Gold money, to be exact. The lady who greeted me did not sign my yearbook, nor did she show any evident signs of dementia.. or crime conviction. Score.

I warn her that my hair is deceiving, and she shouldn't try to "fix" it. There is no simple approach. She shouldn't try. Well, per usual, nobody listens to me. She gets mid-straighten before apologizing for not trusting me before. Boom. Das what I thought, lady. As she continues on the mission of all mission (Stephanie's fro), the girl she shares a room with brings in her next client. I avoid the fact that I went to high school with the fellow hairdresser. She seems to do likewise. I keep quiet to avoid talking about myself, who I am, how we may know each other, her newly uploaded wedding pics on her Facebook, and the fact that I know what she used to do in her free time. Boy, did she have a lot of free time.

As I sit there, hair being cut swivel by swivel, various conversations arise. Resisting every urge to contribute deductive reasoning, practicality and/or counter arguments, I sit in silence as the chair turns. This is not a soap opera, folks. This is real life.

Topics discussed during my visit:

- Gay marriage

- Gay Christians

- Whether or not "homosexness" is a choice

- Strippers

- Hunting

- Coach Outlets

- Summer weddings

- Dave Matthews Band

- Accordion players

- Hairdressers at other salons

- A dog bowl used as an offering plate

- Facebook

I have a lot of hair. I was there for a while.

After one remark about how "perhaps" some people don't feel welcome in the "number of Baptist options" Shelby has to offer and "may feel compelled" to "expand their horizons," I soon learned I was better off not speaking. What topic broke the awkward silence after that sweet little tidbit? Hunting. Oh, the irony.

First lesson learned? Ignorance isn't bliss. It is a hairstyle. The bottom half is black. The top is blonde. It isn't a blunt cut, but there are definitely some interesting angles. A lot of people in this town have it and wear it proudly. They carry the diversity in their hair rather than their hearts and political views.

Second lesson learned? Appreciate the gold when you find it, but realize sometimes it may just be better to talk about your wittle old, jobless self. You think you'll probably be busy every week and/or weekend the youth group is looking for a chaperone, but you really appreciate the opportunity. You lived just down the street from a church for the past few years, and really enjoyed living where you did. Thank you for all the questions, but the game is over. Thanks for playing.

dance perchance.

Much to my chagrin, I have recently learned that the response, "Please, I am Stephanie," doesn't ameliorate every situation. It is my usual defense mechanism and go-to for just about every type of interaction, but since most people don't actually know who I am, it isn't always effective. Sometimes it doesn't even work at all. Weird, I know.

Let me provide an example. I've literally never wanted to say my name so many times in my entire life.

A lady comes in, dress bag in hand. She evaluates her options and then grabs six or seven pairs of shoes. Unveiling her dress, she begins to match and coordinate an appropriate heel to complete her outfit. However, that is not good enough. She must get the full effect. She asks if she can put her dress on. I mean, go for it. Not exactly curious to see how exactly she was going to approach a mid-room wardrobe change, I break eye contact and stare at my Apple Jacks.

From my peripheral vision, I see twisting and turning every which way. Finally, feeling her body heat and exhaustion from the struggle all the way across the room, I remind her that we have a bathroom. At first, she refuses, but then she must have come to the realization of how moronic she looked hunched over, with her head hanging through the arm hole of her one-of-a-kind Belk exclusive. She scurries off, changes and returns a moment later.

After checking herself out more than I have ever seen anyone check themselves out when shoes are involved, she sighs heavily. Unsure of whether she was just exasperated from her recent hustle or she suffered from a severe respiratory syncytial virus infection, I decided ignoring her would be the best solution. She sighs again. I hold my eye contact on the YouTube video playing silently on the screen in front of me. And again, she sighs. The loudest one yet. I look up to see if I should seek medical care or a pump of some sort. I catch her taking pictures of herself in the mirror, hardly getting the shoe in the shot. Who knows how long she had been doing this, for there was no sound on her camera phone. Lucky bitch.

Finally forced to face the awkward situation at hand, I inquire as to whether she needs help or would prefer to continue making her foray into professional modeling. Her photo shoot ceases. She looks at me. She looks back into the mirror. She looks at me. Her face contorts into an almost replica of Bonnie's when she used put on blush in high school... four inches away from the mirror. I had seen this face before. I was prepared.. or so I thought. What came next makes me ashamed to be alive. Oh, by the way. I am dramatic.

SLY: "Is everything ok?"

Belk Betty: "Do you mind helping me?"

SLY: "Not at all."

Belk Betty: "Great!"

Silence.

SLY: "Uh, did you have something in mind?"

Belk Betty: "I think so."

SLY: "Oh. Ok."

Silence.

Belk Betty: "Ok, I really need you to come over here."

SLY: "Oh, sorry."

I slowly approach her studio.

SLY: "Yes?"

Belk Betty: "I need you to dance with me."

SLY: "Haha. Uhm, what?"

Belk Betty: "Now, just one second. Put your arms like this."

She extends her arms in a position that no dance should ever begin.

SLY: "Oh, you're serious?"

Belk Betty: "Here, darling."

She takes my arms and positions them to her liking.

At this point, I'm hoping for the tango. If need be, though, I've got the foxtrot on reserve. I guess you could call it my safety dance, but nothing about this situation seemed safe. I try to anticipate her next movement, whether that be a shuffle or a swift reach for a weapon. There was no telling what kind of crazy shit this woman was going to pull. She takes a step closer and the material from her dress grazes against my leg. I shutter. Ok, lady. You poke it, you own it. I take a deep breath and decide to throw my dignity to the wind. Goodbye, dignity. Hello, Dance Dance Evolution.

Prepared for some type of pervy geriatric move, I wince in discomfort. I stand there as she rocks back and forth, putting every type of foot position into her performance to fully test out the shoes.

Belk Betty: "Here, spin me."

SLY: "What?"

She raises my arm and spins herself.

SLY: "Oh, I see."

Belk Betty: "That was good."

SLY: "Oh, for you too?"

She didn't get my joke.

Belk Betty: "What do you think?"

SLY: "Of the shoes or your dancing?"

Belk Betty: "You're too funny. The shoes, honey!"

SLY: "They are good. I mean, they seem to be staying on your feet."

Months at this establishment and having a foot stay in place is still my only viable advice to customers.

Belk Betty: "How do they make my calves look?"

SLY: "I mean, I think they look good."

Belk Betty: "You're not just saying that are you?"

Lady, you are still holding my hand. I would say anything to not be touching you right now.

SLY: "Of course not."

Belk Betty: "You're a gorgeous little girl."

SLY: "Haha. Thank you?"

I release her grip and take a step back.

She continues to twirl and attempt what can only be guesstimated as a one-sided shag. For what it's worth, that was not dancing. That? That was abuse.

SLY: "So, what is the event you're going to again?"

Belk Betty: "My friend's wedding. Well, not her wedding, but her daughter's wedding."

SLY: "Oh, that's fun!"

Belk Betty: "Not exactly, but I need to look better than she does. Not my friend's daughter, but my friend."

SLY: "Ahh. Got it."

Belk Betty: "She used to date my husband, you see."

SLY: "Oh, wow."

She continues her body movement. I make my way back to my throne. Small talk ensues. Distant small talk. You know, the safe kind. She tells me all about her son and how she always thought he would marry her friend's daughter, but it didn't work out. They dated in high school, but she got a little loose when they went off to different colleges. Her son knew better than to deal with that so, "that ended real quick."

We are soon met with silence again. Due to this, attention is drawn to the radio playing around us. The Sophie B. Hawkins classic, "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover" had been playing.

Belk Betty: "Oh! Oh!"

I look up.

SLY: "Is, uh... everything alright?"

Belk Betty: "This song!"

SLY: "Haha, yea. It's a.. uh, good one."

Hesitation on her part.

Belk Betty: "My husband thinks so too."

She then smirks to herself and continues her gaze into the mirror. A moment passes.

Belk Betty: "He thinks so, alright."

Awkward laughter into silence. By me, naturally.

Belk Betty: "It was 1996, I think."

SLY: "What?"

Belk Betty: "This song. I think it was 1996. It was our anniversary."

Oh my god. She is going to explain what is going through her mind right now. Oh my god. No. Please. God. No.

I immediately pretend that I hear the phone ringing in the back of the store.

There is no phone in the back of the store.

Belk Betty: 0

SLY: 1

omg, shuz.

I sell shoes.

Well, that is a lie. I sit. I attempt to look somewhat alert while shoes sell themselves.

This is the way I live, betch.

It is great working somewhere that has hundreds upon hundreds of shoes, yet maybe only four pair in the entire inventory will actually fit across my foot without crippling my abilities to walk and/or have toes. And those four pair typically resemble footwear made for a she-man or an elk. Needless to say there is no temptation.

Since there is no dire need to play in the shoes like a toddler sitting in a box full of sand or a stripper in a pool full of pudding, I find my entertainment in other ways. Hulu, MSNBC, Facebook, Google Reader, TFM, listserv emails with no purpose, Twitter, drawing, running laps around the hamster cage that we call a store, and last but not least, talking to shoppers.

Although I realize that incriminating anecdotes and rhetorical letters to strangers aren't usually in my repertoire, I figure I will try something a little different.

Jokes.

Dear strangers that have nothing important to say,

My face is really good at this thing. Maybe you've heard of it? It's called a blank stare. It is a natural reaction of mine to not care about whatever you are saying to me, so it takes a lot of effort to construct my face in an appropriate manner. My family told me that my typical reactions are never socially acceptable, so I have taught myself to feel nothing. Having no soul really helps in this endeavor. The black pit that my friends like to call my heart is void of emotion and concern for the event you have coming up that calls for a red pump that isn't too tall, short, shiny, matte, noticeable, unnoticeable, big, small or ugly. It's funny, I had those same stipulations for you. Don't like what you see? What a coincidence. Neither do I.

Don't get me wrong. There are many sweet women who come in here to shop. They look at what we have, buy something if they like it, or politely leave if they don't. Those women are what I like to call normal.

For those who refuse to fall between these predetermined lines of normalcy? Dude. I thought small conversation should be friendly, light, simple and should never provoke angst. Right? Maybe I was mistaken in my mental note taking at Junior Assembly once upon a middle school Friday night. I mean. That's totally possible. There were always snacks there and you guys know how I feel about snacks. Good posture? Dancing with boys? Knowing what fork to use? I mean, yea, that stuff is gold. But there is one thing that Junior Assembly really taught me to appreciate, and that is snack time. Who needs people? Clearly I'm better off with a box of crackers and tray of room temperature cheese.

I have come to the conclusion that I know nothing. This is my cry for help.

Help me interact with strangers. You all do it so well.

I am unsure of a what normal person's reaction is supposed to be when strangers abruptly divulge, break into tears or speak to you as if you had to have your caretaker drive you to work this morning. Reality check. This is a store, not an after school program. I am competent.

To show my genuine efforts to conform to this thing you guys call "social interaction," I have provided options! Please print this page and complete the following multiple choice assessment. Simply circle the answer choice you feel most appropriate and give it to me upon completion. I would give each question an "Other" option, but I'm afraid you would all use it.

Plus, let's be honest. My choices are enough. Your input couldn't be that good, anyway. We are just pretending. This is the blog where everything is made up and your opinion doesn't matter.

To keep the length of this under control, I am limiting my assessment to quotes from only this week. Sucks for you guys.

Name: ____________________

Date: _______________

What should your response be when someone says:

1. "I'm short, but have like.. a lot of girth. Ya know?"

a) I actually do know, and yes. You do.

b) No, you don't! What you said is completely factual, but I am going to disagree with you out of kindness anyway.

c) The word girth makes me feel uncomfortable.

d) YUM.

e) Gimme some of dat girth.

2. "I called about the boot."

a) You're an idiot.

b) You called? So did 200 other women with unrecognizable voices. The boot? Oh ok, since we have 72 of them. I know exactly who you are and what you're talking about.

c) The cryptic store called. They want that sentence back.

d) Ok.

e) Try again.

3. "It smells nice. Is that you?"

a) Hahahahaha.

b) I can smell myself. It isn't pleasant.

c) Hell no, lady.

d) I put on deodorant when I left my house.. which was yesterday. So, yes. The nice smell is probably me.

e) You're standing in front of a candle, dimwit.

4. "No, I'm definitely not a size 9. That is for big honkers."

a) Oh wow. You just said that.

b) Die.

c) My shoe size and your grandson's age are the same number. Your grandson has a girlfriend, is familiar with the five paragraph essay format and may already have a facial hair. Yea. Say it again.

d) What is your definition of a honker?

e) Your husband doesn't love you.

5. "I came in last week and bought 4 pairs of shoes and some earrings."

a) Did you want a cookie for that?

b) Oh my god. I am so impressed with how much money you have previously spent at this establishment that I need to excuse myself.

c) We were closed last week.

d) You have something in your teeth. I think it's lies.

e) The sandwich I am hiding underneath the counter is delicious. Please leave so that I may continue eating it.

6. "Did Kim have fun last night?"

a) My name is Stephanie. And, yes. Stephanie had fun last night. Thanks for asking Stephanie that question.

b) Yea, she did. She also had Cocoa Puffs for breakfast, is due for her annual visit to the gynecologist in two weeks and just left the room she was in. Anything else?

c) I mean, I can call her if you'd like to ask.

d) I don't know, but Kim Kardashian was on QVC. That's fun, right?

e) Please go away.

7. "Are you familiar with BJ's?"

a) Bold.

b) That is neither here nor there.

c) If I use the word "bulk" as a pun in my response, will you or will you not be offended?

d) Your job really sucks.

e) I would be more interested in your offer if you were a sales representative for CUTCO Cutlery. Just kidding. No, I wouldn't.

8. "Do they make this shoe in a different color?"

a) I don't even know who they are. I have never seen the shoe in your hand before.

b) Probably.

c) Yes.

d) No.

e) I'm going to need you to repeat your question because I was too distracted by the fact that you are a 63 year old woman trying to buy a cheetah print stiletto to comprehend your words.

9. "You have a lot of pretty things here, don't you?"

a) No. We pride ourselves on the fact that we trick customers into investing hundreds of dollars into pure garbage every single day.

b) Kind of.

c) Some people think so.

d) We try.

e) Yea. If you're blind.

10. "I just came from the lingerie store next door with my daughter."

a) Well, touch you twice.

b) Isn't this something you should maybe be telling your therapist?

c) Cool beans, old lady.

d) I just came from sitting in this exact spot for the past 6 hours with myself. You win.

e) Ma'am, I am sure your daughter is very cute, but I like boys.

I have neither given nor received unauthorized aid on this test or assignment.

Signature: _________________________

Thanks for playing.

life in buffet form.

Carnival Imagination. Are you kidding? Understatement of a lifetime. You can't make this shit up.

My family is very grateful for my lack of Internet access over the past week. Instead of tweeting, I ate. Instead of texting, I slept. Instead of BBMing, I ran. Instead of judging people silently, I judged them aloud. Instead of getting in trouble for judging people aloud, my remarks were validated and appreciated. Ok, that's a lie. I still got in trouble. But there was none of the usual Bonnie telling my parents I tweeted something inappropriate and then me getting yelled at and lectured about my inability to filter and have a soul. The good, the bad and the unfortunate of civilization discontinuity. Whatever. Internet, shminternet. Here are my comments.

In Cozumel, I walk out of a public restroom to find a restaurant employee sitting on the ground near the sinks. Not only is she sitting on the dirty ground, but she is staring into the broken mirror, chewing her nails. Uh. Senora? Please put it away. It, being your teeth. This is a bathroom. And you live in Mexico.

As Bonnie and I make our way to the room, we are met with an obtrusion. Two large obstacles, rather. A couple of young ladies, approximately 17 in age. Questionable BMIs, children's bikinis and cover ups that would make Brigitte Nielson cringe. Stumbling through the stateroom hallways around 2pm, and all they can muster are yelps about "tah mooch tah-killa." Help us.

Have you ever smelled goat vomit? What about dog diarrhea? Fish? Rotten eggs? Old milk? Fountain Dining Hall after 8pm? Ok. Well, have you ever smelled them all at once? I have. His name is Ben. He is our head server.

Molly ordered prime rib. She received the bloody, large intestine of a moose. Don't worry, though. Gravy was complimentary. All is well.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. The woman passed out next to me is dressed just like a whore.

In case anyone wanted to know what "queso" at a Mexican restaurant in the heart of Cozumel is made of, I will tell you. Velveeta. Chilled, congealed Velveeta. Have no fear. Sliced peppers were present. It was very authentic.

If you are shirtless, stumbling, morally cauterized and only capable of yelling out the name that is tattooed on your left bicep, I have news for you. Sir, I am sorry. She isn't lost... she just left. She doesn't love you anymore. Don't be too upset. Her name is Trish. As for the tattoo? I'm afraid you are out luck. You were the one smart enough to get a dolphin tattoo with "Trish" scribbled across its back. Embarrassing body art and animal cruelty? You belong in a cage.

Raleigh? Shelby? Ocean Isle? You are not alone. Apparently running at obscure hours in tall socks and neon doesn't bode well in international waters either. I know. I was shocked too.

People of the boat, this is a cruise ship. This is not a small town Women's Center. You are going to dinner. You are not going to prom. Your forty-two pound dress and nineteen inch hair? Seriously? Neither are warranted. This is not 1983. Please go back to your room and pack. Your time machine awaits.

To the very brave man who thought a wedding proposal on a cruise ship during one of the nightly photography sessions was both romantic and honorable, you were terribly mistaken. Terribly.

If I ask permission to take a picture of you or something in your vicinity, do not be flattered. I am probably making fun of you. I just like to be polite.

You know your family has a lot to talk about when you're guesstimating the cleavage length of women three stories below you.

As I search for the top floor that's not really the top floor, but only sometimes the top floor, I run into a man who is made of blood, fat and domesticated beer. Apparently he owns some company that mass produces petroleum? He told me about his life. He also told me that I had a "great chest." Having seen my own chest before, I can only assume the females that men who own petroleum plants see on a regular basis are either small children that live outside, mildly deformed workers, or their wives whose knees are currently kept company by what was once their own version of a "great chest."

I wanted to go for a run after the gym had closed, therefore I was forced to utilize other sections of the ship. After realizing people don't exactly appreciate a stranger taking laps through their hallway, I tried my luck on the outer decks. What did I see? A woman. But this was no ordinary woman. Passed out on a chair, right arm over her face, left arm hanging limp, and estimated age of around the 53 mark. Bleach blonde and burnt to a crisp, she was all kinds of Linda Bollea. A pretty accurate weight guesser, myself, I'm going to say she was about a 230 pounder. She may or may not have been able to bench press an entire tanning bed. She, at one time, had been wearing a bathing suit. I know this because her bottoms were still on, thanks to one side still being held together by a knot. Just one side, though. Just one. Her top was on the ground beside her. There she lay, 10:37pm, alone. I'm guessing her fun induced blackout occurred around 6:45pm, but don't hold me to that. I am no professional. Approximately 30 minutes later, I made my way to her vicinity again. She was now lying on her side. Close enough, anyway. Oddly enough, she was also wearing her top. There was a full drink on the ground next to her that wasn't there before. Some people would assume she had friends in the near distance looking out for her and making sure she didn't die... or if she did die, she would do so with a drink in immediate reach. However, that is some people. I am not some people. No, I am Stephanie. My only valid conclusion? She is a gypsy.