Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I loved that my dad started things off by calling one of us a mother
f#%@&!, a phrase that turns me right into a pile of giggles, especially when a grown-up says it.
I loved The Joyous One, who when her coffee cup was filled up too much said "Babe, suck on this so it goes down." I loved the raucous laughter that followed.
I loved my mom, pretending not to know what a dutch oven was. I loved my sister for calling her out on it, saying "Do not act like you don't know what a dutch oven is!" I loved my mom's response, "Well I call that 'Do it again you f#%@!*& son of a bitch, and I'll kill you!". I love that I laughed about that for days after, repeating it to anyone who would listen.
I love that I'm still laughing about all that now.
I loved Thanksgiving.
Friday, November 13, 2009
My dad and I were sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper...chatting...the ushe, and my mom came into the kitchen to prepare her lunch. As she was prepping, she was telling me how she maybe found a dress for my sister's wedding. So I was asking good daughter questions like "Where did you find it?" and "What color is it?" and "Who's the designer?"(yeah, right...I may watch Project Runway but I don't have a fashionable bone in my body). She was saying how she had been online looking for something and wasn't finding anything good, then by chance was at Carson's the night before, and then right in the middle of the story my mom was telling, I saw my dad lean all the way over and...BRRUUMMmmmbbBOMMMMPPPfffFFTTT...trumpet fart. I immediately began yelling at him, calling him disgusting, asking what was wrong with him. He claimed he didn't know it would be that loud, which...I call bullshit, Phil, a full lean means you know it's gonna be loud and powerful and you want to let it escape so you don't get blown into the air like Old Faithful. Anytoot, after my scolding he put the paper over his face, which at first I thought was him being ashamed. Then, I saw the paper shaking..."Dad, you scum, are you behind the paper laughing at yourself? Of course you are." He said "No, I'm reading the paper!" But he couldn't keep the paper upright, and sure enough, red-faced squinty Phil was there, laughing his head off at his own fart. He tried to cover again, saying he didn't mean to, it was an accident, I kept saying it was on purpose and then my mom chimed in..."Obviously he couldn't stand the fact that he wasn't getting any attention." One look at my mom and I nearly fell on the ground laughing. I actually was bent over double, trying to hold the belly jiggle to a minimum because that's how hard I was laughing. My dad laughed too, even though I had to repeat what my mom said twice, which kind of took away from the hilarity, but still...
Many of you may not think it's funny, laughing about farts. But if you know my family at all, then you know that laughing about farts is what we do...usually at the dinner table...and you love us for doing it. God knows I do.
Friday, November 6, 2009
There are 2 people whom I always seem to come back to when I REALLY think about this question. My cousin Sarah died November 22nd, the day before Thanksgiving, right before I turned 2 years old. She was 10, and died of Cystic Fibrosis. I was too young to remember her for myself, but my mom implanted a memory of her which I go back to occasionally. My parents took me to see Sarah at the hospital, but I was too young to go in, so they stood with me outside of her window, so she could see me, so we could wave to each other. I can picture myself doing this, and it makes me deeply sad to think about it. That seems silly to me, since I don't remember her, I feel like maybe I don't get to be sad about her. Not that there are rules to this kind of thing, I just don't want to step on the toes of the people who do remember. Maybe I should just stop trying to be polite and let myself feel however I want. I wish I could meet her again, I'd like to get to know her, I'd like to have dinner with her. She made me a tooth fairy pillow out of washcloths and safety pins when she was in the hospital. I've asked my mom about it several times throughout my life, she's always told me she knew exactly where it was, but she's never given it to me. This weekend I asked for it again, she asked what it was worth to me...without thinking I said "A million dollars. No, it's worth more than that." Looks like I'm finally getting my tooth fairy pillow. And maybe someday, I'll get that dinner with my cousin.
My Grandpa Kroker died before I was born. He was young, 62 I believe. When I look at pictures of him, I can see where I get my penchant for pulling a funny face every time a camera is pointed at me. Stories about my grandpa and his brother Leo are legendary, I could listen to those stories for hours...and I have. He just seemed so so fun, I'd like to get a chance to laugh with him for awhile. I think about how different our childhood trips to Auburn would have been if he were alive. I can see him pretending to sleep in a lawn chair, then jumping up and scaring Emily and I as we crept closer to investigate. I can picture myself trying to impress him from way up in the backyard tree. I see Emily on his shoulders, and me being jealous. I imagine both of us in footie pajamas, curled up on the couch with him, Emily with her cugger and doll, me being pissed that my pj's were pink. I can almost feel the sheer joy of being able to wake up with him and my grandma being in the same house as us. Man, what a strange feeling, missing something I've never had.
Don't get me wrong, I am a very lucky person. I LOVE all of the crazy, hilarious, lovely, talented people I'm blessed to know. I'm not trying to dwell on what I've missed in my life, it's just the last time I was faced with that question, I started to think about what I really want. And as much as I'd love to meet Oprah, I would blow her off in a second if it meant even a moment in time with Sarah, or a splash of a day with my Grandpa Kroker.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The more awake I got, the angrier I got, and not just about the fact that The Joyous One had a floozie. I was also mad that she took the floozie to the zoo-zie. The Joyous One never takes me to the zoo and you know who loves the zoo? This girl! Luckily(for her), The Joyous One was caught near the South Entrance of the zoo, and not in the wombat exhibit...that would have been like a Catholic canoodling with another religion in the Vatican! Had she been caught in the wombats, well, I don't want to say what would have happened, but a chokehold may have been involved.
Anyadulterer, I told The Joyous One about the dream, but didn't mention being angry. I brushed it off as funny, because I didn't want her thinking I was mad at her. I know it's not her fault she dream-cheated! To be fair, there was no *cough* physical evidence that cheating was going on, but the implication was definitely there. But it's hard to resist The Joyous One, I KNOW dream-skeeze was was all up on her like peanut butter to jelly.
I had to keep telling myself that this was a dream, it didn't happen, The Joyous One did not have a side-skank, Whittier was not blown to smithereens, it was just a dream. Of course, asking The Joyous One how her girlfriend was when on the phone with her this morning makes it seem like I still don't grasp the whole "just a dream" thing. But I do now, at nearly 2pm I get it. It was just a dream.
I have to say, I was slightly surprised by my reaction to this dream. I'm fairly laid back about most things(yes, super uppity about other things, I know. Shut up, friends of mine). I used to think I would be okay with letting go if whoever I was with found someone they were better suited for. Apparently, dream-Meta is still like that, but after my boiling anger this morning, I think it's safe to say awake-Meta is not going down without a fight. Oh no, hell no.
Friday, October 30, 2009
This morning, he and I got into a discussion about Catholic guilt. I can't remember how or why it came up, but I mentioned that I believe one of the biggest contributors to Catholic guilt is the "no-meat-on-Fridays-during-Lent" thing. I'm sure there's a proper name for the "no-meat-on-Fridays" thing, but don't ask me what it is. The Catholic church doesn't want me and my homosexual brothers and sisters, so I've taken to setting up a grill outside the church on Fridays during Lent and eating meat all over the place with a bunch of homos. Not really, but maybe I'll start! Anymoo, I said the meat rule was a rule that I'm sure every single Catholic has broken sometime in their life, and the guilt is overwhelming since it's such a simple rule to follow. My dad then said, "Well sure, and it should be. I remember one time I went out to lunch with your uncle Gerry. We went to a place known for it's burgers, I think was called Tip Top, they had hand packed burgers, real thick, juicy. Well I ate one...on a Friday...during Lent...and now I have cancer." He and I looked at each other, then burst out laughing. I laughed so hard, I was almost lizzing(laughing and whizzing, courtesy of Liz Lemon and the 30 Rock writers). He laughed so hard, his face got all red and squinty, and had he not been sitting at the table, he would have slapped his knee. Yes, my father is a knee slapper...literally.
Many of you might not think that's funny, laughing about cancer, but if you know my dad at all, then you know that laughing is what he does. And if you know my dad at all, then you love him for saying that and laughing about it. God knows I do...
Thursday, October 29, 2009
It's the celery, I can't get past the effing celery. Brooke chomps on a full stalk of leaves-and-all celery. No one, and I mean no one, eats celery like that. Especially not a celebrity who can pay to have a personal celery cleaner come and discard the leaves. I can't blame Brooke, she didn't come up with the idea. Mind you, if I find out she did, I'm totes blaming her. I'm guessing that this is how it went down between the commercial-maker-uppers(advertisers, if you're nasty)...
"Okay guys, we have a good start here, I like that Brooke will start the commercial by saying she's a healthy person, but gang, we gotta prove that to the audience! How can we prove that Brooke is healthy? We gotta make believers outta these people...what's that Jiminy? Have her eat celery? I like where you're head is at, guy. Okay, celery...this is good...but can we make the celery seem healthier at all? What if...what if we...have her pick the celery off the tree and bite into it. What? Oh, where does celery grow then? Who cares, we have to figure this out. So, okay...how about...oh, I got it, what's that crap on top of celery? You know, it's... the crap...on the tops...of celery stalks, what is that crap? Leaves? Jiminy, speak up! You are killing me, man! So leaves, what if she bites into a stalk of celery with leaves on the top? That looks healthy! I mean, come on guys, leaves = healthy! What? Listen, I don't care if no one eats celery like that, no one is going to believe that Brooke Shields is healthy unless she bites into celery with leaves on the top! You really think the American public is going to think about the friggin leaves? Get out of my face, Jiminy, you disgust me! We're going leaves...LEAVES ON, PEOPLE!"
How do we know that she didn't just max a plate of chicken wings and she's trying to cool the fi-yah with celery? That's totally feasible. Now, if she were drinking a glass of wheat germ while tricked out in a super sweet yoga pose, then I would be like "Dag, Brooke Shields is healthy as a meyeah feyeah!" But no, they give her celery...with leaves. What's sad is that now I'm all kinds of in a tizzy about Brooke Shields, and I can remember a time not too long ago when Mina, Emily and I were at Bloomingdale's all excited to be getting Brooke's autograph on a poster. My how times have changed.
But really, what it comes down to is that I know Brooke Shields is healthy, not because of a celery stalk with leaves, but because...look at her. She's 44 years old and look at her. That's how I know she's healthy.
So thank you, Colgate advertisers, for pissing me off about Brooke Shields...and celery, one of my favorite ways to get Ranch dressing into my mouth. I'll never forgive you. But I'll keep using your products! Holla! Oh wait, I used Crest...nevermind...
Friday, October 23, 2009
Anychung, it's now been over a month since I've written anything, over a month since I injured my knee, and 3 weeks since my surgery. It's time to shit or get off the pot...or as writers say, "it's time to scribble or get off your fancy ergonomically correct chair". I totes just made that up, I have no idea what writers might say instead of "shit or get off the pot". Actually, when you think about it, "shit or get off the pot" might possibly be the most perfect way of urging someone to hurry up and do it..."it" being many things like, a shot of tequila, or sticking a sleeping person's hand in warm water, or the act of licking a toad, or...you know...pooping. Wait, what? Um, right, yeah, so it's time for me to shit or get off the pot, and this girl is gonna shit. God, this went downhill in a hurry, didn't it? Not exactly the kind of performance I hoped for after coming off the injured reserved, but what can you do?
So, my faithful readers...all 2 of you...I hope today's crapfest marks my return to the wonderful world of nonsensical randomness that I love to write about.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
There I stood, freshly cleaned and scrubbed, still pink from the heat of the shower, naked...wearing only a towel turban on my head. I was facing the bedroom window, which faces the street, by the way, facing the bedroom window, staring at nothing. Something made me look up and to the left, and in slow motion, I saw the screw that was holding the left side of the curtain rod lazily tumble out of the wall, as if it had fallen asleep. And although only one side of the curtains fell, the curtains parted nice and wide, so that anyone who happened to be outside my window got way more than they bargained for when they decided to take their dog on an innocent walk around the block. I frantically grabbed the curtain rod mid somersault, lifted it back up and tried to set it on the hook that helps to hold up the curtain rod. The rod(hee) had not previously been on the hook, which probably contributed to the fall. As I lifted the rod(hee) and tried to set it on the hook, I realized that the gap in the curtains had closed up a little, but my right boob was perfectly placed in the gap. Anyone who was walking past, or driving past, or who had stopped to see the rest of the show, saw only a pale white boob, nipple and all, since I hadn't yet put on my bedazzled nipple pasties. After what seemed like 15 minutes, I finally got the curtain rod onto the hook and ran out of the room. Not sure why I ran out of the room, maybe I was chasing what little dignity I had left. Which, after a bare-assed run visible to anyone on the street, was none.
The Joyous One came to my rescue and closed the rest of the gap, so I could dress without an audience, but by that time it was too late, I'd already given everyone outside a free show, which I felt bad about until I saw lip prints on the window. Just kidding, I didn't really see lip prints, it was actually ralph. So you're welcome, street that I live on, you're welcome.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
While in Vegas, I spotted a phenomenon that I just don't understand. I saw men, lots and lots of men, guiding their girlfriends/wives by the ass. Literally, guiding them around by the butt cheek. Hand cupped, placed on the right or left globe, guiding these women through casinos, the Forum shops at Caesar's, down the street, into church...okay, so I didn't go to church in Vegas, I'm just saying. Anygooseme, what happened to the good 'ol hand hold, guys? Too prudish for Vegas? What's wrong with a nice arm around the shoulders? Too hot for that kind of thing in Vegas? Why not go arm in arm? Not romantic enough? How about the arm around the waist? Not sexily possessive enough? Seriously, guiding a woman around by the ass? Is creepy. It made me miss the hand-in-your-partners-back-pocket craze of the 80's and you know something is bad when I miss that craze! I mean, come on guys, we will know just as well that this woman is your girlfriend/wife if you simply hold her hand, no need to cup the buttocks and guide her around the mall. Might as well toss a leash on her and feed her treats when she goes the right direction. Leave the ass grabbing for the bedroom...or the poker tables which was another place where ass grabbing was a fixture, although at the tables it was a little more romantic because there was no guiding, just rubbing and such. See? Romantic.
Maybe I'm being a little dramatic, but whatever, if I saw it once, I would not have cared. But I saw it at least 2 or 3 times a day, in various places, at various times, so of course it is now something I will be constantly looking for so I can complain about it and judge people out loud(but not within earshot of them, I'm a sissy!). Don't get me wrong, I love asses as much as the next guy...if you've seen The Joyous One's rump, you'll know this is true...but to me, the ass-guide is a little much, it's degrading, and unless you won the girl in a poker game, she's not your property. Back up off the ass-guide, fellas. Your jean shorts already inform us that you're a tool, we need no further proof.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Slowly I see other kids coming out of detention, out of the auditorium, out of the walls it seems. The news is spreading, people are talking about it, I can hear them and I want them to shut up. I need to find my friends, there are two in particular. They are as close to them as I am, maybe closer even. I know one is at work, I call her, ask her to stop what she's doing before I tell her. She works at a deli-type restaurant, I don't want her to cut herself on accident.
I stand out in the front of the high school, I'm waiting for someone to pick me, my friend who is at work, her boyfriend is coming to get me. I'm waiting in the middle of gossip, and assumptions, and predictions. I still want these people to shut up, more now. Their voices are thunder in my ears, it hurts, I want them to shut up. A group of girls I'm friendly with, but not friends with, takes me within their circle, as if to protect me. They say the right things, they tell me that if I need anything, they are there for me. I know that I won't go to them for my needs, but I appreciate the offer. I don't care if they're feeling sorry for me, I don't care if they never speak to me again, I'm happy to be with them in this moment.
The only laughter I can remember that day comes when I'm at my house. I've gotten high, to take the edge off, to numb myself, I'm in a giggly mood. My parents have bought Cheetos among other snack-type foods, figuring my friends will become semi-fixtures at my house in the days to come. I have a bowl of Cheetos on the couch between me and my friend who works at the deli. I'm tossing the Cheetos to my dog Zoey who is sitting in front of me, and they are bouncing off her nose and onto the floor. She can't catch them, and I'm laughing at her. I think she knows it's helping, because she keeps doing it. That's the only laughter I can remember from that day.
Soon after that day is the first and only time in my life I consider suicide as an option. Then I remember suicide is what brought me to that place where suicide became an option, and how dare I think that way. I know better than that, I know how it feels to be left behind, I know how it feels to carry guilt, I know how it feels to think I could have stopped it. I know soon after that moment when I consider it, that I will never consider it again. And I don't.
I'm not sure what brought this to my brain today. It's not the first time I've thought about that day, but it's the first time I've felt compelled to put it in writing. Let's see if I post it.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
One of my first exposures to foam soap came when The Joyous One purchased her weight in coconut-scented foam hand soap from Bath & Body Works. It smelled so friggin good, I wanted to Pina Colada it w/ some rum and sip it while sitting on my balcony, imagining I was somewhere exotic, like Tahiti, or Des Moines. It smelled so friggin good that I would sometimes use it to wash all the way up my arms, then I would sniff my arms and hands every 10 or 15 minutes. Sure, that looked weird to passers-by, but what did I care when I was in coconut heaven? Sadly, The Joyous One now develops hives when the word "coconut" is uttered within 10 feet of her, so our days of coconut scented foam hand soaps are over. But that's okay, coconut isn't the only delicious foam soap on the market. And delicious scents aren't the only reason to love foam soaps.
This afternoon, as I chewed innocently on a pen at work, I noticed something wet looking and blue all over my right hand. It was blue ink from my pen that I inadvertently exploded whilst chewing on it, and it got all over my hand...plus on my face...not a lot on my face, but noticeable. I pulled off my headset and headed for the bathroom, unfortunately running into my work-building crush on the way. So embarrassing. I walked in, pushed on the dispenser and smiled as a perfect vanilla soft-serve of foam soap swirled into my palm. I stole a look at myself in the mirror and noticed that a piece of my hair was doing a weird sticking-up-woop-woop thing, it kind of looked like the St. Louis Arch. Not wanting anyone else to see the "woop woop"(I can't believe my work-building crush saw not only the ink on my face, but the woop-woop-do. What luck!), I decided to use my non-soaped hand to fix the offensive hairdo...offensive because I hate St. Louis due to the Cardinals. Anyrival, it took a little bit of time to fix because the chunk that was "wooping" was tangled with another chunk, so I had to unwind the chunks, plus I was using one hand which doubled my work, and it was 'ol Lefty that I was using, not my power hand so that slowed me down even more. Anyjericurl, when I finished untangling, I went to finish the wash-job on my hands and saw that the soft-serve coil hadn't moved an inch. I realized at that moment that had I been using a liquid soap, it most definitely would have traveled down the creases in my hand and onto the floor, or the counter, or my flip-flopped-foot. But thanks to the form-keeping bubbles of the foam soap, I didn't have to worry about any messes other than the ink all over me, and my hot-mess hair. And that is something to be thankful for.
Delicious scents, cute soft-serve plops, better washing coverage, these are just some of the things a foam soap brings to the bathroom counter. Add those to the awesome "squeeoush" sound the foam soap makes when being dispensed from it's container and you have not only the best smelling, best washing soap in the biz, but also the most entertaining. Next time you use a foam soap, I want you all to think about how much better you life is because of it, and say "thank you"...to the soap.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Rest well, Michael. May you have the peace in death that no one would give you in life.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I was at a RibBQ at my sister's house tonight and we were talking about our grade school, Whittier, and all the various teachers we had. My mom told a story about me in second grade, one I'd never heard before. It wasn't really a story as much as something I did. My teacher, Ms. Griffith(big ups to Ms. Griffith, who was hands down my favorite teacher in grade school) gave us spelling words every week. We had to not only spell these words correctly, but we had to use the words in sentences. I believe the general idea was to use 1 word in each sentence, but I fancied myself a clever girl, and decided to use as many words as I could in one sentence. Apparently, this was how I rolled in second grade, because the incident my mom told me about tonight was not the first, nor the last time I did that. Anyspellingbee, my mom told me that one time, my second-grade self took two of the words, "giraffe" and "reddish" and formed this gem of a sentence: "A giraffe is a big animal with a long neck and it might eat a reddish." No wonder I didn't graduate high school on time, I thought "reddish" was the same thing as a "radish". And I also believed for some reason that giraffes might eat radishes. I'm not sure which is more disturbing. Needless to say, this momma-memory is exactly the kind of memory that I wish I'd had, instead of heard about.
The memories I seem to have always kind of suck. For example, I've been haunted by a Jewel memory ever since writing that boog about Preferred Cards. I'm at Jewel with my mom, and I'm sitting in the bottom of the cart, you know, under the body of the cart where people usually stack a couple of cases of beer. I'm not sure how old I am during this memory, but I've got to be fairly young since I can fit under the cart. So I'm under there and my mom parks the cart near the deli department and takes a number, only the deli is closed and my mom doesn't know. She stands there for awhile, waiting, not knowing the it's closed, but I realize it and I start to cry, because I'm sad for my mom. The memory stops there, so I don't know why I was so sad for my mom, and I can't recall what happened after that. I imagine we left the deli and continued shopping because that's what people do at the grocery store. This memory still makes me sad though, and I still don't know why. My mom clearly got over it, she has not shown any anger towards deli departments since then and has purchased tons of sliced meat in the years that have past. But that suck of a memory is the kind of memory I get instead of remembering a hilarious sentence I wrote about a giraffe and a reddish.
The manufactured "giraffe eating a radish" memory will now become part of my memory repertoire, and I'm sure I'll retell it 1,000 before my life is said and done. Along with my favorite manufactured memory about the time I peed all over my parents floor in front of the mirror, but that's a boog for another time. Anypisser, while the manufactured giraffe memory has made it into the "memories I didn't have but tell repeatedly" file, no feelings accompany it. I think that's what gets me so mad about my selective memory. In what was a mostly happy childhood, I've chosen to remember things that reignite feelings of sadness, or feelings of nothing, which is equally sad. And I have enough sad memories from teenage years and adulthood, I'm not diggin these sad childhood memories close location to my surface. Now don't get me wrong, I do have actual childhood memories that make me fizz with happy, kind of like Pop Rocks when they first hit your tongue. But for someone who appears to be so happy, I sure do like to keep the sad nearby.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
I was curious about why I felt the need to make up a scene this time through the line at Jewel when every other time, I've openly admitted to not having a Preferred Card. Plus, the whole time I was waiting in line, I was inventing what I was going to do, so it wasn't like it was a game- time decision either, it was totally premeditated. What was it that prompted me to make up such a weird lie and then act it out? I think the Preferred Card pressure just finally got to me, and I cracked. That's right, the Preferred Card pressure...it got to me. Preferred Card pressure is what happens to me every time I go to Jewel sans Preferred Card. No one has ever made me feel guilty about this, or denied me savings, but somehow I feel less than Preferred since I don't have a PC to prove that the folks at Jewel prefer me. And this, my friends, is my big honking problem with Jewel...if you're going to give everyone the preferred savings, why the eff are you wasting time marking things as "Preferred Card" specials? Just mark that sh*t down and offer it to EVERYONE.
I guess I don't understand why stores like Jewel have things like the Preferred Card..."Here, fill out this form, waste some time and some paper, we'll waste some plastic and send you 1 credit card-type card for your wallet, and 87 thing-a-ma-bobs for your key chain, and if you lose them or forget them, don't worry because we will just give you the savings anyway, without any proof that you are in fact a Preferred Customer." At least at Dominick's you have to give them your phone number. I'm such an idiot, I always blank on my parents phone number and use The Joyous One's parents number, which is odd because I never remember that phone number any other time in my life, only at Dominick's when I'm proving that I have Fresh Values privileges. The other weird part about that is The Joyous One has a Fresh Values card registered to our house...where I live...and yet still I use her parent's phone number every time I'm at Dominick's...go figure. I also don't know her parent's address, but don't tell The Joyous One, we've been together for almost 10 years, these numbers are numbers I should know. And not just when I'm at Dominick's.
AnyA.D.D, Preferred Cards and Fresh Values cards are the reasons you will usually find me at Whole Foods, where they don't distinguish between preferred and non-preferred because everyone is treated equally, and being treated equally is important to this little lesbian. Anytime I feel low about not having the same rights as the straights in this country, I'll just head to the nearest Whole Foods and roam the aisles looking at all of the specials being offered to every single customer that enters the door. I'll feel no Preferred Card pressure as I grab up discounts and head to the cash register, equal in the eyes of the Whole Foods Gods. But of course, if I'm craving processed foods, or red dye 40, then I'll have to suck it up, go to the Jewel, break out into a cold sweat as I shuffle toward the register without my Preferred Card, and decide which story I'll tell this time.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Things that are okay if I do them, but not okay if you do them...
Don't we all have these things? You cannot deny that you have roamed aimlessly through the produce section, carelessly blocking access to the potatoes, even though a week before, you in-your-head swore at someone for doing the exact same thing with the apples. Don't pretend like you've never been walking through the concourse at Wrigley, and stopped to look for your friends behind you, even though last time you were at a game, you pushed past someone who was doing the exact same thing, saying "Excuse you!" as you went by. We ALL do things that really piss us off when other people do them and we all know that we do. Perhaps if we just get some of these things out in the open, we can all stop doing them(listen, I know this is impossible, I just want to get them out in the open as my way of venting). Here are some of my favorite things that I do, that really piss me off when other people do them...
Take right turns slowly
Swear in public
Call the waiter or waitress by name(not sure why this pisses me off when other people do it, it just does...shut up)
Bang into people w/o saying "excuse me" when in a large crowd
Sit like a dude at concerts and sporting events(legs splayed as wide open as possible. I think men sit this way so they don't sit on their junk. I sit this way because I like having space)
Cough or sniffle when a cold is present
Chew and crack gum
Clap in the movie theater
Dance to "Single Ladies"
This list could go on and on and on and on, so I think I should just cut if off now, before I realize how hypocritical and annoying I am. I'd love to hear what some of you all do that really cheeses you off when other people do the same...you know you've got some good ones! Oh, and not commenting on other people's blogs? Another thing that I do, yet it pisses me off when other people do it...don't piss me off!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Picture this: a braless but shirt-wearing Me, and my friend, we'll call him Chuck, decide to take a walk to the local park to play frisbee. We both leave with shirts on, but as soon as we're outside, we realize it's super hot. The only solution to our hot problem is to remove our shirts. Chuck and I both whip em off, tuck them into our back pockets, high five over our cleverness, and continue to stroll. Enter neighborhood law enforcement officer...he pulls his car over, hops out, and says "Ma'am, you can't be walking around town without your shirt on, even though you have a nice pair. I'm going to have to write you a ticket for Indecent Exposure"...me, in my naivete assumes he will also write Chuck a ticket for the same thing since he also has his breasts exposed, but he doesn't...so I ask him why a woman's chest is indecent while a man's chest is not. He can't answer and just hands me the ticket...
Now, this did not happen to me or anyone I know. I don't have any friends named Chuck(if I do and I just forgot, I'm sorry Chuck!), I'm rarely without a bra, and I don't ever walk around town with my top off...I want to, but I don't...I'm too jiggly, which also explains why I'm never without a bra. Now, I don't know for sure if men can get tickets or arrested or whatever for Indecent Exposure. I mean, maybe they can and I'm just assuming they don't, since I see shirtless men prancing about all summer long, hairy shirtless men...and no shirtless women...because they would get in trouble...for being shirtless...and not hairy. Anybackhair, that is what chafes me and my unexposed nipples. What is it about the woman's breast that is so "indecent", so "offensive? When Janet Jackson had her boob exposed on TV, what was so bad about that?
Is it the nipples? It can't be, everyone has had at least 1 at some point in their life, hell some people have 3. Is it the curvature of the breast itself? A lot of men have a curve to their breasts and sure, a lot of the time it's a muscle-y curve, but it's a curve nonetheless! My guess is that it's because women's chests are seen as sex objects, and men's aren't. But I'm having a hard time believing that too, since I've seen plenty of man chests being ogled and fondled by women and men alike. But that's all I can figure in this breasnundrum...women's chests are more often seen as sexual things, sexual objects, and therefore are deemed "indecent" when exposed.
It's a shame really that breasts, whose purpose are to nourish the young, are seen this way. It's a shame that men's chests aren't seen this way, not as young-nourishers, but as sex things. And I'm not innocent in this, I've ogled and fondled chests of both sexes...I'm an equal opportunity ogler/fondler. But I do that with butts too, and legs, hands, wrists, backs, necks...hell I'm just an all-around perv, I guess. Right now, right in this moment, I've got an "all or nothing" attitude about the whole chestate(chest debate): if one of the sexes can't expose their chests, then the other sex should be forbidden to as well. And I'm all for it if someone decides to change the rules to allow both sexes to prance topless...and if they do, imagine the chestacle(chest spectacle).
**Author's Note: even if the rules changed and I could prance topless, I would not. I don't think anyone would benefit from my top half being exposed, least of all my top half, which would no doubt turn the color of a cherub tomato and cause me great pain and peeling with possible skin cancer ramifications. But also, my top half, aside from my rack, ain't that great and the only place it should be exposed is in the comfort of my own home. I would hope that some of the shirtless men of this world would heed my advice and realize that maybe the best place for your chest and man-boobs to be exposed, is in private.**
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
And now, in the sadness of missing her, I'm remembering her, I'm feeling the sheer luck of knowing her, I'm recalling the happiness of being her friend, a smile is spreading across my face, one that cannot be helped, and I'm beaming. No one else's memory can make me smile this way.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Where is all this coming from? Well, while walking to my car after work today, I passed a woman walking with 2 kids holding on to each hand. The boy was holding her left hand and he was pitching an absolute fit. He was maybe too old to be carrying on the way he was, but I can never gauge how old kids are, he just seemed to be awfully tall to be going bonzai like that. The girl was holding onto the woman's right hand, and she was just smiling at everyone she passed, seemingly oblivious to the shenanigans happening just on the other side of her. I passed this trio at virtually the same time as Jose, from the bank. When we were far enough away from them, he looked at me and said "THAT is why I'm not going to have any." I responded with "You ain't lyin!". We probably would have high-fived had we been standing closer together...or knew each other better. Anydiaper, then Jose said that maybe he would adopt a 17 or 18 year old, one that was already grown. I agreed, we shared a smirk at the expense of the screaming banshee wearing kids clothes, and went our separate ways.
As I walked the rest of the way to my car, I started thinking about what Jose said...but I thought, if you're going to adopt an adult-sized someone, why not adopt an actual adult? Why can't we adopt adults? Who cares if they're...well, adults, I think I should be able to adopt an adult if I want to. And not to get all picky about the age of my adult-child, but I think I'd prefer a 22 year old. So many benefits to adopting someone this age. Don't get me wrong, I'd take any adult between 21 and 35, but 22 is my preference...cmon 22! Anyagist, think about it...if they were a turdburger of a 22 year old, it wouldn't really be your fault, would it? And they'd already be out of college, so you wouldn't have to pay for it, would you? Of course, you'd have to pay if they were all ambitious n' shit and were heading to law school or...doctor school...but so long as you picked a hard working school slacker, like myself, you'd be in the clear as far as paying for stuff goes(Author's Note: I don't want to hear any wisecracks from my mother, father or sister. I realize that my car insurance isn't exactly being paid by me and that my health insurance is only being paid because of The Joyous One's company, and that until very recently my car wasn't in my name, but that doesn't give you the right to make any cracks about my assessment that you wouldn't have to pay for anything were you to adopt an adult...so shut up). And let's not forget the most important part: built-in drinking buddy. Isn't that why people have kids in the first place? I mean, besides the obvious reasons like lawn mowing, and having someone to force childhood dreams and expectations on...but right after that comes drinking buddy, right...right?
I'm sure that having kids is very fulfilling, I'm sure people get a lot more out of it than "drinking buddy" and "lawn mower". And while I just LOVE spending time with other people's kids, my favorite part about them is being able to give them back when I'm done.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Thursday, May 18, 2006
R.I.P Frannie and Zoey
Okay, this is not a funny blog, so if that's what you're hoping for, read the one about the drag queen....
Monday, May 15th might go down as one of the worst days I've ever had. Monday, May 15th, signaled the end of an era. Monday, May 15th the dog world lost 2 of it's most devoted, hilarious, loving, goofy, and cuddly ambassadors. Monday, May 15th I said goodbye to the 2 best dogs a girl could ever dream of. My dear, sweet puppies Frannie and Zoey went to heaven. I loved them like sisters, like litter-mates, like friends.
Zoey was the best friend I've ever had. No offense to my current friends, but she was a much better listener and her cuddling was aces! She was the princess to end all princess's, she wouldn't even go off the deck to go to the bathroom if it was raining. She'd just squat right there and delicately trot back into the house when she was finished. God forbid her precious paws got muddy or wet. Zoey chose the more leisurely path through life, just like me. She preferred laying to playing. She was the snack chip/phone/remote control transporter for my sister and I when we were too lazy to get off the couches. Just tuck the object in Zoey's collar and send her over to the opposing couch. She was there for me through all of my terrible high-school tradgedies. She knew when I was sad. She knew when I needed a kiss. She knew when I needed a hug. She knew that even if I wanted to be alone, that didn't apply to her. She knew. She was a good dog. I will miss her more than I can even say.
Frannie was the anti-Zoey. Not that she didn't love her, they were extrodinarily close. It's just that everything about Frannie was...well...frantic. Her Garbage Pail Kid name would totally have been "Frantic Frannie". Frannie provided hours of entertainment. Why, just a couple of weeks ago she put on my mom's Croc and walked around with it for a good while until she finally jarred it loose and it fell off. Her middle-of-the-night phone call to the police is a story that I'll never be able to tell with a straight face. Maybe I'll write a seperate blog about it. It's friggin hilarious. But Frannie also knew when to turn off the comedy and snuggle her head onto your lap or jump up to kiss away your tears. I'm so happy she came into my life.
More times than not, I ended up with both of them in my twin bed when it was time to go to sleep. And more times than not, I would wake up on the floor next to my twin bed in the morning while they lay comfortably stretched out on my pillow. They were true companions, to my family and to each other.
But now they are gone, and I'm terribly sad but I'm coping. I'm happy that they went together. And I'm happy that they are in heaven with their old pal Gracie, their mothers and father(yes they had the same father, totally inbred), their brothers and sisters, their new rodent friends Choco, Stormy, and Coco, their new snake pals Cleo, Adolf, Handel and Chiva, their new bird buddies Marcus and Bluey, and their new fish friends including Fernando and all the Peteys , and...um, I think that's it.
I know I'm a softie, I cried the whole time I was writing this. But those 2 dogs deserved this blog. They deserve more than this blog, but this is the best I can do since I'm not on the radio or on the televsion...yet. I wish all of you who read this could have met them and for those of you who did, you're better for it. Rest in Peace, ladies, and know that you've changed my life.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Where were you when you heard about Bea Arthur? Well, I was at the Big City Tap with The Joyous One watching the depressing mess that was the Cubs game when my phone buzzed. I picked up my phone, it was a text from my sister Emily. I opened the text and gasped louder than I've ever gasped before. I may have actually said the word "GASP". The Joyous One immediately knew something was wrong and when I showed her the text, she put her arm around me and said "Oh no babe!". I put my head down, looked at the text again, and started crying. Through my tears I was able to respond to my sister with a "You're lying..." text, to which she responded that no, she was not lying and that she tried to call to tell me in person. I was startled by my reaction to hearing that Bea Arthur was dead, although my being startled shouldn't be that startling because I startle easily, as some of you know. If you didn't know that, well now you know that I'm an easy startler. I startled myself just the other day at Whole Foods, and I startle myself every time I open my garbage can at home. Startlability...it's a gift. Anyjumpy, back to Bea...the news of her passing invaded the rest of my evening. We were at an enGAYgement party and it was all I could talk about. When my friend Bundy got there, she said "Hi Merta" and I responded, not with a hello, but with "BEA ARTHUR DIED!!!!"...like, way to kill the celebratory mood, Merta. And instead of toasting the happy couple, I continually toasted to Bea Arthur. Even when we did a big "To Jason and Ryan" toast, I was in my head going "And to Bea Arthur"...don't tell Jason and Ryan though. Boy, I sure hope they don't read this, I really want to be invited to that wedding! Anygaywedding, my heart is truly saddened by the death of Bea Arthur, and to celebrate my sarcasm mentor, I've included some of my favorite Dorothy Zbornak quotes. Man, I don't even want to think about what I'm going to do when Betty White dies...
"Rose: I had the strangest dream last night. I was at a baseball game. Charlie Brown was pitching, Shroeder was behind the plate, Lucy and Snoopy were in center field, and they wouldn't let me play. When I woke up, I was crying. What do you think it is?
Dorothy: Peanuts envy?"
"Dorothy: So you're five years older. So am I, so is Blanche. All right, so you have a few more wrinkles. So do I, so does Blanche. OK, so you're a little thicker around the middle. So is Blanche."
"Dorothy: [to Sophia] You're a furry little gnome and we feed you too much. "
"Rose: Can I ask a dumb question?
Dorothy: Better than anyone I know..."
"Blanche: Rose! You were in a love triangle and never told me!
Rose: I never thought you'd be interested!
Dorothy: Oh really? But you thought we WOULD be interested in the story about little Yiminee, the boy who was raised by a wild moose?"
"Sophia: Was that a plumber?
Dorothy: No, that was a girl scout, selling girl scout toilets."
"Rose: Why are you both wearing black? Did you just get back from a funeral?
Dorothy: No Rose, we were singing back-up for Johnny Cash."
"Dorothy: Oh come on, Ma, that's superstitious nonsense. You know, step on a crack, break your mother's back, it doesn't work. — I know."
"Dorothy: Rose, I hope you don't mind, but I'm borrowing your golf gloves.
Rose: Oh, you have a date?
Blanche: With a man?
Dorothy: No, Blanche! With a Venus Flytrap!!!! Of course with a man!"
"Dorothy: You'll have to excuse my mother; she suffered a slight stroke a few years ago, which rendered her totally annoying."
And to cap it off, here is my all-time favorite Golden Girls exchange...
"Rose: This is exactly what happened during the Great Herring War.
Blanche: The Great Herring War?
Rose: Yes, between the Lindstroms and the Johanssons.
Dorothy: Oh, THAT Great Herring War.
Rose: The two families controlled the most fertile herring waters off the coast of Norway, so naturally, it seemed like it would be in their best interest to band together. Oh, boy, was that a mistake. You see, they couldn't agree on what to do with the herring
Dorothy: Oh, well that's understandable. I mean, the possibilities are overwhelming.
Rose: Exactly. The Johanssons wanted to pickle the herring, and the Lindstroms wanted to train them for the circus.
Blanche: Weren't they kind of hard to see riding on the elephants?
Rose: Oh, not that kind of circus. A herring circus. Sort of like Sea World, only smaller. Much, much smaller. But bigger than a flea circus.
Dorothy: Uh, tell me, Rose, um... Ah-ha ha ha!... Did they ever shoot a herring out of a cannon? Rose: Only once. But they shot him into a tree. After that no other herring would do it."
Rest in peace, Bea Arthur, and thanks for the laughs!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
As you know, or don't know, tomorrow is "Take Your Child to Work Day' and there is nothing I would rather do except not go to work and that is exactly what I am going to do, so either go to your own job or talk your Father into taking you to his.
So that got me thinking that there should be a new day called "Take Your Grown-Up-Children-With-Their-Own-Jobs To Work Day". This would be a way for those of us who were deprived of this privilege to finally see "where daddy hangs his coat" or "where mommy eats her lunch", or "where daddy reads the paper", or "where mommy plays solitaire", or "where daddy keeps his flask" or "mommy fired Johnson for being a dbag" or "where daddy got written up for sending an email that was deemed 'inappropriate for work' regarding a bull who has his way with a cow whose head is stuck between fence posts"...sorry...I got lost there for a bit. Anybovine, I guess I missed being taken to work more than I knew. And I think it would be hilarious, at 32, to have my lifelong dream finally come true...participating in "Take Your Child To Work Day". Maybe next year...
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is, "God is crying." And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is, "Probably because of something you did."
This ALWAYS makes me laugh...out loud...while walking in the rain...in public...alone. Sure I might look crazy, because who laughs when it's raining? But I'd rather laugh and look crazy then be sad all day because of some sky spit. The cloudy, rainy days really seem to depress people. Perhaps if those people would think about the Deep Thought, they would laugh, then the laughing would automatically raise their spirits, then they wouldn't end up eggrolled in a blanket on their couch every time it rained. Of course it could go the other way too. They could think of the Deep Thought, laugh at first, then think about what they did that made God cry...not paying parking tickets on time, excessively using the "F" word, laughing at the little kid who had his head down and walked into the sign in the hallway, not waiting until the kid got down the hall to start laughing...great...I made God cry. Now I'm depressed.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
And hey, read this: http://www.whywhatwereyouthinking.blogspot.com/
It's one of my new favs and should be one of yours too!