Reason #144...

...why I love The Joyous One. Last night, we were at a Fenwick alumni fundraiser that our good friend was the ringleader of. A lot of people had name tags on, and on the the name tags, they had their graduating class from Fenwick. Now, The Joyous One and I are not Fenwick alums, but decided to put on name tags anyways. As I finished putting mine on, I looked over at The Joyous One and saw that she did, in fact, include a graduating class..."Joy, Class of Awesome".

Ain't no party like a Kroker party...

I loved Thanksgiving this year. I mean, I love it every year, but I really loved Thanksgiving this year. I loved the turkey, and the turkey skin. I loved the mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables, and butternut squash soup. I loved the french silk pie, and pumpkin pie, and sweet potato pie, and whip cream. I loved the wine with dinner, and the funny conversations, and being able to burp at the table when I needed to burp. I loved using bad words, and swearing at each other in a hilarious manner.

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.

Funny things seem to happen while having barfmeal...

So this Friday, like every Friday, I was at my parents house having coffee and barfmeal with my dad. Today, we mixed it up a little though, I had a tomato sandwich ala Harriet The Spy instead of my usual english muffin, and my dad decided to invite Mr. Apple to accompany his barfmeal. This meant there was lots of extra crunching along with the regular barfmeal consumption and I was glad to have eaten my sammie before I lost my appetite...no small feat, let me tell you. But barfmeal is not the point of this story, there was another knee slapping moment this morning, only this time, my mom got involved...my dad was the co-star and villain, and moms was definitely the hero.

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.

Table for two...

There's that age-old question "If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would you pick?". I've heard lots of different answers to this question, but most people will pick someone famous to sit down and break bread with. I've heard people say Jesus, Martin Luther King Jr., Bono(that would be The Joyous One's choice), Abraham Lincoln, Oprah(why doesn't anyone ever pick Gayle? She's the funny one! Don't tell Oprah I said that), Mother Teresa, Captain Kangaroo, and on and on and you get my drift. I just do not know what the hell I would say to any of those people..."uh, thanks...for...all that you've done for this world. Could you pass the butter?" Seriously, I would probably just sit there, jaw dropped to double chin level, and say nothing. Or even worse, say horribly dorky things(I do NOT do well with trying to act cool around anyone famous. Just ask...oh nevermind). I mean, I wouldn't even know where to begin with someone like Martin Luther King Jr. And Jesus? I would totally ask for the truth about Mary Magdalene and dinner would take a right turn down Awkward Avenue. But really, who would I want to eat dinner with, dead or alive?

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.

Ohhh, only in my dreeaam...as real as it may seem, it was only in my dream...

So last night, I had a dream that I caught The Joyous One at the Brookfield Zoo with another woman. A blonde haired woman. In the dream, I was totally fine with this indiscretion, I even encouraged it. I can recall saying to The Joyous One upon catching her, "I don't want to hold you back, if you like this girl, go for it. She's cute, and nice!" As the dream progressed, The Joyous One kept seeing this girl, and stayed married to me, and I was completely fine with all of it. Then, my friend Jessica's ex-boyfriend blew up my grade school, and I woke up as we(Jessica, The Joyous One, ol' blondie and I) were escaping...I hope we made it. Anybombsquad, I blinked a few times, remembering the dream...and I was mad. Apparently awake-Meta? Is not so cool w/ The Joyous One having a side of girlfriend.

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.

Not funny, except when it is...

Every Friday, I go to my parents house to have coffee and barfmeal with my dad. You see, he eats oatmeal for breakfast, oatmeal disgusts me and it has ever since reading "Ramona Quimby, Age 8". You know, the part when they have the jars of oatmeal dyed blue w/ the fly larvae in it? And it makes Ramona sick and she throws up in school? Well, ever since then, oatmeal has made me sick, so I call it "barfmeal". I have had sympathy sickness for Ramona Quimby since the 80's. What the hell? Anybarforama, my dad eats barfmeal, I eat an english muffin, we both drink coffee and we talk. We talk about any and everything from sports to the comics page in the paper, to the serious side of life, like health care, politics, and more recently, his prostate cancer diagnosis.

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...

Why, Brooke, why???

I have something I need to talk about. The newest Colgate commercial starring Brooke Shields. That's right, I've got a toothpaste ad on the brain, and it's irritating me like a burr under my saddle. That's right, I just implied that I'm a horse. Shut up. Anyflossy, this ad, every time it's on I feel my nostrils flare as if I've smelled feet, I feel my teeth bare in anger, I feel my head shake slowly and I stare in disgust until it's over. After it, I'm fine, right back to normal, back to the cute little furry gremlin before you put water on it. That is, until I think about it again. Why does this ad bother me so much? Why, I thought you'd never ask.

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...

SOGOTP...

You'd think that while I was benched from life with a knee injury, I would have taken advantage of my down time by writing gobs and gobs of boogs(ew). But no, apparently I was too busy downing Vicodin by the handful, dozing lazily in my recliner while listening to Maury tell Jason that he IS the father. It was chore for me to even write a friggin email. Side note: Does anyone else think Connie Chung is embarrassed by Maury's one-trick-pony show of questionable paternity? I mean, she should be. It's awful. I should know, I watched it for 2 weeks straight!

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.

Live!!! Nude Girls!!!

Well whaddya know, while standing in front of my bedroom window...totally naked...the bedroom curtains fell down. I knew it was going to happen, I have spent much time laying in bed looking at the left side of the curtain rod hanging precariously just by the tip of a screw, so I knew it was going to happen, I just didn't know when. And obviously I was hoping that it wasn't going to be when I was standing there in my birthday suit. Oh who am I kidding, I knew that's when it would happen, and if I really didn't want the curtain to fall when I was naked, I would have fixed it along time ago. Problem is, the only time I thought "Man, I should fix that so it doesn't fall when I'm naked." was when I was naked.

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.

I wanna hold your ass...

So last weekend, yours truly and The Joyous One went to Las Vegas, and it was our first time visiting the Gaygas strip. I know, I know, I seem like the type that would thrive in a place where you can booze 24 hours a day, a place that is home to the Pussycat Dolls, and a place that has glittering titties as far as the eye can see, but Vegas was never really a destination that I considered when planning a vacay. However, we had an opportunity to go with The Joyous One's sister and cousins, so we jumped on it like a moonwalk.

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.

That Day...

I'm 17 years old, a senior in high school, and it's a Saturday in April. I'm in a 4 hour detention in the North Cafeteria, trying desperately to shave off detention hours so I can go to prom. I've just come back from the bathroom where I was smoking w/ my friend. Not 3 minutes after we sit down at our table, one of the security guards calls both my name and my friend's name and tells us to come with him. We look at each other, panicked, sure that we are being busted for smoking in the girls room. He leads us to the hall, I see my parents, I see her parents, I know something is wrong. My first thought is with our sisters...you see, they are friends, our sisters. I'm sure something has happened to them and that's why our parents are here. I search their faces for an answer. Nothing is revealed, I just know something is wrong. I say "what's wrong?"...at least I think I say that. I maybe just think it. My parents can't talk really, my mom hugs me, my dad wraps around us both. Their names escape my mom's lips...they were found in the garage...and they are dead. It's not our sisters, relief floods me for a moment, until I register that it's my friends who have been found. I swear at my parents, call them liars, I say "f*ck you" to them for hurting me. I limp towards the Student Center, a wounded animal, I want to knock things down, I head towards a garbage can...I try to...I can't.

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.

I see the glass as half-empty because it friggin is...

You know, I end up drinking like, half of my chocolate milk during the taste-testing process, which leaves me with a lame half a glass of the stuff for enjoyable drinking. Christ, maybe I'll just start making my choco milk in a friggin pitcher so I have a decent amount left to drink once I've got the proper syrup to milk ratio. Of course, I could take the coward's way out and buy pre-mixed chocolate milk, but then what would I have to complain about?

Foam sweet foam...

So I'm really pleased that foam soap has become more prevalent in today's bathrooms. I find myself becoming a bigger and bigger fan of the foam soap each and every time I use it. I love it so much that I dare say I think foam soap should be mandatory in ALL public bathrooms. Yes, I realize that would be a hard thing to keep up with, going around making sure all bathrooms contained foam soap, but hey, maybe that would create new jobs and in this economy couldn't we use some new jobs? I would be more than happy to have my job title be "Foam Soap Monitor" and I betcha I'm not the only one. Sure, the pay would suck, but I'd get to use foam soap as my job...how tits would that be?

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.

99 Luftballons...

So today while coming home on the Green Line after Jessica's birthday breakfast(Happy Birthday!), I saw a wayward balloon floating around in the neighborhood of the United Center. In the past, that kind of sighting would make me sad, because seeing a balloon all by itself in the air usually meant that some poor kid was standing on the ground, missing their balloon. I would think about the circumstances that led to the loss. Were they horsing around with some other kid and their shenanigans caused the string to slip out of their grasp? Did their parent tie the string too loosely around their wrist, leading to balloon escapage? Did they spot something shiny on the ground, and in their haste to reach for it, let go of the balloon? Was that kid just standing there, staring up at the balloon, tears streaming down their chubby kid cheeks? Those were the things I used to think about when I would spot a rogue balloon bobbing and weaving in the wind. Today though, I thought about something different. I thought about how that balloon was going to have a great adventure, and maybe, just maybe, some little kid on the ground had wished it well, unclenched their tiny fist, and let their balloon go, smiling and waving until it was out of sight.

My only mention of MJ's Memorial...

At first, I wasn't sure how I felt about John Mayer playing an instrumental version of "Human Nature", but then I was happy about it...because that meant I could sing it myself without John steppin all over my vocals.

Rest well, Michael. May you have the peace in death that no one would give you in life.

Wherefore art thou, caterpillar?

So yesterday morning, after parking my car Reggie in his usual spot, I started walking into work, like I do every morning Monday through Friday. Something made me turn to take one last look at Reg, and as I looked at him, I noticed something on the passenger door frame that was fairly large, and seemed a little furry. I thought that it was just a hugeungous drop of bird scat, which Reg and I are both used to since he gets parked under trees a lot. I decided to investigate(yeah, I'm not sure why one would head towards something that they thought was poop, but that's me...I'm disgusting) and as I got closer, I saw that it wasn't the mark of a bird defacing Reg w/ it's defecation, it was a huge, furry caterpillar. I had forgotten all about caterpillars until I spotted that car-crawlin monster.

I decided to get closer, I noticed it's coloring, I noticed how soft it looked, I got even closer so I could find it's eyes and, in the words of the immortal Kylie Minogue, it was love at first sight. This was no monster, this was a beautifully cute caterpillar, with strangely long fur, and a mustache of sorts, with deep black eyes and movements reminiscent of the way a puddle ripples when you touch it. This was no monster, this was my new friend. After staring at it for awhile, I realized I was several minutes late for work, so I broke my stare and hustled into the building. While flip-flopping down the hall, I thought about my caterpillar, baking in the warm sun on the frame of Reggie's door. I got nervous, so I told my boss about the caterpillar and told her I was going to go get him out of the sun so he didn't die. As I approached Reg, there was no sign of the 'pillar. A wave of fear started at my butt and made it up to my stomach before I realized that the 'pillar had already traveled down the passenger door, and was near the bottom of Reggie's body. Apparently Mr. Pillar felt the need to get out of the heat as well. I grabbed a stick and kind of shoved it under the caterpillar like I used to do with my bird Marcus, to see if it would latch on so I could move it to a safer, more lush and shady area. Sure enough, the little bugger jumped right on, clinging to it with it's whole body. I walked over to a patch of bushes and gently placed my caterpillar into the center of it and headed back into work, hoping I would see it again someday.

I thought about the caterpillar for most of the day, I forwarded the picture I took of it to my friends, I wondered what it was doing, I even named it. I named it Buff, because my friend Ellen has this daughter who was a butterfly for Halloween last year, and when asked what she was being for Halloween, she would say "Buhffly" and that just cracked me up. Ellen even made her leave me the cutest voicemail ever..."Ha-ween...I'ma be a buhffly". So as I thought of this caterpillar turning into a butterfly, all I could think of was little Evelyn and her cute little voice saying "buhffly"...so Buff seemed like a good name. Beautiful Buff.

Fast forward to 5pm, quittin time, I headed out to the bushes where I'd left Buff. I saw a bird kind of hanging around, so I ran at it and screamed "Get away from my caterpillar, you bird!". Yeah, I'm real good with the insults. The bird, either scared of me or just wanting to get away from the crazy person, flew away, and I said "that's what I thought"...as the words escaped my lips I saw a woman on the other side of the parking lot staring at me, no doubt wondering who the deuce I was talking to. Anysybil, I peered into the bushes and there was Buff, looking restless as he climbed through the branches. He seemed to be looking for something, food, a place to cocoon, his family, I'm not sure, but it made me nervous. I went back inside to get some caterpillar advice from my co-workers. Not that they're caterpillar experts, they just seem to be more into nature than I am and might know about caterpillars. I asked them if they thought I should try to take Buff back to my house, and maybe put him on the tree that Reg had been parked under. I voiced my worries about Buff, that maybe he wasn't finding the right kind of food, or was looking for his family since he was in a whole new town and didn't know it. They kind of looked at me like I was weird, which is the norm, and said they thought he would be fine. I said "So, I shouldn't put him in a cup, take him to Jewel and Whole Foods with me, then take him back to my house? I should stop worrying?". They said yes, stop worrying, it's a caterpillar. I hung my head, cued up that Charlie Brown tune in my head(you know the one), and shuffled slowly out of the office.

I couldn't find Buff when I left the second time. And he couldn't be found this morning either, although I didn't have a lot of time to spend looking. I might go out in a bit to see if I can find him, but I fear that I've seen the last of Buff. That realization makes me sad, I became fairly attached to that stupid caterpillar in just a day. I thought about him the whole day, I talked about him, I worried about him, I sent proud mama pictures of him, and now that he might be gone, I'm missing him. See, that kind of reaction is why I don't want kids. If I can't handle my emotions regarding a caterpillar, how can I possibly handle the weighty responsibility of a child? No thanks...I'll stick to unnatural attachments to caterpillars, thankyouverymuch.

Boat-tastic...

You know, I really love being on boats. This is something I always know in the back of my mind, but the front of my mind is a bully, and it pushes my nautical love into a corner that I can't always see. But I do, I love being on boats. Anyone with a boat out there, keep this Boaty Boaterson in mind if you need a first mate who doesn't know the first thing about boats, but loves them, and is always good for a humorous quip and a high-five.

Memory...All Alone In The Moonlight...

I'm kind of pissed at some of the things my brain has chosen to remember. Or maybe I'm pissed about the things my brain has decided to forget. There are huge chunks of my past, years of my past, that have just fluttered out of my head and fallen somewhere. It's like every time a strong wind hits my ear, a Meta-memory gets blown out the other side. I'm beginning to wonder if the memories I do have are actually remembered by me, or if they are only memories because I remember being told about them. And how will I ever really know?

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.

Perfect Ham-ony...

I don't even like ham but I love ham, and I know that makes no sense, but ham is one of those things that I love when I'm eating it, but never go out of my way to have...sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.

Groce-ual Preference...

Yesterday while at the Jewel, I decided to lie about my Preferred Card status. Not only did I lie about my Preferred Card status, I went so far as to act out a scenario when presented with the "Do you have a Preferred Card?" question. As the cashier asked me, I pulled my carabiner off my belt loop(reason #75 why I know I'm a lesbian), and pretended like my Preferred Card had fallen off my key ring. I even said "Oh no! I think it fell off my key ring! Would you take my gym membership?" then I laughed, then she laughed, and then she told me that they do take the Dominick's card, to which I responded "Well I don't have one of those, how about a Piggly Wiggly card?" to which both of us laughed again. Then she waved her magic wand of preferred savings and before I knew it I was reaping discounts left and right.


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.

I Know I Just Did, But How Dare You...

My previous post got me thinking about how annoying I can be about things(it also got me thinking about "The Choice Is Yours" by The Black Sheep). For example, getting mad at a car for going too slow, then getting mad at a car for going fast when I know full well that I have driven down many a street going too slow, and many a street going too fast. Plus, I'm the person who would get in-the-car mad at anyone who honked at me for going too slow, or shook their fist at me for going too fast. I say "in-the-car mad" because I get totally furious inside my car, screaming and swearing up a storm, banging on the wheel, but I'm scared to take it out of the car with yelling or honking for fear of a road-raged individual punching or shooting me...it happens. And it did happen to The Joyous One and I once in Forest Park...only we didn't get punched or shot, just yelled at by a woman who called us dyke-ass mother effers and told us what we needed was a man...and you know, if we'd thought of that "man" thing in the first place, The Joyous One and I could have saved ourselves a lot of grief, and pain, and a lot of same-sexin, so really I should find that woman and thank her. Anysybil, reactions like that from people are what stop me from honking, yelling out windows, etc. But road rage and honking and dyke-a** mother effers is not what I meant to write about. What I meant to write about is...

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)

Interrupt

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!

This or That...

As I got out of my car in front of my house yesterday, there was a car heading south on my street. It was close enough where I didn't want to cross in front of it, so I waited for it to pass. Of course, the moment I decided to let it pass was the exact moment the car decided to slow down. I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was really about 12 seconds, and as the car passed me, I rolled my eyes and said "Why don't you slow the f*ck down...friggin idiot." About 23 minutes later, I left my house to head to my sister's house. As I approached the street, I saw that a car was coming, again, close enough where I didn't want to cross in front of it, so I waited for it to pass. The moment I decided to let it pass, the car decided to rev it's engine and fly past my house, much faster than I'm used to cars going on my street. As it whizzed by, I furrowed my brow and said "Why don't you slow the f*ck down...friggin idiot." Is it me, or am I impossible to please?

Simply The Breast...

Summer, and everything it brings along with it, will soon be upon us. I'm talking music festivals, BBQ's, swimming, fireworks, backyard hanging out, but also some obnoxious things like mosquitos, sunburns, humidity and my #1 summer pet peeve...naked shirtless men. Listen, it's not for the the reason you think...that reason being that I'm a lesbian and prefer the naked chest of a woman...that's not it at all, although that statement is true...I do prefer the naked chest of a woman, but I can appreciate the naked chest of man as well. Anychesty, that's not the reason. I feel this way about naked chests of men because I think it's unfair on many levels, that they get to be shirtless whenever they please. Those levels include the fact that men are the only ones who get to experience an even tan from the waist up without needing to pay for the tanning salon, and also the fact that we're forced to look at naked man-chest all summer, even if that chest is attractive(although nothing is attractive about the matted pit hair of a man, no one can deny that!). But what truly bugs is that if we women decided to go out topless, we'd get in trouble...steaming piles of trouble...


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.**

This way...

I miss Kathy. I do. I miss her so much, in the pit of my stomach, in the nooks of my heart, I miss her more than I imagined I could or would. It's funny, I find myself wondering what right do I have missing her this way? I didn't know her favorite color, or band, or food, or movie, I really only knew her birthday because of her death, I missed her going away party when she left for Alaska, so what right do I have missing her this way? What right do I have writing about missing her this way? She was such an epic figure, full of life, and hilarity, and just all good things, how can I help but to miss her this way? Part of her beauty was making everyone she met feel special, feel connected...we are all missing her this way.

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.

I could use a good groping...

So I just saw the most hilarious headline ever..."Woman Says 'Chuck E Cheese' Groped Her". I mean, who files a complaint when they get groped by Chuck? Wouldn't you just laugh? Sure, maybe we should worry that a grown-up in a mouse suit is groping women in an establishment for kids, but still...being fondled by Chuck E Cheese...hilarious...

I'm not KIDding...

Not to sound cold, but I don't think I'm going to have children. Not that I don't like children, I actually really do...in fact, it wouldn't be wrong to say that I borderline love them. They can be cute, and funny, and just melt your heart with their inability to pronounce the letter "r". But bottom line is...they're children. They cry, they whine, they scream, they tantrum, they can't wipe themselves until they are like, 5, and they're yours...forever.

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.

A tribute to my dogs...

This is an old boog I pulled from Myspace that I wrote right after my dogs were put to sleep in May of 2006. I didn't post it on the exact 3 year anniversary because well, that was Annie's wedding day and a day of glad, not sad. But I still think about them a lot, especially since my mom gave me and Emily a throw blanket with a (giant) picture of them on it for Christmas. So since I'm still thinking about them a lot now, I figured I should resurrect the boog I wrote about them back then.

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.

Hair Raising...

It seems that every time I get my eyebrows waxed, my waxing lady(what is the proper term for "hair waxer" anyways?) seems to wax higher and higher up onto my forehead. What am I turning into, Teen Wolf? I guess technically I should ask "What am I turning into, Nearly Middle Aged Wolf?"

Back up off my girl...

Listen, I love Britney Spears. I know that she does not sing at her concerts, but I don't care. I love her. I know that she consistently gets skewered by reviewers(heh), but I don't care. I love her. I know that her songs are cheesed-out electronically modified pop jams, but I don't care. I love her. I LOVE HER. I guess this is coming out because I got pretty defensive when I read the Sun Times review in which the reviewer totally whack-a-moled her show. I went last night, and I cannot argue with one thing he panned her for, everything he said was true...I guess I just don't care. Because I love her.

Oh no, not Dorothy Zbornak!!!!

It is with a heavy, heavy heart that I write this boog today. As many of you might already know, yesterday marked the death of Bea Arthur. Bea was one of our most beloved television actresses, entering our hearts first as Maude in "Maude" and then earning a place there forever playing the quick witted Dorothy Zbornak in "The Golden Girls". If you were to say I was obsessed with the Golden Girls, well you wouldn't be wrong. I stay up until 1am many nights during the week watching episode after episode after episode. They are half the reason I wanted to get a DVR. I credit Dorothy Zbornak and Sophia Petrillo with showing me how to smack people with a quick comeback. Mind you, my comebacks are a little less TV friendly, riddled with swears and all, but still, Dorothy and Sophia helped mold me into the sarcastic ass that I am today.

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?
Dorothy: Yes.
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!

Take my kid to work? I don't even want to go myself...

In my 32 years on this planet, I have never participated in "Take Your Child To Work Day". I always wanted to, well, mostly I always wanted to go with my mom to work, since when I was a kid she was a stay at home mom. Shockingly, that didn't fly. But even after she went back to work she never took me, so neither parent ever offered to take me to their job on "Take Your Child To Work Day". Not that I can talk, I've never offered to take my children to work, and I don't think I will this year either...probably because I don't have children...or a puppy...or a hamster even...I have no kin. Anylonely, since I've never participated in "Take Your Child To Work Day"(because I've NEVER BEEN ASKED TO), I spent several years pushing away the hurt and the painful reminders of this day in which children are taken to work by their loving parents. At 32 years old, I thought I was over it. I pretty much thought I'd forgotten all about it...until today when I received this from my mother:

Dear Children,

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.
Love,
Mom

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...

That's not rain...

Every time it rains, I can't help but think about my favorite Deep Thought, by Jack Handy. It goes a little something like this:

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.

Love.

I really love pizza. I don't think I would ever turn down a piece of pizza. I also feel this way about bacon. And peanut butter and jelly. And certain types of cupcakes. I am starving.

Is that? No, it's just Meta...

While perusing the internet this week, I was smacked with the realization that if my hair were a little bit more blonde, and a little bit more tightly curled, I would look a lot like David Bryan, keyboardist for the popular rock band Bon Jovi, a band that I don't even really like, except for "Living on a Prayer" so I'm not really sure why I was looking at images of Bon Jovi. Random. But anyway, yeah, I think I would kind of look like him.

This led me to think about the other people I look like, resemble, remind people of etc. One of the most popular opinions is that I look like Darlene, from popular 90's sitcom Roseanne. I kind of see that, but mostly I think it's an attitude thing. Although I think I wasn't as bitchy as Darlene when I was a teenager, though my parents would probably disagree.

Back when I was a teenager and hanging out at the Vivian's every...single...day...I was told by Mrs. Vivian that I looked like the model for the Mona Lisa. She told me this all the time, I loved hearing it. That is maybe is the most random/awesome person I have been compared to. I mean, the Mona Lisa is a beautiful painting, so my guess is that the model was beautiful. Unless the model was goat-smackin ugly and the Mona Lisa is actually an abstract painting. Now, please don't go writing to me telling me that I'm an idiot for saying the Mona Lisa is an abstract painting...I know that it is not. I was just saying...

Another Meta-like that has recently come to my attention, unfortunately for me, is Weird Al Yankovic. Before you protest, think about it. We both have the long, curly hair, we both have odd faces which allow for odd facial expressions. Actually, odd facial expressions have become the norm for me.

Just look at some of my pics on Facebook. Anyweirdal, I think when you weigh the facts you will agree that I bear a strong resemblance to Weird Al, but without the money, the parody, the accordion, the Grammy, the mustache...that is if I've waxed mine.

Many of you might wonder why wombats hold such a special place in my heart. I've been told that this nickname "wombat" came about when I was a wee baby. Apparently, my uncle Joe said that I looked like a wombat. Now, I'm no baby expert, but I think the only thing that was even remotely similar about baby Meta and a baby wombat, is the fact that we were both pink...and naked. But the similarity ends there, in my opinion. If I were to go several weeks sans shower, I may begin to smell like a wombat, but that's not looking like a wombat, that's smelling like a wombat. Big difference people...big difference. Don't get me wrong, I would love to look like a wombat, because I think they are super cute. I'm not sure if that's a popular opinion, or if I'm biased because wombats have been a major part of my life. I don't really care either. Wombats...are cute. So there.

There is one comparison that has been made that I really miss. To bring this look back, it would require that I resurrect my delicious fade, but I don't think I'm prepared for that. Growing it out took too long. And I wish that when I looked like this, I had been brave enough to be my lez self because I could have pulled chicks like crazy looking like Joey McIntyre. I was maybe the poor-woman's Joey McIntyre, but still.

I realize that most people I think I look like are men, which may seem weird...al. Don't get me wrong, I think I def look like a woman. I mean, I am all t*ts and hair and hips. I'm just saying that I have similar features to some men. Heck, my cousin Mina, who is like the least manly person I know and is absolutely beautiful, thinks she has, on occasion, looked like Buddy Lembeck from "Charles In Charge" and in one photo, she declared she looked like Ben Stiller. Neither of which are true...but both are hilarious.

So, who do you like? Who are some of the folks you've reminded people of? What are some of your most hilarious celebrity comparisons? Bring em, people...

Poof this...

So the word prediction setting on my phone? Is dumb. Why? Oh, I'll tell ya why. Every single time I type "some", the predicted word it gives me is "poof". I don't use the word "poof"...ever...for anything. I seriously never use the word "poof". I shouldn't say never, because I do use "poof" when I'm singing "Little Bunny Foo Foo"...which I do more often than a 32 year old with no kids should...wait, no I don't...I'm lying...the word "poof" isn't even in that song(yes I did just sing it in my office to check, and yes out loud)...so I'll go back to my original statement, which is I seriously never use the word "poof". I certainly don't type the word "poof" into my phone, so why the word prediction thinks "poof" is what I'm trying to type instead of "some", is beyond me. I use the word "some"...all the flappin time. You would have thought by now that C3PO(I call my cell phone that because it's cell phone number 3 for me, cell phones are like androids, and I like C3PO the android because he has a snappy English accent and worries all the time) would have figured out the word "some" is a part of my everyday vocabulary and not "poof" and it would have adjusted to accommodate it. But no...I'm still getting "poof" all the time. Maybe C3PO knows I'm a big poof. I mean, I cry at everything that's even remotely sentitendermental, I cry at everything that's even remotely sad, I cry at everything that's even remotely happy. I cry...a lot. So maybe 3PO is just calling me a "poof" all the time...because 3PO is a little bit of an ahole. Anyandroid, it's so annoying that I've decided to stop using the word "some" and just settle for "poof". So you may get a text message from me that makes no sense...one that says, for example, "Hey, will you bring me poof Advil?" or "Can I use poof of your lip balm?" or "How would you like it if I made you poof tacos?"...hehe..."poof tacos" is really making me laugh right now. Anypooftacos, if you receive a text like that from me, making no sense and involving the word "poof", you'll know I mean "some"...and you can figure it out. Now, will one of you seriously bring me poof Advil?

And hey, read this: http://www.whywhatwereyouthinking.blogspot.com/
It's one of my new favs and should be one of yours too!