tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39426593201245148772024-03-13T10:22:40.797-07:00In My HeadWhere the Wickedelfchild runs amuck. I'm stuck here. You can just visit.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-45483101039683209172013-08-19T21:06:00.001-07:002013-08-19T21:16:16.626-07:00The Joy of Ordering In<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So, I ordered a pizza and the guy
on the phone was like, “Oh everybody from there is ordering tonight.”
Apparently I’m the third person in my complex to order. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When I got off the phone, I started
to worry that the pizzas would be all mixed up, which led to this conversation <i>that never fucking happened.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: Excuse me, but this isn’t mine,
I ordered cheese and mushroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: Ugh. God lady, can’t you
just eat that one?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: I can’t. I don’t eat meat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Pizza
guy sighs in a put-upon manner, snatches the pizza from my hands and stomps off
down the stairs. He returns two minutes later.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: Here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: Um…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: This is your pizza.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: Where was it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: It was at your
neighbors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: Could I have a new one, please?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>I
would probably forget to actually say "please," because I’m prone to doing that,
but the please is implied. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: Lady, it’s fine. They
didn’t touch it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: Did they open it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: Lady, you opened the one
you had.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>I’m
not sure why he keeps calling me ‘Lady.’ I hate imaginary Pizza guy.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: Exactly. So we should all have
new pizzas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: They’re your neighbors.
What’s the problem?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: If they opened it, then they
breathed on it, and I really don’t know my neighbors that well, so the thought
of them breathing on my food kind of freaks me out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>It
freaks me way the fuck out.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: The guy who cooked on it
breathed on it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: I try not to think about that.
And I’ve never seen the cook, so I don’t have a mental image of him breathing
on my pizza. At least, I didn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: Look lady, they’re nice
people. They didn’t do anything to the pizza. Just eat it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: I didn’t say they did anything
to it. I would just like a nice, fresh pizza that hasn’t been passed around my
apartment complex.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: You’re a crazy bitch,
you know that?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>In
most of my imaginary arguments someone ends up calling me a bitch. That
probably means something. I’m not sure if it’s something bad or good, because
in my real life arguments, I get called <a href="http://iwenttopalmsprings.blogspot.com/2013/05/but-i-didnt-throw-poop.html" target="_blank">much worse things</a>.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pizza guy: Fine. I’ll be back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But at this point I just want to
cancel my order, because I’m convinced that either someone is going to spit on
my new, fresh pizza, or Pizza guy is just going to drive this pizza around the
block and bring it back.<i> </i>With spit. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
P.S. It was a really stressful
forty-five minutes to an hour, but as it turns out, the correct pizza was
delivered, and the pizza guy was completely pleasant. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-36807627513051959992013-07-31T12:05:00.000-07:002013-07-31T12:05:08.785-07:00Don't Say My Name(Ish)<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a couple of neighbors who think my name is Anna. I
wouldn’t be so bothered by this if they didn’t insist on saying “hi Anna,”
every time they see me. I don’t expect everyone to know my name. That would be
ridiculous. I wouldn’t care if they had no idea what my name was. I just can’t
understand what is so wrong with a moniker-free greeting. Why must they always
make such a point of addressing me by not-my-name? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The worst part is I’ve made myself
complicit. It’s been over a year, and I haven’t corrected them. I’m assuming
that when we met, I told them my actual name, because (and yes, I mean to brag)
I have never fucked up the process of telling someone my name. Not even when
I’m drunk, because I’ve had a lot of practice at both of those things. So, I am
completely sure I did not tell them my name is Anna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But for whatever reason they
started calling me Anna, and I didn’t correct them, because I’m really not that
social, and it’s not like we hang out. Also, I had no idea they were going to
be so persistent about saying hello, or rather, “Hi Anna.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So now I live in constant fear of being accosted
with the wrong name as I scutter to or from my apartment. I know it seems like
an easy fix, and it would have been, once, but now at this point I’m going to
look like a douche if I say anything, mostly because I’m actually being a
douche. I’m spending way more time
writing this post than it would take to march my ass across the way and say,
“Hello, my name is Anne. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” But what if
they didn’t get the reference? To be fair, I’m totally fucking up the syllable
rhythm by using my own name, and only my first name at that, so it’s not like
I’d blame them, much, but it would be pretty awkward. They would think I was
crazy, which is valid, but for the wrong reasons, which I don’t want to
encourage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There is also the worry that if I
speak up, I may set off an entire conversation. Something like:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
I just wanted to let you know my name is Anne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Them: We know your name, Anna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: No. It’s just Anne. Not Anna. I
should have said something sooner. Sorry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Them: Why didn’t you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: Because I dreaded the conversation that’s
happening to me right now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Them: What’s wrong with you, Anna?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m left feeling resentful every
time they say “hi Anna.” Between the two of them it happens at least five times
a day, and it’s exhausting. They’re so aggressive about it that I’m never
allowed to slip by un-greeted. And I get stressed out about the whole situation
every time. Lately I’ve been wondering if they’re calling me the wrong name on
purpose just to torture me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The thing is, if they legitimately
liked me enough to justify their urge to bury me in salutations, they would
know my fucking name. It’s not normal to greet someone so often when you never
otherwise converse. There is no one I say “hi,” to five times a day. Except for
them, because I have to say it back or I’ll look overly antisocial. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I am the one who’s disgruntled, so
I should speak the fuck up. But instead I’ll probably just bitch about it here,
and continue to quietly resent them. I hope no one got into this post looking for
a moral.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
P.S. I know both of their names, and their kid’s
name. And their dog’s name. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-3350796111039271032013-05-22T19:04:00.000-07:002013-05-29T18:42:44.998-07:00But I Didn't Throw the Poop<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Walking with three dogs is a slow
business thanks to the generally unsynchronized sniffing, and lifting, and
squatting. While we were stopped for a squat, a woman messing around in the trunk
of her car shined a flashlight in my face. I tried to assume it was an
accident, but then she did it again. And again. We had to pass her to get home,
although to be completely honest, we would have gone over there anyway, because
I was really annoyed, and because it’s everyone’s duty to stand up to
inappropriate flashlight behavior when they see it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And as we approach she shines it in
my face again. Now, we are not out in the country. There is the ambient light
that one gets in any city, not to mention the actual streetlamps. It is not
that damn dark.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: “Could you not shine that thing
in my face?” <i>I’m thinking: What the fuck
is your problem?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her: “Sorry, Ma’am, I couldn’t see
who was there. It looked like you were hiding behind a tree.” <i>Although
she technically said the word “sorry,” it was not in any way an actual apology.
And in case you missed it, she called me Ma’am. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: “I’m just walking my dogs.” <i>This is a phenomenon she should be familiar
with since there are probably almost as many dogs as people in my neighborhood.</i>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her: “Well, I’m sorry, Ma’am.” <i>(Again not being sorry at all.) </i>“I have
bad eyes and I can’t see at night.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be
out at night.” <i>Grown women who are afraid
of the not-really-dark should stay inside always.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her: “Do you know how many times my
car has been broken into?” <i>Probably never
while you were guarding it with that wicked flashlight.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: “Well, it wasn’t me any of
those times.” <i>Is she implying I’m a car
burglar?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her: “And did you pick up your dog
shit?” <i>Not that it’s any of your business
but…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: “Yeah. Do you want to inspect
it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her: “Ugh. No, I don’t think so.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m thinking: <i>Are you
sure? Because I’d be happy to throw it at your head.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her: “I can tell just by looking at
you that you’re the kind of person who doesn’t pick up their dog shit.” <i>That is so judgmental. And so incorrect,
since…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me: “I’m holding a bag of dog shit
right now.” <i>Don’t call her a cunt. Don’t.
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me again: “Why don’t you stop being
so judgmental and fat?” <i>Dodged the C-word. Good for you.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her: “I’m pregnant.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>And
now we’re in a bad sitcom.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her again: “Why are you such a
cunt?” <i>It’s called the moral high ground,
lady. Come join me.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>Me: “It’s too bad that
whoever knocked you up doesn’t care enough to come help you with that box.” <i>There was a box. It was big. She dropped it,
which was probably really embarrassing. I may have enjoyed that part.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>Her: “Your dogs are ugly.” <i>Which is ridiculous. My dogs are beautiful.
She was projecting.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So that was my night. And I hope
she’s still fighting with her husband or whatever about how he didn’t help her
with the box. Other than that, I’ve let it go. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-55950863726383410452013-05-08T19:30:00.002-07:002013-05-22T17:41:30.306-07:00Better, Stronger, Chompier<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sometimes, in life, you get a
broken front tooth. That’s not a metaphor. Last week, a beautiful, sweet dog
was overcome with excitement to greet me and rammed my face with his face,
resulting in a large chunk of my front tooth going missing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The result was visually quite
unfortunate, but relatively pain free, until I went to the dentist. The
procedure itself was ok, since I’d been shot quite full of Novocain, or
whatever. In fact, I had a pleasantly rubbery face for quite a while after I
left. Turns out, I should have seized that pain free hour, because by the time
I stopped dallying around, so had the drugs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Unfortunately, I still had a stop
to make. And it took all of my limited strength of character not to dart in
front of the old man who was creeping toward the door as I approached from the
parking lot, because I really wanted to get in line before he did. I actually
have that urge all the time; so far I’ve managed to suppress it. I could be an
amazing douche if I let myself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Anyway, the door in question was
the AAA door, where you can go instead of going to the DMV, and in most ways it
is infinitely preferable. However, what I can say for the DMV is this: people
don’t go there for directions. Directions. Yeah. It’s called Google maps, old
people. Or even regular maps. I know you know about those. Or you could try
your luck with your GPS. I’m pretty sure Cadillac has those. Sorry old people, as
I write this, I’m still in pain. And I’m not prejudiced. I’m practically one of
you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m waiting my turn, counting the
number of inane questions per minute (it’s three), and the numbness is really
wearing off and this is reflected in my mood. I have to remind myself that
these other people are people too, that they matter as much as I do, even if
they are ninety and have apparently pilgrimaged to AAA for the sole purpose of
insisting that they are excellent drivers (which inherently means that they are
not), they deserve their turn. Their long drawn out turn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There’s a lady who has got to be
eighty, who’s worried that her
handicapped license plate is going to, “alert the cops.” She has already
extolled her driving skills. I’m rolling my eyes politely to myself and trying
not to let my jaw clench because I’m in more pain every minute and I’m not sure
why they didn’t send me home with something for that because surely, this could
have been predicted by the professionals, but it was not. Or else they wanted
me to suffer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And I’m cranky and feeling guilty for all the
rude thoughts I’m having about everybody else in the waiting room and bad about
the fact that I’m reminding myself that they’re people too, because who has to
remind themselves that other people are people? In my defense, I don’t have to
do this every day. But full disclosure, this wasn’t the first time either. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When it’s my turn I draw the
shortest of sticks meaning a trainee who doesn’t know how to do what I need
done. He assures me he knows how to do other things, and lists some of them. I
heroically refrain from leaping over the counter. A brief wait later, I am
rewarded for my patience with a full-fledged employee and we manage to wrap up
my errand so I am free to rush home and self medicate with tequila.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Flash forward two weeks, when I go
back to have a permanent veneer put on. The doctor tells me that they usually
don’t need to use anesthesia for this part. I prove to him that I am a special
case by whimpering the minute he touches me with an instrument. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Some tugging, and filing, and
flinching, and gluing later I have a brand new pearly white. They have rebuilt
me. They have made me better, stronger and chompier. Or at least restored me to
a state of dental symmetry. Now everything is fine, except the pain is back. So
for the rest of the afternoon, I will be on the couch watching GoT and
wondering why no one will step up and (SPOILER ALERT!) murder Joffrey. Although
I’m only on the second season, so perhaps by now someone has. Happy thoughts.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-51553845395346412172013-04-07T19:00:00.000-07:002013-04-07T19:00:06.048-07:00Flying the Shrieking Skies<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I had to wait to write this until I
could calm myself and be reasonable. I didn’t want the entire post to be
profanity; because it was that bad. Some people may be offended and judge me,
and that’s ok. But here’s the thing: babies should not be allowed on planes,
because they’re horrible. Babies, not planes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
By now you probably think I hate
children. I don’t. I have a nephew and he’s awesome, partly because he never
shrieks at the top of his lungs. And it’s not just about being greedy for the
pleasure of screech-free flying, although I am. There are health issues to be
concerned about. I’m referring to headaches, deafness, (which ironically would
be a blessing) and the stress that is caused by suppressing one’s natural
instincts; namely the urge to fling peanuts, SkyMall catalogues, or whatever
else is within reach at the offending baby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I get it parents. You like your
babies. You like to take them with you. But you have to balance your, I have to
use the word “selfish,” want against what you’re putting other people through.
If you do insist on taking a baby with you on a plane, (a small enclosed space
where people are <i>trapped</i> with your
horrible baby) then bring shit to entertain it. <i>Please</i> don’t rely on it being enchanted by the nozzle of the air
conditioning vent. As I know from personal experience, that fascination is
fleeting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pack a toy; and maybe some Nyquil,
the airline will provide the booze<i>. </i>And
yeah, all that stuff is for the baby. <i>“Oh
no,” </i>you may be thinking.<i> “I don’t
want to drug my baby when it’s not even sick, that’s horrible!” </i> It’s not that bad. People used to put brandy
right into the bottle, and drink and smoke while pregnant. And breastfeeding.
The human race survived. And so will your baby. Probably. I’m not a pediatrician,
but probably.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Well, maybe. I mean, there’s really no
way of knowing what will happen. But I do know that sobriety is no guarantee of
a safe childhood. Anything can happen. Besides, I believe they make Nyquil just
for children. And if something is made specifically for children, then it would
be bad parenting <i>not</i> to give it to
them. It would be like denying your baby vitamins. Because drug companies care.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And if your child is shrieking and
giving someone all the way across the aisle a headache because it’s so damn
loud, don’t smile around as though you think it’s cute, and don't expect anyone else
to think it’s cute. Shut that kid up. Screeching is not adorable. And when you
act like you expect me to find it adorable, I want to hit you in the face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Airlines: don’t let babies fly for
free. You’re just exacerbating the problem. Make them pay at least full fare,
perhaps with an additional noise hazard tax of 100%. And consider turning one
or two of the bathrooms into soundproof penalty boxes for particularly rowdy
babies. Better that the rest of us have to hold it, than have to listen to some
rowdy infant scream as though it’s being skinned because it dropped a pacifier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It also wouldn’t hurt to penalize
the parents of bad babies. Perhaps a modest fine could be imposed on those that
allow a baby to get out of hand. Like a dollar. Per passenger. Payable every
time their baby shrieks. Or cries. Or stinks. Incidentally, if that policy had
been in effect during my last flight, my next flight would have been paid for.
And that would have been justice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Please remember airlines, that frequent
flyer perks aside, you have an obligation to treat your passengers equally and
fairly. If I behaved like a certain baby named Quinn*(whose parents passed out
earplugs and candy at the beginning of the flight, which I should have taken as
a sign of end times instead of mistaking it for a courtesy) you would fly me
over Guantanamo without passing GO and push me out a hatch. Fair is fair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
To the babies: Just stay home. Ask
for a babysitter. Remember, anyone who cares will come to you. I’m talking
grandparents. Yeah, that’s it, just grandparents. Everybody else is waiting
until you’re a little older and less terrible. It’s ok. The rest of the world
will start to warm to you when you can say words and poop in the toilet. And
babies? One more thing: It’s bullshit to scream when you’re upset, and then
scream when you’re happy. Get a grip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
*Seriously, she’s the devil. (Whom
I didn’t even believe existed until this kid sat behind me for two hours.)</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-76929765289247939322013-03-24T21:12:00.000-07:002013-03-29T20:17:10.233-07:00For "Ease" Read, "Holy Shit this is Hard!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Nobody died. And it was amazing.
And no one made fun of anyone else. Except me. I made fun of one girl. But I
didn’t make fun of her because of any sort of physical ineptness, because that
would be mean. I only made fun of her insistence on whining during such a
spectacularly fun occasion. It was discrete mockery too; for the ears of my
sister only.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
In spite of the ominous lawyerese
on the release form it was abundantly safe and so much fucking fun that you
need to go do it. Right now. Call in to work, whatever it takes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Fair
warning, the back of your legs will look like this:</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And
this can happen to your pants: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUObIwatzDSBYjqCTs8MwMyJ-G_nPcT0ZcPyP-Rkfibn7GAWHRM79wy5TnEJ37cXFJN1Txu_DRsaJwgph-VUfVoSmfFZ3KXZ7MoHMnujrkSDygjxbOpAOjAn7jpaNriS-YpBTKw-zpaI/s1600/483255_591083324237547_413906681_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUObIwatzDSBYjqCTs8MwMyJ-G_nPcT0ZcPyP-Rkfibn7GAWHRM79wy5TnEJ37cXFJN1Txu_DRsaJwgph-VUfVoSmfFZ3KXZ7MoHMnujrkSDygjxbOpAOjAn7jpaNriS-YpBTKw-zpaI/s200/483255_591083324237547_413906681_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s a lot harder than it looks. For me. There is
something horribly wrong with my body that prevents me from getting my legs
over the damn bar in the normal way, so I had to learn an alternate way. Which
they say is harder. I didn’t know if that was true or if they just say that to
make people feel better about being sent to remedial trapeze school. But I
proved to my satisfaction that it is in fact more difficult, by immediately getting
my leg tangled in both the trapeze and the safety line, which no one else was
able to do. Hence the pants. Anyway, I finally managed it.</div>
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However it’s hard to catch up to
the others when you get sent back. To remedial trapeze school. Like I did. So by
the end of the session, I was losing my mind. Half the people had crapped out,
and the other half had managed to perfect their timing, and were being
instructed on how to do the catch. I was pretty much left to go again and
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my crazed
determination to perfect my timing, I was forgetting all the safety rules and
had to be reminded once by a fellow student and once by an instructor to hook
up my safety lines. The instructor actually made me climb down the ladder and
take a moment to breathe and calm myself, so I was probably pretty much a wreck
by then.</div>
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I didn’t get to do the catch
because I totally fucked up my last turn, and I had been warned there was some
concern that I might crash into the catcher and injure us both. I was so hyped
up that I was totally prepared to take a head injury, but they are a bit overprotective
of their staff. So fine.</div>
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Here is what I did on my final turn:</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyhAL79OjD64KW0u_prDKA9mrhpzYdilx7KRBPRlXPTEdhjZJzFyIqNXkwdyfLbBCHdmRGQlQJTLv5V3zEhSQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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And here is my sister doing it properly:</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzV6VbRT8iFan8Q7YZmi4H3QsvLXTMxigDhzxzg2RcPhJ9lD3bpw2CNgpGppADdMCLucn8G6Wa4daQ25a5d3w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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So it was awesome. And the people
who were good were very sweet and encouraging to those who weren’t. By the end
that was just me, because everybody else had quit. So I got to be the plucky
girl who didn’t give up, even though she sucked. Which is not what I was
planning; but it wasn’t so bad. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-37535130257524920272013-03-21T18:27:00.000-07:002013-03-21T18:28:28.161-07:00With the Greatest of Ease<br />
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</div>
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Saturday morning I will be flying
through the air with the greatest of ease; or else I’ll be dying, probably also
with the greatest of ease. Trapeze school is finally upon us, and no, you
didn’t miss anything, I haven’t mentioned it. I imagine myself doing flips and
catches and whatnot, and in my mind I’m suddenly endowed with the grace and
coordination that is noticeably lacking in my usual interactions with the
physical world.</div>
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Hopefully that actually happens because
apparently (according to the terrifying release I’m supposed to sign) in the
world of trapeze there are consequences for physical ineptness, <i>“…could result in physical or emotional
injury or death. I understand that such risks simply cannot be eliminated
without jeopardizing the essential qualities of the activity.”</i> Ok. I get
that they can’t guarantee no injuries when they’re letting you swing around
like monkeys and the only thing keeping you from falling is the untrained and
sweaty hand of another trapeze school newbie, but I have to question the idea
of <i>emotional injury</i> being
unavoidable. Are they going to make fun of us if we don’t do well? Post photos
of us fearful and sprawling on the internet? Surely, some restraint could be
shown there. Falling on your ass is bad enough without the professionals making
fun of you for it. And if I do fall on my ass it will be because I wasn’t
properly instructed, so heal thyself, trapeze guy.</div>
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And there’s not just the danger of
me falling; there’s the possibility that shit will fall on me. <i>“The risks include…being struck by objects
dislodged or dropped from above.”</i> Well, perhaps we don’t need to keep so
much clutter on the trapeze platform. Seriously, what the fuck do they keep up
there? And dislodged could be accidental, but dropped? Sounds like someone up
there is out to get me. </div>
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Then there are the trapeze people. <i>“…employees have difficult jobs to perform.
They are not infallible.” </i>Ok, that’s kind of a given, albeit not something
I necessarily want emphasized right before I literally put my life in their
hands. But even though they’re not perfect, they are surely highly trained and
as close to infallible as is humanly possible. </div>
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Except for the part where they’re
not particularly observant. <i>“They might
misjudge the weather or other environmental conditions</i>.” Really? Because
the trapezing actually takes place outside. In the weather. What I’m hearing
is, “If we don’t kill you by flinging bricks at your head from 100 feet up, the
lightening will finish you off because we’re not properly trained to look at
the sky.”</div>
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And it seems that’s not all they’re
not properly trained to do. “<i>They may
give incomplete or inaccurate instructions or warnings.” </i> You’re starting to sound lazy, guys. How about
taking a little pride in your work. Consider how nice it would be to go home
and say to your wife, husband or cat, “No one died today, and there were only a
few close calls, because I had the initiative to tell people to hold on <i>tight</i>.”</div>
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<i>“The
equipment being used might malfunction.” </i> How much can a new trapeze cost? It’s essentially
a rope and a stick. Maybe I should bring my own. Except I don’t know where to
get a trapeze on short notice. But, I might know where I can borrow a sex
swing.* Those things are pretty much interchangeable, I believe.</div>
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<i>“I
certify I have adequate insurance to cover any injury or damage I may cause or
suffer while participating...” </i>I wish I could, but<i> </i>I’m sure they won’t check. At least not until after one of the
aforementioned unfortunate incidents has occurred. </div>
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In spite of the eager specters of death,
paralyzation, and embarrassment, I’m excited. I’m a little worried that the
trapeze people will see this and not let me on. But I can’t post it after,
well, maybe I could, but it’s not certain. And because I’ve gone to the trouble
of writing it, I don’t want it to be a wasted effort if I die. Speaking of dying,
if I don’t make it back, would someone please feed my dogs?</div>
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*I absolutely do not know where I can borrow a sex swing.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-6277864724859603862013-03-20T14:01:00.001-07:002013-03-21T18:28:43.199-07:00Sweat the Small Stuff<br />
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Last night at the grocery store, I
noticed that the sign above the speedy checkout lane that used to say, “Fifteen
items or less,” now says, “<i>About</i>
fifteen items.” As far as I can see, this can only mean one thing, and that thing
is that people are douchy enough to count other people’s items and yell at them
if they have sixteen items. Or seventeen.
Sometimes, twenty. Not that I haven't been tempted to comment shrilly
when someone has eighteen items, because I have. But I make an active effort to
be less of a douche than the person who has nineteen items when they should
have fifteen, in fact, that’s my goal in life. </div>
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So I don’t yell, because yelling
about it seems slightly worse. It’s possible that some of these people just can’t
count. But I love that others are not so restrained. I really do. I love that the
store had to change it to, “about,” to prevent bloodshed. Because there’s
nothing better than living amongst people that are prepared to come to blows
over that sixteenth item. I’m not judging. I’m not so entertained by this because
I would never do such a thing. I’m entertained by this because I can barely
restrain myself from doing such a thing.</div>
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We (you) have to act now. Time is running out.
Soon all the grocery stores will cave in and replace their set in stone, enforceable
checkout rules with guidelines. I’m not a lawyer, but I feel like fewer
checkout altercations would go to trial if the victim could be accused of
breaking a rule, a grocery <i>law</i> if you will, instead of merely having committed
a shopping faux pas. Also, there’s nothing like a good brawl in the checkout
line. So raise hell about that extra item. Be righteously indignant. Take action.
Speak up. Throw things. Throw a punch, throw an apple, throw your own sixteenth
item, (<i>how the hell did that get in
there?)</i> so you don’t look like a hypocrite when it’s your turn to checkout.
It makes no difference what you throw as long as you get involved.</div>
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And if someone has fifteen items
and tries to add a pack of gum at the last minute, don’t let them get away with
it. These bougie assholes need to know that the rules (or polite suggestions) apply
to them. Let them know that their aspirations to minty breath don’t make them
better than everyone else. Go forth and make your mothers proud. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-22851633586800095212013-03-13T12:47:00.001-07:002013-03-13T14:05:14.435-07:00A Rock and a Sad Place<br />
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The other day at the park my nephew
had a wreck. He was jumping off the side of the slide (because as any fool
knows slides are not just for sliding down) when he was sabotaged by a glitch
in coordination. It wasn’t a bad fall;
he only had a couple superficial scrapes to show for it. But there were a ton
of people around. </div>
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After we clean him up, he decides
he wants to do one more slide before we leave, but he chooses the smallest
slide and goes down halfheartedly, and it’s all very sad. On the way to our
next stop we discuss whether it still hurts, which he tells me it does not, and
whether he’s embarrassed which he also denies. </div>
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But he’s still tremendously sad.</div>
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Eventually it occurs to me that “embarrassed,”
may not be a word most people are familiar with when they’re three, so I ask
him if he’s sad because all those people saw him fall and he says, “yes.”</div>
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Now I’m pissed off at those people
for existing, because I feel like Z wouldn’t be upset right now if they didn’t,
and what right do they have to be wandering around the park with their eyes
anyway? On the other hand this is hideously unreasonable, and I’m really just
pissed off at myself for not catching him.</div>
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“It’s ok,” I say to him. “None of
those people were laughing at you. Everybody falls. I fall, and your mom and
dad fall, and Ben falls, and all those people at the park have fallen too, I
promise.”</div>
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Pointing out the misfortunes of
others is perhaps not the most inspiring method of comforting a child, but it’s
what came to mind. And still, he was bummed.</div>
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We get to the arts festival, but
only kind of, because we have to park far away. We start walking, well I start
walking, and I’m carrying a sad three year old, a heavy, sad three year old,
and I think the sadness is making him heavier than usual. When we finally get
there he doesn’t want to go in. He says he wants to sit. So we sit. On the curb
outside the arts festival.</div>
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He says, “Don’t look at me, please,”
and I oblige.</div>
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He picks up a rock. I ask him about the colors
in his rock. We discuss that for awhile. </div>
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So there we are, sitting on the
curb, not looking at each other, discussing rocks instead of feelings. It’s like
I’m participating in some kind of weird male bonding moment. I didn’t know
three year olds could have such man moments.</div>
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I texted his mom for backup. She
suggested an uplifting lesson on what the word “embarrassed,” means. That
sounded promising, he likes to learn new words. Like “evolution.” But embarrassed
is not a fun word to learn when you are. </div>
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He would seem better for a while
then get sad again. That happens to me too, but I get to drink. And if he was
twelve I would have offered him one. </div>
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It turned out that his arm is
sprained. When I found that out, I had a guilt headache for two days. But I’m
better now, and more importantly, so is he. Feel free to call me with
babysitting requests.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-11234953374983366592013-02-20T21:05:00.000-08:002013-02-21T19:43:37.744-08:00Delusions of Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="text-indent: 0px;">(Excuse the drawings. I'm trying something. My sister dared me. The drinking makes it seem like a good idea. I did all these with only two pens.) </span></div>
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I often think about getting mugged.
Usually, when I’m walking to my car at night. I’m not worried about it. I’m
anticipating it. Because I’m ready. I’ve been ready since I took that self
defense course in college. I am so prepared to stab a mugger in the eye with my
car key. People who have keyless entry, I don’t know what you’re going to use
to stab your mugger in the eye. You should give that some thought.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufyUKEbhtpoJCkF8PuKNpmD6-IiNdZlx8GuFWuo8LbBktIx_3XAARfHr7FWKHkkOFQP3NOc2dfK1KxSvjuLruq1PP5qkbYUDR648bkWxdafWKoQlIUiDmbbb7TXbeu_hRyOdNmNVjVm8/s1600/mugger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufyUKEbhtpoJCkF8PuKNpmD6-IiNdZlx8GuFWuo8LbBktIx_3XAARfHr7FWKHkkOFQP3NOc2dfK1KxSvjuLruq1PP5qkbYUDR648bkWxdafWKoQlIUiDmbbb7TXbeu_hRyOdNmNVjVm8/s320/mugger.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I’m sure if it actually happened it
would be kind of a bummer, scary and all that, not to mention all the blood and
eye goo on my keys, but I’m such a badass as this plays out in my mind that I
can’t resist. I wonder if this posting will entice a mugger out of the darkness
to accost me, after all, he could actually use the “she was asking for it,”
defense, if muggers read, but I don’t believe they do. And if they do, they’d probably choose someone
who’s not prepared to stab them in the eye.</div>
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Although, I recently read that the
key thing actually a bad idea because you have to let the mugger get close to
you in order to reach their eyes. You’re supposed to hit your mugger with
something bigger, like an umbrella. But I live in the desert, so 355 days of
the year an umbrella is just a pain in the ass. Besides, once you get your
heart set on stabbing an assailant in the eye with your keys it’s hard to let
that go.</div>
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On an even more morbid note, I want
to find a dead body. Not that I want anybody to be dead, but since sometimes
people have to be dead anyway, why can’t I find one of them? Because according
to a lot of my reading, finding a dead body leads to hijinks and adventure.
Obviously, I’m assuming murder. Yes, I’d be opening myself up to suspect
status, but obviously I would suss out the real killer and all would be well.
Unless there were maggots. I guess I only want to find the fresh bodies.</div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And why does no one have a heart
attack when I’m around? I know CPR. I could be all decisive and heroic, and the
victim would regain consciousness and thank me and the onlookers would applaud
and later I would be adorably modest on the evening news. But I’m going to need
the victim to be hygienic and have recently brushed and flossed because these
days, I’m not comfortable putting my mouth just anywhere. Although I suppose I would
have the option of only doing the chest compressions. But that doesn’t match
the visual in my head, which would be disappointing. </div>
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I imagine what I would do if there was a fire, which is kind of weird because this is one of my biggest fears, and also, I feel the worst about this one, because my pets would be traumatized. (So no cartoon on this one because that would make it worse.) I’m sure that to most of you it seems worse that I’ve let people be mentally murdered, suffer imaginary heart attacks, and get stabbed in the eye with my keys but I don’t know them, and anyway they brought those things on themselves with their lives of crime and unhealthy eating habits. With the possible exception of the guy who got murdered. I’m not sure what happened with him. Yet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
Anyway, in the fire I heroically round up and whisk to safety my five pets three of whom are dogs and two of whom are cats, unless you’re my apartment manager in which case two of them are fish. In my imaginings four of the rescues go pretty easily but then I have to go back for Agatha whom I couldn’t get on the first trip because she was hiding under the bed. However at the last possible moment I snatch her from the flames and we live happily ever after. Of course, now we have no stuff, but I know someone who had a fire, no pets, only children, and they’re fine, don’t worry. My point is, that if you get on the news because all your shit burned up, everyone sends you free shit. The people I know got so much free shit that they had to give a bunch of it to charity. And they didn’t even have heroic pet rescues to modestly recount during their exclusive interviews. So I could be a hero and give to charity too which is good for everybody.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This all probably means that there is something deeply wrong with me, but I hope, in the nicest possible way, that there are others out there with the same horrible self-aggrandizing affliction. Because I’d like to think that these tendencies to play out mental disasters are part of some simple human longing rather than a psychotic indicator. I mean really, who doesn’t long for the occasional parade in their honor? </div>
<div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-75509797350226822532013-02-09T19:00:00.000-08:002013-02-09T19:00:11.636-08:00My Inner Child is an Idiot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Recently, there was a big
hullabaloo that mostly existed in my head. No, that’s not true. It started in
my head, but then it took over my entire day. It started with a text from
someone named Jenny.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmEGLnZhatvr6-RCltgCRbxSLbhp1HIlhQB9x1FZjvc4btwR_XjcDXhuRycaZvHJfvtLti1girGweD7B0qqvosnkmWBICiTE_y0t6drtxyBQYBA94Jf_n8QSeKhQkgsjhgVnSzgkQ4uA/s1600/stupidskype.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmEGLnZhatvr6-RCltgCRbxSLbhp1HIlhQB9x1FZjvc4btwR_XjcDXhuRycaZvHJfvtLti1girGweD7B0qqvosnkmWBICiTE_y0t6drtxyBQYBA94Jf_n8QSeKhQkgsjhgVnSzgkQ4uA/s320/stupidskype.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
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My first thought was, <i>hmmm, I don’t know a Jenny</i>. And that was
that. If only that had remained that. A few hours later, while I was reading
comments on another blog, a blog I much admire, it hit me. It had to be her. I
had received an invitation from an amazing writer to meet on Skype to <i>talk a bit</i>. Perhaps the missing
apostrophe should have been a clue, but when you go from dismissal to euphoria
in .3 seconds you tend to overlook the details.</div>
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I’ve recently started blogging
myself, and I’ve been following her, because I have a lot to learn, also she’s
funny, socially conscious, and other good crap. I’ve been reading her posts
religiously and I’ve left some comments that may or may not have been witty,
and in that instant, it became clear that she was so overcome by my budding
efforts that she couldn’t waste a moment in reaching out to me, to discuss my
soon to skyrocket writing career. Of course a second later I was equally
convinced that this was ridiculous, it was all in my head and it couldn’t
possibly be her. That’s the feeling I should have gone with.</div>
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<i>But
no</i>, I thought. She liked some comment I made. Or else she wants to berate
me for writing mean things about my cat. I know she likes cats because she
writes about hers sometimes. Only she writes nice things about hers, because
apparently they never pee on her stuff; or on her person. So I’ll have to make
her understand that although I say mean things about my cat, I never do mean
things to my cat, even though she has peed on my head while I slept. Twice. Two
times. Yep. And still I feed her. Because I’m stupid. </div>
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So, I’m shaking, and I’m running
around, and I get my sister on the phone because I just cannot do anything, I
can’t even Skype because I don’t have Skype, so there’s the whole business of
downloading that to deal with (which was really an effort, and in the process I
allowed the download of like twenty random programs or whatever they’re called)
so I had to have help. In defense of my stability, the first thing I said to my
sister was, “I’m probably imagining this. It couldn’t be real.” But I didn’t
feel like I was imagining it. I felt pee-my-pants-happy. Which I did not
actually do. So maybe technically I wasn’t. Can you be pee-your-pants-happy if
you don’t pee your pants? <i>Yes.</i> <i>If you don’t have to pee.</i> </div>
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While I was failing miserably to
download Skype, I reverse 411’d the number the text came from, and it was
indeed a Texas number which was <i>evidence.
</i>The text was sent by Jenny from Texas. There can’t be more than one. I’m
not a crazy person at all.</div>
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So finally Skype is working. I’ve created
a profile, entered Jenny’s contact info, and fumbled with the keyboard until
finally, the person who has asked so kindly to speak with me is revealed. But it’s
not her. So now I’m crushed and bursting with humiliation, because I’ve dragged
my sister into this which makes her a witness. But wait! Maybe the picture was
taken when she was a teenager, or on Halloween, or on a day when she just
really wanted to show off her boobs. But no. Still not her.</div>
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My poor sister is still on the phone,
and I imagine her writhing with empathetic embarrassment, because really, how
much of a fucking moron can a person be? I’m instantly and severely depressed.
I manage to get off the phone so I can cry, and have some xanax and a beer, because
somehow I’m out of liquor. It’s a bad day to be out of liquor, but my shame
won’t allow me to venture out to the store where I sense the whole world is
waiting to mock me for my hope and stupidity. Clearly, I should go to bed
before I do anything else humiliating and anyway, it’s almost 3:30 in the
afternoon and I can’t take anymore.</div>
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I realize that the whole thing is
ludicrous. I will never be a writer. No one whose work I admire is ever going
to admire mine back. Everyone who has ever complimented my writing either lacks
taste or lies, either out of pity or pathology. I will never accomplish anything
that I want to accomplish. And all I’m really doing by blogging is rendering
myself unemployable.</div>
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I finish my beer, the one I cracked
open while I was frantically trying to install Skype. I start uninstalling all
the useless programs that I had inadvertently piggyback downloaded in my
earlier fucking flurry of emotion. I was feeling good about figuring out how to
uninstall all this crap by myself, because technology is evil, but that day it
was my bitch. Until I accidentally uninstalled something I needed. Now
everything on my screen is too big and the stuff on the edges isn’t there; it
looks like it would if you pressed your nose directly against a book and tried
to read it. FYI, you need your graphics drive. </div>
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Of course, I had another beer. I
kept going back and forth between wanting to sink forever into misery and
feeling a little ok, maybe even slightly amused. My sister posted a cute thing
on Facebook about how 90% of kids get all their awesomeness from their aunt.
That’s me. And my friend texted to make plans for us to spend the next leap
year at Disneyworld. So my day clawed its way a little further out of the
toilet.</div>
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So much so that I was able to
consider the idea that it wasn’t so stupid. I mean, it was <i>really</i> stupid, incredibly stupid, almost brilliantly stupid, but
maybe that’s good. Because maybe, even though it didn’t work out this time, it
will eventually. Even though it isn’t true right this second, now I know that I
believe it could be true someday, even someday soon. And that’s heartening,
because as much as I hear that one must believe great things are possible, I am
not naturally an optimist. And as stupid as it was, I believed. </div>
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And believing? Being that idiotically
hopeful? That’s kid shit. It’s awesome. Like when you were little and you just
knew you were going to grow up to be an astronaut/rock star/firefighter/veterinarian,
before you got to the point where you started ruling things out<i>. Can’t be an astronaut if you get sick on
the teacups at Disneyland. Can’t be a vet if the sight of an animal bleeding
makes you want to cry. Can’t be a rockstar if you’re tone deaf.</i> Yeah,
there’s some wiggle room there. And I could still be a firefighter. As far as I
know.</div>
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But for those twenty minutes, I was
not ruling anything out. In spite of the lingering embarrassment, it was a
really good twenty minutes. So good for me. Kind of. In an unfulfilled,
humiliating way. </div>
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P.S. To Jenny who sends enticing
Skype related texts with no regard for the consequences: I’m not that happy with
you. Lose my number. </div>
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P.P.S. To Jenny the hilarious and
socially conscious <a href="http://thebloggess.com/" target="_blank">Bloggess</a>: I’m not dangerous. I just get excited sometimes.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-71514465040656590702013-02-06T12:24:00.000-08:002013-02-06T12:29:25.027-08:00Are You There Siri? It's Me, Anne.<br />
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Soon it will be time for my phone
upgrade, and I am struggling, debating, trying to decide (if you’d like some
synonyms) whether I should get Siri. When I first got the iphone 4, which is what
I currently have, I didn’t get Siri because I was broke. And that’s not
completely untrue now, but I find myself thinking of her with hope and
anticipation, except when I’m thinking of her with reluctance and dread.</div>
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The problem is, I’m not good with
technology and I’m worried she’ll ruin everything. Right now, I love my phone
which is a first, because phones count as technology which is ever evil, and
goes out of its way to thwart me. I’ve always had a phone; you have to have a
phone. (I know. Not <i>literally</i>. But
come on.) But, I’ve never actively enjoyed using a phone before, and I love the
iphone, it’s fucking awesome. So I’m very excited to get a new phone, one that
has more upgrades, and is fancier, with cooler stuff. And I kind of want Siri
because she’s fancy and cool and I like the idea of being able to talk to my
phone. Technically, I like the idea of my phone being able to talk back; the
first part already happens.</div>
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Plus if the phone talks back,
everything should be even easier, which is part of why Siri is so appealing.
But if Siri is a bitch and won’t help me, then I’ll get frustrated and fight
with my phone, and I don’t want to fight
with my phone, because I will probably lose and end up crying in the corner.
Things have been so good with my old phone and I’m afraid I’ll ruin it all by
wanting too much. I don’t want to get greedy. I don’t know what to do. I tried
my sister’s Siri and she wasn’t entirely cooperative. So I’m worried. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But on the other hand, what if she’s
awesome? What if she’s so helpful, and intuitive, and smart that I start to get
worried that she’s kind of alive in there? And I’ll feel like I need to set her
free, but I won’t know how. How does one set a Siri free? Leave her on a bus
stop bench with her fare tucked in her protective Kevlar shell? I guess she’s a
computer, or in a computer, so maybe if I hooked her up to a network or
something she’d be able to travel, see the sights, take in a show. Maybe if she
couldn’t get away permanently, she could have a play-date with the other Siris.
Now I’m back to not understanding technology. So she’ll be stuck in my phone
forever. Which is cool (except for the part where she’s my unwilling minion)
but only if we’re getting along.</div>
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I’m hoping she would be able to
help me with storage. This particular technology has been kinder than most, but
the one issue I do have is that the phone keeps bitching about not enough
storage and sometimes it refuses to record a video or take a memo. And of
course, the second my rebelling phone tells me it won’t record, my mind is
flooded with genius thoughts and clever turns of phrase. And how am I supposed
to hold onto those without a reliable recording device? Huh? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I imagine myself saying, “Siri, I
need more storage,” and she would magically make it so. My current Siri-less iphone
always suggests the cloud. About which I am dubious. The cloud. Seriously, I
wish I had thought of the fucking cloud. “You’re stuff will be stored in…uh…a
cloud! No wait…not just <i>a</i> cloud…<i>The Cloud</i>! (For a mere twenty to one
hundred dollars a year, depending on your needs.) I feel like I’m buying a
bridge, possibly to nowhere. For fuck’s sake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I like technology sometimes, on the
rare occasions when it decides to do what I’m hoping, but never really
expecting, it will do. I enjoy that I can, in theory, check in for my flight
from home. I don’t enjoy that I can’t actually check in because my printer is
out of ink, and I don’t know why it just can’t run from the power of the
fucking cloud. But apparently it can’t. </div>
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Or beam. Why can’t the ink beam to
my printer? I’ve been ready for beaming technology since I was five. Because
then I wouldn’t need a boarding pass. I could beam. And I wouldn’t have to walk
to the cupboard because the cookies could beam to me. And then the fat could
beam away from my ass. I could sit on the couch forever, and what’s so wrong
with that? Come on scientists, let’s go. I pay you to be less lazy, so that I
can be more lazy.</div>
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It would probably be best if Siri was
programmed with the ability to beam stuff for me. Then I could say, “Siri,
cookies,” and they would appear in my hand. I would deal with getting them to
my mouth all on my own. And I would remember to say, “please,” because you
shouldn’t take your Siri for granted. Partly because not taking Siri for
granted is just the right thing, but partly because if you did take her for
granted, she could really ruin your day. She could beam you into the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_C34g5mz1ZQ" target="_blank">cornfield</a>
like Billy Mumy in <i>The Twilight Zone</i>.</div>
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Maybe I shouldn’t get Siri. If we
were ever at odds it would end badly for me. She’s better with computers,
possibly smarter, and has powers that I can’t begin to understand. But then
again, maybe sometimes you have to make a leap of faith and trust that your
phone won’t beam you into the cornfield.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-29159425669619028952013-01-24T16:11:00.000-08:002013-01-25T21:03:47.360-08:00In Case of Possession, Do Not Break Glass<br />
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I’ve been contemplating an episode
of <i>Lost Girl</i> because it’s just that
kind of show. If you are not aware of it, what you need to know is that there
is a succubus and crime fighting. Obviously, there is a lot to think about
here, but what I was specifically mulling is a recent episode (SA!) where
somebody had something evil invade their body and promptly asked to be killed,
so that the evil would die with them. If it seems like I’m making fun, I’m not.
It’s awesome.</div>
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However it did raise the question,
why do people always ask their friends to kill them just because they’re a
teensy bit possessed? When I hear anything along the lines of, “You’re going to
have to kill me, it’s the only way,” I think, <i>Really?</i> Is it the <i>only </i>way?
Was I not paying attention to the part where every other possibility was
exhausted? Yeah, it may be sensible as a last resort, but there’s no reason for,
“Oh shit. I just realized there’s evil inside me! Somebody kill me now.” Once
in a while I’d like to see something along the lines of, “<i>Oh shit. There’s evil inside me. Get it the fuck out!”</i> Or perhaps<i>, “Please restrain me temporarily while we
consider our options.</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I guess if you put some deep
thought into it, you could come up with a metaphor for the evil in humanity, or
in the world, and how there has to be self sacrifice in order to finally rid
ourselves of said evil, and ok, that wasn’t that deep, but it is a metaphor. But
screw metaphors, because I really just want to think about this on a knee-jerk,
surface, kind of level. And on that level, it’s ridiculous. Because what if the
evil is something with which our hero (or throwaway character) could coexist? Because
some bad shit is really bad, but some bad shit you can kind of live with. And I
think that needs to be discussed before anyone jumps to <i>please kill me</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
If it was me with the evil inside,
I’d certainly take a moment to think it through. I’d want to know, is the evil
really awful or is it just mildly annoying? Is it the kind of evil that does
things like put the juice carton back in the fridge with one sip left, a sip it
purposely didn’t drink so the carton would technically not be empty because the
trash is full and the evil didn’t want to start a horrible chain reaction that
would lead to the evil having to take the trash out <i>right now</i>? In that case, I’d have to sympathize with the evil
because I do that anyway. I’d have to say to the world, “<i>Sorry, live with it. I have many other fine qualities in spite of being
currently full of evil.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on a more practical note, if
the thing inside me was so evil and so strong that the best option was asking a
friend to skewer, behead, or shoot me in order to get rid of it, then wouldn’t
it be able to overpower and prevent me from raising the alarm in the first
place? And if I did get the initial
warning out because I managed to catch it by surprise as it was settling in, wouldn’t
it simply counter with a casual<i>, “You know what? I’m
fine. False alarm. The evil is totally under control. In fact, I think the evil
actually left. Anybody want to grab some breakfast? I think I saw some tasty
orphans running around outside.” </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
However, if the evil was so easy to
override that I could speak up to request a preventative killing in spite of the
fact that the evil has gone to a lot of trouble to take me over by climbing
either down my throat or up my whatever, then I could probably keep it in check
until someone could work out a less drastic cure. And I would definitely want
the chance. To keep it in check, that is. Because having a friend kill you is
pretty final. And hard on the friend. One would assume. Of course, in a world
with succubi, werewolves, and possessing fae, it is possible that death wouldn’t
be completely final. But it might be. Especially for the mortal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Of course, if I’m ever possessed by
Cathrynn Brown I’ll have to reconsider.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-50222618636822281082013-01-17T15:07:00.001-08:002013-01-17T19:45:43.071-08:00And Not Just For the Porn<br />
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Last week, I fell in love with the
internet. It was a long time coming, I know, and that may have something to do with
the fact that I’m technologically challenged, and have until recently only used
the internet to shop and email. Now, I know this is all stuff everyone else
thought about like ten years ago, or whenever the internet, you know, started,
but for me these thoughts are shiny and new. Come aboard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I never really thought about the
internet before I started the blog. Well, before I started looking at the stats,
really. It was just there, magically bringing me Amazon and pictures of puppies
that aren’t mine. I’m horrible at making significant connections with humans on
a day to day basis, I feel forever awkward and disconnected, and I have, let’s
call them reservations, about saying what I really think in front of anyone
whom I haven’t known for at least twenty-five years. (Except for when I’m drunk,
because alcohol is as magical as the internet but in a very different way.)
That’s why I think it’s amazing that when I write something here, there are people
in Poland who will read it. And who sometimes say something back. And since it’s
a blog, my blog, about what’s in my head (hence the clever title) it’s
something very specific but yet not so specific that no one else gets it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I know there are people who can’t
walk in to a room without making a friend; I am not one of those people. And I don’t
know for sure that I have nothing in common with the people I meet in the
flesh, but it’s so exhausting trying to figure that out. Not to mention the
stress that’s followed by the drinking, and then I’m comfortable, but the
results are not necessarily positive. This is better. This is something not
based on proximity or a blood relationship. And this is not about not liking my
family, I like most of them. But I also don’t have much in common with most of them.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So that’s what it is, this magic of
the internet. I look at my stats and see that people have read my blog in
Canada, France, Sweden, South Korea, Italy, and Germany, and more. Hi, Denmark.
I’ve never been to any of these places, but somewhere out there are people who understand
why it’s incredibly fucked up to <a href="http://iwenttopalmsprings.blogspot.com/search?q=if+you+can+read+this" target="_blank">stand too close</a> to strangers, and who might
get excited (in a good way) by a <a href="http://iwenttopalmsprings.blogspot.com/search?q=in+which+i+participate" target="_blank">SWAT</a> team outside their door. It’s fucking
amazing. To me. Excuse me while I catch up with the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That’s why I’m in love with the
internet. Not really because of what I’m putting out, although I find it’s
easier to say stuff when you don’t know who you’re saying it to, but because of
what I’m getting back. I almost didn’t post <i>In
Defense of My Mess,</i> because I was pretty sure I would be judged, and
harshly. But it turns out lots of other people are messy too, which is awesome;
as are they. Which is why, I’m kind of in love with them too and maybe with you
as well, out there reading. Or maybe I’m just in love with the idea of us. And
yeah, some of these commonalities don’t matter much, but they matter more than
proximity.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-31209621020022096852013-01-12T11:58:00.000-08:002013-01-24T12:51:49.880-08:00At Least They Didn't Stone Me<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was
a spoiler, I know, but I needed a little reassurance. Today I finally, after a
month, got up the nerve to go down to this local bookstore to see if they want to carry my book, because it’s a book and they’re
a bookstore and it all seems very fitting. And ok it wasn’t <i>a</i> month, it was months, many of them,
because it takes a while to work up the nerve to go someplace where they’re
going to laugh at you and throw rocks. Yeah I know that’s an unlikely scenario,
but it’s not an impossible one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’ve
been putting this off and off, and I have decided today is the day. I take a
shower and I put on the new perfume I got for Christmas. I’m wearing my best bra
and my lucky, <i>Hello my name is Inigo
Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die, </i>tee shirt so now I smell
good, look adorable, and feel only mildly nauseous. I manage to get myself down
there with my promo postcards, and a copy of my book for their consideration. I
end up parking right in front of the store, which is not ideal because someone
might see that my car really needs a wash, and decide they don’t want to carry
my book based on my automotive sloth, but there’s no place else because it’s
busy downtown. And of course, I park poorly because I’m nervous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one
throws rocks at me. No one laughs. They are closed for inventory. For four
days. Maybe it’s a sign. A sign that everything is topsy turvey and vice versa.
That my lucky,<i> Hello my name is Inigo
Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die, </i>shirt is not lucky at all. It
may even be unlucky. I wish I had a better idea about the shirt, but it’s new and
it hasn’t done anything really spectacular for me yet. I can say I've never been exsanguinated while wearing it, but that’s true of all my shirts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s
hard to tell if this is a sign, or if it’s just something that happened. It’s
probably just something that happened, because I usually don’t believe in signs.
But there are times when I want to, times when it seems so obvious and
reasonable that when a door that should have been open is not, it’s because that door is not meant to
be gone through; ever. I resist, because I know if I start officially believing
in signs I’ll be three steps away from becoming young William Shatner stuck in
a diner with narration by Rod Serling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> The problem is this seems a little
bit like a sign. Plus there was an actual sign. On the door. Which seems like a
sign that this is a sign. Although the sign (on the door) did say when they
would be open again, so maybe that’s the real sign. That I should go back. The metaphysical
sign, not the paper sign, which it indisputably is. If you don’t think this
paragraph makes sense, just skip it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If it
is a sign it seems like a bad one, but I can’t know for sure. Maybe if the
store had been open a conniving employee would have thrown rocks at me, taken
my book while I was crying, and kept it for his own nefarious purposes, never
passing it along to the owner. So maybe it was an amazing cosmic intervention,
saving me from the mean employee so that my delicate spirit remains unbroken, that
I may someday venture out once again to the bookstore. But it’s hard to say. I
do think that if the universe is going to go to that much trouble on behalf of
my delicate spirit, it might find it easier to just have the mean bookstore guy
step in front of a bus. Or see the error of his ways. (Now that I’ve written
that I can see it's probably easier for the universe to have me drive to the
bookstore an extra time than to completely transform or kill an imaginary someone.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I’m
referring to the lack of stoning. But by now, I was supposed to know how it
turned out. I was really hoping to secure a, “Yes, please!” or a “Fuck you. Bitch.”
(I don’t know why imaginary mean guy had to call me a bitch, I was already
leaving.) But no. Inventory is my undoing. Curse you thieves! And people who
can’t subtract! (I believe those are the two main causes of taking inventory.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a
few months, I’m going to have to do it all over again. Unless I take this as a
sign. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-76877605052726842162013-01-09T12:36:00.000-08:002013-01-16T08:31:54.472-08:00Grab-Ass With the Homies or How Mom-Speak Ruins Everything<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sometimes (read usually) when we
are hanging out and there is alcohol involved (read usually) my sister and I
regress to the age of seven. We stick our tongues out at each other, throw
food, and run around like maniacs smacking each other on the ass. There are
also tickle fights and sometimes wet willies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
nephew is our minion. Each of us tempts him to harass the other. Of course
since he’s three he’s always more on his mother’s side, but just you wait Henry
Higgins until he turns into a teenager. You’ll be sorry. Of course by then I’m
sure he’d rather be flayed than tickle his mother, but whatever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our
mother, when she’s there, is usually the odd one out, not because we purposely
exclude her, but because she doesn’t know how to play. Also, the grown up is
strong in that one, so she’s always somewhat appalled by the antics which is
not the way to be. And she’s sober, which is <i>really</i> not the way to be. But mostly it’s because she doesn’t know
how to play. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At our
second Christmas this year (because not everybody we love can be in the same
house at the same time because that would be <i><a href="http://iwenttopalmsprings.blogspot.com/2012/12/no-christmas-for-you.html" target="_blank">Against Christmas</a>) </i>my sister and I were drinking and
smacking asses and having as jolly a time as you can have smacking asses
outside of a locker room without it being weird, when our mother said, “You
never let me play with your bottoms. I want to play with your bottoms.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Awkwardness
immediately ensued, and of course we stopped because it was ruined. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words
matter. They can hurt. And more importantly they can cause uncomfortable mental
images of your mother playing with your bottom. Which I guess is its own
special kind of hurt. For the proverbial record, I know she didn’t mean it in
the horrifying-bad-touch-creepy way it came out. She just wanted to join in the
madcap moment. But it’s like a guy who you wanted to kiss you asking if he can.
It kind of destroys the moment. Even if he doesn’t actually say he wants to
play with your bottom. Although of course he does. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moral
of the story (as if you needed one) is if you see an ass that needs smacking just
do it. No discussion needed. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-74165090502441751902013-01-06T11:32:00.000-08:002013-01-07T08:39:50.870-08:00In Defense of My Mess<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I don’t clean. Not literally, but
certainly in spirit. And I probably come as close as one can to literally not
cleaning while still avoiding the evil eye of the health department. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On the table beside me are roughly
twenty books stacked four or five high. Some of the stacks are askew and
everything else is piled on the books or clinging to the edge of the table. Everything else includes but is not limited to, the
ear buds for my phone, my election booklet (still trying to figure out if I did
the right thing, but only through osmosis), three remote controls, some pens, a
chip clip, a folder of cd’s which I still use because I am technologically challenged, a folder of papers, a composition book, the price
tag from the last bra I bought, a pet dental pamphlet partially chewed by a wayward
pet who was either trying to destroy the pamphlet so I couldn’t make the
appointment, or trying to prove that his teeth are healthy and capable so I <i>wouldn't</i> make the appointment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It’s not that I hate cleanliness.
That would be weird. It’s just that I have better things to do than waste a day (or more) cleaning. Because I have trouble just giving a quick tidy to the
kitchen sink. It starts with wiping down the kitchen sink and then twelve hours
later I’m on my hands and knees, wedged between the toilet and the tub trying
to scrub the grout with a sponge that is falling to bits because it’s also
having a really bad day. (Yes <i>the</i>
sponge. In theory I have more, but in practice I fall short. Don’t worry, it
always starts on the dishes and ends with the toilet.) The whole time I’m
desperately trying to talk myself into stopping. Phrases like, <i>You’ve done enough, Who cares? This is
stupid, </i>and<i> The cleaning chemicals
are eating your hand skin, </i>inundate my thoughts. But the rebuttals are just
as prevalent. <i>Stop crying. You don’t
clean enough. Other people clean practically every month. You’re almost done. All
you have left to do is polish all the power cords and dust the books. And maybe
scrape all the melted wax off the candle holders; that seems pretty necessary. I said, STOP CRYING.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When I finally finish I get to
shower, and it has to be a long shower because I’m so grimy, but that's ok
because it feels great. Until I get out of the shower and find that there’s something I
missed or something I forgot. I’m clean now, I just got out of the damn shower and I
don’t want to touch more grime, but almost everything is spotless, and I'm so close to perfection that I can’t leave one
random dirty thing, which means I do have to touch more grime and my shower is ruined
and now everything is horrible again. Also, once everything is clean, I don’t
really enjoy the cleanliness. The first five minutes are nice, but then I get caught up in the torment of not wanting to touch anything or use anything
because it was such a nightmare to get it this way. When I’m in this state I
totally understand why they used to put plastic on the furniture and leave the pets outside. Sorry pets, and don't worry, I'll never <i>be</i> that person, I just understand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The last time I cleaned everything
it took me an entire week. I mean, I pried myself away to go to work, but every
day before and after I cleaned, and I still had to spend my whole day off
finishing. I did this because I was expecting company. Who was here for fifteen
minutes tops. It would have been worth it, it was for my first <a href="http://www.iwenttopalmsprings.com/Page_9.html" target="_blank">interview</a> ever
about the <a href="http://www.iwenttopalmsprings.com/" target="_blank">book</a>, and I didn’t want the reporter to be so
appalled by the mess that she decided the real story was, “Crazy Woman Lives in
Pigsty, Claims to be Author.” I don’t know why I was so convinced she was going
to want to Woodward and Bernstein me, but I was. And if she wasn't trying to expose me for something dire surely she'd want to do a ten page spread of my entire apartment. Of course,
it was option none of the above. She never saw anything but the living room,
and I cleaned everything else for no good reason.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It’s not as bad as it sounds. I do
dishes all the time. I don’t keep food that’s growing new parts, and if I do,
it’s quarantined in the back of the fridge until I have time to walk it out to
the dumpster. I clean the toilet regularly. True, I have to set myself up by flinging
comet all over it so that the next time I’m there I have to clean it in order
to pee, but so what. Not wanting harsh chemicals on my ass is valid motivation.
But I try not to bother with the non-essentials. I haven’t made a bed since the
last time my mother made me, and I was caught in an avalanche of books just
this morning. And now I’m kind of hoping that someday, that’s how I’ll die. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-2953075575059727552012-12-31T20:59:00.001-08:002013-01-02T21:35:35.202-08:00Me and My Succubus<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I used to be fun. I mean seriously,
I used to be so much fun. I went out every night. I wore something scanty and I
looked good in it. I never said “no,” to a drink, or a smoke, or a bump. But
now, it’s New Year’s Eve and I can’t even pretend that I’m considering going
out to do something. I don’t even care. And this is the first time I don’t give a
shit that I don’t care about New Year’s Eve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In past years I’ve tried to pretend
to myself and others that I wanted to do something. I’d show all the
appropriate enthusiasm while hedging about the specifics, and when the big night
came I’d conveniently remember early work. In those last minute and obviously
highly lamented cases it’s acceptable to stay home and have a few drinks and
watch the ball drop on tv. But the truth is, I’m asleep by then. I may even be
asleep when it drops in New York, but certainly I’m drooling happily into my
pillow by the time the countdown commences on the west coast. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m just really looking forward to
being home tonight. I plan to write a little, maybe watch some TV, specifically
this amazing show that Netflix suggested to me last night. It’s called “Lost
Girl” and it’s about a mystery solving succubus. I mean, come on. I just can’t
imagine there’s anything in a bar better than that. And I just got really
excited when I thought about the succubus show. The kind of excited I used to
get when I was going out. So I’ll be right here. Watching TV and swilling champagne,
because I still never say “no,” to a drink. But these days I always get to puke
in my own toilet. Which is nice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Happy New Year All!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-3604042116917284412012-12-27T19:57:00.000-08:002012-12-27T21:28:10.234-08:00Scars Are Sexy (But Not When You're Three)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I got my nephew a skateboard for
Christmas. That was the easy part. The question of knee and elbow pads was far
more controversial. The debate raged on for weeks. It was between the me that is so protective of
him that I want to knock down other kids at the park if they look at him wrong,
and the me that wants him to be a little tough, and a little rebellious, and knock
those kids down himself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s the me that says, “Scars
are sexy right? They’re cool badges of honor for shit you’ve done, and you get
to wear them right on your skin.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The other me counters with, “If he
hurts himself he could be so traumatized that he’ll never enjoy the skateboard
or anything else.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And then I’m all, “I don’t want him
to be hurt unnecessarily, but I don’t want him to be deprived of cool scar
stories. Plus scars give you something fun to talk about after the first time
you sleep with somebody.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I respond with a shocked, “I hope
you’re talking about his wife on his wedding night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Then we laugh because neither
myself, nor I are uptight about sex. Of course there’s a fine line between
protecting a kid and not letting them have any fun. To those parents that make
their kids wear knee pads and helmets to the park to play, you have gone too
far. Your kids are not going to be ok when they grow up. I’m sorry, but they’re
not. And they’re going to hate you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Not wanting him to grow up hating
me because he’s scar-less, I decided against the pads, but then there was the couch
incident. It is riotously fun to stand on the arm of the couch and flop onto
the cushions. I was alarmed when this game first began, but it’s been going on
for quite a while and he’s gotten really good at not killing himself with the
couch. So my guard was way down when he went off the arm of the couch backwards
and whacked the crap out of himself on both the table and the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was all very traumatic for both
of us and there were tears, and an icepack, and finally a cookie which brought
the wailing down to a whimper, and then he had to stop crying altogether so he
could demand more cookies. I felt like a terrible watcher and it became obvious
to both of me that he doesn’t need help collecting cool scars. We all have them,
no matter how much our parents and super-cool aunts tried to prevent it. So I
went ahead and got him the damn pads, but not the helmet, because real men can
take a head injury. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Of course, so far nothing has
convinced him to put them on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. As
of this post, neither of us has actually knocked another kid down. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-67523167848565686582012-12-18T14:26:00.002-08:002012-12-18T14:26:31.590-08:00No Christmas For You!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I just found out that Christmas is
cancelled. Not worldwide or you would have already heard about it. Not even the
whole day, just dinner. Christmas dinner at my grandparents’ house is cancelled.
Now we always knew that at some point the holiday dinners at the grandparents’
would come to an end because my grandparents are ninety, and Nana has been
threatening to die for the last fifteen years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But as of this posting, everyone is
fine, yet dinner is still cancelled. Of course there was the heart attack
incident at Thanksgiving, but I’m pretty sure the three year old is to blame
for that, and anyway, what are the chances it will happen again?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The word is that my uncle is tired
of cooking every holiday, although the only reason he cooks every holiday is
because we thought he liked it. It’s not like we locked him in the kitchen and
threw crackers and clam dip at his head if he tried to come out, although if I was
going to fling dip at anyone it would probably be the clam. But I can
understand, because I don’t enjoy cooking either, there’s so much preparation
and work and you have nothing to show for it by the end of the evening.
Maddening. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nana says she wants to go to a
special Latin mass, which ok, I’m not a big church-goer (in fact I don’t even
remember when I was last dragged screaming into one) but I like Latin, it’s my
favorite language that isn’t English, so I get it. But we could have dinner
after church. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Then there was the “too old”
argument. You’re <i>never</i> too old for
Christmas. It’s a bullshit reason. And a sad reason. Plus, I don’t like change.
I hear nobody likes change, but I feel like I don’t like it more than most. It’s
documented. There was further nonsense about it being time to start our own
traditions. Well, we already have a tradition and that tradition is going to
her house. (I refer mainly to Nana here, because although there are two
grandparents, she is the force.) The time to start a Nana-less tradition is
when there’s no more Nana. Which we hope won’t be for a very long time. And it will
be far more picturesque if when our new tradition starts we are lamenting Nana’s
recent passing rather than lamenting the fact that she doesn’t want us around.
We love you, Nana.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
If it’s really cancelled, then we’ll
eat dinner at my sister’s, which was always the back-up plan. Well, technically
the someday plan for when the grandparents have gone into that good night. Gently
I’m sure, because let’s face it, someone who’s been announcing their impending
death for the last decade or two is probably not the rage, rage type. I know,
and I do not approve, but what are you going to do? It’s not my fault that I’m insensitive
about this. I’m not generally so que sera sera about death, but like I said, we’ve
been hearing about it for a really long time and she’s worn me down. So I hope
you’re happy Nana, the world is now judging me for being callus, and it’s your
fault. It’s ok, she’ll never read this, and I’m positive she would laugh if she
did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Although, if Christmas is cancelled
because I blogged about Thanksgiving then maybe she wouldn’t. I know that’s a
tad self-aggrandizing, but that’s straight where my guilty mind went when I
heard. I figured it was either the blog or our drunken revelry, but we get
drunk every holiday, and the blogging is new. But the blogs were very endearing,
and I didn’t use names, so come on family. But I don’t have to blog. I will swear
off the Christmas day blog for you Nana. Tweets only, I swear. And I’m sure we
can tone down the revelry and drunkenness. I’m sure we’re all ok with that. And
by “we,” I mean all those that participate in the revelry, not the royal we
that I sometimes fall into when in the throes of mental discourse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I just wasn’t ready for a change
this year. But it will be wonderful I’m sure. My sister is also an amazing
cook, so the quality of the food won’t suffer, and on the bright side, no one
at her house will complain when I have to put my Tofurkey (leave it alone spell-check)
in the toaster oven. It’s possible I’ll be allowed to use a real oven, but I
won’t get my hopes up. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-72957376540628250552012-12-11T20:13:00.001-08:002013-01-12T09:38:33.094-08:00Thanks, But No Thanks<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I am not the most courteous person
in the world. I almost always remember to say “thank you,” but I’m terrible at
“please.” I think I feel like it’s implied. And it is. But I guess I should say
it anyway. Then of course, there are the
more blatant no-no’s like, “Fuck you, buddy!” or “Hi, how are you? You’re
getting fat.” Nana, I’m talking to you. (Because she says that, not because she’s
fat.) And what I just did, calling out my Nana just because she has a fondness
for keeping the family informed of their various states of heftiness? That was just
rude. Seriously, who raised me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But there are worse things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I just got off the phone with
customer service and there was this whole rigmarole about how am I, and the day
is so nice, and he is so fucking pleased to have this wonderful flower filled
opportunity to serve me; and it was horrible. And it only happens on the phone.
No one pulls that shit in person, because they would be killed. I don’t need to
be thanked for my question; I just need the fucking answer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Seriously, please don’t be that
nice to me. I know we’re not really friends, mostly because none of my friends
would ever utter such nonsense without sarcasm being involved. I know you don’t
really hope I have an amazing day. I don’t think you hope I have a bad day, I
just don’t think you care one way or the other. Honestly, I would much rather
you help me quickly than waste ten minutes of my life by gushing pleasantries which are not actually pleasant
because they’re pissing me off. Because this is not a personal relationship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That doesn’t mean that “please,”
and “thank you,” and “have a nice day,” are not acceptable to me, they are. But
that’s it. Just basic quick little courtesies, not time consuming, annoying,
could not possibly be sincere kinds of courtesies. I don’t mean to be an
asshole. But I only have so much time left. Quit stealing it from me. If you
really want me to have a nice day you’ll help me and hang up. Ok, you can say
goodbye and I will too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And that’s another thing:
reciprocity. When you say, “I’ve been so
happy to assist you today, it’s made my whole life and I actually just came in
my pants, is there anything else I can do for you because I’m greedy and I want
a second orgasm,” not only do I have to sit through you saying it, I have to
say, “Uh…Thanks you too,” or “me too,” or fucking something along the lines of “right
back atcha.” And it’s not true. I did not just come in my pants, because I am
annoyed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I don’t blame you. I’m not bitching
about you. And I know it’s not your fault. I know they make you say these
things. Not your fault. In fact, you
have my sympathy. As excruciating<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> as it is for me to hear all this bullshit on
the random occasions when I have to call the cable company, or the phone
company, or </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">eeeesh</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> the bank, you have
to say these things every day, over and over like you’re stuck in a time loop a
la Buffy or Mulder without the awesomeness of being Buffy or Mulder. You must
get to the point where you cringe every time you open your mouth. It’s shitty.
It’s all bureaucracy. Stupid rules thought up by people who have no idea what
it’s like in the trenches. So we all get screwed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But it’s going to be ok. Because
I’ve invented a code word. Whenever you hear me, or anyone else say the word,
you’ll know that you’re dealing with one of us, with someone who doesn’t expect
you to jump through flaming hoops of salutation, you’ll know that it’s ok to
just cut to the chase of what you do, what you really do, and that we will
appreciate you all the more for it. That word is, “hi.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Show this to your bosses. Forward
it to HR. Not the part about the code word; that’s only for the
revolutionaries. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-40585639945124486472012-12-05T20:59:00.001-08:002012-12-05T23:08:54.813-08:00...And I Feel Fine<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So this is it. Or not. Probably not.
Our last year, month, fortnight, whatever. I’m not sure of the final date
because I haven’t been paying attention, due to not caring, the not caring
being closely linked to not believing. But what if? If these are my (and everyone
else’s) last days I’m doing a lot of stuff I shouldn’t be bothering with, and
not enough good stuff. I just paid a bill. And rent. See what I mean? Totally
pathetic. This is not how I should be bringing in the end. Of course, if
January does roll around the pets will still expect to have a place to live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I can’t give up the
responsibilities just yet, but I can add more laugh-in-the-face-of-Armageddon
fun. Sex comes to mind, that whole passion in the face of death thing, but eh, I’m
thinking more along the lines of something I haven’t done before (goodbye white
wedding) like maybe skydiving. Of course the point is to make my brief remaining time
spectacular, not to hasten the end, so maybe not skydiving. I’d like to dance
with the devil in the pale moonlight, but mainly so I could <i>say</i> that I had if anyone ever asked,
which no one will be around to do. That leaves killing a man just to watch him
die. And if you’re thinking I got to that too quickly, let me tell you that I
got to it first, and then added the other options so I wouldn’t seem like a
psycho.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Besides, it wouldn’t be that mean.
It sounds mean of course, “Kill a man just to watch him die.” That’s horrible.
But maybe it’s only mean if he has a long life ahead of him. It might not be so
bad if I did it on the 31<sup>st</sup> right before the ball drops. I would like
to have it wrapped up before the New Year’s Eve countdown so I could enjoy some
champagne. It would probably be smart to start on the champagne a little early
just in case, and I would recommend that for your New Year’s kisses as well. A
little early, just a small cheat. So if I wait until the last possible moment,
he’d only be losing what? Twenty seconds? And obviously it would be someone who
completely deserves to lose twenty seconds. Some complete jerk, like maybe the
guy from <a href="http://iwenttopalmsprings.blogspot.com/2012/11/if-you-can-read-this.html">Ralphs</a>. No, I’m sorry guy from Ralphs, I forgave you. I forgot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead
of murder, I could do something heroically self sacrificing like give all my
stuff to charity and donate my organs to a needy stranger. Hopefully the stranger
that I choose needs a kidney, because I just went to all the trouble of
removing it, and I don’t think it’s all that easy to do yourself. But then if the
world doesn’t end, I’m stuck moving in with my mother, and I can’t even drink or
read because I gave away my liver and my books. I need a scenario in which no
one has to die or live with their mother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m going to have a drink and try
to come up with one. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-21993640469777054172012-12-01T21:25:00.002-08:002013-01-01T18:32:35.074-08:00It’s A Stingy Fucking Lifetime* <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Today is the beginning of 25
days of crappy Christmas movies and I’m so excited. I mentioned this to my
sister yesterday and she laughed at me, and gave me a look that may have
included an eye roll. I’ve forgiven her because she’s not usually so judgmental
and because I am such an amazing person. Even though she didn’t use her words,
I know what that eye roll meant. It meant that those movies are stupid and
poorly acted, they’re completely predictable and full of sad, fallen stars that
used to be on great shows we loved<i>. My
point exactly.</i> I mean, of course if you’re going to judge based solely on
quality of things like acting, script and directing, they’re crappy. So you
have to hold these movies to a lower standard, because sometimes low standards
are awesome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I bet in some of them there’s going
to be love, and in some there are going to be presents, and in some, there will
be the greatest gift of all, <i>love!</i>
That’s the magic of Christmas. Because for twenty-five days every year, I can
love humanity, find the cuteness in strange children, and when I see a man with
an axe, I can believe he’s getting ready to chop down a tree for his family not
preparing to dismember me. And yeah, there’s some potential for the unfortunate
whenever there’s a strange man with an axe, but again, magic of Christmas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m only mildly ashamed to say that
I let out an involuntary scream of joy when I came across <i>The Consultant,</i> starring David Hasselhoff as, “A consultant who
helps a workaholic mother survive the holidays.” There’s also, <i>Finding Mrs. Claus</i> in which, “Santa
Claus travels to Las Vegas to help a little girl and her mother.” And who’s in
this? Mira Sorvino. I didn’t know she had fallen on hard times, but she has
Christmas movies to keep her going. That’s amazing. But if you continue to
scoff at the quality of the actors I will point out the existence of <i>The Christmas Blessing,</i> starring Neil
Patrick Harris, and <i>The Christmas Hope,</i>
starring Madeline Stowe. There’s an orphan in that one, and you really can’t
top a Christmas orphan. Unless it’s with Natalie Wood in <i>Miracle on 34<sup>th</sup> Street.</i> She was only half an orphan and
it is not a crappy Christmas movie, it is the best Christmas movie ever, the
original, not the remakes which are crappy in a crappy way, not a good way, and
anyone who participated in those should be ashamed. Santa hates you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Today I watched <i>The Christmas Caper,</i> because that was
obviously the best way to kick off December and optimize my Christmas joy. It
has Shannen Dougherty as a cat burglar who has to hide out with her family for
Christmas. And there’s a Christmas decorating montage in which someone falls
off a stepladder into someone else’s arms, and I’m so happy when I watch that I
could pee myself, but I don’t because I have that kind of control. For some
reason, this one is not on Lifetime, and I bet someone got fired over that. But
I have it on dvd. Obviously. And I
fucking love it; the movie not the firing, although that was deserved. Anyway, I
own it and I watch it at least twice every year. Because you know what? I’m
just completely fascinated by Shannen Dougherty for no defensible reason. I’m
not going to apologize. I feel bad inside, but it’s not hurting anyone else.
Not really. So, ok. Not all the movies are actually on Lifetime. But that’s ok.
I’m not letting technicalities ruin the spirit of crappy Christmas movies. And
that’s what matters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And sometimes when the movies are
not so great, when they are so spectacularly bad that I could never make it
through if I was paying attention, I turn down the volume and try to figure out
how to work Pinterest. Don’t follow me there until I get my shit together. I’ll
let you know. Seriously, don’t look it’s embarrassing. And no, this is not
reverse psychology. Leave that shit alone! Please. In case you’re curious, this post was written
under the influence of <i>Recipe for a
Perfect Christmas, </i>which I would call a seven on the special standards
scale, and that’s still enough to make me cry at the end, and only partly
because Christine Baranski deserves better. Merry Christmas to me, and to you,
and to all. Goodnight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
P.S. I’ve noticed that the movies
are only on the weekends and not actually for an entire 25 days, but there are
still like nine movies a week so I get to watch one every day anyway. I think
it was different last year, but I can’t prove it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
* I really wanted to call this post, <i>It’s a Wonderful Lifetime, </i>but since I didn’t think of that until I saw it (on Lifetime) there was just no way to avoid the fact that it would have been plagiarism, or copyright infringement, or something. So Fine. Stingy fucking Lifetime.**</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
** Sorry Lifetime. I think it's obvious that I secretly fucking love you. Dammit.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-73601610085430890142012-11-28T18:11:00.000-08:002012-11-28T20:53:10.728-08:00This Is Gross. You Were Warned.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJKwaF_A58CZUY81-o56-Cj0kjBtbgHAE2sorIiOiV76Dxn6mLl0MoEDJ-ppE-ItPqFAl_vzl6VLlTdaKcaGMB_SqRrxpp8o9z-D8Fuz5WZoN8o6bOCArzhMtzj3Khoo1JNWYAAyw-H8/s1600/556119_530909900254890_1085343592_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJKwaF_A58CZUY81-o56-Cj0kjBtbgHAE2sorIiOiV76Dxn6mLl0MoEDJ-ppE-ItPqFAl_vzl6VLlTdaKcaGMB_SqRrxpp8o9z-D8Fuz5WZoN8o6bOCArzhMtzj3Khoo1JNWYAAyw-H8/s200/556119_530909900254890_1085343592_n.jpg" width="148" /></a><br />
This is Napoleon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days ago Napoleon stole a can of peanuts and ate
almost the whole thing, and those peanuts are still in my life, and in fact may have caused me to expose myself to my neighbors. Possibly even the neighbor
from the standoff/shootout and I don’t want to have to deal with him looking at
me like I’m the crazy one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
reason the peanuts are still around is because I didn’t bother to pick up the
peanut poop because I was busy taking pictures of it, and also I’ve been lax
about taking a bag when we’re just going out to the dog run behind the
building, because maintenance scoops it. But only every so often. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So he
ate the peanuts, he pooped the peanuts, and the peanuts are still there; and
now he wants to eat the peanuts again. He tried to eat the peanuts last night
and I managed to shoo him away, luckily he didn’t realize there were peanuts
until everyone was pretty much ready to go. But this morning, he remembered. He
was on a mission to re-eat the peanuts. But I am smarter than my poopy-peanut
eating dog (I thought), and I took a bag to scoop those piles up out of eating
range. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So he’s
trying to eat the peanuts and I’m trying to bag them up, but it’s not working
that well because they’re not a cohesive unit like most piles of poop, and they’re
crumbling apart into individual peanuts every time I grab a pile. This is bad
for me, but Napoleon is pleased because even when I get to a pile first, there
are inevitably stray peanuts left for him. Now I’m wondering if his plan is to
keep eating the peanuts forever, and I’ll forever be trying to snatch the
peanuts before he can eat them, but he’ll just keep pooping more and eating
those, and this is not how I want to spend eternity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Also, I’m not wearing any underwear because I haven’t
showered yet, and I just threw something on to walk the dogs, but it was the
wrong something. It’s a little dress that’s really a cover up which looks
perfectly respectable (seriously, it comes to my knees), as long as I don’t have
to squat down, or bend over without my underwear. Unfortunately, I am doing all
of these things quickly and repeatedly, and once I actually do a bit of a duck
walk because there are two piles very close together and I’m all caught up in the
heat of the moment and yes I am victorious, unless you consider shit for
dignity a poor trade.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So I’m racing from pile to pile, almost always
a step behind (which is annoying because Napoleon’s legs are like three inches
long), and I really want to get the peanuts before he eats any more of them,
because they’re poop peanuts now. I mean they look fine. They look exactly like
they did before they went in the first time, except now with a little something
extra, like maybe they’re wrapped in nougat, but it’s not nougat. It occurs to
me to try to bury the piles, but as soon as I’ve buried one (with my foot
because of course I’m not prepared with a shovel), I realize that if I bury the
poop peanuts they will never be picked up and I will only be creating a fun and
rewarding version of hide and seek for Napoleon. Thankfully, the other dogs
have no interest in the peanuts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Maybe this is all karma, from not picking up
the poop in the first place. Maybe it was all nice and gooey and sticking together
when it first came out and I would have picked it up in one fell, panty-wearing
swoop without exposing anything to the neighbors. I get maybe half the peanuts
before giving up, collecting the dogs (Napoleon has to practically be dragged
away from the goodies), and slinking back upstairs. So yeah, it’s possible that
Napoleon will be eating the same can of peanuts forever. It’s possible that my
neighbors have a new familiarity with my junk. (Is it still junk if it’s not a
penis?) I don’t know. However, it’s also possible that right now some other dog
is down there discovering the peanuts, and that those damned indestructible
legumes are on their way into someone else’s life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Here’s the picture in case you’re
wondering if they really still look intact. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOW-O-qEKV0GjVMkHtcjC-gML5JhJvi1FMjBUX6p5MXlzFh4RpB8XoK1Rde9TI5j8maOVfzaVWNzsuV-V9Cd2k-bRmJbHfoqJmGm3aY7v4TUTnTD-XRtws8zB9KaMg9cyIvQg5-_Iy3z0/s1600/20385_530909683588245_174251457_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOW-O-qEKV0GjVMkHtcjC-gML5JhJvi1FMjBUX6p5MXlzFh4RpB8XoK1Rde9TI5j8maOVfzaVWNzsuV-V9Cd2k-bRmJbHfoqJmGm3aY7v4TUTnTD-XRtws8zB9KaMg9cyIvQg5-_Iy3z0/s320/20385_530909683588245_174251457_n.jpg" width="236" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I tweeted this picture when it
first happened because I thought that was going to be the end of it, and it was
pointed out to me at the time that this was kind of gross. Implied rather,
because my friend who brought up the gross factor probably didn’t want to hurt
my feelings by pointing out how deranged I am to be posting pictures of my dog’s
poop, although it’s barely poop it’s mostly just gently used peanuts. Which is
ok. </div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942659320124514877.post-23811156217848238872012-11-23T11:09:00.001-08:002012-11-23T11:09:47.401-08:00Speaking Of Hell...Highlights I Didn't Predict<div class="MsoNormal">
4:36 An argument
breaks out over where the chairs should be placed around the table. The
conflict is particularly heated over a certain corner. We have a volunteer for
the crappy seat and violence is averted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:40 This may be
worse than usual. We think the mashed potatoes have been flung into the sink,
but perhaps we were mistaken. At least I hope so, because later we are served mashed
potatoes. Ben still hasn’t arrived, and dinner is in twenty minutes. This
probably won’t go over well after all the fighting that took place over seating.
I’m told that this is a better arrangement than previous years, but I can’t help
but notice that this is the first time there has been this much conflict over
where chairs should go. Although there’s always some.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:41 I don’t
know why my mom keeps addressing us as ladies and gentlemen, because we’re not.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:58 I’ve never
had to grab my crotch so many times for so innocent a reason.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5:09 Ok, I
totally just spit on the table to clean it because it was sticky, but I totally
had permission from my sister, and she’s really sane. And it was the patio
table not the dining room table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5:23 There’s a
mosquito in my wine. I announce a rescue, and am told I may be bitten. Someone
else thinks there’s no hope. He’s wiggling his little wing when I fish him out.
The rest of him is kind of plastered to my finger because he’s soaked in wine. At
the other end of the table there is sudden discussion of drinking flies that
end up in the milk. The mosquito is now wiggling two parts. He’s probably
anxious to get away from these insect swilling madmen. I’m trying to dry him so
he can fly away. People are sighing at me, because I’m holding up dinner and
most of the family thinks I’m insane for wasting time on a mosquito. Also, many
of them think he’s diseased, but that’s just an unfortunate prejudice. Now they
are listing mosquito diseases. I tell them I’m ashamed. The three year old
announces he is done, although most of the family are still attempting to say
grace. We manage to free the mosquito from my finger and take him outside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5:26 Someone can’t
find their dinner roll, the one that is on their plate, and I am told that this
should not end up in my blog. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:01 Nana is
sleeping in her chair in front of the oven.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:54 I’m forced
under the table by my mother, and not allowed out. My sister joins me in
solidarity. Something about latches and table leaves. When people start shoving
the table back together, it’s like we’re in the trash compactor scene from Star
Wars. We scream and thrash like we’re being crushed, and are soon dragged out
by our ankles.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11392026958783309057noreply@blogger.com1