Monday, November 30, 2009
And then…well…some stuff happened. Some information went around that I wasn’t quite ready to share with the world, but hey, isn’t life just one giant game of Telephone, anyway?
I’ll extrapolate on this in a minute, but first, allow me to refer to this post. It was a seemingly benign and short-lived inspiration. But it was a pivotal post for me, and it marks the day when I decided to take my life by the proverbial horns and try my damndest to make it a happier one.
So today, despite my intention to delay the sharing of certain knowledge with HR until Friday, it would appear that I officially put in my three weeks’ notice.
In other words, I quit this bitch.
That’s right folks.
I quit my job.
Because, let’s face it: I wasn’t cut out for the corporate world.
I wasn’t cut out to while away my hours in a cubicle, making small talk with people I hate and attending pointless meetings and trying to be all “Rah, Rah, Go Team” when on the inside, all I wanted to do was stab someone.
And the business-casual dress code?
This girl was never meant to prance around in a pair of slacks and smart, sensible loafers.
End of story.
So I’m quitting my job to go freelance and try to make some sort of life for myself wherein I can work from home, make my own hours, and spend more time living and less time staring at the clock, which I have been doing since about the moment I graduate from college.
Of course, as with any big life-changing decision, there is potential for failure of epic proportions. And I’m not going to lie, this possibility scares the ever-loving crap out of me. And to make matters worse, not only am I gambling with MY life; now that I’m married, I’m gambling with OUR lives.
Somebody hand me a diaper, because I am about to seriously poop my pants.
But what’s that saying about how it’s better to try and fail than live with a bunch of regret? Or is it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? Or beer before liquor, never been sicker? Hang in there?
Something you read on those posters that show tranquil scenes of waterfalls or a kitten hanging to a branch, with words underneath that are supposed to make me want to go out and achieve shit.
All I know is that, as of December 18th, I’ll no longer be employed.
And this could be either the best or the worst decision of my life.
…well, except for that whole “first marriage” thing, but you know what I’m talking about…
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
So, I punched myself in the face the other day.
I was trying to uncork a bottle of wine so my friend Jamie and I could drink the shit out of it.
It’s kinda our thing.
So I go to open it with the corkscrew and Jamie’s all, “you guys don’t have a fancier bottle opener than that?” And yeah, I guess that is a little weird considering how Brian is all but a certified wine expert and I’m all but a certified wine drinker (Wino is what they used to call them, I believe, but I do it much classier in that I always drink FROM THE GLASS and never FROM THE BOTTLE, plus, I try to wear jewelry when doing so).
So I say something about the art of opening a bottle of wine being a timeless tradition…yadda yadda yadda…and DESPITE the fact that I used to waitress in a fancy restaurant and had to open about a thousand bottles of wine a night, I promptly punch myself in the face trying to pry the last quarter-inch of the cork out of the top.
Like, put-a-bag-of-frozen-peas-on-your-face-and-tell-people-you-fell-down-the-stairs-so-he-doesn’t-beat-you-again punch in the face.
And then Brian walks in and is like, “Oh, that’s just great. Just over a month married and they’re already going to open an investigation to determine whether or not I beat you.”
And I was all, “Puh-leeze, like you would really be able to beat me. I’d drop you like a sack of potatoes, sucka,” at which point I referred to the Great Wedgie Incident of 2008, and the pair of ripped boxers that will forever go down in infamy.
But really, when you think about it, isn’t that some sort metaphor for life? Like, everybody is running around looking for the cause of things, like trying to hold the car manufacturers responsible for global warming, when really, it’s just people being idiots and punching themselves in the face, except in this case, “punching themselves in the face,” is a metaphor for “ruining the only inhabitable planet in the neighborhood.”
That’s so ghetto
So there you have it. One woman punches herself in the face while trying to get drunk on a Sunday afternoon, and suddenly, we’ve all learned a valuable lesson about saving the environment.
In other news, I got this sweet award from Kim over at Perfectly Cursed Life, which is a great blog, but I have a hard time reading it at work, because sometimes the internet filter won’t let me on it because it says it’s porn, which is pretty ridiculous, but then again, so is the concept of trying to block me from surfing the web at work.
I’m supposed to give this award to other people, but to be honest, I’m feeling pretty lazy today so I think I’ll kind of half-ass it and give this award to everyone.
If you’re reading this blog right now, and you have a blog of your own, then you, my dear friend, just won yourself an award.
But, seriously, I’m way grateful that there are so many bloggers out there. No joke. I’m truly thrilled that blogging has become this sort of cult phenomenon, because I’ve met so many cool people and had so many laughs and killed so many hours at work (oops, did I say that out loud? I meant LUNCH hours) reading your blogs, I can’t even tell you.
Thanks to each and every one of you for exercising your right to complain about your latest restaurant experince and recall the latest funny thing your kid did on a public forum. My life wouldn’t be the same without you guys.
And on that note, I hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday full of family and friends and enough turkey to sink the Titanic. This year, may your plates, glasses, and hearts be full.
Just be careful opening those bottles of wine...
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
There is a mentality out there which I find not only to be inaccurate, but also highly offensive.
I call it the “Any Idiot Can Write” mentality and you writers out there, you know exactly what I'm talking about.
I’m referring to the mindset that writing is not a necessarily a talent, but an inevitable off-shoot from some other skill set. For example (and I am in no way, shape, or form referring to my job here), people who practice medicine should inherently be able to write about the practice of medicine, just as a mechanic should be able to write about car engines and a Wall Street executive should be able to write about the Dow Jones.
As a professional writer, I find this ideology to be not only ignorant but highly patronizing and insulting to those who have spent years honing their capacity to express themselves by way of the written word. Despite what these bandwagoneers would have you believe, writing is not some unavoidable conclusion drawn from the ability to speak. Believing that anyone who can speak can also write is akin to believing that anyone who can speak can also sing. If one can argue that singing requires vocalization above and beyond the extent of day-to-day communication, than allow me to debate that writing requires expression above and beyond the extent of day-to-day communication.
A recent UCLA study concluded that that up to 93 percent of communication effectiveness is determined by nonverbal cues. Essentially, what was found in the study is that the vast majority of our communicative efforts are focused on gestures, facial expressions, and body language; a measly 7 percent of what we are trying to communicate is accomplished through vocalization and the use of language.
If it is the case that spoken words are indeed only a small aspect of our overall ability to communicate effectively, is it any wonder, then, that communication through written words can be so easily misinterpreted? To communicate as successfully through writing as through speech, words (and to a lesser degree, punctuation) must be utilized to compensate for what is not being stated through nonverbal cues. This is achieved through vocabulary; through nuance; through flow and rhythm that, when crafted satisfactorily, can mimic the environment of dialogue in the flesh.
So why is it that writing is often approached as some base-level skill analogous with walking or eating? Why is it that writing is frequently viewed as the fall-back plan; the ability to be relied upon when all other skill sets fail? Since when has writing become the “worst-case scenario” strategy for a person who has no other talent with which to succeed in life?
And the art of writing? The ability to use words to not only communicate, but to depict images and conjure sensations? It is indeed a sad day when any given fool, without a lick of raw talent or creative experience, believes he or she can “write a novel” as if it were enough to plunk common adjectives down on a piece of paper and wait for the royalties to roll in. “How hard can it be?” they say, as if art were merely paint splashed on haphazardly on canvas.
It is with these individuals that I have a proverbial “bone to pick.” Not with those who strive for improvement or write out of sheer joy. But those who view writing - not as an art form or even a natural gift - but a right to greatness as intrinsic as the ability to breathe. Those people who read the words and fail to see the expertise that goes into their selection. Those people who truly believe that “any idiot can write.”
If you by chance find yourself inspired to take pen to ink (or finger to keyboard, as it were), by all means, do so. Never would I dream of discouraging people of any ability to find solace through writing, as this practice can be liberating, even therapeutic. And if you never feel the urge to write, I can openly accept that as well. Not everyone desires to write, just as not everyone desires to take brush to canvas.
Nor do I claim to be a great writer. My skills are mediocre, at best, but hard-earned none the less and loved fiercely for the comfort that they offer. But whether you are an aspiring beginner or the next great writer of our time, never, for an instant, take for granted the effort and ingenuity that is required to construct well-written piece. Always respect writing for the art that it is, for to do any less is indeed a disservice to all of the great writers who have moved mountains and molded generations to come from behind a humble desktop.
Monday, November 23, 2009
AND I have to spend my lunch break hitting up AllRecipes.com like it's my job and try to figure out how I'm going to pull off Thanksgiving, considering the fact that I'm about as domestic as Chuck Norris.
So I'm gonna half-ass it and post something that my mother forwarded to me (which is reason number 9389054624020649 why she is an awesome lady).
In fact, I'm mad jealous that I didn't write it myself (Can I say "mad"? Are the kids still using this term these days?).
Regardless, allow me to share in the laughter brought to you by this guy.
IT'S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS.
BY COLIN NISSAN
- - - --->
I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.
I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I'm going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, "Aren't those gourds straining your neck?" And I'm just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, "It's fall, fuckfaces. You're either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you're not."
Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff'rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn't it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they're both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that's upsetting, but I'm not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.
The next thing I'm going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I'm going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it's not summer, it's not winter, and it's not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it's fall, fuckers.
Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you're going to fucking love my house. Just look where you're walking or you'll get KO'd by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you're going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.
For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.
Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!
I couldn't have said it better myself.
Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!
Friday, November 20, 2009
And then the next month you’re all “Eeh. I’m over it. But you know what’s kick-ass? Hummus.”
That’s kind of what’s going on with me lately.
Like, last month I was a seriously funny mother fucker, if I do say so myself. Who could forget about the breakdancing post? Or the homage to Shark Week ? (which I just re-read and OMFG I think I was on crack that day. Feel free to click on that link, but don't expect to respect me in the morning)
But ya see what I mean? I was fucking riot.
And this month?
…yeah…not feeling so funny.
I mean, I’ve been trying to be funny, yanno? But I’ve only been moderately successful. This month, I’m the Billy Baldwin of comedic blogging.
And that’s just a shame.
So I figure, why force myself to be funny if I’m just not feeling it? What’s the worst that can happen? Lose a reader? Lose 20 readers?!?
Yeah, that could definitely happen.
But I’d rather write quality blogs of a different variety than write sub-quality blogs of the same nature.
Did that make sense to anyone? Because it barely made sense to me.
Bottom line is, when I start to feel funny again, I’ll start to write funny blogs again. Trust me, It always comes back. I’ll have a crazy weekend and a Dunkin’ Donuts crack-coffee and suddenly I’m fucking Richard Pryor except for the fact that I’m white and don’t really look good with a ‘stache.
(See? That was a little funny. It could be coming back already!)
But until then, I’ll be writing about whatever the hell I end up writing about. Probably all artsy-fartsy-like, on account of the fact that I’m rocking and rolling with this novel I'm trying to write. I’m ALL ABOUT the metaphors lately, so this is likely to get annoying.
My blogs could become a cheese grater raking across your skin.
(Jesus, should I just start apologizing now?)
But in the end, I guess I just need to be true to myself. Will I lose some readers? Probably. But better to lose them because I changed styles rather than because my failed attempts at comedy were just too painful to read.
I mean, being the Billy Baldwin of comedic blogging is one thing, but to be reduced to the Kathy Griffin of comedic blogging?
Well, then I’d just have to shoot myself.
Happy Friday, folks!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I love my husband.
And this isn’t even going to be followed by a BUT…
I just really, really love that dude.
I woke up this morning ready to punch babies. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it was a gray, drizzly morning, or maybe it’s because I had to face yet another day of soul-sucking desk work, or maybe it’s because Milo was stretched out across the bed snoring and I was pushed to the edge of the mattress with a square of blanket that barely covered my shoulder and two paws in my back.
That dog can take up more space than you would believe
So after I hit snooze for the eleventh time and shoved Milo off of me (much to his protest) and sit up and realized that I don’t have a thing to wear to work today, I'm already fixing to become an alcoholic. I was just about ready to crawl back in bed, when I realized that Milo had taken the brief opportunity to curl up on the warm spot I left when I sat up. Shit outta luck.
Cold dreary morning + having to go to work + dog paws crushing spine = irrepressible desire to punch myself in the face repeatedly until I knock myself out.
But instead, I got dressed in a kind of ugly sweater (with a hole in the armpit) and a pair of pants that kind of don’t fit as great as they used to since I got a life and stopped going to the gym 6 days a week.
So for those of you who are just joining us, here’s this morning’s equation:
Cold dreary morning + having to go to work + dog paws crushing spine = irrepressible desire to punch myself in the face repeatedly until I knock myself out.
Cold dreary morning + having to go to work + dog paws crushing spine +ugly top + pants that are a bit too tight = X
Now, I’m no mathematician (clearly), but I’m assuming that X probably equals “would rather dip myself in honey and play volleyball with a bees’ nest than continue forward with this day”
So I, in my ugly, holey sweater and pants that dig into my tummy, drag Milo and Jericho out of the bedroom so they can go out and use the bathroom.
What I think is going to happen: Milo and Jericho walk onto the lawn, poop and pee, and come skipping back into the house.
What actually happens: Milo takes off like a bat out of hell trying to chase squirrels while Jericho pees on my euonymous bush and takes a dump in the middle of the driveway. Milo attacks Jericho mid-dump and they start running around like crazy on my driveway, getting dangerously close to the busy road in front of my house. I scream at them both and start chasing them down until they both make a mad dash for the front door. I finally catch up with them to let them in. I open the door and Jericho goes in, but Milo runs off with that “have to poop” face. 5 minutes later he’s still pushing out the latest toy that he’s ingested and I’m going be officially late for work.
Once everybody is inside and accounted for (except for that one toy, which is lying in a pile of shit in the yard), I stomp to the bathroom to finish getting ready for work.
*Stomp Stomp Stomp (mutter grrrrr “fucking dogs” grumble)
There is a card.
Resting against the mirror, with my name on the front of it.
And suddenly, a sunbeam shoots through the clouds…
My honey left me a card this morning.
For NO REASON WHATSOEVER other than to remind me that he loves me.
And the best part? Was what he wrote on the inside…
Something along the lines of "I love you and I’m so happy to be married to you…blah blah blah." But the best line was this:
I will always be there for you through the good time and the bad times. Also, the Milo times.
Did ya catch that last part?
…the Milo times
Dude, I have the best freaking husband in the world…
Not to mention a dog who has redefined the definition of a bad time.
So I guess you could say that I was having a "Milo time" this morning. Until I read that card.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love my husband.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
And it’s getting me a little wild.
I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that as an adolescent, I lived in constant terror of getting into a fight (and we all know that teenage girlfights are the worst, right Travis?). Nevermind that I was a quiet, goofy-looking quasi nerd who sang in choir and took AP Biology and never bothered anybody. For some reason, I was convinced that some girl was going to hear from some other girl about me hitting on her boyfriend and go all Maury on my ass. Like, with shrieking and hair pulling and nail scratching and all that jazz.
Thing is, now that I’m an adult, I kind of wish it would have happened. Because once you turn 18, there are consequences and repercussions to those types of things.
Like jail, instead of detention.
And fines, instead of being marched down the street to the offender’s house to apologize.
I kind of feel like I had my chance and I blew it. Nowadays, I’d willingly get into a fight with the first woman who swerved her SUV into my lane, if it weren’t for all those pesky legal ramifications.
At the next light I'd be all, "Yo, whatchu do that for bitch"
And she'd be all, "I'm sorry, what?"
And I'd be all, "Why you be up in my lane, ho?"
And she'd be all, "I don't know what you're talking about."
And I'd be all, "Get out the car, skank, cause I'm gonna kick yo' ass"
And she'd be all, "I'm calling the police."
And maybe I'd get in a good right hook, which would be totally sweet, but at the end of the day we all know that I'd be sitting in a jail cell wondering how I was going to let work know that I wouldn't be in tomorrow.
Hi [manager]? This is Lily. I wanted to call to tell you that I'm not going to be in today. It's nothing serious - I just have some things that need to take care of. Oh, and if the police show up and start asking questions, just tell them that I have an identical twin. I'll explain later. Thanks!
Still, you know what?
If I ever was in a fight? I’d win, hands down.
Because I am one strong mother-effer.
Don’t let my size fool you. I may be five-foot-five, 130 pounds (okay, 135, but in my defense, I’ve been too busy to work out lately), but I’m jacked.
And I’ve been known to fight dirty. (never doubt – I WILL punch you in your babymaker. Just ask my sister).
So here I am, itching for a fight and absolutely loathing my corporate job, and what do I do? I go and read Fight Club.
Like an ass.
And you think I was disgruntled and dissatisfied before?!?
Well let me tell you.
I am not…I repeat….I am NOT my fucking khakis.
*insert tribal yell here*
I guess I get like this once in a while.
All “anti-establishment” and “rebel without a cause” and “space monkey” now and again.
It might have something to do with my hormones. Or the fact that I was married to a crazy conspiracy theorist. Or the fact that I really do hate khakis (they make my butt look big).
But whatever the reason, I’m daydreaming about blowing up hummers and getting into fistfights and peeing in rich peoples’ soup and generally wreaking havoc on society.
[sidenote: I’m also daydreaming about doing naughty things to Brad Pitt in his Tyler Durden days, before he got all puffy and grew that ridiculous beard. YUM]
So what do I do now with all this pent-up angst? Shall I super-glue a quarter to the floor? Tamper with the soap dispenser in the ladies’ room? Take a bite out of someone’s lunch?
As a responsible, working adult, my options are severely limited. But let it be known that given the right circumstances, I would totally..TOTALLY... be down for some serious mayhem.
Anybody wanna fight?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Or three (give or take).
And here we are.
It's a Tuesday night and I'm three (give or take) glasses deep and I'm thinking, "Why not write a fucking blog?" Because, yanno, I'm on the computer ALL DAY LONG, so the natural thing would be for me to log in on my time off and write.
You guys...I think I might have a problem.
Hello, my name is Lily and I'm addicted to staring at computer screens.
Or maybe I just like to blog, and hell-ooo, I think blogging is a preferable way to spend one's time as compared to, say, playing Rollercoaster Tycoon.
Because I definitely did not just spend the last two hours playing Rollercoaster Tycoon.
Some shit went down tonight. Between certain individuals and me, but found out through a third party.
And I now have a knot in my stomach and am worrying about this ridiculous drama.
If I was in highschool right now, I'd throw myself on my bed and call my best friend and eat a pint of ice cream and write sad, moody poetry.
But I'm not in highschool, my bed is covered with laundry that needs folding, my best friend is sleeping on account that she has to work tomorrow, ice cream will make me fat, and poetry ain't my gig no mo'.
So I blog.
And drink wine.
And try to be exostential and shit, because I'm an adult.
This drama will likely be last weeks' news soon enough.
But for tonight, I'm all worked up.
Let's not forget about that. (it's the best part)
Oh, you guys...
I've been having a rough go of things.
I know it's kind of hard to tell, what with the retarded posts and goofiness and general merriment that my blog is known for. But it's true.
I've been finding myself in unfamiliar territory in several very large aspects of my life.
So I'm kind of wobbly, like a table with three legs, or a hooker with a broken stiletto (beause that image is not only way funnier, it's also more appropriate).
Sometimes I wish I could just pour my heart and soul out on this blog. To let loose and stop trying to be so god-damn entertaining and just be ME, yanno?
But this thing - this blog - has morphed into something else. And as grateful I am for it, sometimes it's not quite enough.
But it's all I have right now, so it'll have to do.
I'll continue with the song and dance because honestly, 9 times out of 10, it makes me feel better. But let it be said for the record that despite what I'd have you believe, there is more of me behind the curtain, and some seriously heavy shit weighing me down at times.
It's definitely dragging me down a bit.
Okay, I'm flagged. Three glasses (give or take) and five paragraphs later, I think I've shared enough for one evening.
Thanks for listening.
It means more to me than you'll ever know...
You guys fucking rock.
Once again, I’ve been awarded with a couple of very fine awards, and because of this, I’m happier than a pig in shit (or milo, unsupervised, with no muzzle on).
I got this beaut from Adrienzgirl over at Think Tank Momma.
And really, I couldn’t think of a more accurate award. I AM bad-ass. And how do I know this? Because I was sitting in the tub on Sunday night and I remember thinking to myself, “It takes a special kind of woman to read the SAS Survival Guide while taking a bubble bath.”
I’m not even making this up.
So thanks to Adrienzgirl for this bad-ass award. From one bad-ass to another, I salute you (in my pants).
I was also the recipient of this lovely little gem from Travis over at I Like To Fish.
Am I a scribbler?
Perhaps, before everything went all techno and we used to use things like pencils and paper. Jesus, you guys, remember pencils? Hand-writing essays? Having to trek to the god-damn library on a Tuesday night to research a report because there was no such thing as the internet?!?!
Aaahh, those were the days. But you know what? Scribbler or not, I’ll take it, ‘cause mamma likes her awards.
And as a thanks for receiving these two wonderful awards, I’m going to really put myself out on a limb for you guys.
Like, seriously out of my comfort zone.
Although I’m not officially participating in NaNoWriMo, (underachiever, anyone?) I fancy myself a writer with loftier aims than educating physicians on proper ways to treat hospital-associated diarrhea
(again, I’m not making this up, people. This is my life)
So I’ve been ever so slowly working on a novel, which I’m finding that A) I’m not suited for, because my writing style changes drastically from day to day, and it reads like the author has multiple personality syndrome, and B) I’m my own worst critic, because I’ve probably scrapped three times what I’ve kept.
Below is one short excerpt from my book. Go ahead and read it, but I warn you, I’m sensitive as shit about it, so if you try to make a joke about it, I’ll probably cry.
And then hunt you down.
You know that saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”
Yeah, that kind of applies here.
Telling me that a third grader can write better than me?
Not okay (and probably hazardous to your health).
Are we all clear on the rules?
When she steps over the doorframe, the air hits her face like a cold, wet blanket. It seeps past her collar and wraps itself around her legs and slings itself under her nose so that each breath is icy and smothering. It makes her eyes water and her head ring and she instantly regrets the decision to leave the reassurance of her bedroom.
It has become winter overnight. Or, what seems like overnight in the timeless chasm of her grief. When she buried her husband, it had been a brilliant, dazzling autumn day, much as it had been on the day he collapsed. The sky had been a bare, raw shade of indigo, and the leaves, freshly liberated from their limbed captors, scurried on the pavement ahead of crisp breezes. The weather had tormented her, joyous and playful when she was suffering so wretchedly. She was indignant; outraged at the lack of empathy displayed by nature. The affront seemed intentional, and she seethed with insult. Now, it is as if the entire earth has been stripped of its life by the rain that taps persistently on the windows and renders the ground spongy under foot. Her porch is strewn with dead leaves, most from the maple that guards the front walk, but others—aspen, birch, oak—that were at one point ensnared by the rough wood while riding the wind. They lend the impression of a porch ill used and long forgotten, of silence beyond the windows, and of mourning deep within.
The tandem wooden rocking chairs balance as they always did, about three feet apart, and tilted slightly towards each other, like lovers indulging in a scandalous secret, afraid that others might hear of their desires and indiscretions. They had sat in these chairs often on gentle summer nights, rocking mechanically, sometimes full of conversation, other times barely speaking. These chairs have born witness to their most fanatical dreams and ridiculous banter, their loving, casual caresses and their heated lively debates, ever pitching, forward and back, warming placidly to their rear ends and shoulder blades.
Sitting in these chairs, one is afforded a view the front yard. Beyond the porch rail, an expanse of tentative, spotty lawn descends gradually to the little-used street, potholed and all but forgotten by the township, save for thrice-weekly deliveries from the mailman. Their drive is little more than two parallel ditches that tend to puddle in low spots and threaten to steal the traction of tires during rainy spells. The truck sits impassively, barely used since that day, serenely enduring the rain that beats incessantly on its pocked and dented frame. Dark slate hints at a walking path towards the front porch. It is losing a battle against the roots of the maple, and is thrust at awkward angles where the root system is expanding to meet the nutritional demands of a flourishing tree. The steps of the porch are worn and sag a little more each year. One is held aloft on a brick; a yet unfinished project.
It is in one of those battered rocking chairs that she now lowers herself, carefully guarded, as if the chair might bow under her weight. Without thinking, she begins to rock. The chill is invasive and she wraps her arms around herself, rubs her shoulders half-heartedly, and wishes she had brought out a blanket. A brown leaf scratches across the boards in front of her foot, and instinctively she reaches out a toe and crushes it against the wood grain, the skeleton crunching satisfyingly against the planks.
She tries to remember the last time they had sat in these chairs together. Her brain is slow to ignite, but she finally unearths a time, earlier in the season, when the air was still soft and kind, where they had shared a glass—a bottle, in the end—of cheap wine and talked about the varied, inconsequential frustrations of his job. He was having a hard time keeping his men to task; wondered if others in his field dealt with the same level of incompetence that he endured day in and day out. He had been bristled and agitated when he first sat, rocking hard and bitter until the first glass blunted his sharpest edges. By the time they stumbled to bed, he was pliable as a kitten. She had listened, sympathized, even offered a quick suggestion or two as he hashed through the day’s minutia. That night, like so many nights, she was his confidant. She was his compass. And in return, once his blood had slowed and his speech had thickened, he courted her. He cooed out praises and spoke hotly of past moments of pleasure. His touches became firm and insistent, and, heads heavy with alcohol, they retired to the bedroom to satisfy the urges that had crept up between them.
And there she sits still. The same chair that she had occupied on that night of drunk romance and hasty pleasure.
And still she rocks.
And still she breathes.
But the chair beside her sits immobile and empty.
There she is.
Copyrighted and shit, although the concept of someone stealing this passage is utterly ridiculous.
(See how I’m fishing for a compliment here?)
So now that that’s over and done with (and I've just lost half my readers because they no longer respect me as a writer or even as a person), let me pass on these bad boys.
I pass along the scribbler award to the following people for updating every single mother fucking day, and we all know that shit is hard work.
My Masonic Apron
How? Why? And Other Abstract Questions
The Daisy Chronicles
And I give the bad-ass bog award to the following people for being…well…bad-ass.
Island of Reality
Brick City Love
[Sidenote: I had a dream that I showed up at Stacie's house because I happened to know her address. So I introduced myself and we ended up hitting it off. It was a weird dream. Stacie, if you're reading this, I apologize for stalking you in my dreams, although you seemed very nice and we probably could be friends if I wasn't so busy dream-stalking you.]
Okay, I hope you all enjoy your awards.That’s it for today. Have a good one!
Monday, November 16, 2009
And if I could have punched the Bride-to-Be in the face on the way out? Not only would I have sold my soul to the Devil, I would have gift-wrapped that beeyatch in a basket with some overly-priced chocolates and a smoked salmon.
But I guess that’s another story for another day, involving an honest, hard-working man and a woman who is, literally, ruining his life (but maybe I’ve said too much)
In fact, I distinctly remember a point during the shower when I squeezed my eyes shut and conjured up Beelzebub and said, “Now’s your chance, big boy. Take it or leave it.”
And then I felt this draft of air behind my right shoulder and I was SO CONVINCED that he had taken me up on the offer.
But instead of the Devil, it was the creepy maid of honor. She caught me with my legs crossed, and according to the game, that means she gets to “steal” my gift.
Damn, I really could have used that crappy hand lotion.
You see, for those of you who are not aware, at a Bridal Shower you are forced to play games.
Horribly stupid games like, “if you get caught with your arms or legs crossed, the person who catches you gets your gift.”
At this particular shower, this game was followed by “guess how much toilet paper it takes to wrap around the bride.” Which was trailed by “I’m going to call out an item, and the first person who digs this item out from their purse and gets it to me wins.”
Me? I didn’t play the games.
I sat in the back and drank mimosas and attempted to make a pact with the Devil to trade my soul for freedom and possibly an opportunity to physically assault on the guest of honor.
And when they handed me a card to write advice for the Bride-to-be, it was all I could do not to write, “Don’t throw any more stupid bridal showers, or I will cut you, bitch.”
Of course I didn’t. I wrote something along the lines of “treat your husband how you want to be treated” in a thickly veiled attempt to accuse her of taking advantage of him.
Because if have to play nice, I should at least be able to throw in some coded messages, right?
Thankfully, I had come with the baby.
Not my baby – the baby of my friend, who thankfully was invited too or I might have stabbed myself in the eye with a salad fork.
And when the baby needs a nap, you HAVE to leave, right?
And if they’re my ride, then I have to leave too.
What a shame
So I managed to leave just as she was settling in to open the 43095433492094387 gifts that she had received for doing nothing other than forcing a good man to support her fat, lazy ass for the rest of her life.
Wow, congrats on being a piece of shit. Here’s a toaster.
So that was my Saturday.
Being surrounded by adult women playing childish games and oohing and aahing over the crappy Bride and not once – not ONCE – did the Devil show up to bail me out.
Wow, I knew he was mean and all, but that’s just CRUEL man.
Good job dropping the ball on that one.
Don’t bother leaving me a Facebook message – I already deleted you as a friend. And I blocked you phone number too.
So the next time you need help harvesting your tomatoes on Farmville, find someone else to do it.
Yeah, that’ll show him.
How you like THEM (rotten Farmville) apples?!?
Friday, November 13, 2009
My apologies for not posting yesterday. I had a sicko husband at home to care for, a fire that needed tending, and a couch that needed sitting on.
Apparently there was a house that needed cleaning too, but this little fact was lost on me until Milo so graciously pointed it out.
So, Brian and I are in the bedroom.
Don’t get all Bow-chicka-bow-bow on me, we weren’t doing the horizontal polka or anything scandalous like that.
We were just…yanno…gearing down to go to sleep. Brusing the teefers, changing into jammies, and talking about how much it’s gonna cost to get new tires on WonderBread Ted.
Because our relationship is a magical.
So we’re hanging out watching TV – I think it was some show on the ocean, because I recall commenting that sperm whales look like giant pickles.
…and suddenly, we hear some sort of clunking and snuffing going on in the other corner of the bedroom.
Noticing that Milo isn’t on the bed (aah, so THAT’S why I don’t have giant paws digging into my kidney), Brian immediately jumps up to see what he’s getting into.
“What’s he doing?” I ask
“I dunno. I can’t see – it’s too dark”
“Well turn on the light, then”
“Hold on, let me go over there”
So he stumbles over the laundry basket full of clean clothes that has been sitting in our room for 2 months now and the suitcases that have been 90% unpacked since our honeymoon to get a better look.
“Milo, what the hell are you doing?”
He bends over to inspect the situation, and I’m waiting for him to tell me that yet another shoe has lost its mate, when suddenly Brian starts chuckling.
And chuckling harder.
And then he’s full out laughing.
So I sit up and am all, “WHAT is so funny?”
He turns on the light and points to the ground.
Milo, it seems, was trying to hide his bone.
That, in itself isn’t terribly funny – he does it all the time.
He shoves them in couch cushions and jams them under piles of clothes constantly.
But this time?
He was trying to hide his bone by covering it in…
Wait for it…
Apparently, we have enough dust bunnies floating around our bedroom for Milo to gather up and use as camoflague for his bone.
Am I embarassed?
Am I a little proud of Milo for being so creative?
And THAT, my friends, is when you know it’s time to clean your house.
Happy Friday everybody!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
So I hear it’s Veterans’ day.
I was reminded of this little bit of trivia this morning, when I woke up and Brian was still in bed. Because Brian is off today, as are most government employees.
Of course, it is difficult to celebrate one’s veterans when one is seething about the fact that she has to get up and go to work when her husband, who already works a meager 4-day-per-week schedule, has yet another free day to do as he pleases.
In his defense, he has to finish moving all of that wood today.
Plus, he made me coffee.
And now that I’m at work, I’m finding it even MORE difficult to honor our veterans. And by “honor our veterans,” I mean “read a book and possibly take a nap in front of the fire.”
Because, really, I can’t think of a better way to honor our fallen soldiers than napping.
After all, isn’t that what they fought for?
For the right for us to nap when we please?
And by that logic…
Isn’t my job - by not allowing me to nap – actually violating those very rights for which our brave veterans gave their lives?
So one could argue that by coming to work today, I’m essentially disrespecting every veteran, dead or alive, who fought for this country.
And you know what?
That ain’t right.
Clearly, this company is run by terrorists.
So I’m going home, lest I stay here and continue to disregard our local heroes. Because I’m an AMERICAN, dammit, and these colors don’t run.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to go home and change into my jammies.
I think the veterans would want me to.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I got wood.
Lots and lots of big, hard wood
Wanna see a picture of my wood?
You know you do…
Were you expecting something else?
Yesterday, on his day off (because Firefighters work less than trust fund babies), Brian ordered 3 cords of wood to be delivered to the house.
If anybody is unsure how big a cord of wood is:
A full cord is a large amount of wood. It measures 4 feet high by 4 feet wide by eight feet long (4' x 4' x 8') and has a volume of 128 cubic feet.
In other words, we had 384 cubic feet of wood dropped off in our neighbor’s driveway yesterday that needed to be moved and stacked.
Of course, I was at work, stickin’ it to the man in between facebook visits and coffee refills. Brian, suddenly realizing that he might have bitten off more than he can chew, was faced with the task of moving all this wood by himself.
Needless to say, when I got home last night, he was sore, exhausted, and 4 beers deep.
Having a fireplace insert is a great thing. We went from spending about $600 per month to heat our house (oil heat), to spending $600 in wood to heat our house for the entire winter. Seriously, think about it. One month’s heating expenditure now gets us through the whole winter.
Of course, there are some drawbacks. For one thing, the front of the house, where the insert is, gets sit-around-in-your-underwear toasty, while the back of the house is akin to a nuclear winter. To solve this dilemma, Brian and I are planning on literally cutting a big hole in the wall that separates the living room from the hallway to the back of the house, so the hot air can mosey along to the back bedrooms.
Another drawback is that fire requires a great amount of attention to start and a moderate amount of attention to maintain. But then again, it’s kind of a cool chore to have. I’d rather come home and be faced with the task of lighting a fire than, say, emptying the dishwasher or cleaning the bathroom. Kind of makes me feel like a pioneer or a caveman. It’s a welcome change from staring at a computer screen all day.
The thing about a fireplace insert is, you kind of start obsessing about wood. Like, you stand in front of a beautiful oak tree, which has probably been around since the revolutionary war or some shit, and all you’re thinking is, “I bet that tree could heat my house for a long time.”
And then you kind of stare at it creepily with Deliverance eyes and push your fingertips together and calculate ways to chop it down, and all I can say is it’s a good thing that trees can’t A) read minds, or B) move around, because I would have been squashed SO FAST by the first mighty oak I encountered since installing that bad boy.
It’s also kind of comforting to know that, no matter what goes on in the world, we will always be warm. Like, the power could fail and we could run out of gas and society could cease to exist as we know it, but we would still have a way to heat our house through the winter. Granted, we’d probably be eating the pets at that point, but I’m willing to bet that Milo would actually be pretty tasty if roasted over an open flame.
(All kidding aside; seriously, Milo, get your shit together or I’m totally going to eat you)
So with this latest delivery of GINORMOUS proportions, we will have enough wood to heat us through the winter, and then some.
It feels good.
But then again, I wasn’t the one who had to move it…
Monday, November 9, 2009
I want to laugh today – I really do.
But I can’t. Because there are so many stupid people in this world, I can only assume that Natural Selection up and quit this bitch a long time ago.
That, or Darwin was wrong.
Which, really, would explain the duckbilled platypus.
And of course, I have to speak in these vagaries, because if I got all specific and shit, certain people might have my head on the chopping block.
Because that’s the problem with having a public blog, and as much as I sometimes want to make this thing private so that I can have a safe venue for ranting and raving, it’s just not going to happen.
Because I love you guys.
And I love the people who haven’t discovered my blog yet, but one day will. And they too will follow my ridiculous path through life, and it will inevitably make me feel a little less alone.
Which is what you guys do, and for that, trust me, there is much love.
So I guess today is kind of a wash, because I’m full of rage, but not in the fun way.
More in the defeated, throw-your-hands-up-in-the-air kind of way that Condy Rice must have felt when she was trying to have a conversation with Dub-yah.
“So, that meeting with Iran went pretty badly”
“What d’ya mean? Ah think it went fine. Jus’ fine”
“They refused to let us tour their nuclear facilities.”
“Oh, what’s the harm in a few nuke-u-lar plants anyway? They SAID they weren’t gonna make no weapons or nuthin’”
“It’s just that…oh, nevermind.”
“Besides, that Iraq leader guy seemed pretty nice to me.”
“Iran. We were speaking to the president of Iran”
“Nothing. Nevermind. Look! Something Shiny!”
So instead, I’m going to tell you a story.
It’s about a squirrel who works in a nut factory.
You see, Squirrel works in the Acorn department. His job is to find acorns and bring them to the factory to be processed. He’s always been good at finding acorns, and even went to school to learn how to find them better and faster than most of the other squirrels around.
So Squirrel is running around, finding acorns, and bringing them to the factory. He is doing a good job, and is content in his work.
Problem is, the foreman, Raccoon, doesn’t really understand what Squirrel does. He knows that the Squirrel works with other squirrels in the Acorn department, but beyond that, he doesn’t have a clue. To him, it seems like the acorns just appear out of thin air.
One day, and order comes to the factory. It’s for twice the amount of acorns that the Acorn department usually brings in.
Of course Raccoon, believing that the acorns just appear out of thin air, agrees to supply this order. He tells the Acorn department to produce twice the normal amount, and they protest, saying how they can only collect so many acorns in one day. Raccoon tells them to “figure it out” and goes home, leaving the squirrels to work though the night collecting acorns until they are exhausted.
One day, a few weeks later, the Raccoon goes to the Acorn department. He proudly announces that he has finally brought some help for the Acorn department, and introduces Rabbit.
Unfortunately, Rabbit has never collected an acorn in his life.
In fact, he’s never even SEEN an acorn.
And he’s certainly never been to Acorn Collecting School.
So they send Rabbit out on his first day, and by the end of the day, he has returned with a carrot.
The squirrels show him what acorns look like and try to describe the best places to get them, but Rabbit doesn’t understand the difference between acorns and carrots.
In addition, he doesn’t have the right kind of paws to dig up and transport acorns.
Because he’s not a squirrel.
He’s a rabbit.
And no matter how they try to teach Rabbit to collect acorns, he continues to bring back carrots.
Raccoon, noticing that acorn production has not increased and has, in fact, decreased slightly, furiously marches to the Acorn Department and demands an explanation.
The squirrels try to tell him that the Rabbit doesn’t know how to collect acorns, and in trying to teach him, they’re losing valuable daylight in which to search for acorns.
But Raccoon doesn’t understand why.
He doesn’t understand that squirrels are designed to collect acorns and rabbits are not.
He tells them to work harder and train Rabbit better, and then goes home for the day.
But all the training in the world won’t make up for the fact that Rabbit is not a squirrel, and will never be able to collect acorns as well as the other squirrels.
So, if you were Squirrel, wouldn’t you be pretty pissed off?
Yeah, I would be too.
In fact, I would be pretty damn sure that Squirrel needs a new job.
Good thing that I’m not a squirrel, right?….
Friday, November 6, 2009
There is no doubt that the past week has been a lousy one for me. I’ve been moody and bitter and all kinds of shouty, and I kind of knew why but kind of didn’t. I think it was an amalgamation of worries and doubts and feeding off of other peoples’ frustrations that left a big ole’ black cloud trailing me like a leopard trailing an injured gazelle. Great for my blogs (because my humor is fueled by my unquenchable rage), but not so great for my sanity, which at any day is iffy, at best.
Regardless, today I feel like I’ve turned the corner. Maybe it’s because it’s a beautiful, sunny Friday. Maybe it’s because I have a great weekend ahead of me, full of fire pits and dogs running on the beach and horses that need riding.
Or maybe it’s the crack I smoked this morning…
Either way, things are really looking up today, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
It’s Friday (Yessssssss!)
And you know what that means.
Time for a Friday Featured Follower.
Today’s Friday Featured Follower is Carrie over at Brick City Love.
Now, there may be a few of you out there who are saying, “No fair! She's, like, one of your best friends! That’s cheating!"
And to those people I say, Shut it. It’s my blog and I am the blogtater and I make my own G-D blog rules.
But seriously, for those of you who are able to look past this blatant favoritism and check out her blog will see, in an instant, why her blog is featured on my site today.
Why I want to do sexy times with her blog:
Here’s the deal with Carrie:
I’ve actually known this little blondie since the day she was born. As in, literally, the day she was born, my parents took me and my sister to go visit her in the hospital. My mom watched Carrie and I every day before we were old enough to go to school, and her parents are my godparents.
To say we’re tight is an understatement.
It’s like saying Nicole Kidman and her Botox doctor are tight.
Anyhoodle, watching this lady grow up has been something all kinds of special. When she was a teenager, she was sort of creative, in this arts-n-crafts, home-ec kind of way (and with a home-ec teacher for a mother, is it really any surprise?). In short, she could sew and she could cook, and that was really, really handy if I needed something hemmed or ingested.
But since that time, she has seriously come into her own. Her creativity has gone through the roof, but not in the way I thought it would, like making sweaters for her dogs or decorating cakes. She got all strange and wild and passionate and bizarre, and the more I saw it, the more I knew that this chick was TOTALLY ON to something.
She was the bright, independent, totally confident, slightly off-kilter individual whom I could only HOPE to become one day, if I played my cards right and didn’t succumb to the conformity of an office job.
And this wonderful personality is completely evident in her blog, which started as a way to track her progress while she and her husband (another dear friend of mine) renovated a bajillion-year-old house in Newark, NJ. She still writes about the renovations, but she has also added another dimension to the blog that displays her eccentrically wonderful tastes and reveals tidbits about the awesome person she has become.
Plus, she’s a hottie (as if you guys needed another excuse to go check her out…literally)
One of my favs:
All of the posts that proudly display her unique tastes are fun, but today’s post takes the cake.
Only THIS WOMAN would:
A) Dream of owning a vintage dress form
B) Find a vintage dress form and proclaim how beautiful it is
C) Take awesome pictures of said vintage dress form so that, when you’re looking at it, you’re all, Hey, I can kinda see it!
D) Walk away from this dress form, get in her car, and get on the highway only to TURN AROUND, GO BACK, AND GET IT.
She LOVES her dress form.
And because of this, I love her.
[interesting aside: she also decorated a wall in her former apartment with giant gas station numbers and has a doll head mold collection. At this point, are you thinking, WTF?!?!? Good. That’s exactly what I thought when I saw it.]
So go visit her blog, and I promise you’ll be hooked. And you might learn a thing or two about home renovation in the process.
But you can’t be her best friend because that’s MY job, and I called dibs, suckas!
So that concludes this little love-fest. If you want a shot at becoming the next Friday Featured Follower, make sure you’re 1) a follower of mine, 2) have a great blog that you update pretty regularly, and 3) are not above blatant commenting and sexual favors.
Have a great weekend everybody!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Oh my god, you guys. This animal situation is getting completely out of control. Now, if you are a frequent reader, you know that Brian and I have enough furry animals in our house to assemble some sort of small, fuzzy, domesticated army (if only I could motivate them to do anything other than sniff each others’ assholes and ruin my life).
Our Cast of Quadrupeds:
Jericho: The wise old dog who knows everything about life, yet continues to take his morning piss on my euonymus plant, knowing full well that I will chase him down and scream in his face for doing so. Also known to poop in inappropriate places including (but not limited to): Petsmart, a crosswalk in New Brunswick (as the light was turning green), and center field at the annual Firefighter Turkey Bowl. But NOT at my wedding, and accordingly, is the house favorite. By a long shot.
Skittles: The deranged, serial killer cat who will cut you if you fuck with her, or even if she’s just in a mood. Known to be handleable only when her surface temperature reaches 3462346952234 degrees Fahrenheit after sitting in front of the fire for countless hours. Is anticipated to kill us in our sleep one day.
Tiger aka Pumpkin aka Fat Girl: World’s fattest cat. Can be found sitting on my laptop case 24 hours a day, exposing her lady bits and licking the fur off of her engorged tummy. Believed to be the incarnate of my Dear Aunt Peg (may she rest in peace), and as such, is alleged to speak with a throaty voice developed after years of chain smoking, and probably calls everybody “doll.” Also has a testicle-stomach.
Milo: The scourge of our house, and the bane of my existence. Is 11 months old, not yet fully potty trained, and 100% untrustworthy when left alone for even a second. Exuberance is matched only by his ability to digest anything and everything, including books, crown molding, antique chests, windowsills and window frames, shoes, bras, pillows, blankets, dog beds, bills and other paper goods, and various plastic sundries. Has been known to scooch his crate through multiple rooms in our house and run six miles at once without tiring. Will likely be the death of me.
So, considering this menagerie, is it any wonder that the addition of another animal is seriously giving me a heart attack?
Bandit: Beagle belonging to in-laws. Neurotic, spastic, clingy, and prone to baying that will make your ears bleed and your eyes pop out of their sockets when he is left alone. Has a serious Napoleon complex and thus, splits his time between staring down and attacking Milo and running from Milo with his tail between his legs. Designated “Weirdo” and habitual shedder. Not even that cute, to be perfectly frank.
Bandit is staying with us through Sunday while my In-laws go on vacation somewhere in NY.
When he’s at his home, he sleeps in my In-Laws bedroom room on the floor (I think). Sleeping arrangements are already tight in our house, so you can imagine that adding an additional…eccentric…animal to the mix is not conducive to sleep. Or sanity.
At first, Bandit was determined to sleep on the bed with Brian and I. Unfortunately, that piece of prime real estate is already monopolized by Milo and trust me, there ain’t room for one more. So Bandit jumps up and theres all kinds of whining and staring and a few snarls as Milo and he negotiate the terms of his lease.
When the grumbly growling doesn’t stop, I make an executive decision to boot Bandit to the floor, and would you believe it? He GROWLS at me. Like, seriously snarls. I saw teeth and crazy-eyes. So Brian shoves him to the ground and then…
The pacing starts.
Back and forth across our wood floors. Bandit is trying to figure out where to sleep.
*click click click click
Like the Tell Tale heart, but VERY MUCH NOT MY IMAGINATION.
And for the record, I was seriously considering burying him below the floor boards at this point.
But finally everybody settles down for the night.
Unfortunately, Milo decides that 2:00am is a GREAT time to wake up and stare down Bandit from the top of the bed until they resort to fisticuffs.
So there’s more growling and snarling and you know what?
Don’t fuck with my sleep, you little hairy bastards!
Milo gets the boot out of the room, and I crawl back in bed and try to sleep.
Thing is, I keep imagining all the stuff he’s getting in to out in the living room.
So I sleep, fretfully, until Milo throws himself at the bedroom door, barking, around 3:00am.
So in Milo comes and he’s back on the bed, but he’s all squirmy and wanting to play and I had to beat him...er...pet him until he acquiesced to stay still and “go the fuck to sleep,” as I so tactfully put it.
So that was my night.
And we have three more to go.
Bandit is also unable to regulate his food intake.
In other words, he’s a fat, greedy bastard.
So Milo and Jericho’s food, which is usually down 24 hours a day, has to come up. And Bandits food has to be measured and put down twice a day, without allowing my dogs to eat it.
It’s fucking retarded. So what if he want to eat himself to death? I say sit back and let the process of natural selection occur.
Brian put down Bandit’s food this morning while me, Milo, and Jericho were sleeping in the bedroom. Sure enough, it’s still on the floor when we emerge, and as soon as Milo gets a whif of it, he runs to the kitchen and FLIPS THE ENTIRE BOWL OVER.
Then he starts eating it off the floor.
(I hate this dog).
So I clean it up and put it back in the bowl, and I have to watch Bandit eat to (slowly, nugget by painful nugget) make sure Milo or Jericho don’t sneak a bite. And then I have to put Milo and Jericho’s food down to make sure that Bandit doesn’t eat it, and they’re all, “What is this shit?” Because they’re used to eating at their leisure.
So I’m pretty sure Jericho didn’t eat at all, Milo ate half of Bandit’s food, and Bandit ate the other half of his food this morning.
I seriously don't have time for this when I'm struggling to make it to work by 8:45 am.
So if anybody needs me, I’ll be at a hotel until Sunday.
If you’re reading this, Bandit gets a cup of food twice a day. Oh, and Milo’s shock collar is in the closet.
Have a great weekend!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Target is NOT too good to be true.
Because the same people who brought us reasonably priced pajamas and papyrus greeting cards and that adorable bull terrier with the target around his eye have...apparently...brought us THESE find clothing selections:
I call this first piece The Ricky Ricardo:
Hey Ladies! Ever have one of those days where you’re in the mood to marry a feisty yet submissive ginge and sing at a Latin dance hall? How about those days when you look in your closet but just can’t find an appropriate outfit to wear to your local Pimp Convention?
And what about those cold winter mornings where you’re thinking to yourself, hey, it’d be great if I could sling a skinned otter around my neck to battle that winter chill?
Well, allow Target to answer your prayers. Pick up this coat for the low, low price of $39.99 and be the envy of every pimp, I Love Lucy fan, and frostbitten person you encounter.
And what about these beautiful skirts, which I refer to as The Courtney Love Collection?FINALLY there’s a skirt in which I can go from giving BJs in a back alley for 8-balls to my ballet recital without having to change. Throw in some Lindsay Lohan knee-pad leggings and you’ve got yourself a highly versatile outfit that will have your next appointment behind the dumpster begging for more!
Here we have The Lumberjack Special:
Nothing brings out your inner wild animal like The Yeti:
And finally, we have The Night Fever:
Perfect for those nights out at Studio 54, this leopard-print gem will make you the envy of everybody at the roller disco. Start your own “night fever” in this classy, stylish shrug that in no way, shape, or form makes you look like a prostitute.
Just make sure not to give anybody directions on the street while wearing it. You know…just in case the cops drive by.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A REALLY bad mood.
There are a lot of reasons for this mood, many of which I can’t disclose, but the primary reason involves my inevitable date with a speculum at 6:30 tonight.
Ladies, you know what I’m talking about…
And men? Well, maybe you don’t want to continue reading today, and I wouldn’t blame you one bit.
Honestly, there is nothing worse than a visit to your ob/gyn. I mean, where else can you experience all of the awkwardness and discomfort of sex with none of the fun parts?
You go into this little room and take off your clothes, and they give you this weird paper mumu (open in the front, of course), and a thin paper “blanket” that’s supposed to help you maintain some sort of dignity but really only highlights the fact that you’re essentially dressed in a paper towel.
And then the doctor comes in and is all, “Spread ‘em.”
…and not in a sexy porn way, but in a strictly utilitarian way that involves elevated stirrups and instructions to “scooch your butt towards the end of the table.”
And then they tell you to relax.
Hey, I’m as liberal as the next guy, but any woman who can relax whilst spread eagle in front of her ob/gyn (and nurse ‘witness’) should probably be checked for drug use.
Because there is NO WAY that a woman can relax when her bits and pieces are on display in that manner.
And then they get all up in there. Like, real close, face-to-face time with your vajeen. And they try to make small talk about the Phillies while digging for buried treasure in your woman area, and part of you kind of appreciates the distraction, but the other part of you is all, “it’s kind of hard to talk sports when you’re elbows deep in my crevasse.”
And then a third part of you is like, “maybe you should be paying attention to what you’re doing, seeing as you’re squeezing the bajesus out of my uterus and at some point, I may want to have children.”
And then a FOURTH part of you is making your grocery list, because you’ve kind of been there, done that and really, at this point, who in the tri-state area HASN’T seen your vagina?
Or am I alone in this?
So your ob-gyn is finally done with the “getting to know you” phase of the exam and breaks out the big guns.
He or she holds up a speculum in one hand a giant tube of KY in the other and says something like, “this is going to feel a little cold.”
And before you know it, you’re being violated by a metal duck bill that’s been slathered in goo.
So you’ve got the cold, slimy duck bill in your nether regions and you’re thinking to yourself, hey, how much more uncomfortable could this get? And then, just to prove you wrong, your ob/gyn OPENS the duck bill and suddenly you’re all, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, want to open that thing a little wider, doc? I can’t QUITE fit a basketball in there yet”
Because when your vagina is flapping in the wind for all to see, sometimes sarcasm is your only friend.
And then they stick a long Q-tip up there, and you don’t know exactly what they’re doing.
But your uterus knows.
And it objects.
But finally. Finally. Your doctor is finished.
The speculum is removed and they leave you to deal with the KY-slathered aftermath, and they never, EVER leave you enough tissue.
Because they want you to suffer.
Because they hate you.
And that, kids, is what is going to delay me from getting home until about 8:00 tonight.
Is it any wonder why I’m kind of in the mood to punch babies?
Monday, November 2, 2009
“New” as in, new to us. Not “new” as in, nobody ever had sex in the back seat of it and it still smells like leather.
It was actually Brian’s brother’s car (and now that I’ve mentioned sex in the back seat, I think I need to go throw up. Awesome).
Brian’s brother recently went to Afghanistan for a year on a contract position with an engineering company. He had a car that he needed to sell, and Brian needed a car whose shocks weren’t about to desintegrate at any second, undoubtedly causing the car to careen out of control and plow into a gaggle of schoolchildren.
Volkswagen: the “Hitler” of automobiles since 1933
(and I’m not even kidding about it. Read the Wiki entry here)
So I guess the timing was ideal. Two DMV visits and multiple calls to various insurance agencies later, we had ourselves a new to us car.
Sure, it isn’t the car we ideally hoped for. Brian had his eyes set on a new Jeep Sahara hard-top for off-roading fun, and I was daydreaming of driving around in a new Nissan Frontier (Because I’ve always wanted a pick-up truck. Because I’ve always wanted an excuse to wear a cowboy hat that doesn’t involve Halloween or riding a bull). But sometimes life doesn’t work out like that, and despite your best intentions, you end up with…something else.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you:
So yeah, we have a Focus. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. It has decent pick-up and an MP3 connection and a moon-roof.
It’s just so….I dunno...white-boy.
And I know, I know. Last time I checked, Brian and I are white (with the exception of some sort of suspicious activity with my great great great great grandfather and a woman of African descent, according to my half-crazy grandmother, which might explain my badonkadonk and killer moves on the dance floor)
But this car.
It’s just not us.
This car belongs to a recent college grad who wears button-down shirts and slacks and works at Inatech and owns a condo and spends his weekends playing beer-pong with his friends on his Ikea dining-room table.
This car belongs to a guy who wears just a little too much gel in his hair and listens to rap (but turns the volume down when a black guy walks by) and drinks Heineken to impress the ladies with his taste for “imported” beer.
This car belongs to a guy who replaces toner cartridges and spends his vacations at the jersey shore and spends his cash on the newest plasma TV and Playstation games involving guns and those little headpieces that allow him to curse out his 10-year-old opponents in Dusseldorf, Germany.
This car DOES NOT belong to a hip, adventure-seeking firefighter and his equally hip and adventure-seeking writer wife and their two dogs, two cats, and disgruntled beta-fish. I mean, where’s the roof rack for the kayak? Where’s the hatch-back to fit our camping gear? Where are the heated seats to soothe my bruised backside after a day of snowboarding?
We have a Ford Focus.
And for all intents and purposes, it’s very nice.
I’m just not sure where I'm gonna put the damn kayak...