Dinner is Served

You probably didn’t know this, but New Jersey is the Canada Goose Capital of the Universe.

No kidding.

We have about 3428934754039823462349240 geese per square mile, and they are reproducing at a disturbing rate.

Sure, it’s cute at first. Around April, the parking lots and medians are filled with families of little goslings, all fluffy and unbalanced, walking in neat single file lines across the road. And really, it IS amazing that an animal as stupid as a Canada goose can fully grasp the concept of roadways. Their brains may be the size of raisin, but they are aware enough to understand that roadways are cars only. They gather in a group, walk (albeit, slowly) across the street, and re-congregate on the other side. Unbelieveable. My dog on the other hand—you know, the one who has a 50-word vocabulary—thinks nothing of dashing haphazardly across the road in pursuit of a small furry animal. Or…pooping in a crosswalk as the light turns green (true story). It just goes to show you that overall intelligence is not so easily discerned.

But, by mid-June, this phenomenon is significantly less endearing. Sure, they may have a few tufts of baby down sticking out between their feathers, but overall, these goslings have turned into geese. Big, mean, brazen geese. They hiss when you walk by them. They poop in the parking lot. They take their sweet-ass time crossing the road, always when you’re running late for work. They’re everywhere, and just one look into their cold, dead eyes (like doll’s eyes, I tell you) has me convinced that they’re plotting a hostile takeover of the municipality.

I have a growing suspicion that a time is going to come when it’s either them or me.

But let it be said for the record, I’m not above eating a Canada goose. I think it’s high time that we introduce these flying vermin to some “natural predators.” And by “natural predators,” I mean myself, dressed in camouflage, hiding in the bushes outside of my office with blow-darts and a potato sack.

I’ll give you a minute to conjure up that image.

Oh yeah, Imma eat me one of those bitches.

I mean, why not? In these hard economic times, we have to be creative in our ways to make ends meet. I figure a large male Canada goose could feed me and Brian for a week, maybe more. And these things are so damn domesticated, I could probably walk right up to one and clock it in the head.

Just like that, dinner is served.

So if you’re hungry, come on over. Have a nice glass of Pino and enjoy the aromas wafting from the oven. Just don’t ask me what we’re eating or what I used that potato sack for.

Trust me, you don’t want to know.

A Come-Uppance

It’s hard to be funny today.
I know that the goal of this blog is to entertain you crazy muh-fukkas, but I also use this blog as a place to come and sort out my thoughts and emotions. It’s a great thing in that it’s cheaper than therapy and healthier than substance abuse, but it also opens the door to some very private thoughts and feelings. The strangers who read this blog? It doesn’t phase me one bit that they might know my political opinions and what kind of underwear I’m wearing. But my friends and family? Well, I guess that muddles the picture a little bit.

Last night I learned that my father discovered my blog. And sure enough, he came across my Father’s Day post (although I can’t help but think he was digging for it, as it was buried under a month’s worth of other posts). It doesn’t bother me that much that he now knows exactly what I think of him. As my sister pointed out, this information had to come out eventually. And if he’s honestly surprised that our relationship isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, then he’s even more self-absorbed than I originally thought.

I’m more bothered by the fact that he entered, without permission, into my carefully-guarded world of fun and goofyness and mayhem. In the real world, my dad doesn’t get to see this side of me. He doesn’t get to see my dry wit and crazy perspectives and bizarre ramblings because, frankly, I don’t feel he deserves to witness that side of me. He only gets the surface-level of me, and considering his past behavior, he should be damn-well grateful that he even gets that. But now he’s peeked under the curtain and I can’t help but feel enraged that he encroached on my privacy. He’ll probably read this post as well, and all future posts in addition.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
I’d like to think that maybe he’ll get the message and leave my world well-enough alone, but when it comes to him behaving like an adult, I never hold my breath (or I’d have run out of oxygen a long time ago).

And now we have a “dinner date” set for Friday. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about on the phone—after all, it’s much more dramatic that way, which is exactly how he likes it. But I called my sister and she quickly filled me in on the details. He wants to discuss my post. And what should I expect from him? A sudden change in heart? An awakening of the soul? An admittance of guilt? Well, I have several ideas of how I’d like this conversation to go, but life has taught me a few things about my father that, at age 60-something, are unlikely to change.

So I have a terribly uncomfortable dinner to anticipate for Friday night, which is a huge imposition on the teeny tiny amount of free time that I have to spare, and is leaving a rock in my stomach because I know exactly how things are going to go down. And at the same time, I’ve been drudging up all of these bad feelings and memories about my father that has me feeling uneasy and depressed. And in the meantime I’ve been feeling slightly ill since Thursday (in a very weird way that is difficult to describe) and have to go to the doctor’s tomorrow to get some blood drawn. So all in all I’m angsty and irritable and not a lot of fun to be around....

Which is making my blog not fun to be around, and for that, I apologize.

Sorry for the post. I know it wasn’t entertaining, but I needed get my thoughts in order. Thanks for bearing with me.

Stay tuned tomorrow for our regularly scheduled hilarity.

The Times, They Are A Changin'

Did someone tattoo a big ole’ “AVAILABLE” on my forehead or something?
(It seems like I’d remember something like that, but you never know).

I have been positively inundated with thinly veiled flirtations and offers of sexual indiscretions over the past week. If only I had gotten this much attention in highschool – I might have had an entirely different life including numerous backseat rendezvous and the inevitable teen pregnancy.

But alas, I was a nobody in highschool. A girl whose nose was a bit too big and whose hair never hung right. I had a bad sense of style and a preference for late-night street sign stealing with my best guy friends over manicures and spa days. I wasn’t exactly a tomboy, but I wasn’t exactly prom queen either. I was one of those unfortunate souls caught in the middle, noticed by few, remembered by even fewer.

Until this week, and then SHIZAM every guy I went to highschool with is becoming my Facebook friend and not-so-cleverly asking me what my dating status is and telling me that they always liked me in highschool.

Yeah, right. You’ve always liked me…for the past 30 seconds when you saw my facebook picture and noticed that I’m not a homely little fug-face like I used to be.

Not that I’m anything spectacular now, but I’m a hell of a lot better looking than I used to be. And compared to a lot of women my age – you know, the ones with the sloppy boobs and the vapid stares who had one too many SoCo & Limes and are starting to slur their words and talk really loudly about how hungry they are, and then they spill their drink on their friend and start laughing hysterically until they vomit on themselves? – well, compared to them, I’m a freaking prize and a half.

So despite the fact that my Facebook status is “in a relationship,” and despite the fact that my page is plastered with pics of Brian and me, and despite the fact that the VERY FIRST thing I say to them when they pop up on Facebook chat is that “me AND MY BOYFRIEND are doing great,” they still come back with the following comments:

Wow, you’ve really changed since highschool.
Didn’t we used to hang out? We should get together sometime.
What’s the story with you and your boyfriend?
It looks like you work out a lot.

Guys: let me give you a little advice. You might have been a stud in highschool, but in the real world, the ability to eat 15 lbs of potato salad in one sitting is not going to exactly win over the ladies.

So, boys of the class of 2000, if you’re looking for a V to put your P, you’ve come to the wrong place. I really don’t care that you remember me from highschool. I really don’t care that you’ve broken up with your girlfriend. And I absolutely without a doubt don’t care that you’re currently married to a woman who is treating you poorly (good lord, dude, you need some marriage counseling). Your relationship status is none of my concern.

Your pick up lines, however, are. Quite frankly, they're terrible.

Your mother would be ashamed.

Go getchoself a nice sloppy bar chick and have at it (she’ll probably eat those lines up, btw), and I will go home to my wonderful boyfriend who, if nothing else, has way better pick-up lines then you’ll ever come up with, involving fire hoses and references to me being hot.

Gotta love those firemen!

Bonus Sunday Post: Happy Campers

Well, another 4th of July has come and gone. BBQ was eaten, parades were viewed, and fireworks were launched with abandon. Or so I heard.

Brian and I spent last night recuperating from Milo's first camping trip, which meant that we parked ourselves on the tempurpedic and didn't move for the rest of the evening. Not that the trip was in any way un-fun, but when you shove two humans, a grochy lab/dalmation mix, and a manic puppy with ADHD into a 3-person tent, you're pretty much guarenteed to not get the greatest nights sleep.

In all actuality, the camping trip was a big success. Everybody (mostly) stayed in the campsite. Everybody (mostly) slept through the night. Nobody died, and nobody got returned to the animal shelter from whence they came (I think we all know who I'm talking about here).

A few random shots:






Milo was particularly ridiculous on this trip.


Here he is after burying a bone that we gave him. I thought dogs only did that in the movies, but our little street urchin was definitely saving that bitch for later.

He also found about 8 different ways to sit on the camping chairs

And dad's lap.
(Who brings wine on camping trips? We do.)



A few shots of our day hike and the Blue Rocks boulder field:


And on the second night, we were joined by my lovely friend Crystal.

...who is the only person I know who would bring a pashmina to a campsite. This woman is all class. I have no idea why she wastes her time with us.

So, that's about it. We're home and rested, and I'm pretty sure I can hear Milo chewing on the furniture in our sunroom as we speak, which is my cue to leave.

I hope everybody enjoyed their 4th of July (or Canada Day, which is myseriously close to the 4th of July, which to SOME people suggests that they copied off of us, but I'm not judging). Tomorrow I'm back to the grind, so I'm going to spend the rest of the day enjoying the weather and attending yet another social event.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

The Land of the Free...Just This Once

Wow.

It’s the day before our 4th of July weekend, and our company owner so graciously relaxed the dress code to “picnic attire,” which means that I’m sitting at my desk in flip flops, cargo capris, and a T-shirt. My feet are happy. My waist is happy. My boobs are happy. I’m happy – well, as happy as one can be when one has to go to work on a day where the majority of the country has off. They may be sipping Pina Coladas by the pool, but I’m…uh…enjoying a complimentary hamburger or hotdog (your choice) during our designated 1:00 to 2:00 lunch hour?

Yeah, sometimes I really hate my life.

Still, it’s amazing how different things feel today, mostly because for once I’m actually comfortable. The head of our company says that when people dress nicer, they work harder. I’m still trying to figure out what planet he’s from.

Dear Boss-man: YOU might work harder when you’re dressed up, but I for one work harder when I’m not worrying about my pinched toes and underwire. Keep this in mind the next time you see me walking by in “business” attire. I may look nice, but I ain’t. doing. shit.

Okay, let’s be honest: I ain’t doing shit anyway.

ESPECIALLY not on the day before our long 4th of July weekend. As we speak, Brian is at home packing the car for a 2-night camping trip in PA.

Camping: Reminding people why they sprung for the $5,000 tempur-pedic bed since 1987.

We wanted to go backpacking this weekend, but we have several birthday commitments between Saturday and Sunday (yay for cake, boo for a missed trekking opportunity). So, a night or two of car camping with the dogs will have to suffice. This is Milo’s first camping trip, and I’m not sure what to expect, other than the trademark whirlwind of wood chips and urine and utter chaos and destruction that usually accompanies him.

Puppies…

Hopefully, Jericho will keep him in line. But as of late, Jericho has been spending the majority his time being the literal low man on the totem pole, looking up at me with “bad touch” eyes while Milo humps the everliving daylights out of him. They say it’s a dominance thing, but I mean, really, how much can one dog dominate another before it just turns into an outright sausage fest? I’m beginning to question the sexuality of our most recent addition to the family.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

So me and the boyfriend and our two dogs of questionable sexual orientation will be heading out into the wilds of PA to battle the elements and pee outside and do other outdoorsy type activities to counteract the effects of having a day-job in corporate hell.

Meat will be cooked, my friends. In large quantities, on an open flame.

So I hope everybody has a happy 4th of July weekend and nobody blows their fingers off playing with illegal fireworks.

Remember kids: try to find the fingers before you go to the hospital - they might be able to be reattached. Or, when all else fails, they make a great memento.

Bonus Wednesday Post: I Beg Your Effing Pardon

Some people (ahemJamiecough) appear dissatisfied that I wasn’t able to post original content today.

What am I, a machine?
Do I not entertain you 5 days a week, 260.7 days a year? Sweet gold-plated rhinestone-studded Jesus, people, this blog takes WORK. Serious, hard-core, strain-until-you-poop-your-pants work.

I give, and I give, and I give and what do I get in return?

COMMENTS?!?!?

Okay, actually, I really like comments.
But that’s not the point.

The point is that Jaimers—who, might I add, only posted 7 times in June (but who’s counting, right?)—needs to learn that those who live in glass houses should not throw stones.


Well, Jaimers? I’ve got a brick with your name written all over it.


No, seriously, you left it at my house the last time you came over.

Also, call me - we should have brunch/a tickle fight sometime soon ;-)

Tapdancing In The Dark: A Classic

Hey there, kids!

For once, I actually have a crap-ton of work to do, so in the essence of time, I'm going to have to resurrect a classic Tapdancing In The Dark '08 post highlighting what I do best:

Making fun of people with disabilities.

Enjoy!!!


***********************
It's been a weird day.

My boss called me in to her office to talk about one project or another. There's nothing weird about that - she often calls me in to give me direction on an upcoming project. And, like always, she got off topic and started talking about other work-related things. Unfortunately, this is when I usually start zoning out. It's nothing against my boss. I love her dearly, and I am happy to lend a sympathetic ear for her to vent about this or that. In fact, I consider it a critical component of my job, as my manager is one of the best I've ever had, and her quitting would be a catastrophe of massive proportions. So, I hold a "wide open door" policy with regards to her need to get frustrations off of her chest.

However, these lamentations rarely hold my attention as they should, and I often find my eyes wandering to the windows, which span two of her four office walls. Being on the second floor of a corner building, there's usually lots to look at: emergency vehicles speeding by, cars lined up waiting for geese to lazily make their way across the streets, and, if you're lucky, a car pulled over by a young, bored, and therefore jerk-face Voorhees cop.

But on this particular day, I saw something a bit more interesting. A blind person (or should I say "visually challenged person"? What's the PC term here?) was making his way down the sidewalk. I guess there's nothing that strange about seeing a blind person walking, unattended, down a sidewalk, but something was different about this individual. It took me a moment to realize that the vision was so strange because the person was...quite frankly...AWFUL at using his cane to guide himself. While I truly marvel at blind people's ability to use a simple telescoping stick to determine exactly where they are in their environment (seriously, nothing but respect), I guess I never really considered the learning curve involved in the utility of this apparatus. I could only assume this person was a novice cane-user by the way he hesitatingly made his way down the sidewalk. Cane swinging in front of him, he slowly listed to the right. I clearly saw his cane make contact with the grass lining the sidewalk, but I guess my sense of vision was better than his sense of touch, because he took two complete steps into the grass before he stopped, probed his footing, and redirected himself back to the concrete walkway. Not long after that he began listing to the left. The cane caught on the edge where the curb met the sidewalk, skipping into mid air. Undeterred, the blind man continued on his course towards the drop-off to the street, and I found myself twisting my body to the right, willing him away from the disasterous path he had chosen. As luck would have it, he placed a foot half on, half off of the curb, and, realizing the situation, again repositioned himself.

At this point, anything my boss was saying was lost to this horror scene unfolding before me. Why was this obviously inexperienced blind person wandering unassisted? I considered the possible situations -that he was drunk, mentally retarded, or faking me out for the sake of some hidden-camera show. Regardless of the explanation, I was held completely captive. It was like seeing someone tied to the railroad tracks, watching a train approach, helpless to interfere. The man was fast running out of sidewalk, approaching a busy rode of two-lane traffic, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was not quite "road-ready," as it were. I must have begun to cringe, because I noticed a silence in the room, and found my boss looking at me with the most bewildered look on her face.

I explained the situation, and she turned. This guy now had two captive audience members, and was a few feet away from his doom. As we considered the possibility of getting outside and warning this man of his failed trajectory before it was too late....it was suddenly too late. We cringed and "aah"ed and "ooh"ed as his final step missed the curb completely and dropped onto the road. I covered my face. It was surly the end of him!!!!

And then...miraculously, he backtracked and was safely on the curb. He must have finally felt and heard the whoosh of the traffic and came to his senses (all 4 of them. lol. okay, not funny. but kind of). He was alive! He was safe! We cheered and clutched our chests and conjectured on what would have happened had he continued on his path. We checked on our friend a moment later and found him shuffing along the path, veering haphazardly, back from whence he came. I'd like to think that he made his way back home safely, without incident. But I'll admit that my confidence in this man's ability to navigate is all but shattered, and I have serious concerns regarding his current whereabouts. I'm having images of him alone, in the wilds (of Voorhees), at night, hopelessly lost and wandering, wolves (dangeous Voorhees wolves) on his tail and closing in for the kill.

Okay, that's probably not the case, but if I hear emergency vehicles gathering somewhere in the immediate vicinity, I get the feeling I'm going to know the reason.

Like I said, it's been a weird day.