Merry Birthday

Having a birthday four days before Christmas sucks. People are busy, broke and generally distracted. It’s hard to insist that a day be all about me under these circumstances. Hard…but not impossible. That’s why you have to start reminding people early. It’s true that “Guess what happens in four days?” is usually met with eye rolling and indifference, what they’re really thinking is “Crap! I gotta get a cake mix.” The reminding technique is imperative to guarantee that your special day is properly observed.  The rest is up to you. Everyone has at least one loved one with a birthday that is overshadowed by Christmas. The following is a list of things that happen regularly that make those of us with Christmas birthdays feel like an afterthought.

1.       Receiving birthday gifts wrapped in Christmas paper.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not unappreciative of the gift. I love presents, especially goofy ones and homemade ones.  But basically what you’re saying when you wrap it in Christmas paper is that, “I forgot about your birthday and my kid forgot to take this to his teacher so I gave it to you.”  You wouldn’t give a gift to someone for their birthday wrapped in baby shower paper or paper that says, “Happy Graduation!”  And no, you can’t just turn it inside out, but that is slightly better than getting it Christmas side out.

2.       Picking a present out from under the tree for your birthday.

Yes, this has actually happened to me. This statement is always quickly followed by, “No! Not that one! Or that one! Here, this one is OK.” Fuzzy socks covered in tiny Santas, just what I always wanted for my birthday. Just admit it. You forgot. Don’t insult me by making me participate in this embarrassing charade. It’s just pitiful.

3.       Receiving Christmas instead of birthday cards.

It just doesn’t count. You can’t scribble out the Merry Christmas and write Happy Birthday.  The next person that does this is going to receive a “Congratulations on the new baby!” card for their next birthday. You might as well go the card aisle blind folded and pick one out all pin the tail on the donkey style.

4.       Actually telling me, “I didn’t get you anything for your birthday because we spent all of our money on Christmas.”

This statement is insulting on so many levels. First of all, I don’t expect everyone on the planet to give me something on my birthday and to indicate that I would be so presumptuous and greedy, frankly hurts my feelings a little. Secondly, it’s almost accusatory, like I have a lot of nerve to choose to be born so close to a major holiday.

5.       “I know it’s a Christmas (mug, socks, pen, etc.), but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Actually it is the thought that counts, and right now you have just handed me evidence that no thought what-so-ever has gone into this gift. Trust me, I would rather you give me nothing at all  than make me look at you and fake gratitude while you blatantly express to me that I am not important enough to require minimal effort on your part. It’s embarrassing for both of us, whether you know to be embarrassed or not.

It’s not really that complicated. Everyone wants to be acknowledged on their birthday and when it feels like an obligatory afterthought it kind of sucks, especially when it happens year after year. So, be nice. Instead of half-assing it, send me a text or an email. Make me some cookies. Draw me a funny picture. Just make sure there are no Christmas trees in it.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

I don’t understand rock, paper, scissors. I get how rock beats scissors. A rock would smash the crap out of those scissors. Even if the rock doesn’t break them, they would at least be rendered unusable.

Scissors would definitely beat paper. I get that. Even if they’re really dull, you can stab the hell out of some paper. If you stab it enough you won’t be able to write around the holes. With just a few holes you still wouldn’t be able to say wrap a gift in it. If paper and scissors were in a fight, the only thing paper would be able to do is lay perfectly flat and hope it opponent is a pair of those safety scissors with the rounded tips that they give you to use in school. Paper is scissor’s bitch for sure.

That brings me to the ridiculous part. On what planet does paper beat a rock? If someone was coming at me with a rock, my weapon of choice would not be a sheet of paper. You can wrap a rock in a butt load of paper and it’s still going to hurt if someone hits you with it. If you throw a rock at a piece of paper, you have the same results as with the scissors and as we previously discussed, scissors owns paper. Covering a rock doesn’t destroy it, it provides a deceptive disguise. Essentially paper turns the rock into a ninja. It enhances its capabilities; makes it more stealth and deadly.  

The only instance in which paper would beat rock is if the paper was a warrant for your arrest. No amount of rock throwing would beat that paper, but then neither would scissors, so it can’t be rock, warrant, scissors. Warrant would always win.  I think the problem in the equation is the rock. Anything that would beat a rock would also beat scissors. Rocks are hard. Whatever you change it to, you’ll have to be able to quickly make the shape with one hand and I already have a hand gesture that will win every time.

Pants on Fire

My girlfriend is easily overwhelmed and a chronic exaggerator. Like the boy who cried wolf, it is difficult to know what situations are blown all out of proportion and which ones need immediate attention. Over the years I have developed a Dewie-vs-reality translation system. Here are some of the highlights:

1.       There are flies everywhere!!

This happens more often than you would think. Our house is old and drafty and sometimes stuff gets in. Also, the area where we keep the wheely garbage can when it’s not on the curb is right outside the kitchen window. Occasionally there are flies everywhere. However, most of the time this merely means that she has swatted at a fly, killed it, and then immediately saw another one. Two flies in the kitchen are all it takes to conclude that there are flies everywhere.

2.       There are shoes lying all over this house!

Granted, I am really bad about leaving my shoes wherever I park my ass. If I sit, the shoes usually come off. I am not a fan of shoes and if it weren’t for the huge population of impossible to kill mutant fire ants, I probably wouldn’t wear them at all. More often than not, Dewie has just tripped over a pair and the surge of adrenaline from almost biting it has morphed into anger. This particular statement can mean that there are ten pairs of shoes lying around the house, or there is one. Contrary to what she thinks, I do not strategically place my shoes in places where I know she will be walking. The house is small. It just works out that way.

3.       There is no food in this house!!

This one is easy. Translation: there are no chips in the house.  The woman loves a tater chip.

4.       This house is disgusting!

Our house never gets disgusting. I have been in disgusting houses, and this one never even comes close to disgusting. This statement usually means that she has picked up a cup from more than one room or the dog hair has twisted itself into tumbleweed and is rambling down the hallway. Nothing a little Swiffer sweep vac won’t remedy in about 5 minutes.

5.       It’s got to be 100 degrees in here.

Two words:  Hot. Flash.  The temperature in the room did not spontaneously rise 20 degrees. It is not your medication. It is menopause. Accept it. Embrace it. Stand in front of the freezer for a minute.

6.       I cut my (insert random limb here) off!

Now this one you have to check, because it only means that she is bleeding. It could be a paper cut or she might be holding her own severed foot in her hand. It’s difficult to tell. The level of panic is exactly the same. A rule of thumb though, wait until she’s said it at least twice before you get up. The more she repeats it, the more severe the injury.

Now, with experience, you too can learn to discern a true travesty from an exasperated rant.  

Shark Attack

I am not typically a violent person, but I find myself hoping people will get hurt when they partake in stupid activities. The rush of endorphins seems to be enough reason to put your life in danger for a fairly large portion of the population.  I don’t understand it. I know it seems sadistic, but here’s a list of stupid crap people do that I hope ends in injury.

1.       Swimming with Sharks.

I almost understand it for the sake of education, but for purely entertainment purposes, this is beyond moronic. You cannot “make friends” with a shark. Sharks are simple, barely alive almost robotic animals with tiny little brains that function almost solely on instinct. Oh, and they have the capability of eating your face off.  Getting a cage and throwing bloody meat at them is not my idea of fun. I always wish the dumbass in the cage would stick his arm out just a little further…

2.       Bull fighting

This is not only dumb, but mean. What kind of macho piece of crap needs to prove his manhood by getting in the ring with a bull that’s already been beaten half to death? Humans are already at the top of the food chain; just go have a burger and call it conquered.

3.       Bull Riding

The bull clearly does not care to be ridden or he wouldn’t be jumping around like that. What’s the purpose of this? I’ve never seen anyone riding a bull around explaining, “Yeah, we finally broke him. He was a tough one, but he’s just gentle as can be now.” Along the same lines of the bull fighting, the need to conquer this animal seems to be pretty universal. I suspect it has something to do with the size of its enormous wiener.

4.       BASE Jumping

This is by far the dumbest thing I have ever seen. It does not take even a smidge of talent to jump off of high things. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that gravity is doing all the work. I kind of wish gravity and the wind would conspire to blow that idiot right into that outcrop of sharp rocks. At least that way we know he won’t be breeding.

5.       Anyone who sticks their heads into a giant animal’s mouth.

You see it all the time, some “trainer” proving their dominance over a huge dangerous animal by sticking their head between its powerful jaws. Maybe this impresses some people. Animals are not entertainment. Lions, tiger, crocodiles… they all belong in the wild. You’ve already stolen it’s dignity by making him perform; now you’re going to stick your head in its mouth? I hope that thing snaps your neck like a chicken bone. I also hope those vise-like jaws cause one of your eyes to pop out and roll along the floor so you can watch him eat your face before you die. Idiot.

Growin up Gangsta

The neighbor’s ridiculously loud music brought me to the porch. I just wanted to see which one was annoying me. Of course. It’s the “Can I getta…?” neighbor. As I glanced down the street and saw the kids with their pants riding stupidly low, yelling obscenities at each other over the roar of their skateboards it suddenly dawned on me. In 50 years we are going to have the most hilariously awesome old people ever.  They won’t have old people names like Harold and Ernest. They’ll be called Justin and Zach. With this in mind, I have created Carson.

The year is 2070 and Carson is 78 years old. He lives in a nursing home because his kids and grandchildren are scattered across the country in various prisons.  He can’t decide if the CNA’s at the nursing home are bitches or ho’s, so he just calls them all, “Shawty.” The only reason he agrees to take his medication in the morning is because it says “may cause drowsiness” on the bottle and he’s hoping he’ll eventually cop a buzz. He’s still quite proud of his tattoo that he believes is the Chinese character for “warrior” (the tattoo artist copied it off of Wikipedia and it actually means “strawberry”) and pulls the skin on his bicep taught to show it off to the ladies. Instead of fedoras he has a drawer full of do-rags and trucker hats and he can still deliver a convincing “for-shizzle” if he puts his teeth in. Although the home wouldn’t allow him to bring his 9mm, he compromises with a cap gun he tucks proudly in the small of his back. He and his buddies Marcus and Jake-dog have formed the South Wing Thugs and can be found chillaxing in their hallway keeping an eye on things. Arthritis prevents them from throwing gang signs so they’re hoping the intimidation factor alone will keep people out of their business. Carson is hoping to get a delivery of hard candy from the outside so he can make a little cheddar.

Eternally Thankful...

I can’t smell freshly turned soil without getting the urge to sink my bare feet into it.  From the time I was old enough to walk, I have spent my summers tending my father’s vegetable garden. It was always unnecessarily enormous, providing our family with laundry baskets full of produce each week. As a child, I considered laboring in the scorching sun cruel and unusual punishment. I know I complained because my parents still remind me of this fact often. When I look back on it, I remember quality time with my parents, the family working toward a common goal, and feeling the pride of being part of the machine that grew our own food.
            I will forever associate fresh vegetables with my father. Being at a farmer’s market or in a produce store brings back memories of whistles made out of squash vine and pump water that tasted like metal.  I never understood how the water was always cold, even though was pulled from the same earth that scorched my feet. My father would chew his tobacco and assign jobs while sweat dripped off his forehead. Somehow I always ended up with the green beans. His logic was that I was the shortest one in the family and the beans were closer to the ground. I still don’t understand how being short correlates with the ability to squat or walk on your knees for hours.
            Once we brought the vegetables home, my mother’s work began. The two of us sat on the porch, and the sound of snapping beans punctuated our conversations. Once the sun went down, the canning started. I usually sat on the counter, careful to stay away from the boiling water while my mother sweated over green beans, tomatoes, squash and okra. Then we would wait anxiously for the telltale “pop” of the jars sealing. Unsealed jars meant starting over, and the canning would continue past my bed time. 
            There is just something about the sunshine, tanned skin, dirt and a fresh vegetable that makes me feel a synchronicity with nature. The essential skill of feeding myself is an irreplaceable gift given to me by my family. It feels primal, natural. It’s a skill that has been replaced by supermarkets and spray painted fruit.
            As an adult, I still try to carry on the family tradition of growing my own food. My garden isn’t as pretty or bountiful as my fathers, but it gets better every year. I still have to call my dad when my tomatoes look splotchy, or talk to my mom when my cans won’t seal, but one day I’ll be confident enough to pass this gift on to someone who never realized you can make a whistle out of a squash vine.

Mom and Dad. I love you guys.

Wanna Pickle?

I was making a grocery store run, minding my own business when I suddenly heard someone call my name. I looked in the general direction of the sound and saw a previous neighbor flapping her arms like a pair of skinny chicken wings. She was pushing a cart with a tiny person in the baby seat. It was Jessica. She and her dope slinging boyfriend had lived across the street from us a couple of years ago. They regularly entertained the neighborhood with loud, screaming, frothing at the mouth, meth fueled throw downs in the front yard. She may be a tiny little thing, but she was insane, and everyone knows that crazy trumps strength any day of the week. And now she wants to reminisce.  Great. I made eye contact so I have to go over. For additional clarity I will type the actual conversation in regular type and my thoughts in italics.

“Hey Molly! Do you remember me?”

“Of course. It’s good to see you. Cute kid. Is this a new one?”

“Yeah, she’s only 8 months. My other baby is walking and talking now. Can you believe that?” Well, yeah it’s been like two years, so unless she’s retarded, babies tend to do that. Or is she already on the pipe?

“Wow. Already, huh? Well it was nice seeing you.” Walk away slowly.

“This baby’s name is Hannah Lee. All one word.” Son of a… “I thought that was so cute when I thought of it. Don’t you love that name?”

“It sounds like a perfect place for Puff to frolic in the autumn mist.”

She tilts her head to the side and twists her face into what I assume it confusion. “I don’t get it.”

“Nevermind. It’s just an old song you’ve probably never heard. Nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, I really liked the name. Except we spell it J-A-N-N-I-L-E-I-G-H. You know like the Spanish people say jalapeno? Isn’t that clever?” Seriously? Good lord. Her ‘I’m bored’ detector has been seriously compromised. Be nice…Molly! Damnit!

“Well are you going to go around introducing her by saying her name then spelling it for the rest of her life?”

“Uh…no?”

“Then who gives a crap how it’s spelled? All you’ve done is guarantee that her name will never be pronounced or spelled correctly on the first try. “

“Well, maybe you don’t get it.” Ahh. A crack. She starting to sound annoyed. Maybe I can make a break for it. Must soldier on.

“Maybe not. And while I’m sure that Spanish people have uttered the word ‘jalapeno’ I’m pretty sure you mean Mexican. They speak Spanish, but they’re Mexican.”

“It just seems mean to call them Mexicans.”

“You do understand that they’re from Mexico, right?” I back away slowly.

“I guess. Hey! Before you go, Hannah Lee (I know, but I refuse to spell it that way, it’s stupid.) has been doing this really adorable thing lately. I asked her if she wanted a pickle the other day and she scrunched up her face all cute. Now she does it all the time. Watch. “Hannah Lee, you wanna pickle? You wanna pick-le? Hannah Lee, you wanna pickle? I swear she does it. Hannah Lee? Wanna Pickle? Pick-le? I swear she does this scrunchy thing with her face it’s so funny. Hannah lee? Pick-le?” The baby is just looking at her with the same expression on her face that I likely have on mine. Poor kid. If she’d known what she was in for she’d probably have tied a noose in that umbilical cord.

“Uh…it’s ok. I don’t think she’s feeling it.”

“But it’s so cute. Hannah Lee? You wanna pick-le?”

“Christ! She’s a baby not a damned German Shepard. She doesn’t want to do tricks.” I back further away. I’m really at the end of my “nice” rope.

“I guess not. She’s started dancing too. Wanna see her dance?” That’s it. I’ve had enough.

“Uh, no. Not really. I’ll see you later. “ I can hear hear voice trailing behind me as I walk away.

The Long, Long Haircut

I found a split end and Dewie is starting to look like a librarian, so it’s time for haircuts. Dewie calls our old pal Weezie and makes an appointment. We walk into the salon and Weezie is there and standing behind her is a human match stick. Weezie stands to the side to give us a full view of the skinniest live person I have ever seen in my life. She has pale, thin blond hair cut short in some kind of asymmetrical bob, and it does not appear that the asymmetry was on purpose.  Weezie introduces us.

“Molly, Deb, this is my new girl, Deann. She’s just learning, but she’s got real potential. Whaddya say I do the short cut and Deann here can try Molly?” Crap. I really want to ask Deann if she cut her own hair, but something about her prominent shoulder blades makes me think even a suggestion of an insult will make her collapse into a pile of weeping bones.

“Sure, why not?” Weezie smiles appreciatively and we all take our seats. Deann tries to pin my hair up with one of those clippy things while she puts the cape on.  She twist it up, clips it, it falls. She does this about three times before I reach back, take the regular sized clippy thing and hand her one of the big ones. She offers a tiny smile.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” She finally gets me situated, then releases the hair. She begins to brush it out. The more she brushes, the bigger her eyes get.

“Uh, how much do you want to take off?”

“About two inches.”

Weezie pipes up, “One inch.”

“Two inches.”

“ONE INCH.” We have this argument every time I go in. I assume she is trying to make me keep my hair as long as possible. She cuts her eyes at Deann who is combing out hair that’s already combed out. She is stalling. “We might need to leave a little room for TRAINING.” Holy crap. Am I her first haircut ever? I’m not even completely convinced that she can hold up the weight of the scissors with her skeletor hands.

“Ok, you old bat. One inch.” I catch Deann’s eyes in the mirror. She is clearly terrified. “You can do this. It’s just basic long layers. “ She nods but she’s still frowning.

“You have a LOT of hair.” I am unsure how to answer this. Is this a trick question?

“Uhhhh… true?”  She is still just standing there. What are the magic words that will make her start cutting? “You know Deann, you can’t will it shorter. You do have to actually cut it.”

“Yeah.”  Weezie looks over. She looks annoyed.

“Take some of the weight off first, and then start the layers.”

“Yeah. Ok.” She actually makes a cut, but she has not sectioned it off. “There’s just so much hair. I can’t see my lines.” Ok, I’m not a cosmetologist, so I have no idea what lines she’s talking about. I’m not completely positive that she knows. Weezie walks over.

“You can’t just cut her hair like that. It’s too thick and heavy, you have to cut it in sections.” 

Deann finally figures it out, pulls up half of my hair (after I once again give her the big clips) and starts cutting tiny bits off the ends of my hair. After about 20 minutes Weezie comes back over,”

“Hey, you cut a straight line.” I am slightly annoyed that she sounds surprised. She will pay for this. “Now start the layers.”

“I’m not good with long layers.”

“Just try.” Weezie demonstrates by cutting a few snips. Her hands work too fast for me to catch, so I know Skeletor has not seen a thing because her reflexes are delayed by malnourishment.

“Maybe you should show her slower, Weezie.” Weezie slows down her hands. Son of a…there’s some sort of weird wrist twisty thing going on that I know Deann will never get. Deann tries.

 Weezie yells in my ear ,“No! Turn your wrist over. You’re cutting it the wrong way.” Deann turns her wrist over and snips. This is just getting painful. When I said I wasn’t in a hurry I didn’t realize that I had committed myself to sitting in this chair for the better part of the afternoon.  After a couple more demonstrations, she finally gets it. She manages to make it all the way around my head. Weezie inspects it. “Not bad.” She’s lifting sections of hair and letting them fall. “But this side is about a half inch shorter than the other. You need to even it up.”  Skeletor looks like she’s about to cry. I spin around to face Deann.

“Look, sweetie. It’s just hair. It’s not a big deal. If you make a mistake, it will grow back. You can do this.”

“Ok. But there’s just so much of it.” This is just getting ridiculous. I get it. I have thick hair. But it’s just on the thick side of normal. It’s not like it’s freakishly, gorilla thick.

Deann actually starts to cut at a pace that might get me out of this place before dinner. When she finishes, Weezie comes over and makes a few corrective snips and declares me finished. I make sure to fuss over it a little extra even though it’s just my normal haircut and leave a significant tip. Maybe by the time I need another trim Deann will have had a little more practice.

Kidding Around

Believe it or not, not every woman on the planet yearns to procreate. I have never been one of those girls that dreamed of having a baby. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids. Sometimes. But therein lays the problem. After a significant chunk of time has elapsed, kids just get on my last damn nerve and I have to give them back to their rightful owners before I hurt them. My time limit is usually about 8 hours. Sometimes less, sometimes more, but that’s about average. So when people say to me, “You’re so great with kids, why don’t you have any of your own?” it just rubs me the wrong way. I am forced to say, “I don’t want them.” And this evokes a shocked reaction that makes me appear to be a selfish tool. So here it is, for the last time. I don’t want kids, and here’s why:

1.       I have issues with clutter. When there’s a lot of stuff lying around, I feel like I can’t breathe.  Sometimes when I go into the homes of friends with small children I have to force myself to not act like a neurotic lunatic. The amount of colorful plastic crap covering the floor and every surface in the house is so uncomfortable to me, I often find myself making organized piles without even realizing it. I am aware that it’s offensive but I honestly don’t even realize I’m doing it. I’ve heard the question, “Are you cleaning my house?” more than once and I can only uncomfortably answer with, “Apparently. Sorry about that.”

2.       I secretly have bad, non-maternal thoughts about people’s kids. A person that I hardly know, but apparently thinks we’re BFF’s showed me a picture of her toddler in a store recently. “Isn’t she just precious?” To which I answered, “The precious-est.” But what I was really thinking was, “It must be really hard to love a kid that ugly. Seriously, that’s just side-show ugly. Was her daddy an oompa-loompa? ”

3.       I am selfish. I know that the first time I have to stay home when I really want to go out because I have a kid, I’m going to resent having it. I am also at the age when I don’t recover from going out as quickly as I used to. It’s all well and good to get a sitter for the night, but what about the next day when I feel like crap, but I have to be “mommy”? I am even more selfish when I’m forced to reside in a dehydrated shriveled up pile of toxic waste shell of a body. In this condition it would not seem unreasonable for me to lock a kid in their room with a box of Cheerio’s and a bowl of water.

4.       My gene pool. The only positive things I can think of that I could pass onto a child are a high IQ and good teeth. This would be fantastic if it weren’t coupled with a slew of other obstacles that are lurking around in there, like alcoholism, obesity, crippling depression, poor eyesight and diabetes, just off the top of my head. These things are not the legacy I want to leave to future generations and I certainly don’t want to curse a child with them.

5.       I have to work at it to be “kid friendly.” Maybe this is why kids exhaust me after a day or so. The constant censoring of my language is tiring. What’s worse is that I find a toddler swearing absolutely hilarious. Especially if it’s unprovoked and the swear word is used properly. I have learned that no matter how much you try to hide it, kids can just sense when you are amused by something.  This will cause them to do whatever the offensive behavior is over and over and will not hesitate to do it in public.

So the point is, I like this arrangement. Bring me your children when I ask for them so I can play with them and teach them cool stuff, then come get them right before their child-like behavior starts getting on my nerves. And stop asking, because no matter how unbelievable you may think it is, no, I don’t want any of my own.

Killer Pill

Ok, so I was watching a documentary about serial killer couples and the father of one of the victims was being interviewed. Now, I know this fellow’s been through hell, but when he was asked how he felt about the fact that the killer died on death row before he could be executed he said, and I quote, “I was disappointed. I wanted to watch him die. I wanted to be there when they strung him up or gave him the bullet or the pill or whatever.” At first I just giggled a little. Clearly the guy has a drinking problem, he didn’t even put his tumbler down when he knew he was being filmed for a documentary and his hair looks like he’s been sleeping on a glue pillow, but the more I thought about it, the funnier it got. Let’s break this down.

Just so we’re all on the same page, his daughter was killed in 1984. The current year is 2011. This guy is probably at least 60. Ok, 60 years ago was 1951. The US hasn’t used hanging as way to execute prisoners since the 20’s at the latest, so even if I’m way off on his age, given his ridiculously twangy southern accent,  the only “stringing up” he would have ever seen would have been perpetrated by the Klan. Maybe he thinks the judge is a member of the Klan. They do both wear dresses. It’s an honest mistake when you’ve gone through a fifth of whisky before noon. Let’s move on.

I’m going to assume that “give him the bullet” refers to shooting him. I’m pretty sure firing squads went out with the civil war, but he thinks the judge is the grand wizard so it’s possible that he’s confused. How exactly would you watch someone being executed by firing squad? You would have to do it outside because that would just get messy. Does he think that they were going to issue him a spatter shield, safety glasses and earplugs and set out a folding chair for him?  If he’s lucky he’ll get an enthusiastic firing squad and they’ll start with the guy’s knees. He might even get a souvenir.

“This one went clean through. It’s even got a little blood on it. You wanna hold on to that? Oh! Careful, little bugger’s still hot.”

Now, I don’t even know where to begin with “the pill.” I’m sure he didn’t intend for the killer to be estrogen-ed to death so I’m guessing he’s referring to terrorists and spies using a cyanide capsule to commit suicide if they’re captured. Even if you strapped him to a chair, I’m not really sure how one would force someone else to swallow a poisonous pill.

“Ok, David, it’s time open your mouth.”

 (Presses lips together and shakes his head) “Mmmp mmnnnn!”

“Now let’s not make this harder than it has to be, open your mouth.”

“MMMMMMMP MNNNNNNN!”

(into radio) “Yeah, tell the warden we’re gonna need a suppository.”

Whatever the case may be, he wished he’d seen it.  I guess that’s his point.  

Fair Play

The fair comes to town this Friday. It’s not something I even think about until I hear that it’s coming, then I am suddenly filled with childlike excitement and I must go. I know before I even fork over my $5 to the homeless-looking man at the front gates that it is going to be exactly the same as last year, and the year before that, but still, I must go. I love the fair and here’s why:

1.       The monkey man. There is always a man walking around the food court area, dressed in some sort of circus type garb carrying a spider monkey on his shoulder. You can’t really pet him, but you are encouraged to hand dollars to him and watch him snatch them with his tiny human hands and put them in the man’s pocket. Yes, I know he’s basically pan handling, and inevitably someone is going to annoyingly ask the man if they can stroke his monkey, but it tickles me.  Plus, he wears a little hat. The monkey, not the man.

2.       The food. It’s no secret that fair food is an abomination of deep fried deliciousness that probably takes years off of your life with every bite, but let’s face it, it’s delicious. Before the end of the night, I will have a funnel cake generously dusted with powdered sugar and a corndog. They are always coming up with more interesting and delicious ways to kill yourself at the fair. This year I hear they’re going to have deep fried snickers bars on a stick. Yes, please.

3.       The hypnotist man. You know the ones. Stage full of people quacking like ducks or putting out imaginary fires. I’m not convinced that people are actually hypnotized, but if they are willing to make an ass of themselves for my amusement, I will gladly watch. I always wondered what was different about the stage. We can all hear the man talking, so why aren’t we all hypnotized? Maybe they pump nitrous oxide onto the stage or something.

4.       Gravitron. I don’t usually indulge in fair rides. Unlike amusement park rides which are stable, cemented into the ground, and inspected, fair rides are mobile. They are broken down and moved every couple of weeks and only inspected when something goes wrong. Well, that “something going wrong” could be me falling to my death or losing an arm in some sort of machinery.  I just don’t trust them. Besides in any other environment, would you be willing to get on a contraption set up and run by a guy in a ripped pocket t-shirt and a quarter of his natural teeth? “Look-y here what I got…wanna ride it?”  So I don’t. Except for the Gravitron. There’s just something about ear splitting heavy metal and spinning until I puke that I can’t resist.  

5.       Seeing how much teenage boys (and a few sad, sad men) are willing to fork out to win their lady friends a cheap stuffed animal. I like to find the most popular booth and park it. It takes some patience, but they will come. You’ll know him when you see him. He’ll saunter up with his cool swagger, his chest all puffed out, and a woman who’s waaaaaay out of his league on his arm. She’ll point to the giant tiger dangling from the ceiling of the booth that is worth about $5, but will cost your life savings and your first born at the fair, throw out her very effective, yet obviously practiced pout and peacock man will pull out his wallet. He doesn’t want to appear cheap in front of the lady so he throws down $10 even though it only cost $5 to play. The swindler behind the counter knows he’s hooked a big one and hands him his three balls or darts or whatever. The fun begins. My personal record for this engaging activity so far is $110. $50 seems to be about the norm. I’m sure the pretty lady is as amused as I am.

Cat on a Cold Tar Roof

I open my eyes. The morning breeze flows in through the open window, damp and chilly. I pull the covers up closer to my chin and peek at the clock. Oh yeah, I can’t see that far. Stupid glasses. I blindly feel for my glasses and hold them up to look at the clock. It blurrily glows 7:10. The sun is just starting to come up. That chilly breeze is carrying a sound. It’s a whiney, high pitched call of some kind. Is that damn mockingbird back? Wait…no definitely human. What the hell is she saying? Rag weed?  Bird seed? The voice gets closer. Oh. Jazzy. That stupid woman is calling her cat again. I peek out the window and see a pink bathrobe pass behind the vine covered fence. Geez. It’s seven o’clock in the morning.

 I put my glasses on and walk into the kitchen to make coffee. The sound is coming every few seconds. “Jaaaaaa-zeeeeee! Jaaaaaaa-zeeeee!” I see movement outside and look up. There’s old jazzy sitting on top of my shed. His eyes slowly shifting from side to side and he watches the woman walk up and down the access road behind our houses. He flips his tail to let me know he sees me, but keeps his eyes trained on the woman.  I move closer to the open window.

 “What’s up little fella? Can I play too?” He flips his tail again.

 “Jaaaaaaa-zeeeee!”

I lean close to the screen and test out my best cat impression. “Meeew. Mew.” Jazzy whips his head around and looks at me.

“Jazzy?! Is that you?! Where are you baby?” Jazzy’s head snaps back to the woman. Since I don’t know how to say, “Over here!” in crazy cat lady I try another cat sound.

“RrrrrrRRRRrrrr. Hssssss!” Jazzy looks back at me.

“Jazzy!? Are you alright? Jazzy!!!” Jazzy looks at the woman. She is walking faster now, but passes right by us.

“Errrowwwwlllllll!” Jazzy looks at me.  He flips his tail. I believe he is enjoying this.  The woman spins around and homes in on my back yard. I almost let a giggle escape, but manage to swallow it. She is peeking through the vines on the fence.

“Jazzy? Are you back there? Are you ok baby?”

I can’t help it. I know it is just wrong. In my best cat voice I say, “Yeeesssss.”

The woman stops in her tracks. Her voice is confused and tentative this time. “Jazzy?”

“Up heeeere.” Jazzy flips his tail rhythmically.

The woman finally looks up. “There you are. Come down here and get your breakfast.”  The woman’s eyes dart around the yard, looking for the source of the voice. Jazzy looks back at me before he jumps to a nearby tree and makes his way to the ground. Jazzy and the woman disappear down the alley. Wow.

Pokes and Specs

No one believed that I was injured while I was nobly fending off a sly ninja who had invaded my home. I was deflecting a death star with my reproduction wonder woman arm bands when I caught some shrapnel in the eye. Ok, so maybe I was attending a self-defense class when an overzealous student got carried away and gouged me in the eye while yelling “NO!” at the top of her lungs. Ok, ok…I was carefully rubbing my eye when my finger slipped and I poked myself right in the peeper. Yes, my secret’s out. I’m an idiot. As a result of said poke, I have had to take my contacts out and suffer with glasses. This is a difficult transition for me because I literally live in contacts. I leave them in until I can’t see through them anymore then I throw them away and put new ones in. Without the aid of modern vision correction, I am legally blind in one eye and the other is only slightly better. My problem with glasses is not based in vanity. I think glasses are cute. I think my glasses are cute, but I hate wearing them and here’s why:

1.       I have no peripheral vision. My eyes are bad, people. REALLY bad. So basically I have a tunnel of perfect vision surrounded by blurs of color. When something approaches me from the side, I would have the same reaction, be it a kitten or a flaming ball of liquid fire. I simply cannot see it.

2.       The sidewalk looks lumpy. I know, what the hell am I talking about? When I look down, it looks like the ground is bulging where I’m walking. This causes me to periodically stop dead in my tracks and tap the ground in front of me with my toe. I am aware that this makes me look like a crazy person, but the alternative is tripping over imaginary bumps and falling on my ass.

3.       They make my face hot.  When it is hot outside or if I am even remotely exerting myself, my nose and cheek bones will sweat. I guess I just have hot eyes. The heat cannot escape and I feel like my face is going to burst into flames.

4.       The mess with my hair. I wear my hair in a ponytail nearly all the time. The arms of the glasses go over the sideburns, which is great at first, but eventually that little bit of hair will start to work its way loose and stick out and look like tiny hairy shelves holding up sticks. This is a constant struggle. I am always removing my glasses, putting my hair back up, and carefully sliding the glasses back on.

5.       They hurt my head when I watch tv in a horizontal position. Sometimes you just want to lie down. Unfortunately this causes my ear to smash into the arm of the glasses and after 30 minutes or so it hurts. Sometimes I fold the smashy side arm in but then I have to watch tv with a big fat line through it. Either way it’s annoying.  

6.       I keep accidentally touching them. I’m not used to anything on my face, so when I reach up to rub my eye I just smear a big ole greasy fingerprint on them. I suppose if I had been wearing glasses the day I poked myself in the eye, I wouldn’t have to be wearing them now.

Pushing Furniture

Every six months or so, either Dewie or I get the bug and we must move furniture. If there are no current projects, we will rearrange furniture just for the hell of it. It’s a compulsion that we both have so it’s not difficult to convince one or the other to indulge. Dewie came home from the library yesterday babbling about changing the office into a closet. The closets in our house are really tiny so even with clever arrangements and building in shelves and double hanging, it’s nearly impossible to put the wardrobe of two people inside. She has my attention.

“What are you babbling about?”

“Since we only have the one desktop now, the office is just an empty room that collects crap. Why don’t we make it into like a dressing room so we can have all our clothes in one place instead of spread all over the house?” Now she really has my full attention.

“I need to stare.” This means I need to sit in the room in question and just look at it quietly, applying different floor plans in my mind. This also means that I must have the following conversation with Dewie:

“Why don’t we mov..”

“Shhhhh. In a minute.”

“Ok, but we coul..”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“But I was thinking we coul…”

“Get out.”

After a few minutes I go through the different floor plans with Dewie and we decide to divide the room with bookshelves, make the closet in the back and keep the computer up front for the bills and files and whatnot. It really is a great plan and I can already see that the excitement is going to be more than Dewie can bear so I tell her, “We really need to empty this room before we start pushing things around. The floor plan is going to be tight so we might have to adjust it a little. It will just be easier if everything is not covered with crap. It’s already 4. I don’t really want to start that right now.’

“Yeah. You’re right.” I head off to the bedroom to read before I start dinner in a few hours. Twenty minutes later I start hearing it.

“Chhhhhhhhhhhhh. Bam.”

“Damnit!”

“Chsssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhht. Bam!”

“Damnit!”

“Are you moving furniture in there?!?!”

“Maybe.”

“Did you pile everything on top of the desk and try to move it?”

“Maybe.” I sigh and put the book down. I peek in the office. The entire contents of the book shelves, desk, and closet are balanced on top of the two desks and piled in the hallway.

“Deeeeewieeeeee, I didn’t want to start this today.”

“I couldn’t help it. You don’t have to help.”

“Have fun with that. You know if you do it that way you’re going to have to move all that crap every time you move a piece of furniture.”

“Go away.”

I continue to hear the sound of furniture sliding and crap falling on the floor for several more hours. Dewie finally emerges, declares that she’s tired and starts getting ready for bed. I peek in the office and it basically just looks like someone shook the room like a snow globe. “Wow. It looks….worse.”

“It looks like you should shut the hell up.”

As we lie in bed, waiting for sleep, Dewie says, her words dripping with sarcasm, “You know, feel free to work on that office tomorrow while I’m at work.”

“Seriously?”

“It was worth a shot.”

Arachno-funny

So...I hate spiders. My rational mind knows that the majority of them won't hurt me and that they play a very important role in the ecosystem, but the emotional side forces me to dance like a firstgrader who really has to pee and emit a hysterical, high-pitched whining sound. I have no control over this. It is embarrassing and after I am rescued from the evil creepy awfulness I feel a deep sense of shame. I have to get over this. It's stupid.

In an attempt to desensitize myself to the general ickiness of the eight-legged demons, I decided to try to picture spiders in non-threatening situations.

Take this little guy:

He's just gross. He's not poisonous, he will not hurt me, but I really want to step on him. So what if he was dressed like a cute little baby?

Nope, still wanna squish him. So maybe he's going to a birthday party...

Nope. Still hate him. So what if he decided to forgo his web building and get a real job. Say, as an ice cream man. Everyone loves the ice cream man.

Ok, so now I think, get that nasty thing away from me...but leave the ice cream. So maybe we're making progress. Maybe something funnier...

The shoes help, but I can still see all those clickity little legs and now he's added the creep factor of clowns. (You're welcome, RB) So...last resort...

Nope. I still want to step on him, or rather would like someone else to step on him. If Santa can't fix it, no one can.

The Produce Dance

I am excited by produce. The bright colors and delicious smells make me giddy. I pick a fruit and I take my time with it. I smell it. I turn it over in my hands and squeeze it lovingly before carefully placing it in a bag. Every piece must pass a rigorous screening developed by an expert fruit buyer (yeah that’s right, it’s me) before it earns a spot in my produce bag. You may be asking yourself, “What makes you such an expert?” Well, I eat a lot of fruits and veggies and I like a lot of fruits and veggies, and I watch the food network a lot and that’s good enough for me. So I take my expert eyes, hands and sniffer and pick out the best apples, squash and zucchini that a grocery store can provide.

When I get to the checkout, I carefully place each bag of bright, beautiful, perfect fruit on the belt. I make sure to space the fruit out inside the bag so they don’t bang against each other and turn one in each bag so the sticker is visible. I watch my yummies ride the belt and come to an abrupt, jerky stop at the register. The checkout lady grabs them up with her talons and drops them down on the scale. I can hear each apple bounce once, twice. I can feel the flesh weaken and bruise. Gone are the gentle, respectful hands of the expert. They’ve been replaced by the efficient, careless pirate hooks of a checkout lady that would prefer to be anyplace else. After the apples are sufficiently bruised, she rolls them down to the bagger. I hear every rotation. Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. The bagger grabs the bag by the corner and the apples clunk together. He raises the other hand and worries a cluster of pimples on is chin, and is completely serious when he asks, “Do you mind if I put your apples on top of these cans?” Does it matter at this point? Why don’t you just kick them to the car for me? “Just leave them out. I’ll take care of them.” I scoop up my once fantastic, flawless specimens of sweet natural goodness which are now scarred and broken and head to the car. These little guys will need my acceptance now more than ever.

Dog Breath

The storm is raging. The thunder is shaking the house and the flashes of lightening are lighting up the room like a flood light. The roof has dissolved and even though I am still in bed I can feel the rain on my face and the wind is causing the hair that has escaped from my ponytail to tickle my ears and neck. A gust of wind shifts my whole body. I pull the covers up closer around my neck and peek out through the one eye that’s not buried in the pillow.  It is raining, but the roof is fine. The rain on my face is the steady drip of drool coming from the mouth of a golden retriever on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I smell the distinct odor of gravy train as my mind shakes off the cobwebs of sleep and the gusts of wind become puffs of panting dog breath. Lightning flashes brightly and the crack of a close strike rocks the house and the dog actually tries to burrow her head under my neck. I look at the clock. 5:45AM. Fine. I’m up.

I push 75 pounds of hairy dead weight off of me and head to the tiny half bath that is attached to our bedroom. Scout is tight on my heels. As I run the water to wash the dried puddles of dog drool off of my face, Scout squeezes her giant self between my feet and the sink. I try to nudge her out of the way, but she is having none of it. Like a child throwing a tantrum, she has actually gone limp. Passive resistance. You have to respect that. I manage to wash my face while leaning over the dog and move on to the kitchen.

I grab the coffee pot and walk to the sink to fill it. As I am walking back to the coffee maker Scout walks right in front of me and leans against my legs. I stumble and splash the water onto the floor. I catch my balance…wait, nope, I’m going down. I have a glass coffee pot in one hand and the dog on the opposite side so I have no way of catching myself. I have no choice but to tuck and roll. The coffee pot bounces once…twice…I squeeze my eyes shut and wince at the third bounce knowing this one is going to break it and I will have to venture out in the rain to get my morning coffee. Scout has the audacity to whimper like I’m frightening her with my shenanigans. The cats scatter like water on a hot skillet, turning over the dog’s water in the process. There wasn’t a crash so I open my eyes and see the coffee pot is sitting upright spinning victoriously. But there are huge puddles of water everywhere. I pull my knees up to my chest and just breathe for a minute. I take in deep breaths and let go of the anger that makes me want to punch my dog in the face. Lightening crashes again. Scout nudges her head between my calves and the backs of my thighs. I just sigh and the reach over and scratch her head.

Molly Opens a Window

The weather has been really nice lately. The Florida heat has finally (though likely temporarily) broken and evenings and morning have become deliciously cool and autumn like. Our house is what you would call a fixer-upper. We’re slowly renovating it, but new windows are low on the list. Because of this we still have four or five of those old timey windows that roll out and screens that may or may not be present. Given the amazing weather we’ve been having and a visual ticker in my head of the power bill quickly decreasing, I set about opening all the windows with screens that would open. Then I noticed that the second of the two roll out windows in our bedroom actually has a screen in it, but it won’t open. Having both windows open would create the perfect airflow and pull air in from the kitchen. The window had to be opened.

I lifted the storm window and poked at the outside window through the screen. Yeah. It’s closed tight. I try the roll out handle again just in case I maybe did it wrong before. Nope. Still just twirls around with no movement from the window. Maybe I can pull it open from the outside. I walk around the house and reach up to the outside of the window, but I’m just too short by about 4 inches and I can’t get enough leverage to give it a yank. I scan the yard for boosting potential. I see a variety of useless items, two fold up camping chairs, a stack of landscape timbers, dog’s water bowl…wait. That’s a pretty big bowl. And it’s pretty sturdy. I set it on the ground upside down and test it with one foot. Seems ok, so I carry it to the window.  Holding on to the window sill, I carefully placed one foot on the bowl and put some weight on it. Please don’t bend…please don’t bend…so far so good. I stepped up on the bowl and grabbed the bottom of the window pane. Just as I was working my fingers under the edge of it, the bowl suddenly sinks into the ground, nearly pulling the skin off my fingertips. I let out a string of words that probably caused the neighbors to lock their doors and took a moment to walk around the yard waving my injured hand. I don’t know why waving works, but it does. The window wins this round.  I head back into the bedroom to devise a new plan.

As I examine the window from the inside I notice that my flailing injury managed to loosen the seal and I can move it a little by poking the screen. Huh. I go get a box cutter and a wire coat hanger. Like a skilled surgeon, I make a tiny incision in the screen right in front of the aluminum frame of the lowest window pane. I straighten then insert the hanger into the hole and give it a push. The window shifts, but the hanger bends a little. This may be my best plan yet. I bend the hanger in half to make it stronger and try again. It’s moving! The hanger starts to bend a little and I shift the weight so that it’s more centered and push a little harder. I hear an awful, grating sound of metal hanger on aluminum window frame as the hanger slips its position and rips a giant hole in the screen. I just stare at it for a minute. When I am absolutely certain that that just happened, I slowly stick my whole hand through the hole and push the window wide open. I stare at it for another minute, admit defeat and go get the duct tape.

A few hours later, Dewie arrives home. “It feels great in here.” She walks into the bedroom. “Hey! You got the window open! Why is there tape on it?”

“The screen had a big ole honking hole in it. You know these old windows…”

“Yeah. Nothing in this house works right.”

Indeed.

The Collar

A few days ago, our mama kitty, Sawyer came home with two puncture wounds on her hiney, like she was running away from something and it just got a piece of her nubby bob tail. She doesn’t go very far from the house because she’s old and lazy so I’m guessing it was the new neighbor’s puppy that they’re keeping in the backyard. So I clean her up and evaluate the damage. Two puncture wounds, not deep and a little rippage, no need for stitches. No problem. I clean it up and pack the holes with antibiotic cream, give her some sympathy loving and send her on her way.

The next morning at chow time I check the wounds again and find that she has chewed off the skin around the holes and now has two silver dollar sized open, oozing, bleeding wounds. I should have seen this coming. This cat is crazy neurotic anyway. I should have known she’d be a picker. I tried to explain to her that there will always be an edge to the owie and continuing to clean it back will only make the owie bigger, but she just looked at me with confused, wide eyes as if to say, “Have you seen what’s wrong with my ass? Why aren’t you doing something?” So for her own good, to keep her from skinning herself, we pull out the collar. The most ridiculous invention on earth, and yet the only thing that is in anyway effective when dealing with pickers. I wrap the cone around her tiny little head and clean the now giant wound again. When I sit her on the floor she seems confused. She stands perfectly still like she’s afraid the thing might be alive. This is a good thing. For the next few days she’ll just sit there while those Silence of the Lambs wounds heal. It is not to be. Sawyer slowly starts to back up, like she might have her head stuck in a jar.  Try as she might, she cannot back out of this contraption on her head. She does this for a good 15 minutes, and as sad as it is, I can’t help but be amused. Then suddenly she’s had enough. Sawyer flies into a rage and starts to fly around the room, still running backwards, with all her tiny might. She bangs the wounds into the walls, chairs, shelves leaving defiant smears of blood all over the room. This is both horrifying and hilarious.  I call Dewie into the room.

“What the hell is she doing?” (Bam! Conk. Bang!)

“I don’t think she likes the cone.” (Bonk! Bang! Bang!)

“Why is she running backwards?” (Thud! Bam!)

“She’s trying to back out of it…really fast.” (Bang! Bang! Thud!)

“That cat is so crazy.”  (Bam! Bam!)

“Right? I’ll pick her up and try to settle her down if you clean up the blood.”

“Gross.”

“She’s clearly not happy, so do you want to deal with your blood or hers?”

“Hers.”

I bend down to catch Sawyer, which isn’t as hard as it seems because she’s still moving backwards and bumping into things like a pinball machine. I try to cuddle her and she is surprisingly compliant. I lay a towel down on the bed and let her snuggle her little cone right up to me and she quickly falls asleep. I guess all that backwards running is exhausting. She’s calm for now. I’ll take it. It’s going to be a long couple of days.