Milestones

I was hanging out with Wendy yesterday, and it occurred to us that although greeting cards are getting ridiculously specific, there are quite a few situations that have been left out. Here are some of the ideas we tossed around.

Front: Our deepest sympathies on your recent development of erectile dysfunction…

Inside: It must be very hard on you.

Front: We’re so sorry to hear about your son’s guilty verdict…

Inside: Unfortunately, the truth does not always set you free.

Front: We offer our condolences upon hearing of your unfortunate situation with a broken condom…

Inside: We’re positive that your test will be negative.

Front: Our thoughts are with you during your impending divorce…

Inside: Unfortunately half of zero is still zero.

Front: Congratulations on your recent intervention.

Inside: Please accept this bottle of the finest vintage champagne.

Front: Congratulations on your decision to purchase your first hearing aid.

Inside: We know it will only enrich your life. (For your convenience this card is also available in closed captioning.)

And my personal favorite:

Front: We’re sorry to hear that your car has been repossessed.

Inside: The ford giveth and the ford taketh away.

High There.

My best buddy Wendy was in a bad car accident on Friday night and spent the weekend in the hospital. Now when normal people are doped up on pain meds, it’s funny. Wendy doped up is hilarious. She called me from home this morning. Her normal fast, exaggerated southern accent was coated with something that made her words raspy and sticky. The following conversation ensued:

-Hey Wendy. What you doing up so early?

-What YOU doing up so early?

-I’m always up this early.

-See? Now I’m suspicious. You have other friends you play with early in the morning when I’m still sleeping.

-That’s it exactly.

-I knew it. Hey, can you take me to the doctor in the morning? We’re down a vehicle because one’s all crunched up. And I don’t know where it is.

-No problem. What do you mean you don’t know where it is?

-I mean I don’t know where it is. Last time I saw it, it was upside down on the side of the road. I assume it’s no longer there, but I don’t know where it is. Who do I call to find out? Where do the crunched up cars go?

-I’ll try to find out for you.

-Cool. I feel bad about it because Randy’s mom just gave him that truck like last year. It was his grandpa’s. He was pretty attached to it. He could probably still have it. He can just go put it in a shoe box and keep it in the closet. Did you know they cut my good clothes?

-They usually do.

-They could have just woke me up and asked me to take them off. That just wasn’t necessary. I’m pretty pissed about that. I’m also pissed about being unconscious through my first helicopter ride. I mean, when will I ever be in a helicopter again? It’s like a once in a lifetime opportunity. Someone could have recorded it on their phone or something. They don’t offer to take you up when you’re not hurt. You have to damn near kill yourself to get in it, and then you can’t enjoy it.

-Right? That just doesn’t seem fair.

-I know. So you gonna take me tomorrow?

-Yeah, but I have to be back by 6PM so Dewie can get to work. The truck’s not running right now. When it rains, water gets under the distributor cap and it won’t start. I just haven’t gotten around to replacing it yet.

-Maybe that’s why my truck won’t start. Maybe later you can help me unfold it so we can check the ‘effin distributor cap. Of course we’ll be back by 6. What? Do you think it’s an all-night doctor’s office? They close at 5 like all the other doctor’s offices in the world. This is a strictly day time adventure. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know what time.

-Okay, then. Later.

Mock This...

I’ve often wondered why people haven’t domesticated mockingbirds. That’s just human nature. If something is charming or entertaining, we want to cram it in a box and keep it for ourselves. A couple of years ago, a little mockingbird started settling in my yard every morning. He sits on the power line and performs. The first time I heard him, he was quacking. I scanned the yard for a wayward duck for a good 45 seconds before I looked up and realized it was coming from the little mockingbird. How cute. He quacks. Like a duck.

A few mornings later, he added my obnoxious neighbor’s ringtone to his set list. “Quack! Quack! Quack! Do-di-leedle! Do-di-leedle!” He makes duck sounds and phone sounds. How funny!

This continued for some time. The set list got longer and longer, and as the little fellow grew, so did his lung capacity. Within a couple of months, he was repeating various sounds for a good thirty minutes and he could be heard in the back of the house with all the windows closed. He watches me wave my arms and yell and he just gets louder, smug in the knowledge that I can’t get to him and my aim is not that good. I think my protests have offended him, and now he has made it his mission to irritate me. He has started repeating sounds that he knows aggravate me. Like the neighbor’s squeaky attic fan or the sound of another neighbor peeling out on his motorcycle. He looks me dead in the eye while he does it too, and I swear he is smirking.

The final straw occurred recently when I was outside puttering around in the yard with the dog. I was just walking around, minding my own business when he started making that truck backing up beeping sound. Now he’s not just annoying me, he’s insulting me. Exasperated, I threw my arms up and looked at him. “Really? Really, mockingbird?” He hasn’t learned to snicker yet, but his eyes were laughing at me. So now I know. They haven’t been domesticated yet because they are spiteful, evil little creatures.

Chain Game

I can remember the first moment I was introduced to stream of consciousness literature. I was in the 8^th grade and we were reading Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. The very idea of someone recording their thoughts as they have them rather than taking the time to organize and edit them feels very organic and truthful to me. Since that time I have become obsessed with this idea in every capacity.

I often play this game in my mind where I stop my thought process, pick out the topic and compare it to a thought I had earlier. If they are sufficiently random, I try to remember how I transitioned from one topic to another. For example, let’s say I am currently thinking, “I love the smell of a tobacco pipe,” and a few minutes earlier I remember thinking, “there’s something in my teeth.” These thoughts are completely unrelated, so how did I get there? Let me break it down.

“There’s something in my teeth. I never have any floss in my bathroom, how come Dewie gets all the floss? She gets all the Q-tips too. I never have Q-tips. Maybe it’s because there’s no storage in my bathroom. I never did cut that wood so Dewie could build that shelf. I hate dragging that saw out of the shed. It’s heavy. What are we going to do when that shed finally falls down? Maybe the neighbor’s tree will fall on it and their insurance can buy us another one. If one more tree falls in that crazy guy’s yard, he’s going to lose his mind. I could probably convince him that his house is possessed. That could be fun. I wonder if he ever sold his half a drum kit and collection of trucker hats in that last yard sale. They haven’t had one in a couple of months. Maybe they finally got rid of all their stuff. I wonder who bought that old timey wall mounted ash tray. I could go for a cigarette right now. I wonder why cigarettes stink and pipes smell so good? I love the smell of a tobacco pipe.” So it’s teeth – floss – Q-tips – shelf – shed – tree – crazy neighbor – yard sale - ash tray – cigarette – pipe.

It’s like my own version of 6 degrees of separation, but only I have the answers, so no one else can play. I don’t know why I do this, and yes, I know it makes me sound crazy.  

Surreal Walgreen’s Moment

So I was standing in line in Walgreen’s yesterday and there was a woman in front of me with two little girls, about ages 7 and 9. Both of them were wearing little league uniforms and looked pretty much identical but for the age difference and the fact that one was blonde and one was dark. As I pondered how interesting it was that very similar genetics manifested in such different ways an older boy raced by me and handed a pair of sunglasses to the blonde.

“Sienna, Sienna, put these on. Put theeeese onnnnn.” He giggled loud and sharp. The kind of sound you can still hear echoing through the room after the source of it has quieted. The cashier jumped and dropped her scanner. The boy danced about, hopping from foot to foot like he’d been mainlining Red Bull. Sienna put the shades on and struck a pose. “Yeah, yeah those are great. You should get those.” He then sings in a high pitched voice, “You look like a sup-er staaar.”

The mom piped up, “Justin put those back.”

“Come on, they look awesome!”

“I mean it!”

The boy snatched the sunglasses back and ran off toward the middle of the store. I felt my leg starting to twitch and I barely suppressed the urge to trip him when he ran by. He returned with wide glistening eyes, holding out a giant pink ball like it was a rare treasure. “Riley! Riley! Don’t you love this ball?!” He hurls the ball at the brunette child. It bounces off the counter and into a Chapstick display before she plucks it out of the air and starts to dribble it around the aisle. By now the cashier who is barely older than the children, has stopped trying to ring anything up and just stands there and looks confused.

“Damnit, Justin! Stop bringing shit up here! They don’t need anything else!” says, mom. She turns to Riley and says, “Now, give that back to your father.” Wait, what? I turn around and take a good look at the boy and realize that it is indeed a small man. The man instantly deflates like a broken pool toy. He actually drags his feet as he puts the ball back. He returns empty handed. I take a moment to search his face for signs of a mental disability. Other than looking like he’s about to crawl out of his skin, there is nothing particularly unusual about him.

The cashier looks at the mother; one eyebrow cocked and raises a timid, limp hand. “Is he...uh…finished?”

“Yes. Just ignore him. I never should have let him out of the cage.” She pays for her strange mix of impulse items, takes her kids hands and walks out. Her man-child follows several steps behind, hanging his head, clutching the bags of crap he undoubtedly picked out.

Summertime

I actually enjoyed this summer. Usually the oppressive heat and astronomical electric bills that are the result of keeping the house at a dreamy 71 degrees are enough to make me cranky at best and homicidal at worst. This year I decided to accept the fact that I am going to sweat and be snacked on by mosquitoes and actually ventured outdoors. During these steamy months I managed to not only learn some things myself but bust a few myths held by my friends. You may recognize yourself in the following list, but don’t worry, I’m not mentioning any names.

1.   River and/or pool water does not remove skank from your body. That requires soap. Toweling off after swimming and after a shower are very similar actions, and you may be able to trick your brain into thinking you’re clean, but your nose knows that you’re not and so does everyone else’s.

2.    Barry Manilow never sang a song about a place called the “Cocoa-Banana” that must be in Georgia because it’s the hottest spot north of “Savannah.”  

3.   Citronella candles provide a lovely dining atmosphere for mosquitoes.

4.   If it stings, bites or contains toxins of any kind I will have the most severe reaction recorded in medical history. This year alone I have had near death experiences with yellow flies, fire ants and currently chiggers.

5.   No matter how fast you go, you can’t outrun a song on the car radio, you must push the button.

6.   hot beer + hot outside = vomit (which is also hot)

7.   It’s never okay to run barefoot down the driveway to the mail box. It’s not as close as you think and the soles of your feet with actually melt off.

8.    It is not only possible, but likely that an entire 12 pack of beer will explode when left in the freezer overnight. Anyone who took 5^th grade science should know that. And now your friends are thirsty.

9.   Plastic tarp + sprinkler + dish detergent = fun times for kids. For adults it means a visit to the Emergency Room.

10.  If you put goggles on, your brain will trick you into thinking you can breathe. You cannot do this without the snorkel.

Zookeeper

So, I wake up yesterday to the dog nudging my chin. Poor thing has the skitters because I gave in to her pitiful face the day before and gave her a giant wad of chicken skin. I stumble out of bed and slide my feet into my flip flops only to find a mangled, dead mole lying on the floor next to it. I know it’s a mole because it’s one intact flipper-hand is up in the air waving forebodingly as if to say, “Guess what kind of morning you’re about to have?” No doubt a gift from one of my three cats (we have a cat door so they occasionally bring living toys inside during the night).

“Dewie! There’s an effing dead mole on the floor.”

“What?” She comes in the bedroom from the kitchen. “How did I miss that?”

“Huh. I can’t begin to fathom.”

Scout nudges me again, “Brrr wow rrrr.” Oh yeah, the dog has to slam. I let the dog out while Dewie disposes of the recently deceased mole. Upon returning back to the house I am greeted by Myron who is pacing and crying at the top of his little feline lungs. He must have brought in the mole. Normal human ears would hear, “YEEEEEOOOOOWWWWLLLLLLL!” but roughly translated it sounds more like, “Where the hell’s my mole?! Where the hell’s my mole?!”

Soon enough the big one, Duncan joins in. “Yeah, where the hell’s his mole?!”

Dewie pops her head out of the office, “Do they have food?”

“Yeah, the kind from the store. Apparently they wanted wild game this morning.”

Dewie looks at them, “Shut. Uuuuuup!” Just like that. Short “shut,” long “up.” Huh. Helpful.

I give Myron a congratulatory pat on the head and then one for Duncan even though I know his intention was to steal the mole and start a fight and they both quiet down for about 15 seconds. I grab Richard and head for the laptop. I just settle in when Sawyer, the last cat jumps up on the couch and tries to get between me and the computer while simultaneously gouging the blood out of my thighs with her incessant kneading. I scratch her head and gently say, “Sawyer, please stop, I’m busy.” Knead, knead, knead. “Please?!” Then my hand flies off the mouse, Scout is once again nudging me. “Already girl? Geez.” Knead, knead, knead. “Enough with the kneady-pokes!  #$%@!” Nudge, nudge, nudge. Where the hell’s my mole? Yeah, where the hell’s his mole? Knead, where, nudge, the hell, knead, is my, nudge, mole? Nudge. Where? Knead. Where?

“THAT’S IT, EVERYONE OUTSIDE! EVERY. LAST. ONE.”

The Story of Richard

I’ve always wanted a favorite mug. I don’t know why, I just want one that is only mine. I am a hard core coffee drinker and felt like I needed to enhance my addiction with an unnatural dependence on a special cup. I searched the corners of the earth looking for just the right candidate but always found everything too small, too heavy or too polka-dotty, so I always I reverted back to the plain black mugs in kitchen.

One day Dewie and I were rummaging through a thrift store looking for treasure when we happened upon the brightest, prettiest orange mug in all the land. Since orange is my favorite color, I felt this must be fate. I gingerly picked up the mug that was destined to be my new best friend, admiring it’s clunky 70’s style and feeling the weight in my hand. I turned it around and my heart dropped. In a cloudy white splotch was the previous owner’s name, “Richard.” Boo.

Perhaps this particular mug was not meant to be my personal vessel in which I would carry my precious nectar of the gods. And that’s when it spoke to me. “But I’m orange and awesome, Molly. We need each other.” It was then that I realized that Richard was not the previous owner’s name; it was the cup’s name. Of course! I gleefully paid 75 cents for my new companion while ignoring the disapproval emanating from my girlfriend. As I lovingly wrapped Richard in paper and strapped it into the back seat, I heard her mumble,

“I not calling that cup Richard.”

“Yes you are.”

And she does.

It's in the Bag

For some weird reason, my girlfriend belongs to the tiny population of people who cannot operate a Ziploc bag. This disorder became obvious during an incident with a re-sealable bag of delicious sweet potato tots. I go to cook up some delicious tots, and I noticed that the whole bag was in another Ziploc bag. (By the way, Ziploc should be paying me, that’s the second time I’ve mentioned the brand) The following conversation ensued:

“Why are these delicious sweet potato tots in two bags?”

“I didn’t want to lose the directions.”

“But it’s re-sealable. You didn’t need a second bag.” This is when I noticed that the bag looked as if it had been opened by a person with no hands and only one good tooth. “Wait, what the hell?”

“It didn’t open right and I couldn’t get it closed.”

“Clearly you can’t get it closed, there’s only about 2 inches of the zipper left.”

“I didn’t notice it was re-sealable.” Granted it was the kind where the zipper portion is on the front of the bag rather than the top, but still there are those giant bold type letters on the front that advertise that it’s re-sealable. Maybe she just urgently needed some delicious sweet potato tots.

A few weeks later I go to get a hotdog out of the fridge and notice that the package is also re-sealable, and it is actually “closed,” however, it’s split up both sides and hot dog juice is leaking out. I would ask her why she didn’t put it in another bag, but after the delicious sweet potato tots incident, I’m afraid I might know the answer to that.

Higher Tempratures Call for Lower Standards...

So this summer, through a series of lucky circumstances, we became the owners of our very own above ground pool. I know, I know, I used to poo-poo them as well, but that was before I had one.  I have been in it nearly every day since we put it up and have definitely gotten some serious use out of it. However, I just have a few tips for the manufacturers.

This thing is an eye sore. The electric blue you have chosen does not deceive anyone into thinking that they are swimming in the Caribbean and it does not blend into any type of landscaping. If you’re going to go with irony, go all out and commit to it. Make it look like a giant bucket or just print “I’m a cheap plastic pool!” across the side of it. At least that’s funny.

Are the warning graphics really necessary? Have so many people tried to suck their hair into the intake or dive into a four foot pool that you have to spell it out like this? Put it in the manual.   There’s no need to stencil it onto the actual pool.

 The rickety ladder of death. *sigh* Is this your inconspicuous way of keeping fat people out of the pool? This thing is so flimsy. Of course you can buy a sturdier ladder to prevent you from falling to your death, but it costs more than the pool itself.  There’s just got to be a better way. Maybe a bungee system that gently lifts you out of the pool and delivers you safely on your feet on the other side? Or maybe you can just not use plastic. In case you didn’t realize, plastic gets soft when it sits out in the noon day sun. If you’re swimming, it’s likely hot outside.

Speaking of hot, it only takes one good 90 plus degree day to transform a refreshing pool of bliss into a steaming bucket of urine temperature misery. Of course it’s nothing a 20 lbs. bag of ice can’t cure, but somehow speaking the words, “Git me smice for the poo.” makes me feel like I should have a couple of dead cars and a toilet with a plant in it in the yard to complement my brand new swimming hole.

Oh, and a last word about the “don’t pee in the pool!” people. If four adult people have been drinking beer and standing chest high in water for the better part of 3 hours and no one has gotten out of the pool but you, you’re the only one who hasn’t peed in it.