I hate today.
I try not to use the word "hate" all that often, as I am somewhat of a flake, and also, it's just way too passionate to describe any feeling that I'm usually experiencing. Yes, I realize that makes me sound incredibly dull, but I'm not, really. Just well-medicated.
But today, I hate. I woke up this morning, full of hate for my uncomfortable bed. My small, lumpy, narrow, "twin" bed. First of all, why do they call it a twin? There is certainly no room for twins in my bed - this is empirically proven evidence. I hate inappropriately named household items. I thrashed around in my shitty, misnamed bed trying to get comfy, because I actually got to sleep later than 4:45am this morning. This was not as exciting as it sounds, because it meant that I was once again unemployed and doing nothing more constructive than perfecting a method for soft-poaching eggs and figuring out which hours of the day are meant for bourbon and which are meant for coffee. On my seventh round of rolling over, I rolled too far and smashed my half-asleep face into my ancient, stained, and splinter-ridden bedside table. I hate my bedside table. I did not want to start my day at 5:15 by washing blood out of my pillows and picking splinters out of my face. It just didn't seem fair.
After removing the last remnant of tree from my upper lip, I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. I reached for the ugly, chipped, rooster container that I have stored my coffee in for the last decade and promptly knocked it onto the floor. I watched it bounce, barely miss the cat, and splinter into a thousand tiny, sock-piercing shards, spilling coffee all over my recently-mopped kitchen floor. Because the aforementioned floor was recently mopped and because I am serious addict, I considered licking the floor for longer than I'm comfortable admiting. During this time of contemplation, the cat capitalized on the opportunity to fulfill it's deepest desire in life of "rolling in shit as often as possible". Before I could construct a complete profane sentance, the feline commenced it's manic writhing on the kitchen floor. In the coffee. And the glass. I hate my cat. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to both pick glass out of and bathe a cat before 7am, just walk away. I'm serious. Just leave. It's so not worth it. Especially with no coffee. I hate coffee. (I'm sorry coffee. I didn't mean it. Please don't leave me, lover.)
Resigned to the fact that instant coffee was my only option, I grabbed a cup and headed for the shower. I cranked the water as high as it would go, put a lid on my coffee cup, and stepped into the blissful, blistering hot water. It was approximately four-and-a-half seconds later I realized I was still wearing my pajamas. In the shower. I hate my shower.
I finished showering (and no, I didn't bother to take my pajamas off), and wandered to the kitchen to get another cup of revolting coffee, hairdryer in tow. I padded into the kitchen, stepped on a shard of ugly broken rooster canister, and dropped my hair dryer in the sink full of soapy water.
It was at this point in the day (approximately 7:45am) that I gave up on anything redeeming happening in the near future, and proceeded to break out the bourbon and the serious profanity.
It was a damn good thing, too.
I was out of bandaids. My cat had once again stolen my hairbrush and my eyeglasses, and hidden them places unknown. My other cat peed in my running shoes. My deoderant broke into 20tiny,useless pieces. My watch died. I deleted the most recent copy of my resume. I choked on a Tootsie Roll Pop (don't ask me how). I burnt two-and-a-half batches of corn bread. I ate two-and-a-half other batches of cornbread. I burnt myself. I stepped on a slug with my bare, paper-towel bandaged foot. The power went out. I ran out of bourbon and was forced to drink scotch. I ran out of candles. My iPhone battery died. I couldn't dry my pajamas in the dryer. I couldn't make dinner. I couldn't google "poisonous slugs of BC". I could only sit in the dark, drinking scotch, eating cornbread, and, above all, hating today.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Dear Cat
Dear Cat,
Mittens. Sweet, adorable, fuzzy feline terrorist. Mittens.
We need to talk, and now is as good a time as any with you laying on my head while I am trying to type. As a side note, there's no way you can be comfortable and you can't breathe lying like that with your butt higher up than your head...but your brain is the size of a pecan so I guess I will forgive you for this minor indescretion.
While we're talking about this, what is up with your choice of sleeping locations? I am, of course, referring to your various dalliances with my underwear drawer. I know, in my heart of hearts, that it is my responsibility to keep the drawer closed...But getting ready for work at 5am with only three cups of coffee in my system means that sometimes, I forget. Please do not mistake my memory lapses as blanket permission for you to roll around and have a seven-hour bath in the 70% cotten lair of my unmentionables. No one should have to use a lint roller on their underpants. I'm just sayin'.
And, speaking of bathing, you are clearly misguided in your multi-hour attempts at cleanliness. Your ass stinks. I mean REALLY stinks. I am spending more than a fair portion of my hard-earned wages to feed you over-priced gourmet cat food. And, sure, I occasionally feed you a bite of cheese, or a few rice crispies, or maybe an entire corndog, but seriously. Why do you smell soooo horrible? I thought cats were clean. There are seven of your brethren living under this roof. None of them smell like they have a half-dead possum rotting in their digestive tract. Why, God, did you give me the stinkiest cat in this solar system?
Furthermore, while pontificating about your nether regions, Cat, why do you insist on showing me your ass? I do not enjoy this. Especially when I am eating. Or, you know, breathing. I find this particularly annoying considering you have been blessed with a fabulous appendage known as a tail. I understand this is a multi-funtional part of your anatomy, but for the love of everything good and holy, have some modesty. Also, when you sit on my head, please have the kindness to put your aforementioned incredibly useless tail down. I don't want to catch something.
The litterbox. I have to wonder, is it your goal to defecate on the rim of the box? Is this a passive aggresive method of informing me that, despite your access to the great outdoors and my daily maintenance of your sandpit, your are discontent with the level of cleanliness? If it is, Mission accomplished! You can stop now. You have proved your point. It is not funny anymore, and I have run out of stick-like devices in my house to clean it off with. The box is big enough, and you are small, so don't even go there.
Now... making pointless, incessant, and maddening noises. If I take something away from you because I am tired of hearing it scoot across the floor for the last 2 hours, it does not mean to go find something else to mess with. I realize I started this trend when, as a charming kitten, I provided you with approxmiately 743 plastic army men to play with. At the time, it was cute. It was not so cute, however, stepping on said army men at 3am in bare feet on the bathroom floor. I couldn't take it anymore. I'm sorry I took away the army men; I'm sure it was traumatizing. But hear this, cat: bottle caps, paper clips, pens, lighters, egg shells, coins, shards of broken glass, flatware, my eyeglasses, and the remote control are not appropriate substitutes. I mean really where do you find this stuff? A wad of paper? Is that really that fun to play with?
Carrying on with the theme of "my stuff", I put things on the coffee table because I want them there. At the end of an exceedingly long day, the first thing I do is take my contacts out. As you and I both know, due to the many times I've stepped on your previously mentioned idiotic tail, I am completely blind. When you hide my glasses, it hurts my head. I do not want you to knock EVERYTHING off of the coffee table in one of your mindless "tearing ass through the house for no reason" adventures every single day. I need to be able to see, man. Once in a while, it is amusing. Every day, it's not that funny.
Lastly, I am allergic to you. I know this isn't your fault, but knowing this, why do you insist on rubbing the whole length of your body on my face? And why do you feel the need to bathe my pillow as if it were one your young? You haven't even had young. And, yeah, I know. I had you neutered. Talk about indignity. But, seriously? It's pretty clear you were not meant to be anyone's mother. Please try to find it in your feline heart to forgive me. Sometimes, when I'm feeling guilty about denying you your natural right to procreate, I think about how I rescued you from the SPCA. Yeah, that's right. I win.
Okay... I just pulled a CAT HAIR out of my eye. No wonder my eyes are itchy if you are purposefully depositing your dander into my eyes. What are you trying to prove here? It's bad enough you take away my vision aids (and my toothpaste. What the hell?), why must you endeavor to make me blind, itchy, and full of snot? Did you not catch the part about me saving your stinky, terrorist ass? I just don't get you, cat.
While you're busy carrying things about the house in your mouth to deposit them into some area that I haven't discovered yet and eating food off of my dinner plate, would you mind bringing me a peice of sandpaper to me so that I can alleviate the itching you've caused me? And maybe you can rustle up my glasses from whatever den of inequity you've hidden them in. Oh, and while we're on this subject, I need my hair ties back - I know you have them. Thanks.
Mittens. Sweet, adorable, fuzzy feline terrorist. Mittens.
We need to talk, and now is as good a time as any with you laying on my head while I am trying to type. As a side note, there's no way you can be comfortable and you can't breathe lying like that with your butt higher up than your head...but your brain is the size of a pecan so I guess I will forgive you for this minor indescretion.
While we're talking about this, what is up with your choice of sleeping locations? I am, of course, referring to your various dalliances with my underwear drawer. I know, in my heart of hearts, that it is my responsibility to keep the drawer closed...But getting ready for work at 5am with only three cups of coffee in my system means that sometimes, I forget. Please do not mistake my memory lapses as blanket permission for you to roll around and have a seven-hour bath in the 70% cotten lair of my unmentionables. No one should have to use a lint roller on their underpants. I'm just sayin'.
And, speaking of bathing, you are clearly misguided in your multi-hour attempts at cleanliness. Your ass stinks. I mean REALLY stinks. I am spending more than a fair portion of my hard-earned wages to feed you over-priced gourmet cat food. And, sure, I occasionally feed you a bite of cheese, or a few rice crispies, or maybe an entire corndog, but seriously. Why do you smell soooo horrible? I thought cats were clean. There are seven of your brethren living under this roof. None of them smell like they have a half-dead possum rotting in their digestive tract. Why, God, did you give me the stinkiest cat in this solar system?
Furthermore, while pontificating about your nether regions, Cat, why do you insist on showing me your ass? I do not enjoy this. Especially when I am eating. Or, you know, breathing. I find this particularly annoying considering you have been blessed with a fabulous appendage known as a tail. I understand this is a multi-funtional part of your anatomy, but for the love of everything good and holy, have some modesty. Also, when you sit on my head, please have the kindness to put your aforementioned incredibly useless tail down. I don't want to catch something.
The litterbox. I have to wonder, is it your goal to defecate on the rim of the box? Is this a passive aggresive method of informing me that, despite your access to the great outdoors and my daily maintenance of your sandpit, your are discontent with the level of cleanliness? If it is, Mission accomplished! You can stop now. You have proved your point. It is not funny anymore, and I have run out of stick-like devices in my house to clean it off with. The box is big enough, and you are small, so don't even go there.
Now... making pointless, incessant, and maddening noises. If I take something away from you because I am tired of hearing it scoot across the floor for the last 2 hours, it does not mean to go find something else to mess with. I realize I started this trend when, as a charming kitten, I provided you with approxmiately 743 plastic army men to play with. At the time, it was cute. It was not so cute, however, stepping on said army men at 3am in bare feet on the bathroom floor. I couldn't take it anymore. I'm sorry I took away the army men; I'm sure it was traumatizing. But hear this, cat: bottle caps, paper clips, pens, lighters, egg shells, coins, shards of broken glass, flatware, my eyeglasses, and the remote control are not appropriate substitutes. I mean really where do you find this stuff? A wad of paper? Is that really that fun to play with?
Carrying on with the theme of "my stuff", I put things on the coffee table because I want them there. At the end of an exceedingly long day, the first thing I do is take my contacts out. As you and I both know, due to the many times I've stepped on your previously mentioned idiotic tail, I am completely blind. When you hide my glasses, it hurts my head. I do not want you to knock EVERYTHING off of the coffee table in one of your mindless "tearing ass through the house for no reason" adventures every single day. I need to be able to see, man. Once in a while, it is amusing. Every day, it's not that funny.
Lastly, I am allergic to you. I know this isn't your fault, but knowing this, why do you insist on rubbing the whole length of your body on my face? And why do you feel the need to bathe my pillow as if it were one your young? You haven't even had young. And, yeah, I know. I had you neutered. Talk about indignity. But, seriously? It's pretty clear you were not meant to be anyone's mother. Please try to find it in your feline heart to forgive me. Sometimes, when I'm feeling guilty about denying you your natural right to procreate, I think about how I rescued you from the SPCA. Yeah, that's right. I win.
Okay... I just pulled a CAT HAIR out of my eye. No wonder my eyes are itchy if you are purposefully depositing your dander into my eyes. What are you trying to prove here? It's bad enough you take away my vision aids (and my toothpaste. What the hell?), why must you endeavor to make me blind, itchy, and full of snot? Did you not catch the part about me saving your stinky, terrorist ass? I just don't get you, cat.
While you're busy carrying things about the house in your mouth to deposit them into some area that I haven't discovered yet and eating food off of my dinner plate, would you mind bringing me a peice of sandpaper to me so that I can alleviate the itching you've caused me? And maybe you can rustle up my glasses from whatever den of inequity you've hidden them in. Oh, and while we're on this subject, I need my hair ties back - I know you have them. Thanks.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Rules of Engagement
I am a competent human being. I can bake. I can change a flat. I can bench press my body weight (which means, probably, I could bench press a mid-size baby rhinocerous). I can knit, I can tie an anchor hitch, and I can play the bassoon. I can recite all of the prepositions in the English language - in alphabetical order. I can even give you the heimlich if you choke on a friggen wasabi pea. Also, I can break a large pane of commercial glass with my elbow...but that's another story... Listen, what I'm saying is, I'm doin' alright. I have the skills that are necessary to navigate the world in a somewhat competent and civilized manner. Sometimes, I'm even downright clever.
And yes, internet, you truth-sucking and fickle mistress, of course there is more to this story. Despite my aforementioned craftiness and competencies, despite my general affection for humanity (well, that might just be a lie), I am still left short in my overall well-roudedness...
I cannot cope with human relationships. I am a fretful, neurotic, social disaster. I find the majority of folks puzzling, emotional, and downright terrifying. Someone once told me I was one of the least demonstrative people they had ever met. I still think it was pretty much the best compliment ever.
First of all, I am not a hugger. I find this practice to be unecessary, if not downright awkward and revolting. Why, pray tell, should I be expected to willingly and delightedly press the entire front of my body to yours and allow you to encircle me with your arms, thus eliminating any and all feasible escape routes? And those one-armed approximations of hugs are no less mysterious to me; an arm slung across the shoulders, heads randomly shifted close together to indicate a moderate level of fondness...What the hell is that about? Is this the more polite WASPy version of full-frontal action? A "second-base" between handshake and bear hug? I simply cannot understand what part of any of these hugging processes is reasonable, let alone enjoyable.
Secondly, what is up with all the casual touching in public places? If you are trying to walk past me from behind, there is no need to put your unknown stranger hands on my lower back as you move by; believe it or not, the phrase "pardon me" was invented for this exact situation! And speaking of appripriate usage of the phrase, if I'm forced to speak to you and you cannot hear me, please, for the love of everything good and holy, do not put your hand on my shoulder and stick your ear in front of my mouth. Sure, it's probably abundantly clear that I don't really want to be talking to you in the first place, but I'd rather be subjected to your voice than your icky roaming paws. Seriously.
Both the hugging and the casual touching stem from the same issue of what I like to refer to as "space invaders" (and not the ca. 1978 variety). If you are close enough to spontaneously hug and/or touch me, you are appoximately three feet too far inside my comfort zone. If I am standing in line somewhere, going about my business in some innocuous fashion, I do not need to feel you gordforsaken breath on the back of my neck. I am not interested in you reading my tattoos, remarking on the bizarre color of my eyes, noting that I am in fact going very prematurely grey, and/or looking down my shirt. Back the fuck off, people.
I realize this may come across as cold, but I'm actually fairly friendly. I only occasionaly retaliate to unwanted touching with anthrax, and I probably won't actually poke you in the eyeball with a fork if you sneak up on me. I'm a pretty good conversationalist, and am even sometimes genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say. I don't even mind listening if you feel the need to tell me about your brother's wife's friend's STD... Just stay back three meters, keep your grubby hands to yourself, and don't freakin' stare at me while your doing it, ok?
And yes, internet, you truth-sucking and fickle mistress, of course there is more to this story. Despite my aforementioned craftiness and competencies, despite my general affection for humanity (well, that might just be a lie), I am still left short in my overall well-roudedness...
I cannot cope with human relationships. I am a fretful, neurotic, social disaster. I find the majority of folks puzzling, emotional, and downright terrifying. Someone once told me I was one of the least demonstrative people they had ever met. I still think it was pretty much the best compliment ever.
First of all, I am not a hugger. I find this practice to be unecessary, if not downright awkward and revolting. Why, pray tell, should I be expected to willingly and delightedly press the entire front of my body to yours and allow you to encircle me with your arms, thus eliminating any and all feasible escape routes? And those one-armed approximations of hugs are no less mysterious to me; an arm slung across the shoulders, heads randomly shifted close together to indicate a moderate level of fondness...What the hell is that about? Is this the more polite WASPy version of full-frontal action? A "second-base" between handshake and bear hug? I simply cannot understand what part of any of these hugging processes is reasonable, let alone enjoyable.
Secondly, what is up with all the casual touching in public places? If you are trying to walk past me from behind, there is no need to put your unknown stranger hands on my lower back as you move by; believe it or not, the phrase "pardon me" was invented for this exact situation! And speaking of appripriate usage of the phrase, if I'm forced to speak to you and you cannot hear me, please, for the love of everything good and holy, do not put your hand on my shoulder and stick your ear in front of my mouth. Sure, it's probably abundantly clear that I don't really want to be talking to you in the first place, but I'd rather be subjected to your voice than your icky roaming paws. Seriously.
Both the hugging and the casual touching stem from the same issue of what I like to refer to as "space invaders" (and not the ca. 1978 variety). If you are close enough to spontaneously hug and/or touch me, you are appoximately three feet too far inside my comfort zone. If I am standing in line somewhere, going about my business in some innocuous fashion, I do not need to feel you gordforsaken breath on the back of my neck. I am not interested in you reading my tattoos, remarking on the bizarre color of my eyes, noting that I am in fact going very prematurely grey, and/or looking down my shirt. Back the fuck off, people.
I realize this may come across as cold, but I'm actually fairly friendly. I only occasionaly retaliate to unwanted touching with anthrax, and I probably won't actually poke you in the eyeball with a fork if you sneak up on me. I'm a pretty good conversationalist, and am even sometimes genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say. I don't even mind listening if you feel the need to tell me about your brother's wife's friend's STD... Just stay back three meters, keep your grubby hands to yourself, and don't freakin' stare at me while your doing it, ok?
Sunday, February 7, 2010
F+
There is always a lesson in a failure, they say. I'm not entirely sure who "they" are, and I'm beginning to think they are the same untrustworthy bastards who are judging short-track figure skating in the olympics....Nonetheless.
You've heard all the cliches; a door closes, a window opens...Opportunity knocks...Ask, Believe, Receive... I'm sure there are a zillion others that I have no desire to ever know. But when you take a moment and further scrutinize these sweet placations we all tell each other, things start to fall apart.
First of all, A window opening? I don't know about y'all, but my first thought is to jump out. Yes, I know I'm probably more deranged than your average bear, but tell me you didn't think it too. Also, when was the last time anything good came in your window? And don't give me that 'sunshine-rainbows-nature sounds' business... We're talking cat burglers, foul odors, and sometimes unwanted winged animals (birds, bees, the occasional bat). And, unless I'm being pursued by dark forces, I see no good in the 'doors closing' bit either. (But maybe I've had to slither in a cat door one too many times after locking myself out; a fate, let me tell you, that would make anyone nervous.)
As for the knocking of opportunity, well, I'll be honest; that just makes me think of pedophiles. I'm not sure about that whole "help me find my lost puppy" ruse, but somehow I don't think it leads to a plush corner office or stuffed expense account. The only other folks who knock on my door are the Jehovah's witnesses, and any opportunity they're selling is abruptly revoked when I gleefully tell them I'm an animal-sacrifcing binge-drinking homosexual witch.
But really, I've saved the best for last... "Ask, Believe, Receive"? Seriously? Isn't that the scientific formula for Santa Claus? It's just about the biggest load of bullshit I've heard since "Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq". I mean, if that crap worked, I'd have a pony and we'd have found Saddam perched on a pile of nukes wearing a GPS ankle bracelet. And let's be honest, if willing things into reality worked, GW Bush would have probably fared a lot better. I don't really want to speculate about exactly what he'd manifest, given half a chance...But it's probably fair to assume tofu and gay sex would be things of the past.
Now, I'm not saying that every failure is a bad thing - Let's face it, it was probably for the best when the 24-hr wedding chapel in vegas was mysteriously closed for maintenance that night you were going to marry the hunky russian "elvis" named Svetlana. And, sure, maybe the universe worked on your behalf last week when you stopped to surreptisiously adjust your underpants on a street corner and missed getting obliterated by a speeding bus. But, in general, I think the "silver lining" concept of failure is about as trustworthy as a girls gone wild producer on spring break.
Perhaps I'm too jaded, maybe pessimism has gotten the best of me over the years, possibly I'm just a really sore loser. Probably I just listened a little too intently to the "good touch, bad touch" lecture in 4th grade. Whatever the case, I'll stick with success, thanks.
You've heard all the cliches; a door closes, a window opens...Opportunity knocks...Ask, Believe, Receive... I'm sure there are a zillion others that I have no desire to ever know. But when you take a moment and further scrutinize these sweet placations we all tell each other, things start to fall apart.
First of all, A window opening? I don't know about y'all, but my first thought is to jump out. Yes, I know I'm probably more deranged than your average bear, but tell me you didn't think it too. Also, when was the last time anything good came in your window? And don't give me that 'sunshine-rainbows-nature sounds' business... We're talking cat burglers, foul odors, and sometimes unwanted winged animals (birds, bees, the occasional bat). And, unless I'm being pursued by dark forces, I see no good in the 'doors closing' bit either. (But maybe I've had to slither in a cat door one too many times after locking myself out; a fate, let me tell you, that would make anyone nervous.)
As for the knocking of opportunity, well, I'll be honest; that just makes me think of pedophiles. I'm not sure about that whole "help me find my lost puppy" ruse, but somehow I don't think it leads to a plush corner office or stuffed expense account. The only other folks who knock on my door are the Jehovah's witnesses, and any opportunity they're selling is abruptly revoked when I gleefully tell them I'm an animal-sacrifcing binge-drinking homosexual witch.
But really, I've saved the best for last... "Ask, Believe, Receive"? Seriously? Isn't that the scientific formula for Santa Claus? It's just about the biggest load of bullshit I've heard since "Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq". I mean, if that crap worked, I'd have a pony and we'd have found Saddam perched on a pile of nukes wearing a GPS ankle bracelet. And let's be honest, if willing things into reality worked, GW Bush would have probably fared a lot better. I don't really want to speculate about exactly what he'd manifest, given half a chance...But it's probably fair to assume tofu and gay sex would be things of the past.
Now, I'm not saying that every failure is a bad thing - Let's face it, it was probably for the best when the 24-hr wedding chapel in vegas was mysteriously closed for maintenance that night you were going to marry the hunky russian "elvis" named Svetlana. And, sure, maybe the universe worked on your behalf last week when you stopped to surreptisiously adjust your underpants on a street corner and missed getting obliterated by a speeding bus. But, in general, I think the "silver lining" concept of failure is about as trustworthy as a girls gone wild producer on spring break.
Perhaps I'm too jaded, maybe pessimism has gotten the best of me over the years, possibly I'm just a really sore loser. Probably I just listened a little too intently to the "good touch, bad touch" lecture in 4th grade. Whatever the case, I'll stick with success, thanks.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
FML: The Laundry Edition
I found this ad whilst somewhat dejectedly trolling craigslist for job opportunities (and casual sex, but that's another post...)
Personal Laundry
"Environmentally responsible person to take in my laundry in a non allergenic and fragrance free home. 1.888.xxx.xxxx"
First of all, this exciting opportunity was featured in the "et cetera" category. Call me disillusioned, but I had higher, more glamorous hopes for "et cetera". Perhaps little-known filmmakers conducting a grassroots star search for their soon-too-be-Oscar-nominated flick? Possibly an international corporation offering to pay someone exorbitant amounts of money to complete top-secret yet menial tasks for A-listers? Maybe even some hush-hush high-end brothel surreptitiously seeking "new talent". But laundry? Personal laundry? Your boxer shorts on the day you didn't wipe quite well enough laundry? Not my idea of "et cetera".
Secondly, what's up with the environmentally responsible part? Does this mean the person lovingly washing your socks needs to smell like patchouli and wear birkenstocks? Or maybe you're hoping for someone to do your laundry by hand? (perhaps whilst minding their peacefully grazing goats and singing alpine-inspired show tunes?) I suppose you could work for the Tide Cold Water people and just can't bear the thought of your 10yr old khakis facing anything but the gentlest of cold cycles? Who knows.
Also, I'm confused about this whole "taking in my laundry" bit. Taking in? Is your laundry homeless? Does it need 3 solid squares and an income assistance referral? ('cause I'm pro at that shit.) Is your laundry misguided in its choice of a sinful lifestyle and requiring intense christian conversion training? (my skills in that area are a bit rusty, I must admit.) Perhaps your jockeys have taken to watching Paris Hilton sex tapes and pounding back the Maker's Mark til all hours of the night and just need a little lovin'?
As for non-allergenic and fragrance free...Does this mean I should not let my cat lick your trousers clean? 'Cause, I mean, you can't get much more environmentally friendly than that.
And, I gotta say, I bit befuddled (and more than a little alarmed) by your 1-888 number. Would this be a clandestine assignment? A passing off of the soiled unmentionables in a dark alley followed by a whispered exchange and a wad off cash? Would I need to sign a confidentially agreement and not discuss the vast amounts of cocaine discovered in the pockets of your designer jackets?
Or perhaps this is all an elaborate way to pick up chicks? Witty love notes tucked in shirt-sleeves...naughty photos pinned to dryer sheets...tell-tale stains in undergarments declaring a distant-but-passionate love for your laundry mistress? (Ok, I creeped myself out on that one. sorry, kids.)
I must admit, Mr. Laundry Man, I am thoroughly intrigued by your dirty clothes woes. But, while I'm fascinated by your specific and seemingly socially-conscious (if a bit sketchy) attempt at cleanliness and economic growth, I don't think I'll be tending to your spin cycle any time soon. Good luck, Laundry Man. Wishing you a lifetime of clean knickers.
Personal Laundry
"Environmentally responsible person to take in my laundry in a non allergenic and fragrance free home. 1.888.xxx.xxxx"
First of all, this exciting opportunity was featured in the "et cetera" category. Call me disillusioned, but I had higher, more glamorous hopes for "et cetera". Perhaps little-known filmmakers conducting a grassroots star search for their soon-too-be-Oscar-nominated flick? Possibly an international corporation offering to pay someone exorbitant amounts of money to complete top-secret yet menial tasks for A-listers? Maybe even some hush-hush high-end brothel surreptitiously seeking "new talent". But laundry? Personal laundry? Your boxer shorts on the day you didn't wipe quite well enough laundry? Not my idea of "et cetera".
Secondly, what's up with the environmentally responsible part? Does this mean the person lovingly washing your socks needs to smell like patchouli and wear birkenstocks? Or maybe you're hoping for someone to do your laundry by hand? (perhaps whilst minding their peacefully grazing goats and singing alpine-inspired show tunes?) I suppose you could work for the Tide Cold Water people and just can't bear the thought of your 10yr old khakis facing anything but the gentlest of cold cycles? Who knows.
Also, I'm confused about this whole "taking in my laundry" bit. Taking in? Is your laundry homeless? Does it need 3 solid squares and an income assistance referral? ('cause I'm pro at that shit.) Is your laundry misguided in its choice of a sinful lifestyle and requiring intense christian conversion training? (my skills in that area are a bit rusty, I must admit.) Perhaps your jockeys have taken to watching Paris Hilton sex tapes and pounding back the Maker's Mark til all hours of the night and just need a little lovin'?
As for non-allergenic and fragrance free...Does this mean I should not let my cat lick your trousers clean? 'Cause, I mean, you can't get much more environmentally friendly than that.
And, I gotta say, I bit befuddled (and more than a little alarmed) by your 1-888 number. Would this be a clandestine assignment? A passing off of the soiled unmentionables in a dark alley followed by a whispered exchange and a wad off cash? Would I need to sign a confidentially agreement and not discuss the vast amounts of cocaine discovered in the pockets of your designer jackets?
Or perhaps this is all an elaborate way to pick up chicks? Witty love notes tucked in shirt-sleeves...naughty photos pinned to dryer sheets...tell-tale stains in undergarments declaring a distant-but-passionate love for your laundry mistress? (Ok, I creeped myself out on that one. sorry, kids.)
I must admit, Mr. Laundry Man, I am thoroughly intrigued by your dirty clothes woes. But, while I'm fascinated by your specific and seemingly socially-conscious (if a bit sketchy) attempt at cleanliness and economic growth, I don't think I'll be tending to your spin cycle any time soon. Good luck, Laundry Man. Wishing you a lifetime of clean knickers.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
On the Hot Seat...
I have a job interview, and I am panicking. I had a dream last night that I was standing perched on a toilet in a public restroom being shot at. I could feel the bullets buzzing past my ankles. The truly disturbing part of this was not the shooting, rather that I was somehow misguided enough in my own dream to be inside an undoubtedly revolting public washroom.
I have done my nails, fixed my clothes, and shined my shoes. I have tweezed every rogue hair to be found on my person, including my Chuck Norris sideburns which all of my loved ones have neglected to mention for the past two and a half decades. It makes me wonder if I have a third eyeball somewhere that they have all avoided staring at and continue to discuss in disturbed and quiet tones when I'm not listening.
I have secured transportation, planned a pre-interview meal, and have post-interview relaxation plans.
I have memorized every applicable and completely irrelevant but perhaps interesting fact that I can latch on to. Which, can I just say, is a lot of information in this google-age we inhabit.
Truth be told, none of this is why I am nervous.
I have no script.
Over the years, I have observed and catalogued enough human behaviour to get me through almost any situation with ease. Sitting in a workshop? No problem! I have a casual yet interested posture (thieved from a girl I can't remember in high school), my legs crossed at the knee, hands in my lap, head slightly tilted to left, making occasional eye contact with the speaker. Mingling? I'm golden! In a move stolen from a to-remain-nameless serial killer, I latch on to some aspect of a person and inquire with calculated but seemingly genuine curiosity (e.g. "when did you realize your passion taxidermy?" or "tell me more about your pussing and infected boil".)
I've managed to carefully craft a social persona that reads as witty, intelligent, and non-threatening. I am the girl that hangs out by the punch bowl, well liked but forgettable, save for that one-liner about male anatomy you will use at all your future gatherings.
Without such techniques firmly in place, I end up saying things like "What's in this taco salad? Feline? Should I put it in a tortilla or just go lick a cat?" Which, clearly, is followed by a completely tasteless sexual innuendo. It's often unstoppable and generally idiotic, and it can strike at anytime. One minute I'm ordering a sandwich, the next I'm inexplicably telling the waitress I inappropriately poked a wallaby one time.
And this, my friends, is the true reason why I am facing acute job interview panic syndrome. I have no "job interview" moves. No witty malapropisms, no classy compliments, no comical yet intelligently insightful stories hinting at my job readiness.
I may very well ask the interviewer a completely inappropriate question relating to their undergarments or their family pet or both. I will probably inadvertently insult their mother, and the subject of body fluids is almost a given. Undoubtedly, I will reference The Biggest Loser, Anderson Cooper, or Spiderman.
Simply put, I cannot be left to my own devices in uncharted waters and expect an acceptable outcome without some kind of debilitation on the part of my audience. So, cross your fingers kids, and let's hope this interviewer is good and drunk.
I have done my nails, fixed my clothes, and shined my shoes. I have tweezed every rogue hair to be found on my person, including my Chuck Norris sideburns which all of my loved ones have neglected to mention for the past two and a half decades. It makes me wonder if I have a third eyeball somewhere that they have all avoided staring at and continue to discuss in disturbed and quiet tones when I'm not listening.
I have secured transportation, planned a pre-interview meal, and have post-interview relaxation plans.
I have memorized every applicable and completely irrelevant but perhaps interesting fact that I can latch on to. Which, can I just say, is a lot of information in this google-age we inhabit.
Truth be told, none of this is why I am nervous.
I have no script.
Over the years, I have observed and catalogued enough human behaviour to get me through almost any situation with ease. Sitting in a workshop? No problem! I have a casual yet interested posture (thieved from a girl I can't remember in high school), my legs crossed at the knee, hands in my lap, head slightly tilted to left, making occasional eye contact with the speaker. Mingling? I'm golden! In a move stolen from a to-remain-nameless serial killer, I latch on to some aspect of a person and inquire with calculated but seemingly genuine curiosity (e.g. "when did you realize your passion taxidermy?" or "tell me more about your pussing and infected boil".)
I've managed to carefully craft a social persona that reads as witty, intelligent, and non-threatening. I am the girl that hangs out by the punch bowl, well liked but forgettable, save for that one-liner about male anatomy you will use at all your future gatherings.
Without such techniques firmly in place, I end up saying things like "What's in this taco salad? Feline? Should I put it in a tortilla or just go lick a cat?" Which, clearly, is followed by a completely tasteless sexual innuendo. It's often unstoppable and generally idiotic, and it can strike at anytime. One minute I'm ordering a sandwich, the next I'm inexplicably telling the waitress I inappropriately poked a wallaby one time.
And this, my friends, is the true reason why I am facing acute job interview panic syndrome. I have no "job interview" moves. No witty malapropisms, no classy compliments, no comical yet intelligently insightful stories hinting at my job readiness.
I may very well ask the interviewer a completely inappropriate question relating to their undergarments or their family pet or both. I will probably inadvertently insult their mother, and the subject of body fluids is almost a given. Undoubtedly, I will reference The Biggest Loser, Anderson Cooper, or Spiderman.
Simply put, I cannot be left to my own devices in uncharted waters and expect an acceptable outcome without some kind of debilitation on the part of my audience. So, cross your fingers kids, and let's hope this interviewer is good and drunk.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Under-Medicated & Over-Fed
I'm in Portland for the weekend, and I'm looking for somewhere to eat. When I travel, I lose all ability to feed myself on any regular basis, so it has been approximately 32.5 hours since my last meal. I have finally discerned my need to eat after barely refraining from mugging a stranger for her cookies. I am also slightly unhinged, and have a modicum of despair regarding my future as a human being.
I find a non-descript coffee shop and stagger inside clutching my stomach with a distinctly deranged look in my eyes. I fail to notice the 7 foot berth of space other patrons warily grant me. I order a turkey sandwich from a cashier who is certainly wondering whether or not this would be an appropriate time to push the panic button.
I contemplate telling him my life story.
I think he knows.
I slink away to a table in the corner, furtively eyeing the sugar packets with lascivious intentions.
I tell myself I will eat on a more regular basis, which means I don't need to have dessert. No need to make myself sick. I mutter under my breath, waiting for my sandwich with the same level of patience displayed by a hungry orca whale.
One meal, I tell myself, like an alcoholic tells himself it’s just one rum ball...and then ends the night with no pants and a gaping wound trying to remember his own name.
Only the sandwich. And maybe a few bites of the potato salad, because you know, it is Portland and everything’s in season and there must be some vitamins in there I'm sorely lacking. Don’t want to get the scurvy.
And as I’m salivating over the sandwich, and planning it's timely demise, I’m overwhelmed by the need for a hazelnut brownie. Because I'm on vacation and it’s a vacation brownie, and I'm all alone in a foreign state, and hazlenuts grow in Oregon, you all. It’s not a shot of whisky or a puff of a Marlboro, but everyone knows empty calories take away the empty feelings. And, as far as I'm concerned, feelings are a far greater threat to humanity than that osama fellow (who, by the way, shares a birthday with one of my best friends. Coincidence? I think not).
And as I open the pandora's box of baked goods, I feel the panic setting in. The inevitable neurotic mania has begun, which sounds a little like this:
"Brownie!"
"Should I move to this city?"
"Quiet. Brownie. Now."
"Am I going to die alone? What is a Associate's degree and do I need one? Where are my socks? What am I going to do with my life? my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches".
"Bbbbbbrrrrooooowwwwwwnnnniiiieeeeeeeee"
And that’s where a giant baked good claims victory over my psyche with the mollifying prozac power of chocolate. And, of course, I eat 4.
Moral of the story: Eat a fucking meal, for godssake.
I find a non-descript coffee shop and stagger inside clutching my stomach with a distinctly deranged look in my eyes. I fail to notice the 7 foot berth of space other patrons warily grant me. I order a turkey sandwich from a cashier who is certainly wondering whether or not this would be an appropriate time to push the panic button.
I contemplate telling him my life story.
I think he knows.
I slink away to a table in the corner, furtively eyeing the sugar packets with lascivious intentions.
I tell myself I will eat on a more regular basis, which means I don't need to have dessert. No need to make myself sick. I mutter under my breath, waiting for my sandwich with the same level of patience displayed by a hungry orca whale.
One meal, I tell myself, like an alcoholic tells himself it’s just one rum ball...and then ends the night with no pants and a gaping wound trying to remember his own name.
Only the sandwich. And maybe a few bites of the potato salad, because you know, it is Portland and everything’s in season and there must be some vitamins in there I'm sorely lacking. Don’t want to get the scurvy.
And as I’m salivating over the sandwich, and planning it's timely demise, I’m overwhelmed by the need for a hazelnut brownie. Because I'm on vacation and it’s a vacation brownie, and I'm all alone in a foreign state, and hazlenuts grow in Oregon, you all. It’s not a shot of whisky or a puff of a Marlboro, but everyone knows empty calories take away the empty feelings. And, as far as I'm concerned, feelings are a far greater threat to humanity than that osama fellow (who, by the way, shares a birthday with one of my best friends. Coincidence? I think not).
And as I open the pandora's box of baked goods, I feel the panic setting in. The inevitable neurotic mania has begun, which sounds a little like this:
"Brownie!"
"Should I move to this city?"
"Quiet. Brownie. Now."
"Am I going to die alone? What is a Associate's degree and do I need one? Where are my socks? What am I going to do with my life? my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches".
"Bbbbbbrrrrooooowwwwwwnnnniiiieeeeeeeee"
And that’s where a giant baked good claims victory over my psyche with the mollifying prozac power of chocolate. And, of course, I eat 4.
Moral of the story: Eat a fucking meal, for godssake.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
It's 3:50am somewhere...
Employment insurance, whilst seemingly fabulous in concept, is the devil.
Sure, it sounds great...get paid a somewhat fair portion of your prior wage for doing no portion whatsoever of your former work. But hear this, content laid-off workers: EI will fuck you up good.
It will begin slowly, much like any insidious pathogen. Like, why isn't it reasonable to stay up a few hours later than you normally would? It's not like you have to be anywhwere...You'll just take a few days off to enjoy a well-deserved break. Plus, late-night infomercials are pretty much the crack of the television world.
And then, well, you did stay up a bit late. That crystal rosary with the Lord's prayer built in? Riveting! For an hour! So it's perfectly logical that you would rise at 11am. Which means, of course, that it's past breakfast...but not quite lunch. The only obvious solution is to eat a little bit of both. We all know skipping breakfast leads to fornication which clearly leads straight to hell. Have the doughnut, for godssake. And maybe a glass of wine.
You've finished your doughnut (/ramen/potato chips/ice cream) and it's time for the next step of any ordinary day: shower...But all of a sudden, you hear a little voice saying "Why? why shower?" You've already established you don't really have to be anywhere, your cat is still willing to sit on your lap so your smell musn't be that offensive, and who's going to notice if you skip one shower? In fact, it's a good thing! water conservation, and all that. You're so environmental.
By this point, it's approximately 4pm, which means that the only thing on television is a re-run of Days of Our Lives. Unless you want to clip your nails or something equally as thrilling, this is what you'll be watching. After approximately one week of regular viewership, this too will be completely reasonable.
After a dinner ineveitably consisting of tuna fish, frozen dinners, and/or 17 cups of coffee, the evening awaits. And sure, by evening you mean 10pm onwards, but why not? If people weren't meant to be somewhat nocturnal, no one would know about the ShamWow! And what a sad, sad world that would be. No, seriously. It would.
Cut to nine months of unemployed life:
3:32am is an early night. And by early I mean going to sleep.
If you're up by noon, you feel an exhilerhating sense of victory. 1pm, while slightly less thrilling, is also a laudable accomplisment.
You have not eaten anything that had a mother or came from the earth for approximately 8.5 months. Also, you can open a can one-handed. Or perhaps with your teeth. You have adopted a way of par-cooking ramen noodles using only the radiation from your television screen.
Mondays are shower days. But only the ones that fall on odd-numbered days. And, of course, excluding statutory holidays.
One word: Bourbon.
You know who Sami is, who stole her baby, amd 7,000 other inexplicably brilliant soap opera plots.
You own a crystal rosary, 3 ShamWows, a George Forman grill, 5 pieces of miscellaneous gym equipment, and 7 cats.
You fail to see any need whatsoever for exercise, sunlight, or pants.
Eventually, you will die of radiation poisoning, be abducted by aliens, and/or become that news story about "person who dies in bed and wasn't found for 392 days".
the moral of the story: get a job.
Oh, and the crystal rosary? it's a total sham.
Sure, it sounds great...get paid a somewhat fair portion of your prior wage for doing no portion whatsoever of your former work. But hear this, content laid-off workers: EI will fuck you up good.
It will begin slowly, much like any insidious pathogen. Like, why isn't it reasonable to stay up a few hours later than you normally would? It's not like you have to be anywhwere...You'll just take a few days off to enjoy a well-deserved break. Plus, late-night infomercials are pretty much the crack of the television world.
And then, well, you did stay up a bit late. That crystal rosary with the Lord's prayer built in? Riveting! For an hour! So it's perfectly logical that you would rise at 11am. Which means, of course, that it's past breakfast...but not quite lunch. The only obvious solution is to eat a little bit of both. We all know skipping breakfast leads to fornication which clearly leads straight to hell. Have the doughnut, for godssake. And maybe a glass of wine.
You've finished your doughnut (/ramen/potato chips/ice cream) and it's time for the next step of any ordinary day: shower...But all of a sudden, you hear a little voice saying "Why? why shower?" You've already established you don't really have to be anywhere, your cat is still willing to sit on your lap so your smell musn't be that offensive, and who's going to notice if you skip one shower? In fact, it's a good thing! water conservation, and all that. You're so environmental.
By this point, it's approximately 4pm, which means that the only thing on television is a re-run of Days of Our Lives. Unless you want to clip your nails or something equally as thrilling, this is what you'll be watching. After approximately one week of regular viewership, this too will be completely reasonable.
After a dinner ineveitably consisting of tuna fish, frozen dinners, and/or 17 cups of coffee, the evening awaits. And sure, by evening you mean 10pm onwards, but why not? If people weren't meant to be somewhat nocturnal, no one would know about the ShamWow! And what a sad, sad world that would be. No, seriously. It would.
Cut to nine months of unemployed life:
3:32am is an early night. And by early I mean going to sleep.
If you're up by noon, you feel an exhilerhating sense of victory. 1pm, while slightly less thrilling, is also a laudable accomplisment.
You have not eaten anything that had a mother or came from the earth for approximately 8.5 months. Also, you can open a can one-handed. Or perhaps with your teeth. You have adopted a way of par-cooking ramen noodles using only the radiation from your television screen.
Mondays are shower days. But only the ones that fall on odd-numbered days. And, of course, excluding statutory holidays.
One word: Bourbon.
You know who Sami is, who stole her baby, amd 7,000 other inexplicably brilliant soap opera plots.
You own a crystal rosary, 3 ShamWows, a George Forman grill, 5 pieces of miscellaneous gym equipment, and 7 cats.
You fail to see any need whatsoever for exercise, sunlight, or pants.
Eventually, you will die of radiation poisoning, be abducted by aliens, and/or become that news story about "person who dies in bed and wasn't found for 392 days".
the moral of the story: get a job.
Oh, and the crystal rosary? it's a total sham.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
In the Interest of Transparency...
After one too many awkward questions, I have devised a grand master plan to ensure smooth relationship sailing forever more. I call it "Things you should probably know before you commit to knowing me"...
"To Whom it May Concern:
I like Anderson Cooper just a little too much. And yes, to the chagrin of my mother, I do have a few (tasteful, easily concealable) tattoos. I drink a lot of coffee and no, it's not always fair trade. Sometimes it's even from Starbucks. And sure, maybe I watched Days of Our Lives, but it was only for a few weeks(months)- and didn't you want to know who had Sami's baby? Plus, I didn't drink bourbon whilst watching most(some) of the episodes, so they don't even count. I may or may not be a little obsessed with hand sanitizer, and I sometimes sneeze at inappropriate times for longer than is humanly possible.
I tend to get body parts stuck on or in immovable objects, and I often unintentionally say really idiotic and embarassing things in front of waitstaff in restaurants. I hate sharing my bed, and would more often than not prefer the company of goats over humans. I listen to Journey on an appallingly regular basis, I know every word to every Celine Dion song, and I saw Titanic 14 times in the theater. I also rely on special drops to make my crap not stink.
When I find a song/tv show/person that I enjoy, I will listen to it on repeat until I am bored - which takes awhile. I do not want to talk about "feelings", I don't like baby animals, and the sound of small children laughing makes my ears ring in a disntinctly uncomfortable manner. I am suspicious, fickle, and inherantly edgy. Also, I really hate the Pittsburgh steelers.
I like Marie Osmond, but I think her doll collection is really creepy. Sometimes, I pretend to be talking on my cell phone so I don't have to acknowledge someone speaking to me. I change my sheets more often than I should, and I am very much addicted to Coke Zero. I watch a lot of reality television, I'm allergic to nickel, and I'd really rather you didn't hug me. Ever.
If you have any remaining questions, please submit an information request in writing five (5) days in advance of anticipated answer date.
Thanks!
-M"
I think this eloquent missive has great potential to eliminate the need for awkward discussion anytime in the near future, don't you?
I'm so proud.
"To Whom it May Concern:
I like Anderson Cooper just a little too much. And yes, to the chagrin of my mother, I do have a few (tasteful, easily concealable) tattoos. I drink a lot of coffee and no, it's not always fair trade. Sometimes it's even from Starbucks. And sure, maybe I watched Days of Our Lives, but it was only for a few weeks(months)- and didn't you want to know who had Sami's baby? Plus, I didn't drink bourbon whilst watching most(some) of the episodes, so they don't even count. I may or may not be a little obsessed with hand sanitizer, and I sometimes sneeze at inappropriate times for longer than is humanly possible.
I tend to get body parts stuck on or in immovable objects, and I often unintentionally say really idiotic and embarassing things in front of waitstaff in restaurants. I hate sharing my bed, and would more often than not prefer the company of goats over humans. I listen to Journey on an appallingly regular basis, I know every word to every Celine Dion song, and I saw Titanic 14 times in the theater. I also rely on special drops to make my crap not stink.
When I find a song/tv show/person that I enjoy, I will listen to it on repeat until I am bored - which takes awhile. I do not want to talk about "feelings", I don't like baby animals, and the sound of small children laughing makes my ears ring in a disntinctly uncomfortable manner. I am suspicious, fickle, and inherantly edgy. Also, I really hate the Pittsburgh steelers.
I like Marie Osmond, but I think her doll collection is really creepy. Sometimes, I pretend to be talking on my cell phone so I don't have to acknowledge someone speaking to me. I change my sheets more often than I should, and I am very much addicted to Coke Zero. I watch a lot of reality television, I'm allergic to nickel, and I'd really rather you didn't hug me. Ever.
If you have any remaining questions, please submit an information request in writing five (5) days in advance of anticipated answer date.
Thanks!
-M"
I think this eloquent missive has great potential to eliminate the need for awkward discussion anytime in the near future, don't you?
I'm so proud.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Box Stores, Dinosaurs, & Jillian Michaels
I have a crush on walmart. I used to feel a moderate level of shame about this; what with my semi-hippy(ish) leanings towards supporting local economies & avoiding making purchases from "the man"...But I can deny it no longer: I love me some big box stores.
I cannot seem to pinpoint what inspires the almost chemical high that fogs my brain upon entering this Valhalla; yet like an excellent bourbon, the experience is always reliably the same.
It's that fight or flight thing I think - my body knowing that, despite much learning to the contrary, walmart really is the best place to be in the apocalypse. Food, shelter, a change of clothes, air freshener, tweezers, and a place to charge my iPhone - All I need in the world. And much to my slight embarrassment, I really do spend a lot of time worrying about the end of the world. I'm sure it relates to some deep childhood trauma, but nonetheless. Walmart is better than Prozac for chilling this neurotic, anxiety ridden type-A creature.
And so it has gone, for many years...When life sucks, head to Walmart. A sure-fire path towards satisfaction and/or a new pair of socks. Until yesterday.
I ventured in to my friendly neighbourhood wally world (well, it wasn't really friendly. And it wasn't my neighbourhood.) and immediately felt my eyes go slightly and joyously out of focus. Like a rat to a sewer, I had once again found my safe place.
I began to wander aimlessly; first the refreshing freezer aisles, then the bounty of the sock section, onwards to the nirvana of electronics, and on and on it went, my mind emptying and my walmart meditation deepening. (If I ever discovered the key to world peace, I'm sure it'd be in the shampoo aisle.)
I continued in my trance, happy as a pig in mud. I somewhat coherently decided to wander towards the pharmacy - surely the prospect of anti-bacterial something or other would calm the last stray thoughts in my mind. I sniffed at the soaps, poked at the hair brushes, and then spotted it, my ultimate joy: the shrine to hand sanitizer. I picked up my pace, within reach of the sweet success of procuring yet another bottle of alcohol-based joy...and that's where it all went wrong.
I was trapped. My sedated brain could not comprehend what had happened. I tried to step forward. I tried a fancy little side step. Nothing. Finally, a little more alert (and aware that I had a growing audience) I peered behind me to see what had dared to impede upon my sanitizing satisfaction and was met by two unblinking jade eyes staring back at me. Quelling the panic at someone standing so! close! to me! I wriggled back a little farther and discovered the culprit: Jillian Michaels. Yes, that Jillian Michaels, of Biggest Loser fame. I had managed, in my altered state, to firmly and irrevocably attach the plus-sized ass of my pants to a life-size cardboard cutout of the fitness goddess herself.
At this point, as I'm sure you can imagine, there were a fair number of folks who had snapped themselves out of their walmart wonder to stare at my compromising position. And, can I just take a moment to recommend that, should one ever get oneself stuck to a cardboard cutout, do not choose Jillian Michaels. Your ass will resemble a small triceratops. Or one of those turkeys you make in preschool.
I wiggled. I squished. I jumped, I pried, I yanked, I swiveled. Yet here I remained, firmly placed, for all to see. "I'm ok, no really. It's all good. I'm just having a little rest. Yep, just hanging out. Isn't Jillian great? Have you tried her supplements?"
I was running out of ideas. In fact, I was in a serious mental debate about whether abandoning my pants was a viable option. But oh, there was a better one. Kandie, your walmart supervisor, came to my rescue with a large pair of scissors. Finally, after way too much touching and far more intimacy than I'd ever wanted with anyone at all (let alone in Walmart), I had my freedom and Jillian had one less finger.
Walking out of the store shielding one dinosaur-sized butt cheek from the wind, I knew it'd never be the same.
I cannot seem to pinpoint what inspires the almost chemical high that fogs my brain upon entering this Valhalla; yet like an excellent bourbon, the experience is always reliably the same.
It's that fight or flight thing I think - my body knowing that, despite much learning to the contrary, walmart really is the best place to be in the apocalypse. Food, shelter, a change of clothes, air freshener, tweezers, and a place to charge my iPhone - All I need in the world. And much to my slight embarrassment, I really do spend a lot of time worrying about the end of the world. I'm sure it relates to some deep childhood trauma, but nonetheless. Walmart is better than Prozac for chilling this neurotic, anxiety ridden type-A creature.
And so it has gone, for many years...When life sucks, head to Walmart. A sure-fire path towards satisfaction and/or a new pair of socks. Until yesterday.
I ventured in to my friendly neighbourhood wally world (well, it wasn't really friendly. And it wasn't my neighbourhood.) and immediately felt my eyes go slightly and joyously out of focus. Like a rat to a sewer, I had once again found my safe place.
I began to wander aimlessly; first the refreshing freezer aisles, then the bounty of the sock section, onwards to the nirvana of electronics, and on and on it went, my mind emptying and my walmart meditation deepening. (If I ever discovered the key to world peace, I'm sure it'd be in the shampoo aisle.)
I continued in my trance, happy as a pig in mud. I somewhat coherently decided to wander towards the pharmacy - surely the prospect of anti-bacterial something or other would calm the last stray thoughts in my mind. I sniffed at the soaps, poked at the hair brushes, and then spotted it, my ultimate joy: the shrine to hand sanitizer. I picked up my pace, within reach of the sweet success of procuring yet another bottle of alcohol-based joy...and that's where it all went wrong.
I was trapped. My sedated brain could not comprehend what had happened. I tried to step forward. I tried a fancy little side step. Nothing. Finally, a little more alert (and aware that I had a growing audience) I peered behind me to see what had dared to impede upon my sanitizing satisfaction and was met by two unblinking jade eyes staring back at me. Quelling the panic at someone standing so! close! to me! I wriggled back a little farther and discovered the culprit: Jillian Michaels. Yes, that Jillian Michaels, of Biggest Loser fame. I had managed, in my altered state, to firmly and irrevocably attach the plus-sized ass of my pants to a life-size cardboard cutout of the fitness goddess herself.
At this point, as I'm sure you can imagine, there were a fair number of folks who had snapped themselves out of their walmart wonder to stare at my compromising position. And, can I just take a moment to recommend that, should one ever get oneself stuck to a cardboard cutout, do not choose Jillian Michaels. Your ass will resemble a small triceratops. Or one of those turkeys you make in preschool.
I wiggled. I squished. I jumped, I pried, I yanked, I swiveled. Yet here I remained, firmly placed, for all to see. "I'm ok, no really. It's all good. I'm just having a little rest. Yep, just hanging out. Isn't Jillian great? Have you tried her supplements?"
I was running out of ideas. In fact, I was in a serious mental debate about whether abandoning my pants was a viable option. But oh, there was a better one. Kandie, your walmart supervisor, came to my rescue with a large pair of scissors. Finally, after way too much touching and far more intimacy than I'd ever wanted with anyone at all (let alone in Walmart), I had my freedom and Jillian had one less finger.
Walking out of the store shielding one dinosaur-sized butt cheek from the wind, I knew it'd never be the same.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Letter to Limbaugh
Dear Rush Limbaugh,
I don't hate you on principle. I don't wish you a slow and agonizing death, nor would I take immense pleasure in seeing you covered in painful and unsightly boils...Though I did, once, suggest on twitter that I would not be offended were you to contract food poisoning.
So far, so good. I'm not one of those crazy leftist wingnuts who has "tampons stuffed in her ears" (So clever on the radio today; a dash of sexism when no one expected it! I am continually amazed, Mr. Limabugh.)
Now, Rush Limbaugh, I must ask; Why are you such a tool? In what part of your angry little brain did it seem like a good idea to make the comments you chose to make regarding Haiti? Could you picture your eloquent political arrow zinging president Obama right in his "light-skinned" chest? Did you get to put a big ol' check mark next to "Capitalize on Immense Human Tragedy" in your day planner? I'll bet that was darn tootin' wonderful wasn't it, Rush?
Oh, and we can't forget to thank Mr. Pat Robertson! Without his initial moronic misstep, You would have pulled the first "asshole" card! Thank God for the martyrs of the Christian Right! (ed. note: I have nothing against the majority of the Christian Right, A smidgen of bitterness notwithstanding.)
And we must take a moment to thank Free Republic for backing you up. Whatever would we do without a legion of zealous, oppressive, hate-mongers to spew rhetoric and meandering justifications. So! Great!
Also, I didn't know my income tax was going to Haiti. Are you sure it isn't sponsoring sex education? Oh, wait, it was gay marriage, wasn't it? Abortion! No? You must forgive me, between plotting how best to capitalize on Haiti's destruction & all the other leftist deviousness, I'm losing track of President Obama's Grand Master Plan of Progressive Evil.
Now I know you didn't really say not to donate to Haiti...There's that silly progressive-controlled media again, hmm? You were just giving us all a friendly heads-up that if we innocent little lambs contributed our hard-earned dollars to Haiti through our corrupt federal government, those dollars were more likely to be used to pay for a campaign aide's gay hooker in Vegas, right? Because, I mean, that's clearly what will happen. Clearly.
So Thanks, Rush Limbaugh, for clearing that up for me. I always wondered how many dead bodies it was ok to slander in order to take advantage of a so-so political slam!
Awesome.
Most Sincerely,
Molly
I don't hate you on principle. I don't wish you a slow and agonizing death, nor would I take immense pleasure in seeing you covered in painful and unsightly boils...Though I did, once, suggest on twitter that I would not be offended were you to contract food poisoning.
So far, so good. I'm not one of those crazy leftist wingnuts who has "tampons stuffed in her ears" (So clever on the radio today; a dash of sexism when no one expected it! I am continually amazed, Mr. Limabugh.)
Now, Rush Limbaugh, I must ask; Why are you such a tool? In what part of your angry little brain did it seem like a good idea to make the comments you chose to make regarding Haiti? Could you picture your eloquent political arrow zinging president Obama right in his "light-skinned" chest? Did you get to put a big ol' check mark next to "Capitalize on Immense Human Tragedy" in your day planner? I'll bet that was darn tootin' wonderful wasn't it, Rush?
Oh, and we can't forget to thank Mr. Pat Robertson! Without his initial moronic misstep, You would have pulled the first "asshole" card! Thank God for the martyrs of the Christian Right! (ed. note: I have nothing against the majority of the Christian Right, A smidgen of bitterness notwithstanding.)
And we must take a moment to thank Free Republic for backing you up. Whatever would we do without a legion of zealous, oppressive, hate-mongers to spew rhetoric and meandering justifications. So! Great!
Also, I didn't know my income tax was going to Haiti. Are you sure it isn't sponsoring sex education? Oh, wait, it was gay marriage, wasn't it? Abortion! No? You must forgive me, between plotting how best to capitalize on Haiti's destruction & all the other leftist deviousness, I'm losing track of President Obama's Grand Master Plan of Progressive Evil.
Now I know you didn't really say not to donate to Haiti...There's that silly progressive-controlled media again, hmm? You were just giving us all a friendly heads-up that if we innocent little lambs contributed our hard-earned dollars to Haiti through our corrupt federal government, those dollars were more likely to be used to pay for a campaign aide's gay hooker in Vegas, right? Because, I mean, that's clearly what will happen. Clearly.
So Thanks, Rush Limbaugh, for clearing that up for me. I always wondered how many dead bodies it was ok to slander in order to take advantage of a so-so political slam!
Awesome.
Most Sincerely,
Molly
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Next Time
I am fairly certain that, in my next life, I would prefer to be a small, angry, and startingly stealthy crocodile.
I'm sure you can see the appeal; endless opportunities for amusement, minimal threat higher up the food chain, excellent swimming capacity, varying locational options....
However, I cannot be sure that I would choose to use my destructive reptilian powers for good. In fact, it's probably a forgone conclusion that I would take the evil route. Temptation is not my strong point.
Does this mean I need to compensate in this life with an abundance of good deeds? And exactly what would the ratio be of good deeds vs. acceptable crocodile misbehavings? Most importantly, how do I ensure that a small child will not keep me in a kiddie pool in their backyard as a pet?
These are the important questions.
I'm sure you can see the appeal; endless opportunities for amusement, minimal threat higher up the food chain, excellent swimming capacity, varying locational options....
However, I cannot be sure that I would choose to use my destructive reptilian powers for good. In fact, it's probably a forgone conclusion that I would take the evil route. Temptation is not my strong point.
Does this mean I need to compensate in this life with an abundance of good deeds? And exactly what would the ratio be of good deeds vs. acceptable crocodile misbehavings? Most importantly, how do I ensure that a small child will not keep me in a kiddie pool in their backyard as a pet?
These are the important questions.
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