Okay, so my son's first birthday is coming up, and being the excellent mommy I am, I'm planning a party. True, he's too young to appreciate a party, and will have no idea why all these people are at his house. True, he will have little interest in presents beyond trying to eat the wrapping paper. True, he will probably need a nap before the end of the shindig, and will possibly even get a little crabby. And true, he doesn't actually have any friends of his own yet, so "his" party will be filled with my friends and some little kids I've recruited to act as his friends. But according to the laws of motherhood, I am required to have a party for him. That much I know--but there are a few details I am still unclear on. I know some of you have kids (many of them kidnapped or bought on the black market, but hey, they're yours now), or at least have siblings who have kids, so surely you can help me out with a bit of advice. Here are the points I'm unclear on:
1) How many kegs should we provide for a one-year old's party? I know when adults congregate, it's common to have a couple of kegs, maybe three to be on the safe side, but remember, most of our guests will be under 30 lbs. They can't go through more than one keg, can they? Maybe I could even get by with just a pony keg? Then again, it's bad form to run out of beer, and I don't want a house full of half-drunk toddlers nipping at my calves in anger over a depleted alcohol supply.
2) Do I hire strippers for this event? Or is that something that would be more appropriate for his 5th birthday?
3) Is this the kind of party where we all put our house keys in a big bowl and exchange them? (And yes, I'm talking about the grownups only, you perv. Jesus.)
4) Is it bad form to expect people to bring their own blow? Or do I have to provide it? I don't want to sound cheap, but the idea of cutting down on expenses by asking people to BYOD is sounding pretty appealing right now.
I think that's all the questions I have for now. I'll await your answers while I blow up some balloons and make some snickerdoodles.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Dumb but lucky
So I'm a great big dummy--we've established that. I don't need yet another "How much do you know about___" quiz to remind me exactly how little I know about anything. And yet occasionally I am compelled to take another one. Why do I do this to myself? I think some unreasonably optimistic part of me holds out hope that this time I'll do well, thus restoring some of my lost faith in myself. On some level I must be thinking that maybe someday the right quiz will come along and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that all those other quizzes I've failed in the past were wrong, and the real truth is I'm very, deeply intelligent. Downright brilliant. Amazingly astute. Profoundly wise. Impressively gifted. So I keep taking the cursed things, and time and time again they reveal that I'm a big stupid dum dum-head.
The latest one was brought to my attention by my friend Donna, in an obvious attempt to shrink my ego further. It's comprised of questions from the US citizenship test, plus a few extra. In a spectacular failure, I managed to get 18 right out of 30, meaning that really, I should be kicked out of this country immediately. Even as we speak, there are scores of very intelligent, hopeful foreigners standing in line at the Department of Immigration, asking for a shot at living in this country, and by some unfair twist of fate, I got in free by being born here. No way could I make it in if I had to pass that test, clearly. In fact, judging by my score, it's doubtful I could even muster up the brain cells required to locate and drive to the Department of Immigration to fail the test. If I did make it there, and was handed the test and a No. 2 pencil, I'd probably sit on my haunches and begin eating the pencil and rubbing the test under my armpits. Then I'd start flinging poo at the test moderator. I'd be quickly deported back to the country from whence I came, where I'd go back to living in my mud hut and farming leaves for 2 cents per day. The most excitement I'd ever get in my impoverished life would be when Sally Struthers occasionally showed up to make another tear-filled commercial begging rich fatcat Americans to dig up their spare couch change to feed my entire village for a month. I'd be featured in the commercial, rail-thin and encircled by flies, clutching my distended belly. Meanwhile, Sally would stuff entire Sara Lee poundcakes into her face between takes. It would be a far cry from the easy life I live here in the U.S.
So I'd like to apologize to all those unfortunate, deserving men and women standing in line at the Department of Immigration, about to leap through several thousand hoops and shimmy up two billion miles of red tape hoping for a chance at a better life here in America. I know it's not fair that I'm here instead of you. I'd give you my place if I could, really! Okay, not really. Let's face it, I'm not tough enough to survive the mud hut/leaf farming life. And I'm not a big Sally Struthers fan.
The latest one was brought to my attention by my friend Donna, in an obvious attempt to shrink my ego further. It's comprised of questions from the US citizenship test, plus a few extra. In a spectacular failure, I managed to get 18 right out of 30, meaning that really, I should be kicked out of this country immediately. Even as we speak, there are scores of very intelligent, hopeful foreigners standing in line at the Department of Immigration, asking for a shot at living in this country, and by some unfair twist of fate, I got in free by being born here. No way could I make it in if I had to pass that test, clearly. In fact, judging by my score, it's doubtful I could even muster up the brain cells required to locate and drive to the Department of Immigration to fail the test. If I did make it there, and was handed the test and a No. 2 pencil, I'd probably sit on my haunches and begin eating the pencil and rubbing the test under my armpits. Then I'd start flinging poo at the test moderator. I'd be quickly deported back to the country from whence I came, where I'd go back to living in my mud hut and farming leaves for 2 cents per day. The most excitement I'd ever get in my impoverished life would be when Sally Struthers occasionally showed up to make another tear-filled commercial begging rich fatcat Americans to dig up their spare couch change to feed my entire village for a month. I'd be featured in the commercial, rail-thin and encircled by flies, clutching my distended belly. Meanwhile, Sally would stuff entire Sara Lee poundcakes into her face between takes. It would be a far cry from the easy life I live here in the U.S.
So I'd like to apologize to all those unfortunate, deserving men and women standing in line at the Department of Immigration, about to leap through several thousand hoops and shimmy up two billion miles of red tape hoping for a chance at a better life here in America. I know it's not fair that I'm here instead of you. I'd give you my place if I could, really! Okay, not really. Let's face it, I'm not tough enough to survive the mud hut/leaf farming life. And I'm not a big Sally Struthers fan.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Lessons I've Learned, Part 9
Keep your hands out of your crotch unless you're absolutely positive you're alone.
Knowing most of my readers have drug and alcohol abuse problems, I realize most of you have already forgotten the valuable wisdom I've tried to impart to you in Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 of Lessons I've Learned, but that won't stop me from trying to educate you once again.
When I was in college, I did a brief and unglamourous stint in a kitchen store in the mall. This was one of those stores that sells whisks and crock pots and all that super weird stuff that people (I am told) make use of in kitchens when they do something I've heard referred to as "cooking." I'd expand on that term for the curious among you, but I don't know much about it except that it involves a long, complicated, somewhat acrobatic process of mixing and tossing and mashing different food items and so-called "seasonings," heating them to ridiculously hot temperatures, only to then allow them to cool enough to consume them. It's apparently an arduous process that results in big piles of dirty dishes, and usually the end result is a small amount of finished product, hardly worth all the sweat and aggravation and time. A silly pastime that's totally unnecessary, since everyone knows there are plenty of places to purchase food that's ready-to-eat without going through these strenuous kitchen acrobatics.
In spite of my confusion regarding the whole concept of cooking, I took this job because, well, beer and concert tickets aren't free. It was a crappy job because the owner of the store was a jackass, and because it was an ungodly boring environment. While the clothes and shoes stores in the mall were hopping with business, the kitchen store was as dead as Corey Feldman's career. There were always two employees per shift, and the two of us would just stand there, minute after minute, hour after hour, trying to invent reasons not to disembowel ourselves with a potato peeler before the end of our shift.
One of my coworkers there was a man in his late 60s, a very nice, very distinguished gentleman named Bob. A likeable fellow, proper and polite. Bob and I had little in common, and would do our best to scrape up some small talk between us, never really getting very far with it. But our coexistence was comfortable enough... at least until "the incident."
I was wearing a skirt and blazer one day, rather professional-looking attire, especially considering the head-pounding hangover I probably had. The shirt I had on under the blazer was one of those that kept a girl from having to fuss over making sure it stayed tucked in. It was a kind of bodysuit design, so that it snapped between the legs, sort of like a giant version of the onesie my infant son is wearing right now. Of course, I trust you to assume that it didn't look like a onesie. It looked like a regular shirt, and no one would suspect that it wasn't just your average tucked-in shirt. Here's a picture I found on the internet of the kind of shirt I'm referring to.
Knowing most of my readers have drug and alcohol abuse problems, I realize most of you have already forgotten the valuable wisdom I've tried to impart to you in Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 of Lessons I've Learned, but that won't stop me from trying to educate you once again.
When I was in college, I did a brief and unglamourous stint in a kitchen store in the mall. This was one of those stores that sells whisks and crock pots and all that super weird stuff that people (I am told) make use of in kitchens when they do something I've heard referred to as "cooking." I'd expand on that term for the curious among you, but I don't know much about it except that it involves a long, complicated, somewhat acrobatic process of mixing and tossing and mashing different food items and so-called "seasonings," heating them to ridiculously hot temperatures, only to then allow them to cool enough to consume them. It's apparently an arduous process that results in big piles of dirty dishes, and usually the end result is a small amount of finished product, hardly worth all the sweat and aggravation and time. A silly pastime that's totally unnecessary, since everyone knows there are plenty of places to purchase food that's ready-to-eat without going through these strenuous kitchen acrobatics.
In spite of my confusion regarding the whole concept of cooking, I took this job because, well, beer and concert tickets aren't free. It was a crappy job because the owner of the store was a jackass, and because it was an ungodly boring environment. While the clothes and shoes stores in the mall were hopping with business, the kitchen store was as dead as Corey Feldman's career. There were always two employees per shift, and the two of us would just stand there, minute after minute, hour after hour, trying to invent reasons not to disembowel ourselves with a potato peeler before the end of our shift.
One of my coworkers there was a man in his late 60s, a very nice, very distinguished gentleman named Bob. A likeable fellow, proper and polite. Bob and I had little in common, and would do our best to scrape up some small talk between us, never really getting very far with it. But our coexistence was comfortable enough... at least until "the incident."
I was wearing a skirt and blazer one day, rather professional-looking attire, especially considering the head-pounding hangover I probably had. The shirt I had on under the blazer was one of those that kept a girl from having to fuss over making sure it stayed tucked in. It was a kind of bodysuit design, so that it snapped between the legs, sort of like a giant version of the onesie my infant son is wearing right now. Of course, I trust you to assume that it didn't look like a onesie. It looked like a regular shirt, and no one would suspect that it wasn't just your average tucked-in shirt. Here's a picture I found on the internet of the kind of shirt I'm referring to.
These things were popular at the time, though I don't know if people still wear them, and of course, in hindsight I don't understand why they were invented in the first place. Can it really be that there are scores of frustrated women out there having an incredibly hard time keeping their shirts tucked in? But it seemed like a good idea when I bought it, and back then there was certainly no harm in investing in new and innovative ways to keep my clothes from slipping off at odd times. I only ended up wearing it one time, and you're about to find out why.
There was a tiny little unisex bathroom back in the storeroom, which was located in the rear of the store, and the entire time I worked there, the lock on the bathroom door was broken. Industrious employees tried different methods of making it known when the bathroom was occupied, to include a sheet of paper taped to the door with "Occupied" scrawled on it. The problem with such methods is they're not very reliable. Over time people would get lazy and just leave the "occupied" sign on the door regardless of whether the restroom was occupied or not, which caused a "The Boy Who Cried Occupied" scenario. A person might see the sign, and then patiently wait for the occupant to finish his business, only to eventually reach the point of near bladder explosion before realizing that there was no one inside after all, and the sign had simply been left up from last time.
I would have been mortified to be caught peeing by anyone, but really, the chances of it happening were pretty slim. For one thing, I'm a speed pee-er. I hop on and hop off the potty like a Jack In The Box popping up, and the odds of someone invading during those few "on" seconds were slim to none. Plus, there were generally just two of us in the store, and a good employee would make sure, before slipping back to the stockroom, that the other employee was minding the store, and perhaps even give them a courteous heads up with a quick, "Um, hey, I'm gonna pee" warning. Apparently I forgot to do that on the day in question.
As was my custom, I finished my business quickly and then stood up to reassemble my clothing. Had it been a regular tuck-in shirt I was wearing, I would have first repositioned my skirt up to its proper spot on my hips, and then proceeded to tuck my shirt in, and that's how I would have been found when my elderly gentleman coworker walked in on me: Fully dressed with my hands dipping demurely into the waistband of my skirt. He would have blushed and said "Oh! Excuse me," and closed the door, and I would have finished up, and sailed out of the restroom gaily, reassuring him that no harm was done.
If only.
Instead, I had the snap-crotch onesie to contend with. Therefore, upon standing up after finishing my business, I had to hike my skirt all the way up around my waist, leaving my pantyhose still pulled down just above my knees, while I hunched forward and struggled with the crotch snaps. There were three, and I got them snapped, but then two came instantly unsnapped, thanks to the sloppy work ethic of the 9-year old Cambodian sweat shop employee who engineered my blouse. I remained hunched over, hands buried in crotch, pantyhose around the knees and skirt up around the waist, when Bob opened the door and took a step into the restroom. Our eyes locked, and looks of mutual horror were briefly exchanged before Bob fled like O.J Simpson, minus the white Ford Bronco.
Here was my dilemma. No way would a 60-some year old guy know about ladies' shirts with crotch snaps. The only conclusion he could draw from what he had just witnessed was that I had been doing something involving a tampon. The only thing I could imagine that was more embarrassing than being caught mid-pee was being caught mid-tampon retrieval. I had to explain to him that I had merely been innocently buttoning my shirt up, not, I repeat NOT engaging in any type of tampon placement or tampon removal.
When I came out of the bathroom, I tried to explain to the embarrassed Bob that my shirt had snaps at the crotch, some new-fangled invention, you see, and that's why my hands were busily rummaging around in my nether regions, but Bob would have none of it. He shushed me and waved me off with an embarrassed "No explanation necessary" attitude and scuttled away like a frightened squirrel, unaware of how desperately important it was to me to explain why my hands had been ferreting around in my naughties.
The lesson? Whatever the reason you have for engaging in any kind of crotch exploration, for the love of God, make sure you only do it behind a locked door.
Unless, of course, you work for tips, or there's a webcam involved.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Dear Jackass, Volume 7
Dear Weirdo Who Backs Into A Parking Space:
This doesn't really have any negative impact on me, but it's just irritating. Are you robbing a bank, and need to make a fast getaway? Is your car such a heap of shit that you expect to be pushing it out of the space instead of driving it away? Or are you just one of those pompous turds who has to be different? Either way, cut it out. Park normally like the rest of the world and quit being such an attention whore. It's no coincidence that people who insist on backing into a parking space are the same people who keep their stereos cranked up and their windows cracked enough that everyone can be impressed with their commitment to deafening themselves. "Look at me! I'm wild and crazy! I'm so wild and crazy I'm going to make myself deaf by age 35!"
Jackass.
Dear Smile Nazi:
I'm at the gym minding my own business when you walk by and say, in your Howdy Doody voice, "Smile!" So now I'm obligated to fake a weak smile for you, but really, I want to gut you with my car keys. I don't like what you're implying here, which is one or all of the following:
1) I'm a joyless, miserable cow who needs to lighten up.
2) You're a fun-loving saint who was put on the earth to bring happiness to the bitter and disenfranchised.
3) I desperately want to be happy and fun like you, but just don't know how to release my inner child.
Hey asshole, maybe the reason I'm not smiling is I'm in the middle of working out. What kind of goofball works out with a big dumb grin on his face? If you had walked by and I'd been smiling like a loon, you'd have thought I was dipping into Courtney Love's stash. Now you've got me doubting myself, questioning whether or not I'm too uptight. How about you bash yourself in the head with a 50 lb. dumbbell? That would make me smile.
Jackass.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Not many people can start a story with, "That reminds me of the time my mom had crabs...."
I know all you seafood fans enjoyed the Two-For-One Crab Special I ran back in August. If you missed it, I encourage you to go back and check it out, if for no other reason than its uplifting, spiritual message. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll douse your home in Raid.
But if you're in the mood for some more crab, I have it for you here. This one comes from my friend Joe, and it involves his parents. And yes, it is 100% true. You can't make this shit up.
Joe was attending college, but was home for the weekend to visit friends, and to support the local liquor stores. Apparently his parents were out of town, so at some point in the booze-filled evening, he and his comrades took the party to his parents' house, where his cousin Henry ended up romancing some lady of dubious moral character in Joe's parents' bed. (Note to self: Never, ever leave town after Jake reaches puberty.)
Why wouldn't Joe's bed have been the natural choice? We may never know. Perhaps the vomit present on that item of furniture was distasteful to the questionable lady in question. Perhaps there were four nearly comatose alcoholics already peacefully napping there. Perhaps the tipsy couple were unable to locate Joe's bed, or perhaps they thought there were in Joe's bed. Either way, the deed was done--probably very sloppily--and Joe returned to his college life after the weekend of fun and frolic and displaced fornication.
Sometime during the following week, Joe received a panicked phone call from his father back home. Joe's mom was accusing his dad of cheating on her because she found herself with a case of crabs--which, naturally, would send up a red flag to any thinking woman. Dad's flustered reply of, "Well, I didn't give them to you; you must have picked them up from sitting on something," was not going over well with her. A divorce, and possibly a fatal stab wound, was imminent unless some hasty detective work could produce a more acceptable explanation for the sudden panty invasion. It didn't take a genius to know the investigation should begin with Joe.
Joe called cousin Henry, cousin Henry was forced to reluctantly call Mom and claim responsibility for the crab infestation, and probably to apologize very, very profusely and sincerely and repeatedly for having the bad judgment to use their marital bed for the site of one of his STD-collecting expeditions. Dad was removed from the Shit List, at least for the time being, and Joe was left with the rare distinction of being able to say he was at least partially at fault for his mom getting crabs. And Henry, I assume, was off to the nearest pharmacy.
And they all lived happily ever after.
But if you're in the mood for some more crab, I have it for you here. This one comes from my friend Joe, and it involves his parents. And yes, it is 100% true. You can't make this shit up.
Joe was attending college, but was home for the weekend to visit friends, and to support the local liquor stores. Apparently his parents were out of town, so at some point in the booze-filled evening, he and his comrades took the party to his parents' house, where his cousin Henry ended up romancing some lady of dubious moral character in Joe's parents' bed. (Note to self: Never, ever leave town after Jake reaches puberty.)
Why wouldn't Joe's bed have been the natural choice? We may never know. Perhaps the vomit present on that item of furniture was distasteful to the questionable lady in question. Perhaps there were four nearly comatose alcoholics already peacefully napping there. Perhaps the tipsy couple were unable to locate Joe's bed, or perhaps they thought there were in Joe's bed. Either way, the deed was done--probably very sloppily--and Joe returned to his college life after the weekend of fun and frolic and displaced fornication.
Sometime during the following week, Joe received a panicked phone call from his father back home. Joe's mom was accusing his dad of cheating on her because she found herself with a case of crabs--which, naturally, would send up a red flag to any thinking woman. Dad's flustered reply of, "Well, I didn't give them to you; you must have picked them up from sitting on something," was not going over well with her. A divorce, and possibly a fatal stab wound, was imminent unless some hasty detective work could produce a more acceptable explanation for the sudden panty invasion. It didn't take a genius to know the investigation should begin with Joe.
Joe called cousin Henry, cousin Henry was forced to reluctantly call Mom and claim responsibility for the crab infestation, and probably to apologize very, very profusely and sincerely and repeatedly for having the bad judgment to use their marital bed for the site of one of his STD-collecting expeditions. Dad was removed from the Shit List, at least for the time being, and Joe was left with the rare distinction of being able to say he was at least partially at fault for his mom getting crabs. And Henry, I assume, was off to the nearest pharmacy.
And they all lived happily ever after.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
100 Things Wrong With Me (Part 10)
Turn the average citizen loose with a website, and he'll talk about himself until he's successfully bored the internet to tears. That's what blogging's all about, and that's what the 100 Things list is all about. This is where bloggers detail 100 miscellaneous facts about themselves, usually along the lines of "I'm a morning person," and "A beautiful sunset can make me cry." While I'm as self-absorbed as any blogger out there, I'm pretty sure you'd find my list so boring it would make your heart slow to a stop. Instead, I give you my list of 100 Things Wrong With Me. The good news is this is the final installment in this billion-installment series. Here's 91-100.
91. I call my older sister Candy Pants, just to bug her. I don't know if it actually bugs her or not, but the perversity of it makes me cackle like a mental patient.
92. I refuse to do any chore that involves greenery. I don't mow the lawn, I don't plant petunias, I don't trim hedges. When I lived alone, the lawn just didn't get mowed unless some entrepreneur with a lawn mower knocked on the door and asked me if I wanted him to do it for a fee. In fact, had I not gotten married a few years ago, I'd probably be unable to leave my house right now because of the jungle blocking my front door. That's 90% of the appeal of marriage: It comes with a free gardener.
93. I'm afraid of looking like an idiot, which has kept me from doing a lot of things in my life, like playing sports, going dancing, performing in plays, etc. I belonged to my gym for probably three years before I got up the nerve to attend one of the group exercise classes. I had always wanted to do it, but I saw how the other club members would stand around watching the classes through the huge glass window, and I was paranoid about looking like a dope in my first few classes as I stepped left while everyone else stepped right, beebopped while everyone else scatted. This shows supreme ego on my part, because why else would I assume that anyone would be watching me, in a class of 40 people? But that's how I go through life: Certain that I'm being watched and and critiqued by everyone, when in actuality, most of the time probably no one's even looking my way. This is a sure sign that when I get old and senile, I'm going to be 'that' old lady; the one who raves constantly about how everyone's out to get her, everyone's stealing her money, and everyone's lying to her and plotting against her. With any luck at all, my husband will die first so he'll be spared that lunacy.
94. I need two forks when I'm in a restaurant: One for whatever I'm eating that has a sauce or a dressing on it (like a salad or pasta dish) and one for whatever I'm eating that doesn't have a sauce or dressing (like a vegetable). But I nearly always for get to ask for the second fork until after I've started eating. Often, you'll find me sitting there, stricken, sauce-covered fork in hand, wondering how I'm going to eat that non-saucy item on my plate, as I look forlornly about the restaurant for the waitress who can provide me with that crucial second fork.
95. I have been known, in public restrooms, to hold a camera over the bathroom stall to snap pictures of friends of mine as they're peeing. It's also big fun to hold the camera over a shower stall and snap a picture. It's not quite as much of a violation as you might think, since in 95% of cases you can't see much from that angle except the top of a head and an arm or two, but the joy lies in witnessing the reaction of the person being photographed. The trick is to let them know what you're up to just at the moment that you snap the picture. The best method is to say, "Look up!" about 2 seconds before you pop the camera over the top of the stall and snap the picture. Come on--don't you want to be my friend?
96. When at a restaurant, I feel that I must sample the food of whoever I am dining with. Even as my plate of food is being brought to me, I'm already eyeing the plates being set before my dining companions. You've seen how a pair of dogs behave when they get each their separate bowls of food set in front of them? Instead of just being content to eat his own food, at least one of the dogs will scramble to dive into the other's bowl, clearly worried that the other dog might have something way better in his bowl. I am that dog. But don't worry, I don't always act on it. It's not like I behave like primitive man or anything. I mostly only stick my big germy fork into my husband's food, and leave everyone else's alone. Mostly.
97. I absolutely do not cry in front of people, not even my husband. In fact, when my mom died a couple of years ago, I cried a lot--but always in the bathroom with the door locked. Brian and I would be watching TV, and if I felt some tears coming on, I'd get up before he had a chance to notice, and I slip quietly into the bathroom and sit on the floor and cry. Afterwards, I'd go to great pains not to let him know I'd been crying--I'd put on makeup, busy myself in the kitchen or wherever he wasn't, until my my red face turned a little more normal, etc. There's no good reason I'm this way--Brian is very sensitive to me and doesn't in any way discourage me from showing my feelings, and there's been no one in my past who has given me the impression that it's weak or wrong to be sad. I'm just a weirdo.
98. My first name is legally spelled with a C, but I spell it with a K. This is a result of that phase little girls go through in about the third grade during which they experiment with different spellings of their name. Debbie becomes Debi, Robin becomes Robyn, Wombat becomes Wahmbat. Girls typically use their new and improved spelling for about 3 months before they grow out of that silly little phase. Apparently, I'm still in that phase.
99. I do not understand the whole concept of chicken fried steak. There's not a person I know who doesn't love it except me, so I must assume I'm the crazy one. But for the love of Christ, what IS it? It's not chicken, but it's sure as hell not steak, even if it did allegedly come from a cow. But I offer you this: There's something very suspicious about a meat that must be completely blanketed in a disguise of thick gravy in order to trick people into eating it. My guess is that if you left the gravy off this dubious so-called meat, it would look like something you'd see at the site of an auto accident, and there's not a person alive who would eat it.
100. It's shameful how seldom I clean the grout in my shower--and it's almost certainly a violation of several health codes, as well. Luckily for me, all my problems have recently been solved with the purchase of a Scumbuster by Black and Decker. It is a rather phallic instrument with a rotating brush that cleans my grout for me while I stand there idly and think of things to blog about. It even has a reservoir that holds the liquid cleanser of my choice, so that I don't even have to muster up the energy to point a spray bottle at the filth in my shower. I just hit the 'spray' button on the phallus periodically as it scrubs away. Observe the clean wall on the left of the following picture, versus the wall on the right side, which looks like something you'd find inside a POW camp. Bear this in mind next time you try to weasel an invitation to stay at my house while you're in town.
91. I call my older sister Candy Pants, just to bug her. I don't know if it actually bugs her or not, but the perversity of it makes me cackle like a mental patient.
92. I refuse to do any chore that involves greenery. I don't mow the lawn, I don't plant petunias, I don't trim hedges. When I lived alone, the lawn just didn't get mowed unless some entrepreneur with a lawn mower knocked on the door and asked me if I wanted him to do it for a fee. In fact, had I not gotten married a few years ago, I'd probably be unable to leave my house right now because of the jungle blocking my front door. That's 90% of the appeal of marriage: It comes with a free gardener.
93. I'm afraid of looking like an idiot, which has kept me from doing a lot of things in my life, like playing sports, going dancing, performing in plays, etc. I belonged to my gym for probably three years before I got up the nerve to attend one of the group exercise classes. I had always wanted to do it, but I saw how the other club members would stand around watching the classes through the huge glass window, and I was paranoid about looking like a dope in my first few classes as I stepped left while everyone else stepped right, beebopped while everyone else scatted. This shows supreme ego on my part, because why else would I assume that anyone would be watching me, in a class of 40 people? But that's how I go through life: Certain that I'm being watched and and critiqued by everyone, when in actuality, most of the time probably no one's even looking my way. This is a sure sign that when I get old and senile, I'm going to be 'that' old lady; the one who raves constantly about how everyone's out to get her, everyone's stealing her money, and everyone's lying to her and plotting against her. With any luck at all, my husband will die first so he'll be spared that lunacy.
94. I need two forks when I'm in a restaurant: One for whatever I'm eating that has a sauce or a dressing on it (like a salad or pasta dish) and one for whatever I'm eating that doesn't have a sauce or dressing (like a vegetable). But I nearly always for get to ask for the second fork until after I've started eating. Often, you'll find me sitting there, stricken, sauce-covered fork in hand, wondering how I'm going to eat that non-saucy item on my plate, as I look forlornly about the restaurant for the waitress who can provide me with that crucial second fork.
95. I have been known, in public restrooms, to hold a camera over the bathroom stall to snap pictures of friends of mine as they're peeing. It's also big fun to hold the camera over a shower stall and snap a picture. It's not quite as much of a violation as you might think, since in 95% of cases you can't see much from that angle except the top of a head and an arm or two, but the joy lies in witnessing the reaction of the person being photographed. The trick is to let them know what you're up to just at the moment that you snap the picture. The best method is to say, "Look up!" about 2 seconds before you pop the camera over the top of the stall and snap the picture. Come on--don't you want to be my friend?
96. When at a restaurant, I feel that I must sample the food of whoever I am dining with. Even as my plate of food is being brought to me, I'm already eyeing the plates being set before my dining companions. You've seen how a pair of dogs behave when they get each their separate bowls of food set in front of them? Instead of just being content to eat his own food, at least one of the dogs will scramble to dive into the other's bowl, clearly worried that the other dog might have something way better in his bowl. I am that dog. But don't worry, I don't always act on it. It's not like I behave like primitive man or anything. I mostly only stick my big germy fork into my husband's food, and leave everyone else's alone. Mostly.
97. I absolutely do not cry in front of people, not even my husband. In fact, when my mom died a couple of years ago, I cried a lot--but always in the bathroom with the door locked. Brian and I would be watching TV, and if I felt some tears coming on, I'd get up before he had a chance to notice, and I slip quietly into the bathroom and sit on the floor and cry. Afterwards, I'd go to great pains not to let him know I'd been crying--I'd put on makeup, busy myself in the kitchen or wherever he wasn't, until my my red face turned a little more normal, etc. There's no good reason I'm this way--Brian is very sensitive to me and doesn't in any way discourage me from showing my feelings, and there's been no one in my past who has given me the impression that it's weak or wrong to be sad. I'm just a weirdo.
98. My first name is legally spelled with a C, but I spell it with a K. This is a result of that phase little girls go through in about the third grade during which they experiment with different spellings of their name. Debbie becomes Debi, Robin becomes Robyn, Wombat becomes Wahmbat. Girls typically use their new and improved spelling for about 3 months before they grow out of that silly little phase. Apparently, I'm still in that phase.
99. I do not understand the whole concept of chicken fried steak. There's not a person I know who doesn't love it except me, so I must assume I'm the crazy one. But for the love of Christ, what IS it? It's not chicken, but it's sure as hell not steak, even if it did allegedly come from a cow. But I offer you this: There's something very suspicious about a meat that must be completely blanketed in a disguise of thick gravy in order to trick people into eating it. My guess is that if you left the gravy off this dubious so-called meat, it would look like something you'd see at the site of an auto accident, and there's not a person alive who would eat it.
100. It's shameful how seldom I clean the grout in my shower--and it's almost certainly a violation of several health codes, as well. Luckily for me, all my problems have recently been solved with the purchase of a Scumbuster by Black and Decker. It is a rather phallic instrument with a rotating brush that cleans my grout for me while I stand there idly and think of things to blog about. It even has a reservoir that holds the liquid cleanser of my choice, so that I don't even have to muster up the energy to point a spray bottle at the filth in my shower. I just hit the 'spray' button on the phallus periodically as it scrubs away. Observe the clean wall on the left of the following picture, versus the wall on the right side, which looks like something you'd find inside a POW camp. Bear this in mind next time you try to weasel an invitation to stay at my house while you're in town.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
No Shit, Sherlock (Part 1)
Women's magazines are notorious for making gradiose promises and not following through. Every issue of Cosmo claims to hold the key to teaching you how to have orgasms so intense that you will actually lose teeth, while every issue of Self claims to reveal how to get rock-hard abs by working out for no more than 10 seconds per day--but if you buy these magazines and read these supposedly mind-blowing articles, the only thing you learn is how gullible you are. These articles remind me a lot of how I used to write essays in high school. When asked to write a 1,000 word essay, I'd start with a 20 word premise and then try to flesh it out with a lot of B.S. til I reached the 1,000 mark. Eventually the process devolved into reading what I'd written over and over, looking for new places to tuck in extra words. I would have made an excellent women's magazine writer.
A recent issue of Shape magazine touted this revelation:
A recent issue of Shape magazine touted this revelation:
"Holy cow," you might be thinking. "This is just what I've been looking for!" Secrets! Success! How exciting! Finally, this article will reveal why some women are willowy and delicate, while others are stubby and squat. Apparently, the willowy women know some dieting secrets that the stubby ones do not, and these secrets are the keys to their success. Huzzah! Stumbling upon this article may be the single greatest thing to ever happen to you!
Slow down there, cowboy. These articles are always a big disappointment. You know how sometimes the key point in an article will be highlighted in a larger print, to draw a reader in? It's a sentence that's in the article itself, but simply printed again in large print and perhaps encapsulated in a colored box to draw the reader's attention to that important point. For example, if an article is about the sexual abuse of livestock in America, a particularly compelling sentence would be featured in large print, such as, "There are over sixty 'leven zillion farm animals raped by rednecks every day in America, most of them in West Virginia." The idea is that the point is so essential to the article that it should not be missed. Hopefully this blurb is so profound that you'll read it and say, "Whoa. That's incredible." If you saw it while reading the article, this crucial point will be driven home. If you saw it while idly flipping pages in the magazine, this line will draw you in, forcing you to read the article.
With that in mind, observe the blurb from the Secrets of Successful Dieters article:
Whoa! That's incredible! Thank God I found this enlightening article! I must cut these pages out and frame them! I must email them to all my friends! Attention dieters: Eat less and work out more! AT LONG LAST, THE SECRET IS OUT!
No shit, Sherlock. Thanks for the tip. Up til now I'd been carefully planning my diet in such a way as to strive to take in an additional 400 calories each day until I reach my ultimate goal of 55,000 calories a day. I've also been seeking ways to trim the physical activity out of my day so that eventually I won't have to get out of bed to pee or refill my bedside trough, thereby burning calories unnecessarily. But now! I will look into this whole "eat less, work out more" revelation. It sounds so crazy it just might work.
But I know that instead of laying on my couch reading the articles in Shape magazine, I should really be thinking of ideas for freelance articles I could submit to them. If they think the abovementioned article is print worthy, perhaps they'll go for these ideas:
Smoke Less to Avoid Lung Cancer
Walking Causes Wear and Tear on Shoes
Scared of Heights? Stay at Ground Level
Water is Very Wet
This is a Magazine Article
Books Are Useful If You Know How To Read
Cold? Wear A Sweater
See how I'd be perfect for this job? I'm just as good as pointing out the painfully obvious as anyone out there, and I'm just as good at filling a page up with total bullshit. Heck, look how many of these nonsense blog entries I've written, and you fools just keep coming back.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
It's a cruel world, but I'm a survivor
For reasons perhaps none of us will ever understand, Karlababble did not make the final cut for the nominations for Most Humorous Blog in the Best of Blogs Awards. One possible reason is that perhaps the judges don't speak or read English. Another possibility is the judges were not drunk off their asses when they perused my blog. Either way, I can only assume God will punish them for their oversight in some swift and cruel way.
On the bright side, though, Anonymous Coworker did make the final cut. I can hear you now: "But Karla, ACW is not nearly as funny as you! He's not even a tenth, not even a millionth as funny as you! He is perhaps 10 pounds of funny in a 15 pound bag, while you are a thousand pounds of funny in a half pound bag!" Oh, come on now. You're exaggerating. He's every bit as funny as I am--even more, if you factor in appearance.
So if you were planning to give your vote to me, then I ask that you give it to Anonymous Coworker instead. However--if he and I had both made the final nominations list, and you would have given him your vote instead of me, then screw you. I demand total loyalty, and will accept nothing less. Even ACW would be required to give his vote to me instead of voting for himself. But again, perhaps because the judges are blind or maybe even illiterate, I did not make the list, so the point is moot.
The truth is, I am certain that ACW slept his way into the final nominations list. The man is ruthless, shameless, and there's no one he won't blow to get the fame he craves. I find that sad. But now's not the time to dissect his desperate need for attention; leave that to the prison shrink he will someday receive counsel from behind bars. In the meantime, vote for him, will you? An award win may, at least temporarily, keep him from snapping like a dry twig and killing his entire family with a rusty meat cleaver just to make it into the newspapers.
On the bright side, though, Anonymous Coworker did make the final cut. I can hear you now: "But Karla, ACW is not nearly as funny as you! He's not even a tenth, not even a millionth as funny as you! He is perhaps 10 pounds of funny in a 15 pound bag, while you are a thousand pounds of funny in a half pound bag!" Oh, come on now. You're exaggerating. He's every bit as funny as I am--even more, if you factor in appearance.
So if you were planning to give your vote to me, then I ask that you give it to Anonymous Coworker instead. However--if he and I had both made the final nominations list, and you would have given him your vote instead of me, then screw you. I demand total loyalty, and will accept nothing less. Even ACW would be required to give his vote to me instead of voting for himself. But again, perhaps because the judges are blind or maybe even illiterate, I did not make the list, so the point is moot.
The truth is, I am certain that ACW slept his way into the final nominations list. The man is ruthless, shameless, and there's no one he won't blow to get the fame he craves. I find that sad. But now's not the time to dissect his desperate need for attention; leave that to the prison shrink he will someday receive counsel from behind bars. In the meantime, vote for him, will you? An award win may, at least temporarily, keep him from snapping like a dry twig and killing his entire family with a rusty meat cleaver just to make it into the newspapers.
Dear God, if you exist and if you can hear me, please let this man roast on a spit in hell
Once, in a college writing course, my classmates and I were tasked to write a paper explaining in detail whether and why we believed human nature was basically good or basically evil. Although I don't remember all the romanticized B.S. that I used to support my stance, I do remember that I took the position that human nature was basically good. However, in light of something I came across recently, I've discovered that I've been dead wrong all along, and am now officially reversing my position.
Did you go read the link? No? You lazy prick. How did you expect to understand the rest of this post without reading the damn link? I know, I know--you rarely understand any of my unintelligible posts, and don't care to spend the next week and a half trying to unravel this one. Look, quit being difficult and just click on the link, smartass. Thanks.
I've got to hand it to the guy--if deceit is a skill, he's number one in his field. But not wearing a condom? That's really showing his commitment to not getting caught. He's willing to risk catching Exploding Penis Disease just to keep his wife from catching him cheating. That shows a level of dedication--and stupidity--unparalleled by even the most seasoned Lying Scumbag.
Here's where my dilemma comes in: I've never believed in heaven or hell, but I reallyreallyREALLY want this guy to char like a marshmallow on a stick. It's the only way I can reconcile what I've read about him. Either that, or I have to comfort myself by assuming that his wife (who we tend to assume is an innocent victim here) is, in reality, a very bad person who stomps puppies to death and mocks the handicapped, and being married to this guy is simply how karma is working its poetic justice on her.
So please, God, if you exist and if you can hear me, please let this woman be a puppy-stomping cripple-mocker, or please let this guy blacken like one of my home-cooked "meals" in the fiery pits of the hell that I now hope exists. Thank you.
Did you go read the link? No? You lazy prick. How did you expect to understand the rest of this post without reading the damn link? I know, I know--you rarely understand any of my unintelligible posts, and don't care to spend the next week and a half trying to unravel this one. Look, quit being difficult and just click on the link, smartass. Thanks.
I've got to hand it to the guy--if deceit is a skill, he's number one in his field. But not wearing a condom? That's really showing his commitment to not getting caught. He's willing to risk catching Exploding Penis Disease just to keep his wife from catching him cheating. That shows a level of dedication--and stupidity--unparalleled by even the most seasoned Lying Scumbag.
Here's where my dilemma comes in: I've never believed in heaven or hell, but I reallyreallyREALLY want this guy to char like a marshmallow on a stick. It's the only way I can reconcile what I've read about him. Either that, or I have to comfort myself by assuming that his wife (who we tend to assume is an innocent victim here) is, in reality, a very bad person who stomps puppies to death and mocks the handicapped, and being married to this guy is simply how karma is working its poetic justice on her.
So please, God, if you exist and if you can hear me, please let this woman be a puppy-stomping cripple-mocker, or please let this guy blacken like one of my home-cooked "meals" in the fiery pits of the hell that I now hope exists. Thank you.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
9 our of 10 polled say they'd rather remove their own spleen with a corkscrew than attend a baby shower
There is no feeling worse than the fear and dread that overcomes me when I find a baby shower invitation in my mailbox. I'd rather clean the rhino cage at the zoo with my toothbrush than go to a baby shower. For those of you men who don't know what goes on at these colossal bore-fests, they're pretty much all exactly the same, and they go like this:
10 to 50 ladies arrive in skirts and sandals, wearing Brighton jewelry and bearing gift bags. They sit around making stiff and uncomfortable small talk with one another, fake smiles plastered on their faces, for a good 45 minutes while waiting for God-knows-what...more guests to arrive, the food to be arranged in a pretty semi-circle on the table, whatever. The aforementioned small talk always involves labor and delivery stories. Anyone attempting to strike up a conversation that's not related to the pain of pushing a human head out of one's hoo-ha is swiftly punished, as the other ladies close in on her and pummel her about the head and neck with their handbags. The guest of honor and her mother work the crowd, appearing unspeakably thrilled to see each guest. Hair and shoes are complimented even in cases where a person would have to be high on glue to really like the hair and shoes in question. Finger food and some kind of non-alcoholic punch is available on a table nearby, but no one goes near it until the hosts physically shove a few people toward the table to get the ball rolling. Meanwhile, a couple of the expectant mommy's friends scuttle around handing out whatever accoutrements are necessary for the 45 tedious, insipid games that will be played throughout the affair. These games appear to have been created by grade-schoolers for grade-schoolers, so it's no problem to use only a couple of brain cells to play them while you use the rest of your brain formulating your escape plan. "How much time do I have to put in here before I can leave without looking like a dick?" The comedy is that every single smiling skirt-wearer there is thinking the exact same thing, and when one person finally does bow out politely with a made-up excuse, the rest of the attendees practically trample each other following suit. It's like a stampede of well-dressed cattle, mooing, "Congratulations!" as they body-block each other trying to get to the door first.
The truth is, I've been to a couple that weren't so bad. In fact, the one I went to in December for my neighbor was downright nice. The good showers all have one thing in common: Booze. I know, it sounds just plain wrong to have booze at a baby shower, but I'll argue that there's no situation where it's more necessary. My own shower had plenty of it, even though I couldn't drink any. (I didn't mind, though; I was high on coke at the time.) How else but half drunk can a person be expected to listen to a throng of women shriek in perfect union, "Oh my God, so CUUUTTE!!" each and every time a gift is unwrapped? The unwrapping of the gifts takes forever, and is mind-numbing to everyone but the guest of honor and her mom. After the 26th chorus of "It's darling!!" I always feel like jumping up and yelling, "Okay, we all agree! Itty bitty dresses are goddamn adorable! Let's move this thing along!"
So let this be a public service announcement to all you women. A baby shower doesn't have to be torture. Follow these few simple rules to prevent a trampling death at your shower:
1) No games. None. Okay, I understand this suggestion might just break the heart of your mother, who, for some inexplicable reason, has her heart set on some baby shower games. Fine--two games max, then, and let them be along the lines of "Guess how many diaper pins are in this bowl" rather than, "See who can diaper a baby doll fastest." Under no circumstances should a game be incorporated that takes more than 4 seconds to play.
2. Provide booze, I beg you. Make it clear on the invitation that booze will be provided; this will greatly increase the number of attendees, and therefore, gifts. You can try to keep it classy if you must, with white wine or some kind of froofy champagne spritzer hell, just as long as there's alcohol involved. No one should be expected to buy you a gift and put on a skirt without at least getting a glass of wine in return. Hopefully several. And a handful of pills.
3. Have it at your own house. I realize others are probably throwing this shower for you, rather than you throwing it for yourself, but they can just as easily throw it for you in your own house. Your mumsy and girlfriends can do all the setup and cleanup for you, just as they would if the shindig were thrown in some other location. This is important because a good half the reason these affairs are so uncomfortable is most of the attendees have never been to the house of the aunt or girlfriend who is hosting your shower, which adds to the oddness factor. And it's odd enough without trying to cram in extra oddness where it's not absolutely necessary.
4. Open your gifts quickly. You can still coo and squeal over each hat and each stuffed bunny, but coo quickly, for Christ's sake. I know it seems like everyone is thrilled to see each gift, judging by how loudly they're screeching at every pair of tiny booties you hold up, but trust me, they're only doing this to mask how incredibly uncomfortable they are, or to keep from nodding off. Possibly both. Plus, it's a sociological fact that any time you throw a crowd of total strangers in a room and deprive them of alcohol, they tend to get nervous, eventually turning shrill and bird-like. If you don't want one of your coworkers pecking one of your cousins to death, pick up the pace a little.
5. This is an option for girls who, like me, have mostly male friends: Don't make it a "ladies only" affair. If you're thinking there's no man alive who would attend a baby shower, then you're underestimating the draw of free booze. Probably 50 people attended mine, about half of them men. Besides, no one wants to go to a baby shower alone because they're expecting it to be so godawful boring, so lots of couples will attend in cases where, had it been ladies only, the lady might have sawed off her own foot just to have a valid excuse not to attend. As in, "Oh Cindy, I'm sorry I couldn't be at your baby shower--I was so mad that I had to miss it! I was at the hospital getting fitted for my prosthetic foot, and couldn't hobble away. But I know your mother took photos of you holding up each and every single bib and box of diapers that was given to you, so make sure I get to look at those sometime soon! I'm dying to see!"
That pretty much sums it up. Please, pass this advice on to any expectant mothers you know. Especially the ones you and I both know, so that the next time I get invited to a baby shower I don't have to resort to self-mutilation to get out of attending.
10 to 50 ladies arrive in skirts and sandals, wearing Brighton jewelry and bearing gift bags. They sit around making stiff and uncomfortable small talk with one another, fake smiles plastered on their faces, for a good 45 minutes while waiting for God-knows-what...more guests to arrive, the food to be arranged in a pretty semi-circle on the table, whatever. The aforementioned small talk always involves labor and delivery stories. Anyone attempting to strike up a conversation that's not related to the pain of pushing a human head out of one's hoo-ha is swiftly punished, as the other ladies close in on her and pummel her about the head and neck with their handbags. The guest of honor and her mother work the crowd, appearing unspeakably thrilled to see each guest. Hair and shoes are complimented even in cases where a person would have to be high on glue to really like the hair and shoes in question. Finger food and some kind of non-alcoholic punch is available on a table nearby, but no one goes near it until the hosts physically shove a few people toward the table to get the ball rolling. Meanwhile, a couple of the expectant mommy's friends scuttle around handing out whatever accoutrements are necessary for the 45 tedious, insipid games that will be played throughout the affair. These games appear to have been created by grade-schoolers for grade-schoolers, so it's no problem to use only a couple of brain cells to play them while you use the rest of your brain formulating your escape plan. "How much time do I have to put in here before I can leave without looking like a dick?" The comedy is that every single smiling skirt-wearer there is thinking the exact same thing, and when one person finally does bow out politely with a made-up excuse, the rest of the attendees practically trample each other following suit. It's like a stampede of well-dressed cattle, mooing, "Congratulations!" as they body-block each other trying to get to the door first.
The truth is, I've been to a couple that weren't so bad. In fact, the one I went to in December for my neighbor was downright nice. The good showers all have one thing in common: Booze. I know, it sounds just plain wrong to have booze at a baby shower, but I'll argue that there's no situation where it's more necessary. My own shower had plenty of it, even though I couldn't drink any. (I didn't mind, though; I was high on coke at the time.) How else but half drunk can a person be expected to listen to a throng of women shriek in perfect union, "Oh my God, so CUUUTTE!!" each and every time a gift is unwrapped? The unwrapping of the gifts takes forever, and is mind-numbing to everyone but the guest of honor and her mom. After the 26th chorus of "It's darling!!" I always feel like jumping up and yelling, "Okay, we all agree! Itty bitty dresses are goddamn adorable! Let's move this thing along!"
So let this be a public service announcement to all you women. A baby shower doesn't have to be torture. Follow these few simple rules to prevent a trampling death at your shower:
1) No games. None. Okay, I understand this suggestion might just break the heart of your mother, who, for some inexplicable reason, has her heart set on some baby shower games. Fine--two games max, then, and let them be along the lines of "Guess how many diaper pins are in this bowl" rather than, "See who can diaper a baby doll fastest." Under no circumstances should a game be incorporated that takes more than 4 seconds to play.
2. Provide booze, I beg you. Make it clear on the invitation that booze will be provided; this will greatly increase the number of attendees, and therefore, gifts. You can try to keep it classy if you must, with white wine or some kind of froofy champagne spritzer hell, just as long as there's alcohol involved. No one should be expected to buy you a gift and put on a skirt without at least getting a glass of wine in return. Hopefully several. And a handful of pills.
3. Have it at your own house. I realize others are probably throwing this shower for you, rather than you throwing it for yourself, but they can just as easily throw it for you in your own house. Your mumsy and girlfriends can do all the setup and cleanup for you, just as they would if the shindig were thrown in some other location. This is important because a good half the reason these affairs are so uncomfortable is most of the attendees have never been to the house of the aunt or girlfriend who is hosting your shower, which adds to the oddness factor. And it's odd enough without trying to cram in extra oddness where it's not absolutely necessary.
4. Open your gifts quickly. You can still coo and squeal over each hat and each stuffed bunny, but coo quickly, for Christ's sake. I know it seems like everyone is thrilled to see each gift, judging by how loudly they're screeching at every pair of tiny booties you hold up, but trust me, they're only doing this to mask how incredibly uncomfortable they are, or to keep from nodding off. Possibly both. Plus, it's a sociological fact that any time you throw a crowd of total strangers in a room and deprive them of alcohol, they tend to get nervous, eventually turning shrill and bird-like. If you don't want one of your coworkers pecking one of your cousins to death, pick up the pace a little.
5. This is an option for girls who, like me, have mostly male friends: Don't make it a "ladies only" affair. If you're thinking there's no man alive who would attend a baby shower, then you're underestimating the draw of free booze. Probably 50 people attended mine, about half of them men. Besides, no one wants to go to a baby shower alone because they're expecting it to be so godawful boring, so lots of couples will attend in cases where, had it been ladies only, the lady might have sawed off her own foot just to have a valid excuse not to attend. As in, "Oh Cindy, I'm sorry I couldn't be at your baby shower--I was so mad that I had to miss it! I was at the hospital getting fitted for my prosthetic foot, and couldn't hobble away. But I know your mother took photos of you holding up each and every single bib and box of diapers that was given to you, so make sure I get to look at those sometime soon! I'm dying to see!"
That pretty much sums it up. Please, pass this advice on to any expectant mothers you know. Especially the ones you and I both know, so that the next time I get invited to a baby shower I don't have to resort to self-mutilation to get out of attending.
Friday, January 06, 2006
When Jake Grows Up
Every parent wonders what their child will be when he or she grows up. Oh, parents try to be diplomatic about it, saying things like, "I'll support little Adolph in whatever he does," and "I just want Ghenghis to be happy, that's all." But secretly these parents are probably hoping their kid grows up to be the president of the United States, or at least the president of a fast food conglomerate. Parents rarely consider the more realistic possibility that their little munchkin will grow up to be a transvestite hooker or an IRS agent, but no one can blame them for hoping for the best.
Personally, I'll be happy if Jake survives into adulthood with me as his mother. Beyond that, anything else he manages to accomplish will just be a bonus. But here are some of the possible routes my son could take:
He could be a bodybuilder.
Personally, I'll be happy if Jake survives into adulthood with me as his mother. Beyond that, anything else he manages to accomplish will just be a bonus. But here are some of the possible routes my son could take:
He could be a bodybuilder.
This would be handy for me, because there will come a day when I'll need someone strong to hoist me out of my hospital bed and give me a sponge bath, and change my support hose for me. Bodybuilder Jake would be ideal for this. Plus, big-muscled guys look great with a "MOM" tattoo on their arm, which Jake would definitely want because, you know, I'm so great. In fact, I'm thinking of getting him one of those for his 1st birthday.
Or, he could be a prom queen.
Or prom king, which I suppose would be my preference. However, since I missed out on having a daughter to dress up in cute little outfits, it would be kind of fun to go with him to pick out a prom dress. And we could sit side by side in the beauty salon under our hair dryers and talk about celebrity gossip, which would be a great bonding moment.
Or, he could be a religious leader.
Not the child molesting type of religious leader, nor the money-grubbing type who squeezes every last dime out of his followers and builds a lavish country estate complete with a waterslide and several statues in his image. But the kind of religious leader who occasionally heals the sick and causes the crippled to jump out of their wheelchairs and walk again. That way, I would be very powerful at the old folk's home. Those old biddies would be falling all over themselves trying to gain my favor so I could send my big shot religious leader son to cure their gout, incontinence, bed sores, and whatever else ails the elderly. Plus, he'd be there to read me my last rites when I kick it.
But then again, he might end up on the cover of a magazine.
That would be really cool because then I could push my walker up and down the halls of the old folk's home waving the magazine and shouting, "Ha! I bet none of you old bats have a kid who's on the cover of a magazine!" Of course the downside, at least in this particular scenario, is that the less senile among my elderly companions would probably point out that my kid looks a little fruity in that cheerleading uniform. But I'd just pull that common old person's trick and act like I couldn't hear them. Then I'd pee a little.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
I'm going to end up like Axl Rose
Axl Rose used to be a nobody. Just a young kid looking for a good time, he started a nothing little rock band, hoping to score some girls and have some fun. Fast forward a few years and he was a huge star, a household name. Women were falling all over themselves for a chance at him. He was filthy rich, gorgeous, on top of the world. But then it all dried up. He blew all his money on drugs and booze, turned into a world class a-hole that no band could get along with. Now where is he? Probably crashing on some hooker's couch, digging through ashtrays in dive bars looking for cigarette butts, trying to remember at least some portion of that decade-long blackout he drifted through in the 80s.
That could be me someday. See, I've been nominated for a Best of Blogs Award. Sounds neat, right? Who wouldn't want to win an award? Well, I've got news for you: This is how it started with Axl Rose. He had his little band, he was having fun playing in the local bars and partying with the local groupies. Life was good. Then he started getting some recognition, playing bigger arenas, winning awards, til eventually he was catapulted to the highest pinnacle of stardom. That's the curse, people--stardom. It made him into a junkie, a drunk, a total prick. In the days since, he has managed to pummel his liver to a fine puree, pick off his brain cells one by one like ducks in a shooting gallery. He probably shoplifts his underwear from Goodwill now.
Is he lucky to at least have lived the glamorous life for the short time he did? Hell no! If stardom had left him alone, he'd probably have led a life of quiet mediocrity, happy enough with his little circle of friends and family. He'd have sang in his local band for a few years, then settled down with a normal job and an average nice girl. He wouldn't be where he is now, which I think we can all assume is curled up in the fetal position next to a Jack in the Box dumpster, sleeping off the fifth of cheap whiskey he drank this morning and waiting for the night shift to throw out the burgers that have sat too long under the heat lamp.
I may be just an average nobody, but I like my life. I have friends, a house, a family. I may not have all the things I want, but I have everything I need. I don't want to end up a sad tale of woe on an episode of True Hollywood Story. I can see it now: It starts innocently enough with a Best of Blogs award. Next thing you know, I'm hobnobbing with Paris Hilton, engaged to Colin Farrell. I'm photographed and interviewed at every twist and turn. Soon, rumors begin circulating that I'm immersing myself too much in the Hollywood club scene. The tabloids publish shocking photos of me passed out topless in the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel after a week-long coke binge with Michael Irvin and Pam Anderson. In an attempt to reclaim my former good-girl image, I enter rehab and write a children's book. But soon enough I'm shooting smack with Scott Weiland and going overboard on plastic surgery procedures. A scandalous home video of my sexual escapades with 50 Cent is released without my permission at about the same time my Beverly Hills mansion goes into foreclosure. Anorexia turns me into a skeletal shell of my former self, and not even a very public romance with Ellen Degeneres can salvage my career. Soon, even OJ won't be seen having dinner with me. My husband and son, abandoned by me long ago when my star was rising, have no sympathy for me now that it's all come crashing down and I've called them begging for forgiveness and a small loan.
Think I'm being dramatic? It can happen. Look at poor Axl. And if it does happen, won't it be kind of neat to be able to say you knew me back when I first started up my silly little blog, back when I was a nobody? They might even interview you for my True Hollywood Story. You can tell them what a shame it is to see how low I've sunk, and how witty and clever I used to be before the prescription painkillers got the best of me. You can tell them how you used to read my blog faithfully, before I became empty and hollow and vain, and pissed away every good thing that came my way, finally ending up a tabloid joke.
If you'd like to ensure that you have that opportunity to say you knew me when, then by all means, vote for me for Most Humorous Blog. I don't know how long voting will remain open, all I know is begins on the 10th of January. And I may not even make it that far--right now I'm just nominated (thanks, Jason, Melissa and Ally) along with lots of bloggers who couldn't possibly be as funny as me. The list will be trimmed down to 10 bloggers in each category before the voting starts. Considering the judges (whose votes will weigh more heavily than those of you mere mortals) are probably not high and drunk like my regular readers, I may not be as funny in their eyes. But as the diplomatic losers are obligated to say, it's an honor just to be nominated. Or something.
That could be me someday. See, I've been nominated for a Best of Blogs Award. Sounds neat, right? Who wouldn't want to win an award? Well, I've got news for you: This is how it started with Axl Rose. He had his little band, he was having fun playing in the local bars and partying with the local groupies. Life was good. Then he started getting some recognition, playing bigger arenas, winning awards, til eventually he was catapulted to the highest pinnacle of stardom. That's the curse, people--stardom. It made him into a junkie, a drunk, a total prick. In the days since, he has managed to pummel his liver to a fine puree, pick off his brain cells one by one like ducks in a shooting gallery. He probably shoplifts his underwear from Goodwill now.
Is he lucky to at least have lived the glamorous life for the short time he did? Hell no! If stardom had left him alone, he'd probably have led a life of quiet mediocrity, happy enough with his little circle of friends and family. He'd have sang in his local band for a few years, then settled down with a normal job and an average nice girl. He wouldn't be where he is now, which I think we can all assume is curled up in the fetal position next to a Jack in the Box dumpster, sleeping off the fifth of cheap whiskey he drank this morning and waiting for the night shift to throw out the burgers that have sat too long under the heat lamp.
I may be just an average nobody, but I like my life. I have friends, a house, a family. I may not have all the things I want, but I have everything I need. I don't want to end up a sad tale of woe on an episode of True Hollywood Story. I can see it now: It starts innocently enough with a Best of Blogs award. Next thing you know, I'm hobnobbing with Paris Hilton, engaged to Colin Farrell. I'm photographed and interviewed at every twist and turn. Soon, rumors begin circulating that I'm immersing myself too much in the Hollywood club scene. The tabloids publish shocking photos of me passed out topless in the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel after a week-long coke binge with Michael Irvin and Pam Anderson. In an attempt to reclaim my former good-girl image, I enter rehab and write a children's book. But soon enough I'm shooting smack with Scott Weiland and going overboard on plastic surgery procedures. A scandalous home video of my sexual escapades with 50 Cent is released without my permission at about the same time my Beverly Hills mansion goes into foreclosure. Anorexia turns me into a skeletal shell of my former self, and not even a very public romance with Ellen Degeneres can salvage my career. Soon, even OJ won't be seen having dinner with me. My husband and son, abandoned by me long ago when my star was rising, have no sympathy for me now that it's all come crashing down and I've called them begging for forgiveness and a small loan.
Think I'm being dramatic? It can happen. Look at poor Axl. And if it does happen, won't it be kind of neat to be able to say you knew me back when I first started up my silly little blog, back when I was a nobody? They might even interview you for my True Hollywood Story. You can tell them what a shame it is to see how low I've sunk, and how witty and clever I used to be before the prescription painkillers got the best of me. You can tell them how you used to read my blog faithfully, before I became empty and hollow and vain, and pissed away every good thing that came my way, finally ending up a tabloid joke.
If you'd like to ensure that you have that opportunity to say you knew me when, then by all means, vote for me for Most Humorous Blog. I don't know how long voting will remain open, all I know is begins on the 10th of January. And I may not even make it that far--right now I'm just nominated (thanks, Jason, Melissa and Ally) along with lots of bloggers who couldn't possibly be as funny as me. The list will be trimmed down to 10 bloggers in each category before the voting starts. Considering the judges (whose votes will weigh more heavily than those of you mere mortals) are probably not high and drunk like my regular readers, I may not be as funny in their eyes. But as the diplomatic losers are obligated to say, it's an honor just to be nominated. Or something.
Monday, January 02, 2006
I got drunk with some porn stars
See the rest of the pictures Saturday, December 31, 2005
It's not the first time I've been busted by a cop.
It is my natural tendency to try to always do what cops tell me to do. It's not that I'm an obedient person by nature, it's just that I like living outside the prison walls. I will do pretty much anything a cop asks me, within reason, but the kinds of orders I'm used to hearing from cops include the following:
"Drop your weapon!"
"Back away from the body slowly."
"Do not swallow that baggie!"
"Put your clothes back on, ma'am."
In the past, when I've disobeyed the commands of police officers, I've ended up maced, in leg irons, or with broken ribs. In my defense, I'd just like to say that I would probably have obeyed the orders cheerfully had I not been high on PCP at the time. But ever since I quit doing dust back in 9th grade, I've had almost no trouble with the police whatsoever. Well, significantly less. A bit less, anyway. Okay, less.
So when Frankie The Cop recently told me I had to make a full confession, I felt I had to comply. He wants me to confess to 3 things I do that others don't know about. The problem with this is that I've pretty much spilled my guts here on this blog, so I had to think long and hard (yes, with the same tiny brain I've been using all along). Haven't I already told you guys every Thing Wrong With Me? (Well, the first 90 out of 100, anyway.) But again, I'm obedient when it comes to orders barked at me by cops. So here goes. Please, officer, don't hit me with your nightstick again.
1. My friend Becky and I used to shoplift when we were in high school. We didn't really need any of the stuff we stole--mostly it was clothes, and neither of us was destitute--we just did it because we were bored and it was fun. We probably only did it for about a year, if I remember correctly--at some point it occurred to us that we might eventually get caught and then sent to a women's penitentiary where we would become lesbians and develop an appreciation for flannel shirts and corduroy pants. So yes, I was a teenage criminal. But don't worry, I'm not going to hell for that. There's a long list of other things I'm going to hell for.
2. This is almost too silly to confess, and up til this moment, I've never told anyone about this except my husband (who looked at me like I was an escaped mental patient): I have a paranoia about being knockkneed--meaning I'm afraid that my knees are too close together. All my life since the age of about 13, I have consciously stood in such a way as to push my knees apart while leaving my feet together, in an effort to create more space between my knees. Not only do I do this when I'm out in public, but I also do it when I'm alone and no one's watching--every day, all the time. Here is a picture of me standing the way I would naturally, if I weren't so freaking paranoid, and a picture of me pushing my knees apart like I normally do.
"Drop your weapon!"
"Back away from the body slowly."
"Do not swallow that baggie!"
"Put your clothes back on, ma'am."
In the past, when I've disobeyed the commands of police officers, I've ended up maced, in leg irons, or with broken ribs. In my defense, I'd just like to say that I would probably have obeyed the orders cheerfully had I not been high on PCP at the time. But ever since I quit doing dust back in 9th grade, I've had almost no trouble with the police whatsoever. Well, significantly less. A bit less, anyway. Okay, less.
So when Frankie The Cop recently told me I had to make a full confession, I felt I had to comply. He wants me to confess to 3 things I do that others don't know about. The problem with this is that I've pretty much spilled my guts here on this blog, so I had to think long and hard (yes, with the same tiny brain I've been using all along). Haven't I already told you guys every Thing Wrong With Me? (Well, the first 90 out of 100, anyway.) But again, I'm obedient when it comes to orders barked at me by cops. So here goes. Please, officer, don't hit me with your nightstick again.
1. My friend Becky and I used to shoplift when we were in high school. We didn't really need any of the stuff we stole--mostly it was clothes, and neither of us was destitute--we just did it because we were bored and it was fun. We probably only did it for about a year, if I remember correctly--at some point it occurred to us that we might eventually get caught and then sent to a women's penitentiary where we would become lesbians and develop an appreciation for flannel shirts and corduroy pants. So yes, I was a teenage criminal. But don't worry, I'm not going to hell for that. There's a long list of other things I'm going to hell for.
2. This is almost too silly to confess, and up til this moment, I've never told anyone about this except my husband (who looked at me like I was an escaped mental patient): I have a paranoia about being knockkneed--meaning I'm afraid that my knees are too close together. All my life since the age of about 13, I have consciously stood in such a way as to push my knees apart while leaving my feet together, in an effort to create more space between my knees. Not only do I do this when I'm out in public, but I also do it when I'm alone and no one's watching--every day, all the time. Here is a picture of me standing the way I would naturally, if I weren't so freaking paranoid, and a picture of me pushing my knees apart like I normally do.
I know what you're thinking--that I have too much free time if I'm spending my energy examining the distance between my knees. Either that or I'm deeply, unbelievably self-absorbed. Yes, and yes.
3. Sometimes customers at work show their appreciation for us by baking something--cookies, cake, banana bread, etc. These offerings go on the table in the breakroom, where employees can partake of them at their leisure. We rarely know which customer made a particular item, because it's not like anyone goes to the trouble to label the food; it just gets unceremoniously dumped on the table by whatever employee happens to receive it. I eat this food. I know a lot of you are thinking you wouldn't eat mysterious baked goods because you don't know if the maker of the item washed her hands, or if she lives in an abandoned RV with 35 cats, or if she has hepatitis C and a flesh-eating skin rash, etc. I think about those possibilities each time I pick up a mystery cookie, I really do. And then I think, "Yum, cookie." Now, in my defense, I will say that I do make a judgement call based on the appearance of the gift. If it's cream cheese cookies in a festive holiday tin that's streaked with bloody fingerprints, I wouldn't eat that. If it's blueberry muffins with enough strands of human hair scattered on and around them to make a wig, I wouldn't eat that. If it's a loaf of pumpkin bread with a mouse tail baked in, but protruding halfway out, I wouldn't eat that. The tail, I mean. I'd eat the bread.
So there you have it. Three more reasons to be glad you're not me. Thank you, Frankie, for further alienating me from my people. I'll probably grow old and die alone like a former child actor. Is that what you want?
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
The new Karla in 2006
Okay kids, Christmas is over. That means it's time to stop goofing off and get busy making New Year's resolutions. This is a time-honored tradition which every living human is required to participate in. Everyone understands and follows the unspoken rules of New Year's Resolutions:
1) Set lofty goals for yourself that you have no reasonable expectation of ever accomplishing. Generally these are the exact same goals you've been setting for yourself every January 1st since you were 18 years old.
2) Spend the first two weeks of the new year pretending you're really working at these goals.
3) Give up entirely in week three, and sink into a depression in which you berate yourself for the next month or more for failing to achieve your New Year's resolutions yet again. By mid February, the cheer and general good will of the Christmas holiday has completely evaporated and you are now nearly suicidal and full of self-loathing. If your goal was to lose weight, you are now stuffing your entire face into fast food containers and potato chip bags to ease the depression of failure. If your goal was to stop smoking, you're now smoking three cigarettes at a time to distract you from the self-deprecating voice in your head. If your goal was to start going to the gym every day, you are now napping five times a day because in sleep you are able to forget for awhile that you are too unmotivated to go to the gym.
Well, I'm not falling for it this year. I mean, I'll definitely make New Year's resolutions, because it's a tradition. Without traditions our society would spiral into chaos, and eventually cannibalism would run rampant. But the difference is that this year I'm not going to set myself up for failure. I'm going to set goals I can actually achieve, so that I end up feeling good about myself all year long instead of wishing I were dead by April. To ensure victory, I'm also going to set up a reward system so that I can celebrate my successes along the way. This will be an added incentive beyond mere personal growth, which is the only reward people usually expect to get from accomplishing their resolutions. And personal growth is a lousy prize no matter how you slice it, so it's no wonder people give up before February.
And because you guys are a nosy bunch, I know you want to hear what my resolutions are.
Karla's New Year's Resolutions for 2006
1. I will not scale Mt. Fuji.
2. I will eat only edible food, and drink only potable water.
3. I will wear a bra when out in public. Usually my own.
4. I will speak English primarily.
5. I will do all I can do prevent flies from breeding in my car.
6. I will use the phrase "gutless swine" in a sentence at least once in 2006.
7. I will not kill anyone with a machete.
8. I will drink more in 2006. While everyone else is promising to drink less, I will take the path less traveled, and I will drink more.
9. I will not sleep with any dictators this year.
10. I will read great works of literature to sharpen my intellect and help develop my analytical thinking.
11. I will wipe front to back.
12. I will steadfastly refuse to participate in any plots to overthrow the government. And this year I mean it.
So there you have it: My New Year's resolutions, hereafter referred to as The List. At the end of each month in 2006, I will review my performance for that month. If I can honestly say that I have stayed on my chartered path and am still well on my way to the New Karla in 2006, I will reward myself with a handful of ecstasy tablets and a bottle of cheap 100 proof whiskey, which I will drink alone under the bleachers at the local high school on a weeknight. By the time 2007 rolls around, I'll be dead of liver disease, possibly following several arrests for public intoxication, but I'll have accomplished all my New Year's resolutions for 2006, which is more than most of you will be able to say.
And I call that a successful year.
1) Set lofty goals for yourself that you have no reasonable expectation of ever accomplishing. Generally these are the exact same goals you've been setting for yourself every January 1st since you were 18 years old.
2) Spend the first two weeks of the new year pretending you're really working at these goals.
3) Give up entirely in week three, and sink into a depression in which you berate yourself for the next month or more for failing to achieve your New Year's resolutions yet again. By mid February, the cheer and general good will of the Christmas holiday has completely evaporated and you are now nearly suicidal and full of self-loathing. If your goal was to lose weight, you are now stuffing your entire face into fast food containers and potato chip bags to ease the depression of failure. If your goal was to stop smoking, you're now smoking three cigarettes at a time to distract you from the self-deprecating voice in your head. If your goal was to start going to the gym every day, you are now napping five times a day because in sleep you are able to forget for awhile that you are too unmotivated to go to the gym.
Well, I'm not falling for it this year. I mean, I'll definitely make New Year's resolutions, because it's a tradition. Without traditions our society would spiral into chaos, and eventually cannibalism would run rampant. But the difference is that this year I'm not going to set myself up for failure. I'm going to set goals I can actually achieve, so that I end up feeling good about myself all year long instead of wishing I were dead by April. To ensure victory, I'm also going to set up a reward system so that I can celebrate my successes along the way. This will be an added incentive beyond mere personal growth, which is the only reward people usually expect to get from accomplishing their resolutions. And personal growth is a lousy prize no matter how you slice it, so it's no wonder people give up before February.
And because you guys are a nosy bunch, I know you want to hear what my resolutions are.
Karla's New Year's Resolutions for 2006
1. I will not scale Mt. Fuji.
2. I will eat only edible food, and drink only potable water.
3. I will wear a bra when out in public. Usually my own.
4. I will speak English primarily.
5. I will do all I can do prevent flies from breeding in my car.
6. I will use the phrase "gutless swine" in a sentence at least once in 2006.
7. I will not kill anyone with a machete.
8. I will drink more in 2006. While everyone else is promising to drink less, I will take the path less traveled, and I will drink more.
9. I will not sleep with any dictators this year.
10. I will read great works of literature to sharpen my intellect and help develop my analytical thinking.
11. I will wipe front to back.
12. I will steadfastly refuse to participate in any plots to overthrow the government. And this year I mean it.
So there you have it: My New Year's resolutions, hereafter referred to as The List. At the end of each month in 2006, I will review my performance for that month. If I can honestly say that I have stayed on my chartered path and am still well on my way to the New Karla in 2006, I will reward myself with a handful of ecstasy tablets and a bottle of cheap 100 proof whiskey, which I will drink alone under the bleachers at the local high school on a weeknight. By the time 2007 rolls around, I'll be dead of liver disease, possibly following several arrests for public intoxication, but I'll have accomplished all my New Year's resolutions for 2006, which is more than most of you will be able to say.
And I call that a successful year.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
The true meaning of Christmas
Christmas isn't supposed to be about the gifts you get. It's supposed to be about the spirit of something-or-other, and family blah blah blah, and now that I think about it, I think some famous guy was born that day or something. So yeah, it's this magical time when people come together in love to share their joy and...some other stuff that sounds like it came straight out of a Hallmark card. And that's what it's about; that's all it's about.
But I got some really cool stuff this year! I got a Roomba, which hopefully will allow me to get drunk and eat ice cream with my bare hands while it does the vacuuming for me (because that is always what I'd rather be doing when I'm vacuuming). And I got Sirius satellite for my car and home, which hopefully will help me teach Jake all kinds of dirty words as we listen to Howard Stern together. And I got an iRiver .mp3 player to replace the one I lost a few months back, which will allow me to tune out the rest of the human population when I'm forced to be out among the heathens while shopping or working out at my gym. Plus I got gift certificates to several cool places, which will keep me from having to shoplift things I want, at least for awhile.
These things, of course, are just things. Not important at all, and not what Christmas is about. But they do help to make up for a few of the downsides of the holiday season:
Like candy canes. As candy goes, candy canes are at the very bottom of the barrel. They are not tasty, and barely qualify as candy at all. They're more like a breath mint than a treat. And yet all December long, every time I turn around I'm getting a candy cane shoved in my face along with a shout of "Merry Christmas!" There is nothing merry about these little striped mouthwash sticks.
And fruit cake. I know there are going to be a few of you freaks who disagree with me on the candy cane score, but not one among you has the nerve to pretend that fruit cake is edible, or that you don't promptly toss them in the trash when they are given to you. Know what fruit cake is good for? To take as a gag gift to a white elephant gift exchange, in the event that you can't get your hands on any chum.
And canned cranberry sauce. Adam Carolla claims the homemade stuff is good, although I've never once laid eyes on a homemade batch, since everyone in the world buys the canned stuff. And as I once told this crack junkie I sometimes fraternize with, cranberry sauce is disgusting and vile. What other food do you eat that's purple? And it's got that creepy jelly-like consistency, making it look like muppet phlegm. Somehow we as a society have been brainwashed into putting this crap on each and every holiday dinner table, all of us blithely ignoring the fact that it does, in fact, taste like can-shaped shit.
And poinsettas. These are the world's ugliest plants, and yet people hand them out cheerfully this time of year, smiling like they're giving you something worthwhile. I'd rather receive a can of cranberry muppet phlegm than one of those tacky neon red monstrosities.
And that, my friends, is why the gifts are important after all. I spend all month saying thank you for the candy canes I get shoved up my ass every hour on the hour by every person I come into contact with, pretending to admire the beauty of a lot of ugly red plants that look like they've been fertilized with nuclear waste, taking pains to discretely throw away the fruitcakes I'm given before they attract the cockroaches that are the only living things who enjoy eating them, and biting my tongue to refrain from speaking out against the cran-slime that is wiggled under my nose at the dinner table. The gifts make it all worthwhile.
And oh yeah, that family/love/religion stuff, too.
But I got some really cool stuff this year! I got a Roomba, which hopefully will allow me to get drunk and eat ice cream with my bare hands while it does the vacuuming for me (because that is always what I'd rather be doing when I'm vacuuming). And I got Sirius satellite for my car and home, which hopefully will help me teach Jake all kinds of dirty words as we listen to Howard Stern together. And I got an iRiver .mp3 player to replace the one I lost a few months back, which will allow me to tune out the rest of the human population when I'm forced to be out among the heathens while shopping or working out at my gym. Plus I got gift certificates to several cool places, which will keep me from having to shoplift things I want, at least for awhile.
These things, of course, are just things. Not important at all, and not what Christmas is about. But they do help to make up for a few of the downsides of the holiday season:
Like candy canes. As candy goes, candy canes are at the very bottom of the barrel. They are not tasty, and barely qualify as candy at all. They're more like a breath mint than a treat. And yet all December long, every time I turn around I'm getting a candy cane shoved in my face along with a shout of "Merry Christmas!" There is nothing merry about these little striped mouthwash sticks.
And fruit cake. I know there are going to be a few of you freaks who disagree with me on the candy cane score, but not one among you has the nerve to pretend that fruit cake is edible, or that you don't promptly toss them in the trash when they are given to you. Know what fruit cake is good for? To take as a gag gift to a white elephant gift exchange, in the event that you can't get your hands on any chum.
And canned cranberry sauce. Adam Carolla claims the homemade stuff is good, although I've never once laid eyes on a homemade batch, since everyone in the world buys the canned stuff. And as I once told this crack junkie I sometimes fraternize with, cranberry sauce is disgusting and vile. What other food do you eat that's purple? And it's got that creepy jelly-like consistency, making it look like muppet phlegm. Somehow we as a society have been brainwashed into putting this crap on each and every holiday dinner table, all of us blithely ignoring the fact that it does, in fact, taste like can-shaped shit.
And poinsettas. These are the world's ugliest plants, and yet people hand them out cheerfully this time of year, smiling like they're giving you something worthwhile. I'd rather receive a can of cranberry muppet phlegm than one of those tacky neon red monstrosities.
And that, my friends, is why the gifts are important after all. I spend all month saying thank you for the candy canes I get shoved up my ass every hour on the hour by every person I come into contact with, pretending to admire the beauty of a lot of ugly red plants that look like they've been fertilized with nuclear waste, taking pains to discretely throw away the fruitcakes I'm given before they attract the cockroaches that are the only living things who enjoy eating them, and biting my tongue to refrain from speaking out against the cran-slime that is wiggled under my nose at the dinner table. The gifts make it all worthwhile.
And oh yeah, that family/love/religion stuff, too.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
100 Things Wrong With Me (Part 9)
It seems like every blogger out there has a 100 Things list, in which they detail 100 miscellaneous facts about themselves, usually along the lines of "I believe the eyes are the windows to the soul," and "I once broke my arm in two places." These are the kinds of facts that are probably interesting only to the blogger's mother and therapist. Therefore, I give you my list of 100 Things Wrong With Me. I'm posting the list in installments, on the assumption that the majority of my readers either have Attention Deficit Disorder or are chronically drunk. Here's 81-90.
81. When I brush my teeth, I get toothpaste everywhere. In my hair, on my feet, on the floor, even on my back sometimes. The problem is I try to multitask, and put things away or clean things up while I'm brushing. So the end result is that, yeah, I do manage to put away my comb, some makeup and two barrettes, but now my bathroom is coated floor to ceiling in foamy white slobber.
82. I hate winter. I would be happy if I never saw another snowflake again--which is weird because I'm originally from Alaska. We moved out of the state when I was 8 years old, which I'm really glad about because people who live in Alaska statistically have a 1 in 5 chance of dying by freezing into a solid block of ice while reaching into their mailboxes to check their mail. And to add insult to injury, those same people are often then eaten by polar bears during the next thaw. In fact, a recent ad campaign supports my claim:
83. I was a cheerleader in high school. If you knew me, you'd recognize the irony of this, since I'm hardly peppy and enthusiastic, nor particularly athletic. I didn't even look good in the skirt, because I had sad little stick legs and arms back then. And I don't even really like sports. I'm also not all that coordinated, or good at dancing. I think in most school these things are on the list of requirements for potential cheerleaders, but at my tiny-ass school I think the only requirement is that you be a warm-blooded mammal. Luckily for me, I was able to barely qualify on that score.
84. I love going to parties where there's a white elephant gift exchange--you know, the kind where you bring a gift without knowing who will receive it. People take turns at either picking a wrapped gift, or "stealing" one from someone who has already unwrapped one. There's nothing more fun than buying a random gift for a random person. Usually when you buy a gift for someone, you try hard to get them something they'll like--not so much because you want them to be happy or any of that do-gooder BS, but mostly because you know they'll mock you behind your back if you give them something they consider strange or undesirable. My mom once received a two-foot tall, pink and white carousel horse figurine as a gift, although nothing in her house or personality would lead you to believe she was a collector of huge, frightening carousel animals. This is the kind of gift that nets the giver a warm, "Thank you!" to his face, but many snide comments behind his back.
But the white elephant gift exchange is a thing of beauty. You can buy any bizarre, insane, useless thing that strikes your fancy without fear of repercussion. Gifts I have brought to such parties in the past include: A Spam snowglobe, a bag of shark chum, and a travel urinal. I consider this a Thing Wrong With Me because of the perverse glee I get from watching someone unwrap a package that they're surely hoping will be something decent, only to discover it's something no one would ever want, like a bag of chum.
85. Brian and I have an ongoing squabble over whether to leave the blinds in the house open or closed. He wants them open all the time, while I at least want them closed at night. I am perpetually convinced that someone could be looking in at any moment. This bothers me for at least three reasons: 1) The potential peeper might be aghast at the condition of my toy-littered house, 2) He might be scouting potential rape and/or murder victims, and decide I look puny enough to overpower, or 3) He might see me slobbing around the house in my Olive Garden boxer shorts and ratty striped tank top. I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid of being violated or being spotted in clothes that look like they should be in a Goodwill box, but Brian does not understand my paranoia. He considers this a Thing Wrong With Me. Maybe the reason he can't identify with me on this is that not only does he statistically stand less chance of being raped by an intruder, but he also doesn't have to worry about being seen in slob clothes because he doesn't have any. When he gets home from work, he simply leaves his work clothes on, including shoes and socks, until bedtime. Sometimes I'll look over at him, laying on the couch watching a movie in his tucked-in, button-down shirt, slacks, shoes and socks, and I'll think, "Holy cow that's weird." I assume he occasionally steals a glance at me laying on the other couch in my Metallica sweatpants from 1987 and my Eric Clapton t-shirt from 1990 and thinks, "Holy cow, that's weird."
86. I have no problem getting up and changing seats in a movie theater to avoid the screeching a-holes in the seats next to us. My polite husband thinks getting up mid-movie to switch seats is akin to causing a scene, and would rather sit there and basically miss the entire movie rather than quietly moving a few aisles away. Come to think of it, this sounds more like a Thing Wrong With My Husband than with me. Strike this one from the record.
87. I have a ridiculous number of shoes. I realize most girls have this same problem, but my shoes aren't even a collection of varying types of interesting and different styles. Most of them are black, and even the black ones don't vary all that much from one pair to the next. And in spite of a shoe collection that probably outnumbers that of Imelda Marcos, there are two pairs among them that I wear 98% of the time, while the rest just sit in my closet looking fabulous.
88. Sometimes I steal money out of my friends' purses to buy heroin. Okay, that one isn't true. Believe it or not, I'm starting to run out of Things Wrong With Me. Maybe I should let my husband write the rest of the list for me. (In which case, I might need to expand the list to 1000.)
89. I eat this on a regular basis:
81. When I brush my teeth, I get toothpaste everywhere. In my hair, on my feet, on the floor, even on my back sometimes. The problem is I try to multitask, and put things away or clean things up while I'm brushing. So the end result is that, yeah, I do manage to put away my comb, some makeup and two barrettes, but now my bathroom is coated floor to ceiling in foamy white slobber.
82. I hate winter. I would be happy if I never saw another snowflake again--which is weird because I'm originally from Alaska. We moved out of the state when I was 8 years old, which I'm really glad about because people who live in Alaska statistically have a 1 in 5 chance of dying by freezing into a solid block of ice while reaching into their mailboxes to check their mail. And to add insult to injury, those same people are often then eaten by polar bears during the next thaw. In fact, a recent ad campaign supports my claim:
83. I was a cheerleader in high school. If you knew me, you'd recognize the irony of this, since I'm hardly peppy and enthusiastic, nor particularly athletic. I didn't even look good in the skirt, because I had sad little stick legs and arms back then. And I don't even really like sports. I'm also not all that coordinated, or good at dancing. I think in most school these things are on the list of requirements for potential cheerleaders, but at my tiny-ass school I think the only requirement is that you be a warm-blooded mammal. Luckily for me, I was able to barely qualify on that score.84. I love going to parties where there's a white elephant gift exchange--you know, the kind where you bring a gift without knowing who will receive it. People take turns at either picking a wrapped gift, or "stealing" one from someone who has already unwrapped one. There's nothing more fun than buying a random gift for a random person. Usually when you buy a gift for someone, you try hard to get them something they'll like--not so much because you want them to be happy or any of that do-gooder BS, but mostly because you know they'll mock you behind your back if you give them something they consider strange or undesirable. My mom once received a two-foot tall, pink and white carousel horse figurine as a gift, although nothing in her house or personality would lead you to believe she was a collector of huge, frightening carousel animals. This is the kind of gift that nets the giver a warm, "Thank you!" to his face, but many snide comments behind his back.
But the white elephant gift exchange is a thing of beauty. You can buy any bizarre, insane, useless thing that strikes your fancy without fear of repercussion. Gifts I have brought to such parties in the past include: A Spam snowglobe, a bag of shark chum, and a travel urinal. I consider this a Thing Wrong With Me because of the perverse glee I get from watching someone unwrap a package that they're surely hoping will be something decent, only to discover it's something no one would ever want, like a bag of chum.
85. Brian and I have an ongoing squabble over whether to leave the blinds in the house open or closed. He wants them open all the time, while I at least want them closed at night. I am perpetually convinced that someone could be looking in at any moment. This bothers me for at least three reasons: 1) The potential peeper might be aghast at the condition of my toy-littered house, 2) He might be scouting potential rape and/or murder victims, and decide I look puny enough to overpower, or 3) He might see me slobbing around the house in my Olive Garden boxer shorts and ratty striped tank top. I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid of being violated or being spotted in clothes that look like they should be in a Goodwill box, but Brian does not understand my paranoia. He considers this a Thing Wrong With Me. Maybe the reason he can't identify with me on this is that not only does he statistically stand less chance of being raped by an intruder, but he also doesn't have to worry about being seen in slob clothes because he doesn't have any. When he gets home from work, he simply leaves his work clothes on, including shoes and socks, until bedtime. Sometimes I'll look over at him, laying on the couch watching a movie in his tucked-in, button-down shirt, slacks, shoes and socks, and I'll think, "Holy cow that's weird." I assume he occasionally steals a glance at me laying on the other couch in my Metallica sweatpants from 1987 and my Eric Clapton t-shirt from 1990 and thinks, "Holy cow, that's weird."
86. I have no problem getting up and changing seats in a movie theater to avoid the screeching a-holes in the seats next to us. My polite husband thinks getting up mid-movie to switch seats is akin to causing a scene, and would rather sit there and basically miss the entire movie rather than quietly moving a few aisles away. Come to think of it, this sounds more like a Thing Wrong With My Husband than with me. Strike this one from the record.
87. I have a ridiculous number of shoes. I realize most girls have this same problem, but my shoes aren't even a collection of varying types of interesting and different styles. Most of them are black, and even the black ones don't vary all that much from one pair to the next. And in spite of a shoe collection that probably outnumbers that of Imelda Marcos, there are two pairs among them that I wear 98% of the time, while the rest just sit in my closet looking fabulous.
88. Sometimes I steal money out of my friends' purses to buy heroin. Okay, that one isn't true. Believe it or not, I'm starting to run out of Things Wrong With Me. Maybe I should let my husband write the rest of the list for me. (In which case, I might need to expand the list to 1000.)
89. I eat this on a regular basis:
And yes, it looks just like that every time. It's a veggie burger, and I purposely burn it beyond all recognition. I don't put it on a bun or anything like that, either. I eat it just like you see it in the picture. I don't even use a plate or a fork, I just hold that piece of char in my hand and munch on it like a hobo. Except I'm pretty sure no self-respecting hobo would eat that. All I can say in my defense is that I like char.
90. I have a collection of cigarette lighters, some of which are old and hard to find. I bought most of them in little antique shops, but some one eBay. The strange thing about this is that I don't smoke, and never have. I mean don't get me wrong, I can definitely see the appeal of smoking. What kind of person wouldn't want to put a burning object in his mouth and suck on it? Especially if it made his breath stink, made his clothes smell like they were scavenged from a house fire, turned his teeth yellow, and killed him slowly over time? Plus, it's a fun way to spend money, which everyone has lots of. But perhaps even stranger than someone who spends good money to stink, turn yellow and die is someone who collects cigarette lighters and doesn't smoke. It's just plain odd. Although I will say that a real smoker could never collect lighters, because other smokers would just steal them. Have you ever noticed that 90% of a smoker's energy is spent trying to steal the lighters of other smokers? Go to any bar on a Saturday night and you'll see a big crowd of sneaky lighter thieves; all of them stinking and turning yellow as they nervously eye each other's lighters, waiting for just the right moment to make a grab.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Your prizes are on the way!
It's time to announce the winners of October's caption contest! When asked to find a funny, lighthearted way to interpret the horrible, possibly illegal picture I took of my son, you rose to the occasion like yeast rises in a Mexican border town prostitute's panties.
First prize goes to Soapbox Superstar, for this entry:
Pot-Luck (just not so lucky for some)
Congratulations, Superstar! As you surely remember, the first prize is my son, Jake. You are now the mother of a cheerful, chatty, snaggle-toothed infant. You can look forward to many exciting times ahead, especially if you like being repeatedly rammed in the shins with a walker that looks like a car.
Nothing that's less than 18 inches off the ground is safe from the grubby hands of my--ha! I mean YOUR--precocious young son. Just beware of his fecal hijinks. He's well-known and feared for his diaper pranks, also referred to as "Trick or Worse Trick."
My dear friend Donna (also known as Boom, Boomer, or by any one of the hundreds of aliases she rotates through in an effort to evade capture and subsequent death by lethal injection) slides into second place with her entry:
"Wait 'til you see the special sauce I'm cooking up down here!"
Donna might have taken first place if not for the fact that she stubbornly refuses to get a blog of her own for me to link to here, in spite of the ridiculously long list of stories she could tell you that would no doubt blow your collective mind. If you ever see her on the street, ask her the meaning of this phrase from her past: "Actually, it tasted kinda salty." But I recommend only asking on an empty stomach.
Donna, since you and I have been friends since we were little kids, I thought your prize should be something more personal. I thought of giving you my virginity, but we both know where that went. So I've decided to give you my liver. It's in about the same sorry shape yours is in, but I figure if you put the two of them together, you'll almost have the equivalent of one healthy, functioning organ. I thought about giving you my dignity as well, but that's in worse shape than my liver, and in your hands it would be reduced to charred tatters in about a week and a half. So take the liver and be happy with that.
And third place goes to Lee, for this caption:
What do you call a baby boiling in a pot?
Stewie.
Admittedly, it would have been funnier if my kid were actually named Stuart. Lee, you should talk to Soapbox Superstar; once she has legal custody of Jake, she may consider changing his name. The third prize is a lifetime subscription to www.karlababble.com! That's right, you won't ever have to pay monthly dues again! Really, this should have been first prize, now that I think about it.
As you can see, I'm in the process of packing the first prize to send off to Soapbox Superstar. Am I supposed to cut air holes in the box? How much should I insure it for? If anyone has any experience shipping human children via the US Mail, I'd appreciate any advice you can give.
First prize goes to Soapbox Superstar, for this entry:
Pot-Luck (just not so lucky for some)
Congratulations, Superstar! As you surely remember, the first prize is my son, Jake. You are now the mother of a cheerful, chatty, snaggle-toothed infant. You can look forward to many exciting times ahead, especially if you like being repeatedly rammed in the shins with a walker that looks like a car.
Nothing that's less than 18 inches off the ground is safe from the grubby hands of my--ha! I mean YOUR--precocious young son. Just beware of his fecal hijinks. He's well-known and feared for his diaper pranks, also referred to as "Trick or Worse Trick."My dear friend Donna (also known as Boom, Boomer, or by any one of the hundreds of aliases she rotates through in an effort to evade capture and subsequent death by lethal injection) slides into second place with her entry:
"Wait 'til you see the special sauce I'm cooking up down here!"
Donna might have taken first place if not for the fact that she stubbornly refuses to get a blog of her own for me to link to here, in spite of the ridiculously long list of stories she could tell you that would no doubt blow your collective mind. If you ever see her on the street, ask her the meaning of this phrase from her past: "Actually, it tasted kinda salty." But I recommend only asking on an empty stomach.
Donna, since you and I have been friends since we were little kids, I thought your prize should be something more personal. I thought of giving you my virginity, but we both know where that went. So I've decided to give you my liver. It's in about the same sorry shape yours is in, but I figure if you put the two of them together, you'll almost have the equivalent of one healthy, functioning organ. I thought about giving you my dignity as well, but that's in worse shape than my liver, and in your hands it would be reduced to charred tatters in about a week and a half. So take the liver and be happy with that.
And third place goes to Lee, for this caption:
What do you call a baby boiling in a pot?
Stewie.
Admittedly, it would have been funnier if my kid were actually named Stuart. Lee, you should talk to Soapbox Superstar; once she has legal custody of Jake, she may consider changing his name. The third prize is a lifetime subscription to www.karlababble.com! That's right, you won't ever have to pay monthly dues again! Really, this should have been first prize, now that I think about it.
As you can see, I'm in the process of packing the first prize to send off to Soapbox Superstar. Am I supposed to cut air holes in the box? How much should I insure it for? If anyone has any experience shipping human children via the US Mail, I'd appreciate any advice you can give.
Friday, December 16, 2005
It's only fair to warn you: You're probably too smart to be reading my blog.
You know how every once in a while you hear about someone who is mentally handicapped, with, say, the mind of an 8-year-old, but they are living on their own, maybe in a little apartment in town? Don't you wonder how they do it? Wouldn't you think it would be dangerous or scary for someone with limited mental faculties to run a household alone? Make dinner, pay the bills, go to the store and make it back safely? Yet somehow they do it, and we are often a bit awestruck that they are capable of so much despite being technically handicapped.
That's me, folks. You should have seen me at the post office today. It would have made you clench your fists in rage at the ineptitude of the public school systems that are responsible for educating our youth. Either that, or it would have made you shake your head sadly that I was so lazy in school as to let my perfectly healthy brain stagnate and bloat like a diseased liver rather than taking the opportunity to learn a thing or two.
Yes, it's true, I hate the post office. I avoid it at all costs. I'd rather remove my own appendix than go to the post office. And at this time of year, it's the worst-- every time I've driven by one in the past week or so, the line has been so long it looked like a Hands Across America photo shoot. But this trip would be a relatively painless one, because I was driving out of my way to go to a location that was equipped with plenty of gadgets to prevent people from having to negotiate the surly cashiers and the snaking lines. This particular post office has a digital scale with a vending machine attached, so you can weigh and post your own packages, paying by credit card if you prefer. If that machine is busy, there's a regular scale for weighing, plus two other vending machines that sell stamps by the book or individually, although you can only pay in cash at those machines.
While the scale and stamp vending area is nowhere near the cashiers, the lines were so long that they coiled back well past the stamp vending area, so I felt a certain sense of glee as I excused myself to step between the people slowly decaying in the eternal lines so that I could get to the do-it-yourself area. The listless people in line turned their dead eyes toward me, sadly jealous that they still had approximately 42 more hours to go before completing their transactions, while I would apparently skip in and out of there like a child playing in a department store's revolving door.
I had a few Christmas cards to buy stamps for, and a book I needed to mail to someone who had purchased it from me on Half.com. It was The Dr. Drew and Adam Book, if you're dying to know what a deep thinker and intellectual reader I am. Although I didn't end up reading it, now that I think about it. I tried, but it was really very silly. I love the radio show (Loveline), and thought that must mean I'd like the book. But I learned a valuable lesson: Hearing a free-running conversation between 3 or 4 people can be interesting. Reading that exact same conversation verbatim on paper is more tedious than reading this blog. But I digress.
I plopped my cheerful infant on the clean-looking floor in front of the vending machine. (I know, you're thinking, "Ew." Hey, I'll tell you what: Next time, you come with me and hold him for me, okay? He doesn't crawl, having deemed that "too babyish" for the rock star image he's trying to cultivate with the ladies, so I didn't have to worry him putting his hands on the floor as long as I gave him something to play with. So I handed him my wallet and went about getting book of stamps from the vending machine. Normally when I come to the post office to use the self-serve area, I spend a certain amount of time digging through my purse while clutching the baby by one or more of his chubby limbs, so this time I left my purse in the car and carried only my wallet and keys, so I'd have less junk to contend with. I think ahead, my friends. That's my middle name. Karla-Think-Ahead, they used to call me in prison.
I put stamps on my letters and fed the letters into the letter slot. Now it was time for the package. I set Jake's butt on the counter and pinned him there with my body while I weighed the package. He attempted to grab everything within his 12-inch armspan, as I struggled to block his pinwheeling arms with my body and navigate the digital scale. To send this package Media Mail, it would cost $1.84. Sounded fair to me, so I began peeling stamps off my new book of stamps. Here's where the action stopped. Hmm. Stamps are 37 cents. How many times does 37 go into 184? I stared blankly at the book of stamps. Seriously, if there were a video recording device in my head, you would have seen snow on the screen, like when a TV station goes dead. Seconds ticked by as I stared. Okay, let's do it this way: I know 37 plus 37 is 64. Wait, that's not right. Okay, 40 plus 40 is 80, minus 6 makes it 74? Okay. Now how many times does 74 go into 184? Blank stare. That didn't help at all. Normally, this is where my cell phone would come in handy. There's a calculator function on my cell phone--probably on yours too, but you wouldn't know that because you never use it, right? Because you can add in your head, like every other normal person on the planet. The calculator function on my cell phone is perhaps the most important feature, with the calling feature coming in at a close second. But remember, because I'm Karla-Think-Ahead, I had left my purse in the car and brought in only my wallet, so I could minimize the amount of things I had to juggle. Now here I was, not juggling anything but the helium balloons bumping up against each other in my head.
I looked up. I was inches away from roughly three thousand people who were standing line. I looked them over. All with working brains, all of perfectly normal intelligence, I guessed. Any one of these people could answer this Super Duper Advanced Level math question for me. Some of them were looking right at me anyway, making funny faces at Jake, having nothing else to do while waiting. And I might have asked one of them for help, too, if not for the fact that I was holding my cute baby with red cheeks and a funny blue hat on his head. If I revealed to them that I was operating on a 2nd grade intelligence level, the crowd would have closed in on me in mere seconds, snatching my child from me and whisking him off to Child Protective Services, where he would go into The System, and eventually be placed in a home with fully functioning foster parents. I had to play it cool. "Look smart," I told myself, "Pretend you're capable of raising this child."
I decided to just put a ton of postage on the package. I figured I'd just plaster enough stamps on there that it'd be guaranteed to make its destination. But here again was something I wasn't smart enough for. I had idea that 5 stamps would be enough, but I wasn't sure, so I added a sixth one just for good measure. As I started to drop the package in the slot, I thought, "Wait. Maybe 6 isn't enough, either." I stared at the package. Should I add a seventh stamp? Should I buy two more books of stamps and just put them all on the package, covering every inch of space except the address label?
In the end I gave up on the whole "thinking" thing, and just went out to the car and got my cell phone. Turns out 5 stamps was enough. Back into the post office I went for a second time, defeated, meekly excusing myself to get between the people in line so I could slip my package into the slot and then speed away in my car before anyone caught on to what I had been up to for so long in there.
So yes, this is a sad tale of a halfwit trying to make it in this great big scary world, getting by largely on luck and the kindness of strangers. But there will eventually be a happy ending to my sad tale of unchecked stupidity. The good news is that in few years Jake will be able to tell me how many stamps to put on my packages. If I can just make it that long without someone taking him away from me.
That's me, folks. You should have seen me at the post office today. It would have made you clench your fists in rage at the ineptitude of the public school systems that are responsible for educating our youth. Either that, or it would have made you shake your head sadly that I was so lazy in school as to let my perfectly healthy brain stagnate and bloat like a diseased liver rather than taking the opportunity to learn a thing or two.
Yes, it's true, I hate the post office. I avoid it at all costs. I'd rather remove my own appendix than go to the post office. And at this time of year, it's the worst-- every time I've driven by one in the past week or so, the line has been so long it looked like a Hands Across America photo shoot. But this trip would be a relatively painless one, because I was driving out of my way to go to a location that was equipped with plenty of gadgets to prevent people from having to negotiate the surly cashiers and the snaking lines. This particular post office has a digital scale with a vending machine attached, so you can weigh and post your own packages, paying by credit card if you prefer. If that machine is busy, there's a regular scale for weighing, plus two other vending machines that sell stamps by the book or individually, although you can only pay in cash at those machines.
While the scale and stamp vending area is nowhere near the cashiers, the lines were so long that they coiled back well past the stamp vending area, so I felt a certain sense of glee as I excused myself to step between the people slowly decaying in the eternal lines so that I could get to the do-it-yourself area. The listless people in line turned their dead eyes toward me, sadly jealous that they still had approximately 42 more hours to go before completing their transactions, while I would apparently skip in and out of there like a child playing in a department store's revolving door.
I had a few Christmas cards to buy stamps for, and a book I needed to mail to someone who had purchased it from me on Half.com. It was The Dr. Drew and Adam Book, if you're dying to know what a deep thinker and intellectual reader I am. Although I didn't end up reading it, now that I think about it. I tried, but it was really very silly. I love the radio show (Loveline), and thought that must mean I'd like the book. But I learned a valuable lesson: Hearing a free-running conversation between 3 or 4 people can be interesting. Reading that exact same conversation verbatim on paper is more tedious than reading this blog. But I digress.
I plopped my cheerful infant on the clean-looking floor in front of the vending machine. (I know, you're thinking, "Ew." Hey, I'll tell you what: Next time, you come with me and hold him for me, okay? He doesn't crawl, having deemed that "too babyish" for the rock star image he's trying to cultivate with the ladies, so I didn't have to worry him putting his hands on the floor as long as I gave him something to play with. So I handed him my wallet and went about getting book of stamps from the vending machine. Normally when I come to the post office to use the self-serve area, I spend a certain amount of time digging through my purse while clutching the baby by one or more of his chubby limbs, so this time I left my purse in the car and carried only my wallet and keys, so I'd have less junk to contend with. I think ahead, my friends. That's my middle name. Karla-Think-Ahead, they used to call me in prison.
I put stamps on my letters and fed the letters into the letter slot. Now it was time for the package. I set Jake's butt on the counter and pinned him there with my body while I weighed the package. He attempted to grab everything within his 12-inch armspan, as I struggled to block his pinwheeling arms with my body and navigate the digital scale. To send this package Media Mail, it would cost $1.84. Sounded fair to me, so I began peeling stamps off my new book of stamps. Here's where the action stopped. Hmm. Stamps are 37 cents. How many times does 37 go into 184? I stared blankly at the book of stamps. Seriously, if there were a video recording device in my head, you would have seen snow on the screen, like when a TV station goes dead. Seconds ticked by as I stared. Okay, let's do it this way: I know 37 plus 37 is 64. Wait, that's not right. Okay, 40 plus 40 is 80, minus 6 makes it 74? Okay. Now how many times does 74 go into 184? Blank stare. That didn't help at all. Normally, this is where my cell phone would come in handy. There's a calculator function on my cell phone--probably on yours too, but you wouldn't know that because you never use it, right? Because you can add in your head, like every other normal person on the planet. The calculator function on my cell phone is perhaps the most important feature, with the calling feature coming in at a close second. But remember, because I'm Karla-Think-Ahead, I had left my purse in the car and brought in only my wallet, so I could minimize the amount of things I had to juggle. Now here I was, not juggling anything but the helium balloons bumping up against each other in my head.
I looked up. I was inches away from roughly three thousand people who were standing line. I looked them over. All with working brains, all of perfectly normal intelligence, I guessed. Any one of these people could answer this Super Duper Advanced Level math question for me. Some of them were looking right at me anyway, making funny faces at Jake, having nothing else to do while waiting. And I might have asked one of them for help, too, if not for the fact that I was holding my cute baby with red cheeks and a funny blue hat on his head. If I revealed to them that I was operating on a 2nd grade intelligence level, the crowd would have closed in on me in mere seconds, snatching my child from me and whisking him off to Child Protective Services, where he would go into The System, and eventually be placed in a home with fully functioning foster parents. I had to play it cool. "Look smart," I told myself, "Pretend you're capable of raising this child."
I decided to just put a ton of postage on the package. I figured I'd just plaster enough stamps on there that it'd be guaranteed to make its destination. But here again was something I wasn't smart enough for. I had idea that 5 stamps would be enough, but I wasn't sure, so I added a sixth one just for good measure. As I started to drop the package in the slot, I thought, "Wait. Maybe 6 isn't enough, either." I stared at the package. Should I add a seventh stamp? Should I buy two more books of stamps and just put them all on the package, covering every inch of space except the address label?
In the end I gave up on the whole "thinking" thing, and just went out to the car and got my cell phone. Turns out 5 stamps was enough. Back into the post office I went for a second time, defeated, meekly excusing myself to get between the people in line so I could slip my package into the slot and then speed away in my car before anyone caught on to what I had been up to for so long in there.
So yes, this is a sad tale of a halfwit trying to make it in this great big scary world, getting by largely on luck and the kindness of strangers. But there will eventually be a happy ending to my sad tale of unchecked stupidity. The good news is that in few years Jake will be able to tell me how many stamps to put on my packages. If I can just make it that long without someone taking him away from me.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
I am a thoughtful friend.
The other day, my friend Brooks left his hoodie sweatshirt behind when he took off to do whatever it is that he does when he's out of my sight. As I sat there idly looking at his plain black sweatshirt, I got to thinking about him. Brooks is a quiet guy, intelligent and thoughtful. He's not the kind of person who wants to be the center of attention, and certainly not someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. If you want to get to know Brooks, you have to be patient, because you're not going to figure him out in one day. You know how there are some people that you seem to know everything about in the first 5 minutes of meeting them? Not Brooks. But he's so worth the effort. Once you get to know him he's funny and friendly and kind and interesting, and just plain great in general--but upon first meeting him, you wouldn't understand all that, not yet.
And there's nothing wrong with that, of course. But I love Brooks, and I just wish more people knew him the way I know him. I sat there and thought to myself, "What can I do help broadcast the truth about the real Brooks?" It would have to be something people could recognize immediately upon seeing him for the first time, the way a big, broad smile lets you know that a person is friendly and approachable. Then it hit me. I could personalize that simple black sweatshirt for him in such a way that it telegraphed to the world "I am Brooks, and here's what I'm about."
So I did it. I put some vinyl letters on the back of his sweatshirt--just a few concise words, not a whole book-length speech. Just a simple statement to distill my friend Brooks down to the core element of his personality, the thing that really makes Brooks "Brooks." I did it out of love. I am that kind of friend.
And then I had another friend model the new-and-improved sweatshirt so I could get a picture of it for a memento.
And there's nothing wrong with that, of course. But I love Brooks, and I just wish more people knew him the way I know him. I sat there and thought to myself, "What can I do help broadcast the truth about the real Brooks?" It would have to be something people could recognize immediately upon seeing him for the first time, the way a big, broad smile lets you know that a person is friendly and approachable. Then it hit me. I could personalize that simple black sweatshirt for him in such a way that it telegraphed to the world "I am Brooks, and here's what I'm about."
So I did it. I put some vinyl letters on the back of his sweatshirt--just a few concise words, not a whole book-length speech. Just a simple statement to distill my friend Brooks down to the core element of his personality, the thing that really makes Brooks "Brooks." I did it out of love. I am that kind of friend.
And then I had another friend model the new-and-improved sweatshirt so I could get a picture of it for a memento.
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