Right when you think Tom Cruise can’t get any crazier, he goes and tries to burn the house down.
Ok, before you start googgling Tom Cruise, crazy scientology, and pyromania, the real Tom Cruise (as far as I know) has not tried to burn his house down.
Mac, the ten-year-old Brittany Spaniel of mine who has earned the moniker of Tom Cruise, did try to burn our house down.
I know, I know, how in the hell does a dog burn the house down, right? Let me tell you, I have no idea. I’m still trying to piece those details together myself.
This is what I have learned so far:
Andrea left for work in the morning. Her lamp was off and sitting on her nightstand. When she came home, the lamp was turned on and laying on top of a blanket that was on top of the cord for her phone charger. The lamp had been laying there turned on for long enough to burn four wholes in the blanket, melt the cords on the cell phone charger, and leave a mark on the floor.
Before you say it, allow me. TOM CRUISE IS CRAZY!
And yet still strangely smart. I mean, he’s a dog, Focker, he doesn’t have thumbs! Yet he somehow managed to turn a lamp on. That takes some skill. I mean, imagine your thumb gone!
Seriously, fold your thumb down so only four fingers are showing, walk over to a lamp and try to turn it on with just the thumbless hand. I’m not talking about simply flipping switching, I’m talking about doing some turning of that little switch actually on the lamp.
Yeah, my DOG turned that switch! He turned that switch, and when I try to turn it without the aid of my thumb, I feel like some physically inept reject who will always need someone there to help me because if I can’t turn a simple switch, how am I going to eat food? Cut my meat? Make a margarita?! Oh wait, I just have to push a button there. We’re good! We’re good. Of course, I’d have to pick up straws because it would be awfully hard to pick up a glass without my thumb (Note, I did just try to pick up my water bottle without my thumb. I was not successful). I could use one of those fun margarita glasses though and hold it between my pointer middle finger! That would work!
Could you imagine being a smoker and smoking a cigarette without a thumb? Rolling a…cigar without a thumb, using scissors without thumb! If you were at an event with a chocolate fountain, you better recruit some help to get your chocolate-covered fruit from the fountain! It wouldn’t be easy to write. Of course, typing still seems possible. I use my pointer fingers for the space bar when I need to space. The thumbs aren’t used much by me when I’m typing.
This is a little off topic, but I’d love for Tom Brady to lose his thumb. Can’t be a world-class QB missing a thumb, can you Tommy Boy!
God I hate him.
Anyway, the point is that without a thumb it would be might hard to turn a light on. And yet, my dog has done just that and so much. I mean, if it weren’t for the whole fact that I might’ve been living in a hotel tonight, I’d be very proud of him (Honestly, I am a little proud of him). To lack thumbs and still be able to do what he did…it’s an incredible.
He truly is the world’s greatest dog.
Or maybe…
The world’s craziest dog.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Swine Flu Has Turned Andrea Into Howie Mandel
It seems like the attacks are never going to quit.
Not only that, but now the attacks are coming from other places…places we’d never think to look.
First, an extremist group took out the twin towers.
Then the Chinese came at us with SARs.
Birds were the next to attack.
And finally pigs are our newest enemy.
Ok, so maybe that was a *tad* dramatic, but when I hear my sister talk about wearing a surgical mask on her next flight to Denmark, it’s hard to look at her with a straight face.
However, this “germophobe” transition our country has finally come to seems to be a tad out of control.
I appreciate good hygiene as much as the next person. I bathe, brush my teeth (sometimes I floss), and like to look nice (unless it’s a Sunday, and then ALL bets are off! A flesh-eating zombie has better hygiene than me). But I think we’re taking it a little too far.
Example: Anti-bacteria hand lotion. It is everywhere nowadays! Yes, it’s an effective corner-cutter for if you’re in a hurry or have just been sneezed on, but in my opinion, people abuse this stuff. Just because you see a person sneezing doesn’t mean you need to douse yourself in this stuff or hurry home and luxuriate in a nice tub of anti-bacterial cleanser.
In fact, it’s probably not the sneezing person who’s going to launch a fail-scale attack against your immune system. The attack is probably going to come from the perfectly happy, healthy, smiling person who holds his hand out to you by way of greeting (Note: this does not mean you need to break out the Purell after shakings hands with every person you meet). It just means use some common sense and maybe, just maybe, keep your fingers out of your mouth.
In a pinch, this anti-bacterial stuff is a good idea, but relying on it…I’m not so sure.
Take this for example:
When I was a kid (and seriously it wasn’t quite THAT long ago) you went outside and played and came in and ate. Now kids go outside and play then come inside and form a line at the anti-bacterial lotion dispenser and then eat their food.
And guess what! Kids still get sick.
I wonder why that is? Maybe because viruses and bacteria and fungi are smaller than you can imagine! While they lack a brain, they are a living organism and like all organisms they have the drive to survive (Drive to Survive was the name of my Online Defensive Driving class! I knew it was stupid, but it does come in handy when you need a rhyme).
Want to know something cool about a virus? If it’s RNA based, it can change it’s shape and confuse those witchy white blood cells. No matter how many fancy flu shots you receive, if the virus suddenly changes its appearance, you will not be protected.
Please note that I am not telling you that a flu shot is worthless. It will help your immune system tremendously, but you have to remember, the shot only works if things go according to plan (Like the virus doesn’t change shape). The one thing I can tell you about plans is that they tend to go awry. And you don’t need me to tell you that. I’m sure any former president or ruler would gladly agree with me.
So, what I am rather ramblingly trying to say is that there’s a such thing are overkill.
Back to Andrea and the surgical mask.
“I’m calling Dr. J and asking him for his surgical masks,” Andrea stated last night. I rolled my eyes. “I don’t care, I’m wearing it. I’m not having some European give me that Swine Flu.”
“Mexicans are the reason why have Swine Flu, not the European.” I say to wanting to badly to say instead “Ok, Howie Mandel, why not just wear gloves permanently, never shake anyone’s hand and step into a decontamination chamber before entering your completely germ-free house at night, psycho!”
There’s silence as Andrea gives me a dirty look. “Well, SARS or Bird Flu. I can get something. Have you seen some of the people on flights? Not the cleanest.”
Yeah, well neither are quite a few of the people that inhabit this Earth. “So, you’re going to wear a surgical mask?”
“Yes,” she says in rather put-out tone as if she is the completely reasonable one and I am the idiot.
If I wasn’t so tired and she so stubborn, I would point out how freaky it would be to see someone with a surgical mask on an airplane, but I let her live in her little fantasy. At least for the night. Why give Mr. Mandel nightmares about this microscopic organisms that are secretly plotting the next attack against him.
In the morning, I get to work and read a little health article about Swine Flu and how really you need to only be worried if you’re traveling to Mexico and how *gasp* surgical masks aren’t that effective because your hands can always pick up the germs somehow.
If Andrea is browsing the trash tabloids at the Duty Free, she may come in to contact with Swine Flu. And if she rubs her eyes, nose, or mouth with those contaminated hands, no surgical mask will magically keep her healthy.
So I tell her all this and go into the little surgical mask diatribe I would’ve shared with her last night had it not been my bed time.
“For the record,” I say, “If some asshole sat down next to me with a surgical mask, I would request another seat from the stewardess and the plane would not take off until I was safely ensconced in a seat next to someone without SARS because a surgical mask on a plane equals SARS and as a perfectly healthy adult with a gung-ho immune system, I’d be the first to die (Note: healthy immune systems are a negative when you contact SARS meaning your white blood cells get a little overzealous, and that zeal will ultimately kill).
“Well, maybe,” she says, but I cut her off.
“And if I had to sit next to the surgical mask wearing SARS infected asshole who has to travel and infect us all, they better keep hands, legs, appendages, snot, saliva, and everything else to themselves. And they WILL NOT be granted use of the armrest.” In my airline travel rules, if you are carrying a communicable disease that is known to kill, you automatically forfeit any rights to an armrest. That will just spread more germs.
“Well,” Andrea says a little sulkily now, “I guess I’ll just go out and buy a big thing of Purell and keep my area cleaned.”
“Or,” I say and then pause, “How about going out and buying a big plastic bubble.”
There’s silence as she digests what I said. “I hate you,” she says. “I thought you were being serious, that you were going to give me an honest solution, but no, you tell me to live in a bubble!”
She may laugh. But honestly, are we that far off from living in a bubble?
Because, I can tell you from my experience watching Jurassic Park and the very wise logic of mathematician//chaotician Dr. Ian Malcolm “Life will find a way.”
Those little germs we work so hard to vanquish will grow, mutate, and evolve until no anti-viral/anti-bacterial lotion on earth will stop them. There’s a reason why they are the oldest living organisms on the planet. And they will continue to grow and thrive. I mean, look at the Jurassic Park dinosaurs. They were all programmed to be female…but eggs still hatched because some South American frogs have been known to change sexes so life can find a way.
Anyway, I don’t believe overmedication and anti-viral/anti-bacterial lotions are the answer. Simply wash your hands, keep your hands out of your nose and mouth, and don’t touch your shit or anyone else’s shit for that matter. There’s a reason why it was expelled from your body.
And if those rules of common sense don’t work for you…Well, I suggest a plastic bubble.
Not only that, but now the attacks are coming from other places…places we’d never think to look.
First, an extremist group took out the twin towers.
Then the Chinese came at us with SARs.
Birds were the next to attack.
And finally pigs are our newest enemy.
Ok, so maybe that was a *tad* dramatic, but when I hear my sister talk about wearing a surgical mask on her next flight to Denmark, it’s hard to look at her with a straight face.
However, this “germophobe” transition our country has finally come to seems to be a tad out of control.
I appreciate good hygiene as much as the next person. I bathe, brush my teeth (sometimes I floss), and like to look nice (unless it’s a Sunday, and then ALL bets are off! A flesh-eating zombie has better hygiene than me). But I think we’re taking it a little too far.
Example: Anti-bacteria hand lotion. It is everywhere nowadays! Yes, it’s an effective corner-cutter for if you’re in a hurry or have just been sneezed on, but in my opinion, people abuse this stuff. Just because you see a person sneezing doesn’t mean you need to douse yourself in this stuff or hurry home and luxuriate in a nice tub of anti-bacterial cleanser.
In fact, it’s probably not the sneezing person who’s going to launch a fail-scale attack against your immune system. The attack is probably going to come from the perfectly happy, healthy, smiling person who holds his hand out to you by way of greeting (Note: this does not mean you need to break out the Purell after shakings hands with every person you meet). It just means use some common sense and maybe, just maybe, keep your fingers out of your mouth.
In a pinch, this anti-bacterial stuff is a good idea, but relying on it…I’m not so sure.
Take this for example:
When I was a kid (and seriously it wasn’t quite THAT long ago) you went outside and played and came in and ate. Now kids go outside and play then come inside and form a line at the anti-bacterial lotion dispenser and then eat their food.
And guess what! Kids still get sick.
I wonder why that is? Maybe because viruses and bacteria and fungi are smaller than you can imagine! While they lack a brain, they are a living organism and like all organisms they have the drive to survive (Drive to Survive was the name of my Online Defensive Driving class! I knew it was stupid, but it does come in handy when you need a rhyme).
Want to know something cool about a virus? If it’s RNA based, it can change it’s shape and confuse those witchy white blood cells. No matter how many fancy flu shots you receive, if the virus suddenly changes its appearance, you will not be protected.
Please note that I am not telling you that a flu shot is worthless. It will help your immune system tremendously, but you have to remember, the shot only works if things go according to plan (Like the virus doesn’t change shape). The one thing I can tell you about plans is that they tend to go awry. And you don’t need me to tell you that. I’m sure any former president or ruler would gladly agree with me.
So, what I am rather ramblingly trying to say is that there’s a such thing are overkill.
Back to Andrea and the surgical mask.
“I’m calling Dr. J and asking him for his surgical masks,” Andrea stated last night. I rolled my eyes. “I don’t care, I’m wearing it. I’m not having some European give me that Swine Flu.”
“Mexicans are the reason why have Swine Flu, not the European.” I say to wanting to badly to say instead “Ok, Howie Mandel, why not just wear gloves permanently, never shake anyone’s hand and step into a decontamination chamber before entering your completely germ-free house at night, psycho!”
There’s silence as Andrea gives me a dirty look. “Well, SARS or Bird Flu. I can get something. Have you seen some of the people on flights? Not the cleanest.”
Yeah, well neither are quite a few of the people that inhabit this Earth. “So, you’re going to wear a surgical mask?”
“Yes,” she says in rather put-out tone as if she is the completely reasonable one and I am the idiot.
If I wasn’t so tired and she so stubborn, I would point out how freaky it would be to see someone with a surgical mask on an airplane, but I let her live in her little fantasy. At least for the night. Why give Mr. Mandel nightmares about this microscopic organisms that are secretly plotting the next attack against him.
In the morning, I get to work and read a little health article about Swine Flu and how really you need to only be worried if you’re traveling to Mexico and how *gasp* surgical masks aren’t that effective because your hands can always pick up the germs somehow.
If Andrea is browsing the trash tabloids at the Duty Free, she may come in to contact with Swine Flu. And if she rubs her eyes, nose, or mouth with those contaminated hands, no surgical mask will magically keep her healthy.
So I tell her all this and go into the little surgical mask diatribe I would’ve shared with her last night had it not been my bed time.
“For the record,” I say, “If some asshole sat down next to me with a surgical mask, I would request another seat from the stewardess and the plane would not take off until I was safely ensconced in a seat next to someone without SARS because a surgical mask on a plane equals SARS and as a perfectly healthy adult with a gung-ho immune system, I’d be the first to die (Note: healthy immune systems are a negative when you contact SARS meaning your white blood cells get a little overzealous, and that zeal will ultimately kill).
“Well, maybe,” she says, but I cut her off.
“And if I had to sit next to the surgical mask wearing SARS infected asshole who has to travel and infect us all, they better keep hands, legs, appendages, snot, saliva, and everything else to themselves. And they WILL NOT be granted use of the armrest.” In my airline travel rules, if you are carrying a communicable disease that is known to kill, you automatically forfeit any rights to an armrest. That will just spread more germs.
“Well,” Andrea says a little sulkily now, “I guess I’ll just go out and buy a big thing of Purell and keep my area cleaned.”
“Or,” I say and then pause, “How about going out and buying a big plastic bubble.”
There’s silence as she digests what I said. “I hate you,” she says. “I thought you were being serious, that you were going to give me an honest solution, but no, you tell me to live in a bubble!”
She may laugh. But honestly, are we that far off from living in a bubble?
Because, I can tell you from my experience watching Jurassic Park and the very wise logic of mathematician//chaotician Dr. Ian Malcolm “Life will find a way.”
Those little germs we work so hard to vanquish will grow, mutate, and evolve until no anti-viral/anti-bacterial lotion on earth will stop them. There’s a reason why they are the oldest living organisms on the planet. And they will continue to grow and thrive. I mean, look at the Jurassic Park dinosaurs. They were all programmed to be female…but eggs still hatched because some South American frogs have been known to change sexes so life can find a way.
Anyway, I don’t believe overmedication and anti-viral/anti-bacterial lotions are the answer. Simply wash your hands, keep your hands out of your nose and mouth, and don’t touch your shit or anyone else’s shit for that matter. There’s a reason why it was expelled from your body.
And if those rules of common sense don’t work for you…Well, I suggest a plastic bubble.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Shit Hit the Fan
I have been waiting - patiently I might add - for the birds to do something really great...really notable.
And they've finally done it.
Only, I'm not really sure this person deserved it.
But even if it was me, I'd still laugh with the shit hit the fan.
The eggs have hatched. And the baby birds have been squawking. Now they are learning to fly.
But, let's back up to a couple of days ago. It is Sunday night and Andrea I decided we needed candy. After finding Andrea's boss's house empty (she had a Carnegie Deli cheesecake, SWOON!) we went on a C-Store run. When we come home, Andrea comments we need to go in through the garage door because the bird has been buzzing her head.
If only she would've heeded her own words.
Today, Miss Hobgood went out and came home.
The baby birds decided to show off their newly acquired skills this afternoon and flew all around Andrea virtually attacking and terrorizing her.
But the story doesn't stop there.
She finally manages to get into the house without letting any birds get into the house to find my mother home for lunch.
"You have something in your hair," my mom tells her.
"What?" Andrea asks.
"Ew," my mom says, "It's bird shit!"
"Well, get it out!" Andrea hisses.
My mom refuses and Andrea is left with the only option of taking a shower to get the gooey shit out of her hair.
It's about time the birds got someone.
I'm just sorry it was my sister.
And they've finally done it.
Only, I'm not really sure this person deserved it.
But even if it was me, I'd still laugh with the shit hit the fan.
The eggs have hatched. And the baby birds have been squawking. Now they are learning to fly.
But, let's back up to a couple of days ago. It is Sunday night and Andrea I decided we needed candy. After finding Andrea's boss's house empty (she had a Carnegie Deli cheesecake, SWOON!) we went on a C-Store run. When we come home, Andrea comments we need to go in through the garage door because the bird has been buzzing her head.
If only she would've heeded her own words.
Today, Miss Hobgood went out and came home.
The baby birds decided to show off their newly acquired skills this afternoon and flew all around Andrea virtually attacking and terrorizing her.
But the story doesn't stop there.
She finally manages to get into the house without letting any birds get into the house to find my mother home for lunch.
"You have something in your hair," my mom tells her.
"What?" Andrea asks.
"Ew," my mom says, "It's bird shit!"
"Well, get it out!" Andrea hisses.
My mom refuses and Andrea is left with the only option of taking a shower to get the gooey shit out of her hair.
It's about time the birds got someone.
I'm just sorry it was my sister.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I can breathe again - Banquet is over and the time after was great!
The banquet is over!
It didn't seem like it would happen. Especially when I got to the college and couldn't find a parking spot. It was alumni weekend. Not only that, but the college decided it wanted to be as cool as my alma mater, IU, and have their own stupid mini-version of the Little 500 in the biggest parking lot on the campus which happened to be one of the closest lots to the student building where the banquet was held.
Once I find a spot, I get to the room and find that the seating chart that was made for a row of four tables is completely useless because the tables are in rows of five. When you sit eight at a table and have parties as big as 27 showing up, this proves problematic. We dealt with, and no one was none the wiser.
At 2:45 we went to change into our party clothes. I realized that I didn't have a bra to wear with my strapless dress.
"Oh my god, I forgot my bra," I said to Krista.
"You have a strapless dress," Krista said. "Is it necessary."
"Well, no, but I don't want to be that girl."
"What girl?" she asked.
"I don't want to be that braless girl!"
Krista laughed. "That is the quote of the night so far."
At four o'clock, with the tables rearranged and large parties kept together, we were ready to begin. But our "green carpet" announcer was MIA. His family (one of which is a board member and talks with us at least once a day) forgot he was announcing.
But he got there around 4:30 and we had enough things set up outside for our guests to peruse, that it wasn't that big of a catastrophe.
And then the evening was off. Our food came, prompting another good quote. We thought we were getting a simple, marinated boneless chicken breast, instead we get a breast with a bone protruding covered in holiday sauce. My boss began musing about the bone.
"Do we pay extra for the bone," I said and caused her to snort because...THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
When the dance begun, Krista and I saw this gorgeous, flowing, golden creation that caused our jaws to drop in wonder. It was business. It was party. It was a mullet! Pretending to photograph Krista, I so took a pic of the mullet.
Once the night was over, I went to my friend Jada's house and we were off to Icon. Not many people were there yet, but we got an awesome table in the back. Unless they turned around, they didn't see us as they came in. But we saw them. And the people watching was great!
A fifty-ish man in a red polo, khaki pants, with a bald head came in to the club. We could tell our night was made when he was dancing around the bar with his date. But then "All Eyes on Me," by Ms. Britney came on, and he hit the dance floor packing with him moves such as "The Manaic," "The Water Sprinkler," and...wait for it..."The Running Man." His date didn't disappoint either.
So thirty minutes later, we were lingering between the dance floor and the bar (because we only dance to good songs) when we saw the date drag another man onto the dance floor who also started to break it down in a classic style. Mr. Dance also brought another partner onto the dance floor and a "dance off" occurred.
And as I was laughing Mr. Versace approached to work his "game" on me. Ok, I know I'm single and I shouldn't be laughing at the poor chaps who come up to me, but I can't take a guy seriously when he spends more time getting ready than I do. And his outfit was so plannned and coordinated because we saw him on the dance floor wearing Versace jeans with his Versace shirt. And as my three friends and I laughed and snapped pictures, Mr. Versace came over, struck a pose and waited for me to take a picture. True story. I have the picture to prove it.
Meanwhile, this whole evening, I'm receiving texts from my little brother who is celebrating Little Five at his apartment where they are having a party.
Last week, he was at Icon with me and we were cutting it up on the dance floor. The little brother is SUCH A CUTE dancer! Any girl who ends up with him, gets a piece of treasure. Fergie, Britney, Soulja Boy, Usher...the little brother will dance! And he has two sisters (and Andrea can break it down) who made sure he was a good dancer!
So, while the LB wasn't there, he there in spirit, and we got down on the dance floor in his name!
P.S. Ryan had on his Ed Hardy shirt and was more than a little proud of it. I have the pics to prove that too!
It didn't seem like it would happen. Especially when I got to the college and couldn't find a parking spot. It was alumni weekend. Not only that, but the college decided it wanted to be as cool as my alma mater, IU, and have their own stupid mini-version of the Little 500 in the biggest parking lot on the campus which happened to be one of the closest lots to the student building where the banquet was held.
Once I find a spot, I get to the room and find that the seating chart that was made for a row of four tables is completely useless because the tables are in rows of five. When you sit eight at a table and have parties as big as 27 showing up, this proves problematic. We dealt with, and no one was none the wiser.
At 2:45 we went to change into our party clothes. I realized that I didn't have a bra to wear with my strapless dress.
"Oh my god, I forgot my bra," I said to Krista.
"You have a strapless dress," Krista said. "Is it necessary."
"Well, no, but I don't want to be that girl."
"What girl?" she asked.
"I don't want to be that braless girl!"
Krista laughed. "That is the quote of the night so far."
At four o'clock, with the tables rearranged and large parties kept together, we were ready to begin. But our "green carpet" announcer was MIA. His family (one of which is a board member and talks with us at least once a day) forgot he was announcing.
But he got there around 4:30 and we had enough things set up outside for our guests to peruse, that it wasn't that big of a catastrophe.
And then the evening was off. Our food came, prompting another good quote. We thought we were getting a simple, marinated boneless chicken breast, instead we get a breast with a bone protruding covered in holiday sauce. My boss began musing about the bone.
"Do we pay extra for the bone," I said and caused her to snort because...THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
When the dance begun, Krista and I saw this gorgeous, flowing, golden creation that caused our jaws to drop in wonder. It was business. It was party. It was a mullet! Pretending to photograph Krista, I so took a pic of the mullet.
Once the night was over, I went to my friend Jada's house and we were off to Icon. Not many people were there yet, but we got an awesome table in the back. Unless they turned around, they didn't see us as they came in. But we saw them. And the people watching was great!
A fifty-ish man in a red polo, khaki pants, with a bald head came in to the club. We could tell our night was made when he was dancing around the bar with his date. But then "All Eyes on Me," by Ms. Britney came on, and he hit the dance floor packing with him moves such as "The Manaic," "The Water Sprinkler," and...wait for it..."The Running Man." His date didn't disappoint either.
So thirty minutes later, we were lingering between the dance floor and the bar (because we only dance to good songs) when we saw the date drag another man onto the dance floor who also started to break it down in a classic style. Mr. Dance also brought another partner onto the dance floor and a "dance off" occurred.
And as I was laughing Mr. Versace approached to work his "game" on me. Ok, I know I'm single and I shouldn't be laughing at the poor chaps who come up to me, but I can't take a guy seriously when he spends more time getting ready than I do. And his outfit was so plannned and coordinated because we saw him on the dance floor wearing Versace jeans with his Versace shirt. And as my three friends and I laughed and snapped pictures, Mr. Versace came over, struck a pose and waited for me to take a picture. True story. I have the picture to prove it.
Meanwhile, this whole evening, I'm receiving texts from my little brother who is celebrating Little Five at his apartment where they are having a party.
Last week, he was at Icon with me and we were cutting it up on the dance floor. The little brother is SUCH A CUTE dancer! Any girl who ends up with him, gets a piece of treasure. Fergie, Britney, Soulja Boy, Usher...the little brother will dance! And he has two sisters (and Andrea can break it down) who made sure he was a good dancer!
So, while the LB wasn't there, he there in spirit, and we got down on the dance floor in his name!
P.S. Ryan had on his Ed Hardy shirt and was more than a little proud of it. I have the pics to prove that too!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
A Meltdown is Imminent!
I’m about to have a meltdown.
The only reason I’m not having one right now is because I went to the gym and after 20 minutes on the elliptical, I was wetter than a Playboy model in a wet t-shirt contest.
It was so satisfying of a workout that my stomach is churning and the chocolate-covered strawberries (another reason why I didn’t completely meltdown) that I had for lunch is threatening to make a reappearance.
It’s been a long time since I had good meltdown. I’ve had some mini-meltdowns, but I think my last one was in 2007 when I sunburned my lips and found out the special prescription chap stick still cost me $80 and that was after my insurance paid for HALF!
Seriously, there is almost nothing as pitiful and painful as sunburned lips.
Except, my legs after a grueling, stress-relieving run with the puppy…
Meltdowns aren’t something I like to have.
Well, truth be told, emotions aren’t really something I’m good at expressing, even like expressing. I equate emotions with weakness and showing a weakness is a way for people to control you.
But every now and then, emotions collide. Most often this happens when every aspect of my life happens to be falling spectacularly apart.
Work – I have a banquet this Saturday that will have 350 people in attendance. Over 150 will be receiving awards. Another 60 will be receiving goody bags for helping out in various ways. A slide show needs to put together and the pictures for it just got to me recently and are decades old and need to be scanned. That’s on my to-do-list as well as making sashes.
Yes! Me! Exuding some kind of stereotypical feminine skill like sewing. I have a couple of pairs of pants, pants that I like, chilling on my desk because the button has come off and I don’t know how to sew it on.
Family – Things aren’t bad with my mom and sis and the LB. But the man formerly known as my father or Lord Voldemort has resorted to sending me certified letters concerning my health insurance.
When I got my job, he acted like he wanted to be a father. I got employed at a small NPO with no health insurance and he agreed to pay for my health insurance. But now…ok…follow this:
On January 17, 2009 (the night of his surprise 50th birthday party) he went in for a haircut from my sister at 3:45. In the fifteen, twenty minutes it took my sister to do his hair, she pissed him off. It was something about his girlfriend (who broke up the parents’ marriage) and not being comfortable with her. She wasn’t being shitty, she was expressing a fact. You ARE supposed to be honest with family.
Well, he went ape, called the mother and bitched to MY MOM about ME! That’s right, he complained about ME! What I did to him, I have no clue about. He told her ridiculous shit about me not liking her boyfriend, her boyfriend’s kids, about how I wanted to live with him, but was afraid of how she’d react…etc., etc.
Mom hung up on him because he was being crazy and called me to ask me about what he was saying. She didn’t raise her voice, she wasn’t pissed, she just wanted to know what was going on. Well, I WAS MAD! I didn’t want to go to the party, was forced to go to the party, and my father completely ignored us. He has not called me since. He has not even sent me one forwarded e-mail! That’s a bit miraculous since I had dubbed him Michael Scott because of his proclivity to send me forwards that were forwarded to him (even one that I had received from others).
Long story short, he's mad because I'm mad that he LIED about me!
Anyway, I have since received TWO certified letters in the mail from him.
The first one:
Affective May 1st you will be responsible for your insurance. The bills will be mailed to you.
Love ya
Dad.
I don’t know what was more offensive – the content or the bad grammar. I mean, I realize that I make my fair share of mistakes, but when I’m handwriting a note, especially such a brief note, my grammar and word usage (because “affect” deals with feelings and emotions) are correct.
The second one was a bill for his extremely, ridiculously expensive insurance that covered nothing and has a price tag of $146. Like I’m going with that insurance! There was also an envelope in there with no postage. I am NOT about to pay to mail him something.
I’m debating on whether or not I should fax him something saying that my Medicare application was a success. Would that be too much?
Relationships – Seriously I don’t think I’m going to go into this one, but trust me…its been better.
When things go bad in all three of these aspects of my life, it’s kind of like…well…think of me like an atom and those three aspects are my “electrons.” The more negatively those things get, the more unstable I become until the electrons just kind of go haywire and a meltdown occurs.
Yes, I know I’m a nerd.
Anyway, look for me at the end of the week. If I’m still alive by Saturday, inebriation will be my goal.
The only reason I’m not having one right now is because I went to the gym and after 20 minutes on the elliptical, I was wetter than a Playboy model in a wet t-shirt contest.
It was so satisfying of a workout that my stomach is churning and the chocolate-covered strawberries (another reason why I didn’t completely meltdown) that I had for lunch is threatening to make a reappearance.
It’s been a long time since I had good meltdown. I’ve had some mini-meltdowns, but I think my last one was in 2007 when I sunburned my lips and found out the special prescription chap stick still cost me $80 and that was after my insurance paid for HALF!
Seriously, there is almost nothing as pitiful and painful as sunburned lips.
Except, my legs after a grueling, stress-relieving run with the puppy…
Meltdowns aren’t something I like to have.
Well, truth be told, emotions aren’t really something I’m good at expressing, even like expressing. I equate emotions with weakness and showing a weakness is a way for people to control you.
But every now and then, emotions collide. Most often this happens when every aspect of my life happens to be falling spectacularly apart.
Work – I have a banquet this Saturday that will have 350 people in attendance. Over 150 will be receiving awards. Another 60 will be receiving goody bags for helping out in various ways. A slide show needs to put together and the pictures for it just got to me recently and are decades old and need to be scanned. That’s on my to-do-list as well as making sashes.
Yes! Me! Exuding some kind of stereotypical feminine skill like sewing. I have a couple of pairs of pants, pants that I like, chilling on my desk because the button has come off and I don’t know how to sew it on.
Family – Things aren’t bad with my mom and sis and the LB. But the man formerly known as my father or Lord Voldemort has resorted to sending me certified letters concerning my health insurance.
When I got my job, he acted like he wanted to be a father. I got employed at a small NPO with no health insurance and he agreed to pay for my health insurance. But now…ok…follow this:
On January 17, 2009 (the night of his surprise 50th birthday party) he went in for a haircut from my sister at 3:45. In the fifteen, twenty minutes it took my sister to do his hair, she pissed him off. It was something about his girlfriend (who broke up the parents’ marriage) and not being comfortable with her. She wasn’t being shitty, she was expressing a fact. You ARE supposed to be honest with family.
Well, he went ape, called the mother and bitched to MY MOM about ME! That’s right, he complained about ME! What I did to him, I have no clue about. He told her ridiculous shit about me not liking her boyfriend, her boyfriend’s kids, about how I wanted to live with him, but was afraid of how she’d react…etc., etc.
Mom hung up on him because he was being crazy and called me to ask me about what he was saying. She didn’t raise her voice, she wasn’t pissed, she just wanted to know what was going on. Well, I WAS MAD! I didn’t want to go to the party, was forced to go to the party, and my father completely ignored us. He has not called me since. He has not even sent me one forwarded e-mail! That’s a bit miraculous since I had dubbed him Michael Scott because of his proclivity to send me forwards that were forwarded to him (even one that I had received from others).
Long story short, he's mad because I'm mad that he LIED about me!
Anyway, I have since received TWO certified letters in the mail from him.
The first one:
Affective May 1st you will be responsible for your insurance. The bills will be mailed to you.
Love ya
Dad.
I don’t know what was more offensive – the content or the bad grammar. I mean, I realize that I make my fair share of mistakes, but when I’m handwriting a note, especially such a brief note, my grammar and word usage (because “affect” deals with feelings and emotions) are correct.
The second one was a bill for his extremely, ridiculously expensive insurance that covered nothing and has a price tag of $146. Like I’m going with that insurance! There was also an envelope in there with no postage. I am NOT about to pay to mail him something.
I’m debating on whether or not I should fax him something saying that my Medicare application was a success. Would that be too much?
Relationships – Seriously I don’t think I’m going to go into this one, but trust me…its been better.
When things go bad in all three of these aspects of my life, it’s kind of like…well…think of me like an atom and those three aspects are my “electrons.” The more negatively those things get, the more unstable I become until the electrons just kind of go haywire and a meltdown occurs.
Yes, I know I’m a nerd.
Anyway, look for me at the end of the week. If I’m still alive by Saturday, inebriation will be my goal.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Fish Sticks, Kanye West, and A-rod - A Capital Evening
I called Jada yesterday to talk with her for a couple of reasons. One reason I will keep to myself, but the other reason was to talk about the new South Park episode that slammed Kanye West.
She said it was good, and after a fun dinner with the sister and her fiancé at Cork Cleaver where such things were said as “We’re hungry kids” by Hans to the waiter in regards to the delicious bread and something about a sexual activity by my sister in a relatively loud voice to pay for my portion of the meal and me explaining “soul food” to Hans who was curious about the cuisine after telling him I spied a new non-chain restaurant we could go to called Ray Ray’s. Hans thought that was for real until Andrea started laughing.
So, after splitting a very nice bottle of cabernet sauvignon between basically Hans and me, I went over to Jada’s house. She doesn’t live very far away to just consult her in all matter of things she is wise in.
When I got there, her hubby, O’Bryan, had a surprise for us both – he DVRs all South Park episodes, something Jada wasn’t aware of. So we started watching the South Park episode with the Fish Sticks joke and Kanye West blowing up because he didn’t get the joke.
The joke goes like this (and it has to be said out loud):
Do you like fish sticks?
Do you like putting fish sticks in your mouth?
Then you must be a gay fish.
Yes, I know it’s dumb. But that’s the point of the joke.
Anyway, this joke siphons through all the late night talk shows and into mainstream media before eventually plaguing Kanye West.
Since, as he never fails to proclaim, he is a genius and the voice of the generation, he IS NOT a gay fish.
Several people try to explain the joke to a very agitated Mr. West, but to no avail. The “genius” simply doesn’t get it.
Anyway, the episode is rather classic right through the ending that shows Kanye embracing his inner gay fish to go swimming in the sea, kissing and getting down and dirty with all the fish in the sea.
Meanwhile, the real Kanye West is apparently apologizing and trying to change his ways since viewing Matt and Trey’s characterization of him.
Let’s hope it works.
But that wasn’t all the random fun at Jada Jay’s.
O’Bryan came in to sit with us, and we discussed a few other people before the news on ESPNews started again, a re-run, and somehow we got to discussing A-Rod’s sordid past.
This was the second discussion about the scandalous slugger that night. Earlier, I had to explain to Hans why the steroid controversy paled in comparison to the photos in Details magazine (remember, the photos where he is making out with himself in the mirror). Later at Jada’s, I reenacted this photo scene complete to the photos him lying seductively on a mattress without sheets with the random tire in the background.
I know grunge. I know couture. I know avant garde. But what he did…ain’t fashion.
It’s a mess. A hot mess to be precise.
She said it was good, and after a fun dinner with the sister and her fiancé at Cork Cleaver where such things were said as “We’re hungry kids” by Hans to the waiter in regards to the delicious bread and something about a sexual activity by my sister in a relatively loud voice to pay for my portion of the meal and me explaining “soul food” to Hans who was curious about the cuisine after telling him I spied a new non-chain restaurant we could go to called Ray Ray’s. Hans thought that was for real until Andrea started laughing.
So, after splitting a very nice bottle of cabernet sauvignon between basically Hans and me, I went over to Jada’s house. She doesn’t live very far away to just consult her in all matter of things she is wise in.
When I got there, her hubby, O’Bryan, had a surprise for us both – he DVRs all South Park episodes, something Jada wasn’t aware of. So we started watching the South Park episode with the Fish Sticks joke and Kanye West blowing up because he didn’t get the joke.
The joke goes like this (and it has to be said out loud):
Do you like fish sticks?
Do you like putting fish sticks in your mouth?
Then you must be a gay fish.
Yes, I know it’s dumb. But that’s the point of the joke.
Anyway, this joke siphons through all the late night talk shows and into mainstream media before eventually plaguing Kanye West.
Since, as he never fails to proclaim, he is a genius and the voice of the generation, he IS NOT a gay fish.
Several people try to explain the joke to a very agitated Mr. West, but to no avail. The “genius” simply doesn’t get it.
Anyway, the episode is rather classic right through the ending that shows Kanye embracing his inner gay fish to go swimming in the sea, kissing and getting down and dirty with all the fish in the sea.
Meanwhile, the real Kanye West is apparently apologizing and trying to change his ways since viewing Matt and Trey’s characterization of him.
Let’s hope it works.
But that wasn’t all the random fun at Jada Jay’s.
O’Bryan came in to sit with us, and we discussed a few other people before the news on ESPNews started again, a re-run, and somehow we got to discussing A-Rod’s sordid past.
This was the second discussion about the scandalous slugger that night. Earlier, I had to explain to Hans why the steroid controversy paled in comparison to the photos in Details magazine (remember, the photos where he is making out with himself in the mirror). Later at Jada’s, I reenacted this photo scene complete to the photos him lying seductively on a mattress without sheets with the random tire in the background.
I know grunge. I know couture. I know avant garde. But what he did…ain’t fashion.
It’s a mess. A hot mess to be precise.
Friday, April 10, 2009
What do suicide, a power drill, and cut fingers have in common?
On my way into work the other day, I was listening Bob and Tom talk about this news story with a guy who thought it would be a great idea to commit suicide with a power drill. This didn’t work out very well for the guy who apparently had the tenacity to drill seventeen holes into his head before finally biting it.
Now, if that’s not tenacity, I don’t know what is!
Sorry to be callous, but its kind of a shame to have such a driven being taken from us. Imagine what he could’ve accomplished if only he’d have set his mind to it – possibly lessening our dependence on crude, stopping global warming completely…maybe even invented the Hoverboard (which I am still waiting for Back to the Future 2)!
Anyway, this brings me to the topic of my blog – my tenacity and the three Transformers band-aids on my fingers.
Ok, now what is it with me and my fingers? If I’m not getting crazy glue on them and having to scrub like I just dipped my fingers in a vat of liquid laced with Ebola, then I’m cutting them all to shreds.
Please, do not ask me about how fingers and power drills go together, but in Erin’s brain, they somehow make sense together.
Anyway, the hands of a twenty-something I do not have. The hands of a five-year-old? Sign me up! Ok, so, they’re a little big and overgrown for a five-year-old, but let’s leave that discussion for another time.
Anyway, back in January, I was cutting clear, plastic tubing for a Luau craft for 50 girls and an after school at another school also for 50 girls. The tubing was thick and wasn’t the easiest to cut. I took the skin off of the lowest knuckle on my thumb, and also scraped the skin off my pointer finger. I didn’t help my fingers heal any quicker when I decided the second craft would be tissue flowers and of course, I would have to cut the tissue.
That Thursday, I ended up hanging out with a new friend and going to movies when he saw the multiple band-aids on my fingers and asked me what happened. Hard to believe, but he didn’t think anything negative about my stupidity.
This past Wednesday, there was another after school program that I was at. We were making sit-upons. Sit-upons are a cheap, Girl Scout way to make a seat cushion. You get a tablecloth and cut two twelve-inch squares. You then punch holes in the squares and lace three sides of the cloth together with string or yarn. Before you thread the fourth side, you stuff the cushion with newspaper or stuffing, then thread it all up and abracadabra – you have a seat cushion!
Anyway, we have shitty hole punches that are killing my hands trying to put holes into the vinyl table clothes. So I come up with the beautiful idea to use scissors. Holding the scissors open, I take one of the blades and jab it into the tablecloth. It cut a lot more effectively than the hole punch did.
In fact, it cut so effectively, that it nearly cut the top of left index finger, cut the side of the same index finger and cut across the top knuckle of my left middle finger.
Yes, I’m a brainchild.
Anyway, the sit-upon did end looking beautiful. And it was easier to thread than the hole-punched sit-upons.
While I never really had to have band-aids covering every square inch of finger and hand available, I’ve never had pretty hands.
As a gymnast, there were always calloused and dry from gripping and swinging around the bars. When in college, I had a better time keeping them from looking nasty, but then I graduated, came home, and started working nights at my old gym.
I love gymnastics. It is a passion of mine. And I take plenty of pleasure in still being able to do some of the things I can do. Like a back handspring (which I’ve been able to do for over twenty years) and a standing back tuck (which I’ve done for about seventeen years).
One of the major things a gymnastics instructor has to do is “spot” students or support them and help them complete skills they are just learning. Spotting younger girls isn’t as bad, but when girls are learning back handsprings and running tumbling, nails are a rare luxury. Wearing fakes would be like running around with a joint in one hand and a beer in the other, half-naked and gloating at Jason Voorhees while he wielded his machete.
Also, the calluses came back because suddenly I had to show my students exactly what they needed to do on the bars. Further compounding the problem of calluses is working out. Holding weights and gripping just does a number on your hands no matter what.
But still, I persevere. I haven’t put a power drill to my head yet, but I’ll make sure you guys know before I do.
Now, if that’s not tenacity, I don’t know what is!
Sorry to be callous, but its kind of a shame to have such a driven being taken from us. Imagine what he could’ve accomplished if only he’d have set his mind to it – possibly lessening our dependence on crude, stopping global warming completely…maybe even invented the Hoverboard (which I am still waiting for Back to the Future 2)!
Anyway, this brings me to the topic of my blog – my tenacity and the three Transformers band-aids on my fingers.
Ok, now what is it with me and my fingers? If I’m not getting crazy glue on them and having to scrub like I just dipped my fingers in a vat of liquid laced with Ebola, then I’m cutting them all to shreds.
Please, do not ask me about how fingers and power drills go together, but in Erin’s brain, they somehow make sense together.
Anyway, the hands of a twenty-something I do not have. The hands of a five-year-old? Sign me up! Ok, so, they’re a little big and overgrown for a five-year-old, but let’s leave that discussion for another time.
Anyway, back in January, I was cutting clear, plastic tubing for a Luau craft for 50 girls and an after school at another school also for 50 girls. The tubing was thick and wasn’t the easiest to cut. I took the skin off of the lowest knuckle on my thumb, and also scraped the skin off my pointer finger. I didn’t help my fingers heal any quicker when I decided the second craft would be tissue flowers and of course, I would have to cut the tissue.
That Thursday, I ended up hanging out with a new friend and going to movies when he saw the multiple band-aids on my fingers and asked me what happened. Hard to believe, but he didn’t think anything negative about my stupidity.
This past Wednesday, there was another after school program that I was at. We were making sit-upons. Sit-upons are a cheap, Girl Scout way to make a seat cushion. You get a tablecloth and cut two twelve-inch squares. You then punch holes in the squares and lace three sides of the cloth together with string or yarn. Before you thread the fourth side, you stuff the cushion with newspaper or stuffing, then thread it all up and abracadabra – you have a seat cushion!
Anyway, we have shitty hole punches that are killing my hands trying to put holes into the vinyl table clothes. So I come up with the beautiful idea to use scissors. Holding the scissors open, I take one of the blades and jab it into the tablecloth. It cut a lot more effectively than the hole punch did.
In fact, it cut so effectively, that it nearly cut the top of left index finger, cut the side of the same index finger and cut across the top knuckle of my left middle finger.
Yes, I’m a brainchild.
Anyway, the sit-upon did end looking beautiful. And it was easier to thread than the hole-punched sit-upons.
While I never really had to have band-aids covering every square inch of finger and hand available, I’ve never had pretty hands.
As a gymnast, there were always calloused and dry from gripping and swinging around the bars. When in college, I had a better time keeping them from looking nasty, but then I graduated, came home, and started working nights at my old gym.
I love gymnastics. It is a passion of mine. And I take plenty of pleasure in still being able to do some of the things I can do. Like a back handspring (which I’ve been able to do for over twenty years) and a standing back tuck (which I’ve done for about seventeen years).
One of the major things a gymnastics instructor has to do is “spot” students or support them and help them complete skills they are just learning. Spotting younger girls isn’t as bad, but when girls are learning back handsprings and running tumbling, nails are a rare luxury. Wearing fakes would be like running around with a joint in one hand and a beer in the other, half-naked and gloating at Jason Voorhees while he wielded his machete.
Also, the calluses came back because suddenly I had to show my students exactly what they needed to do on the bars. Further compounding the problem of calluses is working out. Holding weights and gripping just does a number on your hands no matter what.
But still, I persevere. I haven’t put a power drill to my head yet, but I’ll make sure you guys know before I do.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Not bird, not plane, Oh shit, it is a bird!
It’s spring at last…well…sort of…I mean it somehow went from gorgeous, sunny, 60-degree weather on Saturday to freezing temps and snow on Monday. Mother Nature is a freak sometimes. Anyway, back to the idea of spring…the grass grows, flowers begin to bloom, and birds…oh birds…they head begin to head North.
Birds do not manage well at my house. Before Mac, the psycho, attention-loving Brittany Spaniel (who is a BIRD dog) was taken in, we had a miniature pinscher named Dolly (not to be confused her successor Daisy).
Dolly thought she was an actual Doberman Pinscher instead of the miniature version. Anything that managed to creep into her yard was barked at incessantly. One day, years later…Dolly stopped barking at birds. In fact, she wouldn’t even look at a bird. Based on her previous actions (the altercation with the horse-sized raccoon) we believe that a bird must’ve swooped at Dolly and scared her.
And then we bought Mac. Well, at ten-and-a-half years, Mac has yet to be scared by a swooping bird. If you’re a squirrel, you might as well save you hiss, climb a tree, and fall asleep because Mr. Tom Cruise is patient if he thinks he might’ve found a playmate. But being a bird dog, Mr. Cruise is very in tuned to birds and where there are. He listens. He sniffs. He points (he’s even taught Daisy to mimic his action though we’re not sure if she knows what she’s doing). He’s even lovingly carried dead birds to the back door, lovingly carried a poor defenseless baby bird that had fallen from its nest into the house and sat it down in the middle of the living room floor for all see.
Yes. Mac is proud of his innate instincts (Wait, aren’t all instincts innate…hmm…I still like how it sounds).
It’s safe to say that birds have had many misadventures with our dogs. And yet there is one brave bird who has made the wreath on our front door her summer nesting place.
Last year, this kamikaze bird nearly took off my 6’1’s brother head.
During the day, the bird is gone finding worms or whatever it is that birds find. At night, it returns to its nest (and babies, but more on that in a minute). With it being dark out, the people is easily spooked by people and has the habit of bolting out of the nest like a jet and into the path of incoming person. The taller you are, the more prone you are to the flight of the mamma bird.
Which is why we plan to stay mum on the subject of the bird when Hans and all of his lanky 6’8 phys iqué arrived at the house this evening. I’m hoping for decapitation. Well, they might be a little heavy because I do like Hans…but seriously, can you tell me that if you had the chance to see the bird fall straight smack-dab into someone’s head you wouldn’t want to see it happen and liking or not liking a person would have no bearing on your decision?
I mean honestly, who would pass up that chance? It’s a great story. “Oh, get this, my sister’s fiancé got hit in the head by a bird!”
I live for those kinds of stories.
But back to the bird. This summer, you had to remember to open the door a fraction of an inch, shut it, and then finally open it again so the bird wouldn’t fly into the house (Birds in the house SUCK – I’ll get to THAT in a minute).
The bird also laid eggs that hatched this summer. And every time you opened the door (this door opens into the house by the way), the little scrawny, veiny, ugly baby bird heads would squawk and reach out of their nests. We only hoped they wouldn’t suddenly learn to fly when we opened the door.
But that’s not all.
Birds, like all of God’s living creatures, shit. And when you have three baby birds living on your front door, guess what. Bird shit down there door.
Nice, I know.
With these thoughts in mind, I’d like to now tell a story about a bird, a chimney, and the curious LB.
It was in the spring when I was in seventh or eighth grade and was just barely a teenager (and I had this cute, little bitty, tight gymnast’s ass…sigh…those were the days). I was sitting at the kitchen table pretending to do my homework when a funny scratching sound was heard.
My mom, sister, and I were all in the living room/kitchen area and we looked at each other and shook our heads. Then we heard the sound again. The three of us decided to investigate and followed the sound to the chimney in the living room.
We decided it was a bird. Mom wasn’t worried about it because the damper was shut, but just in case, she put laid the screen across the mouth of the fireplace. We all went back to our business.
That is until a few hours later we heard Kevin yell, “Mom, there’s a bird in the house!”
We all came running into the living room to see that, yes, a bird was flying around the living room.
It didn’t take us long to figure out how the bird got into the house because the metal screen was no longer leaning against the fireplace.
“Kevin,” mom yelled, “What did you do?”
“I just wanted to see what was up there,” was his lame excuse.
Anyway, getting the bird out of the house was nearly as hard as getting the bat out of the house in the movies “The Great Outdoors” with Dan Akyroid and John Candy or “Black Sheep” with Chris Farley and David Spade. It took quite a bit of engineering on our parts to “corral” the clearly agitated bird out of the door.
One experience was enough and we retired our bird-catching engineering skills. Besides, knocking on the door every time you leave is so much easier than catching a bird when you have cathedral ceilings (yikes).
Birds do not manage well at my house. Before Mac, the psycho, attention-loving Brittany Spaniel (who is a BIRD dog) was taken in, we had a miniature pinscher named Dolly (not to be confused her successor Daisy).
Dolly thought she was an actual Doberman Pinscher instead of the miniature version. Anything that managed to creep into her yard was barked at incessantly. One day, years later…Dolly stopped barking at birds. In fact, she wouldn’t even look at a bird. Based on her previous actions (the altercation with the horse-sized raccoon) we believe that a bird must’ve swooped at Dolly and scared her.
And then we bought Mac. Well, at ten-and-a-half years, Mac has yet to be scared by a swooping bird. If you’re a squirrel, you might as well save you hiss, climb a tree, and fall asleep because Mr. Tom Cruise is patient if he thinks he might’ve found a playmate. But being a bird dog, Mr. Cruise is very in tuned to birds and where there are. He listens. He sniffs. He points (he’s even taught Daisy to mimic his action though we’re not sure if she knows what she’s doing). He’s even lovingly carried dead birds to the back door, lovingly carried a poor defenseless baby bird that had fallen from its nest into the house and sat it down in the middle of the living room floor for all see.
Yes. Mac is proud of his innate instincts (Wait, aren’t all instincts innate…hmm…I still like how it sounds).
It’s safe to say that birds have had many misadventures with our dogs. And yet there is one brave bird who has made the wreath on our front door her summer nesting place.
Last year, this kamikaze bird nearly took off my 6’1’s brother head.
During the day, the bird is gone finding worms or whatever it is that birds find. At night, it returns to its nest (and babies, but more on that in a minute). With it being dark out, the people is easily spooked by people and has the habit of bolting out of the nest like a jet and into the path of incoming person. The taller you are, the more prone you are to the flight of the mamma bird.
Which is why we plan to stay mum on the subject of the bird when Hans and all of his lanky 6’8 phys iqué arrived at the house this evening. I’m hoping for decapitation. Well, they might be a little heavy because I do like Hans…but seriously, can you tell me that if you had the chance to see the bird fall straight smack-dab into someone’s head you wouldn’t want to see it happen and liking or not liking a person would have no bearing on your decision?
I mean honestly, who would pass up that chance? It’s a great story. “Oh, get this, my sister’s fiancé got hit in the head by a bird!”
I live for those kinds of stories.
But back to the bird. This summer, you had to remember to open the door a fraction of an inch, shut it, and then finally open it again so the bird wouldn’t fly into the house (Birds in the house SUCK – I’ll get to THAT in a minute).
The bird also laid eggs that hatched this summer. And every time you opened the door (this door opens into the house by the way), the little scrawny, veiny, ugly baby bird heads would squawk and reach out of their nests. We only hoped they wouldn’t suddenly learn to fly when we opened the door.
But that’s not all.
Birds, like all of God’s living creatures, shit. And when you have three baby birds living on your front door, guess what. Bird shit down there door.
Nice, I know.
With these thoughts in mind, I’d like to now tell a story about a bird, a chimney, and the curious LB.
It was in the spring when I was in seventh or eighth grade and was just barely a teenager (and I had this cute, little bitty, tight gymnast’s ass…sigh…those were the days). I was sitting at the kitchen table pretending to do my homework when a funny scratching sound was heard.
My mom, sister, and I were all in the living room/kitchen area and we looked at each other and shook our heads. Then we heard the sound again. The three of us decided to investigate and followed the sound to the chimney in the living room.
We decided it was a bird. Mom wasn’t worried about it because the damper was shut, but just in case, she put laid the screen across the mouth of the fireplace. We all went back to our business.
That is until a few hours later we heard Kevin yell, “Mom, there’s a bird in the house!”
We all came running into the living room to see that, yes, a bird was flying around the living room.
It didn’t take us long to figure out how the bird got into the house because the metal screen was no longer leaning against the fireplace.
“Kevin,” mom yelled, “What did you do?”
“I just wanted to see what was up there,” was his lame excuse.
Anyway, getting the bird out of the house was nearly as hard as getting the bat out of the house in the movies “The Great Outdoors” with Dan Akyroid and John Candy or “Black Sheep” with Chris Farley and David Spade. It took quite a bit of engineering on our parts to “corral” the clearly agitated bird out of the door.
One experience was enough and we retired our bird-catching engineering skills. Besides, knocking on the door every time you leave is so much easier than catching a bird when you have cathedral ceilings (yikes).
Friday, April 3, 2009
A Real April Fool or How I Always Terrorize My Mom
Yes, another post. I know, I’ve been a busy little bee. I tend to find writing cathartic. There is a direct proportion in the amount of stress in my life and the amount of writing I do.
So…you do the math.
Anyway, Wednesday was the glorious day known as April Fool’s Day. As someone who appreciate a good joke, telling a joke, retelling a joke, living a joke, being a made a joke, this is a day I can get into.
However, every good April Fooler knows that their shelf life is short-lived. And I’ve had some good jokes on my mom too:
1. I faked severe stomach cramps and nearly caused her to leave school to check me into a Bloomington Hospital
2. I told her IU was hiring Rick Pitino to be the head basketball coach
3. She answered the phone to hear me crying, telling her I was on top of the counters looking for spices when I slipped, and hit my arm against the counter…It might be broke. I heard tires screech through the phone and she told me her boyfriend had just run a red light and then were taking me to the hospital.
4. The best though, the coup de grace, the pièce de résistance, my masterpiece would be the terrorist attack in Atlanta. But more on that later.
It seems a bit superfluous to say over the past few years I have got my mom good. I think that goes without saying. But what tends to happen to the fool is that they begin to grow weary on April 1. And really, it’s hard to top a terrorist attack April Fool.
What a good April Fooler has to do is grow, change, and evolve. And when in doubt, enlist the help of able-bodied siblings and family members. And plan simultaneous April Fool’s if need be.
Like this year’s April Fool’s on my mom. I called Kevin on Monday and alerted him to my favorite day. He said we would talk. I hadn’t heard from him come Tuesday and got nervous, and came up with a new idea.
I called Melody knowing Melody liked the Twilight books by Stephenie Meyer and that she had a co-worker with a teenage daughter. I had Melody call mom and tell her Midnight Sun (the book from Edward’s point of view) was being released on Wednesday. She called me and told me. I was going to “get busy” on Wednesday and not be able to pick it up and have her go buy it. Only it wouldn’t be there.
But before I could execute this plan, the little brother called. He persuaded me to ditch the book idea and go in with him. We tossed around several ideas: him joining the military after college (I told him she wouldn’t believe); him getting an internship w/ the IU communication department (too lame he said), him getting an internship in Chicago to film for Playboy (totally unbelievable), him dropping out of college (He has a semester and a half left, she wouldn’t believe it), “But,” I said, “She would believe you failing a class.”
So we worked it out that Kevin would call her and “confess” to failing classes.
After he called and “laid the trap,” he called me back to tell me about.
“I put in a fucking Tony-winning performance,” he told me.
Apparently, he told her he was failing not one, but two classes. She totally fell for it too according to my brother.
“Now, you have to call her and tell her its all fake,” he said, “because I told her you were weirded out by me failing.”
“What! You brought my name up into this?!” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Are you sure she fell for it?” I asked getting wary now. She would have to know this was all a joke now.
“Yes,” he said. “So call her, get her to fall for it little bit more and than tell her April Fool’s.”
Well, we figured out three-way calling so Kevin got to listen as I led mom along. She answered sounding defeated, and I asked her if she had heard about Kevin. She said she did and then proceeded to vent a bit. I asked her what was going to happen, and we she said probably another semester that he would have to pay for because the divorce decreed that my father was only obligated to pay nine semesters. She then dropped the bomb that he was failing not one but two classes and could get a ‘D’ in a third class.
He laid it on thick. And after I got her to say that he was probably partying too hard, Kevin’s voice was heard over the line.
“Mom,” he said and she got silent. “April Fool’s.”
“Oh my god!” she shrieked. “You fuckers! I knew, Erin, I knew you were going to try to get me but this is low! I even thought for a second that this was a possible trick, but you, Kevin, you just sounded so upset.”
Yes. I am a master.
How big of a master? Well, see my best prank below.
Four years ago. April 2005. Kevin was still in high school. My mom is a high school teacher. So they all went on a family vacation to Florida that year, everyone except me (I’d been a few weeks earlier on my spring break).
With everyone gone for the week, they dogs went up to school with me. I was technically not supposed to have dogs in my apartment, but I could get by with having them for a week, so the weekend they were to be home, I drove down to wait for my family.
April Fool’s Day was on a Friday, the last day of spring break. On this particular day, there was rain all the way from Michigan to Florida, so they were driving through rain the entire way. Not only that, but there were a lot of RV and campers in the traffic. Retirees with motor homes and campers rent out parks on a monthly basis and it appeared that most of them didn’t stay for the month of April.
Anyway, I’m sitting at home when I get a call from my college roommate. I had been expecting the arrival of a pair of Ugg Boots that for some reason got shipped to my hometown before being re-routed to Bloomington. I had sent her a text asking if they were there because according to the tracking website, they were delivered. She fooled me and said they hadn’t been.
So, I was sitting at home sulking a bit, tracking my family’s very slow process when my best prank came to me…
Atlanta has a huge airport.
A plot originating out of Atlanta wouldn’t be that hard to swallow.
Not only that, but my family still hadn’t made it to Atlanta.
With a plan and renewed purpose, I flipped open my cell and dialed. “Mom,” I said. “Have you guys got past Atlanta.”
“You know damn well we haven’t,” she said.
“Well…umm…”I said trying to sound nervous and not overly excited. “The police and FBI…they uncovered a terrorist plot. In Atlanta.”
“Son of a bitch!” She curses.
“They found a car full of explosives outside the airport. They’re now stopping all incoming cars into Atlanta and searching the vehicles.”
“Well, that’s jus fucking marvelous,” she says and I hear her shout in the car, “Kevin, get out the triptych and find us a route around Atlanta, the fucking terrorists are fucking there.”
My mom doesn’t cuss a lot, but it’s easy to see where I got my mouth.
Anyway, about that time, the call drops. One of the problems with interstate travel is inconsistency in cell reception. I call back, but it tells me the wireless customer cannot be reached. Ten minutes later, I still can’t reach them. I’m beginning to panic now because she’s looking for alternative routes and one of the alternative routes involved something with Alabama (I gleaned that little nugget through static before the call evaporated from the airwaves).
Frantically, I continue to try until finally I get through.
“Mom,” I ask, “Have you made the detour yet?”
“No,” she says, “We’re trying to pick the best way. This is just perfect…just perfect. Are they saying anything more? It would figure that with this traffic and this weather those terrorists would have to do something today, today of all days.”
“Yeah,” I say nonchalantly, “Today of all days, especially being April Fool’s Day.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “April Fool’s Day?” she asks a little shocked.
“Yeah,” I say. “April Fool’s!”
And when she got home, twelve hours later (this was supposed to be a 12-hour trip that ended up being 21 hours) I was even happier when I didn’t receive any bodily harm!
So…you do the math.
Anyway, Wednesday was the glorious day known as April Fool’s Day. As someone who appreciate a good joke, telling a joke, retelling a joke, living a joke, being a made a joke, this is a day I can get into.
However, every good April Fooler knows that their shelf life is short-lived. And I’ve had some good jokes on my mom too:
1. I faked severe stomach cramps and nearly caused her to leave school to check me into a Bloomington Hospital
2. I told her IU was hiring Rick Pitino to be the head basketball coach
3. She answered the phone to hear me crying, telling her I was on top of the counters looking for spices when I slipped, and hit my arm against the counter…It might be broke. I heard tires screech through the phone and she told me her boyfriend had just run a red light and then were taking me to the hospital.
4. The best though, the coup de grace, the pièce de résistance, my masterpiece would be the terrorist attack in Atlanta. But more on that later.
It seems a bit superfluous to say over the past few years I have got my mom good. I think that goes without saying. But what tends to happen to the fool is that they begin to grow weary on April 1. And really, it’s hard to top a terrorist attack April Fool.
What a good April Fooler has to do is grow, change, and evolve. And when in doubt, enlist the help of able-bodied siblings and family members. And plan simultaneous April Fool’s if need be.
Like this year’s April Fool’s on my mom. I called Kevin on Monday and alerted him to my favorite day. He said we would talk. I hadn’t heard from him come Tuesday and got nervous, and came up with a new idea.
I called Melody knowing Melody liked the Twilight books by Stephenie Meyer and that she had a co-worker with a teenage daughter. I had Melody call mom and tell her Midnight Sun (the book from Edward’s point of view) was being released on Wednesday. She called me and told me. I was going to “get busy” on Wednesday and not be able to pick it up and have her go buy it. Only it wouldn’t be there.
But before I could execute this plan, the little brother called. He persuaded me to ditch the book idea and go in with him. We tossed around several ideas: him joining the military after college (I told him she wouldn’t believe); him getting an internship w/ the IU communication department (too lame he said), him getting an internship in Chicago to film for Playboy (totally unbelievable), him dropping out of college (He has a semester and a half left, she wouldn’t believe it), “But,” I said, “She would believe you failing a class.”
So we worked it out that Kevin would call her and “confess” to failing classes.
After he called and “laid the trap,” he called me back to tell me about.
“I put in a fucking Tony-winning performance,” he told me.
Apparently, he told her he was failing not one, but two classes. She totally fell for it too according to my brother.
“Now, you have to call her and tell her its all fake,” he said, “because I told her you were weirded out by me failing.”
“What! You brought my name up into this?!” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Are you sure she fell for it?” I asked getting wary now. She would have to know this was all a joke now.
“Yes,” he said. “So call her, get her to fall for it little bit more and than tell her April Fool’s.”
Well, we figured out three-way calling so Kevin got to listen as I led mom along. She answered sounding defeated, and I asked her if she had heard about Kevin. She said she did and then proceeded to vent a bit. I asked her what was going to happen, and we she said probably another semester that he would have to pay for because the divorce decreed that my father was only obligated to pay nine semesters. She then dropped the bomb that he was failing not one but two classes and could get a ‘D’ in a third class.
He laid it on thick. And after I got her to say that he was probably partying too hard, Kevin’s voice was heard over the line.
“Mom,” he said and she got silent. “April Fool’s.”
“Oh my god!” she shrieked. “You fuckers! I knew, Erin, I knew you were going to try to get me but this is low! I even thought for a second that this was a possible trick, but you, Kevin, you just sounded so upset.”
Yes. I am a master.
How big of a master? Well, see my best prank below.
Four years ago. April 2005. Kevin was still in high school. My mom is a high school teacher. So they all went on a family vacation to Florida that year, everyone except me (I’d been a few weeks earlier on my spring break).
With everyone gone for the week, they dogs went up to school with me. I was technically not supposed to have dogs in my apartment, but I could get by with having them for a week, so the weekend they were to be home, I drove down to wait for my family.
April Fool’s Day was on a Friday, the last day of spring break. On this particular day, there was rain all the way from Michigan to Florida, so they were driving through rain the entire way. Not only that, but there were a lot of RV and campers in the traffic. Retirees with motor homes and campers rent out parks on a monthly basis and it appeared that most of them didn’t stay for the month of April.
Anyway, I’m sitting at home when I get a call from my college roommate. I had been expecting the arrival of a pair of Ugg Boots that for some reason got shipped to my hometown before being re-routed to Bloomington. I had sent her a text asking if they were there because according to the tracking website, they were delivered. She fooled me and said they hadn’t been.
So, I was sitting at home sulking a bit, tracking my family’s very slow process when my best prank came to me…
Atlanta has a huge airport.
A plot originating out of Atlanta wouldn’t be that hard to swallow.
Not only that, but my family still hadn’t made it to Atlanta.
With a plan and renewed purpose, I flipped open my cell and dialed. “Mom,” I said. “Have you guys got past Atlanta.”
“You know damn well we haven’t,” she said.
“Well…umm…”I said trying to sound nervous and not overly excited. “The police and FBI…they uncovered a terrorist plot. In Atlanta.”
“Son of a bitch!” She curses.
“They found a car full of explosives outside the airport. They’re now stopping all incoming cars into Atlanta and searching the vehicles.”
“Well, that’s jus fucking marvelous,” she says and I hear her shout in the car, “Kevin, get out the triptych and find us a route around Atlanta, the fucking terrorists are fucking there.”
My mom doesn’t cuss a lot, but it’s easy to see where I got my mouth.
Anyway, about that time, the call drops. One of the problems with interstate travel is inconsistency in cell reception. I call back, but it tells me the wireless customer cannot be reached. Ten minutes later, I still can’t reach them. I’m beginning to panic now because she’s looking for alternative routes and one of the alternative routes involved something with Alabama (I gleaned that little nugget through static before the call evaporated from the airwaves).
Frantically, I continue to try until finally I get through.
“Mom,” I ask, “Have you made the detour yet?”
“No,” she says, “We’re trying to pick the best way. This is just perfect…just perfect. Are they saying anything more? It would figure that with this traffic and this weather those terrorists would have to do something today, today of all days.”
“Yeah,” I say nonchalantly, “Today of all days, especially being April Fool’s Day.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “April Fool’s Day?” she asks a little shocked.
“Yeah,” I say. “April Fool’s!”
And when she got home, twelve hours later (this was supposed to be a 12-hour trip that ended up being 21 hours) I was even happier when I didn’t receive any bodily harm!
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