The Plea I Meant To Send to You All on Friday.

I'm in trouble.

I have to tell a friend of mine that I can’t go with her to see an 80’s cover band play Saturday night because I made prior plans that I forgot about. (Finally, music I would know all the words to, and I can’t go! Where my old, ripped jean jacket and Bruce Springsteen t-shirt will be in style! Where my white-girl overbite will look chic! Oh, who am I kidding? The overbite will never look chic; it was cool for three hours in mid-1987, and I think I was having my braces tightened at the time.)

The thing is, I hate to disappoint the friend. Sure, I can tell myself that it was only a tentative agreement to see the band because I DID say I needed to check my calendar, which was not with me, but there is one thing wrong with that: I don’t technically have a calendar, and I was joking when I said it. See, I usually tell myself I need to write things down on a calendar…and then I forget and leave it up to my friends and family to call and remind me.

Yeah…I know. I suck.

But you are being judgmental! So there. I suck, and you are condemnatory-- now, can you please let go of your righteousness and climb off your soapbox in order to help me with my crisis?

So, how do I tell the friend?

Maybe she won’t be mad when I tell her that the previous commitment is for a charity event? (Of course, the charity is technically going to my other friend, Lauren, who needs fifteen people to show up at a purse party in order to get a free purse of her choice…. Still, charity is charity, and we shouldn’t judge Lauren-- or her obsession with handbags.)

Plus, I am an integral part of the charity event. (I told Lauren I would not come unless the purse rep brought a wide selection of animal print Dooney and Bourke [inspired] bags, and Lauren went to great lengths to ensure that a significant number of said bags were available and destined for her party.)

Further, I would have called sooner to cancel our tentative plans, but I became caught up in a sticky situation at work that had to be resolved. (I spent a great deal of time eating chocolate at my desk worrying about how to tell the friend I have to cancel.)

Last, I became terribly ill. (With cramps.)

So, you see it simply is not my fault that I can’t go!

(God, at this rate I won’t have any friends left.)

What do I do??

I Guess It's All About Me...Again.

Know who might be petty and judgmental? Me.

I began to question this when I grew introspective after noticing that my Jon and Kate Plus 8 television viewing time was waning. (Know who is obsessively introspective? Me.) (Know who makes global assumptions about her personality based solely on her reaction to reality television? Again, me.)

I used to enjoy the show. The episode when Kate revealed her post-sextuplet belly, reminiscent of layer upon layer of loosely packed, pale pink ground beef? I was there. The episode when they tried to camp out in the backyard with all eight children—and it poured? I was there. The episode when Kate screamed across Toys R Us for Jon to quit playing with the toys, grow up, and help her parent their brood? I was there.

But lately I’ve lost interest.

The new episode teasers don’t even tempt me.

I’ve seen their show available in a time slot in which I am available, and I’ve scrolled right past.

Once, I was mistaken about the day that Burn Notice was on and rejected Jon and Kate to reread a book I’d finished earlier in the week.

I couldn’t help but wonder: Jon and Kate, what happened to us?

That’s when I knew. They lost me when they started bleaching their teeth, getting hair plugs, hiring nannies, taking all expense paid trips to Maui, and considered buying a home on an island inhabited by wild horses.

Would I ever consider doing those things? Sure. (Minus the hair plugs.) But when my reality television stars started living the American Dream, I lost interest. I guess I prefer Jon and Kate to be frazzled and harried, not calm and independently wealthy.

Does this make me petty and judgmental? Maybe.

But it may also be that the American Dream is sort of …well…boring.

I think I’ll tune in again when all of those kids hit their teen years. Five hormonal, adolescent girls living in a house with a menopausal, obsessive-compulsive mother? Now THAT? Is good television.

Economic Stimulus Package #378

Remember how I am a financial expert? I am—along with everyone else who waxes eloquent about the current state of the U.S.’s economy. In order to assist in righting America’s economic woes, I offer a partial solution: creative taxation.

Here’s the idea: We could begin placing taxes on items or scenarios we would like to see improved in our society. In this way, we can decrease the amount of things we DON’T want while IMPROVING our current financial climate. Before you poke holes in my idea and pee on my parade, consider that there is precedent for my argument: the taxes placed on tobacco products. We can simply take this concept and expand upon it. (Note: This brilliant idea came to me when a green Chevy truck cut me off and then threw trash out of his window, so I can’t take all of the credit.)


Items I Would Like To See Up For Creative Taxation:

People Who Cut Me Off and Then Throw Trash Out Their Window.

People Who Use the Phrase “Back in the Day.” Unless it is evening and one is referring to something that happened during the recent hours of sunlight, there is no use for this phrase.

People who “kidnap” others on Facebook.—Seriously, what is the point??

People Who Use Texting Lingo in Conversations—I understand shortening words when texting, but when we’re speaking? Why?

Acronyms Of Any Kind—I’ve noticed that most meetings I attend are rife with acronyms. I’ve also noticed that most people in these meetings look confused when these acronyms are mentioned, and lean over to ask others around them what these acronyms mean. Then, I’ve noticed many people shrugging their shoulders as if to say “I don’t know what these stupid acronyms mean—just smile and nod.” Pretty soon everyone is smiling and nodding. When the meeting is over, no one knows what happened. Acronyms went the way of the word “paradigm.” They are unnecessarily overused to make things sound important. Please, dispense with acronyms, people…unless you are my boss, in which case I am a BIG fan of the creative acronym! (Please don’t fire me. Please don’t fire me.)

Monotone speaking- If minutes of my life are squandered upon monotone speakers, those speakers should have to pay. Literally. The up side to this is that people will work on their delivery prior to public speaking in order to cut down on their taxes and –viola- we all win! Think how much better morning meetings will become when the presenter uses inflection!

Commercials and Advertisements of Any Sort (particularly the unoriginal variety)—There is a commercial where a bunch of people stand on their rooftops shouting to each other about how much they love some product. (It might be a coffee product, but I can’t be sure. I am too busy gagging at the stupidity of the commercial’s concept.) Dude. We get it. The product will make us want to shout from the rooftops. However, the creators of that commercial should have to pay a tax for such lack of originality.

Addictions —For me, this means that M&M’s would carry an increased tax. I am okay with this. I need some sort of deterrent.

Whining—My sons would be heavily in debt.

People Who Don’t Use Their Turn Signals—Think how smooth morning traffic would be if people weren’t screeching their brakes around you when you make your unexpected turns.

People Who Use Too Much Axe Deodorant Spray—I can’t pass by the men’s locker room without gagging on the smell of body odor and, ironically, Axe. Do we not understand the concept of ANTI-PERSPIRANT?? People, use deodorant PRIOR to working out AND after.

People Who Come to Work Sick and Pass Their Virus to Innocent Coworkers--This one really requires no explanation.

People Who Hold Up Their Finger In Order To Answer Their Cells While in the Middle of Conversations.

People Who Don’t Get Out of Merging Lanes Until the Last Second and Expect Us All to Accommodate Them—You know who you are.

Restaurants who keep people waiting when there are open tables.

Any to add?

WOMAN FOUND DROWNED ON KITCHEN FLOOR

That’s the headline I’m expecting will appear in the newspapers this weekend documenting my loss.

See, I’m trying to work up my courage to use a netti pot. My coworkers swear by this miniature teapot used to pour saltwater in one nostril, through the sinus cavity, and out the other nostril. “Trish, it clears out your sinuses!” “Trish, it’s the best thing for allergies!” “Trish, it makes me breathe so much better!” They claim that the netti pot has amazing powers. There is only so much netti pot talk one can hear before one starts to wonder.

Still, I can’t help but feel as though I am opening myself up to voluntary drowning.

Is this my coworkers’ twisted way of getting me to water board myself?

Probably.

Sappy? No Question: Yes.

But I am compelled by something outside of myself to write this.

What is it about spring that triggers the memory center of my cerebral cortex? It’s probably the physical representation of rebirth occurring in nature. The splash of new rain on my cheeks and the tip of my nose brings me back to my first kiss. (A sloppy one, apparently.) The sun warming my shoulders after a long winter reminds me of the arms of the child-men whose touch felt similarly tender. The green scent of damp earth on the breeze becomes the heady, bitter-sweet scent of first intimacy.

The rain whispers these memories back to me, and they aren’t entirely unwelcome. Like visiting with old friends, it is nice to reminisce and part ways smiling. As I head home with my window part way down and the heat still part way up, enjoying the long-awaited change in season, these memories tickle the backs of my eyelids and slip along my brows.

And as I pack them away to be unearthed in later years, I think how lucky I am to have these sweet reminders to warm my future springs. I hope we all have such beautiful memories.

Who's a Bad Mommy Now?

Why do I need a new dryer?

So I don’t get arrested for child neglect, that’s why.

Allow me to explain:

My dryer has been doing strange things lately. It rattles. It rumbles. It sucks my clothes into the space between the rotating drum and the back of the dryer and leaves big black smudges or, worse, holes. Dryers aren’t particularly difficult pieces of machinery to understand-- or so my husband tells me-- so he keeps fiddling with the dryer parts until the drum is back in place, and the clunking sound emanating from its innards is only mildly irritating. Plus, the dryer is in the basement, so the sound doesn’t grate on me too terribly. More importantly, I can appreciate a man who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, and I like the way Scott looks when he’s sweaty and carrying tools-- so I’ve lived with the deafening thunder of my dryer for months. Until last Sunday….

I had a big pile of clothes and sheets that weren’t ironing themselves. (Yes, I iron some sheets. Don’t judge me.) It was one of those Sundays where one spends the whole day sweating in pajamas and fuzzy slippers, cleaning. Scott was playing with the boys, so I thought I’d get busy wrestling wrinkles with my Osterman 3000 and a can of spray starch. I was just getting in a groove when Scott came downstairs to tell me Noah was asleep in his crib and Josh was working on some algebra problems at the kitchen table. (Okay, okay, he watching cartoons and eating popcorn.) Scott felt that this was a good time for him to run out and get a hair cut while I finished up the ironing. I waved him off and threw some wet clothes in the dryer while I continued my de-wrinkling labors.

I must have been really into my mindless chore because I suddenly had a whole pile of ironed sheets and clothing. Sweaty, pajama-clad, make-up-less, huge pimple in the middle of my forehead (Say hello to my little friend….) me walks out of the basement to find my neighbors sitting in my living room. I arrive just in time to hear, “Well, Josh, mommy might just be in the basement. Did you look in the basement?”

Apparently, Scott told me what Josh was doing, but didn’t tell Josh what I was doing before he left to have his tresses trimmed. Josh, upon hitting the bottom of the popcorn bowl, decided to look for mommy. He called for her. No one came. He got the bright idea to ring the doorbell, but the thunderous dryer sounds drowned out the doorbell. Finally, in desperation, my poor little guy saw our neighbor shoveling snow, opened the door, and called to him to come over because “I’m not allowed to cross the street, and my mommy is missing.”

Gulp. Not only was I the worst mommy in the world, but I dressed for the part, too. All I needed were a few wire hangers and the Mommy Dearest look would have been complete.

I think Home Depot will be happy to see me grace their home appliances section.

Of Mice and Men...and Metaphors

I heard something encouraging while working out in our school’s weight room. I was sharing the weights with the wrestling team, and was fairly unnoticed due to the superfluity of weight lifting apparatus in the crowded facility. (I tend to hide my novice weight-lifting self behind the leg extension machine. For obvious reasons.)

Wrestler Number One glances at Wrestler Number Two, poses in the mirror, and scoffs, “Dude, check out my big, hard piece of steel!”

“What are you talking about?” queries Wrestler Number Two.

“Dude. I was making a metaphor. Forget it,” sighs Wrestler Number One before going back to bicep curls.

While there are many, many jokes we could make about Wrestler Number One’s “big, hard piece of steel,” I think it is notable that he used the correct literary terminology when opening himself up to mockery.

Score one for the English Department!

(As Kuj wrote in a previous post, I am patting myself on the back and fist-punching the air ala’ Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club. Take THAT No Child Left Behind!)