Wedding Tales

I very much enjoy wedding receptions: I get to meet new people while I drink. What’s not to love? Occasionally, a story I overhear has legs and travels with me even after the wine wears off.

This is one.

The speaker: Dimitrius, who is in charge of creating his son Tyler’s design cuts. (Don’t know what a design cut is? Check out the photo. It’s a work of art in a haircut.)

Demitrius: “…so he asks me to carve a new design. He’s a freshman in high school, and he wants to look cool. I’m his dad, so I’m going to do whatever I can to help, right? Well, this time he wants something new: words. I figure I can do that. It’s got to be easier than some of the other designs he’s had me create. He tells me what he wants: Guy Swag. I think, 'These kids with their slang,' and start cutting.

About a half hour later, my daughter asks Tyler, 'What is Guy Swag?' Tyler runs to the bathroom, takes one look in the mirror and screams, 'DAD, what have you done??'

I tell him I gave him the cut he asked for. 'No, no, no! I wanted GOT swag! You know, like the milk commercial: Got milk? Got swag, as in, got a swagger?? Swagger, as in, a cool way to walk. What does Guy Swag even mean?? And it sort of looks like Gay Swag! I won’t be able to go to school!'

I explain to Tyler that this? Right here? Is why he needs to work on his enunciation...."

Weenis Envy

I can admit when I’m wrong. (Softly, under my breath, when I am alone in the shower.) Everyone makes mistakes. True, it’s usually other people who make them, but every once in a great while I err. When those rare slip ups do occur, I am willing to admit my transgression. Thus, I offer you the transcript of my texts to and from my sister-in-law (yes, the one with the drinking problem) documenting my faux pas-- trifling though it may be.


TRISH: You can tell your youngest son that his evil scheme? Worked. Josh was bumped in the arm at McDonald’s Playland and announced (loudly, I might add) that his WEENIS was HOT and TINGLY. When I asked him why on Earth he was calling his funny bone a weenis, he said CASEY told him to call it that at your parents’ on Christmas. Tell Casey that his comeuppance is coming and his days are numbered. When he’s not expecting it – BAM!—return of the weenis!

MICHELLE: Casey says he does not remember ever saying that to Josh.

TRISH: I just BET that’s what he said. I’d say that, too, if I was caught corrupting five year olds by my aunt. Josh says it happened while they were wrestling in Grammy’s bedroom. Ask Casey if that setting rings any bells. Huh? Huh?? Does it Casey, 11 year old corrupter of youth??

MICHELLE: Casey says he would never knowingly lead his young, naive cousin astray. Maybe Josh misinterpreted what Casey said?

TRISH: Riiiiiiight…. Josh misinterpreted “WEENIS.” You know what? I’m not buying it. The weenis cometh…and the weenis says CASEY.

MICHELLE: A weenis is actually the skin on your elbow. I’m not kidding. Google it.

TRISH: Michelle, I think this is called "enabling." You are trying to come to Casey's rescue by creating a fake definition. But you're just ignoring the problem in an effort to bail Casey out. Looking the other way won't help the problem. I know because it's what we do when we see you drink.

MICHELLE: No, really. Casey is in the gifted class, you know. Maybe he was just trying to increase his young cousin’s vocabulary.

TRISH: (still unconvinced. Googling.) Damn. It IS a weenis. Why call the wrinkles on the elbow a weenis? That doesn’t make any sense….

MICHELLE: So, is there anything else you want me to ask Casey about?

TRISH: Yes. Ask him if the wrinkly skin on the scrotum is called the elbeenis. By the way, you're still a lush.

MICHELLE: Whatever lets you sleep at night.

TRISH: Enjoy your wine.

MICHELLE: I always do.

Ugh. If this is what motherhood will continue to be like, I may start drinking, too.

Whirled Peas

I have determined the answer to conflict in the Middle East.



Give them Face Book.



No one will hear from them ever again....

Choose Your Own Adventure

(The following is my first installment of a short story emulating Kurt Vonnegut's style. You get to decide the end. I dedicate this to you, Gary. No chihuahuas in this story, unfortunately. However, I'm working on a chihuahua based piece as we speak!)


If you want to know, then I guess the whole thing started back around 2097 or 98. The U.S. was having a heck of a time of it, what with the sudden change in climate when the moon fell out of orbit. Our lack of rain for the previous half-century used up most of our rivers, and the only sad, little crops to be had struggled along the Mississippi Stream. And even that dried up to its muddy bottom every five years or so, leaving the villages scrounging for whatever food could be found. During those rainless times, some village wells even went dry, which was hard on the very young and the very old.

On the other hand, Africa’s fertile soil had them living high and mighty. You’d think Africa, with all of their prosperity, would have passed some of their leftovers on to us. But they didn’t. Oh, sure, some missionaries came every once in a while with canned food and bottled water in exchange for lectures about the Muslewish Budha’i religion, but there was no consistent help. And if you didn't act interested in their theological discussions, they'd practically rip the bottle of water right out of your mouth. So, we pretty much fended for ourselves while Africa's politicians yawned and gave little sound bites every so often for or against Aid to America, depending which way the wind blew that particular day. In fact, the only African people who consistently discussed our plight were their high school students-- who practiced debate skills by choosing a side for or against American aid and arguing it. I’ve heard that some of those kids used to be real supportive and even wore t-shirts reading “Save the States,” which was nice. Even so, we were still hungry and thirsty all the time, and immigration laws being what they were, we couldn’t up and move. That’s if anyone even had money to travel, which no one did after the Crash of 2059.

Anyway, things were looking pretty bleak. Until Scooter Sniggerwig came up with the E.A.T. 3000.

Sniggerwig was one of those naturally curious people who was always trying new ideas. If it had been a hundred years ago, he probably would have been an ace in school, but as it was there were hardly any schools any more because every hand was needed to drag water from the village wells to try to get something to grow. After all that effort, most of us just sat around in the sweltering heat nursing our hunger and thirst. But Sniggerwig could never sit still, even in the oppressive heat. So, he tinkered with things.

See, Sniggerwig’s village was near one of those old abandoned factories that made cell phones and computers before someone in Africa came up with the Communochip Brain Implant in ‘58, making all those external devices obsolete. The factory had fallen apart and lay there like a gleaming white skeleton under the cruel sun. Sniggerwig putzed around with the old gadgets he found laying around and came up with a slew of inventions, most of which didn’t do much good, to tell you the truth.

Take the Personal Solar Fan, for example. This fan attached to the top of a hat, like a halo. When you were out in the sun, the solar panel on the hat powered up the halo fan, which was supposed to cool you down. The problem was that it only worked in direct sun, and most people found it was easier to just sit in the shade. It was a nice thought, though. And everybody told Sniggerwig he’d given a fine effort, but it would be even nicer if he could invent something that could make water. And so he did.

Lucky for us all, his putzing lead to a device that could break down the chemical properties of ordinary things like dirt and ocean water and reformulate it into any kind of food or drink. All you had to do was describe what you wanted on the little key pad and –bam--it appeared. The very first thing I had was a good old fashioned soda and Chicago hot dog with a salty pickle. I hadn’t had one of those since I was a kid. My stomach cramped up after being hungry for so long, but I got used to eating regularly pretty quick. It wasn’t long before I was scarfing down pierogi and Italian sausage and fruit salad and roast turkey with stuffing. Sniggerwig became an instant hero, I can tell you that.

Within ten years, America was like one of those old pictures of Palm Springs from the 1990’s. There were little oases of flowers and palm trees everywhere. America was back on the map, economically speaking, because we were all busy manufacturing and selling E.A.T. 3000’s to the world. Soon, no one needed African food any more. Even the Africans found it easier to just type in what they wanted and have it pop out fully cooked than to plant, harvest, package, distribute, and cook their own food. Of course, some of the African farm owners didn’t take well to the sudden shift in economy. I heard a couple of those wealthy farmers drove their super fancy hover compressors right into the middle of their crops and let the motor run until the nuclear pack in the trunk overheated and vaporized them. Sad.

Of course, you know what happened next. When you can have everything you want at a moment’s notice, you literally have every-thing-you-want. People started getting lazy and bloated and no one looked good in a swim suit any more, not even the models. The fashion industry was completely beside itself. Not to mention the diabetes and other health related issues. So, everyone appealed to Sniggerwig to invent something to get us out of this fix. And he did. Again.

The E.A.T. 3001 combined the nutritional value and calories of vegetables with any taste you wanted. You could type in ham and eggs with hollandaise sauce, and it would taste just like ham and eggs with hollandaise sauce, but the whole thing had the nutritional value and calories of a head of broccoli. Triple chocolate fudge cake was the equivalent of brussel spouts, which was good because no one ever ate brussel sprouts anyway, and they have lots of important vitamins.

The funny thing was that no one lost weight--even when we ate our ham-and-egg-broccoli and our triple-chocolate-fudge-cake-sprouts. It didn’t make sense. The healthier the food became, the bigger people became….

This is where YOU take over! How should this end?

Mother. Pus. Bucket.

Yesterday many dear friends sent me a viral FB email directing women to type the color of the bra they were wearing into their status in order to bring more awareness to breast cancer.

It's a nice effort, right? But those of you who know me well know that I have a serious problem: SNARKINESS.

So, instead of being a nice person who gamely divulges the hues of her undergarments in vague support of a cause, I became Snarky Trish and quipped, "What will typing a bunch of colors in a status field realistically do to cure breast cancer?? Some college guy is probably sitting in his dorm room right now eating cheap pizza and implementing a multi-phased plan to get women to bare their ta ta's. Phase One: Get women to post the color of their underwear to 'raise awareness of breast cancer.' Phase Two: Once women are comfortable with describing their undergarments, begin the second phase of the diabolical plan-- get women to post PHOTOS of their bras to raise breast cancer awareness. Phase Three: Get women to post photos of them WEARING their bras in support of breast cancer awareness. Well, you won't get me, Dorky College Dude!"

In response, I created a satirical version of the breast cancer awareness email, and here it is:

We are trying to bring awareness to Tourette's Syndrome, a rare neurological disorder characterized by involuntary, spontaneous, and repetitive muscle and verbal tics. In its most extreme form, Tourette's can cause coprolalia (a spontaneous outburst of swear words). To help bring awareness to this disorder, please post a mild profanity in your status. Then, copy and paste this email to your friends. We CAN make people aware of this problem, and we WILL find a cure for Tourette's. Your profanity can help.

Feel free to cut and paste this into your FB email. I'm kind of interested in how long it will take for Tourette's Awareness to go viral, be translated into multiple languages, and become the WHO's next cause du jour.

Still, I want to see Dorky College Dude get his comeuppance. Ideas for how to target him? Post them in the comments section.

Oh, and Dorky College Dude? Too bad you'll never get to Phase Three of your diabolical plan. Because my ta ta's? Are F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S.

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!)

Catholic+Withdrawl= LENT

I am doing something that only the insane and the Lenten Catholics do: giving up soft drinks.

Here’s how the genesis of this idea came about. One of my coworkers (a stunningly gorgeous miniature version of a Greek goddess) has been “getting healthy.” I believe I have mentioned this bitty-Barbie in the past. This is the same uber-healthy blond who has me eating lots of vegetables—but I digress. This gorgeous bombshell has been making all of these healthy changes in her life and, yes, she is glowing.

(I doubled checked, no pregnancy is involved. This is a shame because if pregnancy was responsible for her dynamic change I would want no part of that animal and simply continue doing what I am doing, which is lolling about in general unhealthiness, a place in which I am familiar. Instead, I am left with a decision to either lumber along in her glowing direction or hang back here in dull skin-ville. I can’t allow my skin to grow more lackluster, so you know which choice I have to make.)

Thus, I have given up soft drinks in lieu of water and begun my own healthy regime.

Again.

True, I tried this back in the fall and fell back into my strict Dove Chocolate and McDonald’s diet fairly quickly. This time, however, I have made my intentions public. Now I have lots of people asking me about my progress, which should help keep me motivated.

Of course, “should” was the operative word in the last sentence. I’ll likely need something more concrete to keep me motivated. Shoes, maybe? Clothing? A massage? Hmmm…my wonderful, kind, gorgeous, generous husband gave me a gift card for a hot stone massage for Christmas. While my first thought was that hot stones ostensibly indicate some sort of medieval branding ritual Queen Mary used on her non-Catholic countrymen in the late 1500’s, my friends assure me that a hot stone massage is a very pleasant experience. This may be just the time to try this out....

Having a Bad Day?

There's a list of stunningly bad similes floating around our English Department. One of them descibes a man falling from a building and "hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup." Now there's a bit of imagery for you.

This simile is the first thing I thought of when a friend of mine emailed me an amazing story about a repairman who fell sixty feet from a cell tower. The doctors and nurses thought they'd never be able to "put the peas back in the pea soup," if I may. Yet, after many surgeries, steel rods in his back, and months and months of intensive therapy, he pulled through. When asked about his amazing recovery, he responded, "I knew I could choose to live or choose to die. I chose to live. I approach every day that way: I can choose to have a good day or choose to have a bad day. I find it's always best to opt for the positive."

You have to admit, though, no one would fault the guy if he was a little less than cheerful after a fall like that. (I get weepy just thinking about chipping my pedicure or passing gas in public. If I did both at the same time, I'd likely be hospitalized and on oxygen.)

Yet, cheerful he was! When he was rushed into the ER, doctors and nurses were huddled around him. One asked whether he was allergic to anything. His raspy response?? "Gravity."

Okay, if Hefty Humpty can crack jokes in the midst of crisis, you'd think it would be a no-brainer for us ALL to see the positive in our lives and choose to have a good day, right? After all, when we choose to have a bad day or to look at things in a negative light, it is really only ourselves who suffer. Right? Right?

All of this brings me to the subject of seasonal blues. About this time every year, I get all fidgetty and grumpy and tend to see more negative and less positive. There's something of a let down immediately following January 1st and the months of Chicago's cold darkness that follows. The snow and cold --which were magical during the holidays-- now just seem like dirty slush through which we must wade. Warm sunshine? It's a distant memory. And don't even get me started on the January and February credit card bills. Oy.

You know these feelings?

Then, you know how you tell yourself how you should count your blessings, things could be worse, you're lucky you aren't a nose-diving Hefty bag full of minestrone, blah, blah, blah?

Still, seeing the positive is easier said than done. It may help to hear about an ACTUAL BAD DAY. It's always better to have some sort of specific contrast, right? Thus, I offer for you a DAY YOU ARE GLAD IS NOT YOURS. This may help you to see how lucky you are...even when the temperature is hovering in the teens and you haven't seen sunlight in weeks.

Actual Bad Day: (You might want to grab a tissue...and your favorite hair product.) A foreign exchange student visiting our school from Spain (picture Fez from That 70's Show) was in America for exactly one day. He took a morning shower in his host family's bathroom, probably excited to meet students from a new country. He grabs the shampoo and lathers up. Virtually everything in America is written in English and Spanish. Everything except Nair. The poor kid depilatoried his head. He said he thought the "shampoo" smelled unusual, but he just chalked it up to a new American scent. His hair melted to his scalp. Want to know how to fix a head of long, thick, black hair Naired into a frizzled pouf? You can't. You have to shave it all off. The poor kid wanted to fly back home to Spain but, after thinking about parading his sudden baldness in front of strangers in a foreign land or in front of his friends back home, he opted to spend the next six weeks wearing a ski hat amongst strangers and completing his foreign exchange.

I know, I know...I am petting my hair and crying, too.... But doesn't your day seem better??

Even Sigourney Got Bit...

...by the alien. You know how alligators lock their jaws on their prey, rolling their struggling victims along the water's bottom until dinner gives up and ceases to fight? Well, if the flu was an alligator, I was the prey caught in its death roll.

Luckily, I smoked it with my increased fluids, hours of bed rest, and antibacterial cleansers.

Suck it, flu.

The Flu-Fighters

Like Sigourney Weaver wielding her make-shift flamethrower against a malevolent extraterrestrial creature in the 1979 sci-fi film Alien, I have armed myself with bleach water and sponges against the evil stomach flu that has attacked my family. I’ve also smeared black eye liner under my eyes and tied a ripped bandana around my forehead Rambo- style, so the virus knows I mean business. Every time bodily fluids are expelled (at force) over sheets, the bathroom floor, or the toilet, I grimace and mutter, “Eat this, you bastard,” while destroying the microscopic alien flu virus with my lethal bleach concoction. I am only minutes away from going completely McGyver and turning the Lysol canister into a flame thrower. (Actually, I saw on Mythbusters that using aerosol cans as flame throwing devices usually results in explosions, so children? Do not try that at home.)

The Super Bowl party we had planned for Sunday has been officially cancelled. Our guests need to save themselves. Meanwhile, I? Am going in. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find me, then maybe I can help you…I am A-Mom.

(Bonus points for anyone else who can combine 80’s trivia with fighting the flu.)

Actually, I've also glued on a fake mustache, started sporting hawaiian print shirts, and driving a red Ferrari 308 GTS so I can go incognito in my quest to save the world from flu. Below is a home video. The fake chest hair? Itchier than one would have thought. (And you thought I would be Higgins, didn't you?)

Clearly, People Were Not Listening...

...to a post I wrote last week.

Russian Obama Stacking Dolls?

Try to keep your eyes from rolling straight back into your brain.

However, these dolls in no way compare to these "extraordinary gifts for your home." Kuj found these and, I'm fairly certain, is STILL howling with laughter.

Insert the Jimmy Choo's

You know that feeling you get when you start an anecdote you THINK a group of people will appreciate, but part way through your tale you realize that they are looking at you quizzically, clearly unimpressed with your story, and maybe a little put off? But you are already part way through the story and it feels awkward to simply stop, so you continue speaking, even though you desperately don’t want to? So, faced with indecision, you continue telling your crappy anecdote, only you speed up the pace because you want the torture to end? And you become even more animated because—well, damn!—they’ve just got to see the humor in the story at some point? And then, against all rational thought, you begin adding exaggerated facial gestures and hand gesticulations in a final desperate attempt to win your audience over to your side?

You know that feeling?

That’s the feeling I had when I tried to explain to my Creative Writing class why I had a deep fear of poetry for a number of years after high school.

And now? I have a deep fear of public speaking.

From now on, I will only communicate with people through grunts and clicks.

(Oh well. It could be worse. I could have done this while wearing my thong inside out with the leg hole around my waist…Cheryl.)

Spring Cleaning

There is an OBAMA LAVA LAMP??

People, I am just as excited to see a change in administration as the next person, but this flood of kitsch Obama-related knickknacks has. got. to. stop. The multitude of Obama memorabilia has reminded me yet again why baseball cards are single-handedly responsible for the clutter in people homes.

(Side note: Why isn’t anyone/anything ever double-handedly responsible? The phrase “single-handedly responsible” seems to place a great deal of unnecessary blame on people missing a limb. You know what that is? Prejudice. And I will have no part in that. From here on out, responsibility knows no number of limbs in my vocabulary! Hazzah!)

I have seen enough Clean House episodes to know that people often hang on to things they don’t need because they believe that these items will be of value some day. You know why this is, right? Because someone once decided that he would pay an astronomical amount of money for an original Babe Ruth baseball card, even though a brand new exact replica of that Babe Ruth baseball card could be created for a handful of pennies. (Which is in no way similar to paying top dollar for a pair of Jimmy Choo’s, so don’t even go there…Sue…Denise….) And so a culture of clutter was born.

The truth is that 99.9% of the junk we keep in our closets, basements, and attics is just that: junk. It is the detritus of our lives and the lives of our family members who think they are doing us a favor by donating to us the things they are afraid to throw away themselves. My guess is that people purchasing the Obama Lava Lamp must think that these floating wax blobs hovering mere inches over a light bulb with a plastic presidential seal of our new president plastered to the base will eventually be worth something some day.

It won’t.

(And if it is, then my vintage Jimmy Choo’s better wipe the floor with your presidential lava lamp.)

This means twenty years from now two people will stand over a box of soon-to-be refuse in their basement trying to decide whether they should keep or toss the dusty Obama-fire-hazard-in-waiting-lamp. And you know what they will probably decide to do? They will probably decide to give it to their kids because they won’t want to throw away a perfectly good lava lamp. And these people will probably be my in-laws.

Crap.

Things You Shouldn't Discuss....

There are two things you aren’t supposed to discuss in mixed company: politics and religion.

(Ironically, that leaves hyper-realistic descriptions of personal illnesses wide open, which explains some of those Christmas letters I get from relatives with long narratives documenting their various surgeries. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone sends me holiday themed x-rays next year.)

However, after yesterday’s inauguration, politics is a steak served well done. This leaves religion wide open. So, here I go….

Sometimes-- when there’s too much to do and not enough time, when the paperwork on my desk threatens to topple me, when my students are a little too pushy, when the laundry pile approaches knee height, when my husband is a little too grumpy, and when my children are a little too talkative—I wonder if I mightn’t become a nun.

(I should pause while my sister-in-law, Michelle, chokes on her cabernet as she reads this.)

One of my harried coworkers and I came up with a list of reasons yesterday why being a nun is appealing.

Here’s the draw:

*We look good in black.

*We like to wear hats.

*Nuns have a lot of “quiet time.”

*No need to worry about financial issues.

*Nuns get to meditate.

*According to films involving nuns, we would be able to fight crime. (I don’t know why nuns fight crime when people in the law enforcement profession seem to have that covered, but you can only watch so many films involving nuns solving mysteries before one starts to wonder if there isn’t something to that.)

*Lots of reading time.

*International travel to Rome every once in a while.

*We are pretty sure that there would be a lot of freebies. There’s a good chance the baristas at Starbucks might just comp us our tall mochas.


The thing is, I couldn’t be part of those convents that take a vow of silence. I mean, I could maybe pull that off for a day or two, but I know I’d start whispering things about organizing a writing club, or arranging for facials and make-overs. The real kicker, however, is that I can’t sing. Every film I have ever seen involving one of those crime-stopping, mystery-solving women of the cloth has the nuns singing. The fact that I can’t sing, not to mention my inability to keep silent for longer than four minutes and my happily married state, are probably deal breakers for joining a convent.

But I might just rent the costume for my next trip to Starbucks.