Thursday, March 29, 2012
Blog Pause a.k.a. My Laptop Bit the Dust a.k.a WAAAAAAHHHHH!!!
Pretty much, the title says it all. Due to unforeseen circumstances, (my laptop bit the dust, kicked the bucket, went off to that cattle ranch in the sky, croaked, crapped out, flatlined, and otherwise bit the bullet), I am currently at a blog pause. I will resume writing as soon as the laptop is repaired/replaced/given a spanking it so richly deserves... Until then, bear with me.....
Monday, March 19, 2012
Maddie Vs. the Grill a.k.a. Attack Of The Killer Grill a.k.a. They Always Come Back a.k.a. The Grillinator
So far I have covered many of the human DTRJH? moments I have experienced. This time, I have to cover some of the dog moments. Because they have these moments too, whether or not we realize it. Dogs are people too, just in furrier bodies. And then, mostly just 'cause some of us wax. But that's another subject. (My daughter does this for a living and the stories I could tell...) Tangent over. Moving on.
So I have made mention in the 'About Me' that I currently live with two dogs, one is my daughter's and one is my own. Maddie, my daughter's dog, in human form would be Pee Wee Herman and Lou Costello's love child. No, I'm not sure how this would work either, but trust me, if you ever met her, you would believe me. She is the most hyper dog I've ever been around (though thankfully some of that has finally ebbed with age). She used to act as if she'd just eaten a giant bag of Skittles and chased it with a 32 ounce Red Bull and Mountain Dew chaser. It's awesome. Her response to everything is, "You wanna play?"
Me: Maddie, Do you want to go out?
Maddie: You wanna play?
Me: Are you hungry? Do you want dinner?
Maddie: You wanna play?
Me: Maddie, sit. Sit, Maddie. SIT!
Maddie: What's that? You wanna play?
Me: Maddie, who did that on the carpet?
Maddie: Dunno. Here's the rope. Wanna play?
You get the point. Combined with this vivaciousness and effervescent joy, is the sweetest spirit you ever met. Overall, she's a nice dog. A nitwit and a lamebrain, but a nice, loving, kind, dog. And a coward. With a capital C, that rhymes with the pee that she just took on the rug...
So, think, 'Hey Aaaaabbooootttt! Th-th-there's a ghost!!' mixed with, Pee Wee's Playhouse and you get the drift.
Now, having set you up, I will proceed to tell you the story that, if I hadn't witnessed with my own eyes, I NEVER would have believed. Though I laughed 'til I peed, then Maddie said, "Mommy, who did that on the carpet? Here's a rope, wanna play?"
One summer day, I let Maddie out and went about my business in the house. A few minutes later I heard her barking. Not the, 'I'm bored, can I please come in, so I can ask you to let me out in another ten seconds,' kind of bark I am used to. This was a panicked bark. A call for help. For the police. The National Guard. The MOMMY!
I raced to her assistance, whereupon I found Maddie standing in the middle of the yard, all her fur on end, a look of terror upon her face, but still attached to her leash. The problem was, her leash was attached to the charcoal grill and every time she moved, the grill (which was on wheels) moved with her. Now, I instantly realized what was going through Maddie's tiny little terror stricken brain. 'The grill is chasing me. The grill is chasing me. MY GOD, THE GRILL IS CHASING ME!!!'
Naturally, I hurried toward her with the intent of rescuing her from said grill. But sadly, that was not to be. Maddie, who now saw The Mommy, saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and she fully intended to embrace it. With every ounce of her will, she struck out towards the deck, madly racing. Meanwhile, the grill, still tightly clinging to her leash, bumped and rattled after her, keeping up with her, every step of the way.
Okay, even I was amazed. What I wouldn't have done for a video camera at that moment. And, if I were to be completely honest, there are times when I have considered resetting the stage and reenacting the moment, if only to record it, but I don't think poor Maddie's heart could take the strain.
Okay, so back to the Dog Eating Grill.
Maddie raced on, casting glances over her shoulder every few steps, only to find to her ultimate terror that the grill was still hot on her tail. (literally: hot grill, her tail, hahaha, I kill me....) She looked again, and this time I think she was convinced it was gaining on her, because she then put on a burst of speed and agility I never thought her capable of. She flew the last few feet toward the deck, then leaped, like a gazelle I might add, over the steps and landed (SAFE!) on the deck.
The problem was, the grill by this point had already picked up some momentum. It bobbled and jerked the last few feet, smacked heartily into the steps, and with a resounding BANG, crashed onto the deck, whereupon the lid flipped open, just barely missing Maddie.
I'm still surprised she didn't faint like one of those highly entertaining fainting goats. If you haven't seen one, let me tell you, you are depriving yourself of a deep belly laugh.
Instead, she plastered herself against the door and pleaded with me to please, please, PLEASE, let her in. Which of course I did.
For two years Maddie would NOT exit the domicile if the grill was even in her sight. Every time you opened the door, she slowly moved outside, looking left and right, waiting for the menace that was THE GRILL to come back for her.
I think she must have seen too many scary movies during my daughter's teen years. She knows how it works, Jason, Michael, Freddy, THE GRILL. They ALWAYS come back.
On a side note, my father in law recently moved in with us, bringing with him his gas grill which has taken up residence on the deck. I thought Maddie would be fine with it since it looked so different from the charcoal one. And she was. To a point.
One day, my husband went to get the gas can re-filled or whatever it is they do (I use charcoal, what the heck do I know?) and unthinkingly left the grill slightly askew on the deck. And I mean slightly. A few inches crooked from its usual position.
I let Maddie out. She took one look at the grill and said 'OH NO! We are NOT having this!' All her fur on end, she growled, yipped, and made a beeline straight back into the house.
I'm sure she was convinced, that not unlike the Terminator, THE GRILL had come back in a new, more advanced, liquid metal, shape-shifting form: The Grillinator. And she was having no part of it.
Apparently, you CAN teach an old, though slightly addle-brained, dog new tricks.
So I have made mention in the 'About Me' that I currently live with two dogs, one is my daughter's and one is my own. Maddie, my daughter's dog, in human form would be Pee Wee Herman and Lou Costello's love child. No, I'm not sure how this would work either, but trust me, if you ever met her, you would believe me. She is the most hyper dog I've ever been around (though thankfully some of that has finally ebbed with age). She used to act as if she'd just eaten a giant bag of Skittles and chased it with a 32 ounce Red Bull and Mountain Dew chaser. It's awesome. Her response to everything is, "You wanna play?"
Me: Maddie, Do you want to go out?
Maddie: You wanna play?
Me: Are you hungry? Do you want dinner?
Maddie: You wanna play?
Me: Maddie, sit. Sit, Maddie. SIT!
Maddie: What's that? You wanna play?
Me: Maddie, who did that on the carpet?
Maddie: Dunno. Here's the rope. Wanna play?
You get the point. Combined with this vivaciousness and effervescent joy, is the sweetest spirit you ever met. Overall, she's a nice dog. A nitwit and a lamebrain, but a nice, loving, kind, dog. And a coward. With a capital C, that rhymes with the pee that she just took on the rug...
So, think, 'Hey Aaaaabbooootttt! Th-th-there's a ghost!!' mixed with, Pee Wee's Playhouse and you get the drift.
Now, having set you up, I will proceed to tell you the story that, if I hadn't witnessed with my own eyes, I NEVER would have believed. Though I laughed 'til I peed, then Maddie said, "Mommy, who did that on the carpet? Here's a rope, wanna play?"
One summer day, I let Maddie out and went about my business in the house. A few minutes later I heard her barking. Not the, 'I'm bored, can I please come in, so I can ask you to let me out in another ten seconds,' kind of bark I am used to. This was a panicked bark. A call for help. For the police. The National Guard. The MOMMY!
I raced to her assistance, whereupon I found Maddie standing in the middle of the yard, all her fur on end, a look of terror upon her face, but still attached to her leash. The problem was, her leash was attached to the charcoal grill and every time she moved, the grill (which was on wheels) moved with her. Now, I instantly realized what was going through Maddie's tiny little terror stricken brain. 'The grill is chasing me. The grill is chasing me. MY GOD, THE GRILL IS CHASING ME!!!'
Naturally, I hurried toward her with the intent of rescuing her from said grill. But sadly, that was not to be. Maddie, who now saw The Mommy, saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and she fully intended to embrace it. With every ounce of her will, she struck out towards the deck, madly racing. Meanwhile, the grill, still tightly clinging to her leash, bumped and rattled after her, keeping up with her, every step of the way.
Okay, even I was amazed. What I wouldn't have done for a video camera at that moment. And, if I were to be completely honest, there are times when I have considered resetting the stage and reenacting the moment, if only to record it, but I don't think poor Maddie's heart could take the strain.
Okay, so back to the Dog Eating Grill.
Maddie raced on, casting glances over her shoulder every few steps, only to find to her ultimate terror that the grill was still hot on her tail. (literally: hot grill, her tail, hahaha, I kill me....) She looked again, and this time I think she was convinced it was gaining on her, because she then put on a burst of speed and agility I never thought her capable of. She flew the last few feet toward the deck, then leaped, like a gazelle I might add, over the steps and landed (SAFE!) on the deck.
The problem was, the grill by this point had already picked up some momentum. It bobbled and jerked the last few feet, smacked heartily into the steps, and with a resounding BANG, crashed onto the deck, whereupon the lid flipped open, just barely missing Maddie.
I'm still surprised she didn't faint like one of those highly entertaining fainting goats. If you haven't seen one, let me tell you, you are depriving yourself of a deep belly laugh.
Instead, she plastered herself against the door and pleaded with me to please, please, PLEASE, let her in. Which of course I did.
For two years Maddie would NOT exit the domicile if the grill was even in her sight. Every time you opened the door, she slowly moved outside, looking left and right, waiting for the menace that was THE GRILL to come back for her.
I think she must have seen too many scary movies during my daughter's teen years. She knows how it works, Jason, Michael, Freddy, THE GRILL. They ALWAYS come back.
On a side note, my father in law recently moved in with us, bringing with him his gas grill which has taken up residence on the deck. I thought Maddie would be fine with it since it looked so different from the charcoal one. And she was. To a point.
One day, my husband went to get the gas can re-filled or whatever it is they do (I use charcoal, what the heck do I know?) and unthinkingly left the grill slightly askew on the deck. And I mean slightly. A few inches crooked from its usual position.
I let Maddie out. She took one look at the grill and said 'OH NO! We are NOT having this!' All her fur on end, she growled, yipped, and made a beeline straight back into the house.
I'm sure she was convinced, that not unlike the Terminator, THE GRILL had come back in a new, more advanced, liquid metal, shape-shifting form: The Grillinator. And she was having no part of it.
Apparently, you CAN teach an old, though slightly addle-brained, dog new tricks.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Johnny Loves Hair a.k.a. Janie Loves Karate a.k.a. Jujubee Coif a.k.a Mustard Lockdown a.k.a Other Various Randomness
Kids. Gotta love 'em. Illegal to kill 'em. Even when they deserve it. Not saying that mine ever did. But really, haven't there been times, when everyone has felt the sudden compulsion to beat little Johnny or Janie to death with his/her own parent? Like for instance when you are in the supermarket, and little Johnny is screaming up and down the aisle that he wants Candy! CANDY! CANNNNDYYYY!!!
Or while in the waiting room of your doctor's office and little Janie (whom you just met) is asking you incessant questions in her garbled tongue while wiping her snot bubbles on you and loading your lap down with books, blocks, and other paraphernalia she finds about the office, all the while your head is pounding with a raging migraine caused by the Asiatic flu turned pneumonia, and Janie's mommy is too busy texting her friends to take any note of what her little darling is doing.
Okay. Having said that, I will now continue with my Did This Really Just Happen? And yes, to answer the question, yes it did. I was at the theater, with my family, sitting back and just waiting to get through the three dozen commercials (By the way, when did they start playing commercials at the theater? I thought that was reserved for television? You mean with the astronomical ticket prices, not to mention the fact that you have to take out a second mortgage if you want a coke and some popcorn, the theaters STILL aren't making enough money and have to rely on commercials to keep the lights on?? Come on!), anyway, tangent aside, awaiting the end of the three dozen commercials and previews (by which time I had forgotten what I had come to see) so that the movie could start. Meanwhile, the theater was starting to fill up with all the late-comers. By fill up, I mean, the original twelve or so people that were initially present had now doubled to twenty-four or so. Not exactly a blockbuster movie, as you may have guessed.
Now, personally, I think there is a certain etiquette to seat placement regarding movie going. I know that I am probably the only one who thinks this, judging by all the experiences I have had in the past, but to me, if the theater seats a couple hundred people, and there are only twenty of those seats in use, there is absolutely NO reason to sit directly beside, behind, or in front of someone. In a half empty (to mostly empty in this case) theater, one should place a minimum of three rows between other theater-goers. And it's first come, first served. If you lost your preferred spot because you were late, too bad. Move on. Maybe that's just me, but that's how I feel. Spread out folks, there's plenty of room.
For whatever reason, the little family that then entered the theater, mommy plus two, felt compelled to sit directly behind us. Now I would like to say I was magnanimous enough to not have any reservations, but past experiences led me to believe that this was gonna be a problem. And I was right. At least I was prepared.
Little Johnny and Janie were placed in the seat directly behind me. Two of them. In the same seat. Squashed together. Behind ME. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Whoopee!
At first everything was fine. There were occasional murmurs from J1 or J2, with mommy properly shushing them, then silence for a few minutes, before the murmuring began again. I was just starting to get adept at tuning them out, (motherhood prepares you for all things) when I suddenly felt a tug on my hair.
Certain that this was an accident, I ignored it. Until it happened again. And again. And again. After the fifth time, I leaned forward and made a point of pulling my hair (which was as usual bound in a ponytail) over my shoulder to prevent any further invasion of my personal space.
There it was again. Tug. Tug. Tug. TUG!
Still, unwilling to make a scene, most especially one that would involve a poorly reared small child of approximately five years of age, I leaned forward, and this time tucked my hair into the back of my shirt.
Slllliiiiip. There went my hair. Pulled from captivity, back in the sticky, melting Milk Dud laden, fingers of the five year old. Not certain if this was J1 or J2, and not particularly caring, I merely turned to make eye contact with the mother, while at the same time, tucking my hair back into my shirt.
Seconds later, my pony tail was once more in the sticky grasp of one of the J's. (By the way, in case anyone has their doubts, up to this point, there is NO exaggeration in this story. Sad but true.) I turned once more to make eye contact with mommy, removing my hair from its gooey prison a second time, then pulled a melted milk ball out of my head and handed it to her. (Okay, slight exaggeration there, there was no milk ball, just the sticky remnants of one, therefore, nothing to hand to mommy, but I think she got the hint in my glare and the fact that I was attempting to pick the residue out of my hair.).
Mommy smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. He just loves hair."
I get that. Lots of kids love hair. And it's perfectly fine for them to love mommy's hair and grandma's hair and sister's hair. It is NOT okay to love stranger's hair. And this might be an appropriate time to give little Johnny that life lesson.
But not so.
While little Johnny continued to celebrate his hair fetish, my up-do was quickly becoming a repository for all of his candy, not to mention, his slobber...
I wanted to say, "Rename him Francisco, buy him his own salon, and tell him to get his sticky fingers out of my hair! Just a suggestion." But of course, I said nothing.
So J1 continued to molest my mane, while mommy continued to ignore it. That's when J2 got bored and began swinging her feet. Bam. Bam. Bam. Right in my tail bone. Bam, bam, BAM!
Bam! Tug! Bam! Pull! Wham! Yank! I must have looked like I was having seizures to the other patrons, because every few seconds I would leap up in my seat or my head would suddenly jerk backwards or sideways for no apparent reason. I was having soooo much fun. And mommy said NOTHING.
Because after all, little Johnny loves hair. And apparently little Janie loves karate.
I don't even know what was on the screen. But I do know what size shoes J2 wears, and exactly how many times J1 has "brushed" my hair. Worth the seven dollar matinee fee, wouldn't you say?
When I finally left the theater, my tail bone was screaming and I had Twizzlers, Jujubees, and Milk Duds sticking out of all angles of my head. I guess I should be grateful there were no snot bubbles.
On an entirely different topic, and because I just LOVE being random, I had to laugh, because I just saw one of the all time best Did This Really Just Happen? moments on FB. My step-daughter's high school reportedly went on lock down because, "the Fed Ex guy spilled a 'hazardous material' in his truck while he was parked at the school... which turned out to be middle eastern mustard." WOW. After I finished laughing (especially about all the predictable but still hilariously funny mustard gas comments posted after), I realized, maybe Jujubee Coif isn't so bad. Middle eastern mustard lock-down has GOT to suck. With any luck the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile is on it's way!!
And lastly, because I am a random type person, and I found this to be a random type day, I must include the news highlights that were on my homepage. "Coach bites off winner's ear," (when did Mike Tyson become a coach?) followed by, "Lesbian gets denied communion," (there are way TOO many untouchables in this particular story, so I am just going to say, you could kinda see that one coming, right? I mean, it reads like, Jewish man denied membership to the KKK, just one of those things that you read and go, 'Well, duh.' ) From a source that advertises itself as 'first in news and analysis,' I was expecting something more earth shattering, or enlightening, or maybe even less obvious. This was the most compelling story they could highlight? I mean, I'm not saying that it's not important, but with everything that's going on in the world right now, I'm not sure that this is what I would call headline news. I was hoping for something bigger, something that might affect everyone (like the gas prices... don't even get me started on that one). Instead, I got, "Now your breath can charge your phone." Really?? THIS is the important news of the day? REALLY??
This is why I used to text my kids on their birthdays (which I really need to start doing again), telling them the most random things that had occurred on their special day. The winner (so far) was the day some idiot tried to hold up a local gas station, and while on the way out the door, tried to play mister cool and shoved the pistol down the front of his pants, scarring him for life. And I DO mean Lorena Bobbit type scarrage. This occurred on one of my son's birthdays. SOOOO much fun texting him that one....
So, in conclusion, I guess it's fair to say, that we all have our crosses to bear, be they made of middle eastern mustard, ears and communion and breath-charging phones, or Jujubee hair. It's all good.
Or while in the waiting room of your doctor's office and little Janie (whom you just met) is asking you incessant questions in her garbled tongue while wiping her snot bubbles on you and loading your lap down with books, blocks, and other paraphernalia she finds about the office, all the while your head is pounding with a raging migraine caused by the Asiatic flu turned pneumonia, and Janie's mommy is too busy texting her friends to take any note of what her little darling is doing.
Okay. Having said that, I will now continue with my Did This Really Just Happen? And yes, to answer the question, yes it did. I was at the theater, with my family, sitting back and just waiting to get through the three dozen commercials (By the way, when did they start playing commercials at the theater? I thought that was reserved for television? You mean with the astronomical ticket prices, not to mention the fact that you have to take out a second mortgage if you want a coke and some popcorn, the theaters STILL aren't making enough money and have to rely on commercials to keep the lights on?? Come on!), anyway, tangent aside, awaiting the end of the three dozen commercials and previews (by which time I had forgotten what I had come to see) so that the movie could start. Meanwhile, the theater was starting to fill up with all the late-comers. By fill up, I mean, the original twelve or so people that were initially present had now doubled to twenty-four or so. Not exactly a blockbuster movie, as you may have guessed.
Now, personally, I think there is a certain etiquette to seat placement regarding movie going. I know that I am probably the only one who thinks this, judging by all the experiences I have had in the past, but to me, if the theater seats a couple hundred people, and there are only twenty of those seats in use, there is absolutely NO reason to sit directly beside, behind, or in front of someone. In a half empty (to mostly empty in this case) theater, one should place a minimum of three rows between other theater-goers. And it's first come, first served. If you lost your preferred spot because you were late, too bad. Move on. Maybe that's just me, but that's how I feel. Spread out folks, there's plenty of room.
For whatever reason, the little family that then entered the theater, mommy plus two, felt compelled to sit directly behind us. Now I would like to say I was magnanimous enough to not have any reservations, but past experiences led me to believe that this was gonna be a problem. And I was right. At least I was prepared.
Little Johnny and Janie were placed in the seat directly behind me. Two of them. In the same seat. Squashed together. Behind ME. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Whoopee!
At first everything was fine. There were occasional murmurs from J1 or J2, with mommy properly shushing them, then silence for a few minutes, before the murmuring began again. I was just starting to get adept at tuning them out, (motherhood prepares you for all things) when I suddenly felt a tug on my hair.
Certain that this was an accident, I ignored it. Until it happened again. And again. And again. After the fifth time, I leaned forward and made a point of pulling my hair (which was as usual bound in a ponytail) over my shoulder to prevent any further invasion of my personal space.
There it was again. Tug. Tug. Tug. TUG!
Still, unwilling to make a scene, most especially one that would involve a poorly reared small child of approximately five years of age, I leaned forward, and this time tucked my hair into the back of my shirt.
Slllliiiiip. There went my hair. Pulled from captivity, back in the sticky, melting Milk Dud laden, fingers of the five year old. Not certain if this was J1 or J2, and not particularly caring, I merely turned to make eye contact with the mother, while at the same time, tucking my hair back into my shirt.
Seconds later, my pony tail was once more in the sticky grasp of one of the J's. (By the way, in case anyone has their doubts, up to this point, there is NO exaggeration in this story. Sad but true.) I turned once more to make eye contact with mommy, removing my hair from its gooey prison a second time, then pulled a melted milk ball out of my head and handed it to her. (Okay, slight exaggeration there, there was no milk ball, just the sticky remnants of one, therefore, nothing to hand to mommy, but I think she got the hint in my glare and the fact that I was attempting to pick the residue out of my hair.).
Mommy smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. He just loves hair."
I get that. Lots of kids love hair. And it's perfectly fine for them to love mommy's hair and grandma's hair and sister's hair. It is NOT okay to love stranger's hair. And this might be an appropriate time to give little Johnny that life lesson.
But not so.
While little Johnny continued to celebrate his hair fetish, my up-do was quickly becoming a repository for all of his candy, not to mention, his slobber...
I wanted to say, "Rename him Francisco, buy him his own salon, and tell him to get his sticky fingers out of my hair! Just a suggestion." But of course, I said nothing.
So J1 continued to molest my mane, while mommy continued to ignore it. That's when J2 got bored and began swinging her feet. Bam. Bam. Bam. Right in my tail bone. Bam, bam, BAM!
Bam! Tug! Bam! Pull! Wham! Yank! I must have looked like I was having seizures to the other patrons, because every few seconds I would leap up in my seat or my head would suddenly jerk backwards or sideways for no apparent reason. I was having soooo much fun. And mommy said NOTHING.
Because after all, little Johnny loves hair. And apparently little Janie loves karate.
I don't even know what was on the screen. But I do know what size shoes J2 wears, and exactly how many times J1 has "brushed" my hair. Worth the seven dollar matinee fee, wouldn't you say?
When I finally left the theater, my tail bone was screaming and I had Twizzlers, Jujubees, and Milk Duds sticking out of all angles of my head. I guess I should be grateful there were no snot bubbles.
On an entirely different topic, and because I just LOVE being random, I had to laugh, because I just saw one of the all time best Did This Really Just Happen? moments on FB. My step-daughter's high school reportedly went on lock down because, "the Fed Ex guy spilled a 'hazardous material' in his truck while he was parked at the school... which turned out to be middle eastern mustard." WOW. After I finished laughing (especially about all the predictable but still hilariously funny mustard gas comments posted after), I realized, maybe Jujubee Coif isn't so bad. Middle eastern mustard lock-down has GOT to suck. With any luck the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile is on it's way!!
And lastly, because I am a random type person, and I found this to be a random type day, I must include the news highlights that were on my homepage. "Coach bites off winner's ear," (when did Mike Tyson become a coach?) followed by, "Lesbian gets denied communion," (there are way TOO many untouchables in this particular story, so I am just going to say, you could kinda see that one coming, right? I mean, it reads like, Jewish man denied membership to the KKK, just one of those things that you read and go, 'Well, duh.' ) From a source that advertises itself as 'first in news and analysis,' I was expecting something more earth shattering, or enlightening, or maybe even less obvious. This was the most compelling story they could highlight? I mean, I'm not saying that it's not important, but with everything that's going on in the world right now, I'm not sure that this is what I would call headline news. I was hoping for something bigger, something that might affect everyone (like the gas prices... don't even get me started on that one). Instead, I got, "Now your breath can charge your phone." Really?? THIS is the important news of the day? REALLY??
This is why I used to text my kids on their birthdays (which I really need to start doing again), telling them the most random things that had occurred on their special day. The winner (so far) was the day some idiot tried to hold up a local gas station, and while on the way out the door, tried to play mister cool and shoved the pistol down the front of his pants, scarring him for life. And I DO mean Lorena Bobbit type scarrage. This occurred on one of my son's birthdays. SOOOO much fun texting him that one....
So, in conclusion, I guess it's fair to say, that we all have our crosses to bear, be they made of middle eastern mustard, ears and communion and breath-charging phones, or Jujubee hair. It's all good.
Friday, March 9, 2012
AA For Donkeys a.k.a Spelling For Dummies a.k.a. Leering Jeering Clowns (What Were They Thinking??)
First, let me apologize for my disappearance over the last two weeks. Blog ideas have been rambling about in my brain, but life got in the way of my actually getting them from brain to keyboard. That and a cold from hell which left me blind on one side for several days... I blame that on my son.... So, please accept my apologies, (and his), and read on, MacDuff....
I have a very quirky sense of humor, and sometimes even the slightest things can make me laugh. For example, when I'm driving down the highway and see a huge sign advertising, "Donkeys For Sale," this really tickles my funny bone. Don't know why. But then, when months later, I am traveling down the same highway, and find the same sign, though this time with the 'S' missing, I REALLY have to guffaw. Whole new connotation here. "Donkeys For Ale." This instantly brings two thoughts to mind. The first, the donkey farmer (rancher?) must be really hurting for a good drink when he's willing to make such and upside-down trade. The second, the option that had me giggling, chuckling, and chortling for at least the next mile, was a twisted version of Orwell's Animal Farm, in which a congress of donkeys are sitting around huge plank tables and voting on the merits of ale. Nine out of ten were for it, (thus the sign). The last abstained from the vote as part of his twelve step program.
Then there was the day I walked into an elementary school classroom and happened upon a hand-made sign, created BY the teacher, which stated, "Classroom Schedual." Apparently, there would be two activities occurring simultaneously throughout the day. Just try and keep up. To me, this would only have been funnier had it read "Classroom Scheduel," in which we could have employed pistols at dawn in order to determine the duration of recess. Awesome! (If you think I am being too critical, let me remind you, she is TEACHING the elementary students basic math, grammar, and spelling- I would think the word "schedule" would be part of this. Maybe they hadn't come to that page yet....) (And further, in my defense, once I had gained control over my snickering, I very discreetly pointed out this mistake to the teacher, whose only response was, and I quote, "I was never very good at spelling." The sign remained until sometime later in the year, when I could no longer stand it, and I replaced it myself.)
Speaking of homemade signs, (and just a disclaimer here, if you KNOW you suck at spelling, then STOP making homemade signs- your magic marker does not have a spell check,) I recently saw another one that caused me some tittering. The sign, found mounted over the toilet in a doctor's office, read, "Please Do Not Flush Anything Down The Toilet But Tissure Paper, It Will Clog The Toilet." Tissure? What the heck is tissure?? Did I drive further south than I thought and land someplace where even the signs have accents? And before you hate me for the southern jokes, please remember I COULD stoop lower than that. After all, "tissure" is awfully close to "fissure" which opens up a WHOLE lotta crack jokes. And I didn't go there. I want credit.
Then there is the strip club in town which is famous (or should I say infamous?) for the weekly signs the 'exotic' dancers put out. It's one of those light up signs that you put the letters on, and every week or so they change the sign. One of my favorites was, "Highly Educated Intelligent Grils Will Dance For You." Of course, aside from the obvious fact that none of the clientele cares about whether or not these "grils" have a diploma, there is the oxymoron of the message itself, "intelligent grils." Evidently they employed a dictionary when it came to the big words, but overlooked the fact that they were going to struggle with the little words as well. Apparently, when it came time for the graduation tassels, they asked for two for a reason...
But my twisted sense of humor is not limited to spelling errors and signs. Restaurants bring out their own grand version of humor for me. Like the day I pulled up to the Burger King and saw a hearse parked right at the entrance. Immediately my brain chimed, "The king is dead! Long live the King!" (That was a horrible mascot anyway. Really, who didn't get nightmares from that scary-ass man? Whoever created the "King" has got to be out of a job, they are obviously not even bright enough to work on the line flipping burgers.)
Or, the time I saw the tractor (think farm tractor with engine removed) being hauled by a pair of horses, parked outside a local pizza delivery joint. Apparently, they had hired a new driver. You get your pizza in three hours or less or the next one's free.
More recently I entered a restaurant and saw, behind the counter, mounted directly above a pyramid of stacked chocolate syrup cans, a wooden carving of the face of Jesus, complete with crown of thorns. This struck me as completely hilarious, and I wasn't sure if I was being blasphemous, or the restaurant was. I had to wonder, was the restaurant endorsing their particular religious beliefs, or was the Lord endorsing this particular brand of chocolate syrup? What are you trying to say here? This syrup is heavenly? Even God loves chocolate milk? For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that we might have syrup? My husband simplified it this way; Jesus: Got milk? He makes me laugh.
My all time favorite, was the time I was at an antique store and found a baby's bassinet. Not the pretty little white woven, lacy little frou-frou number you are no doubt picturing in your head. No this bassinet was made out of wood and built identically to a crib but smaller. It had been hand painted to mimic a hideous hobo clown, complete with footboard feet with the toes sticking out of his shoes. The headboard was a giant clown's head with big oogey-boogey eyes looking down, no doubt at the poor little tot who was trying to sleep, but instead was given a world full of nightmares. Has NO one read Stephen King's It? WHO would do this to a poor defenseless baby? The kid had to have grown up to be a paranoid schizophrenic suffering from chronic insomnia. Now we know what happened to baby Jane... Anyway, I took pictures of the thing and sent them to my kids as a visual reminder, that no matter how bad my parenting might have been, I never forced them to sleep cradled in the arms of some menacing, misanthropic, leering jester.
And I thought the Burger King was scary...
I have a very quirky sense of humor, and sometimes even the slightest things can make me laugh. For example, when I'm driving down the highway and see a huge sign advertising, "Donkeys For Sale," this really tickles my funny bone. Don't know why. But then, when months later, I am traveling down the same highway, and find the same sign, though this time with the 'S' missing, I REALLY have to guffaw. Whole new connotation here. "Donkeys For Ale." This instantly brings two thoughts to mind. The first, the donkey farmer (rancher?) must be really hurting for a good drink when he's willing to make such and upside-down trade. The second, the option that had me giggling, chuckling, and chortling for at least the next mile, was a twisted version of Orwell's Animal Farm, in which a congress of donkeys are sitting around huge plank tables and voting on the merits of ale. Nine out of ten were for it, (thus the sign). The last abstained from the vote as part of his twelve step program.
Then there was the day I walked into an elementary school classroom and happened upon a hand-made sign, created BY the teacher, which stated, "Classroom Schedual." Apparently, there would be two activities occurring simultaneously throughout the day. Just try and keep up. To me, this would only have been funnier had it read "Classroom Scheduel," in which we could have employed pistols at dawn in order to determine the duration of recess. Awesome! (If you think I am being too critical, let me remind you, she is TEACHING the elementary students basic math, grammar, and spelling- I would think the word "schedule" would be part of this. Maybe they hadn't come to that page yet....) (And further, in my defense, once I had gained control over my snickering, I very discreetly pointed out this mistake to the teacher, whose only response was, and I quote, "I was never very good at spelling." The sign remained until sometime later in the year, when I could no longer stand it, and I replaced it myself.)
Speaking of homemade signs, (and just a disclaimer here, if you KNOW you suck at spelling, then STOP making homemade signs- your magic marker does not have a spell check,) I recently saw another one that caused me some tittering. The sign, found mounted over the toilet in a doctor's office, read, "Please Do Not Flush Anything Down The Toilet But Tissure Paper, It Will Clog The Toilet." Tissure? What the heck is tissure?? Did I drive further south than I thought and land someplace where even the signs have accents? And before you hate me for the southern jokes, please remember I COULD stoop lower than that. After all, "tissure" is awfully close to "fissure" which opens up a WHOLE lotta crack jokes. And I didn't go there. I want credit.
Then there is the strip club in town which is famous (or should I say infamous?) for the weekly signs the 'exotic' dancers put out. It's one of those light up signs that you put the letters on, and every week or so they change the sign. One of my favorites was, "Highly Educated Intelligent Grils Will Dance For You." Of course, aside from the obvious fact that none of the clientele cares about whether or not these "grils" have a diploma, there is the oxymoron of the message itself, "intelligent grils." Evidently they employed a dictionary when it came to the big words, but overlooked the fact that they were going to struggle with the little words as well. Apparently, when it came time for the graduation tassels, they asked for two for a reason...
But my twisted sense of humor is not limited to spelling errors and signs. Restaurants bring out their own grand version of humor for me. Like the day I pulled up to the Burger King and saw a hearse parked right at the entrance. Immediately my brain chimed, "The king is dead! Long live the King!" (That was a horrible mascot anyway. Really, who didn't get nightmares from that scary-ass man? Whoever created the "King" has got to be out of a job, they are obviously not even bright enough to work on the line flipping burgers.)
Or, the time I saw the tractor (think farm tractor with engine removed) being hauled by a pair of horses, parked outside a local pizza delivery joint. Apparently, they had hired a new driver. You get your pizza in three hours or less or the next one's free.
More recently I entered a restaurant and saw, behind the counter, mounted directly above a pyramid of stacked chocolate syrup cans, a wooden carving of the face of Jesus, complete with crown of thorns. This struck me as completely hilarious, and I wasn't sure if I was being blasphemous, or the restaurant was. I had to wonder, was the restaurant endorsing their particular religious beliefs, or was the Lord endorsing this particular brand of chocolate syrup? What are you trying to say here? This syrup is heavenly? Even God loves chocolate milk? For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that we might have syrup? My husband simplified it this way; Jesus: Got milk? He makes me laugh.
My all time favorite, was the time I was at an antique store and found a baby's bassinet. Not the pretty little white woven, lacy little frou-frou number you are no doubt picturing in your head. No this bassinet was made out of wood and built identically to a crib but smaller. It had been hand painted to mimic a hideous hobo clown, complete with footboard feet with the toes sticking out of his shoes. The headboard was a giant clown's head with big oogey-boogey eyes looking down, no doubt at the poor little tot who was trying to sleep, but instead was given a world full of nightmares. Has NO one read Stephen King's It? WHO would do this to a poor defenseless baby? The kid had to have grown up to be a paranoid schizophrenic suffering from chronic insomnia. Now we know what happened to baby Jane... Anyway, I took pictures of the thing and sent them to my kids as a visual reminder, that no matter how bad my parenting might have been, I never forced them to sleep cradled in the arms of some menacing, misanthropic, leering jester.
And I thought the Burger King was scary...
Monday, February 20, 2012
Senior Citizen vs. Disembodied Voice aka Senior Citizen Zero, Disembodied Voice Three
This particular Did this really just happen? moment is one I am sure everyone can relate to. There was a time that the only automated voice you could expect to hear on the other side of a phone call was the time and temperature lady. Now, everything you call is automated. Having suffered the frustration more than once myself, I can say I understand the pain. The particular call I am about to relate was by far the worst/best example (depending on how you look at it) I have ever witnessed.
Recently, I was privy to this call:
Senior Citizen: Three attempts at dialing the correct number and then success! at last.
Disembodied Voice: Welcome! greeting, followed by list of options and a notification to speak your answers clearly.
SC: Three.
DV: Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name.
SC: Senior.
DV: I will- I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name. I will-
SC: SENIOR.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First-
SC: Indistinguishable mutters and curses. (As you can see, this is already going rapidly down hill.)
DV: May I have your FIRST name. I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example-
SC: Senior. S-e-
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the-
SC: Veins are beginning to bulge on the sides of his temples, a sheen of sweat is forming over his brow, and he is searching through his meds for a nerve pill.
DV: I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is John, you would say, 'John, J-o-h-n.' You may begin now.
SC: Having finally caught on, he is waiting to see if there is anything more before he speaks.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. You must first speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is Irene, you would say, 'Irene, I-r-e-n-e.' You may begin now.
(Yes, she gave different examples each time, way to invest the tax payer's money.)
SC: Senior. S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: Yes.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: YES!
DV: Okay, Senior. Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example-
SC: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: If your- I'm sorry. I didn't get that.
SC: More cursing.
DV: Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example, if your last name is Barrett, you would say, 'Barrett. B-a-r-r-e-t-t.' You may begin now.
(Does anyone REALLY NEED an example of how to spell their own name???)
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: I heard, Cititen, C-i-t-i-t-e-n. Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: I'm sorry. Let's try this again. You must speak your LAST name and then spell it-
(At this point I am starting to feel his aneurism. He is more than ten minutes into the phone call, and thanks to Miss Gabby-pants Auto-speak, he hasn't even gotten his name out yet.)
DV: You may begin now.
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-Z-e-n.
(Thank God his name isn't Ptolemy..... we'd be here until the next century.)
DV: I heard, 'Citizen, C-i-t-i-z-e-n.' Is that right?
CS: Yes.
DV: All right. We are halfway there.
(Halfway? You have a NAME and we are HALF way? Really??? You won't be asking much then will you?)
DV: Next, I will need your Social Security number. You may speak or dial the number in. You may begin now.
CS: Smartly chose the second option.
DV: All right. I have found you in our database. I will need to ask you a security question in order to verify your identity. You may speak the answer. What is your mother's maiden name? That means-
CS: Doe.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Let me return you to the main menu.
CS: NO, NO, NO!!!
(Apparently, there is a three strike rule. And he was outta there!)
CS: DISTINGUISHABLE cursing.
DV: Welcome, greeting, options list.
CS: Three.
(He's starting to sound a little weaker now. I think she broke him.)
DV: Blah, blah, blah, first name.
CS: (Very cautiously playing by the rules, he's already had his knuckles cracked once by the ruler toting nun of an automated voice.) Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: (Sounding happier, bubbly even. I know it's a robot, but I would swear she is thrilled to have him so cowed.) Blah, blah, blah, last name.
CS: (Still not taking any chances.) Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: Blah, blah, blah. What is your mother's maiden name? That means the name she had BEFORE she was married.
(REALLY? I did NOT know that. These examples are soooo helpful. I have to send them an e-mail and tell them to keep up the good work!)
DV: For example: if her name was Martin, you would say, 'Martin. M-a-r-t-i-n.' You may begin now.
CS: (Pause. Waiting. Okay, jumping in with both feet.) Doe. D-o-e.
DV: I heard, 'Doe, D-o-e.' Is that right?
CS: Yes. Yes, thank God, YES!
DV: All right, now we have accessed your vital information, let's begin. What can I do for you today?
(Let's begin? BEGIN??)
CS: I've forgotten why I called.
DV: Do you want the main menu?
(I know it's a robot, I KNOW, but I SWEAR, it was a threat akin to, 'Do you want to go to your room without dinner, mister?')
CS: No, no, dear God, for the love of all that is holy and good, NOOOOOOOO!!
DV: All right. What can I do for you today?
CS: Change of address.
DV: All right. First I will need to verify your old address.
(Let me just break in here to point out that at this point Senior had already invested more than twenty minutes into this phone call, the sole purpose of which was to change his address. He was now beginning to realize that it would have been simpler to fly to his old home and get his mail.)
CS: verifies old address, which surprisingly went very well
DV: All right. Now, I will need you to speak your new address. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
(Again I must break in to tell you that in Indiana many addresses are directional. We have the distinct misfortune of having one of these.)
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B?' Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B.' Is that right?
CS: NO.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 W, 456 S. (Which is how it is printed for mailing purposes, a last ditch effort on his part. It didn't work.)
DV: I'm sorry. I don't understand you. Please return to the main menu. Pause. Welcome.
CS: AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
(Not sure which one of us stroked out there, but after some time we realized there was a dial tone coming from his phone.) Senior popped a few nerve pills, beat his head into the end table repeatedly, then sat babbling in a corner. I joined him.
My husband, my knight in shining armor, rode to the rescue. Within seconds he had hopped online, and with the flourish of the mouse and a couple of clicks, he had changed the address. It took about one and a half minutes. Not even once was he sent back to the main menu.
Here's a BIG (y) Potty-con to you hubby, you earned it!!
Recently, I was privy to this call:
Senior Citizen: Three attempts at dialing the correct number and then success! at last.
Disembodied Voice: Welcome! greeting, followed by list of options and a notification to speak your answers clearly.
SC: Three.
DV: Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name.
SC: Senior.
DV: I will- I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name. I will-
SC: SENIOR.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First-
SC: Indistinguishable mutters and curses. (As you can see, this is already going rapidly down hill.)
DV: May I have your FIRST name. I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example-
SC: Senior. S-e-
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the-
SC: Veins are beginning to bulge on the sides of his temples, a sheen of sweat is forming over his brow, and he is searching through his meds for a nerve pill.
DV: I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is John, you would say, 'John, J-o-h-n.' You may begin now.
SC: Having finally caught on, he is waiting to see if there is anything more before he speaks.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. You must first speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is Irene, you would say, 'Irene, I-r-e-n-e.' You may begin now.
(Yes, she gave different examples each time, way to invest the tax payer's money.)
SC: Senior. S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: Yes.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: YES!
DV: Okay, Senior. Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example-
SC: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: If your- I'm sorry. I didn't get that.
SC: More cursing.
DV: Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example, if your last name is Barrett, you would say, 'Barrett. B-a-r-r-e-t-t.' You may begin now.
(Does anyone REALLY NEED an example of how to spell their own name???)
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: I heard, Cititen, C-i-t-i-t-e-n. Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: I'm sorry. Let's try this again. You must speak your LAST name and then spell it-
(At this point I am starting to feel his aneurism. He is more than ten minutes into the phone call, and thanks to Miss Gabby-pants Auto-speak, he hasn't even gotten his name out yet.)
DV: You may begin now.
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-Z-e-n.
(Thank God his name isn't Ptolemy..... we'd be here until the next century.)
DV: I heard, 'Citizen, C-i-t-i-z-e-n.' Is that right?
CS: Yes.
DV: All right. We are halfway there.
(Halfway? You have a NAME and we are HALF way? Really??? You won't be asking much then will you?)
DV: Next, I will need your Social Security number. You may speak or dial the number in. You may begin now.
CS: Smartly chose the second option.
DV: All right. I have found you in our database. I will need to ask you a security question in order to verify your identity. You may speak the answer. What is your mother's maiden name? That means-
CS: Doe.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Let me return you to the main menu.
CS: NO, NO, NO!!!
(Apparently, there is a three strike rule. And he was outta there!)
CS: DISTINGUISHABLE cursing.
DV: Welcome, greeting, options list.
CS: Three.
(He's starting to sound a little weaker now. I think she broke him.)
DV: Blah, blah, blah, first name.
CS: (Very cautiously playing by the rules, he's already had his knuckles cracked once by the ruler toting nun of an automated voice.) Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: (Sounding happier, bubbly even. I know it's a robot, but I would swear she is thrilled to have him so cowed.) Blah, blah, blah, last name.
CS: (Still not taking any chances.) Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: Blah, blah, blah. What is your mother's maiden name? That means the name she had BEFORE she was married.
(REALLY? I did NOT know that. These examples are soooo helpful. I have to send them an e-mail and tell them to keep up the good work!)
DV: For example: if her name was Martin, you would say, 'Martin. M-a-r-t-i-n.' You may begin now.
CS: (Pause. Waiting. Okay, jumping in with both feet.) Doe. D-o-e.
DV: I heard, 'Doe, D-o-e.' Is that right?
CS: Yes. Yes, thank God, YES!
DV: All right, now we have accessed your vital information, let's begin. What can I do for you today?
(Let's begin? BEGIN??)
CS: I've forgotten why I called.
DV: Do you want the main menu?
(I know it's a robot, I KNOW, but I SWEAR, it was a threat akin to, 'Do you want to go to your room without dinner, mister?')
CS: No, no, dear God, for the love of all that is holy and good, NOOOOOOOO!!
DV: All right. What can I do for you today?
CS: Change of address.
DV: All right. First I will need to verify your old address.
(Let me just break in here to point out that at this point Senior had already invested more than twenty minutes into this phone call, the sole purpose of which was to change his address. He was now beginning to realize that it would have been simpler to fly to his old home and get his mail.)
CS: verifies old address, which surprisingly went very well
DV: All right. Now, I will need you to speak your new address. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
(Again I must break in to tell you that in Indiana many addresses are directional. We have the distinct misfortune of having one of these.)
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B?' Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B.' Is that right?
CS: NO.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 W, 456 S. (Which is how it is printed for mailing purposes, a last ditch effort on his part. It didn't work.)
DV: I'm sorry. I don't understand you. Please return to the main menu. Pause. Welcome.
CS: AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
(Not sure which one of us stroked out there, but after some time we realized there was a dial tone coming from his phone.) Senior popped a few nerve pills, beat his head into the end table repeatedly, then sat babbling in a corner. I joined him.
My husband, my knight in shining armor, rode to the rescue. Within seconds he had hopped online, and with the flourish of the mouse and a couple of clicks, he had changed the address. It took about one and a half minutes. Not even once was he sent back to the main menu.
Here's a BIG (y) Potty-con to you hubby, you earned it!!
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A Tale of Two Kitties
The one thing that is certain, is that if you know me, there is a very great likelihood that you will inevitably be written about in this blog. Having forewarned you, I will continue. One of the things that has been on my mind lately, are those 'Did this really just happen,' moments that make me laugh. Such as this one. What follows is an absolutely true story, in which I will change the names to protect the identity of everyone involved. However, suffice it to say, I am not exaggerating in any way. But this made me laugh when it happened, and I still laugh about it years later.
There was a woman, who I will call Nan. Nan was an older woman, in her seventies at the time. She was asked to 'cat sit' while the owners of some particularly obnoxious cats went on vacation. Now when I say obnoxious, I mean these cats, if they were human, would make the Kardashians, the "real Housewives' and Nancy Grace far more tolerable people in retrospect.
The first cat, the eldest, I shall call Hilton, since she has the same frail, emaciated physique of Paris Hilton and all of her endearing qualities to boot. Come on, who doesn't love Paris Hilton? The cat flounces (arthritically) around the house as if she owns the joint, and if she deigns to look your way it is with such derision that you actually feel guilty for having intruded upon her royal presence.
The second cat, now that's the one you want to watch out for. That cat, who I shall call Falco, (the birth name of David Berkowitz, Son of Sam), has all the same qualities of a serial killer. This particular cat likes to lay in wait of any unsuspecting visitors in the house. At any given opportunity, Falco will attack for no apparent reason, (aside from the sheer joy she derives from disemboweling her victim), and she becomes a feral thing, all teeth and claws and spit and yowls. It's so much fun. Tee fricken hee.
Personally, I believe every person who enters that particular home should be outfitted with a full out hockey goalie uniform. And a can of mace.
Just saying.
So anyway, Nan, who, even at her age was as tough as nails and could take on a band of terrorists single-handedly and come out on top, agreed to take on this perilous appointment, though with some reservations.
Now, just put aside for the time being, that there is a killer cat on the loose, stalking Nan's every move (if you can anyway), and take this in. As if things weren't difficult enough, having to avoid one cat outfitted like Rambo in the jungles of Vietnam who wants you dead, dead, dead, skewered on the ends of her claws and dead, (I can't possibly make this any clearer), (and yes I know this is a run on sentence getting longer by the minute), while at the same time suffering the disdain of the decrepit one who looks like she might keel over any second, (someone give her a burger please!), on top of all of that, these two cats had particular nutritional needs besides. For this reason, the two cats had to be fed separately. Falco received her kitty kibble in the kitchen, while Hilton's elderly kitty mush was delivered to the bathroom for her supreme highness's approval. There she would sit and stare at the bowl as if deciding it's worthiness of her consumption. And often, true fact, her 'mother' would hand feed it to her. (Something Nan refused to do. Right there witcha, Nan!)
Now, as much as Hilton had to be convinced, cajoled, connived and coddled into eating, Falco had no such reservations. Given the opportunity, she would race into the bathroom and bolt the mush down as if it were goose liver pâté and caviar (which it might have been for all I know). If Falco had had her way, Hilton's death by starvation would have been accomplished some time ago.
Okay, now you've got the set up. On with the Tale of Two Kitties.(Ha ha- couldn't resist!)
The first morning, Nan let herself into the home with her key and set about feeding Falco first. Smart move on her part, distracting Falco with food whilst she made her escape. She should have put a little Ambian in it. She would have had all the time in the world to get away while Falco was snoozing, dreaming little kitty dreams of gutting Nan like a fish.
But alas, kitty was no where to be found. All the 'here kitty kitty's' in the world weren't bringing her to ground. So Nan set about feeding kitty number two. She headed for the bathroom to prepare Hilton's mush, and there she found Falco laying in wait. Literally.
You see, there was a shelf in that bathroom where Hilton ate. And Falco was sitting on it.
Falco eyed Nan. Nan eyed Falco. They were measuring each other up. Falco found Nan wanting. Nan was pretty sure she could take Falco.
Hilton was sitting in the hallway taking it all in. No doubt wondering if it would be mush on the menu or entrails.
Nan ordered Falco sternly out of the room. Falco squinted her eyes at Nan. Nan ordered her again. Falco hissed. Nan reached a hand out to nudge Falco.
Now I have to say, with any ordinary cat this might work. But we are talking about Falco. She has notches in her gun belt that even she can't remember who she killed to get them. A cat like this, a friendly nudge just ain't gonna cut it. Not unless you're delivering it with a wrecking ball. Even then I have my doubts.
Naturally, Falco took this as a challenge and the fight was on. She reared back and delivered her first blow, complete with an ear-shattering howl. Five claws raked down the side of Nan's arm actually tearing through her shirt and the thermal one underneath. Had she not been thus armored, she would certainly have been visiting the ER for some brandy-spankin' new stitches. Luckily for her, the gods were on her side. And the ball was now in her court.
She grabbed the first thing she saw, a book on the back of the toilet, and whomped Falco a good one, knocking her off the shelf.
Falco, stunned and defeated, flew from the bathroom still hissing and spitting, but determined to live to fight another day.
Shaken, Nan sat on the toilet, and for the first time read the cover of the book.
'Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul.'
Somehow we don't think her story will make the book. But it made the blog!
There was a woman, who I will call Nan. Nan was an older woman, in her seventies at the time. She was asked to 'cat sit' while the owners of some particularly obnoxious cats went on vacation. Now when I say obnoxious, I mean these cats, if they were human, would make the Kardashians, the "real Housewives' and Nancy Grace far more tolerable people in retrospect.
The first cat, the eldest, I shall call Hilton, since she has the same frail, emaciated physique of Paris Hilton and all of her endearing qualities to boot. Come on, who doesn't love Paris Hilton? The cat flounces (arthritically) around the house as if she owns the joint, and if she deigns to look your way it is with such derision that you actually feel guilty for having intruded upon her royal presence.
The second cat, now that's the one you want to watch out for. That cat, who I shall call Falco, (the birth name of David Berkowitz, Son of Sam), has all the same qualities of a serial killer. This particular cat likes to lay in wait of any unsuspecting visitors in the house. At any given opportunity, Falco will attack for no apparent reason, (aside from the sheer joy she derives from disemboweling her victim), and she becomes a feral thing, all teeth and claws and spit and yowls. It's so much fun. Tee fricken hee.
Personally, I believe every person who enters that particular home should be outfitted with a full out hockey goalie uniform. And a can of mace.
Just saying.
So anyway, Nan, who, even at her age was as tough as nails and could take on a band of terrorists single-handedly and come out on top, agreed to take on this perilous appointment, though with some reservations.
Now, just put aside for the time being, that there is a killer cat on the loose, stalking Nan's every move (if you can anyway), and take this in. As if things weren't difficult enough, having to avoid one cat outfitted like Rambo in the jungles of Vietnam who wants you dead, dead, dead, skewered on the ends of her claws and dead, (I can't possibly make this any clearer), (and yes I know this is a run on sentence getting longer by the minute), while at the same time suffering the disdain of the decrepit one who looks like she might keel over any second, (someone give her a burger please!), on top of all of that, these two cats had particular nutritional needs besides. For this reason, the two cats had to be fed separately. Falco received her kitty kibble in the kitchen, while Hilton's elderly kitty mush was delivered to the bathroom for her supreme highness's approval. There she would sit and stare at the bowl as if deciding it's worthiness of her consumption. And often, true fact, her 'mother' would hand feed it to her. (Something Nan refused to do. Right there witcha, Nan!)
Now, as much as Hilton had to be convinced, cajoled, connived and coddled into eating, Falco had no such reservations. Given the opportunity, she would race into the bathroom and bolt the mush down as if it were goose liver pâté and caviar (which it might have been for all I know). If Falco had had her way, Hilton's death by starvation would have been accomplished some time ago.
Okay, now you've got the set up. On with the Tale of Two Kitties.(Ha ha- couldn't resist!)
The first morning, Nan let herself into the home with her key and set about feeding Falco first. Smart move on her part, distracting Falco with food whilst she made her escape. She should have put a little Ambian in it. She would have had all the time in the world to get away while Falco was snoozing, dreaming little kitty dreams of gutting Nan like a fish.
But alas, kitty was no where to be found. All the 'here kitty kitty's' in the world weren't bringing her to ground. So Nan set about feeding kitty number two. She headed for the bathroom to prepare Hilton's mush, and there she found Falco laying in wait. Literally.
You see, there was a shelf in that bathroom where Hilton ate. And Falco was sitting on it.
Falco eyed Nan. Nan eyed Falco. They were measuring each other up. Falco found Nan wanting. Nan was pretty sure she could take Falco.
Hilton was sitting in the hallway taking it all in. No doubt wondering if it would be mush on the menu or entrails.
Nan ordered Falco sternly out of the room. Falco squinted her eyes at Nan. Nan ordered her again. Falco hissed. Nan reached a hand out to nudge Falco.
Now I have to say, with any ordinary cat this might work. But we are talking about Falco. She has notches in her gun belt that even she can't remember who she killed to get them. A cat like this, a friendly nudge just ain't gonna cut it. Not unless you're delivering it with a wrecking ball. Even then I have my doubts.
Naturally, Falco took this as a challenge and the fight was on. She reared back and delivered her first blow, complete with an ear-shattering howl. Five claws raked down the side of Nan's arm actually tearing through her shirt and the thermal one underneath. Had she not been thus armored, she would certainly have been visiting the ER for some brandy-spankin' new stitches. Luckily for her, the gods were on her side. And the ball was now in her court.
She grabbed the first thing she saw, a book on the back of the toilet, and whomped Falco a good one, knocking her off the shelf.
Falco, stunned and defeated, flew from the bathroom still hissing and spitting, but determined to live to fight another day.
Shaken, Nan sat on the toilet, and for the first time read the cover of the book.
'Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul.'
Somehow we don't think her story will make the book. But it made the blog!
Saturday, February 4, 2012
STOOP Rant
Dear STOOP, (Shopper Totally Oblivious of Other People),
I know you. I remember you from the parking lot. When I was sitting there for seven solid minutes, with my blinker ticking merrily away, patiently waiting for the little old lady to perform a perfect eighteen point turn in order to extricate her pint-sized vehicle from its better than average parking spot. And then you, Stoop, you came out of nowhere, and before her tailpipe had fully exited the spot, you had swooped in, taking my spot right out from under me.
Then you had the audacity to look surprised as you exited your own car and pretended to see me for the first time. There I was, stunned myself, still sitting there, blinker ticking rhythmically away. Not so merrily now. More like the sound of a time bomb. And you were shocked.
Shocked? Really? Why were you shocked? Were you suddenly struck by some kind of reverse tunnel vision, where you could only see peripherally, while anything that was dead ahead was swallowed in blinding darkness? Or had I accidentally forgotten to take down my Invisibility Shield? What exactly was it that had caused you to miss my OBVIOUS presence?
But, I decided to let bygones be bygones, and as I slogged the two slushy miles from my new, far less convenient parking spot, I was determined not to hold a grudge. I decided you must have needed that spot more than me for reasons I didn't know.
Okay, I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that fate was saving me from some unforeseen doom. Like space junk suddenly falling out of the sky and landing on exactly that spot, crushing your vehicle to smithereens. What? It's not unheard of.
Then, just when I had finally forgiven you, (not forgiven exactly, but at least I was no longer daydreaming about your car squashed and fully engulfed in a fiery inferno), there you were. Ten feet from the check out lane. The twelve items or less check out. And there I was, five feet away and carrying one measly little gallon of milk. No bread. No eggs. Just one little item. While you were pushing a cart loaded down with no less than twenty things, and one small child.
Our eyes met. The gauntlet was thrown. I picked up my pace. You threw on the afterburners. And somehow, SOMEHOW, you got there before me. Though there was some collateral damage. Your eggs were crushed when half a dozen soup cans fell on top of them. The bread too.
You positioned your cart as if nothing untoward had happened and began to unload, carefully avoiding my gaze until the crucial moment when your first item was placed on the belt, thus claiming it as your own. And then you had the nerve, the gall, the chutzpah to shoot me that same look of innocent shock from the parking lot. Your face says, "Oh my, did I just cut you off? I am so terribly sorry!" While your brain says, "Ha! Beat ya to it beyotch!"
Yeah. I got your number. And your number, (since I AM counting), is twenty-one. Twenty-one items in the twelve or less. I don't care if two of them are loaves of bread and six are cans of soup. Like items do not combine to make one, or the sign would read 12 Items or Less, OR 21 Like Items or Less. It doesn't.
Then I waited while someone was sent to retrieve a new, unbroken dozen of eggs.
And if that wasn't enough, instead of cash, or a credit card, or a debit card, (all perfectly reasonable forms of payment in an express lane), you pulled out a check book. A check book?! And started, I can't reiterate this enough, STARTED, to write a check.
Now if it was me, and I was planning on using the express lane to check out, and was planning on writing a check (really???), I would at least have all but the amount filled out. But no. Not you, Stoop. For you these measures are unnecessary.
I won't even further the rant by mentioning how you acted at the gas station. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I most certainly will. You pulled up to the first pump (instead of pulling through to the second like anyone with an ounce of sense would do), leaving me to wait while you pumped your gas, and then went inside to pay. And use the bathroom. And purchase a cappuccino. And possibly make one or two phone calls. Maybe even restock their shelves for them. Generous spirit that you are. Either way, by the time you returned to your car, the gas price had changed twice and I had forgotten why I was there in the first place.
My point is, I live in a different world. I actually suffer from a guilty conscience when I inconvenience someone. And I go out of my way to try to avoid it. Not just because I hate to feel ashamed. But because it's the right thing to do.
And so, in all fairness, I am writing you this letter. Not to complain, whine, or bemoan the incidents of our past, but because, I feel obliged as a fellow human being, not to inconvenience you in any manner. And so, I'm letting you know, I will be shopping today. I'm not stopping for gas and I don't care where I park. I have only one item on my list. It is Midol. Today is a BAD day to write a check. Just thought you should know.
I know you. I remember you from the parking lot. When I was sitting there for seven solid minutes, with my blinker ticking merrily away, patiently waiting for the little old lady to perform a perfect eighteen point turn in order to extricate her pint-sized vehicle from its better than average parking spot. And then you, Stoop, you came out of nowhere, and before her tailpipe had fully exited the spot, you had swooped in, taking my spot right out from under me.
Then you had the audacity to look surprised as you exited your own car and pretended to see me for the first time. There I was, stunned myself, still sitting there, blinker ticking rhythmically away. Not so merrily now. More like the sound of a time bomb. And you were shocked.
Shocked? Really? Why were you shocked? Were you suddenly struck by some kind of reverse tunnel vision, where you could only see peripherally, while anything that was dead ahead was swallowed in blinding darkness? Or had I accidentally forgotten to take down my Invisibility Shield? What exactly was it that had caused you to miss my OBVIOUS presence?
But, I decided to let bygones be bygones, and as I slogged the two slushy miles from my new, far less convenient parking spot, I was determined not to hold a grudge. I decided you must have needed that spot more than me for reasons I didn't know.
Okay, I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that fate was saving me from some unforeseen doom. Like space junk suddenly falling out of the sky and landing on exactly that spot, crushing your vehicle to smithereens. What? It's not unheard of.
Then, just when I had finally forgiven you, (not forgiven exactly, but at least I was no longer daydreaming about your car squashed and fully engulfed in a fiery inferno), there you were. Ten feet from the check out lane. The twelve items or less check out. And there I was, five feet away and carrying one measly little gallon of milk. No bread. No eggs. Just one little item. While you were pushing a cart loaded down with no less than twenty things, and one small child.
Our eyes met. The gauntlet was thrown. I picked up my pace. You threw on the afterburners. And somehow, SOMEHOW, you got there before me. Though there was some collateral damage. Your eggs were crushed when half a dozen soup cans fell on top of them. The bread too.
You positioned your cart as if nothing untoward had happened and began to unload, carefully avoiding my gaze until the crucial moment when your first item was placed on the belt, thus claiming it as your own. And then you had the nerve, the gall, the chutzpah to shoot me that same look of innocent shock from the parking lot. Your face says, "Oh my, did I just cut you off? I am so terribly sorry!" While your brain says, "Ha! Beat ya to it beyotch!"
Yeah. I got your number. And your number, (since I AM counting), is twenty-one. Twenty-one items in the twelve or less. I don't care if two of them are loaves of bread and six are cans of soup. Like items do not combine to make one, or the sign would read 12 Items or Less, OR 21 Like Items or Less. It doesn't.
Then I waited while someone was sent to retrieve a new, unbroken dozen of eggs.
And if that wasn't enough, instead of cash, or a credit card, or a debit card, (all perfectly reasonable forms of payment in an express lane), you pulled out a check book. A check book?! And started, I can't reiterate this enough, STARTED, to write a check.
Now if it was me, and I was planning on using the express lane to check out, and was planning on writing a check (really???), I would at least have all but the amount filled out. But no. Not you, Stoop. For you these measures are unnecessary.
I won't even further the rant by mentioning how you acted at the gas station. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I most certainly will. You pulled up to the first pump (instead of pulling through to the second like anyone with an ounce of sense would do), leaving me to wait while you pumped your gas, and then went inside to pay. And use the bathroom. And purchase a cappuccino. And possibly make one or two phone calls. Maybe even restock their shelves for them. Generous spirit that you are. Either way, by the time you returned to your car, the gas price had changed twice and I had forgotten why I was there in the first place.
My point is, I live in a different world. I actually suffer from a guilty conscience when I inconvenience someone. And I go out of my way to try to avoid it. Not just because I hate to feel ashamed. But because it's the right thing to do.
And so, in all fairness, I am writing you this letter. Not to complain, whine, or bemoan the incidents of our past, but because, I feel obliged as a fellow human being, not to inconvenience you in any manner. And so, I'm letting you know, I will be shopping today. I'm not stopping for gas and I don't care where I park. I have only one item on my list. It is Midol. Today is a BAD day to write a check. Just thought you should know.
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