Odd and Curious Thoughts, Downton Abby Edition

February 20, 2013 By

(1) I’m fairly certain that no matter what time period we’re floating around in, Miss O’Brien should not have hair curls that resemble horns.

(2) That Cora.  Always smiling with her head turned like she was just handed a newborn kitty that smelled like baby powder wrapped in a bed of roses.  I was just getting to like her in that angry, I’ll-never-forgive-you-for-killing-my-daughter way, but now we’re back to the eerie smiling.

(3) How in the world did all those people find outfits in shades of cream?  Can you not play cricket in sage or pale yellow?  It looked like a Martha Stewart wedding for crying out loud.

(4) Speaking of color, the ladies were all matchy-matchy at Sybil’s Christening, like they all went to David’s Bridal the day prior and made off with clearance bridesmaid’s dresses.  Cream for cricket, breezy lavender dresses for events at churches that involve your dead sister’s child being brought up in a way you don’t approve of.

(5) I’m so bitter that we are left with blood dribbling down Matthew’s sweet face.  But all this “I’ll love you til I die, you’re really a nice little Mary” foreshadowing business was getting a bit dull.

(6) So Molesly gets drunk and starts shrieking like a banchee, which is good fun, but don’t we all get tired of seeing him played the fool?  One of these days he’s going to rip off his clothes and he’ll have washboard abs and tattoos.  Then who’s laughing?

(7) At least Edith is working and Mary’s mothering it up and we don’t have to just watch these women’s dreadful boring days of getting up, eating, changing clothes, and eating again.  With all that sitting and eating I’m shocked they aren’t all chubby little cherubs.

(8) I like to say Lord Grantham.  It’s so prestigious and elegant.  I think I’ll start referring to my father as Lord Franklin and see if he can conjure me up a butler, some tea, and an estate worth millions.  See also: Being a Countess should get you free Starbucks

(9) Lady Rose looks like she’s taking meth or perhaps has a nonstop Red Bull habit.  Why is she always giggling?

(10)               Daisy, quit wearing that dumpy hat.  Seriously.  You’re about to own a farm and you’re young.  Pull yourself together and tease up some bangs.

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Laugh Until Life Makes Sense

January 10, 2013 By

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I’m not a big fan of bumper stickers.  I find it odd that people want to display their political sentiments on a used Honda for the world to see.  I find it annoying to have to stare at hateful words about our President at the stoplight in front of the grocery store.  And I’m amazed so many people put stick-figure families on their mini-vans to display how many people and pets live in their households.  Yes, yes. Michael plays soccer.  You have a cat.  Riveting stuff.

My own daughter asked that her school name be displayed on the back of our Chevy Tahoe.  But do you think given my poor driving and bad texting habit I want to announce what school we’re affiliated with and have people stare into the car from afar to see if they know me? You don’t know me.  I’m likely to run into you from the rear by accident or be smirking unpleasantly at your family of stick people.

So it might surprise you that I slapped a bumper sticker on the back of my car.  Yes I did. The very woman who is constantly shaking her head at the stupid Jesus Fish / Darwin Fish debacle.  It’s on there, firmly planted square in the middle.

Laugh until life makes sense.

It’s one of my life mottos.  So when I saw this sticker a year ago, I immediately went home, created a (very often unseen) circle of clean with a paper towel and Windex, and stuck this saying on my back window.

Sometimes I check my rear-view mirror and see my daughter lip-syncing to Katy Perry, or notice that my son has used his squeezable yogurt to finger-paint on the back glass.  But quite often I simply catch the word – laugh. It’s written not only for the cars behind me, but for me to see when I need it most.  There are times I don’t feel like laughing. Times when I’m gripping the wheel in prayer that I’ll make it until lunch.  And yet somewhere in there, there’s a silver lining.

Given enough space and distance from pain, life can be funny.  What other attitude is really worth having? Who wants to hang out with people who scowl all day, eat fiber, and gripe about the lack of comfortable pants?  My oncologist said that people who laugh a lot really do live longer.  From one who’s made it through some rough health patches, I can use all the help I can get.

When my own life gets hard, I lose weight.  I end up putting the coffee creamer in the pantry and buy multiple cartons of eggs.  My dentist tells me that I might need a root canal and I realize my sobbing cry face looks like a hollowed out whale. So I go to the mall to invest in a quart of face cream but catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  How did a homeless woman end up at Neiman’s? Don’t they have security in this place?  Oh, wait.  That’s me, wearing a sweatshirt from high school that says Coca-Cola Classic.

And just like that, on my way to the YMCA to choke out a run on the treadmill, I smile.  It bobbles up and down into a chuckle, which erupts into a real belly shaker, and a few cackles later I’m in full-on snort mode.   Did I really go to Neiman’s wearing sweat pants with a hole in the knee?  Am I seriously going to need a root canal?  Why in the world do I have all these freaking eggs?

This life we live doesn’t make sense.  There is so much killing and suicide and death and mental illness.  There’s chaos and disarray and a dusty, cursed earth.  And yet we are made for more than this.  We are not in this place forever.  The righteous will not be moved, and you can only do what you can do in a day’s time.  And when the really hard stuff hits,  you’ll be prepared.  After a night of no sleep, you’ll wake up to discover you’re out of coffee, your kid’s school uniform is dirty, it’s snack day at your kid’s preschool and all you have is raisins, and some wild animal has knocked over your trash can in the night, strewing trash all over your front lawn.  You  have to fight demons and hurt with friends and heal from grief and now this? Yeah, it happens.  And it’s a tiny bit funny.

Ecclesiastes says there is a time for everything.  A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.  3:4.  So mourn and sob and weep and sigh.  Take Advil and Zanax and buy more coffee.  But in the end, realize that you have enough eggs to make quiche for the tri-county area, and that’s just downright weird.

As for me and my Chevy Tahoe, we’re dwelling in this season of laughter as long as we both can, puffing and choking and driving toward the bitter end.

—-

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/philliecasablanca/2578387623/

Quote “until life makes sense” credit:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Laugh-Until-Life-Makes-Sense/202930039805662?group_id=0

Filed Under: Humor, Inspirational, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

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Olympic Fever

July 31, 2012 By

I love the Olympics.  They make you feel and do strange things, such as:

(1) Mutter to yourself, after a bottle of vegetable oil topples out of the top cabinet, “Oh man.  So close.  It sucks to fall.”

(2)  Hold your head up high and prance around on the pads of your feet as you walk across the kitchen floor towards the trash to dump used coffee grounds.  Because you normally walk that way and all.

(3) Comment on the form and mistakes of random gymnasts you’ve never heard of before last week who fall off the pommel horse.  After all those years of studying the pommel horse.  Finally, a chance to show off your knowledge.

(4) Look in the mirror and think, “I could so totally rock that.  I’m hitting the YMCA tomorrow.”

(5) Ponder nicer looking women’s swimsuits.  I mean really.

(6) Pray that someday, your daughter will never, ever win a gold metal in the Olympics.  Because if that happened, you’d be that mom who’s all weepy with mascara running down her face and her hair tied up in some strange pony tail with a USA flag sticking out of it.  The world would see you jumping and screaming “she’s miiiiiiiine!  That’s my baby girl!  Right there in the ugly women’s swimsuit that makes her look like a dude!”  Do you want to be that mom?  Do you?

(7) Wonder if anyone actually watches horse jumping.  The Queen might, but it’s England.  And her granddaughter is competing.

(8) Allow your 6-year-old daughter stay up until 10:30 pm so she can see synchronized men’s diving, answering fun questions like “why do they wear one half of a girl’s bikini?”  There are no good answers.  Mention something about aerodynamics and change the subject.

(9) See quite a lot of Ryan Lochte’s shaved chest, and finally,

(10)               Max out your tivo with events you don’t care about, just so you can fast forward through them and feel you are watching.  Because men’s team volleyball needs love too.

It’s the Olympics. The one time you will watch insane amounts of sports on television, feel proud to be an American, and cry at Proctor & Gamble commercials. Give these hard-working athletes their moment of fame, until one comes in 7th place.  Then you can critique their form before forgetting all about them because they won’t have endorsement deals and their face will fade from your memory.  Good effort, folks who spent ten years of their life pursuing one solitary goal only to have their dreams dashed on time-delayed television.

Toodles, ya’ll.  I have fencing to watch.  Go U.S.A!

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My fancy pedicure

May 7, 2012 By

All spring, I’ve wandered around with dry, calloused heels.  I thought it was about time for professional attention, so I bopped over to my favorite day spa.  I say day spa loosely, since it’s really just a Vietnamese nail salon that happens to have daytime hours.

But I’ll take it, and I sit down to the usual French pedicure and the pleasure of a barely-functioning vibrating chair.  It’s always the same, really.  They shove a paper in front of me with all sorts of upgrades and add-ons, but I always refuse in the name of economy, or habit, or fear that they might start painting elderflowers on my big toe because of a communication breakdown. But this day was different.  On this day, I’m doing something fancy.

The lady seemed shocked with I told her what I wanted – the extra-long pedicure with citrus scrub.  She nodded at this with approval, like I had solved a world’s riddle or chosen the right name for my first-born child.   “Ah, you’ll like it,” she said.  I planned on it, since it cost an extra ten bucks. I looked forward to feeling the tension ooze out of my body through my feet.  What girl gets to have citrus scrub on a Tuesday afternoon?  I do, suckahs.

I closed my eyes as I started to ease my feet into the water, but a moment later yanked them back out.  Why is this water a thousand degrees?  Are they trying to scald my nails off? “Too hot?” the lady asked as she nodded up and down with vigor.  If she was nodding, didn’t she already know the answer?

A bit of cold water later, the nail lady reaches for a Tupperware container with a strange orange substance that looked like gritty Gatorade.  Ah, the citrus scrub. Things are looking up.  At that very moment, I received a work phone call, my old office in a panic about a constable standing there with a subpoena demanding medical records.  The lady nodded at me again as she smeared this orange salty goo on my legs.

I was in the middle of my conversation about subpoenas and court orders when the nail lady began grinding this gritty substance into my legs.  My dear woman, you aren’t trying to get dried-on egg from a frying pan.  These are my legs we’re dealing with. As she begins to rub the top layer off my shin off, my phone beeps in with a physician who wants to go over a bad patient encounter.  A vague, orange-like smell rises to my nose.  It’s like my five-year-old’s lip smacker in “raving raspberry” that smells nothing like an actual raspberry but instead some cloyingly sweet imitation that only kids (and consumers at Bath & Body Works, apparently) just love.  And it was so bright I began to wonder if it might have been radioactive.

This lady is going to town rubbing fake orange salt into my legs – really putting her weight into it – while I’m trying to conduct business.  Why is she focusing so much on my legs?  Is she ever going to get to the toenails for goodness sakes?

I finally end my phone call and try to start editing a paper.  But the television on the wall is showing a Lifetime movie about a skinny girl in a fat suit to show those mean country-club snobs how awful they are to the plus-size crowd.  Just when I’m trying to fix a comma splice, the main character rips her fat suit off. How can I possibly not watch that?

The lady proceeds to slap hot towels on my legs (that now contain multiple abrasions from all the scrubbing), which burn like hell.  She whips through the nails like it’s an afterthought and then tells me to wait under the dryer.  I look outside with a sigh.  What was once a beautiful sunny day has now turned into a downpour.

I pay my extra fee for such a fancy pedicure and hobble to the front door. “Come again!” the lady says to me.  I reach down to touch my calf, only to realize the salt residue hasn’t been washed off and there’s a sticky substance remaining.  It rubs against my jeans and I’m a bit grossed out.  And annoyed.  And wondering if I might get skin cancer from that toxic, possibly radioactive orange goo being involuntarily pressed through my epidermis.

I am beginning to think it was all one fat joke. “Did you see her face when I put on those hot towels?” the nail lady says to her cousin. “That’ll teach them to stay off their cell phones.” All the ladies double over with laughter as they turn up Lifetime television. One woman puts the orange gel back in its protective case, so it doesn’t harm the environment.  And because left uncovered, it might kill everyone in the room that breaths in the toxic air.

And to think I paid extra to get something fancy.  What a sucker.    

Filed Under: Humor, My life Tagged With: , , , , ,

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Odd and Curious Thoughts of the Week

April 15, 2012 By

This is a new series I thought would be fun.  At random times, I will share odd and curious things that entered my mind over the course of the last week.  They have no rhyme or reason to them, except to prove that I am actually, quite a bit, more-times-than-not, maybe-a-teeny-bit insane.

  • Today, I saw two grown men buy a cartload full of generic-brand grape soda.  Who likes generic soda? They unloaded cases of the stuff into their expensive car and drove off, and I was left scratching my head.   What in the heck are they doing with all of that?  And why didn’t they buy it in a variety of flavors? I almost stopped them to ask them a series of questions.  Are they just going to drink it?  Are they making cheap vodka shots out of it? It’ll rot your teeth, you know. Then I realized I don’t know these people. Move on, you weirdo, staring at other people’s groceries.
  • I saw a fox on the way to my son’s school last week.  Just crossing the street like it belonged there.  I felt I stepped into Aesop’s fables.  I expected there to be a bunch of grapes hanging on a tree somewhere and for the fox to learn a valuable lesson.  Okay, I didn’t actually expect to see a bunch of grapes hanging on a tree.  That would be weird. But then again, I didn’t expect to see grown men buying ten cases of generic soda.
  • I almost stepped on a scorpion last night.  I screamed like a baby and made my husband go kill it.  I couldn’t even wrap the dead little bugger up in paper towels and haul it to the trash because the stinger might still be active and pierce through the paper.   Those little pinchers are evil.  Do I really think scorpion poison can sear through paper and miraculously penetrate my skin causing extreme pain?  Do all my rational thinking skills evaporate after 9 pm?
  • Friday night, I invited friends to dinner fifteen minutes before I asked for them to be there.  As in – “hey – it’s 5:45 pm.  Wanna meet up at 6?” Because other people certainly have no life and sit around waiting for me to call.  Even if they didn’t have plans, they’d have to take the bat mobile to make it across town in fifteen minutes. Where are my manners? But how cool if it had worked out?
  • I made kale chips the other day.  Tossed them in olive oil and baked them until they were hot and crispy. I sprinkled them with salt and crunched every last one down.  My family made faces at me and said they were more than happy for me to eat up all that hot wrinkled lettuce.  “You go on ahead,” my husband said.  Whatever, people that I live with.  Those suckers were tasty.
  • A friend recently informed me that store-bought pie crusts are full of lard, which I didn’t think I cared about but it turns out I do.  I drove many miles to a store to buy whole-wheat, lard-free pie crusts, only to discover they cost five bucks each and I wouldn’t be home for hours.  It was a waste to leave them in the car to thaw.   So yes, I actually drove to a health store with every intention of buying pie crusts, and then changed my mind and left empty handed.  I am now dreaming of quiche and I wasted thirty minutes of my life last Tuesday.  I did manage to grab a free sample of hand lotion on my way out, so it wasn’t a total loss.
  • I asked my husband what type of bread he wanted me to bake tomorrow.  Did he have a special request?  What about sourdough?  Did he have an affinity for honey? He gave me a strange look, akin to find a new hobby or maybe go out more.
  • I placed numerous items (I won’t mention how many) in an online shopping cart at the most amazing/funky clothing store on the universe.  I wasn’t planning on actually buying them, because I am not cool enough and don’t have that much cash, but somehow adding them to my cart seemed entirely appropriate and not at all frivolous.
  • I was so desperate for something sweet the other night that I took a spoon and dug it into a jar of peanut butter.  After I finished the spoon-o-peanuts, I was a bit embarrassed with myself.  Have I really sunk to this?
  • Last, but not least, I received a response from an incredible literary agent in New York who said for me to be patient with him and that he promised to read my manuscript in the next few weeks.  I looked back at the version I sent him and noticed a glaring spelling mistake in the first paragraph.  I sent him and his assistant an apology email asking them to read the attached version with no spelling error.  I then made another error in the email to the agent, which caused a third email that simply said “I swear I know how to read and write.  Please believe me.”  And yet they don’t have to.  That’s the funny part.

Onward to next week, where more insanity will (very likely) ensue.

Filed Under: Humor, Writing Tagged With: , , , ,

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My favorite things

April 11, 2012 By

Everyone has favorite things.  I’m not talking about a crackling fire or the smell of cut grass, but real tangible things.  And let’s be honest.  Nobody really sits around thinking about raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens.  Who’s thankful that kittens have whiskers?  Isn’t it just naturally assumed they’ll be born with them?  Are some poor kittens born without whiskers, the poor suckers running around hairless and whimpering?  If someone is even thinking of cat whiskers, I suggest they find a hobby.

Here are a few of my favorite things that are actually cool.  Raindrops on roses, I swear.

(1) Perrier with Lime.  It’s sparkly.  It makes me feel fancy.  There’s just no need to drink tap water when you can drink spring water from the south of France.  No’ sir.

(2) Starbucks blond-roast.  It’s smooth and silky.  It gets me through the morning after a long bender of writing.

(3) Gruyere cheese.  Anytime, anyplace.  Even my five-year-old knows to stay away from it.  It’s more precious to me than chocolate chips.  And that says a lot.

(4) Oatmeal dark-chocolate cookies from scratch.  Nothing can top it.  Except for perhaps Gruyere, but that’s not a fair comparison.

(5) TIVO.  I can no longer comprehend a world where you cannot pause live television and fast-forward through commercials.  I shudder to imagine it.

(6) MAC powder.  It’s quick, and it covers your sags, bags, and dark circles.  It’s better than a night’s sleep for the look of your skin.  I’m always a sucker for those MAC salespeople, their faces all painted up with odd colors and tool belts of brushes dangling from their hips.

(7) Down bedding.  I like to lie on top of it, wallow underneath it, and basically sleep atop one big marshmallow.

(8) Loreal Tubes Mascara.  Just go buy it.  You’ll thank me.  It peels off your eyelashes in little tubes, and I think that’s just glorious.

(9) My apple computer.  If I didn’t have it, I’d crawl back to the store scratching and crying and immediately buy another.  I’m a total addict.

(10)               Salted caramels from Dean & Deluca.  Or Williams-Sonoma. I’m not that picky, I swear.  Okay, maybe a little.  If you get me caramels from Target I’m throwing them in the trash.

On the other hand, there are things I can’t stand:

(1) Hominy.  It’s bloated and strange.  It looks like little tiny fur balls.  Why eat corn that’s all puffy and weird tasting?

(2) Shrimp.  To me, they are the ocean’s cockroaches.  I stay far, far away. Don’t tell me they’re good on the grill.  Do you roast other pesky insect-like creatures and sprinkle sea salt on top?  I don’t think so.

(3) Daytime television.  You deplete brain cells by watching it.  Resist the urge to find out who slept with the pub owner’s cousin who recently was convicted of murdering the Baroness’ housekeeper.  Because honestly, these aren’t real people.  Who the heck cares.

(4) Double negatives.  You don’t gotta do it.  You just don’t.

(5) Candles that smell like cinnamon rolls.  They make you hungry.  Why torture yourself?  Wouldn’t you rather smell flowers or fresh linen?  Why walk around with your mouth watering?

(6) Car commercials.  Someday I’m going to hear a witty and soft-toned commercial about how a car can change your life. But until then, all I see is a bunch of bad ties, balloons, and unnecessary yelling.

(7) Cheap eye shadow.  You know when you are on vacation and you forget your make-up?  You end up at Wal-mart buying Cover Girl?  It’s trash.  Go free and natural until you can head back to Nordstrom.  Trust me on this.

(8) Automated phone trees that don’t use “0” for the operator.  Why use six or some other goofy number?  Zero, people!

(9) Rice cakes.  There is just no need to eat cardboard.

(10)               When celebrities gripe about their private life being overly exposed.  Choose to be a veterinarian, and your problems are solved.  But the moment you get paid over two million to be in a movie, I get to know what your dog’s name is and what color underwear you like best.  That’s the way this thing works.  Deal?

Until next time. . .

Amanda

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: , , , , ,

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Twenty Random Things I said to my Five-Year-Old this Week

March 7, 2012 By
  • No, honey.  Mosquitoes are not amphibians just because their eggs float on top of the water.  That doesn’t count.
  • Butterflies don’t make honey.  That’s a job only for the bees.
  • Where exactly are the heart pains?  Show me.
  • It doesn’t matter if bees and butterflies are best friends and they share nectar.
  • Yes (in response to “did you know that [Hey Soul Sister] is my favorite song?”)
  • I’m on a conference call in five minutes, so this is the last piece of tape I’m going to give you.  The last one.
  • No, you can’t go to [the babysitter’s house] just because you have a fever and can’t go to school and she lets you watch videos on utube.  You’re just stuck staying home with me.
  • Trillion is a word, remarkably.  Ask any government official.
  • You still need to make a get-well card for your great grandmother, despite the fact that “you’re sick too.”  You have a 99 degree temperature, and she’s in the hospital with a broken hip. It’s not the same.
  • Bees.  That’s it.  Those are the only guys that make honey.  Why is that so difficult for you?
  • Yes, you do have sags under your eyes
  • Earthworms are also not amphibians even though they wallow around in mud after it rains.  Still not the same.  But great question; I can see the confusion.
  • You’d rather have chicken-and-stars soup out of a can than this [homemade pasta with fresh spinach and feta cheese and basil pesto]?  So that’s a yes, I take it.  Super.
  • No.  I will not save that leftover two tablespoons of broth for you in the refrigerator for later.  When exactly will you eat that?
  • Please don’t keep giving your brother pacifiers behind my back. It’s annoying. He doesn’t need three of them at once.
  • I just love this necklace of yellow pom-poms and random beads you found in your dresser. I’ll treasure it forever.
  • Why did you leave me a “very special love note” that reads “glow in the dark?”  Oh, you just copied it from that puzzle box over there?  That’s cool.  It works.
  • Did I say it wrong?  The book clearly says “Repunzel.”  Oh, my bad.  “Barbie as Repunzel.”  That’s different.
  • I’m sorry your head feels like a thousand knives are shredding it into pieces. That really must hurt.
  • Right back at ya (in response to her double-hand squeeze plus two taps at the grocery store, which is our special way of saying I love you to each other in public so that it’s not cheesy and embarrassing).

And tomorrow’s only Wednesday. . .

Filed Under: Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , , , ,

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Fun times at the pool

July 25, 2011 By

The other day, I was sitting on the side of the pool, trying to wrangle a toddler in my arms while my four-year old was scooping mythical ice cream cones and flutter kicking in the water.  Mostly, she just looked bored.  Every once in a while she would offer me a half-smile, which is code for “uh, later maybe we can split a smoothie? Watch PBS? Mulch the backyard?”  Buck up, sweetie, I teleport back directly to her brain.  She sighs and keeps scooping.

Between my son’s cracker-eating and shrieking and my daughter’s bored looks, I made friends with a new mommy who was smart enough to put her little one in the YMCA day care.  She was calmly watching her twins swim next to my daughter. I’m all friendly and “oh your kids are so adorable” and “where did you get that swimsuit cover-up” and such, when the following conversation occurs:

“Your son is so precious!” I say.  ”I just love how he looks like a little man.  He’s got these cute little arms and legs and he just seems to strut around like a grown-up.”

“Thanks so much,” she says.  She looks lovingly at her precious August, flopping around in the water, trying to hold his nose and paddle at the same time.

“I’m serious.  He is just about the most adorable kid ever.  The way he sort-of struts around with his arms out like that?  And his little bowl-legs?  Get out!”

“Yes, he does have a long torso,” she says.

“I’d say.  And just look at those legs!  Just want to eat them up!”  She sits for a moment without saying anything.

“He’s got dwarfism.”  She turns and aims her Ray-Bans back toward the water.  ”He’ll probably make it to four feet if we’re lucky. I guess it’s starting to be more obvious. His legs won’t grow that much.”

No.  Please Lord, no.  Did I honestly just flat-out make fun of some smallish person with dwarfism?  I just thought he was a way-cute four-year old for goodness sakes!  I didn’t know!  I smiled in that way you smile when you accidentally spill coffee on your crotch or when your kid blurts out a curse word in public.  That horrified, pasty smile.  That smile that literally says “holy sh#t” without actually saying holy sh#t.

Only me.  Seriously, people.  Only me.

Filed Under: Embarrassing Moments, Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , , , ,

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