Category Archives for "Miscellaneous"
Last week, an old boyfriend sent me a friend request through Facebook but I didn’t realize he was an old boyfriend at first because almost thirty years have passed since we dated and I use that term loosely since I’m not sure if making out on the couch for hours at a time constitutes actual dating but regardless, I didn’t recognize his name right away so I let his request sit idle for a couple of days while I racked my brain trying to remember who he was and considering I am terrible with names and often refer to my own kids as Stretch Marks #1-80 and #81-200, remembering a name from thirty years ago was nearly impossible.
Do I win something for writing the longest sentence in the history of ever?
Eventually I recalled his name and had an aha! moment and can I just say how refreshing it is to have an aha! moment that is not accompanied by a 60 watt light bulb hovering over an apparition of a trash can with a pedal-operated lid? If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then you obviously don’t own a seven pound puppy who likes to feast on bloody feminine hygiene products he fishes out of the garbage because he thinks he’s half-vampire.
If memory served, my old boyfriend was a good kisser. And he taught me how to look right, then left, then right again before making a left hand turn. Just to clarify, that was while I was learning how to drive. In a car. I wasn’t anywhere near a couch when those instructions were given. Oh, and he once gave me a picture of himself so that I could hang it in my locker as proof that I wasn’t totally repulsive to the male species. SO THERE, WORLD. Therefore, I accepted his friend request despite the fact that when he broke up with me, he asked for that picture back. I wound up giving him back his picture and he wound up giving me mono. Seeing as how I missed two weeks of school and didn’t have to smell my obscenely obese French teacher for fourteen whole days, it wasn’t such a bad deal.
It took a long time for me to become interested in Facebook. I put it off for as long as I could because I was already spending an enormous amount of time online and the last thing I needed was yet one more bloated, engorged, time-sucking leech upon my day. Especially on Tuesdays because it was all I could do to keep up with the Law & Order: SVU marathons on that day. Hellooooooo Detective Stabler. You and your manly man tattoos are absolutely yummy.
I need a moment.
Where was I?
So I managed to avoid Facebook for awhile but as is often the case when people around me are involved in something and I’m not and I’m left alone to yell WHERE THE HELL DID EVERYONE GO to anyone who will listen which is no one because they’re all too busy updating their status on Facebook, I resigned myself to my fate and hopped on the crowded bandwagon and opened up a Facebook account. And then I created a fan page for my blog as well.
I’ve been on Facebook for awhile now and I quite like it. I’ve connected with so many old friends and made quite a few new friends and I just enjoy my time there. However, it took a little bit of work to get to that point.
STUFF I’VE LEARNED ABOUT FACEBOOK
In my opinion, Facebook is a bitch to navigate and when I say bitch, I mean it in the most vile, obnoxious, sadistic, wrinkly-old-hag-with-a-prolapsed-uterus sense of the word. Last week, I had to enlist the help of my friend Heather to find where on Facebook I could search for people via school or workplace. Heather kept sending me emails with instructions and screenshots and I’d send her my own screenshots with emails entitled I ARE STUPID wherein I cried like a baby and asked for her best guesstimate as to when I became an utter and complete moron. She said she didn’t know but thought it might have been last October, right around the time when we were planning lunch and she proposed any day but Wednesday and I responded with Perfect! Wednesday it is! See you at noon!
We hopped on the chat feature and she tried to guide me from there and we soon realized that I was seeing something completely different on Facebook than what she was seeing and I immediately assumed that it was some vast conspiracy by the entire Internet, or my kids, to get me the hell off Facebook. Heather disagreed and said it was probably some personal vendetta that Mark Zuckerberg had against me. Because she likes to screw with my psyche and knows perfectly well that saying something like that to a paranoid freak of nature like me is exactly like donating a case of free ephedrine to a meth lab except without all the felonies. But having never met Zuckerberg, I thought it an unlikely scenario until I remembered that stranger things have happened. Once, when Nate and I were on our honeymoon three thousand miles away in San Francisco, we walked right passed the woman who had been in charge of our wedding dinner in New York three weeks prior, the same woman who had been refusing to credit our charge card for the double payment we made for that dinner and when I say “we” I obviously mean Nate because I am anal about money and Nate spends $25 on football jerseys for puppies who think they’re vampires.
I wanted to tackle this woman, extract her plasma, sell it for some spending money and then fling her off the Golden Gate Bridge but Nate didn’t want to get arrested on our honeymoon if it wasn’t going to be for anything sexual so we let her go. We were ultimately refunded the duplicate payment upon our return to New York but that’s not the point. The point is that weird things do happen and while I’ve never met Zuckerberg, I can tell you that while I was chatting with Heather, the page I was searching for on Facebook magically appeared after I refreshed my screen for the twenty-seventh time and then it disappeared all over again. So Zuckerberg probably does hate me. Which just goes to show you that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
When I peruse my news feed, I like to actually be interested in what I’m reading. For the record, I am not interested in reading about games. I do not care about who is killing who in some virtual gangster crime family nor am I interested in reading posts asking for three more goats to fertilize a make believe farm in East Jesus and the only way I want to find out about who will dominate the culinary world is by watching Top Chef because Tom Colicchio is strangely hot and I want to be Padma when I grow up except without the wicked arm scar because I’m allergic to pain.
It’s not that I don’t like games because I do. Especially family games! Except for Risk because I’m not into world domination if Anderson Cooper isn’t on the scene and reporting live from my lap and honestly, if you’re married to Nate who is a bit obsessed with this game, Risk is nothing but a divorce or a blunt force trauma to the head waiting to happen. And speaking of games, can I just say that Parcheesi gets a raw deal? That game is fun and would probably be played more if it had a better sounding name instead of one that sounds like some sort of ancient fungus.
If I could remember the person who told me how to delete these kinds of posts from my wall, I’d send him or her one of those edible arrangement things but a really small one because hello? Those things are expensive as hell. And for what? It’s scoops of cantaloupe and some apple wedges. What am I missing?
Likewise, if I wanted to read a litany of vents and complaints and accusations that people suck and are constantly out to get you, I’d just as soon call my mom and tell her to email me about the time she went to the movies and had to pay $4.25 for bottled water. Reading an occasional bitch fest or vent bender on Facebook is fine but 24/7? Just start a blog already. I did.
Oh, and religous stuff? I don’t need to be saved on Facebook. That’s what Nutella is for.
I am really hesitant to accept people as friends if I’m not sure how I know them. If we have mutual friends in common or they’ve been referred by another friend, it’s no biggie and more than likely I’ll accept the request because I’m all about trusting the judgment of people whom I’ve never actually met or haven’t seen in thirty years but if we don’t have any mutual friends, then a little personal message with your request would be helpful, i.e., Hey Andy! Remember me? We once peed in a sandbox together! I think it was your 21st birthday. How the hell are you?
If you are an assy douche noodle who got your rocks off by humiliating me in front of your friends in the senior hallway back in high school, then I don’t want to be your friend on Facebook and I don’t care how many requests you send or how many people suggest you or how many times you tried to talk to me at our reunion. If your colossal display of moral turpitude with a drunken, female classmate at the reunion is any indication, you haven’t changed a bit. You are nothing but a skank with a penis. However, I do appreciate the opportunity to use “moral turpitude” in a sentence other than “How can I use moral turpitude in a sentence?” So, thanks for that. Now, take your skanky penis and go away.
How many of you out there are on Facebook? What have you learned so far?
The other day, I pulled into our driveway and drove over a bump of ice. Before I knew what was happening, that bitchy shrew of a vampire, the one that’s been sucking the life blood out of our savings via the hose connected to our new washer and dryer, flew out of our laundry room and out the front door and glommed onto my windshield and commenced sucking the marrow out of the kids’ college funds. Suddenly that little tiny divot in the glass, courtesy of a pebble fart from a gassy snowplow a week prior, morphed into a horizontal crack wide enough to make me think that a transparent, obese plumber had jumped on the hood of my car, bent down and mooned me sideways.
Reason #736 why I hate winter. And snow. And the smell of curry. And no, curry has nothing to do with my windshield but I threw it in there anyway because HGTV says items should be displayed in groups of three so if they read this blog, I want them to know that I’m listening, I follow directions and I’m available to host my own show. Oh, and Nate sprinkled curry on his pizza the other night because he’s sadistic and weird and my house still reeks of the stuff and it’s hard to concentrate on anything else when you feel like someone stuffed India up your nose without your permission.
I called our insurance company and learned that glass coverage costs only $9 a year which is awesome only if you actually have glass coverage which we did not because WHO THE HELL KNOWS. So instead of it being awesome, it was sucky in the way only a 20/20 hindsight scenario can suck which? Is pretty much the big, fat, hairy, herpes-infested, orangutan-balls suckage kind of way. Also not nifty? Lapsing into a coma full of stupid and calling your insurance company to tell them about your cracked windshield before you confirm your coverage. You know, as opposed to confirming your coverage first and keeping your big mouth shut about the windshield until after you add the glass coverage and then waiting until the next day to call them at which time you go all Alanis Morissette on them by yelling I JUST ADDED GLASS COVERAGE YESTERDAY AND BROKE MY WINDSHIELD TODAY! I KNOW! ISN’T THAT IRONIC?
Of all the things at which I excel, including picking my cuticles until they bleed, growing a warm, furry winter coat on my legs by noon and nagging Nate to paint rooms over and over and over and OH MY GOD, REMIND ME AGAIN WHY I MARRIED YOU, I do believe my knack of unwittingly choosing the grossest, most disgusting places at which to do business tops the list. Case in point, the schlepp of an attorney who took a thirty minute break from filming an episode of Hoarders to re-write our wills.
I know small auto garages are dirty. I know they’re greasy and grimy. And they usually don’t have semi-decent waiting rooms with coffee and satellite TV and free Wi-Fi, unlike your typical pricey dealership which is irony at its best, don’t you think? Because who’s limber or multi-tasky enough to drink a latte and watch Good Morning America and surf social media all while bending over and grabbing their ankles for three hours? Although you probably could update your Facebook status provided you didn’t pass out from the blood gushing to your head and you were really good at texting upside down but seriously, who’s going to want to read it?
My point, and I do have one, is that I’m not unaware of what a traditional auto garage looks like. However, I was totally and completely unprepared to enter this particular business and have Philip Morris jam its tongue down my throat and french kiss my esophagus. The smell of stale, rancid cigarette smoke nearly brought me to my knees and tried to kill my coat by smothering it. I attempted to hold my breathe while I spoke to the owner which is hard enough to manage in and of itself but it’s virtually impossible when you’re flashing back to your muscular, tattooed, twenty-three year old boyfriend whose only talent was his uncanny ability to take a huge hit off a bong and then carry on an entire conversation about the V8 on his 1970 Dodge Charger without exhaling.
(CliffsNotes: We went out for one week. I was seventeen at the time. His name was Larry but my mom used to call him Gray Hairs #65 – 3,688.)
I was told that it would be ninety minutes and that I could wait in the office if I was so inclined but seeing as how it would have been nearly impossible to drive Helena to karate later that day if I succumbed to lung cancer by lunch, I was pretty much disinclined. I left before the little voice inside my head screaming I AM ASPHYXIATING AND NO ONE CARES crawled out of my eyeball and smacked the owner upside the head with its purse.
I spent the next ninety minutes walking around a dinky little town and, judging by the three individuals who approached me one right after the other within the first ten minutes, I decided I wasn’t in Kansas anymore and instead, had been transported to that magical land known as Boozehounds Who Get Wasted Before Noon. More flashbacks and I had to look around me to make sure I hadn’t driven to my apartment in college, circa 1988, by mistake.
(CliffsNotes: beer was cheap.)
One whiff of their breath and I suspected that each one was an undercover agent of the garage tasked with walking up and down nearby streets and parking lots because what better way to drum up business than to have the chrome stripped off all bumpers in a three block radius?
Ninety minutes later, my windshield was replaced and I was frozen. I quickly paid my bill with a check before the little voice inside my head screaming WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T TAKE CREDIT CARDS shimmied down the icicle hanging from my nose and kicked the owner in the gonads with its left foot.
My car now smells like urethane adhesive.
My coat now smells like Philip Morris’ sex towel after an all-night orgy.
And my house still smells like curry.
I found this blog post in my drafts folder and the date shows I wrote it around the same time I wrote the one about attracting both a wedgie and a horny geriatric in the same afternoon and I remember freaking myself out, convinced I had either developed sudden onset of bad joojoo or a nursing home had peed on me to mark its territory because I could find no other explanations for why I had suddenly become an octogenarian magnet and that might have been the reason I never published it. Either that, or I was suffering from a concussion of my hip.
Either way, this is what you missed last summer:
Yesterday, I was sort of hit on by yet another fossilized Y chromosome, this time in the parking lot of Wegmans and when I say “sort of” I mean that he didn’t so much hit on me as he did, well, hit me. With his 2000+ pound Dodge Ram truck. While in reverse. In the general vicinity of my hip.
It was Thursday and I had gone to Wegmans because that’s what I do on days of the week that have vowels in them and as I left my car and walked to the entrance, I stopped so as not to get in the middle of two women who were preoccupied with backing out of their opposing parking spots and playing chicken with their bumpers. It being 135 degrees outside, I decided not to exert any more energy than absolutely necessary so I didn’t walk around them and instead, I stayed put, out of their way, next to what I thought was a parked truck. Then I simply enjoyed the spectacle of two women yelling and gesticulating and trash talking each other, reveling in the fact that two females were on the verge of bitch slapping each other right in front of me and I did not have to tackle them or confiscate a cell phone, Nintendo DS game or other electronic life line or sit them down for a Come to Jesus talk for the simple fact that neither of them had popped out of my womb after twelve miserable hours of back labor.
And then, without warning, the parked truck I had been standing next to backed up and planted a kiss right on my hip. I jumped out of my skin the way and before I could stop it, a high pitched squealy &!!*%$#@ flew out of my mouth, sailed through the air and smacked the old man driving the truck right between his apparently blind eyes. He hesitated and then continued to back up until his driver’s side window was flush with my face which, coincidentally, was also flush and then he managed an apologetic “Sorry for the tap, Ma’am” and then he drove off before I could find the wherewithal to sue him or scream WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE. DID YOU JUST CALL ME MA’AM?
Had I been standing farther away than one inch from his bumper and had he been going any faster than .00045 mph when he almost ran me over, things may have turned out drastically different and I’d probably be writing this from my coffin. As it is, I have a molested hip with nothing, not even a scratch, to commemorate the event and therefore I have nothing to talk about on Facebook. You’d think I’d at least have gotten a bruise out of the deal but nada, except for the massive hematoma sprawled all over my ego. Because hello? Since when had I become a “Ma’am?” What the hell was wrong with “Miss?” Or “Pretty Lady?” I mean, if you’re going to commit attempted negligent homicide in reverse upon my person, the least you could do is address me as “Smoking Hot Middle-Aged Babe Who Just About Killed Herself to Lose 45 pounds and Whose Thighs No Longer Rub Together?”
Am I being unreasonable?
I’m not a fan of resolutions. If you’ve been around here long enough, you might remember my philosophy on the entire concept of publicly declaring all sorts of ridiculously abstract promises only to stand by and watch helplessly while they whither from neglect and death march into the barrel of a brand new, shiny, metaphorical assault rifle and get shot straight to a theoretically much warmer climate. To wit, circa 2008:
I’ve decided to spread out my ridiculously high expectations throughout the entire year so that I can thoroughly enjoy each and every accompanying disappointment in all of its glory, rather than experience one general, massive, overwhelming, excruciating, cataclysmic disillusionment on January 5. This way, I won’t have 360 continuous days in which to ask myself Now what the hell do I do?
Instead, I have hopes. Because believe it or not, I’m an optimist and when it isn’t under the couch covered with Ollie slobber, fuzzies, dead skin cells and Dorito dust, my glass is half full. This explains why I still hang onto the size 2 leather and suede-fringed mini skirt I bought at Merry Go Round in the mid eighties and it’s not just because I think it might come back into fashion some day.
So here, in no particular order, are my hopes for 2011:
I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;
I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;
I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;
I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;
I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;
*Pretend that there’s a whole bunch of blah blah blah here about world peace, my family staying healthy and happy and employed, someone finding a cure for all sorts of diseases, becoming a better wife, mother, sister, friend and blogger, winning the lottery, staying within five pounds of goal weight, Anderson Cooper coming to his senses, $25 football jerseys for dogs named Oliver being outlawed, gas not becoming more expensive than plasma, Nate developing a severe allergy to online shopping, someone stuffing the entire airline industry into two carry-ons and charging them $100 for the service, and getting my mattress to stop masquerading around as a sink hole.*
And finally … I hope that Oliver stops pooping behind the couch;
What are your hopes for 2011?