Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: chipmunk, family, frozen chipmunk, humor, kharma
Usually, I can tell when I’ve got good or bad Kharma coming to me, since most of my actions are pretty straightforward. But sometimes the line gets a little fuzzy. Like last week, with the Chipmunk Incident. (PETA members, you might as well stop reading, but for the record, I really was doing the best I could.)
I came home for lunch one day, and Hubby called.
“Did you see what I left in the trash can?” he asked.
“No. Why would I look in the trash can?” (Does he really think I look in there each time I pass by?)
“I left you something.”
“What?”
“The cats left a paralyzed a chipmunk on the back porch, so I put it in there.”
“Is he dead?” I asked, hesitating. Why else would Hubby be telling me this?
“He might be by now. But, I put him on top of the bag,” Hubby said, defensively.
So of course I had to go out and look. Sure enough, there was Chippy, only he wasn’t on top of the bag anymore—he’d slipped off and was gasping in a puddle of trash juice.
“Why didn’t you kill it?” I asked, enraged. “You can’t leave him out there to starve to death! That’s a horrible way to die! It’ll take days.”
“Well, I couldn’t do it! You have to do it.”
Now I was angry for two reasons: first, I’m not a big fan of the circle of life, and second, my husband has demonstrated a repeated lack of understanding of one of the fundamental rules in our marriage: I clean up the poop and vomit, he, being the man, finishes off small animals. So far, he’s managed to convince me to take a paralyzed bunny to the vet to be euthanized, and has now left a poor chipmunk in the bottom of the trashcan.
“I can’t,” I said.
For several minutes we debated the best way to put poor Chippy out of his misery. Finally, after being called several choice names, Hubby asked, “Well, what are you going to do?”
Not able to hit the side of a barn with a gun, that option was out. So was a friend’s suggestion to smear it with peanut butter and leave it in the garden so something else might finish it off (You see? These are the people I have to deal with!) Another friend suggested using a sharp shovel. Euthanasia by the vet was out of the question, since the last time I tried that (see bunny incident above), they were going to charge me $80 to stick a needle into the bunny’s heart. How is THAT humane?
Finally, I hit upon the best solution I could think of: I would put him in the freezer. Hubby reminded me that friends of his in Bermuda put lobsters in the freezer to kill them before cooking, and since Chippy was already in shock, and it would be quick and painless.
When the deed was done, I sent Hubby an informative text: “The deed is done, you big pussy.”
Instead of being ashamed and remorseful, this is what I got in return: “S-s-soooo c-c-coooold…”
Me: “You left him gasping tiny gasps in trash juice!”
Hubby: “I thought you said he was going to starve. He could’ve lasted for days on that juice.”
Hereafter, Hubby will now be referred to as Hubby #1. I hope the Kharma that comes back from this remembers that I really did try to be humane. It’s the cats who have something to answer for.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: Apple, computers, humor, Mac vs PC, southern, teenagers
I am technology-repellant.
In fact, there are probably some groups like the CIA or FBI who, I am sure, would pay me a lot of money if I would walk into a room and wreak havoc on the computers, phones and televisions there, just as much as I do on the ones in my house.
I am the DEET of the technology world.
Hubby, in a moment of extreme sweetness and concern for me, decided with Daughter #1’s help, that not only do I need a new computer (which I desperately do…mine occasionally screeches like a coffee grinder), but that I need a Mac.
First, let’s be clear: I am a PC person.
And my brain is full. I simply cannot add any new information without deleting stuff that is vital, such as the location of my keys and the wine bottle opener. Learning a new system is out of the question.
So a couple of weeks ago, in walk Hubby and Daughter #1 with a brand new Mac for her, and one for me, too. They were so excited I couldn’t reiterate right then my firm desire to stay in the world of PC. To their consternation, as Daughter #1 sat at the kitchen table happily exploring her Mac, doing the awkward two-finger scroll thing, I sat on the couch and slowly let the resentment boil up.
“Who did they think they were, anyway?” I muttered to myself. “As if they know what I need in a computer! Maybe they could just pick out my clothes and tie my shoes, too…” This went on for some time, I think mostly inside my head. If not, they wisely ignored it. And yes, I did realize that I sounded like a spoiled little brat. But the tirade rolled on, as fast and furious as the election ads during The Voice.
The next night, with their encouragement I tried to make it work. First I had to transfer files from the PC. I did it!
But then I couldn’t open anything. Nothing worked. I fumed. By ten o’clock I had stomped off to bed, ratcheting up the sleep number so there was no way Hubby could climb up next to me.
The next day I tried to make the requisite appointment at the Apple store for some help. When I called, a chirpy, automated male voice announced that he understood complete sentences! He actually said this with real-ish enthusiasm. Then he cheerily informed me I couldn’t make the appointment I wanted except by going on-line. So I did.
It didn’t work.
Blood rushed to my face, and filth came out of my mouth that I’m pretty sure would have embarrassed Emimem. So I reached for the phone, ready to call back and yell, “F%$#* you! Did you understand that?” But, I resisted. I still needed to get in the damn store, and I’m pretty sure they tape those phone calls.
So I called Hubby instead. After listening patiently to ten minutes of foulness and hatred of inanimate objects misdirected toward him, Hubby was eventually able to get an appointment for me (don’t ask me how). That afternoon, in a strange role reversal much like the movie Freaky Friday, I became the petulant teen and Daughter #1 had to talk Mama down from the ledge.
“If you will stop being so pissed off, I’ll tutor you tonight,” she said, with the patience of Jobe. Later, she added, “Stay in the kitchen. I don’t want you to see what I’m doing. It’ll only make you ask questions and get all mad again.” Wow. She’ll go far in life, I’m telling you.
Even my tech-savvy teenager couldn’t figure it out. So, I soon sat at the Apple Store with another teenager/tutor named Zach, prepared to be humiliated. And really, Computer Gods, did he have to be cute in a Zach Ephron kind of way? I’m not a full-blown cougar, but it was hard not to notice…
Instead, he mumbled a lot of “that’s weird,” and “why won’t it do that?” Eventually, Zach managed to get most of it sorted out, then sprinted off his beanbag (seriously, that’s what we were sitting on) to escape the pathetically grateful Mrs. Robinson next to him.
So please, accept this blog for the miracle that it is—done on my new Mac, with only a small amount of cussing and one bourbon and ginger.
Filed under: Misc. Humor
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a negligent citizen when it comes to the news. I’m too lazy to change channels to get a well-rounded perspective, I don’t read magazines with articles longer than one visit to the bathroom, and I get most of my news from The Daily Show. But every now and then, a news item will strike me as “too ridiculous to ignore.” I can’t stop thinking about it.
In the last three or four weeks, I have been amazed at the astute investigative reporting being done in our city. Several times after the Morning Murder Report, I have been yanked out of my pre-coffee haze and left staring at the TV asking myself, “Did I hear that right?”
Item 1: A local fraternity house (Hubby’s, actually) recently had a fire that caused significant damage. Cause—under investigation. Really? Let’s see—14 fraternity guys living in an old house that shockingly catches fire in the middle of the night. Sorry, folks, but that’s a no-brainer. There are really only a few possible causes, and no one is going to own up to any of them, except maybe cigarettes on the couch. I’m sure for insurance reasons the authorities have to find the absolute cause, but I think it’s probably a safe bet that writing “stupidity” would suffice. Now, the college has to find housing for the 14 guys…what lucky hotel is going to get that honor?
Item 2: A severed goat head was found in a dumpster in one of the nicer areas of the county. The lucky news reporter to cover this story was filmed giving the report while standing on top of the rubbish in the dumpster. It was a short clip, but even so she couldn’t keep her nose from wrinkling. She did, however, make one point very clear: the goat had died before the head was severed. First, I’m pretty sure more people are concerned that there was a goat head in the dumpster at all, than that the head came off after the goat was dead. Either way…eeewww. And just how did she come up with this theory? Because there was very little blood in the dumpster. Just a thought: maybe the goat was alive when the head was severed, but the blood drained out before it ever got into the dumpster. One popular theory was that a restaurant or individual could possibly have needed the meat. I, however, have a different theory:
I think this was the poor man’s version of taking it to the mattresses, as in the horse head left on the pillow in “The Godfather.” Nothing says I hate you like a goat head in your dumpster. Who would be the target of such a message, you ask? That’s easy: the lucky girl who had to stand on top of the putrid pile of refuse. The expression on her face would have been reward enough.
Item 3: Man found dead in house filled with dozens of poisonous snakes. Cause of death–under investigation. Not only was the cause of death been under investigation for several days, but this crime, obviously filled with serpentine twists and turns to confuse even the most ardent investigator, was on the nightly news, the morning radio news, and in the local newspapers nearly every day. After about 5 days, the verdict was in: cause of death, complications due to snakebite. I’m guessing the two puncture wounds were a pretty big clue, but hey, you look at every-fang. Can we ssssay ssssensationalism? (Sorry, couldn’t resist)
I’m just looking forward to the news coverage during the election. What’s the bet they figure out Obama is a Democrat and Romney’s a Republican?
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: clothing, humor, Mammary Jack in the Box, Middle-Age, muffin top, Plato's Closet, southern, tank tops
There’s something about hitting your forties that stirs up a civil war inside your psyche, or at least it did for me. Part of me (a large part) is vain. I still strive to keep the muffin top from lopping completely over my waistband, I hide the gray streaks under a veneer of bleach, and I apply ridiculously over-priced creams to a face that I like to tell my kids shows “I had a fun life.” I go to the gym and flail around on the “I-limp-and-drool” every other day. I even have a pill tray so I can keep track of my vitamins, glucosamine, calcium and allergy meds. At least I’m not on the cholesterol/diabetes/heart medicine train just yet. And, for the most part, I’m pretty happy with how I look.
But I’m beginning to have some setbacks.
At the beginning of the summer I took my daughters to a consignment store called Plato’s Closet. This store is great, stocking name brand clothes for teenagers (and those hopeful they might still be able to wear them) at deeply discounted prices. In fact, I have gotten a few J.Crew and Banana Republic shirts there myself. This time, however, I made a grave mistake. I tried on the tank tops.
While my daughters flipped patiently among the racks, I snuck to the back of the store and spied several cute tank tops that weren’t too young, or too slutty, or splattered with Aeropostale across the front. With a gleam in my eye and a prance in my comfortable mom-approved New Balance sneakers, I dove into the changing room to try them on.
Guess what? They didn’t fit.
Shocker.
Apparently, the makers of teen-age tank tops long ago realized something I had not: Teen-age boobs are not located in the same place on your body as “I’ve had two kids” boobs. In fact, there is anywhere from a half-inch to a THREE-inch difference!
So, still innocent of this bitter pill I would soon have to swallow (right after I choke down another calcium pill because you have to take them three times a day), I tried pulling the tank tops down, only to have them ride up again until they looked like some awkward, Victorian-cut nightie. My boobs were happily bouncing beneath the seam, making me look like a dog who’s had a few too many puppies. So I tried another one that looked more forgiving. With a vague feeling of desperation I made one last try. I took each boob in hand and tried to tuck it into the empty space in the shirt where they should rest. They looked great until I moved, then out popped each one, like a crazy mammary Jack-in-the-Box.
And don’t get me started on the jeans! Thankfully I had sense enough to know they were never gonna fit my forty-year-old ass. I mean, look at how they fit on the teenagers. Low-rise waists can’t hide their hormone-in-the-chicken-and-milk muffin tops, and they certainly didn’t make the tramp stamp folded in half on their lower backs look any better, although I have to admit there is something mildly entertaining about trying to figure out what the stamp actually is when you can only see half of it. Half a butterfly or angel looks a lot like a “W”, which I assume stands for WIDE–hey, if the tattoo fits… Anyway, if fourteen-year-old girls can’t wear those jeans and look good, you know an ass that’s sunk two inches and flattened like a pancake isn’t going to fit.
But I took heart in knowing that:
a) Pretty soon I’ll be like my older brother and will just give up entirely (he admits this–this is not intended as an insult!). Then he won’t be able to make jokes about my not knowing what color my hair actually is.
b) I will never have to worry about whether I have on my good undies (you know, the ones where the elastic waistband is still covered by cotton) when I wear my mom-waisted jeans, and
c) I can afford to buy the good bras and Spanx that put everything (temporarily) where it should be. Deal with that, Teenagers Who Still Have To Bum Money Off Your Parents! I may not have your bodies, but I only have a few more years to fight the good fight. You’re just entering the ring.
Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: Eighty-percenter, humor, Marriage, painting
I have a new word– “redundies. ”
“Redundies–” the act of repeatedly dropping and picking up the same pair of underwear over and over when you are carrying a load of clothes to the laundry.
Apparently, I do not learn from doing things incorrectly the first time. Or the second. Not only do I repeatedly stoop and pick up the same pair of underwear when it drops over and over on the way to the laundry room (instead of shifting the pile or actually placing the load in a laundry basket), but I do the same thing with the piece of lint that the vacuum won’t pick up. I look at it, stoop down and pick it up, then place it on the floor again to see if the vacuum will work better this time. Do I bother to just toss it in the trash? Of course not.
For years I’ve been doing things like this. Cleaning the house is one giant “redundie” for me. Why else would a person vacuum, mop, wipe and dust a place that in ten minutes will look exactly the same? And yet we do it over an over and over!
But a couple of years ago I finally learned how to use this trait for good.
A friend once told me his wife said he was “an Eighty-Percenter.” That meant that whenever there was a project to be done, he was happy as long as it was eighty percent done, or done eighty percent correctly. I’m more like a Sixty-Percenter. Especially when it comes to painting. I just want color. I don’t particularly care about ceiling lines and chair rails and bannisters.
But Hubby does.
One day, it dawned on me that if I only did my usual Sixty-Percenter job on a project, he would HAVE to finish it. A Ninety- or One Hundred-Percenter cannot stand it if something is done less. So, periodically I would threaten to start a project, knowing Hubby would never be satisfied with my half-assed job, and would be compelled to finish it. Hubby never seemed to recognize this pattern.
Recently, I tried it again. I threatened to start a painting job we’d been putting off for months (ok, twelve years–we still had builder’s grade white paint on a few of the walls in the house). Hubby, the One Hundred-Percenter, panicked. He went to the fancy paint store (no Lowes or Home Depot for the One Hundred-Percenter) and purchased two gallons of paint in some flavor of “sand.”
There was nothing sand-colored about it. It was yellow. Margarine that has been sitting on the counter three days too long yellow. We stood staring up at the one painted corner unitl 7:00, then decided we should get something else. So, it being a holiday and the store already closed, we kicked back with our drinks and vowed to go back the next day. (And no, it never crossed our minds to get the little sample sizes, slap them on the wall, wait several days while we observed the light at different times like modern-day Michaelangelos. We are people of action. Watching and waiting do not become us.)
The next day, in we went back to the fancy paint store with Daughter #2, fresh from the stable and under protest in her stained and smelly jodphurs and boots. Daughter #2, never paralyzed with decision-making like some members of this family, marched over to the paint swatches, yanked one out and pronounced, “This is the one you want. Can we go now?”
Sure enough, it was pretty darn close to what we’d talked about. Victory was within my grasp. The house would be painted, Hubby would be house-bound for days to keep me company, and I wouldn’t have to do any of it!
Then my plan totally backfired.
I was not only allowed to tape the edges of our work space, but I was also allowed to actually use the roller and paint the big spaces. But despite the fact that I would have to re-wire our entire relationship in my head, my heart sang, my spirits soared, and I went to work with great gusto. Why? Because I knew a small miracle had happened in our Subourbon home.
After being together for twenty-two years, we had GROWN as a couple. There was a new level of trust in our relationship. Not only was I being allowed to paint, I was being allowed to paint the foyer, the very first place people will see when they walk in. My One Hundred-Percenter had trusted ME with such an important space. Naturally, I was on the receiving end of ample instruction on how to use the roller, how to hold it, where to start rolling, how to smooth out the globs I’d left behind, when to inhale, when to exhale, etc.
But hey, it’s a baby step.
Any miracles after twenty-two years should be celebrated. Maybe I’ll embrace the “redundies” and clean the house this weekend!
Subourbon Mom 