Posts Tagged ‘humor’
Hi, everyone! Well, um, I have been busy. I have been reading some very good books. I have been calculating pi to the utmost digit. I have been eating pie with all of my digits. I have been doing anything and everything I possibly can, except updating my blog.
SO! Now that the excuses are out of the way, shall we get on to gettin’ on? To the POST!!
I have a wonderfully large vehicle that drivers of small cars despise. I understand their feelings, though, because on the days I cannot wheedle–er, convince–my husband into leaving the hunk-a-gleamin’ metal with me, then I have to drive the “sensible” car. The Toyota. The economy car. The car that you climb out of instead of step down from. And also the car that is a planet unto itself…BECAUSE YOU CANNOT SEE AROUND ALL OF THE FREAKISHLY LARGE VEHICLES THAT SURROUND YOU! Sorry…venting for those of us saddled with the wise-choice car for the day.
Anyway, when I drive my Suburban, I have control of it all…the entertainment (unless the kids want to watch a movie), the music (unless my daughter is in the car), the temperature (unless…well, you get the idea). I do get to run the GPS, though. It is my baby and I would be lost without it…literally. It was the best Christmas gift my hubby could ever give me! I am so directionally challenged…seriously, I have gotten lost leaving a parking garage. I ended up in a part of town, explaining things to my kids I never thought I would have to talk about until they were well into their 40’s. So, it’s a survival thing for me. Don’t get all in a tizzy if you’re behind me in a parking garage, though. It takes a while for the satellites to be located, so I know which way to turn.
On long trips, my husband usually drives. He says it has something to do with my wakefulness. I don’t understand it, really. The driver’s seat is just so *comfy* on those long, monotonous trips. I also happen to enjoy having icy-air conditioning blow on me full-force while the radio is on VERY loud. All of that swerving and head-bobbing makes the trip interesting. He should learn to sleep amidst distractions. Really. I am doing him a favor!
Where was I? Oh, yes. So, my husband drives, but I still use the GPS to find the gas stations (bathrooms), restaurants (bathrooms), and rest areas/parks (bathrooms). The only problem is, that despite my 5’8″ frame, I cannot for the LIFE of me reach the GPS mounted with the cute suction cup to the windshield. I try! Over and over I try. I reach with my left arm as far as I can and stretch against the shoulder harness…but it holds me back. Again, I reach…then sit back…reach…back…reach…back…THROW MYSELF FORWARD (trying to fake out the seatbelt…seatbelts are NEVER really prepared for the sudden force against them…it’s a design flaw, I think)…then vault to the seat back. Over and over and over again…lurching back and forth–bungeeing from the seatbelt to the seatback, if you will–with my arm outstreached, never *quite* reaching the GPS. No, I never *ask* for the GPS until this ritual was accomplished. Why should I? I will win someday…I will overcome! Of course, my husband always turns to me and asks, “Need help, Rexie?” Yeah, like a T-Rex…arms too short. Oh, but that’s not enough! nooooo He has to pull his elbow to his side and act like he is extending his arm. like a T-Rex! Then the entire Suburban (it holds roughly 42.3 people…roughly) erupts in raucous laughter while my new nickname is volleyed from passenger to passenger. I am so pleased I can provide wholesome entertainment for my family and friends. It is my purpose.
You know those cute pet names families have for one another that stays within the family? Like Schnookums or WiddleBear or PiddlyPants? Rexie is not. uh, no. I found that out rather suddenly when I was playing Sequence and I couldn’t quite reach the board…and a family “friend” pulled his elbow to his side and said, “I can’t quite REACH it…can you, Rexie?” Again, guffaws galore.
I will reach that GPS, someday. It is my goal.
Okay, so I was driving in my not-so-cheap-to-run-yet-comfy-vehicle to the grocery store and I was flippin’ through the radio stations to find something to hum along with. (…something with which to hum?…Let’s break all of the rules and END WITH PREPOSITIONS!) After circling the FM dial a couple of times, I finally hear the beginning of a song that makes me pause… those CHORDS… I feel a stirring within…ahhhhh…. Next thing I know, I’m belting out a song I haven’t heard for a decade without missing a note or flubbing a lyric.
“Babe, Im leaving, I must be on my way; The time is drawing near; My train is going, I see it in your eyes…The love, the need, your tears. But I’ll be lonely without you! And I’ll need your love to see me through! Please believe me, my heart is in your hands, And Ill be missing you!!!!!!!!!”
I am in the Albertson’s parking lot, engine running, an almost 30 year old song blasting from my mom-mobile, singing ballad-style at the top of my lungs. You know what I mean–neck stretched long, contorted and emotion-filled expression, head nodding and bobbing at the appropriate emphasis spots–yeah, if my kids were in the car, they’d be on the floorboard.
“You know its yoooooou babe!! Whenever I get weary and I’ve had enough, Feel like giving up, You know its yoooooooou babe! Giving me the courage and the strength I need, Please believe that its true. (ding a ling a ling; ding a ling a ling) Babe, I love you.”
It’s amazing how a song can take you back in time…roller skating rinks on Friday night. Hoping the cool guy with Jordache or Brittania jeans would ask you to couple skate with him. Not just holding hands, but the cool way to couple skate…he skates backwards and you skate forward. You’re also hoping you aren’t as klutzy as you were last week. First, his hands were on your shoulders-okay! my shoulders!-and I was just concentrating on being cool…then I skated right into his skates and took him down. We both tumbled and caused a mass pile-up on the northeast corner of the rink. He had to be carried off of the rink and taken home–something about a hamstring?? Yeah, I was coooool.
This was also on the first album I ever bought with my own money. I was 10 years old and at a K-Mart with my cousins and my aunt. It was a best-of album–Best Love Songs of 1979, or something like that. I had other albums (Shawn Cassidy!), but this was chosen and bought by ME!
Isn’t it also amazing how you can remember EVERY WORD to a song you haven’t heard in EONS, but you can forget a password you set up just hours ago?
The song finished and I ran inside the store to get the milk, bananas, noodles, and foot fungus cream (just kidding!) that I needed. There’s nothing like an old, nostalgic song that triggers warm and fuzzy memories to make you feel like a kid again. I don’t think I will go roller skating anytime soon, or try to injure or maim anyone around me, but it made me put aside the weight of adult responsibilities and concerns for a few minutes and sing.
Oh, and I must’ve needed an extra boost, because the mystery-music-machine inside Albertson’s was playing Faithfully, and I wasn’t the only one mindlessly singing. (How do we remember these lyrics????)
Posted April 23, 2008on:
Surprise! Hellooooo, everyone!
I am here, alive, and well. Really faked you out, hmmmm? I am sorry for the concern I caused you…I am back from an expert in maladies such as mine and the diagnosis is in…I suffer from severe procrastinitus disorder. Yes, it is a terrible thing! It affects so many people on a global level–it especially affects those who associate with those of us with said disorder. Yes, you have disorder in your life because we are not prompt in taking care of chaos, so it spills over. Whew.
So, one of the symptoms of procrastinitus is not being timely on blog posts/updates, even though you absolutely-truly-ya-gotta-believe-me!-wanna-do-it. Another symptom is being a horrid deadline pusher–it can almost be an addiction! You feel the rush and pressure to get something done by x o’clock and BAM! you crank it out in record time! Yeah, I’ve done it occasionally.
Like, my sophomore year of high school…I was in a Creative Writing class with a lot of my friends and a very open and sharing teacher. Yeah. You know the kind…she spent more time talking to the class about her life’s problems than teaching. But that is another post…. It was during that class I decided I would put an END to PROCRASTINATION and take an entire week to write my paper instead of the usual hour or so the night before. (I would write my paper, then write my rough draft and edit it to match my paper that I had actually done first. Ummm hmmm…somethings wrong here!) The paper I so painstakingly did the “correct” way–notes, rough draft, edit, rewrite, etc.–got a C! “Too padded,” she wrote. Then, I understood; given time, I would keep moving, adding, tweeking, when my original paper was just fine. Ahhhh! The POWER of procrastination!
Another experience–in college, we had to do packet work–researching a negative character trait in ourselves that we wanted to change and coming up with a plan to change it. There was a lot of work involved–hypothesis and then three books on the subject had to be read and summarized, then you pull from those books nuggets to help you on your better-you path. A plan was written (with predictions) and then followed for at least two weeks, with your reflections and experiences noted. Then you wrote a revised plan and predictions. There were two due for the semester and this reflected our total grade. I did my final one the night before in about three hours. I wrote the initial plan, figured what would have gone right and wrong had I actually done it, revised my plan, and concluded (along with all of the other required stuff). My professor liked my packet so much, she asked if she could keep a copy as a sample for students to model after in subsequent classes. My subject? The dire character flaw? Procrastination.
Thanks for reading!
Hello bloggie friends! You *are* still my friends, aren’t you??
I have been distracted for a while, eh? Sorry about that,
Chief! (Bonus–who utters that masterful quote?) Well, I am back,
even if just for today. I went to Egypt and Israel and back…
great stories and photos to share someday soon…and now I am on
another trip, visiting my hometown.
Earlier, I visited Ree’s site and read some of the comments after
another one of her awesome “Name This Photo” contests. The winner
was very clever and quite adept at incorporating pop-culture
into her witty titles. This one was heavily influenced by a
favorite TV show of all time…The Dukes of Hazzard!
Ah, c’mon, how many of you wanted to be Daisy Duke? I know I
did…now I shudder…Anyway, one blogger with great knowledge
sent my world hurtling down by revealing the bumbling sheriff
isn’t actually named Rosco Pico Train. *sigh* The truth hurts.
He is actually named Rosco P. Coletrane. What a crash…I mean
Pico is a cool name…I’da stayed with that, myself.
So, that reminded me…just yesterday I was listening to an
older gentleman talk about some historical figures and family
members who had an impact upon his life. He specifically said,
“R. Ruitts influence our lives and are important to look back on
from time to time.” I was confused…not only by his deplorable
lack of grammar knowledge, but also because I had never heard of
this influential being named “R. Ruitts”. I leaned to my
husband and asked who this R. Ruitts was. He looked at me,
puzzled, and just repeated his name, R. Ruitts. I said, “Yes,
I know what his name is, but WHO is he? What did he do that we
should look back upon??” This went back and forth a bit–much to
my frustration and my husband’s amusement. Finally, he made
sweeping motions with his hands and enunciated carefully….
Ahhh, I guess I have been away from the midwest accents too
Be back soon! Have a great day and let me know what’s on
your mind! Have you ever misheard anything?? I would love
to hear from you!
- The bony ridge extending over the eye.
- The arch of short hairs covering this ridge.
(Nod to dictionary.com for the eloquent definition found at my fingertips.)
Now that we are all on the same page, as it were, about eyebrows…you can see how utterly ridiculous and truly trivial functional eyebrows are. I mean functional…what function do eyebrows have? To keep miscellaneous fuzzballs and dandruff from toppling from our head/hair/forehead/brow into our eyes? Ahh, that’s why I must clean the debris from my eyebrows each night. Once, I retrieved a Yellow-Billed Loon from my right eyebrow. I was lucky it hadn’t been there long enough to establish residency, or my eyebrow would have been put on a protected list and where would I be now? Not writing this blog entry, I can tell you that! Another highlight for eyebrow-wearers (lame pun intended) is eyebrows remind you (and those around you) of your true hair color. No matter how you may try to go incognito, your eyebrows (and your hairdresser) always know the truth. (Okay, you can be all fancy-schmancy and have your hairdresser “help” you with your brows…but you may want to rethink your position once you finish reading this missive….)
I have earthen-like eyebrows. I like to leave them in their natural state as much as possible to help keep the earth green, world peace, fight plaque & gingivitis, that sort of thing. I am also against unnecessary pain as it relates to me. If others would like to rip fully-grown hairs from their follicles, then more power to ’em, but it’s just not for me.
Unfortunately, in a weak moment, I succumbed to the words and ideology of a dear friend with immaculately-shaped-eyebrows-and-a-stunning-glow-about-her. She confided in me that my eyebrows needed work and if I didn’t take care of them, she was going to take matters into her own hands–one tiny hair at a time. As I said, it was a weak moment, and I thought shaping my brows might work out for me. I didn’t have a unibrow working or a virtual eyebrow halo/headband going on, but they could use a little “training”. So, at my next hair appointment, I decided to go for the eyebrow wax. I won’t go into the mechanics of eyebrow waxing…the slathering, rubbing, and ripping…but suffice it to say, I was glowing by the time she was done. After the radiance subsided, I really appreciated the fine arch of my brow and the way all of the hairs went in the same direction. I liked the sleekness and coiffed look my freshly waxed brows gave me. So it began…waxing at the salon periodically, because I still was too gutless to pluck and too nervous to try the do-it-yourself-waxing-kit.
One Spring day as I went to my hairdresser’s for a before Easter cut-n-style. (She didn’t call it that–I just love hyphens![and parentheses!]) My eyebrows were becoming a bit unruly, so I asked if she had time for a wax. Of course she did! She always had time for whatever I needed!
Well, here’s a tip. Visit a bit with your hairdresser before you let her loose with, oh, say HOT WAX near your eyebrows. I mean, letting her loose with scissors snipping at your hair during a crisis can be horrifying, but eyebrows! My poor hairdresser had had a terrible week. Kids with marital problems, rude employees, holiday stress–you name it, she had it. I listened to her as she cut–and cut–and cut–my hair (but that is another post). After my cut-n-almost-style, she led me to the waxing station and slathered a third of my face with hot wax…rub…rip…. Then, the most terrifying words–words you never want to hear from your hairdresser or your plastic surgeon–were uttered. “Oh, no.” Looooong pause. “Oh, my.” P-a-u-s-e. “Okay, it’s okay. Yes, we can fix this. Not a problem–no worries. Yes, we’ll just fix this.”
“FIX THIS??? Fix what????” My mind was reeling with the possibilities. Was the wax so hot I didn’t realize it had melted part of my face?? Did a chunk of my face come off on the rubbing paper? Did the “fixing” involve wearing my hair down, like a shroud over my face?
She led me to yet another station, this one mirrorless, probably called the “fix-it” corner. She rummaged through a display area for a moment, then turned bearing a long, thin pencil and proceeded to DRAW on my face! “Oh, yes, this is nice. No one can tell the difference. No, you are perfect!” She stepped back, smiled, and gave me a hand-held mirror so I could admire her work. The lady had left me with one and one-half eyebrows! My left eyebrow in its entirety only existed in my memory. Now, it was art–a pencil sketch, if you will. As I sat in awe, she presented me with a gift–a token of goodwill–the pencil used to create the masterpiece I now wore above my eyes.
So, unless you fully trust your hairdresser, or you are comfortable with a rebel-type wax job, or perhaps your hairdresser is an emotionally stable kind of person that doesn’t let life get in the way of his or her styling responsibilities, I would have an in-depth talk with your hairdresser about their life and assess if you really want any drastic changes.
Take it from me.
Eyebrows…meh…do they really matter?
This prank looks just too cool!
Thought you would enjoy it!
My unwritten code for this blog has been sabotaged by the unwriter of it! (Um, that would be me.) You see, I had decided to keep a *daily* blog for all of my loyal readers (few we may be now–hi, mom!–but think of it! You are CHARTER MEMBERS! That is exciting, yes?), and already I have failed you! Failed myself! Oh, the torment of it all! I didn’t have any coffee today–does that count as penance? I hope so, because it wasn’t pleasant for anyone involved.
Allrighty, enough of that and on to the real post, shall we?!?!?! We shall! There is something you may not know about me….I have untreated murophobia. Yes, I know it is foolhardy to go about my business, ignoring the deep-rooted problem that lies within me. My affliction, in layman’s terms, is EXTREME AND ABSOLUTE, UNDENIABLE AND UNEXPLAINABLE TERROR DURING AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER WITH A MOUSE (or rat), ESPECIALLY WITHIN A HUMAN-TYPE DWELLING. I am all for looking fear in the face and all, but when that face has beady little eyes, a pointy nose, sharp protruding teeth, and can wrap a hairless tail around your finger…well, suffice it to say, there ain’t no therapy in the world that can release me from my little cage of horror. Snakes and reptiles, I can handle–after all, they rid the world of disease-carrying rodents! They are heroes! Rodents?!? ugh.
My husband, however, is a strong man. He is The Mighty Hunter and will Protect his Cringing Wife from every threatening side. Mice? Rats? They are no match for my husband’s swiftness and cunning. Now, he doesn’t quite *get* my irrational fear of something so small…. Case in point. This happened a few years ago, but it is still etched upon my mind in severe clarity….
One night, about 1 am, I woke up from a sound sleep, slightly uncomfortable. No matter which way I turned I couldn’t snuggle back into that warm slumber. No question about it–nature was calling and my kidneys were aching in surrender. I gingerly got up, careful not to shake the bed or make too much noise–don’t want to wake anyone, you know!–and tiptoed my way into the master bathroom. I didn’t bother with the light. I knew my way around and it would only disturb my husband.
When I got within a step and a half from the toilet, I heard a “scritch, scritch” from the magazine holder near the toilet. (Our bathroom doubles as a library.) I froze, not knowing if I wanted to turn and run (known fact to all rodent-phobics that a mouse can run faster than any human being and they live to jump on your face with their extend-o-claws) or to stand and face this noise like a woman. Realizing if I ran, the scritcher would sense my fear, thus expediting my demise, I decided to stand my ground and inspect the area. I grabbed a wayward paperback book (there are practical reasons for the bathroom/library combination) and threw it across the room–aiming for the toilet/vanity area. Nothing. Then, I leaned as far over as I could, while staying firmly planted a safe eighteen inches away (gymnastics really paid off!), and flicked the toilet seat down with a thunk. Listen. Nothing. Okay. Breathe easy, brave sister! It’s clear! You did it! Safe to go in now.
I took a step toward my goal of the commode and simultaneously I hear and feel another frantic rustle and tiny claws (just starting to extend!) running over my left foot. Now, my conscious body leaves any and all choices laying on that floor (except my bladder did stay intact, amazingly) and my autonomic reflexes take over. I scream like I have never screamed before! I scream like I am on the wildest roller coaster ride in the world and I have forgotten to buckle my safety harness. I scream like a child when she discovers her favorite dessert just got eaten by the neighbor’s dog. I scream like I am about to be devoured by a rodent the size of Milwaukee…
Meanwhile, in the other part of the suite, my husband jolts awake from a sound sleep with my piercing screams interspersed with his name spouting from my lips. He is trying to decide whether to go for a weapon of any kind to defend me from this burly, dangerous intruder or just get him with the element of surprise and adrenalin. He opts for the latter. Rushing in with a guttural yell and a blinding flash of florescent light comes my champion. I didn’t stop screaming, but my spouse quickly found what the source of my terror was.
“You screamed for a MOUSE?! For a two-inch pest you can stop with one stomp? My heart is pounding for a MOUSE?!” My husband doesn’t share my irrational quirks.
I calmed somewhat–if not internally, by decibels–until my husband strode forward with purpose and pounded the wrinkle in the bath mat that I happened to be straddling. My feet pranced in a memory of elementary tap and jazz lessons while my arms flailed and head wagged like my teenage slam-dancing episodes. I was quite impressed with my dynamics and the command of range my voice possessed, although I may be responsible for the high-tone hearing loss my husband now has.
“Stop, Jenn, STOP! There isn’t anything there. Calm down, would you?”
Well, after that kind of help from my husband, I decided to leave my love to tear apart the bathroom to find the thief of his sleep. I leaped back to bed in three loooong tiptoe bounds. I sat cross-legged on the bed with a safe mattress perimeter all around me, waiting for the triumphant hunter to emerge. He came in empty-handed, grumbling about his thumping heart and how he would never get to sleep again and was I SURE it was a mouse and not just a gecko??
We both crawled under the covers and I switched off the light. As I cuddled next to my husband, ready to force sleep upon myself, my eyes flew open. I forgot to go to the bathroom! I stayed where I was with the safe rodent-free-mattress-perimeter-zone until sunrise. And now I never go into a dark bathroom. I turn on the light and count to ten before I enter and make LOTS of noise as I do.
Do you have an irrational fear of something? How do you feel about hairless rodent tails??
Have a great rest-of-the-weekend! Tomorrow (Sunday’s) post will be either late or non-existing, since I am at church most of the day. Don’t give up on me, though! I would LOVE repeat visitors that aren’t related or have some embarrassing secret about me to lord over my head….
Thanks for all of your comments and support! I really do enjoy this! I am still trying to figure everything out…the mechanics of it all. Any tips are welcome. One question…I like to reply to the comments…should I reply on *my* blog or go to the commenter’s blog. I have been doing the latter. Maybe I should do both, so others can see the replies? Just wondering what others do!