I got to thinking today...which is usually not a good thing. The philosophical pondering of the day is this: What if people mistake my silliness for ignorance? I profess not to care what other people think - and for the most part, I don't. But since one of my pet peeves is people who are idiots, it's important to me that others realize that I'm not an idiot. I'm all for putting my crazy life out there for the amusement of others, as long as they understand that I'm just a smart person who happens to do really dumb things on occasion. Perhaps more frequently than the average person, but whatever. Life is never boring around me, that's for sure.
So here's the deal. I am "book smart" by society's standards. I scored a 27 on my ACTs - twice. 27 didn't seem like a high enough score, so I retook the test, but ended up with the same score. Apparently with a certain amount of partying and without certain amount of studying, you just can't get any smarter than you already are.
I graduated high school 4th in my class with a 3.9 GPA (damn math and science classes dragged me down from a 4.0) and went on to earn my bachelor's degree cum laude with a 3.5 GPA. (In college it was the damn accounting and economics classes that messed everything up). Come to think of it, accounting and economics mess everything up in the real world too!
But "street smart" is where I am lacking. I do posses common sense, but sometimes I don't possess the ability to use it. Now, I know enough not to dangle a baby from a balcony (lookin' at you, MJ) or mention the word "bomb" in an airport. Basic life or death survival? I got that. But some of the other stuff that makes people say, "I can't believe you did that" is where common sense and I part ways.
I guess if it's not going to kill me, then it doesn't matter to me so much. So I did something slightly questionable, like trying to glue on fake eyelashes using SuperGlue or accidentally burning my butt with my curling iron (don't ask). Or setting the ends of my hair on fire and singeing my eyebrows by leaning over a lit scented candle to find out what it smelled like. Even getting really confused and driving into a blocked off construction zone and having to flag down two (hot!) construction workers and have them stop traffic and move cones to let me back out onto the highway while I tried not to cry. Okay, not my finest hours. I suspect things like this happen to more people than let on. But most people have that little embarrassment filter in their brain that says "I wouldn't tell anyone about that if I was you." But I don't have that filter. I figure, heck, once the initial shock wore off, I found it pretty funny so I bet other people will also.
So all these mid-day musings boil down to this: There is that fine line between people laughing WITH you, and people laughing AT you because they think you are an idiot. I have straddled that line on many occasions, I fear. But have I crossed it?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Poopgate 2010
In light of a recent controversy a simple facebook status of mine caused, I'd like to take this opportunity to hold a brief press conference on the situation. Please hold all questions until the end. Thank you.
There was recently a movement going around facebook that women should post as their status the color/description of the bra they were wearing that day, in honor of breast cancer awareness month. Fun, harmless, thing to do right? I took part and was pleased that I happened to be wearing a cute bra that day so I didn't have to embarrass myself by writing "old raggy stretched out beige with underwire poking out." Nope, I got to write "Pink."
The next movement going around facebook was for women to post the weights that their babies were at birth. Even though I have never given birth, being the sarcastic smartass that I am, I thought of a different way to include myself in this fun, harmless activity. I decided to write the weight of something else that "came out of me" instead. So here is what I posted as my status:
All the woman on facebook are posting the weights of their babies as their status. I haven't had any babies, but I can tell you that the last shite I took the morning after a night out drinking was probably a good 1 lb 2 oz. Sorry if you didn't want to know that, but maybe I don't care how much your baby weighed either. :-)
For any of you completely out of touch with reality, let me just clarify that my statement was absolute fiction - simply a random number that I pulled out of my butt (pun intented). I don't know about any of you, but I have never actually weighed or even considering weighing my fecal matter, so I really can't say for certain how many pounds or ounces it may have been. Furthermore, I'm no expert but wouldn't 1 lb. 2 oz be a ridiculously huge dooker?! Ouch. And for the record, I don't have any problem with babies. Just ask anyone whose poor little one has had their cheeks squeezed or foreheads kissed repeatedly by me. Babies? Love 'em.
However, the very first comment posted about my status was the following, made by a woman I've met twice through another friend - and who I now realize takes herself entirely too seriously and is unable to comprehend a joke:
That's a pretty shitty thing to say. I happen to enjoy talking about my kids. Just because you don't have any does not mean you have to be rude to the rest of us. Would you like to make a rude statement regarding the posts about baby loss too!?!
Well, I didn't see anything rude about my comment and obviously would never say anything bad about the loss of a baby. In fact, I am confused as to how the leap could be made from a comment regarding a baby's birth weight to baby loss. Put down the crack pipe for a second, and take a deep cleansing breath, honey! Take yourself way too seriously, much?! The kicker is, this women "unfriended" me on facebook over what I now refer to as Poopgate 2010. Incredible! Darn it, I am really going to miss you, lady I have met twice in my life. Buh -bye.
Thank you for your attention. I will now take questions on this press conference. Wait, nevermind. I won't take any questions because I have no further comments on this matter. Other than this one last thought: Alas, this is the price I pay for being hilarious. Some people just won't get it, and will end up being offended. Luckily for me, I don't care. That is all.
Oh, and let's make world peace happen. And more importantly, harsher punishment for parole violators, Stan. Gotta love Miss Congeniality.
There was recently a movement going around facebook that women should post as their status the color/description of the bra they were wearing that day, in honor of breast cancer awareness month. Fun, harmless, thing to do right? I took part and was pleased that I happened to be wearing a cute bra that day so I didn't have to embarrass myself by writing "old raggy stretched out beige with underwire poking out." Nope, I got to write "Pink."
The next movement going around facebook was for women to post the weights that their babies were at birth. Even though I have never given birth, being the sarcastic smartass that I am, I thought of a different way to include myself in this fun, harmless activity. I decided to write the weight of something else that "came out of me" instead. So here is what I posted as my status:
All the woman on facebook are posting the weights of their babies as their status. I haven't had any babies, but I can tell you that the last shite I took the morning after a night out drinking was probably a good 1 lb 2 oz. Sorry if you didn't want to know that, but maybe I don't care how much your baby weighed either. :-)
For any of you completely out of touch with reality, let me just clarify that my statement was absolute fiction - simply a random number that I pulled out of my butt (pun intented). I don't know about any of you, but I have never actually weighed or even considering weighing my fecal matter, so I really can't say for certain how many pounds or ounces it may have been. Furthermore, I'm no expert but wouldn't 1 lb. 2 oz be a ridiculously huge dooker?! Ouch. And for the record, I don't have any problem with babies. Just ask anyone whose poor little one has had their cheeks squeezed or foreheads kissed repeatedly by me. Babies? Love 'em.
However, the very first comment posted about my status was the following, made by a woman I've met twice through another friend - and who I now realize takes herself entirely too seriously and is unable to comprehend a joke:
That's a pretty shitty thing to say. I happen to enjoy talking about my kids. Just because you don't have any does not mean you have to be rude to the rest of us. Would you like to make a rude statement regarding the posts about baby loss too!?!
Well, I didn't see anything rude about my comment and obviously would never say anything bad about the loss of a baby. In fact, I am confused as to how the leap could be made from a comment regarding a baby's birth weight to baby loss. Put down the crack pipe for a second, and take a deep cleansing breath, honey! Take yourself way too seriously, much?! The kicker is, this women "unfriended" me on facebook over what I now refer to as Poopgate 2010. Incredible! Darn it, I am really going to miss you, lady I have met twice in my life. Buh -bye.
Thank you for your attention. I will now take questions on this press conference. Wait, nevermind. I won't take any questions because I have no further comments on this matter. Other than this one last thought: Alas, this is the price I pay for being hilarious. Some people just won't get it, and will end up being offended. Luckily for me, I don't care. That is all.
Oh, and let's make world peace happen. And more importantly, harsher punishment for parole violators, Stan. Gotta love Miss Congeniality.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Falling Down
A not-so-brief explanation of my blog title. There are people (pretty much all of them) who have used the adjective "clumsy" to describe me. My mom thinks it is hilarious to say that I could trip over a Kleenex. I would attempt to act shocked by her comment, but since it's a fairly accurate statement, why bother? I do, in fact, fall down a lot.
It used to be the joke of deer hunting camp. Yes, I was allowed to carry a shotgun. Whether that was a good idea is a completely different issue. We'd be walking the cattails, plowed field, or to be honest, even a perfectly flat surface, and the others would hear: "Aaaaaahhhh!" followed by a thud. They'd turn around to find me nowhere in sight, and then hear "I'm okay" and a series of "oof"s as I struggled to hop back up dressed in thick coveralls and a huge jacket. It's a good thing I usually fell forward, because if I had tipped over onto my back I would have been like a turtle stuck on it's shell, legs flailing uselessly in the air until some kind soul picked me up.
A couple years ago on the way to a Christmas party I stepped out of my back door carrying a plate of cookies and somehow missed the step that had been there for two years. Completely faceplanted it and the cookies went flying into the snow. I had thought it would be festive to wear a headband with reindeer antlers and jingle bells, but due to the fall I showed up at the party disheveled, cookieless, and with one broken antler. Good times.
More than once, I've been mid-conversation with my mom when I've suddenly tripped and dropped my cell phone and had to yell "I'm okay!" because the phone had flown out of my reach and I needed a moment to check for injuries before crawling to retrieve the phone and resume our conversation. The time that happened when I fell down the basement stairs was especially traumatic in that I really did think I had broken my ankle and would need the phone to call 911 but it had flown out of my hand all the way across the room. I did yell "I'm okay!" to my mom but it took me a couple minutes to crawl to the phone that time!
The latest wipeout was New Year's Eve in the parking lot of Walmart. I slipped a couple times walking back to my car but managed to stay upright by doing those huge arm circle things and teetering back and forth. Until I was directly in front of a car about to pull into an empty parking space. Then my awesome body decided it was the perfect time to totally lose balance and biff it hard. My feet slipped out from under me and I went down on my knees, sending my purse, Walmart bag, and keys into the air. I was pretty sure I skinned my knee and possibly ripped my pants, but didn't have time to lay there and recover because this car was waiting to pull into the spot where I was sprawled. So I immediately hopped back up, pretending to be unhurt, and bent over to retrieve my scattered belongings, only to slip and fall again. Niiiice.
When I finally made it to my car I slammed the door and sat there trying not to cry. Amazingly there was no rip in my pants but there was a big dirt streak on both knees and I did skin my knees a little. Luckily though, it was only my pride that was the most injured. At least the car was able to stop in time to avoid hitting me, and they were kind enough to squelch their insane laughter until after I limped away. Small blessings, my friends, small blessings.
It used to be the joke of deer hunting camp. Yes, I was allowed to carry a shotgun. Whether that was a good idea is a completely different issue. We'd be walking the cattails, plowed field, or to be honest, even a perfectly flat surface, and the others would hear: "Aaaaaahhhh!" followed by a thud. They'd turn around to find me nowhere in sight, and then hear "I'm okay" and a series of "oof"s as I struggled to hop back up dressed in thick coveralls and a huge jacket. It's a good thing I usually fell forward, because if I had tipped over onto my back I would have been like a turtle stuck on it's shell, legs flailing uselessly in the air until some kind soul picked me up.
A couple years ago on the way to a Christmas party I stepped out of my back door carrying a plate of cookies and somehow missed the step that had been there for two years. Completely faceplanted it and the cookies went flying into the snow. I had thought it would be festive to wear a headband with reindeer antlers and jingle bells, but due to the fall I showed up at the party disheveled, cookieless, and with one broken antler. Good times.
More than once, I've been mid-conversation with my mom when I've suddenly tripped and dropped my cell phone and had to yell "I'm okay!" because the phone had flown out of my reach and I needed a moment to check for injuries before crawling to retrieve the phone and resume our conversation. The time that happened when I fell down the basement stairs was especially traumatic in that I really did think I had broken my ankle and would need the phone to call 911 but it had flown out of my hand all the way across the room. I did yell "I'm okay!" to my mom but it took me a couple minutes to crawl to the phone that time!
The latest wipeout was New Year's Eve in the parking lot of Walmart. I slipped a couple times walking back to my car but managed to stay upright by doing those huge arm circle things and teetering back and forth. Until I was directly in front of a car about to pull into an empty parking space. Then my awesome body decided it was the perfect time to totally lose balance and biff it hard. My feet slipped out from under me and I went down on my knees, sending my purse, Walmart bag, and keys into the air. I was pretty sure I skinned my knee and possibly ripped my pants, but didn't have time to lay there and recover because this car was waiting to pull into the spot where I was sprawled. So I immediately hopped back up, pretending to be unhurt, and bent over to retrieve my scattered belongings, only to slip and fall again. Niiiice.
When I finally made it to my car I slammed the door and sat there trying not to cry. Amazingly there was no rip in my pants but there was a big dirt streak on both knees and I did skin my knees a little. Luckily though, it was only my pride that was the most injured. At least the car was able to stop in time to avoid hitting me, and they were kind enough to squelch their insane laughter until after I limped away. Small blessings, my friends, small blessings.
The Eyelash Incident of 2009
Another repost from facebook. I'll post some new stuff soon, I promise:
So there I was, about to make probably my worst decision in recent history. Let me preface this story with the disclaimer that I was overly stressed out, nervous, running late, and in a big hurry. Thank God there was no permanent eye damage sustained! Please, save your comments about how this was a horrible idea and a foolish action, because quite frankly I get that. I realized it when I nearly lost the vision in my left eye! I am telling this story purely for your amusement, and perhaps as a cautionary tale, if you will. So please enjoy and feel free to make fun of me, but save the lectures. They pretty much go in one ear and out the other anyway.
Friday was disco fever theme night at Divas & Rockstars Karaoke Bar and Oprah's film crew was going to be there so I wanted to rock a fierce disco look but somehow still manage to look cute for the cameras (a very fine line to walk considering how cheesy the entire decade of the '70s was). I was wearing a shimmery purple,gold, and pink shirt and dangly purple disco ball earrings so I thought to complete the look I would throw on some fantabulous pink & black fake eyelashes from a past Halloween costume.
After dumping out the entire contents of the linen closet to find the dang things, I squeezed the eyelash glue out of the tube and it came out in one long nasty goopy string. Apparently using 3-year-old glue that has been sitting open really isn't a viable option. I totally didn't have time for this so thought, "Hmm, I wonder if I could just use SuperGlue?" I knew this was most likely a bad idea and even considered calling my sister to ask her opinion, but figured I just didn't have the time to waste.
Grabbing the SuperGlue from the toolbox in the basement should have been yet another clue that this stuff wouldn't be appropriate to use near my eyes, but I didn't stop there. Even reading the back of the tube where it warned that it was caustic and the fumes would bother eyes only gave me slight pause. I just knew it was a bad idea but was so desperately trying to make it be a good idea that I reasoned that I wouldn't be putting the stuff IN my eyes, so it should be fine. Which was totally not the case, by the way!
I put a little SuperGlue on the edge of the fake eyelashes. Well, that's not true. I tried to put a "little" glue on them but that's not a possible with SuperGlue since it all comes out in a huge blob. Since SuperGlue bonds immediately, of course the eyelashes stuck to my fingers before I could get them to my eyes. Yet another massive bad omen that went unheeded...
After ripping my fingers free of the glue (cut to you asking yourself if I could possibly be more dense, and me assuring you that I could not), I lightly placed the fake eyelashes over my real eyelashes. Here's where it got scary: I blinked and couldn't re-open my eyelid since the damn SuperGlue had stuck my top eyelashes to my bottom eyelashes. Serious moment of sheer panic and pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a second. I forced my eyelid open and held it there until the glue dried all the while staring myself in the mirror and literally yelling at my reflection "You stupid, stupid woman. Oh my God this was a huge mistake. Stupid. STUPID!" As soon as I was able to keep my eye open I yanked the fake eyelashes off and with them came several of my real eyelashes. Relieved at this point, I thought I had dodged a serious bullet. Um, not yet.
That's when I noticed that it hurt every time I blinked because there were large chunks of dried SuperGlue stuck on my lashes.Well, no problem, a little eye makeup remover should loosen that right up...or not. The only other way I could think of to loosen it was to use nail polish remover - which, in case you were wondering, is another substance which irritates the eyes. I tried wetting a cotten ball with the nail polish remover and holding it on my eyelid to soak the lashes but that burned after about 1 second and I had to press a cold wet washcloth to my eye to stop the pain. So next I tried using two q-tips. Both soaked in nail polish remover, I held one on top of my lashes and one underneath and tried to pull my lashes as far away from my eye as possible. This worked to an extent and I was able to sort of scrape the gooey glue mess off my lashes. But not all of it came off so I tried to use the tweezer to separate the clumps and maybe just pull out one or two lashes. Not happening. The last resort was to actually take a scissors and CUT OFF MY EYELASHES! I lost a lot of good lashes that day. A good chunk on the upper outer corner of my right eye and a sizable amount on the inner lower corner. I think my mom was mildly alarmed when I called her and instead of saying "hello," exclaimed, "Mom, do eyelashes grow back?! PLEASE say they do!"
So much for saving time by using SuperGlue. Since I'm apparently a glutton for punishment, I stopped at the store and bought some new lashes that came with special eye-approved glue to adhere them. So that is how I came to be sitting in my car in the Walgreen's parking lot on a cold snowy evening in October applying fake eyelashes as my car shook from the wind gusts. Now, eye-approved or not, if you slip up and accidentally get that glue in your eye, while it may not sting, it will temporarily completely cloud your vision. Cue another brief moment of panic while I contemplated what life would be like being blind in my right eye due to an unfortunate hastily applied eyelash glue incident. But while I worked to slow my breathing, the vision cleared up and I was able to move on to applying lashes to my other eye. And in the end, I had fabulous sparkly eyelashes to show for it! Take a look at the photo. Totally worth it.
You can say a lot about me, but you certainly can't say I didn't learn a valuable lesson that day: SuperGlue is evil.
The People of Walmart: Crazy Cat Lady Edition
It is true what they say: the People of Walmart really are a different breed. And unfortunately I am among them, since I currently lack the funds to shop anywhere more upscale. I personally loathe Walmart, but because they carry a plethora of cheap crap my pocketbook appreciates them.
My philosophy on shopping at hell - er, Walmart - is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Speed walk around the old people, don't make eye contact, and certainly no engaging in idle chit chat with random strangers. So imagine my joy when I encountered not merely one, but two, crazy cat ladies in the cat litter aisle during my visit today.
I was picking up a bag of the cheapest cat litter possible for The Dumb Cat when I heard a woman yell "hiiiiyaaa!" and a loud crash. I whipped around to find myself face-to-face with a stocky woman dressed head-to-toe in camouflage with greasy hair and a “not-quite-all-there” look in her eyes. Apparently she had just hoisted a bag of cat litter into her cart and she wanted me to know how heavy it was. I had been following my strict no eye contact rule, but she seemed to think I wanted to talk to her anyway, and she exclaimed, “Those durn things sure are heavy!”
I nodded and smiled. Very brief eye contact.
“Our animals sure are expensive.”
"Our" animals? I don't know you, and we certainly don't have any animals together. But I nodded and smiled again, “For sure.” Broke eye contact and pretended to rifle through my purse.
“But you know, at least they are cheaper than those durn dogs!”
I was trying to back away from her at this point.
“But at least I only have two of them!”
Please stop talking to me, you crazy cat lady.
“But we sure do love our kitties, don’t we?”
Nervous laughter from me, “Yep.” I was really trying to get away from her now.
“My cats know when I come home from Walmart and if they see a Walmart bag and there isn’t something in there for them, there is trouble.”
Okay, what? I’m really sure your cats know how to read and recognize the Walmart bag.
I had almost managed to push my cart past her when a 150-year-old lady with a handkerchief tied around her head shoved her cart in front of mine, blocking my escape route. She piped up, “Well my daughter has eight cats, isn’t that something?”
Please, please don’t start listing all their names.
Crazy camouflage lady was impressed. “Wow, eight?”
The walking skeleton continued, “But you know, she lives in the country so that’s something. She has more room out there.”
Seriously? How did I get sucked into this inane cat conversation? I smiled at the ancient lady as I slowly backed my cart away and said “oh shoot, I forgot something down this way” as I speed walked in the opposite direction.
So yes, I do have to be in the cat litter aisle to pick up some litter from time to time. So yes, perhaps there was no way around eventually getting caught between two crazy cat ladies. But let me clarify for the record that just because I happen to have one Dumb Cat whom I begrudgingly like and occasionally cuddle (but mostly yell at), that does not include me in their weird little “Kitty Club.” First of all, I’m not even a “cat person” and the only reason I have one at all is because I asked for a dog for my birthday and got a cat instead, so what was I going to do, give it back? So it will live with me until it dies of natural causes, which with any luck will be sometime before it manages to pee on every piece of furniture I own. And then I will probably get a dog, like most normal people would. Secondly, I would never call my cat a “kitty” either. It's annoying, and considering he is seven years old, I’m fairly certain that he qualifies as a senior citizen cat anyway since he just eats, lies around, and complains about life very loudly at every opportunity.
I’m convinced that at any given time there are least a dozen crazies wandering the aisles looking for innocent shoppers (me) to annoy. Once again, the People of Walmart never disappoint.
My philosophy on shopping at hell - er, Walmart - is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Speed walk around the old people, don't make eye contact, and certainly no engaging in idle chit chat with random strangers. So imagine my joy when I encountered not merely one, but two, crazy cat ladies in the cat litter aisle during my visit today.
I was picking up a bag of the cheapest cat litter possible for The Dumb Cat when I heard a woman yell "hiiiiyaaa!" and a loud crash. I whipped around to find myself face-to-face with a stocky woman dressed head-to-toe in camouflage with greasy hair and a “not-quite-all-there” look in her eyes. Apparently she had just hoisted a bag of cat litter into her cart and she wanted me to know how heavy it was. I had been following my strict no eye contact rule, but she seemed to think I wanted to talk to her anyway, and she exclaimed, “Those durn things sure are heavy!”
I nodded and smiled. Very brief eye contact.
“Our animals sure are expensive.”
"Our" animals? I don't know you, and we certainly don't have any animals together. But I nodded and smiled again, “For sure.” Broke eye contact and pretended to rifle through my purse.
“But you know, at least they are cheaper than those durn dogs!”
I was trying to back away from her at this point.
“But at least I only have two of them!”
Please stop talking to me, you crazy cat lady.
“But we sure do love our kitties, don’t we?”
Nervous laughter from me, “Yep.” I was really trying to get away from her now.
“My cats know when I come home from Walmart and if they see a Walmart bag and there isn’t something in there for them, there is trouble.”
Okay, what? I’m really sure your cats know how to read and recognize the Walmart bag.
I had almost managed to push my cart past her when a 150-year-old lady with a handkerchief tied around her head shoved her cart in front of mine, blocking my escape route. She piped up, “Well my daughter has eight cats, isn’t that something?”
Please, please don’t start listing all their names.
Crazy camouflage lady was impressed. “Wow, eight?”
The walking skeleton continued, “But you know, she lives in the country so that’s something. She has more room out there.”
Seriously? How did I get sucked into this inane cat conversation? I smiled at the ancient lady as I slowly backed my cart away and said “oh shoot, I forgot something down this way” as I speed walked in the opposite direction.
So yes, I do have to be in the cat litter aisle to pick up some litter from time to time. So yes, perhaps there was no way around eventually getting caught between two crazy cat ladies. But let me clarify for the record that just because I happen to have one Dumb Cat whom I begrudgingly like and occasionally cuddle (but mostly yell at), that does not include me in their weird little “Kitty Club.” First of all, I’m not even a “cat person” and the only reason I have one at all is because I asked for a dog for my birthday and got a cat instead, so what was I going to do, give it back? So it will live with me until it dies of natural causes, which with any luck will be sometime before it manages to pee on every piece of furniture I own. And then I will probably get a dog, like most normal people would. Secondly, I would never call my cat a “kitty” either. It's annoying, and considering he is seven years old, I’m fairly certain that he qualifies as a senior citizen cat anyway since he just eats, lies around, and complains about life very loudly at every opportunity.
I’m convinced that at any given time there are least a dozen crazies wandering the aisles looking for innocent shoppers (me) to annoy. Once again, the People of Walmart never disappoint.
Inaugural Blog!
Well hello there! Just doing a little test-run to see how this works. I don't have anything too interesting to say at the moment, so for my first couple of posts, I will just repost stuff I already had on facebook. But don't worry, I'm certain that something dumb will happen to me very soon and I will let you know!
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