Reality:
Oh, it’s that time of year again. Yep, Christmas, which means it’s a time of giving, but more importantly, receiving. There are only a few days until Christmas, and you have to buy some stuff still, so, I’m here to help. Here are reasons why you shouldn’t buy any presents this year:
1. You’re a selfish prick.
2. You’re a cheap ass.
3. You’re lazy, and why bother going to the store when you can sit on the couch.
4. Santa Claus. You buying gifts puts him out of business. How will he feed Mrs. Claus and the elves and the reindeers?
5. Any Christmas gift has a cost attached, even if it was that free bar of chocolate you got at Costco. You have to wrap it, and that takes money and time.
6. Why waste money on others when you can waste money on yourself?
7. You give a gift everyday—the gift of your presence.
8. Other people will buy them things.
9. Re-gifting, minus the wrapping paper. Now that’s a gift that’s free.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Date Night
Imagination Station:
“Susan, listen to me,” his strong hands grab her arms. She screams, as tears cascade down her cheeks.
“Geez, this girl’s like Niagara Falls,” Bill nudges my arm. “I feel like I’m on the Maid of the Mist. A ha a ha a ha ha ha.”
Yeah, great joke Bill. Bastard. Bill and I are on a date. And we’re at the movies, but Bill doesn’t seem to notice, because he just keeps quacking about random crap. Or, as illustrated earlier, lame jokes.
“Ha,” I scoff.
“What is it Johnny?” Susan collapses in his arms. “Tell me Johnny.”
He strokes her head and places a loose strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her petite ears. She just looks up at him, her eyes pleading for a reply. He stares back at those emerald eyes, unable or unwilling to respond.
“Johnny, tell me,” she whimpers.
“It’s going to be okay. You’ll be okay, but I have to go. I have no choice,” he places her in a chair and walks away.
“Wait Johnny,” she runs to him and pulls at the loose fabric of his button-down shirt. “I can’t live without you. I just can’t.”
“Oh, how typical,” Bill crosses his arms. “Why are women always portrayed as so needy? You ladies don’t need a guy.”
“Yeah, Bill, you keep fighting for feminism, but I’m trying to watch a movie right now,” I respond.
“Yeah, so am I,” he turns back to the screen.
“You’re going to have to Susan. I can’t avoid my duty to the military,” he cries.
“To hell with the draft. To hell with the military,” she shouts and throws her arms up. “To hell with the government. You belong to me and only me. Uncle Sam can’t have you.”
“Anarchy, pure anarchy. Is this director a Commie?” Bill rhetorically asks. Or at least I hope that was rhetorical.
Silence.
“Well, is he?” Bill pokes my arm. Damnit, it wasn’t.
“She doesn’t want to share him and isn’t sharing what communism is all about?” I quip.
“No, communism is all about anarchy. At least that’s what that Mussolini guy said in his Cominuto Manifesta—whatever the hell it was,” Bill seems actually concerned about the director possibly being communist.
“Ugh, you have such a gross misunderstanding of history—it’s disgusting,” I shove some popcorn into my face. “Now shut it. I’d like to see this movie.”
He turns dramatically towards the audience. His eyes are pained, like those of a man caught at a crossroads.
“I’m going with Uncle Sam,” he closes his eyes and a tear rolls down his left cheek. “I have to Susan. My heart belongs to you, but not my body.”
“But I want your body too,” she wraps her arm around his muscular waist.
“Bow chica wow wow,” Bill sings.
“Seriously, seriously? Excuse me, restock on aisle three please, I believe we’ve run out of maturity,” I glare at him.
“Hey, can I have some popcorn?” He smiles.
I shove the tub of popcorn into his hands. Some sloshes over and the cornels try to run for it.
He pries her arms off of him. He grabs the obese, gray duffel bag in the corner.
“I’m leaving Susan, goodbye,” he opens the door.
“Do you think he’s actually going to leave?” Bill stares at me, his mouth open wide.
Ugh. I bury my face into my hands. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill Bill and go to prison for the rest of my life over some movie. That’s what’s going to happen and you know what? I don’t think I mind racking up a felony if it means shutting him up.
“Well?” he persists.
“I don’t know. Watch the damn movie,” I point to the screen.
I’ll punch him in the face if he asks me another question. I will.
He leaves.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” Bill pokes me again.
I don’t punch him in the face. I’m a sissy and I’m pretty sure Bill could kick my ass in a fight.
“I don’t know,” I grit my teeth. “Maybe we should watch the movie and find out.”
Grabbing the side of the chair, she pulls herself to the floor. Her skinny fingers wrap around a leg of the chair and she sobs uncontrollably.
“Aw, she needs a tissue,” Bill chomps the popcorn. I can hear him chewing. I can hear the teeth clank against the cornels. I can hear it all sloshing around in there. And I’m feeling my skin squirm with each breath.
“Shut up,” I whisper.
“What?” Bill asks.
“Shut up,” I say louder.
“I’m sorry, I still can’t hear you,” he looks at my all doe eyed.
“That’s it,” I get up, grab the tub of popcorn, and pour it all over him.
Bill stands up too. “What was that for?” he clears the popcorn off his plaid sweater vest.
I give him the evil eye as I move four rows in front of him.
The End. And the credits are rolling.
“Ugh!” I whip around and face him. “I… I… you suck!”
“Susan, listen to me,” his strong hands grab her arms. She screams, as tears cascade down her cheeks.
“Geez, this girl’s like Niagara Falls,” Bill nudges my arm. “I feel like I’m on the Maid of the Mist. A ha a ha a ha ha ha.”
Yeah, great joke Bill. Bastard. Bill and I are on a date. And we’re at the movies, but Bill doesn’t seem to notice, because he just keeps quacking about random crap. Or, as illustrated earlier, lame jokes.
“Ha,” I scoff.
“What is it Johnny?” Susan collapses in his arms. “Tell me Johnny.”
He strokes her head and places a loose strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her petite ears. She just looks up at him, her eyes pleading for a reply. He stares back at those emerald eyes, unable or unwilling to respond.
“Johnny, tell me,” she whimpers.
“It’s going to be okay. You’ll be okay, but I have to go. I have no choice,” he places her in a chair and walks away.
“Wait Johnny,” she runs to him and pulls at the loose fabric of his button-down shirt. “I can’t live without you. I just can’t.”
“Oh, how typical,” Bill crosses his arms. “Why are women always portrayed as so needy? You ladies don’t need a guy.”
“Yeah, Bill, you keep fighting for feminism, but I’m trying to watch a movie right now,” I respond.
“Yeah, so am I,” he turns back to the screen.
“You’re going to have to Susan. I can’t avoid my duty to the military,” he cries.
“To hell with the draft. To hell with the military,” she shouts and throws her arms up. “To hell with the government. You belong to me and only me. Uncle Sam can’t have you.”
“Anarchy, pure anarchy. Is this director a Commie?” Bill rhetorically asks. Or at least I hope that was rhetorical.
Silence.
“Well, is he?” Bill pokes my arm. Damnit, it wasn’t.
“She doesn’t want to share him and isn’t sharing what communism is all about?” I quip.
“No, communism is all about anarchy. At least that’s what that Mussolini guy said in his Cominuto Manifesta—whatever the hell it was,” Bill seems actually concerned about the director possibly being communist.
“Ugh, you have such a gross misunderstanding of history—it’s disgusting,” I shove some popcorn into my face. “Now shut it. I’d like to see this movie.”
He turns dramatically towards the audience. His eyes are pained, like those of a man caught at a crossroads.
“I’m going with Uncle Sam,” he closes his eyes and a tear rolls down his left cheek. “I have to Susan. My heart belongs to you, but not my body.”
“But I want your body too,” she wraps her arm around his muscular waist.
“Bow chica wow wow,” Bill sings.
“Seriously, seriously? Excuse me, restock on aisle three please, I believe we’ve run out of maturity,” I glare at him.
“Hey, can I have some popcorn?” He smiles.
I shove the tub of popcorn into his hands. Some sloshes over and the cornels try to run for it.
He pries her arms off of him. He grabs the obese, gray duffel bag in the corner.
“I’m leaving Susan, goodbye,” he opens the door.
“Do you think he’s actually going to leave?” Bill stares at me, his mouth open wide.
Ugh. I bury my face into my hands. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill Bill and go to prison for the rest of my life over some movie. That’s what’s going to happen and you know what? I don’t think I mind racking up a felony if it means shutting him up.
“Well?” he persists.
“I don’t know. Watch the damn movie,” I point to the screen.
I’ll punch him in the face if he asks me another question. I will.
He leaves.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” Bill pokes me again.
I don’t punch him in the face. I’m a sissy and I’m pretty sure Bill could kick my ass in a fight.
“I don’t know,” I grit my teeth. “Maybe we should watch the movie and find out.”
Grabbing the side of the chair, she pulls herself to the floor. Her skinny fingers wrap around a leg of the chair and she sobs uncontrollably.
“Aw, she needs a tissue,” Bill chomps the popcorn. I can hear him chewing. I can hear the teeth clank against the cornels. I can hear it all sloshing around in there. And I’m feeling my skin squirm with each breath.
“Shut up,” I whisper.
“What?” Bill asks.
“Shut up,” I say louder.
“I’m sorry, I still can’t hear you,” he looks at my all doe eyed.
“That’s it,” I get up, grab the tub of popcorn, and pour it all over him.
Bill stands up too. “What was that for?” he clears the popcorn off his plaid sweater vest.
I give him the evil eye as I move four rows in front of him.
The End. And the credits are rolling.
“Ugh!” I whip around and face him. “I… I… you suck!”
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Chewed to Bits by Giant Turtles
Imagination Station:
I was inspired to write this story after seeing a vintage male magazine cover-
My name is Sterling Rambo. Manly, isn’t it? Well, that’s the point, ‘cause I’m a man, but not just any ordinary man, I’m a manly man. I wrestle lions—while naked. I strike manly poses at a moment’s notice, the kinds you see on those harlequin novels. I have abs…of steel! And, they’re covered in man hair of manly proportions. I smell of Old Spice. I can kill a giant monster with a blink of my eye. I give Gaston a run for his money. Well, more like a death defying sprint that he will lose! Grr. ‘Cause I’m a manly man.
Now, as any manly man will tell you, you need to flaunt how manly you are often. You can display your manly chest hair or display your mountainous biceps. However, these only momentarily give you the manly status. In order to achieve manly greatness, you must do a manly act—fight off giant, man-eating turtles—just like I did.
“Sterling, I hope you don’t mind that I showed up in a pencil skirt, paired with a tight, scarlet blouse and black patent stilettos. I thought it would be perfect swamp attire,” Candy Vixen purred. We were trudging through the Florida swamplands, which is a perfect place to go for a first date, so take note men. Every woman likes the smell of mud and decaying plant matter.
“It’s alright Candy. You still look sweet to me,” I raised my eyebrow in a sexy manner that made Candy weak in the knees. You see what I did there—yeah boys, that’s a pun. Chicks dig puns.
“Oh, why thank you Sterling Rambo. You’re so smooth,” She cooed.
“Yeah, I know, like sterling silver,” I turned so she could see my other good side, ‘cause every side of me is good. Yeah.
“Oh, Sterling,” She looked into my gorgeous chocolate brown eyes.
“Oh, Candy,” I pulled her close, kissing her. All of a sudden, she pulled back.
“Oh no Sterling! I’m being eaten alive by giant turtles!” She shrieked, “Oh, no! Hold on, let me suggestively unbutton my blouse so it increases the chances of you saving me. I couldn’t possibly fend off these creatures on my own. I’m a woman for heaven’s sake! That’s a man’s job. Oh, won’t you help me Sterling?”
“Of course I will Candy. Allow me to tear off my shirt first, so you can see my man muscles of manliness that are covered in man hair. Plus, it makes it look far more heroic if I save you while shirtless,” I ripped off my suit shirt.
Buttons went flying everywhere, knocking out some of the incoming giant turtles. Candy stood there, not moving, just screaming. Clearly, a man needed to handle this. Luckily for her, I’m a man.
I brought out my 10 inch dagger that I always carry around. You never know when a manly man must be manly. Danger can come at a moment’s notice. Luckily, I know when moment decides to post a notice, ‘cause I’m a man. And ‘cause I can read.
I pushed my way through the swamp ferns, killing off any giant turtle that came in my way. I showed them who was boss. Candy fainted in my muscular arms. I continued to fend off giant turtles, until I slayed the last one. Unfortunately, it was too late for Candy, but I almost saved her, ‘cause I’m a man. A manly man.
 |
| Yes, this is actually real, which means guys actually read this back in the day. |
My name is Sterling Rambo. Manly, isn’t it? Well, that’s the point, ‘cause I’m a man, but not just any ordinary man, I’m a manly man. I wrestle lions—while naked. I strike manly poses at a moment’s notice, the kinds you see on those harlequin novels. I have abs…of steel! And, they’re covered in man hair of manly proportions. I smell of Old Spice. I can kill a giant monster with a blink of my eye. I give Gaston a run for his money. Well, more like a death defying sprint that he will lose! Grr. ‘Cause I’m a manly man.
Now, as any manly man will tell you, you need to flaunt how manly you are often. You can display your manly chest hair or display your mountainous biceps. However, these only momentarily give you the manly status. In order to achieve manly greatness, you must do a manly act—fight off giant, man-eating turtles—just like I did.
“Sterling, I hope you don’t mind that I showed up in a pencil skirt, paired with a tight, scarlet blouse and black patent stilettos. I thought it would be perfect swamp attire,” Candy Vixen purred. We were trudging through the Florida swamplands, which is a perfect place to go for a first date, so take note men. Every woman likes the smell of mud and decaying plant matter.
“It’s alright Candy. You still look sweet to me,” I raised my eyebrow in a sexy manner that made Candy weak in the knees. You see what I did there—yeah boys, that’s a pun. Chicks dig puns.
“Oh, why thank you Sterling Rambo. You’re so smooth,” She cooed.
“Yeah, I know, like sterling silver,” I turned so she could see my other good side, ‘cause every side of me is good. Yeah.
“Oh, Sterling,” She looked into my gorgeous chocolate brown eyes.
“Oh, Candy,” I pulled her close, kissing her. All of a sudden, she pulled back.
“Oh no Sterling! I’m being eaten alive by giant turtles!” She shrieked, “Oh, no! Hold on, let me suggestively unbutton my blouse so it increases the chances of you saving me. I couldn’t possibly fend off these creatures on my own. I’m a woman for heaven’s sake! That’s a man’s job. Oh, won’t you help me Sterling?”
“Of course I will Candy. Allow me to tear off my shirt first, so you can see my man muscles of manliness that are covered in man hair. Plus, it makes it look far more heroic if I save you while shirtless,” I ripped off my suit shirt.
Buttons went flying everywhere, knocking out some of the incoming giant turtles. Candy stood there, not moving, just screaming. Clearly, a man needed to handle this. Luckily for her, I’m a man.
I brought out my 10 inch dagger that I always carry around. You never know when a manly man must be manly. Danger can come at a moment’s notice. Luckily, I know when moment decides to post a notice, ‘cause I’m a man. And ‘cause I can read.
I pushed my way through the swamp ferns, killing off any giant turtle that came in my way. I showed them who was boss. Candy fainted in my muscular arms. I continued to fend off giant turtles, until I slayed the last one. Unfortunately, it was too late for Candy, but I almost saved her, ‘cause I’m a man. A manly man.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Miss Giggles and Chubby Chunks
Imagination Station:
George, or “Geo” as his friends would say, works at H&R Block, preparing peoples taxes. Contrary to popular belief, George doesn’t hate his job. In fact, he loves it. He loves taxes. And tax forms. And tax laws. And he was born on April 15.
I’m going out with George today, on his birthday. No, I’m not his birthday gift. I’m the unfortunate soul whose sister has decided since I haven’t dated in a year that I need a man like George, who loves taxes. And tax forms. And tax laws.
Goodie.
“Happy Tax Day,” George beams as he hands me wilted carnations. I always love getting cheap, dead flowers. Nothing makes me feel more warm and fuzzy inside.
“Happy birthday George,” I mutter.
“It’s nice to finally meet you Cecilia. You have such a pretty name…and figure,” he snorts, his cheeks turning the color of a strawberry milkshake, “You’re really pretty.”
“Thanks George,” I say, “Tell me, what’s the difference between really pretty and just plain ol’ pretty?”
“A really,” he laughs like Wilbur the pig, “Ha ha ha. Get it? Ha ha ha.”
“Yeah, I got it George,” I bite my lip and sit down at a booth by the front door of the restaurant.
“Call me Geo. All my friends do. If you’re my friend, you’ll call me Geo,” he says, taking the spot next to me.
“Hey, George, why don’t you move to the other side of the booth? Okay? You’re all up in my bubble,” I slink back.
“Sure,” he smiles. He licks his fingers and starts rubbing my bubble, “Squeaky, squeaky, squeaky. I’m cleaning your bubble. Get it? Even though you can’t clean something that isn’t real, but that’s just a technicality.”
“I got it George,” I grit my teeth, “You’d be a great window washer, complete with your own sound effects.”
He sits on the other side of the booth and the waitress takes our order and goodness gracious, can his cologne be any stronger?
“So, what do you do in your free time Cecilia?” George wipes his saliva drenched finger on his hair. Oh, I can’t wait to run my fingers through those spit soaked locks.
“I get caught in the rain and bust out show tunes, all the while dancing with my umbrella. Sometimes I fight for my right to party. But violence isn’t the answer, though I’ll keep on fighting ‘til the end,” I smirk.
“What else?”
“Well, um, on weekends I think I’m turning Japanese. Then I stand heartache to heartache with young people who don’t make promises or demands…on a battlefield. And if I’m in the mood for anything, I’ll blind people with science.”
“You are cultured, but how exactly do you turn Japanese?”
“Have you ever heard of the Vapors? They had a famous hit about turning Japanese.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Awkward silence.
“So, do you do anything else Cecilia?”
“No. What about you George? What do you do when you’re not doing taxes?”
“I spend time with my cats.”
“Oh. That sounds…fluffy. How many cats do you have?”
“Six.”
“You have six cats? Isn’t hard to take care of six cats?”
“No, they’re all dead.”
The water in my mouth lands on his teal shirt.
“Oops, sorry about that,” I say. I need a drink. A stiff one.
“No, that’s my fault. I understand why that statement is shocking. I’m a taxidermist in my spare time. I sit at home and I pet my cats,” he beams, “McFluffy’s my favorite kitty.”
“So, you pet your dead, newly stuffed cats in your spare time?” My face contorts.
“Yes. Do you want to see pictures?”
Before I can answer, George whips out his wallet filled with pictures of his dead cats.
“This is Miss Giggles,” he points her out as if she’s his child, “Look at that cute little smile.”
Miss Giggles looks like she’s about to get hit by a bus. Her lime eyes bulge out of her head and her mouth is pulled back to reveal her pearly fangs. It looks as though she’s biting her lower lip.
“Did you make her face look like that?” I ask.
“Yeah, she used to make that face when she had to use the litter box. Isn’t she cute?”
“Oh, for a dead stuffed cat that looks like it has to pee…she looks adorable…”
“Goodness me, I forgot to show you Chubby Chunks. Here he is. I added on wings from a hawk I shot down in the backyard. I think it makes him look like an angel.”
I pissed my sister off. That’s it. It must be. Or George is a part of the CIA and this is their new form of water boarding. Okay, I’ll tell you what you want to know. I stole the cookie from the cookie jar. I tried to pin it on my five year old cousin and it worked. Then you guys—the truth isn’t all that great. I just wanted a cookie.
“Yes, he looks like an angel,” I groan, “Why don’t we just call it an evening?”
“I see. So you want me to invite you up for coffee?” He winks.
“No George. I hate coffee,” I get up.
“Wait,” he pets his hair, “We’re adults and you’re right. Let’s just be honest. You and I don’t need codes. You want to get Geo-graphic.” He licks his top teeth and flicks his head upwards.
I grab my phone, making a buzzing noise.
“I should answer that,” I say.
“You’re the one who buzzed, not the phone.”
“Listen George, nobody likes a liar liar pants on fire,” I “answer” the phone, “Oh, oh. Really? Wow.” I hang it up.
“Nobody called you.”
“Yes, someone did…my…um…my boyfriend was MIA and now they found him, so…got to go. Bye,” I sprint out the door.
Ah, dating. So much fun.
George, or “Geo” as his friends would say, works at H&R Block, preparing peoples taxes. Contrary to popular belief, George doesn’t hate his job. In fact, he loves it. He loves taxes. And tax forms. And tax laws. And he was born on April 15.
I’m going out with George today, on his birthday. No, I’m not his birthday gift. I’m the unfortunate soul whose sister has decided since I haven’t dated in a year that I need a man like George, who loves taxes. And tax forms. And tax laws.
Goodie.
“Happy Tax Day,” George beams as he hands me wilted carnations. I always love getting cheap, dead flowers. Nothing makes me feel more warm and fuzzy inside.
“Happy birthday George,” I mutter.
“It’s nice to finally meet you Cecilia. You have such a pretty name…and figure,” he snorts, his cheeks turning the color of a strawberry milkshake, “You’re really pretty.”
“Thanks George,” I say, “Tell me, what’s the difference between really pretty and just plain ol’ pretty?”
“A really,” he laughs like Wilbur the pig, “Ha ha ha. Get it? Ha ha ha.”
“Yeah, I got it George,” I bite my lip and sit down at a booth by the front door of the restaurant.
“Call me Geo. All my friends do. If you’re my friend, you’ll call me Geo,” he says, taking the spot next to me.
“Hey, George, why don’t you move to the other side of the booth? Okay? You’re all up in my bubble,” I slink back.
“Sure,” he smiles. He licks his fingers and starts rubbing my bubble, “Squeaky, squeaky, squeaky. I’m cleaning your bubble. Get it? Even though you can’t clean something that isn’t real, but that’s just a technicality.”
“I got it George,” I grit my teeth, “You’d be a great window washer, complete with your own sound effects.”
He sits on the other side of the booth and the waitress takes our order and goodness gracious, can his cologne be any stronger?
“So, what do you do in your free time Cecilia?” George wipes his saliva drenched finger on his hair. Oh, I can’t wait to run my fingers through those spit soaked locks.
“I get caught in the rain and bust out show tunes, all the while dancing with my umbrella. Sometimes I fight for my right to party. But violence isn’t the answer, though I’ll keep on fighting ‘til the end,” I smirk.
“What else?”
“Well, um, on weekends I think I’m turning Japanese. Then I stand heartache to heartache with young people who don’t make promises or demands…on a battlefield. And if I’m in the mood for anything, I’ll blind people with science.”
“You are cultured, but how exactly do you turn Japanese?”
“Have you ever heard of the Vapors? They had a famous hit about turning Japanese.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Awkward silence.
“So, do you do anything else Cecilia?”
“No. What about you George? What do you do when you’re not doing taxes?”
“I spend time with my cats.”
“Oh. That sounds…fluffy. How many cats do you have?”
“Six.”
“You have six cats? Isn’t hard to take care of six cats?”
“No, they’re all dead.”
The water in my mouth lands on his teal shirt.
“Oops, sorry about that,” I say. I need a drink. A stiff one.
“No, that’s my fault. I understand why that statement is shocking. I’m a taxidermist in my spare time. I sit at home and I pet my cats,” he beams, “McFluffy’s my favorite kitty.”
“So, you pet your dead, newly stuffed cats in your spare time?” My face contorts.
“Yes. Do you want to see pictures?”
Before I can answer, George whips out his wallet filled with pictures of his dead cats.
“This is Miss Giggles,” he points her out as if she’s his child, “Look at that cute little smile.”
Miss Giggles looks like she’s about to get hit by a bus. Her lime eyes bulge out of her head and her mouth is pulled back to reveal her pearly fangs. It looks as though she’s biting her lower lip.
 |
| Miss Giggles, courtesy of Google. |
“Did you make her face look like that?” I ask.
“Yeah, she used to make that face when she had to use the litter box. Isn’t she cute?”
“Oh, for a dead stuffed cat that looks like it has to pee…she looks adorable…”
“Goodness me, I forgot to show you Chubby Chunks. Here he is. I added on wings from a hawk I shot down in the backyard. I think it makes him look like an angel.”
I pissed my sister off. That’s it. It must be. Or George is a part of the CIA and this is their new form of water boarding. Okay, I’ll tell you what you want to know. I stole the cookie from the cookie jar. I tried to pin it on my five year old cousin and it worked. Then you guys—the truth isn’t all that great. I just wanted a cookie.
“Yes, he looks like an angel,” I groan, “Why don’t we just call it an evening?”
 |
| Chubby Chunks, courtesy of Google. |
“I see. So you want me to invite you up for coffee?” He winks.
“No George. I hate coffee,” I get up.
“Wait,” he pets his hair, “We’re adults and you’re right. Let’s just be honest. You and I don’t need codes. You want to get Geo-graphic.” He licks his top teeth and flicks his head upwards.
I grab my phone, making a buzzing noise.
“I should answer that,” I say.
“You’re the one who buzzed, not the phone.”
“Listen George, nobody likes a liar liar pants on fire,” I “answer” the phone, “Oh, oh. Really? Wow.” I hang it up.
“Nobody called you.”
“Yes, someone did…my…um…my boyfriend was MIA and now they found him, so…got to go. Bye,” I sprint out the door.
Ah, dating. So much fun.
Monday, August 16, 2010
I Have a Venomous Tail...SWEET!
Reality:
Who knows me the best? Parents? No. Friends? No. Myself? Hell no. Oh, I got it! What about a zodiac site that bases all its information on the sound science of astrology? Damn I’m smart.
Clearly, I’m not the upmost authority on myself, so I ventured to Astrology Online to tell me who I am. I learned quite a bit. Here are my reactions to this new information:
Traditional Scorpio Traits
“Determined and forceful”—Okay, okay. Yeah, I guess I’m determined. I didn’t take no for an answer when my friend told me I couldn’t have a cookie…I guess the forceful part came when I ninja chopped her in the shoulder…oops.
“Emotional and intuitive”—I cry often, like every three seconds, so that counts as emotional. Oh, and my intuition is top notch. I predicted the winning lottery numbers would be numbers. Everyone said letters, but I know how it goes down. Suck it everyone.
“Powerful and passionate”—Everyone says I should be president. So, power—check. And if I ever went back in time and met George Washington, I’d scream like a Justin Bieber fan girl and possibly lick his face. Now, if that isn’t passion for history, I don’t know what is.
“Exciting and magnetic”—I’m exciting. I do dangerous things, like jumping over four feet on my trampoline. Magnetic? Hm, so that’s why the silverware’s been sticking to me…
On the dark side… Oh, I have a dark side, how exciting and magnetic.
“Jealous and resentful”—Um, I guess I hate how pretty Rachel McAdams is…
“Compulsive and obsessive”—I do eat a lot of cereal. Does that count?
“Secretive and obstinate”—I like to think I’m a spy…and obstinate…oh, look at the astrology folks breaking out some vocab skills. You could have just said stubborn and then you’d have that nice alliteration thing going on.
Random quotes on who I am
“Scorpios are the most intense, profound, powerful characters in the zodiac. Even when they appear self-controlled and calm there is a seething intensity of emotional energy under the placid exterior. They are like the volcano not far under the surface of a calm sea, it may burst into eruption at any moment.” –I could burst at any moment. BOOM!
“But those of us who are particularly perceptive will be aware of the harnessed aggression, the immense forcefulness, magnetic intensity, and often strangely hypnotic personality under the tranquil, but watchful composure of Scorpio.” –You’re getting very sleepy. Sleeeeeeeeeeepy.
“In conventional social gatherings they are pleasant to be with, thoughtful in conversation, dignified, and reserved, yet affable and courteous; they sometimes possess penetrating eyes which make their shyer companions feel naked and defenseless before them.” –You’re feeling naked and defenseless right now. My penetrating eyes are doing that. Don’t try to fight it.
“Scorpio is the symbol of sex and Scorpios are passionate lovers, the most sensually energetic of all the signs.” –Alright, this is awkward.
“They are thus capable of the greatest heights of passionate transport, but debauchery and perversion are always dangers, and Scorpios can become sadistic monsters of sensuality and eroticism.” –…
“Their feelings are so intense that even when their love is of the highest, and most idealistic kind, they are nevertheless frequently protagonists in tragic, even violent romances, ‘star-crossed lovers’.” –Listen if you’re going to call me a sadist and say that my relationships will end violently, please learn that punctuation goes within quotes. ‘Star-crossed lovers.’ NOT ‘Star-crossed lovers’.
“Your ruling planet is Pluto.” –Great, I’m screwed. It isn’t a planet anymore.
Likes
Truth—LIES! I can’t handle the truth.
Hidden causes—I see, so I should be looking for charities under rocks…
Being involved—No, actually, I prefer to be ostracized.
Work that is meaningful—If my work involves me getting free ice cream, is that meaningful?
Being persuasive—I prefer it when no one listens to me.
Dislikes
Being given only surface data—I like that. High five for superficiality!
Taken advantage of—I enjoy this a lot. Con artists—call me, especially if you look like Neal Caffrey.
Demeaning jobs—They’re okay.
Shallow relationships—Totally.
Flattery and flattering—I don’t like to feel good about myself, so I don’t like others to feel good about themselves.
Thanks Astrology Online! Now I know all about myself. High five!
Who knows me the best? Parents? No. Friends? No. Myself? Hell no. Oh, I got it! What about a zodiac site that bases all its information on the sound science of astrology? Damn I’m smart.
Clearly, I’m not the upmost authority on myself, so I ventured to Astrology Online to tell me who I am. I learned quite a bit. Here are my reactions to this new information:
Traditional Scorpio Traits
“Determined and forceful”—Okay, okay. Yeah, I guess I’m determined. I didn’t take no for an answer when my friend told me I couldn’t have a cookie…I guess the forceful part came when I ninja chopped her in the shoulder…oops.
“Emotional and intuitive”—I cry often, like every three seconds, so that counts as emotional. Oh, and my intuition is top notch. I predicted the winning lottery numbers would be numbers. Everyone said letters, but I know how it goes down. Suck it everyone.
“Powerful and passionate”—Everyone says I should be president. So, power—check. And if I ever went back in time and met George Washington, I’d scream like a Justin Bieber fan girl and possibly lick his face. Now, if that isn’t passion for history, I don’t know what is.
“Exciting and magnetic”—I’m exciting. I do dangerous things, like jumping over four feet on my trampoline. Magnetic? Hm, so that’s why the silverware’s been sticking to me…
On the dark side… Oh, I have a dark side, how exciting and magnetic.
“Jealous and resentful”—Um, I guess I hate how pretty Rachel McAdams is…
“Compulsive and obsessive”—I do eat a lot of cereal. Does that count?
“Secretive and obstinate”—I like to think I’m a spy…and obstinate…oh, look at the astrology folks breaking out some vocab skills. You could have just said stubborn and then you’d have that nice alliteration thing going on.
Random quotes on who I am
“Scorpios are the most intense, profound, powerful characters in the zodiac. Even when they appear self-controlled and calm there is a seething intensity of emotional energy under the placid exterior. They are like the volcano not far under the surface of a calm sea, it may burst into eruption at any moment.” –I could burst at any moment. BOOM!
“But those of us who are particularly perceptive will be aware of the harnessed aggression, the immense forcefulness, magnetic intensity, and often strangely hypnotic personality under the tranquil, but watchful composure of Scorpio.” –You’re getting very sleepy. Sleeeeeeeeeeepy.
“In conventional social gatherings they are pleasant to be with, thoughtful in conversation, dignified, and reserved, yet affable and courteous; they sometimes possess penetrating eyes which make their shyer companions feel naked and defenseless before them.” –You’re feeling naked and defenseless right now. My penetrating eyes are doing that. Don’t try to fight it.
“Scorpio is the symbol of sex and Scorpios are passionate lovers, the most sensually energetic of all the signs.” –Alright, this is awkward.
“They are thus capable of the greatest heights of passionate transport, but debauchery and perversion are always dangers, and Scorpios can become sadistic monsters of sensuality and eroticism.” –…
“Their feelings are so intense that even when their love is of the highest, and most idealistic kind, they are nevertheless frequently protagonists in tragic, even violent romances, ‘star-crossed lovers’.” –Listen if you’re going to call me a sadist and say that my relationships will end violently, please learn that punctuation goes within quotes. ‘Star-crossed lovers.’ NOT ‘Star-crossed lovers’.
“Your ruling planet is Pluto.” –Great, I’m screwed. It isn’t a planet anymore.
Likes
Truth—LIES! I can’t handle the truth.
Hidden causes—I see, so I should be looking for charities under rocks…
Being involved—No, actually, I prefer to be ostracized.
Work that is meaningful—If my work involves me getting free ice cream, is that meaningful?
Being persuasive—I prefer it when no one listens to me.
Dislikes
Being given only surface data—I like that. High five for superficiality!
Taken advantage of—I enjoy this a lot. Con artists—call me, especially if you look like Neal Caffrey.
Demeaning jobs—They’re okay.
Shallow relationships—Totally.
Flattery and flattering—I don’t like to feel good about myself, so I don’t like others to feel good about themselves.
Thanks Astrology Online! Now I know all about myself. High five!
Monday, August 9, 2010
To My Future Husband
Reality:
Future Husband, I suggest you get a pen and some paper. You’ll want to take notes.
Dear Future Husband,
Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not leaving the proposal up to you. I’m sorry. I already have proposal options worked out. I’ll let you talk and write your little speech and fumble over your words, because that’s adorable. However, I will give you options for the location, the atmosphere. I will not tell you this in person. That would make me seem controlling. That’s why you’re reading this, so you know exactly what to do.
Do Not:
1. Take me to Paris to propose to me. I’d love to go to Paris, but not under those circumstances. It’s cliché. And I hate clichés. You’ll know this. So, I don’t want to end up in Paris at the top of the Eiffel Tower sitting at this romantic dinner with some incense burning and a single rose on the table. No. Don’t do it. I will say no and direct you to this blog.
2. Take me out to a picnic by the river. Or, any picnic for that matter. Knowing my luck, you’ll pick a windy day. I’ll be wearing a spaghetti-strap, red sundress that will flash everyone every nine seconds. It will end badly. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it though. Also, ants. Ants aren’t romantic. You don’t go into Hallmark and find a card under “That Special Someone” section that says “Ant love grand?” No. Ok? And ants crawling up my dress won’t stir up romantic feelings.
3. Propose to me on Valentine’s Day. Clichés. We talked about this.
4. And if you do this so help me, I will do something bad. I haven’t figured out what yet, but it will be bad. Do not. I repeat. Do not propose to me in a nonchalant fashion. I don’t want to sit on the couch next to you watching a rerun of the season two finale of Top Chef with Marcel and his little failed vinaigrette experiment and you turning to me and saying, “Hey, want to get married?” I will hurt you.
Do:
1. Take me to the National Archives and propose to me in front of the Declaration of Independence. Figure out a way to clear out that section beforehand. I don’t want you to be in the middle of your speech and some eighth grader whines, “This so freakin’ stupid.” Take me to the document and explain all the little historical facts you learned about it so you could impress me. Wrap your arm around my waist as you whisper in my ear, “I knew you’d like seeing it.” Let your chin rest on my shoulder as you tell me you love me. Then propose. I will say yes.
2. Take me to the National Archives and propose to me in front of the Declaration of Independence.
Well, I’m glad we had this chat.
Love,
Your Future Wife
Future Husband, I suggest you get a pen and some paper. You’ll want to take notes.
Dear Future Husband,
Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not leaving the proposal up to you. I’m sorry. I already have proposal options worked out. I’ll let you talk and write your little speech and fumble over your words, because that’s adorable. However, I will give you options for the location, the atmosphere. I will not tell you this in person. That would make me seem controlling. That’s why you’re reading this, so you know exactly what to do.
Do Not:
1. Take me to Paris to propose to me. I’d love to go to Paris, but not under those circumstances. It’s cliché. And I hate clichés. You’ll know this. So, I don’t want to end up in Paris at the top of the Eiffel Tower sitting at this romantic dinner with some incense burning and a single rose on the table. No. Don’t do it. I will say no and direct you to this blog.
2. Take me out to a picnic by the river. Or, any picnic for that matter. Knowing my luck, you’ll pick a windy day. I’ll be wearing a spaghetti-strap, red sundress that will flash everyone every nine seconds. It will end badly. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it though. Also, ants. Ants aren’t romantic. You don’t go into Hallmark and find a card under “That Special Someone” section that says “Ant love grand?” No. Ok? And ants crawling up my dress won’t stir up romantic feelings.
3. Propose to me on Valentine’s Day. Clichés. We talked about this.
4. And if you do this so help me, I will do something bad. I haven’t figured out what yet, but it will be bad. Do not. I repeat. Do not propose to me in a nonchalant fashion. I don’t want to sit on the couch next to you watching a rerun of the season two finale of Top Chef with Marcel and his little failed vinaigrette experiment and you turning to me and saying, “Hey, want to get married?” I will hurt you.
Do:
1. Take me to the National Archives and propose to me in front of the Declaration of Independence. Figure out a way to clear out that section beforehand. I don’t want you to be in the middle of your speech and some eighth grader whines, “This so freakin’ stupid.” Take me to the document and explain all the little historical facts you learned about it so you could impress me. Wrap your arm around my waist as you whisper in my ear, “I knew you’d like seeing it.” Let your chin rest on my shoulder as you tell me you love me. Then propose. I will say yes.
2. Take me to the National Archives and propose to me in front of the Declaration of Independence.
Well, I’m glad we had this chat.
Love,
Your Future Wife
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Happiest Place on Earth
Reality:
My mother wanted to feed me to alligators. At Disney World. At the happiest place on Earth. When I was six.
I’ve only been to Disney World once. I only have one memory of it; my mother wanted to feed me to alligators.
And there we were, my parents and I, gallivanting about Disney World. Everything just perfect. And there I was, the cutest little kid, my brown ringlets bobbing up and down as I hugged oversized Disney characters.
-Happiness: Check.
-Expensive souvenirs that will be lost or destroyed: Check.
-Book filled with real people signing names of characters to dilute a child’s sense of reality: Double check.
-Dinner:
Our stomachs roared like two-dimensional lions on a giant rock protruding from a mountain. My mother decided on our hotel’s restaurant, but little did I know what horrible things would happen there.
My parents wanted to eat outside, where a steady breeze cooled the night air. It’d been a long day of doing stuff I can’t remember. I’m sure we went on the teacups and saw Cinderella’s castle. I’m sure I latched onto Disney characters, refusing to let go until they signed my autograph book, though if Aladdin tried to hug me now, I’d kick him in the balls. Hard. We sat at the far end, dining 15 feet or so from lush shrubbery.
Our meal arrived, devoid of delectable kid fare, like heavily salted fries and cookies. I was displeased. Screw a medley of vegetables. I wanted a medley of deliciousness. I made it known.
My mother told me to eat my vegetables. Yeah, like that was happening.
I told her no.
“Julia,” she said in her listen-here-kid voice. “If you don’t eat your dinner, I’m going to feed you to the alligators.”
She pointed to the lush wetland shrubbery and I saw the alligator from “Lake Placid” leap out of the ferns and rip me to shreds. My life flashed before my eyes—me with Blankie, my favorite blanket, me hugging my stuffed animals, me in my Barbie car terrorizing the wildlife in my backyard, me building a snowman.
At the time, it didn’t occur to me that her threat was probably empty. And at the time, I wasn’t a smart ass, so my arsenal of comebacks only contained “you’re a meanie head” and “you’re a butt face.”
Instead of explaining to my mother that feeding me to alligators at the happiest place on Earth was a bad idea and that it lacked all logical reasoning, I let my actions speak.
I shut my mouth and I ate my vegetables.
My mother wanted to feed me to alligators. At Disney World. At the happiest place on Earth. When I was six.
I’ve only been to Disney World once. I only have one memory of it; my mother wanted to feed me to alligators.
And there we were, my parents and I, gallivanting about Disney World. Everything just perfect. And there I was, the cutest little kid, my brown ringlets bobbing up and down as I hugged oversized Disney characters.
-Happiness: Check.
-Expensive souvenirs that will be lost or destroyed: Check.
-Book filled with real people signing names of characters to dilute a child’s sense of reality: Double check.
-Dinner:
Our stomachs roared like two-dimensional lions on a giant rock protruding from a mountain. My mother decided on our hotel’s restaurant, but little did I know what horrible things would happen there.
My parents wanted to eat outside, where a steady breeze cooled the night air. It’d been a long day of doing stuff I can’t remember. I’m sure we went on the teacups and saw Cinderella’s castle. I’m sure I latched onto Disney characters, refusing to let go until they signed my autograph book, though if Aladdin tried to hug me now, I’d kick him in the balls. Hard. We sat at the far end, dining 15 feet or so from lush shrubbery.
Our meal arrived, devoid of delectable kid fare, like heavily salted fries and cookies. I was displeased. Screw a medley of vegetables. I wanted a medley of deliciousness. I made it known.
My mother told me to eat my vegetables. Yeah, like that was happening.
I told her no.
“Julia,” she said in her listen-here-kid voice. “If you don’t eat your dinner, I’m going to feed you to the alligators.”
She pointed to the lush wetland shrubbery and I saw the alligator from “Lake Placid” leap out of the ferns and rip me to shreds. My life flashed before my eyes—me with Blankie, my favorite blanket, me hugging my stuffed animals, me in my Barbie car terrorizing the wildlife in my backyard, me building a snowman.
At the time, it didn’t occur to me that her threat was probably empty. And at the time, I wasn’t a smart ass, so my arsenal of comebacks only contained “you’re a meanie head” and “you’re a butt face.”
Instead of explaining to my mother that feeding me to alligators at the happiest place on Earth was a bad idea and that it lacked all logical reasoning, I let my actions speak.
I shut my mouth and I ate my vegetables.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Hero of a Car in Distress
Reality:
People generally enjoy quests—they’re fun, riveting, fraught with danger, even nifty. Tyler Kieslich, a senior at Lakota East High, went on such a quest…that was somewhat fun, possibly riveting, not really too fraught with danger. Kieslich went on a quest to rescue his car in distress.
Kieslich went out with a bunch of friends to Cliffton, a nearby town, in the middle of Feb. at 1 a.m., Kieslich and his crew arrived at a snow ridden grass lot. “Everyone parks there,” according to Kieslich, so he saw no problem. What he didn’t know was that the fence on the edge of the lot was the home of a “no parking” sign. However, that sign and fence had fallen long ago, buried beneath the snow.
So, Kieslich parked his beloved car, positive that it wouldn’t be kidnapped by the city, but once he and his friends returned at 3 a.m., the unthinkable happened—the city towed his car.
“There was this sinking feeling,” Kieslich said. “My friend said ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if your car got towed?’ I told him, ‘No, no it wouldn’t.’”
It was funny, well, to his friend at least, but Kieslich wasn’t laughing. He was frantic.
Ah ha! Must find the impound lot.
“Alright, now get it home. Just take it in segments,” Kieslich said, his arms jutting out.
He and his friends trekked to the nearby Shell station.
“Of course it was closed,” Kieslich said. “We were freezing.”
The bitter winds nipped at Kieslich’s skin. How ever could he save his car in distress? All hope seemed lost.
Oh, but an idea sprung forth: call the towing company. Brilliant!
They got the number, but no one answered, so, Kieslich summoned the nearest group of friends to hitch a ride. They were 20 minutes away. It was 20 degrees outside.
His friends arrived and Kieslich, desperate to get his car back, asked to be driven to the impound lot. No one was there. Things started to look bleak for Kieslich and his car, at least for the night, but he had one more option: a ha, call the tow truck driver.
Now, he could get his car back, that is, if he paid $120. This presented yet another dilemma in Kieslich’s crusade to rescue his car—Mom. His mother gave him a debit card, but if he used his debit card she would be aware of his late night excursion. Oh, the horror! Ah, but he had yet another solution. He went to the ATM and withdrew $120 from his account. Reunited with his car, he returned home at 6 a.m.
“I thought I was in the clear,” Kieslich said. And he was, for the time being. His mother didn’t question him.
But, Mom soon sniffed something amiss, when she discovered $120 missing from his account.
“Tyler dear, I was looking at your bank statement,” Mom said, calling Kieslich on his cell, “Why did you withdraw $120 at 3 a.m. from an ATM in Cliffton?”
Busted. Alas, the fated hero Kieslich answered his mother nobly.
“Uh,” Kieslich said.
“Tyler?” Mom said.
Ah, how could I lie to her? This should be simple.
“Erm, my car was towed and I had to pay for it,” Tyler said, defeated. He’d fought
nobly, but he could not deceive mom. She was a worthy foe, but lying is so. . . undignified.
“What were you doing in Cliffton?” Mom persisted.
“Nothing,” Kieslich said.
“What were you doing in Cliffton?” Mom growled. “Tyler?”
“I-I was just with some friends,” Kieslich surrendered. “It’s nothing.”
“Tyler?”
“It was nothing. I took care of it, so it’s all good now.”
Triumph.
People generally enjoy quests—they’re fun, riveting, fraught with danger, even nifty. Tyler Kieslich, a senior at Lakota East High, went on such a quest…that was somewhat fun, possibly riveting, not really too fraught with danger. Kieslich went on a quest to rescue his car in distress.
Kieslich went out with a bunch of friends to Cliffton, a nearby town, in the middle of Feb. at 1 a.m., Kieslich and his crew arrived at a snow ridden grass lot. “Everyone parks there,” according to Kieslich, so he saw no problem. What he didn’t know was that the fence on the edge of the lot was the home of a “no parking” sign. However, that sign and fence had fallen long ago, buried beneath the snow.
So, Kieslich parked his beloved car, positive that it wouldn’t be kidnapped by the city, but once he and his friends returned at 3 a.m., the unthinkable happened—the city towed his car.
“There was this sinking feeling,” Kieslich said. “My friend said ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if your car got towed?’ I told him, ‘No, no it wouldn’t.’”
It was funny, well, to his friend at least, but Kieslich wasn’t laughing. He was frantic.
Ah ha! Must find the impound lot.
“Alright, now get it home. Just take it in segments,” Kieslich said, his arms jutting out.
He and his friends trekked to the nearby Shell station.
“Of course it was closed,” Kieslich said. “We were freezing.”
The bitter winds nipped at Kieslich’s skin. How ever could he save his car in distress? All hope seemed lost.
Oh, but an idea sprung forth: call the towing company. Brilliant!
They got the number, but no one answered, so, Kieslich summoned the nearest group of friends to hitch a ride. They were 20 minutes away. It was 20 degrees outside.
His friends arrived and Kieslich, desperate to get his car back, asked to be driven to the impound lot. No one was there. Things started to look bleak for Kieslich and his car, at least for the night, but he had one more option: a ha, call the tow truck driver.
Now, he could get his car back, that is, if he paid $120. This presented yet another dilemma in Kieslich’s crusade to rescue his car—Mom. His mother gave him a debit card, but if he used his debit card she would be aware of his late night excursion. Oh, the horror! Ah, but he had yet another solution. He went to the ATM and withdrew $120 from his account. Reunited with his car, he returned home at 6 a.m.
“I thought I was in the clear,” Kieslich said. And he was, for the time being. His mother didn’t question him.
But, Mom soon sniffed something amiss, when she discovered $120 missing from his account.
“Tyler dear, I was looking at your bank statement,” Mom said, calling Kieslich on his cell, “Why did you withdraw $120 at 3 a.m. from an ATM in Cliffton?”
Busted. Alas, the fated hero Kieslich answered his mother nobly.
“Uh,” Kieslich said.
“Tyler?” Mom said.
Ah, how could I lie to her? This should be simple.
“Erm, my car was towed and I had to pay for it,” Tyler said, defeated. He’d fought
nobly, but he could not deceive mom. She was a worthy foe, but lying is so. . . undignified.
“What were you doing in Cliffton?” Mom persisted.
“Nothing,” Kieslich said.
“What were you doing in Cliffton?” Mom growled. “Tyler?”
“I-I was just with some friends,” Kieslich surrendered. “It’s nothing.”
“Tyler?”
“It was nothing. I took care of it, so it’s all good now.”
Triumph.
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