Because It Was a Cold And Rainy Day

I woke up full of energy this morning.   With a to-do list that would have stymied a lesser woman, I knew I would have no problem knocking it out over my lunch hour and after work:

But it was cold and rainy all day; that steady, chilly rain that seeps into your bones.

Because it was cold and rainy, I stayed in the office, had a Lean Cuisine and surfed the internet at lunch.

Because it was cold and rainy, I went straight home after work, changed into my sweats, snuggled up under my down comforter with a pack of Little Debbie brownies and watched TV all evening.

I know I could have conquered every, single item on my list because I was really, really motivated this morning. 

If only it hadn’t been such a cold and rainy day.

Maybe tomorrow will be sunny.

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Curl Up & Dye You Gravy Sucking Pig

Try our meaty haunches!

Why are beauty salon names so often bad puns?

Hair’s What’s Happening, The Mane Event, American Hairlines,  From Hair to Eternity, Head Hunters, The Hairport, A Cut Above, Simply Hair-resistible,…we could go on and on.   Consider the establishment mentioned in the title, a combination hair salon and all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant.

Do students brainstorm new names as they perfect the art of the Jheri Curl?  Are hair stylists cornier than everyone else?   Why should they have all the fun?

It’s about time other industries got in on the action. 

I’ve started things off with a few suggestions.  The business names and industries have been scrambled to make it more challenging.  Can you match them up? 

Beware; there may be more than one correct answer.

  1. The Right Stuff                              a.  Rand McNally outlet store
  2. The Grass is Greener                    b. Electrical contractor
  3. Up In Smoke                                  c.  Columnist
  4. See You Later Alligator               d.  First National Bank of Warsaw
  5. The Rite Stuff                                 e.  Snow machine manufacturer
  6. Out On A Limb                               f.  Proctology practice
  7. Trunk Show                                   g.  Airplane manufacturers
  8. The White Stuff                              h. Optometrist
  9. Pity Party                                       i.  Movers
  10. Pushing Up Daisies                        j.  Religious supplies
  11. Up Periscope                                 k.  Pool supplies
  12. The Write Stuff                              l.  Prosthetic manufacturer
  13. Jeepers Creepers                         m.  Taxidermist
  14. The White Stuff                             n.  Medical marijuana
  15. Must Give Us Paws                      o.  NASCAR pit crew
  16. Ex-Lax                                            p.  Cocaine dealer
  17. Atlas Shrugged                              q. Reptile petting zoo
  18. The Wright Stuff                            r.  Shakespearean theater for dogs
  19. Right Here In River City               s. Tree trimming service
  20. The Pole Vault                                t. Lawn service
  21. The Bright Stuff                             u. Florist (specializing in funeral arrangements)

Disclaimer:  The above names are assumed to be original.  Any similarity to any business, living or dead, is either sheer coincidence, or is the fault of my unconscious mind committing plagiarism without my knowledge or consent.

The author welcomes wince-worthy additions to this list.

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When Do You Get to Do Whatever You Want Without Worrying About The Consequences?

"The Little Engine That Could" By Watty Piper, new cargo added by me.

At what age do you get to do whatever the hell you want without worrying about the consequences?

I’m not talking about that “when I’m old I will wear purple” stuff; I mean physically.

It seems to me that life is like The Little Engine That Could. 

When you’re young, life is a straight track without obstacles.  You’ve got plenty of fuel to go wherever you want.  You’re going to live forever (you think), so who cares what you put your body through?  Sex with strangers, pizza and Coke for every meal; where’s the downside to being the beer-pong champ of the world?

As you get older you hit the foothills of the mountain.  You start running, not as a way to get somewhere, but as a means to keep in shape.  Safe sex becomes your mantra, and organic produce works its way into your diet.

I think I can, I think I can!

When you get to your 50s, you’re laboring up the steep incline.  Can you do it?  You’re taking in bran and fish oil like there’s no tomorrow.  Sex is a rare thing that often requires chemical lifting agents. Trips to the gym alternate with new-age quackery in a desperate (futile?) attempt to keep death from the door. 

Then, if you’re lucky, you’ve made it!  You reach the crest of the mountain and can coast the rest of the way down.   You’re one of those people in their 90s who smoke, drink, eat brownies for breakfast and take the tags off mattresses with reckless abandon. 

I knew I could, I knew I could! 

What I want to know is when, specifically, do we hit the crest?  At what age does science figure our bad habits don’t make a difference any more?  When can we get off the treadmill and hop on the coach going to Pleasure Island?

Because I want to put that date on my calendar right now, and circle it.  In red.

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My Cat Has A Monkey On Her Back

Clean up on aisle 4!

Pets add so much to one’s life.  When I come through the door at the end of a long, hard day, I know our cat, Beeby, will be there to greet me – with a fresh pile of cat-gack.

Beeby threw up just about every day last week.  She anointed the basement stairs, a dining room chair, the dining room floor (twice), and another chair.   I found her coming out of the depths of my closet late one night and, frankly, I’m afraid to look.  I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

We’re playing a fun game of vomit hide-and-seek.  Where will she strike next? 

Of course I’m sorry she’s sick, but she’s bringing it on herself.  Our sweet little cat is an addict.  Her drug of choice?  She’s hooked on the demon palm frond. 

Well, not the demon palm frond; it’s actually the holy palm frond.

On Palm Sunday, the week before Easter, Christians remember Jesus’ triumphant entrance into Jerusalem.    In our church, the priest blesses palm fronds and we wave them in a joyful halleluiah procession around the church. 

When we got home from church, we put the fronds on the kitchen counter and forgot about them.   Beeby found them.   For several days in a row, I found slightly mangled palm fronds lying about and put them back up on the counter.   I thought she was just playing with them.   

Maybe I just didn’t want to see the truth.   I knew she had a problem.  That’s why we can never have fresh flowers in the house.  And ears of corn still in the husk?  Forget it!  It would be like waving a red flag before a bull.

But as God as my witness, I never suspected Beeby was hooked on fronds!  

Until I took a really good look at the gack.  That’s when it hit me – we had a feline frond addict, and we were living in a sanctified vomitorium.

Once we figured it out, we put them up high.   When we got home we found she’d jumped up 7 feet to get her fix.  Addicts are wily that way.   We finally just removed the temptation from the house.

Beeby has been in detox for days.   I won’t lie – it was rough.  But I think the junk has finally worked itself out of her system.  She seems calmer and the gack-attacks have stopped. 

Sure, I blame myself.  I wonder whether she will stay clean, or if she will move on to the really hard stuff:  brooms, straw hats, silk flowers.  In the end, only Beeby can make that choice.

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The Doilyfication of Man-World

Actual, basically unretouched photo of my oil-change place.

I went to get my oil changed a couple of weeks ago.  The waiting room décor was vintage man-world: utilitarian, plastic stacking chairs, cracked linoleum floor, boxes and bins of oily parts, and posters of spark-plugs and other vehicle- related stuff. 

There was one jarring note to this man-symphony: pastel cutouts of bunnies, duckies, eggies and other soft and fuzzy “ies” covered half the grimy surfaces.

The oil-jockey who came in to tell me my car was ready was about 35, with those ear-hole expander things and a tear tattooed next to his eye.  He didn’t strike me as the chickie type.  When asked if he was responsible for all the Easter decorations, a faint look of distaste crossed his face as he mumbled something about “the owner’s wife.”

I knew it. 

We women cannot help ourselves.  We carry an estrogen-activated nesting gene on our extra X chromosome.  The Doily Gene compels us to decorate our environments, and that naturally includes the work world.  

This gene really comes to the fore when the holidays roll around.

Everybody decorates for Christmas.   But in my office, that’s just the tip of the doily iceberg.   No sooner do the snowmen come down, then the cupids go up.  In the fall, sparkly, polyester autumn leaves are whisked off the counter to make room for the witch’s cauldron.  We have window clings, plastic flowers and polyresin figurines that are changed out for every season and holiday, major or minor.  I’m sure we’re not alone.

The only place that is safe from our decorating frenzy is the Men’s restroom, ever since the incident with the leprechaun and the pot ‘o gold honeycomb centerpiece.   I don’t want to talk about that.

It’s gotten so bad there’s no room in the storeroom closet for toilet paper anymore.  I had to put my foot down.  We’re cutting way back on the number and scope of our decorations.   After all, this is a business office, and we don’t want the men to feel out of place. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get my hot-glue gun going for the maple leaf and lace wreath I’m working on.  Victoria Day is right around the corner!

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Everything You Need To Know To Survive This Graduation Season

Photo of "The Graduate" courtesy of "The Graduate". Right.

 

As my nephew stepped onto the stage to receive his diploma, 3 generations of family alumni were there to cheer him on.   Choking back tears, I looked around the auditorium and realized…half the people in the audience were clueless dolts!

Another graduation season is upon us.  Here are some helpful hints so you won’t be a clueless dolt while navigating the potentially dangerous waters of graduation events.

To Go Or Not To Go

You’ve been invited to a family member’s graduation.  Unless you live on a remote island and the supply boat is not due back for 3 months, you are expected to be there.  You can’t use your busy schedule as an excuse – it’s May.  EVERYONE has graduations, weddings and other events stacked up 3 to a weekend.  Some points to ponder:

      1)  Do you have a child graduating this year?  The only way to ensure check-carrying     attendees at your party is to go to everyone else’s shindigs.

      2)  Will you have a child graduating soon?  The closer to your D-Day, the more compelling the argument for attendance.  If your kid’s in 4th grade, maybe you could blow it off and trust to faulty memories when it’s your turn.  It all depends on what is coming down the pike for your child.  First Communion?  Bar Mitzvah?  This must all be factored in.

      3)  Do you have a child getting married?  See point #1.  If your child is engaged, or in expectation of eminent engagement, attendance is advisable.  Aunts and other such relatives are your best source for good gifts and hosting wedding showers.  If your child doesn’t have a ring and a date, you probably don’t have to start the pre-reciprocity attendance yet. 

Rarely will a family member directly challenge you for blowing off an important event.  But it will never be forgotten.  Years from now, you and your sister will be arguing about Great-Aunt Ruth’s estate (everyone knows she wanted ME to have her diamond ring), and it will all come out.  Like a puss-filled boil being lanced, the years of built up resentment will erupt; that you skipped Joey’s graduation party because it was darts night at your pub!

The decision may come down to this: do you want to endure the holy wrath of your family long into your dotage? 

The Pomp Is A Victim Of Circumstances

Many seem to be unaware of the protocol at the graduation ceremony.  Be aware of:

       1)  Dress code:  A graduation is a fairly dressy event.  This is the time to shine with your good flip-flops and relatively clean cut-offs.  For young ladies, if the auditorium seats give you rug burn on your butt-cheeks, your dress is probably too short for the occasion.

      2)  Speakers: Unless you’ll be at one of a handful of colleges who have booked President Obama, Snookie or someone else interesting, resign yourself.  This will be a 1-1/2 hours monotonous dirge, delivered by a big donor to the school, who will explain how he parlayed his diploma and a lot of hard work into a chain of carwashes.   You should always introduce yourself to your neighbors before snoozing on their shoulders, and offer to wipe up any drool puddles after.  Under NO circumstances is it acceptable to bring a pillow.

      3) Cheering:  You are proud of your young relative, and rightly so.  When he walks across the stage and accepts his diploma, make sure you have stopped jumping up and down, whistling, cheering and blowing air-horns by the time 2, or at most 3 graduates have gone after him.  I am a stickler on this point.  After all, we want to be considerate.

      4) I’ve got mine:  Finally! Your kid is done and you’re able to leave.  As you and your 24 relatives gather up your belongings and screaming young children, and crawl over the other attendees to get to the aisle, make sure you duck down a couple of inches to convey to the people behind you, who just missed seeing their graduate, that you are sensitive to their plight.  Thank goodness your young relative’s last name is Aarons!

Party Hearty

A graduation party is as American as apple pie.  It’s a coming together of young and old, neighbors, friends and relatives, all there to celebrate a momentous occasion in the young person’s life.  Like weddings used to be, before spoiled princesses started getting married in exotic locales where only young, wealthy, childless people could go. 

If the graduation party is at a restaurant, make sure you find out ahead of time who is taking care of the bill.   I cannot stress this enough.  A discreet question could have saved everyone embarrassment recently at a family graduation party.   Imagine how I felt when the waitress brought the bill, and I learned my sister and her husband were picking up the tab.   I could have ordered surf & turf instead of splitting a burger with another thrifty relative!

If the party is in someone’s backyard, there is only one thing to worry about: potato salad.  If you arrive when the party starts, you should be ok to eat the potato salad.  If it is an open house and you arrive more than ½ hour after it starts, do not, repeat DO NOT, eat the potato salad.  Enough said.

The Graduate

The temptation will be nearly overwhelming, but please resist the urge to clap the young man on the shoulder and boom out a hearty “Just one word: Plastics.”

If he DOES know what you’re talking about, his weak smile will tell you he has already gone through this little exchange with 10 other clueless middle-aged guys trying to be hip.  If he DOESN’T know what you are talking about, he will only be suffering through this in expectation of a big check.

Which brings us to… 

The Gift

This is a minefield.  The problem with the graduation check is figuring out the right amount.  Should you give more for high school and less for college, or vice versa? 

The question is complicated if you have already had some graduations in the family.  Do you remember what you gave somebody 5 years ago?  I don’t.  But I guarantee the already graduated know to the penny what you gave, and if it differs one iota from a sibling’s take, there will be holy-hell to pay.

You don’t want to get the reputation as a cheapskate.  That ensures retaliatory cheapness when it’s your child’s turn.   But you also don’t want to give your niece twice what your cheap brother is going to give your son.

For friends, you just have to wing it.  For family, I suggest a conference.  Hammer out the terms beforehand – establish a pay scale so there are no surprises.  Just make sure you get buy-in from all the siblings so you have parity.  This limit does not apply to the truly wealthy.  An extra-generous gift never comes amiss.

A Word About 8th Grade Graduation

While 8th grade graduation is certainly a milestone, it’s not really much of an accomplishment.  Parents who don’t force their children to at least finish grade school face charges of negligence in many jurisdictions.  A new outfit, a little cake after the ceremony, a few pictures: that’s nice.  Much more than that and you risk looking like a self-important twit who is spoiling his poor child rotten in an attempt to impress everybody. 

Armed with my practical advice, you should have no problem sailing through this graduation season.  And if you do founder on the rocks of graduation etiquette, just send up the flare of hopeful questioning, and I will soon be there with the life raft of valuable opinion.  Just keep bailing.

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How Bad Teeth & Judge Judy Will Make Me Rich Beyond My Wildest Dreams

Wait until you feel my justice upside your head.

I went home sick after lunch yesterday.  Don’t ask.  Suffice it to say, I do NOT recommend the Squid and Limburger Footlong special at Subway.

As I lay listlessly on the couch, fortified with crackers, stale 7-Up and the remote, I checked out the strange world of daytime TV.  For those not home during the day, here’s a peek at what’s on.

Daytime television is loaded with reality courtroom shows   I watched Divorce Court, Judge Alex, Nancy Grace, Judge Karen and, the queen of them all, Judge Judy.  That is one angry lady.  I think the bailiff is really there to protect the litigants in case her barely contained scorn and rage finally breaks free and she tries to bash their skulls in. 

I was interested in the businesses that advertise on these shows.   After all, their target market is people who are lying on their sofas in the middle of the day (possibly excluding those of us swigging Pepto-Bismol).  What are they trying to sell us?

Based on my hours of research, it looks like the advertisers all identified the same basic need of their target market: to get some money.

Here’s how they suggest we meet that need:

  1. Pawn something.  I had no idea there were that many pawn shops within a 100 mile radius.  It’s comforting to know they stand ready with a handful of cash (literally; every one showed the proprietor with a handful of fanned-out $$) to swap for old jewelry, valuable coins, or MY TEETH.  I’m not kidding – they showed a picture.  I KNEW those grills were a sound investment.
  2. Get a loan.  These are not small-business start-up loans, or mortgages.  These places will give you a couple of hundred dollars against your car.  Or you can borrow against next week’s paycheck.  They charge 183% interest and Cousin Vinnie will call on you in the event of default.  This is too depressing to joke about.
  3. Learn a new skill.  Lots of places with the word “Institute” in the title are ready, willing and able to teach you to weld, file insurance claims, or give people massages. I know from personal experience that filing insurance claims is neither as lucrative nor as glamorous as the gushing young woman in the ad made it out to be, but that’s OK.  I’m all for good, honest employment.
  4. Sue somebody.  The vast majority of the ads suggest this as the ideal path to financial success.  The caring law firms that advertise on TV explain that just about everyone you ever met owes you.  Menacing “Jaws” theme music plays in the background.   They say you deserve whatever you can get.  The caring attorneys are ready to help you make the bad guys pay until it hurts.  They want nothing more than the satisfaction of helping others.  That and 1/3 of your take.   Just call 1-800-BADDRUG, or 1-800-HATEMOM, or 1-800-TRIPPEDONMYOWNDAMNTWOFEET.  That last is an international number.

 

Although I have a job, it’s always a good idea to have a backup plan.  If I need money, I’ll just pawn my gold fillings.  Then I’ll accuse the pawnbroker of cheating me, and get on the Judge Judy show.  My whiny, irresponsible, everybody-owes-me-and-it’s-not-my-fault attitude will cause her to finally snap.  When she throws the scales of justice at my head, I’ll call 1-800-BADJUDGE and my caring attorney and I will sue Judge Judy for every penny she has.

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Civilization Breaks Down: Lord Of The Flies Reenacted In The Restroom

Civilization breaks down.

 

When a tornado hit the St. Louis airport recently, people were told to take shelter in the restrooms.   Airport video showed men and women running through the flying debris, past the opposite gender’s restroom to get to “their” restroom. 

My cousin Ed, a St. Louisan and keen observer of the human condition, wondered: doesn’t a tornado justify a suspension of such niceties?

Not by me.  I would be one of the idiots running by the Men’s room.  I would be embarrassed to interrupt some poor guy in flagrante urinale.  I would never, ever go into the Men’s room. 

But there was that time in college…

I went to a rock concert at an outdoor amphitheater called Pine Knob.  I don’t remember who was playing, but given that it was in Michigan circa 1980, there’s a 50/50 chance it was Bob Seger or Ted Nugent. 

It was a beautiful summer day and the place was packed.  It would be safe to say that the majority of the attendees had consumed some adult beverages.  

A group of us girls decided to hit the ladies room before the concert started.  That was when we got our first inkling that all was not right.

We approached the closest restroom only to discover an OUT OF ORDER sign on the door of the Women’s.   Damn!  The beer was starting to kick in with some urgency.  We trudged on.

In the next corner of the park we found the second restroom, and a second OUT OF ORDER sign on the Women’s room.   The OUT OF ORDER sign that greeted us at the third restroom wasn’t a big surprise.

The main building at the entrance had the only Women’s restroom in the whole park that was in operation.  This was not good.

There were 15,000 drunk and nearly drunk people in the place, and half of them were women.  Women with bladders. 

We got it line, maybe 50 people back.  A low murmur of discontent started. 

One group of girls formed a circle around a friend as she squatted and went on the concrete.  We were appalled at this lack of modesty, but could understand it.  When you gotta go, etc.  For many, the situation was becoming desperate.

I could hear the muttering, “We have to take half of our clothes off to do our business.  Then we wash our hands.  Then we have to check our hair and makeup.  What do the guys do?  Unzip, whiz, zip-up.  They don’t even wash their hands!”  The volume of the mutterings rose and the tenor became angry. “We should have TWICE as many restrooms as they do, but do we?  No!  We have one.  One lousy restroom!” 

Our line was growing longer by the minute.  The guys were going freely in and out of the Men’s room.  They had no line at all!  They, whose needs are so much simpler, had 4 bathrooms and who knows how many stalls.   Why?  They didn’t even use them.  All they needed was a tree.  That wasn’t fair, was it?

More girls were squatting right in line.  I was witnessing the breakdown of civilization.

Someone started a chant. “MENs room, MENS room, MENS room.”  Girls whipped out makeup, and started adorning their faces.  Vivid slashes of turquoise, red and green were swiped across chin and cheeks.  War paint.

“MENS room, MENS room, MENS room” the chant grew in volume, angry and high-pitched.  A group of girls who had been singing Bob Seger tunes moments before, now moved slowly toward the Men’s room, hairbrushes clutched menacingly.  They were the hunters of the tribe.

I was appalled.  I tried to inject a note of reason “Ladies, ladies! Which is better — to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?” 

When the human spirit is put to the test, we do not always pass.   

The men who had been in the restroom were pulled out.  They were passed overhead, from hand to drunken hand over a sea of angry, chanting women.  The men’s faces showed confusion turning quickly to horror.

I swore I would not degenerate into a savage. We were civilized women!   There had to be a better way!

And yet, I had had quite a bit to drink.  And I really had to go…

I woke up the next morning, safe and sound in my own bed.   My head was aching; memories of the night before were hazy.  Surely we hadn’t…?  But no, it had all been just a dream.

So I told myself.  Until I saw the smear of paint on my pillow.

And the conch shell resting at the foot of my bed.

* Picture, pre-embellishment, courtesy of the Lord Of The Flies movie.

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Take Aim At Annoying Television And Score Big!

The lower the star, the higher the points.

We’ve got pop-up blockers for computers, why not for TV? 

The other night  I was trying to watch a Bergman film on MTV’s weekly Great Films series.   Suddenly, Scutchie popped up from the bottom of the screen to announce that MTV’s groundbreaking program; “Hos and Wannabes Behaving Badly for Money In The Garden State”, was coming on next.

That totally blew my concentration. 

Then they covered up the film’s English subtitles with a teaser for “Hos“.   Scutchie was stretched out on her back, showing the gang how she could pick up extra money, literally, by snagging quarters with her butt-cheeks.   I never did find out why that dwarf was riding through Liv Ullman’s bedroom on a unicycle. 

The practice of networks using pop-up ads to plug their own shows has grown exponentially.  So has viewer annoyance.

That’s why Peg-Co* is proud to announce a revolutionary new invention: Hop-On-Pop, the first pop-up blocker for television.  Now you can “kill”(1) those annoying pop-ups, and develop hand/eye coordination at the same time!  

The secret is in the revolutionary remote control “gun”.   Choose from the Gatling, Uzi, Colt 45 or Water Pistol models.  Children will have tons of fun with the Lolli-Pop.

Choose from a fun selection of remotes!

But the good times don’t stop there.  With a small monthly fee and a Wi-Fi connection, you can join one of our online communities:

  • Gangsta Town
  • Wild West Corral
  • World at War
  • Mr. Googlie’s Sparkly Unicorn Lollipop Land

Test your reflexes against fellow sharpshooters for bragging rights and fun prizes. 

You get points each time you wing a pop-up star before he/she disappears.  Each shot is scored based on a complicated matrix that measures the speed and size of the pop-up, your trigger speed, and how far into his/her 15 minutes of fame the pop-up star is.  A dedicated computer tabulates the scores and posts them to the web community leader board. 

So the next time annoying pop-up ads have you ready to throw your shoe at the TV, whip out your Hop-On-Pop remote instead, and score some fun!

(1)   Hop-On-Pop in no way promotes, defends or encourages sick nut-jobs to actually shoot celebrities.  The use of bulls-eyes is a fun reminder of a carnival game, a visual device to denote “taking aim” to conquer a problem or opponent, which has nothing to do with violence.  It is in no way like the practice of politicians using bulls-eyes to mean…oh wait, that’s what they mean, too.

*Peg-Co is a division of Peg-o-Leg Industries Worldwide, LLC, PhD, Inc.  Patents pending, all rights reserved.  Steal my idea and die a lingering death involving toe-fungus gone horribly awry.

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T-Shirtable Quote Of The Day

Know Thyself Division

 

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