The twenty-second
Alarm clocks wake believers
What an awkward day
Calling all Christians
Levitate and return home
2012 flash mob
Doomsday destruction
Guarantees longer lines at
Walmart and Starbucks
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Don't Mess with Mothers
My little hands don't ball into tiny fists over nothing. My nostrils don't flare for the mundane. My lips don't create an airtight seal over spilled milk. Something extreme needs to ruffle my ire for these things to happen. So, well done, ADT. You're next on the Asshole List.
ADT, the alarm/security system company, tries to feed the fear monster living under the bed. Their commercial is laughable.
The sun is high in the sky. Light shines through the windows. What could go wrong on such a beautiful summer day?
Everything when a mother is left home alone with her young child.
Cue scary music and sounds! Unleash the masked men! Oh, golly gee. Someone is trying to jimmy open a window. There's glass breaking. My husband isn't home to protect me. Cue mother soiling pants. Cue mother turning into a heap of cowardice. Help me, ADT.
Bu-ull.
Shit.
The mothers I know wouldn't cower at being faced with an intruder, in the middle of the day, while their child is at their side. The mothers I know would grab the nearest weapon - preferably a kitchen knife - and chop up some dumbass-motherfucking-thief for dinner.
Hey, ADT! Stop showing women as prey, ripe for the picking, as dainty creatures that need to be protected. The mothers I know will jump off a building, into a tank of sharks, and swim through a sewage treatment plant to protect their children.
Rambo ain't got shit on the mothers I know.
Face it, ADT. You'd get there far too late.
ADT, the alarm/security system company, tries to feed the fear monster living under the bed. Their commercial is laughable.
The sun is high in the sky. Light shines through the windows. What could go wrong on such a beautiful summer day?
Everything when a mother is left home alone with her young child.
Cue scary music and sounds! Unleash the masked men! Oh, golly gee. Someone is trying to jimmy open a window. There's glass breaking. My husband isn't home to protect me. Cue mother soiling pants. Cue mother turning into a heap of cowardice. Help me, ADT.
Bu-ull.
Shit.
The mothers I know wouldn't cower at being faced with an intruder, in the middle of the day, while their child is at their side. The mothers I know would grab the nearest weapon - preferably a kitchen knife - and chop up some dumbass-motherfucking-thief for dinner.
Hey, ADT! Stop showing women as prey, ripe for the picking, as dainty creatures that need to be protected. The mothers I know will jump off a building, into a tank of sharks, and swim through a sewage treatment plant to protect their children.
Rambo ain't got shit on the mothers I know.
Face it, ADT. You'd get there far too late.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Pee Pants
When it comes to using public facilities, I am a hoverer. This wasn't always the case. As a child I used to sit on my hands to protect myself from the ills accumulating on public toilet seats.
I was not the smartest child.
Now I am well into adulthood. Now I go into public restrooms knowing my legs can support my hovering for three minutes before thinking about getting tired. So "recent events" cannot be blamed on a lack of maturity or not knowing any better. "Recent events" cannot be blamed on tired legs either.
I was having dinner with my wife. It was our first time frequenting this particular restaurant. With my belly full, I made my way to the unfamiliar bathroom. Someone was already facilitating; I waited. The door opened and a child accompanied a woman out of the stall. My decision to not sit on the toilet seat was unwaveringly grounded.
Upon inspection, the toilet sat higher than I was accustomed to. Instead of hovering at a 90 degree angle, or less, I was faced with hovering at a 110 degree angle, if not more. I was unfazed by the height. I was, after all, a professional.
I checked, double checked, and checked again that everything was aligned and then granted the floodgates permission to open. Something was wrong. Really wrong. What was that? Something...warm. On my skin. I gasped as the warmth started making its way down my leg. My hand slapped my leg in an effort to make a dam. I immediately sat down on the toilet. Gross, but there were bigger fish frying.
The stream got away from me.
I made a quick inspection and gave immediate thanks that I hadn't pissed all over the top of my pants. But the left calf of my pants took a direct hit. The dark, round spot on my khakis was impossible to hide.
Oh how I panicked.
A sense of urgency washed over me like, well, an out of control pee stream. No one could know what I had done. I had to act fast, get out before I was discovered. A-ah! No hand dryer! I used paper towel after paper towel to try and blot my pants dry. Hurry! But the wet spot made a mockery of me and my wad of paper towels.
What could I do? I had an opera to get to. The Santa Fe Opera. So I quickly washed my hands, twice, and walked out like nothing happened.
As tuxedos and dresses and ties and heels walked by me at the opera--it's kind of a big deal--and as I sat next to a man in a white suit who smelled like the men's counter at Neiman Marcus, I found it amusing that all that fancy was unknowingly rubbing elbows with a woman who wore her very best, thankfully dry, pee pants.
I was not the smartest child.
Now I am well into adulthood. Now I go into public restrooms knowing my legs can support my hovering for three minutes before thinking about getting tired. So "recent events" cannot be blamed on a lack of maturity or not knowing any better. "Recent events" cannot be blamed on tired legs either.
I was having dinner with my wife. It was our first time frequenting this particular restaurant. With my belly full, I made my way to the unfamiliar bathroom. Someone was already facilitating; I waited. The door opened and a child accompanied a woman out of the stall. My decision to not sit on the toilet seat was unwaveringly grounded.
Upon inspection, the toilet sat higher than I was accustomed to. Instead of hovering at a 90 degree angle, or less, I was faced with hovering at a 110 degree angle, if not more. I was unfazed by the height. I was, after all, a professional.
I checked, double checked, and checked again that everything was aligned and then granted the floodgates permission to open. Something was wrong. Really wrong. What was that? Something...warm. On my skin. I gasped as the warmth started making its way down my leg. My hand slapped my leg in an effort to make a dam. I immediately sat down on the toilet. Gross, but there were bigger fish frying.
The stream got away from me.
I made a quick inspection and gave immediate thanks that I hadn't pissed all over the top of my pants. But the left calf of my pants took a direct hit. The dark, round spot on my khakis was impossible to hide.
Oh how I panicked.
A sense of urgency washed over me like, well, an out of control pee stream. No one could know what I had done. I had to act fast, get out before I was discovered. A-ah! No hand dryer! I used paper towel after paper towel to try and blot my pants dry. Hurry! But the wet spot made a mockery of me and my wad of paper towels.
What could I do? I had an opera to get to. The Santa Fe Opera. So I quickly washed my hands, twice, and walked out like nothing happened.
As tuxedos and dresses and ties and heels walked by me at the opera--it's kind of a big deal--and as I sat next to a man in a white suit who smelled like the men's counter at Neiman Marcus, I found it amusing that all that fancy was unknowingly rubbing elbows with a woman who wore her very best, thankfully dry, pee pants.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Angry Basset
Off my keychain dangles a small, plush Angry Bird. I know I'm a grown woman and such frivolities are generally reserved for the youth, but it was a gift. And I love it.
Big mistake.
As soon as it was handed to me, I knew it had to be kept a secret from my basset. Small, plush, roundish toys are her favorite; a nice pair of balled-up woolen socks comes in as a close second.
Recently, I became careless. I grabbed my keys off the counter and held them in front of my body like a trophy. I failed to notice the basset was sitting in front of me.
Big mistake.
The basset went from I'm-just-chillin'-at-my-mama's-feet to OH-MY-GOD-WHAT-IS-THAT-AND-WHEN-DO-I-GET-TO-PUT-IT-IN-MY-MOUTH! Her eyes widened. Her tail shook so hard she was on the verge of shaking right out of her fur. Then she started yipping and whining in her overly expressive excitement.
Shit. This was my Angry Bird. And I loved it! I tried to tell her she couldn't have it, that it was a gift, a gift not meant for her, but she didn't care. She wasn't buying it. Her insistence was relentless. Now that she'd set eyes on it, nothing was going to convince her that it belonged anywhere but in her mouth. She continued wagging and talking and hopping.
What could I do? It was my Angry Bird! I didn't want it subjected to a slathering of saliva. I hid the Angry Bird, out of sight, and broke her heart. I broke her heart while she was looking into my eyes. I broke her heart and couldn't forgive myself. Making matters worse, my wife, shortly after, was carelessly holding the keys, leaving the Angry Bird dangling in the breeze.
I saw the situation unfolding in front of me like a blanket being laid out on the grass for a picnic.
"Angry Bird!" I yelled as the basset jumped up like a great white shark lunging out out of the water for its prey. Thankfully the basset was not made for lift or speed and my wife was able to easily keep my Angry Bird out of saliva's way. The basset's disappointment abounded. She moped for days.
I saw the situation unfolding in front of me like a blanket being laid out on the grass for a picnic.
"Angry Bird!" I yelled as the basset jumped up like a great white shark lunging out out of the water for its prey. Thankfully the basset was not made for lift or speed and my wife was able to easily keep my Angry Bird out of saliva's way. The basset's disappointment abounded. She moped for days.
 |
| Ah...all better |
But retribution would be hers. The basset's very own Angry Bird showed up at the beginning of the week. She got to parade it around the living room, growl when her brother (the mutt) got too close, and take a nap with it. She also snuck it outside. When questioned, she said it needed to use the bathroom.
Alas, I was forgiven.
Alas, I was forgiven.
The basset's backup Angry Bird arrived yesterday. It's a pig wearing a helmet. The box in which it arrived was opened in the car. The pig wearing a helmet went directly into the house without fanfare, and while the basset was distracted, it was hidden in a place out of her reach.
I have learned that the basset is only happy with what she has until she realizes secrets, like pigs wearing helmets, are being kept from her.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Is it Me?
I peruse a variety of blogs, most of which are wildly more successful than mine. And by wildly successful, I mean hundreds of followers hang on their words. Or at least more than thirty. Others' writing style and topics obviously speak to people.
What the fuck am I doing wrong?
Do I curse too much?
Maybe it's all the politics and personal chitchat I try to pass off as a form of amusement? Is it the gay? Do I share too much? Or, gulp, am I the kind of asshole who thinks there's no way I could be an asshole? I can't forgo what I write about; if I didn't share myself completely I feel like I could no longer call myself a writer.
So how do I appeal to a larger audience? How do I garner interest in my writing and hook more fans for life?
If I had money I could pay people to read. If I was religious I could pray for followers. If I was a butcher I could sacrifice a chicken. As a vegan I suppose I could stab a bag of flour and hurl it off my deck but I don't think that is going to get me anywhere.
I'd say my feelings are hurt but I'd only be saying it to add dramatic flare. My ego as a writer doesn't revolve around how many people follow me. The issue at hand is what if I get published and only twenty-seven people buy my book?
Writing. Career. Over.
Still, I'm grateful for my followers. To the twenty-seven of you out there, know you're exceptional, supremely intelligent. My ego at least knows that much. (Wink.)
What the fuck am I doing wrong?
Do I curse too much?
Maybe it's all the politics and personal chitchat I try to pass off as a form of amusement? Is it the gay? Do I share too much? Or, gulp, am I the kind of asshole who thinks there's no way I could be an asshole? I can't forgo what I write about; if I didn't share myself completely I feel like I could no longer call myself a writer.
So how do I appeal to a larger audience? How do I garner interest in my writing and hook more fans for life?
If I had money I could pay people to read. If I was religious I could pray for followers. If I was a butcher I could sacrifice a chicken. As a vegan I suppose I could stab a bag of flour and hurl it off my deck but I don't think that is going to get me anywhere.
I'd say my feelings are hurt but I'd only be saying it to add dramatic flare. My ego as a writer doesn't revolve around how many people follow me. The issue at hand is what if I get published and only twenty-seven people buy my book?
Writing. Career. Over.
Still, I'm grateful for my followers. To the twenty-seven of you out there, know you're exceptional, supremely intelligent. My ego at least knows that much. (Wink.)
Monday, August 8, 2011
Speaking for Jesus
If politicians, evangelicals, and Walmart shoppers get to speak for Jesus then I'm throwing my hat in to the ring too. And I know Jesus is saying, "Are you fucking kidding me with this nonsense?"
Jesus knows if he were alive today he would live on the streets. He would be out of work thanks to the bursting housing bubble; the modest one bedroom condo--close to the pool so he can do "that trick" the guy in 3B is always begging him to perform--he purchased would be in foreclosure; and thanks to a certain political party's view on the laziness of the unemployed, his unemployment benefits would have expired months ago, extension denied!
While we expect do-gooder prophets to live like paupers, even Jesus thinks this is extreme.
Believe me, Jesus is pissed. Not enough to turn in to an ignorant tea bagger (the political party, not the Castro party) but enough to take to the streets and preach his truth, occasionally teaming up with the guy in Times Square with "The end of days are near" written in childlike scripting on a piece of cardboard.
Gays (modern day lepers), the poor, the downtrodden would have a friend in modern day Jesus. His arms would be open to everyone, teaching love and forgiveness instead of persecution and entitlement, just as he did twenty centuries ago. For someone who preaches about helping the needy and the poor, Jesus would be appalled to get a front row view of the GOP's what's-mine-is-mine-and-everyone-else-can-fuck-off middle finger, especially when most of whom in the party claim they are governing in the name of his father.
Jesus thinks they missed the boat on messaging.
And Jesus thinks having so many people speaking for him is getting confusing. The messages are being misinterpreted. He knows the kind of weight his name carries and throwing it behind any ole idea, like someone's egotistical end of the world prophecy, doesn't make it legit. Stop saying, "In the name of Jesus" and following it up with bullshit like, "evolution is a myth." Jesus is well aware how evolution works and thinks fossils and carbon dating kick ass.
The next time you see a WWJD bumper sticker ignore the fact that the driver just cut you off. Focus instead on modern day Jesus and the fact that he's starving and being denied access to a McDonalds' bathroom.
Jesus knows if he were alive today he would live on the streets. He would be out of work thanks to the bursting housing bubble; the modest one bedroom condo--close to the pool so he can do "that trick" the guy in 3B is always begging him to perform--he purchased would be in foreclosure; and thanks to a certain political party's view on the laziness of the unemployed, his unemployment benefits would have expired months ago, extension denied!
While we expect do-gooder prophets to live like paupers, even Jesus thinks this is extreme.
Believe me, Jesus is pissed. Not enough to turn in to an ignorant tea bagger (the political party, not the Castro party) but enough to take to the streets and preach his truth, occasionally teaming up with the guy in Times Square with "The end of days are near" written in childlike scripting on a piece of cardboard.
Gays (modern day lepers), the poor, the downtrodden would have a friend in modern day Jesus. His arms would be open to everyone, teaching love and forgiveness instead of persecution and entitlement, just as he did twenty centuries ago. For someone who preaches about helping the needy and the poor, Jesus would be appalled to get a front row view of the GOP's what's-mine-is-mine-and-everyone-else-can-fuck-off middle finger, especially when most of whom in the party claim they are governing in the name of his father.
Jesus thinks they missed the boat on messaging.
And Jesus thinks having so many people speaking for him is getting confusing. The messages are being misinterpreted. He knows the kind of weight his name carries and throwing it behind any ole idea, like someone's egotistical end of the world prophecy, doesn't make it legit. Stop saying, "In the name of Jesus" and following it up with bullshit like, "evolution is a myth." Jesus is well aware how evolution works and thinks fossils and carbon dating kick ass.
The next time you see a WWJD bumper sticker ignore the fact that the driver just cut you off. Focus instead on modern day Jesus and the fact that he's starving and being denied access to a McDonalds' bathroom.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Hump-day Haiku: The Santa Fe Opera
Is there a buffet
So many old white people
Out after sunset
A fancy affair
Tuxedos and evening gowns
Oops to the khakis
Romantic setting
In the hills of Santa Fe
Getting laid tonight
So many old white people
Out after sunset
A fancy affair
Tuxedos and evening gowns
Oops to the khakis
Romantic setting
In the hills of Santa Fe
Getting laid tonight
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