Friday, March 26, 2010

Planning for the future.

Forgive me blogosphere, it's been a week since my last post. But it's not like I've just been sitting around doing nothing. Except for that one day, but that's only because I consumed both fish and beer in one evening, and I've figured out that's a really bad idea. At least for me. Also, I was up and at 'em by like 2:30 and totally did 87 loads of laundry, so shut up.

All the other days, I was busy writing my posthumous Facebook updates.

Lisa, over at Smacksy, wrote this tender little post about her friend of hers on Facebook who died - and it got me thinking. First of all, about a friend of mine that passed away last fall whose profile pops up every now and then in my sidebar and secondly... What would my 173 closest friends ever DO without my witty Facebook banter? Without weekly bulldog updates? Without knowing what I'm wearing, what team I'm rooting for, what 80s rockstar I'm most like?

So, although my will is incomplete and who knows who will be guardians of our children should I suffer an untimely end, I have completed five years of weekly Facebook posts to be published after my death. I'm hoping they'll either cheer everyone up or freak them the hell out.

A few examples:

I can totally see you right now.

I know what you did last night, but more importantly, I know what your spouse did.

Stop picking your nose while you're on the computer.

I wouldn't describe it as "hot" here. It's more like "uncomfortably warm."

Please stop playing Farmtown. Take it from me, you don't live forever! Ha ha!

I'm totally skinnier than you now, bitches!

Uh, guys? Sorry to ruin everything for you, but that whole "rainbow bridge" thing? Not true.
I met your grandpa and he's utterly disappointed in you. Also, he still smells funny.

I've put them on a disk with my login info and stuck it in my closet with all the shoes, because I know that where my sisters will head first upon my demise. I'm always thinking.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Does this Kindle make me look fat?

I rarely read the newspaper at all anymore. Mostly because piles of newspapers are annoying but also because:

1. They're all grocery store ads. I do not require advertisements to remind me to buy food. I also do not comparison shop for food. I go to the store, buy the stuff we eat and I leave. Because I flunked home ec probably. Also I hate the grocery store. I could link back to all the times I've mentioned that, but it would be very time consuming. Just believe me.

2. They're ridiculously biased and anyone who says they're not isn't reading the whole thing. I took journalism classes. It was, for at least three semesters, my major. And one thing I sort of remember from the whole experience, besides one really cool party called "the Dacquiri Factory" which, truth be told, I don't really remember AT ALL, is that you're supposed to be impartial. Go ahead and try and find an impartial newspaper article, you can't do it. Okay, maybe you can, but that would only be because you found an article about impending doom and despair due to weather.

3.They're full of excellent advice for criminals.  If you're a bad guy, and a dumb one, you need only read the paper for all kinds of cool ideas on excellent crimes. In the last six months, I've seen how to disassemble sprinkler systems, catalytic converters and frickin' doorknobs to get to high-priced scrap metals. I've seen diagrams for pipe bombs, and learned how to best sneak contraband onto airplanes. I don't know why they don't just put a map of my block and show where all the keys are hidden and the guard dogs who are sleepy or deaf.

4. Calvin and Hobbes. Gone. Enough said.

With that background in mind - I accepted a temporary subscription to the Denver Post on my Kindle, because it at least cancels out that "they pile up" excuse for not being aware of current events.  Have I mentioned yet my love of the Kindle? Oh sweet mother, it's the only device I value more than my Dyson. BOOKS! Delivered through thin air!  Portable enough to take entire libraries to youth football practices.  I received it as a gift from my sons and husband, who presented me also that day with a handgun...which caused me to realize that a) wow - they sure do trust me and have somehow gotten the idea that I am mentally stable, and b) they have no idea how much I don't like to be interrupted while reading.

So - I'm reading the Denver Post yesterday, on the Kindle, which basically means reading a headline and pressing "next page" because I'm annoyed or already know how to make that particular sort of bomb, when I find an article about clothes that make you look fat.

I perused it, thinking, "Umm. Tight ones? Horizontal stripey ones?"  But I'm pretty sure the author just made a list of all the stuff she hates, since at least 6 of the 20 things were particular types of shoes. SHOES. That make you look fat.

I'm no fashion journalist, but if your shoes make you look fat, dude..you're frickin' fat. The list was so random I think she just listed all the things her ex-husband's new girlfriend wears. It included two types of sandals, ballet flats, birkenstocks, t-shirts, rolled up jeans and cargo pants. Also shorts - all kinds of shorts. Apparently, just stay away from t-shirts, shorts and birkenstocks and you'll instantly be thinner.

Unfortunately, that's my entire wardrobe. Guess I'll just have to hide behind a newspaper from here on out.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Yo, Dian Fossey. You dropped something.

 I'm assuming it's because I was raised by a practical farmgirl and an automobile enthusiast, but the first thought I have when someone tells me they've been in a car accident is not, "Are you okay?" but "Holy crap, how's the car?" It could also be because I'm a heartless asshole.

In my defense, if they were really hurt or dead, they totally wouldn't be calling me, because that's the candystriper's job but whatever.

In either case - I noticed this at some point in young adulthood, right around about the same time I noticed I was the only one I knew that said "supper, couch and billfold" instead of "dinner, sofa and wallet" and I've taken great care to always ask people first, "Oh, are YOU okay?" before ever checking on the condition of their vehicle. It has served me well, and currently, several people I know actually think I am kind and considerate.

So, when Big Dude called me last week to tell me he'd nearly gotten in a big gigantic accident, I tempered my curiosity and said, "Whoa? You okay?" Which I knew he was because: please reference the first paragraph, dead people don't use cellphones.  As I suspected, both he and the car were fine, because of his bitchin' defensive driving skills that he learned at motorcycle racing school kicked in and he avoided injuring both his truck and his cute bald head by swerving around a huge 10'x10' dog kennel that had fallen off someone's truck. Without them noticing. I know, happens all the time, right?

After I showed appropriate wifely concern, and determined that he was not in fact calling from his grave, I asked if there were by any chance DOGS in the dog kennel in the road? Because, dude, that would be weird, right? And kind of mean to dogs.

But there weren't. And I'm pretty sure Big Dude thought that was a ridiculous question, but I thought it was a vital factoid to have and also it would've been super fun to call the news channels and tell them about it. But there weren't. Bo-ring.

Later that night, I overheard him talking to the gigantic middle-schooler about it.

Big Dude: So. I had a harrowing experience today.

Kid (without looking up from tv, cellphone and a science book all at once): You did?   Wait.    A what?

BD: A harrowing experience.

Kid (looking up, worried voice): Dad? Heroin? You had a heroin experience...? Wha?

BD: Har-row-wing. A HAIR. OH. ING. Experience. Harrowing.

Kid (eyes back on the tv and stuffing a pound and a half of bologna smeared with mustard down his piehole): Oh. What is that?

BD: You know, like a stressful experience.

Kid (texting twenty 7th graders an important message regarding meeting their true love tomorrow if only they forward this message to twenty other 7th graders):  OH! Harrowing. Yeah? Really. What was it?

BD: Well, I was driving down the highway and there was a huge cage in the middle of traffic, just sitting there and...

Kid: (dropping cellphone and coughing up a box of Girl Scout Thinmints):  Holy Crap! Was there an ape in there?

BD (wishing we didn't have the Cartoon Network and that he'd married someone nicer to pass genes along to his offspring):  No. No, there was NOT an ape in there.

Kid: Then why was the cage there?

BD: It just fell there. In the road. Someone left it.

Kid: Without the ape? 

BD: Don't you have homework or something?

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Valuable lessons gleaned from my actual true life experiences this week that I am generously sharing with you, dear reader.

1. Do not use the expression "you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a coffee shop in my neighborhood - Hohoho!" if someone wants to meet you for coffee to talk about how sad they are about putting their beloved 18-year-old cat to sleep.

2. Do not lazily take off your underwear and jeans at exactly the same time, leaving your raspberry pink Hanky Pankies in the leg of said jeans if you have borrowed your 12 year old son's jeans that day.  There is an ever so slight chance they might stay there throughout the entire falling two stories in a laundry chute, going through the washing machine, tumbling in the dryer, getting folded and going back to son's closet process.

3. Do not allow your bulldog to leave his superfun rubber ringy toy thingies in the front yard because at 3 o'clock in the morning you will hear a 110 pound labradork on your sofa barking the OMG-Burglar! bark alerting everyone in the house to eminent danger.  After loading your 9mm handgun and carefully reviewing the Colorado "Make My Day" statute online, you will see that it is not a meth-crazed maniac causing the dog to bark, but rather, two foxes frolicking on your front lawn. With bulldog toys. Because you live in a goddam Disney movie. Apparently.

4. When your employer says, "Do you have time to get to this project in the next couple of days?" do not guffaw and reply, "You bet. Unless I win the freakin' lotto between now and then. HAHA!"  It could cause them to question your dedication and they won't think it's funny even a little bit.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Anybody tired of looking at my kickass new car yet? If not, I'm happy to post additional views. Or talk about it some.

Even though we have a two-plus car garage, only one person gets to park in it because there are no less than four motorcycles, six bicycles, two Vespas and a lawn mower occupying it as well.

Until I got a new car, the lucky indoor parker person has been the Charming Czech, Big Dude.

Big Dude offices from our house, so his truck doesn't leave much, whereas I am a career gal outside of the home and principle go-getter of groceries and offspring, which means for the last half a decade, my vehicle has been parked on the street in front of our house. Susceptible to hailstorms, squirrel attacks and pigeon droppings. This has garnered me all kinds of sympathy and martyr points, at least in my own mind. As I stood scraping the windshield of ice in sub-zero temperatures, I imagined the neighbors all peeking around their curtains, steaming coffee in hand, saying, "My, what hearty stock that woman is! And her husband, the scoundrel! Do you know he parks IN THE GARAGE and he doesn't even GO TO WORK? That poor, poor woman. Have you seen her lug the groceries up the steps? My, but I admire her fortitude."

It's exactly the same reason I like to mow the lawn at least once a year. But only when all the other women are getting pedicures and drinking mimosas. Good for my image.

Now that I have the newest car, Big Dude has given up his garage stall and insisted I move indoors. I'm not particularly sure I like it - not only is it all weird and fluorescenty in there, I've totally lost all my street cred.

I'm certain that the neighbors are all peeking over their newspapers, swirling gin and tonics and saying, "You know, he bought her a brand new car. In THIS economy! And how did she thank him? By making him park on the street! He's such a good, good man. I really pity the dear soul...he's stuck with that ungrateful wench and she's driving around on entitled heated seats like she's some kind of royalty. The bitch probably doesn't even know how to use an ice scraper."

Which is why I'm going to have to mow the lawn at least twice this summer. And I'm thinking of sending Big Dude for a pedicure.

LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails