This one’s for you…
Find Out Your Squirrel Name
This one’s for you…
Find Out Your Squirrel Name
As far as I am concerned, there are only certain times to shop for bathing suits, undergarments, and anything that will have to be purchased in a bigger size. If my self esteem is going to be clobbered by bad lighting and 3 way views of my ass, I try limit the agony to when I am bloated (so I have a mentally acceptable excuse for the size increase) and moody (so I can have more fun with the skinny, perky Gap girls). If I need anything not on the list of Things It Sucks to Shop For, I am generally willing to supporting the local economy with a quick trip to the mall or DSW (aka Heaven).
This afternoon I decided to go out and make the retail industry a little healthier and embarked on a legitimate (re: I actually really need something) shopping mission after work. Happily I trotted off to the local mall. I walked through the parking lot and as I passed the valet by the entrance, I heard him start to snicker. It didn’t seem like a big deal so I ignored it, went inside, and perused the stores to figure out which had sales. Behind me, people kept chuckling. Sensing a theme, I looked around. No toilet paper stuck on my heels, no stray puppies following me, nada. Confused, but brushing it off, I entered a store and browsed some racks. The sales women were acting a bit overly smiley, but they always are that way thanks to the zoloft I am convinced they snort to stay annoyingly peppy. Anyway, I decided to try on some suits, walked to the dressing rooms, and entered a stall. I reached back to unzip my skirt, only to have what I am convinced was a mild heart attack. My skirt was unzipped in back. As best I could tell, it had been unzipped since my potty break on the way out of work. And not a single person had the decency to mention that my Care Bear granny panties were on display.
I don’t know what is worse: that I own Care Bear granny panties (and wear them when laundry day has been pushed back a little too long), or that all of Tuttle Mall got to see them this afternoon. And FYI, Tuttle Mall is the first place on the Places I Will No Longer Shop list.
Because she has crack for brains, Bionic Kitty ran at full speed from the family room, into the kitchen, and attempted to stop at the top of the basement steps. Apparently, Bionic Kitty under estimated the combination of hardwood floors and declawing. The forward motion carried her beyond the top two or three steps, she landed with a thunk and rolled down the rest of the flight, only to promoptly smack into the wall at the bottom. I’m happy to report she was uninjured and has, in fact, proceeded to do it again.
I am not sure if all that medication at a young age screwed her up more than I suspect, or she’s just a Bionic Thrill Junkie.
The set-up: it is the manacle around the necks of single people everywhere. It seems like every married, engaged, or seriously dating person out there has a friend, brother, son, or 2nd cousin seven times removed that they know and he is just perfect for me. Invariably, I let myself be talked into going out with this “perfect for me” guy because, well, I’m a single woman and single women don’t generally like to be boy-less. Society, my ovaries, and my mother keep screaming “single is bad” and so I find myself willingly agreeing to be set-up. Yet, I should know better. Generally, when I go out with the “perfect for me” guy, I find myself wondering what my friend must think of me if the sorry excuse for humanity I am trying to be polite to is my friend’s deluded view of who I should swap spit with, let alone have children with.
After having been on the receiving end of five tortuous set-ups (and one where I thought we mutually had a good time, he left a message, I left a message back, and I guess he tragically got leprosy and could no longer pick up the phone to call me again because they don’t have phones or fingers in the leper colony and that’s the only possible explaination), I had no desire to ever inflict a set-up on another human being. In fact, being mean enough to set-up a friend never occurred to me until a few weeks ago, when I temporarily lost my mind. I must have been drunk or maybe I had an out of body experience, but regardless, in a moment of sheer stupidity, I initiated a set-up. It was a rather disturbing moment in my life: my eyes looked across the table at a guy friend of mine, my “down with singledom” biological instincts kicked in, and my mouth went, “so I have this friend…” All the while, my brain screamed “NOOOOOOO! CLOSE MOUTH!!! STUPID, STUPID MORON! STOP OR IT WILL BE TOO LATE!!!!” Before the message registered, the deed had been done. Male Friend had heard about Female Friend, and he was interested.
I swear all I said was that I thought they would have fun together. But, obviously Male Friend has never been on a set-up (or has blocked out the tragic experience). He immediately started into Phase II of the Set-Up Routine: The Questions. (Phase I being the part where the imbecile friend, meaning me, opens her mouth)
Q: What does she look like?
A: Um. I don’t know. She’s cute.
Q: That doesn’t help. You all say “she’s cute” and that’s code for “I’m not giving details.” How skinny is she?
A: Um, she’s not fat. (All the while thinking the F*ing bloody bastard should die for even asking that…but then again, he’s a boy who thinks with his “little brain” so butts and boobies are important while wit and child rearing instincts mean nothing to the F*ing, F*tard scumbags that are Males in Heat)
Q: Is she her size (pointing to the severely anorexic waif woman) or her size (the 350 pound woman in the room)
A: Ugh. (beating my head on the table)
And so on…
I am now embroiled in Phase III of the Set-Up Routine: The Negotiation. For the imbecile friend, this is the hardest part of the set-up. I have the consent of Male Friend, but getting Female Friend to go for the set-up is an endeavor that is on par with walking across a mine field. Males generally don’t care about set-ups. Worst case, they figure it is a woman whose knockers they can legitimately stare at for an hour. Best case, they figure it is a woman who might get drunk enough to sleep with them. For them, it’s a win-win. For females, however, there’s the agony of what to wear, should I shave my legs, will he call, will I like him, will he think I’m fat, will his DNA pass the 93 point Acceptability for Breeding Checklist, etc. Consequently, before approaching the Female Friend, I brought in reinforcements.
I rang Mutual Gal Pal and asked her opinion on strategy and how to proceed. But she threw some previously unknown obstacles into the mix: Female Friend has been in an anti-social funk lately, and she’s got house guests coming each weekend until kingdom come, and masters degree classes, and a job and…Then came the real obstacle. Female Friend has a crush on a Third Party. And not just any crush, but The Whopper: the unfrequented but still all consuming, running-me-over-with-your-car-and-then-kicking-me-is-all-right-because-I-love-you type of crush. MGP and I decided the best way to approach Female Friend about the set-up would be to not even mention it, just to have her come out with a group of people, and to casually introduce her to Male Friend (aka the stealthy This is Not Really A Set-Up Set-Up). Male Friend was down with this, so I called Female Friend. No dice. She was onto me.
Women everywhere have a sixth sense which detects and warns of all possible set-up situations. While singledom is bad, embarrassment and pity for the single state (which, let’s be honest, is at the heart of every set-up) are worse. Female Friend didn’t want to go out in a group setting because she knew what was up, Male Friend was firing on all hormonal cylinders, and I was stuck in the middle. This impasse has remained for almost a month now. In the meantime, I’ve gotten to know Male Friend much better (he’s moved from casual friend to good drinking buddy, a significant step on the Male Friend Food Chain). MGP and I have discussed The Situation at length, taken into account my new knowledge of Male Friend, and have concluded that Male Friend and Female Friend will probably hate each other. Wait, let me rephrase that. Female Friend won’t like Male Friend because of her Third Party Crush and because Male Friend is, at heart, too nice to be her type. Male Friend will like Female Friend because she’s single and in Boy Land all single female interaction has the possibility of leading to sex. Sadly, this does not constitute compatibility…In the interest of peace and harmony, I am developing a new game plan:
1. Send Third Party Crush some condoms with a card stating they are from Female Friend.
2. Send Female Friend flowers with a mushy card signed with Third Party Crush’s name.
3. Stand back and let Third Party Crush and Female Friend do the horizontal tango, generate massive profits for Trojan, and realize they hate each other, but not enough to give up the scorching hot sex.
4. Buy Male Friend beer. A lot of beer. Point him in the direction of any available woman in the bar. Pray he gets laid.
5. Get out of the set-up business. FOREVER.
One friend. Last heard from at 4 p.m. this afternoon via telephone. Reward for her return.
Call me to impart the following gossip: the two most anal retentive, Bible-thumping, smug hypocrites I met in law school recently married each other… May then find happiness in their little self-centered, “Go God” kingdom and be blessed with children who pick their nose and listen to death metal.
I am so going to Hell.
March is full of strange “holidays” and observances. I don’t know who comes up with these things, but March 9th was Panic Day (which explains the overwhelming sense of panic I must have felt that day), the 11th was Worship of Tools Day (my dad likes that one) and yesterday was National Goof-Off Day. That’s right. Some body, somewhere sanctioned my butt-on-couch approach to life and endorsed it for a whole day. God bless them. But, even greater than National Goof-Off Day is the “holiday” celebrated on March 26th: Make Up Your Own Holiday Day. I kid you not. It says so right here.
After careful deliberation, and accepting that Britney Spears does not really need her own holiday, I’ve decided that on Sunday, I will celebrate the underappreciated genius of Alfred M. Butts. Mr. Butts, as surely everybody knows, was a semi-successful architect and inventor of the board game Scrabble. Without Mr. Butts, my family would just not function and thus, I honor him.
When my Dad’s job forced us to live in the Middle East, with only one censored TV channel and a Hardees for all our entertainment needs, my siblings and I had to amuse ourselves. In desperation, we resorted to actually speaking to each other. Eventually, when it was no longer fun to explore the complexities of why my sister was a turd face, we progressed to board games. First, we tried Monopoly. That was short lived since my little brother started hiding his money down his pants to avoid paying his rent. We quickly switched to Scrabble. Scrabble amused us for literally hundreds of hours while we lived in Abu Dhabi. By the time we moved, the deluxe board we had no longer spun properly, the dictionary was graffitied with things like “Patti smells,” and a few tiles went missing (probably down my brother’s pants). While we’ve since moved back to the blessed land of cable and malls, my family still honors our history by playing Scrabble when we are all home. This allows my siblings and I to passive aggressively prove who has succeeded the most in life, via showing who could spell the best.
Over the years, we’ve developed a complex Scrabble system involving two dictionaries for challenges, who must keep score (because they don’t accidentally add incorrectly nearly as much as the rest of us), who is not allowed to play because he flips over the board when he’s losing (yes, that would be my brother again), and who is not allowed to tell us what an amazing, 800-point word she would have had if somebody else hadn’t used her spaces. My family’s version of Scrabble is just not a nice game played around a table, but a way to determine who has bragging rights for the next 3 or 4 months and who will go down in family legend for correctly spelling “xylophone” off of somebody else’s appallingly bad play.
Before our Scrabble days, my sister held the title of Best Family Speller. She’d won some spelling bee in elementary school, but my brother and I maintain we would also have won spelling bees given the right circumstances; that she had an unfair advantage (mainly, being able to take spelling in school because she wasn’t moving all the time and not being placed in British schools, thus never learning to spell “color” with a “u”). However, the ability to spell “orismology” apparently doesn’t help out in Scrabble. My sister does pretty well, but I routinely slaughter her and my the rest of the fam. I win despite my insistence that “ra” really is a word and it should darn well appear in one of those dictionaries and if it isn’t there, why can’t we check online and the house rules suck a big one if they don’t include online sources. While I always lose the “ra” debate, I still manage to kick some major hiney thanks to my masterful use of the letter “j.”
Scrabble in my family is like Christmas in most families. We look forward to it, our family stories all surround it, and my brother gets teased about it. Without the wonderful Alfred M. Butts, my existence would not be what it is today. For one thing, I wouldn’t have a brother because I would have killed him trying to get some non-icky rent money. I also wouldn’t know what a “baffy” is or that my sister lies really well about how to spell horse related terminology. So,anybody want to play?
PS-These are pretty cool… If you like Scrabble…
1. A pre-set appointment is preferred.
2. I eat when the sun reaches its zenith (aka High Noon). Otherwise, my blood sugar drops to bitch-zombie-from-hell levels and I cease to be a nice person.
3. It takes 20 minutes to get anywhere in Columbus, so I need 25 if you want me to change into a clean(er) pair of sweatpants.
4. Chipotle or McDonald’s are always good options. Anyplace with the word “health,” “smoothie,” “soy” or “nature’s own” on the menu does not qualify as an eating establishment.
5. Am I going to see people from law school? I would prefer to avoid this and you might too, after I run and hide behind the grossly overweight individual by the trash can so I can avoid making eye contact with somebody I was happy to forget existed.
6. If you want me to pick you up, do not complain about my driving and/or parking and/or music and/or cussing at stupid drivers and/or lack of inner compass and/or cussing at the po-po and/or decision to go the wrong way on a one-way street.
7. I do not eat in Gahana. Ever.
8. I must have diet Coke within 10 minutes of arrival, or I will crawl into a fetal position under the table and drool.