Tag Archives: humor

Dear Blogosphere

21 Nov

…Okay, so it’s only the 10th floor, but I really, really want you to pretend you’re listening to Radiohead while you look at this picture from my balcony…

...Alexandria...

Ahhhh, fantastic! Totally worth the four carloads of stuff moM and I carted off to the Goodwill on Friday… Just wait until you see it at night! })i({

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Wait, *where* are my shoes?

17 Nov
Spears performing during her 2009 world tour

"Hi, ya'll! I keep olive oil in my trash can!"

Friends,

I bet you thought you were going to get to see some pictures from my killer new 10th story view of DC today.  Well, you’re not.  The camera cable is still lost in box-mountain.  If I don’t find it by tomorrow I’m calling in reinforcements (aka the moM, who is flying in from Pittsburgh).    What you *are* getting, though, is a little list I’ve been working on called, “Please God Don’t Let Anyone Come Over and See My House Right Now,” or, “Moving Makes Me Crazy in a Britney Spears Kind of Way.”  I’m still working on the acronym.  PGDLACOSMHRN MMMCBSKW is a bit…err… letter-y.  ANYwho, here are some random fun facts about my move:

#1: My trash cans are filled to overflowing with olive oil, shaving cream, vanilla syrup, and laundry detergent because the movers “don’t transport liquids.”   Why are the movers expressly forbidden from transporting an unopened bottle of olive oil, but they have no problem toting an upside-down half-empty bottle of shampoo (yeah, that went well…) and an almost full gallon of black paint?  *sigh*

#2: So far I’ve unpacked three copies of The Once and Future King.  Three.  I’ve also unpacked three Complete Works of Shakespeares and three copies of the last Harry Potter book.  In other news, I still don’t know where my cell phone charger is.

#2: The guest bathtub is currently stuffed with picture albums, some dried lavender, a plush cat neither Husband or I will claim, seven half-burned candles, old VHS tapes of my high school musical performances, framed wedding photographs, and a giant letter M.  I don’t know where the shower curtain is.

#3: We saved boxes & packing paper from the last time we moved & asked the nice Russian/Ukrainian mover boys to re-use it (I mean seriously, $19 for a box?  Gross).  Apparently something got lost in translation, though, because I just unpacked a box full of… yeah, that’s right.  Boxes.  I also unpacked a box full of paper.  Awesome.  Totally worth $90 an hour.

#4: I found my pots and pans in the guest room, right next to a box of (smashed) Christmas bulbs that belonged to my Grandmother (no, the movers did NOT get a tip, in case you were wondering) and a soccer ball that had been bubble wrapped & unceremoniously taped to a shoe.  (Yes, just *one* shoe).

#5:  One of the movers left his pants at our old house.  I’m trying not to think about it.

#6: Husband owns two keyboards, two trumpets, an accordion, and some sort of triangular stringed thing (a lute, maybe?).  He also whistles every morning.  (That last bit had nothing to do with moving, I just thought you might want to know).  Have you ever spent 20 hours moving all of your stuff and then been awakened the next morning by your lover whistling the Gummy Bears theme song?  No?  Me either.

#7: You know that suitcase of stuff  you packed with “essentials” like work clothes, coffee, and your new address?  Well, you’re not going to need any of it.  Instead you’re going to need Advil, roller skate shoes, and your toothbrush.  Just sayin’.

#8:   One of our boxes was labeled thusly:  “clouses.”  Wanna know what was in that box?  Yeah, I’ll bet you do!

#9: I actually heard one mover ask another, “How you spell ‘glass’? Is one ‘s’?”  I therefore wasn’t surprised when our strapping young men gave up all pretext of writing in English and started labeling our boxes in Russian (Ukrainian?).  I’m pretty sure they were writing swear words about Husband & I, because they kept giving us dirty looks and mentioning how much stuff we have (uhm, yes, why do you think we hired movers? Pipe down, dude.  You signed up for this!).

#10: Tonight I’ll be sleeping next to a wizard’s costume, a picnic basket filled with socks, a box of clouses (see what I did there? tee hee), and about eighteen thousand balls of  yarn, while you’ll be sleeping next to your boring old alarm clock.  If you want, I’ll send you a little ball of yarn so you can sleep next to awesome, too.  FYI: I’m going to write your shipping address in Russian, so it might take awhile to get there.  Cheers!   })i({

My Favorite New Blog!

12 Nov
Rainbow striped toe socks worn with thong sandals

The Epitome of Gross.

Friends, I’m neck-deep in moving boxes and an overabundance of disposable plates and cutlery at the moment (I even *gasp* bought a case of bottled water to feed the movers, which I’m now feeling totally guilty about…) Sorry, Earth.  I’ll re-use my socks for the next month to counterbalance my blatant disregard for your Awesomeness (this is a trick.  I will not actually save the planet by doing less laundry, because socks are the devil and I wear them as rarely as possible, even in the winter.  I’m going to pretend that not wearing socks saves the planet year-round, though.  It’s the only thing that makes my moving day trade-off feasible).  Ahem.  I fear I’ve ventured off topic.  Apologies.

AAAAAnyway, since I have no idea when we’re going to get the new internet installed here at our deluxe apartment in the sky, posts in the near future are probably going to be sent via Kevin, and since I completely forgot to order the cable I need to upload pics from my camera to Kevin.the.iPad (he’s Kermit’s big gay cousin, yo), you’re probably going to want something interesting and inspiring to read whilst I put my life back together.

Try this, which I discovered just yesterday and fell completely in love with…  You’ve heard of Random Acts of Kindness?  Well, this awesome chickadee is attempting to spread the holiday spirit year round with her Random Acts of Christmas!  Take her poll, tell your friends, visit her site!  She’s super cool (I mean, I hope she is.  We haven’t actually met.  Or talked.  Or e-mailed, even.  I just really like her blog, okay?  Okay).

BYEEEEE!  })i({

The Meaning of Now

11 Nov
Pink toilet paper

Imagine this, times sixty billion. Oh, and *not* pink. Pink TP is weird (as is saying "TP," come to think of it)...

I’m not a procrastinator.  Actually, I’m usually the kind of person who packs up the entire house a month before the move just to make sure I’ll be done in time.  I hate being late.  No, that’s not strong enough language.  I LOATHE being late.  I despise it.  It makes me nauseous and turns my stomach into a hard little ball of cement.  I also never lose things.  Really.  I can count on one hand the number of things I’ve ever lost.  I’m a total control freak, up tight, overly dramatic, neurotic (HAPPY) one.

That is, I WAS all of those things, until I met Husband.  Husband has what I like to call a… fluid relationship with time.  “Right Now” to me means right this absolute second, but to Husband it means, oh, you know, between now and five thirty or so.  Husband had three years worth of unopened mail when I moved in with him.  He had boxes he never unpacked from the LAST time he moved.  He had six bottles of Cajun spice because he kept forgetting he already bought one.

You know how they say that the longer a couple stays together the more like each other they get?  Well.  I now own three pairs of glasses (one pair was lost under the couch for an entire year).  I am currently, instead of packing up the house for our move on Saturday, blogging and surfing the interwebs to find cool table set up ideas for my craft show.  I am thinking about taking a bath and reading a few chapters.  I was actually four minutes late to work Monday morning, and guess what? No one even noticed.  I may or may not have purchased toilet paper every time I went to the store for three weeks in a row (toilet-paper-pocalypse?  I like pocalyps-ing things).  I have a free pattern laying on the desk that I really ought to start crocheting so it’ll be done in time for tomorrow’s post.  I think I’ll start it right… now…  })i({

My men are all sick!

7 Nov

We’ve put poor Zoltar in a technologically induced coma (read: he cannot be turned on again until he gets a new hard drive.) He’s on the donor list, but he needs a solid state drive (only the best for my baby!), and his parents are busy moving and getting a new kitten this week, so he’s going to have to wait awhile.

In other news, TheGoodDoctor (Husband’s old desktop replacement) is currently in the hospital with a nasty case of Windows Vista. It’s downright heartbreaking to watch. He’s getting some much needed fluids (read: Linux), so he’ll be OOC for awhile until we see if he will accept the new system. We have him on anti-rejection meds (a USB cooling fan), but all we can do is wait.

Everyone on Noah’s Ark (our server) is pulling for my boys, really they are, but they’re busy playing League of Legends, so yours truly is left with nothing to do but express order an iPad/camera adapter cord and blog picturelessly via Kevin, who is the sort of man you like to take to a frenemy’s engagement party, but not the sort you want to let your nephew hang out
with.

It’s also possible that I could patiently wait my turn while Husband finishes his game and simply switch user profiles on the Ark, but it’s highly unlikely. })I({

I Hate Thoreau

5 Oct
Grave of Henry David Thoreau and Family

The Mind-Reading, Mind-Bending Thoreau

In anticipation of our upcoming downsize (see what I did there?) I stumbled across this essay while sorting through paperwork.  I wrote it sometime in 2000, but I’m doing a bit of “oh my gosh I can’t believe I actually wrote that” editing as I retype (though there’s not much I can do about the uber-long first paragraph without rewriting the whole darn thing).   I’m © this 2010, so don’t steal it, mmkay?  It’s called…

HOW NOT TO WRITE A MEMOIR, UNLESS YOU’RE THOREAU

First, move to the woods.  Tell everyone how wonderful you are because you’ve decided to move to the woods.  Instead of writing deliciously quaint childhood anecdotes, make flow charts citing the prices of everything you’ve used to survive while living in the woods.  Never EVER say anything interesting until the last chapter of your memoir (that way readers will be surprised you’re not a moron when they finish the book, that is IF they finish).  Next, be catty.  Insult everyone you know in an underhanded, mean way by comparing them to animals, trees, or ice.  Do this in such a way that only the most careful of readers will know you’ve insulted him. Use dull, bland language like “Economy,” “The Bean Field,” and “The Pond in Winter” to title your chapters.  Be sure to veer completely off topic at least twice per chapter. And, while digressing, be careful to use as many extended metaphors and hyperboles as you can, thus confusing your readers even more.  Use the most interesting subject matter you can think of, like tree branches and cows.  Devote an entire chapter to a field.  Devote another chapter to ponds.  Make hundreds of references to books you’ve read so readers will know you’re a literary genius.  Next, write your memoir so that it is not, in fact, a memoir, but rather a representation of your personal philosophy.  Also, your memoir should represent a microcosm of the world at large.  You can accomplish this by telling people your memoir represents a microcosm of the world at large.  Finally, die of tuberculosis with only your ego and the chipmunks living under your floor to keep you company, wait about seventy-five years, and voila!  Your memoir will be a literary classic!

WHY IT WORKED FOR THOREAU

Henry David Thoreau was not a moron, nor was trying to outsell the Bible.  He had a specific purpose in mind, and that purpose was to make a statement about the society in which he lived.  He did so by rejecting that society and creating his own.  Though Walden is often tedious, it is an exceptional piece of literature.  I’m not sure why it works, but I have a few ideas.

First, Thoreau says things like “Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in,” and man is “merely a mass of thawing clay.”  Yeah, I mocked the metaphors earlier, but maybe it’s the language that fuels this book.  Maybe it’s this sentence on page 275:

“The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit – not a fossil earth, but a living earth.”

I’ll also, albeit grudgingly, admit this: even if he said it arrogantly and sometimes confusingly, Thoreau had a point.  “The universe is wider than our views of it,” he writes.  Yes, yes it is.  And writing about a book I don’t like, especially writing GOOD things about it, has certainly got to count as expansion.  It appears Thoreau is also a time traveling mind-reader from beyond the grave, because just as my utter determination to loathe Walden reached its peak, I read this: “As if there were safety in stupidity alone.”  Point taken.  Unfortunately for this paper’s original thesis, Thoreau was not some crazy man living in a cabin in the middle of the woods.  He was smart, meticulous, and often poignant, and his book demands respect (and maybe even a little bit of awe).

Finally, Walden works because, in following with the above outlined model, Thoreau really DID die of tuberculosis.  There you go.  })i({

TTC: The Bright Side

10 Aug

The people who say that starting a family is easy and fun have clearly never dealt with the enigma that is my reproductive system.  After trying to conceive for what feels like darn near a decade now (but is actually closer to just a year), it’s hard not to get discouraged.  I’ve been in a bit of an I’m-never-going-to-have-a-baby funk lately, so I’ve decided to look at the bright side of trying to conceive.  Here’s what I’ve come up with:

1. The Obviously Fun Part.

2. For once, my mother is 100% supportive of my sex life.

3. I am really, REALLY good at peeing on a stick/in a cup/on demand.  This is an important skill that not many people have.  I could give lessons.  I’m THAT good.

4. I get to talk about sex with people who ordinarily would feel uncomfortable with that topic of conversation.  (random acquaintance: “Oh, you’re trying to start a family?  How often are you having sex?  Do you do every day or every other day?”  Me: “Uhh… what’s your name again?”)

5. I’m on a first name basis with everyone at my local drug store.  (After about the sixth pregnancy test they stop judging you and actually ask how you’re doing).

6. I know things about my body that other people only dream about knowing about their own bodies (for example, I now find myself thinking things like, “Gosh my fingers are swollen today.  I must have eaten too much protein yesterday”).

7.  I’ve learned all kinds of cool lingo from frequenting fertility and parenting blogs.  For example, I totally understand the following:  “DH and I have recently gone from NTNP to TTC, and we’re OTM!”

8. People I have never actually met (my dear blogger friends) send me “baby dust” on a regular basis.  Groovy!  I’ll take positive energy anywhere I can get it, yo.

9. “I’m ovulating” is now an acceptable excuse to avoid undesirable social and/or family functions.

10. The longer we have to wait for a darling little snuggle bug, the more we’ll appreciate him-or-her when we finally meet him-or-her. })i({