So, let’s say you and your brain have a bit of an adversarial relationship. And let’s say your brain has decreed your blog a dead zone. And you do a drive by and notice that it’s been two months since you’ve posted. TWO MONTHS! What do you do? Well, what you do is post a little video of some people having fun floating on the river. That’s what you do, people.
I don’t receive butt dials (or unintentionally-placed calls) often, but when I do, I ultimately react in a very strange manner. I answer the phone normally. And by normally, I mean that I start talking to whoever it is without the customary and polite greeting, as is my way. When the person doesn’t respond, I begin a verbal assault of “Hellos” which start at a normal volume but proceed to a volume that can be heard from miles away, so I can alert the caller that I’m available and ready to get the party started. I’m always amazed that my faint voice can’t be heard by the person, and perhaps it can be, and they are thinking to themselves, “Why on earth do I think I hear Stephanie’s voice right now? Am I having a stroke? Also, why do I have to hear her annoying voice when the stroke hits? That seems terribly unfair.”
I think my terror-filled reaction to these butt dials stems from the thought that I could unknowingly be placing my own calls. Because I’m doing some strange shit when I think I’m alone. I’m singing about 50% of the time. 25% of the time I’m talking to my dog; people in neighboring vehicles (YIKES!); or worse; an inanimate object. And I’d say another 25% of the time, I’m holding conversations with myself. Yeah, it’s probably almost that often. I enjoy hearing what I have to say about things. It’s not always what I expect. I like to give myself room for spontaneity. I mean, mostly, I know what I’m going to say, but every now and then I surprise myself. Pleasantly. Good point, Stephanie. So, the thought that I’ve got some unknown and unseen witness to my crazy is quite unsettling.
I’d like to know why the butt dials I receive are so yawn-inducing. The most entertaining part of them is my shouting “Hello” in the expectation that the call was placed purposefully. It takes me far too long to ascertain that the person placed the call unwittingly. I did receive one decently funny one. The person on the other end was snacking so aggressively that I assumed it was a great attempt at being humorously annoying. So, I did my “Hello” bit to no avail per uzh and finally settled in for just a bit to see how much snacking we were going to be doing. I ascertained that we were diving into a bowl of chips. I’m not sure if we were viewing a tv program or just staring into space enjoying our salty snack and contemplating the banality of life. There appeared to be no beverage consumption to help wash down our chips. Maybe we were out of our favorite beer? I finally realized I was pathetic and silently dropped the call. I’m still waiting for the one. That glorious butt dial that is wildly entertaining and makes life worth living again.
Time for another one of those posts full of the random. Join me, won’t you?
I’ve been desperately searching for a place to ride my bike that’s close enough to my house that I can jump on my ride and risk my life to get to it. And by that I mean that where I live is surrounded by roads that are traveled by people in a hurry. And people on bikes aren’t really viewed with love. But two days ago I found a magical place. Nirvana. I expect to spot a unicorn on one of my forays. It’s a neighborhood that reminds me of my childhood one (only better!) full of untouched spaces (creeks, you guys!), and is accessible by traveling only one short stretch of road where I don the “target with bulls-eye” attire and pedal as fast as my legs will take me while stealing panicked glances behind me to check and see if I’m going to make it to safety. But when I make that turn into the neighborhood, I can’t keep the grin off of my face. I breathe in deep to enjoy the smells: pine tags! leaves! dirt! I’m a kid again and I’m riding my bike enjoying my freedom, snacking on bugs because they have unimpeded entry into my laughing mouth. I’m certain the one or two people that have seen me have seriously considered a call to the police because I just look far happier than the occasion dictates. But it’s all good. Arrest me, officers. Just get me released in time for my next ride.
The youngest and I were talking about how much fun it would be to have a conversation with someone and just drop a random word in from time to time. To keep the other person on their toes? Word choice would greatly depend upon how long you’d want the other person to think they’d misheard you before really knowing you were working them over. For example, you could use something like lair and they’d be internally scratching their head for a bit before finally calling you out on the bullshit. Use sandwich and it’s not going to take them long before they’re giving you the “Cut that shit out” look. And use smorgasbord and you’re getting an instantaneous reaction. So, yeah, don’t use smorgasbord. Use something like rinse. Or swill. Actually, come up with your own. You know you can do better. Report back.
I was talking to my friend, and she said that her hands are always sweaty and people pull theirs away in disgust. I told her my hands are always cold, and I get the same reaction. I usually try to give them a warning before the hand shake, just so they aren’t as alarmed as they would be without that alert. Even still, their faces make me aware that the warning was not nearly enough to prepare them for the icy embrace of my hand. “Are you awake? You are now. You’re welcome.” I guess people are dying to ask me if I’m a corpse. Which, you know, no. [Ed. Note: Heh. Dying. Nice.] Not yet. And hopefully, not for a while. Because life will be far less fun when I become one of those guys.
Anna said it’s a saying that you can’t say bubbles angrily and immediately I was bizarrely angry. And proved her wrong by saying bubbles angrily a billion times. Because I was so oddly put off by it. Then, I argued that it totally wasn’t a saying. And I’m still trying to figure out what fool is trying to make it a thing. Is this like fetch from Mean Girls? Now, chicken baby? You can’t say that angrily. Let’s make that a thing if there needs to be such a saying. Hey, why in the world does there need to be such a saying? People?! Get a hobby. Yes. I should also work on getting a hobby. Touché.
I’m going to dump a band recommendation in here, because, why not? You know how you find a band that fits your taste so well that you love every (ok, nearly every) song they release? The Kills were and still are that band for me. They have always fit right in my sweet spot. Give them a try.
I got a new Mini. I initially selected grey based on the advice of others (because RESALE!), but I wanted the volcanic orange from the start. Since Sebastian’s promised he’s never going to leave me, screw resale. But in the event I do ever have to part ways with my baby, I did get the four-door. *sigh*
Here’s Sebastian’s ass: (Don’t worry. He’s not shy. Also, he’s a car.)
As I’ve been tooling around town in my new boyfriend, I’ve spotted some interesting sights.
My kid and I spotted a fellow doing some serious flossing work on his teeth while driving. And I mean SERIOUS flossing work. You know that flossing is a two-handed operation, right? Those of you that engage in that activity? I feel that activity is best done by my hygienist, because I’d hate to deprive them of that satisfaction. Of course, I also participate in a few sessions of spirited flossing in preparation for a dental visit, so I can answer in the affirmative when questioned about it by my hygienist. But it’s not the type of thing I’d ever even think about doing in my car. While driving. For many, many reasons. First, ewwwwwwwwwwww. Just ewwwwwwwwwwwww. And second, dude, put a hand on the wheel. For steering. We, as fellow travelers, are quite concerned about your ability to navigate the streets.
What is the deal with this van in the picture below? What’s the purpose of that antenna? I definitely feel that the problems that van is encountering as far as clearance mean that the antenna is a critical add-on. Therefore, I can only conclude that this van is not the innocuous vehicle it appears to be on the outside. Let’s all flex our imagination muscles and see what we can come up with as to the purpose of this vehicle and its occupants, huh? I’ve already been hard at work. I’m giving myself sparkle points for the more ridiculous explanations. You should do the same.
OK, next topic. I’ve saved the very best for last. This is comedy gold, people. At least in my opinion.
My daughter said that the school nurse came by to talk to all of her class about hygiene. I’m going to include a paraphrase of what she said. I think this is pretty close, but I’ll say it’s a paraphrase hoping that it’s much less offensive than this.
Ok, girls and, mostly, boys,
I’ve been noticing a weird smell coming from this grade level.
Now, I just wanted to give you a reminder to make sure to shower and use soap in the places that smell more than the others. *gestured to pits and privates*
And if you haven’t already, start using deodorant. I have a few samples in my office.
Now, I’m not sure how much hand-holding I need to do here. We can all agree that there are many points in that “helpful hygiene huddle” at which we, as normal humans, might have stepped in and said, “Um, a word, school nurse?” When my daughter came home and told me about this, and it was obvious that she was unaffected, I was rolling around in laughter so extreme that I was crying, because WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK??!!?? Since she was clearly not scarred by the interaction, we just talked through the inappropriateness of it and enjoyed the humor of it, because I’ve found that humor is the best way to approach things like this whenever it’s an available avenue. I can only hope all the other kids in the 5th grade are similarly unaffected.
There’s unfortunately more. One of the girls decided to avail herself of some sweet, free deo. She escorted herself on down to the nurse’s domain and returned with some lovely tampons and pads, because….. Look, there’s no reasonable explanation at all for why she would return with menstrual supplies. So, my girl and I rolled with it and came up with reasons for the swapping in of tampons and pads for deo and ended up on the floor rolling with laughter. Because it’s kind of what you have to do in these situations. So, here’s what we came up with. Well, some of what we came up with. Some of it was too ridiculous for me to share. You won’t believe this, but I don’t tell you guys everything.
Clearly, the nurse gave the child tampons to be used in place of deo because they are slender and can be discreetly placed in the pit where they would soak up any sweat, rendering the sweat powerless to produce odor. Also, perhaps the tampons were scented. Double duty. Additionally, I have to assume there was a comedy goal in providing tampons for a deo sub because you’d have to walk around with your arms glued to your sides just to keep those suckers in place. That’d make the school day awfully interesting for your fellow school denizens, as they observe your attempts to manage almost any task during the day, no? Oh man, I didn’t even think of the fun that summer temps would present. With the string? People wouldn’t be able to resist pulling that little guy, and they’d be presented with a sweat-soaked surprise. Huzzah!
[Ed. Note: I really should edit these suckers. What I meant here was that the little string-a-ma-jobbie is accessible during the summer because of attire, where it’s all tucked away during the cold months. Context, Stephanie. You’re stupid. Love, you.]
The pads were provided as a superior alternative to the tampons because STICKY! They can be stuck to the shirt, thereby giving the former stink sufferer full operation of the arms. Raising your arms is impossible when attempting to keep that dastardly tampon in place. Not so with your friendly pad. Oh sure, the pad is large and unwieldy, and all of your friends are pointing at you and your pit diaper. But your friends stink, and you are odor-free.
My kid’s school nurse is crazy, yo. I think this may have been a substitute school nurse. If so, sorry, regular school nurse. I have no evidence whatsoever that you are crazy. But your sub is nutty as hell.
My muse left me, you guys. For an entire month. Or close to it. I have no idea where she/he went, but I hope it was worth it because this blog doesn’t just write itself. Stupid muse.
Anna and I were joking today. We’ve decided that appending the words, “That is a compliment,” to the end of a statement should ease any pain and suffering the statement might cause. Of course, this whole premise is entirely flawed. For example, she told me something (bullet point, the second) that caused me to give her a pained face. She said, “You look like a wounded kitten. That is a compliment.” And I began to laugh uncontrollably because, you know, what kind of wounds has this kitten sustained? Is it lying in the road after a car has traversed its hind legs? I’d bet that kitten doesn’t look all that great, huh? Or perhaps the kitten just consumed a mouse that it thought it killed earlier in the day only to discover that it was a carcass from an entire month ago, swollen with the gassy bloat of putrefaction. That’s a hurting kitty, right? And a stupid one because how did the kitten miss that bloat? But I digress. Maybe the kitten’s sustained mortal wounds in a fight with a particularly gifted swordsman. A la Puss in Boots from Shrek. Puss can bring the pain, y’all. But despite knowing that it probably won’t give you the results you seek, I’m offering “That is a compliment,” up to you for use in your own lives because it sure is funny. Give it a few test runs. See what results you get. I know I’m going to try it. “You look like the inside of a stomach that is working on the remains of a taco dinner. That is a compliment.” Awesome, right? And just in time for Taco Tuesday.
So, Anna told me that some of her friends mentioned that I have “cool” hair. I’m putting that in quotes on the entirely reasonable chance that Anna subbed in an alternative adjective for them. But she seemed pretty insistent that it was a positive review. The interesting part is that when she told them that it was naturally curly, all of them were aghast. And, really? Seriously? What sane individual would intentionally seek out this hairstyle? I ask you, careless whisperers. Talk about aghast. I am aghast. Regardless, it would seem that my hair has found its admirers in the 5th grade, and that’s where you’ll find me because, maturity-wise, that’s about where I stagnated anyway. They are my people.
Since the calendar is getting ready to turn, it means it’s time to make….plans to watch the new seasons of all the great returning shows to which I’m addicted. Heh. You thought I was going to say resolutions, right? Not even. That’s for the rookies in the crowd. And I kid. You do you. As always. But if I was going to make a resolution, it would be to catch the upcoming seasons of the following shows:
Better Call Saul
House of Cards
It’s Always Sunny
Orange Is the New Black
Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt
And your resolution for me would be to get outside and interact with real people, right?
Hey. How about some music recommendations? I’ve been listening to the new one by Tame Impala on an indulgent loop so ridiculous that I made myself stop. And here are just a few great songs I’ve been listening to while waiting out my self-imposed Tame Impala break.
[ED. Note: I just looked at that Spotify playlist and noticed that there are 11 songs on it. ELEVEN?!? I’m so crazy OCD about certain things, and that got by me? I’m getting healthy, you guys! Hot DAMN!!] OK, that’s enough for now. The muse has left the building. Again. Asshole.
Happy New Year!
So the past month has been fairly interesting around these parts. To put it mildly. I’m not going to go into details, because privacy, yo!, but all that MONTH-OF-CRAY explains why posting has been light. Or nonexistent. Those are synonyms, right? So, anyway, this is going to be one of those random posts that is impossible to follow. Good luck to you, and may the odds be ever in your favor.
Spiders: OK, I’ve been tweeting about these little fuckers for a couple of weeks now. The webs. So many webs. And I don one of them daily, despite my evasive maneuvers, which means that I’ll begin the search for the artisan that created my new layer while trying not to appear as panicked as I am on the inside. I detest spiders. And, look, I know I’ve talked about my hair. You’re sick of it. You’ve been sick of it. Hell, I’m sick of it. But this mass of mane means that any arachnid that makes its way up there is getting a free ride around town for a long while because I’m never finding that bastard. It’s going to have to get washed out in the shower.
I tried to sneak in my first f-bomb up there. I’m guessing I made a couple of you unhappy, and I’m sorry about that. Let’s address profanity right here and now, shall we? I’ve been thinking about some personal stuff over the past month, and I realized that I’m not being as authentic as I need to be here. I use a lot of profanity up in my headspace. My brain….well, in addition to being wildly strange, unorganized, and extremely hard to predict, she’s got a mouth on her. And I don’t really care one way or the other because they’re just words to me. I have a whole post about words, and the banning of certain words, and blah blah blah….shut up already, woman. Words are important. Really, really important. But the intent behind the words is the key. So, when you see an f-bomb sneak in from time to time and you’re offended, please do me a favor. Just move your glance on to the next word. Know that my intent is not to offend. It’s just a word to me. A seasoning. That I use playfully. And I’m not judging you for being offended by it because there are plenty of words that I don’t like that might seem ridiculous to you. Ladies. Mancave. Playdate. The phrase: make love. I’m weird. Extremely weird. So, you do you. I’ll do me. And I promise to keep the profanity to a minimum.
My brother played in a band called Hoax Hunters. Their latest release is called Clickbait. You need to listen to it.
I’m getting extremely anxious for some of my favorite shows to just start already. House of Cards. Better Call Saul. It’s Always Sunny. Broad City. The Americans. Homeland is not enough. And The Affair is not good. I’m spending the entire show waiting for Joshua Jackson to appear. That’s not a good sign.
OK. That’s enough for now. Happy Halloween, people.