My brain is not my friend. I’d go so far as to say that my brain hates me. I know it sounds like a logic fail. My brain is me and all that. But in my case, the assertion stands up. For example, she’s always feeding me inappropriate words. Words close enough to the correct word to make it through my filter and out of my mouth. Furthermore, the dreams she subjects me to on the regular are truly horrifying. Apocalyptic-type dreams on a weekly basis.
This week’s disaster dream featured a tornado. I’m standing in the world’s narrowest street. The sky is instantly dark and ominous, and the wind is increasing so fast that I have little time to react. Also? I’m holding an umbrella that is, of course, inside out. And I’m standing there trying to figure out how to restore the umbrella to working order. Because that’s bound to be a useful device when the tornado hits. Hey, dream Stephanie, that funnel cloud is going to take that inside-out umbrella and turn it into a dozen different shapes, all flying uselessly through the air unable to assist in your quest to stay alive. So, hurry and find a place to ride this out. You are probably going to die either way, but you are certainly going to die if you stand here playing with the umbrella, dumbass.
After shaking myself awake just before the funnel advanced, I sat up in bed with my heart trying desperately to remove itself from my chest. When I was a kid, I was told that if you die in a dream, you die in real life. I dismissed it at the time, but I was having some trouble doing it right after that dream. I considered checking it out online, but I knew my brain would be looking over my shoulder and planning a terrifying plot for the next death dream. So I abandoned that and decided to reason with her. I reminded her that the brain dies without its host. But she started sending me unrealistic visuals of her living a life without me. Since she was unable to come up with a rational explanation for how she could take up residence in another host, all the visuals were her in various scenes by herself. So, I began to point out the problems. I began with her appearance. I know. It’s not kind. But come on. She’s ugly. All those veins and that gelatinous coating? Who wants to get near that? She can forget about getting a hug from anyone ever. She said she was fine with that. She doesn’t need people. She’s going to travel and see things. I said great. Good luck with that. WITHOUT FEET. She then sent me a visual of her on a Segway. I immediately laughed and pointed out the glaring problem. Hello! You don’t have HANDS. She sent me a visual of her on a train. I pointed out that she wouldn’t be able to get ON the train without feet. I also mentioned that with her gelatinous coating, nobody was going to pick her up and put her on the train, even if they were able to suppress the gag reflex long enough to do so. Because, slippery! I think she started to see things my way, and we appear to have reached a reluctant truce. I hope this means that the nightmares will become less frequent, if not stop entirely. I won’t hold my breath though. She’s still feeding me inappropriate words.
The revolving security door at my office rejected me last Friday. It flashed green when I swiped my badge tricking me into entering its little tube of contained crap-air, and then halfway through my journey to the other side, it stopped completely, trapping me with nowhere to go, and started belting out an alarming noise to alert people from miles away that I was unwanted. AND THEN IT REVERSED DIRECTION AND EJECTED ME. In front of a line of 10 waiting people. That dastardly machine lured me into its embrace, then deemed me unworthy and booted me in front of my colleagues. I stumbled dejectedly to the back of the line to wait my next turn, afraid to meet anyone’s eyes while clamping my lips tight against my rebellious mouth that kept wanting to loudly assure everyone that I had indeed bathed today and was most definitely not afflicted with some frightening virus that would soon bring them all to their knees. Then the little shit let me in again the next time I swiped my card and ushered me all the way through when there was no line of people left to witness my exoneration. I got in after it gave me the green light giving it the stink eye during the entirety of my slow shuffle-walk because, you know, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. Anyway, that time I was escorted all the way to the other side. Technology likes to mess with me, I guess. It’s just like Google Mapspunking me.
So, to the creator of the revolving security door*, I know what you were up to when you created your little spinning torture chamber. You wanted to mess with certain types of people, didn’t you? My suspicion is that you hate germophobes, claustrophobes and those likely to make stupid mistakes. I am all three of those people, so thank you sir/madam.
For example, the germophobes. I happen to be one of those, though I fight it with all my might. And one time I had to follow a coughing and sneezing man into one of those tubes of germy air. I counted the line of people in front of me and guess who got to enjoy his tube when he exited after having his coughing and sneezing fit inside? That’s right, me. It’s not the poor man’s fault. Dude’s sick. He was just trying to get through his work day while dealing with the nasty flu or cold. But before he could start his work day, he got to enjoy a little rotation in his private tube which he filled with sneezes and coughs. I bet he was pretty glad to exit his tube on the other side. And then I got to get in there. I tried to surreptitiously hold my breath. But you would not BELIEVE how slow those damn revolving doors move, and I have the lung capacity of a gnat. My breath ran out about halfway through, and I was forced to choose between presenting the security guard my dead carcass which she would have to drag out of the way so that others could pass, or to just suck it up and suck up the germy air. I chose option B because I love my family, and it seemed like a pretty shitty way for the security guard to start her day. So you’re going to call me a liar, but I got sick a few days later. I’ll give you a moment to call me a liar now. Feel better? But yeah, I really did get sick. Am I sure it was the same virus? Yes. No. Yes! At the very least, it seems a bit suspicious, don’t you think? I shouldn’t have asked you. You aren’t a germophobe. Moving on.
Next example, claustrophobes. Clearly I was lucky to be ejected from the revolving security door because it’s obvious that its underlying malicious intent (yes, I’ve now included the door in the conspiracy) is to mess with people who are claustrophobic by trapping them mid-cycle and letting them panic in their little see-through tube while bystanders point and stare. I suppose you, sir or madam creator, described the reason for trapping an unauthorized person in mid-spin was so that they could be interrogated by security personnel as to their nefarious plans. Ah, but then why did your little trickster door flash green and admit them entry in the first place? If they are an unauthorized person, shouldn’t your little invention have stopped them? Huh? Huh? You’ve got no answer to explain that one, do you? I’ve exposed your vicious purpose.
And finally. The last group of people. Those likely to make stupid mistakes. That’s me. Those little tubes are of course meant to be single occupancy. Yes, I know this. But my attention can wander. Particularly when I’m talking to someone, and we are having an entertaining conversation. And maybe that person has a bit of a wicked streak. I don’t blame that person. I have a bit of a wicked streak, too. And let’s say I’m talking to that person, and I wander into a tube with a gentleman and things get a bit awkward as the tube is quite overloaded with the two of us. And I find myself spooning him. And if I was that other person with whom I was conversing, would I try and stop my friend from entering the tube? I most certainly would not. You do not interfere with a situation such as this when the result is going to provide you with side-splitting laughter for years. I’m laughing so hard I’m tearing up as I type this, and the embarrassment I experienced as a result of it was off the charts. Anyway. I’ve blocked some of this incident out, but I’m certain that the doors blared their alarms, and the poor man and I were forced to exit. Still sorry, sir! And I’m certain we were able to make our way through again successfully the next time. I also feel certain that the man gave me a wide berth every time he saw me after. I know I would have. But I would imagine that sir or madam designer of the revolving security door may have foreseen some of these types of situations and thought, “I cannot WAIT to visit this kind of misery on people.”
So, now here I am. Dueling with this revolving security door. Who do you think is going to win this battle? Exactly. I have no chance. That stupid door is going to mess with me, and there’s nothing I can do about it, because now it has my badge code.
*Yes, I know I can google it. I did a little sleuthing, and I found it all started with a German man who invented the revolving door and got no glory. Then, some Philadelphia dude did it because he hated holding doors because he’s lazy as all hell. But the security part came later of course, and I think that is the key component to all this madness. Then, I lost steam and here we are with sir/madam.
“Hey, Alice. Snack on this puppy,” said the caterpillar. OK, that’s not exactly the dialogue I remember with great fondness, but in the penis-shaped ‘shroom version, I imagine the dialogue might veer more towards bow-chicka-bow-bow.
You’re confused, right? Well, I was just ambling around the backyard encouraging Lexi to hurry about her business because I was ready to get back inside when, “WHAT IN THE WORLD IS THAT? Cover your eyes, young Lexi. You’re only 9 months old. Oh right, you’re a part of the animal kingdom, and you guys start doing the nasty pretty early on. You may gaze upon this evidence that nature is no stranger to the absurd.” People, here is your visual.
(ED. Note: Dear men, penises are awesome. This is not a post intended to denigrate your junk. This is a post intended to highlight this mushroom that is downright, freaking weird. And you have to admit, it looks an awful lot like your junk, albeit like your junk’s very, very ugly fifth cousin.)
Obviously, I brought the kids out. Verification was essential. I mean, what if I had accidentally ingested one of the myriad of other mushroom species also present in our backyard, and I was tripping? The kids were similarly fascinated by this oddity, and I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to immediately move to Amsterdam to support my new ‘shroom habit. Of course, I kinda feel that the mushrooms that I’ve found just laying about in the mulch in my backyard are not what Lewis Carroll was envisioning when he wrote his famous opus. But, he might have been a twisted little devil. After all, there’s a strong case to be made that his book was about the mother of all drug trips, so you know, a penis-shaped ‘shroom would fit right in.
I believe I mentioned in my last tripping post that I was going to do an infographic about what to do when you are playing the starring role in a tripping situation and post that sucker in the week following the last one. Yeah, I missed that deadline by a mile, but it was a sucker deadline. Because who gives a tiny rat’s ass whether I post a damn infographic or not. Particularly today. Nevertheless, I promised you an infographic, and you’re getting one.
Interesting story that directly relates to this post: I wore my slippity shoes yesterday. I’d like to say that I did it in the name of research. You know, so I could trip and gain further insight so that when I unveiled my latest infographic, all scenarios would be covered. But really what happened is that I saw these shoes in the back of my closet and thought, “Hmmm, I haven’t worn those in a long time. I’ll wear them today.” It seems there is a damn good reason those stupid shoes where relegated to the back of my closet as they are slippity, trippity shoes and should be stomped on, torn apart, run over with a tank, and then nuked.
So about those shoes, I was walking along on one of those slippery floors when all of a sudden, WHOOPS and OH BOY and WHOA THERE and AHHHHTCHA and…….balance restored. I didn’t fall. While I congratulated myself on remaining upright, I decided that it might be a good idea to practice some quick maneuvers to disguise any future trips until I could rid myself of the shoes. It’s just good planning when you’re wearing shoes the devil has cursed. Ahem, I’m permitting myself a segue here. Speaking of shoes that the devil has cursed, I’m not so sure it’s the fault of the shoes or the fault of the floors that have been shined to provoke these situations. I believe that the sly folks that do the floor polishing are a bit heavy-handed with the wax or whatever it is they use, and I can imagine their gleeful visages as they use their polish-a-majig to get that floor ready for some major hijinks. They are turds. Hey, give me a break. I’m fresh off a trip. I can be a little bitter. So anyway, I’m practicing my graceful disguises of slip-ups so that when I have a minor slip later, I can pretend that’s just how I walk. You know, spastic. I look up, and realize that the cafeteria is in the adjacent building across the way behind tinted glass which is why I wasn’t taking into account that I might JUST POSSIBLY HAVE SPECTATORS. Have a nice day, fellow workers. DeLIGHTED to provide your entertainment for the morning. Go up and discuss with your cube-mates.
OK, thankfully the Miley-Cyrus-at-the-VMAs furor has died down. The open letters to Miley, and her father, and all of Hollywood, and Congress, and ANYONE WHO WILL LISTEN OHMYGODWON’TSOMEONEPLEASETHINKOFTHECHILDREN!!!! have finally slowed or even stopped. I don’t really get the “earnest open letter to famous person” madness that seems to happen all over social media when some celeb has been targeted for a public intervention. Hey guys. No celeb is reading your open letters. Trust me. They are way too busy feeling awesome and, if you are going to negate that business, they are not trying to hear that. If you are writing open letters full of ass-kissing and unicorn love, they aren’t reading that either. If I thought this was a successful course of action, I’d be banging out an urgent electronic missive to Federer. It would go something like this: Dear You’ve-Got-My-Vote-for-Best-Tennis-Player-Ever AKA Capt. Hottie with the sexy voice,
Please go back in time and retire from tennis after winning last year’s Wimbledon title. You will not have to listen to a year of “Dude sucks and I don’t know why in the world we discussed the possibility of his being the best tennis player ever.” You will not miss that conversation, believe me. Also, thanks for giving me years of watching you play tennis with a mastery that still amazes me. Best Wishes,
A Steadfast Fan I might send a note to Dave Matthews to let him know that I think he is an odd bird in the good sense, and I can dig that as I’m an odd bird myself (though maybe not in the good sense). Nah. That’s two letters, and I’m pretty lazy. So, just the one to Roger. And of course I’m not corresponding with Roger Federer or Dave Matthews or any other sports figure, or rock star, or celebrity or famous person because I was born with a working brain cell or two and know that those people haven’t the slightest interest in hearing from me. Hell, I’m not famous in any way at all, though I do play a famous person in many of my nocturnal dramas, and I don’t want to receive correspondence from random peeps. I bet you don’t either.
Anyway. Back to Miley. I saw Miley Cyrus perform at the VMAs, and my reaction went like this. Aw, that’s too bad that she’s creating an embarrassing memory right now in front of so many people. My other thought was, “WHAT IN THE WORLD IS UP WITH HER TONGUE? IS IT SUPERSIZED?” Yes, that is in all caps because I just couldn’t get past the tongue. It showed up in a dream later that night. I’m not even kidding. It was just a giant tongue sitting in a chair that I worked into one of my dreams. Very odd, but it really added some extra atmosphere to that particular dream. Had it contributed dialog, it would have turned that dream into a nightmare, but it was mercifully silent. I think it’s the new “elephant in the room” for me. But I digress again! The twerking! I’m just so glad that Miley made twerking a word familiar to us all because when Joan Rivers mentioned at the beginning of the Fashion Police ep. that they were going to be twerking, I knew I was about to witness something awesome!!!! People, behold:
No, it is NOT a stand-in! Yeah, it is TOTALLY a stand-in. But tell me that just the idea alone of Joan Rivers twerking isn’t laugh out loud funny. Go on, tell me.
I just saw this poor woman trip while traveling up an escalator. She looked away and hastily exited the area after retrieving her fallen lunch, and if she had looked up at me, she would have seen that I wasn’t laughing but empathizing with her. One time in college, I was walking in front of this hill where many of the students congregated. I trip-walked OUT OF MY SHOE and tried to nonchalantly play it off by CONTINUING ON MY WAY, DOWN A SHOE! Then, I had to go back with my tail between my legs and retrieve my shoe while listening to the sounds of laughter. This brings us to the most important lesson when dealing with the fallout (Yeah? Will you give me this one? No? FINE!) of a trip. ALWAYS take all detritus from the tripping scene away with you immediately. You will not want to return to the scene of the crime. I should have saved this little tidbit for next week’s entry when I unveil my infographic for what you should do when you trip.