It looks like science is ignoring my repeated requests, so I guess I’ll have to do it my own damn self.

So, I was at the dentist the other day, and I realized that I’m going to have to go all scientisty (Yes, it IS a word. But just trust me on that. There’s no need to verify it.) and create a detachable tongue. I’ve been involved in a letter-writing campaign (not really: see website name) imploring scientists to devise a tongue upgrade that I could purchase because my dentist appointments are just becoming so increasingly uncomfortable that I feel certain they are furtively discussing ways to boot me from their practice every time I’m exiting the building.

Here’s what’s going down. Every time I go in for my teeth cleaning, it’s like my tongue is doing this seduction dance with my hygienist, and I’m mortified. It curls and caresses and cuddles the instruments (and if a finger gets close enough, that finger receives love, too) during the entirety of the cleaning. And if it’s not trying to get all flirty, at the very least, it’s trying to get all up in his business. He’ll be in one corner of my mouth cleaning away, and here comes my tongue all poking and prodding and pushing the tools to and fro. Despite my feverish attempts to control the damn thing. And I’m internally whispering furiously to the stupid appendage to STOP IT RIGHT NOW or no more sugary or salty substances EVER. Just bland rice from this point forward. Does it make a difference to my stupid tongue? Not one bit of difference. It keeps on keeping on, either playing Captain Seductive, or doing its best to remain between whatever torture device my hygienist is wielding and the tooth he is trying dutifully to clean.

But I have a solution. A terrific solution. A removable tongue! I just need to design the damn thing. Stupid scientists won’t give me the time of day. They are apparently busy doing other things more important. I can’t imagine what could be more important than a detachable tongue, but what do I know. Anyway, I’ve begun working on some solutions. Here’s what I’ve got so far.

Detachable Tongue Solutions for HM Dental Patients
Detachable Tongue Solutions for HM Dental Patients

You know, this could also be helpful in other situations as well. Let’s say that you are dealing with a person who really tries your patience and you’ve been pushed to the limit. You are getting ready to say something that you know you shouldn’t. Well, just quickly detach that tongue of yours and fling it to the side before you can say something you’ll regret, and you, dear friend, are saved an awkward apology later. You are very very welcome. Now, I’ll just need to determine how much to charge for this genius baby I’m inventing after I work through all the design issues. I’m going to be so rich!

I’d need a cool catchphrase. Something like, “Courageously Kicking Clutter to the Curb”. Yeah, that sucks. I’ll keep working on it.

I have this fantasy of being a superhero. THE SUPERHERO BANISHING THE WORLD OF CLUTTER. I’m in the gang with all the other superheroes. Because who else are you going to hang with. Everyone else is so pathetic, what with being ordinary and all. Anyway, we’d be meeting for strategy sessions all the time, and they’d be talking about their plans for evil-banishing and such, and I’d have to be all “working without a net” because I’d be the only one banishing the world of clutter. I’d be the exceptional superhero. I’d have no backup. Any one of them could call in with a sick day, and I’d be like, “Dude, I have the WORST case of pink eye ever, but I’ve gotta come in. That clutter’s not going to declutter itself. See you guys in a bit.” So, we’d all leave the Batcave. You know we’d be headquartered in the Batcave, right? I mean, you’ve seen that place. It’s sick. We’d hang out with that simp Batman just for his sweet digs. Anyway, we’d holler out an enthusiastic, “BREAK!” and go off on our separate missions. Everyone else to fight crime/evil/forces of darkness. And I’d go off to fight clutter. It’s a valid cause, not to be underestimated. Clutter is some serious shit, y’all. Like, let’s just say that your mother gave you a check for Christmas to cover some stuff that you bought all spontaneous-like for your kids and wanted to have your uncle give them for the holiday. And let’s just say you found that check TWO MONTHS LATER. Because of the evil of clutter. Do I need to say more?

And nobody takes clutter all that seriously. Well, except for me. Which is how that check happened to disappear into a drawer for later perusal with a stack of other offending items. I hear you. You’re saying that it’s my fault that the check was only found two months later because I threw it in that drawer. That my irrational fear of clutter caused the whole mess in the first place. At least that’s what I think you were saying. The dog was barking, and I had to let her outside. But maybe you have a point. I don’t know. All I know is this. I LOATHE CLUTTER. When my surroundings are messy, I get twitchy. Or more accurately, when surroundings under my control are messy, I get twitchy. When I’m in someone else’s house or office, and it looks like some natural disaster just took place, I’m pretty chill. Unless you are getting ready to ask me to locate something in there. Then, I’m probably prepping my look of incredulity for you. But if I’m in my home or work space and things are messy, I’m squirrelly. Which is why I’m supremely happy when the house is clean and clutter-free. I reach a state of zen where I smile benevolently at everyone, and people are free to mess me about in ways that I wouldn’t tolerate in a clutter zone. Lexi, would you care to poop on my foot, dear dog? Go right ahead, but be sure to clean it up afterwards because that’s clutter. Love you, pup. Anna and JT? Would you like to play on your electronics for hours on end while you rot your brain irrevocably? Please feel free to do so. I’m in my clutter-free space, and life is good.

Of course the truth of the matter is that the clutter-free space cannot be maintained with these people that I live with. And I don’t know if it’s purposeful. I haven’t seen any indications to make me suspect so, but if I step outside of the situation, I’d think it would be funny to see my reactions to the cluttering of my space just as I get everything in order. I’ll clean the house, and instruct everyone as to where items belong. This is always a repeat of previous instructions, so it’s not like people don’t know where to put things. Then, an hour will pass and I’ll come into a room and find some random item like a yearbook laying in the center of a table. Like a beacon. Perhaps to draw attention to this table as the upcoming center of clutter. I can hardly wait! I’m breathless with anticipation! And what’s worse? Sometimes the items my family members leave around are odd, rarely-used items that I swear they pull out purely to mess with my mind. Wonderful! Here is my pet rock circa 2004 that I found in a backpack in the garage. I’m going to pull this out and put it on that table where I placed that yearbook the other day. I’m on the fence about whether to keep this pet rock or not, so I’ll just put it on the table. I think the answer will come to me, or it will disappear. I’m ok with that, too. It’s kind of ugly. It really looks like it came from the street in front of our house. 

When I see these items, I stop and immediately freak out. I may pace while muttering unintelligibly to myself. But I’m always hilariously irate at the object, whatever it may be. You stupid, stupid pet rock. You are going into the trash right now. Good grief! Where in the world did he even find you? You are the ugliest piece of gravel I’ve ever even seen. Why can’t you at least have a sheen or a color of some sort to recommend you? You know he’s already forgotten you even exist, right? He put you down here and promptly forgot that he did so. Because you are stupid. And ugly. You are gravel. And you are now trash. Well, I’m obviously not going to put you in the trash because that’s stupid. You are gravel. I’m going to put you in the street. But cars are going to drive over you. How do you like that, huh?

Maybe my family members are slowly trying to desensitize me to clutter? If so, that’s sweet, I guess. If I try really hard to look on the bright side. But IT’S NOT WORKING, SO QUIT IT!!!

I think I’m sending mixed signals.

My hair says, “Let’s go to the beach, people! Let’s go right now! Drop everything you’re holding and let’s go, or you are a complete waste of my time!” The rest of my appearance says, “Let’s complete a logic puzzle right now! Or a book! Yes, a book! Come on! YAY! Wait, why are you giving me that face?”

I know I’ve talked about my hair before. You’re sick of it. I get it. But it’s been a bit of a problem area in my life at times. For example, in middle and high school, it was just a really large mass on my head occupying a small country’s share of real estate. It commanded so much of my attention that I was barely able to exist back then, let alone navigate the social and educational minefields that I was trying to meander through. By college, I was able to negotiate an uneasy truce with the mass on my head. We’ve had some good times and some bad times since then. There was a time where I thought it would be a good idea to get a perm (!!!) on the advice of a hairstylist who had surely been sent to me straight from Satan himself. I was able to hunker down and wait for the perm to grow out. I made it through ok, and my loved ones were ok as well. I’m reasonably certain that I didn’t harm any strangers in those long, long months waiting for that perm to grow out, but I really can’t say for certain. People have eyes, you know. I can say that no civil suits were brought against me for pain and suffering caused by the sight of my voluminous, frizzy hair explosion, so I consider that a personal victory. Recently, I’ve grown to actually like, if not love, my hair thanks to the curly hair-trained specialists at Bombshell who taught me some key styling steps as well as to NEVER BRUSH MY HAIR. You’re aghast. Or you’re not surprised. I don’t know. But with curly hair, brushes are to frizz as blogging is to oversharing. Wait, that’s not a good analogy. Let me try again. Brushes are to frizz as …. You know what, I’ll let it stand. I’m thinking back to some of my posts, and the analogy isn’t that far off.

I was meeting with my business partner a couple of days ago (I’m starting a business! YIPPEE!!), and she mentioned offhandedly that I was a preppy. And I immediately dropped my head in shame, as you should when accused of this, and conceded the truth in the statement. I’ve never veered from this awful state of dress. It’s saddening. I wish I’d gone through a fun goth stage to mix things up at least. Sure, with my crazy locks, a goth stage could not be sustained for long, but preppy is not a look that goes with my head suit either. When I first met one of my college roommates, I distinctly remember her slam on my ridiculous number of khakis. She called them tackies. I remember thinking to myself, “Good one, Lisa,” while struggling mightily to come up with some sort of retort. She wasn’t dressed much better — it wasn’t a great time for fashion — but the slam was legendary.  But I dress very conservatively. Like a banker. Or an accountant. Nothing against those professions, obviously. I’m married to a banker, and I think he’s all kinds of hot. But if you look at me while shielding your eyes to block out my hair, you might want to hand over your tax paperwork to me, so I could prepare your taxes. Let me caution you not to do that, however. You will not get a refund. You will probably owe the government thousands of dollars. However, I could compose a kick-ass letter to the government, which I could submit along with that hefty check you’re sending them (incorrectly, because I did your taxes wrong in the first place, but why do you want to focus on the negative, huh?) that would convince Uncle Sam to send that check right back to you along with a bunch of extra cash. OK, maybe not. But I could compose a kick-ass letter to the government that would make them chuckle. How about that? Does that help? Probably not. Anyway, it was probably inevitable that this stupid style of dress would stick forever because I was obsessed when I was an impressionable kid with this book.  I was too young to be the target audience, but I enjoyed reading it because it was funny and ridiculous. I already dressed similarly, so there was stupid validation within its plaid cover. Way to go, Birnbach. This is all on you.

The Official Preppy Handbook
The Official Preppy Handbook

While I understand that smoked meats are the traditional fare, I like to think outside the box.

I know smoking foods is a popular method of cooking, and I wanted to try my hand at it. Traditionally people use a smoker, but since I didn’t have one of those available, I just used my steamer. And I smoked up some broccoli. OK, if I’m honest, I didn’t start out wanting to smoke broccoli. I really used the steamer because I wanted steamed broccoli. I like steamed broccoli. Smoked broccoli doesn’t sound as appealing. And I can now say, on the other side of the experiment, that smoked broccoli is some rank stuff. Do not eat it. Better yet, don’t even prepare it. But if you do prepare it, perhaps in some unfortunate situation where say you put water in the bottom of your steamer pan and maybe you throw a dance party, or your dog texts you from the adjoining room requesting a command concert performance and you immediately comply because you love that, or you putz around the house doing I can’t even recall what now but surely it must have been exciting because why oh why did I forget about that damn pot, or maybe I was watching that damn AMC Breaking Bad marathon because I couldn’t tear myself away from that despite the fact that I had already watched EVERY SINGLE DAMN EPISODE ALREADY, SOME EVEN TWICE, and maybe you left the pot unattended for some undisclosed amount of time during which said high maintenance pot apparently needed more water, stupid old whiny pot, well, all I’m saying is it’s really best if you don’t eat the contents of that steamer pot. Unnecessary PSA #14890. (If you’ll draw your attention to my About Me section, you’ll notice that I’m not afraid of a run-on sentence. Nor am I afraid of changing subjects and verb tenses mid-stream. Rules, you have been flouted! I believe I’ve effectively demonstrated that in this post. I do apologize. When you stop twitching, please do read on.)

As I sauntered into the kitchen to check on the progress of my steamed broccoli, I became aware of the transition from steamed broccoli to smoked broccoli. After a quick mourning period for the loss of a nice side of steamed broccoli, the cleanup began. Steel wool, while extremely effective, was only able to bring the pot back to about 50% with a LOT of elbow grease. In fact, Matthew had to do the steel  wool work. I wasn’t able to do much of it with my tiny little doll hands. After we exhausted that avenue, I pulled out the pièce de résistance. Bar Keeper’s Friend.

Bar Keepers FriendI put some of this on a paper towel with some water and made a magic paste. I scrubbed that ruined pot with a minimal amount of effort and SHAZAM!!! The pot was restored. What’s in that magic stuff, anyway? I can only imagine that it’s made up of shards of diamonds because it polished the pot until it looked like it had just been purchased. (Oh, if only I had possessed the intelligence to take pictures to chart the transformation.) I do have to wonder what in the world bartenders across the world are cleaning up that they need this magic concoction to eradicate it? Because I’m pretty afraid of what that might be. Now, what else can I use this magic paste for?
(Ed. Note: Yes, I read the label, and I know what else I can use the magic paste for. I’m ready to think outside the box.)

Progressives: A.K.A WHAT WAS I THINKING?

I got me some spanking new glasses almost a year ago. They are super hot looking and, therefore, upgrade my look from homely with earnest goodwill to less homely with earnest goodwill. (You can’t expect full-on makeovers from a pair of specs.) But when they are sitting by themselves on a table? Those babies scream SEXAYYYYYY!! I will swear to anyone who will listen that I’ve seen them wink at me and others who are believers in that type of thing. Check out these cheeky babies:


But, they are PROGRESSIVES!! Oh wait, I should have whispered that. They are progressives. Shhhhhh, don’t tell anyone. Of course, people to my left and right are able to tell because they are like, “WHAT IN THE HOLY HELL is wrong with your glasses? My eyes can’t make heads or tails out of anything. One area is trying to do one thing and another area is trying to accomplish something else altogether. What kind of madness is this????” And I just shrug and say, I don’t know what you mean. I can see things far away when I look in one area. I can see middle distance from one section, and I can read my books from the last section. And they look HORRIFIED. “You mean they are BI…….<sharp inhalation>….no wait……they are TRIFOCALS!!!!” And I’m quick to correct them. “No, they are p-r-o-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e-s. That’s what they are called. You’re welcome.” And then in an aside to my concerned friend, “Actually they aren’t really trifocals anyway. That middle section is all smoke and mirrors. It’s just plain glass. See? Not so bad. Right?” And then I fan them because they appear to be about to faint.

I didn’t realize until people reacted to the fact that I got PROGRESSIVES how entirely embarrassing it was to wear them. Apparently, only old people wear progressives. Hey, old people? I mean no disrespect. I hope to be one of you some day. And I intend to mock the shit out of everyone because I can. Because I’m old and I’ve earned that right. Anyway…….. See, I’m not real good with the vanity thing. Some of the things that people are vain about don’t even register on my radar because I can be a little distracted. When the eye doctor dude said to me, “Well these are definitely overkill for you at this point. You probably won’t need them for years, but it would help you to go ahead and get your eyes used to them.” I thought, hey, this guy speaks wisdom. I will jump on the progressive parade float, wave the bespectacled flag, and teach my eyes and brain (that ornery frenemy of mine) how to handle them. It never occurred to me that I would be mocked, and that, in addition to the mockery, I would have to get used to blind spots in my new cheaters. Now, I’m young, or youngish, wearing old-people-glasses, and missing out on all sorts of shit happening in the bottom right and bottom left sectors of my glasses. And I know lots of shit is going down in those sectors. I bet there are parties going on that I could be attending if only those damn sectors were clear. But no, they are fuzzy, and it’s like amoeba-ville over there. My peripheral vision is for total shit! Would you like an example? I don’t care. You’re getting one. I was driving along at a speedy clip. DON’T WORRY! I can see FINE in front of me, and in my mirrors if I swivel my ENTIRE HEAD. Which I do because I’m a very responsible driver because I like to drive as fast as possible IN A SAFE MANNER. You do not have to abandon the roads, people. Anyway, it’s not a PITA at all to have to swivel your entire head to get a handle on what’s going down around you. Nope, not at all. Anyway, I happened to catch sight of a cop car in my left amoeba-ville sector and, knowing my speed was not cop-appropriate, I slowed down. As I began to verify the sighting by swiveling my head to thwart the blind spots while keeping my speed in the cop-approved zone, I noticed that it wasn’t a copmobile at all, but GRAMA T, stopped briefly in her cop car doppelgänger to snack on her breakfast, cheaters on the bottom of her nose, getting set to pull into traffic. As I had performed evasive maneuvers to avoid the police car, now known to be GRAMA T, I ended up following her to my dismay, as her rate of speed left much to be desired, what with the eating of breakfast while driving in rush hour traffic with a pair of readers dangling from her nose. Here are my tweets. As you’ll observe, I never mentioned any confusing of GRAMA T with a cop car. It’s not good to admit your total boneheadedness on Twitter. Bad mojo.

I guess I’m not taking to these progressives like I had hoped. Unless you’re supposed to just deal with missing out on things taking place in those bottom right and left sectors? If so, my neck better get ready for a lot of swiveling because I hate missing out on things!! And I am positive I saw an amoeba flip me off the other day!

So, you’ve decided to get yourself a canine companion, huh?

I get it. Really, I do. But, you should make sure it’s an informed decision because it’s a big commitment. The little pups are more than just pretty faces, you know. There are things you should know about them. Dirty, terrible little things. Things I’m going to tell you about in an infographic. Because I haven’t done one in a long while, and I’m bored.


Canine Companions

You’re going to do it anyway, right? I hear you. I’ve got one of those little canine devils looking at me right now. And, she’s really the boss of me. Don’t tell her I said so. But you have to give yourself a chance to avoid their spell just in case it’s not meant to be. Here’s where you have to start. Picture your life with a dog in it. Now, picture that dog without a face because that adorable little face is what they use to control you. Yes, picturing a dog without a face is creepy. I understand you are questioning my advice. But you need to trust me on this. If your “friends” are sending you crap containing adorable little pups, like links to YouTube vids or little poems about pets and how they are always there for you? You need to shut that shit right down. It’s not going to help you. Also? You really just need to avoid puppy media altogether. Puppy memes. Puppy paraphernalia.  Turn a blind eye to it. Full stop. I mean, come on. Give yourself a chance to make a decision here instead of just blindly hopping into your car all robot-like and heading to your local shelter to grab the first puppy you see while elbowing everyone else out of your way so you can sign on the dotted line. A puppy is a lobotomizer. They are very dangerous little beings and must be taken extremely seriously. In fact, you should never be in the presence of an actual puppy unless you have already made your decision and are prepared to take that puppy home right damn now.

Now. Go on and give your new dog a big kiss from me. I’m happy for you. Logic doesn’t apply here, and I knew you weren’t paying any attention to my warnings about dog hair sweaters, or farts that could make neighbors five houses away cry out in agony. I understand since I love my canine companion more than is healthy. I am also chuckling at the thought of the stealth farts that are getting ready to hit you. I feel your pain.