Overheard at the craft store...

I stopped by the local Joann's tonight and was shopping in an aisle when a little boy and his mom walked next to me.  He had the urge, as I assume most kids do, to touch EVERYTHING.  Anything that was in his reach was touched, picked up, knocked over and fondled.  His mother kept saying "don't touch that' and "don't pick that up" and "no! put that down."  It was clearly incredibly effective parental discipline.  She sure was making an impact.  Her kid was clearly paying attention to every word and following her every request.

As they strode past me, I picked up the glue that I was looking for and he shouted at me "NO! Don't touch!"

Normally, my snarky side would be mean and talk about kids and how parents suck and can't control their kids.  But, well, this was actually really funny.

Then, just a few short aisles down, I was picking through some Christmas stuff and a different family walked into the store and the mother exclaimed "Valentine's Day decorations!!!  You have got to be kidding - it isn't even New Years!"  (Clearly this woman knows nothing about the crafting world and how you have to start early on such holiday projects...).  Her daughter laughed "New Years It isn't even Christmas!"

Then her son, trying to join in with the exasperated witty banter of the women of the family said: "New Years?  It isn't even Father's Day."  Yeah.... he nailed it.

Kids are so smart funny.

Drunk girls are funny....

An incident report recently came across my desk that went a little something like this:

"During a recent fire alarm while checking the building to ensure that all occupants were out of the building, we found NAME (deleted so I don't get fired) asleep in her bed.  We tried for several minutes to wake her up and we were finally able to get a response out of her. "I didn't set off the fucking alarm" she said as she rolled over in bed and attempted to go back to sleep. We asked her again to get out of bed and exit the building and she said "I told you, I didn't set off the fucking alarm."  We finally convinced her to leave the building and as she was walking out of the door she realized she didn't have any shoes on.  She went into her closet and put on one boot, she then attempted to put her purse on her other foot.  She attempted to buckle it several times and became quite frustrated.  After a few minutes, she threw the purse down and said "fuck it" and walked out of the building with one boot."

10 points for our security guards for their thorough reporting.
20 points to drunkipants for thinking that her purse would make excellent footware.

Dr. Horrible is my new favorite thing

I am not sure if I am the last person to get on this boat, but I have just discovered the brilliance that is Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-Long Blog. (you can watch it on YouTube for free). It is truly one of the funniest things ever.

To demonstrate my point, in one of the songs Captain Hammer is singing with a gaggle of admiriers as the chorus.  It goes something like this:

Captain Hammer:
"I just might sleep with the same girl twice. 
They say it's better the second time.
They say you get to do the weird stuff"

Chorus:
"we do the weird stuff."

 Right?  That might just be one of the best lines ever.  Thank you brothers Whedon.  Thank you.

Where have you been all my life?

I know, I know.... I go start this adventure of a blog and then bail a week into it.  I am sorry to my legions (well, 4) of fans and I promise to do a better job of posting.  


"So, what would keep you so busy that you couldn't dedicate hours a day to your blog?" you ask?

Among other things, I got rear-ended (tee hee) and my car got banged up.  It was a cold and rainy autumn day and there were lots of leaves stuck to the ground.  While it was late in the morning, it was kinda gray and depressing outside. I was waiting to make a left turn. Remembering my driving course when I was 15, I was appropriately inched into the intersection with my wheel facing forward. For those who know me: no, I was not on the phone, eating food, or playing with the radio thankyouverymuch. (Remember those movies where they would try to scare you and teach you how to drive.  Well, I actually watched those, and while some friends might disagree, I am a pretty good driver.)

Somehow, the car behind me failed to notice my car (it's a CRV, y'all), both my break lights AND my blinker and so she failed to break. I saw it coming and there was nothing I could do - there was a car coming toward me (thus the reason I was stopped in the first place) so I couldn't turn, and I knew I couldn't accelerate fast enough to avoid being hit.  Anyway - crash - she whollops right into me and I swore a lot and got all pissed.  It happened about 50 feet from the school where I work, so within like 5 minutes the campus security was there - as was one of our vice presidents who happened to be driving by.  Apparently some fire & rescue guy happened to be driving by as well, so he stopped.  There were like 15 people there before the police ever arrived.  If ever you want to feel like you live in a small ass town, just get into an accident. I swear I felt like I was in Mayberry or something.  The police officer who took the report turned out to be someone who responded to a situation on campus a couple years ago and he remembered me (because I am just that charasmatic, yes) and we chatted it up a bit.

Then, the girl who hit me was this frail person who was completely freaked out about the accident and I found myself counseling her because she was not dealing with it well.  She was crying. And her cell phone was dead.  And her registration was expired.  And she had just been in an accident recently.  (Seriously, you ask?  Yes. Seriously.)  She used my phone to call her boyfriend and he and his gaggle of friends came over about 10 minutes later and guess what?  I knew them too!  Yup, because colleges are truly small towns, he rolls up with his friends and he's like "oh, hey there..." because we had some run-ins his freshman year and I am sure he's completely embarrassed that he had to show up to pick up his hot mess of a girlfriend in his pajamas on a rainy Saturday morning.

In the end, cars were towed, information was exchanged, and everyone walked away without a scratch. Aside from a bruised ego (hers) and bumper (mine) the damage was minimal.

So, is there a good side to the story?  Yup.  I got me a new muffler.  Mine has been spitting out its last breaths lately and I've been procrastinating getting it fixed.  Voila!  Life is full of unexpected little surprises.

an open letter to parents

Dear Parents (or people who may have kids at some point in their future),

I write to you today to tell you something about your kids.  They lie to you.  All the time.  Remember your childhood?!?  Remember when you lied to your parents about whose gum got stuck in the carpeting or who was responsible for fucking up the VHS tape (because it got stuck so you opened the flap and saw that it was buckled so you tried to straighten it with your grubby fingers).  Remember the time you blew that test in high school and lied to your parents about the grade?  Remember prom?  By telling them "it was fine, we danced, ate some food and drank some punch" you were LYING to them because you didn't want to tell them all the crazy shit you did that night.  You did it all the time.  Don't assume that trend stops with you or your generation.  In fact, it is getting more sophisticated.

You know what your kids (will) lie about?  The shit they do in college.  That's right folks.  You think you are sending your precious little somethings off to some college to get immersed in a life of the mind.  You imagine them sitting under a tree with their fellow classmates talking about Proust and Kant and arguing about how best to advertise the bake sale for the Students Against the Treacherous Use of Fur club (thanks Dar).

But you know what they are probably doing instead?  Smoking weed under that tree laughing about how you can make both Kant and Proust sound like farts if you say them a certain way and they are trying to decide who they can get to make pot brownies for their bake sale.

So, when an administrator from your child's college calls you to tell you that your kid is failing/drunk/stoned/an idiot and you proceed to argue with said administrator that somehow they have gotten the wrong impression of your perfect little Jimmy/Sally just remember that I warned you.  I told you that your kids will lie to you. They will try to sweet talk you and tell you that the college is overreacting.  They will say "but mom, it was my roommate's bong" or "I just walked in the room while they were playing beer pong, I swear... I was at the library," or my personal favorite "the professor must have me mistaken with someone else." (Really?  Because there are only about 20 people in your class and the faculty are not fucking idiots.)  And you, because you are a SUCKER and have some odd sense of loyalty and unconditional love, will believe them.  You, because you want your kid to like you, will berate an innocent college administrator telling them that they have it all wrong and have pegged your poor Jimmy/Sally wrong.  In these moments, please remember all the times you lied to your parents and give a girl a break.  I have no interest in calling you to tell you that your kid is an idiot.  In fact, I dread those phone calls.  Really.  Almost as much as you do.  Granted, their fuck-ups are not my fault so it makes it a little easier; they are the fault of your child (and don't think we don't blame you too, because we do.).


Also, as long as I have your attention:  DO NOT, for any reason, think that announcing you are getting a divorce about 4 weeks into your kid's first year in college is a good idea.  DO NOT assume that because they are now out of the house this is a good plan.  Don't lie to yourself (see, they learned it from you) and think that it will be easier for them to deal with because they are not home.  You know what?  It is actually harder.  Why?  Because they are not home.  They have no sense of what is going on at home.  They can't be with you in person to talk with you about it.  They will have to come home for Thanksgiving break to a whole new house and new set of rules.  They have just gone through one of the most challenging transitions in their life and you fuck it all up by not trusting them to handle it in person.  My guess is that you and your spouse have been thinking about it for a while.  My guess is that it has been quite a while, am I right?  So, how about you grow a pair and talk to your child about it over the summer?  Get them some therapy if they need it.  TALK to them about what is going to happen.  Let them help you plan for a two house family.  GIVE THEM SOME CREDIT.  They are no longer 5 years old.  I know you want them to be, but they aren't.

[Note re: divorce announcement timing: None of the above paragraph applies if the divorce was not planned and it happened because one or both of you went all mid-life crisis on the other and went and picked up some hottie who is waaaay too young for you just to prove that you still got it.  If this is the case, well, then, I can't help you.]

Sincerely,

Your bitter friendly college administrator

the flu sucks

So, ladies and gentleman, the germy, grimey, infectiod students that I work with have done me in. Knocked me down and punched me out. I knew eventually they would get me down... but I always figured it would be something more interesting than the flu. I was hoping for something glamorous like getting caught in the cross fire of some mis-informed protest about union rights (don't even get me started about that...) or a keg party gone waaay wrong.

But no. I have to get the flu. Now, granted, it could be that I got the flu from someone/thing else... I have been travelling a lot and I'm not absolutely the best at using the damn antibacterial crap that is all over everywhere... but, I'd like to blame the students on this one. It just seems easier. They come into my office all sniffling, coughing, and TOUCHING things. Here I am trying the help them and what do I get? A week stuck at home with the flu. I went to the doctor today and had it confirmed that I can't go back to work for at least 48 hours. I have to wait for my fever to go down.

Oh wait a minute. This might not be all that bad. Lots of TV and time at home to do what I want? This might be great. Except for, well, the chills, blinding headache, fever, and the barfing. Okay, it is all that bad.

Except for the TV part. That has been fun.

I'm a dumbass...

On a recent trip to Goodwill I found myself standing in line (wishing I was over 55 because they get a 10% discount...) admiring a rack of handbags by the checkout. I have far more handbags than I need, but for some reason I felt the desire to give them a look-see. Tucked behind several crappy bags was a really nice (p)leather black bag. I pulled it off the rack and began admiring it. It was super-cute and looked pretty new. And HEY! it was a blue tag which meant it was 50% off (take that over 55 crowd!). I added it to my collection of purchases and waited in line.

Because I am curious and wanted to make sure it really was worth the now $10 price tag (when did Goodwill get so expensive anyway?) I began fishing inside the pockets and found... well... my own business card. Yup. That's right my friends. I picked out a bag that I HAD DONATED to Goodwill a couple months earlier. No wonder I liked the bag.

Thus my conclusion that I am a giant dumbass.

it's why I know I love the South

When I was a kid, I spent hours and hours playing with Barbies. I would imagine her in her world, with her fabulous friends and occasional boy-toy Ken. He was never really a long-term kind of guy in my imagination. I preferred the drama of an on-again, off-again relationship. There was something about a fierce break-up where Barbie would swing her slightly dreaded head of hair (with bangs, which I've always regretted) and storm out in screaming "I'm too good for you Ken! Go find someone who cares!"

Clearly my issues with relationships run long and deep.

Anyway - my Barbies are long gone; I don't actually know what happened to her and her gang of misfits (note to self: ask mom...). But every once and a while I think back to those nights spent playing out scenarios of the incredibly fabulous life of Barbie with a sense of loss. When did I stop playing with her? When did I transition from making her ridiculously skanky outfits out of scraps of the cuffs of my jeans (shut up. she looked hot.) to cutting knee holes in my own jeans? (c'mon people, it was the 80's. If you were really fashionable, instead of cutting a hole you would scrape the denim with the scissors over and over for that authentic "worn-out" look... don't shake your head at me. You know you did it - or now you're pissed you never knew that trick.)

So, you're probably asking yourself "Okay, but what the hell does all this have to do with the South? Remember the title up there? The one where you mention loving the South. Get the point already."

Here is why I love the South:

Yup. That's right.
It's Barbie Beach.
Lettin' us know all about Barbie's Pink Posse Walk

Complete with Barbie, her "Posse",
and the dude from the Mucinex Commercials (third from the right...)

I found this little gem outside of Macon, GA. on a recent trip. As I was heading down a back road I flew by this fantastic display and had to turn back and park my rental on the side of the road so I could get some good shots. People certainly stared. I didn't care. This was worth it. Where else are you going to find a Barbie Beach party? Clearly this if for a good cause (raising money for "canNCER victIMS." Which means that not only are these people fantasticly kitchy and creative, but they care. It doesn't get much better than that.

And THAT, is why I know I love the South, y'all.

Are you listening to what you are saying?

Me, a snob? Well, sometimes.

I know that I have particular tastes, and can certainly make judgments about people and things (My friends are probably snorting right about now...), but I try very hard to be thoughtful and sensitive about people's particular quirks. However, I can not stand when people say:

"I could care less."

Really? You could care less? Do you know that that means you actually could care less about something? Which means that you actually do care, at least a little? If you actually could not care less about something (like, say, mowing the lawn for me...) then you would say:

"I couldn't care less."

I know I say a lot of stupid crap everyday - but at least I understand what I am saying.... most of the time.

That's all I'm sayin'.

Boy Mama! I'm Moving Out!

So, a commercial for Jersey Boys just came on TV. Here's what I want to know: Who the hell is going to these shows? (insert disparaging remark about lonely baby boomers here....) Mama Mia, Jersey Boys, Moving Out? From what I can tell (from the 30 second commercial) these are glorified concerts. I am all for a concert, don't get me wrong, but I usually like to go to concerts where the performer has either written or originated the song. I know that there is some oddly-stitched together storyline that doesn't completely make sense - but aren't these shows just glorified karaoke? And instead of a two drink minimum you have to shell out $125? No thanks.

But if someone wants to give me a ticket to one of these shows, I'll totally go.

the first time....

So.... after coming into the blog world a little late (I discovered Post Secret only a few months ago...) I've become obsessed with them; I find it hard to start my day without checking out some of my favorites (hellloooooo Cakewrecks). The more blogs I read, the more I began thinking in blog posts. I would crack myself up in the car over something stupid and think to myself "that would make a funny posting...." Thanks to many of my friends who said they would read this. (esp. Amy and Jason!)

So here goes. What will follow are simple musings about my daily interactions. Some may be sentimental, some may be snarky and mean, some perhaps one liners that crack me up. I'm keeping this anonymous because, well, I think it would be easier. I might want to talk smack about one of my colleagues (or one of my students), or reveal something that I don't want the general public to know about me. I will certainly drop hints from time to time, but I hope to keep this a secret. For my friends who I've told about this - please don't bust me out over the comments. I'll just delete them and then make fun of you... and probably tell some story about you that you don't want people to know.

The pressure of what to write for the first entry is pretty daunting. What can I possibly say that would engage people enough to read more?

Here's something about me: I have cats. Two of them. I am not an obsessive cat person. No cat cartoons on the fridge, no cat sweatshirts, calendars, cards, wrapping paper, etc. for me. I don't buy them a lot of toys because they prefer bottle tops and rubber bands. I like cats because I think they are funny and weird, and I don't have to walk them and I can leave them alone for a long weekend and frankly I think they couldn't care less.

For the sake of the blog let's call them Barfy McScratch-a-lot and Scaredy O'Fatass. (Barfy and Fatass for short...) Clearly you can tell they are Scottish and Irish, respectively. After 11 years of living under my roof, Barfy has begun to wake me up with his funky breath meowing in and poking my face around dawn every morning. This isn't so bad in the winter when the sun is up for like 4 hours a day (gotta love NY) but this summer it simply pissed me off. No matter how many times I shoved him off the bed and covered my head, he manages to find the one small hole in the covers and slide his little clawed paw in there and scratch me.

So, a couple weeks ago, I finally gave in and got out of bed to find out what he wants. He walks promptly to the food and meows. There is clearly food in the stupid bowl, but that must not be good enough anymore so I pour in a little more kibble. He takes a sniff and walks away. "What the hell?" I yell, pissed off that I've had to get up waaay too early to feed a cat, and then Fatass comes running from under the couch (remember his first name, people) and begins eating (thus his last name...). And I've discovered that after 6 years of living together, they are finally figuring out how to get the best of me. I imagine the conversation something like this:

Fatass: "Psst... Barfy, come here..."
Barfy: "Dude, I'm busy ruining the arm of the couch, what do you want?"
"I gotta talk to you about something, let's go into the wall"
(I have a hole under the sink in my bathroom and the cats basically hang out in the wall at night. What I imagine goes on in there will have to be the subject of another post)
"Why the wall? I'm happy out here barfing on the brown carpeting so that the human doesn't see the barf until it's crusted into the carpet."
"Whatever, man, look... I'm hungry. You gotta hook me up with fresh kibble. The crap that sits out all night sucks."
"What do you want me to do about it? I can't reach the top of the fridge to get the stupid container. In fact, I can't open the top either..."
"We've got to find a way to wake the human up at the butt-crack of dawn so she'll feed us."
"Us? There is no 'us' in the scenario, I'll eat anything."
(seriously: plants, garbage, toilet bowl water... anything)
"Look, you're the favorite (he is) and she'll listen to you. Besides, I get to freaked out anytime she moves and I have to jump off the bed."
"Okay, what is in it for me?"
"I'll eat some of your barf so that she won't be as mad at you."

And a deal was made. At least that is how I imagine it going. I don't know for sure if Fatass eats Barfy's barf, but I have my suspicions.