Humor

Irony and Angry Birds

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In recent months, Lee and I have discovered both Angry Birds and Words With Friends. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? Well, I am hereby going on record and predicting that Angry Birds and Words With Friends will be the death of life as we know it. They will be the final nails in society’s coffin. They will finish the job that reality TV, YouTube and Facebook started years ago. Maybe those Mayans were onto something after all. The following scenario played out at my house just last night…

“I can’t believe people actually live this way!” I expressed in horror as the latest episode of Hoarders got underway. “I mean, what in the world is so wrong with them that they are incapable of disposing of their own waste!?! Then again… if there wasn’t something wrong with this behavior there would be no TV show, so…” My voice trailed off as I grew ever more transfixed by the strange and severe mental incapacitations of others.

“This is so gross and yet I cannot look away. I am fascinated by this show!” I said for about the fourth time while Lee just shook his head and laughed. He is not a Hoarders-watcher like me. But I did occasionally catch him getting slightly drawn in by the unique drama as he sat on the couch hypnotized by Angry Birds. All the while cursing me for suggesting that he play it in the first place when he got his new smartphone last month. 

We sat in the living room, like bumps on logs, through two whole episodes talking trash about these people and feeling all superior because we had running water, functionable plumbing and could still see the floors in our home.

It didn’t occur to me until a few hours later (after we traded technology and therefore possession of YouTube, Facebook and Words With Friends for Angry Birds for probably the third time) that if we weren’t careful — our floor just might begin to disappear from neglect too. They would find us surrounded by laundry and garbage… glued to the TV, smartphone or computer… utterly unable to function in normal society… passing judgement on a bunch of other people for being lazy slobs.

Reality Bytes

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It seems that since I’ve temporarily traded an ergonomically-correct chair parked in front of a computer for nine hours a day for a slightly more active lifestyle moving boxes and doing actual housework (like scrubbing, washing and cooking things)… my body wants to remind me that it is NO longer 24.

I can do all the yoga in the world—which I’ve been doing faithfully on a daily basis—but every night some part or another complains to me that it has been strained, sprained, wrenched, tweeked or ticked-off during the course of the day. And it punishes me. And it pushes me to reach for two Aleve, a heating pad, the recliner… and the remote.

I’m not a huge fan of the offerings made by the Tuesday Night TV Gods, so I thought I’d puruse some different options for a change this past Tuesday. The so-called “reality” options. As I sat there in the recliner—held prisoner by either an unhappy muscle in my lower right back or overnight kidney cancer—I was exposed to some rather interesting worlds.

The first place I landed was MTV’s Teen Mom 2 where I witnessed three children acting like children whilst they discussed the so-called “parenting” of an actual child. Oh and I also stuck around long enough to watch as another one of the “moms” had a full-scale meltdown in her car because she was forbidden (by the rules of her probation) to smoke pot for 12 whole months! And yes, it really WAS as tragic and gut-wrenching and tear-jerking as it sounds.

After about five to 10 minutes of the whole baby mama drama thing I wandered over to the disturbing-on-a-WHOLE-OTHER-LEVEL show that is TLC’s 19 Kids and Counting. About the only good thing to come from watching 15 minutes of this show was that it provided both my ocular and pulmonary muscles terrific workouts what with all of the heavy sighing and eye-rolling.

My final destination after being totally disgusted by the previous two, wound up being A&E’s Storage Wars. Which is, (in case you are unfamiliar with it’s schtick) colorful characters engaged in even more colorful bidding wars for large containers full of someone else’s abandoned and unknown crap. All the while hoping to find that ever-elusive diamond-in-the-rough or in the case of Tuesday’s episode… a hopefully-not-a-knock-off, dusty Louis Vuitton wedged between a cardboard box and a yellowish-brown mattress set.

Now, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention that I found the last one to be somewhat entertaining and interesting. Kind of like an Antiques Road Show taking place in hundreds of storage lockers in the hot, desert southwest. You can’t help but be curious as to whether or not the people who have invested hundreds or thousands of dollars in the contents of these mysterious, metal sheds wind up with trash or treasure in the end.

But all, and I mean ALL of my encounters with Tuesday night’s “reality” TV left me questioning… Which is MORE sad… The fact that these types of programs are actually ON television? Or the fact that WE actually watch them?

Pawn Shop Valentine

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Nothing says “I love you” quite like cashing in on other people’s misfortune.

Last Friday night I saw something that—as far as I’m concerned—takes the V-Day cupcake when it comes to over-the-top. I saw a Valentine’s Day commercial for… Are you ready for this? A pawn shop. The commercial illustrated how flowers are for pathetic losers… and the real Valentine’s Day gifts can be found at Pay Day Pawn (not it’s real name). “Hey everyone! Not sure what to get that special someone for the BIG day?? … Come on down to Pay Day Pawn, where we are bound to have exactly what you’re looking for!”

Just what your girl or guy wants… someone else’s used crap. “Hey honey! This is how special YOU are to ME… This V-Day, let’s skip the flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries. Instead, I’m taking you to Pay Day Pawn and let you dig around in other people’s cast-offs for something special that shows you and reminds you ALL YEAR LONG just how much you mean to me!”

Big screen TVs, antiques, used jewelry, musical instruments, amputee Hummels and grandma’s chipped tea set (that is missing several pieces). Yup. I don’t know about you folks, but that certainly is MY idea of a Valentine’s Day wish come true. Because nothing else truly conveys your love for him like a nice, gently-used set of golf clubs circa 1963. And you’ll NEVER find anything that shows her how deep your love for her goes like a tarnished, ruby dinner ring set in 14-karat, yellow gold and surrounded by dozens of cloudy baguettes.

I know times are tough and I am in no way poking fun at a non-traditional or second-hand form of gift giving. Not everyone can or even wants to blow a miniature fortune on some roses that will inevitably die or splurge on an over-priced dinner at an overly-crowded restaurant. Sometimes a sweet sentiment or kind and selfless act does FAR more than anything money can buy. But if your significant other actually takes you to Pay Day Pawn for your gift this year… Well… perhaps it’s time to consider pawning them. And who knows… maybe they’ll fetch a really good price!

Guilty Pleasures

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Every Wednesday I post a status update on Facebook as I gear up to indulge in my favorite guilty pleasure — watching Revenge on ABC. I am absolutely addicted to that show. I don’t know if it’s the scenic Hamptons, the high-flying, preciously-charmed, jewel-adorned lives the characters lead, the clothes, the plotting, the scheming, the backstabbing or simply watching skinny, beautiful, evil people inhabiting a place so foreign to an Ohio gal like me. Nonetheless, I was hooked on the show after watching the first 20 minutes of it when it premiered last fall.

There is a small group of Facebook friends (maybe 8 to 10) who also admit to loving the show and each Wednesday we gather together in cyberspace and enjoy a little pre and post-Revenge dish session.

This week I mentioned to a friend (while dishing) that the show was my “guilty pleasure”— singular—indicating that I had only one. However, upon further review I must come clean and admit to myself and (just for fun) everyone reading this that I DO have other guilty pleasures. Many, many guilty pleasures in fact.

For instance… JUST TO NAME A FEW…

  1. Sleep. I can knock out 12 hours of sleep like nobody’s business. If allowed I would probably give the cat a run for his money.
  2. An Over-Indulgence in Paper Products. I go through napkins, paper towels, tissues and toilet paper like they’re going out of style. And now that I’m not working and home much of the time… I have become acutely more aware of just how much I use. Just ask Lee. He has begun clipping coupons for all things paper since I moved in.
  3. Pizza. I could eat it seven days a week if possible. In fact, ever since I was little and Friday night was pizza night at our house (no exceptions because it was my mother’s one day off from cooking) I EXPECT to eat it at least once a week. And if I don’t get it… I feel deprived. I know it’s probably “wrong” to have such a thing as PES or more formally known as “Pizza Entitlement Syndrome” what with whole nations of people starving and all… but I can’t help it. I am obviously hardwired by now.
  4. Pillows. I can’t get enough of them. Big, fat, fluffy, goose-down pillows for sleeping, pillows for throwing and propping and accenting. When I am out shopping I will ALWAYS cruise the pillow aisle and I can justify the purchase of a new pillow like it’s my job. But I don’t have ANYTHING with this shade or this shape or this pattern or this softness… anywhere in the house! Therefore, I MUST purchase this pillow. It would be a crime NOT to.
  5. Decorative Candles That I Will Never Burn. I know that I’ve addressed this in a previous post so I will not say much more on the matter other than to say that along with the PES, I should probably see someone about it. It’s becoming a real problem. At some point we are going to run out of shelf/table/counter/closet space and become overrun with decorative candles and I will wind up on an episode of Hoarders or some other abnormal-psychologically-voyeuristic cable show.

So… dear readers, please share with me (because I’d really like to know) what are some of YOUR favorite guilty pleasures? The sky is the limit and I promise that your secret will be safe with me. Well, me and anyone else who happens to click on this link today.

Stir Crazy

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Only three weeks in and I have found myself at somewhat of an interesting crossroads. The sleeping in has been quite dreamy, the zero-pressure atmosphere delightful and the yoga is devine. But not unlike Tom Hanks’ character in the movie Cast Away… I have simply had enough of myself. And I don’t even have a volleyball named Wilson to talk to.

That’s right, I said it. I have grown weary of my own company AND the sound of my own voice as it bounces off the ceiling while the cat just sits there blinking at me. This is unchartered territory for me and it is a rather strange land in which to navigate. It’s no wonder that people get so weird when they live alone for years and years. It’s really not all that surprising that some wind up writing lengthy manifestos and exhibiting questionable behavior. If left alone for too long a human being can get… well… a little whacko.

No worries, dear readers. I haven’t begun writing a manifesto or threatening letters to the government or Elizabeth Hasselbeck on The View (even though I AM tempted because she is just THAT annnoying). I am not assembling explosives in my basement or digging a bunker or anything like that. I am just becoming acutely aware of my own, personal need to interact with people a bit further beyond cyberspace.

Not only do I feel the need to reach out, yesterday I actually got out to do a little shopping, run a few errands, etc. Oh what an exciting expedition it was! It wasn’t until I opened my mouth to speak to another human being that I realized how much I needed to get out. The teller at the bank looked at me like I’d spontaneously sprouted a second head right before her very eyes when I finally choked out the proper words to communicate to her that I needed to open an account.

I wondered what her deal was giving me the look she was giving me and then I suddenly realized it was because I was nervous. ME! Nervous! I will talk to anyone! I DO talk to anyone and everyone… and yet it had been just long enough since I’d spoken to someone other than Lee or Stanley the cat that I felt a bit nervous at the sound of my very own voice directed toward another living, breathing person.

I practically leapt across the counter and told the cashier at Big Lots the entire story of Lee’s proposal when she complimented me on my engagement ring. I got about three sentences in before I heard the little voice inside my head telling me to shut the hell up, take my purchases and go because hello?? SHE DOESN’T CARE.

In the pasta aisle at the grocery store I wanted to tell the sweet, old lady who smiled at me that I had just found the missing remote to my DVD player amidst the stacks and stacks of boxes in the garage and also that I couldn’t believe the garbage man hadn’t come yet to gather our trash! I mean, how long is that can going to have to sit on the curb anyway!?!?

Do not fear. I didn’t act on the impulse in the pasta aisle or any other aisle for that matter. I quietly selected my items and wandered the store, browsing and just enjoying my freedom in general. For I know that ALL TOO SOON I will be punching a time clock and wishing, longing… PINING for these days of pure, unstructured time.

Soooo… there’s that… and the fact that I am also taking the appropriate measures to ensure continued and sustained sanity by messaging many of my friends and contacts in the city to set up brunch/lunch/dinner/coffee ASAP. And to those of you “friends and contacts in the city” whom I have contacted to DO brunch/lunch/dinner/coffee ASAP who may be reading this… Please do NOT be afraid. I promise to drink only decaf and mum’s the word about the garbage man. Even though he IS always totally late in picking up the trash.

Marc Cohn, Black Ops and Cat Doors

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Sufficiently “loaded” with kitty tranquilizers, the 140-mile trip south with the cat went off without a hitch. Stanley slept or “meditated” with his eyes half open most of the time and only fussed at me when the Marc Cohn CD I had been playing reached it’s end. Seriously folks, he squeaked and squeaked at me when the music stopped and I had no idea why given that he’d been so relaxed the entire trip.

The only thing that was different (near as I could tell) was that my Marc Cohn music had stopped. So just for grins I started the disc over again and like magic… he laid down his furry, little head and went back to sleep. A-MA-ZING. Who knew Marc Cohn had such an impact on critters of the feline variety?

I’ve moved a million times (with a cat in tow) and have read a million and one times that it is well advised to introduce your kitty to their new environment a little at a time. Like… a ROOM at a time. Well, given that this is the first time Lee has ever had a pet in his house, I didn’t feel like doing all of the corraling and tip-toeing and Ooo!! Watch out for the cat-ing. So I just decided to wing it and let him OUT of his carrier to explore his new surroundings as he so desired.

Yep. That idea was genius. I zipped open the carrier, he went straight to the basement and wedged himself tightly in a corner between an old bed and two walls as though a tornado were headed this way. Oops. Maybe I should have done the room-by-room thing after all?

I did manage to cajole him out of his fox hole with some food, smooth talk and a little petting. I mean, he is male. And he HAS come up to the main floor at least once or twice to do a little recon… and for more food. So I know we’ll get there… eventually. However, I can’t help but feel like some wicked stepmother whose has locked her child away in the basement like Cinderella. But, he’s using his litter box, eating, drinking and venturing upstairs on the occasional intel-gathering, Black Ops mission… so what more can I ask for at this point, right?

Besides Stanley’s assimilation to the new habitat, I had one other major concern. Due to the floor plan of the house, it was necessary for us to install a cat door in an interior door from the kitchen leading down to the basement where his litter box is located. Stanley has never had to deal with a cat door or any closed door for that matter. So the question has loomed large for over a month as to whether or not he would learn how to utilize this contraption in order to “do his business” in the appointed area.

Well… the one good thing that has come out of this giving-him-the-run-of-the-place faux pas is that his great affinity for the basement — and sheer, blind terror of anything non-basement related, has inadvertently caused him to learn how to use his little cat door as he desperately flies through it every… single… time I haul or coax his fluffy ass up the stairs. I guess if history has taught us anything it is that fear can be an excellent motivator.

Fetching Stanley… and the Keurig

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I know, I know… for crying out loud when is the moving going to be DONE already? At least a few of you readers may be asking that question as I use this post to report that one, final trip must be made to gather the remainder of my things from my old house to bring them to the new one.

One of the items I need to collect is my Keurig coffee maker that I carelessly left behind. I have been without it for over a week and would be experiencing withdrawals were it not for the Starbucks right across the street. But the most important thing I left behind last week that I absolutely MUST return to fetch would be Stanley, the cat.

Poor Stanley has been living it up at my parents’ house where he is utterly and obscenely spoiled. In fact, I’m certain that after seven days he is certain that I’ve abandoned him and am no longer his human. He is probably operating under the false assumption that my parents are now his rightful slaves.

I’m afraid he has no idea how his world is about to be rocked.

Anyone who owns a cat or is owned by a cat (the latter probably being more accurately stated) knows that they are not fans of change. ANY kind of change. So, while I AM looking forward to having him with me in my new home… I am NOT looking forward to the production of bringing him to it. And IT WILL BE a dramatic production.

He will cry and cry and cry (even though he is mute he still makes the most pathetic, airy, squeaky sound you ever heard) until he is exhausted because he HATES riding in the car. And the crying will make me feel bad and I will worry myself into a frenzy.

Upon arrival at his new pad, he will slink around, belly to the ground, for a day and a half sniffing everything in sight and looking terrified. Around day two or three he should be relatively chill about the whole thing and find a nice place to sleep it off for the next three days where he’ll either reluctantly accept his new fate or plot some sort of revenge.

My only hope are the “herbal” calming chews that my father bought for Stanley at Christmas. I’ve given them to him before and it really does chill him out… This is, of course, assuming he doesn’t just eat around the chews—when I hide them in his food in order to trick him—or try to trick ME by pretending to eat them and then spit them out when I’m not looking.

Wish us luck and if all goes smoothly… I’ll live to write about it. And of course… OF COURSE I’ll be subjecting you sharing it with you just as soon as possible upon our return.

Form vs. Function

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“OK, but if we get the shelves, are we going to actually use them to store stuff? Or will they be full of candles and picture frames and all of that decorative crap?” Lee queried in a recent discussion about living room decor.

“Well, I just want them to look nice. You see it’s not entirely about the function of a thing… the way it looks is equally important.” I stated in a somewhat desperate tone. Hoping not only to merely be understood… but to convince him that my way, was indeed, the right way.

You see, it is all a matter of form vs. function. And it is a topic that has entered probably 75% of our conversations as of late. I care about the form… The way things look, they way they feel, the mood, the tone, the overall aesthetic, etc. etc. But he, on the other hand, cares about ONE thing and one thing only. He cares about function… The way it works. And since he is a man, his thinking tends to be more black and white than my “various shades of gray” female thinking. Thus, in HIS mind… a thing either works or it doesn’t.

“… and if you do put the candles on that end table, are they going to be the candles you don’t burn but just sit there doing absolutely nothing besides ‘look pretty’?” Lee continued when the subject shifted from shelves to end tables. I couldn’t help but giggle as I wholeheartedly agreed that they WOULD be the candles which I do not burn. At last count I had around 30 of them. All sorts of different shapes, colors, shades, textures and sizes that are far too unique and look way too nice as room accents to EVER bring a match near their precious, little wicks.

“Those candles are very important decorative elements. I could never burn them. Besides, that’s what the Glade scented candles are for anyway.” I returned in my candle collection’s defense. I’m not sure when I’ll stop buying them. At the moment I have absolutely no idea where any of them actually are. Though I have a strong suspicion that they’re most likely packed away in a box or boxes labeled “FRAGILE – CANDLES.”

“… I don’t care if you want to put my favorite neck pillow and the remotes in one of your baskets (extra emphasis on the word BASKET because I also happen to have a million of those as well) … just please put them somewhere close enough for me to access them. I don’t want to have to take a taxi just to get to them.” He said as he mimed reaching down to grab a pretend remote and point it at the TV.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered in a soothing-but-sarcastic tone “no matter what I do, or where I put them… I’ll make sure you’re able to get to the remote without the use of public transportation.” And I smiled as I left the room.

Honestly? They probably WILL be in a basket or some other stylish container that I picked up at Target, Bath & Body Works, or the “Beyond” part of Bed, Bath and Beyond. And they WILL be easily accessible. But they will also look damn good while they’re sitting there.

A New Appreciation

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I have no children for which to wash clothes, bathe, pack lunches or teach proper manners. I have taken on the temporary task of seeing to almost all things domestic whilst among the job-free population. I don’t cook much. I can, I just don’t. Which isn’t to say that I won’t… I just haven’t taken to it yet. The jury is currently out on how long it will take for THAT portion of the domestic goddess job description to kick in. Though, to my credit… this “domestic thing” is only into the third day.

Anyway, I’m getting off track.

My point is, relatively-speaking, my life is pretty easy. Though my back right now would disagree. Who knew that running up and down stairs all day, washing, drying and folding six loads of laundry, making up beds, moving boxes, running the vaccum and organizing closets and drawers could be so exhausting and physically demanding? And yes, I RAN. I figured if I’m going to be exerting myself like this I may as well get that heart rate up so I ran the stairs — every time. 

After spending years… literally YEARS seated in a comfy chair behind a desk for eight hours a day, slurping coffee with my feet resting comfortably on an ergonomically-correct foot stool… my thirty-something body is protesting this type of labor. And I’ll say it again: I AM NOT CHASING AFTER CHILDREN! So how do stay-at-home mothers do it all day, every day? Ladies, I have a whole new appreciation for you and your careers, what with the running of the households and the raising of the kidlets and all.

While I DO find it mentally exhilarating to be out from behind that desk for the time being… Physically, I had no idea what I was in for. As I compose this, my arms, legs, neck and back are aching and my stomach is growling because I refuse to change my eating habits and nibble all day just because I can.

But the pain I am feeling… it is a good kind of pain. It is the BEST kind of pain. It is the “I am doing something different” kind of pain. Who needs a special diet plan to knock the extra, unwelcomed 10 pounds off my ass anyway? I am hoping that several more trips up and down the stairs will help to send them packing.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with two Aleve and a heating pad. And cheers to all of you domestic goddesses out there doing these sorts of things… and soooo much more.

140 Miles to 4 Feet

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That is the approximate size of the distance gap that has existed between Lee and me for over two years. It is also the one that we closed yesterday when I pointed my car south and drove to my new home. I was greeted with a hello kiss and my very own garage door opener. And I thought the diamond was a big deal! Do not be deceived my friends. Though vastly less expensive—when all is said and done—a garage door opener always trumps a diamond.

We are learning that there are plenty of things to adjust to about being together under the same roof for 24/7/365 that we couldn’t possibly have known otherwise. Even as I type this, I am acutely aware of the fact that I am completely UNAWARE of the fact of how numerous these “things” actually are. I am just choosing to live blissfully in denial for now. How can I not when we currently just keep looking at one another, popping in and out of rooms and exclaiming HOW WONDERFUL it is to NOT be on the phone for an hour every night?

My job right now is to move into this previous bachelor pad and work on making it our home. Piece of cake, right? The towering boxes currently occupying BOTH parking spaces in the garage beg to differ. But I’m not gonna lie, it IS nice to make my own hours and show up for “work” in sweats and a tee.

I don’t mind trading out the ritual of catching up on email first thing in the morning with a yoga session in the living room. Or worrying about which drawers to place jeans in vs. socks. I love that I showered and put on make-up today for the sole purpose of shopping for a new pharmacy, choosing one from the four that lie within a one-mile radius of the house. (Oh yeah, and I did kinda want to look nice for my man when he came home from work too.)

If you’re at all envious due to any of the above statements… please don’t be. Make no mistake. This “honeymoon period” of getting acquainted with the neighborhood and new digs will soon end. It is then that the job search shall commence. An arduous task holding absolutely ZERO appeal. For that will be my full-time job until I sign my name on someone’s dotted line, promising to show up on time every morning and do my very best at whatever they ask of me for at least eight hours a day, five times a week in exchange for what I hope to be a nice, healthy paycheck… and some decent breakroom coffee.

But in the meantime, I think I’ll just enjoy my simple existence with a little psychic slumber and adjust to the new distance gap… as my purple yoga mat beckons and the cell phone sits silently on the table.