humor

Super Bowl Approved

6 Comments

Hello, my name is Joanna and I am a sucker for marketing ploys. As difficult as it is to do, they say the first step is admitting that you have a problem. So there you go. Yesterday morning while watching the news, I saw a commercial for Tostitos or some kind of chippy/dippy advertisement and I turned to Lee and exclaimed (with quite a lot of enthusiasm) that we needed to get some quote: “Super Bowl snacks!”

We weren’t throwing or attending any parties, but just like the pressure I feel to make (or rather, eat) cut-out cookies at Christmas and pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving and slam dozens of bite-size snickers at Halloween — I felt the overwhelming urge to go out and purchase tortilla chips and guacamole exactly like I’d just seen on the television. See, I told you… total sucker.

And I should see this stuff coming… I should be like teflon when it comes to marketing trickery… I AM IN MARKETING. I UNDERSTAND the game. I PLAY the game. I manipulate people all the time… just like the Tostitos people were presently manipulating me. And yet I still fall prey to the sneaky schemes of retail giants and manufacturers everywhere. 

After I got done throwing my super fit and quieted down, Lee looked at me and said: “OK, let’s go to the store and get some snacks… But do they have to be ‘Super Bowl’ snacks? Like, ‘Super Bowl-Approved‘ snacks as opposed to just plain old regular snacks?”

I shot him a look of both disgust and amusement at his overt sarcasm. Disgusted at his mockery but amused by how right he actually was. After all, I didn’t want just any snack. I wanted the stuff that the folks at Frito-Lay (makers of Tostitos) and Pepsi and Budweiser and Kraft and Keebler WANTED me to want! I wanted Super Bowl-Approved snacks! It had worked. They had gotten into my head. They successfully bore a hole in my brain and pulled my strings. Those evil, capitalist, genius bastards.

And you know what? When we arrived at the superstore for our supersnacks—passing through the glass doors that magically parted upon our arrival and swallowed us up as they whooshed loudly, closing behind us—we were indeed greeted by a larger-than-life display of what else but towers of two-liters and avocados and Tostitos chips of every shape, size, color, flavor and variety there ever was. 

There would be no plain old regular snacks for this gal. I was going all-out. No matter what the remainder of my Sunday looked like, one thing was for sure… as far as the marketing machines at Frito-Lay and Pepsi and Budweiser and Kraft and Keebler were concerned… my diet was going to be Super Bowl-Approved.

Marc Cohn, Black Ops and Cat Doors

15 Comments

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

5 Comments

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

12 Comments

“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

6 Comments

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.

Everyone Has One

15 Comments

You know what they say about opinions, don’t you? Everyone has one. Everyone. And even if they don’t come right out and TELL you what it is… it’s typically written all over their face.

As I mopped up the remnants of the salt and snow still lingering on my hardwood floors from moving day, I reflected upon the array of varied encounters I’d just had at the local grocery store. Giving Kelly Clarkson and Kid Rock a run for their money as I boldly belted out and occasionally butchered their lyrics over the sound of the stereo… I shook my head, smiled and laughed to myself.

You’ve gotta love life in a small town. Or not. I don’t really care. It’s just that there are times when this unique existence is not for the faint of heart. Like, for example, when you’ve recently (and apparently shockingly to some) quit your “perfectly good job” to run off with some guy to the big city in pursuit of a brand NEW life. Just. Like. That.

It was a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon in the booming metropolis of Minerva, Ohio (population 3,500… give or take) when I entered the grocery store in jeans and Uggs to buy some milk, cereal and cleaning supplies for the remainder of my time here. You know… to tie up loose ends, get my teeth cleaned, have lunch with a few friends and such before Stanley and I hit the interstate in search of concrete pastures.

I wasn’t even inside the automatic doors when I received my first interrogation. The second came in the produce department, another in the chip aisle and still another in frozen foods. Everyone… Everyone seemed bent on me answering three questions: Did you take the day off from work? Do you have a job yet in the city? Have you set a date?

Did you notice in my account of these interractions that no one… NOT ONE PERSON asked me if I was happy or excited about my engagement and new adventure? Everyone just sort of looked at me with scowls of confusion, concern or disbelief. Perhaps even shock and awe as they each, one by one—in the entryway, produce department, chip aisle and frozen foods—tilted their heads to the side as if to say: “Huh. I hear the words that are coming out of your mouth but I have no clue as to what you’re actually saying.”

Now what they really said to me was some version of: “Well then, my very best to you dear. Tell your parents I said hi.” And I happily pushed my cart forward… straight into the grasp of the next, fun, little Q&A’s. The future batch of opinions that will surely be waiting for me…

… At the check-out counter… in the parking lot… at the gas pump… the teller window… the waiting room…

The Last Day

9 Comments

When you’re actively employed—waking up early to the nagging of the alarm clock and slogging to work day after day—one cannot help but imagine that the day will inevitably come that is their “Last Day of Work.” Whether it be to retire, begin a new job or explore a life/career change… we imagine it will be miraculous and glorious with the choirs of angels singing and the clouds parting and all that jazz.

Well, dear friends and readers… today is that day for me and so far there are no choirs of angels or parting of clouds. Now, bear in mind that I have never and I mean NEVER left a position without another similar or better position waiting in the wings. Or at the very least several promising interviews on the books and resumes scattering the earth like propaganda leaflets being dropped by plane.

I have always worked. Since I was 15 years old I have held down at least one and as many as four different jobs at a time. So I never, in my wildest dreams, thought I’d be leaving a job with a generous, comprehensive benefits package behind in pursuit of “whatever happens.” But this time… THIS time is unique.

This time I have a supportive and encouraging man in my life who sees my full potential and recognizes that “it will be OK” if I don’t find that dream replacement job tomorrow. Words cannot express the peace and joy with which his calm confidence fills me.

In the interim, my plan is to try my hand at domesticity. (Please pick up reading wherever you left off after the laughter has stopped.) Martha Stewart I am not, but that doesn’t mean I cannot learn the artful ways of the domestic goddess. Right? You’re still laughing aren’t you? Until the dream job comes calling I plan to take full advantage of the opportunity to get back in shape and keep a home. I’m serious.

Ten of the 50 pounds I recently lost have moved back in and taken up residency on my ass and both of us abhor the wallpaper in the living and dining rooms. It’s officially time to tackle my fear of the oven and its cousin, the stove. My wardrobe needs a good looking over and some serious organization.

The jury is still out on whether or not I’ll miss the office gossip, dressing up for work each day and talking to other professionals… but I suspect there will likely be a bit of a honeymoon period for me, my sweats, my yoga mat and the cat. I promise to take as many of you who care (or dare) to join me along on this new expedition—and with the whole domestic goddess goal in the mix—I can also promise that it shan’t be boring.

Cats and Cardboard Cities

7 Comments

Ahhh the joys of moving. Taking your house apart bit by dusty bit and placing all of your things into boxes only to load them onto a truck, drive somewhere else, unload them from said truck, unpack them and try to figure out where the hell you’re going to put everything in the new space.

Yes, it is just one of those things that we humans must do now and again and it is never fun. The results can be wonderful and rewarding—make no mistake—but the act itself is a little… shall we say… off-putting?

But I am an adult and I can handle this transition. Excited and anticipatory about the future, I am able to focus on all of the new adventures coming my way. The cat… on the other hand (Or should I say paw?) is not going to be quite as thrilled.

Currently, my dining room looks like a cardboard cityscape. Boxes of all shapes and sizes are stacked up lining the periphery waiting anxiously for me to fill them with my crap. I thought it would be a good idea to have the boxes close at hand so that Stanley, my cat, could get used to them for a bit before I begin the demolition of his world.

Now, cat owners know this already but for those of you non-cat people, I will fill you in on a little cat secret: They love boxes. Like a kid at Christmas—more interested in the box than its contents—a cat will hop into an open box and make it his own within a matter of seconds. It is a rather adorable sight to behold… if you like cats… and I obviously do… but I digress.

Stanley is of course, no exception. He started out at the bottom of the “city” just lying around inside one of the small ones that happens to be turned on its side.  He then bravely ventured to another larger one flipped upright and hung out in there for quite awhile.

Then last night I found him, all Lewis-and-Clark-like, boldly scaling the stack to mid-level. By tonight I expect to come home to discover that he’s reached the top and rigged up some sort of flag all MacGyver-like out of a fork and dishrag to stake his claim.

All this time I can’t help but think to myself: “Sure you love the boxes NOW Stanley… but just wait until I begin packing your entire universe into them and suddenly everything you know is gone — including your favorite blanket.” And I am riddled with guilt… praying that he takes to his new digs happily and quickly.

He’s going to hate me. At least for a little while… Probably until I start unpacking in the new place and the resurrection of his cardboard city begins again.

Stating the Obvious

4 Comments

“You’d better bundle up today because it’s cold, Cold, COLD out there! Most areas are currently experiencing single-digit temps that aren’t expected to climb out of the teens until tomorrow!”  The way-too enthusiastic weatherman squawked at me from inside the TV.

Face buried deep in the pillow, half comatose and wrapped blissfully in my flannel sheets I groaned as I felt an overwhelming desire to violently hurl the remote at him.

“Studies show that this is the most miserable time of the year for Americans.”  The annoyingly chipper anchorman regurgitated immediately after the weatherman stepped down.

“No shit.”  I mumbled aloud as a peeled myself from the heavenly embrace of memory foam and goose down and set my feet on the cold, hardwood floor.

The anchorman continued.  “…With the holidays over and most people heading back to work after a long vacation, people report finding this time on the calendar to be the most difficult. Darkness still looming in the early morning, the frigid weather combined with poor driving conditions effects people significantly. Not to mention that the bills from the holiday season are already beginning to arrive adding even more stress to the average financially-strained citizen.”

“Well aren’t you a genius. Like I needed YOU to explain to ME why my current mood is creeping from ‘just a little blue’ ever closer to ‘murderous rage’.”  I spewed at him as I pulled on my robe and bitterly thrust my ice-cold feet into their slippers.

Mr. Brilliant then expressed that  “one individual we spoke to explained that she felt rudeness was particularly an issue during the actual holiday season this year so she can only imagine what it will be like now that the so-called ‘Season of Joy’ has come to an end.”

“Really?” I questioned in a flattened but sarcastic tone. “You only spoke to ONE individual? Perhaps you ought to pay me a visit. I’ll give you something to talk about. My focus would be on the phenomenon of bubble-headed news anchors stating the obvious and then going so far as to call it ‘news’.”

Perhaps this is the person they spoke to... Ain't she a peach?

My Not-So Feminist Side

7 Comments

Every woman wants to believe that she can and WILL take care of herself when the need arises. It is a notion of great value that my mother taught my sister and me and I have tried to impart the same wisdom to my nieces and younger female friends when applicable.

But let me be honest here. There is a part of me (and not a microscopic part either) that is MORE than happy to let a man do certain things for me.

Take cars for example. I don’t know what’s going on there. AT ALL. About the ONLY things I know how to do are pop open the trunk for groceries, prop up the hood so that someone else can poke around beneath it to figure out what’s wrong with it… and fill my own washer fluid. And the only reason I know how to take care of the washer fluid is because I go through about a gallon a week tailgating other drivers like I do.

Yesterday I experienced one of those “I-really-need-a-man-to-do-this-for-me-moments” when I had to put air in a couple of my tires that were low. It was my lunch hour… I was wearing heels… It was 18 degrees outside… In blizzard conditions… Snowing like a sonofabitch. Oh and I’d somehow managed to leave my Carhartts and ski mask at home.

Standing ankle-deep in frozen, muddy, gas station slush, struggling in gale-force winds to fill up my tires I must have looked every bit of a pathetic wretch because out of nowhere a man shows up (appropriately dressed for the harsh weather of course) and gently but firmly takes the hose from me as he says: “Honey, let me do that for you. You don’t need to be doing this. Look at the way you’re dressed.”

And you wanna know what I said?

“OK! Thank you soooo much sir!”

As I crawled back inside the shelter and embrace of my warm car and my cursing of Mother Nature ceased — I smiled to myself thinking just how nice it will be to permanently have a man around in the very near future. One who doesn’t mind braving the elements to fix a flat, change the oil and fill the washer fluid.