Tag: Humor

Family, Humor, Life, Weird August 12, 2009August 12, 2009

Pregnancy. Scares.

“I myself prefer dogs.”
–Catherine Called Birdy, by Karen Cushman

Ever since getting married (a grand total of a month and a half ago) I wait with baited breath for Mother Nature to confirm that I’m not pregnant every 28 days. That’s right, I actively look forward to That Time of the Month to reassure myself that a Mini C./J. is not in the works. In days leading up to it I get unbelievably tense and engage in ridiculous conversations that I’m guaranteed to regret 4-5 days later.
“Does this milk smell off? …CRAP! I’m pregnant!”
“No you’re not,” says J. with an irritated but still loving roll of the eyes. “The milk’s bad.”
“Oh.” (Goes back to pouring cereal)

While he's blithely unaffected, I'm getting haunting visions of THIS!

Occasionally I can border on the paranoid. The first month after marriage I was “late,” which mean two whole days of angst that I think I hid well but during which I secretly gnawed my metaphoric nails to the wrist.
“What if I’m pregnant?” I demanded morbidly one night as we brushed our teeth.
“You’re not,” J. said (again, and just as irritated/patiently).
“But what if I am?!”
“Well, that’ll certainly change things.”
“How can you be so calm??!!” I hissed.
“About a purely hypothetical situation?” he countered.

I trust he would be a better father than this...

See, even though it would “change things,” I don’t think J.’s world would be rocked to the core if the Fates decided to play this horrid, horrid joke on us. But then again, he’s not the one who would have to host this alien parasite for nine months, forcibly expel it, and then still find a way to be the primary breadwinner for our family in addition to a full time parent. I’m a tough girl, I can handle quite a bit, but the mere thought of that last scenario makes my knees knock in quivering terror.

And I’m sorry, I don’t even find babies cute! Anathema, I know…but just think about it! They’ve got these big alien heads they can’t support, they don’t communicate (in any language I speak, or will until I do decide to breed), and if there is an opening in their body anywhere, something gross is coming out of it. I like little kids better. I’ll take the Terrible Two’s over the Irrevocably-Broken-If-I-Touch-It Infants any day of the week!

Now, before I’m burned at the stake, I know I’m going to think my own children have been individually sprinkled with awesome dust. I’ll probably even think they’re cute in spite of the many varieties of goo seeping out of them (my husband’s a fine piece of work, if I do say so myself, and I don’t look like a horse, so the odds are in our favor). Just…not yet. Not for a few years. Not while he’s in school, not while I still have to work, and not while the idea still turns me into a catatonic mess.

And even though deep down I can admit I look forward to having a family with J. (a long way down the road), I suspect in the meantime, every 28 days, I’ll be going through this same process of fear, soul searching, and grudging resignation. At least I am assured of one ally.
“How long is this going to go on?” I whined to Venice after Scare #1.
She came back with a chipper, “12 times a year. Enjoy!”

Humor, Work August 11, 2009

Hostile Takeover

“I feel sure that coups d’etat would go much better if there were seats, boxes, and stalls so that one could see what is happening and not miss anything.”
-Edmond and Jules to Goncourt

The title is misleading. If anything I’m staging a “Mildly Irritated Reworking of Procedure” in the office, with Hennessy, Wise, and Susie. With the upcoming school year we have dozens of students to be hired, fired, given raises, etc., but the problem is that the supervisors in our department are notorious for not telling me when students quit or are fired. Then end result is that I think that lockers assigned to students are still in use, gear is still checked out, the kids aren’t hired properly (the procedures of which are federally regulated, meaning that mistakes equal risking one mother of an audit bill), wages get screwed up, and all the secretaries go home with migraines.

But no more! We have rounded up the ringleaders (mandatory meeting), studied the mistakes of the past (reviewed suggestions from a similar meeting that took place last year, all of which have been subsequently ignored by the powers that be), barricaded off the exits (cancelled all other events) and put our fates in the hands of a higher power (got Chief on our side). Liberté, Égalité…er…Sororité?

Drama, Humor August 7, 2009

Adventures in Finesse

“Doh!”
-Homer Simpson

So, not only did J.’s pen leak onto a pair of really nice suit pants, but my khaki trousers have turned up with a strange black slash of mystery gunk on one leg. And while J.’s is an isolated incident, mine is something considerably more annoying.

Ever since I started working in this office, these black or gray streaks have been turning up on my trousers. Always on the left side, always noticed at some point in the morning, and always from an unknown source. I’ve checked everything! My desk and chair aren’t to blame, it’s not my car, it’s not from food, it’s not anything in my flat…I’m completely at a loss. And so, another trip to the dry cleaner’s is in order, and still no explanation to give them.

On an unrelated note, J. and I liked Cirque du Soleil in Vegas so much that when we heard they were coming to our area, we jumped on buying tickets. And then completely forgot about the date we chose. The performance was wednesday…we remembered yesterday morning. Sigh.

Fashion, Humor, Shopping August 4, 2009August 4, 2009

Adventures in Fashion

“You need to get up.”
“No!”
“Yes. You need to make money to support your rock’n’roll lifestyle.”
“I don’t have a rock’n’roll lifestyle!”
-J. and C.

We have a trip to England to pay for, school is starting and with it the flood of ridiculously expensive books to be bought, and food must be paid for I suppose. But fall is coming and that means so are fall lines! Venice doesn’t help by calling me at work to tell me that Express is having a sale on their work shirts (two for the price of one! That’s an investment, right?), and neither does my beloved Shabby Apple by debuting new fabulous dresses and accessories! My Lust List expands exponentially, rather than relative to my wallet (lovely thing though it is) and the only thing that keeps me safe is an iron will combined with absolute horror towards credit card debt commercials! I therefore bring you:

Small Dog’s List of Things She Wants But Cannot Have

Want want want... Paris dress by Stop Staring

The Greta Garbo dress by Stop Staring for Shabby Apple. Drool...

Share my umbrella headband by Shabby Apple.

And in the category of accessories, considering that I’m living in a fantasy land, I’m also rather smitten with this little item (above headband). More bohemian than my normal tastes, but I want it just the same. Oh, come on. Like you’ve never wanted something you couldn’t have?

Food, Humor, Working Out August 3, 2009

Adventures in Food

“Is it bad that I want Thai food for every meal of my life?”
“No, Thai is the food of the gods, although we should probably shake it up with Italian just to keep our carb quotas up.”
-Venice and C.

Not only did we take my younger brother Gio and his friend to Tucanos (amazing and amazingly expensive Brazillian food place) this weekend, J. and I also cooked up a storm in our tiny little kitchen. After perusing some of the (millions of) cookbooks people heaped upon us for our wedding, I created a rather ambitious list of new recipes to try. I kicked off my experiment sunday with pan seared salmon with a mango salsa topping. And it was rather impressive, or so I think. J. was ordered to be ultra-enthusiastic whatever the outcome so I may not have had an entirely accurate reading…

corset We also stocked up on cookies and banana bread so I have a new found reason to recommit to the gym. Gym psychology is fickle. I spent six months busting my bum five days a week, and then six days doing wedding and honeymoon stuff and poof! My gym motivation evaporated. Forcing myself there everyday has been a horrid, horrid chore. Eating all my delicious (or maybe not so delicious, but if it isn’t don’t tell me!) food seems much easier than working it off!

Humor, Work July 31, 2009

Challenged

“A problem of type 2094 has occurred…what the [ahem] is that?! What are the two thousand ninety three other problems I skipped to get to that one?!”
-Eddie Izzard

A spectacularly dull day at the office, livened only by the laundry run. At which time a bundle of clothing was handed over to us all clean and neatly pressed, but without a name attached because it’s owner had forgotten to put the order sheet with his instructions in the bag with his clothes. Fear not, citizens, Lt. South’s name was discovered on the tag, much to my unholy glee.

Small Dog finds a tiny degree of joy in her technological impaired-ness — Small Dog finds a tiny degree of joy in being technologically impaired

Other than that, my Outlook account for work decided to blip out of existence yesterday. Thinking it was something to do with the new software our department is bringing online, I let it go, but today it was still out. I put in a request with IT, but when the techies did whatever it is they do and Outlook reappeared…it was without my emails, projects, calendars, contacts, or distribution lists. The only thing that makes me blissfully undisturbed by this is the fact that it’s twenty minutes to five and I don’t have to deal with it until monday.

Fashion, Humor, Sad, Shopping, Travel July 30, 2009July 30, 2009

Adios!

“My doctor grabbed me by the wallet and said, ‘Cough!'”
-Henry Youngman

My Alma Mater does not have a Spring Break, but while I worked at the International Students’ Office as an undergrad, I found a way to circumvent this. Our director would round us up every spring saying, “It’s, ahem, very important that you realize how difficult it can be for the students coming to our university to get in and out of the country” [Item: nearly every girl who worked there was an international, and every girl who worked had been out of the U.S. multiple times in her life] “and so we’re going to give you a little tutorial.” And thus we were annually whisked off to Mexico!

This trip had to include a trip to an embassy/consulate to make it right and proper with the university, but after that we could do just what we…actually whatever Dr. F. wanted. But as this always meant a trip to the beach, open air markets, and the good doctor’s favorite restaurant (which highlighted a mariachi band with what appeared to us to be excruciatingly tight pants…but that never seemed to diminish the musicians’ enthusiasm for dancing up to our tables, looking like their gut/bum/whatever were about to burst free any second), we were happy to go along for the ride.

A couple of years ago, we were down in Sonora in Hermosillo and going through an open air market selling all things cheap and designer knock off. I was on the prowl for a new wallet as my old was a shabby wreck and where better to get an abominably fake looking wallet than Mexico?

I’d all but used up our allotted hour and was trying to seem as if I did not hear Dr. F. calling while I frantically searched case after case of goods. Finally, at the very instant I was turning around to trot after my friends in defeat, I saw it. Laying in the case was a so-not-Coach-but-maybe-from-far-away-it-would-fool-somebody brown wallet that needed me as much as I needed it.
“How much?” I enquired in broken Spanish.
“Five-fifty,” the woman answered in accented, but much superior to my sad attempt at her language, tones.
“Done,” I said. I probably could have talked her way down, but Dr. F. was motioning sternly so there was nothing to be done.
I stuck my hand into shirt and snatched my money from under my bra strap (where else was I supposed to carry it?!) and plopped my pesos down on the table in front of her.

Something about my humor/pathos amused her because she burst into laughter (which had a You Poor Thing! undertone to it) and said, “You can have it for just five.”
Gracias!

My wallet had finally outlived its usefulness and the inside was starting to come apart, so the other day I traded it in for this sassy red, ultra thin clutch. But I felt bad tossing my old one and the entire day whenever I caught sight of it in the bin my first thought was that I’d made some horrible mistake (like tossing our marriage certificate again…still think J. did it), and even now I go searching frantically through my bag for it until I recall it’s been replaced.

Friends, Home, Humor July 27, 2009July 27, 2009

Highs and Lows

“Who made these cookies? Venice?”
“No, my wife.”
“C.?!”
“Yeah. Apparently she cooks.”
-Ronald and J. Thanks for the support, love.

Newlywed and me being caught up in the idea of being a good wife (coupled with a degree of gentle poverty) J. and I have been being good about putting together meals, cheap dates, and limited spending. Which leaves me feeling smug. “Look! A modern woman am I! Dinner on the table, clean house, and laundry done once a week. AND I’m currently the primary bread winner, bacon bringer, ladder climber, whatever, so I can in no way fall into the barefoot and chained to the kitchen sink variety. I am woman hear me roar!”

Then again, even though I fight it hard, I sometimes find myself slipping into the 19th century. For example, when Venice decides to show me how to make her amazing peach-strawberry jam. Incidentally, Venice’s overall fabulousness is in no way lessened by this knowledge. She’s from Idaho, they know how to do that sort of thing up there. Anyway, I got it whipped up and gelled with barely any loss of face, and now it’s kind of my dirty secret hiding in the back of the freezer.

But then on sunday, when J. and I were both feeling under the weather and stayed home, I went into Absolutely Fabulous Wife Mode. I whipped up bread pudding for breakfast while my plagued husband slept in, a broccoli and carrot soup for dinner, and even managed to stay a good friend and drove Marie home (she lives over an hour away in my hit-and-miss car)…and then…Venice came over to borrow cooking spray, a lemon, scotch tape, and wrapping paper (how she combined them I’ll never know) looking like this:

“What the Betty Crocker?!” I demanded, but it was sheer jealousy. Perfect 1950’s housewife (minus the valium, hopefully). I immediately tumbled down a well of inadequacy.

Editor’s Note : Savitrii just came by and asked what I was writing. I said I was blogging about making jam and her eyes bugged. “YOU?!” she demanded shakily, “I…I don’t even know who I am anymore…” Har har, people.

Drama, Humor, Life, Marriage, Snark July 23, 2009July 23, 2009

What’s In A Name?

“The name we give to something shapes our attitude towards it.”
-Katherine Patterson

Good. Grief. Men just have to cough up enough for a sparkly ring, rent a tux, and show up. Us girls not only have to go through the angst of dress fittings, agonizing over catering (incidentally, I didn’t get to eat a thing at my reception; a fact about which I am inordinately bitter), fret pointlessly over flowers, and basically worry for months at a time. And THEN, after the whole affair is over, we get to go around sorting out an entirely new identity, complete with documentation.

My latest theory is that these guys were in line to register their horses, died of waiting, and were fossilized thus. Emporer Qin had a long ways to go with imperial management.

Our marriage certificate came in the mail last saturday, a fact we celebrated by almost immediately consigning it (accidentally) to the garbage. I blame J., J. blames me (I think I have a much more convincing case since I’m gone all day and, even though I’m a horrid klutz, I’m not usually that much of an idiot). Either way, I got off work early today so I trekked on over to the county buildings and got a new copy and then, in a burst of energy I know regret, I decided to be productive and get my name changed on a few things as well. An hour later, still waiting in line at the Social Security Administration (listening to the endless repetition of numbers of people who had long ago thrown in the towel, “47?…47?…47?…Is 47 here, please?…47?…”) I finally got that sorted. There was the minor hiccup of me not being born anywhere near the Continental United States, but that minor heart attack was glossed over by the fact that they had my previous information from when I was employed as a student.

Then off to the Driver License Division (otherwise known as the 9th circle of Hell)! However, getting there was a mess because there were two places listed and somehow in my temper frayed state, I managed to superimpose the numerical address of one place on the opposite city. Which meant that I spent another 45 minutes doing loop-de-loops across town trying to find this office. It was housed (read: hidden) in a small bank without any labling on the outside to indicate its presence within. I must have circled that parking lot half a dozen times before I worked up the nerve to just march into a building and demand guidance. Then we had a repeat of the line process, the only difference was that this time I got to sit. Right next to one of the more unusual characters I’ve seen in weeks.

This woman was tiny, the size of a 12 year old, and from the waist down she could have been an octogenearian: varicose veins, droopy tatooes working their way down her calves, and crusty feet. But she had plump childlike hands and arms and a head that I honestly can’t put an age on. Grandma-ish features on a young face and hair color that looked natural. Midway through my wait she answered a phone call and started arguing in the meekest, quietest voice about some sort of payment.
suspense1ha9 “You’ve gotten me into something I can’t get out of,” she mewed, “I’m a student” [to add further to the riddle of her age] “and I can’t possibly afford to pay for this.”
My ears perked up in spite of themselves, though I kept my nose firmly buried in a David Sedaris book. It sounded serious!
“I didn’t know I had that option,” she chirruped softly, “I was told I was under a contract and that I had to keep buying, so I did, but I can’t honor those commitments now.”
A gambling addiction? A vicious, silken-tonged bookie on the other end perhaps?
“But I only wanted the animated Bible stories and you made me buy lots of other films! It’s terrible of you to try and make me pay for this, it’s about religious material and you were completely false in selling them to me, you should be ashamed of yourselves!” She took a breath and said in an even meeker voice, “I’m sorry you alwas see the worst side of me in these phone calls, I don’t like being so unpleasant, but I’m just so upset.”

A huge letdown, in my opinion.

Another half hour later I was called and with a brief repeat of the question of my natal origins, I got my name changed on my license as well. Then, driving home, I rolled down my window because I thought my car was making a funny noise. Having ascertained it wasn’t, I rolled my window back up but managed to catch my sun visor in the closing pane and heard two terrible crunches before I managed to reverse the window and survey the damage. My visor now has a definite dent down the middle where the plastic inside has been snapped in half and my mirror was shattered. All the way home I was showered with confetti-like shards of glass.

And halfway home I got a text from J. telling me his parents are coming over for dinner. Bless him for cleaning up and doing dishes, otherwise I might have tossed our new certificate right back in the trash in a mood and gone straight to bed. Thank goodness tomorrow is a state holiday and I can sleep in!

Drama, Home, Humor, Snark July 21, 2009July 21, 2009

Black Thumb

“Despite the gardeners best intention, nature will improvise.”
-Michael Garafolo

Those perfidious fiends at the home and garden store! They basely sold me six little plants, that were labled as cherry tomatoes, that I lovingly planted along with cilantro and basil, and crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t kill them. My little sister also gave us a potted geranium, in a vibrant red, to put outside our front door to make it more cheerful. This too I hoped would survive being my plant pet. But I seem to have been doomed to disappointment. After weeks of coaxing these fickle things with water, sunlight, fresh air, and lots of expectations, I have been rewarded thus:

Cilantro that's gone to seed (as well as a sickly yellow which you can't tell in this photo...)

And do these in ANY way resemble tomatoes?!

Small Dog Syndrome