Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

31 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: Hair Apparent

facebooking from the edge...: Hair Apparent: Two days later and I'm still talking about my hair. (I know, right? I need a hobby. Or a life, whichever.) But this time, it's Dan's f...

Hair Apparent

Two days later and I'm still talking about my hair.  (I know, right?  I need a hobby.  Or a life, whichever.)  But this time, it's Dan's fault.  (Shocking!  How could anything ever be Dan's fault? <cue gasp>)

Since Dan isn't always (is never) observant from August to February (unless it involves men in tight pants bending over in front of each other and fondling a football... Sorry, dude, I calls them as I sees them) a lot happens right in front of him without him being aware of it.  (During football season, I could pick up a truckload of Teamsters and have an affair in bed right next to him and as long as there was a game going on, he wouldn't notice.  Sad but true.  

(You have NO idea how much I wish I was kidding.)  

Anyway, after my hair debacle on Monday (scissors, clippers, tears), I cleaned up the mess, did what I could with product and went about my life.  Dan came from work Monday and talked about football, because for some reason, it wasn't on.  The fact that there was no Monday Night Football this week completely knocked him off his game and not one word was mentioned about the lack of hair on the back of my head.  (The poor guy spent 20 minutes frantically channel surfing, whimpering, "Where is it?  Where is it?") 

Flash forward to Tuesday:  Dan spent the evening helping his brother coach his nephew's football team.  When he finally came home he entertained me (bored me stupid) with details about 11 year old football players I don't know, will never meet, and quite honestly don't care about, then flowed smoothly into a discussion about his Fantasy Football League.  <cue sound of hamster spinning on a wheel inside my head>  (Have I mentioned how little I give a shit about football?  No?  Well, let me make it clear:  I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT FOOTBALL.)

When we finally got around to me (really?  I'm here, too?) after the banalities were gone through ("How was your day?  Any calls, messages, or email?") Dan had a rare moment of clarity.  (Which I'm pretty sure it won't happen again, at least not until that week before the World Series when no sports are on.  Not that Dan doesn't try to find some.)

Dan:  *all proud of himself for his keen powers of observation*  "I see you cut your hair today."

Me:  "Actually, I cut it yesterday, but thanks for noticing."

Dan:  *scoffing, because he knows this stuff*  "You didn't cut it yesterday."

Me:  "Really?  Because I did.  You didn't notice because you were too concerned about Monday Night Football."

Dan:  *celebrating a giant a-HA! moment that didn't actually exist*  "There WAS no Monday Night Football!"

Me:  "Exactly."



Dan:  *recovering* "Well, anyway, I thought you were growing your hair out?"

Me:  "I am."

Dan:  "You just cut it.  How are you growing it out?"

Me:  "I cut the BACK.  That way it can all catch up and grow out together.  Otherwise it turns into a mullet."  <involuntary shudder>

Dan:  "Dani, that makes no sense."

Me:  "It makes nothing but sense."

Dan:  "It makes no sense!  How can you be growing your hair out if you're cutting off the back?!"

Me:  "You can't grow your hair out without cutting the back. You have to trim the back.  It's a rule.  (Which it totally is.)  That way it all grows out evenly."

(Seriously, dude... how can you not know this?)

Dan:  *getting annoyed*  "That's dumb.  That doesn't make any sense.  If you're cutting it, it can't be growing out.  Seriously, Dani, pull your head out of your ass."

(That's right, baby... talk dirty to me.)

Me:  "Have you ever grown your hair out?"

Dan:  "Yes, I've grown my hair out."

Me:  "No you haven't.  You've gone without getting a hair cut but you haven't grown your hair out.  It's not the same, trust me.  I know what I'm doing.  I have years of experience.  If there's one thing I know about, it's growing your hair out."  (Really... I do.)

Dan:  *unable to stop beating that poor, dead horse*  "How can you be growing your hair out if you keep cutting it?"

Me:  "Just let it go, man...  just let it go."

Dan eventually gave up the fight, after offering to call everyone he knows and ask them if what I'm saying made any sense.  (My man is all about winning the argument, yo.)  After I pointed out that it was a) 10:30 at night and b) a really stupid reason to call people, he went to bed, still shaking his head and unable to fathom the brilliant reasoning behind my current plan of action in the journey towards long, luxurious, flowing locks.

Poor dumb bastard.  

29 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: General Jackassery

facebooking from the edge...: General Jackassery: (General Jackassery (jen'-er-el jak-ass'-er-ee): The act, or repetition of an act that is rife with dumbery and jackassedness.) Not s...

General Jackassery

(General Jackassery  (jen'-er-el jak-ass'-er-ee):  The act, or repetition of an act, that is rife with dumbery and jackassedness.)  

Not surprisingly, a couple of months ago I suffered an Ambien-induced moment of insanity and gave myself a buzz-cut in the middle of the night.  (The surprising part is that it didn't happen sooner.)  In my defense, it was a thousand degrees outside (seriously) with at least a billion percent humidity and the hair on the back of my neck was driving me nuts, so it's not like I didn't have a good reason.  (Of course, it may or may have not made more sense if I'd just waited until morning and hauled my sweaty neck down to the neighborhood salon, where they couldn't possibly have done a worse job than I did, but that's entirely beside the point.)  Long story short, after I got up in the morning and absorbed the shock and horror of what I'd done (and totally blamed Dan for not stopping me... what an asshole) I managed to turn it into a not-too-awful pixie cut and was able to go about my daily life without needing to wear some kind of pillow case over my head, a la the Elephant Man.  (Wait... did he wear a pillow case over his head?  Or am I thinking of Michael Jackson?)  Also, really huge sunglasses and a cute hat hide a bevy of sins and add an air of mystique, and I'm here to tell you that I've rocked that look all summer.  (Movie stars trying to do their grocery shopping incognito have nothing on me.  Nothing.)

The trickle-down affect is that I've been suffering through a hideous growing-out phase with my hair (which is what happens when you shave your head, FYI... there is simply no cute way to grow out a buzz cut.  There just isn't) that has involved the wearage of a lot of head gear.  I have become the hair-accessory QUEEN.  Scarves, hats, bandanas, headbands... anything to draw the attention away from the feathery strands sprouting out randomly from various parts of my head and fool people into thinking that I look this way on purpose.  

"I've learned my lesson!"  I announced to Dan, my friends, my family, and others, all of whom rolled their eyes because yeah... that's not the first time I've done this.  (Sad but true.)  "I will never cut my own hair again!" I swore, totally meaning it, while Dan ignored me because he's heard it all before and, well, we know how that turned out.

Last week, right on cue, I entered the constant bitchingandmoaning phase of my hair outgrowth.  I couldn't do anything with it, other than wash it, dry it, and hide it underneath a hat.  90% of my conversations with Dan involved my hair and how difficult my life had become because of it.  ("It's sooooo harddddd to grow your hair outttttt!!!  You have no idea how I've suffereddddd!  I have no quality of life... none!").  It was getting longer in the back than it was on top and *gasp* *repeat gasp* I was starting to look like I was growing a baby mullet.

Oh HAYELL no, I said to myself, while planting a hat on my head and vowing not to take it off until my hair was at least shoulder length.

Yeahhh... about that.

When your hair reaches a certain length in the outgrowth process, when you stick a hat on your head?  You kinda look like a butch lesbian.  Which is fine, if you're a butch lesbian.  Or even if you're not, but really dig the look and are in to hunting and fishing or what not, or even maybe just have no fashion sense.  Or are athletic.  Whatever.  

I, however?  Fit none of that criteria.  Ergo, the bi-level lesbian thing? Had to go.

There I was this morning, fresh from the shower, getting ready to stroll out the door and run some errands, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror with my hat on and two inches of hair sticking out the bottom.  I had an epiphany, y'all.  I was like, "Seriously, dude?  All you're missing is a flannel shirt, a pair of motorcycle boots and couple of shots of testosterone and you'd be Chaz Bono."  

At this point, common sense should have led me to the phone, where I could dial a number for the salon that is two blocks away and have them do something girly to my hair.


Because that's what you would do.  Right?  Because I'm guessing you're not suffering from a serious case of general jackassery.  

I, on the other hand, AM a jackass.  So this is what I did:  I grabbed a pair of scissors and went to town on the back of my head.  

Tears were shed.  Clippers somehow became involved.  Things were said.  It became obvious, at some point, that it wasn't possible to hold a hand mirror, a comb, and a pair of scissors all at the same time and have any of them be functional.

Long story short, I now look like a peeled onion.  

But that's okay, because I no longer look like a butch lesbian when I stick a hat on my head.

It's the little things, yo.

27 August 2011

"No dog ever peed on a moving car."

There I was, happily enjoying my Dan-Free day (complete with popcorn and Diet Pepsi), when I inadvertently stumbled across what appears to be the All Dr. Phil, All The Time channel.  

<insert sound of brakes squealing>

Who knew such a thing existed?


Who would care if they did know?

(Ummm...  Not me?)

Who watches this stuff, anyway?

(The same people who watch Maury, that's who.)

I scoffed and rolled my eyes and decided to see, just for a moment, what the show was about.  (Not that I cared.  Or was interested.)

Then I stayed tune for the next show.  (They just kind of over-lapped. I didn't actually notice that it was a new topic with different people.)

Then I got stuck in a Dr. Phil Loop and couldn't get off.  

So I scanned ahead and scheduled all shows to record because, as it turns out?  I'm the person who watches this stuff.  Dear God, I'm the person who cares that it exists.  I'M ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO NOT ONLY WATCHES MAURY, BUT ACTUALLY RECORDS IT SO THAT I DON'T MISS A SINGLE SECOND OF THE IDIOTIC DIALOG.  


I seriously couldn't look away.  It's not like I actually pay attention to the topics or the advice that is given, I'm more a fan of the train-wreck aspect of it all.  I'm like a closet rubber-necker... one of those people who drives past a horrific accident with all the appearance of someone who is way too sensitive to look at such horror, and then totally slows down and scopes it out in the rear-view mirror when nobody is looking.  

I find this shit fascinating.

Anyway, after five solid hours of Dr. Phil (more or less) I am rife with wisdom and down-home expressions, such as:

"That dog don't hunt."

"It doesn't matter how flat you make a pancake, it still has two sides."

"I just didn't come out on a load of turnips..."

"You can put feathers on a dog, but that still don't make him a chicken."

(And now, purely coincidentally, I have the theme song for The Dukes of Hazard stuck in my head.  I'm not sure how the two connect, but there ya go.)  

(I also have an almost overwhelming desire to insert "All y'all" into a sentence. Not sure how I'm going to work it in, but I'll find a way.)  

I also just noticed that Dr. Phil has no ear lobes.  None.  What does that mean?

I'm becoming obsessed.  

Dan is supposed to come home tonight and I'm tempted to call him and tell him not to (out of extreme thoughtfulness and concern for him, of course... "No, baby, go ahead and stay another night with your parents... I know you're tired.  I don't want you making that longggg driiiive hoooome after gorging yourself on steak and potatoes.  Relax.  You work so hard. You deserve it.") because I know for a fact that he will cruelly ridicule me if he sees all the Dr. Phil Shows I have recorded and quite frankly, even though I would defend myself to my dying day, I will know, deep down inside, that he's absolutely right.

Above all else, I can't let that happen.

facebooking from the edge...: I'm not the only drama queen in the house, yo

facebooking from the edge...: I'm not the only drama queen in the house, yo: Just a quick update on how Maisy is doing today after yesterday's near dog-napping trauma...

I'm not the only drama queen in the house, yo

Just a quick update on how Maisy is doing today after yesterday's near dog-napping trauma...

"I'm pretty sure I'm never going to be the same..."

"I can still see his face as he was trying to open the car door..."

"Maybe I just need to recharge my batteries..."

"I just need a break from it all... and maybe some Pupperoni."

"It used to be so simple then..." 


Still recovering...

26 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: Seriously... THIS JUST HAPPENED.

facebooking from the edge...: Seriously... THIS JUST HAPPENED.: *Author's note: I'm telling you, I can't make this shit up. I could try, but I would not succeed. Dan decided to go drive up to <insert...


*Author's note:  I'm telling you, I can't make this shit up.  I could try, but I would not succeed.

Dan decided to go drive up to <insert place I've never heard of and don't remember the name of> and spend the night camping with his parents, since the Mets game was cancelled due to Hurricane.  This left me home alone for an evening of solitude and a good night's sleep (and because I refuse to spend another evening sitting around a campfire getting devoured by mosquitoes). He took Javi, our Pomeranian, with him, leaving Maisy (the pug) home with me.  

(Sidebar:  Since Dan has no children of his own and my boys are all grown up and gone, we've turned into those annoying middle-aged people who think their pets are human.  Dan is way worse than I am, in my defense, probably because I actually do know that my dogs are not people.  He calls himself "Daddy" and me "Mommy" when talking to the dogs and believes they understand every word we say.  He even spells certain words in front of them.  I know, I know... but either way, when he goes someplace he usually takes Javi, because *go ahead and laugh* Javi is a boy and needs guy time with Daddy.  Really.  He leaves Maisy with me because Maisy is a girl.  Don't judge us.)

Anyway, I decided to take Maisy to the market so she could go for a ride and I would buy her (meaning me) a treat.  As we walked out to the car Maisy, per usual, took that opportunity to take herself on a little jaunt up the street.  This evening, however, she decided to mix it up a little and refuse to come back when I called her.  Instead, she stood firmly rooted to the ground about three houses up, tail uncurled and hanging down, looking guilty but stubborn, waiting for me to come to her.  (Because I always do.  Sigh.  I need a Dr. Phil intervention:  "How's this workin' for you so far?")  I scooped her fat little body up and carried all 18 lbs of stubborn puggy-ness back to my car, which is way easier said than done.  (Maisy would rock at a civil right's protest.  My girl has passive resistance down to a fine art form.)

Here's where it gets interesting:

As I was hauling Maisy down the street, an Amish buggy went cloppety-clopping by.  I got slightly distracted (because yeah, I'm still not over my fascination with the Amish) and only paid slight attention to the car going the opposite way that slowed wayyyyyyy down as it passed me.  They yelled something out the window but I was in the Amish zone and heard nothing but air whistling between my ears.  ("Ooh!  Horsie!  Buggy!  Girls in bonnets!  Squeeee!")

I dumped Maisy in the car and pulled out behind the Amish, going about 10 miles an hour down the street towards the Big M.   (Of course.  Of course I was going to the Big M.  When will I learn?)  The car that had passed and yelled something flipped a U-turn and came up behind me, practically driving up my ass and honking their horn.  Two small children were hanging out the window and bellowing.

"Why are they yelling and honking at the Amish?" I thought to myself.  "What assholes!"  

We continued on our little parade, the Amish in front, me in the middle, and the yelling, honking car behind me.

The Amish turned down the side street to the Big M, as did I, as did the yelling, honking car.

I expected them to stop by the Amish over in the Buggy Parking Area, so I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror to see what was going down.  The only people in the buggy were two young girls in matching dresses, and the car was being driven by a youngish man and carrying several children.  I was all ready to go bust a move and have their backs  (the Amish's, that is) if something happened, because for some reason I have it in my head that they are pacifists (which may be totally wrong but I'm pretty sure I read that once in People magazine, or maybe it was Cosmo).  (My purse weighs a friggin' ton and packs a wallop, just so you know.  I would totally bash in someone's head for the Amish.)

But no... they kept going and parked next to me. Being an idiot, I got out of my car anyway.  It was at this point that I finally tuned in to what the kids were yelling...


Because I'm not too quick on the uptake, I still didn't think they were talking to me.  I mean, I knew I didn't have their dog... why would they be talking to me?  Right?

Dad came bursting out of his car and tried to open my passenger side door, where Maisy was sitting.  

So yeah, apparently they were talking to me.

Since I had already locked my car (thank you, Baby Jesus), the door didn't open.  Maisy went ballistic, and I stood there like an idiot still wondering what the hell was going on.

Picture it, if you will:  Small parking lot, small town local market, car full of screaming children insisting I'd stolen their dog, youngish man trying to rip my car door off the hinges, Maisy frothing at the mouth and barking her ass off...




It was bedlam.

As the crowd gathered (and by "crowd" I mean about 7 people, but still) I hit the panic button on my key fob, because, ya  know?  There just simply wasn't quite enough chaos at that exact moment..

And not one single person asked what was going on.


Man:  *panting and breathing heavily*  "Is that your dog?"

Me:  *barely able to speak because seriously, people... I thought I was going to have a heart attack and drop dead on the spot* "Yes!"

Man:  *still panting and breathing heavily*  "We were on our way home and saw you walking down the street carrying a pug... we thought you'd taken our dog."

Me:  *shaking and trying not to embarrass myself by bursting into loud, shuddering, hiccuping sobs, complete with snot bubbles and smeared mascara*  "Someone stole your pug?"

Man:  *and here's the part that will leave you speechless, I swear*  "No... not that I know of.  We just saw you with the pug and thought you'd taken ours."

I.  Kid.  You.  Not.

Anyway, some other stuff was said, a half-assed apology was offered, the kids still thought I'd stolen their dog, Maisy was beyond traumatized, and I knew the farthest I could walk without collapsing into tears would be the two steps back to my car.  

So like any mature grown-up, I burst into tears and drove home.

I'm looking upon this as a message from the Universe:

Dear Dani,

Stay away from the Big M.



facebooking from the edge...: Raining on my parade

facebooking from the edge...: Raining on my parade: I've gotta tell you, I'm pretty torqued about this friggin' hurricane. Not that I'm worried about it blowing my apartment away, or having t...

Raining on my parade

I've gotta tell you, I'm pretty torqued about this friggin' hurricane.  Not that I'm worried about it blowing my apartment away, or having to stand on my roof while the storm rips my clothes off my body, or that I'll need to be rescued by a helicopter while I'm clinging naked to a tree, ass and boobs blowing in the wind (I remember seeing hurricane footage many years ago of that exact thing.  There was video coverage of a daring rescue of a large man whose clothes had been ripped off of his body, and he was buck-ass naked hanging onto a tree.  ON TV.  And they played it over and over, for years.  They even incorporated that one scene into the opening for the nightly news. I remember thinking, "That would totally be my luck... My 15 minute brush with fame would have to involve my naked ass and the most unflattering angles known to man."  Because really, there is no "GOOD side" when you're hanging on to a tree for dear life after your pants have floated down the river.  There just isn't.)

We're far enough north and inland that I doubt we'll even get residual sprinkles from all the havoc Irene will be wreaking along the east coast (though I wouldn't mind a nice storm... just not one that's going to leave me homeless and naked).  Truth be told, I haven't bought one single candle and I couldn't even tell you if we have a flashlight (though I should probably look into that).  

And I'm pretty sure we'd starve to death if we lost power or the ability to go anywhere for any length of time because the only thing in my pantry is dog food, Pupperoni, pig ears, and popcorn.  And some packets of gravy, taco seasoning, and cream of mushroom soup.  

My freezer contains ice cubes, a bottle of vodka, and a box of pot stickers.  (I have plans for all of these things, fyi.  Immediate plans, one might say.)

The fridge is filled to the brim with Diet Pepsi (there was a sale at the Price Chopper... $1.99 for an 8 pack of 24 oz bottles.  I refuse to comment on how many I bought, but I swear it wasn't eight), mustard, 47 different varieties of salad dressing, American cheese, and pickles.  

Yeah... we'd be screwed.  Or be forced to start that diet we've been talking about for 10 years.  (Is there a diet that involves vodka and American cheese?)

Meanwhile, the real reason I'm pissed at Irene is this:  Dan was supposed to go to the city Saturday to attend the Mets game.  He would leave tonight and come home Sunday.  I have consequently recorded a billion shows on the DVR, downloaded three books onto my Kindle, and made some pretty awesome plans involving lying around in my pajamas all weekend and eating nothing but popcorn.  

I was looking forward to it, dammit.

I was going to get to sleep... actually sleep... without Dan serenading me throughout the night with loud snores, snorts, and farts.  

I wasn't even going to shower or brush my teeth.  (Okay, I probably would, but only because I wanted to, not because my stink or noxious breath would be offensive to anyone else.)

 But now, Dan isn't going to go.  And the words he spoke to me last night sent shock waves of terror throughout my body:

Dan:  *casually, as if he weren't seconds away from destroying my carefully thought-out weekend and completely ruining my life*  "Since the Mets game will probably be canceled, how about we go over to <some random town I've never heard of> and go camping with Mom and Dad?"

*cue slasher music*

Me:  *shrieking a little*  "Camping?  CAMPING?"

Dan:  "Yeah... it would be fun."

Okay.  Here's where we differ:  CAMPING IS NOT FUN.  You know what's fun?  Staying in a nice hotel with a jacuzzi in the room and ordering room service and having it delivered to you while you're in the tub because you don't feel like getting out because you're soooooo relaxed and it feeels soooo goood.

You know what ISN'T fun?  Outside.  At a campground.  With bugs.  And dirt.  And no indoor plumbing.

That isn't fun.  That's work.

My parents dragged my sister and I camping every summer for the first 13 years of my life.  We didn't just CAMP, we took on the wilderness and made it our bitch.  We kayaked and canoed up rivers and down streams, finding the most remote, over-grown, bear infested places we possibly could and slept there.  We dug holes in the ground for toilets, ate freeze dried food, drank purified glacier water, set up our tents, and hated every minute of it.  I remember sitting as close as I possibly could to the campfire without catching myself on fire each night just to have enough light to read by because I was bored out of my mind.  I hated those kids whose parents took them to Hawaii and Europe, those happy carefree kids who were frolicking on beaches, sleeping in beds, and pooping indoors.  

I can't even begin to describe the years of abuse we suffered at the hands of our parents and their twisted, demented ideas of  what constituted a "vacation."

The second my sister and I left home, our parents bought an RV.  

My bitterness knows no bounds.

So even though I probably won't get wet, Irene has completely doused my plans and pissed all over my good time.  

Thanks.  Thanks a LOT.

This would NEVER happen in California.


25 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: Sprechen ze what, now?

facebooking from the edge...: Sprechen ze what, now?: Again I say, I either need something to do other than go to the grocery store, or else I need to just not go to the grocery store. The seco...

Sprechen ze what, now?

Again I say, I either need something to do other than go to the grocery store, or else I need to just not go to the grocery store.  The second I walk through the glass double doors at the Price Chopper, a giant target appears on my forehead ("Bummer of a birthmark, Hal") and suddenly, without warning, shit starts to happen to me.

(If you got the Far Side reference, you totally get a prize.  FYI.)

(Okay, there's a Far Side cartoon of a deer standing in the forest with a giant target on his chest and the other deer says to him, "Bummer of a birthmark, Hal."  I know, right?  Kills me every single time.)

So today, I was meandering around the Price Chopper (that store is such a freaking clusterfuck, I STILL can't figure out where anything is.  Seriously) trying to figure out why the coffee creamer was in a totally different part of the store than the rest of the dairy when an old, old, old man holding a list and looking befuddled said to me, "Sweethawt, if I said hef in hef to you, what would I be lookin fowah?" 

Of course.  OF COURSE.  There are 15 old woman within a 5 foot radius and he asks ME.

And I have no idea what he's saying.

Me:  "Whaaaaat?"

Him:  "If I esked yous fowah hef in hef, what would it be?"

Me:  "Hef in hef?"

Him:  "Hef in hef."

Me:  "Hef in hef?"

Him:  "Hef in hef."

(Seriously... this could have gone on all day.)

Me:  *getting desperate*  "Hef in hef?"

Him:  "Hef.  In.  Hef."

Me:  *dim lightbulb appearing over my head* "Ummmmm... like, half and half?"

Him:  "What was thet, sweethawt?"

(Yeah.  Because I'M hard to understand.)

Me:  "Like, half and half?"


Me:  *because if someone doesn't speak your language, you need to say it louder... it's the American way*  "LIKE, HALF AND HALF?"

Him:  "Hef in hef?"


Him:  *looking distrustful but obviously wanting to believe I knew what I meant*  "Now what would that be, sweethawt?"

Me:  *suddenly having the biggest brain fart ever recorded, ever, in the history of the world*  "It's, like, ummmm... Like, super rich, ummmm... Okay, it's like milk?  And, ummmm, you know, cream?"


Me:  *waving my hands around like a moron* "Like, half?  You know, milk?  Cream?"

(What the hell was I trying to say???!!!  GAHHHH!  I know this!!!)


Me:  *frantically flipping through my mental thesaurus trying to find the words that would describe a product that was half milk and half cream*  "Like, in a carton?  Like milk?"


Me:  *stupidly*  "Half and half?"

Him:  *patiently*  "You know, dahling, I could spend the rest of my life in this stowah and nevah know what I'm lookin fowah.  I'm gettin old, deah. Would yas mind showin me what youwah tawkin' about?"

("What's that, girl?  Timmy's in the well?")

I led him over to the dairy case and pointed mutely at the carton of half and half.  


After he thanked me he said, "Wheh ah you from, dahlin?"  

"California," I replied.

He shook his head and chuckled, "Well, I guess that explains it, doesn't it, sweethawt!"

(My translation of his statement:  "Well, that explains how brilliantly and dazzlingly you led me to the half and half!  Only someone from California could have so astutely and accurately comprehended what I meant by hef in hef and taken me directly to it.  You are, in every sense of the word, an Ambassador to our small village in the northern part of the state of New York.  You deserve a medal.  And a parade.")


24 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: The Mysterious Case of the Delayed Reaction

facebooking from the edge...: The Mysterious Case of the Delayed Reaction: Dan and I decided last Saturday that we were going to spend a relaxing evening at home with pizza, a really bad movie, and some alcoholic be...

The Mysterious Case of the Delayed Reaction

Dan and I decided last Saturday that we were going to spend a relaxing evening at home with pizza, a really bad movie, and some alcoholic beverages.  (Because we are that kind of exciting, yo.  Everybody wants to be us.  No really, they do.  Don't they?)  

We watched Just Go For It, which is hands-down the stupidest movie I've seen in a very long time (considering I rarely watch movies, that's not exactly a damning critique, but still... it was awful).  I'm one of those people that needs just a teensy bit of "this could actually happen" in order to enjoy a movie.  If it's entirely implausible, the realist in me comes screaming to the fore-front and flies out of my mouth.  (Which is why vampires, fantasy, and sci-fi are never allowed in my house.  I get too annoyed.)

I began getting seriously irritated with the plot after about 5 minutes.  I can't standddddddd Adam Sandler to begin with, but the idea of him being a Hollywood plastic surgeon that gets laid every 5 minutes by hot women half his age merely because he's wearing a wedding ring was too much for me to handle.  

The more I drank, the louder and more adamant my disbelief became.  

Me:  "Yeahhhhh right.  Like he's going to boink that girl on the beach and 12 hours later he's madly in love with her and convincing his secretary to pretend to be his wife so that this girl will marry him.  12 hours later and he's at her job begging her to marry him.  Oh.  My.  GOD."

Me:  "Ohhhh please.  Like Adam Sandler didn't know Jennifer Anniston was sexy in a bikini.  Huge shock, am I right?  Seriously, my eyes are rolling so hard they're sticking in the back of my head.  LAME."

Me:  "I haaaaaaaaaaaate annoyingly cute kids.  GAHHHHH!  Why are they even in the movie?  That little girl's fake cockney accent is seriously making my ears bleed.  Slap her and SHUT HER UP."


Me:  "I mean, if a sheep could talk.  It would sound like Adam Sandler.  Am I right?  What do you mean, "What do I mean?"  I mean Adam Sandler sounds like a sheep."

Me:  "How much plastic surgery has Nicole Kidman had, for God's own sweet sake?  She looks like Joan Rivahhhs."

Me:  "HAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!"  (The part where  Nicole Kidman's husband picked up a coconut with his butt cheeks was actually freaking hilarious.)

Dan:  "Would you like another drink?"

Anyway, after the movie ended and I was finished loudly critiquing it, Dan and I decided to play "Find All Of Dani's Favorite Songs By Each Artist That She Names.... and GO!"

I named the artist and it was up to Dan to find my favorite song on youtube and then play it for me.  (He did surprisingly well... I admit to being shocked.)

Several drinks later, I was belting out each song at the top of my lungs and dancing my ass off in the living room.

Suddenly, very loud music began rattling our floorboards.  It was coming from Mr. Awesome's apartment.

"Ha ha!" we chortled.  "Mr. Awesome must be having a party!"

Flash forward to today:

As I was sipping my coffee and listening to Mr. Awesome leave for work this morning , it hit me, like a bolt from the blue, that on Saturday it was at the apex of my alcohol induced serious lack of  volume control that Mr. Awesome had cranked his music, and only for approximately 5 minutes.  Then he shut it off.  After that, it was completely quiet.  Coincidentally, we went to bed shortly after he began cranking his music.

Ponder, ponder...


Seriously... I just got it.

Dude spent an entire evening listening to me yap and sing with allllll the windows open, serenading the world at the top of my lungs (and possibly slightly off-key) and shivering his timbers with my groove thang for several HOURS and it never once occurred to us to keep it down.

We ARE assholes.

And we didn't even know.

And it took me 3 days to figure it out.

I'm so embarrassed.


23 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: I felt the earth... move... unda my feet...

facebooking from the edge...: I felt the earth... move... unda my feet...: Okay, I really didn't. But as the east coast is wetting itself over a piddly little rumble, my California smugness and I are drinking Diet ...

I felt the earth... move... unda my feet...

Okay, I really didn't.  But as the east coast is wetting itself over a piddly little rumble, my California smugness and I are drinking Diet Pepsi and rolling our eyes in derisive amusement.

East Coasters:  *hiding under tables, doorways, and desks*  "Eeek!  Eeek!  An earthquake!"

Me:  *raising my glass of Diet Pepsi to Mother Nature and the Universe*  "Rock and rollllll, baby!"

Really... you call THAT an earthquake?  Please.

From the ages of 4 to 8, I lived in Hollister, CA, which happens to land directly on top of the San Andreas fault.  We had earth shifts and rumbles every single day.  If nothing came crashing down on top of us, we were fine.  We went about our lives slightly unsteadily flying by the seat of our pant and screaming, "WHEEEEEEEEEE!"  (Because that's kinda how we roll on the west coast, y'all.) 

We had the usual earthquake drills in school (close the curtains, sit under your desk, blah blah blah, get over it) and knew that if we were at home and shit started falling on top of us we should either climb under the table or our beds, or stand in a doorway (which I still think is lame... our doorways weren't exactly big enough to block the ceiling if it came crashing down, ya know?).  Meanwhile, life went on without much of a blip and waking up in the morning with our beds sideways wasn't really that unique of an occurrence.

One day, when I was in first grade, a pretty good sized jolt shook the earth while I was walking home from school.  I was mesmerized by the appearance of the road... it looked all wavy and ripply, kind of like the ocean when the tide rolls in.  I staggered around like a drunk 7 year old, trying to get my bearings, and then continued on my walk, completely unperturbed.  

A couple of minutes later, another quake hit... then another.  I stumbled and fell and eventually managed to make my way home, where I found my mother standing on a chair body blocking her china cabinet, with her friend standing on another chair holding her antique mirror against the wall.  

Life lesson:  Your 7 year old will be fine if she's walking home during an earthquake (not to mention the fact that you have another child almost exactly like her, just in case), but your vintage Limoge china and your antique cut glass mirror?  Cannot be replaced.  

Thanks, MOM.

Suck it up, east coast.  Unless there's a tsunami headed your way, I don't want to hear it.

facebooking from the edge...: "I'll take 'GAHHH!' for $500, Alex"

facebooking from the edge...: "I'll take 'GAHHH!' for $500, Alex": It's a given... I was born to go through life with my pants falling down, my skirt tucked into the back of my panty hose, a booger hanging o...

"I'll take 'GAHHH!' for $500, Alex"

It's a given... I was born to go through life with my pants falling down, my skirt tucked into the back of my panty hose, a booger hanging out of my nose and spinach stuck between my teeth.  I already know this.  (EVERYbody knows this.  Seriously.)  I'm positive that it's my Destiny (Density?) to die in some horrible, butt-related accident that will make people shoot coffee through their noses and pee their pants laughing while they read my obituary.  ("Haaahahahahaaaa!  She tripped while walking into the bathroom and fell face first into the toilet and DROWNED!!!  HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!  I totally saw her going that way!" or  "A piece of Sky Lab came crashing down to earth and impaled her in the ass!!  Oh my GOD!  BAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!  If it was going to fall on any one and land in their ass, it would be Dani.")  

Part of it (okay, most of it) is Karma (Dear Chunky Girl in High School Who Fell Down While Crossing The Street In Front Of The Really Awesome Car I Was Riding In With My Boyfriend, I'm so, so, so sorry that I laughed myself stupid because you bounced when you hit the ground.  Trust me, I've paid for that snorting guffaw a thousand times over.  Six years ago I was crossing the street to my car while carrying an armload of stuff and totally ate concrete in front of a freaking van full of high school kids and at least 23 preschool parents coming to pick up their children.  I skinned up my knees, shredded my elbows, peed my pants, and had to limp to the middle of the street to pick up one of my shoes, the entire time seeing the headlines in the paper:  Fat Girl Bites The Dust, Carload of Teens Choke To Death While Laughing.  All 95,000 times I've fallen on my face and bounced on my ass in public, I think of you.  Love, Dani).  

I also suffer from a complete lack of awareness of my surroundings.  

For example:

This morning.

I'm in my kitchen.  I'm dumping ingredients for chili into the crockpot.  I'm belting out "Feel like makin' loooove..."  I'm including all the background music and drum beats ("ba da daaa, ba da daaa FEEL LIKE MAKIN' LOOOVE! BA DA DAAA, BA DA DAAA...").  I'm doing a shimmy here, a shake there, having myself a grand old time, when Maisy puts her paws up on the window sill and starts woofing.  Hmmm, I thought, peeking out the window.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear but a group of teen-agers, standing outside on the sidewalk, staring up at my apartment with THE LOOK on their faces.  You know THE LOOK... It's the one that says, "Oh my GOD, like, how EMBARRASSING, I would totally DIE if that was my MOM, like, what a FREAK! What is she SINGING, like some OLDIE?  Oh my God, oh my God!  Hee hee hee hee hee!" without even needing to say one word.  There they stood, those horrible little teeny boppers, smirking away, looking at eachother...

I wanted to dump boiling water on their heads.

Instead, I shushed the dog and slunk around my kitchen quietly, pretending it wasn't me who was making all that godawful noise.  (I may or may not have said, "Who is singing that terrible song?  My goodness, it sounds like it's right here in this apartment!  But it's not...")

Five minutes later I had forgotten all about it (because my brain is so full of other stuff that there's no extra room for remembering things from moment to moment... it has NOTHING TO DO with the fact that I'm kind of shallow and flaky) and was in my bedroom making my bed, once again belting out, "FEEL LIKE MAKIN' LOOOOVE!" when I happened to see, out of the corner of my eye, Trailer Trash Barbie sitting outside on her lawn chair smoking a cigarette and staring at my apartment.

Dear Karma,

I get it.  I've gotten wayyyy to much enjoyment out of other people's embarrassing moments.  I've pointed and laughed with the best of them, clutching my sides, crossing my legs so I won't pee from my side-splitting amusement.  You are not the bitch; I am.  Noted.  Now BACK OFF.

(Also?  I'm really, really, reallyyyyy sorry for the time I totally came unglued at the grocery store when the stock boy crashed and burned into the eggs.  I grabbed my kids and tried to get out of there ASAP but I only made it to the next aisle before I laughed myself into a coughing, choking, pants wetting asthma attack.  I'm pretty sure I made up for it when I fell off the curb at Papa Murphy's and landed face first on the pavement in my pizza.)



22 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: Killing me softly with his snoring...

facebooking from the edge...: Killing me softly with his snoring...: Dan is one of those rare and wonderful people who can snore his ass off all night and then in the morning, claim he "Didn't sleep for shit."...

Killing me softly with his snoring...

Dan is one of those rare and wonderful people who can snore his ass off all night and then in the morning, claim he "Didn't sleep for shit."  (His words, not mine.  Seriously.  That is one of the top 9,000 things he says that drives me so freaking far up a wall that every time he says it I can feel my eyes rolling far, far, farrrrrr back into my head and I need to suppress the URGE TO KILL.)

(Totally unrelated footnote:  I read the book Girls in White Dresses by Jennifer Close yesterday.  One of her characters asks another character if she "hates her husband sometimes."  The other girl says, "I don't hate him, but he sure bugs the shit out of me."  Bwaaaaahahahahahahahahaaa!)  

The second Dan's head hits the pillow, he commences drooling and snoring.  Drooling.  Snoring.  DROOLING AND SNORING.  Since it takes me DAYS to fall asleep, I don't miss a second of the charming symphony and water show that is happening on his side of the bed.  (He's not allowed to use my pillow.  Ever.)

He is forbidden to face me in his sleep (my rule, not his) because he sleeps with his mouth open and it's akin to lying mere inches away from a large cave where sea lions hang out to fight and mate throughout the night.  Between the sounds and the smells wafting off of and out of him, I feel like the little fish in the bucket that's being tossed his way every time he opens his mouth.  

Unfortunately, as it IS my rule and not his, he does it anyway.  

He gets wounded and offended if I (when I) reach the breaking point and threaten him with bodily harm if I so much as feel his breath on the back of my neck.

Dan:  *all puppy-eyed and pitiful*  "But I want to spooooon youuuuuuuu..."

Me:  *relentless and bitchy*  "You will spoon me for exactly .05 seconds because that's how long it takes you to fall asleep.  And immediately after that, you will start snoring and drooling!!"

Dan:  *blinking back tears of pain because I'm so mean*  "I like falling asleep with you in my arms."

Me:  *head spinning and pea soup flying out of my mouth*  "Suck it up, you big girl, and face the other direction."

Dan:  *sad and pathetic*

Me:  *caving because I'm a wimp*

Dan:  *smiling and spooning for .05 seconds*

Dan:  *hooooooooooonk-suuuuuuuuuuuuuure*

Me:  *nudge nudge*  "Dan... roll over.  You're snoring."

Dan:  *hooooooonk-suuuuuuuuuuuuure*  *hoooooooonk-suuuuuuuure*


Dan:  *hoooooooooonk-suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuure*

Me:  *whack*  *nudge*  *kick*  "DAN!  ROLL OVER!"

Dan:  *snort*  "Huh? Oh.  Sorry."  *hooooonk-suuuuuuuuure*

All.  Night.  Long.  

When the alarm goes off and we get up in the morning, I always say the same thing:

Me:  "How did you sleep last night?"

Dan:  "Eh... not good.  I didn't sleep for shit."


Wish I couldn't "sleep for shit."

19 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: A cluttered mind...

facebooking from the edge...: A cluttered mind...: I'm always really amazed by people who have their shit together. Part of it's awe, part of it's envy, and part of it is disbelief, I think....

A cluttered mind...

I'm always really amazed by people who have their shit together.  Part of it's awe, part of it's envy, and part of it is disbelief, I think... because my shit?  Is usually shoved into two different junk drawers, strewn haphazardly through my closet, and crammed into the cupboard I now use for excess crap because my afore-mentioned junk drawers are full and I can barely open OR close them.

In case I'm being too deep, I'm using "shit" and "junk drawer" as metaphors.  Sort of.  (Though actually, I do have a junk drawer that morphed into two junk drawers, a junk cupboard, and 3 huge boxes in my closet.  I'm a big fan of the Junk Drawer.  Don't know where to put something?  Shove it in the junk drawer.  Can't find something?  Check the junk drawer.  Don't feel like walking the 8 additional steps to the garbage can?  Stick it in the junk drawer and take care of it later.  Or not.  It's like a Black Hole... once it's in there, it will probably never be seen or heard from again.  Problem.  Sol-ved.)  

I took a test one time to see if I were right or left brained.  I was feeling lop-sided and figured it was probably because only half of my brain was functioning.  It also made a really good case for why I'm lacking in ambition, tend to be immature, am occasionally irresponsible and flaky, and appear to be way dumber than I actually am.  (See?  Totally not my fault.  My brain is lop-sided.  Can I collect disability for that?  No?)  Anyway, I took the test and was positive it would show that one entire half of my head was completely useless and basically only there so that I could wear earrings in both ears and my hair would look good.

Imagine my surprise when I found out I am one of those rare and cursed people who are Equally Brained.  Both sides of my brain are used in equal measures.  

Say whaaaaaaa?  How is that possible?  I suck at math and don't give a good god damn about science.  How could I be equally brained???

And then it occurred to me... This means I'm equally stupid on both sides of my head.

THIS is why I can't make up my mind, never show up on time, don't bother balancing my check book, have never lived up to my potential, and have two junk drawers, a junk cupboard, and a junk closet.  


This is why I drive Dan crazy because I don't get wildly upset about stupid, petty little shit (in my opinion) that sends him into a tizzy and causes him to re-enact the death bed scene from Camille, this is why I laugh inappropriately at everything, this is why I'm the only person who thinks I'm funny, this is why I identify better with people half my age than my peers...

It's because I?  Am equally brained.  I can't focus on anything because I am focusing on everything.  Both sides of my brain are working at the same time and throwing the other side off.  It's too much for one person.  

It's tragic, really.  I'm surprised no one has done a Tele-thon for me. (Do they still do those?)  

How I envy those simple souls who are going through life only using half their brain...

18 August 2011

facebooking from the edge...: You're welcome.

facebooking from the edge...: You're welcome.: Thanks to Dan and his super human ability to irritate me, this is the song that is stuck in my head today: <to be sung to the tune of "Sh...

You're welcome.

Thanks to Dan and his super human ability to irritate me, this is the song that is stuck in my head today:

<to be sung to the tune of "She's Comin' Round The Mountain">

There's a skeeter on my peter, flick it off!
There's a skeeter on my peter, flick it off!
There's a skeeter on my peter,
There's a skeeter on my peter,
There's a skeeter on my peter, flick it off!

Seriously.  Stuck in my head. Because for some reason, while Dan was getting ready for bed last night, this is what he was singing.   Thanks, DAN.

I was wandering through the grocery store this morning singing it under my breath.

I cleaned the house this morning, belting it out at the top of my lungs.

I'm sitting on the couch right now and it's like a never ending tape running through my head.

There's a skeeter on my peter, flick it off...