Halloween Confidential 2: The Embarrassing Case of the Awkward Banana

It happened like this:  

The year was 1990-ish.  We had just moved to a new town and were renting a house that was literally at the end of a dead end street.  The only thing beyond our house was the Pacific Ocean.  And a lot of sand dunes.  And cows.  And criminals.

We were 10 miles out of town and practically living in the backyard of Pelican Bay State Prison.

Long story short, we weren't expecting any trick or treaters.

I dressed up my little boys in their Ninja Turtle pajamas (I wasn't about to go spend $50 on crap costumes that they would wear for an hour, once) and drove them in to town to scam candy off of other people (because I hadn't bought any myself, since I wasn't a) home or b) expecting trick or treaters, as stated previously).  

*Sidebar:  Yes, I was one of those mothers who didn't give her poor, skinny, starving, pasty-faced, "Please, sir, may I have some more?" looking children any candy.  Or Kool-Aid.  Or Soda.  Or anything that apparently makes life worth living.  On the plus side, they all grew up thin, healthy, and with all their teeth.  It's the little things, no?  So sue me.  I also made them eat their vegetables and clean their rooms.  I'll probably wind up on Jerry Springer one day with my children throwing chairs at me and screaming that I never bought them that disgusting liquid candy crap that came in a tube and made me want to hurl just by looking at it.  (Why did they want to eat that crap?  Kids are stupid, that's why.)

"Mommy, can we get this?"  "Sure honey!  And I'll go ahead and get you fitted for dentures now, rather than waiting for all your teeth to rot out!!"

(I have no idea what got me started on THAT tangent... sorry.  I got distracted.  Don't even get me started on babies with Kool-Aid in their bottles.  Don't even.)

Anyway, we knocked over a few fairy princesses, stole their candy, toilet papered a house or two, and called it a night.  We came home, jammied up, and put the kiddos to bed.  As I was settling in to enjoy the first peace and quiet I'd had that day (and pick through their candy haul... like you don't do the same thing), I heard a knock on the door.

My first reaction was, of course, panic... Who the hell would be knocking on my door?  We had no neighbors. We didn't know anybody.  I hadn't heard of a prison outbreak, but after the fiasco with the electronic doors on the prison cells (they weren't latching... you think I'm kidding?  I'm not.  And it took them a while to realize it) I wasn't taking any chances.  I froze, willing myself to stop breathing and become invisible, because as luck would have it, anyone standing on the porch could see perfectly into the livingroom.  (Curses!!)

No reason... I just think this cartoon is hilarious.

They knocked again and I heard a chorus of over-stimulated sugary voices scream, "TRICK OR TREAT!!!"

Oh.

Shit.

You've GOT to be fucking kidding me.

I couldn't pretend I wasn't there, because well... they could see me. (DAMN you, bright red Betty Boop pajamas!!  DAMN YOU TO HELL!!)

I also had absolutely nothing in my house resembling candy... other than the three plastic Halloween pumpkins I was currently rifling through looking for chocolate that I had no intention of giving away.  (Don't judge me.)

I had no money, so it's not like I could give the little scavengers a dollar or something.  (As if... they would have gotten nothing before they would have gotten a dollar, trust me on this.  I was broke and stingy during those lean "we have too many damn mouths to feed" years.)

I did the only thing I could do, faced with such dire circumstances:

I grabbed the fruit bowl, opened the door, and handed each of those precious and disappointed looking children a banana.

They all stood there, silently, staring in dismay into their trick or treat bags, where the brownish, mushy bananas sat like slugs.

"Say thank you!" ordered their mother, obviously determined to force her children to be polite, no matter what.

"Thank you," they intoned, as they walked dejectedly off of my porch.

"You're welcome!" I chirped, wanting to die.

The moral of my story is that we lived in that house for two more years, during which time we never got another trick or treater, even though the following years I was completely prepared, with candy, pumpkins, decorations, the works.

I'm thinking of doing that again this year.

I do have a bowl full of apples...

Halloween Confidential

*The following may or may not be entirely true but should not be held against me, because I did it for my own good.  If I'd actually done it.  Which I may or may not have.

I've never been one of those girls who "forgets" to eat.  I've never gone out to dinner and ordered "just a small salad" unless I had every intention of pigging out at home after my date dropped me off.  I like food.  And I have bad fat habits that, if given in to, could lead to me needing to be removed from my apartment via crane after someone busted out a wall because I wouldn't fit through the door.  And the thought of all my neighbors (and the people back in TV Land who would be viewing my huge naked ass being air-lifted from my apartment on the evening news) is what keeps me from doing the following:

A) Eat nothing but Good n Plentys (my biggest vice) and espresso for breakfast, every single morning for the rest of my life, except once in a while when someone took me for pancakes and bacon.  Or donuts.

B) Eat popcorn for lunch and dinner, day after day after day after day after day, ad infintum.  (Okay, I actually DO kind of do this... occasionally.  If Dan weren't here and refused to eat popcorn as a meal, this would be happening wayyyy more frequently.  Why cook when there's popcorn?)

C)  Eat jalapeno poppers as a vegetable.  Dipped in Ranch.  (Because if it can be dipped in Ranch, it's a vegetable.  You can quote me on this.)

D)  Serve a meal made entirely of cheese prepared in different ways (queso, fried mozzarella sticks, fondue, wedges of Brie, and of course a mixed cheese platter).  GOD I love cheese.

E)  Always have buttercream frosting handy to dip a finger (knife, spoon, cookie, whatever) into, for the moments when pretty much all you want is buttercream frosting.  (Not just me, right?)

F) Have a little bread with my butter, as a side dish to go along with my popcorn, cheese, jalapeno poppers, and buttercream frosting.  (The Good n Plentys are only for breakfast.  Don't ask me how I know that they taste amazing with espresso.)

And the list goes on.

The sad and sorry truth is that I KNOW these things are bad for me and I avoid eating them, for the most part.  I also know that if they're in my house, they will get eaten.   By me.  Screw willpower... I can't eat it if it isn't here.  Period.

Which leads me to Halloween.

Specifically, to having bags and bowls of candy lying around, on the off chance that a stray child or two will wander up to my door and knock.

I used to buy the GOOD Halloween candy... Snickers, Butterfingers, Reese's... I was the neighbor with the mostest.  I wish I could say it was because I am a giving, wonderful person who suffered as a child by being given apples and those hard, disgusting pieces of orange and black wrapped taffy (what IS that shit?  Has anyone ever actually eaten it?) in my trick or treat bag, but the cold hard truth is that I didn't want to be left with a bunch of candy I didn't like.  Now you know.

Since we only got a few trick or treaters each year, we were left with a considerable amount of candy on November 1st.  Since waste is sinful (I know my Bible when it's handy, yo) we would be forced to eat the leftovers, which would usually be gone by November 2nd.

4 years ago I decided to buy the kind of crappy candy that wouldn't tempt me.  I bought three huge bags of these gummy things shaped like brains and internal organs.  I thought they were cute and kids would love them and most of all, there wasn't a chance in hell that I would eat them.  And neither would Dan.

That year, we got approximately 5 trick or treaters.  I put all the candy in freezer bags and stored them in my cupboard, where I promptly forgot about them.

Until the following October, when I (don't judge me) took them out, dusted them off, poured them in a bowl and handed them out again to the same 5 trick or treaters that we'd had the year before.

The next day Dan said, "Want me to just throw these away?"

Me:  *suffering from a rare bout of hoarding behavior... seriously rare for me... I throw everything away*  "No... I don't want to waste them.  Just bag 'em up and I'll think of something to do with them."

Which I did.  I put them back in the cupboard.

And handed them out again to the same 5 kids who had shown up the previous two years.

I suck.

But I did it again, the year after that.

Okay, here's the truth:  I didn't throw the candy away until I was packing up the kitchen to move to New York last April.

And I kind of didn't want to do it then, only it seemed silly to drag four year old candy 3,000 miles across the country, just to be handed out YET AGAIN to children on the east coast.  (Even though there was a huge part of my brain that thought that would be pretty awesome.  Bwaaaahahahahahahahahaaaa!  Even if I would be the only one laughing.)

(I don't know what's wrong with me.  I really don't.)

This year I'm torn:  Do I buy the stuff that I know I'm going to eat?  Because I'm pretty sure at the most we will get two trick or treaters.  Or do I carry on the tradition and buy the worst candy I can possibly find and see how many years in a row I can hand it out?

Decisions, decisions...

Facebook Status(es) of the Week

I kind of have a love/hate relationship with Dog the Bounty Hunter.  I've only watched the show once, mainly because one of Dan's former coworkers, who wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier, said to me (and I quote, because I thought it was so freaking hilarious that I now say it ALL THE TIME whenever I see anything remotely related to Dog):  "Have you ever seen Dog the Bounty Hunter?  It's about a bounty hunter, named Dog?"

Dog fascinates me.  The clothes, the tan, the hair, the wife... Her clothes, her tan, her hair, her boobs... And there is always something familiar about Dog...

Then I saw this, and it all made sense:

(On a totally unrelated note, what is that shit hanging down the sides of his head???  It kind of looks like he borrowed someone's dreds and glued them on, ya know?)

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Moving right along, what is funnier than a fat old guy in a thong, standing at attention while watching the Blue Angels?  

Not much, I'm telling you:

One can't help but wonder if he's saluting... 

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AND... okay,  I was kind of responsible for this.  This is my son, Kacey.  The picture on the left was taken of him 10 years ago, with his patented "It's a good thing I'm pretty" look.  The picture on the right was a candid shot taken of him last weekend at the Raider's game, wearing his "It's a good thing I'm pretty" look.  I thought it was hilarious.  (This is the child who said to me one morning, "Did the lights flicker?"  Me:  "No... why?"  Him:  *pause*  "Never mind... I just blinked."  Isn't he beautiful?)

Huhhhh?

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This picture came from my friend, Dana, with the included caption, and it honestly made me snort with laughter:  (I can't STAND Paula Deen.  Don't get me wrong, as a chubby girl I do love me some butter.  But seriously... the way she says the word "butter" makes me feel creepy and like I need to take a shower.  I'm all, "Seriously, Paula... just take the butter and turn off the camera.  Jesus."  I'm always a little embarrassed for the butter.)

I didn't know Paula Deen came out with a breath spray...

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The following was on a friend's Facebook page (I'm not mentioning her name because I'm not sure if she would appreciate it if I shared with the world that she's a dirty, dirty girl.  But she is.  I'm just not sure if she wants it advertised.  Even though she is.)  

Her:  "Anyone have a crop I can borrow for my costume?"

The response from one of her friends:

" at first i thought you meant like a "crop of corn" or some other veggie...now I know you mean like riding crop, and frankly that scares me just a little bit! :)"

I found this just for you, dollface:

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And finally, this was from one of my dear friends, who actually would be perfect for my husband (and I just might give him to her for Chritmas... SURPRISE!!!):

Friend:  "OMG. I just got a message on OKCupid. From a guy dressed like Cookie Monster in his photo. Seriously??????"

Response from one of her friends: " I say give cookie the nookie."

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND!!!!

The Shouty McDeaferson's Upstairs

Dan can't hear.  Seriously.  He is completely deaf in one ear and partially deaf in the other.  

Long story short, dude can't hear shit. 

This means that we spend a LOT of time shouting at each other.  A LOT.  

Dan shouts because that's how he talks and I shout so he can hear me.  Which he can't, even when I shout.  Which leads to him shouting even louder because he seems to think that the louder he screams "WHAT???" at me, the more likely I am to speak up, because obviously, it's my fault that he can't hear me.  Of course.  But you knew that, right?

A typical exchange in our house goes like this:

Me:  *shouting from the living room to Dan in the bedroom, where he has the tv cranked up to 453724503847 decibels, which is drowning out whatever I'M watching in the living room (probably Deadly Women or Snapped! or both, using picture in picture)* "Hey, Dan?  Can you turn the tv down, please?"

Dan:  *shouting over the tv* "What?"

Me:  *louder*  "I said, can you turn the tv down please?"

Dan:  *wayyyyy out-louding MY loud*  "WHAT?"  

Me:  *yelling at the top of my lungs*  "CAN YOU PLEASE TURN DOWN THE TV!!"

Dan:  *getting pissed because he's deaf and can't hear me and as I said, that's my fault*  "I CAN'T HEAR YOU, DANI.  WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Me:  *getting fed up and walking into the bedroom, where I bellow like a bull moose who just got shot by a tranquilizer dart*  "I SAID TURN DOWN THE FREAKING TELEVISION!"

Dan:  *instantly wounded and butthurt*  "You don't need to yell... Jesus, Dani!  We live in an apartment building.  Have a little consideration, for God's sake!! Why are you yelling at me?"

(The irony of this is that Dan's "indoor" voice is louder than my yelling voice, but obviously that's beside the point.  *eyeroll*)

Me:  *squelching the desire to leap upon him and beat him to death with my tiny bare fists*  "Why didn't you just turn down the tv when you realized you couldn't hear me?"

Dan:  *looking at me as if I'M the stupid one*  "Ummm... because I couldn't hear you and didn't know what you wanted?"

GAHHHHHHHH!

Me:  *with the patience of a friggin' sain't, yo... seriously, most people would have killed him by now*  "Wouldn't it make sense to turn down the freaking volume on the tv so you could hear me?"

Dan:  *because it's never his fault*  "Why didn't you just come in here in the first place instead of yelling at me from the living room?"

This is where we generally reach an impasse.

With as much complaining as I do about our downstairs neighbor, Mr. Awesome, I can't help but wonder if the extreme douchery works both ways.  I mean, he has his skank of the week, whom he bangs loudly on a regular basis, his loud karaoke parties that we aren't invited to (asshole), his music, which he cranks up so loudly that my furniture rattles, his motorcycle that he never rides but sits on and revs the engine for 45 minutes at least twice a week, his freaking CAR ALARM that goes off like clockwork every other day or so, and speaking of CLOCKS, his chiming clock that goes off EVERY 15 MINUTES...

Wait... what was my point again?

Oh yeah... he's a douche.

But I'm thinking that so are we.

Ponder, ponder...

Could it be?  Is it possible?  Do the real douche bags live upstairs?

Dan is LOUD.  And by "loud", I don't mean he makes a little too much noise.  I mean he walks loudly, he talks loudly, he laughs loudly, he farts loudly, he snores loudly... When Dan is in the apartment, his presence is known.  He is incapable of being quiet.  When he gets up in the middle of the night to pee, he stomps across the bedroom floor, walks into the door, trips over his own feet, curses and swears because he's pissing himself off, bumps and bangs his way into the bathroom where he crashes into the door, flips up the lid of the toilet and smashes it into the tank... And then he repeats the process on his way  back to bed.

Which is why I always know... ALWAYS... if Dan got up in the middle of the night to pee.  And I'm pretty sure Mr. Awesome knows, too.

(And there is the sliiiiight possibility that I've made a little noise, myself.  Maybe.)

And his "telephone" voice... Oh God help me.  I refuse to let him answer his cell in public places because he literally YELLS into the phone.  

Dan is so loud he echoes.

But he doesn't realize it.

He does, however, always realize it when I'M being too loud.  Imagine that.  And he points it out.  Loudly.  

Earlier this evening, we had this brilliant conversation:

My oven door came off the hinges this afternoon when I opened it to bake an apple crisp.  I slipped it back on, which seemed to work, and promptly forgot about it.  Well, tonight, after I finished the dishes and was washing the counters, I noticed the oven door was still a little askew again.

I opened it, slid it into the hinges, and shut it.

Dan, from the bedroom:  "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?"

Me:  "I was putting the oven door back on the hinges."

Dan:  *top volume, people... TOP. VOLUME.*  "CAN'T YOU HAVE A LITTLE CONSIDERATION FOR OUR NEIGHBORS?  WE'RE NOT THE ONLY ONES WHO LIVE HERE, YOU KNOW!!  YOU CAN'T BE MAKING THAT KIND OF NOISE THIS LATE AT NIGHT!!!  JESUS, DANI... PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS!"

(I love that my neighbors know how big of an ass I am.  Dan thinks he's being funny when he says this to me, along with "You're a LYING ASS!" if I tell him something he doesn't want to hear, or when he informs me that I'm an asshole. They probably think I'm the LUCKIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD.)

Me:  *because I AM Mrs. Captain Obvious*  "Your yelling is wayyyy louder than my oven door rehinging.  Just an F to the Y to the I."

Dan:  "Oh bullshit."

Yup.

And then there's the tv.

Watching tv with Dan makes me want to slit my wrists.

It goes like this:

We will sit down together to watch something that we've recorded.  All is well, all is happy, I'm laughing softly to myself and appreciating the fine, fine comedy that is Friends...

Dan:  "What did they say?"

Me:  *hitting pause and telling him what was said*

5 seconds later:

Dan:  "What did they say?"

Me:  *hitting pause and telling him what was said*

5 seconds later:

Dan:  "What did they say?"

Me:  *throwing the remote at him*  "HERE... JUST TURN IT UP SO YOU CAN HEAR IT!!!  GODDDDDD!!!"

Dan:  *giving me his "you're mean" look*  "Never mind... just watch the show."

5 seconds later:

Dan:  "What did they say?"

Ad nauseum.

I shudder to think of our retirement... Dan is going to be walking around without a hearing aid, shouting at everyone because he can't hear himself, while I frantically sign at him to shut the hell up.  (Thank goodness I know sign language... I've been trying to teach it to him.  In the 10 years we've been together all he's learned is "I Love You" and "More" but I have high hopes.)  

All Faux Hawked Up

There was a bit of pissing and moaning yesterday because I was negligent in providing photographic evidence that I had, indeed, shaved the sides of my head and given myself a faux hawk.  

In my defense, there is a very good explanation for that:  I looked like shit.

I am not a wash and wear girl.  All this? *insert visual of me using my pointer finger to circle my face... uh huh* takes a considerable amount of effort.  And the older I get, the more effort it takes.  

Okay, people... the moment you've all been waiting for:  Dani's Sleep Deprived Faux Hawk, Revealed:

Please forgive the shittiness of the photo quality from my cellphone.  I would have had to drive to Florida in order to get enough light to make this picture turn out clear.

I am such a freaking bad-ass.  

Oh, and Nancy Grace?  This is how we do eyebrows, honey.  Note how they are NOT crawling down the side of my nose.

Now you know.

You're welcome.

Naked Truth

I'm pretty sure I have some sort of disease that causes me to do incredibly stupid shit to my hair when I get overly tired, overly bored, overly hungry, overly stressed, overly happy, overly sad, overly passive, or overly normal.  This isn't something new... I've had it for as long as I can remember.  I'm afraid it's terminal.

The first episode I recall was when I was about 7 and I cut my sister's doll's hair.

She had a "Puddin'" Madame Alexander baby doll that she named "Cindy."  I have no idea what came over me and I don't specifically remember cutting her hair (I think I blacked out or something) but I do remember the back-lash.  It wasn't pretty.  There was crying (my sister... seriously, what was the big deal?  I cut MY dolls hair ALL THE TIME and didn't cry like that... Drama Queen), yelling and threats to take away all my favorite toys (my mother), and denial (me... I mean, even though there was no one else in the house to blame, I flatly denied doing it and even, at one point, blamed my sister for doing it and then pointing the finger at me).

I don't recall my punishment but I'm pretty sure it was harsh.

But it also didn't deter me.

Because next?  I cut my bangs.

I was grounded from scissors and there is a noticeable chunk missing from the side of my hair in my 1st grade school picture. (I also had a missing front tooth, so it actually was not a bad look.)

I continued on in my career as a self-proclaimed stylist by having random moments of bangs chopping, the most notable when I used my mother's thread clippers in 6th grade to give myself a "trim."

After a series of panicked over-corrections, I wound up with bangs that were, at best, 1" long, crooked, and disappearing into my hair-line.  Sadly, (for me, anyway), my mother used that moment as a Lesson.  After I was through sobbing, bawling, and feeling horribly sorry for myself because I wound up with a stupid hair cut (by my own hand, which just adds insult to injury, ya know?) I begged her to take me to the salon and have them "fix it."  (Hair extensions had not, as far as I know, been invented yet in the early 1970s, at least not for 12 year olds, so I'm not sure exactly what I expected them to do, but there had to be something, right?)  My mother said Horribly Cruel Things to me along the lines of, "I'm GLAD you messed your bangs up!  Now maybe you'll leave your hair alone!" and "I just wish it would STAY that way... then you'd stop cutting your hair!" and "What do you expect them to do?   Glue it back on?"  (My mother can be vicious.  Vicious.)

I was the New Girl In School that year and was struggling to fit in, so showing up with ugly hair was just one more way for me to feel like a freak that year.  (12 is a really horrible age, people.  My mother should have bought me a wig.  It's the least she could have done.)

However, the Lesson was not learned...

Because I continued cutting my own hair, with disastrous results, for the next 36 years.  

Which leads me to today.

As you probably already know, if you've read my blog for any length of time, I have The World's Worse Insomnia.  My insomnia is legendary, beginning when I was very young and continuing on throughout my life.  I think the only time I've fallen immediately to sleep was after being in labor for 5 days while giving birth to my first child.  (I literally looked at the baby, accepted a cup of ice water because I hadn't been able to eat or drink anything from May 19th until May 23rd except friggin' ice chips and promptly passed out, dropping the cup and making everyone around me grateful that I wasn't holding the baby.)

I googled 'insomnia' and this came up.  WTF?

Even with my beloved Ambien, it takes me at least an hour to be able to fall asleep.  

Anyway, I've had 2 hours of sleep since Sunday.  Today is Wednesday.  I'm exhausted.

In fact, exhausted doesn't even really cover it.  I'm so tired I can't even chew food because I don't have the energy.  (I've eaten scrambled eggs two days in a row because everything else takes too much effort to eat.)  I can't think, I can't focus... I just keep drinking ice water and caffeinated beverages in an effort to remain semi-alert.

So here's what happened:

I gave Maisy (my stinky pug) a bath this morning, because even though she only steps foot outside to pee and poop, she manages to work up a stench that is fairly impressive.  While I was bathing her in the bathtub, in my sleep-deprived mental state I accidentally turned the hand held shower head the wrong way and wound up totally hosing myself and the bathroom down while Maisy remained completely dry.  

I finished bathing the dog, even though I was sopping wet and had water streaming down my face and body.

I dried her off, and cleaned the bathroom (which was also soaked... did I mention that?  I don't remember and I'm too tired to go back and re-read what I've already written).  

Then I took a shower.

I dried my hair and decided I hated it.  It's growing out, it's not cute,  I can't do anything with it, and when I put a hat on to cover it all up, bits and pieces of it stick out randomly and make me look like Oliver Twist.  And not in a good way.

I know this isn't Oliver Twist but it's a fairly good representation of what I look like in a hat.  Sad but totally true.

So I did what any rational person would do:

I grabbed my husband's clippers, put the #8 clip guard on, and shaved the sides and back of my head.

Because a faux hawk will fix everything.

Yes?

Further Conversations With Dan, Where Once Again, I'm An Asshole

What follows is an example of why my first husband may or may not have left me and why Dan is in no danger of losing me to anyone else:

Last night, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, we had the following conversation:

Me:  *randomly, with absolutely no inkling of what was to come*  "Hey, Dan?  Could you get me a bottle of water out of the frigerator?"

Dan:  "You mean the RE-frigerator?"

Me:  "Frigerator.  Refrigerator.  Fridge.  Whatever.  Could you get me a bottle of water out of it, please?"

Dan:  *because he honestly can't help himself*  "'Frigerator' isn't a word."

Me:  *immediately giving in to my innate need for fuckery*  "Sure it is.  It means to frigerate."

Dan:  "RE-frigerate."

Me:  "'RE-frigerate' means it's frigerating more than once. Ergo, 'frigerate' is a word.  Because it can't do it more than once if it isn't happening in the first place."

Dan:  *over-reacting, per usual, because that's how he rolls*  "Dani, you sound IGNORANT when you say that.  You sound like you really believe that."

Me:  "That's because it's true.  You can't RE-lapse if you hadn't already lapsed.  You can't RE-do something if you didn't do it at least once.  You can't RE-frigerate something that hasn't already been frigerated."

Dan:  *eyes bulging out of his head*  "Please tell me you're kidding."

Me:  *because I'm an asshole, he's an automotive electrician, and I  love nothing more than fucking with him over a subject he knows way more about than I do*  "Of course I'm not kidding.  How can you be a freaking electrician and not know that 'frigerate' is a word?  Did you sleep through that semester?  Seriously, Dan... pull your head out of your ass."

Dan:

Me:

Dan:  *tossing aside his parachute as he prepared to jump out of the airplane* "'REfrigerate'.  Don't be stupid, Dani."

Me:  "I'M being stupid?  Hello, pot?  This is kettle.  IT'S IN THE FRIGERATOR.  I'm so embarrassed for you, Dan."

Dan:  *getting hot under the collar and working himself towards a massive stroke*  "Dani!  Really?  REALLY?  IT'S 'REFRIGERATOR.'  How can you sit there and tell me that you think 'frigerate' is a word?  Oh my God!  Seriously?"

Me:  *having more fun than a fat kid in a candy shop* "Dan... think about it.   "RE" means to do again.  It can't RE-frigerate if it isn't already frigerating.  How can you not know that?"

Dan:  *launching into a hi-tech lecture using fancy words explaining everything I ever needed to know about refrigerators but honestly didn't give a shit about*

Me:  *totally not listening because I was plotting my next move*

Dan:  *finishing... finally*

Me:  "Dude... whatever.  If something is in the refrigerator, it's FRIGERATING.  I'm trying to teach you something here."

Dan:  *having a hissy fit and giving up on me*  "Fine."

Dan:  *leaving the room*

Me:  *waiting a few minutes then following him out, only to totally bust him looking up "frigerate" in the dictionary*

Me:  *laughing like a demented hyena*

Dan:  "You're an asshole."

Later last night, as we were cuddling in bed:

Dan:  *nuzzling my neck and kissing me sweetly on the ear*  "I love you so much I would give up my entire Fantasy Football career to make you happy."

Me:  *long, long, LONG pause*

Dan:  *sighing blissfully, totally lost in the moment*

Me:  *snicker*

Me:  *guffaw*

Me:  *practically peeing myself as I convulsed with laughter*

Dan:  *honest to God completely caught off-guard*  "What's so funny?"

Me:  *dying*  "I love you so much I would give up my entire Facebook career for you!"

Dan:

Me:  *tears*  "I love you so much I would give up SOCKS for you!"

Dan:  *turning red*  "I guess that didn't come out like I expected it to..."

Me:  *laughing so hard I thought my head would explode*  "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP EYE SHADOW FOR YOU!  HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!"

Me:  *because I seriously don't know when to quit*  "I LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP RECYCLED COFFEE FILTERS FOR YOU!"

Me:  *wheezing and almost dying because I honestly couldn't breathe*  "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP GOOD TOILET PAPER FOR YOU!"

Dan:  *giving up and leaving the room* 

Me:  *laughing myself into a pants wetting asthma attack completely by myself in the bedroom*

Me:  *composing myself well enough to get up and follow him into the living room*

Dan:  *looking wounded, butt-hurt, and seriously embarrassed*  "Are you done?"

Me:  *because I totally wasn't*  "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP READING FOR YOU!"

Dan:  "You're an asshole."

Passive Aggressive Facebooking: Decoded and Unplugged

Today is National Pet Peeve Day.  (I just invented it, like, right this second.  You're welcome.)

One of my newest and most trendy pet peeves is Vaguebooking, aka Passive Aggressive Facebooking.  I find it fascinating (and wildly annoying) how much attention people get for posting dramatic status updates that say, "OMG!" and then they don't come back online or provide an explanation for two days.  Or, "I can't believe this just happened..." AND...gone.

Meanwhile, left in their wake, are 47 comments that all say the same thing:

"What happened?"  "Are you okay?" "I'm praying for you..."  or just a meaningful emoticon:  " :(  "

I'm going to take a moment to translate for you:

"OMG" means, "Pay attention to me."

"I can't believe this just happened..." means, "Pay attention to me."

(It can also mean, "I'm a drama queen" or "I'm desperately needy" or most likely, D) All of the above.)

Inspirational Quotes with the simple statement, "So true..." make me stabby.  Like, seriously stabby.  Granted, it's a sure-fire proven method of getting all 200 of your closest friends to tell you how beautiful and wonderful you are, but wouldn't it be MORE meaningful if you just wrote, "I hate that limp-dicked bastard and I hope he gets hit by a bus and his whore girlfriend's twat explodes on impact"?  


Because that's what you're really thinking, right?  I mean, if you are actually thinking, "If you love something, let it go free... If it comes back, it's yours.  If it doesn't, it was never meant to be..." then I've got news for you:  You're stupid and I will make fun of you.


Usually I don't pay attention to the "Inspirational" quotes and pictures because I'm kind of an asshole and I find them freaking hilarious.  My eyes roll of their own free will as I skim through the words.  My body releases a derisive snort, completely of it's own volition.  (Honest.  I'm all, "BWAAAAAAA!" while I'm thinking to myself, "Dani, how rude... someone put a lot of time and effort into clicking "share" from their friend's Facebook pages to best express how deeply they are hurting...")  Meanwhile, my hand flies up to my mouth and suddenly I'm making rude fart noises as I finish reading the asinine quote, thus effectively gaining NOTHING from the well-chosen words that obviously spoke so loudly to the person who took the time to post this shit on their wall.  (As they were wiping tears out of their eyes because those words applied perfectly to their lives.  It's like, it was written for them.)

(Bonus points if the quote comes with a Marilyn Monroe credit.)  

Because this sounds like something a film star who made her living out of playing a dumb blonde would have said in the '50s...  Yes?

I've collected some of my favorite eye-rolling moments and I'm going to not only share them with you today, I'm going to define them for you and translate the message hidden within the message. Because I?  Am a giver like that.  (I'm seriously nominating myself for a Nobel Peace Prize. How thoughtful am I to take time out of my busy day of watching a Hoarders marathon to do this?  Jesus must be so proud.)


Let us begin with the famous break-up quote:

Translation:  

Then there's the "Nobody Likes Me Everybody Hates Me" quotes:

Translation:

And we can't forget "the Haters":

Translation:

The "Empowerment" Quote:

Translation:

One of my faves:  The "He was the best guy you'll ever get but since he dumped you because you seriously are the most boring person alive we're going to be supportive and make you feel like you deserve better" quote:

Translation:

The "I've Only Got 5 Friends On Facebook So Feel Sorry For Me" Quote:

Translation:

The classic vaguebook "I'm Upset And I Want Everyone To Wonder Why, Especially Someone In Particular Who's On My Friend's List" Quote:

Translation:

The "I'm A Total Bitch And No One Can Stand Me Except Other Friendless People Because I'm All They've Got" Quote:

Translation:

The "How To Lose A Friend In 5 Minutes" Quote:

Translation:

And finally, The Dani "See, Mom?  I'm NOT Wasting My Education!" Quote: