What I'm Really Saying, Is...

The daily adventures of a switchboard operator:

1) Yelling into the receiver does not make your pronunciation any clearer, HONEY.

2) When I clearly ask for your name, do not repeat the name of the person you want to speak with...How could I announce you that way? Now one in their right mind wants to talk with themselves.

3) When I say Sir or Ma'am, it's not a "Respect" thing, it means shut up and listen to me.

4) When I ask you to hold, it doesn't mean speak louder, quicker and more aggressively, so I can hear everything you have to say before I push the hold button, it means, "Hold" DEAR.

5) If I ask you if you'd like to leave a voicemail for the unavailable party, this does not mean leave your message with me. Does my voice sound like a very long and monotoned beeeeeeeep...I don't think so LOVE.

6) If you're a solicitor, and I know it, I'll put you directly to voicemail...I mean come on, using words like "the manager, the owner, or person who's in charge of making decisions," are a dead giveaway... maybe you should be more inventive if you're trying to make money off of cold-calling...please do not call me back 50 times after I direct you to voicemail, then hang up, it's not very becoming of you. Plus, you look like even more of a duffus if I have caller id, which I do...

7) At the end of my greeting, the question, "How may I direct your call?" is not your que to tell me your whole life story. My question really means, "I'm the one making minimum wage at this establishment, maybe you should think twice about telling a nobody all your most intimate life details."

8) Giving me attitude is only gonna land you in the voicemail. No one wants to speak with the Grinch. I'm really doing you a favor. Didn't your mama ever tell you about first impressions?

9) When you get the voicemail of the person you really want to speak with, leave them a voicemail. Do not call me back and say that you were disconnected, because we both know you weren't. You were just too much of a whiny BABY to take what I gave you...

10) When I say they're "unavailable" this doesn't mean we now start to play "20 Questions..." so you can find out what they're really doing. it means they don't want to speak with you now, so call back....never.

11) If I purposefully hang up on you cause you were being a dick, when I answer the line again, I'll always pretend that: a) I'm another person, or b) that it was totally an accident.

12) There's a reason I don't give you my name, so don't ask for it.

These are just a few examples of the daily crap that's dished to your very prompt and helpful 411 operators. So remember, the next time you call INFORMATION, don't act like a dick; Operators are people too!

California License Plate

I've lost count of how many times people have asked me why I still have my CA license plates on my car. I usually just say it's because the tags haven't expired yet;  I'd rather wait until they do to change everything, including my driver's license. The truth of the matter is I'm very attached to my CA plates. Honestly, I believe the these plates are my excuse to be an aggressive or otherwise bad driver. My theory is, even if I piss someone off to the point that they'd want to shoot me, they won't, because they'd see the plates and say,  "Californians are just rude and that we don't know any better." I also think that people behind me are less apt to follow closely because they don't always know what I may do...(Hence the picture on the left...) If you hug my butt, you'd better believe I'll go slower. If you're acting like a cactus-ass and start weaving in and out of traffic, oh yeah, I'm the chick blocking you in. There are two things you never do on the road:  One: Cut off a guy in a Mercedes talking on his cell phone, and Two: Piss off a Californian behind the wheel. Moral of the story: I keep my CA plates because their my excuse for bad behavior...there I said it!

Silicone Heart

Ok, Ok! So she'll die looking more like the Crypt Keeper...

It is nothing more than infatuation, I know this now. Everyone tells me that I'm up to my ears in a one-sided relationship, but do I believe their rather convincing and dramatic pleas for my retribution and sanity, No...I ignore their wisdom and insight in exchange for my temporary high and blind love. Love for "living in the moment." Love for the scene. Love for the pace, for the flow. Love for the expectancy of it's inhabitants. Love for the never-resting nights and the ever-running days. I hate to love the constantly exhausting plethora of attractive features and amenities offered. I hate lying awake at night, wondering if yesterday's hard work will be enough for the demands of tomorrow. The overdose of my anxiety and anticipation of the unknown here leaves me scarred and tired. I mustn't let the others see my bloodshot eyes; I have to make them think this place which preys on everyone and everything has accepted me, for me, because I'm different and special. They mustn't see how I long for the acceptance and validity of this place's addictive and enthralling sensuality and mystery. This place satisfies and provides more than adequate access to venues for my shoe addiction, but at what cost? This place wines and dines me, but still, where's the love? I find now it's harder to breathe; not just on account of the smog and pollution that seizes the silicone heart of this place, but for the constant call to be "civilized" and "enlightened" in my "Stepford" SELF. Every creature's relentless pursuit of success here is more important than the "pursuit of happiness." They all think they're a big deal, the next big thing...Does that give the nobodies a right to treat all the other nobodies like crap? Well, apparently, as long as you have money to burn, you can do and be anyone. Here, you can die looking like Catherine Zeta-Jones, when you were really born looking like the crypt keeper. Awe, the wonders and blessings of being a Californian!

Toxic Tongues

I remember as a little girl watching old western films with my dad. I idolised men like John Wayne and Gregory Peck for their foundation character and their willingness to die honoring their word. I strongly believe that this breed of men is slowly rotting away into the fabric of our imaginations. Soon they will be nothing more than a distant memory, or just a tall-tale mocked. Through the combination and progression of time, carelessness and "for the sake of advancement," the importance of our words have depreciated. Didn't we learn anything from "The Boy Who Cried Wolf?" You know, the kid who falsely cried for help from his fellow herdsman. When he really needed assistance, the memory of his laughing and mockery at their willingness to assist, kept the herdsman from his side when he was in desperate need of their help. We've traded true security for comfort. We've traded truth and honor for excuses and the "art of being tolerant." And that word, "tolerant..." makes me want to barf. Words use to be a declaration and mirror of one's soul; now-a-days we have to "read into" things and prepare for the worst. And if we're too trusting and take things at face value, we're stupid and should have known better. I've come to the conclusion that in this day and age, our words and promises are like mailers - cheap and disposable. Every once in a while there will be one worth keeping; of course if it's free or non-sacrificial. Isn't that sad...Looks to me like the world needs one of two things. One, to be taken over the knee of God and have a good hard spanking, or two, wake up from the promiscuous thought of phenomenal dimension, that we're all entitled to change our minds at the drop of a hat at everyone else's convenience. Or, we could cut the bull crap, and actually start to mean what we say. My hand's raised for the spanking people!

Every Day Happenstances (Good Morning!)

I hit the snooze button about 5 times before I decide if I wait any longer, I'll be late. I peek out the sliding glass door at the top of the small bistro table on our balcony to see what the weather has in store for the day. Huff...Thought so! I guide myself by the light seeping through the vertical blinds from the apartments behind us. They never turn off that stupid light. Aww well. I just about trip over the duvet that's fallen to the ground through our tossing and turning all night long. I was wondering why I was so cold last night. Maybe that's why I was dreaming I was in the arctic with only my bathrobe on. I'm glad I caught myself before running into the monster of a TV we have in the bedroom. I was a firm believer in the "TV's Ruin the Romance" statement, until I married a man who believed firmly in the "TV equals Romance" bit, so I compromised. I crack the bedroom door and brace myself for the sudden pounce and bound into the room from Abraham Lincoln, our cat, not the President. After recovering from this near death experience, I chase Mr. Lincoln, which further encourages his wit and rebellion. I finally surrender the exhausting task of "find the kitty under the bed." Of course I couldn't tell the difference between a cat and all the bunched together crap underneath my bed anyway. What was I thinking? That was a waste of my precious time.  I make my way down the hallway to the bathroom. I always manage to turn on the brightest light in the bathroom, blinding myself temporarily before I can find the switch to change the light source. Dang! I thought I left my morning face wash out last night, just so I wouldn't have to crouch under the sink to find everything but my morning face wash. I guess it's another game of hide and seek. I turn the water to hot, and while I wait for what seems like forever for it to warm up I decide I have enough time to relieve myself. Dag-nabit, out of toilet paper. Then of course I try to remember if I was the one to take the last of it, assuring myself that I wouldn't be so irresponsible. Moving on... The water is finally a good temperature to wash my face without sending my body into shock. Pat face dry, rub in lotion, brush teeth, clean ears, turn on flat iron and curling iron. Phew...done in under 10 minutes. Thank goodness! Don't judge, that's a world record for some. I walk out of the bathroom and turn toward my bedroom. There's Mr. Lincoln, right in the middle of the walkway, trying to dodge me as I dodge him. And who should lose their balance but me, the master. You'd think after having to do this for the last several months, I'd get the picture...he's trying to kill me. After totally embarrassing myself, I find my way back to the bedroom and get out my makeup, all 50 bags of it. Or so it seems like somedays. I usually sit in front of our wardrobe mirror and apply my makeup. This is not the best position to be in first thing in the morning; I've found myself falling asleep easily. I spend the next half hour trying to keep the cat off my lap while I try to creativaly reinvent cosmetic history. Not always so successful when 15% of my focus is actually on applying my face. Have to wash all that makeup off my hands now. Time to do the do. Straight or curly? Wait! What am I wearing again? Did I even remember to pick out my clothes last night? How about instead of standing here trying to figure it out, I go back to my closet and find out. Oh! Now I remember, black, black and black...how could I forget, I wear that color every day. While I'm standing here, I might as well get dressed, then do my hair. What time is it? Ok, I have 15 mintues. I can do this. I slip on my outfit and run to the bathroom, quickly flat iron my hair, spray some fake shine over the top of my head, unplug the irons, grab my purse and run downstairs. Feed the cat, down a cup of cold coffee, grab a yogurt and my lunch and head for the door. I always pause before opening the door. "Did I forget anything?" But even though I ask myself this question just before leaving, I always manage to forget something...important.

To be Continued---

I'm Always the Better Driver

(Heavy Breathing) "Mama?" (Heavy Breathing and a Little Crying) "Mama?!"

I'm terrified every time I get into the car with my husband. I never know if it's going to be a road rage kind of day or a Sunday driver type of day. It seems that my only source of comfort in these moments is the arm rest on the passenger side door. Every time I reach for it, a comment is made by my husband to defend his insane driving skills. It's just like in the movies, when the passenger looks out the window, they're looking straight down a cliff that seems to go on, forever and ever. With one hand over my eyes, and one hand on the arm rest, my life flashes before me...The realization of my inexperiences in life usually sparks a reaction similar to a Banshee's scream. At this point, his recklessness turns from blissful ignorance to purposeful exasperation. He knows he's got me in a vulnerable and perplexed position, so why not make the most of it, right! The real fun begins, as my expression goes from tolerance to complete terror... (See below)

Yes, I feel exactly like all these poor souls!

Question is, why am I so freaked out? Or better yet, why do I care if he drives too fast or too slow? It's not as if we've ever been in an accident due to my husband's erratic driving behavior. I guess that's just like a woman, isn't it; wanting the complete opposite from what we actually have. Am I just perturbed because I'm not in control or getting my way? We're all entitled to our opinions, right? But at what cost? When did being right become more important than being kind? Culture has inflated the necessity of rightness, which has led to tension and resentment of one another, especially in a marriage. I will be the first to admit, I use the excuse of "femininity" as an advantage of rightness whenever given the opportunity. You know, "Hunny, I need you to take out the trash? Hunny, can you drive slower? Hunny, can you move this 300 pound chair a little to the left? Hunny, can you stick your hand down the disposal and get the cat's collar out?" Then all of the sudden, we're looking at them like they're freaks for opening doors for us; how dare they, cause we're strong, independent, do-it-ourselves, type of women, and how could they take away our dignity like that! You know you're right and no one is going to change your mind. In the case of my husband's driving, I'm the "back seat driver" because of my insecurity in my lack of control in that specific situation, so this makes me "right." This is why comments like, "Chill Out," or "Calm Down" are not welcomed with open arms, but retorted with a gasp and folded arms or a Banshee scream.

This Is Called, "My Personal Space"

So you're talking to someone, you're having a great conversation, really connecting...all the sudden someone you "sort of know" comes up to the two of you and kind of hovers around, closer than you'd like them too. At first you try to ignore them, thinking, "Okay, if I give them the cold shoulder long enough, maybe they'll go away." But oh no, they stay. Like a vulture waiting to devour its dead prey, they stay. You try to switch bodily positions so that there is no way you can make eye contact with them. You can suddenly hear the pounding of your heart, and you're pretty sure everyone else can too. The frustration turns to sweat beads on your forehead. "Why haven't they left yet?!?!"  Then you feel guilty for standing there, having a great conversation that they're not apart of. So you try to introduce them into the conversation as smoothly as possible, pretending that you had no idea they were standing there the whole time...It's awkward, it's uncomfortable, and you just want to crawl underneath any piece of furniture willing to invite you into it's space. Isn't it usually a person you're ashamed of knowing or are embarrassed to  have even conversed with. You try sending hinted apologies and slight notes of caution to the blissfully unaware participant. "Do not get personal!! You'll regret it..." is what your bloodshot eyes are trying to convey to your poor friend. Sadly, this circular chain of events will never change until you "claim your space." Just like in AA, maybe you should introduce yourself as the following: "Hello, my name is Meaghan, and I have stiff boundaries. So don't even think about breaking through my barrier!" Or maybe we should all go through life with one arm stretched out in front, and one stretched behind, so there is no confusion over where your "bubble" begins and ends. But who wants to do that all day? How could we drink our coffee, or text while we drive? So, to the personal space invaders, get a clue, take a pill or find someone else to creep out, please.

High School Never Ends

Doesn't this look familiar...Odd man out...again!

Isn't it great when you graduate high school, you feel like you're able to begin your life, clean slate, responsible and drama free. You almost feel like a valuable person again. There's a concise and purposeful plan set for your future, which was crafted and designed for you by your Creator. Butterflies flutter in your stomach every time you think about what's in store for your life. You work your way through college, live off of cheap pasta, you finally get a job as an intern or beginning professional, and it's absolutely no different than walking to Mrs. Wood's English class in high school. You still have to deal with the backstabbing barracudas and melodramatic pre-Madonnas. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up at the thought and memories of your depressing high school days of the initiation of the "underdogs."  Do you really have to relive the all the regrettable defeats of adolescence again? All you want to say in retort to this travesty is, "You're just the worst kind of people!" and never have to look at them again. They all suddenly seem like the bridge jumping people your parents warned you about. There is always some sort of price that has to be paid in order to be accepted and valued. The cliques are just as impossible to become apart of and the groups and clubs are just as exclussive. You know the person who invented the VIP status was probably some mean girl in school, looking for a way to exclude the "frumpy girls" from specail events. The VIP tickets would be Darwin's "fittest" in the survival of the fittest theory of evolution. The world has distorted the truth of value and purpose and where we seek out acceptance. What would you rather be defined as, some snoby girls' version of a bad joke, or a reflection of your Creator?

Sheets and Lemons...Similarities?

So, how the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet? I've even saved the tri-folded cardboard that comes in the sheet packaging to try and master the folding techniques that look like something out of a "How To Become O.C.D" self-help book...I've gone to such great lengths as to clearing off and standing on top of my bed, laying the fitted sheet across the bed and attempting to perfectly fold the flaps under, over, between and around...This is when I had an epiphany. A smirk slowly crept across my face. I threw up my hands in the air and praised God for this great deliverance...All this time I had been griping and complaining over the fact that I couldn't perfectly fold my sheets, when all along all I had to do was throw them into my linen closet and forget about it. Problem solved. I won't get a migraine every time I strip my bed, and the sheets will be even more accessible and easy to pull out of the closet. I'll also be able to distinguish the difference between the fitted and flat sheet. The nicely folded and stacked pile will always be the flat sheets, and the ones balled up in the corner of the linen closet are obviously the fitted sheets.

If you absolutely, positively have to fold your fitted sheet, cause you're just as crazy as me, here are the several ways I've tried (and failed) to get the perfect folding results:

One: Stand on top of the bed, lay the fitted sheet flat and try to eyeball and fold the corners underneath each other. (This was just frustrating.)

Two: Save the cardboard that comes with the sheet set. Pull the sheet around the cardboard and stuff the excess into the cardboard. It's really not folded at all, it just looks like it. (This was just a big fat lie.)

Three: Have your husband hold one end while you hold the other. Slowly walk toward each other with your arms pulling the sheet widely apart and hope the air flowing between you two doesn't disrupt the shape and folding you did with the sheet in the air. (Exhausting and created an argument.)

Four: Start at one end and roll the sheet together and fold the sheet in half. (Just looked funny.)

Five: Throw the sheet set away and buy a new one. (This could get kind of expensive.)

Six: Leave the sheet in the dryer until you need it. (I don't really recommend this one. The sheet is just in the way when you try to do laundry.)

Seven:  Just ball it up and throw it into your linen closet. (My Favorite.)

When life hands you lemons, screw the lemonade, make margaritas!

Promless and Powerful

This is just sad! At least I never had to worry
 I'd be voted the "Fat Hoochie Prom Queen."

Whenever someone finds out that I never went to prom, they always have this look of amazement and pity on their face. I receive their pitiful expression as an implication that I'm an incomplete person for not attending prom, or that I missed out on one of life's pleasures rarely achieved. I laugh inside. I know my promlessness has made me powerful, and a better person. I believe that I have benefited greatly from my lack of "experience" in the realm of high school standards. Movies seem to glorify this shallow and over dramatized event by leading the viewers to believe that a special young lady will be the belle of the ball and that all of her dreams will come true. Well, every young lady cannot be Cinderella. The mass media has falsified true individuality, in turn, creating a  rebellious generation. It's the great struggle in discovering  one's uniqueness, consequently followed by self preservation. Either the search for individuality takes over one's life, or we take complete control, therefore becoming the "Control Freak." Either way, we lose. I don't think I missed out on much that would have added to my value or confidence as a woman, or a person for that matter. I didn't have to worry about not being asked to go, or seeing the guy I like go with my ex-bff, who knew I liked him and went with the dude anyways. Or the awkward slow dance conundrum. Where do I put my hands? I don't want to be promiscuous or a prude. Is my hair staying? It should be, cause I dumped about 2 cans of hairspray on it. Speaking of cans, is he really trying to look down my dress right now? If I slap him, I'll have to leave early, and how will I get home? How could I walk through the halls of school ever again? I'll be notoriously known as the prude who slapped and ditched her prom date. I love how people think that there's no hope for those who never attended prom, hated prom, or made a fool of themselves at prom. And now-a-days, a girl has to wonder or await the decision to lose her virginity at prom to some immature 16 year old who doesn't have a clue what he's doing. Also the type of music and dancing that's acceptable at prom now, absolutely disgusting! It looks more like dogs humping. I don't think that's where a dad wants his teenage daughter running off too with her ridiculously flirtatious and boy-crazy girlfriends. I didn't worry about giving into the peer pressures or the nagging and false assurance of who society told me to be. Instead, I picked up a great classic novel and lived vicariously through my favorite young heroines. I believe that my family gave me the proper tools to create for myself a truly unique identity, therefore instilling in me a satisfying safeness in who I am. Prom, who needs you?

A Bright Side to Traffic Lights

How many of you have ever been stuck at a ridiculously long traffic light? If I gave a speech and asked this question, I believe everyone would have raised their hand. Some may have even jumped up and down raising both hands, or maybe I'm just picturing myself in the crowd. Truth of the matter is, in every town, in every city, in every state, there's that one traffic light you try to avoid. But don't be surprised if you happen to see me sitting there. These lights which seem to piss everyone and their mother off, are my saving graces. Where do you think I get to review or revise my to-do list? Or catch up on my reading of "War and Peace;" or even make flight, hotel and car rental reservations. Come to think of it, I was sitting at a light the last time I made hotel reservations! This is the place where all business professionals should hope and strive to be stuck. Do you know how many business transactions and meetings you could complete and check off your Outlook calender while waiting at one of these lights? I've never counted them, but I'm sure the amount would be astronomical. Traffic light stops are the best place in the world! And those people in front of you taking an hour to do a u-turn, praise God for them. They just gave you an opportunity, before walking into that interview, to brush your hair...or teeth, whatever. Yes, I know most of you get that warm fuzzy feeling at the thought of all green lights on the way to work, but just think of all the books you could read in that amount of time. Just watch, now you'll see everyone lining up at the longest traffic lights all around the world. And the people behind the wheel will be jumping for joy instead of cursing the city's right to authority and order. So the next time you're sitting at a freakishly long light, just remember, this is your opportunity to be the crazy happy person making phone calls to Expedia planning your next trip to the Bahamas.

http://www.expedia.com/pub/agent.dll

Toxic Lipstick

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful princess. You know the story of Snow White; she had hair black as ebony, lips as red as a rose and skin as white as snow. She ran from her evil step-mother and came upon the home of the seven dwarves. Here she was safe until her evil step-mother, disguised as a peddler, found and convinced her to take a bite of a "bad apple," literally. Presumed dead, Snow White was laid to rest in a glass coffin for all to admire her beautiful dead body. Out of the blue, some random prince from who knows where, shows up to kiss her dead frozen lips. Snow White miraculously awakens. She leaps into the prince's arms, they ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after...Or so we were told...What the Brothers Grimm failed to capture was the aftermath of the kiss. They easily exclaimed that the ending was happy; it was much simpler to state this fact than to explain the truth. Snow White led us to believe that there was no deceit beneath her shallow, musically annoying innocence. We all believed that it was normal and sweet that a woman could fall in love with a man after one or two encounters that were, let's just say, unrealistic. There can only be two reasons that Snow White was so readily willing to be with her Prince Charming. One, she's as easy as a country Megan Fox look-a-like who orders three, double Jack Daniels with Coke on the first date; or two, she's a case of what I'd like to call, Toxic Lipstick. I'd vote on the latter; although it would be entertaining to see the Jack Daniels girl. Toxic Lipstick is the name I've given a woman that's known for her short and prosperous escapades, enjoyed by only herself in the aftermath of a failed relationship. These are the type of women who wear those daring red dresses and sit alone at the bar, acting as if they don't care if you're looking or not. (We all know they do.) She's the type that laughs in the face of others' misfortunes, and says things like, "Blah, Blah, Blah!" Not that I'm calling anyone out...The sad truth is that our poor Prince Charming was led down the infamous path of the "Players." He bought into the lie that you should follow your heart, even if it leads you straight to hell. He followed his heart straight into a painful and drawn out whine fest of the "I needed's" and "Why didn't you's." We live in the time of pampered princesses and spoiled brats claiming their entitlement and ownership of reality. The never-ending need for attention and validation of their bad behavior poisons the following generations of young women. With our society's acceptance of the "Home wrecker" lifestyle, Toxic Lipstick will live on. Why did our black-haired beauty really decide to live with seven short men neck deep in diamonds? Snow White: innocent bystander to everyday evils, or pernicious and cruel example of the prowling Toxic Lipstick? You decide.

Photo Booths

Every time my husband and I see a photo booth, we have to jump in and take a picture. You know, the colossal and invasive contraptions that are just hanging out in the middle of the mall or amusement park with that embarrassingly thin curtain, made especially that way to mock our sitting there. Yeah, that couple in there, terribly uncomfortable and laughing hysterically at how squished we are, that’s probably us. I love the diversified selection of cheap borders they’ve come up with now. The orange and black tribal border, the “We’re Angels” header with pink clouds, and my favorite, the “Best Friends” header; because you know that phase above a picture of a couple of friends is so original; not to mention that they provide that one in every color imaginable. They’re all made so specially to frame those ridiculous looking posses and awkward positions that we tried to make look so flawlessly natural. Everything is automated now. It’s so awesome! They even have a monotone, and yes, even hostile voice talking us through the process of suggestive posses. And all of the sudden, BAM! “You’re on Candid Camera!” haha!! No, not really, but seriously! Surprisingly the light flashes a couple of times, you’re not ready for it at all, and then you’re done. Next, you have to squeeze your way out of the cramped little disaster of a booth, hoping we don’t crash into a troop of emo chicks or something. Then we have to wait five minutes to get the finished product. There we are waiting by the booth; both looking down at our feet with an awkward smile, hoping we don’t catch anyone’s eye; feeling like complete idiots for spending $5 bucks on something so cheesy. Yet, there’s something about the end product…Hearing the photos drop into the dispense tray. Biting our lips while we turn the picture over to see the printed merriment…Tadaaa!! Obtuse, yet priceless! I dare you to try it out the next time you see one! Remember to dodge those emo chicks!

My Volkswagen Beetle

So what if the Beetle was voted the safest car in 1990 something. The price seemed so reasonable at the time. I thought, “Wow! This is almost too good to be true!” Well, it was and I’m definitely paying for it now. I don’t even want to tell you how many tires I’ve had to replace on my car. You’d think I was a NASCAR driver or working for the government. The hubcaps have popped off so many times I’ve lost count; I’m actually currently missing the front passenger side hubcap. I’ve replaced so many belts, pans, pads and hoses; I could have saved those parts and made another car. Not to mention the cup holders have never fit any American made cup, so I would resort to just placing the cup in my lap… Smart… The whole car smelled like old milk from spilling iced lattes all over myself, so I bought one of the most potent car fresheners out there. The scent was something like “Baby Powder” or “Fresh Powder.” I just about died every time I stepped into my car. I had constant headaches and came out smelling like a freakin’ nursery. You better believe I trashed that freshener right away. So now my car smells like old milk with remnants of baby powder. I think it smells worse than before. My air conditioner stopped working 3 years ago when my sister and I decided to take a road trip across the country to California. Did I happen to mention that it stopped working in the middle of the desert in June… That was pleasant! I have lost all control of my “power windows.” I have to actually tug on the top of my window when it’s open to get it to even move an inch. My tape player died about 3 years ago (who has cassette tapes anyway), the 6 disk CD player in the trunk stopped working 6 years ago and the AM/FM button popped off when the dealership tried fixing the tape player. By the way, they never fixed any of those problems, shocker. My antenna looks like mice have gnawed off the aesthetic exterior coating, so now all you see is the coil wiring…lovely. BEWARE car buyers, stay away from Volkswagens! At least the Beetle side of the lot…Every part underneath the hood is plastic, plastic, plastic. If you want a car that will be in the shop the majority of the time you own it, step right up, sign your name in that stupid computer, and let this mass European corporation decide what car is best for you. What you don’t really know, is that the car salesman has screened you for your perfect fit, excuses himself for just a moment, and suggests while you wait, to try their new “Sign and Drive” event…Just sign the key pad, and your signature tells the computer what car is best for you…Yeah right, cause my hand has made me very happy. It’s the reason I’m so successful. Every important decision I need to make, I’m sure to consult with my writing hand first. Please tell me that the salesman didn’t just step away and put your name and preferred car in the computer. I’m sure every dealership or even every car has their thing, but when it’s one thing after another, enough is enough. I would not wish this car on my worst enemy.

I've Been Banned from Grocery Shopping

Is there a member of your family that's no longer permitted to attend the weekly or monthly grocery run? It seems that in every family, there is at least one person who's watched more than others; that one person who is notoriously characterized by their need for the needless. I don't know how it works in your household, but in ours, I'm permanently banned from grocery shopping. My husband forbids my attendance to any grocery store establishment. He understands that at some point in time, I may have to participate. In this case, he makes it very clear that both of my hands are not to leave the cart. How did it get to this point? Why have I been eternally excluded from the hustle and bustle of this housewife task? Before now, I've been in complete denial to the fact that I have a problem and that professional help may be required. When I shop, I tend to be the "Impulse Buyer." Oh yes, I'm the type they reach out to in the check out lines, with their candy bars, batteries and travel lotions. I crave the unexpected expectedness of the gotta-haves and don't-you-needs. I think I'm so clever hiding the items strategically amongst the pile of my overindulgence. The items usually go unnoticed until the cashier starts scanning the doo-dads and thing-a-ma-bops I've snuck into the cart. I suddenly feel my husband's eyes searing a hole through the back of my head. Even as shocked as I may seem, I've known this reaction was inevitable. It's been stated that I'm similar to a cat walking through the isles, distracted by every bright shiny object. To help with my problem, I've even gone to great lengths in creating a detail list of specific items needed, and specific items to stay away from. And yet, the same outcome is achieved after every exhibition. At this point in time, I'll just have to keep my hands glued to the cart. I wouldn't want to risk having a permanent hole in the back of my head, or are those great smelling travel lotions worth it?

Universal Cup Sizes, Please!

No, I don’t mean bra cup sizes! I’m talking about the everlasting conundrum of the venti vs. large vs. me crap. How many times have you walked into a non-starbucks coffee shop asking for a venti something-or-other, only to be rudely answered, “You mean a large?” No, I don’t mean a large, I mean what I just said lady! The fact of the matter is, we’re living in a generation that’s been “Venti-ed.” Basically interpreted as “spoiled.” Everyone wants to be different, in turn, no one ends up having that luxury. Therefore, we’ve ended up with a million different sizes for cups. This is why you have to squeeze that latte between your legs in the car. Someone’s “different” cup has cost you your precious cup holder, or your beautiful leather seats from spilling all over yourself. All the cup creators and manufacturers should hold a conference and develop 3-5 universal cup sizes for the entire world to adhere to. They should also invite all vehicle manufacturers, to make adjustable cup holders to fit those 3-5 cup sizes. See, simple, to the point, and it would work for everyone. No more lawsuits over spilling scalding hot coffee all over ones crotch, because the cup holder would actually be doing its job. See all they’re good for now is holding all those annoying car washing advertisements, hair pins, candy, random trash, and maybe those occasional emergency mints. What about those disgustingly large slurp, burp, jerks or whatever they’re called. Seriously, some of these x-large cups are larger than my torso. All I wanted was the x-large curly fries and I’m handed this enormous cup to go with your meal. Come on people, we may need to change the saying from wishful thinking, to wasteful thinking.

The Bread and Butter Plate, a Lost Art

I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself, “What the hell’s a bread and butter plate?” You’d be very normal for asking this question. The bread and butter plate, aka the b and b plate, is the forgotten and undermined dish usually used in a formal gathering located just above the forks, to place...your bread and butter on…Shocking! We’re living in an era of the “every day dishes.” Easy to use, easy to maintain, quick to grab, and, let’s just be honest, cheap. What happened to the art of entertaining? What happened to the thrill and the expectation of etiquette? I’m not saying “etiquette” as a politically correct term; I’m thinking more of an earnest consideration for one’s guests. When I was a little girl, like most, I played tea party and dress up. As the hostess, I made sure all the place settings were perfectly laid out, anxiously awaiting my guests’ arrival. When all my Barbie’s and bears were seated, I served each with respect and decorum. If only when we grew up, we could act in this way. Instead, we are taught that “time is money.” We’re encouraged to grab that Hot Pocket and sprint out the door with it halfway down our throats. I’m not saying that Hot Pockets are bad, I happen to live off of them. But I think that I would enjoy my day more if I made time in the morning for a nice cup of coffee, or even some bacon, eggs and biscuits on an actual plate; maybe even get up early enough to have breakfast with my husband. The art of sincere service is slowly dying. Instead of Shop Class, maybe boys should be taught lessons in chivalry. And for girls in Home Education, should to be encouraged to reinforce our grandmother’s tradition of sacrificial love and grateful hosting; or at least be taught what a bread and butter plate is…Now ladies, I’m not saying to lay out the red carpet and b and b plates every time your mother-in-law decides to pop by, or maybe you need too, who knows. I’m encouraging the enjoyment of serving others. My mom and older sister have helped me understand my privileges as a wife and woman. They inspire everyone around them to appreciate the time-consuming task of planning for guests. They make their homes a masterpiece to be comfortable and relaxed in. I’ll never forget the first time my husband and I stayed with my mom. We walked into the guest room and at the foot of the bed were…bread and butter plates! Not really. She had actually taken the time to neatly fold two bath towels, two hand towels, and two washcloths; on top were our own individual soaps, shampoos and lotions. We also were given a beautiful quilt to take home with us. I felt like I was staying in a five star hotel! Did I happen to mention the made-from-scratch meals every morning, noon and night? She’s an example of a rare bread of women committed to outstanding and memorable entertainment experiences. So come on girls, put those pretty aprons on, roll out those bread and butter plates, grab the lipstick if you must, and make your guests’ experiences ones worth gossiping about.

I Hate Getting Gas

For as long as I can remember I have loathed gassing up my car. When I see the gas meter near empty, I suddenly get a splitting headache; everything and everyone seem an annoyance. I become that road raged maniac on the highway. During my immature tantrums and exploitation of tailgating, questions arise as to why I didn't notice this sooner; why didn't I ask my husband to take my car for a spin, and just happen to be low on gas. Wink...He's a much more responsible individual than I am. While I'm at work, at my parents or just lounging at home, it will consume my every thought. Life is no longer enjoyable. "This sucks!" Is perpetually ringing in my ears. So why do I abhor this occupation so much? Number one, it's taking my money, and I feel I have nothing to show for it. No bag to carry my purchase in or memorabilia to look back on; just a receipt reading "I took your money!" Two, I pride myself on being an independent woman and would hate for others to think I need assistance washing my windshield. And lastly, I only have two possible exits: to the left or to the right. I'm completely boxed in by my car and the pump; unless I decide to hurdle myself over the unmovable concrete trash cans that reek of Funoins and stale soda. Not to mention that my purse is just hanging out in the passenger seat. I believe it cripples my confidence and makes me feel like one of those damsels in distress standing alone at the pump. Have you noticed that no one at the gas station makes eye contact with anyone else? Everyone has an expression of, "Do not approach me, do not talk to me, and don't even look at me." I think all the introverts got together and created a barrier of introversion around every gas station so that even the extroverts would completely shut themselves off to conversation. Of course, excluding the weird dude wearing miss-match shoes, talking to all his little friends, slowly making his way in my direction. My eyes getting larger and larger with his every step. Inside I'm screaming at the pump to go faster than the ketchup at Denny's. Yeah, that's totally me. Have you noticed that there are more and more questions at the pump now? "Debit of Credit? Zip Code or Pin Number? Do need a car wash? Do you want a receipt? Are you sure about that? Don't forget the soda! How many pets do you have? Married or Single?" Seriously! Stop with all the insane amount of questions. Just let me fill up my freakin' car in peace, while I try  avoiding the guy with imaginary buddies and uncomfortably swiping my card for everyone to see. Next time, I'll ask my husband to take my car for a spin.

The Documented Deaths of a Sock Monkey

History of the Sock Monkey

Ever wonder where your missing socks really go? Do you really believe that they disappear in your dryer somewhere, never to be seen again? This is the lie that's been spread by a mysterious source; isn't it funny no one recalls exactly from where? Brace yourself for the truth! The first few missing socks lay dormant and quiet, only God knows where. They collect and consume poor, helpless dusk bunnies, slowly growing larger and larger, until they are completely filled. When they're strong enough, they creep out in the dead of the night. The Sock Monkey travels endlessly through your home, fervently searching through the washer, the dryer, the hampers, and if he's desperate enough, will even go through your sock drawer! He devours your helpless sock pairs, ripping them away from each other, forever...Hence, becoming the elusive Sock Monkey. If and when you spot the Sock Monkey, do not be fooled by his slight smirk, beady eyes and outstreched arms. Immediately shun his stare, sacrifice your sanity and grab him by the legs. He will attempt to coax you in with his false love and affection, do not give in! "Never give up, never surrender!" The following are ways to avenge your socks; you must deal in a way sock monkeys will understand.

P.S. Sock Monkeys have a weakness for puppy breath, grapes and gummy bears.

You can provide Mr. Sock Monkey with easy access to your "vitamin" cabinet. Make sure you take the label off of the bottles first, and he won't know the difference between Flintstone vitamins and horse tranquilizers.

Invite Mr. Sock Monkey to dinner. "Wine and Dine" the little guy. Remember, he loves grapes, so be sure to break out the savory stuff. This is your opportunity to slip him a little extra "flavor", courtesy of arsenic.

Mr. Sock Monkey may be too much for you to handle. In which case, you may need to call in the big guns...someone you can trust! Ninja Bear to the rescue! He makes everything look like an accident. Just what you need.

There's no way to make a light socket look attractive. You could however, unscrew the cover, jam some grape gummy bears into the openings, and put the cover back on. Don't forget to place the fork "strategically" next to the socket. All you have to do now is sit back, relax and watch the Electric Rave.

Conclusion of the Sock Monkey

I know by now you're thinking, "This is horrible and sickening!" Yes, you're right, it probably is. In the end, this is the way I've dealt with my Sock Monkey infestation. The first few, I decided to set free with a fair warning of consequences if they ever returned to my house. These decisions brought me years of missing sock and horrifying nightmares. I've decided to put a stop to the madness...What will you choose? The Red Pill (Death of a Sock Monkey) or the Blue Pill (Freedom and Return of a Sock Monkey)?

Clowns Are Evil

Why are so many people afraid of clowns? Is it the abnormally large and inebriated looking red nose? Is it the fact that they look like a disturbed and beaten up porcelain doll? Or are we always on our guard, just waiting for them to spray us with that gay little flower pertruding from their chest? As adults, we've usually come to terms with our fears, and have been able to sift through the troubling memories of "Little Billy's" birthday party crasher. The fact of the matter is...clowns are horrifyingly creepy. Perhaps movies like, "Killer Clowns from Outer Space" and "It" have eternally disfigured our perseption of reality. Or maybe it's because Michael Myers from "Halloween" was wearing a clown costume the night he killed his sister. Children seem to be accepting of the idea of a giant man in a costume, until they're standing in front of the beast. Being in the presence of a 6 foot, 6 inch, loud maniac is unsettling to a 5 year old. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I never recall having met a Mrs. Ronald McDonald. There's something a little disturbing about a man all in yellow running around the playground with kids. Clowns tend to be the "bad guy" you just don't trust. Even in the Disney movie, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," I still didn't trust Clopin Trouillefou the jester. A famous sociologist, Peter Berger writes that "It seems plausible that folly and fools, like religion and magic, meet some deeply rooted needs in human society." Bull crap! How are clowns meeting some deeply rooted need in human society? Either he's a closet clown, or he's saying we're all messed up in the head and need comfort from an annoyingly colorful and disturbed weirdo. Their comic value is limited to a very small amount of time. Their hilarity is phony and over dramatized. People tend to watch them from afar with a concerned smile on their face; not saying anything for fear that their faces may be ripped off. And those are just the everyday clowns. On the other side of the spectrum, we have the Rodeo clowns. Those guys are in a whole class of their own. Who'd want to spend their whole day cooped up with an angry bull and just a couple of barrels to hide in? Not me...They're what have been called the crazies of the crazies. Beware! DO NOT ENTER the 10 foot radius of craziness, or you'll be eaten alive!

Wormholes

Did you ever wonder why men just couldn't keep up with woman's conversation? The infamous argument of the "stay on subject, please," from equal parties. I've heard it said before that men are like waffles and women are like spaghetti. I happen to agree with this statement. And because men are like waffles, every part of their life has it's separate box, or waffle as it were. Rarely anything from their personal life trickles into their work. Rarely any two relationships merge in some catastrophic or paralyzing way, unless it involves his mother and his wife. Men are usually clear cut, analytical, black and white horse blinders. Now you have women on the other hand. Like wet noodles, we are valleys and mountains of emotion. Everything connects to everything else. If we say one thing, it means something totally and completely different, and it will relate to something negative and positive at the same time. Yes, we really do want that birthday party we told you a week ago that we didn't want. If we're crying about something, it probably also means we're crying about 10 other things...no exaggeration. We are passionate, bipolar, dramatic energizer bunnies. There is no end to our methods or madness. They all connect in some sinister, uncanny way. Guys, let me finally put a word to your everlasting confusion regarding women's conversations. My family got together one evening, and all the girls were chatting. All the sudden we were interrupted by a very loud, abrupt explanation of "Wormhole!!!" We all shifted our attention toward the very comfy, very green La-Z-Boy sofa where my dad was reclining with a countenance of accomplishment. My mom quickly turned and asked what we were all thinking of. "What?" He repeated himself, "Wormhole...that's what you were just doing. I'm just saying." We all laughed at his explanation of the term; I think more at the fact that our behavior had finally been named after 20 years of an estrogen overrun house. See, apparently, "wormholing" is what women do to change subjects very quickly, but smoothly in a conversation. We can do it even with strangers, given it's a female. Our conversation seems to flow into relative and non-relative subjects based on memories, experience and apparently also our bipolar nature. We could be talking about puppies one moment and then all the sudden we're onto animal cruelty, and then back and forth to PEZ dispensers and beauty pageants. I'm going to give you guys the essential tool kit to surviving a wormhole invasion when you're girlfriend's pal comes over.

Rule # 1: Recognize the wormhole.

Rule #2: You need to acknowledge that your girl isn't crazy for being able to communicate with women.

Rule #3: Maybe make a mental note of how many wormholes you went through, so when you come out on the other end, you feel accomplished getting through X amount of insane subject changes.

Rule #4: Definitely the most important rule of all...NEVER mention to the girls, that they've just wormholed!

There will be so much tone in her look...drop that video game controller and run! I fear the only way men can actually participate in the wormhole is if they close their eyes and visualize themselves as Luke Skywalkwer, risking his life for the Rebellion, trudging his way through the belly of the Death Star, and making it out by the skin of his teeth. So unless you're Luke Skywalker, sorry, you'll just have to listen.