Last night, my husband and I drove to Santa Fe to get tires on my car. Normally, I wouldn't write a whole post about buying tires, but something happened that just highlighted the attitude of entitlement some people have, and I wanted to vent. Ahem, to share, I mean.


We get to the store and are standing there, waiting to be helped. Of course, it's Sears, so they have only one salesman, and he's about 17 years old and running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I kind of want to help him, because I feel sorry for him, but I think that I probably shouldn't. He needs to know why he should finish high school and go to college: So he can get a degree and then still work at Sears. Then he'll have that piece of paper to go home to at night.


Ha ha ha...I have a music degree, I'm allowed to make fun.


So we're watching, and this lady is standing at his counter, telling him she's not going to pay for the oil change on her ticket. When he asks why, she says, "Because. The manager who was here before you didn't offer me an oil change, and your sign says that if you don't offer one, it's free." The kid says, "Okay. Can you just tell me the whole story of what happened?"


Here we go, and it's stunning: She says, "I came in for a tire rotation, and then I asked for an oil change. The man working never offered me one, so it should be free."


What? Huh? We're just all standing there, watching, because it's insane. Why would the guy offer her an oil change if she'd already asked for one? She explains it again, and again, and finally the kid goes to get a manager.


The manager comes and hears her story, then asks to hear it again. Both times, it consists of her asking for an oil change before it was ever offered, so it should be free. He has this look on his face like he wants to laugh but he, of course, can't. Well, not in front of her, at least.


So he says, "I'm sorry, ma'am. Since I wasn't the manager on duty, I can't do anything about what a previous manager told you. I will give him your phone number and have him contact you when he gets in tomorrow." By this time, we've been waiting almost half an hour to be helped, and my husband is really restraining himself from going over and telling the lady off. I was pretty proud of him.


Oh, and then? The kid goes off to get some papers and the manager leaves, and we're left standing alone with the lady, and she cuts the cheese.


(That really happened, I didn't just throw it in there to add interest.)


I pretty much lose it and start laughing. She just stands there with this self-satisfied look. If I was a braver person, I would've asked her if she needed me to get her a fresh pair of pants, but I wimped out.


So, in the end, they made her pay for the oil change, but the man who promised her the free one since he hadn't offered it to her is supposed to call her today and credit her account.


Yeah, that's going to happen. He's going to call and say, "Ha. You paid. No freebie for you. Deal with that." and then laugh maniacally as she cries. Okay, maybe not, but that's what I want to happen.


WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? Why would you try to take advantage of a system that is only in place to force the Sears salesmen to try to sell you a product you didn't want in the first place? Doesn't that lady know that every time they have to give out a free oil change, it makes them yell at their salesmen to try to sell us more crap?


Geeeeeeeezzzzz. 

Today is the day. You're all going to get to hear the story of Sam's Club. Try to contain your excitement.


Now, I have lots of stories, as does everyone else on the planet. My stories usually involve bodily functions happening in an inappropriate place, profusely, or someone falling down. This is a rare example of a story that has no bodily functions (not mine, anyway) OR falling down in it.


When my husband and I were first dating, we used to go with my parents to the Sam's Club in Santa Fe every few months or so, to help them get groceries. This would've been back when I was in my late teens, I think. So, yeah, the 1850s, because as we all know, I am older than time. Anyhoo, we were all in Sam's, and then we did the inevitable split-up. My mom would take one cart and me and my dad and my husband would take the other cart and just wheel aimlessly around, pretty much waiting for my mom to be done, and throwing the occasional irresistible item into our cart (except we knew that it was highly likely that whatever we picked was going to get vetoed by my mom, because she has ultimate supermarket veto powers).


We're going down one of the frozen food aisles when we see this cart, full of food, that looks like it's just been abandoned. On the top of the cart is an open package of turkey lunch meat, except upon closer inspection, we could see that the turkey was kind of blueish and emitting a funky smell. Ick. My husband goes in for a closer look, and this lady comes up behind him and says (angrily), "Excuse me. Can I help you?" Apparently, it was her cart. He just looks at her and says, "No, ma'am. I was just smelling your turkey."


We then walk off quickly, giggling like crazy because it was such an odd situation, what with my husband having just informed a lady that he was smelling her turkey. My dad, who has referred to himself as the FartMaster, starts...well...yep, it's bodily function time. Which makes us walk through the section really fast, but now we're all laughing so hard we're crying, and the laughing just makes my dad's "situation" worse.




So we finally stop to catch our breath by this big display of lobsters. My husband, who worked at Red Lobster during college, picks up a saran-wrapped one and says, "I used to kill these things." Right at that moment, his finger and/or the lobster's claw breaks through the plastic and the sharp pointy part of the claw cuts the crap out of his finger. Perfect timing on the lobster's part.


So he's bleeding, and we're all laughing hysterically, and then...


...my mom walks up and looks at us like we're the most embarrassing people on the face of the Earth. You know the mom look, and we get it quite often, as we're usually the ones who laugh in church, restaurants, offices, you know, any place where laughing really loudly until your nose is running and you look like you're crying is inappropriate.


So, yeah, that just made us laugh harder. The look is scary, but it's also highly ineffective.


Ta da. Best trip to Sam's in history. Well, for us. Probably not so much for my mom.

Whenever I meet someone who says she (or he) doesn't have much contact with her family because they don't get along, it makes me sad. Why? Because my family is ridiculously fun, and it really stinks to think that there are people out there who don't have that.

So I've decided to rent them out.

Come on, it's a great idea! Who doesn't want to have a mom teach them how to make a pot roast or a dad take them out for a milkshake (actually, Dad, if you're reading this, we should probably go practice that at some point)? Heck, you could even rent the whole family for a super-fun game night!

I think I could talk them into that. My sister would probably have issues if I rented her out for a big sister talk/chick-flick fest, but otherwise, I think we'd be safe. It would probably be just like renting a clown, except we're far less scary and the kind of balloon animals we'd make would probably not be appropriate for the general public.

I could even rent out my husband as a shopping partner (actually, I'm serious about that...he pulls these great things off the rack that I don't even see), except I think he'd hate that. A lot.

Since it's my idea, of course, I'd get to keep a larger percentage of the proceeds, say 70%, and then the family member/performer would get the remainder. 

Yeah. This is a great idea. We could even extend it to the cousins and aunts and uncles, since the awesomeness continues that far. You haven't really played Spoons unless you've sustained an injury or broken a table, light fixture, or chair. I'm thinking it would be so successful that everyone would have to quit his or her day job.

You guys in? You know you want to. I might even consider going down to 65%, if you bring candy into the negotiations.

Of course, this would mean I'd have to rent myself out, and since my biggest skills are cleaning and baking, I'd basically be a maid. I'm pretty sure they already have those, so I'm guessing I'd be the least popular rental. I'm okay with that, though. I think the biggest money would be in renting us out as a group. For parties and such. I can see it now...

....Watch! As the family gets into an argument about who actually started the laughter that got us kicked out of church!...

....Listen! As Mom tells the story about how the kids got into shenanigans that one time, again and again!...

....Learn! How to do virtually any activity from the comfort of the couch!...

Wow. That's going to be amazing. I'm seeing an infomercial in our future, guys! Oh, and crafts. There need to be crafts. 

Just to demonstrate, I leave you with a picture of my skills. Yes, that is a Chocolate Peanut Butter Fun Cake, and yes, this is what you could get. For only $49.95 an hour plus tax.

Who wouldn't want to get in on that?

Maybe I just have a bad attitude, but whenever someone assures me that I'm going to like something, I usually end up hating it. I don't think I'm trying to be contrary, but it's very unusual for me to really like something someone has recommended to me. For instance, people tell me things like, "Oh, you should definitely read this book. You'll love it." So I go to the library and read the dust jacket, and I'm thinking, "Wow. A book about kissing and smooching and kittens that's very heartfelt in which everyone talks about feelings and learns a valuable lesson at the end."


In case you haven't been paying attention, that's not really my style. Especially the valuable lesson part.


I've pretty much decided that life is a series of valuable lessons that are constantly being learned, except that the kind of lessons we learn are way more irritating and boring that what you read about or see on TV, and you don't ever realize what you learned until much later. At that point, maybe, you're a little grateful for the experience, but for the most part, it kind of sucks.


Don't want to read about that, thank you.


I also avoid any movie that could be labeled a "chick flick." Why? Well, they're generally extremely sexist, and based upon the assumption that women are adorable muddle-headed little creatures that just need the power of the right man to set them straight. Tee hee. Yeah, not so much. Plus, I tend to think that most of the time, the guy they throw in who takes his shirt off and is supposed to be hot isn't that hot. Throw some Professor Snape in there, and maybe we'll talk. Maybe.


I guess I just don't do well with mass-hysteria. 


I will also take this time to admit that I think Channing Tatum, James Franco, Tom Cruise, James Van Der Beek, Justin Timberlake and pretty much all of those people everyone likes are really, really unattractive. They kind of make me gag.


Oh, and if Hollywood remakes one more awesome movie (Death at a Funeral), thus ruining it for a new set of moviegoers, I may have to find out whose fault it is, drive to their house and TP it. Because that is lame.


I think the overall theme of today's presentation is that I am highly critical of everyone and everything, my opinions automatically become fact, and, finally, that Professor Snape is mantastic. Got that? 

An Open Letter to People Who Chew With An Open Mouth and other Noisy Eaters

Dear Noisy Eaters,


This letter isn't intended to hurt your feelings. Really, it's intended to help you; nay, to help the whole world to lead a better life. A life free of all the noises that come along with being a noisy eater. A life free of my hand smacking you upside the head for making me puke.


Some of you chew with an open mouth. Didn't your mother ever tell you that that's rude? No? Well, I'm here to say that yes, it is rude. Moreover, it makes other people sick to see all of that lovely masticated goodness going on in your mouth. Please, please, please, for the love of all that is good and kind, shut your mouth when you chew. If you have a stuffy nose and can't breathe, try to think of creative ways to get some air in there. Maybe shut your lips all the way except for a teeny hole at the side that can be used as an air hole. Try practicing in front of a mirror so you can see what I'm talking about.


Not all noisy eaters chew with an open mouth. Some like to eat juicy foods in public and make lots of sucking and slurping sounds. Here's a rule of thumb for you: If you're in a place with background noise, try to keep your slurping below the background noise level. If you're in a place with no background noise, your slurping sounds revolting and you're likely to make me want to put dog poop in your mailbox. Not that I'd ever do that, because as we all know, that would be a federal offense, but it's that kind of icky. Cantaloupe? Yeah, that's a bad one. Pretty much any kind of melon is rough. Maybe eat it alone, or at least when your non- hearing-impaired friends aren't around. 


Finally, and this has nothing to do with chewing: If you're going to eat something that is goopy and delicious and gets all over your hands, please don't spend the next twenty minutes sucking all of the crap off of your fingers. That's not fun for anyone but you. We're all thinking about the spit and germs that now cover your hands. Ew. Use a napkin, or, if you must lick off your hands (it happens; I've even had to do it), do it quickly and quietly and then find a place to wash them. The slurping sound is bad enough, but when you do it for an extended period of time, it becomes truly nauseating.


I hope you will all learn a little something and that these lessons will brighten up your day. Or, at least, that they'll brighten up my day when I don't have to be exposed to as much of your saliva and/or digestive processes.


Love and Kisses,
Me

I'm back!


I was in a hotel with spotty internet connection, so I was unable to blog for you. I know, it must've been very difficult for you to make it through the past four days, but somehow you've survived.


Today I would like to discuss some behaviors that should be kept private. Certain people must have decided that with the more relaxed manners in today's society, there are more actions that have also become acceptable in public. I'm here to tell you: No.


Right off the bat, we need to address the nose-picking. It is never okay to dig in there in public. I understand that sometimes one has to do a scratch when there's a nose itch, but putting a finger up your nose is never okay. I mean, never. Get a flipping Kleenex, or go into the bathroom and just go all out. Your nose is full of staphylococci, including MRSA, and when you touch that junk, you're getting it on your hands and then unknowingly touching other surfaces and potentially killing half of the population of whatever town you're in. Murderer.


Another area that should never be picked in public is the butt area. I feel like I shouldn't need to say this to a group of adults, but this week I saw ever so many people digging up in there, right in front of everybody. I'm not referring to wedgie-adjusting, as that is a necessary evil and you rarely pull it out from the middle, anyway. As for scratching, though, we all know what you keep in there and maybe you need to go to the toilet and do a little extra paperwork or something. That's just nasty.


Which leads me to (and this time I'm going to address men specifically, because I rarely see women doing this) crotch-adjusting. Please don't keep touching your junk. It's gross. No potential date sees you doing that and thinks, "Wow. He's sexy. I want to get with that." (Please read as much sarcasm into that thought as you can, as it makes it much funnier.) Keep your hands off your area. If you must adjust, go to a private place and do it there and then wash your hands. Really. Yeesh.


I saw so much inappropriate picking, scratching and touching this week, I thought my brain would explode. 


AS you can see, I survived.

In honor of the fact that Friday finally decided to get here, and in honor of St. Patrick's Day tomorrow (which is my favorite holiday, mostly because I like green, but also because of the leprechauns), I have a story for you. This one doesn't involve King Parkay, but it does involve something very hilarious that happened to my husband at the grocery store on Sunday.


It seems to me that the funniest things that have happened to my family have happened in one of two places: church and the grocery store. Don't know why, but both places are really laughter-inducing for us. Maybe we're weird...


Anyway, my husband and I went to the store on Sunday to get our weekly groceries. We were turning onto the deli aisle when I went on ahead to get the cheese and he stayed behind to get the lunch meat; since he's the one that eats the bologna, I let him pick out whatever he wants as far as that goes.


This lady, who looks to be about a well-preserved 55, walks up to my husband and starts flirting with him by asking about his bologna. Seriously. I heard them talking, but I was engrossed with the cheese and cheese-related products, so I wasn't about to go save him, but I look over and he's getting redder by the minute, "There's so many bolognas to choose from!" she said, seductively.


Bahahahahahaha! It sounds like a bad joke, but there you have it. She was trying to seduce my husband with talk of lunch meats. It wasn't one of those occasions where you wonder if someone was flirting with you. It was pretty blatant. However, around the corner comes a guy that's a friend, so my husband just starts talking with him, which saved the day. The lady lingered for a bit, but then he said, "Here's my wife!" and had me come shake his friend's hand, and she looked embarrassed and went away.


The rest of the trip is a blur. Couldn't stop laughing, especially when we were walking up to check out and I said, "Did she really ask you about your bologna?" and I guess I was a little louder than I thought, because the lady was right behind us and just turned and walked away really quickly. Oh, no. This did not help the laughing situation.


I don't like to laugh at people when I'm right in front of them, but this time I just couldn't help it. If you're going to hit on a guy in a grocery store, you should probably check for a wife in the vicinity, check for a wedding ring and then avoid all talk of meats. 


Or don't and just maybe you'll finally find the man and the bologna of your dreams. If I was going to use that tactic, I would've at least asked him if his bologna had a first name. Or used the word "kielbasa" at some point. Because, come on. That's good times, right there.


Oh, and one more tip: If you hit on guys by talking about lunch meats, do it at the deli counter, not in the deli aisle. You'll meet much higher-quality bologna consumers.

When you're packing for an extended hotel stay where you'll actually be working, it's hard to figure out the stuff you're really going to need. Especially if you don't know what the weather's going to be like, and you have to remember comfortable clothes AND work clothes. Shoes with heels take up much more room in your bag. I have, however, come up with a list of the essentials. It includes:


Craft supplies, in case I have a crafting emergency


Extra underpants, because I'm paranoid about other kinds of emergencies and I always bring five extra pairs (not an exaggeration)


Two pairs of headphones, because if I can't watch Family Guy with sound, I will probably die


Chargers for every electronic device known to man


A ginormous tub of moisturizer...I will shrivel up like a prune if I don't use it every hour or so


Five thousand anti-diarrhea pills (which sort of go along with the underpants, both of which I've only used once on a trip, but...well...that trip deserves a whole blog page, so more on that later)


Milk and peanut butter, since I'm pretty sure those are delicacies and they won't have them where I'll be


I'm pretty sure that'll cover it. I guess I'll also bring along clothes and stuff, too. I guess. Necessities are lame. So are Thursdays.

I'm super late this morning, due to getting home from rehearsal last night after midnight and then not setting an alarm. The one night I sleep all night, and there's no way to get us up.


So we are both two hours late for work. Awesome.


I wasn't going to make this story a part of my blog, because, well, it's kind of gross, but I realized that there are some people out there that enjoy this sort of thing. I know I do.


I'm not a laugh-out-loud sort of person. I tend to smile a lot and laugh on the inside unless it falls into a certain category of funniness. One of those categories is definitely farting. So my husband saves up farting stories and tells them to me to make me laugh when he thinks it's necessary. This one was about as necessary as it gets:


One day at work, my husband was in the bathroom, in a stall because all the stand-ups were being used. Then, he hears a guy break wind. Now, from what I hear, this is a pretty normal occurrence in the men's room. Not so much in the ladies' room, unless it's accompanied by a little cough, in order to try to cover. Anyway, so the first guy cuts it, then another guy says, "Whoa. I can do way better than that."


Yep, my husband witnessed an honest-to-goodness, real-life farting contest. How lucky is that? I can't really write it out, because in the telling you have to make the noises, and I don't know how to effectively spell the different ways each fart sounded (according to my husband). Let's just say I nearly died from laughing. Holy cow. Farts will get me every time. And he stood there in the bathroom, laughing, all alone, until they were done. I might've been on the floor, except for the whole germ thing.


Ah, stuff is fun. 


I have one other small tidbit I'd like to share, since today is obviously bathroom day: Lock the door if you're going, okay? If you don't, it's your own fault, and just because you're using a single-toilet facility to get some reading done, and you were so intent on getting down to business that you forgot to lock the door, it doesn't mean that you should glare at me and say, "I'M IN HERE!!!!" in your crazy Exorcist-type voice and slam the door shut in my face. Yep, last night I went to use the bathroom, opened the door, and this lady was sitting on the toilet, pants around her ankles, reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Good times.


I hope you've all learned something today. I know I have, I'm sure, at some point in all of this.

Yesterday I was thinking about how much it stinks when you want something particular to eat but you don't have it and can't get it. This is usually an issue for me because most of the time I'm on a diet and can't ever have what I really want, so I'm pretty much wandering around on the planet perpetually bacon cheeseburger deprived.

Then, a wise person I know posed the question: What if you want something, but you don't know what it is? What if you then spend the entire day looking for the perfect thing to put your stomach in a happy place, and everything you eat is wrong, so you just keep going and never find what it is you truly want?

Yeah, like every other day in my house.

It's a vicious cycle: Get up, eat cereal (which isn't what I really want), do some work, have an apple (which doesn't quite do it), have something for lunch (which is never exactly what I wanted), then end up in the kitchen (or at my desk at work) around 3 pm, knowing that what I really need is chocolate- and/or potato chip-based and we don't have it, but I still spend about 15 minutes staring at my pantry, hoping the right choice will magically appear. 

You can also pretty much change the order and times around and that will be accurate for almost any time of day.

I generally know exactly what I want, but when it's just a mysterious "something," then it's a problem. Because I can consume an entire week's calories in a matter of about five minutes, and still not feel like I'm done. In a perfect world, I'd realize exactly what I was hungry for, go get it, and be done. Not how it usually works, though.

That question really made me think about how being on a diet all of the time has altered my perception of what I want. It truly depends on if it's a day where I feel like I have willpower or not. For instance, if I'm feeling like I've been really good lately, I'm much more likely to be happy with that apple, even though it doesn't really do it for me. If, however, I am feeling as though I've never done anything right and I'll always be roughly the size of a baby elephant, I will go searching and never find the perfect item, but in the process I will consume mass quantities of everything in sight, until all that's left is a stalk of celery and a can of olives.

Wait! I think I just had an epiphany.

The answer is not in what foods I eat, or in finding what it is I'm searching for. The answer is stretchier pants.

Sometimes I'm so smart, I can't even stand myself. You're welcome.

Okay, here we go. A whole new week. You can sing that last sentence to the tune of A Whole New World from Aladdin, but that won't make today any better. Or will it?


I have decided that I'm going to have a good attitude about everything. Will that make me one of those holier-than-thou people who drive you nuts? Quite possibly. In our family, when you do anything, you go all-out and strangle every last bit of life out of an idea before you give up and move on to the next thing. Therefore, I shall become incredibly, irritatingly positive.


For those of you who know me well, I revel in my pessimism. Always have. It's like a security blanket. I suppose the reasoning behind this is:  If I expect things to go wrong and they don't, then it's like a big surprise, but if they do go wrong I'm prepared. I have decided, in my infinite wisdom (hahahahahahahahaha), that I should stop expecting anything whatsoever. I am going to be less prepared.


Oh, poopy.


That's a little like the Pope trying to be less Catholic.


I realize most of the blogs you read, if you are a blog reader and you're not just reading mine because it's the most hilarious blog ever (it says so right up there in the address), are about people who are trying to make their lives better. I actually have a pretty phenomenal life, so instead of trying to make my life better, I am going to try to enjoy the life that I have. I'm not saying that to brag, I'm saying it because when I actually think about it, being me does have its perks. So, instead of constantly worrying about the bad things that could happen, I am trying to just live in the present. You know, do nice things for other people and whatnot, and enjoy my time with the people I care about. Junk like that. Less worrying. Less worrying. Less worrying.


And as I type that, I'm worried about whether my blog today is too emotional, and if I'm over-sharing.


I said I was going to try. I haven't attained perfection. Yet.


P.S. I made the best, most craftiest craft EVER and I'm very excited about it. I want to share it with you because I already made it my status on Facebook and I can't contain my excitement.


Yes, I used my Pooh Bear as a model. What of it?

My sister's Facebook status this morning made me realize that other people don't necessarily follow proper protocol when they see an embarrassing situation. Therefore, I will give you the necessary steps to take when confronted with a situation that makes you feel embarrassed, either for yourself or for others, when you're watching a TV program.


First, you have to tell the person on the TV what he or she is doing that is going to lead to an embarrassing situation. For instance, if you're watching The Cosby Show and you hear Dr. Huxtable say something about waiting for his wife to come home, you know they're going to be all kissy smoochy and whatnot in front of the kids, which is gross and uncalled for. So you should probably yell at him, "Hey! Those are children! I know what you're thinking about, but if you do that in front of the kids, you're going to scar them for life!" It's also important to remember to yell a lot at the TV when you're watching a horror movie, because you know all the people in it are seriously mentally deficient. A kind of deficient where I'm surprised they can remember how to breathe. So, whenever someone suggests taking a shower or going for a walk in the woods (whether it's alone or with someone else, that part doesn't ever make a difference), make sure to tell them that they're going to die. "Hey! Don't you hear the music? Does that, I don't know, sound spooky to you? I'm pretty sure Scooby-Doo isn't around, so that means you need to get somewhere where it's well-lit and non-spooky and stay there until the music goes away!" They never listen, but at least you know you did your part.


The second part of this is the hiding part. Now, I have been informed by my husband that this is not normal behavior, but it feels pretty natural to me, especially as my Dad and sister do it too. So we must be right about it. When you see the embarrassing situation unfold, you have to hide from it. So say you're watching an episode of Saved By The Bell (which is embarrassing enough on its own, and you should probably just go ahead and hide whenever you hear the theme song) and Mr. Belding is talking and you hear emotional-sounding music. Yeah, you need to take cover. At the very least, go ahead and pull your shirt up over your head and squeeze your eyes shut as tightly as you can, and wait until all talk of feelings is past. If it's an option, though, I recommend the running-from-the-room method. It's even simpler:  You run from the room. As soon as you hear any statement that leads you to believe someone is going to bare their innermost feelings. Because, come on, it's humiliating for them, and if you watch it, you're practically taking part. Yikes.


Sometimes I want to do this in real-life situations, but I don't think my boss would like that. So I do an inside shirt-pulling-up maneuver. It's like going to a happy place, but it's hard because you have to pretend like you're listening to the 80-year-old lady tell you about her husband's irritated man parts or her severe flatulence issue (both of those have happened...I wouldn't make that first one up). Keep trying, though. You don't want to have that kind of stuff creep into your brain or it will make you a seriously warped person.


Trust me, I know.

Since my natural sleeping pattern has decided to go on hiatus for an indefinite period of time, I decided to go ahead and take a Lunesta last night. I think I must've done something wrong, though, because not only did it take forever (like 3 hours) to work, but I woke up with a foul taste in my mouth that won't go away.

Not complaining about the sleep, because I have decided that any sleep at all is amazing, but the taste in my mouth is so disgusting, I decided to write a haiku about it. Here you go:

Did I eat compost?
No, this is much more pungent.
I'll gargle with bleach.

My mouth still tastes bad, but at at least something beautiful came out of it. You know you wish you could write haikus like mine.

Maybe you should get very little sleep for a few months. That seems to work for me.

In honor of my favorite show, I've decided to make my life more like an episode of Murder, She Wrote. Yes, I do decide to make my life like TV shows from the 80s all of the time, and no, I don't have all of the required materials. I think I'll need to go to WalMart for this one.

First, I'll need a string section. Real or synthesized, it doesn't matter. All that is required is a heavy bass string sound when danger is approaching, and then lots of fast high violin action when I'm confronting the murderer. I'll also need a composer to write the score, but we can use the same score over and over again and just slow it down and/or speed it up as required. I also think a flute would be nice for day-to-day things, like doing the dishes and grocery shopping.

Next, I think I need to work on my wardrobe and makeup. If I am to emulate Jessica Fletcher, I'll need a whole assortment of fancy upscale sweatsuit type things for when I'm biking around town (she never drives a car), and then a bunch of tie-neck polyester blouses in suitable colors and patterns. I should probably think about getting a couple of skirt suits, too, plus some sensible pumps with a low heel. I'll need to get a bunch of bright lipsticks and lipliners, and do some heavy eye makeup, as well. J.B. doesn't leave the house without her Katy Couric-esque mascara.

Finally, I will need some people to just stand around and act sketchy. They don't actually have to do anything, but I need people to shake my head and bite my lip at, as well as people to look at disapprovingly. There does need to be a murderer and a victim, but I'll need several hundreds of those, as they can only be in one day of my life, and then they never come back. The sketchy people can be regulars, and they can even come back as murderers and/or victims, à la John Astin. Too bad he doesn't live around here. He was very good at being sketchy and then coming back later and being a killer. Plus, he made you kind of feel sorry for him, which is outstanding. I've also heard that he plays the cowbell, which could come in handy.

I realize that murders would have to be involved, so I'm thinking that maybe that part could just be pretend, or that instead of investigating murders, I could just do my normal stuff and investigate things like who left the front door unlocked and who forgot to feed the bird. That might be safer for everyone involved. Yeah, I'll do that, and then instead of calling my life Murder, She Wrote (which would probably be copyright infringement anyway), I could call it Time, She Wasted. Or Floor, She Vacuumed. Heck, I could just give every day a different title. That way, all my bases are covered and I can get involved in different shenanigans without worrying if it fits into the category of the title.

Wow. I have such great ideas. Too bad I don't go in for science, or you'd all be in big trouble.

Although I realize that only four people actually read this, and the other 400 hits I've gotten are all from my husband, trying to make me feel slightly less lame about writing this, I want to use this as a platform to educate the masses about the importance of something:


Deodorant.


Yes, friends. You need to wear it. Or else bathe more often; I don't know. I was at rehearsal last night, and it occurred to me that no one there smelled bad. Maybe it's because professional musicians take more pride in the way they smell; it's hard to say, but there were several people that had just gotten off a flight a few hours before that looked a little rumpled and such, but did not assault my nostrils.


Which brings me back to yoga.


I live in a little tiny town that is famous in this state for being full of a-holes. I have to say, I think that reputation is largely undeserved. I think most towns are full of poopy people, and you have to search for the nice people. It's like a real-life treasure hunt, where the prize at the end is that you don't feel like kicking someone in the face...but I digress (big surprise there). This town may not have a higher jerk-to-normal-person ratio, but it is full of scientists and engineers and other people who have no social skills whatsoever. That means a lot of sandals-with-socks action, and a lot of guys who will go to a restaurant and talk loudly about physics, while laughing at jokes that no normal person would ever find funny. You know, massive dorkiness. Which you get used to.


Last week at yoga, we were next to one of these guys. Not only did he and another lady complain when we had to partner up, because it was "interrupting the flow," this guy had some serious b.o. going on. Not the kind where you know they have some sort of condition and can't help it, he just hadn't bothered to bathe or wear deodorant or anything. Not just armpitty, but dirty. There is a difference...I know people who choose not to wear deodorant, but that keep themselves clean. This guy smelled and looked like he hadn't washed his clothes in a month. Ick.


So of course I ended up right next to Mr. Complainystinkypants (that's his real name, I swear), of course. Me with my sensitive smell/gag issue, and I'm trying to do my deep breathing, but it's obvious that's not going to happen.


Therefore, I pretty much made fun of him in my head the whole time, which I realize isn't nice, but if you've been reading my blog at all, you already know that I am not a nice person. Hilarious? Yes. Nice? Not so much.


The point? Wait...was there supposed to be a point to this? I guess nobody told me. Oh, yeah, now I remember. The point is that you should keep yourself clean, if only for my sake. Also, you should probably go to a yoga class at some point, because it really is the high point of my week. I mean, where else can you laugh at yourself and other people in a setting where no one can see because they're all trying to  lift their legs over their heads and such? Fantastic.


Sometimes my life is just so much fun, I can't stand it.

This weekend, I was going to do a special Saturday post, but I didn't, as I couldn't think of anything good to say. I think my brain had already gone away for the weekend.


I think it may still be gone; however, I will attempt to write something entertaining for you. Today's post will be a work of fiction, originally written by me and my sister one night while we were in the car, waiting for it to be time to go into the movie theater. I don't remember the story very well, so I'm making up a new one, but using the characters we invented. Here we go!


Once upon a time (you have to start with that or else your story will be lame), there was a beautiful kingdom in the clouds. These weren't regular clouds, like the kind we have here. No, these were magical pink clouds, made of cotton candy, but non-sticky. You could actually eat them but if you ate too much, you could fall through, so everybody was pretty careful about that.


In this cotton candy cloud kingdom, which was called Flantana (that rhymes with Montana), everyone was happy all of the time, even though they were a bit fat, what with all of the cotton candy and no one having to work because they were magical people. King Parkay ruled the land, but since everyone was happy and magical, no one ever got into fights or got sick or anything. They just smiled and sang songs and ate dessert all day, kind of like a big hippie commune, except everyone took showers and they really didn't go in for free love.


One day, King Parkay was flying around on his friend the Pegasus, who was named Valderama. Valderama asked King Parkay, "Why don't we ever go visit the people in Brusston?" (Brusston was a neighboring land but it wasn't a cotton candy cloud kingdom, like Flantana.) King Parkay said, "I don't know! We should go there right now!" He was kind of excitable, but in a good way, so everyone liked him. Anyway, off they flew, to visit their neighbors.


As they approached Brusston, they could see that it was built on top of a big mound of what looked like mashed potatoes, which seemed very delicious, but was in fact white mud, which was not delicious at all. The people all looked kind of cranky, as well. As Valderama came to a stop and landed by a big tree, they heard a loud, booming voice that said, "Who are you and what is your business in Brusston?" King Parkay said, "Excuse me, we didn't mean to trespass. My name is King Parkay and this is my friend, Valderama. We are here to visit your lovely land!" The voice said, "Hmmmm. That's very interesting. Do you have your papers?" Valderama said, "No, we don't have any papers, but we can go get them, if you'll tell us what kind of documentation you require." The voice said, "Well, we usually require a credit card and a photo ID, which we will only use if you cause damage to something in our land." King Parkay said, "That sounds reasonable, but I don't have a credit card. Will a debit card be acceptable?" The voice replied, "Sure."


So Valderama and King Parkay flew back to Flantana, but decided not to go back to Brusston after they'd retrieved their photo IDs and a debit card, because they'd noticed that the white mud made their shoes/hooves very dirty and they didn't want to deal with cleaning it off again. Plus, it was time for dessert and they didn't want to miss it, as it was chocolate peanut butter fun cake, and that is the best cake in the world.


The end.


I know, I should've been a writer.

Okay, I admit it: I broke down and made a passive-aggressive status on le Facebook. I had to do it. For weeks now (okay, years), I've been assaulted by a barrage of little digs about "selling out." It's not like I'm Paris Hilton and I decided to work in an office a couple of days a week for fun. I haven't given up on music. I'm still teaching and performing actively, I just got a job so my husband doesn't have to work a billion hours a week, and I don't have to mooch off of people in order to not have to stress so much about money.

Did that sound crabby? Yeah, maybe I am, a little bit. Don't judge.

I enjoy saying weird and/or funny things that just pop into my head on Facebook, but every once in a while I give in to the temptation and make a status that means something. Then I feel embarrassed about it and try to justify it, and I finish by removing it, usually within a few hours.

Maybe I over-think it, but I don't want to be one of those people whose statuses fill a person with shame and the overwhelming urge to vomit. I don't need to know if you're having cramps, or if your girlfriend is adorable when she's sleeping, or if you had some miraculous emotional journey that was brought about by listening to Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Methinks more fart jokes are called for. Also, pictures of puppies and babies. Facebook is not for having deep emotional connections, it's for funniness. It's light and fluffy; a sort of virtual Cool Whip. Have your real-life seriousness in REAL LIFE.

Or don't and avoid all embarrassing, serious, meaningful conversations. Instead, joke about everything and never hug or make eye contact. Hey, it's worked for me for the past 33 years!

If I can just get a little more control over my Facebook mouth, I'll be all set.

I can't believe Davy Jones died. I wasn't that sad about MJ or Whitney, but I am super sad about Davy Jones. I mean, it's always sad when someone dies, and I feel bad for the person's family and kids and whatnot, but this is different:


Davy Jones was going to marry me someday.


When I was in elementary school, Nick at Nite started playing reruns of The Monkees. I was hooked immediately. I was going to marry Davy, and my best friend Glo was going to marry Peter. As an adult, I think Mike Nesmith is much cooler, but that's beside the point. I had Monkees posters up in my room (none of my other friends got the appeal, so I'm pretty sure that contributed to my less-than-awesome reputation), and I listened to their records, especially Headquarters, on my Fisher-Price record player. I knew (still know) all the songs by heart and I even made up a dance routine to one of them.


I'm not saying which one, because I'm pretty sure that will lead to some fairly unbearable teasing around my house.


Needless to say, I kissed Davy's picture every night before bed, because I was just that doofy. I also had a fantastic English accent going on that I was going to use to fool him into thinking I was from Manchester, too, because somewhere along the line I became convinced that he'd only marry another English person. I decided that it was fate when I found out he'd been a jockey, since that's what I wanted to be for a short period of time when I was eight or so (I hadn't yet realized how small jockeys have to be).


So, yeah, a little crazy for Mr. Jones (Davy, not the old man who used to live across the street from us, even though he was awesome, too). I suppose life will go on, and I know I still have Severus Snape (did I mention I'm marrying him someday, too?), but it's pretty sad.