Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Facing My Reality



I have always had an addictive personality.  In my past, I channeled that trait into some lifestyle choices that would have Amanda Bynes saying "Damn, that's some messed up shit right there, yo", but now I have found healthier outlets for my inner drive and single-minded passions.  I am an avid marathon runner, a voracious crossword puzzle addict, and my job makes me happier than R. Kelly at a Girl Scout Jamboree.  But like all addictive personalities, I have my secret shame. . .reality T.V.  

"But, Jen!"  I hear you cry.  "Surely that can't be a real PROBLEM, per se."  

"Why, thank you."  I reply demurely.  "But when you find yourself setting your DVR for a 'very special' 'My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding', then that is indeed an Oprah Winfrey sized problem, my friends."

For me, the inception of the DVR was truly the beginning of my descent into madness.  If you're flipping channels and you 'just happen' to stumble across a family of midget hoarders, then you can always chalk that up to an opportunistic viewing.  But if you are actively scouring the ComCast guide and thinking 'Man, there's no WAY I can miss this!' then you are a terrifying individual and society needs to step in before you harm yourself or others.

For an addict, the DVR is the perfect codependent.  It stalks your every move, catalogues your shitty predilection for toddler beauty pageants and polygamists, and then starts randomly taping shows remotely related to your preferences like it’s on commission.

The DVR is like a jocular bartender that slings a reassuring arm around your shoulder and convinces you that 'There’s NOTHING WRONG with pounding three Jack n’ Cokes in succession and wouldn’t a Jager Bomb be just GREAT with that?'  Hence my propensity to complete two hours of viewing ’19 Kids and Counting’ only to think, “Now how did two episodes of ‘Sister Wives’ end up on here?  Hmm...I don’t know, but if nineteen children riding ATVs in prairie skirts is good then a man who looks like Swayze in ‘Point Break’ schtupping four hausfraus in Vegas must be AWESOME!”   And do you know what?   It is.   Maybe not Dance Moms-Wife Swap-Four Weddings-Honey Boo Boo awesome, but a shitshow that is glorious in its own right.  And therein lies the rub.  If there is a TV show that features any level of depravity from Bret Michael’s tour bus, to a Real housewife, to a rose ceremony:   I.   Will.  Watch.  It.*

*Except for 'American Idol'; I haven't been able to fully embrace that show since Paula and Simon left.  Those two were magical.  Seriously, I haven't seen that combination of alcoholism and verbal abuse since my marriage.

For a while, I kept my addiction on the downlow.  I camouflaged episodes of "What Not To Wear" and "Bad Girls Club"  between reruns of "Downton Abbey" and "Doctor Who".  I feigned ignorance when others mentioned Scott Disick's eye injury or Mama June and Sugar Bear's wedding. I was so deep in the closet that I was in Narnia. . .but I couldn't hide my problem for long.  It started with changes in my speech.  Practically overnight I began peppering my conversations with phrases like "Make it work!"  and "The tribe has spoken!"  Then came the physical changes. I developed a chronic Chumley slouch, and before long I was unable to enter a dressing room without whirling around like Barishnikov after a quad-shot latte screaming "I'M SAYING YES TO THE DRESS!!!"  I could no longer hide my shame.

But then, something surprising happened.  As I gradually opened up to more and more people about my addiction, they in turn revealed their similar suffering.  It was amazing.  And they were not all derelicts and mentally infirm; I met a pediatrician with a particular predilection for "America's Next Top Model", a tax attorney with a collection of Kardashian action figures proudly displayed atop her desk, and a high-ranking law official with a signed photo of the Duck Dynasty" cast hung in his living room alongside photos of his wife and children.  Suddenly, I knew that I was not alone.  And with that knowledge, I no longer felt the need to hide my secret shame.  When someone commented that my DVR queue was replete with "Myrtle Manor" and "Off Pitch" I simply waved it off with a laugh and a cry of "You'd better redneck-o-nize!"*

*By the way, if you haven't seen "Off Pitch", oh.  My.  GO.  It's like the bastard lovechild of "Pitch Perfect" and "Glee" with a soupcon of "The Surreal Life".   VH1.   Find it.

But while I was now comfortable showing the world my reality swagger, not all of my friends were as accepting of my "alternative" lifestyle.  Last night, my friend Brandon stopped by.  He walked into the den and plunked himself onto the couch, throwing his feet on the coffee table with his usual familiarity.  He glanced at the TV with disinterest, then proceeded to leaf through a magazine while I went downstairs to toss the laundry into the dryer.  Suddenly I heard a shout, followed by indignant cursing and a cry of pure anger.  Racing to the top of the stairs I saw Brandon poised on the edge of the couch, yelling at the men on TV like he was Bobby Knight and it was double overtime in the NCAA playoffs.

"What the HELL!?!?"  I hissed, tossing a throw pillow at his head.  "If you wake up the short people, I swear that I will punch you in the sack so hard your children will be born dizzy!"

He shook his head incredulously.  "It's just. . .these guys. . .what the hell are we watching?"

I grinned, dropping onto the couch and plopping my feet in his lap.  "'The Bachelorette'."

Brandon stared at me blankly and swatted my feet away.  "The Bachelor- what?  Huh.  Never heard of it."  

I straightened in my seat and gave him my best 'Zero Dark Thirty' interrogation glare.  "No. No freaking way.  I call bullshit."

He shrugged and gave me a crooked smirk.  "Sorry."

"Have you been living in an Afghani spiderhole?"  I sputtered in astonishment.  "Of COURSE you've heard of this show!"

"Nope,"  he replied, leaning back against the armrest.  Then, suddenly, he bolted upright, eyes glued top the screen.  "Wait.  I. . .did. . .did that dude just get out of the limo without a shirt on?  Dude, he is SO not getting a rose."

I slowly turned to meet Brandon's gaze, noting the exact moment when both fear and guilt crossed his chiseled visage.  I couldn't hide my glee (not that I tried).

"A rose, huh?  I thought you'd never even HEARD of this show."

"I. . .you. . .umm. . ."  Brandon stuttered lamely, lowering his head in shame.

"It's OK, Sweetie."  I soothed, patting his hand reassuringly.  "Admitting you have a problem is half the battle.  Now, just slide your 'man card' under the door and walk away quietly."


xoxo,
Jen



How about YOU?  What's the most shameful thing on your DVR?

Friday, May 24, 2013

Old McJen Went to the Farm: E-I-E-I...No.

Living in Oregon, one is privy to myriad outdoor adventures and activities.  We have lush, verdant forests, majestic snow-capped mountains, and a rocky coastline of such storm-tossed majesty that it would take your breath away.  As such, one may assume that as I am a woman who loves her home state like a supermodel loves laxatives, I would be an avid outdoorswoman.  One would be wrong. . .one would be horribly, horribly wrong.

Wait, allow me to clarify: I love the outdoors. . .in moderation.  A fabulous two-hour trail run?  Absolutely.   An afternoon fishing at the lake?  I’m your gal.  But spend an extended (read: overnight) period of time being all ‘Man vs. Wild’; sleeping in the dirt, burying my bowel movements like a goddamned bull mastiff, and eating dehydrated food by the light of a freaking campfire?  No.  HELL, no.  Therefore, I have no false illusions that I wouldn’t get spanked harder than a whore at a biker rally on ‘Survivor’.  And for a native Oregonian, I also would have been the world’s shittiest pioneer.  So, the fact that I was asked to help chaperone my son J’s class on their trip to a historic Oregon Trail* site was simply too replete with irony to resist.

*Insert your favorite “you have just died of dysentery” reference here.  I made one dysentery joke on the tour and the guide glared at me like I farted on the Mona Lisa. . .tough crowd.

Now, there are two very important reasons why I don’t generally do the whole chaperone/play date/room parent thing.  One, although I am a very proud mother of two exemplary short people, every other child on the planet annoys the ever-loving shit out of me; and two, I frighten the other moms.  Well, perhaps “frighten” is the wrong word.  “Offend” might be a little more apropos.  Anyhoo, suffice to say that when my name shows up on the “responsible party” roster for any outing, the other parents grab their children and run faster than Usain Bolt on Red Bull.*

*I did wind up with four pretty rad kids in my group, although my son wasn’t one of them.  This seemed a little odd to me at first, but my friend Kelly pointed out they probably wanted to give J some exposure to an actual adult for comparison when he decides to become an emancipated minor at eleven.  Duly noted.

After a ninety-minute school bus ride that was enough to make the Dalai Lama go the full Chowchilla we reached our destination: The Phillip Foster Pioneer Farm.  Now, Oregon has no shortage of farms, from hazelnuts to Christmas trees to black market North Slope trip weed; but this farm was so goddamned sweet it made Michelle Duggar look like Lisa Lampanelli. There was a central house, practically engulfed by a flowering lilac bush and surrounded by towering horse chestnut trees and gardens overflowing with blooming annuals and fresh herbs.  Surrounding the perimeter of the farm were a haybarn, a blacksmith’s shop, a small mercantile, and a cluster of old-timey washtubs and wringers.*


*My first thought of course being: “DAFUQ!?!? I did not drag my sorry ass all the way out to Mayberry to spend my day off doing laundry.  Oh, LAWS no!”

We filed out of the buses and stood in the middle of the central field, awaiting further instruction.  Suddenly, from behind the barn came a cluster of people in full pioneer garb, shambling across the grass in their trailing skirts and work boots.

“Anyone else getting a ‘Children Of The Corn’ vibe here?” one of the fathers muttered.  I snorted back my laughter and whispered “Malachiiiiiiii…” earning me a grin and a high-five.*

*I may have the survival skills of Paris Hilton on Nyquil, but I kick much ass at shitty 90’s movie trivia.  So.  Much.  Ass.

The leader of the Amish mafia, a burly man in suspenders and a wide-brimmed hat, stepped forward to address our group. 

“Welcome to Phillip Foster farm!”  he bellowed with a steely glare.  “First and foremost, you should know that this farm is one of only three stops on the legendary Oregon Trail still in existence.  And we are the only site still running as a fully functioning facility.  That means we are a place of business.  We are not a museum or a playground, so I will expect each and every one of you to follow the rules to the letter and to treat the farm with respect.  Understood?”
I looked around at the children; each one wide-eyed and terrified as they listened to this autocratic hick wield his muscled arms and sham bravado like Charles Ingalls after a shot of gym juice.

“We will be taking you through several stations here at the farm.” He continued, pacing before the children. “The first, is the barn.  In the barn we will be teaching you how to use a cross-saw.  Each of you will have a turn.  We ask that you remember to pull the saw rather than push because pushing will cause the saw to bow and it can recoil and gash open your arm or leg.  We do not have medical facilities out here, so please listen.  After that, you will see the blacksmith’s.  There are many things that can and will burn you there so keep your distance and keep your hands to yourself. Next, we will be taking you to the laundry station.  The wringers we use are authentic wringers so make sure you listen to your guide carefully at that station or you can and will get your fingers caught and crush every bone in your hand.  After the laundry station you will get a chance to tour Phillip Foster’s original home.  Please be careful on the staircases because they are very steep and have no handrails.  Last week someone was not following the rules and took a nasty spill.  Any questions?”

“Yeah, I have a question.”  I whispered to the woman next to me.  “Where are they taking us next week, the set of ‘Deadliest Catch’?  In what way can this possibly end well?”  She glared at me and turned away.*

*As aforementioned, the other moms love me mad hard.  Whatev…the dads seem to like me.  Probably due to my juvenile sense of humor and encyclopedic knowledge of all things ‘Duck Dynasty’…or my low-cut shirts.  Either way, yay me!

My group ambled toward the barn and the children lined up dutifully for a chance to use the cross-saw.  As this activity looked suspiciously like actual manual labor, I wandered off to explore, turning the corner to see this:





Now, I get the whole authenticity vibe we have going on but for the love of Hannibal Lecter this is some serious ‘Saw III’ shit up in here.  As I was quietly pondering exactly how many dead prostitutes one could successfully bury on the property, my son J followed me over to a display of rather dubious hand tools and held one up for my appraisal.

“Look, Mommy!” he cried with glee “It’s a hair curler like yours!”



“Yeah, pretty sure that’s not a curling iron, Butterbean.”  I said, cringing at the sight of Dildo Baggins clutched in my son’s tiny fist.

J squinted behind his glasses and regarded the object seriously.  “Was this one of Phillip Foster’s tools?”  he asked.

“I’m pretty sure that was one of MRS. Foster’s tools.”  I replied, taking it gingerly from his hand and leading him back toward his classmates who were slowly making their way toward the blacksmith’s shop.

“Excuse me, little lady!” our tour guide barked with a grin.  “You didn’t get a chance to try the cross-saw!”

“Oh, that’s OK.”  I laughed, backing away nervously.  “I caught the whole ‘recoil and gash open your arm or leg’ disclaimer, so…I’m good.”

“Well, you can’t be too careful.”  He nodded sagely.  “Use these tools the wrong way and a flesh wound is the least of your worries.  I’m seen death and dismemberment from these bad boys in my day.  Sure you don’t wanna give it a whirl?”

I shook my head slowly.  “Noooooo, not so much.  You know,  you could have stopped right at ‘flesh wound’; that was more than enough of a deterrent for me.  I mean, it was nice of you to add the whole ‘death’ and ‘dismemberment’ thing but to be honest you could have followed it up with ‘free cookie dough’ and ‘naked photos of Jeremy Renner’ and I probably STILL wouldn’t want to try it.  You know. . .based on the whole aforementioned ‘flesh wound’ thing.”  Flashing Jethro a brilliant smile, I scurried after my group, valiantly attempting to protect them from any imminent ‘Backdraft’ scenarios over the blacksmith’s fire.  15 kids, 2 adults, 5 red hot pokers, and 1 large open flame.  Number of injuries?  Zero.  That’s how you chaperone like a muthfuckin’ BOSS, yo.

Having successfully survived the first two stages in our personal Hunger Games arena, our guide then led us to the mercantile and handed us off to young man with severe acne and an overwhelming miasma of apathy to complete our tour.  Now, I must admit that while farm equipment and wooden phalluses are not exactly my raison d’etre, I do loves me some shopping, so this was by far my favorite part of the day.  Unfortunately, the wares available for purchase ran the gamut from confusing to macabre; and not in a kitschy John Waters way, but more of a creepy David Lynch-y way.  Par example:


 Sports Illustrated 1842 swimsuit edition



Hey!  They named a candy after me!



"Down here, we allllllllll float..."


After leading us through Magorium’s Emporium of randomosity, our guide rolled his eyes and gestured lamely toward the gardens outside.

“That’s the garden.”  he mumbled with a sigh.  “The Fosters grew stuff there for the pioneers passing through.”

“What kind of stuff?”  asked Lily, an elfin redhead from J’s class.*

*Lily has major diva-tude, a complete lack of verbal filter, and a wardrobe to die for.  In short, Lily is the shit.  She’s one of very, very few short people who could almost make me lift my fatwa on child aversion. . .almost.

The guide stared at Lily as though she’d asked him to recite ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’. . .in Farsi.  “You know,” he shrugged lamely “STUFF.”  Seeing that Lily was not to be deterred, the young man rolled his eyes again and replied “They grew fruits and vegetables, you know. There wasn’t any fresh food on the trail so they grew it here.  In the garden.  And sold it.  You know. . .’cuz Foster was makin’ a buck offa these guys.  Selling. . .vegetables and. . .stuff.”

Wow.  Slow clap, my friend.  I don’t think I’ve heard a speech that jaded and apathetic since Jose Baez delivered the Casey Anthony defense.  What’s wrong, did mom and dad insist you get a part-time job and they weren’t hiring at Abercrombie & Bitch?  Before Dylan Klebold here could expose the children to any more of his teen angst and neo-Amish approach to fashion, I shepherded them out into the afternoon sunlight.

After an uneventful (read: I had my headphones in listening to Bone Thugs & Harmony and was therefore oblivious) trip to the Foster House and laundry station, we led our tired and hungry children to the picnic tables for lunch, where we were greeted by an angry and sweaty (oh, so very sweaty) tour leader.

“I specifically told you children that this place was NOT a playground!”  he sputtered, waving his anvil-sized hands for emphasis.  “In the last hour I have seen the following:  Running!  Tree climbing! Cartwheels on the grass! Climbing on the hay bales!  What do you think you were doing!?!?”

Ordinarily, I would keep my mouth shut and let such an asinine diatribe roll off my back, because. . .yeah, no.  I’m just shitting you.  Seriously, if you think I’d sit there quietly then you obviously haven’t been paying attention.

“They were being kids.”  I told him, shrugging and taking a swig of my Snapple.  Suddenly, the table got silent as Andre the Giant turned his cold blue eyes in my direction.

“I’m sorry. . .WHAT did you say?”  he asked me, staring me down like he was Lindsay Lohan and I was a rock of pure Columbian ice.

I quickly wiped the peach iced tea from my lip and smiled beatifically.  “I said that they were being kids.”  I stated firmly.  “You know, running, playing, tumbling. . .it’s what children do.  Especially Oregonian children who spend nine months out of the year relegated to indoor activities because of the weather.  Give ‘em an open field and a little sunshine and it’s Lollapalooza.  So, before you go all “HULKSMASH!” on a coterie of nine-year-olds, might I suggest that you take a little Snickers break, regulate the ol’ blood sugar, and get back in touch with your inner Mark Ruffalo?”

Our guide glared at me, narrowing his eyes menacingly.  I continued to meet his gaze, my smile unwavering.*

*For a 5’4” woman who weighs about a buck-fifteen soaking wet, I am the queen of the Mexican Standoff.  You’d better recognize.

Suddenly, I saw my opponent’s lip begin to twitch, then curl, then he suddenly threw back his head and guffawed.

“Fair enough!”  he chuckled, wiping his dripping brow.  “You just make sure you get these little ones back on the bus without breaking anything, OK.  And try to keep ‘em off the hay bales.”

“Roger that.”  I said with a grin and a salute, ignoring the incredulous stares of my fellow chaperones as he headed back toward the barn.

“I can’t believe you SAID that!”  one of the mothers gasped.  “He’s so SCARY!”

“Scary?”  I replied, popping a Wheat Thin into my mouth.  “No.  Trust me.  I spent close to eleven years listening to that kind of noise.  This guy’s not ‘scary’, he just has a raging inferiority complex.  Besides, there ain’t no-way-no-day I’m going to be talked down to by someone who looks like he’s spent the better part of his life on Darwin’s ‘no-fly’ list.”

The other moms continued to stare at me silently for a moment, then one by one they began to smile.  The pretty blonde  mother, the one who’d glared at me earlier, grinned and extended her beautifully manicured hand.  “I don’t think we’ve ever met,” she said warmly “I’m Sara.”

So, all in all, I declared the day a win.  I got to give Fezzig a verbal smackdown, the short people got some much-needed UV ray exposure, no one lost any major appendages, and I was finally able to use my inner asshole for good; chipping away at the societal wall between myself and the other moms. 

Ooh!  And did I mention they had a Starbucks?   



Check and mate, party people.

Xoxo,
Jen

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

The People You Need After 35





“Nice.”  Gina appraised, trailing her slender fingers over the granite countertops.  “Very nice.  Did you have this put in?”

I shook my head, holding paint samples against the kitchen wall for Kelly’s approval.  “No, the previous owners actually contracted out all of the work here and in the master bath.   That’s probably why they’re the only two rooms that don’t look like they were painted by an amputee with macular degeneration.”

“But their taste in curtains was tasteful.”  Gina added dryly, gesturing toward the billows of beribboned floral fabric cascading from my living room windows.  “Are you planning to make matching outfits for the boys and have them sing ‘Do-Re-Mi’ through the streets of Portland?”

I shrugged noncommittally.  “Meh.  Either that or I’ll whip up a ballgown out of them and see if I can bust Rhett Butler out of jail.”

Kelly laughed, tossing the paint samples on the counter.  “Oh, come on!  The curtains aren’t that bad.  I think they’re kind of cute!”

Gina and I turned slowly, staring at Kelly as one does a mentally challenged toddler.   “Kell, Honey?”  Gina cooed, “I love you, but I hardly think that someone who wears Crocs with such a glaring lack of irony is equipped to make any valid style judgments.”

 “Thank you, Stacy London.”  Kelly snorted, flipping Gina the bird and reaching for a can of coconut water.  “When you and Clinton Kelly are done snickering over my wardrobe do you think we can get back to choosing paint samples before one of our children starts making unreasonable demands for things like food or maternal affection?”

As if on cue, my short people and Kelly’s nine-year-old came tearing through the kitchen faster than the INS at an El Pollo Loco, trailed by a very bored and angst-ridden 14-year-old Sophie.

“Mooooooooom,”  Sophie whined, “can we go home soon?  I’m bored.” 

“Why don’t you play outside with the boys?”  Kelly suggested with a patient smile.

Sophie rolled her eyes and heaved a world-weary sigh.  “Mother, I’m fourteen. . .I don’t ‘play’.”

“OK,” Kelly chirped amiably.  “why don’t you stand outside and ponder the meaningless of your existence?”  With one more roll of the eyes and a withering glare, Sophie shoved her earbuds in and slunk outside to listen to the myriad ways that Justin Bieber wants to “be her booooooooyfriend”.

“Was I that big of an asshole when I was fourteen?”  Kelly mused at Sophie’s retreating figure.

I shrugged noncommittally.  “I didn’t know you then, but I’m guessing ‘yes’.  Every fourteen year old is an asshole.  She’ll grow out of it eventually; she’s just at that ‘difficult’ age.”

“Yeah?”  Kelly furrowed her brow.  “When does she grow out of it?”

“Dunno.”  I replied.  “I’ll let you know when I grow out of mine.”  Kelly moaned and buried her face in her hands.  “Buck up, my Brave Little Toaster,” I told her with a pat on the head “in a few years she’ll be off at college marinating her liver in a cocktail of Jungle Juice and righteous indignation and all will be right with the world.” 

Just then the boys barreled back into the kitchen.  “Mommy,” my son J. cried, “can Justin and M. and me play in the woods?” 

“Sure,” I replied “just remember the rule.”

“I know, I know,” J. replied.  “Don’t get in a stranger’s van unless he has good candy.”

“Well done, Soldier.”  I stated with a stoic salute.  “Now go forth and conquer.”  In a flurry of laughter and chatter, the boys darted back outside.

“That’s quality parenting, right there.”  Gina noted sagely.  “Remind me again why I made you Milo’s godmother?”

I smirked.  “Momentary lapse of reason?   Anyhoo, it’s a fait accompli now, my friend.”  Pulling open the refrigerator, I perused its meager offerings.  “You guys hungry?  Not a lot in here, but I can always make a New Seasons run.”

“Ooh!”  Gina squealed, “Do you have any of those goat cheese tarts left that your friend brought over?”

I snorted derisively.  “Bitch, please.  Curtis’ culinary offerings last about as long as the career of a Disney Channel tween around here.  That boy can COOK, yo.”

“I need a new gay friend.” Kelly mused.  “I haven’t had one since Mason moved to L.A.”

Gina tilted her head, her shiny black curtain of hair falling over her shoulder.  “Why is a gay man a requirement?  Aren’t Jen and I good enough for you?”

“C’mon, Geen.  You know the rule.”  I said, handing her a Diet Coke.*

*For someone who weighs about as much as a  sparrow’s fart, that girl drinks enough Diet Coke to caffeinate the Russian army.  She’s cuckoo for Coco-pop.

“Apparently, I don’t.”  she replied, popping open the can and beer-bonging it in two gulps.

“It’s simple,”  Kelly replied.  “After the age of thirty-five, every single woman needs at least three good girlfriends, one amazing gay friend, and one ridiculously inappropriate friend with benefits to help them through the dry spells.  I’m pretty sure it’s in the Bible.”

“Where?”  I snickered, “The book of Gay-latians?”

Kelly chuckled in reply.  “Or maybe in First Whore-inthians.”*

*I know, I know. . .express train to Hell.  ((shame spiral))

Gina shook her head in confusion.  “Is it just because I’m married that I’m oblivious to this shit?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Kelly and I said in unison.

“Ha!  Jinx!  You owe me a Coke!”  Kelly cried triumphantly.

“Too late,” I countered. “Gina drank all the damned Coke.”

“Boo, you whore.”  Kelly said to Gina, poking out her tongue.  “So, are we going to start painting this door, or not?”

“I’m voting, ‘or not’.”  Gina responded, plunking down at the counter and leafing through a magazine.  “I mean, isn’t that why you guys have children?  So you can Miyagi them into doing all of this ‘wax-on-wax-off’ shit?”

“I quoted ‘The Karate Kid’ to J. and M. the other day and they stared at me like I was speaking in tongues.”  I bemoaned with a shake of my head.  “And then when I told them what movie it was from, J. said ‘Oh!  That’s the one with Will Smith’s kid, right?’”

“I know!”  Kelly cried, banging her hand on the counter for emphasis.  “When ‘Red Dawn’ came out last year I tried to tell her it was a remake of a Patrick Swayze and Thomas Howell movie and she said ‘Who?’  I wanted to go all ‘WOLVERINES!’ on her skinny little ass.”

I laughed, tossing a bag of chips on the counter.  “Want to hear something that will totally make you flip your shit?  Ralph Macchio is now officially the same age that Pat Morita was when he played Mr. Miyagi to Ralph’s Daniel-San.  Put that in your dojo and smoke it.”

The three of us sat morosely for a moment, staring at the chips and pondering our mortality.  Just then, Kelly's cell phone burst into song.
“Is that Elvis?”  I asked.

“Yup.” she nodded.  “I freaking HATE talking on the phone so my ringtone is ‘A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Action’.”

“Huh,” I chuckled, looking at the caller I.D. “rather apropos considering who’s calling.” 

Gina peered over Kelly’s shoulder at the ringing cellphone.  “Ahhh, the ‘ridiculously inappropriate friend with benefits’, I presume.”

Kellt smirked at her two best friends friends, popping a chip into her mouth.  “Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.”

I shook my head in awe.  “Teach me your ways, Whore Whisperer.  .  .teach me your ways.”


And this?  Right here?  Is why your girlfriends are your greatest asset in life.  Children grow up, men come and go, but your girlfriends are the ones that will be with you at the end, holding your hand, making you laugh, and filling in the memories that you’ve forgotten. . .

Or, in our case. . .calling each other a whore.

Xoxo,
Jen





Monday, May 13, 2013

Stupidest Crap Ever Spoken (Alternate Title: Why I Need New Friends)




AT THE PIONEER CEMETERY, LOOKING DOWN AT A TOMBSTONE ENGRAVED "1883". . .

ME:  Oh, that's so cool!  Somebody left flowers.
BRANDON:  That's so sweet!  Do you think it was his wife?*

*Dumber than a bag o' hair but good Lord that boy's pretty to look at.


KELLY (staring at the can of dog food in her hand):  Oh my God. . .I just realized that 'dog food lid' spelled backward is 'dildo of god'.  What does that mean?
ME:  It means that you're probably going to hell.


ME:  Oh my gosh, what a pretty dog!  What breed is he?
GUY AT PARK:  Half pitbull, half retriever.
GINA:  Aren't pitbulls really violent?
ME:  Not really.  But then again, if the pitbull half rips your arm off, the retriever half will bring it back to you.


ME:  These days "getting lucky" on a date means I find my car in the parking lot afterward.
KELLY:  Bitch, please.  The closest I've come to oral sex is talking about how long it's been since I've gotten it.


GINA:  Oh my God!  A spider!  I hate spiders!  Kill it!  KILL IT!!!
KELLY:  No!  Don't kill it!  Spiders are good insects; they kill the bad ones.
GINA:  Yeah, that's kind of like saying, "Let's keep a murderer in the guest room because they always shank the child molesters on the inside".  I don't want either one of those motherfuckers in my house.


KELLY:  Justin's guinea pig is making this weird wheezing noise, I need to take it into the vet.
ALEX:  Wait. . .you're taking a guinea pig to the vet?   That's like taking a disposable razor to the repair shop.  Just let it go, man. . .let it go.


ME:  You know, I find it rather ironic that we're now allowing armed guards in schools but still won't allow prayer.  Because I can guaran-frickin-tee you that the second some asshat in a trenchcoat busts into the teacher's lounge with a 12 gauge and a hard-on, I'd be on my knees screaming "OH, GOD!" faster than a whore when the rent is due.


ALEX:  Sometimes I feel bad about the things I say, but I figure the benefits of releasing all of that negative energy far outweighs the cost of hurting someone else's feelings.  Empathy is highly overrated.


GINA:  Oh shit!  Is that a cop behind me?
ME:  No, it's just campus safety.
GINA:  What does campus "safety" do?
ME:  I don't know, pull you over for sitting too close to the TV?  Cite you for running with scissors?


ALEX:  I had a lot of trouble in school when I was a kid because of my dyslexia; or, as I like to call it, my xilsdyea.


MY SON, M:  What's for dinner, Mommy?
ME:  Casserole.
MY SON, M:  What's casserole?
MY SON, J:  It's French for "Mommy didn't go shopping this week".


GINA:  I don't get these "today I marry my best friend" wedding announcements.  Your husband should NOT be your best friend.  Your best friend should be the one you call to bitch about your husband.


ME:  Did you send me flowers for Mother's Day?
HOLLY:  No, I'm your sister.  Why would I do something nice for you?
ME:  Valid point.  Weird.  There was a card and a message attached, but no name.
HOLLY:  That's sweet. . .creepy, but sweet.  Wait. . .there weren't carnations and ferns in it, were there?
ME:  No. . .why?
HOLLY:  Because nothing says "I spent most of my money on chloroform and duct tape" like cheap-ass carnations.  And if there's baby's breath, then he's definitely planning to make a skin suit out of your torso.
ME: . . .
HOLLY:  Are you there, Clarice?
ME:  Just waiting for the lambs to stop screaming.