Monthly Archives: August 2011

I guess I’m just not a true Amurrrican.

 

I was born and raised in a Midwest state where sports are everything. Unless you could talk team winning records, knew football plays, owned at least three jerseys, or at least hosted Super Bowl parties, you were nobody. In sixth grade, I even stooped as low as to be a cheerleader with the hopes of fitting in. All that got me was a really awkward team picture and a case of low self-esteem when I didn’t make it the next year.

I’ve always been a natural born band geek. My idea of a fun evening in high school was to learn all of my major scales in two octaves by ear.

…I mean…no I didn’t. That would be REALLY nerdy. Anyway.

Because of my musical obsession and massive apathy of all things athletically related in my home, I never learned the slightest thing about any sport. Even after being on the eighth grade basketball team, I couldn’t tell you anything more about basketball than “you shoot for the hoop.” And pass the ball. And run a lot. I still have no idea why I got to shoot foul shots in the one game when I got more than 30 seconds of playing time. Something about a foul. Yeah.

By some sort of magical happening, I ended up marrying the only man to walk this earth who is as apathetic about sports as myself. It’s freaking fantastic. When other guys are glued to their televisions, eating cheesy poofs and shouting obscenities, mine just wants to curl on the couch and watch Renovation Realities.

A normal conversation between Husband and Typical Jock Dude goes like this:

TJD: Man that drama with Tressel is crazy. It’s a bunch of bull. Where are the Bucks gonna be next year?

Husband: What’s a Tressel?

TJD: Seriously? I’m talking about the Bucks, bro.

Husband: Oh, yeah. We’ve been having problems with deer on our road, too.

TJD: Uhhhhh…let’s just drink beer.

This brings me to my next subject. People around here are nucking futs about The Ohio State University. I’m pretty sure there’s an Ohio law that says you can be executed for leaving out the “The” in the name. It’s common practice to buy a grey car just so you can pimp it out with scarlet decorations, buckeye leaves, and bobbleheads of Brutus the Buckeye. It doesn’t even end in death:

I’m just going to set this right here for your viewing pleasure. (Source osu.edu / Juli Miracle)

I guess my point is that I just don’t get it. The rules, or even basic concepts, of sports escape me. I spent my first season as a high school band director trying to figure out what downs were. Now, I don’t judge anyone. I’m always happy for our high school team when they win a game and I support band kids who play a sport. I just have no idea why our crowd is cheering most of the time. I’ve learned that if I cheer along, I look like I know what’s happening. As long as I know the words to “Hang On Sloopy” and I can answer “OH!” with an “IO!” I will avoid excommunication from the state of Ohio.

So, carry on, you sports fans. And hit the showers, before I smack you with a wet towel. I’ve got to practice my scales.

60% of you are going to be disappointed with the lack of boobies in this post.

We’re all on a mission of some sort.

For some, their mission is to become a better person, or donate more money to charity. For others, it’s to get to that booger that’s way in the back and has gotten all hard and pointy. Other people are trying to see how many times they can scratch their butt in public without being caught. (“I’m up to five, bro! Up top!”) Some people in my community are on a mission to see how many years they can shun the dentist and still keep that one tooth in the front. I know someone who calls it Chomper. Still, others are on a mission to make all teachers seem to be the human reincarnation of Satan in our country. There’s a reason I remain anonymous on here. (Oh no, she di’int just get on a political soapbox on a humor blog! *z-snap*)

Anyway, the point is, we all have a mission in life.

Chances are, you came to this blog on a mission for porn.

You see, I have a slight obsession with checking my stats. In the past week, about 60% of my hits were referred from a Google Images search. Nearly all of those image searches include the name “Jenna Marbles” and some sort of body part or adjective. Just look:

This list makes me proud to be a woman. I mean, instead of searches for “jenna marbles smart” or “jenna marbles funny,” we have searches for her full body, boobs, under wear (btdubs, it’s one word, you horny moron), and legs. As Jenna has stated in her “How To Get Ready For A Date” vlog, we’re all sexual objects, anyway. We shouldn’t try to be interesting, or intelligent, or wear anything that won’t show off our “sweater puppies.”

So, go ahead, you 15 year old perverts. Keep searching for “jenna marbles hot” and “jenna marbles boobies” (Yeah, I got that one today. They can’t be any older than 14 for that big boy wording). Continue to type things like “moms cleavage” into your Google search box.

Wait.

Back up the freaking Oedipal train.

Someone was searching for moms cleavage and found my blog?? And I thought I had issues. I bet they were really disappointed when they clicked here. This is probably the same kind of kid who was breastfeeding until age 6. Ah, mom’s cleavage. Makes me feel so cuddly, warm and safe. Amirite???? (And covered in baby powder.)

So, thanks to the 10% of you who actually stop by and read. To the other 90% of you, keep searching for your porn. I admire someone who has perseverance. I hope you achieve your goal. (Crossed the line?)

Seriously. I can’t even make up this stuff.

I’ll make this one short to make up for how long yesterday’s was. (Thaaaaaat’swhatshesaid?)

This is another one of those “only in my life” sort of stories, similar to yesterday’s post about the Golden Corral.

So, yesterday I was on my way to the gym for my second session with my trainer, Barry. I have to drive through a section of the freeway which has been Construction Zone Hell for the last few months – concrete walls, orange barrels, approximately 15 feet in which oncoming cars get to merge, the whole shebang. There’s an SUV to my left and a concrete wall to my right. I’m cruising along, enjoying the sounds of 90s alternative rock, thanks to my new favorite station.

Suddenly, the wind picked up.

They Ain't So Tough..

They Ain’t So Tough.. (Photo credit: Mr. Ducke)

You see that mashed-up orange barrel? One that looked identical to that began blowing into the road in front of me, rolling over itself like a plastic tumbleweed.

I’m going to get a little cliche with you now, so just bear with me. It was like a slow-motion scene in a movie. You see, I have a car that isn’t quite three years old, yet. I’m a very cautious person and I’ve never let anything happen to my precious car. (Yeah – you with the runaway grocery cart. I keel you.) So, I panicked.

I couldn’t go left, due to the SUV and as I said, there was a concrete wall to my right.

Horrified by the bailout.

(Photo credit: cdresz)

I’m going to hit it, I accepted. There’s no way around it.I hit the brakes to lessen the speed of impact. I even swerved a little, so I wouldn’t hit it completely head-on.

After what seemed like five minutes of scrunching my eyes and white-knuckling my steering wheel, I finally heard it.

BAM.

I seriously thought I was going to puke. Images of the cavernous dent in the front of my car filled my mind. My hands shook furiously. I wondered who I would have to call to sue the State of  Ohio for their clearly incompetent workers, who would allow a barrel to just float across a busy stretch of highway. By the time I got to the gym, I was surprised that I had even made it there, since obviously the front of my car had been reduced to scrap metal.

I got out and squatted to examine the damage, with a pit in my stomach.

No dent. Seriously?? There were some globs of grease smeared on the bumper, and maybe some slight scuffs of the paint underneath, but no substantial damage to be seen.

So, amazingly enough, nothing really happened. In about 30 minutes, I’ll be driving through that same construction zone on my way to work. Do you think anyone would judge me if I attached a snow plow to the front of my compact car?

Baby powder in Mom’s cleavage was the least of my worries

Under normal circumstances, I dread visits with my mother. I am well aware that this makes me sound like a terrible, horrible, no-good kind of person. It would take more words than the world’s longest blog post for me to explain why I feel this way, so just take my word for it.

I can hear you judging me.

Anyway, Mom’s birthday was on Thursday, so at this time last week, I started making plans with my family for the required birthday dinner. As usual, I called my grandma in an effort to avoid getting stuck on the phone for two hours with Mom. Typically, birthday dinners in my family happen at Texas Roadhouse. That’s just fine with me. They have steak, sweet potatoes smothered in brown sugar and butter, and I can order a margarita, which always helps me to cope with Mom’s incessant whining and complaining about the woes of life. Seriously, she’s the biggest Debbie Downer you could ever meet. I feel like I need to be on Paxil after I leave, just to see the light of day again.

However, Grandma wanted to go somewhere different this time, and as the reigning matriarch of the family, she gets to decide these kinds of things without question.

Golden Corral

Golden Corral (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love my Grandma. She’s a strong woman who has overcome numerous obstacles in life, lived through the Depression, buried two husbands, and raised my sister and me when my mom wasn’t capable of doing so.

But, ICK.

I do not do places like Golden Corral. My hometown does not have…ahem…the classiest of people living there. So, the idea of eating somewhere in which there are large pans of food with the purpose of self-service is not appetizing in the least. I imagined the scene: dirty children putting sticky fingers into macaroni and cheese, toothless women coughing and hacking over the plates and silverware, and tables that haven’t been properly sanitized since the place was built.

Then, I decided that I was being horribly judgmental. I would go to the Golden Corral, and I would suck it up, and be just fine. Friday evening arrived and Husband and I drove to meet Mom, Mom’s Boyfriend, Grandma, and Sister for Mom’s 55th Birthday Extravaganza. I even bought a “nice” birthday card because I was so rudely informed at our Mother’s Day gathering that I don’t get her nice enough cards. Yes, you read that correctly. My cards did not demonstrate my daughterly love at an appropriate level, so my mom told me I needed to buy her mushier cards in the future. So I did.

Husband was not happy at all. He and I share opinions on buffet-style restaurants and our last encounter with Mom was painstaking. She had spent our last three-hour visit talking about nothing but her back pain, excruciating 20-hour work weeks, getting two hours of sleep every night, and sanding wallpaper. One of the reasons I love Husband is because he tolerates these sorts of visits, and for some reason, comes back for more.

We walked into the Golden Corral, “nice” card in hand, and greeted my family. Grandma looked absolutely adorable. She’s 88 years old and is quickly losing her vision due to macular degeneration. A tightly curled victory roll decorated her forehead and hot pink lipstick was smeared around her lip area.

“I called earlier and told them that we’d be here at 6:30 with seven people. They said they would push two tables together for us. I gave them our last name, so when your sister gets here they can take her to our table.”

Yes, folks. My grandma made reservations at a Golden Corral, and was under the impression that this was proper protocol. I turned toward the window and smiled. I’m sure when I’m 88, I’ll do silly things like that, too.

Surprisingly, my mom didn’t immediately dominate the conversation with complaints. She gave us hugs, said hello, and excused herself to the restroom.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all, I thought. The worst thing I had noticed so far was a mass of baby powder escaping Mom’s exposed cleavage, as usual. She doesn’t seem to understand the concept of rubbing it in so the rest of the world doesn’t see evidence of her boob sweat problem.

Husband and I walked to the cashier to get our drinks and pay. As soon as she filled our cups with water (they wanted $1.79 for drinks and we were already paying $11 for school cafeteria quality food!), she realized that her car windows were down in the pouring rain. Here is where the experience starts to go downhill. The cashier ran outside to put up her windows. I understand. No problem. But, the manager who walked over to fill in left us standing there, waiting to pay, while she helped people behind us in line.

Finally, the cashier came back inside and we were able to pay and join my family, who had been patiently waiting for us for the last five minutes. I’m sure that was a fluke, I told myself. Don’t judge this place. I’m sure the food will be fine.

We were led to a private room in the dining area, in which there were only two other occupied tables. Sweet. This might turn out ok, after all. We ventured to the buffet area, where Husband and I meticulously examined our plates and silverware for baked-on food. I noticed a pan of cinnamon apples and thought, I like those. See? You were stereotyping.

Then, an old woman who was standing in front of the apples began to cough and hack. Right. Into. The. Apples.

A ten year old girl walked by, wearing nothing but a bathing suit.

Immediately, I entered Germaphobic Panic Mode. What was safe to eat here? A woman leaned over the buffet, dragging her hair across the food. A man licked his fingers and grabbed the tongs, piling fried chicken onto his plate. I finally settled upon beef stew (all of the meat had been taken, leaving only the vegetables; take that as you’d like), mashed potatoes and green beans.

As I sat down, Mom, Grandma and Mom’s Boyfriend were wolfing down their food as if someone had given them a five minute time limit for dinner. Husband and Sister cracked jokes about the meatloaf and mac and cheese’s similarity to Banquet frozen dinners. The servers were doing a good job of taking away our empty plates and keeping our drinks full. Mom was even on her best behavior, allowing the conversation to center around someone besides herself most of the time. I couldn’t believe it.

Grandma sat down, holding her third plate of food. “I waited for ten minutes for them to fill up the fried chicken! Some big guy tried to take all the drumsticks, but I only let him have two!”

Then, something happened that solidified my decision to blog about this dinner.

A mass of people walked into the doorway of our room. They were dressed in wedding clothes.

That’s right. A group of 40 people had made reservations to have their wedding reception in this private room and were quite upset because three tables, including ourselves, had been seated there. I had to hide my horror and amusement, for fear of having my tires slashed. Their outfits were interesting choices for a wedding. Jeans. Boobalicious strapless dresses. You get the idea. There ended up being room for all of them in the private room and disaster was averted.

Grandma returned from her fifth trip to the buffet. Her plate was piled with desserts. “I took that spoon and scooped all of the peaches from the peach cobbler. I only left the crust!” Our whole table burst into giggles. When you’re 88, you can do what you please. If Grandma wants to take all the peaches, more power to her.

Mom opened her birthday cards and actually appreciated them. I’m still in shock that she was so well behaved. Maybe we should go to Golden Corral more often. Apparently, it calms my mother’s talkative nature.

Also, where else can you go to a birthday party and a wedding at the same time?