The Wit

I am about to tell you the story of one of the funniest nights of my life. One of my best friends and I used to be roommates. We will call her Krackle. We started this tradition of roommate Christmas, which stuck, even after we no longer lived together. The last year that we continued this tradition we did a blind wine tasting at my house. This consisted of a bunch of friends, and this:

I said it was a blind taste testing. There 12 bottles in all, and about 8 people. Drunkeness shall ensue.

So, we gather all of our friends and hand them note cards - one for red and one for white. They have to tell us the grape, nothing more. We, of course, give a generous pour and start the tasting. The white went well...we progressed from dry to sweet, most people were able to guess exactly what the grapes the wines were made from.

Then the red came. My friend B had been to a party earlier and was drinking before he even showed up. He comes up to me and he says, in moderately slurred words, "I am not so sure I did that well" and then he hands me this:

I laughed so hard I peed a little. We all laughed. In fact, this note card has been on my refrigerator for years and will never leave.

Skin Crawling...

This. This is fucked up. I mean, really fucked up.

http://www.cracked.com/article_17199_7-most-horrifying-parasites-on-planet.html

Why do I read this stuff? I read the entire thing, watched the videos...I want to rip off my own skin. Or set my entire body on fire. Or live in a bubble for the rest of my life. I don't understand how someone put together this article. Googling image after image of these nasty creatures and picking out their best side for the blog. Then finding videos. Then writing a description of each picture and video. HOW DO THEY LEAVE THE HOUSE? I can hardly stand typing this.

I may never sleep again. Because I will immediately begin dreaming of giant Elephantitis appendages and worms burrowing under my skin and having their way with my internal organs.

You know, maybe we really have reached a point where we have far too much information. This I did not need to know. Ever. And people wonder why I have an unhealthy fear of bugs.

The Million Dollar ACL

Earlier this week, the devil dog started limping. Limping eventually lead to three-legged walking. Since the dogs were already due for their yearly shots/ check up/ mom getting raped by the vet bills, I decided to call and make an appointment. (Please note: this saved me paying the $7M office fee twice, so yay!)

I get there and I get Dr. I Talk To Much. I love all the vets in the practice, they all love my dogs. This particular, woman, however, makes me want to hurt small children. She is one of those people who tells you a story...and you are really interested in the story. At first. Until the story has been going on for 17 hours and you are contemplating cannibalism to survive.

Devil dog is absolutely terrified of the vet. In fact, at one point, the vet actually said, "I think he is trying to crawl in your pocket." So, she tries to examine his eyes. He immediately begins making a noise that sounds like a combination of finger nails on the chalkboard and angels dying. The vet decides to call in back up and have someone other than me and my pocket hold him. They finish the exam, he is thoroughly traumatized.

So, the vet then begins to give me a diagnosis. My dog tore his ACL. HIS ACL. This is a sports injury, or an injury brought on by activity of some kind. I am not sure how eating poop, stealing rawhide from his brother, and creating rug tornado's really causes a torn ACL. I expressed this concern to the vet and she responds that he could have simply twisted his knee funny. OK...WHO THE FUCK KNEW DOGS HAD KNEES? I mean, I get the general concept of bendiness in the leg...thus leading one to the conclusion of a knee-like structure. But, still.

So, I have a dog on bed rest. It is either that or a $2500 surgery to repair his knee. He is improving well and I have high hopes that the tear will heal on it's own. I have been worried sick and doting on him like some kind of crazy overprotective mother.

Just in case it doesn't heal on it's own, I am taking donations.

I am The Beef Separator

One night I went to a friends house for dinner and she made me dirty rice. You know, the pre-made box mixes. And I remember thinking how good it was compared to when I make it. I mean, all you do is cook the ground beef and add it to the rice. I could not put my finger on what made hers better than mine. Well, the next time I made it, I noticed that my ground beef was in bigger clumps than hers and I decided that was what made hers better.

For a few weeks I thought about this. I realize this makes me sound like a complete crack pot. I mean, who obsesses over how big the chunks of ground beef are in dirty rice? Me. I obsess over these things. So, one day, in a moment of vulnerability, the following conversation took place:

Erratic: OK, I have to ask, how do you get your beef so separated when you make dirty rice?

Friend: I have a beef separating tool.

Erratic: ARE YOU SERIOUS? Where did you get it? I have to have one.

Friend: (laughing uncontrollably)

Erratic: You were kidding weren't you.

Friend: (laughing uncontrollably)

Erratic: I am serious, how do you do it? Your beef is separated perfectly every time. Mine is always in big chunks.

Friend: That is the funniest thing I have ever heard. You actually thought that I had a beef separating tool? (laughing uncontrollably)

Erratic: Stop laughing at me! I have to know!

Friend: I just use a spatula. A spatula. (laughing uncontrollably)

About a month later, I went to this friend's house for dinner. Sitting on the kitchen counter was a hand made beef separating tool. It consisted of a garden trowel taped to a spatula. I laughed so hard I peed a little.

This friend has recently let me in on a little secret: her childhood nickname was Big Jed. This was given to her by her big sister during their wrestling matches. Well, Big Jed and I decided to have a Top Chef like cook off with all of our friends as judges. So naturally, I too needed a wrestling name. So, yes, imaginary Internet friends, stay tuned for the cook off of the year...

BIG JED vs. THE BEEF SEPARATOR

An (almost) week in review

Here are a few snippets that will give you a picture of the (almost) week since my last post, in no chronological order.

***

I was on a conference call today and a member of upper management on the call kept saying "we need to be consecutive on this." He said this multiple times and you could tell that everyone on the call was confused. 10 minutes later, he said "I mean consistent."

***

Saturday night, my dog kicked my Rubbermaid tub full of nail supplies down the stairs. This taught me several things:

1. Nail polish dries much faster on carpet than it does on nails.


2. Dry nail polish will not come out of carpet.


3. Red nail polish on white carpet resembles a crime scene.

***

I watched the Tool Academy reunion. I did not think it possible, but they are actually bigger tools now than they were before the show. If my life had that much drama, I do not know how I would get out of bed in the morning.

***

I hiked for an unknown number of miles Saturday morning up what boyfriend called a mountain. I am going to go with 1000 ft hill. Semantics.

Boyfriend was walking along all Mr. Fitness. I, however, was panting and dying the entire way. This has taught me a very valuable lesson: hike with people who are in worse shape than you.

The number of miles is unknown because I believe I started hallucinating beer oasis's (is that even a word) around mile 3. I have been waddling ever since. So, if you see a duck-like woman muttering incoherently about beer and hills, have a little sympathy.

***

The sight of this has made me ridiculously happy for several days now.

***

A gallon of margaritas is far too much for two people. Also, when half asleep, please remember that the pitcher in the refrigerator is margaritas and not lemonade. I recommend some sort of flashing neon sign that says "ALCOHOL: DO NOT CONSUME FOR BREAKFAST." Unless, of course, you are a wake and drink kind of person, in which case, party on.

Am I the kid or the llama?

My week has consisted of nothing but work. Nothing funny or interesting has happened and as much as I am sure you would LOVE to hear about my weekend of disaster recovery testing, I will summarize it for you. It went something like this:

The weather is finally getting nice and I am getting spring fever. I want to get out and do things in nature. I want to hike and play Frisbee and frolic in fields. I want to drink margaritas on the patio of the local Mexican place. I want to get a sunburn. Then I remember that there are bugs in nature and I am horrible at Frisbee. So, instead I think I will drink a bottle of wine and watch intervention. Cheers!

Dog Tornado

Can the universe please find a solution for being able to own dogs while simultaneously owning rugs? I have an elderly dog with a bad hip. If he looks at the hard wood floor, he falls, knocking his hip out of place, causing me to pay for yet another semester of college for my Vet's kids. So, I have rugs creatively placed all over my living room in order to prevent him from falling. See diagram below:

As you can see, my drawing using Paint is exceptional. So, there is this path of rugs through my house so that he doesn't fall. Well, I have another dog. A more evil dog, a dog that finds a way to undermine everything I do. When I get home from work, evil dog runs from the kitchen (where they are confined during the day) to the back door (somewhere near big ass rug. Oops forgot it!) back to the front door (the little slashy line by the rug at the front. I am awesome at labelling), and then finally stopping near the back door. This resembles some sort of rug store explosion in my living room. Carpet pads separated from their rugs, rugs bunched in the corner from flying through the air. There are rugs everywhere.

This is easy, right? I mean, certainly I cannot be the only one who accidentally adopted the devil at the pound. So, I try "carpet tape." Let me tell you something you probably didn't know about carpet tape. It has the adhesive capability of water. No problem, there's lots of solutions, right? I try those rug pad thingies. Eureka! It actually sticks to the rug AND the floor. We are making progress. However, they failed to put on the label "will not withstand dog tornado."

OK, this is a slightly minor example, but he INSISTED I post the one he was in. He would also like you to ignore the dog hair on the floor. Much appreciated. He will clean next time we post pictures.

I am out of solutions. And it's not like this happens once a day. It happens whenever a truck drives by, any of the neighbors are outside, anyone comes to the door, the other dog moves, he farts and startles himself, and, my favorite, when I have to pee. Heaven forbid he should not be RIGHT OUTSIDE THE DOOR. Or, if I am lucky, he comes in and rests his head on my lap the whole time.

So, I might actually have to, you know, work to find a solution to this. Because the only solution I can come up with might decrease the resale value. Unless, of course the new buyers really like my rugs and never ever want to remove them.

Anyone play the Harpoon?

I am going to apologize in advance for the fact that I am writing a post about reality TV. However, I have been hit with the flu twice this winter. Both times, the germs attacked when my DVR was fairly empty, so I resorted to watching what was on television. During the day. On weekdays.

(Note: There are a lot of people home during the day that want their men bigger. And I don't mean via the Bowflex. I thought these were reserved for strictly late night commercials. I was wrong.)

Do you know what else is on during the day? VH1 marathons (boo!) and Bravo Marathons (yay!) Unfortunately, Bravo was showing a Biggest Loser marathon. The Biggest Loser makes me feel guilty for sitting on the couch. Those trainers scare me and make me crave chips. So, I decided to watch the Tool Academy marathon on VH1. This was my first mistake.

Those of you who have not seen it (which I assume is everyone) let me give you a little background. A set number of women trick their boyfriends into going onto a reality TV show to be crowned Mr. Awesome. You can already guess the caliber of men who would enjoy being crowned Mr. Awesome on live TV. They get there, and are enrolled in the Tool Academy, where they have to pass lessons based on their relationships with the girls. Here are the highlights of the show:

• One "Tool" shows up with his girlfriend of two years (I am making that number up, I really don't remember) but switches to another girl when his girlfriend of 6 years shows up. They made it to the top 3 and she forgave him for everything.
  
  
• One "Tool" refers to himself as "Matsuflex" (note: his name is Ryan) and wears man-thongs. They made it to the top 2 and she forgave him for everything.
  
  
• One "Tool" is living off of his girlfriends child support payments and refuses to get a job. She walked out. And he wasn't all that goofy looking, so the picture is unnecessary.
• The winning "Tool" makes the following statement on the finale, during his own wedding: "There was a harpoon playing."
  
  

Stop acting all hurt like I gave away the ending. Nobody watches this show.

The ridiculousness of this show astounded me. These men were complete ass hats. They cheated, repeatedly, admitted it, and all of them were forgiven. They even had a lesson where they went into a club and just didn't have to cheat. And failed it. Or something. I just know that numbers were exchanged. I could only half watch this, because, seriously, my brain would melt if I gave it my full attention. I can't wait for the reunion show when I get to see who stayed together! (I just vomited a little in my mouth)

A HARPOON?

It is painful. You know what else is painful? Rock of Love Bus. I will admit that I watched Rock of Love. The sleaze factor on the Bus is off the charts in comparison. These women were making out with each other, wearing barely anything, and Brett was all, oh, this is so hot. GAG.

I am so completely overwhelmed by the influences on our teenage youth. It terrifies me to have to raise children and tell them to not dress like that, to not be that kind of woman, to not be that kind of man, to not date those kinds of people. To not create nicknames for yourself and walk around in man-thongs. I mean, who do you use as the "cool" role model. Miley Cyrus? Who is dating someone it is illegal for her to have sex with?

I will admit I am not that in tune with what the kids are watching, so maybe I am assuming the worst. But, I was that kid who got in with the wrong crowd. I did some stupid things and made some bad life choices. I struggle with how to teach my (one day maybe) kids not to make those same choices. But, I am promising the Internet right now, if my daughter ends up on Rock of Love Bus, I am going to find Brett Michaels and push his wheelchair off a building. Because, seriously, it is just gross.

Are those some sweet ass Converse tennies or my baby?

A typical evening in my life consists of watching TV and fucking around on my computer. There are certain TV shows that just don't hold my interest on their own. One of these is American Idol. I love the show, don't get me wrong. In fact, I have somehow managed to find myself enrolled in some sort of American Idol Fantasy League. This involves choosing something every week and then something happens and I get points! Yay points! I would try to explain it to you in more detail, but I have no idea what I am doing. Every time I go to the website, it takes me 20 minutes to figure out how to vote. And then another hour trying to figure out who the fuck these itty bitty pictures are and what they sang. Then I just close my eyes and click. Because, frankly, I don't care until the top 12.

I digress. So, I am playing The Game of Life online while watching American Idol. *Insert laughter* Are you done mocking me now? Good. We can continue. So, I am playing The Game of Life, and I lose my job. I mean, not my job. My TGoL job. Yes, we are abbreviating now. So, I have to go through the process of picking a new job (woo, I am an athlete) and suddenly I look at my car and I am all, holy fuck, I have a kid. Wait, holy fuck, I have TWO KIDS. I have electronically procreated and I have no idea how. I hope the goofy looking dude in the car next to me is the daddy, because, frankly, I have no idea what is going on. What if I had an illicit affair with Computer Player 1 and these are really his kids? Or what if there are two babies daddy's? What if I adopted? Or had a donor? THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS.

This gets me thinking. I am an oblivious person. I mean, there are times when I truly believe there could be a gun fight going on in my living room and I would be so into the book I am reading, I would have no idea. I am just one of those people who is always lost in my head. I day dream. I talk to myself in the grocery store. I get completely lost in literature. I get on the highway like I am going to work regardless of where I am actually going. My mother has referred to me as a space cadet since, um, conception.

So, what happens if I procreate? What if there is a mini-oblivious me running around in this world? More importantly, what if I forget mini-me at the grocery store because I am too busy trying to figure out my fuel perks and just wander off. Or I am shoe shopping and accidentally swaddle (bonus points for using a mommy word!) a pair of Converse instead of mini-me. Or I actually name my fucking kid mini-me. I mean, I HAD TWO BABIES AND HAD NO IDEA. They don't call it the game of life for no reason, right? RIGHT? I am getting an ulcer.

In all reality, I would be fine. I would realize that I strapped shoes in the car seat long before the authorities were involved. And I would never name my kid mini-me. And I would make sure the kid was in the cart, because, I would never leave food behind. That shit is just too expensive. Honestly, I would love that kid. Much more than my "magic" TGoL kids. Because, frankly, I don't even know if they are mine. I still think Computer Player 1 dropped their asses in my car and bolted.

On another note, CAN YOU BELIEVE THERE IS A TOP 13 THIS YEAR? Woo Anoop.

Oh, and I have a new catch phrase: "Her voice feels like a tack hammer in the eye." How fucking sweet is that? I am modifying for my tag line...

Passive-Agressive Crazy

I suck at communication. I had no idea how badly I sucked at communication until recently, but I do. What's worse? I am passive-aggressive. I HATE PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE. I am so THAT girl. You know, the girl that none of us ever want to be, but inevitably fall into the trap and become? I hate girls that manipulate, that say they aren't mad when they are, that control their significant other's every fucking move.

So, today, the boy comes over. He walks in the door, nods casually in my direction, and starts hooking up his Wii. Please note: he takes his sweet ass time greeting the dogs. So, he starts playing Wii. I start figuring out what is for dinner. Because, you know, we need to make this story AS STEREOTYPICAL AS POSSIBLE.

Boy: playing video games

Girl: Cooking dinner, cleaning, and generally slaving away to make him happy.

OK, I may have exaggerated slightly. He did ask if I wanted to play.

So, I am pissed, right? I was looking forward to seeing him. To spending quality time with him. Instead, I get to do all the cooking and shopping, while he plays Mario Kart. WHAT. THE. HELL.

This evening in my head: Adorable man I love goes shopping with me, helps me cook dinner, and spends the night adoring me in every way possible.

The problem with my head? He won't park on the right side of the grocery store and he will get distracted by shiny things. He will get in my way in the kitchen. He will adore me too much, and I will be forced to vomit on him. But, all of this is his fault, right? RIGHT? Am I crazy?

I AM FUCKING CRAZY. OK, yes, the whole "girlfriend who?" act when he walked in was annoying. But, I could have said something like "hey, you sexy beast, come over here and say hello." Instead I pouted and threw a full blown fit. I slammed some things, I grumbled under my breath. I was a giant stereotypical bag of douche.

I don't know if it is better or worse that I recognize this. It all goes back to communication. I only know how to be THAT woman. I only know how to play that part. I hate it. I know he hates it. And the bottom line is that it is not my personality to be this way. It really isn't.

So, the conclusion that I have come to is that I am bat shit crazy. Padded room, shock treatment crazy. And I am DAMN lucky to find someone who loves me, not in spite of the crazy, but because of it.

But, if he ever figures out that I follow him and take pictures of every person he talks to, I may have to give in and let him turn off my fan when he spends the night. I will be investing in more camo tomorrow.