Monthly Archives: November 2012

Friday Blast Off: What I Said vs. What I Meant

profanityTook a week off from yelling at people in my head last week to bring you the lovely story about my glorious days as a tuba playing elk.  Despite this, I apparently still have friends that are willing to look past my awkward years, and for that I thank you all.  That being said, here’s some people that I wish would have been shot into the sun this week.

The Completely Clueless and Furious Attorney Who Kept Repeating Himself at an Increasing Volume for 15 Minutes:

What I Said:          “Sir?  Sir?  I understand – SIR.  I do apologize.  I did speak with Angela from your office, have you checked with her?”

What I Meant:      “You, sir, are an asshole.  Let me talk to your secretary as she is clearly the brains behind your operation.  Also, ‘all this new bullshit,’ you speak of isn’t all that new.  Last I checked, email has been relatively common in the workplace for about twenty years.”

Miss Fancy McGiant Bag and Her Extremely Animated Friend, Mr. Flailing Hands, on the Bus:

What I Said:         “No problem!  It’s crowded this morning!”

What I Meant:     “You dizzy bitch.  If you’re going to carry a bag the size of a rhinocerous, take a cab.  I have enough trouble keeping my brains in my head; I don’t need you knocking me in the face with your ten pound lunch.  And you, yes you, flapping your hands like a fucking pigeon – knock it off.  You’re telling the dumbest story I’ve ever heard – there is absolutely zero need to draw more attention to it.”

The Gentleman at the Bus Stop Who Yelled in Spanish Right in My Face Until I Could Escape:

What I Said:         “Lo siento.  No hablo Espanol.”

What I Meant:     “I understand you perfectly and no, I will not give you a cigarette, rodeo.  You’re wearing a fucking sombrero and clown pants at 8:30 in the morning and I refuse to contribute in any way to this foolishness.”

The Girl Dressed in Lime Green Spandex, A Skintight Blue Shirt, Red High Heels, Ornaments as Earrings, and about Two Hundred Extra Pounds:

What I said:          “Good morning…”

What I Meant:      “Excuse me?  Do you know you’re dressed as a bipolar Christmas tree?  Here’s a tip – ask for a full-length mirror this year.  Trust me.”

How was everyone else’s week?

It’s Courtney! The Tuba Playing Elk!!

I was going to do my usual Friday Blast Off, but somehow calling people jackwagons and fucktards while actively wishing for their demise seemed inappropriate the day after a holiday designed to give thanks for all of the good things we have.  And I do have a lot of good.  So instead, I decided to turn the tables on myself and explain why I was a tuba playing elk in junior high school.  So at least if you were having trouble being thankful for something, you can now be thankful that you weren’t me in 1991.

Before I begin, I need to point out that in doing some research for photographic evidence of what a complete and utter spaz I was at twelve, I unearthed my eighth grade yearbook.  So keep in mind, if you went to junior high with me, I have proof that you probably weren’t as cool as you thought you were, either.

Anyhow, not long ago, myself, my husband, and our friend were watching a Notre Dame game.  Notre Dame scored, and the marching band began playing the fight song, which happens to be one and the same as the Grove Junior High fight song.  I apparently had some sort of trauma-induced flashback and blurted out, “Hey!  This was the fight song for my junior high school!  Did I ever tell you guys I was the mascot?  I got to wear an elk costume!”

The words weren’t even out of my mouth before I frantically tried to swallow them, wishing fervently for a time machine that would take me back 40 seconds so I could remind myself to think before speaking.  The damage was done, however, evidenced by the sputtering kind of laughter that is generally only employed when men are watching other men get hit in the junk with a golf club.  I spent the rest of the night sulking, being honked at sporadically, and answering questions such as, “So, did you have to try out? ”  “Did you get your own antlers?” and “Wait, so you dressed up as an elk AND played the tuba?”

What? I totally got to stand next to the cheerleaders.

Ah, the tuba.  My poor, wonderful parents.  See, our junior high school band was (this part’s not sarcastic,) really, really good.  We won competitions all over the place.  When I originally entered junior high, I played the flute, like a normal preteen girl would want to do.  It’s cute and feminine and everyone loves flute players!  (Right?) That’s an appropriate instrument for a clumsy, uncoordinated tard with braces and glasses.  It lends some respectability.  However, there were approximately 40 other girls with the same idea, and I wasn’t very good at it.  Not bad, but not good enough to stand out.  (And with my looks, I needed to SHINE!)  So, the story goes that the week after my parents paid off said flute, I came home, brimming with excitement, “Mr. J. wants me to play the TUBA!!!  There’s only like two people who play and he thinks I’d be great at it!!”  Kissing their money and time invested in the flute goodbye, they did not try to dissuade me other than a, “Tuba, huh?  You sure about this?”  The following week, I enthusiastically carried my rented tuba home – walking it about eight blocks from my school to my house because so great was my excitement at being a tuba player that I was not willing to wait until one of my parents could pick me up.  To this day, there’s probably still people in Elk Grove laughing at the day they saw the braces-clad nerd wrestling a full size tuba down the sidewalk, stopping intermittently to test it out.

Tuba not pictured. But you know what makes a tuba player hotter? A striped vest and bowtie.

It must be said, although I realize I’ve lost what little dignity and respect I had, that I KICKED ASS at the tuba.  It’s a very slight silver lining on the storm cloud that was my adolescence.

There was a relatively protracted conversation yesterday led by my sister as to why in the hell my parents let me do these things.  And by conversation I mean she yelled, with tears of laughter rolling down her face, “What the hell is wrong with you?  WHY DID YOU LET HER DO THAT????”  while my husband helpfully interjected, “Wait, you didn’t quit the tuba when you became the elk?  Seriously???”  My mother admitted that even she questioned it at the time but apparently my 12 year old self had so much self confidence that not only was I not embarrassed, but had such enthusiasm and pride in my esteemed distinctions as “Elk,” and “Tuba player,”  that they didn’t have the heart to squelch it.  Which, while extremely sad for me as now these pictures still exist, was kind of kickass of them.

So apparently my “awkward stage,” lasted considerably longer than most and had some more notable pinnacles of dork than most.  I turned out fine, right?

Me holding onto a stripper pole in Vegas. Please note I am still carrying my purse and, while not pictured, am wearing flip-flops. Go Team Awkward!

Friday Blast Off: What I Said vs. What I Meant

Happy Friday everyone!  Here’s the second weekly installment of “What I Said vs. What I Meant,” designed for those of us not quite quick enough on the uptake to make a witty comeback, instead ending up muttering “Oh yeah?  Well let me tell you what I really meant, you jackwagon waste of space,” at unsuspecting strangers.  Vent your frustrations here and show me how creative your insults can be!

To the Sadistic Bastard also known as My Bus Driver Wednesday Night:

  • What I Said.            “Thank you!  Have a great night!”
  • What I Meant.        “What the hell, man?  Were you beat as a kid or something?  This isn’t Grand Theft Auto, it’s a bus with REAL PEOPLE ON IT and most of us don’t have the balance of a tightrope walker, you fucking psychopath.”

To the Giant, Scary Lady Who Nearly Knocked Me Unconscious While Running for the Bus:

  • What I Said.            ****Stunned, Silent, Gasping for Breath and Reeling for Balance****
  • What I Meant.        “Christ, woman!  Next time you’re going to run like a linebacker at Jay Cutler, please keep an eye out for clueless blondes who may be stepping around the corner, bopping to their iPod, blissfully unaware of the day-ending tackle that awaits.”

To Ramon, circa 6AM, Who Woke Me Up By Ralphing All Over My Blanket:

  • What I Said.             “God you suck!!!  Don’t you ever do anything that doesn’t suck?  STOP WALKING AROUND THE BED LIKE A BARF TRAIN!!!!”
  • What I Meant.         Yeah, that’s pretty much what I meant to say.

To the Idiot that Tried to Scan His Onions at Dominicks:

  • What I Said.            With a big smile, “Sir?  I’m pretty sure you need to put those on the scale and key in what they are.  Let me show you.”
  • What I Meant.         “Hey, Special Ed!  Really?  You think your vegetables have a bar code on them?  Let’s try and dig down in that tiny reservoir of common sense you have and use it, why don’t we?  Because if you try that with the oranges I’m going to beat you with them until you’re a pool of crying citrus.”

So??  How was your week?

Well, Here’s a Whole Bunch of Products That We Probably Don’t Need.

Back when I originally started this blog, one of my first posts was written after I saw a small child outfitted in knee and elbow guards, a helmet, and shin guards whilst tricycling past my apartment.  The sight led me to question the helicopter parent mentality that is so prevalent today which I strongly feel is pretty much turning the next generation into whiny little pansies who aren’t allowed to play dodgeball cause it’s ouchy.  (Really?  I got hit with a hockey stick in gym class when I was in fourth grade.  In the face. While I still remember the incident, it’s more because it taught me, “Stay away from aggressive boys with hockey sticks,” and less “I’m severely traumatized and will require years of therapy.”)   Deciding to research some ridiculous safety devices, I stumbled on the horrific fabulousness that is the skymall website and proceeded to have a grand old time mocking their products and those that buy them.  I recently revisited the site of that great mall in the sky and discovered that since 2008, Skymall has updated their catalogue and looky loo what we’ve been missing!!

***You can read the original post here.  My favorite is the neck therapy devices.***

The Upright Sleeper

This is featured in their “travel” section, designed for comfortable sleeping wherever you are.  Yeah, you want to be next to this guy on a plane, dontcha?  If I can’t bring shampoo with me, I’ll be damned if I’m going to be seated next to someone with a device that appears DESIGNED TO STRANGLE SOMEONE.  Also, doesn’t this look like it would take just a teeny tiny bout of turbulence for him to bite his tongue off while strapped into this?  Because I also don’t like getting bled on and am bad in an emergency.

The Hidden Litter Box

“Hey, do you know you have a tub full of shit and piss with a plant growing out of it next to your leather couch? ”  Enough said.

The Napkin Clip

 -

You fucktard.  You can’t drink a cup of coffee without dumping it down your shirt?  They tout this as “great for restaurants.”  Unless you are under the age of six, severely physically or mentally challenged, or in a rib eating contest, there is no circumstance where this is okay, least of all a public restaurant.  Also – if you require a bib while standing in your own kitchen – and I’m assuming it’s hers, simply because if you are the sort of person who brings a fucking bib wherever you go, you probably don’t get invited to a lot of parties - chances are you shouldn’t be drinking anything without a straw.  And a helmet.

Siamese Slanket

Oh well for the love of God and everything holy.  First of all, am I the only one terrified of the Snuggie?  Do they not remind anyone else of the Jim Jones massacre?  There was a Snuggie pub crawl in my neighborhood not long ago and I cowered in my house, convinced someone was going to stuff me in a blue blanket and pour Kool-Aid down my throat.  Second of all, fellas?  Chances are, if your lady talks you into wearing one of these with you?  It doesn’t mean she wants to cuddle.  It means you are never going to have sex again.  Hope you’re comfortable, cause you’re going to be on that couch for a LOOOONG time.

Gentle Standing Back Stretcher

What in the actual fuck?  A BACK STRETCHER????  Here’s another idea.  Stand up and put a chair three feet in front of you.  Bend over.  Same position, same results, much less likely to get screwed out of three hundred dollars.  You moron.

Pugz Shoes for Dogs

You dick.  You’re that guy, aren’t you?  You know why Duke here looks so confused?  It’s cause he can’t figure out what he could have possibly done in a past life that was so horrible that he ended up with an owner that actually googled “Pugz.”  And don’t give me that, “Oh, but dogs feet get so cold, too!” shit, either.  They. Are. Dogs.  You find me a dog that died of hypothermia because it wasn’t wearing boots and I will shave my head.  Also – I may not have dogs, but the ones I do know?  Would likely maul anyone that tried to put footies on them.

Tranquil Sounds Oxygen Bar

Okay.  So this device apparently gives you “enriched oxygen,” to help you relax.   According to the description, “Work, stress, drinking and environmental factors deplete our oxygen and affect our health,” and this machine helps replenish you.  I’m calling alcohol was the problem in this particular situation, as she’s passed out on what appears to be her grandmother’s couch and fully clothed in a cocktail dress.  That being said, hats off to you, good lady, for having the kind of night that ends like this and still having the wherewithal to realize you’re going to need MORE AIR should you want to avoid the kind of hangover that will make you wish for a swift and painless death.

On one hand, it irritates me that people are spending hard earned money on such superfluous bullshit.  I mean seriously – a BACK STRETCHER?  On the other, I am the owner of a solid crystal rooster and a bronze monkey that is currently used to hold a hackey sack, so who am I to sit in judgment?

Whatever.  Until I put booties on the cats, I’m still winning.

Friday Blast Off: What I Said vs. What I Meant

Sometimes I’m surprised when I hear from people, “You’re just so happy and nice to be around all the time!  How do you do it?”  And I’m all, “Um, have you met me?  I kind of use the f-word as a substitute for ‘the,’ and ‘and.’”  And then I remember that most of the yelling I do, I do in my head.  I’m pretty much at expert at smiling and nodding happily when what I really want to do is find the nearest blunt object and start swinging.

I suspect many of you are the same.  At the very least, I would bet that there’s plenty of times you’ve lain awake in the middle of the night, chastising yourself, “Dammit!  I should have said, (insert your own violent insult here.)”  We’ve all done it – walked away from a confrontation while mentally kicking yourself for not being a quicker thinker like those bitches in the movies who always have a snappy retort at the ready.  I do, and it drives me crazy.  So every Friday, I’m inviting you to post your witticisms and sarcastic comments that you brilliantly came up with at three in the morning.  It’s a win/win!  You get to keep your nice persona around the office and general public, but also get to vent your true colors!

It may take some paring down, but I’ll start with just a few.

To the Fancy Girl Who Stomped on My Foot with Her Four Inch Heels on the Bus:

  • What I said.          “That’s okay – no worries!”
  • What I meant.      “OW OW MOTHERFUCKING OW!!!  You stupid little girl!  Heels are not for the bus!  And you have the   balance of a drunk toddler!!  I hate you!”

To the Lady Who Got Mad at Me for Asking Her to Repeat Herself on the Phone:

  • What I said.          “I’m so sorry, I seem to be having some trouble hearing you.  We must have a bad connection.”
  • What I meant.      “Stop. Chewing. Like. A. Goddamn. Cow.  Your keyboard is filled with crusty disgustingness, isn’t it?”

To the People in Charge of the Polling Place in My Neighborhood:

  • What I said.          “It’s fine, I don’t mind going elsewhere, but I would like to be sure before I walk another six blocks.”
  • What I meant.      “Seriously?  Is everyone in this gymnasium mentally challenged?  Here’s my card.  Here’s my license.  Give me my marker and giant ballot.”

To the Very Important Businessman Who Body Checked Me Into a Post When I Was Getting Off the El.

  • What I said.           “Whoops, sorry!!”  (Because, yeah, I am that asshole that apologizes when someone bumps into me.)
  • What I meant.       “Hey!  BRAD.  Cause I’m sure that’s your name.  You do that again and I’m going to push you right onto those tracks.  You hear me?  You giant toolbox.   And your fly’s down, but I’m not telling you because you’re a self important douchecanoe.  I hope you’re going to an important meeting.  Dick.”

Ah, see?  I feel better already.  Happy Friday and feel free to vent your frustrations!!

 

 

 

 

 

How (Not) To Sleep Through The Night.

Does anyone actually put their head down on the pillow in the evening and wake, rested and ready to face the day, the next morning at an appropriate time?  Because I’m pretty sure this hasn’t happened to me – save the occasional anomaly and the slightly more frequent “whiskey makes everything better!” nights – in approximately 20 years.  I have a nice bed, I have a nice pillow.  I’m lucky that I live comfortably enough to have heat in winter, and while central air would be far preferable to my (free) wheezy window units, a cold shower and a fan will keep me cool enough in the summer.

So why can’t I sleep through the night, you ask?  After the past several nights found me lying wide awake staring at the moon and pondering such important topics as “I wonder if I have all of the ingredients to make mashed potatoes tomorrow?” and “Tomorrow if elevator 12 is the only one open, I’m totally not getting on.  It’s way too slow and makes a funny noise.  I’m just waiting for the next one,” I put together a few things that may be interrupting my REM cycle.

Pets.

If you want to sleep through the night – don’t have pets.  Or, more specifically, don’t have my cats.  No one likes my cats.  One of them bites, one of them pees, both of them are kind of horrible but for some reason I love them anyway.  Well, I love them most of the time.  Excluded times would be pulling a sweatshirt off the shelf only to discover it’s been used as a litterbox, apologizing to family members whilst offering to pay their hospital bills for penicillin, and trying to sleep.  The first night we brought our older cat, Ramon, home, she was an adorable little kitten bouncing all over the down comforter through the night.  Ten years later, she’s not happy unless she’s sitting on your face with her extended claws resting on that sensitive skin under your arm.  Try and move her and she squeaks and hisses and meows like you’re trying to pull her teeth out.  Try to push her off the bed and she becomes a stubborn, horrible being much like one of those inflatable punching bags that just keeps popping back at your face despite your strongest pleas and efforts.  (Side note.  When you find yourself trying to bargain with the cat to get off the bed, you’ve already lost.)  As for Potato?  My sweet, terrified    insane cat?  Let’s put it this way.  A few nights ago, he found a golf ball which we had (because we’re assholes) stolen from mini-golf at Navy Pier.  Somehow, he managed to transport it from a table in the kitchen to a chair in the dining room and was having a cat PARTY playing with it.  If you’ve never heard the sound of a joyful cat playing with a golf ball, let me just say that the only thing you’re missing is a “What the FUCK is that?” in the middle of the night.

Crippling, Childish Fear of Monsters and Murderers in the Dark.

Okay, I’ll put it out there.  I am a big, giant, ridiculous baby when it comes to getting up in the middle of the night.  I am the first to admit that I cannot watch a scary movie – to the point that the mere thought of seeing Paranormal Activity last year gave me palpitations every time I went in my basement – and have been known to walk out of a room when Criminal Minds is on because I know it WILL keep me up.  During the day, I am a (mostly) fully functioning adult, with a job and a college degree and a full set of pots and pans.  In the wee hours of the night?  I turn into a toddler who has, on more than one occasion, considered waking up my husband just to sit up and make sure there were no scary men with hatchets waiting for me in the bathroom.  (I haven’t done it because the chances of him cracking me with the baseball bat under the bed is far more likely than hatchet man lurking behind the door.)

Pea-Sized Bladder

I’ll never forget, when my sister first started working and was a floor nurse, talking to her one evening when she mentioned, “You know, I don’t think I’ve gone to the bathroom since I left the house this morning!”  It was six o’clock in the evening.  I had peed twice since we’d been on the phone.  I cannot make it through a movie, a car drive further than 30 miles, or a long commercial without having to pee.  Incidentally, everyone HATES going places with me and any time we go anywhere, I am asked no less than three times by no less than two people, “Did you go to the bathroom?”   I’ve been tested and there’s nothing wrong with me, I just simply cannot retain liquid for more than four minutes.  So unfortunately, I rarely make it through a night without having to get up at least twice to use the bathroom.   Combine that with my paralyzing terror of leaving my bed in the middle of the night, and  I spend a lot of time with a racing heart clumsily running from the bedroom to the bathroom, turning on all of the lights in my path.  Which, incidentally, wakes up the cats on the off chance they were asleep.

The culmination of the above three things, plus the addition of a husband who apparently enjoys making my heart stop, is what makes up the situation in my apartment at 3:45AM yesterday morning.  I woke up and had my usual immediate thoughts, which generally consist of, “What in the actual fuck was that dream about?” “I wonder which cat this is that is currently paralyzing my foot?” and “DAMMIT I have to pee.”  I tried to hold myself off a little longer, which did nothing other than to feed my fear that the vague shadow in the kitchen was a vicious intruder, and then finally gave in to my stupid bladder to get up.  As quick as I could, I tiptoed through the hallway to the bathroom, did my business, then took a deep breath for the scary, shadowy journey back across the hall.  Upon entering my bedroom, I saw that my husband was sitting straight up in bed.  (Which. Is. Fucking.  Creepy.  I don’t care who you are.)  My heart in my throat, I croaked, “What are you doing???”  No answer.  Making the miraculously brave move of walking toward the bed, I ask, a little louder, (and likely MUCH more panicky,) “Why are you sitting up?”  Because he hates me, (or according to him, “Didn’t hear you, you f*ing psycho,”) he didn’t answer again.  So, again being brave, I decided to crawl into bed, because even though in my terrified little heart I knew he was obviously murdered, I couldn’t just leave him there.

And then I landed on the cat and completely lost my shit.

The cat yowled and tried to escape, but was momentarily stunned and halted as I fell face first onto the bed, letting out a bloodcurdling scream that would rival that of any horror movie actress.  Which set about a chain of events that went something like, “What in the FUCK is wrong with you???”  “WHY ARE YOU SITTING STRAIGHT UP??”  Followed by some relative nonsense (because really, after that, there’s no intelligent conversation to be had,) and then some more hissing and repositioning of the cats, who were extremely distressed about the whole thing, which was then followed by another half hour of no sleep because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

And that’s why I don’t sleep.  Whiskey, anyone??

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