Category Archives: humor

Writing Prompts

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Writing Prompts

When you feel vulnerable everything is a writing prompt. Sometimes the thoughts just swirl in my head, marinating until they become a somewhat tasty morsel that spills onto the screen. Not enough for a meal but, with any luck it leaves you hungry for more. Most times though, those prompts just wither on the mental vine. Here are some seeds that are lying on the bare ground, waiting for neglect or nurture to determine their fate.

Backstage Pass

My father is in the hospital again. He’s been in several times this year for various illnesses. We aren’t close and that’s not likely to change. He was out of my life from when I was 9 until sometime in my 30s. Too late for strangers with nothing in common to cling to – I say that with sadness, not hostility. We’ve both made attempts to bridge the enormous obvious gap, we just haven’t found the right the platform.

I find out about his health via group texts from his longtime partner. She’s devoted to him and very kind, which is comforting. It’s just awkward. The man had 7 kids from two marriages. I’m the first born but last in the pecking order. When I do get informed, it’s like having a backstage pass for an act you don’t know.

What’s Normal?

My kids recently went back to school and I feel myself being consumed by my own anxiety for them. I’m outing myself in the hopes that it will get me to ease up a bit. I have two teenagers and I can’t help myself, I think of what I was doing at their ages. Then I wonder, is it normal for parents to do this? If you’re a parent do you reflect on what you were doing when you were the same age as your child? Seriously, this is not a rhetorical question, I don’t know what’s normal.

For the Ladies

You ever get your period and think “Oh that makes sense” as you flashback to the night before when you ate half a chocolate cake and contemplated life with a new identity.

Hospice

A friend asked me how I deal with the mental mind f*ck of caring for people on hospice. This is what I wrote to him:

Hospice is a weird thing. I think what draws me in is the lack of bullsh*t. The small stuff and pettiness that most humans get tangled in tends to fade away when someone has a newfound awareness of how finite our time is here. I appreciate that level awareness and honesty and I get into a – do the next right thing modus operandi. It’s more difficult with people you know versus volunteering for strangers. I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing though, one of the benefits of a dysfunctional upbringing.

There is also a curiosity that pulls me in. I kind of want to know what it’s like at the end of life – I mean, we’re all going to die one day, yet people rarely discuss it. Or maybe my twisted brain thinks…if I am a witness and a helper for so many at the end of their lives, perhaps I’ll be granted a swift departure when my time comes. I don’t want to be subjected to weeks or months of Depends and really dry, chapped lips. So basically what I’m saying is….there is no way to delay the existential head f*ck, you just have to lean into that motherf*cker.

 

 

 

*Featured image used via agreement with 123rf.com image is Copyright of Sila Tiptanatoranin

 

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Observations from Down Under

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Observations from Down Under

Fresh off the plane from a trip to Australia. Well “fresh” may be the wrong description, zombie-like is more appropriate. We traveled as a group of 21 made up of five families including eight children ages 6 to 15. Our trip included several stops along the eastern coast of Australia. Here are some observations:

Jet lag is the devil

My body and brain are too tired to calculate the math to figure out what time zone my weary body thinks it is in. It is currently Thursday where I reside, it’s Friday in Australia. We traveled back to the states on a Monday which means we had two Mondays back-to-back. Mondays suck the first time around, they don’t improve with an instant repeat.

Jet Lag + PMS = Apocalyptic Meltdown. I’d rather not discuss how I acquired this knowledge.44724555_s.jpg

A jet-lagged version of myself with a touch of the Australian Plague. Sadly my hair did not look this good in Sydney, hard water.

Proper toilet use

Apparently there’s more than one way to use a toilet and it isn’t as intuitive as I thought. This was made clear by a consistent display of diagrams showing the dos and don’ts in female toilets across Eastern Australia. Oh and for those that are wondering about the circular direction of toilet water being flushed, the jury is still out. All of the toilets I encountered used a method of front & back water flushing action so the counter clockwise debate remains a mystery. For the record, the flush mechanism was superior to that in the USA.

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Two buttons give you the option for a moderate flush on the left or serious business on the right.

 

Baggage

We all have baggage issues. A few in our group got over zealous packing for the trip. I think one person had at least seven pairs of shoes and he had big feet. Big feet equals heavy shoes, that’s all I’m trying to imply. They were over the weight limit for every domestic flight we took and paid dearly for it $$$. I had another problem. My suitcase was intact when we flew from Sydney to the Gold Coast. Upon arrival, it looked like a dingo ate it.

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Exhibit A: A dingo leaving the scene of the crime.

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Exhibit B: My suitcase upon arrival.

Kangaroos & Koalas

Two images that come to mind when someone mentions Australia are kangaroos and koalas. I am happy to say we saw both in our travels. The good news/bad news on these creatures….

Good news – They are mostly docile and have soft fur. That said I didn’t encounter the “Big Red” variety of roo which I hear are quite intimidating. I met the soft, smallish, fluffy kangaroos that have been hand fed by humans their entire lives. These were more like pets than wild animals. They were free to roam around and eat as much kibble as their bellies could hold. When they grew tired of people they could hop back to the Kangaroo Rest Area where kangaroos could enter and people were forbidden. It was wildly popular with the roos.

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Feed me human.

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This is the roo hand signal for – “OH FFS human I can’t eat another bite.”

 

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Residents of the rest area. The ones in the back look shady to me.

I saw a kangaroo crossing sign along the side of the road. Sadly, I was not able to get a photo of it but I found a better one (note the skis) –

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Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_bennymarty’>bennymarty / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

The koalas were pretty mellow. They reminded me of Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones, they all looked really wasted. My kids each got to hold one and they said the koalas were softer than they expected. I’d post pictures but they’re teens so naturally they would kill me.

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Bad News –  The koala my son held pooped in his hand which explains the “dafuq” look on his face in the photo I can’t show you. Apparently that happens a lot. Our friend who planned the trip informed us that koalas do three things: eat, sh*t and shag. His greatest wish is to be reincarnated as a koala next go-round. If his wish is granted, he will likely have a raging case of chlamydia. All that shagging has it’s consequences and those furry sluts are not immune. Seriously, nearly all wild koalas have chlamydia.

More bad news…kangaroos are considered pests by some in Australia. In fact about a million of them are culled each year in an effort to slow crop damage and car accidents. I assume this is where some entrepreneurs get the kangaroo bits to sell to tourists. There were kangaroo balls and paws (which look remarkably like hands) for sale as souvenirs. Australia is deeply divided regarding this practice. I didn’t buy any of those items. Kangaroo also was featured on many restaurant menus and I was informed that it tasted like a beef steak.

The People

The people we encountered were great, all courteous and helpful. One bus driver in particular had a delightful sense of humor (Rated R). They all said perfect (pronounced PuuurFECT), superb and brilliant. They smiled when they spoke and made direct eye contact, it was refreshing.

When we got home my daughter discovered that she left a beloved stuffed animal behind. This bunny is dear to my daughter because it is wearing a bandana that belonged to her grandfather who passed away in May. We determined which location it was likely left at and I sent an email. Sure enough they found it. I even asked for a photo of the bunny to make sure it was the right one (proof of life) before I paid for shipping. They complied and I’m happy to say that bunny is home bound which is just puuurFECT.

 

 

 

 

The Badass & A ‘Fro Below

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The Badass & A ‘Fro Below

Last night I was at a book club meeting with some friends. I think we all know that “book club” is code for over indulging in food and adult beverages in the suburbs. I partook in the food and limited beverages to water because I prefer to chew my calories. I am sworn to secrecy regarding my companions (not really, no one got sloppy). I will say I ate a hamster’s weight in bacon wrapped dates and I regret nothing, N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

The book we were discussing was Finding My Badass Self: A Year of Truths and Dares by Sherry Stanfa-Stanley. FindingMyBadassSelf  I met Sherry at the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Conference this past April and we hit it off. After the conference I contacted Sherry because I wanted to purchase 10 of her books. I turned the big ‘5-OH’ in June and I decided to give the books as a favor to the ladies who attended my birthday dinner. At that dinner a friend offered to host a book club to discuss it.

The book gave a description of Sherry’s experiences while ticking off an eclectic bucket list of things that pushed her out of her comfort zone. The tone of the book is friendly with a good amount of humor. It’s an interesting and fun read. I read the book in early May and one thing that stood out to me was the rhino situation. There are a few lines in the book that caught my attention (page 193 if you happen to have a copy):

(Sherry) “Oh! I think he’s going to pee!”

“Um, no,” Robin said. “See his equipment down there? This is similar to how we manually ejaculate him.”

I read that and I immediately had a stream of questions and thoughts. Here are some of them in no particular order:

Holy sh*t is this rhino getting happy endings as part of his care?

How often?

Is it always the same person or does this task get rotated? (and really which one is more disturbing; a rotating team of happy ending professionals or a single individual responsible for the “the job”? I’m still debating that. I’m leaning toward the one individual being worse because then it seems like an exclusive relationship, this bothers me. Is it consensual?)

Anyhow there were 52 unique and interesting experiences described in the book and this one was the one that haunted me. I may be a 12 year old boy trapped in the body of a midlife female.

Other topics carried over into things we had tried in our own life – one person jumped out of perfectly good airplanes several times (for fun, the weirdo). Others discussed being on nude beaches, eating in the dark, zip lines, sex shops (I told you it was a good book) and the “woes of waxing”.

I got a Brazilian wax once so I had some skin in the game on this one (wink for those that have experienced it). For the uninitiated, there is no amount of candle light, chanting monks and calming incense that can tame the horror of getting your lady bits waxed. Basically you are placed on a table with your legs pushed as close to your head as possible. The goal is to have your feet nestled beside your ears, easy peasy if you happen to be a double jointed acrobat, a ballerina or an expert level Yogi. Sadly I can not list any of those credentials on my resume.

I’m fairly bendy though so positioning was not the worst part. The worst part is having a Gyno light switched on while you are in that position and happen to be naked (or wearing a thong whose sole purpose is to help you pretend you have some modesty….insert maniacal laugh…you don’t, it’s all gone, it left with dignity.) Once the hospital-like floodlight is pointed toward your nether regions, a thin coat of hot (think lava) wax is applied to your most delicate areas – front to back. Then because that isn’t awful enough, tape is used to yank the wax and hair off (perhaps with some skin and 13% of your soul) At some point the technician will ask what your pruning preference is for the front of the house. The options range from geometric shapes to completely bald. I went with the landing strip option. A lightning bolt would have been cool sadly, I didn’t think of it until after and I never went back (that was 2007).

One of my friends who attended last night sent me a link to an article this morning which described a hairy situation. Apparently there is a feminist movement for growing out hair where in previous years the trends have been to shave or wax (down below, armpits, legs, anywhere). I replied with a big nope. Do what you want ladies, I’ll keep the ‘fro below to a crew cut.

 

 

 

 

Photo Credit: Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_bankjayphotto’>bankjayphotto / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

 

 

 

 

 

Super Cringe

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Super Cringe

My alter ego has an alter ego. Stay with me here. I write under a pen name, so Bryce is an alter ego of sorts. The other day I thought perhaps I should have a character for my blog. Someone who visits from time to time with antics and foolishness to share. And then I thought:

If my alter ego wants an alter ego is that just multiple personality disorder? Asking for a friend (actually several friends…)

I posted that on Facebook and Twitter and to my surprise, no one had any solid advice for me (us, insert audible eye roll).

Left without supervision and zero guidance…I’ve decided screw it, let the alter ego’s alter ego be born. She shall have a name because – alter ego’s, alter ego is a terrible name. Too many words. Introducing (insert dramatic drum roll here)…(still drumming)….(just a smidge more drumming)…SUPER CRINGE.

Super Cringe is not your run of the mill heroine. There are no super powers to cast her for anything by Marvel. In fact, it’s her lack of anything spectacular that caused her existence. She leans into the ordinary.  A dorky, teen-embarrassing run-of-the-mill mom like so many that afflict our children. If you’ve raised humans you probably have some super cringe worthy stories of your own. Hell, even my dog is embarrassed by me sometimes. The husband just pretends he doesn’t know me in public.

Super Cringe was inspired by the fairly obnoxious text I got from my dear daughter a few nights ago. She was texting me on her way home from ski club. This is how it played out.

DD: Love u and it was fun. I went on a few black trails.

Me: Love u 2 my little bad@zz

DD: That was super cringe

And that is how Super Cringe was born, out of my child’s disdain for my choice of words. Stay tuned…visuals to follow.

 

Sketch drawn by the amazing Lisa McMillen of Cica Lisa Designs. Visit her website and prepare to be blown away. http://www.cicalisadesigns.com/

 

It’s a Deathtrap

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It’s a Deathtrap

It’s been a rough few days. Late last week I had a physical and I walked out of there with the trifecta of future appointments – mammogram, treadmill stress test and a colonoscopy. I hit 50 hard last month and apparently 50 hits back. I also got some bad news about my cholesterol which is high and has to be monitored. I come from a family which has lots of heart disease. I left the doctors office in a mood that can be described as “we’re all going to die”.Then I went home and took care of people because that’s what moms do. Over the weekend I distracted myself by shopping for swimsuits online.

Getting packages in the mail usually comes with some level of anticipation, unless it’s swimwear then it’s dread. It started out innocently enough, I was preparing for a family trip and decided to get some swimwear. Now I wasn’t entirely naive about the process, I despise putting on a bathing suit. I hate it so much that I have avoided it all together for the past three years. My family is about to embark on a once in a lifetime trip and I refuse to let vanity and insecurity sideline me. I need to get over myself and squeeze into something that resembles swimwear, perhaps from the Amish line.

I did what modern women do and went shopping online. Let’s be honest for a minute, is there a fresher hell than trying on swimsuits in a department store dressing room?  No there isn’t (OK side burner war, childhood diseases, man buns, poorly dressed baby goats, misogamy, racism and all the crime in the world for a moment) bathing suit shopping is awful and is made worse by florescent lights and the knowledge that some store security guard is watching you. No thanks, I’ll pay for shipping on returns if I have to in order to avoid being burned into Edna’s memory of most ridiculous customers.

I was cautiously optimistic when I began. I wasn’t opting for the Brazilian thong with a bandeau top (wireless). Those days are behind me (*sniff*sniff*) I went straight to modest yet modern swim skirts and tankini tops. I was pleasantly surprised when I found a swim skirt I like and it actually looked kind of cute. I felt cautiously optimistic, thinking my biggest challenge was behind me (wink) and I went to search for a top.

I found the top from a different company. A plain, yet seemingly well designed tankini top in black, should work fine with the aforementioned cute skirt. I took it out of the bag, it doesn’t resemble a 15th century torture device, so I decided to try it on. OMFG this thing is the stuff of nightmares. During my first attempt I was spun into some weird web of clothing denial. I thought I must have done something wrong, this can’t be right. It was only half on, yet it took the skills of a disjointed acrobat to wiggle my way out of there.

I checked the size, listened for encroaching family members and dove in for round two. OH FFS are they kidding me? No, flippin’ way. I was determined and soldiered through and managed to get this tankini from hell on my body over most of the right parts. Thank G-d it didn’t look good, if it did I may have been tempted to keep it beyond all logic.

Fear started to creep in. You know how it is when you’re watching a scary movie and you hear those first high pitched piano notes…something awful is about to happen and you go into high alert. Is it hiding in the drapes, crouched down near the sofa, OMG he’s behind me, isn’t he!!! And I realize I need to get out of this despicable garment without destroying it. Fantasies of shredding it Hulk style were replaced by the need to develop an exit strategy.

I looked at myself in the full length mirror, took a deep breath and determined the best course of action. Getting this top over “the girls” was particularly challenging. I’m a C-cup so we aren’t talking porn star breasts or anything unusual. Visions of me twisting my upper body to release the twins seemed like a bad idea. I wondered how it was that Harry Houdini could escape shackles in a water tank under duress and I struggled to get out of a bathing suit. I opted for the top down method. I released myself from the straps and rolled it down to my waist and kept going until I was free. The entire task likely lasted under five minutes and felt like a lifetime. The search continues…

Damn it, the Civil War is Postponed!

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Damn it, the Civil War is Postponed!

Susan, a white woman wearing a resist shirt is yelling into a megaphone at a protest: “The Fourth of July Civil War has been postponed! (gasps from the crowd, loud sighing with audible eye rolls) I repeat, the July 4th Civil War has been postponed! Alex Jones is on to us AGAIN, he must have a mole in here. (Susan pauses to eye the crowd with suspicion) The avocado launchers need to be rolled back along with the gluten free pasta guns – oops sorry they aren’t guns, guns are bad, they are peashooters – don’t worry we aren’t using actual peas, people still eat those, non-GMO of course (a collective sigh of relief from the crowd).

Kevin, a bearded dude in the audience wearing an ‘I’m with Her’ t-shirt: “What will we do with all of the avocados Susan?”

Susan: “We will enact the 3-2-1 Emergency Plan and make guacamole for everyone at the Texas border!”

Kevin: “That’s ambitious Susan do we have enough cilantro? I like tomatoes in my quac, I heard there was a shortage, not enough farm workers to harvest this year….”

Susan: “G-damn it Kevin we’ve been through this in the practice drills. We will make due with the cilantro on hand. You may have to let go of the tomatoes. We’re all making sacrifices here (mutters Geezus, under her breath but everyone hears it).”

(A beleaguered looking mother of 6 overheard in the background in a sing-song voice): “You get what you get and you don’t get upset!”

Susan: “Thanks everyone for coming out today! Don’t be discouraged we will reconvene next week at the usual location.”

Millennial from the crowd wearing an androgyny smock: “Is that still at Whole Foods or did we switch when they got acquired by Bezos?” (an Echo is heard in the background offering to create a Whole Foods shopping list – 1,243 people all yell “Shut Up ALEXA!!! OFF!!!” simultaneously)

Susan: “Thanks for asking Magenta. We will be meeting in church basements, Quaker Meetinghouses and yoga studios under the guise of self help groups. Namaste everyone, namaste.”

 

This post brought to you by sarcasm and humor, two of my oldest friends. And I’m throwing in a plug for Periodically Inspired because I love their shirts (and I did NOT get paid for that). Happy 4th y’all!

https://www.periodicallyinspired.com/

 

 

 

 

 

What’s in Your Wheelhouse?

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What’s in Your Wheelhouse?

Seems like everyone has a wheelhouse these days, a metaphor to describe their specific skill set. I hear the term from friends that are still slugging it out in corporate America. I used to have a wheelhouse filled with current technical skills, boundless energy and a can-do attitude. That was fourteen and a half years ago before I was laid off from my Project Manager position at a software firm (The Office Space movie really resonated with me). Those attributes have been replaced with an intense hatred of middle school car line, juggling of my family’s emotional, social & physical needs, my imagination’s ability to go DEFCON 3 if I can’t reach my kids and an abundance of resting bitch face. I’m running out of ducks (psst…spellcheck is a stupid duck).

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Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_hermandesign2015′>hermandesign2015 / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

Here’s a not-so-secret-secret, I’m nearing the mid century mark (audible gasp, I know I can’t believe it either). So I suppose it’s natural to take a moment and reflect on some shit stuff. I did the math and in dog years I’m coming up on the big 3-5-0…no wonder I’m tired.

As I’m sitting here trying to flesh out this post, I’m listening to my husband teach our daughter Algebra. I’d rather eat a flaming sword while my fingernails are pulled off with rusty pliers. I stopped helping my kids with homework somewhere around 5th grade. If anyone asks my reasoning is to “facilitate independence”, I think they’re on to me though. The truth is I can’t do half of it without screaming or crying, if only on the inside.

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They say (not sure who “they” are) with aging comes wisdom. Hmm, not sure about that one. I knew everything when I was 17, you couldn’t tell me otherwise. Now I hesitate a little more, consider the thoughts of others who may have a different point of view and sometimes I’m wrong. I try not to “jump to conclusions” (still with me Office Space fans) and I reserve the right to change my mind. Perhaps I’m maturing just a hair, must be the flair (sorry, apparently I have a theme now).

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I’ll tell you want else comes with this milestone birthday – yes and no. Yes to spending time, money and effort on the people, places and things that matter most. No to the activities that don’t bring joy or a sense of purpose. I recently resigned from a position on a non-profit. I’ll still help out, I just don’t want my name on the letterhead. My time suddenly seems more precious and I give careful consideration to how I spend it.

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What’s in your wheelhouse?

 

Buzz Kill

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Buzz Kill

Hi friends, it’s been a while since I checked in. My world got pretty small for a few weeks when my father in law was placed on hospice. The family took turns caring for him in his own home until he passed away last week. We’re all still licking our wounds over here, he was one of my favorite people. He was a quiet example of living a good life, I’ll miss his zen ways. I’ll be forever grateful for the “good man” example he set for his son and grandson.

In the meantime, life goes on. The sun still rises, work needs to be done and kids have to go to school. The laundry piles are smaller, we’re starting to eat dinner together again and a new normal is settling in. (Psst…the new normal sucks)

Throughout this past month there were moments of gratitude and humor. My closest friends were there for me. Two suits appeared for my son to borrow, a belt was brought to visitation when I forgot one. Recommendations were made for where to find shoes for my daughter and her exceptionally tiny feet. We received an orchid, a tomato plant and an olive tree from kind friends who knew the man we honored. Mass cards were given and basically people just showed up, let our dog out and let us know we are loved. You can’t ask for more than that. It’s been raining since we left him at the cemetery, even the weather recognizes our grief.

OK shaking off the sad for some humor now…pivot with me. One day while I was sitting with my father in law a wasp got in. I could hear the buzzing and identified the culprit. I went to search for an old fashioned fly swatter. I knew there would be one, everyone over 80 is required to own one. Sure enough I found it tucked away in the kitchen between a cabinet and the wall. I stepped into the living room armed with the fly swatter and a determination to eliminate the problem.

Sitting with someone who is dying has a way of making you realize how precious life is in all of it’s forms. That’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why I was determined to usher this wasp out a window and not just smash it. The invader was stuck between the wooden blinds and a window. I cracked open a neighboring window as the escape hatch, I just needed to get my new friend to fly out of it.

There was coaxing and loud noises as I tried to get the wasp out the window. I provided some commentary for my father in law who was pretty quiet at this point but he had a front row seat to this show so it was the polite thing to do. After several loud attempts, mild cursing and antics that had a tinge of Lucille Ball, the wasp finally flew out the window. I was pretty proud of myself for dealing with the problem in a humane way.

A few hours later, the hospice nurse and my husband were both over and another wasp was in the house. At least I think it was another wasp, could’ve been the one I freed earlier getting in through some secret wasp back door. This one was really annoying doing fly-bys as we were discussing medication. This asshole had to be exterminated. I got the fly swatter again and got him mid flight, it was spectacular. I picked it up with a napkin and disposed of it in the garbage.

Another two hours tick by and son-of-a-b*tch there was a third wasp. I texted my husband thinking maybe we have a nest. We had a text exchange about it –

Me: I just killed another wasp. Three of the mofos got it in today.

Hubs: Are you sure the third one isn’t the second one? Unfurl the napkin in the garbage can to be sure.

Me: Hell no I’m not unfurling napkins to see if your wasp is the Jesus of the wasp world rising after death…I will seal the garbage bag and take it outside like a normal person.

I managed to get the third (or perhaps it was the first or second, I didn’t check the napkin) wasp out the front door. Never to return.

 

Graphic Credit: Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_derocz’>derocz / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

 

 

I Might Be Terrible

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I Might Be Terrible

I’ve been doing cringe worthy crap my entire life. This week has been off the chart, here’s a recap:

Last night I was in a doctor’s office with my daughter. She needed to get an X-ray. I saw a close friend with her daughter also waiting for an appointment. Instead of just saying hi like a normal person. I go over and say “What are you in for?” because people love to announce their private medical concerns in a crowded waiting room. I might be terrible.

One evening at bedtime my daughter mentioned that she has fears of someone breaking in and killing everyone. She asked if I would run in and rescue her. I said, “Hell no, I’ll be running for my life. You’re smallish, hide in a closet, play possum, figure it out.” Now I’m wondering if we should just put her college fund toward therapy. Probably terrible.

A dear friend has been dealing with a kid with a foot injury. Her kid is pretty delicate so the pain tolerance level is – butterfly kisses chafe. One morning this week she was trapped in bed with her tween, afraid of waking her daughter if she moved. I don’t know how long she was pinned, arm going numb as her bladder begged to be emptied. Most parents have been held hostage in this way – desperate to escape, afraid to rouse the sleeping child.

The injury happened over the weekend and the effects lingered for several days. She kept her daughter home from school on Monday, concerned that she wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom without assistance. Later that day she sent me a picture of the balloon animals they made out of an excess of desperate boredom. I texted her…If your kid can make a G-D balloon dog she can pull up elastic pants, that’s all I’m sayin’. My friend insisted the issue was with putting weight on her injured foot, but still…moderately terrible.

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This is the balloon animal my friend made. It appears to have some kind of balloon animal medical issue. I don’t know what it is exactly but my visceral reaction is concern for the balloon and my friend.

I was assisting an 80 year old client with bathing this week. Three minutes into the bath she mentioned that she felt an urge to go. I may have said “please don’t sh*t in the tub” repeatedly under my breath. She has really good hearing. Sh*t in the tub is a horror show so, probably not so terrible.

This weekend I accidentally took my son’s phone. Not too terrible, EXCEPT when he suggested that I might have accidentally picked it up and I immediately dismissed the idea. In fact my husband and I thought that perhaps our son was scared that he lost the phone and was desperate for a scapegoat. Then my husband and son searched the path of a walk they took the prior evening (the search took place in cold, rainy conditions because of course it did). Approximately an hour later the phone was found in my car. Clearly my son’s suspicions were proved correct. Moderately terrible, I apologized.

I was catching up with some volunteer work the other day. To be honest, I’ve wanted to “retire” from this particular project but the benefits are so good it’s hard to walk away. That’s a joke the benefits are a significant loss of personal time, a severe lack of appreciation and agita. I was emailing another volunteer and she was getting a bit testy with me. I decided to use the exchange as a writing prompt and somehow managed to send her a text with my observations which I intended to flesh out into a fictitious blog post. Bottom line is I hurt the other person’s feelings. So I’m terrible AND an idiot. I apologized, definitely terrible.

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From this day forward, all the sh*t that goes sideways will be known as a writing prompt. What terrible cringey things have you done this week?

I leave you with this gem – How to Make a Balloon Poop Emoji –

 

 

 

 

 

Basic @sshole

Standard
Basic @sshole

We walked into the cafe in the middle of the lunch rush. It had that industrial-rustic-chic decor that has taken over the US in the past 15 years. Am I in a country store or an abandoned warehouse, I’m not sure. All these places look alike – exposed HVAC duct work, “distressed” wood floors and tables with some metal accents, large chalk board and minimalist light fixtures. I’m sure this decor is described in the first chapter of the Gentrification 101 Handbook. To be fair, I liked this look the first 15,294 times that I saw it.

Unfamiliar with the particulars of this cafe, we grabbed a menu and got in the 10 people deep line. By the time we got to the register we were just about ready to order. The part of BA (Basic @sshole) will be played by the cashier.

Me: Hi, how big are the sandwiches here? We’re thinking of sharing.

BA: (audible eye roll) They’re….(hesitation, he wanted to say basic, I know he did)…Uh, normal.

Me: OK, we’ll get the chicken salad sandwich with a side salad and a bag of chips. I’ll take a coffee as well.

Friend: Do you have any fountain drinks?

BA: (gasp, with momentary look of horror) Noooo

Friend: Um, OK I’ll get a water.

BA: Take this number and put it on your table, hands me my coffee.

I begin to pay with a credit card. Of course they have the Apple register here, required apparatus (it’s in the Handbook). BA can’t wait for me to finish signing my name on the display and huffs over to the other register to start the next order, clearly annoyed that I haven’t moved on yet.

My friend and I look at each other like “WTF was that about” and search for seating. We had to settle for one of those community style tables (check that off the requirements list, it’s in the Handbook).

I got up to fix my coffee and grab a a few napkins. That’s when I realized that BA was simply towing the corporate line because I saw this above the napkins:

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Aggressively pro-environment and condescending. (Chapter 2 of the Handbook)

I looked around and realized the median age was probably 23 and my friend and I were not the desired demographic. Then I noticed the chalkboard, it took over an entire wall. And then I smiled a little because it wasn’t current. I suspect they ran out of sustainably farmed chalk, that’s the only viable explanation.