15 posts tagged “amusements”

Friendship

A coworker of mine sent this to me at work. So true, so true. At least, when I give voices to pets both past and present...I imagine that this would be what their journals would look like.

Happy Friday!

Dog Diary

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!

9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!

9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!

10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!

12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!

1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!

3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!

5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!

7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!

8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!

11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

CAT DIARY

Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.

They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed  hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the  rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to  keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of  escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet..

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet..

I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.

The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The  bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the  guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors  have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.

When I first came to Vox I was tagged to do the 5 Things People May or May Not Know About You. And before I let my other Vox persona sort of fizzle into silence, I realized - I never got to the 5th.That was 2006. It's 2008, but in lieu of trying to keep up with a resolution to finish things I start...here's to a finish.

I don't know what it is. Friends joked that it was my special mutant ability. If that's so, well...I'm still a Sidekick. The Cheerleader will not be saved and Sylar will still pop open heads and do whatever it is that Sylar's do. My life in Heroes or X-Men...one I can assure you would be cut short.

I, token brown girl, would sense plausible danger then - SMOOSH!

Scene over. Cut me my paycheck. Off to pay bills. Live, breathe. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It's not really uncanny. We all have it. Do it. Sense it. I just think I never found the 'off' switch for mine. And it serves me well. If I were dumped in a horror movie scenario, I'm pretty sure I'd still be living in the end. Not that you'd notice, I wouldn't be hanging around at the end of the movie having slain horror movie monster. Nay...The Little Brown Girl would have sensed 'Something ain't right in this here town/hills/wax museum/etc.'', stolen somebodies ride and been off to less scary and uninviting places. Some call it cowardice. I call it survival.

My non-plus ability is having a knack for sensing the energies that people, places or things give off. It's not real special. It's not real neat. It's no doubt just a throwback to our hunter/gathering days. But...it does come in handy. In high school and college, my friends often tapped that ability to make sure that our nightly drives didn't wind up with Bambi on the hood. While they had their cheeky little Cop Finders plugged in, Deer Finders, Pet Finders, and other various Varmint Finders - they did not make. So, that was me. Designated Pulse Finder.

I still find pulses. I don't want Bambi hood ornaments or have to go door-to-door to find and tell pet owners...I ran over your <insert pet here>. I happen to adore animals and have fluffy four-legged children of my own. That does not a good evening make or a nice story to share.

So...the other day, J and I were on our way to dinner and I was taking the road near the park. We were chittering and chattering and finding general amusement in the lyrics of music played over the radio, when up ahead, in the road, something moved. It looked live leaves. Leaves from the open trash bags set out on the sidewalk from somebodies newly manicured lawn.

About 8 yards away and bearing down rather quick, my heart started to race and I felt a ghostly sense of giant sized panic. Eyeing the road, our little leaf pile wasn't so much a leaf, but a pint sized squirrel having made his way out of the nest to begin learning what it means to be a squirrel. As winter turns to spring, the roads in The Pass are littered with them. The ones who don't learn quick enough: Cars are not friends.

I drive a Dodge Caravan.
There is no contest.

J, he hates these moments. Those moments where the lady beside him searches frantically for phantom heartbeats, checks her mirrors and makes split second decisions. Because if I'm forced to make a call between hitting other drivers or wheeling over four-legged (sometimes two, we have lots of birds) I'll do the latter. But, if I have to hear the BUMP BUMP beneath my tires, tears. Lots and lots of tears. Though, through all my years of driving...there's never been a BUMP BUMP Incident only minor grazings - all of them with happy endings.

So, darn you Baby Squirrel. You Look-A-Like A Leaf. And lucky for Baby Squirrel (and hopefully for Baby Squirrel) he learned that Vroom Vroom's are not friends. So at final moment, no traffic neither to the side or behind, I veered to the right, planting J's face against his window while I and the squirrel shared the same sorts of facial expressions. He Look-A-Like Dis:

Ahhhhhhhhhh!

He look-a-like dat smack dab in the middle of the road, right on the line, I look-a-like dat making the same sound behind the wheel, and J...he look-a-like dat with his face smashed against the window. I stopped making that face and sound once the squirrel collected his wits and scampered out of the road to safety. We would later make the same faces and do the same noises over dinner.

So yeah, that's me. Your happy (sometimes screaming) energy/pulse finder. Gotta pulse to find, dangerous strangers to avoid in the dark, or furry hood ornaments you want to avoid - The Ninja Chick, she's your girl.

Kiss it

[Guys, feel free to take a pass on this entry. May contain subject matter you don't want to know about. I know I didn't want to know.]

When the commercials first started appearing, I didn't give them much thought. I hit Mute like I normally do as the television is used as general background noise when my headphones aren't strapped to my head while I'm in the throes of writing. Also, J keeps a pretty steady diet of  Cartoon Network, Comedy Central, and various Sports Channels. The usual brands of commercials that run are generally joke-tastic (and not so much in the ha-ha sense). Any television I watch, I record on that beautiful little hard drive in the DirceTV doo-dad, this way I can FF through the commercials, drink in my shows and be done with it.

But after a coworker sent me a Tickle Me Ha-Ha via email to help get us through another delightfully droll day full of newspaper deadlines, I got my jollies then got a serious case of wtf? I then youtubed to see exactly what I'd been missing out on with my Mute Happy Digits (bless you youtube or maybe curse you, I haven't decided yet). I discovered this...

Have a what?
Did that commercial just end with what I think I heard?
And...in the lower right corner at the end, did I read that correctly?

Happy...

A lot of things come to mind when I think, Happy. Warm fuzzy thoughts come to mind when I think about things that make me happy. Periods - and not the sassy little dots you find at the end of a sentence - do not make the list of warm fuzzy thoughts. It doesn't even come close. There is no such thing as a Happy Period. And if you're reading this now and you've had one..please, let me know, I'd like to congratulate you and send you some virtual roses, because you would be the first.

I guess to add further insult to injury, outside the slogan being bad enough, they've printed that nasty little well wish on the pads themselves. That's exactly what I'd want to see if I were feeling like crap: Have A Happy Period. That awful little phrase mocking me in the throes of the worst week ever, because it's never a good week when Aunt Red is in town.

I suppose one should be happy that periods are generally a solo affair as I'm sure, having seen some youtube reactions to this little printed phrase, could incur an impressive body count should warm bodies be nearby. I am now grateful that while visiting public restrooms, there is a thick metal partition between me and other women. I do not want to die in a public restroom. I try and avoid them as much as possible. Like clowns, I have a healthy fear of them.

Oh Proctor and Gamble, you have fallen so far.

Go back to the old dry versions of your ads, the kind that can absorb politely into the psyches of others without rousing violent bloated thoughts. And if you're going to use anything...how about humor? The ha-ha kind, not the rub-your-nose in it kind complete with sarcastic phrase. Something like this:

Otherwise, I'm afraid you may continue to receive letters like the one below. The email my coworker sent me yesterday and on Valentines Day no less.

Yours Truly,
- Irritable in Oregon

This is an actual letter sent to American company Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. She really gets rolling after the first paragraph...

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the Leak Guard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that m a xi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from 'the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my 'time of the month' is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants . Which brings me to the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: ' Have a Happy Period.'

Are you fu**ing kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James?

FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bull sh*t. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,

Wendi Aarons
Austin , TX

PC Magazine's 2007 editors' choice for best web mail-award-winning

They taste divine. My family and friends have been dining on these little darlings for as long as The Wild River Pizza and Brewing Company have been in business in The Pass.

Chocolate Eclair's made from scratch.

Nom. Nom. Nom.

Unfortunately, they don't photograph well. Just like vamps.

Having had the foresight to photograph before I cut into it and wolfed it down, I eyed the display on my cell phone and grimaced. I flashed it to my Mom and Dad who were oddly quiet. Quiet like me.

"Well, at least you know it tastes better than it looks," commented my Mom.

I scratch my head and take another photograph on another setting, but wound up with similar results, "Well, crap." I muttered.

My Dad laughed, "That's what it looks like too...on your phone. Crap..." he took a drink of his soda, "...like a fresh and nutty cow pie."

While I was playing photographer, my parents had already devoured their 'cow pie'. Suddenly, my Guilty Pleasure in pastry form didn't look so pleasurable. It looked like:

Chocolate Eclair

2 comments

It was a surprise.
A very unfortunate surprise.
The kind of surprise one could live without.
The kind of holiday surprise I could've done without.

The holidays can be a tug-of-war of horror and delight when it comes to the unveiling of Christmas Gifts. I know they say 'It's the thought that counts' - but sometimes - SOMETIMES - I'd rather just receive the thought than the actual item. And it's not that I'm not a Grateful Person, a Happy Person, or someone who experiences this Fuzzy Cheer shinola that people keep yammering about during the holiday season - it just looks different on me. And during this Unfortunate Year, Fuzzy Cheer would look like Holiday Horror on me.

I've celebrated Christmas's with a number of different families over the years, those families ones I considered part of my extended family as my family tends to be a something selected rather than formulated by blood. Each family has a tradition. And some of them, while shocking at first, become a something Beloved later.

In one family, the box was just as important as the gift. And the boxes, depending on how long they had been in circulation (some having been for nearly as long as I'd been alive) - had a story. The story was a something retold and passed down through the years. The story ever bit as important as the gift - and in some cases more so. This was as delightful as much as it was fun, watching each family member take turns telling their portion of the story, and in some cases once or twice, as the box had wound up in their care again. The true mystery for me: How did they keep those boxes so darn nice? Because I've attempted their tradition on more than one occasion and the boxes - they didn't make it.

In another family, like The Box Family, they followed the sacred practice of Re-Gifting. The Re-Gifters were a large family, one that spanned the continental U.S.. Some of their gifts believed to have been in circulation before St. Nick got his Toy Shop in the North Pole and his Undertall Helpers with pointed ears. So, one never knew when these Unfortunate Gifts would reappear. I say Unfortunate because if they'd been a Wanted Thing, someone throughout the ages would've taken it out of Circulation.

Re-Gifts were not made by accident. It was a tradition in itself, one the family worked all year to find. To find some sort of horrific or terrifying item to toss into the mix. Though there were rules. The item had to be real. A something you bought either from a store or purchased over a counter (garage sales, flea markets, craft bizarres - those included). It couldn't be a something you found in the backyard after feeding Fido that half bag of pink concrete bubble gum you had left over in your pantry from Halloween. It had to be real and the goal: To Find The Thing Nobody Would Want. The Thing That Would Horrify For Years To Come.  And...the family who found that item, that meant bragging rights for the rest of the year.

When I was brought into The Re-Gifter Family I had not been made aware of their familial tradition.
I had no idea what would be in store.
And...I had no idea what I was about to open.
Nor...what I would do with the thing in my lap.
The thing I flung out of sheer Holiday Horror and their Fuzzy Amusement - or in this case Prairie Amusement.
Because...what I had unveiled was this:

The Gift That Kept On Giving

So yes...
It was a surprise.
A very unfortunate surprise.
The kind of surprise one could live without.
The kind of holiday surprise I could've done without.

And one I gladly Re-Gifted to another family member who blew in late on the same day.
...that move one that earned me bragging rights for the rest of the year.

- Fears Chia Things