Tag Archives: Fun

A review of my death as a way out of sorting girly undies

7 Oct

This is something from a long ago abandoned blog.

Today I’m reviewing my death as it relates to the end of sorting laundered socks, underwear and random female accessories.

If I’m in an elevated mood and a rogue “death” thought takes over my brain, my good mood is stomped on, punched in the mouth, spit on, and then tossed out the door like a sack of garbage.

A rogue thought can sneak in like this: one minute I’m staring into space thinking I’m hot shit (you know…cool) and the next minute an image of myself in a coffin flashes behind my eyes. Where did that come from? Contemplating the end of my own existence is a sure way to bring me back down to earth.

I think about my own death, on average, once a day. What will happen when I take my last breath? Will I “survive” my own death?

The hell if I know.

On the heels of the coffin image in my head, I can instantly bring myself back up (so I can be hot shit again) with the realization that, after I die, I will never have to dig through a big pile of socks and underwear trying to piece together this weekly puzzle.

Four baskets of clean clothes reduces down to one of just socks, underwear, and other random female accessories that I don’t understand (tiny scrunched up black things that I just toss into the box of American Girl doll clothes, belts that I thought were scarves, and head bands that, at first glance, I thought were underwear).

Nowadays, when I find scrunched up black garments that look way too small for human use, I know that I shouldn’t throw them into a toy box. That leads to Jennifer rampaging around the house–usually when we’re running late to get somewhere important–yelling things like why can I never find the girls’ tights? I know the damn things don’t just get up and walk away!

What the hell IS this?

After much delay, it’s time to suck it up and tackle that basket of hell. As the girls have aged, the size of their stuff gets harder to differentiate. Six years ago, it was easy to tell the difference between a diaper and a tiny pair of underwear. It was easy to pick out Ainsley’s socks (they looked like adult thumb covers). Her shirts really could fit a doll back then.

When I reach into the basket and find that I have pulled out one of my own items, I feel this slight jump of satisfaction in my belly (I’m feeling it now as I think about it). All of my socks are big and black. All of my underwear are boxer shorts. Nothing is pink. It’s simple. It’s a temporary break in this horrible, ugly work. I sometimes hold a big, black sock tight in my arms, close my eyes, and just take a couple of deep breaths, savoring the moment.

I don’t want to move on (it’s like setting a rose down just to reach into a bucket of snakes). I know that eventually I’ll pull something out, hold it up–what the hell is this?–look at the four piles I’ve made, and just sit there stumped and pissed off, because I don’t know where to put it.

Lately–and this is a very recent, very IMPORTANT discovery I’ve made–I immediately throw “unknowns” onto Jennifer’s dresser BEFORE I spend much time fretting. I mean, I’ve really turned a corner here, I think. She seems to know where all this stuff belongs anyway.

My death, on its own, would earn less than a full plum. Death, when seen as a way of escaping this evil chore, scores four plums on my scientific five point scale of review.

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I’m making a mountain out of a mole hill

1 Nov

I know it was two whole weeks ago when I was complaining about my sore butt–it’s healed now, of course–but I wanted to add some new information about the possible cause. Shortly after publishing on October 17, I remembered that I fell backwards into a hard, mean bush while playing tag in the yard with Jennifer and the kids. This was just a day or two after falling down the stairs.

The bush was a ragged, messed up thing that I hesitate to call a bush. A mangled, stunted tree, maybe. Recently, it had been groomed down into sticks. Hard, stunted stumps protruded out waiting for a clumsy thirty-something-year-old man to plant his ass on. So don’t think “soft” when you hear “bush.” Take the word “bushy” as in “look at all your bushy hair.” When I hear that, I think soft and roundish.

Ainsley had chased me into a corner and left me with two choices: fake right, go left or jump back and up off the ground, sucking my stomach in to avoid her swipe and then take off before she realized she even missed her agile dad. While in the middle of this fancy- pants maneuver, I tripped on a stinkin’ mole tunnel the size of a telephone pole. Of course, when I say “telephone pole” I mean one that is rubberized, more curved than straight, and lying on the ground–not one that’s forty-feet high (even our super-moles are not that ambitious).

A mole. Look at those fingers.

Okay, NOT as cute as I thought.

Actually, moles are really small and cute. This summer on a run, I came upon a dead animal on the sidewalk. Later, I asked the girls if they wanted to see a dead mole. Chloe said no, Ainsley, yes. She took one look at the little creature and informed me that it was a baby squirrel (they’re cute, too). She then looked up and pointed out that we were standing beneath a big clump of leaves and twigs: a squirrel nest.

So, what have we learned from this post? Well, we learned that I can’t tell a mole from a squirrel, I’m even more clumsy than you thought, my seven-year-old is smarter than me, and I suck at playing tag. We have NOT learned if my bruised butt came from the mean bush or the basement stairs. At this point, who cares, right?

Editor’s Note: I wanted to include a photo of a baby squirrel, but when I saw how much they DID NOT look like that thing above, I decided it would be best if I didn’t. Anyway, the first one I looked at was emaciated and sick and that made me queasy. Also, I have no idea how tall telephone poles grow to be.

Puppy Poop, Baseball, and Blog-Posting-Induced Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

17 Jul

Whew! My fingers have been pecked down to my little finger bones from all of this writing here. I just might need a break soon. A vacation, ya know?

No, actually, in about one second back in whatever month I last posted, I went from “I must write every day” to “I don’t want to write at all.” I threw myself into work again (like throwing myself into a volcano…they used to do that on Gilligan’s Island). Doing the “t-shirt thing” has been great. I felt dead to it in the winter, but I kind of “re-did” everything and it felt fresh again. Now, in the last two weeks, I’ve been having these thoughts–damn, I feel like writing again and this t-shirt thing kinda sucks.

So on it goes

If I were elected President of the United States, two months in I’d be like “damn, this blows, I think I’d rather clean toilets now.” For now, I might do both or this may be my last post until December. Honestly, I don’t know.

It’s all cool as long as I can also fit in an hour of reading, an hour (or more) of exercise, 8 hours of sleep, a half hour of staring at the wall, two hours of eating/cooking-related activities, an hour of cleaning, and a variable amount of: quality time with the girls, watching baseball, and buying shit on Amazon (UPS is at our house five times a week. No joke.)

Holy Hell, I can’t even remember how to punctuate in and around parentheses. Should the period go outside, or in?

Although I was writing this winter, looking back, I felt pretty miserable most of the time. It was a long, rough winter for me. If I don’t do certain things regularly, I’m a mess. Namely, exercise. Now I’m in a nice jogging frame of mind; I ran 4.2 miles this morning. In fact, as I write my hair is still damp and stuck to my head and I have on my butt-cheek-exposing running shorts (with a wicking liner). I might even be in an extended runner’s high right now. I’m practically delirious  here.

I have also rediscovered the beauty, the joy, the art, of baseball. During a normal baseball season, I’m all amped up in April, amped a little less in May, and by June I’ve watched my last game  until the playoffs in October. This season, because I couldn’t get enough baseball online, I was forced to order Directv so I could get the MLB Network, 24 hours of baseball. Since the Cubs are terrible, I’ve discovered the joy of watching the Cardinals so I can root against them.

Another new development around here: a new dog, a puppy really. I refuse to write good things about him right now because he just went poo ten feet from me and it’s making me gag. I’m going to clean it up now.

Until December…

Local Boy’s New Slinky Tangled, Again

17 Feb

Jimmy's Slinky, Before

Jimmy Wormley thought it would be different this time.

Last week at Skate ‘N Shake, the Edwardsville resident unwrapped a shiny, new Slinky toy from his friend Stanley Stalegrass as they celebrated Jimmy’s tenth birthday. As the cool metal met his hands, he made a silent promise to himself. He closed his eyes, cradled the toy to his chest, and mouthed the words “This Slinky will last forever.”

Unfortunately, the Slinky was a tangled mess within 45 seconds.

Jimmy's Slinky, After

Of course, this wasn’t the first time Jimmy has been devastated by the tangle-prone toy. He received a plastic, rainbow-colored Slinky from Grandma and Grandpa Wormley last year. It lasted all of  27 seconds.

“I fiddled with that damn thing for an hour last year,” said Joe, Jimmy’s father. “Those things can’t be fixed. Even if you do get ’em untangled they’re all bent to hell. This year I just tossed it in the trash.”

When asked how Jimmy handled the ruined toy this year, Joe became agitated.

“Oh jeez, you should of seen him. He cried and cried right there in front of all ‘is friends and even that little girl he likes–what’s her name?–Jill,” Joe said, spit running down his chin. “I wanted to give him a good smack on the head, but I didn’t. I mean, not until we got home. The boy don’t deserve no working Slinky acting like a little whiny baby.”

According the the famous 1989 National Tangled Slinky Study, conducted by Maxine Styway, Ph.D., the popular toy, invented in the early 1940s, is not known for being sturdy enough to, say, be handed down from father to son.

Last Year's Slinky

I examined close to ten thousand Slinky toys over a ten year period and found that in the hands of male children they lasted, on average, 19 seconds before tangling. In the hands of female children, it’s a little higher, where they lasted up to 24 seconds. I found that children enjoy stretching the toy beyond its capabilities. Also, children (both boys and girls) tend to fight over toys. The Slinky toy, unfortunately, does not stand up to yanking this way and that.

A follow-up call yesterday to the Wormley home revealed that Joe had purchased a Paddle Ball toy for Jimmy “to shut him up.”

According to Jimmy’s distraught mom, Sally, the elastic string broke even before they made it back to their car at the nearby Glen Carbon Wal-Mart. At home, Joe tied the string back together. Twelve seconds later, the string came loose from the staple on the paddle. Seven seconds after Joe reattached the string to the paddle, the string became detached from the ball. At that point, Joe repeatedly whipped his son on the a– with the cheap paddle until it broke.

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Do Dogs Dream? Boobs Boobs Boobs Boobs Boobs

15 Feb

Boobs

I have always thought that dogs dream just like humans. Luckily for our four-legged friends, they probably do not dream about income taxes, world hunger, and cancer. Unfortunately for them, they probably do not dream about Natalie Portman’s boobs either. Of course, I don’t dream about Natalie Portman’s boobs because I’m married. I dream about the same things all married men dream about: Scarlett Johannson’s boobs.

a Boob

To confirm that dogs do, in fact, dream, I typed “Katy Perry’s boobs” into Google and found out nothing about dogs, but spent twenty minutes looking at all the cool hairstyles Katy Perry has worn since her rise to fame following the hit single “I Kissed a Girl” in 2008.

Eventually, I made it to this article titled “Do Dogs Dream?” written by Stanley Coren, Ph.D. and he tells us something along the lines of:

of course, you dummy readers without advanced degrees, you KNOW dogs dream because you have seen them twitching and shaking and whining and growling in their sleep. Big dummies.

Boobs

He also writes about “the pons,” which is a part of the brain (it’s not very scientific sounding, is it?) that keep us (and dogs) from acting out our dreams. Without my “pons” last week, I would have driven eighty miles in my sleep to my childhood home to fight space aliens with a samurai sword. In an experiment on dogs, they removed or deactivated this section of their brains and then–the most abhorrent act in this experiment–forced them to watch The English Patient to bore them to sleep quickly.

Once asleep and dreaming without their “pons,” scientists were astounded to find the dogs standing up on their hind legs asking for martinis, cigarettes, and hookers. I don’t know HOW I missed those study results in the mainstream media.

I’m writing about this topic because our dog, Sammie, was dreaming yesterday at my feet as I was napping on the couch. She started to twitch and whine, waking me up. I then fell asleep and dreamed about strangling her for interrupting my dream about Salma Hayek’s boobs. I’m thankful for my “pons,” because I don’t really want to kill our dog. Though, most of the time, she acts half-dead anyway. That’s what got me wondering: If a dog does nothing all day, what the heck can she be dreaming about?

More Boobs

So I set about removing or deactivating our dog’s “pons” to determine the answer to that question. Of course, I knew I needed a scalpel and a bunch of absorbent towels, but, beyond that, I had no idea where to begin. So I did what most intelligent, responsible pet owners would do: I typed in “Christina Hendricks’ boobs” into Google. Luckily, this distracted me for so long that I gave up the idea of cutting into our dog’s brain just to find out if she really dreams about lying around all day. I mean, how can she expend more energy dreaming than she does awake? When awake, twitching and whining would at least give me a sign that she’s still alive.

So, to recap, I have learned two things today: (1) dogs dream, and (2) the internet is a good place to look at celebrity boobs.

Finally, more boobs

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Waking Up Mom Was Hard To Do

13 Feb

For years I thought my mom was a super hero whose power was that she never needed to sleep. She was up when I climbed into my bed and there she was again, day after day, puttering around the house in the morning. What the hell did she do all night? For all I knew she was controlling a Midwest drug cartel. But I decided she was probably just scrubbing the skid marks out of my Fruit of the Looms. I was certain skid mark removal had to be a full-time job. But later I found out she did, in fact, sleep every night, and that impressed me even more. I mean, if she could keep my underwear brilliant white and NOT work the overnight shift–wow. Anyway, once in awhile (maybe ten times during my childhood) I needed her help in the middle of the night. Yep, that first time in a silent house I searched all over, and there she was in the last place I expected…in bed, asleep.

I can think of only 3 reasons I ever had to rouse my mom from a deep sleep: (1) I felt like I was going to throw up all over myself; (2) I had already thrown up all over myself, or; (3) my dad, drunk, had thrown up all over me and had passed out under the swing set in the back yard. Obviously, mom didn’t like opening her eyes to me standing by her bed. Bad news all the way around. I didn’t much like it either; in fact, it scared the sh– out of me.

In my experience humans wake up in two ways, and I’m not talking about what kind of mood we wake up in, which can range from cheery to “kill me now.” No, I’m talking about the moment your eyelids separate, the moment before you have time to think, the split second before “Oh my God, I didn’t take enough pills, I have to life another hellish day on Earth.” Get it? That moment. The way I wake up, I like to call the “normal” way, and this means that I open my eyes slowly and remain in a horizontal position and speak in hushed tones (if I speak at all). The second “way” is known by two names, depending on where you live: In California it’s called the “earthquake wake” and in other parts of the world it’s called the “war torn rise.”

In my childhood home, I called it the “Oh Jesus I have to wake up mom.” Think of the Jack-in-the-Box toy: you know it’s going to pop up and make you crap your pants, but you have to turn the crank anyway…a tiny bit at a time.

I don’t remember the first time, but I’m sure it ended with me curled on the floor by her bed, crying. From then on, the process of waking her would take up to an hour, because I would stop off in the living room to watch the most wicked scenes of The Exorcist to ready myself. After watching Regan’s head swivel 360°, I thought could handle anything.

I employed two basic “wake up mom” strategies: the pussyfoot and the little-less-pussyfoot.

My least favorite, the pussyfoot method, called for me to tiptoe up to her bedside and stand there staring at her. This was torture for me because, eventually–2 hours later?–she would sense someone creepy standing over her, watching her sleep, and she would bolt upright and yell something like “Who are you!” or “Bomb!” or “Skid marks!” Well, to be fair, I don’t remember actual words. More accurately, just think of the sound you would make if you found a severed head in your closet.

The little-less-pussyfoot method was way better because I had a general idea of when the upright bolt and gasp was coming. I felt more in control. I would create some noise entering the room. For example, I made sure my socked feet would strike the carpet with some force. (But, really, how much sound could that have made?) Also, I would deal out a pseudo-cough or that “clear my throat” sound on the way in. Usually, though, when I reached her bed I would turn into a big fat chicken and revert back to the standard pussyfoot method. Again, I would stand there, silently….

Finally, a whisper: “mom.”

Stillness.

“mom.”

A little louder: “mom.”

Then I would push on the mattress, enough to move her arm a couple of millimeters.

Whisper: “mom.”

Then sometimes I would pull on a blanket or sheet…ever so slightly. Nothing. Damn! (That’s an internal “damn,” of course.)

Growing desperate, but remembering my throat tricks: Hack. Ahem. Hack. Hack. Ahem.

At this point I knew she would wake up any second, so I pushed on, sweat pouring down my face, heart thumping. With a shaky little arm I would tap her shoulder. “Mom!”

BOOM! The walls and ceiling crack, the floor turns to Jell-O. A flash of fire. Skin melting. The house, gone.

She would startle awake, sitting up, “What!” As I pooped myself, I would forget what the hell I was doing in there, that I had thrown up on myself an hour ago.

“Um, I had a bad dream.”

“What’s that smell?”

“Uh–what?–I’m going back to bed now.”

“Okay, good night.”

I walked back to bed wondering why I had even bothered. As a child–and again in my my twenties–I had no problem at all with sleeping a few hours in my own mess of poo and vomit.

Note: Though the above is based on true events, it has been exaggerated for effect. For example, dad usually passed out inside the house.

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Hairy Balls … ‘Nuff Said

10 Feb

The word “hairy” is not funny on its own. Humans are hairy. Dogs are hairy. Robin Williams is hairy. Okay, that makes it funnier. Hairy backs make me snicker.

The word “balls” is not funny on its own unless you’re thirteen or if you’re Beavis or Butt-Head. When I think of balls in April, I think of baseballs. In September, footballs.

But look what happens when you squish those words together: hairy balls. Say it out loud.

Come on, SAY IT!

There, don’t you feel better?

Yesterday, I found this story about Harry Baals, a former Indiana mayor who won four terms in the 1930s and 1950s. In Fort Wayne, IN they’re trying to find a suitable name for a new government building, and “The Harry Baals Government Center” is kicking ass in an online poll. Sadly, Deputy Mayor Beth Malloy told the Associated Press that the name would probably not be chosen because she doesn’t want to see Fort Wayne the butt of late-night television jokes.

Harry pronounced his last name “balls,” but descendants have since changed it to sound like “bales.”

I remember one day in elementary school during lunch, the class was buzzing about the possible existence of a man named “Harry Dickey.”

Are you sure? No way! How do YOU know? You’re full of shit!

It was passed from student to student, from table to table, and by the time I scraped the bottom of my chocolate pudding and nibbled on the last of my sandwich, the whole room was talking about this mysterious man with the hilarious name.

If you have a unique, snigger-inducing name, like, say “Small Penis,” I say embrace it.

Hairy Balls T-shirt

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