Thursday, June 17, 2010

Me Tarzan, You Kitty

I found this on a friend's Facebook page and absolutely had to post.  No idea who to give credit to for the photo, but it totally made my day.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

deposit slip of the tongue

Growing up, I'd venture to guess 99% of conversations with my parents didn't even make it past my ear lobes. I was too busy playing "Oregon Trail" and planning my wedding to Joey Mcintyre to devote attention to parental pearls of wisdom. 

However, once in a turquoise moon, a few things got through, and inevitably caused me complete public humiliation.

I'll give you an example.

My parents have their own language. I'm serious. Not Klingon or Na'Vi, but they truly do have their way of speaking to one another. I suspect a lot of couples develop this language of love early on in a relationship, and it helps to secure and strengthen the bond together.

Generally this "couples talk" begins as something you do only in private. (Kind of like fighting.  Because really, when you're first together, NO ONE should think you're doing anything but having mind-blowing sex and eating grapes off each other's belly buttons.)

Inevitably though, time passes, and the secret love language begins to seep into your everyday chit chat.

(And subsequently so does the airing of the dirty laundry. "Oh, hi, Mr. Mailman!  Hubs TOTALLY erased my DVR'd "Real Housewives Reunion last night. Can you BELIEVE that shit?")

(Anyways...that's neither here nor there.)

The problem with my parents' special language was that they never clarified when they were speaking bogus silly talk, and when it was for real, leaving us to figure it out the hard way. 

My parents volunteered at our church for various activities.  One of them was to count the money from the church offerings on Sundays.  My brother, sister, and I would wait in the church library and fight like wild banshees read church books while our parents tallied up the week's take.  We would then load up in the car and head to the bank to deposit the funds.

Each time we performed this routine, the same thing happened. Dad rolled the van up to the bank drive-through, pulled down the heavy lead door and exclaimed, "Here we are! Pass me the money bag, honey.  Let's put the church money in the suppository!"  And Mom would laugh.

I never understood why.

For YEARS we did this.  My parents are creatures of habit, so literally this happened EVERY SINGLE TIME we took money to the church.  And I thought nothing of it.

Fast forward to 1997.  I'm 16.  I've been offered my first job at the mall, and it requires me to occasionally close the store by myself. On those nights, I'm required to take the cash from the day and deposit it at the bank a few blocks away.

Easy.

So, the first night that I have to close the store arrives.  My manager shows me the bag to put the money in and gives me the drill about watching for muggers, yadda yadda.

I'm pumped. I'm excited. This is big responsibility for a 16 year old. 

Manager: (checking that I've labeled the money bag correctly) So you remember where to go?

Me: (nodding vigorously) Yep!  I've got it.  I drove by the bank on my way here today to make sure I know exactly where it is.

Manager: (clocking out on the register) All right, well call me if you have any problems. I'll be at my house in ten minutes.

Me:  (thinking) Actually, now that I think about it...the bank will be closed at this hour, right?

Manager: (nodding) Yes, they close at 6.00.

Me: (picking up the money bag) So I'll just put the envelope in the suppository at the drive-through, right?

Manager: (hurredly digging through her purse for car keys) Yes, honey, yes.  Just put it in the door that - wait...what did you say?

Me:  Ummm, I take it to the drive through.

Manager: (slowly) Yes, but did you say...SUPPOSITORY?

Me: (racking my brain as to why this is a big deal) Uhhh, yes?

Manager: (clutching her chest)Oh. My. God.  It's DEPOSITORY.

Me: (still totally lost) OH! (throwing head back in fake laughter) Yeah, that's what I meant! Of course! I'm just tired; got the words mixed up.

Manager: (shaking head as she walks out) Woo hoo.  Suppository at a bank.  I gotta remember that one.

***

Two hours later, I sit on my bed and look up "suppository" in the dictionary.  I then proceed to make a very, very long list of ways to get back at my parents.

Monday, June 7, 2010

hide and go speak

Social media - whether you like it or not- is taking over every aspect of our world. Facebook, Twitter, blogs, You Tube and Digg  are unavoidable, and more importantly, totally addictive.

(Trust me. I've screamed "I'm GETTING RID OF FACEBOOK TODAY!" approximately 5,493 times and I've yet to do it.)

The good news is, this technology allows millions of people to tell friends, family or even complete strangers the news of something as trivial as a potted plant dying, or as monumental as the birth of a first child. Friends are reunited, families stay in touch, and (hopefully single)long lost loves can reconnect. On the flip side, the entire world has the ability to share their feelings on these matters, invited or not. Social media puts the power of the press in the hands of individuals who have no business possessing it. And sometimes that totally sucks. 

We've all seen it.  Suzie Jones updates her Facebook page stating that she totally hearts her new Mac Book.  In turn, John Doe, a guy she vaguely remembers from a vodka-induced haze during spring break or 2002, comments immediately that super intelligent like "Mac Book sucks my big toe!".  This in turn springs forth a wild fire of enraged comments from Mac lovers world-wide. Feelings get hurt, insults are thrown, and soon Katie Couric is reporting on the PC/Mac war raging on Facebook.

As someone who shares a great deal of myself and my life with the online world, I'm very aware that I put myself out there to criticism for my posts.  A great deal of my audience are essentially strangers to me, and I'm totally down with that.  I never know who is reading what I write and I therefore generally try to keep my material in the self-deprecating category.  I share funny and embarrassing stories about myself, the audience laughs, and we all go about our business.  

And so far, it's worked. 

But then, a few days ago, I posted this. (If you haven't read it, go check it out and then come back.)

I generally receive one or two comments on my posts telling me that they're funny or made someone smile. And then I smile and blog again. 

Rinse, lather, repeat. 

However, for this particular post, I received a comment that went a little something like this:

Anonymous said...


Wowza your dumb

June 5, 2010 11:34 AM


Hold the effing phone.

I'm all for someone telling me that my story made them feel extra smart that day, or that they got a chuckle from my latest brain fart. But this? Puh-leeeeez.

Rather than drudge up a shit storm of negative comments back at my oh-so brave anonymous commentor, I'm just going to say this:

#1: If you're going to comment on a person's lack of intelligence, YOUR COMMENT HAD BETTER BE GRAMMATICALLY IMPECCABLE. You + are = you're. Go back to 4th grade.

#2: Posting anonymously means you're (see how I used the contraction?) a total cock-a-doodle doo. If you want to call me dumb, go for it, you have a right to your opinion. But don't be all Wizard of Oz man behind the curtain.  Own up to it and tell me to my (Internet) face. So then I can say something snarky back and we can fight this out like grown up two-year olds. 

So there...thppppppth.