skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Comedy is funny because it has a kernel of truth in it. So when a friend posted a joke recently, it wasn't just funny. It was hilarious. Because it's so true.
It's about things women say. Through the years and different relationships, I have used the examples listed. In fact, most women have used and probably still use them. So guys, word of warning. Read this joke and know that it's funny because it hits the bull's eye of truth.
And another warning... When a woman answers "How are you?" with "Fine", it's actually an acronym for "Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional". And it usually means, "Stay the fuck away!"
I need to fill you in on the EMT's pink shirts. It turns out that, yes, they are supporting breast cancer. They're not quite as brave as Marshall Moneymaker. But they're showing their support.
And in other news... I'm on a pet peeve tear. Consistency! Why aren't people consistent? Being inconsistent can come across as hypocritical in some cases.
An acquaintance of mine is very gung-ho in wanting everyone to follow what the Bible says. She wants to make sure that gays and lesbians are never allowed to form civil unions. Because "the Bible doesn't approve of gays and lesbians." Now, this is the same person who divorced her husband under a no-fault divorce law.
Growing up in a very conservative Southern Baptist household, we weren't supposed to dance, play cards, or drink. My divorced grandfather lived with us because he already had a wife, according to his Biblical interpretations. He never remarried and I never met my biological grandmother until after my grandfather died. Because she had remarried and was considered an adulteress.
This is the same community that my acquaintance grew up in. She was schooled in this same Biblical tradition. Yet she doesn't see that in her own life she doesn't practice what she preaches.
When are people going to be consistent? If you're pro-life, then be pro-life until death. No assisted suicide even for someone with an excruciatingly painful terminal disease and no death penalty. If you're pro-choice, then let people decide whether they want to end their lives with the help of a family member, friend or doctor and realize that the state can end a life as well.
If you're going to quote the Bible about other people's marital statuses, then let your marital status be a shining example. Something about "let he among you without sin be the first to condemn" keeps running through my mind. Now where did that come from?
[Title taken from this.]
If curiosity killed the cat, then I'm in over my head. Following a successful reconciliation at church today, changing into casual clothes to cook was necessary. While sitting in the bedroom fastening my shoes, something bright pink outside the window caught the corner of my eye.
Turning to have a better look, there were two EMT's from the firehouse working on their ambulance. Both sported a pink that does not readily occur in nature. Except on maybe some hybrid azaleas or cone flowers. However, the man getting out of the EMT Supervisor truck wore the usual navy of the department.
Hmm... Is it the Race for the Cure weekend? Is it the Komen 3-Day weekend? Are they imitating the Pink Fireman? Hmm... Curious minds want to know. Guess I should go knock on their door and ask. I'll let you know what they say.
[Title taken from this.]
Actual email:
"The United States Navy's Office of Legislative Affairs cordially invites you to a Pizza Brief from 1200-1300 on Day, Month Date in Room XXX. Join us as S.M.I., Assistant Director, National Security Directorate, Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) provides information on NCIS. To ensure we order enough pizza, please send me a short e-mail RSVP if you think you will attend."
Yes, the real NCIS! As if they have to entice me there with free pizza. They had me with blue eyes.
[Title taken from this.]
30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge:
Day 14: A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without.
Two words: Mr. Gaelic.
Moving on with today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge and recapping the last three.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Da.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - Si.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Here!
As you can guess from the title, I don't need anyone to help me in finding f***ed up things. But, in my defense, I'm not the instigator either. I'm the lone wolf who does an excellent job in f***ed up activities all by my lonesome. But my f***ed things skirted the rules.
In high school as the good girl, it wasn't until the day before graduation that I broke the mini-skirt rule. In royal style to boot. As the valedictorian, I was seated on the stage on the 50-yard line in the football stadium. To the graduation run-through the day before, I sported a navy leather mini-skirt. What were they going to do? Not let me graduate? Take away my valedictory speech like they took away all but one of the top academic awards? "You scored the highest in every class. But we need to spread the awards around. So you're only getting one. Which one would you like to be recognized for?"
My fearlessness increased with age. Even today, bungee jumping doesn't seem like too big of a deal. Except I probably wouldn't do it for the same reason I gave up roller coasters. Headaches from being thrown around in the seat. Sigh.
Sure, wearing a mini-skirt to graduation practice and bungee jumping aren't f***ed up by lots of people's standards. But getting sloppy drunk and ending up, as Laoch said to one of his friends, "sun soaked, covered in beer and strippers, and not knowing where my wallet or my car is" isn't my kind of f***ed up. I prefer meeting four men on the beach of Puerto Rico and having dinner with them, followed the next day by meeting one man on the beach and having afternoon tea with him, followed by meeting two men on the beach the next day and having drinks with them. All while vacationing by myself.
As I said, a lone wolf who can find plenty of f***ed up things all by myself. Yep, I am my own worst enemy.
Rule #1: Never blog under the influence. I only drink on special occasions. Last night with the gals from the office was a special occasion. But the beer tainted my words. Perhaps what was said should have remained unsaid. Before moving on here are the last three topics in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Oui.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Ja.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - You're reading it.
This one is E-Z. This is the person who was with me during my mother's diagnosis of a brain tumor. The one who wiped my tears when she died. Who wrote her obituary. The one who held my hair back during a total of six months of morning sickness. (Two full months of "morning sickness" which was really "all-day sickness" times three pregnancies equals six months.) The person who sat with me as I watched my father die. Who wrote his obituary. The one who keeps me grounded but inspires me to soar.
Mr. Gaelic, of course.
Title taken from this.
Welcome to the fourth installment of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. To keep the list from getting too long, there will only be three previous challenges shown on each day's post.
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest -- Check
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show -- Check
4.A picture of your favorite night -- This is it
How the night began is foggy in my memory. Perhaps it was with dinner and a movie. Perhaps we had been hanging out with a group of friends at a local watering hole. That part's not too terribly important to the story. The important part was my suggestion to take a bottle of bourbon and sit on the roof of my apartment building.
The roof was not intended to be a deck. It was just a flat roof on an older apartment building in the direct landing pattern for the airport. Watching planes' headlights approach from the south upped the heart rate until the planes banked with the bend in the river. The planes looked as if they would fly straight into us. Soon the planes ceased arriving due to restrictions on when planes can arrive and depart. Yet the party at a close-by townhouse continued to drone on into the night.
We sat on the edge of the roof, drinking bourbon straight from the bottle. The conversation ebbed and flowed. Quietness was filled with vain attempts to find stars in the metropolitan light-polluted sky. Soon voices from the townhouse party ceased. What time was it?
Whose suggestion it was to stay up on the roof until sunrise I don't remember. In the relative silence, staying awake became more difficult as our conversation ebbed more than flowed. Sitting on a hard, flat roof with no back support made me crave my soft bed just below us. Soon we were headed towards the stairs.
The length of time on the roof must have been several hours. The before and after are lost in the cobwebbed, unused stacks of my mental library. But my night on the roof with Matt is by far one of my favorite and most memorable nights.
*Title taken from this.
The second installment of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge is here. Before we get to today's topic, there needs to be some clarification about the daily requirements.
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts -- Check
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest -- You're reading it
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss
Yesterday's blog contained ten facts. Today's blog is about the person I've been closest with the longest. Family members won't count for me. Too easy.
We met when we both were 14 or 15. August in the mountains of North Carolina at the Southeastern YMCA Leaders' School. He was from east Tennessee. I was from Alabama. Two southern kids with a passion for physical education and leadership.
Our friendship was immediate. For one week every year during high school, we were inseparable. We took classes together, sat together each night at vespers, hiked to the top of the mountain to watch the sun rise, shared a banana split on my birthday. (My birthday fell during the week-long Leaders' School every year.) And hugged and cried and hugged some more at the end of our yearly week together. It was the most physical platonic relationship anyone has ever had. He is my T and I am his Red.
During college, he was a varsity cheerleader for an SEC school. I was the sorority girl at a different SEC school who visited him during spring training. But things got in the way. Significant others took up all of our time. Slowly we began to lose touch.
Until we reconnected on Facebook.
We rarely comment on each other's status or pictures. Occasionally we'll email each other. Recently he was in town for a conference and we had lunch. It was as if not a day had passed. The conversation was easy and relaxed. We kidded each other, talked about our spouses and children, brought each other up to date on life in general. And reminisced about a photo he took of me our last summer together before graduation.
He caught me off guard early one morning before breakfast. Seated in an old rocking chair on the porch of the main hall overlooking the mountains, my face bore a look of concentration usually reserved for church services or SATs. The shutter clicked before his footsteps tore me from my thoughts. Back in Tennessee, the photo was entered in a contest, unbeknownst to me. It took first prize. He later sent me a copy of the picture with a sincere note of gratitude for helping him win the photography contest.
He's my oldest, dearest, closest guy friend. Through thick and thin. I'll always love him.
[*Title taken from this.]
Two words. Boombox scene. Okay here's another two words. Lloyd Dobler. Do you know the reference?
Swooning over John Cusak and a boombox was part of coming of age in the '80s. Who wouldn't give her right arm to have the man she loves serenade her with Peter Gabriel outside her window? Come closer and I'll tell you a secret.
We would still give our right arms for a serenade outside our windows.
Most often, rather than being serenaded, we have relationships without such drama until the flame goes out. The disappointment can be felt whenever a man leaves us. Or at least that's the way it feels to me.
What's odd is that feeling of loss and disappointment is rearing its head in my life again. No, it's not Mr. Gaelic. What's weird is feeling a major loss because the Legislative Director in my office quit. Our relationship is strictly professional. But he's the rock in the office. The sure foundation of my professional life. My boat has come unmoored and I feel adrift.
*Title inspired by this.
There are three men at church that absolutely float my boat to new heights. They are the seminarian, the deacon, and one of the priests. While watching them all at the altar recently, it came to me that they have the same hair -- thick, full, and black. They're all thin. Two are relatively tall. And they're all young. Under 35.
This isn't my normal MO. From my earliest boyfriend in college, my type was thin build, blond hair, and blue eyes. From my second boyfriend, my type switched to chubby build, blond hair, blue eyes. Several other boyfriends were chubby, but with varying degrees of brown hair, leading some friends to label me as a "chubby chaser".
But always the same. They all had similar characteristics. Until Mr. Gaelic blew my type right out of the water. When we married, he was 6'5", 175 pounds, black hair, and dark brown eyes. Your typical lucky-Irishman-to-have-on-New-Years-Day. Now I like my men the way I like my beer -- long, dark, and strong.
If there is always a chance of the three of them, the seminarian, the deacon, and the priest, serving together, you can bet I won't be missing church very often. Can I hear an Amen from all the ladies?
A died almost three years ago. She had skin cancer. She was married to our priest, O.
J died 16 months ago. He had stomach cancer. He attended a different Episcopal church but his wife's godfather was our priest's former boss.
While sick with cancer, J needed people to stay with him during the day while M was at work. While spending a day with him, J asked me to tell him about O. He wasn't terribly interested in A's illness but rather in how O was coping without his wife, the mother of his children, his best friend. Without saying it, it was clear he was asking because he knew he wouldn't get better and wanted some sort of reassurance that his wife M would be okay.
Several weeks after J's funeral there was an email exchange with M offering to tell her about "something that J said when I was sitting with him once". M never took me up on it. Until tonight.
In making plans for her daughter to stay with us for the weekend while she's away, M added a P.S. to her email suggesting that we get together for coffee and that she was ready to hear what J told me. How does one tell a friend that her husband, while dying of cancer, was more concerned about her well-being than his own? Even the thought of telling her makes tears roll down my cheeks.
That's the kind of love we all hope to have. Not that someone will love us that much, but that we are lucky enough to find someone to love. Unselfish, undying love. J was a lucky man indeed.
Office email exchange:
Hi all,
I'm putting together a staff list for just in case emergencies. Please provide the following:
Local address: (where you sleep most of the time, Sean, not where your parents think you live)
Local phone:
Cell phone:
Significant other or whom to call if you don't show up for work:
Birthday:
Thanks,
Your Fabulous Office Manager [that would be me, in addition to being the scheduler]
The director of the legislative staff wrote back with the following.
Address: XXXX Street
Phone: XXX-XXXX
Cell: XXX-XXXX
Significant other or whom to call if you don't show up for work: Could be many different women, depends on the night and my mood . . .
Birthday: XX/XX/XXXX
I replied,
Thank god you didn't hit Reply All. Hahaha!!!
He replied to my reply,
That would just have been bragging . . . ;-)
Happy Manufactured Day that Really Doesn’t Mean Anything Except to Extort Things from Men with the Threat of Withholding Sex If Women Don’t Get What They Want Which Most Often Is an Engagement Ring or a Promise of a Monogamous, Long-Term Relationship Complete with Children and a House in the Suburbs, Oh, and a Dozen Roses Delivered to Her Office to Make her Coworkers Envious that She has Such a Thoughtful Boyfriend Who Felt that He Had to Send Her Flowers Because of the Date on the Calendar!!!
And Many Happy Returns of the Day! Unless she has to return what your sorry ass messed up as “the perfect gift” in which case you won’t be getting any for a month. Or until you grovel in front of her and her friends.
[I'm not hating on Valentine's Day. I'm just wondering why there are so many expectations for one single day.]
About three weeks ago, we had an ice storm and a two-hour delay for work with schools closed for the day. Mr. Gaelic, in typical male thinking, went out to scrape the ice from the truck, neglecting to salt the walk on the way to the vehicle. Two step out my front door, not even off the front stoop, and WHAM, I fall and shatter my left ring finger. Two cut-off wedding rings, five pins, one cast, and untold numbers of Oxycontin later, he readily admits he could have been more focused on safety and less focused on getting to the office "early".
The stitches came out Friday. While the nurse was removing the black threads (and let me just go on record as saying that having stitches removed from a finger hurts almost as much as the break itself), I was lamenting the scar I will have. The nurse (a man) suggested that a new ring might be in my future. Mr. Gaelic agreed. And I have a witness!
Mr. Gaelic has been very protective ever since my fall. He holds my arm in the snow, or walking down stairs; he carries bags for me; he drives me to work. (Oxycontin use prohibits driving, at least in my book.) He also drives me to my favorite hair salon to have my hair washed and blow dried. The bandage is supposed to stay dry and I wouldn't be able to hold both a hairdryer and brush even if he washed my hair for me at home.
Yesterday's salon outing also became a stop at my new favorite designer's store. Certain designers cut their clothes in a way that fits my body well without the need for alterations. Dana Buchman used to be my favorite until she discontinued her designer line in favor of a line exclusively for Kohls. She may be the same woman, but her clothes don't fit like they did when she had her own stand-alone stores.
Yet even with my new favorite designer, he has several labels and each one fits differently. His basic line fits me in the rear but not the waist or sleeve length. His next step up runs small for size. Even though dress size numbers don't bother me, if the mid-line label fits my waist and sleeve length, it doesn't fit my hips.
That leaves his top-end prêt-à -porter line. Prêt-à -porter is ready-to-wear, as opposed to his couture line which is seen on the catwalks of Bryant Park (oops, I mean Lincoln Center where they moved Fashion Week this year). Great. Just great. My body type fits the most expensive line. What's a girl to do?
Buy on sale only.
Which is what happened yesterday. I snagged a 100% cashmere dress for more than 75% off the original price. I didn't have to elbow my way through the crowds at Loehmann's or Filene's Basement or TJMaxx. The saleslady set us up in a cozy dressing room with a loveseat and table and offered us coffee and water. And the dress fits like a glove!
My new shopping habit won't be hitting the discount racks in strip malls, but hitting the stand-alone designer store downtown when they hang a Sale sign in the window. Same price, better service. Eureka! I have found my new favorite store!
The congressman is going on a military trip to Florida soon. Which requires paperwork. It was dutifully filled out and ready to fax to the Navy liaison office when a snafu hit.
His mother-in-law is very ill. He may have to scrub the trip. Even if he goes, flight plans have changed since he won't be returning to Washington with the missus. She's at her mother's side.
Because of the now-complicated situation, it was easier to walk the paperwork to the liaison and explain things face to face rather than on the phone. How lucky can a gal be? The two Navy liaisons in charge of the trip met me at the front office area. Both Navy, both blond, both blue eyes. Blue like the sky over the Caribbean Sea. All warm and decadent.
The next time the legislative staff needs something from the Navy liaison office I'll happily volunteer to walk to their office. As I told our legislative director, I may be married but I can still look. All of a sudden I sound like a man!
Who's my boss? Is it the congressman or his chief of staff? The chief of staff hired me and is in the office on a much more regular basis than the congressman. The congressman has to give speeches on the House floor, attend committee meetings, and cast votes in both places.
When the British Embassy invited congressional staffers to a reception at the Ambassador's residence, the congressman was out of sorts that he wasn't invited. But he gets better opportunities than a reception with a bunch of redcoats.
While at the reception, our small group of five office mates kept mostly to ourselves. At one time the COS was standing next to me and his arm brushed against mine. But he didn't move it! Personal space, Dude! Don't you know about personal space? Apparently not. I was the one who pulled my arm away.
After the press secretary and I had snuck away for a bit to explore the residence, we joined the legislative director, the staff assistant, and two Brits they were chatting with. In the flow of the conversation, I glanced at the press secretary who'd just commented on something. You know how something in the distance can catch your eye? In my direct line of view was the COS across the room. Looking intently in my direction. Was he looking at me or the press secretary?
Fortunately nothing else has happened until a few days ago. After a meeting involving me, the press secretary, and the COS, the press secretary had another meeting to run off to. That left the COS and me to walk back to the office. As we were leaving, the COS and a member of another congressman's staff were joking at my expense about my fall on the ice.
Was it the way he was joking with me? Or the way he looked at me while joking? Or the way he walked a little closer than necessary on the way back to the office? Or am I really rusty from not working in an office for all those years?
Hello blogworld! My one-handed typing is getting better. Time to update all my buddies on the finger.
The surgery was Saturday morning. While checking in at the hospital, I ran into another orthopaedic doctor. He was my doctor when I tore my MCL while skiing several years ago. He and my hand doctor are in the same practice. My skiing-injury doc had seen the x-rays of my finger and commented, "It looks like a grenade went off in your hand." When I mess up something, I really mess it up royally.
And apparently the x-rays lied. My finger bone wasn't in three pieces; it was in five. That means there are five pins in my finger holding it together. Covered by a huge-assed cast. So huge in fact that several of the big burly Capitol Police officers actually winced upon seeing it. One greeted me in the cafeteria with "Ouch!" when he saw my claw of a bandage.
There's no timeline yet on how long I'll be in a cast or information on physical therapy. My follow-up with the hand doctor is Friday. Maybe I'll get to see the ski-injury doc while at the office. He's really handsome. But not handsome enough to tear an MCL or break a finger just to get to see him.
Mr. Gaelic and I had a fight the other day. About the laundry. For more years than I can count, I have been the washerwoman for our family. Until the girls each turned 12, at which point they were responsible for their own laundry. But I still do the household linens and Mr. G's and my laundry.
Sometimes Mr. G helps with the laundry. He does a terrific job of sorting the laundry, most of the time. He knows which things go in the dryer and which need to be hung to dry, most of the time. He even folds the laundry when it's dry.
It's the folding that brought about the fight.
As I fold the laundry, I make sure that everything is neatly folded and placed in the proper place so that when it's time to pull on something there is no thinking about it. Mr. G, on the other hand, doesn't turn items right-side out. When the laundry come back to our room, I must then refold the majority of my clothes while his are ready for the drawers.
Trivial, I know. But it's usually the trivial things that bug us and get under our skin and add up until we (people in general) really can suffer it no longer. That usually leads either to keeping it bottled up and leading to resentment or lashing out at the other person with a scorecard of grievances.
In our case, I did neither. I quietly told Mr. G that there was something bothering me that I wanted to talk to him about and asked when we could discuss it. We pulled two chairs to face each other and I began explaining in a normal voice what was bugging me. After every statement, he told me what he heard me say so that I was sure he understood me. I told him how his actions made me feel and asked him if he could come up with a solution. Again, he mirrored my words and expressed how he didn't mean for his actions (or inaction in this instance) to upset me. He offered his own solution that I found acceptable.
And that was our fight.
No yelling, no nagging, no hurt feelings, no resentment, no stewing, no slamming doors, no stomping out of the room. Nothing. Except a big bear hug after it was over. We should fight more often.
It was bound to happen.
A man wants to go to a bar with his friends and stays a little longer than he should. He knows that if he calls his girlfriend/wife/significant other that she'll be mad at him for going to a bar. He needs an alibi. His friends will cover for him. But if he whips out his cell phone in the middle of the bar, she'll know where he is and still be mad at him. It's too cold/rainy/crowded to step outside to call.
What is the poor chap to do? How can he convince her that he's not at a bar?
Enter the Teletransporter. Yes, it's a real thing.
It's a soundproof booth from which he can make a most convincing call. There are different sound scenarios to play while he calls her. There's only one catch. The only ones available so far are in Argentina. That's quite a ways to go for a beer with your friends just to have a cover with the Teletransporter.
