1. Knock
2. Wash
3. Leave me the hell alone when I’m in a mood
4. Cover their poo (cat equivalent of flushing the toilet)
5. Get their own food
6. Just tell me when they’re pissed off
7. Make themselves useful around the house
8. Chase their own tails…no, I tell a lie, he managed that one
9. Make me love them!
Father’s Day Cake by Jason Trommetter on Flickr
I’ve seen a lot of merchandise out there in anticipation of Father’s Day, or more accurately in anticipation of cashing in on Father’s Day. I’ve seen any number of mugs and T-shirts saying “World’s Best Dad” and foam fingers proclaiming the wearer to be “#1 Dad”. What I haven’t seen is any evidence to back up these claims. I mean, anyone can wear a t-shirt and drink from a mug. Most people can even bring themselves to wear foam fingers from time to time. But I have yet to see a treatise laying out the reasons that one’s particular father is the best in the world. And I think I know why.
Because my Dad is the best in the world.
In keeping with my opening paragraph, I’m going to lay out the reasons why. I fully realize that many of you may disagree and say that your father is the best in the world, and I’m ready to admit that there may be a tie for this position, but I’m going to need to hear the reasons before I concede the stalemate. Here are mine:
And so is yours. Everyone’s got a list. I encourage everyone else to let their fathers know what’s on their list, because many dads don’t realize how incredible they are. Happy Father’s Day!
I visited a friend from high school not long ago. In high school, he wasn’t part of the inner circle, though he wasn’t an outcast either. But he fielded his fair share of bullying and cruel comments. He never lost his temper about it, or even seemed to mind that much. He said his father had told him to just let it go, that someday he would be their boss and make them all jump as high as he wanted.
My friend started a business that has become quite successful. I met him at his office–lots of glass and steel and polished wood everywhere, and you can always tell when a place that’s decorated in the modern style is doing well or not by whether they can afford someone to clean all the smudges and fingerprints off of all the reflective surfaces every day. When you’ve got that much square footage that’s got to be cleaned that carefully that often, you have to employ top-notch cleaners.
Anti-Advertising Agency and Finishing School on Flickr; modified for size
Anyway, I met him at his office. Perfectly clean, not a smudge in sight, even though it was vibrating with activity. Clearly doing quite well. I was talking with him about old times when he winked at me, summoned his secretary into the office (his executive secretary, mind you. He’s got two others) and gave her a message to email to the staff right away. She left, and about a minute later, the entire building exploded with people running everywhere, clutching papers and looking really anxious. Sadly, no one jumped, but I still almost fell out of my chair from laughing so hard!
So take heart, young ones. Also, if you ever find yourself in my friend’s enviable position, be sure to include something in your memo about jumping, for my sake.
So I may or may not have a stress fracture in my foot. I may or may not have had it for a few days now. I’ve had them before, and I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on now, but I don’t really know because…ahem…I haven’t been to the doctor. I think I’ve blogged before about my dislike of going to the doctor. It’s like some weird cult: they strip you down, clothe you in a shapeless one-size-reveals-everyone’s-backside garment, take your money, say a lot of strange-sounding words you don’t understand, and expect you to nod obediently. The x-rays and scans and suction cup machines never show anything concrete, so you have to take it all on faith, and you keep getting bills for about four months. Though, come to think of it, cults just take all your money up front, so that last part is not very cult-like. But it is very doctor-like. So, I’ve just been walking around on a (probably) broken foot. It’s (probably) fine.
Actually, it’s really starting to hurt. But I’m kind of getting into it. “Check me out, I’m a tough guy! I walk around on a broken bone like it’s nothing! I chew gravel for fun and I laugh at pain! Not only can I walk on a broken foot, but I can do it in heels–watch! Oh, God…” In retrospect, not the best idea in the world. My office wife is pissed at me, mostly because she’s the one who has to drive me around while I heal. Also, it’s getting more difficult to find work-appropriate shoes that will fit around the swelling. And the top of my foot is starting to turn colors. Still, I have not gone to the doctor. I keep hoping it will go away on its own, not unlike my last few relationships.
I’ve been trying to take it easy once I get home. Prop up my foot, maybe put a pack of frozen peas on it, crack a beer–nature’s painkiller–and watch a movie. Except, I just realized I’m out of allergy medicine, there’s no one around to drive me to the store, and the nearest store that sells my medicine is four blocks away. That sound you hear? That’s my office wife laughing her ass off. Well, maybe the non-stop sneezing will distract me from the throbbing pain in my foot. Or maybe I’ll forget about how miserable my allergies make me when my foot falls off. I’m all about the positive. And yes, Office Wife, I will call the doctor tomorrow.
Oh, God. I’m out of beer, too. Now that’s a f*cking emergency!
My friends and I were in a bookstore once–one of those big national-chain-type bookstores where you need to use your GPS to find your way around. Actually, this was long enough ago that you had to leave a booktrail to follow back–you know, where you take a book you like and leave it facing cover-out so that you can follow the books like a breadcrumb trail back to the front door, The Sound and the Fury to American Gods to The Maltese Falcon and so on…if you’re with friends you know well enough, you can also use this method to find each other in the store. Anyway, one of my friends was being hit on by this totally obnoxious guy who was being a condescending jerk to her just because he was very good looking, which would have been less offensive if he hadn’t been spouting really bad existentialist philosophy at the time.
Disclaimer: I have nothing against existentialist philosophy, as long as it’s done well, preferably in a French accent while smoking a cigarette. Sadly, this was both crappy and in a Middle America kind of accent. Not that I have anything against Middle America, it’s just not known for its existentialist philosophy. Crap. This is bound to offend someone. Don’t hate me.
So my friends and I stood watching this for a while, because it wasn’t a big town and that counted as entertainment, when suddenly I’d had enough. I mean, there’s only so much douchiness you take, especially when it’s being dished out to your friends. So I ran around a display, rushed breathlessly up to my friend, and said, “Oh my God! It’s really you! I can’t believe it! No one’s going to believe me when I tell them about this! Can I have your autograph?!” And my friend graciously signed her name as Douchebag Hairdo gawped moronically on the sidelines. Friends: 50 million. Douchebag Hairdo: 0.
Friends are awesome. Can I just say? Also: everyone deserves to have that happen to them at least once in their lives. Except maybe for Douchebag Hairdos.
Once upon a time, there was a Little Blind Girl. She loved her family, her job, fine wine, and summer. Every winter, she longed for the end of the ice; long days, warm weather, green leaves on the wide awake trees. No more hibernation. Everything vibrant, flourishing. She counted the months, weeks, days, and finally…. allergy season came.
Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.
I sit here before you a miserable hostage to hay-fever. I don’t know what I did in a past life to deserve this. Did Past Little Blind Girl harvest a rainforest? Plant sun-loving flowers in the shade? Systematically step on every blade of grass that dared to grow between the cracks in the pavement? I don’t know. But since I came home from work, I’ve blown my nose nineteen times, including once since I started typing this entry. And this is after I started allergy medication. Why? Why? Hang on, running low on tissues….
Even my poor cat is suffering. The Chloe Cat sneezed ten times in a row the other day. Don’t get me wrong, that was one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen, and if I’d had my camera phone on me, it would have gone viral in about 7 seconds, but the poor thing is genuinely miserable. Oh Gods of Hayfever, why punishest mine cat for thy grudge against me? Though I did laugh myself silly when she couldn’t walk straight for a couple of minutes. Drunk kitty! Hilariousness.
The problem with seasonal allergies is that, when I sneeze, it isn’t like a little piddly cold-type sneeze. It starts from somewhere a little below my stomach, travels up through my lungs and causes a whole body seizure, then forces itself out of my nose so hard that my feet leave the ground. No joke, no exaggeration. I achieve flight. I think, if I sneezed often enough, I could probably levitate. And there’s no sense of discretion. I nearly sneezed all over a colleague today. I turned away just in time, thank goodness, or I probably would have caused some damage, and I don’t think my insurance covers that.
I’ve been a faithful acolyte to the Church of Summer ever since I was a kid and summer meant I didn’t have to wear a uniform and saddle shoes for three months. My God, why hast thou forsaken me? And my kitty? Hang on…gah. Yes. The tissue count is up to twenty.
Whatever I did to deserve this, I apologize unreservedly. Oh God of Summer, please expiate my sin and allow me to breathe through my nose once more. Also, if you could see fit to allowing the Chloe Cat to drink from her water fountain without violently sneezing in the process, my bamboo floors would thank you. I humbly sacrifice my pride by posting my travails on the Interweb. Please have mercy on my nose. Amen. Gah! Tissue count: twenty-one…
Many of you may not know that I’m adopted. More than three decades ago, just before Christmas, my mother brought me into her home–my home–for the first time. Though she couldn’t possibly have known what she was getting into, she and my father and sister welcomed me with love and always made me feel as much a part of the family as though I had been born into it. This story is for my mother, who helped me decorate my very first Christmas tree since I left home, and who was worried that it was too small.
THE SMALLEST CHRISTMAS TREE
The Christmas tree was very small. It was the smallest Christmas tree in the forest. “Hmm,” said its father. “Oh, dear,” sighed its mother. Its brothers and sisters looked down at it and giggled.
Tiny tree (Photo credit: get down)
At Christmas tree school, the other trees in the class won prizes: “Best in Ornaments,” “First in Candy Canes,” “Biggest Star.” But the smallest Christmas tree didn’t win any prizes.
The teacher looked at the smallest Christmas tree and shook its head. “People want big trees, trees they can hang a hundred ornaments on. There may not be a place for you.”
The smallest Christmas tree drooped its branches all the way home. That night, it dreamed of a warm, welcoming house filled with firelight and purring cats. It dreamed of hot chocolate, Christmas carols, and falling snow. It dreamed of being covered in a hundred ornaments and crowned with a big, bright star.
Every day, the smallest Christmas tree looked for a home that wanted a tree. Every day, it heard the same thing: homes these days want bigger trees. You can’t hold all the ornaments. You can’t cover all the presents. You can’t hold up the star.
English: Tree in Freezing Fog Tree on side of footpath. Footpath between Oak Road and Hampers Lane. Very cold and frosty day pre-Christmas. Brrr. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Christmas got closer and closer. The wind became sharper and colder. It rushed through the branches of the smallest Christmas tree. The tree shivered and pulled its boughs tight against its trunk. For the first time, it began to wonder if it would ever find a Christmas home.
Then, it saw a tiny sign in the corner of a store window: “Christmas tree wanted. Fireplace with cats. No tree too small.” The ad looked old. It looked like it had been in the window for a long time. But it was Christmas Eve, and the smallest Christmas tree decided to try.
The house didn’t look like much from the outside. It was the smallest house on the street. It was all the way at the end of the street, so the smallest Christmas tree had to walk past window after decorated window, each showing a tall and brightly-lit Christmas tree. The smallest tree stopped just outside the front door of the smallest house, tired and cold and almost ready to give up.
basil fireplace (Photo credit: cyrusbulsara)
Then the door opened. Warm light fell on the smallest Christmas tree. The tree looked into the beautiful, smiling face of a small young woman. Cats purred at her feet and firelight flickered in the background. Behind the woman was a space near the fire just big enough for a very small Christmas tree.
The woman welcomed the smallest Christmas tree into her home. Christmas carols played softly around the tree as it settled gratefully beside the fireplace. The wind outside blew fierce and cold against the windows, but the smallest Christmas tree was warm inside the smallest house. The space beside the fire was just the right size.
English: A bauble on a Christmas tree. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The woman brought out all the ornaments she had been saving until she finally found a tree. There were over a hundred ornaments. Each one had been given to the woman by someone she loved. Each one had a story with it. The woman told each story to the smallest Christmas tree as she decorated it.
The woman decorated the smallest Christmas tree for hours. She sang carols as she wound garlands through the tree’s branches. She smiled as she hung it with candy canes. She covered the bottom of the Christmas tree with a shimmering blanket, and she hung ornaments on every branch, all the way up to the top. The smallest Christmas tree held very still as the pile of ornaments grew smaller, wondering how all of the ornaments could possibly fit.
But they did fit–every one.
English: American Christmas Tree (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Last of all, gently and carefully, the woman placed a glittering star on top of the very highest branch. Covered in ornaments and surrounded by firelight and music, the smallest Christmas tree had found its home.
The next morning, the smallest Christmas tree looked out of the windows of the smallest house. Nearby, the woman cradled a cup of hot chocolate beside the fire. Beneath the tree’s branches, cats purred and prowled on the shimmering blanket. Snow was falling soft and white outside the windows. In its new home, the smallest Christmas tree heard the glad ringing of bells and knew that it was Christmas day.
Merry Christmas, everyone! May every wandering soul find a home like mine.
hot pink grownups (Photo credit: niznoz)
Every so often, it gets brought home to me that I’m even worse at being an adult than I used to be at sports. The most recent round of self-flagellation was brought about by the realization that my Mysterious Engaged Friend, now Mysterious Married Friend, has never been to my apartment. The problem is mostly that, at any given time, my meal plan consists of Diet Coke and Doritos, I have a hamper full of dirty laundry that I can’t wash because I haven’t yet put away the clean laundry from last weekend’s chore-a-thon, and I’ve been saying I’ll mop the floor for approximately three weeks. My total score at being a grown-up wouldn’t get me past the first elimination round.
It starts early in the morning. I hit my snooze button about five times before I end up getting out of bed. I always mean to get up early, hope to get up on time, and actually get up late. It continues with lunch; when I go grocery shopping, I always fondly imagine my lunch will be a healthy salad with chopped broccoli, grated carrots, and cherry tomatoes. It usually ends up being stuff I got at the convenience store around the corner from where I work, so– pop tarts and fruit snacks. Then, when I get home, I think “Oh, I’m totally going to do chores now. This place is going to look great by the time I go to bed.” It could happen. No, it couldn’t. That’s never going to happen.
But Mysterious Married Friend is moving away (sad!), so I invited her over, along with her husband and another friend. I did this in total good faith, and also because my apartment is actually in fairly good shape for once, having been the subject of a recent cleaning marathon. I forgot one vital fact, though: I can’t cook. At all. I could have invited them over for tea, or a movie night, or–I don’t know–poker, but I didn’t. As I sort through various takeout menus and wonder what would seem the least obvious when I serve it on my nice (read: not paper) plates, I can’t help but wonder if I’m alone in this.
And, you know, I don’t think I am.
Golfing (Photo credit: emersunn)
So I’d like to propose handicaps for adulthood, like they have for bowling and golf. For me, I think I should be able to add on to my total score another 50% of what my Sainted Mother would have been able to do in the same situation. If I can manage to have the dinner table completely clear by the time my friends come over, that’s like my mother having polished all the silver and ironed the tablecloth. If I find takeout that suits everyone’s dietary restrictions and doesn’t cause an allergic reaction in anyone, that’s like my mother cooking a four-course meal. Right now, my Sainted Mother is falling out of her chair laughing while thinking about all the Hamburger Helper she used to fix, which actually makes me feel better. Ooh, Hamburger Helper! I can totally manage that.
Problem solved.
Here is the Little Blind Girl’s recipe for Thanksgiving Stew:
Ingredients:
Directions: Put the turkey in a home that hasn’t been this clean since last Thanksgiving. Add the four generations of relatives gradually. Sprinkle in the small children, the desserts, and the overcrowded driveway. Let simmer, then add the kitchen that can only hold three people (beware of elbows) and the family stories (use liberally and without discretion). Garnish with assorted pets, dietary restrictions, and conflicting commitments. Add the long-running grudges to the after-dinner drinks. Serve warm and eat until you fall asleep in your chair while watching football. Serves: a small nation. Leftovers should last for approximately two weeks, depending on the strength of the grudges.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I’m grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you for reading my blog, and being kind enough to let me know when you like it.
Dirty Dancing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A while ago, I posted about my friend who mysteriously got engaged. Well, during my hiatus, she got married, and I was there for her bachelorette party the night before. Now, for those of you who are under thirty, you probably have quite a different picture in your heads when I say “bachelorette party”. What actually happened was that we rented a hotel room and some eighties movies, drank beer, and gossiped while watching Dirty Dancing. We’re wild women and cannot be tamed.
At the time, I had been on a Richard Marx kick for about a week. I don’t remember what started it, but I was seriously rediscovering his work leading up to the party. This isn’t a tangent, and here’s why:
Little Blind Girl: (squints at screen) I haven’t seen this movie in forever. Come to think of it, I think the last time I watched it, I could actually see the screen.
Mysteriously Engaged Friend: D*mn, I didn’t realize this movie was that old!
LBG: (hits Mysteriously Engaged Friend with pillow)
Non-engaged Friend 1: Poor Patrick Swayze. He looks so young.
Non-engaged Friend 2: Dude could really dance. Look at him! And the hot blonde chick who plays the dance instructor, too. Say what you want, the people in this movie had serious skills.
LBG: If you say anything along the lines of “Not like in the dance movies the kids watch these days”, the next pillow is coming at you.
MEF: You know, I think the blonde chick got married to Richard Marx.
LBG: Seriously? I’ve been listening to his music for, like, a week solid. That’s so weird!
NEF 1: That you’ve been listening to Richard Marx? Yeah, that is weird!
LBG: (hits NEF 1 with pillow)
NEF 2: I wonder if they’re still married.
NEF 1: Does anyone have internet access? We could look it up online.
MEF: (guiltily) I’m already online.
LBG: Really? Now? What site are you on?
MEF: Second Life.
(pause)
NEF 2: You’re playing a character in a fictional online world during your bachelorette party the night before you get married?
MEF: Yes.
NEF 1: LBG, you’re officially off the hook as lamest person here.
LBG: I knew we should have gone with strippers.
Richard Marx (album) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
And that’s how the eighties kids roll. FYI, we did look up the hot blonde chick who played the dance instructor, and she is still married to Richard Marx and they’ve stayed together for approximately ever, which I think was a good omen right before a wedding. Ever since then, I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for Richard Marx, and I’m going to see him in concert in December with Non-engaged Friend 1. I’m pretty sure this is going to destroy any street cred I’ve gathered with my professed love for Nirvana and John Lennon, but I don’t care. His music makes me smile. Plus, I had my first slow dance to one of his songs. When it was first released. I played it over and over until the cassette tape broke. The first reader who makes a snarky comment about any of this gets an online pillow attack!
iliketheworldfuzzy.com 