Veronica Brush's Blog, page 5

Dear Snakes

Dear Snakes,

How are you? I am fine.

Now down to business. This is a cease and desist letter.

I’m sorry that it’s come to this, but you leave me no other choice.

I yet again must insist that you stop being snakes. I understand that snakes have made great strides in the fields of mice eating and horror movie atmosphere. But that does not excuse your obvious blood-thirsty nature.

Only today, I found myself being chased out of the park by a garter snake that clearly had a taste for human flesh.

Granted, the garter snake did not chase me in the sense of coming near me at all. But it was there on the public path, refusing to let me feel safe passing, or feel safe staying anywhere in the park. Or even anywhere in the outdoors due to the snake’s threats of physical violence. I was forced to run flailing and screaming away.

So I must insist that you evolve immediately into something else. Preferably something fluffy. There is a shortage of panda bears. Wouldn’t you rather be panda bears?

If you ignore this request, I guarantee that I will continue to be terrified of you.

You’ve been warned.

Cordially,

Anonymous (I’m afraid the snakes will egg my house)

I don’t like snakes.

The best place I ever lived was Hawaii. They don’t have snakes in Hawaii. Not only that: they have an entire agency whose job it is to make sure there aren’t snakes in Hawaii. That agency put public service announcements on TV that said “Remember to keep your eyes open for snakes and if you see one, call us right away.”

These commercials touched me. I felt like I had been deputized by the Anti-Snake Department and I took that responsibility very seriously. When I would go out with friends, and we were walking outside, I would scour the ground looking for snakes. I was always extra vigilant around known snake hang-outs: in apple trees, on airplanes, and hanging around Disney villains.

Thankfully I never saw a snake. But I felt so much better knowing I was prepared if I did.

Here’s what I figured would happen if I had ever found a snake:

The Anti-Snake Department was #1 on my speed dial. I would call them and say, “THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” Their high-tech GPS detection devices would lock into my location. Within moments, black helicopters would fill the sky above us.

Out of the black helicopters would jump agents in their specially designed anti-snake suits that protect against both snake bites and acid venom spit (because I can’t remember if I saw that in a movie or a documentary about snakes). Of course, the agents would have an extra suit in my size. They have to keep their Deputy Snake Hunter Agents safe, too.

Now being seasoned professionals, they’d have sent an appropriate number of agents to handle the threat. I’d say about 100 agents per snake seen, with more waiting at the base to be deployed if needed.

Then they would dispose of the snake using the only proven 100% effective snake-disposal technique. It’s a 5 step process:

First you decapitate the snake. That’s why the agents would be equipped with chain saws.
Then you shoot the snake. All 100 agents would do this, just to be sure they really hit it.
Then you use explosives to blow the snake pieces up.
Then you light the remains on fire.
Then you carefully gather all of the ashes, put them in a rocket, and send that rocket off to a distant corner of space.

That seems like the most logical approach to me anyway.

I still have that number in my phone even though I haven’t lived in Hawaii for years. I’m hoping that the Anti-Snake Department’s “No agent left behind” policy applies to deputies, too.

X-Men-ish

Everyone loves the X-Men, right? You wouldn’t really fear mutants if they were real, right? They could feel safe revealing their powers on, say, their hilarious blog, right? And you wouldn’t shoot them with poisonous darts or send Peter Dinklage after them, right?

I’m asking for a friend.

A friend with great hair.

And the world’s most adorable puppy.

And she’s married to Matt Damon.

Okay, she’s not married to Matt Damon.

As far as he knows.

Well, I know I’m a great liar and had you all fooled, but I actually AM talking about myself. I am a mutant. But I have never used my powers against another human being, so please don’t be afraid of me. But don’t cross me either.

To fully explain my powers, I have to start back in prehistoric times. Once upon a time, there was prehistoric man. Then things were pretty boring for a while, which brings us to modern day.

As it turns out, adult humans do not actually have the genetic makeup to allow them to properly digest milk. As this NY Times article described it:

“Throughout most of human history, the ability to digest lactose, the principal sugar of milk, has been switched off after weaning because there is no further need for the lactase enzyme that breaks the sugar apart. But when cattle were first domesticated 9,000 years ago and people later started to consume their milk as well as their meat, natural selection would have favored anyone with a MUTATION that kept the lactase gene switched on.”

Turns out, I have that genetic mutation. I am a mutant. A very powerful mutant.

When I found out, I grabbed a milk jug, ran out into the street in front of my house, shouted, “FEAR ME!” and guzzled down the whole gallon of milk.

Then I threw up.

I think my neighbors were pretty impressed up to that point.

One of them called the police, trying to get me arrested for public intoxication. Some people just hate us mutants.

Now I just have to decide what to do with my powers.

Obviously step number 1 is to go hang out with Sir Patrick Stewart. We’ll have so much fun!

I’ll say, “Hi! My name’s Veronica and I can digest milk! Can I call you Captain Picard?”

And Sir Patrick Stewart will say, “I think you’re confused. I’m Sir Ian McKellen.”

And I’ll say, “That’s such a Picard thing to say!”

And then Sir Patrick Stewart and I will laugh and laugh.

But after all that, how do I leverage my newfound mutation to do the most good for human kind? I know I could take my powers on the road and make my fortune on stage drinking milk and then sitting there while the audience is awed by my body’s lack of ill after-effects.

But I’m not just in this for the money. I want to do some good for the world before I go home every night to sleep in my fabulous mansion.

I just have to figure out how to use my mutation to stop people from committing crimes. Some of us X-Men have less easily-identified-as-useful powers than others. I’m like that Toad guy from the first X-Men movie. He’s got all the powers and talents of a toad, which, much like that Liberal Arts degree I got, doesn’t really translate into helpful, real-life skills.

Sure, I could show up outside of a bank that was getting robbed, but then what?

What I need is some accessories. Like guns that shoot milk bullets.

Then I could burst into the bank, a milk-gun in each hand; one that shoots cow’s milk bullets and one that shoots goat’s milk bullets. As a backup, I’d have my semi-automatic cheesecake gun holstered at my hip. And of course I’d have excessive amounts of extra milk bullets tucked in those criss-crossing leather straps across my chest, just to make me look tough.

I’d yell, “Surrender now! Don’t make me shoot you! Or in fifteen minutes you’ll be a little gassy and possibly have some cramping!”

They’d have no choice but to surrender.

I’d stick around long enough to be awarded the keys to the city. Then I’d jump into my trademark Milk-Delivery-Truck-Mobile and speed back to the Dairy Cave, a secret solace built under my fabulous mansion.  There I’d be greeted by my butler.

And I’d say, “It was a good day, Alfred. Don’t wake me til noon tomorrow.”

And Alfred would say, “How many times do I have to tell you, my name is Sir Ian McKellen?”

July 4th

Independence Day: it’s as American as apple pie, assuming that it is a gluten free, dairy free, nut free, soy free, free-range, fair trade, organic apple pie.

It’s as American as illegal fireworks.

It’s as American as great movies that have thrown-together sequels that don’t even try to be good because the producers know movie theaters don’t offer refunds.

I thought in honor of July 4th, the day when Americans celebrate their independence, it would be fun to talk a little bit about American history.

Then I read the comment sections of several historical websites and decided that it would in fact not be fun to talk about American history.

So then I decided to talk about something innocuous, like flowers. But then I went to several websites dedicated entirely to the niceness of flowers and read the comments section and decided that wouldn’t be any fun either.

Thus I am back to history. I thought I would offer a brief history of America, trying to leave out all the parts that people like to argue over.

Our story opens in 1492, when three boats were taken out into the ocean. These boats were inanimate. Perhaps even more inanimate than most boats. That means they did not make decisions about where they went or who got to ride in them or, in fact, take any sort of action that could be interpreted in a complex array of moral and ethical lights. They were just boats. They were made of wood. They were named the El Nino, the Pinata, and the Santa Claus.

These three boats sailed from a place that involves some countries that some people are currently having uncomfortable feelings about, so I will not mention it. They sailed to a place that some other people are also currently having uncomfortable feelings about, so I won’t mention it either.

But I can’t just tell you about boats.

Can I?

No, probably not.

Some people got off the boats in this place they had landed. Then some things happened.

Things continued happening until the year 1776. That’s the year that things continued to happen, but under slightly different leadership than they had been happening previously. Also, they inspired a musical.

In the year 1812, there were several Saturdays.

Between 1861 and 1865 came the years 1862, 1863, and 1864.

It wasn’t until 1929 that people could say it was no longer 1928.

In 1963, Star Trek first aired.

At the White House in 1974, some employees ate lunch.

Which, of course, brings us to modern day, which is a terrible thing to mention, so I will quickly move onto the future.

In the future, stuff will happen. Hopefully that stuff will involve hover boards.

The Interview

Interviewer: I have to tell you, we’ve interviewed a lot of very promising candidates so far. What makes you think you would make a good evil queen?

Me: Well, there’s my impatience with the frailties of humans. Humanity generally annoys me greatly. Also, I’m maniacal a lot. So far that’s just been a hobby, but I’ve often thought of trying to turn it into a career.

Interviewer: Do you have any sort of super-natural powers?

Me: Umm, well, I can walk really fast. Like going the speed of a slow run, but just walking.

Interviewer: Mhmm. Any others?

Me: No. But you know, what I lack in magical powers, I make up for in passive aggressiveness.

Interviewer: Oh, that’s good. Any weaknesses? Obvious vulnerabilities to every-day items?

Me: I don’t understand the question.

Interviewer: For example, the most common answer we’ve gotten is water causing people to melt. What, if it fell on you, might cause you to melt?

Me: Umm, a hot guy. And gluten. Oh, and also acid. If you were to get even a single drop of acid on me, it would burn like water.

Interviewer: Let me just make note that if we hire you, we should get rid of all our buckets of hot guys, gluten, or acid.

Me: Do you have buckets of hot guys?

Interviewer: We can get into that later.

Me: I mean, don’t get rid of ALL the buckets of hot guys just on my account. No harm in keeping one or two around. As long as they’re not in the same bucket as the gluten, I should be fine.

Interviewer: How do you feel about cursing?

Me: Personally, I don’t curse. But I understand that some cursing may be required for the job and I am open to that.

Interviewer: What I mean is casting curses on people.

Me: Oh, I get it. Well, same answer.

Interviewer: Are you currently employed?

Me: Well, I’m a blogger.

Interviewer: Is it an evil blog?

Me: Not per se, although I did once advise people to grow marijuana on their whaling ships, but that was for tax purposes.

Interviewer: Do you have an arch enemy? Someone who thinks you are pure evil and loathes to be in the same room with you?

Me: Absolutely. I used to work in customer service.

Interviewer: I see. You may be overqualified in that regard. My concern is what happens if all those people who think you’re evil attack you at once?

Me: That’s where the fast-walking skills would really come in handy.

Interviewer: So, you’d just walk away from problems?

Me: Practically running away.

Interviewer: And what sort of salary would you be expecting?

Me: Well, I’d be comfortable starting out with your first-born child and a month of vacation time.

Interviewer: That can probably be arranged. Do you have any questions for me?

Me: Yes, I’m concerned about the vision package that comes with the insurance. When I think of most evil queens, there’s a lot that they should have seen coming, but didn’t. Is the vision plan not very good?

Interviewer: It’s not that the vision plan itself isn’t good, because frankly we have a very good plan. The problem lies more in that eye doctors keep getting turned into toads. So finding one who isn’t a toad in-network can be a little tricky.

Me: How soon would I be starting?

Interviewer: Well, the current evil queen’s adopted daughter has just turned 18.

Me: So pretty soon?

Interviewer: I would think so. We’ll be in touch with you either way to let you know our decision.

Me: Excellent. If I don’t hear from you within the week, I’ll gather some henchman and come raid the village.

Interviewer: I look forward to it.

Wait For It…

I was trying to order something online. I was shocked by what it told me and so I took a cell phone picture of it so you’d know I hadn’t photoshopped this:

Full disclosure: I am not a horribly patient person. I can’t stand movie trailers for movies that aren’t coming out within 3 months.  “Release Date: This Christmas” might as well be never as far as I’m concerned.

But I think even a patient person would feel that waiting for a shipment until 2070 is a bit excessive. If my math is correct, I will be approximately 20 years old by then.

No, that doesn’t sound right.  200 years old.  That’s probably it.

I don’t have any children, so who’s going to pick up my package if I’m not able to due to having died 100 years earlier?

I guess I could put a clause in my will. Something like:

“I hereby leave my massive blogging fortune to whoever will pick up my package and stay with it for one full night in my mansion. The mansion isn’t haunted, but if you let your guard down, my dog will lick the inside of your nose. Also, the package is haunted.”

That’s assuming I can even make a legal will. I’m pretty sure if I were to state in my will that I was “of sound mind and body”, that would break the laws against false advertising. My will would have to say, “I, being of strange mind and with a malfunctioning liver and periodic sinus problems, do hereby solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and you can’t handle the truth, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, no purchase necessary, odds of winning one in allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Sincerely, Amen.”

Okay, so I have no idea what comes after the “sound mind and body” line they always use in movies. I’ve never been to a real will reading. No one ever leaves me stuff. I’m not very popular with dead people, apparently.

I’ve also never been a bridesmaid. I’m not very popular with the living, either. Just like that saying, “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Never a bridesmaid, always a blogger.” I think my friends are afraid I will do something crazy, like throw waffles at the bride while she’s making her vows. That could be because whenever my friends refer to bridesmaids, I say, “You mean the people who get to throw waffles at the bride while she’s making her vows?”

I’ve also never been paid to give a speech.

Well, that’s not strictly true. Once I was working for a theater and they asked me to give a short speech to a packed house. I didn’t get to chose the topic, but I got to write the words. I was a little nervous, but confident in my ability to convey the information.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began. “Will the owner of the blue pickup parked in the loading zone please move their car? Thank you.”

It was well received, but I was never invited back to give a follow-up.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go wait for my package for the next 54 years.

Before the Post-Apocalypse

My sister may have caused the apocalypse. It’s too soon to say, but I wouldn’t be a blogger if I didn’t immediately jump to the least likely conclusion.

Here’s how were all going to die:

Vegetables.

People are always saying vegetables are bad for you, but it’s about to get much worse.

This particular apocalypse-causing sister I’ll refer to as “Steve”. I do this for many reasons:

(1) She has asked not to be named on my blog.  She went so far as to specifically mention particularly not naming her if I was going to blame her for causing the apocalypse.  I’m starting to think Steve knows me a little bit too well at this point.

(2) I can’t think of her name right now anyway.

(3) I have an inexplicable fixation on the name Steve.  If I had a dog, I’d name her Steve.

Dog: What?

Me: Hey, I do have a dog!  Why didn’t I name you Steve?

Dog: Because apparently you thought “Dog” was a better name.

Me: Hmm.  Well, I guess I can see the inherent logic in it.

Dog: You’ve gotten a bit sidetracked from your point.

Me: My what-now?

Steve is obsessed with gardening. She has a 10-year garden plan for rotating plants. I don’t know what I’m having for lunch today, but she knows how many beets she’s planting in the left corner quadrant of her garden in the year 2026.

She’s always reading gardening books and blogs. She composts more food than she eats. Over the winter, she buries frozen fish parts in her garden. (I’m pretty sure that last one has nothing to do with gardening. I can’t have gotten ALL the crazy genes in our family.)

Through her obsession, she has gotten very, very good at gardening.

Too good.

Unfortunately for humanity.

The last time I went over to her house, the first thing she did was take me on the required tour of her backyard garden. (In Steve’s defense, if you buy the annual pass, the price for her garden tours is quite reasonable. Plus you get a free “Steve’s Garden” t-shirt if you can pass the written exam at the end that tests how well you were listening).

During the question-and-answer part of the tour, I asked about the red watermelons she appeared to be growing.

“Those aren’t watermelons,” Steve said. “Those are radishes.”

Sure she didn’t understand which plant I was referring to, I went over to the watermelons and pointed to them.

“That’s a radish,” she said.

This is what she calls a radish:

In case you can’t tell scale from that picture, let me add something for reference:

That’s the Empire State building next to her radish.  Unless I couldn’t find a picture of the empire state building, in which case it’s a picture of something else that’s big to show just how big her radishes are.

And here is the obligatory picture of King Kong climbing the radish:

Hopefully these pictures have instilled in you the idea that this is a frighteningly large radish.

Apparently frozen fish heads are to radishes what nuclear waste is to people who become super heroes.

Now I understand why Steve keeps her radishes in metal cages. Steve had told me the cages are to keep wild animals out of her garden. I assumed she was afraid of bunny rabbits eating her vegetables. Now I think she is afraid her radishes will eat the bunny rabbits.

Here’s the problem: One mutant radish is scary, but she has an army of mutant radishes.  I don’t think the metal cages will hold up against the force of a raging horde of radishes in the midst of a coup.

Steve’s 10-year-garden-plan failed to take into account that she shouldn’t plant so many of one vegetable that, if they grew to ridiculous sizes, they couldn’t overpower humanity.  I can’ believe none of her gardening books mentioned that.

I don’t see how the radishes can possibly be defeated.

So, spoiler alert: I hope you like radishes.

And, perhaps more importantly, I hope they like you.

Brexit

You may have noticed the word “Brexit” popping up on your social media a lot lately. I know I have. Don’t ask me how I got onto your social media. Because I’ll tell you: I have really big binoculars.

Being trendy and hip (Word!), I took some time to read tons of articles (well, nearly one entire headline) about Brexit. Now I would like to take some time to talk to you about Brexit so you can feel smart the next time you’re talking to someone British, even if they turn out to be Australian.

Brexit: it’s the most important meal of the day. Just like “Colour” and “Flavour”, the British spell the world “Breakfast” different than we do. This dates back to the time of Shakespeare (about 11:32pm) when he invented the word “Brexit” in one of his lesser known plays, “Romeo & Juliet 2: Rosalind’s Revenge”:

Rosalind: How do I loathe the morning and its sun

That rises just to blind my weary eyes.

Until I’ve had my coffee none are safe.

Then I’ll make some brexit, waffles perhaps.

Then to reanimate sweet Romeo!

A thousand years ago in the 1950’s, a good breakfast was hard to come by in Europe. It was all just stale donuts, but countries were still always going to war with each other over who got the ones with the sprinkles. So Europe decided that all the countries should come to some sort of cooperative breakfast.

Europe decided that maybe if they worked together, the countries could put together a lovely breakfast buffet with enough good food that no one would have to fight over it.

Britain joined in with the buffet, but has just never seemed that into the whole spread. They come sit at the table, but they’ve brought their own food with them. Britain said they just didn’t like what was being served, which is understandable because it was mostly euros, which, if you don’t know, are those Greek sandwiches.

Euros are not very good for breakfast, especially when compared to silver dollar pancakes like we have in America.

Of course, then some of the British people were wondering why they were even paying to get into the buffet if they were just going to bring their own food. And sometimes some countries would claim they had forgotten their wallets and Britain didn’t want to keep footing the bill.

Lately Britain has been complaining that it’s too crowded at the buffet, so every time they get up to get something, their seats keep getting taken. Also, I don’t think they like Polish food, which, due to the economy, there has been an influx of because I guess Polish food is cheap.

On the other hand, some British people were worried that if they left the buffet, they’d end up eating alone for the rest of their lives.

So they took a vote, or as they call it over there “a trolly”, and the majority decided they weren’t going to eat at the buffet anymore. So they left the buffet and went back to having good old British brexit.

The immediate results seem to be very positive, at least as far as health is concerned. I think the breakfast euros served at the buffet must have been very fatty. I read that since the vote to leave, British pounds have been dropping. So that’s good. This might be a good time to invest in the British skinny-jean market.

And this is just the beginning. It seems that Britain was only one of the first of many countries to be taking votes to leave. The very same day that Britain voted out of the buffet, both England and the United Kingdom left as well.

So now you know. You’re welcome.

When Cooking Utensils Attack

I guess the first thing to admit is that I bought a zester. I don’t even know who I am anymore. A month ago, if you’d told me to add some lemon zest, I’d have given you a lemon in a top hat.

Oh, yes I did!

Now I own and “operate” my very own purple zester.

But I have to say “operate” with finger quotes (demarcated here with some punctuatorial quotes) because it’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye…

…or some completely irreplaceable skin cells and bleeds all over their limes.

You never hear the zester with your name on it.

It’s been a difficult month for cooking. First I cut myself zesting.

Then when I was closing a jar of honey….

And then when I was preheating the oven…

And after all that, this is how my homemade ice cream turned out:

(I wish I was joking, but that really is some ice cream I made. It was camel flavored. And no, I don’t mean caramel. I definitely mean camel.)

And being a blogger, my first thought with every injury was “I’d better photo-document this!  It might be funny later.”

I’m still trying to figure out how that whole honey injury even happened.  I’m starting to suspect that someone may have replaced my little bear-shaped plastic bottle of honey with a real bear.  It’s difficult to say for certain.

The zesting incident definitely hurt the most. And the worst part is that I was still suppose to squeeze the juice out of the limes I was zesting at the time. Why doesn’t this recipe just squeeze lemon juice into an open wound? Oh wait, it basically did.

And that’s not even the worst part!

I know I said it was, but you should have figured out by this point that I am highly unreliable. Unless of course you are new to my blog, in which case I hope you will enjoy this serious analysis of socio-economic political reformation.

The worst part was that I still finished the recipe, even with the possibility that it now had human zest in the seasoning. I didn’t have a choice. I was bringing it to a baby shower and I had just enough time to cook it and get to the party. There wasn’t a spare moment to go buy new ingredients.

This was also my first adventure with cooking food for people outside my immediate family (because they say most people are killed by people they are related to, so it doesn’t seem like such a big deal to find out if my food is edible at home). But at this party, I was going to be feeding this dish to friends, strangers, Romans, countrymen.

And they all ate it. Which now means there is a group of about 30 people who now have a taste for human flesh, one of them a small baby girl still in the womb.

And for that, I would like to apologize.  In recompense, please accept this chunk of ice cream.  Hope you like camels!

Dance Like No One Has Noticed You’ve Fallen Over

This week, I had a dance performance.

I know what you’re thinking, “Oh no. She’s back to doing that weird ‘I know what you’re thinking’ bit again.”

Yes, I am awfully clumsy for a dancer. But wasn’t Luke was awfully short for a stormtrooper? And that didn’t stop him being barely featured in the last Star Wars movie. I think you get my point.

Sure, I do fall down a lot. Yes, it is hard to pretend it is a choreographed fall when I am dancing with a troupe of people on the stage and I am the only one on the ground.

But what I lack in uprightness, I make up for in hutzpah.

‘Hutzpah’ is the noise I make when I unintentionally bellyflop onto the stage.

I feel I missed my true-dance-calling, which should have been Modern Dance. I have a friend who does Modern Dance and after careful study, I have noticed that she spends a lot of time falling to the ground dramatically and then crawling around down there, which she says is an expression of her feelings towards humanity’s conformity. When I crawl around like that, it’s because I managed to hit my shin while falling and I’m not sure that leg is ever going to work again.

And also that I don’t like conformity.

And I don’t care for some parts of humanity. Shins, for example.

Unfortunately, I didn’t choose to pursue Modern Dance. I went more traditional. Well, not uber traditional, like waltz. And not Uber like the car service. (Although how cool would it be to be able to get on your phone and say, “I’m at the corner of 5th Street and Steve Avenue and I really need a dance partner. Can you send me someone to salsa with in the next ten minutes?” Someone make that company.)

Come to think of it, I might have been better off doing something traditional like waltz. At least then I’d have a partner who I would be able to hold onto. That way either I wouldn’t fall or we would both go down. Then I’d at least have someone to talk to while I was lying face down on the stage, trying to catch my breath after a particularly large hutzpah. I could ask him how he feels about conformity.

I dance off-Broadway. That means, if you were to be visiting New York City for the first time, get lost on Broadway and end up in Canada, you might see me dancing.

(Full disclosure: I don’t actually live in Canada, but Canada is funnier than where I live. Also, I’m hoping if I mention them enough, they will sponsor my blog.)

(It’s the same reason I use the name Steve so much. Maybe then Steven Spielberg or Steve Bieber or Steve Trump will sponsor my blog.)

But enough about how great and generous Canada is, you silly Steve.

I have been dancing for years now. Unfortunately, I have been falling down my whole life, so I am still more gifted at that than dancing.

I know what you’re thinking: “No, you clearly don’t.”

Of course it’s embarrassing when I fall down in the middle of dance. But I have found a way around that.

After every show when the organizers come to thank our dance troupe for our performance or sometimes ask for a refund, I shake their hand and say, “Thank you so much for having us. I have wanted to be a dancer my whole life, but people always said I was too clumsy. Well tonight, I finally made my life-long dream a reality!”

Everyone loves an underdog. It never fails to make the organizer tear up a little and then they always say nice things like, “You danced like an angel.”

Which I graciously accept with a “Yes, I know. I also accept tips.”

So if you ever happen to see me dancing, please don’t give away my secret. I’ll split my tips with you.

Father’s Day

Father’s Day is coming up. Father’s Day makes me very introspective. Every year around this time, I find myself silently asking the same question.

That question is “Father’s Day already? Does that mean I missed Mother’s Day?”

And most years, the answer is yes.

And every year, as I present both my father and my mother presents on Father’s Day, I explain to them that, as they have always presented a united parenting front, I feel it is only fitting that I should present them with gifts at the same time. And every year my mother hugs me and tells what a beautiful thought that is, as though she actually believed it. That’s why mothers are great.

One year, when I was away at college, I actually did call my mother on Mother’s Day.

“Did you call to sing ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ to me?” she asked.

“Yes-s-s-s-s,” I answered, suddenly realizing it was Mother’s Day.

So then I used up my whole one phone call singing “Happy Mother’s Day To You” and never did make bail.

This year I did not actually forget Mother’s Day so much as I was shanghaied. My sisters all told me that they were going to be out of town for work on Mother’s Day, so we would have to set up a time when they got back to celebrate Mother’s Day(Observed).

“Oh, good.” I said. “I can put off getting a present until later.”

I played right into their hands.

And then suddenly come the day before Mother’s Day, they all showed up to my parents’ house with presents.

“We decided to celebrate early,” they said (because my sisters are like the Borg and often talk in unison).

I know what was really going on. They are threatened by me. Thanks to my unbelievable blogging success, they are worried I will become our mother’s favorite child. They wish THEIR blogs had 36 followers.

Come to think of it, I wish my blog had 36 followers.

But I’m getting close.

I’m only 3 away from being a third of the way to halfway there.

Anyway, had it not been for my sisters’ sabotage, I would have probably forgotten about Mother’s Day until right about now.

But I showed them. On Mother’s Day, I threw my Mom a surprise party and it was great!

My mother knew we were having the party. It was taking place in her house. And she did most of the cooking for it. The party wasn’t the surprise part.

The surprise was that it was actually a going-away party for one of my coworkers. I did not mention that part to her.

I think she was suspicious about the fact that she had never met any of the party guests before. But the icing on the cake was really the icing on the cake.

The icing on the cake said, “Good Luck With Your Future Endeavors, Steve”. (Because we all agreed that “Our Thoughts And Prayers Go Out To The Next People Who Have To Put Up With You, Steve” was too wordy.)

(Steve was not even fired. We were all just hoping that if we threw him a going away party, he would go away.)

(Spoiler alert: he did not.)

(Next year’s shindig is going to be even bigger, with a real DJ, so we’re hopeful.)

When we brought the cake out, my mother, realizing her name is not Steve, started to catch on that this party was not really a Mother’s Day party. So that’s when I jumped up and yelled “Surprise!”

After the party, my mother told me that even though it wasn’t for her per se, it was still a great party. Although she did find that Steve guy kind of annoying. In lieu of a gift, I promised her that in the future, I will not invite Steve to any more of her parties, even if they are secretly for him.

And Dad, if you’re reading this, I got you the same present as Mom.

Happy Father’s Day!