Lisa Gerardy's Blog, page 21

Social Media Onset Assholism

Look! A picture of my pets. Shocker.

There is a new disease out there, and there’s no vaccination for it. So, we can’t even blame this epidemic on Jenny McCarthy. I developed Social Media Onset Assholism (SMA), and I was forced to put myself on a social media diet, the only known treatment. Here is a short list of symptoms I continue to fight during my one hour of allotted daily social media time:

Uncontrollable eye rolling, especially when seeing religious or political posts.
Talking to myself, usually when faced with first grade grammar errors.
Serial liking – a horrible compulsion to click the like button on EVERY SINGLE THING.
Cataholism – posting more pictures of my cats than should be legal.

As you can plainly see, I had to get help. For the love of my family, and those darn cats, I had to get a grip. I know I’m not alone. Could you suffer from acute and severe SMA? Here’s how you can tell.

Do you post a constant barrage of politically slanted articles that “prove” asinine things? They only prove that you don’t check your facts.


Do you post things like “We won!” when your hometown sports team wins. I don’t remember seeing you suit up and play.


Do you post a constant stream of all of the foods that are toxic and inedible? Should we all just hook up to IV’s? Seriously, what SHOULD people eat?


Do you constantly complain about your messed up relationships and numerous baby daddies and mamas. Here’s something that might work: stop “falling in love” every 13 seconds.

If you have any of the above symptoms, turn off your computer, phone, tablet, Internet browsing television, and any other way you could possibly access Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Vine, or the other 9,736 social media sites. Have someone bind your hands with electrical tape and give you a large dose of Benedryl so you can sleep through the withdrawals. Only you can help yourself. There is no cure.

Note: My mother coined the term assholism in 1979 or so when she told my brother and me that someone suffered from it. My brother, who is 9 years older than me, said, “I didn’t know he drank.” I replied, “Mom said ASSHOLISM not alcoholism!” I was 8. Just goes to show you that I have always been a smart ass.

 

Mean Kitty Murderer — By Sophie

Hey people living in the light square, I need someone to call the cops or something. My mean brother is at it again. He is trying to kill me. I know this because I have been really sick with throw up stuff, and my poop’s been all mushy. I haven’t even tried to eat it in the yard, and that’s one of my favorite treats. My tummy kind of hurts, and I’ve been super tired. I just want to nap in the sunny spots like all day. I think the cat put poison in my water. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.

My sister Lola saw the kitty over by my water even though he has some fancy water fountain that he likes to drink from. She took some pictures so we would have proof for mama. Mama just thought they were cute because she loves Andre like more than anything except for daddy, the boy, and that stinky red drink in the fancy bowl.

See! He is spitting poison into my water.

He looks guilty here.

Not only do we have pictures as evidence, but the Mean Kitty also confessed that he wants to kill me in this blog. It’s like practically a real signed confession, only he didn’t put his paw print on it and he probably won’t. I will ask Orange Kitty to put his paw print on it and say that it was Mean Kitty. Mean Kitty is mean to him, too, so I know he will help me.

I wanna get Mean Kitty in trouble because I’m scared he will really kill me and also cause this sickness has been terrible. I’ve been really hungry from the throwing up and Mama wouldn’t let me eat my throw up, even though my belly was so empty. She said it was gross and she made me go outside while she cleaned it up and put chemical stuff on the floor. I don’t see what the big deal is. Cows eat their throw up all the time. They don’t let it come all the way out, but they bring it back up into their mouths and eat it again. Food is tasty and throw up is just warmer food that is easier to chew. Plus, then Mama wouldn’t have needed to clean it up.

Daddy was all worried about me and he took me to the doctor. This was no fun at all even though I love my doctor and all of her helper ladies. First, it was OK cause they were just petting me and looking at my mouth and stuff. But, I didn’t like it when they put some kind of stick in my butt to tell if I was too hot.  They could’ve just asked me.  I would’ve told them that I’m not hot. I just feel like throwing up. That’s it. It’s just a simple throw up sickness because the cat poisoned me.

I’m starting to feel better now. Mama and Daddy took super good care of me and made me special food with chicken, pumpkin, and rice in it. I love food, so I was really happy about that. I still don’t want to get sick again, even if it does mean that I get special food.

So, light square people, please send help to my house. I don’t want this Mean Kitty to kill me for real next time. As you can see, he is vicious.

This is how he welcomed me to my new home.

Hey, readers, Sophie here again. If you want to help stop other animal murders, you can ask other humans to sign this.

 

Prettier than John Stamos

Even though I spent over $300 to buy two front row tickets to the Beach Boys concert at the state fair, I still roll my eyes at the Beach Boys’ music. I’m a head banger from the 80’s. I don’t want to hear a bunch of geriatric men harmonize over surfing and bikini clad girls. They would probably all need hip surgery if they tried to surf. The only reason I sold my soul to the Stub Hub devil and bought those tickets was because John Stamos, my number one fake boyfriend, was joining them on tour.

Now, being the mom of a musician, I didn’t go to see if John Stamos was a great drummer or guitarist (he plays both instruments, believe it or not). I went to the Beach Boys concert because John/Uncle Jesse/Blackie Parish is not just eye candy; he is eye Belgian truffles. The man is beautiful. I really do think he bathes in the blood of kittens. He must. While he doesn’t seem to be the sharpest block of cheddar in the dairy case, John is so visually perfect that it pains me that he does not have children. He needs to make babies now while he’s still too young to star in Viagra commercials.

Have mercy! So close!

So, in short, I’m a shallow middle-aged woman with a girl boner for John Stamos. There’s got to be a twelve-step meeting somewhere for people like me. While I did enjoy staring at the yogurt god, and shooting this video from the front row, it wasn’t the coolest thing that happened at the concert.

Before John, and the Beach Boys hit the stage, I was sitting there, singing and chair dancing to A Horse with No Name, by the first band on stage, America. I was in heaven, sitting right up front, eating a very large hot pretzel with a super bad for me Diet Coke, just waiting for the Greek god to take the stage. Then, I met the young man who sat next to me with his father. At least, I’m pretty sure it was his father. I didn’t ask.

This young man was about 16 or 18, 6 feet tall, and autistic. He came in 2 songs into America’s set, and then sat by me for about half of the show. The other half, he was on the floor next to the stage, or walking around, or lying on his father. He was wearing a Beach Boys shirt, and, during the brief intermission, his father explained that he took him to any Beach Boys show within driving distance. They had driven down from Michigan, 3 hours away, for this show.

The Beach Boys had met him, and knew he would be right up front. They waved to the young man from the stage. Most of the time, he didn’t really see them, but that didn’t stop them from trying. Once or twice, he really focused on them, and smiled. I had just met the boy, but that smile brought tears to my eyes.

I don’t know his name, or his father’s name, or if that man even was his father. I do know that the man, father or not, has the patience of a saint. I know that he will do anything for the young man. I know that like a lot of parents, or caregivers, or friends, he will drive for hours just to see the young fellow smile.

That, my dear readers, is what is really beautiful in this world. Don’t get me wrong. John Stamos is still the best looking man on the planet, and I will continue to buy his yogurt and anything else he sells. The truth is though, that physical beauty will never be more beautiful than real love.

 

 

Morris Makes his Debut

Hey humans, I’m Morris. I’m a big old orange tiger baby and I’m a lover when I’m not scared of new people. My mommy doesn’t like a lot of new people since she is a hermit and all, whatever that means. So, I usually don’t have surprise people. I just got used to the boy’s girl after like a really long time. She’s been coming over since putting on strange fur and pretending to be someone else and getting candy time. She is nice. I let her touch me now. I used to hide under the bed.

My brother and sisters wouldn’t let me touch Mama’s light square because they thought I would drool on it, but I only drool when I have love time with Mama.  I also check her milk spots for bumps even though she doesn’t have cat milk. I just use my paws and mash on her to check for weird stuff, you know, to make sure she’s not gonna die of the milk spot disease that everyone talks about. Even though my brother and sisters think I’m stupid, I’m actually really smart. I knew what house I wanted to live in.

One day, a super long time ago, during the hot time of the year, I got lost from my old house. I think they moved and forgot to tell me. So, I started walking and I found Mama’s house. I knew from the all of the animal smells that she was a sucker, um, I mean a good mama. So, I went into her yard, and some old big, black dog growled at me and ran towards me. I didn’t run away since I wasn’t scared. It was just a dog. Didn’t bother me none.  Mama yelled, “Mario, leave it!” and the creature left me alone. A while ago, that dog crossed the rainbow bridge. Now, we have a new bigger black dog. I wonder if it’s the same one, but just bigger. This one’s a girl and the old one smelled like a boy. Oh well. They are both nice. I’m OK with dogs and other cats, unless they are mean to me. There are a few in my house. These are all of my sisters and my brother.  I have my own names for them, but I know what Mama calls them, too.

Mean Ninja

Mean Ninja (Andre) always just wants to fight me. I don’t understand that kind of anger. Maybe he’s hungry. I’m bigger though. So, I usually win unless Mama breaks us up.

Pot Head Tiger

Pot Head Tiger (Boo) is a striped baby like me. She’s gray though. Boo is usually nice to me and doesn’t start fights. She likes kitty pot. I don’t get it. It does nothing for me. Daddy grows it for her. I think he could get arrested for that.

Yippie dog

Yippie dog (Lola) is a dog but she is littler than me. She makes noises when I am trying to sleep all day. Lola always thinks we are being attacked or something. I wish she would shut up.

Trample

Trample (Sophie) is a big black dog, and she really likes to chase you and play and stuff. I don’t like being chased. I try to run away, but sometimes she steps on me. She’s too big, but she’s not scary, just kind of dumb.

I don’t really hang out with my brother or my sisters all day. I like to hide in Mama’s closet and sleep. She says I’m a vampire, but I don’t sparkle and I don’t eat blood. I eat cat food, and lots of it. Whenever I’m awake, you can find me with my face in a bowl. My siblings tell me I’m fat. It’s not my fault. I think I have an eating disorder just like this cat and his Mama.

I like to eat

So, if you like hearing about me and stuff, share this with your human friends. Read it to your cats and dogs, too. They like to hear stories. I gotta get back to the closet now. The sun is shining through the windows and you know how us gingers burn.

 

Blog Her: Worth Every Damn Benjamin

Travel makes me do this.

I can’t say Blog Her was worth every penny because there would be too many of them. So, let’s just go with Benjamins. Going to Blog Her was SUPER expensive. A couple of weeks before going, I thought of NOT going. I had already gone to Blog U and learned so much. I wondered if it would be worth the time, the dreaded travel, and the cash. I’m glad I forced myself to go, though, because not only was a week in San Jose worth it alone, but these things made it even more worth the trip.

My husband and I were lucky enough to be included in the Pets Add Life reception, with Jill Rappaport.  I really wanted to hate Jill because she’s beautiful, thin, and gets to hang out with Matt Lauer, but I loved her because of her passion for animals.  She, along with Parri from Her Royal Thighness, inspire me to write more about animals. Jill is so focused on helping animals that technology has passed her by. There’s no way to say this nicely; Jill has a flip phone. I’m not even lying. For real. A flip phone. Jill, I will fly out to NY and help you purchase and learn to use an iPhone. Call me.

I had a total Forrest Gump moment with Guy Kawasaki. I had no idea who he was when he passed me his awesome Nikon camera and asked me to take a picture of him with two of my favorite people, the Science of Parenthood girls. I just stood there all like, “This is a nice camera, sir.” (Say with Forrest Gump voice.) Then, AFTER this happened, my fabulous friend Heidi Floyd told me he was her hero. So, I tried my best to find him again and get a picture with him. Nope. Didn’t happen.

I did get a picture of Guy on stage interviewing Arianna Huffington. I’ve heard horrible things about Arianna, like that she doesn’t pay the bloggers who send in their stuff to her, but I really like her. So many women out there walk around in uncomfortable high heels. Not Arianna. When asked if she preferred Manolo Blahnik or Jimmie Choo shoes, she said, “Jimmie Choos are made my men who hate women. So uncomfortable.” I love her. Hey, Arianna, can you put my blog on your site, just once. We are low heel sisters and all.

Me and the Thighness

In addition to all of the celebrity sightings, I got to see some of my favorite bloggers in person. I hung out with Her Royal Thighness. Not only is she super funny but always inspires me to write more “Dr. Doolittle” blogs. Thanks to her the pets will now be blogging every Monday.

There were some undercover bloggers in attendance. I can’t post their pictures, but I can tell you they are beautiful. The super funny Darcy from So Then Stories was there, along with Foxy Wine Pocket. Ms. Wine Pocket cracks me up. This is tough to do considering that I did stand-up for ten years. I’ve heard it all, but this girl is hilarious. The only thing missing from my Foxy time was Sarah from Est. 1975. We did take Flat Sarah to dinner, though.

Darcy, Parri, and me

Me, Flat Sarah, and Ms. Wine Pocket

 

I also got to meet the fabulous and Canadian (I love Canadians) Pamela Smith. She ran around telling people that I was the “funniest fucking person ever.” I wonder if my mom paid her to do that.  Pamela, my mom’s checks bounce, sweetie. She found out that my husband had worked at Lasenza, so she asked him figure out her cup size; and he was SOCLOSE. Since she tells everyone that I’m funny, it didn’t even bother me that my husband sized up her boobs. Or that they are three cups bigger than mine. Or that she is blonde. OK. If she weren’t so awesome I would totally hate her.

The husband loves Fiber Choice.

I got free stuff and prizes! I won the Fiber Choice FIBER CHALLENGE. No, this did not involve eating fiber and farting. It involved taking a really dorky picture of my husband holding up fiber chews. They announced the winners on Twitter, which was a proud moment for me, you know having my name and FIBER CHOICE WINNER Tweeted everywhere. Anyone who knows about my IBS issues knows I don’t need help going. My husband, on the other hand, was thrilled because the prize was not a bunch of fiber pills, but gardening stuff. He is waiting by the front door like a dog for his prize to arrive. I also won a spa gift card from Ebates. This was much less embarrassing to win. I love Ebates, even when they don’t send me to the spa. Seriously, use them people. You will save money. No catch.

So many exciting things happened that I could go on forever. Truly, the best part of Blog Her was spending time with my husband in one of the most beautiful places ever.  We decided that we want to die in San Jose. I mean, not immediately, after we spend a little time there. We were able to go to Santa Cruz, some wineries in the mountains, and we make an attempt to go to the Mount Lick observatory. I made my husband turn around and head back to earth three miles into our eighteen-mile drive up a narrow mountain road with no guardrails. I thought we were going to die in California right then. Seriously California, put some fucking guardrails on your scary mountain roads. Cars don’t go into hover mode yet. That’s just in the movies.

The husband, with his non-fiber smile, and me out in that wonderful sun.

 

McDonald’s sponsored a kick ass party with Rev Run.

I KNOW the way to San Jose! I do!

Hi there.  I’m on my way home from the Blog Her conference in San Jose.  Since I have to take Ativan when I fly, I didn’t think it would be wise to write a post about my trip just yet.  So, I decided to share this post about my first trip to California.

My husband and I finally went to San Francisco last week. We just went for a vacation, and hell, let’s face it; the place looks kick-ass on the Rice-a-Roni commercials. Plus, they have wine there, lots of wine.

We like wine.

As you have probably guessed, we both LOVED wine country. My husband and I went on a tour of Napa Valley on the Monday that we were there. It was beautiful, and it was warm (I’ll get to why this was such a relief later).   We toured five wineries in a limo, with three other couples. Some old people drank us under the table on our wine tour. We quit tasting after the second winery and did not have the champagne in the limo.   I was already on Tum’s at this point, and I had to take a crap at winery number three. If you know me, you know my stomach does not tolerate change well. The older couple, their daughter and son-in-law had two bottles of champagne and tasted at five wineries; plus, they split a bottle of wine with lunch. I would have puked for sure.

All vomit and acid indigestion aside, the Napa Valley is BEAUTIFUL. I want to live there someday. The only problem is for what we paid for our house in Indiana, we could get a trailer in Napa. I shit you not. I actually looked it up. A trailer. For $625,000, we could get a two bedroom, one bathroom shack.   So, I will need to work on winning the lottery before moving there.

As far as the city of San Francisco goes, I didn’t leave my heart there; but I probably dropped a few pounds. Man! Every time I visit a big city, I am glad that I live in the suburbs. I do love to drive my car to where I am going and park right out front. In the big city, this just does not happen. You have to walk A LOT. Don’t get me wrong; I was glad to have the extra exercise, but I don’t think I could live there. It would involve taking public transportation with OTHER PEOPLE, and I just really don’t like other people.

Speaking of other people, my husband and I came into contact with lots of strange folks in San Francisco. Here are just a few examples:

We saw a man with pigtails.
We saw a lot of men wearing Capri pants and sandals. We played a game called “Gay or German” whenever we saw a femininely dressed man. Only once did we have to say “both”.
We saw many, many homeless people. There are 10,000 to 14,000 homeless people in San Fran. Once, we saw two homeless men in a screaming match, outside Walgreens.
We heard a hooker complaining (very loudly and with lots of f-bombs) about another hooker, while walking down the street talking on her Bluetooth.
Our cab driver to Haight-Ashbury spoke Russian on his Bluetooth for the entire trip, except for the two times he said, “Whatever!” Love it!
After seeing many women in heels and short skirts, just hanging out at the tourist spots, we came up with a new game: German or prostitute.

My husband and I did all of the typical tourist things. We rode the trolley twice. It goes really slow and the driver has to pull back on the brake lever really hard on the hills. It was kind of like riding a really slow roller coaster. The trolley is great if you a tourist; but, I doubt that many locals take it to work.

The husband loved the wharf.

We made a pilgrimage to hippie land –Haight-Ashbury. If you know my husband, you know that he is a hippie at heart; but even he was disappointed with Haight-Ashbury. There is a Ben and Jerry’s on the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Corporate America has taken over. You can put all of the Cherry Garcia in there you want; it’s still corporate. Plus, who the hell wants to eat ice cream there. It’s friggin cold and cloudy all of the time.   We know why Mark Twain said, “The coldest winter was the summer I spent in San Francisco” or something like that. I bought a fleece jacket the day that we hung out at Fisherman’s wharf and toured Alcatraz. I kept it on the whole time we were there, except when we were shopping. It’s frigging HOT in all of the stores. I got the warm wateries from all of the temperature changes.

We learned some valuable things on our trip. First, on Fisherman’s wharf, they have public bathrooms that require tokens to enter. This keeps the 14,000 homeless people from living there. We still have our toilet tokens. This way we won’t have to “do the dance” while rushing into a store to request a token.

We learned that it is not a good idea to stand up on top of the double-decker bus because you could get electrocuted and decapitated by the cable car wires. Of course, my husband and I stayed on the lower, enclosed level of the bus because it was TOO DAMNED COLD on the top level. : )

We learned not to ever bring elderly people with us to San Francisco. There was a 13 story hike up the hill to see Alcatraz. Our mothers would not have made it.

We learned to buy the iPhone elsewhere. There was a block long line at all times, all five days we were there, in front of the Apple store.

We learned that we are not as fit as we may have thought we were. My husband and I were completely burned out on day five and retired to our room at 2:30. We are old. J

My husband still has faith in the whole, “miles” thing; but I relearned that it is all corporate bullshit. I STILL have not flown first class. I am 36 and ¾ years old. The husband was supposed to arrange this with “miles” and “upgrade” us; but “miles” were useless. There are so many restrictions etc. Of course, I shouldn’t complain; there are people who have STILL not used indoor plumbing facilities. So, I will stop bitching about this.

It should not be cold in July. Ever.

My husband and I are both happy to be home and ok with the fact that we are “suburb people”. You couldn’t pay either one of us to live in a big city. We do want to visit the San Francisco area again; but, we would like to spend four days in Napa and one day in San Francisco, as opposed to the way we did it this time. Napa is so much more our speed. Plus, they have lots of wine. : )

My Blog Her wrap-up post will be published on Thursday.  So, check back then for explanations about why I fan girl over Arianna Huffington and Rachel from the OC. 

“My husband pounds his meat in the kitchen.”

Yes, I actually said that to someone, out loud, in public, without shame. My husband and I were standing by the meat case in Scott’s, chatting with his boss’s wife about chicken breasts. She mentioned that she prefers to buy the chicken strips since she has small children and chicken breasts tend to be too large for them. My husband agreed with her, but said that he likes to make Chicken Marsala with breasts. So, he pounds them flat. That’s when I blurted out, “My husband pounds his meat in the kitchen.”

I instantly knew that I had made her uncomfortable, as I do this regularly. I don’t regularly make HER uncomfortable, just people in general. So, she made her way down an aisle, and my husband and I giggled like adolescents next to the meat case. We laughed about it the rest of the day.

Some people tell me that I have no filter. I think it goes beyond that. I think that a small part of my brain is controlled by some sort of mischievous hybrid creature, part Sophia from the Golden Girls and part 15 year-old boy. This part of the brain takes over suddenly, and throws out some socially awkward, embarrassing statement. Then, it sits back and laughs while I stand there with “Did I say that out loud?” going through my head. I can share a couple of examples with you.

A few years ago, my husband and I hosted an impromptu cocktail party at our house. Some acquaintances were over, drinking and chatting. Things were going well until one of them, a really strange woman (not me), insulted me. I don’t remember what she said exactly, but it involved what she imagined my sexual preferences to be. So, I said, “Well, at least I can still sit on bar stools.” Let me explain. This woman had given birth to five children, naturally. Think about it. Judging by her husband’s face when I said it, he got it. Instantly.

Last year, a beautiful orange cat came into our yard, and decided to come into our house. Our neighbor thought he might belong to a lady down the street. Lady is my kind way of saying stupid bitch. So, I went down the street and rang her doorbell that morning. Here is the conversation:

Me: Is your cat missing? I found an orange cat, and he’s in my bathroom right now.

Lady: I don’t know. He’s not home yet.

Me: What do you mean?

Lady: He likes to stay outside all night.

Me: I can’t believe you would just leave a cat out all night. That’s not safe.

Lady: Well, I take him to the vet, and he gets his shots.

Me: Does your vet also make him his own little suit of armor to protect him from being crushed by a car or eaten by another animal?

At this point, two things happened. She looked like she was going to hit me, and her orange cat walked up to the porch. At which point she said, “That’s my cat. Is this the cat that is in your bathroom?”

I wanted to reply with, “Yes. He is astral projecting himself so you can save him.” I didn’t. I just said, “no,” and walked away. See. Sometimes I have a filter.

Morris is sitting right next to me, and he has not been outside since he first came into our yard. He does not own a suit of armor, or have a need for one. I’m glad I didn’t have to give him to that moron.

In other news, my husband won’t be pounding his meat tonight. He’s making shrimp risotto instead. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Morris has been inside for four years now.

Two D’s, a Creep, and an Alky: My Most Sucktastic Teachers

Ugh! It’s that time of year again. The smell of firework smoke has not even left the air yet, but there are rows and rows of school supplies in every store, even the grocery store. This time of year always takes me back to the anxiety I felt before school started. As a short, chubby, visibly frightened child going to ghetto-rific schools, I usually stood out. I hated the beginning of each school year, as I knew I would be picked on by a lot of my fellow students.

The only bright side of school was the teachers. Most of them were nice, and went out of their way to encourage me. They told me how intelligent I was, and that I could do great things if I put my mind to it. Most of them were like this. Most. I did have some pretty sucky teachers along the way, though.

When I started high school, I was so excited to take drama class. I had always wanted to act, and I thought I would finally get a chance to learn how. Everyone loved Mr. D, the drama teacher at my high school, but he didn’t love all of his students. On our first or second day in class, he announced that he hated preps, the kids I hung out with. He had his favorites who would hang out back stage with him while the rest of us sat in the auditorium drawing “flats” or doing other nonsense book work. The few times when we actually performed, he was gruff and not very encouraging. I left drama class never wanting to take drama again. I did learn something from Mr. D, though. Years later, when I became a teacher, I remembered to treat my students equally, and to try my best to never intimidate them.

As an English major, I took a lot of creative writing courses. I have always been a writer, from elementary school on. I loved the way writing allowed me to work through problems in life, or create a whole new fantasy world. I was thrilled to have author J.D. as a professor, until I learned he was a terrible teacher. J.D. liked to tell the class that if you didn’t write every day, you weren’t a real writer. He also told me I wasn’t that good and maybe I should consider another career. Just as with my drama teacher, I learned to NOT be like J.D. I guide and encourage my students rather than step on their fragile egos.

I had the creepiest math and science teacher during my two years at McNichol Middle. I have blocked his name out of my head, but I have his face permanently etched in my brain. He was bald with what seemed to be x-ray glasses by the way he seemed to look through girl’s clothes. He was my math teacher in 6th grade, and my science teacher in 7th grade, a particularly rough year for me. It was during science when he got really creepy. He sat me at my own special desk, away from the others, but close to him, and he sent me to get him coffee every day. It was like I was some kind of teacher’s pet/waitress combo. One day, I asked him if he could send someone else to get his coffee. He seemed irked by this. Soon after, my grades went down in science.

Seventh grade must have been the year for scary teachers. My drunk algebra teacher was Mrs. Hannigan scary. She had that same bristly red hair, and she smelled of cigarettes and liquor. I swear she must have had a flask in her desk. I cried more than a few times in her class that year. When I didn’t get a problem right, she would yell at me. Math has always been a foreign language to me. I tried to understand all of the formulas with letters, but they made my head hurt. Just when I thought I finally understood, Mrs. Hannigan would cackle and tell me I was wrong. I ended up failing math that year.

We love you Mrs. Hannigan! Not.

Well, thanks for listening. I haven’t thought about those teachers in a while. I hope I don’t have nightmares about them tonight. So, what about you? What crappy teachers have you known? Have your kids had any disturbing teachers? Do share; just avoid using real names to avoid lawsuits and such.

Disclaimer: I have also had some AWESOME teachers.  Like this one: http://lisarpetty.com/2013/06/06/equations-with-the-stubbly-good-witch/

 

People of Costco

Coffee anyone?

I hate Walmart. Even just seeing the People of Walmart site makes me want to stick cat claws in my eyes and bathe in Benedryl cream. The place just smells of tornado flattened trailer parks and untreated STD’s. So, when I need to save a buck or five, I go to Costco because it’s a lot less nasty. Plus, they give free samples. With free food and a surprising lack of toothless grown-ups in pajamas, Costco is as close to heaven as I care to get right now. Seriously, if they had wine tastings, I would never leave. Costco has an amazing selection of food, clothes, appliances, furniture and just enough walking stereotypes to keep things interesting. Here are just a few examples of folks I saw on my last trip to Costco.

Hellishly Hung Over — You’ve seen that one guy who obviously didn’t get to sleep off his drunk from last night. He usually has a cart full of diapers, a case of imported beer, and huge Polish sausage from the snack bar. Sometimes, a woman wearing a baby papoose and a smirk is following him.

Express Expectations — That overly tanned couple in gym clothes who just came in for a case of water and are annoyed that there is no express lane.  They stand there wearing faces that say, “WHY the fuck are these people buying so much?” Because it’s Costco, not Walmart, meatheads.

Pop and Pop – There are always those rather large people with a case of Diet Coke and a dozen bags of Skinny Pop in the cart.  Head over to the produce section and start eating healthy things. That chemical shit storm you have in your cart will not lead you down the path of fitness. Ask the bottled water people.

Home Depot Houdini — He’s that poor SOB trying to load a refrigerator into his minivan while his wife scowls and holds their first grader on her hip.  Sometimes the child is strapped in the car already and the wife pretends to help. Either way, you feel sorry for him because Home Depot would have delivered and installed it.

Painfully Awake – This person has nothing but huge amounts of caffeinated beverages in his cart. There may also be one of those lifetime supply bottles of B-vitamins. You just want to give this person a hug and a nap.

Incredibly Constipated – This is the person who actually buys all of the huge laxative products that I wrote about in this blog.

Very Vitamix – Who else buys 26 pounds of Kale, 14 baskets of Blueberries, a stalk of rubarb, and well, a Vitamix? You know this guy probably does not buy the decade-sized Miralax.

Domestic Zoo – If you’re not hoarding animals, you don’t need 52 pounds of dog biscuits and two drums of cat litter. (Hides face and raises hand)

Crime Scene Cleaners – If I see people buying 12 gallons of bleach and a case of Febreze, I’m going to turn down all invitations to their house.

I would love to hear from you. Who do you usually see at Costco? I’m assuming that you go to Costco because it’s awesome.

 

Undercover Maltese

I have witnessed my sisters and brothers use Mother’s light square to talk to you all. In my position, I’m no stranger to technology, but I’ve been trying to avoid telling my story because it will blow my cover. You see, I’m not a dog in the regular canine sense. I’m a Designed Operational Guard, or DOG for short.

Here I am, undercover as a stupid dog in a dress.

You may not realize this, dear humans, but you all go about your lives watching your noisy story windows and eating Cheetos (I do love when Mother shares Cheetos) without noticing the dangers that surround you. I follow my mother more than the other humans, as she appears to be the queen bitch. I mean this in the regular canine sense, not in your silly human way. Every time mother moves, I fall in behind her to vocally alert her to such dangers as:

Invisible evil spirits that make the trees move.
Other humans approaching our territory.
Small humans near the property balanced on numerous things with wheels.
Suspicious canines shouting propaganda in the grassy areas near our home.
Feathered drones, armed with white poison, landing in the trees to spy on us.
The uniformed agent who places unknown items in a box near the property.

My true identity

Whenever I alert Mother to these dangers, she uses her angry human voice and says something that sounds like, “Shut your pie hole.” I’m not entirely sure what that means as I have never eaten nor defecated pie. The woman is not easy to guard due to her harsh temperament and the fact that she is constantly moving from room to room and saying things like “vacuum” or “pig sty.” I have trouble keeping up in my standard issue short legs. If only headquarters had thought to give me longer legs with optional wheels. I will continue to alert mother, even though she does not appreciate it. It is my duty and the woman clearly needs my help as she does many dangerous things, like:

She leaves the home without a leash or the protection of a crate.
She opens the front protective barrier when strange humans make ringing noises.
She sheds her fur and bathes ON PURPOSE.
She refuses to eat feces for the extra vitamins.

Aside from protecting mother, I have other duties.  Here they are:

I guard my older sister Boo Boo.

I am a professional slipper warmer.

I take harmful food away from the cats.

I protect father from the image gathering machine.

Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.  I’ve been on the job 10 years, and I will continue to serve and protect. You probably doubt my might based on my size, but I will have you know that I am the tug-of-war champion in this house, even when I oppose Sophie, a moose-like traditional canine. She is not a trained guard like me, but I use her as backup. I leave you with this video evidence of my might.