I took my cats to the vet on Wednesday for their annual checkup, and after giving them their shots and a few cat treats, the vet told me that my cats were overweight.
I glared at her, then shoved her shoulder – hard – and said, “Oh yeah? Well… shut up! Maybe that lab coat makes you look really boxy yourself!”
And then I took the jar of cat treats and smashed it on the floor, knocked over a bin of cotton swabs, ran into the back room and released all the animals from their fat camp prison, screaming, “Go, ‘lil babies! Run away, while you still can! Live your lives the way you want to! You’re beautiful just the way you are!”
Well, I didn’t really do that, but that’s exactly what I thought about doing as she handed me two complimentary cans of diet cat food. Nobody tells me my cats are fat without getting a sound imaginary beating, that’s for sure. Shit.
Today I found an old moleskine notebook in a bag I haven’t used in quite a while, and started flipping through it. In it were some notes from the first time Dee-Dee, Natasha and I had dinner at what would eventually become our favorite restaurant. We apparently were making plans for 2006 at the time.
My friends and I don’t make resolutions for the coming year as much as we decide on themes. It would appear that back in late 2005, the anticipated theme for 2006 was “The Glamorous Life.” As is always the case in my notebooks, what followed was a numbered list:
1. Western store/cowboys
3. Kabbalah (aka Wicca)
4. Ballroom dancing
5. Sexy boots/sexy party
Let me first state that I have absolutely no idea what any of that means, and were it not for the fact that this list was clearly written in my handwriting, I would swear in a court of law that I had never in my life written the phrase “sexy party.” What I can say, however, is that I obviously did not lead a glamorous life in 2006 if this is what it entailed. What were we going to do at a western store? And is Kabbalah really glamorous?
A few pages later, there were some notes scribbled in Nat’s handwriting that said, “Dee says the guy by you is hot. I say the guy @ the end of the table (to your right) is kind of cute. Discuss.”
Going back to that list, what exactly did I mean by sexy party? And why didn’t I remember to plan one? Champagne gives me heartburn.
And then suddenly it all became clear when I flipped one page further and found my final list:
1. Castillo Perelada – 3 carafes = soooo good!
2. Some Italian red – not nearly as good as the Spanish
3. Nat: “We’re never not coming here.” HA!
When double negatives start to become hilariously list-worthy, that’s the first sign that we’ve had way too much wine. Guess that sexy party will have to wait until 2007.
I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have some really great friends – intelligent, funny, caring people who have always been supportive of me and my dreams. Or so I thought. But this weekend, I was shocked and disheartened to actually learn just how little faith certain friends of mine have in me.
On Saturday, my friend Natasha and I attended a bachelorette party for a friend of ours. This friend happens to be classy and well-bred, so sadly, there was a distinct shortage of strippers at her party. Sure, there were some sexy underwear wrapped in pink feathery boxes, but aside from the tastefully phallic candy jewelry she wore, this was far from a tawdry affair.
Given the nonexistent kink factor at this soiree, we all put away our dollar bills in disgust and were forced to actually talk to one another. Eventually, as most of my conversations typically do, the talk led to the topic of competitive eating.
“Last Thanksgiving, I saw this eating competition on TV where people had to eat sticks of butter.”
“Butter? That is just wrong!”
“I know – I think the winner ended up eating like eight or ten sticks of butter. Oh! And then they had another competition where people had to eat mayonnaise! This guy ate the equivalent of four jars of mayo!”
“Okay, I’m starting to feel sick now.”
“Tell me about it – I can’t stand mayonnaise. I couldn’t even eat four tablespoons of it if I had to.”
“So then what would your food be if you had to compete?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I said, “Pizza.”
“Pizza? That’s way too filling. Now me? My food would be popcorn. I just love popcorn. I could eat my way out of a house full of popcorn.”
“Oh yeah? Well… I could eat my way out of a small cottage made of pizza.”
Natasha struggled to come up with her competitive food category, and then ultimately settled on chips and guacamole. We dismissed that as a very bad choice for an eating competition – the chips would stab the roof of your mouth. No way could you eat them very fast.
Later that same evening, we met up with Natasha’s boyfriend, Farnsworth, to debrief. He was thoroughly unimpressed with our tales of stripper-less parties, but keyed into the debate on competitive eating.
“I would choose White Castle sliders. I could eat at least 15 of them in ten minutes.”
“Fifteen? You would be so insanely sick about five minutes after that! I think I could eat two pizzas in ten minutes.”
Both Nat and Farnsworth laughed in my face, “There is no way you could ever eat two pizzas in any amount of time!”
“No, I’m talking like Jack’s frozen pizzas. Probably just cheese. Maybe pepperoni at the most.”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s just no way.”
“Well, I’ll bet I could eat a pizza and a half in fifteen minutes.”
“Not a chance.”
“You don’t know that! I could totally eat an entire frozen pizza in ten minutes.”
“Nope. Not even one pizza. You’d be totally sick.”
Ultimately, I think I got them to agree that I could eat two slices of pizza in seven minutes, but by then it didn’t matter. Their true colors had shown through. Doubting, non-believing, faithless, and unsupportive – I saw the writing on the wall. It was time for me to move on.
It’s just like I learned from watching the Starting Over house – if you spend enough time hanging around people who tell you you’re not good enough, and that you won’t amount to anything, eventually you’ll start to believe it. I came home that night feeling absolutely dejected, like some kind of loser who can’t even eat more than half a frozen pizza in one sitting.
Well you know what? I’m not a loser. I’m a winner, dammit. Do you know any losers who just ate 3/4 of a DiGiorno pepperoni rising crust frozen pizza while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, even though the recommended serving size is only 1/3? Do the math, people – that’s like… okay, so 3/4 is the same as 6/8, and 1/3 is the same as 2/6… common denominator of 12, so then to multiply fractions you invert the numbers and then divide by the numerator… that’s like… twelve times the recommended serving! Wait, can that be right?
Whatever – I ate way more than a normal human being is supposed to, and I totally did NOT get sick. Does that sound like a loser to you? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Thank god I have you, internets. You’re the only ones who really believe in me.
I was pretty drunk at the time, so some of the details are foggy, but once, a couple of years ago, this old man… god, this is really hard for me to talk about.
All right, here goes: I was at a party, and this old man, he played one. He… he played knick knack on my thumb.
On my friggin’ thumb, dammit!
When he went for my shoe, I kicked him square in the jaw. He stumbled a bit, then fell to the floor. I might have killed him… I’m not sure. I just gave his dog a bone and got the hell out of there.
Never looked back.
This is what goes on at a roller derby:
This is what goes on after a roller derby:
“If I were in a roller derby, I think my name would be Nicole Killman.”
“I’d be Shirley MacPain.”
“Cool. And I’d totally have flames painted on my helmet.”
“Totally. And you’d be called Flame Thrower!”
“No wait – my name would be Ruth Canal!”
“Ooh, that’s really good! They’d be all, ‘Here comes Ruth Canal… oh, she’s impacted! Yow that’s gotta hurt!’ Get it? Impacted? Like a wisdom tooth?”
“It would be cool to be Doctor somebody or other. Like Dr. McScreamy.”
“Or what if I was Jen Wayne Gacy?”
“Hmm. Not sure the serial killer joke would go over too well in his hometown.”
“Good point. Jackie the Ripper?”
This is the reality after a roller derby:
For all my fantasizing, the truth is that I haven’t been on skates of any kind for over 20 years, was never very good on them to begin with, and frankly, I don’t like getting hurt all that much. I lack any sort of physical prowess or intimidation factor, and have a propensity toward motion sickness. Given that, if I were truly to join a roller derby, my name would probably be something like “Nasty Paper Cut” or “Ice Cream Headache” or “Stomach Flu.”
“And here comes Ice Cream Headache around the turn! She accidentally bumps into Psycho Killa from Manila and holy cow folks – Ice Cream Headache doesn’t even apologize! That kind of rudeness has really got to sting!”
Is it selfish of me to once again lament the fact that my polling place – albeit a rock-star neon church – does not hand out “I Voted!” stickers? And is it equally selfish of me to resent that one guy who was hogging up the only fancy new electronical voting machine? Yeah – I got stuck with the old school ballots where you have to connect the two halves of an arrow. Is it just me, or does that seem like a broke-ass Spanky and Our Gang way to vote?
“All in favor of keeping Darla out of the He Man Woman Haters Club, take that piece of charcoal and connect the two halves of this arrow. Then give me the high sign.”
Anyway. The point is, I voted. And considering all the problems being reported with those new fangled touch screen voting machines, I should be happy in the fact that at least my vote got counted. Yay for voting!
You know what’s great about this NaBloPoMo write-a-blog-entry-every-day thing? With all these other bloggers churning out nonstop posts, it takes the pressure off of the rest of us, and frees up our time to focus on self-improvement.
Take me, for example. Just this past weekend, I came up with at least three things I’m going to learn in the next year that will help enrich my life and the lives of those around me. I don’t want to give away all my surprises, but I can tell you that the first thing involves sticks and knives.
That’s right, I’m reviving the lost art of whittling.
My friends were a bit skeptical when I first shared my goal, but ultimately they came around.
N: “Whittling is a lost art?”
J: “Sure – I’d put it right up there with quilting.”
F: “If you’re going to be authentic, you really need to call it whittlin’, don’t you?”
J: “Excellent point. Look – these days, everyone is so wrapped up in their iPods and their TiVo and their ham radios that they’ve forgotten how to relax. Can you think of anything more serene than sitting on the back porch in a rocking chair with your basset hound, a big hunk of driftwood, and your grandpaw’s pocket knife? Neighbors walk by, and you tip your hat to them, then turn to the silver bucket next to you and spit out some chaw goo. That’s what it’s all about.”
N: “Okay, I’m writing this down: Jenny’s Christmas list – sharp knife, driftwood, chaw. That about it?”
J: “Well, I don’t have a rocking chair. Or a basset hound. Or a spittoon. But whatever – don’t feel obligated to get it all.”
N: “No, no. You’ll be getting the complete Whittlin’ Kit.”
F: “Can you whittle a flute for Nat?”
J: “I was thinking something more along the lines of a snake. Or a worm. Or something else that’s mostly stick-shaped, and doesn’t require hollowing out.”
So anyway, next year, once I’ve perfected my whittlin’ style, all of my friends should expect to receive hand-crafted original sculptures, lovingly carved by me. Because nothing says, “I care,” like a driftwood caterpillar.
Last night I had a dream that I drowned a complete stranger in a river and got away with it. After consulting a very reputable dream dictionary, I have discovered that this can only mean one of two things:
1. I am so insanely sick of watching political attack ads on TV, that if I see one more “Who will protect our borders?” ad, I will drown a complete stranger in a river.
2. I am so insanely sick of deleting spam comments, that if I find one more comment advertising Ci@Li$ and @Mateur Pr0n, I will drown a complete stranger in a river.
So all I ask is this: a) if I don’t get away with it, please send me cake in prison, and b) if I ever ask you to go for a walk with me down by the river, politely decline.