Saturday, September 29, 2007

Danger Dearest Strikes Back

Dear Danger,

I regularly join casual conversations between coworkers, then quickly monopolize (and eventually end) same by providing way too much unrelated information of a personal and/or disgusting nature. I do not see this as a problem, but apparently my insensitive coworkers do; they've started to ignore me, talk louder to keep me from interrupting, and even walk away when I speak. Now the only way I'm able to force a break in their conversations is to break wind i.e. fart. Trouble is, I don't know how to do this "on demand." I mean I can burp whenever I want, but farting, not so much. What can I do?

Radioactive Jam

Dear RaJa,

Many people are in your boat, and each and every one of them has benefited from my advice. So don't be left out! It sounds as if the real problem is that you're a one trick pony. Why stop at passing gas? Try shouting nonsense words or faking a seizure. Better yet, take a drama class and learn how to cry on demand. Crying is just dandy in many situations, and is generally regarded as the Swiss Army Knife of manipulation. See for yourself! Try it during heated discussions with your spouse or parents, during a performance review, when you want sex (why hello, pity fuck!), or when you just need extra attention to validate your existence. As a bonus, the friends you make in drama class will provide even more conversations for you to interrupt and control. Have fun!

Dear Danger,

My kids are the greatest thing that ever happened to me, but they came with a catch: they know exactly how to push my buttons. They want hot dogs when I feed them vegetables, they want to stay up when they are exhausted, and it is impossible to be punctual when all the "but I have to pee/find blankie/write a dissertation on the Bacon Rebellion/eat stale Cheetos I found on the floor before we go" start. Any advice on making things run more smoothly?


Dear Janet,

First, what the Hell kind of a name is Janet? Didn't anyone ever teach you how to sign a letter to a raving lunatic an advice columnist? Second, children confuse me. As a whole they are illogical jerks who give me hives. You should be asking my mom for advice. Third, she would tell you to grow a backbone and be the adult. My siblings and I didn't act up too much because we knew there were consequences. We weren't sure what they were, but we could hear the italicized font in her voice, and understood consequences were likely a fate worse than death. She was not above threatening to nail one foot to the floor so we could only run in circles, tan our hides and hang us by our toenails to dry, and stuff us in the engine compartment for the ride home. We were very well-behaved children who became well-adjusted adults after years of therapy. Fourth, you can always sell them on the Black Market and use the profits to buy a pretty, pretty pony.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Clues that I am from Indiana

Finding a casserole recipe with Campbell's soup as an essential ingredient makes me retardedly happy.

On my property, non-working vehicles outnumber the working ones.

My sex ed class consisted of abstinence propaganda, a video, abstinence propaganda, a pamphlet, abstinence propaganda, and a quiz.

As a small child I practiced counting using cows and railroad cars.

My senior class had a 1:1 ratio of southern drawls and northern accents.

I appreciate a good Jell-o mold, and I consider it part of the fruit group.

If you are from Indiana, the chances are awesome that you will be able to finish these statements as fast as I can: A baloo is a... A younker is a... Alate means to... Sculch is... Wuzzle means to...

Dealing with these humid summers makes me believe I could withstand the fiery inferno of Hell, as long as it is a dry heat.

I bleed creamed corn.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

What Do You Really Think About Me?

Tonight I had my first trig test, while tomorrow I return to the painful, embarrassing, demeaning chemistry lab and I get my yearly evaluation at Gestapo. It's like I stumbled into a dark carnival of judgement. I have to discuss how to perform my job better with F-bomb, and I made a list of objectives for the occasion. I plan to give him the list* and ask him to pick three. I hope he picks my objectives to come to work drunk once a month, get a substantial raise, and punch argumentative people in the throat.

*This all bears on his mood, mind you. I'll be gauging where he fits on the cranky/happy continuum in the morning.

I spent a couple of days camping in one of my favorite state parks with some of my favorite people. There was a lot of eating and hiking and general mirth. MacGyver and I camp a few times a year, but we rarely go with more than one other person. So I packed my normal gear, and came up short. Turns out, I didn't consider that other people don't eat out of the cooking pot. While MacGyver and I rarely pack more than spoons and chopsticks to eat with, some people take advantage of civilization's tool and use plates and stuff. However, we did pack TWO Frisbees, because we believe in Frisbee preparedness. It's almost our religion.

For one too-short portion of the trip, I went horse-back riding for the first time since I was 14. More accurately, I sat on the horse and it walked around. It was a good horse, albeit a crooked horse, and I will never forget her. Or was it a him? Damn, I forgot to check, and Dusty is a pretty gender neutral name. Well, the beast was not obviously male, as a few of them were. Maybe she was a boy and just didn't live up to the simile.

Unfortunately, I got a call from mom on the first night. She had pains that landed her in the ER, and the doctor said she had pneumonia. Then another doctor said she had blood infiltrating her lungs. And then some other doctor took a guess and they all played paper-rock-scissors to diagnose her. Whatever it was, they kept her for a couple of days and made me worry. This is not the first time I've left town and she's been hospitalized. It makes me feel extra bad and discourages me from traveling. But, what do you do? I called her the next night to check on her and visited the day we returned. I reminded her a few times that she comes first. So she took advantage of me and now I have to clean her house for the rehearsal dinner.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Cool Points

This week in trig was just fantastic, because not only did I learn my teacher's name, but I got a 100% on the quiz that counted double. Only my quiz counted double, because he didn't grade the first one, you know, the "fun" one. I really wanted the first quiz back, so I could put it on my fridge, which I told him several times. I never got it back. I hope he isn't displaying it in some kind of bizarre student hall of infamy. However, I totally give him props for Wednesday's class. I have no idea what I am supposed to learn from the current section, it is something about wrapping and big W's and little t's. After a good ten minutes of pure confusion, he announced that this lesson is stupid and useless, and he will not put any of this material on the test.

My teacher called a type of math stupid and useless. He must be smarter than I thought.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

The Beatings Will Continue Until Further Notice.

I attended all of my classes this week, they consist of a chemistry lecture, trigonometry, and chemistry lab. I think trig will be the easiest of the lot, I probably have a huge advantage remembering SOH CAH TOA, even though I can't apply it to anything but a mantra, or perhaps some vexing grafitti. It is in the same room as algebra was, and I even sit in the same seat. Where the 20 year old mother of 5 previosuly sat is a stocky guy with either a high quality prison tattoo or a tatto that I hope he got a discount on. Where That Guy used to sit is a new That Guy, and rather than being a smarmy 19 year old he is a 35ish man who will not shut up and looks like he just got through doing hard time. I am one of 3 women in a class of 25 or so. I haven't counted because I am too afraid of making eye contact and getting cut or shivved. It's a rough looking class. The teacher looks to be about 32 years old and rarely smiles or bears his fullbody weight, for he tends to loll against the dry erase board while he's asking us if we got the same answer as he did on his calculator. Because I missed the first class he told me I didn't have to take the quiz. But when he passed them out he handed me one and told me to take it for fun. Rather than ask if he was high I did the best I could. I even figured out a couple! There was one question that I had no f-ing clue about. It went something like this: "Find the length of the arc in centimeters if the thingy is 30 degrees and it's the first new moon of Spring." So after some head scratching, I settled on "I would rather not. I'll have my secretary get back to you on that one." And then I turned it in.

Chem lab was only twice as painful as I feared it would be. I got a BA instead of a BS because I despise class labs with the intensity of a thousand fiery suns. Science has caught up with me, and I must submit to its torture. Thursday's torment was in the form of Excel. I love Excel, I do my budgets and timelines and work out schedules on it. But I had to make a graph, and I had no idea how to make a graph. Neither did my lab partner, who looks like an angel and swears like a sailor. I think we'll do well together. The teacher was not helpful and another girl from our table wound up taking pity on us and actually finishing the assignment for us. Part of me said "Make her stop! You have integrity!" The other part said "Shut up, goody-two shoes, principles will not stand in the way of a passing grade THIS time." I figure I'll learn Excel charts later, and hope it isn't on the test. We each got a key to a drawer of equipment. My car and house keys have been missing for almost three weeks, so I wondered how I could screw up stewardship of this key. I learned a few hours later. After answering nature's call, I rearranged my attire, and the key flipped violently out of my pocket. Nothing has ever flipped out of my pants pocket, so naturally the first time it happens the key lands in the toilet. The less-than-fresh-feeling toilet. I screamed "FUCK!" so loudly I woke my housemate and aroused the concern of MacGyver. I let him know that nothing was bleeding or broken, but I needed a stick. Salvation was a pair of chopsticks. Then I used so much bleach I could have eaten off of that key (but not with those chopsticks), except why would I be retarded enough to do that? And what would fit on it, anyway? Croutons?