Eye Contact First, Crotch Later

My darling friend and colleague will be getting married in a few weeks, so a group of us recently hit the town in her honor. We ate some food, we drank some drinks, and we ventured onto the dance floor.

I love to dance. Dancing is the best. I would die a hundred deaths if I ever saw a video of myself dancing, but I still love it. That said, the dance floor of a bar around 12 AM is just horrifying. And the reason for this is fairly simple: GROSS DUDES.

Here is what happens when you are in a group of females on the dance floor after midnight: You stand in a circle and dance with each other. You have fun. You lip-sync the words to songs and pretend to play a giant saxophone (maybe that one is just my friends?). Anyway, it always starts off great.

Then you notice some creepers working the perimeter of your circle. They stand there, just behind the circle, waiting. They are like lions waiting for one girl to fall off the pack so they can pounce.

They pretend like they're dancing, like they're just out there having a good time, but really they're waiting. Waiting like the creepy-creepertons that they are.

When guys do this, I cannot help but laugh in their face. "We are old!" I want to scream. "We already went through our stupid phase -- you're too late!"

(I do yell this sometimes, actually, but the music is too loud for the creepers to here me. Their ears are too full of beer and what I can only guess is a drunken version of testosterone.)

But at least those guys have the decency to wait for a girl to give them the time of day before they swoop in -- because there are OTHER, CREEPIER guys, who just introduce themselves by way of pelvic thrusts into your backside.

Picture this: you're out there dancing, having a good time, when suddenly there is a body behind you. The body presses into you, like it knows you, like the two of you are close enough to just mount each other with out making eye contact. But then you realize something: this body belongs to a person who you've never met before in your entire life. And he's pushing his groin into you like he's trying to make a screen print on your jeans.

Is this meant to be a greeting? How are women supposed to respond to this? "Oh hi! Whoever this is, great! I am happy to have your strange body rubbing against me. Maybe one day I could see your face and speak to you directly, but for now, this is just so great."

I can't take it.

Ladies, if any of you are approving these backwards attempts at romance, please stop. You should know that these guys are so desperate for your attention that you can demand eye-contact-first-crotch-later interaction. What do you have to lose? The weird slimy dude's smelly gross body? I'd say that's a risk worth taking.

And then, one day, when we all agree to hold gross dudes to a higher standard, they will have no choice but to abide by the new rule. I'm pretty sure that is the mission statement of feminism.

Eyes first. Crotch later.

(Maybe.)

C.P.A.

I've been meaning to tell you about a new development in my house. I believe the term is CPA, or "constant pointless arguing." My two children, little darlings that they are, have taken to bickering about just about everything they could possibly ever argue about. Such as:
1.

 

2: 

 

Even when they are not in the same room, they find reasons to argue.

 

3.

Here are my responses to the above scenarios:

1. You are both Batman.  An evil genius cloned you and no one knows which Batman was the original, so now you share an apartment like an action-packed version of the Odd Couple. And go.

2. Everything is out my window because my window is the windshield! You both lose!

3. STOP TALKING! GO TO BED! NO ONE IS DREAMING ABOUT TURTLES TONIGHT SO HELP ME GOD!

Anyway, I don't know where they get this. I never argued with my sisters growing up. We just read books, braided each others' hair, and baked cookies for our dolly tea parties. My favorite doll was Celeste, but sometimes one of my sisters would want play with Celeste, so I would be like "Excuse me, that is my dolly" and she would be like "Oh I beg your pardon, I thought it was my turn" and I would politely say "No, it not" and she would courteously say "Oh but it is" and I would charmingly scream "NO IT'S NOT!" and she would sweetly scream "I WISH MOM AND DAD NEVER HAD YOU!" and I would say "I AM GOING TO CUT OFF YOUR HAIR WHILE YOU SLEEP TONIGHT" and so on and so forth.

So what I'm saying is, who knows where these boys get it?

Teacher of the Year

(My eyes and lips are not nearly this full and beautiful in real life.)

I have spent the last week and a half reading short stories written by twelve and thirteen-year-olds. I have been bombarded with insane tales of superheroes, and magic horses, and middle school basketball teams who are inexplicably playing at the national level. I have even read a story about a beloved pet falcon that is stricken with Ebola.

No matter what the students write about, it is my job to give thoughtful, constructive feedback. Feedback that inspires them to do better. Feedback that motivates them to keep improving. Because that's what I do; I change lives.

But I gotta say . . . sometimes such feedback is difficult. I'm sorry, but it's true. I love my students and I appreciate their insane, hormone-ridden brains, but sometimes I wish I could just let loose and tell it like it is. Just to make myself feel better.

Of course, this is not an option. I understand that. But just for fun, I am going to write some feedback here that is not supportive or encouraging. It's not even realistic. I just want to write it because I really, really want to. None of the following messages are based on any particular student. It's just the kind of thing that I sometimes want to say to some students some of the time.


Ahem.




Billy,
Wow! This is a real piece of garbage! Let me guess, you wrote it on the bus on the way to school. I can tell because you misspelled 65 words including "corn." Maybe next time read what's on the screen as you're typing -- it helps:)


That felt amazing. I am going to do it again:



Sharon,
When you came up with the idea for this story, were you tripping on mushrooms? I have to say, it seemed like you were tripping on mushrooms. Anyway, you must have access to some sort of hallucinogenics because I cannot follow this story. The unicorn had to fall through the jungle floom to save the kid's pet hamster? What hamster? You never mentioned a hamster!




It's like the stress of the last week is melting off with each cruel critique. I am going to keep going if you guys don't mind.




Ally,
I don't usually say this, but your story is easily the worst story I've ever read -- and I've read Chace's story. Chace doesn't even put spaces between his words, but at least he didn't bore me to death.



Last one.



Devon,
You know what I love about this story? I love that it's all written in one, long paragraph. I like that because when I open the document, my eyes are like "Whoa that is a dense piece of writing!" and then I get to sit there and try to make sense of your run-on sentences for 30 minutes. I love that. Thank you.


So anyway, if you guys want to send me anything to read or edit, feel free. I am a really kindhearted and gentle soul.



  

Happy Birthday, Stupid!

Last night I spent 25 minutes trying to complete the simple task of selecting a birthday card for my sister. It should not have taken that long. I care about my sister, a lot, but I don't particularly like standing in the card aisle reading card after card of the stupidest humor America has to offer.

How does one become a "funny" birthday-card writer, anyway? Hallmark must advertise those job opportunities during commercial breaks of "Two and Half Men" and "Two Broke Girls" or something. Either that, or they are sending headhunters to fourth grade classrooms.


From what I can tell, if you want to buy a birthday card for an adult female, your choices break down into the following categories:

 
1. You're Old and Ugly!


2. Buy shoes and eat cake, Girl!


 3. Religious.












If you want to buy a card for a male, your choices break down into these categories:





1. Fart Joke



2. Hot Chicks/Sexual Inadequacy



3. Tool belt-Fart Combo













But what happens if you don't want to tell your sister that she's old and ugly, or that she should buy some shoes, or that sisters are God's way of showing His love on earth? And what happens if, on Father's Day, you don't really want to tell your dad that he farts a lot and that he hogs the remote and then farts again? What happens then, greeting card company???

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I am weird for thinking that telling your best friend her boobs are saggy on her birthday is not really in the birthday spirit. But I doubt it. I think many of us would prefer a joke that wasn't insulting to the receiver, but just normal funny. Like, for example:


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: Your boobs look amazing!


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: I bet you have lots of sex and that you are good at it!


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: I hope you get one of those good cakes from Costco and no one insults your body.


Is that so hard? I mean granted, I am a comedic genius, but that took me two minutes to create. Two minutes, and I would buy all of those cards. And people would like them.

So if you want a custom-made, funny, not-made-by-a-fourth-grader greeting card, just let me know. I will go into business. I will change the game and make millions of dollars.  MILLIONS!!!!!!!!!!!

Just say the word.

Silent Auctions: The Silent Killer

I mentioned awhile ago on my Facebook page that I'd had yet another unfortunate run-in with the dangerous world of silent auctioning. Well it's true. (Everything people write on Facebook is true.)

My experience with silent auctions always starts same. I go to the event, planning to spend zero dollars. This is usually because I am cheap and afraid to spend money. I walk through the room of items, glancing here and there, thinking: Bleh. I don't need any of this stuff. You can't just put a bunch of crap in a basket, tie it up in plastic, and make me pay for it. I'm not stupid.

Then I visit the bar.

Later I'm walking through and I'm thinking, well, I'll just low-ball some things. You know, to look like I'm generous and drive up the price. Yeah, that's a good idea. I'm so smart.

So I bid on a couple things -- great things that will surely go for a lot of money. I make sure everyone sees me writing on the sheet.

Then I'm bored so I visit the bar.

Another trip around the items, just to make sure I'm being properly outbid. But now I'm noticing some other stuff that might be nice to have -- a night downtown with dinner, drinks, and a show? Yes, I could use something like that. I'll just make a little bid. Could be fun.

Oh look, this item has no bids. That's so sad. I bet the people who donated it are going to feel embarrassed and never donate again. That shouldn't happen. I'll throw down; after all, it's for charity.

By then all of my good deeds start to make me feel thirsty, so I visit the bar.

Before we leave, I decide to make one more visit to the room. Wait, this bozo is trying to steal my commemorative wine goblets? Is he serious? Well, Bidder #2308, guess what? I play to win. So take that.

Hold on hold on hold on, did someone else bid on the Night on the Town? What the hell is that about? I deserve that. I'm a working mom. I need a BREAK. You will not take that away from me, Bidder 1627. You will NOT.

I am on fire! I am totally going to win this thing! I am the most generous silent-auction-guest of all time! Of ALL TIME! Hahahahahahaha!

Time to celebrate at the bar!


And so it happens. When all is said and done, I end up with commemorative wine glasses, and theater tickets I can't use, and a massage from a unlicensed masseuse, and bunch of crap in a basket tied up in plastic.

And a headache.

********************
Coming up: a silent auction to help earn back what I've spent at silent auctions. You guys are all invited!

There will be an open bar.
 

*********************

Locker Room Attendant

I've been spending a lot of time at public pools lately, both because it's hot and because I love the potential of getting warts on my feet. (None so far; keep your fingers crossed!)

The worst part of outdoor swimming is definitely the locker-room situation. Nothing is more disgusting on this earth than the locker room of an outdoor pool (as I wrote that sentence I thought of five things more disgusting, but whatever). There's hair, there's pee, and nothing is ever dry. It's the holy trinity of gross.

Believe it or not, I once held the title "locker room attendant" as a summer job. If that sounds like a nightmare to you, then you are right, it was a nightmare. My job was to go into the gross locker room and mop and . . . I can't even write it . . . clear the drains in the showers.

Is there an emoticon for shuddering? I hate emoticons, but I could use that right now.

I'm going to make one up. Here it goes.

: "<

That means [shudder] now. I did it, guys! I'm an inventor!

So yes, I cleared shower drains, and mopped up pee, and various other soul-crushing tasks that I've managed to block out, thank goodness. And while I did these things, I resented the filthy patrons who created these messes. Why are people so gross?

I wish there was a way for everyone in the world to just agree to be a little less disgusting. Because I know once you're in a gross locker room, you're just like "Whatever this place is already gross so I am going to leave my kid's swim diaper hanging on the edge of this trash can so in order to throw something away the next person will have to touch it."

I know you guys are like that.

So maybe if everyone decided that "Hey, maybe I should clean my hair brush at home," then the locker room wouldn't be such a terrifying place.

Work with me, guys! Together, we can make a difference. 

Midwesterners: They're Just Like Us!

The other day my husband and I were watching a show in which the main character encountered someone from the Midwest. Here is a pop quiz.

The Midwestern character was:

   A) sarcastic and tough
   B) gorgeous and aloof
   C) pudgy and dimwitted

The answer is C. How do I know? Because it's always C. Whenever there is a character from "the Midwest" on TV or in the movies, they are pudgy and dimwitted.

(Option A is from New York City, and Option B is from Sweden.)

Here is the problem: I'm from the Midwest and I am sick of being misrepresented by people who have no idea what they're talking about. If these writers visited Minneapolis, or Madison, or Ann Arbor, or Omaha, or any Midwestern city, they would probably realize that the Midwest is just like the rest of America, only with fewer shark attacks.

I mean I get it. There are more farms here than in cities with their own "Real Housewives" franchises. But does everyone in the Midwest live on a farm? No. And besides, farmers aren't pudgy and dimwitted. Farmers could kick your ass.

And what is with the term Midwest? Logically, that would mean the middle of the West, like, Wyoming. But it doesn't. The real Midwest is actually just the top-middle of the country. It makes no sense.

No one knows for certain why it's called the Midwest, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that people from coastal states are terrible with US geography. Zing. (No, but seriously, if you are from one of the coasts, can you name each state in the above picture?)

Moving on. To illustrate the many untrue and unflattering stereotypes of the Midwest and its inhabitants, I have an anecdote. True story:

A few years ago I was in NYC visiting friends. We went and got cheap tickets to the musical "Rock of Ages" which, at the time, was starring Constantine Maroulis from American Idol. It was kind of dumb, but entertaining. I liked it.

Later that night we were back at my friend's apartment in Brooklyn, having a drink in his back patio when his landlord/neighbor came down to visit. He asked about our evening and I told him about the play, making an offhand comment about Constantine's performance.

Immediately this guy went off about how disappointing it is to see Broadway whoring itself out by putting reality TV show contestants in productions just to bring in a "Midwestern audience."

Translation: the only thing that would bring simple-minded Midwesterners to see a Broadway show would be the presence of familiar reality TV stars.

Perhaps I'm overreacting, but I definitely wanted to punch that guy in the face. I wanted to tell him that I don't even watch American Idol (except that one season with they guy with grey hair), but there was no point. Plus I was kind of tired.

And by the way, I'm sure noooo one in cool, classy Brooklyn watches American Idol. No siree. Not there. They are too busy visiting museums and drinking fine wine.

Barf.

My mission today is to set the record straight on the Midwest. We are a normal cross-section of Americans who are no more, nor less, stupid than the rest of the country. We have the internet. We have people of different races, socioeconomic backgrounds, religions and cultures. There is crime here. People do drugs. We have museums, and theater, and Greek yogurt. We know what sex is.

And the pizza is good, too.

Seacrest out.

What's Your Sign?

In this day and age, mass communication is literally at the tips of our fingers. If I want to invite sixty people to my house tonight, I can do it in a matter of minutes (I'm not doing that -- don't come over). If I want to tell the world I love brownies, I can just tweet it. Then, in an instant, all three people who follow me on Twitter will know I love brownies.

It's amazing.

And yet, even with this technology being so accessible, when we really want to make a statement and share it with the world -- I mean really get it out there -- we go old-school. Like, old-old school. We get out the magic markers and make big signs.

Going out in public and physically standing next to your message is a lot more powerful than posting it next to your picture on Facebook. There are no privacy-control settings on a poster board -- anyone can see it.

This is why I am often so surprised by the ignorant things people write on signs.

According to signs, God hates so many things. Lately, he seems to hate gay people and gay marriage in particular. I wonder, where are these sign-makers getting their information? Whenever I ask God what he hates, he says genocide. And pistachios.

Of course there are other, less hateful reasons to make a good sign. For example you might be supporting someone during a marathon, or panhandling.

I once made some pretty amazing marathon signs . . . but that is a topic for another entry. We don't have all day, guys. You need to get back to work.

Instead, here are some tips for sign-making. Refer to this entry the next time you are attending a political rally, or running for student-council president:

1. First, you need to go to Walgreens and buy the poster board. I don't know why, but Walgreens always has poster board. If you're really serious, you might want to pony up the extra dough for foam core. It will hold up better if people throw stuff at it.

Did you think you could just tape some regular pieces of printer paper together? Are you an idiot?

2. Once you have the canvas, you'll need the paint. This might mean literal paint, or a chisel-tip sharpie, or large words from the printer cut and pasted. No matter what, your objective is clarity. If they can't read it, they can't heed it! Am I right?

3. Important: spell-check! I can't tell you how many hardcore sign-holders have blown their cause by lack of proofreading. I mean honestly. If you hate gay marriage enough to make a sign about it, maybe look up how to spell marriage.

4. Finally, once your sign is complete, you need to get out there and hold the crap out of it. Some people like to wear their sign, which can be easier on the arms and shoulders, but can also look lazy; use your best judgement.

Note: If you've been hired to draw in more customers for Little Caesars, then you're going to have to do some spinning and dancing. That's advanced-level stuff.

A lot of people don't care about anything enough to go out in public and hold up a sign about it, for example me. So to the people standing on street corners asking me to honk for peace, I respect you. But to the people religiously condemning others for their life choices, you should know that the only thing God hates is genocide, pistachios, and probably your sign.

Though I couldn't say for sure.

My Delilah Dilemma

Flipping through my least-favorite parenting magazine (I dislike all parenting magazines), I came across this article: "One Week to Less Worry" by Delilah from the radio. Do you know Delilah? I am pretty surprised that I do. So if I do, you must. We know all the same things, right?

So it's settled that we all already know Delilah is a nationally-syndicated DJ on a late-night call-in radio show; but did you know she has 13 kids as well? 13 kids!

The intro to this article says "As the busy mom of 13 kids . . . " Busy, you say? Hmm. I guess.

Anyway I found this article and I decided to read it. Because I wanted to prove to myself that this article was going to be dumb. Results below:

HOW TO WORRY LESS

1. Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Define "small stuff." My children are small, should I worry about them? Also, if I already feel the topic is "small" meaning insignificant-- then my guess is I'm not worrying about it. So this is a dumb saying.

2. Take a Time Out

Of course. The next time I am feeling stressed and worried about my son swimming too close to the deep end or my baby's struggling to swallow that chunk of avocado, I will just excuse myself to the bedroom and have a little me-time.

3. Rise (Early) and Shine

Yep! That's it! I need less sleep, not more. I need to be more tired so I forget about all this pesky worry. You are a genius, Delilah!

4. Lift the Burdens

Please direct me to the instructional manual on "How to Lift Burdens."

5. Create Family Fun

Are you saying I'm not fun???????????? Screw you, Delilah. I am a one-woman show of fun.

6. Be Prepared

That's great advice, except that trying to be prepared for everything is kind of like worrying.

7. Secure Your Information

And this is the point of the article when I realized it was a PAID ADVERTISEMENT FOR PRIVATIZING YOUR CREDIT INFORMATION.  All that sassy self-talk was wasted while Delilah laughed her way to the bank.


It turns out I am dumb.

Why I'd like to bazooka Joe.

There are three main reasons I would make a terrible baseball player. First of all, I am cowardly. I am afraid of being hit, by the ball or by other players. Second of all, I get hot easily and those uniforms do not seem appropriate for the summer months. Most importantly, I hate chewing gum and watching other people chew gum.

A lack of affinity for gum seems to be a deal-breaker in the world of baseball, where 50-year-old managers stuff their faces with enormous wads of Bazooka Joe like they're ten. Ah-no thank you.

If I had one wish, it might be that the world would come to a common understanding that chewing gum is gross. I realize I am in the minority on this one, but really, even people who chew gum must realize on some level that it is disgusting. Right? Don't you?

One time we were at a restaurant with my cousin who was about three at the time. She was taking forever to eat her hamburger. Finally she finished, so we walked down the street for ice cream. When we got there, we realized that she hadn't actually finished her dinner yet -- she'd been chewing on the same enormous bite of hamburger for twenty-five minutes. Just continuously chewing it as some insane act of three-year-old defiance. It was pretty inelegant.

Kind of like chewing the same piece of gum for a half hour.

I know I'm alienating a lot of your right now, so let me back myself up by telling you that Oprah agrees with me. Oprah. I once saw an episode of her show on which she confessed that, after she saw a dinner guest put his chewed-gum on the edge of his plate, she threw the plate in the garbage. She was so disgusted that she couldn't bear to potentially eat off the gum plate ever again.

See? I get that. I can't really afford to throw out one of my twelve dinner plates, but I get it.

The person most vexed by my staunch anti-gum policy is my husband, who I've forbidden to chew gum in my presence. He still does it from time to time, to prove I'm not the boss of him, but I make the experience so unpleasant I'm pretty sure he doesn't enjoy it. Because I'm mature.

Here's the thing: my husband is not a silent gum-chewer. He makes a lot of noise; and, on the whole, I don't tolerate mouth noises very well. Any kind of smacking, or squishy-saliva-type noises, turn my stomach. For example I hate it when you can hear people kissing in movies. Is that really necessary? I get it. They're kissing. Turn up the background music and let's move on.

So any time I hear someone moving their gum around their mouth, snapping it or popping it or whatever people do -- I can't bear it. I have to plug my ears or leave the room or make a subtle yet not-so-subtle face in hopes that they feel weird and stop doing what they're doing.

Because I'm mature.

Stay at Home Mom

I will never forget when I saw this posted on Facebook by an old work acquaintance:

Now, someecards.com is a very funny site, and I highly recommend going there if you want to send a funny email greeting, but seriously WHAT WAS THIS PERSON THINKING TO POST THIS ONLINE? It is insane. I don't even know where to begin.

I'm lucky in that I get to experience both the life of a working mother and the life of a stay at home mother, depending on the season. I know what it is like to come home from an exhausting day, make dinner, clean the house, make food for the next day, clean again, do laundry, and all that.

And I also know what it is like to stay home with my children, all day, doing that same stuff.

Spoiler alert: they both suck.

Anyone who thinks being a stay-at-home parent is easy is either the parent of angelic, narcoleptic children, or insane. I just completed the first of many stay-at-home days this summer, and already I am dreaming about the next time I get to drop my child off at daycare and say "See you after work, my love!"

I love my children so much, but they are annoying. They are, I can't help it. I've done everything I can to help them become less annoying, and still they persist. Like, for example, my one child keeps getting pink eye. What is that about? Stop it already! Oh, and get this, he hates it when I put drops in there. Well, sorry, but do you like having green jelly in the corner your eye all the time? Do you? (Maybe he does?)

And the crying. I mean, the crying. There is so much crying in my house, you'd think I was screening the movie "My Girl" 24 hours a day. Here is an abridged list of things that caused my children to cry today.

1. Spilled drinks
2. Being put down instead of being held
3. Hats
4. The potty
5. Falling down
6. Sunshine
7. Water

The true crux of stay-at-home parents is the emotional toll of loving and hating your children at the same time. Because that's really what you're dealing with. You love them so much, but again, they are so annoying, so in your mind you are thinking things that are distinctly un-loving, and then you are filled with this deep, agonizing guilt because how could you think those things about your sweet precious children? They are only children, after all; they're doing their best. When you really think about it, you love them so much you could cry. And that's all you need: more crying.

There will be good times this summer, I'm sure. There will be moments when I'm at the pool, one child napping in the stroller while the other plays contentedly by himself, and I'm sitting back soaking in the sunshine thinking "Now this is the life!" And it will be the life. And a working parent will see me and think "See? Stay at home moms are so spoiled and lazy!"

But make no mistake: that moment will pass. Soon I'll be in the locker room, cleaning poop out of a bathing suit while my baby cries in the stroller and my other child runs out of the locker room naked and I can't go get him because I'm half-dressed and there is poop on my hands. To every yin, a yang, my friends.

Working parents take the good with the bad as well.  Sure, some days work is stressful, terrible, and frustrating.  But there are also pleasant lunches, hilarious water-cooler conversations, and moments of success that make you feel appreciated by your peers. Not to mention no poop on your hands for eight straight hours. Yin and yang.

So let's not post weirdly-aggressive comics on our social networking sites. Let's stick to snappy quips about sporting events and pictures of your child/pet/dinner. Or maybe something like this.

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, NOTRE DAME, and THE YANKEES

Image HERE.

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 What do the United States of America, Notre Dame, and the New York Yankees all have in common? I bet you don’t know. You think you do, but you don’t. Okay, I’ll tell you.

People hate them.

Part 1: USA

The first time I visited another continent was to Spain for a high-school Spanish trip. We travelled around the beautiful country, visiting Churches and museums and Aquaductos. I learned a lot on that trip, like the fact that vodka burns when it gets in your eyes, and tapas can be hit or miss.

But the most important lesson I learned while abroad was that Americans are not as popular in other countries as they are in America (Tom Hanks being the exception, of course). Americans on the whole are not known for being intelligent, or generous, or brave like we’re raised to believe. We are known for being loud, bold, and self-entitled.

And fat.

Sidenote: my brother-in-law is not from the U.S., and when my nephew is being naughty, he says: “Stop that. That’s very bold!”

Can you believe that?  Bold is synonymous with naughty in other countries. Here, we value boldness. We pride ourselves on it. Like this: “It was very bold how you yelled at that man about your omelet, Harold. Kiss me!” You know, like that.

After a very short while in Spain, I learned that being American was not something to publicize about oneself. Strangers would approach with big grins and say in English, “you’re American, no?” If we said yes, they would try to con us, or rob us, or make out with us. If we said we were Canadian, they would only try to make out with us. Because American or not, we were still adorable.

Conclusion: People don’t like Americans because they think they are loud, stupid, and rude.

Part Two: ND

I went to college at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana. It was great. I learned stuff and met people and never got any vodka in my eyes. College success!

People who go to Notre Dame (usually) like Notre Dame. That was my experience when I was there. The students I met had chosen to attend, and attended with pleasure. We would say things like: I like it here! Notre Dame is fun! Go Irish!

Now that I am removed from this brief period in my life, I encounter fewer people who like Notre Dame, and more people who hate it. They just hate it; and they like to tell me they hate it. Like this:

Person: Where’d you go to school?

Me: Notre Dame

Person: Notre Dame sucks!

Me: Oh.

I once worked with a guy who never said anything to me without following it with “or is it not Notre Dame enough for you?” For example,

Do you want to sit down, or is this chair not Notre-Dame enough for you?

Are you having fun, or is this party not Notre-Dame enough for you?

Will you send that email, or is email not Notre-Dame enough for you?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA you are so funny, guy! I feel like I am watching episode after episode of Two and a Half Men when I’m with you!

Conclusion: People hate Notre Dame because they think it’s pretentious and overrated.

Part 3: NYY

I am not from New York, nor am I a fan of Yankees Baseball, but I recognize that the Yankees have the same problem as the U.S. and Notre Dame. That is, people hate them.

Yankees fans love the Yankees, but no one else. There is actually a legitimate piece of musical theater written entirely about how much people hate the Yankees – that’s how hated they are.

Do I hate the Yankees, you ask? Only a little bit. Derek Jeter is just too smirky. Like, what are you smiling about, Derek Jeter? Just play baseball. You’re not that great.

Not only do people hate the Yankees, they love hating the Yankees. It’s fun. Going to a Yankees game [not at Yankee Stadium] is a hot ticket because everyone can go and boo the Yankees together.

Conclusion: People hate the Yankees because it’s fun and community-building.

SUMMARY:

People like to hate things. There’s something cathartic about just really, truly, super-duper hating the crap out of something. You don’t need to repress this urge, you just need to find an appropriate place to direct your feelings.

If you are someone who is looking for somewhere to direct your hate, but don’t want to look like a jerk, consider this helpful advice.

1. Find something that has enjoyed success and privilege: these make the perfect things to hate! J

2. Find a large group of people to hate it with you. (Hating alone can look mean.)

Appropriate options for your hate:

1. Yankees

2. Hipsters

3. Notre Dame

4. Hockey players

5. People who don’t signal their turns when driving

INAPPROPRIATE options for your hate:

1. Children

2. Social classes

3. Specific nationalities or races

4. Gay people

5. Scientists

This would make a great PSA. Cue the jingle: The-more-you-know!

Final Countdown

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I wish I could write more about my job. I really wish I could. But in this world, writing about other people’s children without their knowledge in a public forum seems unadvisable. I bet in Europe I could get away with it.

Generally speaking, it’s the end of the year and that means that my days are filled with insanity and nonsense. It’s quite invigorating. Teaching the last weeks of May is like following a tornado down a narrow hallway of Grecian urns without letting any of them fall. And the tornado is wearing short-shorts.

Here is what I say all day long:

“Please don’t do that.”

“Please put that down.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“That’s not appropriate.”

“Who let you wear that to school?”

“Sir Mixalot is a lyrical genius, but please stop singing ‘I Like Big Butts.’”

Then I get home and I say these things:

“Do you have to go potty?”

“Please stop screaming, my love.”

“Will you take him?”

“Please take him, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“No really, I have to go. I’m not just going to hide in there and look at my phone.”

“I know I just went ten minutes ago.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t hear the toilet flush. I flushed it.”

“Fine just give me the baby.”

Here's a question: what do you find yourself saying all day long?

Sad Endings for Comedy Snobs

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Some of you may recall my Taxonomy of Comedy. If you have a particularly amazing memory, you may also recall that the ‘H’ on that list was for the show “Happy Endings” on ABC. I love it.

Make that past tense; I loved it. Happy Endings got cancelled.

I rarely care about cancelled shows, because they are usually shows that seem terrible (ie: “How to Live with Your Parents for the Rest of Your Life”). But Happy Endings? Happy Endings was great! It was funny and fresh, and it made me laugh out loud.

I hate to sound like a comedy snob (I think I might be a comedy snob) but how can shows like Arrested Development and Happy Endings get cancelled when “Two and a Half Men” lives to see another day? How???

Two and a Half Men has gotten better ratings than almost any other scripted comedy in the last decade, so chances are some people reading this post enjoy the show. Hopefully you can help me understand the appeal, because I don’t get it. I’ve watched maybe two episodes in total, but usually get through one or two jokes before I change the channel. It’s always the same. Would you like to watch an episode of Two and a Half Men? Here, I just found a script here on my desk:

Two and a Half Men: Episode #(ANY)

CHARLIE (and/or Ashton Kutcher)

Oh man, I just slept with another attractive woman.

OTHER GUY

Again? What was her name?

CHARLIE

Uh … Sandy? No no, wait, that was last night. Debbie?

OTHER GUY

Charlie! That is despicable.

CHARLIE

No actually it was pretty hot.

LAUGH TRACK

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

LITTLE KID

Uh, guys? I need a ride to school.

OTHER GUY

Oh no! We’re late.

CHARLIE

He’ll catch up. Who cares?

LITTLE KID

I was supposed to meet Katie Simpson to work on our history project this morning.

CHARLIE

Is she hot?

LITTLE KID

Oh yeah.

CHARLIE

Grab the keys! I know a short cut!

LAUGH TRACK

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

LIVE-IN MAID LADY

Charlie, if you’re looking for a hot date, I’m available!

CHARLIE

Uh, no thanks!

LAUGH TRACK

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

OTHER GUY

You guys are terrible. Oops I fell down!

LAUGH TRACK

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I can’t write any more; it hurts too much. The laugh track is particularly unbearable, which is strange because I used to watch shows with laugh tracks all the time without thinking. Just like in fashion, the trends change, and something that used to be funny seems cheesy in retrospect (I’m looking at you, Full House). Two and a Half Men feels like it should have been on TV twenty years ago; the only modern touch is a high levels of inappropriateness.

I can only imagine how difficult it is to come up with an original take on a sit-com, but I thought Happy Endings did a good job. It didn’t feel like anything I’d seen before, and it was fun to watch. That is why I am sad. (I am saddened by the loss of a TV show, maybe I should be sad about that?)

What do you think? Did you ever watch Happy Endings? What do you think is the best scripted half-hour sit-com on TV right now?

Snack-Attack

 In my mind, “snack” is a very Minnesotan word. That’s because I say it like this: snayack. As in: “Oh, hieeye doah youah weahnt ah snayack?” (That was my Minnesota accent. My one regret of online stand-up is no opportunity for funny voices. I am considering attaching a .wmv file to each post.)

What I’m writing about today is called a snayack-attayack. That’s when your stomach decides it needs snacks: like cookies, or chocolate candy, or cake. You know, nutritious stuff.

I know what you’re saying: Molly, those aren’t snacks! They are desserts!

Or, if you are Elmo, you’re saying “Cookies are ‘sometimes food,’ Molly.”

Well, you and Elmo are dead wrong, because these are definitely “all the time snacks” in the employee lounge of my work. It doesn’t matter what time of day you might be passing through – you will encounter one of the above-mentioned items. (Or pizza. You might also encounter pizza.)

So let’s say you just got to work and it’s 7:50 AM. [Contractually you’re supposed to be there by 7:30, but hey, that Facebook newsfeed wasn’t going to read itself!] So you walk into work, feeling good because you had a nutritious breakfast of a hardboiled egg and whole-wheat toast.  You pass through the employee lounge on your way to drop off some copies, and then you see it, a full sheet cake. Someone’s having a baby/retiring/celebrating her baking addiction! How nice!

You decide that a little piece of cake before 8 AM is normal – after all it’s basically the same thing as eating a donut. And look! There are donut holes, too. Sweet.

Later in the day, you're on your way to the bathroom when you spot some leftover cookies from some other meeting or celebration of some kind. Don’t. Mind. If. You. Do. And then on your way back from said meeting the cookies are gone, but you notice Janet the office administrator refilled her candy bowl with miniature Twix bars, and hey, why not?

By the end of the day, that nutritious breakfast is a distant memory. You are now running purely on processed sugar and net carbs (not totally sure what “net carbs” means, but it sounds right).

This is what it is like to work where I work.

At least it was.

Lately, there has been a noticeable downturn in sugar available in the employee lounge. Like, almost none. Maybe everyone has just stopped having babies and retiring. Maybe that lady finally got help for her baking addiction. And apparently everyone’s eating all the cookies during the meetings now because there are no leftovers.

Also, that b**ch Janet hasn’t filled her candy jar in a month. 

I’m not saying I need this stuff. I am fully aware that I do not. But if you get people used to a certain . . . standard of living, it seems a little rude to abruptly take it away. Like, pretty rude. Like, I have a raging headache right now because it’s so rude. And my hands are shaking from the rudeness. And I am going to go knock over a bakery on my way home due to this rude behavior of my colleagues.

All I’m saying is that maybe when I get to work tomorrow there should be a tray of chocolate chip muffins on my desk. And a pizza on my chair. And a cookie in my mailbox. And a … okay I see the problem here. I will seek help.

Like an STD, but on your face.

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Since before I can remember, I have been afflicted with cold sores. Cold sores are open wounds that appear on your face, typically around the mouth and nose. They like to come out when you are stressed, or tired, or if you get sunburned, or if your lip suffers some sort of injury, or if you are planning a big event for which you'd like to look nice. And here is the kicker: once you get a cold sore, you will continue getting them for the rest of your life. It’s the gift that keeps on giving – just like herpes. Oh wait, that’s because it IS herpes!

Cold sores are herpes. Technically speaking, they are herpes simplex 1 (HSV-1) and not exactly the same thing as herpes simplex 2 (HSV-2) which is what people get from “doing it.” Unfortunately it’s a fine line.

But before you make any inappropriate jokes about my promiscuity, let me make it clear that my cold sores were not sexually-transmitted. They were passed on from my mother, who got them from her mother, who got them from her mother, who was a whore.

So every time I get a cold sore, I not only have to deal with the self-consciousness that comes with having an open, weeping wound on my mouth, but I also have to deal with people wondering if I am a hussy. Thank goodness I already got a man, because I’m pretty sure “facial VD” is a turn-off for most guys on match.com.

But just because I’m married doesn’t mean cold sores don’t affect my game. My husband tries to be nice, but every time I have a sore he becomes extremely paranoid. Hugs are too risky. A kiss on the cheek is out of the question. Even looking directly at me for too long makes him uncomfortable. If it were socially acceptable, he would gladly have me wear a paper bag on my head for the duration of the virus. And then he would put a surgical mask over the mouth area. And then he would spray the mask with Lysol. And then he would look me deep in the brown paper-bag eyeholes and tell me I’m beautiful. Because he cares.

In addition to throwing off my home life, cold sores affect my performance at work. Engaging of a room of middle-school students for six hours is not easy when you look good, but when you have an open sore on your face, it’s nearly impossible. One time my fly was down, and now those children will never understand semicolons.

During my first year of teaching, I got the most absurd and awful cold sore. I don't want to go into too much detail, but let me just say that when I smiled, it bled. Okay that might have been too much detail, but I want you to understand the severity of the situation.

All day, my students would do double-takes, eyes widening when they saw me. I couldn't take it. I mean, I'm not a terribly vain person; I go in public in clothes that could earn me a spot on "What Not to Wear" regularly, but this was another level of self-consciousness. I quickly made up a group activity that did not involve me talking to them, then I cowered at my desk, hoping they would behave and not need me for anything. That group activity lasted for two weeks. It was a Rube-Goldberg machine that told the story of Crime and Punishment.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Isn't there anything you can do for these awful sores, Molly?" and "Will you please stop describing what the sores look like?" and "Is your mom going to be mad about that great-grandmother joke you dropped several paragraphs back?" The answers to these questions are 1) sort of, 2) fine, and 3) we'll see. 

Unfortunately the best treatment for cold sores involves walking into a pharmacy and speaking the words "I'm here to pick up my Valtrex prescription." Because the same medicine they advertise for genital herpes will also treat cold sores. And that makes you feel really proud. 

Even more unfortunately, most treatments don’t work unless you catch the sore before it happens, which is difficult. However if you do have cold-sore ESP, and you are constantly carrying meds with you, then you're set. Just try not to let your herpes cream slip out of your pocket when you’re on a date or a job interview. People will talk. 

Arachnophobia

Have you ever said you hated something, only to hear someone climb up on their very high horse and tell you: “Hate is a very strong word; you shouldn’t say hate."? Have you? Don't you hate that? Me too. Because there are things I hate, strong word or not.

Things I hate (thank you for asking):

1)when people roll their eyes at me

2) nuts in brownies

3) President Lydon B. Johnson

4) bugs in my house

That's it. I'm not a monster. 

For today, I'd like to focus on the bugs. I understand that insects play an important role in our ecosystem, yada yada yada, and I can appreciate that. However, bugs do not do not play an important role in my house.  You might say “What about how spiders? They catch and kill other bugs. Hm? Did you ever think of that? Well did you?” YES I DID THINK OF THAT but again if there weren’t bugs in my house then I wouldn’t need the spiders to make gross webs full of tiny exoskeletons that I need to vacuum up. So I am still right.

Last night I found ants in my basement. Like, many ants. Teeny, tiny ants crawling all over a teeny, tiny crumb of some food that my son probably carried down with him in the teeny, tiny waistband of his 2T sweatpants. Words cannot explain how horrifying I find large amounts of insects all gathered in one place. And because I always tell my students that poetry is a great way to express our feelings when regular language won’t do, here is a poem about the ants in my basement:

Bile slowly rises in my throat

I envision armies of them crawling over my skin

While I sleep

Where I eat

Watching me in the shower

Someone please god help me

Burn this place to the ground

Just call me Emily Dickinson. As you can see, my hatred/fear of bugs in (or near) my home is a serious emotional issue. The earliest nightmares I can remember from childhood involve bugs and rodents. [One famous nightmare I had involved me waking up in the middle of the night and screaming “Chucky Cheese is biting my bottom!” True story.]

This fear stuck with me as I grew. In fact, I have a little quirk called “night terrors” where I wake up and a spider, centipede, or a snake is right above my head. I completely lose my mind, jump up, turn on the light, and by then I am usually awake enough to slowly realize it wasn’t real.  Once I actually broke my toe when I stubbed it running from my bed to the light switch. [Add toe-stubbing to the list of things I hate.] Later, when people would ask why I was limping ... I don’t know, I just felt kind of silly explaining that I did it running from a dream-spider.

Thankfully I now have a lamp next to the bed, and a husband to turn it on for me when I shake him awake crying about a spider on my face. (Just add this to one of the many reasons you wish you were married to a cool, normal person like me.) And as for the title of this post: no, I have never seen the 1990 film "Arachnophobia", and no, that has not prevented it from giving me nightmares.

But seriously, everyone, what am I going to do about these ants in my basement? We'll have to move.

I also hate moving.

On My Own

When you go see a play, do you like it when the actors come into the house and down the aisles and get really close to you? I am guessing you don’t, because no one does. It’s weird and uncomfortable and it makes you never want to go see a play ever again.

I don’t know why directors do this. Maybe they had a failed acting career and now they hate audiences. Or maybe they have too many actors to fit on stage. Or maybe some of the actors aren’t talented/attractive enough to be lit by stage lights, so they are better placed in the semi-dark of the house.

Or maybe, as was the case with my high school director in the 1996 production of “Bye Bye Birdie,” it was all three of these reasons combined. 

As a ninth grader, I auditioned for Bye-Bye Birdie with high hopes. I showed up with a song prepared: “On My Own” from my musical obsession: Les Miserables. I was weirdly obsessed with the character of Eponine – a tragic girl desperately loves a guy who only sees her as a friend because maybe she wasn’t that pretty or popular or well-dressed.

If you don’t know the song, it is beautiful and awful at the same time. I can only imagine how many times high school directors have had to listen to homely girls use it for auditions; they must keep a tally. Even now, I can hear my voice quaver with nerves as I slowly made everyone in that room uncomfortable with my raw display of emotion.  In retrospect I am unspeakably embarrassed.

I was not cast in a speaking role, but rather as a background character in the song “Telephone Hour.” [Not a too bad, considering.] However, since there were so many students in the show, I was actually not allowed to dance on stage. Instead, I was directed to dance in the bleachers. Not like “part of the set” bleachers, but actual bleachers. Our theater was in a multi-purpose gym.

This was a little off-putting. Not only because I was no longer technically in the scene, but also because it is kind of hard to dance on bleachers.  To add insult to injury, on opening night they forgot to turn on the lights on the bleachers. I ended up singing and doing the grapevine in the dark. I mean, not that anyone was looking. Those who did were probably like “Wow, that girl is really into this musical, dancing over there in the dark like she’s in the show.”

As I write this I feel like I must be exaggerating, but weirdly I am not. This happened. And it’s not even the worst thing that happened during my high school musical career. That is a story for another time.

Movies

I almost called into a morning radio show the other day. I almost really did.

The on-air personalities were listing movies they just don't "get" -- meaning acclaimed movies that, to them, are undeserving of their popularity. Interesting topic, I thought. Surely I can listen to this without feeling irrationally angry, I thought.

The first guy's choice was fine. The Hangover or something. I thought that movie was funny when I saw it, but yeah, sure, it's a little over-hyped at this point.

Then, the next person names her "I just don't get it" movie: Ferris Bueller's Day Off. This I do not understand. I have seen that movie many times, and there is no doubt that it is delightful. Matthew Broderick? Yes. Yes and yes.

Obviously, I was stunned by this choice. Indignant, even. But only when I heard her "reason" for disliking the movie did I actually get mad. Here it is. Are you ready? Are you ready to feel the anger I felt? I can send you the number to the radio station if you want.

[Annoying voice]: "I think that movie is dumb. I mean, it's completely unrealistic. When I skipped a day in high school, all I did is sit on the couch and watch Wheel of Fortune!"

Really?

You mean you didn't dress up like your girlfriend's dad and pick her up from school and then cause an entire city to break out in a choreographed dance when you hijacked a parade float? Really?

Huh ... well, maybe that is why no one has ever made a movie about your day off, dummy!

I wanted to call and yell that into the phone, but then I would have to admit that I listen to their show, which of course I do NOT. I am too mature/intelligent/pretentious to listen to morning DJ's make prank calls and promote the next "Booty Cruise." (I only listen to NPR.)

Back to my point. Why do people complain when movies are unrealistic? Isn't actual real life real enough? Personally, I am fully-aware of what reality is like. That is why I like to escape it with movies. And booze.

In fact, the less realistic a movie is, the better in my book. Do you have a movie where a girl hit her head at her 13th birthday party and woke up as a 30-year-old? Sounds awesome!  How about one where a group of super-heroes is working together to defend our planet from a bitter alien-brother and his army? Yes? Sign me up! A man is aging backwards? Cool! (Truth: that one was a little boring.)

There is only one fantastical plot point that has always bugged me. It is from the most beloved film of all-time: a movie that is a classic and a treasure to behold. The film to which I am referring is, of course, The Little Mermaid.

For those of you unfamiliar with LM, it is about a mermaid named Ariel who trades her voice to a sea witch to become human so . . . what am I talking about? Of course you are familiar with The Little Mermaid.

So, again, I am fine with the mermaid stuff, and the witch stuff, and the magic stuff. Of course. It's a fairy tale. There is just one teeny detail that I could never quite get around. One little oversight that kept me awake as a nine-year-old, and still bothers me today.

Why doesn't she just write things down?

Princess Ariel is not illiterate. Surely she has attended the finest schools golden sea clams can buy. (Do you remember when she signed that scroll? The penmanship was exquisite!) So why not pass Eric a little note? "Hey, I'm Ariel, I saved you from a shipwreck when I was a mermaid but I traded my voice to a witch so I could be human and meet you." Gotcha. Problem solved.

Granted, this would make for a less-interesting movie. That said, what Disney should do is add a line where Ursula says "You won't have a voice, but NO WRITING THINGS DOWN! FOR SERIOUS." It would put my mind at ease.

Someone send a memo to this man. Explain that, while we are perfectly fine with our movies being unrealistic, and with our heroines having eyes the size of grapefruits and waists the size of a pack of Smarties, we would like this particular logic-hole patched up.

Let me know what he says.