Tag Archives: sarcasm

A night that wasn’t in the cards

Remember MySpace? I can’t even type that with a straight face. Well, embarrassingly to say, MySpace was the forum used to create my first blog. This blog, sandwiched between creative selfies and Kanye West’s song, Heartless (not really building a case for myself here, am I?), contained one shining and brilliant moment of self-discovery. As brilliant a moment of self-discovery can be at the ripe age of 20, anyway.

In it, I professed my hatred for card games (obviously not classics like Go Fish and Old Maid; I’m not a monster), but especially my extreme loathing of pitch. Not even when I was 80, not even when all my friends – well, those who were left – invited me to play, not even if it was a choice between playing pitch or getting pitched from the game of life would I partake in this ludicrous activity.

My mind was firmly made up.

I hadn’t thought about that blog until recently. You see, I woke up last Sunday with a terrible hangover headache. Everything was a blur – and then – fuzzy recollections of the night before began to enter my brain.

My stomach lurched violently as I began to experience panic mixed with deep regret and shame.

What have I done? I thought, as I sat up straight in bed, rocking back and forth. Shivering, I wrapped my arms tighter around me.

The night had started out innocently enough. Clayton and I were visiting friends out of town, and our plans were to attend the Do the Brew beer sampling event later that afternoon. After sampling countless amounts of ales, blondes and stouts, I’ll admit my standards went down a bit. I wasn’t thinking clearly. A carefree, reckless attitude was certainly present.

After the event, our friends asked if we wanted to go back to their place to, you know, grab some pizza. Have a few more drinks. Just talk.

“Sure,” I naively said. “That sounds great!”

Before I knew what was happening, a pack of cards was placed in front of me on the table, and the suggestion to play pitch hung in the air like a wet blanket on a clothesline.

I shouldn’t. It’s late. I have to work really early tomorrow morning. Is that my phone ringing?

You can only prolong the inevitable so long, and my excuses were falling on deaf ears. Tipsy, deaf ears. The worst ears for declining pitch: the state game of Nebraska.

“I told myself I would never learn…,” I said feebly.

“Come oooon. Just play! It can be our little secret,” they cajoled.

Before I knew what was happening, cards were being dealt in my general direction. Ew. Ick. I tried to brush them away with a shudder, thinking of the people I would disappoint and hurt if I irresponsibly continued this heinous act.

It was all for naught.

I attempted to eject myself from the game with all the effort of someone who tries to politely refuse the last piece of apple pie, even though they secretly, desperately crave it. I couldn’t possibly.


Oh, no. It’s happening. Just close your eyes.

I played my first hand, letting the cards of failure fall where they may. Then, the thrill of the chase after almost nine years of painstakingly abstaining from the game took over. I felt … liberated.

Sure, I didn’t played my cards right – specifically, because I ended up playing cards, but also because I didn’t yet know all the rules. But the sense of camaraderie I felt, as well as the various card strategies and lingo learned, welcomed me into adulthood. I came out of the whole thing feeling more experienced. More mature. More worldly.

And so, so dirty.

Back to Sunday morning.

You see, my friends had encouraged me to play this game for more than nine years. With love, persistence and plenty of peer pressure, they offered to teach me more times than I can remember. Year after year, I never gave in.

Now I had to tell those very friends the ugly truth that I had learned to play pitch, and that I had learned it without them. I took to Facebook, and was met with the disapproval I expected, but lots of cyber slaps on the back. Following are some of the responses:

1. Yaayyyy for you! 
2. I feel so cheated on.
3. And you don’t regret it either, do you?!
4. Boo!!

I may have lost respect from my best friend and others, but regardless, the training wheels are off. Like it or not, I’m a full grown woman now; well, despite my love of animated movies and staying up past my bedtime.

My friends may be able to forgive me for my shameless behavior in time. Whether I’ll be able to forgive myself is still up in the air, seeing as my careless actions now guarantee myself a spot at the card table whenever the occasion arises.

It’s too soon to tell if pitch is “the one” for me in terms of card games. So far, it’s been a tumultuous love-hate relationship. I guess all I can do is keep testing the waters and keep things casual in case I end up liking another card game more. After all, it’s way too soon to settle down with just one game for the rest of my life.

Spades, anyone?

Marriage is like a deck of cards. In the beginning all you need are two hearts and a diamond. By the end, you wish you had a club and a spade.


My cat is a genius, and I’ll prove it

From the moment I met Chloe, I knew she had impeccable taste. In her haste to win me over at the adoption center, she tried snuggling into my Coach purse, for gosh sake. She no longer recognizes potato chips as a main food group, proving she’s way out of my league. And, she hardly ever eats my tank top straps anymore. Cotton: the fabric of her first life.

Good thing she lifts.

Good thing she lifts.

Her palate has grown in leaps and bounds throughout the years, much like herself (hey, calories are calories), over time giving way to remarkable sophistication.

Originally a farm kitten growing up on mice, I’ve established she must have gotten a taste for finer living as my own life transitioned and bloomed from singleton with a starter career eating canned soup for lunch to Mrs. with a mortgage loan eating canned soup for lunch. Ok, bad example.

Although that taste still doesn’t fit into our monthly budget, Chloe musters brilliant resourcefulness to garner what she wants. I’d like to think she learned this from my former shopping abilities. I once rationalized buying a pair of $150 boots mere hours after quitting a job, with no future career in sight, out of sheer defiance and stubbornness. Take your best shot at me, world.

Suddenly, it’s much more apparent where Chloe gets her attitude from.

I am not

Contempt? What contempt?

Since moving into our new house in October, we rearranged her dining situation to include both water and food bowls on a plastic mat with a hefty lip to prevent spillage. In the past, this never worked because she would inevitably knock over her water bowl, soaking the carpet repugnantly as if to say, “Away with this tepid concoction. Mere peons wouldn’t be forced to drink this! Hazzah!” After all, drinking water three seconds old from a bowl was unthinkable considering she could get it fresh from the faucet if she melted my face off with enough of her old timey charm.

Nowadays, she simply sits pitifully in front of the bowl, glaring at me in disdain with a look that says, “Get this joke out of my face.” But she’ll drink it when she gets desperate enough. My baby’s growing up!

So, the food bowl is on the right side, and water is on the left. One day, I saw Chloe sitting to the left of the water bowl, performing with her adorable left little paw what Clayton and I refer to as a “sky hook.”

My first reaction was standard amusement.

“How does it feel to know your cat is a leftie?” Clayton asked.

I stared at him, aghast.

“Look, she’s sky hooking!!!” he exclaimed.

Our necks snapped quickly back to the action at hand.

With paw dangling in midair at an angle and precision only Creighton University Forward Ethan Wragge making a perfect three could exhibit, she gracefully curved it down into her food bowl, deftly scooping up some niblets and flinging them into her water bowl. She then fished food particles out of the water and into her mouth. This process was repeated many times until she had her fill. At first, we just thought she had lost it. Then, one evening …

“Is she … making her own wet cat food?” Clayton inquired incredulously.

Guys, she was. She was making her OWN WET CAT FOOD. I assume her love of it began when I gave her canned food to mask antibiotics a few months ago. Who knew she clung to that memory until discovering her own way to make it a reality?

Even better, we got it on video.

Chloe has since standardized this process for each meal, and it never gets old to watch. Helloooo – smartest cat alive. And, that’s when I realized it. She is once again modeling our behaviors, this time, of which are economical (although, not by my preference). It’s like the time I really wanted a frozen, deep dish apple pie for $7 and Clayton gave his approval because the oven would serve the dual purpose of warming the house. Shrug. A win is a win.

The price you pay when your cat's not a genius. (Photo Source: www.treehugger.com)

The price you pay when your cat’s not a genius. (Photo Source: www.treehugger.com)

Future possibilities regarding what Chloe is capable of are potentially limitless. Training her to use the toilet isn’t out of the question. Perhaps, in time, she will also become our poop prodigy. When that happens, and IT WILL, I won’t be putting free videos on WordPress anymore. If you want to see our circus freak, you can do it like everyone else: by getting in line at our front door and paying $5 upon entry.

No refunds.

T-minus three days to superhuman vision

I’m getting LASIK Friday morning. The procedure became a reality with a $1,200 Living Social coupon, which I marginally fear will attribute to the quality of work done. We all know doctors like this:

Hi, everybody! (Source: http://blogs.houstonpress.com)

“Hi, everybody!” (Source: http://blogs.houstonpress.com)

“You’ve tried the best. Now, try the rest! Call 1-800-DOCTORB! The ‘B’ is for ‘bargain’”!  -Dr. Nick, The Simpsons

Nonetheless, I’ve never been happier to have someone cut flaps into my eyes (insert “windows to my soul” joke here) and shave down my unsightly, bulgy corneas with lasers. It’s such a natural process. Here are five things I’ll miss when my vision gains superhero status:

1. Stepping on stale, broken pieces of Chex in the kitchen.
If you’ve never experienced this, I’ll tell you the equivalent is stepping on glass. I’ve found corn Chex packs more of a punch than the rice variety. Being from Nebraska, where corn is kind of our thing, I’m not entirely surprised. It takes a tough breed to persevere here. Sure, I may inwardly scream when I step on a rigid sliver of corn Chex, but outwardly, I’m stone cold. Expressionless. I may as well have just stepped on puppy kisses.

2. Variable coordination skills.
Getting up in the morning and stabbing my gums with a toothbrush is an instant wake-up call. Lord knows I need it. Repeatedly missing the last step on the staircase has turned me into something of a dangerous thrill seeker. I like that about myself. Hitting the trashcan at the edge of the drive without fail every Wednesday? Ten points!

Who's to say I wouldn't see a raccoon if the trash were left there a bit longer? (Photo source: http://dailydinosaur.wordpress.com/)

Who’s to say I wouldn’t see a raccoon if the trash were left there a bit longer? (Photo source: http://dailydinosaur.wordpress.com/)

3. Communing with “nature.”
There’s nothing more magical then waking up early on a Saturday, brewing a pot of coffee and watching wildlife spring to action on a dew-filled morning. It’s a shared moment where I connect with wakening flora and fauna on a deep, spiritual level and marvel beauty unfolding at every angle. This special moment is indefinitely ruined when Clayton walks in and asks why I’ve been staring at a pile of trash spilling across the lawn, a victim of last night’s blustery winds. A pile of trash inexplicably resembling a raccoon, right down to his cute, white paws and tiny claws. Claws that, upon closer inspection, are actually prongs of a black, plastic fork, firmly holding a crumpled napkin in place. Aw, hell.

Unless you can't read this sign in time to make the turn. Bwahahahaha. (Photo source: http://www.alabasterwoman.com)

Unless you can’t read this sign in time to make the turn. Bwahahahaha. (Photo source: http://www.alabasterwoman.com)

4. Being part of a majority.
I imagine having superior eyes to most everyone in the world will be a difficult and exhausting adjustment. Once the public catches wind of my newfound powers, there will be no peace for me, just “Is this the exit we want?” and “Will you read me the specials menu again?” While I may dream of simpler days, the path I have chosen leads to greatness.

5. Not feeling useless at eye doctor appointments, that’s for sure
Fear of failure attempting ludicrous eye tests one can’t even study for beforehand will be a thing of the past! I shudder remembering last year:

Doctor: “Take out your contacts, please.”
Me: Takes out contacts. Eyes feel naked. Exposed.
Doctor: “Now, read the bottom line of letters.”
Me: Wraps arms around body. Rocks back and forth, hoping to suddenly attain psychic powers. “O.” Squints in shame. “T? Efff…?” Trails off, waiting for doctor to provide some sign of approval.
Doctor: Frowns.
Me: “Not F. That’s not what I meant. I choose P!”
Doctor: “You can’t pick and choose letters. This isn’t Wheel of Fortune. Tell you what, why don’t you read the smallest line you can?”
Me: “Still O, doc.”
Doctor: “Are you just looking at the circle at the top of the chart that hooks it to the wall?”
Me: “… maybe.” Hangs head.
Doctor: How about we put this big black spoon in front of one of your eyes, further maiming you so I can continue mocking your ineptitude?
Me: Indignant. “Well, at least I passed the hot air balloon test.”
Doctor: “All you had to do was stare straight forward until it came into focus…”
Me: Zoned out, concentrating on staring at the blob in front of me slightly resembling my doctor’s face and wondering if I’m even making direct eye contact with him. “Call it a day?”
Doctor: “See you next year!”

Well, Doc, the joke’s on you, because I WILL be seeing you this year. Quite clearly, in fact. Then I’ll tell you exactly which looks better – one or two. One or two. One or two.


Why you should consider giving blood

Red Cross

Self-destructing in five, four, three, two, one…

Note from the author: I have approved the following message. Unless you don’t agree with it, in which case I will delete this post immediately.

We have a strict approval process in the corporate communications department where I work. When I write a story, it must first be sent to several subject matter experts (SMEs). After they have inexorably mutilated a particular story beyond comprehension, I rework it according to their most arbitrary wants and desires:

Ah, nuts! I mean, knots.

SME #1: “Put a line in about how I ate 40 hot dogs on Thursday and became the 2012 state fair hot dog eating champion!”
Me: “I’m going to veto that idea as it in no way relates to this story on bird diverters.”
SME #1: “But it took place on company time…”

SME #2:
“This story is way too colorful and fun. Dull it down immediately.”
Me: “I’ve dulled her down once and I’ll not do it again! The story – she can’t be dulled down any further, man! It’s madness; sheer madness, I tell you!”
SME #2 (tsking, yet somhow frowning at the same time): “All these adjectives are unnecessary. We don’t need to know that it was the STATE fair. But, that sure was a lot of hot dogs, wasn’t it?” Chuckles, impressed.
I feel like Tony Danza from Who’s the Boss?'”

SME #2: “What did you say?”
Me: “I said, ‘sure thing, hoss.’”

SME #3: “Use more filler words, like ‘in order to,’ ‘henceforth’ and ‘thereunto.’ You know, make me sound good.”
Me (under breath): “Putting ‘Knew Mother Theresa’ on your resume couldn’t make you sound good.”

About four years ago when I didn’t know better, I would then send the story back to them with changes made, a subject line of “Final, approved article.”

We are so naïve sometimes, aren’t we?

SME. Unfortunately, not to be confused with Smee, from Hook.

From there, it’s typically a steady spiral downward. Back and forth we go for at least three more edit sessions before the story is finally stamped with approval. Without fail, I’ll receive an email from an SME a day or two before it’s published telling me they forgot to include someone in on the approval process, and ’round we go again.

I begin envisioning a time long ago when I didn’t need dark chocolate or fanciful daydreams about certain people falling down flights of stairs to get me through the afternoon. (Get it? The chocolate matches my view on working in a corporate environment!)

Then, at long last, everything is approved. Sighs of relief are blown out prematurely as the newcomer tentatively mentions it would be in “our” best interest to send the story to his supervisor as a heads up.

Little does he know it would actually be in his best interest to stay away from any stairwells.

Who’s to say this DOESN’T go with a pencil skirt, silk blouse and fitted blazer?

I send the courtesy email as instructed. Once a writer, I am now a mere messenger girl. A very nicely dressed messenger girl, I should mention, one approval away from changing into comfortable, sensible walking shoes and outrageously white socks on my trips to and fro the parking lot. Oh, how the mighty have fallen into the corporate abyss.

Before the horror of it all can sink in, I promptly get a reply back that inspires hope within me – optimism that mankind is truly attentive and courteous of time and effort spent. I open the email eagerly to discover it is an automated “out of office” message and this person will not be returning until next Thursday.

It is Tuesday.

I wait out the week patiently, expelling my pent-up exasperation during dart league. (What can’t shiny, pointy objects and a good imagination fix?) And, although the story is no longer timely or relevant, I will publish it solely because I WILL PUBLISH IT.

Approximately five minutes before deadline, I receive word from the supervisor that they need to rethink the angle of the story since the project is nearing its final stages. Yes, indeedy — the huge, multi-million-dollar project is moving faster toward completion than my 50-word article. I am asked to pull the story until the project’s progress is more definite.

Chances are he’s on his fifth hole, excuse me, track at the conference.

Follow-up emails going without reply, my paranoia grows as I physically walk to the supervisor’s office seeking approval, only to see him nervously dart behind a maze of cubicles. Upon asking the admin if he will be returning anytime soon, she looks at me inquisitively before replying like a pro: “He’s not even in today; he’s at a conference. In Florida.”

We stare at each other for a solid minute without speaking. She holds steady eye contact, not blinking once and never backing down. Two minutes into the battle and blinking furiously, I blame my parents’ genetics for the poor eyesight which has resulted in my wearing of contacts, thus putting me into a no-win situation. The admin begins to shuffle papers neatly into piles on her desk, humming cheerfully. I smirk and grab two handfuls of M&Ms from her candy dish before retreating.

At close of business, I see the supervisor walking to his car in the parking lot and yell his name. He freezes, then continues toward his car after a moment, never looking back. I forgo the temptation to run him over. Too many witnesses.

Forced to eventually scrap the entire story, I am asked about its whereabouts months later by my own manager. I send her a copy of the email trail, and she emails the supervisor about the article. The supervisor responds immediately, saying, “Yes. Ok, let’s publish.”

After the red spots I’m seeing diminish, I muster the ability to email back, “Publish as is, or would you like to give an update to the project?” The supervisor waits at least half a day to respond, choosing at that time to respond with five ambiguous words: “Let me think about it.”

A week passes. I send another follow-up email asking about the story. A day later, I promptly get back two words: “Run it.”

All signs point to sarcasm!

Now, I normally include at least one exclamation point with each thanks to express my gratitude for their direction, but eliminating the exclamation point has become my (non) pointed way of sticking it to the man.

At that time, I am officially dead inside. But, I publish the story anyway.

It comes down to this. Most people have the ability to walk away from work at 5 p.m., or to leave it behind on the weekend. I thought I was one of those people until I realized this approval process has somehow soaked into the inner fibers of my wellbeing.

I now seek approval from everyone before I do or say anything, unsure of my every action and how it might affect those around me, and beaten down from having my own personal thoughts, opinions or agendas. Here are a few dialogue-based examples of ways I have sought consent from others over the last few months:

Me: “I’m going to get the pie. Should I get the pie?” Sits, lost in thought for 10 minutes debating the right choice. “I won’t get the pie.”
Friend: “No, get the pie!”
Me: “Ok.” Holds both hands out in a “STOP” stance. “If you’re sure.”

Me (standing up to declare loudly in the movie theater): “I’m going to the bathroom. Unless this isn’t a good time for you guys. Is everyone ok with me leaving?”
Audience: Various yelling to shut up.
Me: “Anyone need anything? Soda, popcorn?”
Audience: Dead silence.
Me (leaving, then ducking back into theater): “Thought I heard someone. Still no one? Ok, I’ll just bring back one of everything, just in case.”

My talent is definitely finding applicable pie charts for any situation.

Me: “I put $10 in the basket at church. Do you think I should have put in more to compensate for daydreaming about pushing people down stairwells?”
Clayton: “The church accepts any contribution.”
Me (signing check with flourish): “$20 it is!”

Me (Getting dressed for work, glancing down): “This shirt isn’t the same blue as the blue on our corporate logo.” Frowns uncertainly.” I better change.”

Me: “Let’s go get some groceries at Wal-Mart.”
Friend: “You shop at Wal-Mart?”
Me: “I meant Trader Joe’s.”
Friend: “That’s right you meant Trader Joe’s.”
Me: “It was a joke.”
Friend: “No, it wasn’t.”
Me: “No. It wasn’t.”


Things much scarier to me than Halloween

Fishing in the dark

Fishing is generally reserved for outdoorsy people who are patient and entirely comfortable and committed to standing all day long with worm guts underneath their nails, the scent of fish lingering heavily on their…well, everything. People who can wear old, outdated jeans (unbelievable) that have become their “fishing” jeans out in public with muddied shoes and lure-encrusted hats and not feel horrified. These people might buy bait at Wal-Mart and aren’t overly paranoid that someone might snap their photo to be featured on the next edition of “People of Wal-Mart.”

“What is this, some sort of spider trap? You got me a spider trap for my birthday? Really?” (Photo Caption: ebay.com)

None of this describes me, so imagine my surprise when I found myself the ecstatic recipient of a fishing pole for my birthday this year.  Not remotely an avid fisherwoman, I was unable to even identify a box of fishing line upon unwrapping it, putting it together only when presented with a pole next. I was assured it was “a good one,” but with its glittery green sheen and smooth reeling, I knew it couldn’t be too bad.

Plus it was really shiny.

Holding the soft cork handle in my (newly-manicured) fingers, I was reminded of my former teenage hobby of pinning favorite pastimes and memories onto a huge corkboard in a mosaic fashion. Fishing had been absent on that board, but now here I would soon be, instead pinning worms on hooks to be sent to watery graves.

What strides I’ve made in life!

Owning a fishing pole was the first acknowledgement my hobbies were beginning to more freely revolve around the rustic, especially seeing as other birthday gifts were a set of golf clubs and a four-wheeler I got to borrow from a friend to celebrate the occasion.

Outwardly appearances aside, I am not quite the girly girl I used to be, and I like to think I am working constantly toward a new and improved me. Someone who could survive in the woods after dark without (as many) irrational fears (Sasquatch) and someone who can hold her own talking golf and fishing in a board meeting filled with 55-year-old male engineers. I suppose this is all fine, as I have a distinct feeling who’s still vying for the win on the Bachelorette or what Dairy Queen dessert has the least calories (dilly bars) will never be the hot topics I wish them to be.

Regardless, I would NEVER go into the woods with beef jerky.

I used to fish every once and awhile with my family as a kid and remember snagging a sunfish out of the middle of the lake with my Donald Duck pole, droplets of glistening water catching the sun’s rays – and my attention – for one brief second before the helpless fish flopping on the bottom of the boat disheartened me. The last time I was out with my brother, we caught absolutely nothing except a case of the boredoms. Not exactly a great start to fishing becoming my great new passion.

Then Clayton, with his boat, huge tackle box that takes me two hands to lug to the water’s edge, and easy ways of explaining the sport came along, his experience and love for it igniting an interest that grows in me each time we head out, poles in one hand, hand-in-hand.

Regardless of the amount of times we’ve gone, the first ten minutes are brutal for me – the girl with no attention span who likes to see results, results, RESULTS!

Me: “We don’t have all day, fish!”
Clayton: “Actually we do. It’s a weekend fishing trip.”
Me: (nodding pointedly to the water) “Well, they don’t know that!”
Me (ten minutes later): “…Is a weekend still two days?”
Clayton: “Sit down and get comfortable.”
Me (dejectedly bowing down my head): “Okaay.”

Around the time of that conversation (because it happens every time), I’ll wonder why I ever thought putting a worm on a hook, whipping that hook around dangerously (Last year, I caught myself! Literally. Right in the forehead. Mad skills.), and sitting around not catching anything for sometimes hours sounded like a pleasant idea. To keep myself occupied, I sing to myself a tune that always seems to work.

Sure enough, the line will inevitably take off, adrenaline shoots through my body, and I reel in a marlin – usually a pan-sized bluegill or laughingly small baby bass. The fight is real and hard no matter how big the fish is (thank you, lack of muscles!), and the feeling is oddly comparable to finding a glorious pair of expensive heels. In both instances, I usually end up putting each back.

One fish, two fish, sun fish, blue fish

My faith renewed, I begin to cast again and again, usually out-fishing Clayton and feeling quite smug about it, puffing out my chest proudly until I snag my line in a tree 15 feet above my head. A rookie after all, I am forced to puppy-eyes my way into him helping a deflated girl out.

We were in South Dakota fishing last May when I caught my first 11-pound carp, and then my second. The five-minute fights to pull them in were battles that ended with such self-accomplishment and elatedness. Holding the fish in the air as my trophy, I fell a little more in love (and not just because it, too, was shiny).

When things are slow, sunflower seeds and nearby happy-go-lucky ducks with tufted haircuts in major need of maintenance are a welcome distraction. When things pick up? Well, mostly my arm starts to hurt from all the reeling.

I really should lift weights or something. It’s getting embarrassing.

I remember the first time Clayton suggested we keep some bluegill for dinner. Astonished, I replied, “We’re gonna EAT them?!”

It seemed so wrong. So…cavemen of us. I was pumped.

“Yes, but first we have to cut off their heads, gut and descale them,” he said.

It seemed so much more wrong. I teetered on the edge of uncertainty.

“Then we’ll fry ‘em,” he finished.

I was back in.

Previous thoughts of a Pizza Hut medium supreme pan pizza and a half order of breadsticks went down the drain along with the fish scales and slime I would soon be washing off every exposed part of me.

The best part of fishing? Being able to call guys like this a “beaut!”

It’s true that the thrill of a big catch and the sense of accomplishment outweigh trekking through poison ivy, warding off biting flies and wading through swamp-like waters. In the last year, I’ve learned to worm my own hook, including how to “thread” a worm (Why, yes, it is as awful as it sounds), and take a fish off the line, noting along the way that their razor-sharp fins will NOT hesitate to slice me into ribbons.

I tell myself that this hobby teaches me patience, which is a virtue I was previously lacking. I tell myself that I’m being like Jesus, except he was a fisher of men and I already caught the one I want to grow old with, walking down piers in our 60s, hand-in-hand and laughing just like the old couples in those heart medicine commercials.

I tell others I can’t go to the bar with them over the weekend because we’re going on a fishing trip, you see, and we wouldn’t even dream of being back until long after dark.

Mucinex vs. Mr. Mucus: A fight to the death!

As a precursor to this blog, I want to wallow in self-pity and tell you that I have been sick for seven days. Biblical references state that seven days is the amount of time God spent creating the universe. I, however, have not been as productive in my weakened, congested, head-exploding state.

But Mr. Mucus certainly has.

A quick trip to mucinex.com made my cloudy mind so clear, helping me to better understand this seemingly mythical, but very real, evil character. You see, Mr. Mucus is a workaholic, and last week he became occupied with making my life miserable, putting in extra time at the office to give me a horrendous summer cold. (Could have put his overtime paychecks toward doing something nice, like buying me a pony, but apparently he thought I was just a snot-nosed kid.)

So busy and consumed was Mr. Mucus with this task that he hired more workers to bump up his phlegm inventory and in doing so, created a monster. He named this beast Sinus Infection. And Mr. Mucus saw everything that he had made and behold, it was very bad.

And to think they were once so happy… (Photo Credit: adweek.com)

Of course by then, Mrs. Mucus was not a happy camper either, as her husband hadn’t been home in a good five days.

Just as she sought divorce papers, I found Mucinex.

According to Mucinex box information, one of the many benefits of the 12-hour pill (besides destroying all of Mr. Mucus’s inventory) is that it is also capable of making coughs productive.

It got me thinking one sleepless night when Mr. Mucus was once again hard at work and I was being held captive in the harrowing claws of Sinus Infection:

Exactly how productive are these coughs?

I like to think of them in little suits and ties, getting ready for work, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And so, I decided to put together a little pie chart on the industrious side effects Mucinex could have had on my coughs, should the information been taken out of context.

Mucinex made my coughs so productive, they…

In summation, the fight between Mucinex and Mr. Mucus? To put it quite simply, Mr. Mucus doesn’t stand a chance, especially once Antibiotics kick in (the door) to knock him out cold.

Thoughts running through my head during Bar Method

Peter Rabbit ain’t got sshhhh, you’ll scare the bunny I’m about to kill!

When I moved into my apartment complex a few years ago, it never occurred to me to ask whether it was located in a good or bad neighborhood. Maybe it was the sight of the elderly residing in adjacent apartments and strolling daily around the complex like clockwork at 7 a.m., noon and 4 p.m. that put me at ease. Perhaps I was simply too eager to move out of my parents’ house to ask pertinent questions (“And does this cardboard box have plumbing? No? But I see it has mood lighting. What? That’s just daylight streaming in from all the cracks? I’ll take it!” – me, end of rope, 2009).

After more than three years of living here, however, the truth about this particular neighborhood finally came to light – just as the sun peeked over my neat, charcoal gray rooftop.

“Bunnies are not cute.” -What I look into the mirror and motivationally say to myself five times a day before stepping outside. (Photo credit: en.wikipedia.org)

Rabbits. Bunnies. Menaces to society. Whatever the term, it was spring, they were everywhere and we were clearly on their turf. It was a problem that multiplied in severity faster than you could locate a BB gun.

At first, though, it was cute.

“Look at that baby bunny!” I remember saying prior to “the incident.” “He doesn’t know how to feed himself! Where’s his family? I’m going to give him blueberries – do bunnies eat blueberries?”

It was a dumb question, because bunnies devour everything, my soul included. Completely incapable now of cooing at even the most adorable baby animal, I have become as heartless as Kanye West’s singing career.

Eventually, ominous gangs of rabbits were seen flocking around the complex at all hours of the day, perked ears and wide eyes on our every move, as if they were…casing the joint. Whaaa??

It couldn’t be.

But, as our luck would have it, of course it could.

As Clayton and I warily plotted our garden in the courtyard, I couldn’t help but notice we didn’t seem to be the only ones doing the plotting. Despite the fur balls attempting to look busy eating grass without a care in the world, it was clear their main focus was us. Get an honest day job, ya hooligans, I thought, shaking my fist like the saltiest of veterans.

I jokingly nudged Clayton and told him they had been devising their strike from the very beginning.

My discomfort level rose each day I left for work, passing rabbits that stopped in the middle of their breakfast to stare at me as I drove by, not blinking once (The rabbits, not me – their stony gazes were enough for me to dart my eyes nervously back to the road ASAP, fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel). I soon grew as twitchy as the noses on those seemingly innocent cottontails. Hippity-hopsters. Vermin. At once I knew my nerves could only be calmed by the ultimate rabbit kryptonite: a white fence about a foot tall we wrapped around the exterior of our patio garden. Then, we waited.

It seems we weren’t the only ones.

Your antics will not be tolerated here, Peter Rabbit. And what’s more, your jacket looks dumb. There, I said it. I’m sorry, but someone had to. (Photo Credit: en.wikipedia.org)

I knew there was a case of Mr. McGregor’s garden going on when a leaf or two went missing from the sweet basil and surrounding flowers. It was sporadic and not overly-suspicious at first, so I grew accustomed to blaming a few small caterpillars who had recently moved in. This neighborhood is going to hell. Chucking them as far from the garden as I could, my worries disappeared along with them – until a few weeks ago.

It was morning. Going out to check on the vegetables before work as I normally do, I discovered we had been brutally and mercilessly robbed. As if someone took a shovel and scooped every remnant of lettuce from the planter, the dirt had been pushed to one side — an obvious signal that the battle was now fully ON.

As far as evidence, there was none, although I didn’t have my magnifying glass and spy kit from my Boxcar Children fan days to verify that completely. And the crime scene? Well let’s just say it was so neat and clean you could perform triple bypass surgery on it. Even…eat off of it?

Gah! Foiled again!

I was noting with pride that the fence remained untouched when my eyes lit on a rabbit munching clover and eyeballing me rather rudely about ten feet away, a cautious look in its eyes. Owning the look as only a big fat thief could. Because my hair resembled a bird’s nest and I didn’t want to give the elders a heart attack before their time, I rethought my decision to run outside in my skivvies. Still, I glared from a crack in the blinds and, sizing him up, determined there was no way he could have been the perp.

Later that morning, we bewilderedly ran through the list of likely culprits. A bunny was an obvious offender, but they wouldn’t dig the entire string of lettuce out, they would bite it down to the stem like any other animal. A larger animal then, maybe a raccoon? What beef would a raccoon have with lettuce? Keep thinking. The neighborhood ducks – that must be it! Except Sir Quacksalot and Lady of the Lake would NEVER.

By mid-morning, I was 90 percent sure our crop had been stolen by…



I know. It was so hard on us after that, losing that sense of security and all. I no longer felt safe with only a screen door lock, sliding door lock and sturdy pole placed between the door and wall to protect me. Security alarms and outdoor cameras began to float through my mind. If they’re willing to steal lettuce, what else are these thieves capable of? I was abruptly filled with horror. Not the marigolds! Surely, not the marigolds!

No, as a matter of fact, I don’t think I was overreacting.

Fuming, I repeated my story to any coworkers who would listen that day, which were quite a few because hey – this was a huge deal. With each account, I grew more and more certain, and by the time a coworker told me he just had his cucumbers jacked and caught kids stealing it, I was ready to take action.

Unless you’re meditating on where the villian is, I suggest you get your booty to the patio doors, Chloe-bear! (Photo Credit: veganasana.wordpress.com)

I returned from work that day ready to wage war, or at least sternly tell my kitten that staying up all night on surveillance was now her sole job, except of course for catching spidies – per usual. As I opened the front door, I noticed Chloe wasn’t lazily lying in the foyer waiting to greet me. Instead, she was sitting in between the patio blinds, intently looking at something (wait for it!)…

…in the garden!!

The robber! And sure enough, opening the blinds quick as lightening, it was a rabbit after all (bet you didn’t see that coming) that stared up at me from its comfy spot in the (painstakingly empty) lettuce bed, a confrontational look in its eye that dared to say,


It was not my imagination that it rolled its head forward toward me like that of a challenging, snarky teenage kid as it gave me that look. The rabbit even had the audacity to sit there until I began to slide open the door, screaming at it to get away. It ran as far as the clover patch and that’s when I knew: it was the one.

As any irrational girlfriend would do, I called Clayton to yell about a whole lot of overdramatic, trivial stuff in the greater scheme of life. Breathlessly explaining the situation, my anger mounting by the second, I opened the door and took off at a full gait toward the rabbit, the phone still firmly attached to my ear. Clayton’s attempt to sooth me went unnoticed as I gave a warrior cry and flicked off my flip flops to get better traction.

Guys, I chased that bunny around the complex. Three times. That dagnam marmot didn’t take me seriously until the second lap. It was so full of our veggies, in fact, that I almost caught it until, running blinded by fury into the parking lot, I realized I had spectators and stopped dead in my tracks. A car of parents saying goodbye to their son looked at me like I was crazy. A neighbor watched me curiously from his deck. A head ducked behind a curtain before I could make eye contact.

My arms fell limply to my sides, the phone still tightly gripped in one and Clayton’s voice a dim, “Hellooooo?”

I decided it would be in my best interest to return indoors.

Later that evening, I knew I had to let it go after maniacally attempting to run over the rabbits with my car after taking a couple gratuitous laps around the complex.

I can’t help but notice moth balls look exactly like bunny tails…a subliminal threat to our courtyard pests, perhaps? (Photo credit: epa.gov)

I am now affectionately called the “Bunny Chaser” among those who witnessed the tirade. Even weeks later, neighbors seek me out, telling glory stories of how they killed a bunch of black crows with strategically placed moth balls or chased other rabbits all the way to the bank (literally – there was one across the street).

In the meantime, I’ll be shining up my new BB gun out back in a rocking chair in plain sight, just waiting until next spring.