Last week, a Facebook friend posted a photo of a man thumbing through what had to be the largest book I'd ever seen, the title of which was A MANUAL ON WOMEN. Pretty funny, actually - but on second glance, I thought c'mon! A manual about women wouldn't really be THAT long, would it? I mean, if I ever were to pen such a guide, I'd keep things pretty brief and start with the basics: never use the words BIG and ASS in the same sentence, always offer wine when in doubt, telling us to calm down will only make things exponentially worse, look at us when we're fucking talking to you, and pick up your damned dirty undies. Helpful tidbits like that. I'd then follow up with some remaining guidelines to finish off the list. Just the important stuff, for the sake of brevity. Which, I now realize, would require about 35,076 more pages. Wow. Women are high-maintenance pains in the ass.
Two years ago, I'd never heard of Kim Kardashian. Didn't have a clue. I hardly watch television or read tabloids, so I had no prior exposure to Kim until folks started incessantly talking about her wedding and then - practically four minutes later - her divorce. I was all like, who the eff is Kim Kardashian? So I went home and Googled her. What I learned made me laugh out loud, then gack my lunch, and then decide I really like Kim Kardashian. For ten reasons:
Dear Never Daughter; I've never had the amazing pleasure of creating you, growing you, meeting you, raising you or releasing you into the great big beautiful world. You will never exist outside my own heart and mind. Still, the hole your absence has left in my life is tangible, at times cavernous and painful… I've greatly missed the myriad experiences of your life within mine, and the privilege of being your mother.
This morning I was talking on the phone with friend who was at work when she was interrupted by a coworker who came screaming into her office. Knowing that ours was not a work-related call, my friend abruptly ended our conversation, hurrying me off the phone with a terse yet totally expected, 'I have to go now.' I have to go now... How de rigueur. How predictable. How freaking boring. Really, if you want to stop people from boldly marching into your office during work hours with work-related… well, work, smack in the middle of a completely unnecessary yet fairly important phone call with your friend (I mean we were discussing when you were coming up for drinks and all, for crap's sake), you need to be more creative.
I have, thankfully, never flown often enough to consider it a mundane experience. As a result, I love nearly everything about being on a plane. Packing... waiting at the airport... take-offs and landings... Mostly, I love looking out the window. Even when it's too foggy to see past the wing or too dark to see the wing itself, I'm a kid, all giddy with my face constantly pressed close against the pane for the best possible look. Inevitably, excitement will overcome me and I'll turn to my seatmate and say something very six-year-old sounding like HOLY CRAP! HEY, LOOK AT THIS! DON'T YOU WANNA PEEK? And - even when that person is my very own husband - the seatmate will inevitably respond with a slow shake of their head, all the while gazing at me as though I deserve a time out or require medication...
I love baseball. I love nearly everything about the sport.* But - no offense intended - I don't think there's any way you can call MLB players athletes. Sure, they're skilled and talented, but not even close to the same physical caliber as, say, a gymnast or soccer player. The problem with making this point is that it's highly argumentative. Why? Because no one's ever really come up with a plausible way to differentiate an athelete from a sportsplayer. You can't even rely on the freaking Olympics for a definition: those kooks actually think table tennis players are athletes! For years, I've wondered about this... pondered it... endlessly Googled it... had fistfights over it... But I never discovered a suitable interpretation. And then one night, I was jolted awake with the answer: if the pants of your uniform have pockets, you are not an athelete. If you're wearing a belt around those pants, even more so. And if shit is sticking outta those pockets, that's a triple whammy.
Last month while at a doctor's office, I bided my time with a woman's magazine from the waiting room's limited (and elderly) selection of reading material. I usually bring my own book, but had forgotten - and some swine had already circled every stinking item on the Hidden Pictures page of the one and only Highlights magazine. Anyhow, I'm fanning through this pathetic rag, chortling at hideous articles like How To Be Amazing Before Dinner or What Your Cell Phone Color Says to Him or Lose Ten Pounds Eating Deep-Fried Paint, when I come across a piece about women who are having fat from their asses injected into their face. The result, the article claims, is a more healthy and youthful look. I'm sitting there looking at those before-and-after pics, when it suddenly occurs to me that these women literally have butt cheeks. Are you freaking kidding me??
It wasn't meant to be an entire year. Or even a good one. Still the same, it was. The position would be based in upper state New York, which would mean we'd only see each other on weekends... but we'd done this before and knew it would work. So Rick took the job, which began with a few months of training in San Diego. And in short time, two months became four months, then six and - before we even realized - twelve months. These delays were unforeseen, not intended, and - alas - typical of the intricacies of marrying cutting-edge technology with customer expectations. Rick's role in the process fell victim to slipped deadlines, and everyone worked hard to accommodate the situation... us included.
The other day while out for drinks, I was telling my chum Claire about all the fun I had in my recent travels to the Jersey shore. She asked if I took pics, and I pointed to my iPod on the table as I got up to pee. When I returned from the Ladies room, I noticed Claire peeking at my photos with an increasingly alarmed expression on her face. Sooze, she slowly asked as I sat back down... what's with all the pictures of your ears? There must be at least a hundred of them...
I've had several nights in my life (alright, maybe only about three) where I've been jolted from the deepest of sleeps by an idea of such magnitude and brilliance, it's awed me. The solution to a problem, the answer to a nagging question, the marketing idea I'd been seeking, the location of where I left my lucky pen... Whatever it was at that moment, I was tickled enough to toss flowers at myself. Sadly, most of the time I awaken in the middle of night, it's due to either canine gas or a thought of such absurdity, I can only attribute it to bad Polynesian food - which, oddly, may have also caused the canine gas... Anyhow, it's thoughts like these ones that constantly clog my brain and keep me up at night. None are worth my losing any sleep over, but - as is the case with the thoughts listed in Parts One and Two of this article - I do: