I knew that headline would catch your eye.
lazy tired to do Five Things Friday. I know. You’re devastated. But why should I waste time putting creative energy towards a piece when the New York Times just handed me this gem:
I’m DYING at this headline and the whole article. You need to stop what you’re doing and read it. Guys, some birds have penises that grow to SPECTACULAR lengths. Like, what are we talking here? Are we talking “pleasant surprise”? Are we talking “in-over-my-head big”? Is it “in-over-my-head big”? (Quote from my favorite movie, Love & Sex)
And even though I know you’ll follow my instructions and read the whole thing, I’m still going to show you some of my favorite parts:
“Patricia Brennan, an expert on bird genitalia at the University of Massachusetts…” <– what?! Patricia must be a blast at parties. I bet her parents got called in for a parent-teacher conference the day she wrote her “What I Want To Be When I Grow Up” thematic essay.
“Male birds that lack a penis have an opening known as a cloaca. To mate, a male bird presses his cloaca against a female’s, so that his sperm can flow into her body.” <– I could have lived my life without that visual.
“For some reason, male birds with smaller penises had more offspring than other birds. Why is still a matter of debate.” <– It’s not the size of the boat. It’s the motion in the ocean.
Ok, if those gems aren’t enough to encourage you to read this article and make you laugh, then I don’t know what it takes in life to make you happy. You should probably just drink heavily.
It’s that time of year again – Paws in the Park! Paws in the Park is an annual fundraiser put on by the Mohawk Hudson Humane Society. It is in its fourth year, and we’ve been involved since the start.
You may remember that Bumble is actually from the Homeward Bound Dog Rescue. But our Sadie pup (and our cat, Midge) are both from the Humane Society. Bumble decided that he’d like to walk and raise money in honor of his sister, Sadie. Sadie was recovering from surgery during two of the walks, and still participated in them all. (In fact, last year, Paws in the Park was the day before we got Bumble.)
I know that your social media is inundated with donation requests. I’m not asking for a lot. If you could skip your morning coffee and send $3 our way, it would be much appreciated.
Rain or shine, Jason, Bumble and I will be out walking on June 8th!
As I’ve mentioned before, I am incapable of walking in our bedroom at night, closing the door, getting into bed and going right to sleep. I get in and out of bed at LEAST three times before I can settle down. Most of the time, it’s to leave the bedroom because I forgot to do something.
Monday night, as I opened the bedroom door to make my first exit of the night, the door made the same, loud, cat-possibly-being-run-over-by-a-dump-truck screeching sound that it’s been making for a few days. For whatever reason, at that particular juncture, I had enough.
Me: “I’m fixing this RIGHTNOW.”
Jason: “At 10:00 at night? Of course you are.”
I rummaged through the junk drawer, found the WD40 Pen (you heard right, playa) and went back upstairs.
Me: “Don’t worry. This is SUPER easy. I fixed it the last time it was squeaky. You just rub the pen on the hinges and voila! It’ll stop.”
Me: ::rubs pen on hinges. Opens door.::
Me: “Oh, I have to do both sides, probably. Don’t worry, Jay.”
Jason: ::playing on his phone, disinterested:: “Ok, buddy.”
Me: ::rubs the other side of the hinges. Opens door. ::
Me: “What the heck?! It worked last time! Don’t worry, I’m DEFINITELY going to fix this.”
Jason: ::playing on his phone:: “Ok, buddy.”
If you’re wondering whether or not this went on for literally 30 more minutes, the answer is yes, it did. That mother effing door decided its mission in life was to never succumb to the lubrication prowess that is WD40. It didn’t matter how much I was putting on or from what angle I was lubing it from (thatswhatshesaid). It would not.stop.squeaking.
At one point, about fifteen minutes in, I sat down on the floor, half in our hallway, half in our bedroom, and nearly cried. Jason was of no help, but, in his defense, I went into this knowing he would not be. For starters, it was bedtime. This is his least favorite time of day for me to come up with projects. Secondly, I never asked him. I made a point to say that IIIIIIIII was going to fix the door. We both knew that, for better or worse, I had to be the one to fix the door.
Guess what, guys! I did it! After 30 minutes, some tears, lots of frustration and possible staining of our doorframe from WD40 (Don’t worry, Jay. I’m DEFINITELY just saying it’s stained for dramatic effect. I definitely did NOT stain our door frame.), I did it! It stopped squeaking!
Me: “I DID IT!! I will NOT go quietly into the night! I will NOT vanish without a fight! I’m going to SURVIVE! Today is my INDEPENDECE DAY … from squeaky doors! See?! See what I did there, Jay?!”
Jason: “Yup. Quoted Independence Day” – said in a completely unimpressed voice.
Me: “Yup! I did. I was doing a bit! No more loud doors around here, as long as there are people like ME out there, fighting the good fight against squeaky hardware.”
Jason: “Great job. I was really worried you were going to ask me to help, which would irritate me and start a fight.”
Me: “I don’t need no MAN to fix a squeaky door. Nuh uh. I DID IT! ME!”
Jason: “Great job. Can we go to sleep now?”
5 minutes later
Me: “But it’s pretty cool I did it, right?”
Jason: “Yes, buddy.”
I can’t be the only one who makes a wish and then follows up the wish with more details, in order to prevent an evil genie or sorcerer (who may be listening) from finding a loophole, granting my exact wish and ruining my life.
I can’t be the only one who does a house-wide spider check before bed.
I can’t be the only one who narrates mundane daily tasks through song. (Example – “I’m coooooooking dinner. It’s going to beeeee deliiiiiciouuuuussss.”)
I can’t be the only one who gets into bed then immediately gets up because I forgot to do something, and then repeats this process 3-5 more times, every night.
I can’t be the only one who doesn’t like touching lunchmeat.
I can’t be the only one who feels personally invested in the lives of fictional tv characters.
I can’t be the only one who can’t eat something if the expiration date is the day I’m thinking about eating it.
I can’t be the only one who has to physically cover the last few pages of a good book with my hands so that I don’t cheat and skim ahead.
I can’t be the only one who heads straight to the clearance racks when walking into a store.
I can’t be the only one who drops their iPhone at least once a day.
I can’t be the only one who loses their iPhone at least once a day.
I can’t be the only one who has developed both a voice and a personality for my pets. I also can’t be the only one who delivers monologues in said voice.
I can’t be the only one who assigns feelings to inanimate objects. (Ex – If a stray paperclip is on the floor, I assume he is sad he isn’t with the rest of his family, so I pick him up and put him back into the paperclip jar.)
I can’t be the only one who doesn’t believe in HD tv.
I can’t be the only one who hates being “trapped” (twisted up in a blanket, getting a sweatshirt stuck on your head, etc.)
I can’t be the only one who believes that popcorn tastes best if it’s 1-3 days old.
I can’t be the only one who has double-jointed elbows.
I can’t be the only one who assigns a name to an animal within moments of seeing it (be it a beaver in a lake or someone else’s dog) and continues to refer to the animal by that name, even if I find out it’s real name (Re: someone else’s dog)
I can’t be the only one who texts their husband with “Hey! Name some weird stuff I do!” and then immediately regrets that decision because their husband won’t stop texting weird stuff that you do.
Apparently, the garbage men in my neighborhood were hung over or lazy yesterday, because as I walked Bumble, I noticed food and garbage all over the place. Unfortunately, Bumble noticed this, too. We went from “nice afternoon walk” to “walking Templeton through the fairgrounds”.
Of course, that analogy caused me to sing “Zuckerman’s Famous Pig” all night long. In between verses, I started to mentally dissect Charlotte’s Web.
(… after we watched this version, in SPANISH. You’re welcome.)
Now, let me tell you – Charlotte’s Web is one of my all-time favorites. It was the first book that made me cry. It was also the first book which I read more than once. Nuttin’ but love for Charlotte and her gang of misfits.
When Uncle Homer and his farmhand, Lurvy (I don’t trust anyone named Lurvy, I think), come out to the barn and see the words “Some Pig” written IN A SPIDERWEB, why did they focus on the pig and not the seemingly literate spider that created the web? Was Wilbur cute? Sure. Did he jump and squeal and do tons of adorable piglet things in an attempt to get himself off the chopping block and into Homer’s good graces? Of course. But did he suddenly develop the ability to both spell AND build spider webs? No. Also, as soon as the spiderweb starts to break and fade away, so does their interest. Why?! Why are you no longer interested in a spider that can spell? Why is nobody concerned with the spider? Why?!
Fern’s parents become worried that she is spending too much time at the barn. Which would be an understandable concern, if you lived in a metropolis. But you don’t. You live on a farm. Next to more farms. What exactly do they want her to do? Because, I get it. I grew up in farm country. Not a whole lot going on. If you’re concerned with the amount of time Fern is spending with barnyard animals, maybe think about relocating to a place where she can thrive socially. Just a suggestion.
Remember when Templeton gets drunk at the fair and floats in the bubble? When he discovers that a fair is a veritable smorgasbord orgasbord orgasbord? You had one job, Templeton. Go to the fair and bring Charlotte back some words (SN while typing – if Charlotte knows the definition of all these words, which is implied as she is the one who defines them to the rest of the animals, then why does she need Templeton to scrounge up ads with words on them in the first place? Come up with your own words, Charlotte!). But seriously, Templeton. If eating garbage is causing you to have psychedelic hallucinations of exploding watermelon and popcorn that defies gravity – maybe you should stop eating the garbage.
My last pet peeve is when Wilbur meets three of Charlotte’s daughters.
Daughter #2: What was my mother’s middle initial?
Daughter #2: Then, my name is ‘Aranea’.
Aranea? Bitch, please. You’ve been alive for literally 14 seconds and that’s the FIRST NAME you think of? I call shenanigans. I get that it’s a genus of a common spider. However, I doubt that she was born with that knowledge.
Although, good point. Apparently Charlotte was fluent in the English language, so who knows what skills spiders are born with, really?
Sticking with what is apparently my theme de jour this week for Five Things Friday – death. As The Husband so lovingly told me yesterday, I’m “neurotic”. If trying to be prepared for every possible outcome in every possible situation makes me “neurotic” then, fine. I’m neurotic. But I’ll never choke to death on a Jolly Rancher while driving, that’s for sure!
Five Ways I’m Positive I Will/Could Die
I’ll never suck on any candies while driving. I’m concerned with choking if I’m sitting on my couch with a cough drop. I definitely can’t be trusted not to kill myself while alone in a car. Although I never even eat candies while driving, I sometimes try to create a game plan of what I would do IF I were choking on a hard candy. My train of thought: “Would I pull over and run to the middle of the road, doing the universal sign for choking and hope that another motorist will stop and help me? Would I stop and help someone doing the universal sign for choking? Hmm. Should I try to give myself a pseudo-Heimlich on one of the mile marker signs? NEVER EAT HARD CANDIES ALONE, HEATHER!”
4. Driving into a body of water, getting trapped in my car and drowning
This is especially high up on the list now that we live in a neighborhood where I have to drive around a (small-ish) lake every day. I know it’s going to happen. I’m so convinced that I even have the tool that breaks open a car window and slices your seat belt. It’s a convenient key chain thing. Guess where it is. If you guessed in my kitchen junk drawer, you’re right. If you followed up your guess with a “… and every day, when you’re driving around the lake, you tell yourself you’re going to put it on your keys the second you get home and then, when you don’t die, you forget,” you get double points for being right.
3. In a gas explosion
We have an electric flattop stove, thank goodness. I can’t handle gas appliances. When I’m in a home with a gas stove, I just KNOW that it’s slowly leaking gas, just WAITING for someone to say “Oooo! We should light aaaalllll the Yankee candles!” Boom. Dead. I also will not light our grill to barbecue. That’s The Husband’s job. I am very confident he will NOT blow us up. I will not say the same thing for myself. Also, when I was 19, my car started on fire with me and my sister in it. Obvs, we got out but then we got to stand there and watch it explode ala a made-for-tv action movie. So, my gas explosion fear is not just restricted to household appliances. (Typing this, it seems that I would have a driving phobia, but strangely enough, I do not. God works in mysterious ways.)
2. Brain aneurysm
Whenever I have a headache, I resign myself to the fact that my time has come. I’m going to be outside walking Bumble and then, bam! Dead on the ground. Or, I’ll be inside, putting a pot of water on the stove to boil and then, bam! Dead on the floor. Poor, poor Jason. I’m pretty certain he’s going to walk in to his beautiful wife dead on the ground someday. Thems the breaks, I guess.
1. Being kidnapped and murdered
While the other ones fluctuate, this is a staple in my daily life. I blame it on watching far too many soap operas and Lifetime movies at an impressionable age. Every day I take the dog for a walk, on the exact same route, and every day, I like to text someone when I’m leaving and then I let them know I’m not dead when I get home. When I used to take night classes in college, I’d text Jason when I was walking out of the classroom and then I’d call him once I was in my car with the doors safely locked. If Jason goes away for a night – forget about it. I hope our last kiss was a nice once, because a robber is most definitely going to break into our house the ONE NIGHT he’s not home. I know it is partially my fault, because I am so beautiful and so kidnap-worthy-looking. Also, I can barely carry a gallon of milk from the trunk to our kitchen, so I most definitely will not fight off an attacker. Whenever I am walking alone, whether it is in a mall parking lot or at the library, I am sure to make eye contact with
every man any potential kidnapper. I am especially diligent at the gas station, because that is where I’m pretty positive it will go down.
There are several other ways I assume I will die (cancer, trapped in a fire, carbon monoxide poisoning, being buried alive, horrific car accident, etc.) but this is called FIVE things Friday, not All The Things Friday, so I’ll leave you with those.
So, yeah! Five Things Friday! On that cheery note, happy weekend suckas!
Yesterday at dinner, my sister yelled at me for teasing her with a second blog post that never was. I reminded her that I WARNED my readers that I would probably flake out and forget. NOBODY CAN BE MAD AT ME FOR THAT.
Anyways, the other night The Husband and I went out to dinner. Besides us, there were only three other tables with patrons – all of them a dad alone with a kid. “Is this divorced dad night?” I asked. He didn’t know the answer. I told him that I hope that he’s never a divorced dad and he said he wouldn’t be.
Me: “Oh, because when you get sick of me, you’ll just kill me, huh?”**
Me: “How will you kill me?”
Jason: “Why would I tell you that? A murderer doesn’t tell how he plans to kill someone. Then you can go to the cops and ruin everything.”
Me: “I won’t tell anyone. I just want to know. I hate surprises. I don’t want to be surprised right before death. How are you going to kill me?”
Jason: “I’m not. Let’s end this conversation.”
Me: “But if you haaaaaaad to kill me, how would you do it? I don’t want it to be anything painful, ok? I just want to ease into death. So no slicing or shooting or anything.”
Me: “So let’s just figure out how you’re going to do it so that we can all move on with our lives.”
Jason: ::ignoring me and eating::
Me: “Ooo, I know! You could take me out to dinner and poison me. Then, they’ll suspect the restaurant and not you. Ooo, but good point. If we’re on the brink of divorce, why are we going out to dinner?”
Jason: “One last shot at reconciliation?”
Me: “Yup! Ok, now what are you going to use to poison me?”
Jason: “I don’t know. Rat poison?”
Me: “What? C’mon now. This isn’t a cartoon. I’ll never eat something with rat poison in it. You can definitely taste rat poison, I bet. Ooo, I know. You should use my own pills against me. Everyone knows I pop pills like candy. You should manipulate some of my sleeping pills and it’ll look like an overdose. Ooo, ok. This is good. That way, I’ll just fall into a gentle sleep. So you’ll kill me like that then, right?”
So guys, if I die from a seemingly accidental overdose, please show this to the police. And then, show the police the rest of the blog, so that Jason doesn’t get into too much trouble. He did it by reason of insanity.
** I’d like to note that I don’t actually think my husband will murder me. Although, I bet all murdered wives say that before they’re murdered. But, definitely, definitely not Jason. He actually has a much higher level of tolerance for my craziness than I would if it were the other way around. This is not a cry for help. A vivid imagination? Sure. But definitely not a cry for help. Nobody is hurting me in my home. ^^
^^Jason made me say this. ##
## Just kidding.
You MAY (probably not) get a double post from me today. But worry about that later, Reader. Right now, I want to share another bed time convo (or, rather, two rolled into one.) Over dinner last night, I decided that the reason I’m sharing these private, intimate conversations between me and my husband on my blog is so that when The Husband finally snaps, having enough of my shenanigans, and murders me**, the cops can look here and be all “Well, she really DID deserve it. She drove the dude crazy.” And then he’ll be allowed to live in a cushy mental institution somewhere. And maybe he’ll meet a pretty girl like Winonna Ryder or Halle Berry and they’ll heal and be able to start their lives over together. I mean, I don’t want him to go to jail for it because I instigate. I’m pretty sure its coming yet I continue to say things like this:
Preface: I’m not sure how this conversation started, but I know I was trying to tell Jason something and he wasn’t listening. He then said something along the lines of “I’d like to have a wife who X” (I forgot what X was. X = wasn’t so annoying? X= can cook well? Not sure. But his insult is not the point.)
Me: Oh yeah? Well I’D like to have a HUSBAND who listens to me when I’m trying to talk to him, instead of ignoring me.
Jason: I’m not ignoring you. When did I ignore you?
Me: Last night!
Jason: Well, I’d like to have a wife who doesn’t ask me how big a brontosaurus’ head is.
Me: Whoa! You are way off base here, pal. I did NOT ask you that … last night. Last night, I was talking about whether or not I thought a pterodactyl would eat human eye balls, or if they’re just herbivores.
Jason: Fair enough. My apologies.
**Reader, I bet you’re sitting there and thinking to yourself, “Gee, I wonder if Heather ever forced Jason into a conversation about how he’d murder her, if he HAAAAD to, and, when he wouldn’t answer, she gave him several plausible scenarios, thus helping to plan her own murder.” I’m going to go ahead and confirm that, yes that happened last night at dinner. If I’m not feeling lazy later, I will type it up for you, foiling all of Jason’s (my own) murder plans. Don’t get your hopes up. I’ll most likely forget.
Guess what, guys! I remembered Five Things Friday! Aren’t you excited?! I bet you’ve been waiting all day for this, Reader. Thanks a bunch! I appreciate your loyalty.
This week, get ready for … drum rooolllllll …
Five Things I Waste All My Moneys On
1. Nail Polish
Ya’ll know this. I’m not positive, but I believe I have close to 200. “Heather! If you’re spending an average of $8 per polish xs 200 polishes … well … that’s a big math number!” you say. And you’d be correct. But, before you assume that I have spent five times the amount of money on polishes than I did on my first car – let’s settle down. I (almost) always buy polishes on clearance. And I get a ton as gifts. And, also, it’s my business how I spend my $20 of allowance money we give ourselves each week so DON’T JUDGE ME.
God, I love snacks. Chips and dip are my jam. And, when the weather goes from 30* and miserable to 70* and sunny, I crave ice cream the same way Lindsay Lohan craves her … um … all the drugs and alcohol. I think I’ve mentioned before that I base how much I eat at dinner on what I have as an available snack option for the evening. And I like to have several. A girl needs to keep her options opened.
3. Library Fines
I’m so thrifty and eco-friendly and save so much money by going to the library weekly, rather than buying every book I want to read. Except, I rarely return the book on time. It’s not on purpose. I promise. I truly respect the library and their rules. Except for the rule where if you return a book on Sunday, when they’re closed, then you’ll get charged an EXTRA late fee because it won’t be checked back in until Monday and it was actually due Friday so why didn’t you return it then or even on Saturday, you selfish library patron?! Except for that rule.
“Heather, Target is a store, not a thing you can buy. How do you waste money ON Target, Heather?” you ask. I’ll tell you how. You simply walk into Target with the intention of buying a bag of cat food or maybe a pair of flip flops. You then fall under the spell that Target puts on all of its customers, and proceed to check-out with two new blankets, some scotch tape, light bulbs, headbands, a nail polish (re: #1), a dog toy and an ice cream scoop. Then, go over to the Target Café and buy popcorn and an Icee. Cross your fingers that you’re not at a Target Café that only has a Starbucks and NOT the popcorn. That’s the worst. Go out to your car, put everything in the trunk and realize you forgot the cat food. Go back inside, buy the cat food and, also, a new wallet.
Why is it so expensive? How am I going to keep driving to Target if I have to PAY my car to drive me there? How will I get the new Essie collection? Why aren’t we teleporting places yet?
Yay! Five Things Friday! The end!
I can’t be the only one who climbs into bed with her husband at night, snuggles up and asks questions about dinosaurs and other prehistoric animals, amirite? You guys also spend lots of pillow talk discussing which various dinosaurs would fit into various places in and around your home, right? …
Because we’ve had this conversation several times, I’m paraphrasing:
Heather: Jay, I know brontosaurs isn’t his real name, but would a brontosaurs’s head fit into our bedroom.
Heather: But, like would it take up the entire room? If we had a window big enough for a brontosaurs to stick his head in, would it fill up the whole room? Would we be inside his mouth?
Jay: I’m not sure. Probably.
Heather: How many dinosaurs could we fit in our back yard? We DO have a double lot.
Jay: I’m not sure what you’re saying, here. Like, if we were to corral dinosaurs into our backyard? Why would we do that?
Heather: Well, because they’re friendly dinosaurs and they just need a place to stay so we’re going to keep them safe in our back yard. A stegosaurs and a triceratops. These two guys are friends and they want to stay together. Could they both fit in our backyard? Comfortably?
Jay: Yeah, probably.
Heather: Oh, that’s great! Good for them. Would a brontosaurs fit inside our house if there were no walls?
Heather: Hey! Wake up. I’m not done yet. Do you think a brontosaurs would fit in our house? I really just want to know how big his head is. Should we Google that? Don’t you think we deserve to know whether or not his head would take up our whole bedroom or just some of it? Could you just Google that for me, please?
Jay: :::reluctantly rolls over and gets on his phone:: Ok, he was 90 feet long and 15 feet tall. If you stood up next to him, you would barely come up to his knees.
Heather: Ok, but what about his head?
Jay: It doesn’t say. I don’t know, Heather. Go to sleep.
Heather: When I was little, I used to have this toy that was a headset that talked to you and read you science stories. It was very advanced. It was like Siri, but in 1990. You used to plug cartridges into it. Do you remember that toy?
Heather: Hey! Wake up! Do you remember that toy? It would read you stories about outer space and animals and my best one was about dinosaurs. What’s the name of that toy? If I still had it, I would be rich with knowledge about dinosaurs and I wouldn’t have to ask you.
Heather: It’s rude to fall asleep when someone is both trying to increase their knowledge about dinosaurs AND reminiscing about their childhood.
So, the next day I tried Googling the name of the toy, but no luck. Nobody on Facebook could remember, either. I asked my dad, who used to play with it with me, assuming he’d have no clue what I was talking about. He found it online less than five minutes after I asked. AND he thinks it’s still somewhere in their house. It’s called the Texas Instruments voyager.
Soon, I’ll know so much about dinosaurs.