Category: Amusing (Page 2 of 6)
I am brimming over at this point. My emotional bucket has reached capacity. A friend of mine posted this on Facebook last night, and I surprised myself at how hard I laughed. To the point I was trying to hold my eyes open because I was physically scrunching up my face so much, I couldn’t see. I hope it at least gives you a chuckle. (The “ok” hand gesture set me over the edge, I think.)
Have you ever seen that episode of Seinfeld, the one where Elaine goes to get her nails done, and she’s convinced the employees there are talking about her in their native tongue? I always think of it when I get my own nails done – though at this point, I’ve been going to the same salon for 7 years or so, I don’t really think much of it. I did go recently, and there was a new woman working there, and she was grinning and talking away, and I imagined she was saying something to the effect of, “Whoa, girl, you got yourself a big girl there!”
But, I am always curious about what they’re saying, and this time was no different – I listened to the subdued conversation/back-and-forth among the staff and realized that so many of the words are short, staccato bursts that have strikingly similar sounds, but the emphasis and cadence are what seem to vary the words as well. Nearly all the words seemed to start with the letter “D”, but it could have been my own American filter trying to make sense of a language I’ve never even studied. There came a point, though, when knowing the actual words took a back seat, quite rapidly, to the overall communication.
It started with one of the nail techs standing up from her pedicure station, and speaking loudly and clearly, quite strongly, at someone else (we couldn’t tell quite yet, but it became clear within a minute.) She was PISSED OFF. Immediately, several of the other women began softly speaking, obviously trying to diffuse whatever this situation was. (I could actually tell two women said the same thing within 30 seconds of each other, presumably “calm down!”) The music had stopped and the silence became palpable. And then? The tech completely lost her shit. She was moving her customer over to her nail station, and apparently, she was really pissed at the guy who sat behind her, and she was shouting at him at the top of her lungs, while he quietly tried to interject what appeared to be his defense. Another worker got up, went in the back, and put the music on – full blast. So now we have Mariah Carey warbling her head off, and Angry Tech is now shrieking at the guy, and she’s holding up the light boxes for curing the shellac nails, and basically having an explosive episode in this dude’s direction. With another bewildered customer in-between them.
Allllllll the customers start looking at each other. Because THE HELL, we can’t understand a goddamn word, but as I muttered to the lady on my left, we didn’t really need to know what she was saying because every single one of us knew she was LIT UP and pissed off. Someone down to my right said, “I think it involves that box.” We’re trying not to laugh, because it would not only be rude, but none of us really wanted the focus of her anger to find a new home! Angry Tech marches back and turns off the music. Returns, continues to fume. The customer of Angry Tech is looking at all of us in the pedi-chairs with wide eyes and a face of confusion while she’s stomped off – so of course I have to say, “What the hell did you do?” which makes us all chuckle a little, but not too much, because AT is back, holding up the light box (which is plugged in and glowing), she is yelling, and frankly, I didn’t want to have a toaster-in-the-bathtub incident.
My tech, who is at the top of the hierarchy (there is always a hierarchy at these salons), goes back and turns the music back on, but at a lower volume. Right as she returns, AT picks up the light box again and continues to scream at the dude, who is working away on another woman’s nails, and murmuring every so often. At this point, my lady goes over and turns AT around (because she was like a Jack-in-the-box at this point, up/down, up/down, SCREAM SCREAM BRANDISH), and physically thwaps her on the shoulders and basically tells her to sit the hell down and calm down in the process. (All in Vietnamese, mind you.) I whispered when I was paying, “What’s the deal?” She whispered back that apparently the male tech had taken AT’s light boxes for his client. I asked if they had to buy their own boxes. Nope, they always share. Nope, the ones he took weren’t any different than the ones he had.
We concluded something else was probably going on in her life. I walked out, marveling at how I had specifically been thinking about the language when I got there, and how I never really know what they’re saying – but in this case, there really was no translator needed. I’m sure there are statistics on communication and all the pieces that go into it – words are just one component. Brandishing a light box? That speaks volumes as well.
I swear to God, if I had my own reality television show, I would have just scored my biggest ratings yet.
First of all, said show could possibly qualify as a triple threat: I home office in a guest bedroom that is currently chock full of stuff I need to go through (thus, we could get the Hoarders audience), I have some crazy work adventures (have you seen Missouri Truck Stop? I am a barrel of monkeys compared to that show), and I’m a wife working out of our house, so it’s like that real estate agent dude and all the Real Housewives rolled into one, except I don’t dress up, and I rarely see anyone else so the cattiness is low. (Makes notes to work on this.)
My desk is a snazzy Lifetime table from CostCo, and my office chair came from there as well. To protect the hardwood floors, I put down my plastic floor protector. You know, those big sheets of plastic with the little gripper teeth on the bottom, so if you had carpet, it would stay put? Let me tell you something. My fat ass in my office chair keeps that plastic sheet in place just fine. Until I stand up, which then turns the plastic sheet into a fucking skateboard. Have I put down one of those rug gripper things? NO. Why not? I’M LAZY. And FORGETFUL. And I FORGOT about the ice-rink skateboard quality just now, as my personal cell phone rang, and I endeavored to find it as I was ending a conversation on my work cell phone (sometimes all three phones are going, that’s fairly entertaining. I’ve become the Deft Jedi Knight of the Mute Button.) I realize my cell has fallen under the table, and so I stand up to get it, and WHOOSH, with one foot lifted, I am down for the count. I’ve learned not to fight falling, it only frustrates me and generally speaking, hurts more in the process. But! The phone is still ringing, and I manage to swipe my finger to answer it while supine on my frenemy, the Floor Protector From Hell. This person wants me to write down a number. Ok. I don’t keep pens and paper down on the floor, so now I’m Ninja Turtling myself back into a standing position while trying not to let on what’s just happened or where I took said call. The chair scoots back away from me so I almost miss it (fortunately, the bed in here stops it), and as I’m regaining what composure I have left, the gigantic plaster mirror that’s tilted against the bookshelf decides THIS IS IT TODAY WE MUST DIE and slides to the ground, shoving the desk into me while I’m trying to figure out what in bloody hell is happening and WHERE ARE MY PENS? and WHY DOES MY SHIN HURT? My shin hurts because that rigid plastic is not shin-friendly, and it had the same effect as a dry razor across the side of my leg when I was scrabbling to right myself.
The caller? Had no idea. That’s composure, baby.
Meanwhile, Costco needs to start selling these rug pad grippers.
We had tickets to the Buzz Under the Stars concert last Friday down at City Market – Cake was playing, we’ve seen them twice already and love ’em – plus I like Mumford & Sons. My rep had told me that parking was going to be a nightmare, and looking on the web site for the Market, the lots were going to cost at least $10 and no guarantee there would be enough spots. So I decided we should take the bus! James has taken the Max a couple times (jury duty, Rockfest) and always had good stories, so we headed up to the Park & Ride in Waldo, and jumped on the Max. I should point out I’m not a stranger to public transportation, as I took the bus the whole time I lived in Minneapolis, and I’ve ridden buses, subways and trains in NYC, Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago, etc. I think what distinguishes this experience from those is how…interactive people are willing to get with each other.
The Max is supposed to be very timely, and all the stops have digital updates letting you know where the bus is in transit. It runs from 75th and Waldo all the way up to 3rd & Grand, north of the City Market, and back again. For a $1.50, we were pretty happy with the alternative to driving and finding parking. Our bus driver was talking to his kids on the phone and might have been a minute or two late for departure, but with all the stops that started happening, he began to fall behind schedule. The trip started to take on shades of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride when we hit the Plaza, and instead of getting into the turn lane (which had a red arrow), he got into the center lane and made a left turn around the line of cars. I couldn’t stop laughing at that point, because we were hanging on to stay in our seats as we surged forward and took hard turns. If he’d had a cow-catcher on the front of the bus, we would have left a trail of wreckage as he plowed through slow cars in the bus lane.
Now, James had told me that there’s a whole section of the route that just turns into crazy pants, with the wildest mix of people you’d ever see. He wasn’t kidding. It starts near the Plaza and continues all the way through mid-town and into downtown. This experience was heightened by the fact it was also First Friday in the Crossroads, and as we sped through the area, we saw a huge wave of…zombies. Yes, zombies. It was totally awesome, apparently there was a hunger/food drive walk and these folks were in full regalia and makeup. (I have a penchant for zombies, I’ll admit.) The crazy-highlight of the trip, though, was the older woman sitting across from me (I was on the sideways seats, James was facing forward) and she started talking to me about my purple Tom Bihn bag, and that her favorite color is purple. (Despite the heat, she was wearing a jean jacket and purple sweatpants, her face divided by oversized, octagonal glasses.) She proceeded to tell me about buying some bag she just had to have and didn’t care about the stuff that came inside it, she could have thrown that stuff away, but she had to have that bag because her favorite color is purple. I amicably nodded along for a little bit, then turned my head to look around and watch our progress as we surged down Main Street. After a pause, she started talking to me again, but I had already transformed into the blowfish, and my sunglasses helped me avoid further eye contact. Naively, I thought that would be sufficient to discourage her. Oh. No. She leaned across the aisle, pawed at my bag and said loudly, “I LIKE YOUR BAG! My favorite color is purple!”
Oh Lord. “Yes, I know, you told me.” And she proceeded to run through her purple spiel again, while I nodded and avoided eye contact with my husband.
Blessedly, she got off shortly thereafter. After she exited, James reached over and grabbed my bag and informed me purple was his favorite color, too, while we both clutched the seats as we sped off again, trying to make up lost time.
But the big adventure was on the return trip home. We missed our bus by a minute, which was discouraging, as the route runs every half-hour and it was hot, it was just before 10p, and we were ready to head home. We waited it out, got on the bus, this time moving all the way towards the back where the seats are elevated and, I was assured by James, the people-watching was MUCH better. This time, we were getting an even more interesting assortment of people. A middle-aged black man got on the bus, wearing glasses that had a set of yellow lenses clipped on over them. They were also missing one sidepiece, so they precariously perched on his nose, held in place by only one side wrapping around his ear. I’m not sure what the yellow lenses did for him, I tend to associate that shade with sharpshooters. An angry goth girl with a Jimmy John’s shirt got on as well. Subs so angry you’ll freak? A trio of French girls boarded, and sat behind us, iPods firmly in place. One man got on with a paper plate of pizza, then he got off on the next stop. (Interesting. Dining al fresco and el bus-o?) The bus started to fill up; an older, skinny black man wearing a wife beater got on, went all the way to the back, followed by another wife-beater-wearing man, head shaved and gauged ears. It took a while to determine they were actually traveling together. For several minutes, the black man boomed “WHO DAT BE? WHO DAT BE? I CAN’T SEE!” as his pal was standing up in front of him. I just kept facing forward, and noticed I could use the thick piece of plexiglass that was in front of me (between me and the back door) as a sort of mirror, since the florescent lights of the bus brightly illuminated the other side of the bus, while the ones by me were off.
I could see Shaved Head dude swiveling his head around like a parrot, looking out both windows and observing people in the bus. Then he leaned forward and pushed on the shoulder of the French girl who was sitting by herself. “What are you listening to?” he demanded. She pulled out an earbud and said “What?” He repeated the question. In heavily accented English, she answered, “Muzeek” and put her headphones back in. This seemed to anger our unstable fellow, unfortunately. He then spent the next couple of stops sneering and repeating the conversation in an increasingly louder and temper-filled solo monologue. When he and his (WHODAT?!) friend, who at least had stopped his own shouting finally exited, he expelled some extra rage by jumping up and pounding on the bus windows by the girls behind me. Ugh. A guy behind me who’d been at the concert turned and apologized to her, and when someone said he didn’t do anything, he responded with the fact he was from our country and that’s why he was extending the apology. Someone was definitely off their meds, or in desperate need of some new ones.
Meanwhile, people are still getting on and getting off, and at the Plaza, a woman with her arm in a sling boarded, and started talking to the driver, apparently trying to determine if we were the right bus for her. Sadly, her inability to use her left arm also left her unable to pull up her pants, as I did a triple-take trying to ascertain if I had, indeed, just seen a judicious helping of the crack of her ass as her sweatpants drooped badly on her hips. Oh, I had.
Really, I think riding the Max about once a month (or more, if one wanted to write a book) is something everyone should do. It reminds you that the faceless, nameless people who clean your hotel rooms and make your sandwiches and pick up their kids from daycare because they don’t have a car are working behind the scenes to keep your comfortable life comfortable. That there are a lot of colorful, crazy folks who buy bus cards and go to the library or go out for a slice of pizza and then tuck themselves back to their low-income apartment or halfway house that we don’t see because we’re driving behind our tinted windows, listening to NPR, spending the cost of a bus pass on dinner. That there are people in this city for whom English isn’t their first language, and that chivalry isn’t dead, and people are unabashedly ready to tell you their favorite color is purple. The reminder that 30 years ago, you didn’t see a tattooed and pierced man affectionately touching his equally tattooed and pierced partner on the back, just like a man might pat his wife’s back, while they waited for the door to open. That today you think nothing of it, the new normal has progressed, nobody says anything or looks around with scandal.
That no matter how far away we move to live, in homogenized suburban neighborhoods, surrounded by the sterile blandness and sameness of strip malls and chain restaurants, none of that can hold a candle to the energy of the melting pot that is Midtown Kansas City.
We had our friends Jeremy & Abby over on a Saturday night recently; we realized it had been a really long time since we’d last seen them, since they’d, y’know, had another kid and the oldest was walking and talking. They brought the kiddos Wesley & Audrey along, and they were a real treat – well-behaved, hilarious, and cute as all get-out.
Jeremy was disappointed the dinner date took place past his birthday, since last time he’d been at our house, he’d paged ahead on the calendar and put his birthday on it, a little surprise waiting a couple months out. (We keep the house calendar hanging in the bathroom over the toilet…it’s the best way to keep dates and plans fresh in the minds of those who stand to pee….)
Anyway, they brought some wine and dessert – and Wesley was very proud that he had helped pick out the cookies at the store (sugar cookies with blue frosting and red & white sprinkles). He asked me if I knew what kind they were, and playing along I said I didn’t, but could he tell me? “They have the flavor of WOW,” he said quite seriously. We all agreed that was pretty special indeed.
Later, after dinner, he was playing on the Wii in the living room, and he came back into the dining room, sidling up to James and looking at me. “Jennifer?” he asked, very seriously. “Yes?” I replied.
“Can James come play the Wii with me?”
That one was a lot harder to not burst out laughing, but chuckling, I did agree that in a little bit, James could come and play with him.
Lots of laughter, lots of fun, an evening flavored with Wow.
A couple weeks ago, our friend Cindy went out for a walk and came home with a lost dog. The pooch was predominantly black lab, a blocky-headed, chunky dude named Coal. He had a leather collar with a city and phone number in Georgia, so we all assumed his owners had recently moved to town. After all, Coal hadn’t missed any meals, and he was one friendly dude. Because Cindy’s yard isn’t fenced, we agreed (yeah, I got the puppy-dog eyes from my husband) to a trial run and to help house him for a couple of days, as long as he got along well with our two labs. Plus, we have an outside kennel and doghouse, and a fenced yard – it seemed like the humane thing to do for the fella. James had high hopes he might be a hunting dog, but one toss of the dummy showed utterly NO interest in retrieving. Coal chased after the dummy, looked at it, and ran back to James – leaving the dummy behind. Not a duck dog!
He certainly got along with our dogs -manic play time and Coal showed no interest in challenging either dog for pack leadership (another oddity, as he was still intact, and I fully expected aggression between the two males.) No such thing, though by day two, Tripper was attempting to hump him, proving once and for all he’s got a madcap gay puppy inside him just howling to get out! (j/k!) We decided to get our P.I. friend in on the hunt for Coal’s owners – since the GA number rang into a fax, and faxes sent to the machine were unanswered. She quickly identified the name of the owner of the former number, and we even thought we’d found a residence -not too far from where Coal was found. Alas, no such luck. Cindy called vets in the Georgia town, and found Coal’s former vet – who confirmed the name we had was indeed the owner. They supplied a KS number, but that person said they weren’t missing a dog. I started to believe his owners had dumped him, and it made me so sad – and angry. To me, dogs are a commitment for their lifespan, not a couch you decide you’re tired of and put out on the curb. But I digress.
My new knitting friend Shawnna graciously agreed to foster Coal on a longer-term basis, and asked if we could call the vet back to get his records (for immunizations, etc.) Cindy obliged – and the vet faxed everything over. Unlike people medical records, apparently you can just send the whole kit & caboodle – and lo and behold, there was another (GA) number on the paperwork! Cindy called it – and it went through to the owner’s mom! Who was beside herself and told Cindy that her son and his wife LOVED that dog, and she would alert them immediately. Sure enough, they called, arrangements were made, and Coal went home that very night! Big smiles reportedly abound, and the only request that was made was to UPDATE HIS COLLAR. (I would have also suggested a surgical snip-snip, but that’s probably not my bidness.)
For a short time, I was afeard we’d have ourselves back up to three dogs, and at one point, Coal was sitting pretty on the back deck, begging to come into the house. I saw James behind him, with an equally hopeful look on his face. Yes, he was well-mannered, and a sweetheart, but no, I wouldn’t let him in. I’d watched that dog attempt to mark every bush, tree, and blade of grass in the back yard, long after he’d run out of “ammo”, and I could only imagine what would happen INSIDE the house. After all, it was Tripper’s error in judgment that fateful day he lifted his leg on our comforter and got his balls moved to the top of my to-do list! So I like to think that Coal’s reunited with his family, and his fellow dog, and he’s probably already put the weight back on that he lost at our “spa” – what with the massive exercise of playtime, and no people food. Truly an all’s-well-that-ends-well.
But I do still wonder when a puppy might wander into our lives…heh.
Since I’m at home all day, I get to see things firsthand, not hear about them after the fact. You know, it’s like “24”, and I’m Kiefer Sutherland, and all events are in REAL TIME. Yesterday was Delayed Garbage Day, due to the holiday on Monday, and the Wo is in charge of trash. I had taken advantage of the nice weather and wheeled out a huge bin of recycling the evening before, but we never put the trash out earlier than possible, since Feral Cat City across the way will destroy it in their efforts to find things to eat. We hadn’t had problems the past few weeks, but all of that changed. Just like the weather had. So my head actually exploded – yep, brain matter, bright spots of blood everywhere – when I looked out the window and saw this after the garbage trucks had been by:
Granted, I was livid before I even went out the door. And I did grab my iTouch, along with plastic gloves, a huge trash bag and a scoop shovel, just so I could capture the moment for posterity. But the weather did nothing to improve things, as I was pelted with sleet and rain, and my jeans were sopping wet from the ankles down due to puddles. It occurred to me, as I lost my temper and may have shouted a few things out loud at the sky, that I was now matching Crazy Cat Lady, toe to toe, as I swore and punched the sky and invited her to come over and help me, since she maintains the presence of these feral creatures by feeding them. I think I saw some curtains move, and I wondered what I would do if she actually DID come out, because I knew it wouldn’t be to help, but to screech at me about her poor starving kitties (that she doesn’t REALLY care for, or even bother to collar, since you can’t come near one.) That would have been an interesting blog post, for sure – and in my dream version, the rain and sleet would be augmented by the fire hydrant between our homes spraying into the air, and despite my personal dislike for him, I would play the role made famous by Mel Gibson, and Crazy Cat Lady would, of course, pick up the part played by Gary Busey, and we would end this Battle Royale once and for all. (Yes, Carmen, you can show up and play the role of Murtough.)
A Girl can dream.
It’s never been a big secret, my dislike of musicals. It’s not that I hate ALL of them, certainly – in fact, it surprises even me, the number I’ve seen and enjoyed. Chicago, Sweeney Todd, The Producers (the original), Rocky Horror Picture Show, Rent…. I’m sure there a couple more in there, but as you can also see from that list, I’m not into classic musicals and apparently, if it’s not got twisted humor, then there should be death. OK. So, my BFF, Beth, has teased me forever about musicals, because she loveloveloveLOVES them, and Moulin Rouge is her favorite. She even told me the other night at knit night that she now had it on Blu-Ray so the original DVD could be mine for a low low price. It’s always been a funny piece of our friendship. So much so, that on October 22, 2010, she sent me an email with this text:
I’ll quite pestering you about watching musicals if you make me these.
Not an easy bargain for either, but you might win in the end.
(Pattern linked to designer’s blog so all can access. Ravelry pattern link here.)
Yes, Moulin Rouge MITTENS.
Now, what made this even funnier is that I have never been much for colorwork, the technique required to create these things. In fact, I think I’ve even been heard to proclaim how much I hate it. But a seed was planted. A challenging seed. And as I continued to knit on my holiday presents, my brain thought and buzzed and finally concluded I could knit these things. Not to end the banter, never, but because it would be a fantastic present. A present knit with adoration and humor, and hopefully, not too garbled and jacked up, since my skill set in the technique category was low.
I won’t lie and say it was easy. Especially at first. I started out using Knit Picks Palette, as three of the ten photo-containing projects on Ravelry had been knit with it, and I was ordering some other yarn for holiday knitting. Egads. First of all, it’s splitty as hell. Second of all, even on a Size 0 (that’s tiny, for the non-knitters who have read this far), they were coming out grotesquely huge. I made a mistake in the chart, and decided to start over. (This was giving me some practice on my stranding!) Second attempt? Still came out huge. I couldn’t believe it. So I turned to the trusty folks at the Loopy Ewe, and ordered yarn from their new solid series of “house yarn”. Barn Red and Sand. And oh what a difference yarn twist can make. I’ll confess, there are a couple rounds here and there that are a smidge tighter than they ought to be. But in the end, they made a certain birthday bestie very happy, and I’m damned proud of the knitting accomplishment – because in the process, I came to enjoy knitting colorwork, and even have plans for some other projects now. What’s especially funny to me is that I watched a TON of MI:5, the British spy drama, while knitting on those, and it often feels like the things we watch are knit up into the stitches, as we look at something we’ve made and recall what we were doing while they were created – so they truly capture both of our passions. May she wear them for years to come!
Tell husband the movie we received on Netflix (Takers) was one he picked.
He reminds you he hasn’t been to the queue in several months.
Tell him it’s about poker/cards. Still convinced he put it in the queue.
Finish bottle of wine from dinner, clean up kitchen.
Put in movie.
Discover it stars Idris Elba, Michael Ealy and Matt Dillon. Read more from the tiny Tyvek sleeve and see it’s about an armed heist.
Yeah, yeah, honey, I’m sure you picked it! You just don’t REMEMBER it. Yeah.
~whistle innocently~