Thursday, February 10, 2011

This is 100% Jon Acuff's idea.

(This is 100% Jon Acuff's idea).

Most people know by heart or a least know of the five "Love Languages," which are cool and all, but really. Only five? I've thought of like twenty more since beginning this post, which I am making up as I go with almost no forethought. Like this gem: Head Scratches.

This is a big one for me. How do you express your love for me? Scratch my head. Do not use a head scratcher.

I will reciprocate by scratching your head.

I'm like the Rainman of Love Languages, my list is almost infinite and I know I'm not the only one who sees (or communicates) love with these things on my never ending list. Here is another one: Sour Patch Kids. Everyone loves SPK's and everyone loves it when other people share their (love for) the SPK's. You know I'm right and we're communicating little inklings of love right now, let's not get carried away though. I'm not having your sour patch kids before a trial head scratch. You'll know if you've passed.

The Love Languages book was a big seller and, on the basis of the sheer and overwhelming amount of ways there apparently are to tell somebunny that you love them, that fact is not surprising. What is surprising is that I am the first person to have thought of this: a database of LL's which can be accessed by those with the intention to woo. Actually, Jon Acuff thought of it first. Never mind.

Dang. Here are my LL's:

I like trivia and I like that Wikipedia exists so that I don't have to remember any trivia. I can just look it up on my phone mid-conversation, and I will, I'll just interrupt you and do it; In fact I already interrupted to you phone-write this post. I know you're thinking that I used to make fun of people with internet phones, and that wasn't past life because I still do.

If you love me, you'll judge me in silence.

Figuring out what's going to happen in the end of movies
is something that I am an expert at. Seriously, I'm really, really good. Not a lot of people like having the end ruined, though, so I should have it known that being in love with me means knowing exactly what is going to happen in the end of every movie, probably forever.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

We hate Tupperware, not life.

If life was a like Tupperware drawer, you would be the bendy lid.

Except that life IS like a Tupperware drawer, as Hallie and I discovered in what started out as a joke about life being like a Tupperware drawer, and what ended in a harrowing realization that life is exactly like a Tupperware drawer.

Unstacking the dishwasher of its TW contents, Hallie said "I hate Tupperware," which needed no further clarification or questioning because, really, enough said. Like if someone said "I love ice-cream," and the other person said "why?" the other person would be stupid. So instead I said "I bet you can tell a lot about people based on their TW drawers. Think about it. I once saw a very nicely organized T drawer in Colorado and it made me think that the owners must be wonderful people with fulfilling lives." It wasn't the avalanche of Tupperware that I'm used to: its lids were neatly arranged in order of size so that they corresponded with their container counterparts which were also stacked biggest-to-smallest. A profusion of containers were quietly stored in this wonderous drawer, never to explode on anybody.

And so we thought about it.

My T collection reflects my lifestyle. If I am responsible with my first 3-pack of Ziplock Tupperwares (they aren't stained with tomato and all of their lids still exist), I am rewarded with fresh and well contained food items. So pleased am I with my food storage system that I purchase another 3 pack. Or a 4 pack of assorted sizes. Or like, Rubbermaid ones that can hold lava.

The better steward I am of my TW, the more fulfilled I am by them and the more TW I get to own. In other words: Faithful with a little bit, faithful with a lot.


This isn't an easy task. TW's are tricky bastards. Their lids become bendy in the dishwasher when all you wanted to do was clean them. Setback. Good intentions, bad outcome = hard life, friends. Hopefully you learned your lesson though. If you didn't, your lids will never fit and you'll be stuck in a cycle of "WTF stupid bendy lid? You make my containers leak!" for the rest of your life. If you would just read the label and wash the lids in the sink next time, your non-fitting misery will end. Break the cycle.I know. It's harrowing.

I should stop drinking before blogging.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Goldfish are not self-aware.

Pet Store Sales Girl: Can I help you with anything?

Me: Yes, I would like to buy a goldfish please.

PSSG: Okay! I'll help you scoop one up.

M: Actually I haven't chosen one yet, I'll go get the bowl and everything first so that...

PSSG: Interrupts. Bowl?

M: Fishbowl.

PSSG: Fishbowl??

M: Tries to walk away, ending the conversation awkwardly because I didn't really know what else there was to say.

PSSG: You can't put a goldfish in a bowl, it'll die.

M: What? You are questioning centuries of goldfish ownership, sales girl. I don't work in a pet store or anything but I'm certain that I've never seen a goldfish in a cage or kennel or hutch or...

PSSG: Goldfish need to live in tanks with filtration systems, it's mean to keep them in bowls. Beta fish, on the other hand, live very well in bowls.

(The store keeps Beta Fish in tiny individual cups of water. They aren't doing anything, they're just floating there looking mostly dead. Fishbowls are mean?)

M: Beta fish are boring. I really just want a goldfish to keep in a bowl on my desk and...

PSSG: Did you know that the oldest living goldfish is 120 years old? It lives in a tank. Goldfish aren't meant to be kept in bowls, it's just a misconception that has lead to years of cruelty to the fish.

Me: Are you a vegan?

PSSG: Look, I can't stop you from buying a fish and putting in a bowl but I'm just warning you that it will probably die in like 3 years.

Me: Sounds like a 12 cents well spent. 

PSSG: SO offended. Fine, which one do you want?

Me: That little black one.

PSSG: sulkily extracts the little black fish and hands him to me in a bag, looking as if I have chosen her favorite child to join my army in the monkey wars at the end of time.

Me: Does the 120 year old fish know that it's 120 years old? I mean, doesn't it think that it was born 13 seconds ago?

PSSG: The fish may or may not be self-aware...


Saturday, July 3, 2010

Things a chinchilla can eat without immediately dying.

In the years that we have had a chinchilla roommate, we have been keeping track of all the times that he hasn’t died. I, especially, have been keeping an anticipated eye on his mortality and have identified the following patterns in his remaining-alive-against-the-odds behavior: 1). Every occasion that he has not perished when perishing seems to be the only logical way forward, has followed his eating something that is not food or reasonably consumable without immediate chinchilla death. Like the cement incident. 2). On a scale of “probably won’t eat it” to “has eaten 3 of them today,” the likelihood that on object will become Martin food increases drastically with its removal from food-like substances and its expensiveness/impossible to replace-ness. Like computer chargers which cost roughly one million dollars.

Tomorrow my chinchilla is taking his first big-boy steps and moving away to San Francisco, to spread his little chinchilla wings and find his fortunes in the big city. Like most parents do at these milestone moments in their children's lives, I have been putting on a brave face and excitedly preparing him for his embarkation into adulthood, but sometimes when he's not around I pull out his baby photos and think how it seems like just yesterday that I was chasing him around the house at 3am because he had escaped from his cage and was rapidly consuming everything in his path.

And so since concrete, electricity, chocolate* and the wood glue and paint of his own house have not killed him, I have great confidence that the terror of a city that is far, far from home will not kill him either. It might change him a bit and he’ll learn some of those words that I have I have done so well to shelter him from. Most likely though, he’ll just make funny noises and birthday toast for his new roommates (and fourth of July granola, and St Patrick’s day pudding. WHO IS GOING TO FEED ME FESTIVELY WHEN YOU ARE GONE MARTIN???)** and charm the pants off of "San Fransisco."

I, like a proud momma, will wait for my chinchilla’s visits home and secretly harbor a grudge against the big stupid city.

*"Chocolate isn't good for dogs, but you can have the rest of my milk." Dogs: lesser mammals.
** Okay. Fine. By chinchilla I mean Cassie Wamboldt. YOU CAUGHT ME OKAY.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

The Piñata of Fury

A lot of Sundays ago I became enraged with my belongings as I was packing them up and moving them out of our condo in Tempe and away to the nether regions of Gilbert, Arizona, where they now live in boxes in my parents garage. They come to life at night and have adventures there, but that is a blog for a different time. What started out as creeping uncomfortableness with realizing that I own too many things escalated throughout the week into blind fury at the things that I own for merely existing, and by association, every other thing in the world.

I was stomping around childishly, trying make everything that I didn't want to pack burst into flames with my eyes, when I tripped over a piñata that had been banished to our garage for mocking me, and the last tethers that I had on my temper crumbled into dust. You have laughed your last laugh, piñata. (Shaky voice) Your last laugh. Though I knew at the time that I was experiencing irrational portions of annoyance at inanimate things, on a measure of "I know it's silly to be angry at a piñata," to "I know I'm bleeding from the ears with rage, but that piñata crossed a line!" I was at the level of "honey, bring the children inside, I think our neighbor is having an episode," but I didn't care, so outrageously irritated was I. The piñatas of my life had pushed me too far. Why did we have six spatulas? WHERE DID THEY COME FROM??

Calm down, my inside dignity mechanism advised, but I didn't hear it because of the exploding sound the piñata made when he landed in the street where I'd thrown him, his stupid blue feathers streaming pathetically behind. I would set fire to them later. I left the criminal in the road because traffic is perilous.

One millennium later when the rest of the condo's contents had been sent away, when its windows had been cleaned and its keys returned to our land-lady who was serenely unaware that I had come unhinged, I said goodbye to my house and walked out into the street to apologize to the remaining pieces of my piñata friend. We were about to part ways forever; I could swallow my pride and wish him well with the rest of his endeavors. Because that's how grownups behave.

I can't remember what happened to my apology but it must have been drowned out by the still mocking sonofabitch as he tore in half mid-air, having been drop kicked toward the communal dumpster down the street from our driveway. His rear end was caught by the wind and carried away into the Tempe afternoon (way to go, Captain Sustainability). The Piñata's head landed neatly on top the over-flowing dumpster in an explosion of leaves and garbage, sunshine reflected merrily off of the filth we had unsettled. It was glorious.

I have calmed down since then and realized that the only way forward is to sell everything I own and go live in a magical bus in the Alaskan wilderness. Not really.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Two things that should not happen in the kitchen.

It came to me that something has gone sadly awry as my beautiful roommate, whose dignity and radiant charm are often subjects of my self deprecating envy, is hiding in the refrigerator eating (my) salsa out of a jar with a spoon.

I began to suspect that we had hopelessly underachieved the sweet, young hopes that we once dreamed for our pretty townhouse when I was tip-toeing around in the wee hours of this morning without pants on (sorry boys). Forsaking the iron-clad agreement that I've made with myself to no longer wander our hallway without pants on. It's just not what grownups do, and we have a glass front door (title for a future blog post: "The time a UPS man came to visit and Sam wasn't really dressed: a chilling cautionary tale").

I found myself in a pickle this morning when I woke up with vigorously excited intentions of springing joyfully from my bed, humming a happy morning tune and being dressed by songbirds, finally to emerge into the daylight of "reading day" (known to students as the day between classes and exams meant for studying and not for partying themselves into oblivion). My plan was going flawlessly until I realized that the songbirds had been eaten by my laundry and that on Monday I left my pants behind the couch, leaving me with two options. 1). Remain in my room for the rest of my life, pantslessly 2). Abandon my promise and my pride and go in search of my prodigal shorts. It was not lightly that I chose the latter.

Ordinarily I would have sprinted but I did not want to wake our sweetly sleeping chinchilla by tripping and swearing, so I crept, and crept and crept until I finally found a pair of shorts in the kitchen, where adults often keep their clothes.

Beginning my day this way and ending it with the salsa incident brought me to the realization that the fetching young ladies who had, twelve months ago, taken such pride in their lovely house on Broadmore, who had washed its dishes and entertained its guests with cookies and charm, have deteriorated into confusingly dressed hobos with undefined closet boundaries. Though we hoped by now to be grownup college graduates, lofty in our ways and enlightened in our thoughts, the truth is that we spend a disproportionate amount of our time juggling oranges in the kitchen, primarily when there is calculus homework to be done. And sometimes, when a roommate makes gluten-free taquitos for lunch and leaves them on the counter for more than five minutes, another roommate will steal them and, hiding pajama-clad in the refrigerator, use them to scoop expired salsa from the jar, in a way that will sadly not surprise third roommate, but will cause her to despair in wonder of what we have become.

At least we aren't Joe:
(a rough guide to an ill-fated conversation).

Joe: "Happy Cinco de Mayo, welcome to Macayo's. Are you here to pick up a take out order?"

Cassie: "Yes we are."

Joe: "It looks like your total is going to be $18.50, how would you like to pay for this?"

Sam: "Can we split it please?"

Joe: "Sure thing...(a moment of calculation), $11 on the first card."

Sam: "What? No, can you split the whole cheque in half?"

Joe: Confused. Very confused.

Cassie: "Like $9ish on one card and $9ish on the other?"

Joe: Is pissed. Stomps off to some undefined place for an indistinguishable amount of time, probably to work on his attitude. When he finally returns we can see that he has realigned his lip ring and his mood. "Okay, so you want to split the whole amount in half? Down the middle?"

Sam: "Its like you've known us for our whole lives long, Joe."

Joe: Uses his iphone to calculate what half of $18.50 is. He does not believe the iphone when it delivers the answer. "This can't be right....$9.25?"

Cassie: Busily trying to contact the people who administer genius grants.

Sam: Angry and confused that an iphone would lie so blatantly to poor Joe when all he wants to do is be a better server.

Joe: "Oh no, that is right."

Relief all around.

Until we arrived home to enjoy or celebratory $9.25 lunch:

Hopefully expectant

Sad, disillusioned and emotionally confused.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I find people with feet annoying.

Not really. But I nearly maimed a two-footed person on my way home from campus (in a way that was two thirds unintentional and one third utterly malicious, but in my own defense they were three thirds asking for it). The experience was unsettling for me, and could have been relatively traumatic for the almost maim-ee because they might have a)been maimed b)died. Both of these choices end in trauma, for you and for your mom who also has feet.

Consequentially, I have invented the following guide for the purpose of enhancing the relationship between people on foot* and people on bicycle** everywhere (but more specifically on my campus which seems to be the world/universe epicenter of the problem). My hope is that adherence of walkers to the following simple rules will alleviate the oblique but growing tension between walkers and bicyclists and hopefully we will avoid a calamitous explosion of one party against the other, because there is only one outcome of that possibility, and it does not include the retention of your dignity or your Doc Martins. Nobody wears those anymore.

I will also no longer be compelled to insult you mom.

Rule #1: Always Pass Right
When walking in the head on-direction of a bicyclist, you have one of three options: 1). Pass them on the right 2). Pass them on the left 3). Walk flat into bicyclist and cause injury while streaming profanities offensively at once-bicyclist-now-pavement-ist while she picks gravel out of her palms and face.

Always pass right. Thus avoiding confusion and collision.
Rule #2: Walk in a straight line.
So that if a bicycle is approaching from behind, they can safely ride around you without hurting you/other people/unless they want to.

If you like to walk in zig zag or in circles or in inexplicable and random directions that ensure the quadruple-tion of your trip time from point A to point B, your chances of being bicycled from an unseen direction dramatically increase simultaneously with the chances that the bicycling of you was intentional.

Tip: The same rule exists for the alternation of speed when walking in or in out of a logical direction.

Here is a rule for bicyclers: Rule #3: Cultivate an intimidating glare and possibly snarl.
This is effective in warding off feet-people and boyfriend prospects.
Tip: This is bad advice, don't obey this rule.

To end this post on a less cynical note (as my mood has significantly improved since I began writing it, for the following reason), I have just finished eating a banana flavored popsicle (better mood) and there was a joke on the popsicle stick (best mood).

What did the bee name his kid?

(because bees can't say words).

** Me.