Benjamins and Other Banes

It’s that time again, folks.  After my last post’s sob story about being poor, I’ve decided to whine and complain about something ELSE that’s probably within my control if I weren’t too busy whining and complaining about it to fix said problem.  Whatever.  People that try to sell me that line of crap about “controlling your own destiny” and “put on your big girl panties and deal with it” also annoy me.  So, in the spirit of small underpants, here are more annoyances that exist currently in my life.

1.  $100 bills.  Really, America?  First off, no one uses cash anymore.  This shortage of cash in people’s pockets also results in a shortage of cash in store registers across the good ole U-S-of-A, making the act of making change a pain in my not-worth-a-hundred-bucks booty.  Secondly, when have you ever pulled out a Benjamin and NOT heard the receiver sigh in frustration?  Whether you’re trying to grab a taco from one of the many, truck-driving vendors around our fair city or procuring some crack from one of the many, crack-dealing vendors around our fair city, NO ONE HAS CHANGE.  I believe this hatred stems from an incident when I was serving tables one day.  A lady paid for a $13 check with a $100 bill.  As our register notoriously had only $1 and $5 bills (that still didn’t add up to $87) I told her that I would need to run (it was August.  In Tennessee.  Just a note.) to a totally different restaurant to get change and that I would be right back (this so she wouldn’t think that I was pulling the complete opposite of a dine-n-dash entitled, “Take all of my table’s money.”)  I run.  I almost twist my knee in an unfortunate run-in with a dent on the sidewalk.  I get her change.  And this woman?  The only woman from the entire table to pay with cash?  Left. No. Tip.  That day started my hatred of the $100 bill, and while I don’t mind that they exist, just put them in the bank and pay with your check card.  And the $50?  Don’t get me started.  Try counting a stack of twenties and then come up on a $50.  I dare you to keep count.  DARE YOU! 

2.  Super-strong paper towels.  I’m using a paper towel for one reason – I need a paper towel.  If I need to scrub hard water stains, eradicate the unfortunate blood splatters on my shoes, or wax my car, I’m going to use the appropriate cleaning device.  The reason I’m using a paper towel is because I probably made a mess too big for a napkin and too small for a beach towel.  They’re paper towels.  Not Sham-Wows.  The world does not need Sham-Wows on a roll. 

3.  The new trend of putting your offspring into your TV commercial.  It’s not okay.  Your children are going to grow up constantly being known as the, “Hurt bad?  Call my dad!” girl or the poor kids of the Hickory Hollow Kia guy that I’m convinced only do the commercials because they’re afraid dad will go on another, “ride the Ferris wheel until you throw up and THEN decide to do my commercial” bender.  And girls forced into the slavery of their dad’s television advertising grow up to be afflicted with a condition I like to call, “Daddy didn’t love me, but I bet this large man holding money out of his car window will.” 

4.  East Nashville bumper stickers.  I get it.  You live in the hip on one block/completely ghetto on the next block part of town and you’re proud to still be kickin’ it in your Chuck Taylors.  I appreciate the architecture, the culture, and most of the people.  But the bumper stickers?  Flat-out make me shake my head.  They also make the folks that live in other, less-hip parts of town gloat when we can get out of our driveway during a Titans game. 

5.  The fact that White Castle has chicken rings.  While I’m well aware of the fact that chickens also don’t have nuggets, I would really like for someone to show me where the hell the ring comes from on a chicken.  Things that are supposed to come in rings:  Onions.  Circuses.  Dances around rosies.  NOT CHICKEN.  And how am I supposed to dip a chicken ring in a little vat of honey mustard?  It can’t be done, my friends.  It can’t. Be. Done.

6.  YouTube videos of babies.  Actually, YouTube videos in general, but lately I’ve been getting a lot of “Have you seen the video of the baby 'saying something funny that will probably be Auto-Tuned and put on iTunes in order to add to the baby’s college fund' video?"  Odds are, the baby is doing something most babies do – laughing, drooling, or pooping on something.  Also, odds are that since I find YouTube to be an absolute monstrosity of party-killing evil, I will probably hate whatever you’re about to show me.  It’s not the babies I hate – it’s the fact that I’m about to lose 3 minutes of my life to watch something that I have probably already seen over the course of my baby-sitting career (which consists of the past 7-odd years since my nephew was born.  And then only when my sister, Marian, catches me off-guard with a “So, what are you doing this weekend?  Nothing?  Watch my children!” conversation.*)

Wow.  Reading the last few paragraphs made me realize how much I hate the things I hate.  To renew my faith in all things not-stupid, allow me to list some things that make me stupidly happy.

1.  Canadians.  I fancy the people from “Fake America” frolicking through the streets with their Canadian “bacon” (it’s ham, folks.  Canadians obviously have their parts of the porcine variety confused.) on a stick shouting, “Let’s play some hockey, eh?” while the mounted policemen look at them with smiles from atop their gallant horsey.  I found out recently that a co-worker on another floor briefly lived in Canada when he was growing up, and so now I can say that I (sort-of) know an actual Canadian!  Now, if I could forgive them for Celine Dion, we would be ready to rock n roll with the hosers up North. 

2.  The fact that you can make ANY dish sound fancy just by listing all of the ingredients.  I figured this out the other day when I gave an ostentatiously -long description of what amounted to a quesadilla.  I’ve also figured out this is why the people on Top Chef sound so fancy – they’re just naming every single freakin’ part of their dish!  For example, a PB&J?  “Well, Chef, tonight we have a lovely jam made of farm-fresh strawberries paired with a homemade almond butter on a lovely wheatberry bread.  We (they always talk in “we” speak) serve this with a side of fried potatoes paired with a twist on the traditional ketchup (that means you added garlic.  Or truffles.)   See?  Fancy.  Told ya. 

Unfortunately, per usual, the “happy” list isn’t nearly as long as the “annoying as hell” list, but such is life.  Now I’m going to go figure out how to make chicken rings sound gourmet when they’re made of things like “riboflavin-injected triglyceride modules.” 

*  Remember – if I mention you by name in my blog, it means I love you.  Or that you really, really annoy me.  So, um, just kidding?  Hehe. 

Jamiepolitan: A Guide to Being a Recessionista with an Attitude. (Or, a Poor Bee-Yotch)

I don’t know if you’re anything like me (you’re not, if you’re lucky) but I’m quite tired of the suffix “-ista” being applied to everything.  Fashionista, recessionista, barista.  Stop the insanity.  Why can’t we just say I’m a well-dressed, yet thrifty, person who makes coffee?  However, I really hate the term “recessionista” because it sounds too…nice.  I wasn’t exactly a bundle of sunshine before the low-tide of the economy forced starfish and real estate moguls alike to flounder on the sand, and being poor has done absolutely nothing to improve my attitude on life.  Therefore, I’m not a recessionista.  I am just a poor person.  So, here’s a guide to rolling around in the mountains of poor with me.

You must learn to cleverly accessorize, as a lot of the clothes you buy from Goodwill and “borrow” from people’s clothes lines are going to have holes in them.  Used clothing is often given away for reasons other than it’s out of style.  It might be too small, it might remind someone of an old flame, and it might have a very small hole right over your nipple.  A blazer will sometimes fix the latter problem, as will that used “Miss Pig Fair Teen Princess 1987” banner you just found in the $1 bin at the Salvation Army.  The possibilities are endless as long as you’re creative! Being creative lets you announce your personal style to the world without letting them know that you don’t actually have the money to buy a shirt without holes!

Speaking of creativity, you’re going to get really good at inventing reasons not to go out with people.  My favorite excuse is, “We can’t go because we’re freakin’ broke.”  Sometimes this works.  Other times it invites the response of, “But come OOOONNN.  My ferret only has one birthday a year and you simply CANNOT miss Miss Glitter McGlitterton’s 3^rd birthday!”  If you sense the inviter inhabits a money-filled bubble of reality-repellant plastic, you must bring out the (stolen) big guns (that’s right.  I just implied that we don’t have the money to buy hypothetical guns.)  Sometimes it’s the mundane “my aunt died again” excuse.  Other times the excuse involves a large hippopotamus and several circus midgets with blow torches.  Again, let your imagination run wild (which is totally free!) while you come up with something to get that bubble-dwelling friend off of your monkey-laden back. 

You are going to curse yourself, endlessly, for buying a house at the very apex of the housing bubble.  You may attempt to sell your house to take advantage of lowered interest rates (or, you know, take advantage of the fact that you’re no longer single and would like to move out of your single pad now that you’re married.)  This  is an absolutely moronic idea because no matter how well your house is staged, no matter the rock star you’ve enlisted to aid in the sale, it’s still real estate and “selling your house with ease” is not very en vogue at the moment (at least not in my neighborhood.  I’m sure the Bellevue elite have fewer problems, but their idea of a problem is which seersucker suit to wear to Steeplechase.)  What IS en vogue is deflated property values and shattered dreams of actually moving out of the cramped shoebox of a townhouse that’s slowly driving you, and your husband with a lot of knick-knacks, several guitars, and a full drum kit, to the brink of perfectly-staged insanity.   The upside of this is that you don’t have to join a gym (costly!) because all the self-inflicted butt-kicking is going to give you an ass to rival Beyonce. 

People who have much more of everything are going to abound.  Everywhere.  Nicer cars, nicer homes, nicer iPods, people with ANY iPod, etc.  Seeing the ease with which these people breeze through life is not only saddening, it’s disheartening and induces an innate hatred for everyone.  Just learn to let the hatred burn a pit into your stomach.  Then, focus this hatred into something positive.  Like a blog detailing your hatred for those with more money than you.  You will make no money at this, but you also might not shoot the next 17-year-old you see driving a Land Rover (legal fees are astroNOMical.)  Let the words of anger flow while you stare longingly at the Groupon for a manicure you still can’t afford.  Your financial situation will not improve, but you’ll save yourself some medical bills by not getting an ulcer!

We’ve now come to the end of this article and I’ve offered no advice on repurposing old furniture, growing your own vegetables, or using cloth diapers.  I realize I’ve done nothing but bitch about what a bitch it is to be poor.  Hmmm.  Well, I have a solution.  If you don’t like it, pay me to write something else.  Problem solved! 

How Do I Loathe Thee? Let Me Count the Ways.

I’m fairly certain that the Melrose Kroger – the one right there at the corner of Franklin Pike and the road to hell – will force me to stab someone some day.  Why I continue to go in there is a mystery to even me, as I have never left without muttering, in various volumes, highly-critical words about its parking lot, the service, the selection, or the customers.  Why do I hate this place so much?  Let me explain.

1.  The parking lot sucks.  It’s tiny, it serves as a parking lot for many other businesses other than the stab-worthy Kroger, and I believe that it sucks out people’s brain cells as soon as they enter the property.  I don’t mind walking a little bit, but I DO mind when some idiotic woman on her cell phone attempts to back out her Chevrolet Landslide and almost runs over me AND $75 worth of groceries.  If you’re asking yourself if I showed more concern over my own well-being or my half-price frozen pizzas, you should know better.  Insurance pays for broken appendages, and I didn’t get the DiGiorno add-on to my policy (the deductible is outrageous) and I’ll be run over in a Kroger parking lot before I give up those expensive bad boys to anyone not holding a shotgun.  And the bystander that commented, “That woman bout just run over you” only made the situation that much better.  

2.  The selection is less-than-stellar, to say the least.  I ask you – who doesn’t have pita chips??  I searched for a good 5 minutes yesterday, in uncomfortable shoes no less, and no chips.  Of course, searching for these bits of tastiness would be a lot easier if they didn’t have people stocking things in every.single.aisle.  It’s like they see that a lunch rush might be coming and they think to themselves, “Hmmm.  Better go restock those tomatoes.  And the milk.  And anything else that stupid girl who comes in here and talks to herself constantly might need to get.  Ooh – she’s heading towards the salad bar.  Let’s restock THAT!”  I’m fairly sure it’s a conspiracy.  A yet-unfounded conspiracy, but it exists. 

3.  Through no fault of the establishment, the customers are nauseating.  Oh my, the customers.  Today’s example:  A rather “round” lady (I’m not judging!  I’m not perfect.  But I also don’t wear skintight, pink sweat pants with “Playmate” emblazoned on my ass.) screaming into her cell phone, “Do you want Coke?  I said COKE!  Oh, you want Sprite?  I can’t hear you.  NO.  I’M IN KROGERS!” (and yes, she said KrogerS.  Plural.)  How can I relive this so vividly?  Because I could hear every word from the cake mix aisle while she was in the beverage aisle  - five aisles down.  Then there was the “You can tell I haven’t showered in 3 weeks because simply walking by the celery makes it turn brown” dude who apparently wanted to buy everything that was on my list (how can someone who smells that bad need peanut butter, milk, AND olive oil at the same time I do?)  And who on earth could forget entire family blocking the cereal aisle who apparently couldn’t move for anyone because they couldn’t decide between Cap’n Crunch and Froot Loops (a hint?  They’re both crap.  Go get some wilted celery.)  I can even tolerate the hipsters that flock to this pit of despair because in comparison, they are actually the less annoying evil.  Maybe the parking lot sucks up people’s manners along with their intelligence, but whatever it is, the Melrose Kroger either attracts society’s detritus or it turns people that way.  Either way, I’m steering clear. 

4.  Finally, let’s talk about the checkout process.  This piece of the headache-inducing puzzle is the icing on the crap cake.  I tend to utilize the self-checkout because 1.  I’m probably going back to work.  Since it’s 114 degrees outside, I put my cold products in one bag and stuff that can stay in the car in another.  2.  No matter how many of my handy-dandy reusable bags I bring with me, I somehow manage to bring home one of those stupid, brown plastic bags that will get stuck in my little dispenser on the wall until the day that a Twinkie grows mold.  So, to alleviate the blinding pain these encounters bring, I just bag the groceries myself.  But the self-checkout at the Melrose Kroger has a brand-new kind of blinding pain.  Because it NEVER WORKS.  Ever.  Almost every time I hit “pay now” the stupid Colleen (that’s the name I’ve given the voice at the self-checkout.  I don’t know any Colleens, but I don’t like the name, so that’s the moniker I’m sticking with) says, “Cashier has been notified to assist you.”  Why I need the cashier’s assistance is beyond me, as I’m fairly certain I can swipe a credit card and sign a stupid electronic pad, but the fact that the cashier never acknowledges the fact that I “need assistance” is the nail in the Grocery Store from Hell coffin.  I always have to track her down (yes, it’s the same woman every time) and the reason she’s not paying any attention?  Because she’s busy talking to co-workers.  Or standing there with a blank stare on her face.  Or doing anything other than her actual job.  If this was a one-time occurrence, I could stomach it.  Since it’s happened twice this week alone, it’s quite the un-stomachable dilemma as I’ve determined that she hates her job, hates interacting with anyone who doesn’t work with her, and apparently hates me.  Whatever.  I don’t give a flying rat’s dirty parts if you like me – I just need you to punch whatever button it is that will enable me to actually pay for my groceries.  And when I have to track you down, pull you out of what seemed to be a very interesting conversation about garden hoses, and then watch you give me a disdainful look for politely asking you to do your job, that’s when I get a wee bit pissed off.  I’m not asking for a ticker tape parade – I just want to be able to check out in less than 45 minutes. 

Whew!  I don’t know about you, but I feel much better.  So much better in fact that next week I’ll need a couple of items, think to myself, “I could just go grab those on my lunch break,” and tell myself that going to the Melrose Kroger can’t be THAT bad again.  But then I’m going to read this.  And I’ll drive to Brentwood if I have to – the Melrose Kroger can suck it.  They can suck it long.  And they can suck it hard.

Hipster or No? Find out Now!

If you’re reading this, then you’re one of the few people I have left that actually sort of like me.  I would like to thank you for sticking by my profanity-laced rants against all that annoys me in life (which is everything) and I would also like to pass along my psychiatrist’s info, as you very well may be borderline crazy for reading this stuff.  Regadless, it’s time for our monthly semi-annual whenever I feel like writing one quiz!  You may have read about my complete hatred for hippies.  I also hate hipsters, which are a close cousin in that I hate both groups equally.  “Hippie” is a fairly universal term while “hipster” only recently began to pollute our lexicon.  For those asking, “Exactly what constitutes a hipster?  Am I am hipster?  Who is the band I’m listening to?”  I present to you:

Are You a Hipster?  An Easy Guide to Tell if You’re a Douchebag:

1.        Are you currently:

a.       Drinking a PBR

b.      Enjoying 20/20 vision but…

c.       Wearing Buddy Holly glasses

d.      A dude wearing a scarf in the middle of June

e.      Wearing a t-shirt that used to be serious but is now considered ironic

f.        Unable to feel your legs due to the tightness of your pants

2.       Do you believe the adjective “independent” makes anything better (i.e. farms, music, or the space administration?)

a.       Yep.  The man is going to ruin us. 

b.      Nope.  They call me “Salmon” I’m so mainstream. 

3.       Is Skyline Trio:

a.       A really cool band that had way more cred before they sold out

b.      The latest marketing effort for TOMS shoes

c.       The newest flavor from Pinkberry

d.      Something I just made up to see if you’d fall for it

4.       Do you smile?

a.       Yes

b.      No

5.       When did you last…

a.       Shop at American Apparel

b.      Use the word “solid” in reference to a musical act

c.       Carry a man bag

d.      Wear neon-colored sunglasses.  At night. 

e.      Tweet about the location of a food truck

f.        Purchase an accessory with a feather attached to it

g.       Wear a vest

6.       You were last at Goodwill:

a.       A month ago

b.      Two weeks ago

c.       Right now

7.       How many body suits do you own?

a.       None.  I threw those out along with my 1992 cheerleading uniform

b.      2.  They can be useful in the winter as an effective layering agent

c.       I have no idea, but the number is close to the number of Arcade Fire songs I have on my iPod

8.       What kind of facial hair are you currently sporting?

a.       Clean-shaven here.  Facial hair is only acceptable in pre-90s porn movies

b.      Small goatee and neatly-trimmed sideburns

c.       I went as Paul Bunyon for Halloween after painting my dog blue to go with me as Babe.

9.       Are you smoking an American Spirit?  Right now?

a.       Yes

b.      No

c.       Only because I think they enhance the flavor of my PBR while at an obscure record release party

10.   Your record collection:

a.       Is on file with Metro PD

b.      Came from what my parents gave me when they cleaned out the garage.  Gonna sell those things on eBay!

c.       Rivals my body suit collection

Scoring:

#1:  Give yourself a point for each one you answered “yes.”  Unless you answered  yes to D, and then give yourself a smack in the face in addition to your points. 

#2:  Give yourself a point if you answered yes.  Actually, give yourself a point if you answered no, also.  I don’t really know where I was going with that other than I thought the idea of an independent space administration was funny. 

#3:  Give yourself two points for any answer other than “d.”  If you answered “d,” then congratulations, you might not be a hipster! 

#4:  If you smile, then subtract 3 points from your score.  If you don’t smile, go watch some kittens or something.  Seriously.  What’s wrong with you?

#5:  A point for each one you marked yes.  And if you got over two of those, stop reading this because I probably want to kill you and take your fedora for myself.  I’ll hold your athletic socks with the retro stripes around the top while you jump in to that swiftly-flowing river.    

#6:  Put down the “Don’t Do Drugs” shirt from 1984, stop dreaming about how ironic it is that you’re buying an anti-drug shirt, and give yourself 2 points for any answer. 

#7:  If you answered A, then congratulations.  You’re probably not that stupid.  If you answered B or C, then please realize that body suits are nothing more than bathing suits for land. 

#8:  If you answered A or B, then good job.  Huge beards are disgusting and make you hard to make out with at a Death Cab for Cutie concert.  Shave it. 

#9:  If you answered B or C, then do yourself a favor and put out your American Spirit IN your PBR.  It will make both taste better. 

#10:  Give yourself whatever you feel like.  You’ve probably stopped paying attention by now and if you can tell, this quiz is asinine.  Go scoff at someone, continue to survive on an air of superiority and smoke-filled dive bars, and straighten your man scarf.  Your tassels are getting in my beer.  And since I don’t drink crap like you, I can actually tell.    

*Special thanks to my contributing editor on this quiz, Mr. Travis Yost.  Travis has expressed a hatred for hipsters before, which is one of the many reasons I married him.  That, and his record collection. 

The Not-So and So-Hot List: April Edition

Well, ladies, it’s that time of year again.  White shoes and linen pants are almost wearable again, the air is full of things that make you go, “Ah-choo,” and the person next to you in traffic can hear you curse their entire family because the weather’s warm enough to drive with your windows down.  And with the advent of a new season comes the arrival of one of my favorite things:  A list of things that I find annoying.  Brace yourself.  I’m coming in like a lion.  And leaving like a hungry one. 

The Not-So List:

1. The little fad of what I like to call “Car Families.”  You know, the little sticker families you see on the backs of cars with a dad, mom, and however many children you have.  It’s gotten out of control.  Some of these people have the entire Atlanta Braves roster on the back of their minivan, and it’s annoying as crap.  Am I supposed to tolerate your bad driving because you were able to produce 8 kids and a dog?  Is it possible that you’re driving like a total moron because you can’t see out your back window?  Maybe these things annoy me because my car family would consist of me, Travis, and three cats, thus making my road rage threats of “clawing out your eyes with a rusty crack spoon” a bit less threatening.  Whatever the reason, they’re getting out of hand and the next one I see might need to remove one of the stick figures from their back window after I'm done with them.  Also included in this list are little monogram stickers on the back window, the sorority plates that are undoubtedly on the front of the monogrammed car, and bull testicles hanging from your trailer hitch.  The fact that you need to display a faux set of balls from an animal on your vehicle makes me wonder about the presence of yours. 
2. Cookie tins.  This is really more of an annoyance suited for Christmas time, but so many things annoy me about Christmas that this little blight on society is often overlooked in favor of making fun of the fact that people still think it’s socially acceptable display those “Santa ran into our house” decorations.  It’s great that you want to give me cookies, and it’s great that you want the packaging to look nice. But what do I do with the stupid tin once I’ve consumed said cookies?  How on earth am I supposed to use what amounts to a gold-colored Pringles can in my life?  I feel bad throwing it away because surely I can use it for something.  I then throw it in the back of a closet and only see it again when I’m cleaning out the closet for the hideous process known as “putting your house on the market.”  And I can assure you, nowhere in real estate land does a giant armchair made from cookie tins guarantee the sale of your house. 
3. The fact that a TV shows actually exists about prima donna women going into labor (Pregnant in Heels.  I encourage you not to check it out.)  Why are we reinforcing that this is a good idea by televising it?  You might as well create a show about teen moms that only puts the teen moms in the spotlight and on the cover of gossip magazines that will only make the teens NOT on the covers of magazines rush to have a baby so they can be on the front of US Weekly.  Wait a minute…
4. Which brings me to another teen phenomenon that makes me want to rip out my eyebrows with a pair of pliers and an 18-wheeler:  Taylor freakin’ Swift.  Yes, the latest pop star to feel my wrath while she’s rolling around in piles of money and laughing hysterically at the ramblings of a crazed, so-called blogger with far LESS money is Tennessee’s own Taylor Swift.  She started off okay with “Tim McGraw.”  But as time wore on, so did her, “Oh, me?  Why, I’m not important.  Just look how humble I am!” act and it’s grating on my nerves like a field full of hippies.  Her songs play endlessly in every format ever invented (I’m sure she’ll break into the classic rock market soon.  Somehow.  Because she’s evil.) and they’re pure crap.  Why don’t you start singing some songs about adulthood and normal 20-something activities, Ms Swift?  Are you going to sing about a bathtub full of hunch punch and blacking out a frat party?  So many things annoy me about her that I’m now annoyed that I’m annoyed.  Screw you, Taylor Swift, and the hackneyed, money-laden horse you rode in on.  I’m sure you’re here to stay, and that’s my personal demon to defeat, but I will neither accept nor like you.  And I hope you think that’s “mean.”  Ugh.  And come up with some better names for your songs, please?

And now, for the less caustic portion of this article, I present the “So Hot” list, or, as I like to call it, “Things that make me smile instead of wanting to eradicate a large portion of society.” 

1. Damla candy.  This little Turkish treat came to me by way of the gentleman who cleans our office.  Like any good crack dealer, he gave us the first taste free.  Then, when the delicious, strawberry-tinged pieces of deliciousness were gone, we were forced to find them ourselves, post-addiction.  Shaking and trembling, I hurried to find out where I could get more of this lovely, taffy-like substance that has gotten me more than one long afternoon.  I searched a rather sketchy world market on Nolensville road only to find pig heads wrapped in cellophane and canned quail eggs.  BUT, after leaving a note for the candy fairy, I was told that my candy waited for me at a tiny little place just down the street.  I now have an entire bucket of fun at my fingertips and a tried and true supplier of crack fruit-flavored amazingness. 
2. The fact that not one, but TWO, people waved at me yesterday when I was out visiting my parents.  If you’re not from a small town, you’re probably accustomed to a completely different version of the “one-finger salute.”  In a small town, the index finger is lifted from the steering wheel to each passing driver in a bit of “I’m sure I probably know you or someone to whom you’re related, so I’m going to acknowledge your presence so I don’t get yelled at by my mother” form of communication.  It was refreshing, and it made me smile, so it’s making an appearance here. 
3. Another thing I saw on the way out to Robertson County – a field full of sheep and little baby lambs.  I wanted to nab one of the lambs and take it home and try to convince Travis that our cat, Gibson, had just gotten a little taller and little woollier.  They were just so freakin’ cute!  And I’m guessing “comes with its own self-sustaining wool supply” is an amenity no home-buyer could refuse.  At least not when confronted with the inherent cute-factor of a lamb. 

Stay tuned for next month's issue, featuring a rebuttal from Taylor Swift herself, and a "Building a Lamb Cage in Your Guest Bath" tutorial! 

Awkward Situations Diffused: A Guide

Travis and I attended a hockey game last night (Go Preds) and if this game made several things abundantly clear they were 1.  I know absolutely nothing about hockey.  2.  But I do love watching people who clearly think they know more about hockey than anyone in the entire arena and 3.  You should be prepared to be on the Jumbotron.  After watching several lame attempts at humor on the dreaded big screen, I mentally decided my plan of action should that hallowed camera fall on me.  I would share my plan, but I don’t need anyone else pretending to strangle the person next to me you while mouthing something unpleasant about the goalie’s mother into the monitor.  Really.  So, without further ado, I present to you my plans for the unusual events that may or may not happen to you in life.  I’m prepared.  Are you?

Situation #1:  You wake up to Ty Pennington screaming into a bullhorn in your front yard along with an assortment of designers, bus drivers, and people with cans of that stuff that makes you cry.  What do you do?  My first response would be to hide in whatever shell of a house I have left, but I figure Mr. Pennington would tire quickly of that and come in and demolish me along with my ramshackle abode.  To avoid this, I now have a harpoon situated at all ground-level windows and several nets hung in the trees in my front yard.  Go ahead and move that bus, Ty.  Because you just covered up the shallow grave in which I’m going to vainly attempt to hide you and your stupid Sears endorsement.

Situation #2:  Michael Moore accosts you on the street and asks for your opinion on some topic you should probably know more about, but don’t.  This one is easy.  Take out the spare Twinkie from your purse and throw it across the street.  You probably won’t get the cameras out of your face, but you will distract Mr. Moore long enough for you to run around the corner where you will subsequently get attacked by Borat. 

Situation #3:  You’re invited to go on a talk show, only to find out that your sister’s husband’s dog is accusing you of premeditated car surfing on national TV.  This is where that unfortunate picture of the accuser licking himself after Thanksgiving dinner 3 years ago is going to come in miiiiiighty handy.  And you thought I was silly for carrying that around.  Exactly who is laughing now?

Situation #4:  You’ve just made your weekly crack pick-up and now realize that half of the Metro police force is following your every move.  This sucks, but you must remember not to panic.  Follow these steps:  1. Give all of your crack to the hooker in your front seat.  2. Push said hooker out of the moving vehicle, preferably into the path of the cops following you and 3. Drive away quickly and proceed to perform whatever government job it is you do that allows you such frivolities. 

Situation #5:  You realize that those people from that “What Not to Wear” show are following you around Goodwill and snarkily criticizing your fashion choices.  There are actually 2 courses of action that can be taken here.  One would be to unabashedly attack them and the chip on top of their designer jacket’s shoulder while screaming like a banshee in your cut-off jeans and Hyper color shirt. The second course of action is to hide in the cushions of that tufted couch with the horse and buggy theme until they give in to the inherent stench that comes along with thrift store and pass out. 

Situation #6:  You encounter an eccentric gentleman while strolling down Broadway with extremely pale skin, a rumpled hat, and hair that looks like it was last combed with a windshield scraper.  First, pocket your holier than thou attitude about the homeless and second, turn back around and dry-hump his leg.  Because that was Jack White. 

Situation #7:  You realize, after several unfortunate hand gestures, that the man who you just wished death upon in traffic is your boss.  Again, push the hooker in your front seat out into the path of your boss’s car.  Situation. Averted. 

Situation #8:  You’re chit chatting at the latest neighborhood block party and discover that the party mix you’ve been mindlessly shoving in your mouth for the past 15 minutes is actually potpourri.  People have started to whisper.  One might go for the obvious solution of pretending like potpourri has hidden health benefits and attempting to laugh the entire thing off, but your neighbors are already suspicious of anyone who eats cedar chips.  My solution is to spike the punch with napalm and say goodbye to your neighbors with the spirit of Jonestown on your mind and the faint scent of lavender on your breath.  This rids you of two problems:  1. Explaining the fact that you ate air freshener and 2. Mrs. McGillicuddy's weekly complaints about your 5am newspaper runs in your underwear are suddenly non-existent. 

Situation #9:  You drunkenly spill out of the Greenhouse and accidentally trample a midget.  Run for your life because that was Keith Urban.  And his freakishly tall woman you mistook for his nurse is chasing you down right in front of Bread & Co. where she most certainly will NOT be stopping for her usual oatmeal and egg white omelet breakfast is Nicole Kidman.  I actually have no advice to get out of this situation other than at least to film the ensuing melee.  While you’re in recovery, you can shop it around to TMZ in an attempt to pay for the leg she broke with her freakishly-strong arms. 

Stay tuned for my next column detailing steps you can take to determine if you're a hipster!  Once you're off the crutches, that is.

The Rockford Files: A Lesson in Life

As some of you may know, Travis and I have recently gotten a bit hooked on episodes of “The Rockford Files” available through Netflix streaming.  This awesome drama about an ex-con turned private investigator really has everything the two of us would ever want in a show:  awesomely-dressed characters (think polyester suits and general ‘70s awesomeness,) a charismatic, funny lead character (yes, James Garner.  You were, and still are, the bees knees,) and enough recurring elements to warrant several laughs per episode AND this blog!  Without further ado, Travis and I present:

What We’ve Learned from “The Rockford Files:”

1.  No matter what you may think, someone IS always following you.  This person is going to continue to follow you while you try to dodge the follower – by pulling into a gas station or making several hairpin turns - and as soon as you begin to squeal tires when you come around a corner?  Then it will escalate into a car chase.  This chase will last as long as you can continue to make your gold Firebird outrun whatever land boat the enemy is driving.  And when you finally do come to a stop, the bad guys will either try to kidnap you or give you a warning from their boss about what’s going to happen if you don’t (fill in the blank with something sinister but sort of innocuous, like, “Give me $1,000 and we won’t throw you in the pool at the end of the show.”)  Another rule of thumb is to never play “Slug Bug” with the Rockford Files car chase scenes.  They pass more VW bugs than hookers on Dickerson Road.  You will end up with a severe hematoma on your bicep and your divorce attorney on speed dial.  Now, if they DO kidnap you:

2.  Just get in the car.  Chances are they’re not going to hurt you – they’re just going to get out whatever information they can out of you and then drop you in the middle of the desert while they drive off.  I mean, no one really dies in the Rockford Files, except possibly the guy at the very beginning that prompted the entire “hire a private investigator” situation in the first place.  And the guy at the beginning had no story line, so it’s completely cool that the gardener found him facedown in the begonias surrounded by a pool of blood.  Otherwise, who is going to chase James Garner?  The guy who DIDN’T kill Mr. Begonia?

3.  A good rule of thumb when watching the show is that A Bad Suit + A Good Moustache = Not Great Morals.  9 times out of 10 this equation nets you a criminal. 

4.  It’s always a good idea to carry some sort of weapon when entering your house.  Odds are, some goon is waiting inside and will bash you with your crystal ashtray when you walk in the door.  You’ll wake up a few hours later with nothing more than a slight scratch on your forehead and a ransacked trailer.  At no point will this cause serious brain damage.  And maybe you should hide that ashtray?

5.  Identity theft is okay as long as your intent is to catch a criminal.  No, you don’t have to be an undercover police officer to partake in a little nonchalant role-playing.  You just have to be a street-wise PI on a mission to take down evil.  So go ahead and pretend to be an electrical technician in order to gain access to someone’s house and personal records.  It is completely fine.  And if someone asks questions, tell them about your brain injury from that unfortunate ashtray incident. 

6.  If you are chasing a bad guy around a fancy house, odds are one of you will end up in the pool. 

7.  Being a private investigator will afford you a cheap trailer on the beach.  Adding a semi-nice desk, a blotter, and a rockin’ answering machine will turn this ramshackle arrangement into a “business office.” 

Potential clients will walk in, look around in disgust, and subsequently pull large amounts of cash out of their pocketbooks (they’re almost always women.  Who else is going to swoon over your investigational prowess?) in order for you to solve their problems.  These ladies have usually tried to solve the problem themselves, but to no avail.  That’s why they’re coming to you!  This brings me to my next point:

8.  For the modest outlay of $200* a day (plus expenses) you can secure the solution to your problem, via private investigator.  Now, I’ve done the math on this, and making the assumption that he worked an average of 5 days a week, and he worked every week, that would give Jim Rockford an annual salary of a cool $52K.  And that was in the late ‘70s!  One would think he would be able to afford something better than an aluminum box in the sand that might as well have a “Come Bash in my Head and Possibly Kidnap My Father Who is Always Hanging Around and Drinking My Beer.  On Second Thought, Go Ahead and Follow Through on that Last Part.  I’m Tired of Buying His Booze and that Might Explain Where All of My Money is Going” sign out front.

*Plus a 10% commission on collection jobs. 

9.  The Firebird is In.De.Structible.  This car sees about the same amount of action as the General Lee (sans doors that are welded shut) and yet is ready to take down a crook at a moment’s notice. 

And there you have it folks:  A Survival Guide a la Rockford for your reading pleasure.  If you haven’t watched this fine television show, Travis and I highly suggest you do.  And if you don’t take our advice, don’t call us from your next ashtray-induced headache.