Saturday, November 30, 2013

Snoop Cass

If any of you saw my daily proverb yesterday, you saw what I spend my time between Thanksgiving and Christmas doing: snooping. If you didn't see that on Facebook or Twitter yesterday, you're now all caught up. 

That's right. I admit it. I am a snooper and have been proudly since about 1991. I only remember that year because that was my ninth year, in which I had begged and pleaded with my mom and all known deities to please, Please, PLEEEEEEEZE bring me a Game Boy. My mom wouldn't allow me to have any gaming consoles, so I figured this was the best compromise. Never mind the fact that I spent a great deal of time playing Super Mario Brothers at a friend's house, sometimes without her knowing. Love you, Mom. Muah. 

I guess the joke was on me, though, as I spent so long playing that game one day that I had a seizure (another story, another time). 

Anywho, I knew as well as an almost-nine-year-old can that I was getting that Game Boy for my birthday. Then, one day, almost in a vision, it came to me where that glorious gift was: in the armoire in my mom's bedroom. 

I trekked down the hall, while everyone was at home and not asleep to see if I could pull off the Great Gift Find of 1991. I snuck into my mom's room, and I couldn't have hit a better stroke of luck if I tried: the key to the armoire was in the door!!! Pay dirt! I looked in the armoire, and sure enough, that beautiful box wrapped in cellophane with the Nintendo logo beamed at me. I would put a pic here, but I don't have one. Let me tell you this, Kidlets, the Game Boy would've killed the DS any day of the week. 

I would've wept with joy if I hadn't heard noise. I think I put everything back where it was supposed to be. 

As I would find out at my birthday party, either I hadn't put everything back the way I should've, wasn't as sneaky as I thought, or my mother really did have eyes everywhere. Either way, she was onto me and she let me know by enforcing a number system that would ensure that the Holy Grail was the last thing to be unveiled. Dang! 

I finally got to open the glorious package, and played with it so long I had another seizure. Oh well. That didn't stop me. Nor did it stop me from snooping. If anything, it just became a game between my mom and me. She worked hard to hide, I worked hard to find. I have to admit, the woman did well: one year, I got bonked in the head while taking the Christmas tree down. She hid one of the presents in the tree and I didn't find it until after New Year's. Nice. 

This year is going to be a little interesting. I know what I'm getting because I had to order it online myself because my mom doesn't have a computer and doesn't know how anyway. She actually said "You're not allowed to go snooping, either..." Yeah, right. Silly Mom, tricks are for kids...or you. Heh heh heh. 

**I know I'm not the only snooper out there. Who's with me?

**Addendum: my mother just informed me that I not only snooped, I also unwrapped, then wrapped the presents back. I'll buy that. And I won't have shame about it, either. 

Monday, November 25, 2013

Priestess of Puke

I spent a great deal of time this week being productive--productive in puking. I was puking like a champ for two whole days due to a stomach virus. Let me tell you this about myself: when I get a stomach virus, I go hard or go home. If you don't believe me, take a look at this earlier post about international puking (make sure you have some time on your hands--it's worth it).

Between hurls of Exorcist proportions, I started thinking about my resume of puking. I have a fairly impressive one, but for whatever reason, LinkedIn doesn't find that to be a marketable skill. Whatever. They just don't know. You never know when you're going to need someone who can hurl across an entire yard and hit a target at fifty paces.

Five years ago, I would've been disappointed that the following tale hadn't been caused by drinking or something else fun like eating an entire pizza.

Anyway, at the beginning of sixth grade, there was a girl in my class that I was good friends with. We hung out, I met her parents, we bought each other Christmas presents, went to each other's birthday parties. At some point in the year, things changed, unknowingly for me. At one point, she wrote me a very long and articulate letter telling me what a terrible person I was and that she hated me. She also told me I dressed like a baby--a comment she would be very sorry about today. She had placed her heartfelt commentary through a locker vent, letting it hang out enough that I would notice it first thing. She hung out at her locker and watched while I read through it, and eventually started to cry. Nice, huh? I later found out that there was a teacher who facilitated the whole thing. Bad, Teacher--bad.

I got my revenge about a week later, though not intentionally. My only regret was that Teach hadn't been in the room when it happened.

As with any good stomach virus, I started feeling kinda weird on the drive to school. I didn't say anything because--you'll think this is weird--I hated missing school. Even back in the 90s, daytime TV was terrible. Maybe I should start telling kids this whenever they're faking sick to go home.

Anyway, I reached school and homeroom. At 7:45 am, it was like any class--utter pandemonium. It was not doing wonders for my symptoms. The more it went on, the worse I felt. Then, ex-friend came over and decided to hold a conversation right in front of me. It was probably about me, but that's not really pertinent at this juncture. I kept saying, "I don't feel good", and still she stood there.

I know you know where this is headed, but hang with me, because this is good.

I finally said, "You should really move." She was turned to the side and looked at me with eyes in narrow slits, and then it happened.

Oh yeah, I puked on her. But I didn't just puke on her. I puked IN…HER...HAIR and IN…HER...FACE. Oh yeah! I nailed it in TWO spots. TRIPLE BONUS!!! I hit someone in two spots, and it was someone I didn't like.

My mother has always said I have an impeccable sense of timing. The entire class came to a standstill.

At that point, one of us was screaming; the other was crying. You could try to guess who was doing what and you'd probably be right, regardless of the guess. We were both sent home from school immediately thereafter. It was a Friday. She spent her weekend getting her hair cut , and I spent mine continuing to puke. In fact, that was the beginning of a week-long puking stint during which I lost eleven pounds. Yeah (don't be jealous--it was no fun)!!!

However, I would be lying if I said nothing good came from this. I would cite the weight loss, but as I was only four feet tall at the time. That really wasn't healthy, nor would I recommend puking to do it. No. Now when kids come to me puking and crying because they're embarrassed about it, I tell them this story. They generally look at me in horror with the look that says, "Wow, no matter how bad this is, at least I didn't do that!" Even the little kids know that's gross.

That being said, I guess it would be a bad idea to encourage the young'uns to aim for someone they don't like the next time they feel the urge to hurl. It was just dumb luck that it happened for me. But it's probably still considered bad form, isn't it?


Monday, November 18, 2013

"Squawk, Bacock!"

A couple of years ago, I had a rare opportunity. Okay, it wasn't really that rare, but I was terribly excited about it. I went to see "The Muppets"!!! Kids of the 70s and 80s rejoice! Actually, I was really fortunate that I was able to convince my mom to take me. Did I also mention I was in my late twenties at the time? I should say what happened to me at the theater was rare (though not really for me), but keep reading.

Now, if you haven't seen "The Muppets", drop everything you're doing and go watch it. NOW! I adored it, watched it several times and currently own it. I have always loved and identified with Animal. Frankly, I love his passion for life, and we both have unruly hair, so it works. Observe.

I'm pretty sure we have the same facial expressions and make the same noises--especially when I'm sitting in traffic. Again, observe. 

Anyway, while I love and adore Animal, he is not my main focus. Sad face. 

I'll try to give a quick plot summary. The Muppets are reunited by three superfans in order to save their studio. They decide to have a telethon to raise the money. The Muppets perform their acts as they were known for during the series (example: Gonzo shooting out of a cannon). Oh, and by the way, this movie is really meant more for those who grew up watching the Muppets (age-wise), as opposed to the young'uns today. 

I should also tell you: I don't remember Camilla and the Chickens very well as I watched the Muppets growing up. This movie gave me a new appreciation of them, and I now love them as much (I can't say "more than"...yet) as Animal. When I saw this, my whole world changed. 

Y'all: when I saw this, I don't mean I laughed--I guffawed. When I say I guffawed, I mean I was howling loud enough for the whole theater to hear it. Even now as I'm re-watching this video to post it, I'm laughing so loudly my dogs are wondering if I'm going to be dragged off to the Funny Farm before they get their dinner. 

But then it happened. 

I was laughing so hard, so loud, snorting with tears and snot, when I rolled out of my chair and onto the floor in fetal position. I was still "squawking and bacocking" and my mother was mortified to say the least. At least I was in the wheelchair aisle, so I had some room to roll around. My poor Mom was pulling on my arms, begging as much as one can beg in a whisper to "Get up off the floor--YOU'REEMBARRASSINGME!!!" Everyone: I was literally ROFLing.

I'm here to tell you that I was laughing so hard that my sinuses cleared out, and I very nearly peed on myself. My face actually swelled up. I'm not sure if it was because I was crying so hard or because I couldn't breathe. My nursing background tells me it was probably a combination of both. I missed a good five or ten minutes of that movie due to my inability to stop laughing--or breathe, for that matter. 

I was only able to get out of the floor by putting my arms in the chair seat and weakly pull myself up with the help of my mother. She will no longer watch that movie with me. 

That scene, compounded by my reaction to it, is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life. It's right up there with the Epileptic Cat or a friend of mine who was carried off by a bowling ball when said person went to bowl (other stories for another party). While it embarrassed the "pee-waddlin'"--as she would say--out of my mother, it was pretty glorious. It was glorious to laugh like that, and the fact that it embarrassed my mother was a double-bonus. 

Please don't tell her I said that. She can still scare me with a fly swatter. But seriously, go see The Muppets--NOW. And imagine me rolling all over the floor as a crying, laughing, snotting mess with a red face. If that doesn't make you squawk and bacock yourself into oblivion, you may very well have Bell's Palsy. Go look that one up.  

Monday, November 11, 2013

"Who Brought That Guy?!?"

How appropriate that this story took place at where else? A party. Yep. So what we actually have here is a story I would tell at a party--about a party.

Wow, I'm barely into this story and I'm already digressing. Don't act surprised. 

Anyway, before I get too far into this, I should tell you something about myself: I love basketball. I don't mean I enjoy watching it; I mean that, other than the weather, September through June gives me a new reason to live. When I have to go visit my parents for various holidays, I usually have to hide in a bedroom to watch a game, or chew on my nails while refreshing my ESPN app. When I worked in the hospital, I was thankful on days when I had a sedated patient so I could hijack their TV (don't worry, no one was harmed). People who know me joke about how I throw things at the TV when the game isn't going my way. I named one of my dogs--Dirk--after my favorite player, for crying out loud! 

Get it? I'm a fan of the round ball. 

One of my friends was having an engagement party and I was stoked for my friend and her engagement, but I was also a little proud to show off my date. 

Isn't it funny how the joke's always on you? Keep reading. 

Anyway, we were doing the usual party thing: eating, drinking, being merry, telling embarrassing stories--you get the idea. 

I didn't realize I was about to become the embarrassing story. I was in the middle of giving my pre-season commentary regarding the Dallas Mavericks, when, at a break in the conversation, my date asks--in all seriousness--"Didn't Michael Jordan play for the Lakers?"!! You know that cliche about hearing a pin drop? The silence came over the party in waves, and then it was totally true. I heard someone mutter, "Who brought that guy?" 

I don't know if it was the unmistakable shock on my face, or the fact that I dropped my cake and started to cry, but either way, it was soon evident that I was, in fact, the one who'd brought that guy. Luckily, someone brought me a new piece of cake without much hesitation.

I don't really remember how it was all resolved at the party, because there was too much visible pity. However, I do remember asking a few obligatory questions on the way home, such as, "Do you know who Michael Jordan is?!?" or "Do you know what city the Lakers play in?" and "Do you know that the basket in basketball is actually made out of net or chain, and not wicker?!?" Fortunately for all involved here, we weren't together much longer after that.

**Note to the boys in the yard: after this incident, several of my friends felt it necessary--rightfully so--to put together a dating application. If you can't correctly state the answer to the question of who Michael Jordan played for, or what sport (principally) he played, you're out. This is your fair warning.