"Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't work." -Calvin & Hobbes

Saturday, December 19, 2009

The Female Bachelor (femina singolis)


As I was sitting on my couch in my underwear, eating cold soup from the can, it suddenly occurred to me that this could be part of the reason that I might not be considered "marriage material."

I don't cook. What is the point? An hour of prep and messing up the kitchen, followed by seven minutes of eating and thirty minutes of clean up. I don't think so. Don't waste my time. I ate oatmeal for dinner every day for a week. And do you want to know the worst part? I didn't want to wash the dish (I don't have a dishwasher), so I used the same bowl every time. I can't help but think that this seems like bachelor status...

The female bachelor is a rare occurrence. She can be incredibly hard to spot out in the wild, but once one is familiar with her actions, she is easily noticeable. Not to be confused with a "bachelorette," who is an over-excited, over make-uped party girl, out looking to become a wife, the female bachelor can sometimes be more untame than her male counterpart. This mammal is generally intelligent, colorful, independent and not easy to trap. Her prey includes unattainable males and her predators are usually limited to unmotivated, underachieving douche bags (douchebagia lazyassis).

Most female bachelors (FB) are very set in their ways. The very thought of having a mate could send them into hiding. From one standpoint they are very organized, having a busy work schedule and social life. Most own a day planner that can be found filled with meetings and appointments, and seemingly little time for much else. They keep up their appearance in the outdoors, but while safe away in their natural habitat, they can become something completely different.

The home of a FB, when invited, is immaculate, yet only to the untrained eye. But let's take a look further. What hides behind those closet doors? And those decorative bins that are all over the shelves and in her home office, what could they really be used for? If one gets the chance to peek inside,these bins will be filled with clutter. Receipts, cables, screws, even undergarments can be found in these places of storage. Like a squirrel getting ready for the winter, the FB stashes away garbage that could possibly come in handy on a cold winter day.

When there is no possibility of intruders, this creature's habitat will become a whirlwind of messiness. The vacuum's use is more as a clothes hanger than to pick up hair and dirt from the carpet. The bathroom will be a mosaic of make up and Q-tips. Tampons will rarely be inconspicuous. The bed if rarely made up and is filled with discarded clothing.

The kitchen is a whole other environment. Never used for cooking prey, the kitchen is barely used at all. It is generally found littered with dirty cereal bowls, empty diet soda cans, and take-out wrappers. The oven is oftentimes used for storage. Any dining room table will be covered by paperwork. The coffee table is where any in-home eating takes place. Don't be afraid to confront the female bachelor and ask her out, as she will be relieved to not have to worry about any hunting, preparing or cleaning activities for the night. After that first meal, keep in mind that it does take some coaxing to lure her out of her comfort zone again and back into the wild.

If you are lucky enough to spot one of these precious specimens, handle carefully, as they can very easily be scared off. Once out, the female bachelor is an amazing creature, and a very prized possession. Keep your eyes open for a documentary soon to be on the Discovery Channel regarding this intriguing mammal.

*The picture posted is of me, asleep on a train somewhere in Europe. Who wouldn't want to wake up next to that sleeping beauty! Lovely, I know.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Major Deal Breaker


Many of you may not know this, but when I am not slinging sandwiches and paninis, I moonlight as a nanny. I absolutely love it and am debating whether or not I can bypass the whole "real job" thing and just get paid to hang out with kids the rest of my life.


The other night as Blair (age 6) and I are coloring in her Hello Kitty coloring book, she asks me if I have a flower girl lined up for my wedding. Oh man. ANOTHER person pushing the marriage thing on me. That's a whoooole other blog... anyway, back to the coloring book. I explained to Blair that I am not exactly on the road to marriage at this point in my life.


Blair, "How old are you again?"


Me, "Twenty-five."


Blair, "You have TWO years left!"


Hmmm.


Me, "You don't have a boyfriend, do you?"


Blair, "Well, I did. He is in second grade."


-"An older man, huh? What did your mom think?"


Blair, "Well, he was a really nice boy. But he eats BUGS!"


You say it sister. We've all been there. When I was her age there was a cute boy in my class who ate bugs too. Now he is engaged and I'm thinking I should have snagged him up when all the other girls were grossed out by him.


When I asked her what she thinks I should be looking for, as far as a potential husband for myself, she proceeded to give the best advice I have recieved from anyone of any age...


"What to Look for in a Husband" By Blair (age 6)

1. nice heart

2. has a good and short haircut

3. handsome

4. smart

5. good reasons (like when he does something on accident and you ask him why, he has good reasons)

6. tries hard/ good worker

7. happy

8. always tells the truth

9. respectful

10. favorite thing to do is spending time with his family

11. good manners

12. has pretty blue or brown eyes (if there is a little green, that's ok)

13. is healthy (eats all his fruits and vegetables and is nice and skinny, but not too skinny)


and I am going to go ahead and make #14. doesn't eat bugs, as I am sure Blair would be on board with that one.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Just Another Tequila Sunrise


How many farewell concerts are acceptable for one band to play? The way I see it, a farewell concert means that you are not making any new music, and you are getting to old to be considered incredibly awesome. Therefore, one needs to pull the plug and end it. So your first farewell concert tour is a huge success. Well, congratulations! This is no reason to have six more. Put out a(nother) 'best of' CD, start up a talk show, start a clothing line, but 52 more "farewell" concerts is no longer a fairwell. You are old and I don't care how much I, or anyone else loves listening to your music, it is no longer acceptable to be money-grubbing geezers charging ridiculous amounts of money to people who have heard you play live before. This includes "retiring" ahem, Jay-Z.


In the summer of 2005, I witnessed the Eagles eighty-third-ish farewell concert on the Sonoma State University's soccer field. It was a pretty big deal. Large stage, a gated area, expensive tickets, and a huge mess afterwards. I believe that ticket sales had an age limit of 51+ and you had to be annoyingly stoned to get into the "I paid way too much for an outdoor concert" area. I, along with many of my college friends, walked to the campus to watch and listen from a hill that overlooked the soccer field/temporary stage. The band had a huge television screen and a great sound system which enabled everyone to see and hear that I was singing every word spot-on (did I mention that I am a huge fan?). By the looks of the empty beer cans, crushed cigarette butts, and ignored roach ends that were left for the cleanup crew, it was apparent that a great time was had by all, young and old.


Pan to two weeks later (a fortnight, if you will). During my college years, I worked at a coffee shop. On this Tuesday morning, I was most likely still humming "Take it Easy" as I steamed milk and brewed coffee. I loved talking and joking with the people that would come in on a regular basis. Not to mention, when a cute dude would come in, well, that was just an added bonus.


"...four that wanna own me, two that wanna stone me, one says she's a friiieeend of mine..."


There was one guy who we called "Large Mocha with Whip" because we never knew his real name. I thought that he was so adorable. He would come in almost every weekday to get his mocha before work, and every time, my co-workers would kindly step aside so that I could make his drink and chat with him (thanks guys).


On this morning, Mr. Adorable walks in wearing a black sweatshirt with white writing on it. "Eagles" was written across the front. He ordered his drink, and as I had been to the Eagles seven-millionth farewell concert two weeks prior, I asked him, "Oh! Did you see the Eagles when they had their concert at SSU?"


Behind me I hear Stacey mutter, "oh, no" under her breath. In that split second I knew that I had just said the dumbest thing that would ever leave my lips. I glanced up to see Mr. Adorable reach up to grab his drink, and on the arm of his sweatshirt I saw a patch. On it was the emblem of the Philadelphia Eagles.


I may not be a very big football fan, okay, I hate the sport, but in my defense, I know that the colors for the Philadelphia Eagles are white and teal! Errr...green? Regardless, it is not black and white. So while I may have made myself look like a ditsy, girly, stereotype, cut me a little slack. I could have asked him if he enjoys bird watching.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Ayeeeee BooBoo!


Thank goodness camping season is over. Finally the weather has gotten cold enough so that I don't have people constantly suggesting that "we should go camping!" I love summers, warm weather and being outdoors, but camping? I don't think so.

I used to try to convince myself that I enjoyed camping. That was before I came to realize how much I appreciate toilets and toilet paper. Do people actually get pleasure out of taking a crap in the woods? Fill me in on this one, because I don't get it. Even if you are at a campsite with "bathrooms" (I use this term loosely), how often do you think those things get cleaned? You might as well just use the great outdoors and a leaf. Isn't camping really just upscale homelessness?

Now what about those "mirrors" that they have in campground bathrooms. Bolting a shiny piece of sheet metal to a wall does not constitute a mirror. People look gnarly enough when they are camping and can really use all the help that they can get. I would think that the forest rangers or whoever is in charge of these 'fancy outhouses' would want to put up full length mirrors at all angles to help people out.

Not to mention, when I am asleep in my own home on a comfy bed, I never have to worry about waking up to a bear rummaging through my refrigerator. Nor do I have to worry about raccoons attacking my dog, or scrounging for food in my living room. If I did, I would move.

Sleeping on a bed is a luxury that most of us are lucky enough to indulge in every night. So why on earth would one want to sacrifice this luxury to go and sleep on the ground in a bag? And in the eyes of a bear, don't you think a person in a sleeping bag looks a little like a burrito? And we all know how irresistible a burrito is.

So next summer, unless you have a cabin with a bed (preferably a Swedish Temperpedic mattress, thank you), full kitchen and heating/air conditioning, please do not suggest to me that "we should go camping!" because I can guarantee my answer right now. It starts with "No" and ends with "F-ing way."

Saturday, October 10, 2009

All Signs Point to Crazy


Due to an overwhelming* response from my fans, I feel that I must write a follow-up to my "Did I Really Just Say That?" blog. So here you go.

By "overwhelming" I mean about 5 or 6 people. Seeing as I only have 8 followers of my blog, that is over half and therefore constitutes as overwhelming.

Coffee dates..hmmm. Casual, social, safe. My plan was to make every effort to not go through the N.S.S. incident again.
Think before you speak, Lindsay. Think before you speak. For once,

I was on time. Actually, I think I was about four minutes early (go me)! When Mr. X showed up he bought our drinks, which is a big deal these days I have noticed. So 'thank you' Mr. X!


We did what you normally do on a coffee date; chat, sip, chat. But things got interesting when, mid-date, Mr. X informs me that he does not, nor has he ever...owned a cell phone.

- "Wait, what?"
- "Well, I have a land line."
- "So...it has, like.....a cord?"
- "Well, it has a cord to the wall, but it's actually a wireless phone."
Me, "Oh thank God!"

My eighty-six year old grandmother owns a cell phone. I think that it would actually take more time and effort to
not own a cell than to just get one. I mean, how granola do you have to be to think, "Nah, I'll go without one. I would rather be one with the trees and squirrels and write poems and eat dirt and wear Birkenstocks while I ride my bike and meditate than be a part of society."?

Ok, maybe I have taken it a little far, the guy was pretty normal minus this one small fact. Some people have said that I can be a little granola myself, but honestly, I can't think of one person I know that doesn't own a cellular device.

Mr. X has since come back to visit me at work. I, however, have taken no action. Show a little interest in me, and like a frightened wild animal I run the other way. Ignore me, and you are all I can think about. This process has not treated me well, but the definition of crazy is to repeatedly do the same thing over and over while expecting a different outcome. Interesting...


Needless, to say, he hasn't called.
HA!












Friday, October 9, 2009

Not Very A-'peel'-ing


I have a friend who hates bananas. He is borderline fearful of them. I, myself, have indulged in a banana or two in my day, but I can completely see where he is coming from.


The banana is a very sketchy fruit. When it comes to eating a banana, it is generally hit-or-miss. Too green and you get that weird film on your teeth and the roof of your mouth. Ugh. Too brown, well that's just gross. There is a very short period of time that one has to consume this fruit in an enjoyable manner.


I know what you are thinking. Why not make banana bread if you miss that window of opportunity to eat it? Well, that would be a great idea...if I cooked, which I don't. A peanut butter and banana sandwich is about the extent of my cooking skills. If I want to get snazzy, I might toast the bread.


Bananas are also one of the smelliest foods to compost. Pew. Rotting fruit is stinky enough, but if you add some 'naner peels onto the pile, whew! It can get quite gnarly, fast.


How else can we rag on Ms. Chiquita's fruit of choice? Well, a little known fact for you all out in the Midwest; Mosquitoes tend to migrate towards people who have recently eaten...you guessed it, bananas. And let's not pass up the simple fact that monkey love them, and we all know I feel about monkeys. This is reason enough for me to be a bit skeptical about this fruit.


Plantains? I don't think so "mini-bananas." I see right through that miniature greenish-yellowish skin of yours. Nice try, but you can't fool me.


All this trash talking about the banana is maybe a bit harsh. I think that they are really just insecure, which might be the reason for their over-zealous taste and smell. First of all, they grow in bunches, so they always have to be around their friends. Then, when they have all been eaten, and the last lone banana is sitting among the abundance of apples, pears, and lemons in your fruit bowl, his insecurities start to get the best of him. He starts to turn brown, slowly attempting to infiltrate all of the other fruit in the bowl with his overwhelming taste and smell. Pretty soon, all the surrounding fruit is contaminated and uneatable. Gross. And don't EVER leave one in your car on a hot day (or a tuna sandwich, for that matter).


But the worst problem with a banana is not it's taste or smell. It's much worse than that. Have you ever witnessed someone munching on one of these things? I cringe just thinking about it. The mushing, smacking sound almost makes me bring up whatever I last ate. Smack! Chomp. SMACK. Blaaahhhhhhhhh.


Thanks, but I will get my potassium somewhere else.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Did I Really Just Say That?


Scene; Me, at work, doin' my sandwich thing, adorable as usual.


A boy, we will call him "Mr. X," comes in to get lunch and chat with me for the third time (maybe it's the glasses, maybe it's my amazing personality...possibly the sandwiches, but he keeps coming back). During our conversation, he finally asks me if I would like to go to coffee with him sometime. Yes, of course, so we agree on Sunday. I tell him I get off work at 1:00 that day.


Mr. X, "So 1:30?"


Me, "Well, on Sundays I have to work way too early in the morning, so I tend to just roll out of bed and come into work..."


Mr. X, "Okay..."



Inner monologue; "Stop talking."


Me, out loud, "So can we make it 3:00 so that I can go home to shower and not smell like a deli?"


Inner monologue, "Stop it. Stop talking about how you don't shower. Stop."


Out loud babble, "After all, it's N.S.S! No Shower Sunday."


"Oh my God."


"I mean, I'm not gross or anything. I brush my teeth..."


"Well, that's it. You're done for. Point of no return. Might as well start talking about your period and how you are afraid of commitment."


With a slight smirk, Mr. X says that yes, 3:00 would be fine. I suppose that since he had already asked me to coffee, he couldn't really take it back at that point, although I wouldn't have blamed him if he did.

The worst part of this story is that this isn't even the worst of the many awkward conversations that I have gotten myself into. Stay tuned for when I get up the nerve to write about those...


Friday, September 18, 2009

Platform for Presidential Campaign (when I decide to run)




  • White socks will not be sold. Only brightly colored socks with fun patterns.



  • Sonicare toothbrushes will run for 3 minutes, not 2.



  • Unhealthy foods will be taxed. That money will go to organic farmers to enable the price of fresh fruits and vegetables to go down.



  • Annoying songs such as "I Got a Feeling," "Birthday Sex" and "Kiss Me Through the Phone" will be banned from all radio stations.



  • 25 hour work weeks, maximum.



  • All medicine will be in ice cream form.


  • The pterodactyl will be our nation's bird (sorry bald eagle).


  • All military funding will be put toward public education and libraries. There will be no need to worry about our safety though, because I will have befriended all the leaders of other nations, as shown by our monthly Game Nights.

  • Socks will not have seams.

  • Everyone will be given a piece of candy and a hug on Wednesdays.
















Wednesday, September 16, 2009

"Can't Trust a Chicken"




Spiders are all over my apartment. That's fine. Live and let live.






Snakes are freaky, but I rarely come into contact with them.






Rodents, gross. Their weird little hands and bare-skinned tails are too much for me to handle. If I ever encounter one in my place of residence, I will pack up and move.






Monkeys, however, are in my top two creepiest animals category. I don't remember much, if anything, from before the age of five, except vivid images of monkeys in my closet (I think Family Guy owes me some money for this). Before I went to sleep at night, my dad would have to come in my room and check under my bed and in my closet for these flea-ridden animals. Thank God his search always came out negative.






The second on my list is birds (are birds?). Not necessarily all birds, but quite a few. Chickens in particular. Crows, sparrows, pigeons...these all make the list as well, but chickens and roosters are at the top.



Picture me, age eighteen, at my dad's house. The kids would always refuse to take out the garbage, claiming that the rooster would attack them. "Right guys, I know you are just trying to get out of chores." Then one day as I was feeding the horses, the crazy rooster jumped out of the rafters and landed directly on my head! Screaming, I threw the chunk of hay at him, ran out of the barn, lost my shoe in the process, and took sanctuary outside. The rooster followed, with an evil look in his eyes and a thirst for blood on his beak. The dog then starts growling at the crazy rooster in attempts to save me, but the rooster in turn, tries to peck the dog. Finally, I grabbed the hose and sprayed the crap out of the creepy little bird, which scared him off long enough for me to finish feeding the horses, reclaim my shoe, and get the heck out of there, never to return (until after he was the main course one night at the Anderson house).



My new motto? "Can't trust a chicken." Because you can't. Their creepy little beaks and crazy little feet are enough to back this up. Just look at Henny Penny. She lead everyone to believe that the sky was falling, but was it really? I think not.