More Sal-isms

Oh, that Sally....

On the phone with my mom;
Me, "Do you happen to know where my 5th grade school photo would be?"
Sal, "I don't know. What does it look like?"
Ummmm....

I guess that got her looking through her boxes of photos, because not long after our conversation, my phone started blowing up with texts from my mom of old pictures of me (none of them being my 5th grade school picture, however).
Me, via text, "Ugh. Why didn't the damn dentist ever put braces on me? Ew."
Sal's text response, "Because you didn't need them, snaggletooth!"

The year after I graduated from college, I had moved back in with good ol' Sally. One day, we were at Target together and I put a package of mint creme Oreos in her cart. I'm not quite sure how I got away with getting them home, but somehow I managed. 
Here's the thing, I only like the inside part of the Oreo. The cookie is a waste of my time. If my half-sister, Olivia, isn't around to eat the cookie part for me (she doesn't like the inside part. We're a perfect Oreo match), I will eat the middle out, stick the two cookies back together, and put them back in the package. I don't want to waste them! I figure someone has to eventually come along who isn't too grossed out and eat my discarded cookies. It's bound to happen.
Day 1 of Oreo Heaven, I ate the creme filling out of a good 7 or 8 cookies, putting their chocolate cookie carcasses back in the package. When I got home from work the next day, I went to find the box of Oreos, but they were no where in sight. Later, when my mom got home, I asked her, "Hey, Sal, where'd you hide the Oreos?"
"Oh, I decided that we didn't need that garbage in our house, so I took them into school and gave them to a co-worker."
"Umm, did you happen to check inside before you gave them away?"
Sal, "No, why?"
After explaining my Oreo eating habits to her, her eyes got huge. "Oh my gosh!" But then burst into a fit of laughter. "I'll have to go ask my co-worker how she liked those cookies tomorrow!"
I hope she enjoyed them. 

My mother has a tendency to buy cards (birthday, Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever she finds funny or appropriate for any particular reason or individual) and then just stick them in a big box in our house. Her intentions are good, which is to use them, but there is no rhyme, reason, or organization of any sort to this box, so the cards simply continue to fill up the box, year after year.
Every once in awhile, Mom will realize, "Oh crap! It's so-and-so's birthday!" and take out the box to go through cards, trying to find an appropriate card for that person. Last year, a couple days after my twin cousins, Ana and Cristina's birthday, I sat with Sally as she went through her card box, card by card. She re-laughed at some of the cards she had bought in the past years of her life, remembering some, but having no recollection of others, so the joke was just as new and hilarious as the first time she read it. She was a bit stressed at this point, because she had promised Ana and Cristina the year before that she wouldn't be late this year (ha). 
Finally, she pulls out a "Happy Belated Birthday" card. "Oh!" she says, "I bought this card for Ana a couple years ago!"
The card read, "Sorry I missed your birthday" on the front. I told Sal to just write "in 2004" on it and call it a day. Easy enough. The envelope was already addressed, stamped and ready to go. It had been floating around in the Well Intentioned Card Box for who knows how long, just waiting to be signed and sent to Ana. And really, can't a belated birthday card be sent out at any time of the year?
I am not lying about this at all. My mother put the card back in the box and sent Ana a different one.

Inappropriate Things to Say to Make a Seemingly Appropriate Situation Awkward

The following are some statements that I have actually said out loud, after being given relatively normal news. This is not a joke, it is purely confirmation of my awkward and, many times, inappropriate ways. I hope you get a laugh, and don't get insulted. Here you go....

Friend; "I'm pregnant."

Immediate response from me, "Are you ok?!!"

Male; "I'm gay."

Me; "Congratulations!"

Cousin, Male; "I'm gay."

Me; "Oh, great. Everyone probably thinks I'm a lesbian."

Friend; "I'm Jewish."

"Oh, my God! I LOVE bagels!"

And the winner is....

Boyfriend;  "I really like you, Lindsay Anderson."

Me; "I really like you too, (insert full name of his brother here)."

Well, that was awkward. Please note:  I did NOT have a crush on his brother, I guess his brother's name just rolled off the tongue a bit more easily. We are no longer dating.

Brought to You by the Number 12

There are a couple songs that I will randomly, yet consistently, get stuck in my head. For example, the intro to Eye of the Tiger gets stuck in my noodle ALL THE TIME. Most frequently when I am exercising or doing anything that could be considered challenging, but always when I am climbing stairs (obvi). Click here if you need inspiration/annoyance in your life. Close your eyes and just listen though, because Survivor's video for this song is probably the most uninspiring thing you could imagine. Except I want to jump in the sack with that keyboard player. Ooh-la-la!

Among my many other unfailing "ear worms", is the Ladybug Picnic song. Don't know it? Well, you obviously weren't a Sesame Street kid. Or maybe it's just because you didn't have good ol' Sally for a mom. I think that she heard the song while I was watching the ever-wonderful Sesame Street and it got stuck in her head, therefore singing it randomly and bam! forever in her daughter's head and heart. Anytime I hear someone say, "1, 2, 3," I instantly think, "4, 5, 6,...7, 8, 9,...10, 11, 12, and the ladybugs came, to the ladybug picnic!" Every. Time.

Those were the only words I remembered, though. Until the other day, when I was searching YouTube for a specific Don Music clip (another Sesame Street reference) and came across the glorious Ladybug Picnic song. I was dying. This song is hilarious! I felt that I needed to share it with the 4 or 5 people who read my blog. I hope that you get a good laugh out of it too.

Many of you may not know this, but one of my goals in life is to meet a Muppet. I would also love to write for a children's show, and this musical cartoon just reconfirms that. You can pretty much say the most ridiculous things, put it to an upbeat tune with some bright colors and you've got yourself a hit. Kids are simple. That's part of why they are way more fun than complicated adults. 

Anyway, hope you enjoy, and maybe donate some furniture to some ladybugs near you, because I hear household items are outrageously priced for them.  But they can tell a mean knock-knock joke.

A Million Little Pieces; Confessions of my Broccoli Bender

               

                I have a confession; I can cook. I’m not proud of it and I have been trying to hide it for years. But I can. And I’m pretty decent too.  

                Yes, there have been some discrepancies. There was the early morning incident, where I fumbled around in the cupboards of my dimly lit apartment for the cinnamon, but when I took a big bite of my oatmeal, I realized that the spice that I had accidentally used was cayenne pepper.

                Then there was the time when I was making a funfetti cake for a friend’s birthday but I was out of vegetable oil.  Note to my readers; olive oil DOES NOT equal vegetable oil* I like to call that a not-so-funfetti cake followed by store-bought cupcakes. Rookie mistake.

                There have been a few defining moments in my life when I realized that I was getting old. The first was when I realized that I was beginning to enjoy Sheryl Crow’s music. Then one day I found myself watching home improvement shows on HGTV and I had a minor panic attack (which could have been a heart attack judging from the assumed age of any HGTV-watcher). Now I am consistently finding grey hairs on my head and have also found that I don’t mind cooking and preparing meals. I think that I might even like it. What is this world coming to? The minute I start wearing bright red lipstick and calling people “sonny,” I will assume the end is near.

                I keep an incredibly tidy house too.  The military has nothing on me. Nothing is out of place. For three years I asked my mom for a label-maker before she realized that I was serious and gave me one for my birthday. Best present ever. With a skeptical look on their faces, people ask me, “What are you going to label?” Are you kidding me?! What am I not going to label?! My house is like a robber’s dream come true, just go straight for the good stuff, it’s not hard to locate. You can find anything in my house, no problem.

                But how does this happen? I’ve spent a lifetime steering clear of any hint of housewife-y-ness. I have also spent the last ten years of my life trying not to become an adult. I used to hate broccoli when I was a kid. Now I can’t get enough of it! Make this adult-y-ness stop! What’s next? Dentures? Wrinkles? “Mom jeans”? Children???

                The only way that I can think to combat this inevitable demise is to keep my hair long and my jeans low. I have also had a sudden urge to start a garden, but will cross that bridge when I get to it. So until then, if you have any good recipes that you would like to send me…AUGH! No! I mean, let the dish sit in the sink for more than five minutes….it’s fiiiine….

               

*Vegetable and canola oil are both derived from vegetables and can be interchangeable in recipes. Olives are a fruit and this oil is not acceptable for most baked goods. Read about it here.

The Continuous Posting of Conversations I've Had With My Mom

"I was watching something today and I'm going to tell you about it. You can make fun of me on your stupid blog if you want."
Don't mind if I do Mom-io. Don't mind if I do.

I frequently go through Sal's refrigerator when I go home. She tends to forget stuff is in there.
"Can I throw these fuzzy green tortillas and slimy mushrooms away or are you conducting some sort of science experiment?"
Sal, "Science experiment."
"So then it's safe to assume that this is on its way to becoming a fine cheese and is not spoiled milk?"
"You got it, kid!"

Mom, "So, I've decided that I am not going to eat bacon anymore. I saw on Dr. Oz that one of the best ways to a healthy heart is to quit eating bacon."
Me, "I can't remember the last time I even saw you eat bacon."
"Well, I figure it won't be too difficult!"

And one of my favorites,
"If you're not nice, I'm going to use your toothbrush on your dog while you're out of the house!"

The Time My Mother Made Me Eat a Dog Treat

This is a story about the time my mother made me eat a dog treat. Yes, that wonderful Sally O’Malley, who you all love so much, forced me to eat a treat designed specifically for canines. And it is for this reason that if I ever write a book it will not be dedicated to her, because of this episode of child abuse.

It was back during my high school years, back when it was easier and more likely that a child would be abused by their parent. It’s years later when the roles are reversed, and as the parent ages, children are more able to abuse them. I threaten Sal all the time that I will not hesitate to put her in a home the first chance I get. And not one of those ritzy ones, but the old folk homes that make headline news because their residents are getting neglected and abused. Force me to eat a dog treat and you’ll be spending your Golden Years eating cat food. You’ve been warned.

Anyway, I was downstairs in the bedroom and adjoining TV area that was my teenage dungeon during what I like to call my “genius years” (because that is exactly what I thought I was). I was lying on the couch, watching MTV, or some other teenage garbage, avoiding homework and attempting to be as lazy as possible on that rainy afternoon. The greyness of the outdoors made my cement basement area even more dungeonesque, with its ground level windows letting in what little light the rainclouds would allow to shine through them. This all seemed to match so well with my lovely teenage personality (not lovely at all).

Sal had been out running errands that day, and I was perfectly content to have the house to myself. Not that it really mattered, since I had confined myself to the basement TV anyway, but at least I didn’t have my mom constantly trying to talk to me.  When Sally got home she yelled “hi” down the stairs to me. I yelled an unenthusiastic “hey” back up to her, my eyes never wavering from the television. After the commotion of putting all the groceries away subsided, Mom came tromping down the stairs with something in her hands.

“Here, try this.” She said, handing over whatever was in her hand. I glanced up at it, skeptically. It resembled some sort of biscuit/cookie concoction.

“No, thanks.” I responded, eyes going back to the TV.

“Just try it! I just got them at the store.” She continued.

“No, thanks. I don’t want any.”

“Come on! Just try it! They’re really good!”

“MOM. I’m not hungry. I don’t want any.”

“Just take a bite. Come on. They’re good.” She insisted.

Oh, my God. I knew my only option to get her out of my hair was to just take a damn bite.

“Ugh. Fine.” I said, snatching the biscuit out of her hand and taking a small bite out of it. I instantly let it fall out of my mouth and into my other hand. It tasted like flour. Not sweet or cookie-like at all. “Ew. It’s gross.” I said and handed the remains of the cookie and the rejected bite back to her.

“AHAHAHAHAHHAHAA!” Sal cracked up. “It’s a dog treat! HAHAHAHAHA”

I stared at her with my unimpressed teenage eyes. “You’re hilarious.” I stated, rolling my eyes and going back to my MTV. I couldn’t let her win. I would not laugh. I must act annoyed. Through her boisterous giggling, she explained that she had bought them for Steve (our dog) at some all natural dog bakery that had just opened. They were made of flour, molasses, and other natural boring crap which is how she conjured up this “hilarious” prank. I knew the persistent pushing to get me to eat this thing was a bit suspicious. I’ve now explained to her that she really could have played out this practical joke much better than that (although I guarantee I would have had the same reaction).

To this day she still cracks up when I tell this story (to friends, not CPS, although the thought has crossed my mind a time or twelve). And although I am past my teenage years, I still have the same eye-roll-with-a-bored-sigh response. I put a fake cockroach in her bed once, years before the dog treat incident, and she nearly had a heart attack. Now there’s a prank I can laugh at! Alas, I guess the dog treat was payback for me. But that also means that the ball is in my court now…hmmm…

White Girl Problems

Babies are cute. To my dismay, they become more and more adorable in collaboration with this annoying ticking sound that seems to be coming from my uterus.  But is it actually coming from me, or have friends and family somehow strapped a hypothetical time bomb to my back?

When I was younger, I used to tell my mom that I didn’t want any kids. This was partially to remain steadfast to the evil teenager character that I played for so long (I’m my mother’s only child, therefore her only hope for grandchildren), but also because I really didn’t think that I should have children. “I would be a terrible mother! I’m crazy! I would be such an awful mess and drive my children to drink!” I presumed.

Then I realized something; Parents are crazy. It’s pretty much a prerequisite for having children. The fact that I am not a raging alcoholic at this point in my life is truly an accomplishment.

These days, I have so many friends who are getting married and having children, not necessarily in that order, and a butt load of people hounding me about why I’m not in that boat. My mind has been in a vicious tug-o-war with itself, as I am always so adamant to do the opposite of what everyone wants me to do (i.e. get married, have children), but then when I see the little rug rats and they look so peaceful, the rope gets tugged the opposite way.

About a year ago, my brother, who is ten years my junior and still in high school, said to me,

“Hey Sissy, when are you going to settle down and have some kids? I think I’m ready to be an uncle.”

How convenient! You’re ready? Oh good, because this Perfect Man that I have been hiding in my garage has been getting antsy to get out and start our Perfect Family.

My sister, 12 years my junior, has been bugging me since the day I graduated from college about how much she wants to be the flower girl in my wedding. Now that she is almost sixteen, she is still trying to come to terms with the fact that she is probably too old to be a flower girl and will have to settle for bridesmaid, if the day ever comes. I think it would be an awesomely evil joke to make her a middle aged flower girl. That will teach her to pressure her older sister.

Then there is Big Gay Joe, my obviously gay cousin, who has titled himself my wedding planner for this non-existent wedding and reception. Joe also has a checklist of requirements for any potential suitor of mine. “How do you know if you like him yet? I haven’t even met him!” has been heard coming from his big gay mouth after I come back from a date.

On more than one occasion, when we are out in public together and BGJ sees someone who he finds suitably attractive for me, he will grab my arm and exclaim, “This is my cousin! She’s single!” while the poor stranger smiles politely and pretends not to have fully understood what was said, attempting to avoid the incredibly awkward situation.

Joe’s checklist has gotten progressively shorter over the years and now he is finding less and less importance in “Lindsay’s Husband’s Requirements.” Soon there may only be one box with “Is willing to marry Lindsay” next to it, sadly waiting to be checked off.

Of course there is Rita, my crazy, 89 year old grandmother, who is not-so-silently awaiting my non-existent wedding. She wants so badly to be able to attend her favorite grandchild’s nuptials to a (her words) handsome rich man. This woman has at least another ten good years in her, but I just don’t know if that is going to be enough.

My cousin, Dan, got married a little over a year ago. His mother had the rehearsal dinner at her house. I think that about half the people who were invited to the wedding were also at the rehearsal dinner. My family really knows how to indulge in a drink or two (or twelve) and people had to be sent out on multiple beer runs, since the garage refrigerator and multiple ice buckets were emptied quite quickly. I wasn’t drinking, which always makes family functions much more difficult, and involves not only having to smile and nod at the dumb things that a (select few) family members say, but then have to listen to it more than once. I will hear the same thing multiple times that night, and then again the next day because said person won’t remember previously telling me the story. The running joke between me and my cousins is, “Just a thumb!” which is what Rita says every time a refill on her wine is offered. Somehow though, an arthritic thumb equals three normal person thumbs. I am pretty sure that I will be getting horrible arthritis for laughing at this, as karma. 

Out on Aunt Lynn’s patio, smiling politely at Rita while she wobbles with her “thumb” of wine, she asks me, “So, have you met anyone interesting?”

Oh Lord. Doing my best to skirt the question, I respond, “Grandma, everyone I have met is interesting!”

“Oh, you know what I mean!” She says, wanting a different answer from me. Let it be known, Rita is both shocked and appalled that I live with two female roommates and not one of us currently has a boyfriend. I have two gay cousins, and I am afraid that she might be thinking that there may be another gay in the fam. While a lesbian would be a nice addition to my family, unfortunately, my singledom is purely from lack of worthy men, not from closeted gayness (sorry ladies).

The next morning, a sobered up Rita asked me, “So, did you meet anyone interesting last night?”

Realizing that she didn’t remember last night’s conversation, I used the same line and innocently said, “Grandma, everyone I met last night was interesting!” This comment received another smile/glare from good ol’ Rita and I quickly segued into talk of the wedding that was to be taking place that night.

The notion that a wedding is a great place to find a mate is pure crap. A wedding is a gathering of friends and family and I don’t necessarily want these people watching me flirt with boys, nor do I think that many boys will want to flirt with me if they catch a glimpse of me on the dance floor. I can’t dance for the life of me and I sweat more than I care to talk about, so while I might look cleaned up and fancy for a while, that is short lived after the music starts and I flail around, dancing like I’m having a seizure. It’s not pretty.

Getting to Dan and Michelle’s wedding the next afternoon was oh-so-fun, as I was put in charge of getting the two grandmas and an aunt safely to the country club. Luckily it was a short drive, so listening to Rita ask, “Danny has some cute friends, don’t you think?” was through quickly enough, and after I got the old ladies out of my car and safely into the club, I was able to escape to the sanctuary of my teenage brothers and sister. Or so I thought.

The second I walked up to them, Drew informed me, “OK, Sissy. We decided on the drive over here that when Michelle throws the bouquet, the three of us are going to hold everyone else back so you catch it.”

At that point I started scanning the room for an escape route and/or someone, anyone, who I could go talk to who wasn’t going to give me any shit about getting hitched. Nothing. The only person who would of be any help at this point is Dan, who guards me like a protective older brother and mad dogs any boy who even says ‘hi’ to me. But he was the groom, and was obviously too busy with his own wedding to help me avoid the family planning mine.

I find the bouquet toss at weddings to be a horrible and demeaning tradition, second only to the removal and flinging of the garter. Drunken single women fighting over a flower arrangement that is destined to dry up and die within a matter of hours is a bit pathetic. It also draws more attention to the fact that I am single. Why don’t we just go all out and make me wear a sign that says “unemployed” while I am standing out there, just to finish me off? Maybe if it was a sandwich instead of flowers being thrown, I would be more interested.

So when I was sitting on the toilet peeing, with my dress pulled up around my waist and my underwear around my knees and heard the DJ say, “Oooookay! I’m going to need all the single ladies to come on out to the dance floor at this time!” I was quite relieved that I had chosen such an opportune time to use the restroom. But then as I was washing my hands, I heard Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” song slowly fade and the DJ say into the microphone, “So we are missing someone. Sissy. Where is Sissy?” Drew, I am never going to forgive you for this one. My siblings have called me “Sissy” since the moment they could talk, which I've always found endearing. Hearing it over the country club’s sound system calling me out to the group of single women on the dance floor made my unmarried walk of shame all that much worse.

I stood as close to the rear of the pack as I could and held my sister firmly in front of me, blocking the path of the airborne embarrassment bouquet. A special thanks to Michelle, for not throwing it in my direction.

By the way, when my other cousin, Matt, got married seven months later, this same thing happened. I wandered off right before Lori was about to throw the bouquet, but once again I was found and sent to the dance floor to stand among the other singletons.

But back to Dan and Michelle’s wedding. The morning after it there was a brunch for some of the friends and family members before people left town. It was certainly an action packed weekend, but I guess if you are the first of four boys to tie the knot, you get quite the to-do. I wasn’t hung over, as many people were, but I was grumpy from being around certain family members for such an extended amount of time. Once again, I found myself being bombarded by Rita, who once again, asked me, “Sooo, did you talk to anyone interesting last night?”

I am not joking people. She asked me this exact question three times that weekend. So with an exasperated smile, I once again told her, “Yes, I met a lot of interesting people this weekend.” She rolled her eyes and continued drinking her coffee, when my aunt came up to us. “Did you have fun last night, Lindsay?”

“Yes, Auntie Lynn, I did! It was such a beautiful wedding.” I responded.

“Wasn’t it?” She asked. “And did you meet anyone interesting?”