Tag Archives: humor

7 Reasons to Despise Neil Diamond

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Why 7?  Because it’s God’s number.

1.  The biggest, bushiest, salt -and -peppery sideburns of all time.  That goes without saying.

2.  Songs like Cracklin’ Rosie,  Really?  What does that even mean.  Cracklin oat-bran?  Cracklin fire? … or perhaps you meant to say cracklin whip?   Cus you’re a pervert?

3.  He’s a pervert.  Not only did he sign with Bang Records, but he made a song that contains the words, “girl, you’ll be a woman soon… and soon i’ll be your man.” Well gee Neil, lets try and  wait for the poor girl to stop running from the boys because they have “cooties” before attempting anything that could get you 3-5.

4. Gravely voice. beaty eyes.   That was a two-for-one special.

5.  He breeds abnormal fans.

6. Clearly, he has an anger management problem – possibly suffers from permanent insanity or syphilis.  Or both.

7.  He is a constant embarrassment to society, and a mockery is to be made of him. Only then, might he stop.

“I’m a Believer” in that!

Kenny Chronicles: How We Met

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Kenny is my best-metro-guy-friend.  He’s the marshmallow in my hot chocolate.  I have a habit of using our interactions to get a cheap laugh on my website.  It’s high time you understood how we met.

It was a cold and rainy night several years ago.

Well, I don’t know about all that, but it was night, for sure.   I went to a music festival that we have in my hometown every labor day.  It’s an event that you have no desire to attend after the age of 17, but somehow you end up going every year because someone’s dad got free tickets from their work [ or ] you’re bored out of your mind.

I went with a guy that pretty much every person in my town either knows or “has heard of” because he’s just that absurd.  We’ll call him Joe. Oh wait, that’s his actual name.  Oh well.  As we’re walking back to our car, this guy walks up to us, Joe turns to me and says, this is my best friend Kenny.  Shortly after that Joe started chasing one of the cleaning trucks, hopped on the back of it, and rode off into the sunset.  At that very moment, Kenny and I looked at eachother, shook our heads, and said, “Yea.  That’s about right.”

[Skip ahead a couple of weeks] We’re at birthday party downtown Chicago.  We ended up sleeping on the floor of one of Kenny’s friend’s apartments.  I’m not going to make any apologies for what I’m about to say: this place was a skeezy trash hole.  There was like 8 people living there and I felt like I was getting a disease just by looking at the toilet seat.

In the morning, I rustled a little, tried to go back to sleep but I couldn’t.  I looked over at Kenny and he just had a confused look on his face.  We glanced up at the tv, and what do we see?  Gay porn.  YUP.  Apparently, one of the tenants was gay.   He wasn’t seriously watching it, he was making fun of it, but either way – Kenny and I looked at eachother and immediately said “let’s go get the car.”

I put my heels back on, which fit nicely over the massive blisters I acquired the night before and we stepped outside.  I have mascara smeared all over my face, it’s blazing hot outside, and I’m still wearing my black “going out clothes.”  It’s 10:00 am Sunday morning and we look ridiculous.  After we had walked around the city for about 20 mins, I say:

homeless-guyme:  wait, I think we already went passed that building.

kenny:  no we didn’t.  the car is parked on the street over there.

me:  but that’s the White Hen Pantry that we saw 5 mins ago?

kenny:  no, no it’s not.  they’re like on every corner here.

me:  but… WAIT! that’s the same homeless guy.  we just went in a giant circle!

kenny:  homeless guys wander around.

me:  NO.  they stay in one spot.  wait, you don’t have any idea where the car is do you?

kenny:  well, I don’t know if you could say I have no idea, but I’m not exactly sure either.

me:  WHAT?  Well then why are we wandering aimlessly in the blazing sun when i’m tired, dehydrated, and blistery?  and I look ridiculous?   Why don’t you know where it is?  you’re the man, you’re supposed to know.

kenny:   Everything looks the same here.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Kenny Chronicles: A Conversation at Starbucks

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Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I meet at a bookstore or Starbucks on a quasi-regular basis to discuss our issues. I think we feel that the bookstore-ish surroundings make us more intellectual than we actually are, which in turn helps us more quickly penetrate to the heart of our problems.  Of course, this isn’t really successful because everyone acknowledges that merely sitting in a bookstore does not make you more intellectual

I arrive to find Kenny sitting out on the patio, sipping on an overly-priced mountain of coffee flavored whipped cream and looking rather introspective.  As I park my car, I instantly notice a drastic change upon my friend’s all too familiar face.  I don’t like change.  Before I sit down, I go inside and purchase the ridiculously too-big cookie of the day, which is always some random shape that makes no sense.  That day it was a lemon wedge. And the following conversation begins:

Me:  Seriously? You got your hair cut.

Kenny:   I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Me: But Richie’s wedding is next week.

Kenny: I know.  But it’s sooooo hot outside.

seinfeld-jerry-and-elaineMe: Sooo hot?  My hair is black and 3 feet long  and you don’t see me buzzing it off do you?

Kenny:  Relaaaax.  IT’S HAIR.  It’ll grow back.

Me: Not in ONE WEEK!   How many months have I been saying that we need to get some good pictures at this wedding?  And you keep it long this entiiiire time….And a week before the wedding you get too hot?

Kenny: I know we need some new pictures.  We’ll get some.

Me: No we won’t. because we cannot possibly have cute pictures with your hair hacked off like that.

Kenny: It doesn’t look that bad?

Me: Well it doesn’t look that good.  Ugh. This is unbelievable.


For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

How We Met

Photo credit: Starbucks

5 Reasons Not To Date An Only Child

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  What I’m really here to talk about is dating a middle child.  I’m not one, but I’m here to tell you that if you are it’s okay.  A middle child is not the one you need to worry about… it’s the only child thats the problem.  For the love of everything peaceful, do not date an only child. 

only-childTake it from me,  a quasi-only child.  Considering that I’m not even a full only child, I’m messed up.   If you’re wondering how it came to be that I’m not a whole only child, well that is too bad because I’m not getting into that tonight kids.  So here are the 5 reasons why you shouldn’t date someone like me:

1.  We all want ginormous families.  You try spending countless summers selling lemonade by yourself and playing house with only a mommy or daddy and see how you feel.  Plus, all the stress of grandkids rides solely on our shoulders.

2. We don’t like to share things.  It’s not so much that we don’t want to share, but we just like the things that are ours, to stay ours.

3.  We are either obsessed with pets or can’t stand them.  There’s no happy medium for an only child.  Growing up, we either learned to console our loneliness by surrounding ourselves with fuzzy woodland creatures, or we were so self-absorbed with ourselves that the thought of taking care of a pet was entirely overwhelming.

4.  We have a tendency to be control freaks.  Most only children are the center of their parents’ universe, thus are the product of an overprotective and overbearing upbringing.   Which means when we grow up, we freak out and have to be in control of everything.  Everything.

5.  We have ridiculous, impossible to meet expectations.  And unfortunately, we don’t just put these expectations on ourselves, but everyone we meet.  This is because all the focus was on us and we have an inner need to over achieve.   So good luck with that.

Back When I Was A Gang Member

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culottesImagine if you will,  a young lady full of promise, who always got A’s on her report card.   The very thought of seeing disappointment on her parent’s faces prompted her to never disobey their rules.  She played quietly, said “thank you,” and helped her mother, (who had her dishwasher ripped out of the kitchen in order to create more cupboard space) every night with the dishes.   She attended a ridiculously strict Baptist school for fifteen years, where she was forced to wear culottes and brainwashed to believe that pants were evil.

<————- (if you can’t pronounce culottes [koo-lots], I don’t blame you, considering most of the world has no reason to ever say that word) 

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My Lemonade Stand Can Beat Up Your Lemonade Stand

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how-to-beat-lemonade-standMy entrepreneurial spirit and business savvy disposition began at an extremely young age.  Younger than most.

I remember waking up at 5 am., walking over to my neighbor’s  house, and telling him that he needed to get his butt in gear and come help me make the cranberry juice.  (neither of our moms ever had lemonade, so we had to improvise).

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Finding Myself, Losing My Sanity

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It’s a day for introspection, my friends…

Before, after, and during my college years, I was told by many a new agey individual and philosophy teacher that I needed to “discover who I was” or “find myself” or get in tune with “my inner person” or whatever.  The only thing about myself that I ever knew for sure was that I liked to write, I liked to make people laugh, and I didn’t want to rush off into marriage and five kids like the rest of my friends had.  I didn’t believe in all that inner self crap.  So although I was pretty confident that I knew who I was [after living with myself all those years] it sounded kind of entertaining… maybe, I’d find that I was cooler than I’d originally thought?

So as I set out on my self-discovering journey, I realized that trying to find myself was really just a whole lot of “hanging out“ and “gaining weight” and “drinking coffee while having delirious late night conversations” with random other people who also couldn’t find themselves.  This all resulted in alot of deleriousness, altering of career paths, meaningless friendships, and relationship choices that would damage me for the better part of my life, which I would inevitably spend undoing all the things I’d done while finding myself. london-at-night
Every person who is trying to find themselves thinks that they must live somewhere other than where they are currently living.  You cannot possibly find yourself in your hometown, you have to go far, far away.  I was no exception to this rule.  Even though I’d never been on a plane and I couldn’t even drive to my next door neighbor’s house without getting lost, somehow, some way, one of my meaningless friends talked me into getting out of one of my damaging relationships by moving to Europe… this took place over a late night cup of coffee, of course.

After going away, traveling the world, partially losing my mind, realizing that Italy was all I had hoped it would be, turning down a proposal on the Eiffel Tower, and then coming back with a newfound sense of whatever, I had quite a bit going for myself.  I had “discovered” a strapping young British lad who followed me back to states and was quite taken aback by my charming American accent [and the cheap cost of Midwestern living].  I quit college and started my own business.  To my dismay, I didn’t then realize that strapping British lads are also quite good at disguising the fact that they are millionaires, heroin addicts and manic depressives. Oh well.  I gave it the old college try.

Years later, after seven career changes and two business ventures, I finally became a writer.

So here I am, and after all these years of self-discovery I’ve come to realize the same thing I always knew: I’m a complicated, indecisive, independent girl who likes to write, and all of my experiences have led me back right to where I started.

That sure was a waste of time.  But it was fun. Sorta.

By all means, everyone, please go find yourselves.

Teenage Acne And An Italian Boyfriend

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Let me start by saying that I currently drive a plum-colored ’99 Saturn with duct tape on the hood.  The purpose of the duct tape is to cover an actual hole in my hood that was created when I veered into the shoulder and crashed into a road sign, which fell on my car and poked a hole straight through it. 

So heed my advice at your own discretion.

So back to this whole matter of me being in a beauty pageant.  Typing that very sentence makes my skin crawl, but you brought it up.  Let me first say, that I hate pageants and all the creepy girls and moms associated with them.  Okay.

Once upon a time, I was dating a charming young Italian gentleman, who I thought at the time was my long awaited knight in shining armor. Ok.  Let’s start over.  Once upon a time, before developing my completely pessimistic realistic views on the ways of the world and men, I happened to get the wool pulled over my eyes by an Italian crazypants in preppy clothing who sang in a band.

As most young women who pay their way through private college, I was broke beyond my wildest dreams.  The Italian came to the ridiculous conclusion that I should be in a pageant.  My immediate protest was stifled by the mention of  “but you can win alot of money.”    I have a habit of doing things spur of the moment, without much thought or consideration to what said thing will entail, so about a month before the pageant I said, “fine. what do I have to do?”

clear-4-inch-heels-beauty-pageantAfter having said yes, I recanted my admission; but I was further coerced that it would be no big deal to prepare for.  Lies…   So big even Satan was shocked.   In one month I had to:  find a pageant gown, 4 inch clear heels [what am I a stripper?], figure out a “talent” [except I can’t sing, dance, or do anything requiring hand-eye coordination], get a professional picture, learn how to walk in 4 inch clear heels [again. the coordination problem], learn the group dance routine [there’s a WHAT?],  get a swimsuit that I’d be comfortable wearing in front of thousands of people, freak out, and actually stop eating enough food for a small lacrosse team so that I could not embarrass myself while wearing the swimsuit.  

If my first problem is that I make impulsive decisions, my second problem is backing out of them.  I can’t do it.   So after one month of freaking out, chewing the Italian a new one, and eating nothing but apples – I competed in the pageant.

My talent?  A comedic monologue about my teenage acne.  Yes.  And you are correct if you are thinking that you’ve never seen anyone do a comedic monologue at a pageant before.  I don’t believe anyone ever has.  Probably because they can sing and dance like all the other pageant going freaks.  Did they love it?   Does Giraldo Rivera love his mustache?

Swimsuit competition?  You know I rocked that.

 

 


Kenny Chronicles: A Metrosexual in a Yankees Hat

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If you’ve read any of my previous posts regarding my best friend Kenny, you’ll be not so surprised to hear that he is indeed a metrosexual male.  And when I say metrosexual, I mean he’s one manbag away from starring in an Off-Broadway musical and getting regular pedicures – except he likes the ladies.

When I say metro, I mean that he doesn’t comprehend the words “just throw on some clothes and meet me at the bookstore.”   He comes with all the glorious benefits of a girlfriend,  yet [ BONUS] I don’t have to be tormented witless by the catty moodswinging madness!  Drama, yes.  He does have that.  But at least not between us.  Indirect drama I can handle.

So Kenny is one of these people who says he’ll meet you at noon, but by the time he gets done tweaking his hair, changing his outfit five times, and analyzing his level of winter “paleness” sufficiently – it’s over.  The moment has passed and I’m in my PJ’s, watching reruns of Family Matters.  Maybe it was the massive amount of whining I’ve done over the years, or maybe he just got sick of all the hassle -but Kenny decided he was going to become “I don’t care” casual.  Of course, the effort involved in Kenny trying to look like he doesn’t care, takes an awful lot of caring.

[ Cut to conversation at my house]: Kenny walks in…

me:  what? why are you wearing… a baseball cap?

kenny:  It’s the new-casual-I-don’t-care-Kenny.    [points to hat] what do you think?

me:  it looks weird.

kenny:  like, weird different or weird ugly?

me:  like, weird I’ve-never-seen-you-in-a-hat -ever-weird.   and a baseball cap?  I need to sit down.

kenny:  I searched for weeks to find just the right one that would look good on my head.

me:  the reason guys wear baseball caps is so they can disguise their unshowered hair.   it’s not supposed to look perfect on your head.   and it’s a Yankees hat.  do you even know who the Yankees are?

kenny:  yea, they’re a baseball team.

me:  you could have at least gotten a Cubs hat.  That would have made more sense.

kenny:  yea, but my other friend got the Cubs one, I can’t have the same one.

me:  everyone has a Cubs hat – we live next to Chicago.

abercrombie-sweaterkenny:  well I like this one, it looks good on me.

me:  wait…. hold the phone.  is that a SWEATSHIRT you’re wearing?

kenny:  yea.

me:  wow…i actually like it.  looks good on you.

kenny:  yea, it’s a fitted one. picked it up at Abercrombie.

me:  ok, seriously?  this isn’t your thing.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Kenny Chronicles: A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

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Again, if you don’t know who Kenny is, please do some research, get your life together, and then return back to this post.

[a telephone conversation between Kenny and I]

Me:  [yawn….]  so are we looking for paint colors for your room today or what?

Kenny:  [several seconds, but what feels like hours of groaning, sighing, and cover rustling]  well, I don’t feel so good.  I have food poisoning. I’ve been up all night vomiting.

Me:  Oh thank God, because I have waaay too much stuff to do today.

Me:  Food poisoning?  What did you eat?

Kenny:  Some kind of Gordita-nacho-something or other at Taco Bell at 3 am.

Me: Well, did you ever think that wasn’t going to give you food poisoning?  Oh, wait! I almost forgot to tell you the good news, World Market is going out of business.  I’m going to go see if I can find some cheap stuff.

Kenny:  When you’re there can you check and see if the Voss Water is on sale?

Me: Seriously?  I really doubt that water will be on sale.

Kenny:  Well, can you just check because I need some.

Me: You only like it because of the cool glass bottle.

Kenny:  No I don’t.  I like the taste of the water.

Me: It can NOT taste that much better than the other waters of the world that you can justify paying 3.49 a bottle.

Kenny:  Yes it does.

Me:  Ok.  Well, I’ll going to level with you.  I’m going to World Market today.   While I’m there, I’m going to wander aimlessly and manhandle a a large amount of useless nic-nacs and large African vases that I have no intention of buying.  But chances are, I probably won’t have time to check on the price of the water.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles: