Humor

It’s The End of an Era

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Or: I Finally Figured Out How to Quit Zoosk

Guys. Today is an important day. A day of both joy and sorrow. A day of celebration and mourning. A day of overly dramatic, hyberbolic statements in introduction paragraphs.

Today is the day I finally completely rejected the advances of Zoosk and demanded it never talk to me again.*
*And that it return all the mixtapes I gave it.

I'll never let go, Zoosk! I'll never let go!

Those tears of sorrow are super heartfelt, I’m sure.

Now, everyone** knows Zoosk and I have had a tumultuous relationship. For one thing, the first time I tried to quit it, it repeatedly crashed until I gave up and read all the nonsense poetry people were writing to me. 
**All the people I imagine read this in the quiet comfort of my own head

And then I was hooked. The pickup lines were too impressive. Too ridiculous. Too…incredibly obviously not going to work.  Honestly, things were getting bad. I was going to end up TLC’s My Strange Addiction, confessing to strangers how I just couldn’t quit reading the bad poetry of pickup lines on the Internet.

Something had to be done.

(It’s also possible that I’m just maybe seeing a real live guy. Maybe.
…Shut up. It IS possible!)

So, on this solemn occasion, I bring you (for the final time)…

Zoosketry
(Better defined as “Zoosk Poetry.” The dulcet words of potential woo-ers in the Land of Zoosk.)

“Do you have a map? I keep getting lost in your eyes.”
(No. I don’t have a map. Man up and stop to ask for directions. Duh.)

“I hope you know CPR, because you take my breath away.”
(Nope. I took it, therefore it’s mine. I’m not giving it back.)

“What does it feel like to be the best looking person in this room?”
(Oh man. We’re getting super metaphysical here. In “this” room? Like, the one-on-one chat “room” you’re trying to start with me? Or the room of Zoosk? Clarify here, so I can know how flattered to be.)

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”
(Oh, we’re starting off with movie quotes? Then how about this one: “I thought you’d be taller.”)

“Why aren’t you in jail? It’s illegal to look that good.”
(You don’t know that I’m not. Stop making assumptions.)

“Describe in one sentence the kind of person you’re looking for.”
(“Not a serial killer.” Wait! That’s a fragment. Let me try again. “The kind of man who does not end sentences with prepositions.”)

“Why is a good looking person like you still single?”
(….This is not a legitimate question. Try again.)

“I know you lost your phone number, so here’s mine. <phone number included.>”
(…Know what? That’s thinking outside the box. It’s also a way to end up getting drunk texts from strangers at 3 in the morning.)

“When I saw you, I fainted and hit my head. I need your name and number for insurance reasons.”
(Oh, holy crap! Of course! I’m SO sor-wait a minute. This is a trick!)

And, the best of all of them:

“You r pretty enough.”
(…Wait. Wait wait. Pretty enough? Enough for what? What system of measurement are we using here, and what’s the competition? I need answers!)

And so an era of dating website mockery ends. At last, I shall no longer stay up until 2:30 in the morning on a work night, flipping through messages to note down the very best ones for blogging purposes. My pre-geriatric bedtime shall be restored!

I know. This leaves us all very sad.**** So I shall leave you with a thought experiment to take your mind off things:
****Also there have been exactly zero actual doodles in this post.

I present to you Schrödinger’s Cake.

Cake is better to experiment on than cats

There may be cake inside. There may be no cake inside. There both is and is not cake…Until you look inside.

Guys. The cake might be a lie. But it also might not be. There could be cake in there.

The cake is a lie the cake is a lie

It’s not really a lie if I knew it was once a truth…

Confidence Is a Trap

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Or: Why I’m Grateful My Parents Didn’t Give Me to Carnival Folk When I Was a Child

When I was a little girl, I was, to put it politely, pesky.* To help keep my parents on their toes, I balanced out my charming, well-behaved, thoughtful older brother by instigating mischievous mayhem and bringing home all sorts of tiny wild animals.
*I have yet to grow out of this phase.

Because bugs are more evil than snakes are snuggley

AND I LOVED HIM FOREVER AND ALWAYS UNTIL I FOUND OUT HE ATE BUGS.
And then I put him back.

By the time I was 10, we lived in a little bungalow house in California.

In the middle of my street....

Everything was “mine” when I was 10. And also now.

The house was so little, there was no proper entrance to the attic. Instead, there was a conspicuous strange opening, covered with a plank of wood, in the roof of my closet.

There be monsters inside

See? All the things are mine.

Like many other suburban Bay Area homes, our house had a drop-tile attic entrance that you needed a ladder to access. We kept our ladder permanently in place, because we went up to the attic a lot.

It was a good attic

Even people who read my blog are mine. My readers. Hi, Mine Reader-Person!

Like any child with immediate, constant access to a very tall and dangerous ladder, I played on it as much as humanly possible. I sat on the rungs and read books. I climbed up it to get to my Barbies. I staged elaborate imaginary sea-battles from the top of the ladder, because, well, that was safe.

If I know you, I will draw a stick figure of you

My mom always has cool hair. This was her cool hair when we lived in California.

My mother would warn me to be careful and bribe me to stay off the ladder. But I was confident.

This is foolish confidence

I was definitely not born on a ladder. I’m sure that would have been super awkward for my mom. In hindsight, telling your mother you were “born” on or around anything other than a hospital is generally pretty dumb.

But I had a tendency to climb the ladder in socks. And, as it happens, parents tend to be right about a lot more things than 10-year-olds.

Dangerous confidence is dangerous

Oops.

And one day I fell off of the top of the ladder. I smacked into the floor at terminal 10-year-old velocity. It wasn’t a very high fall, but it was enough that I thought I was paralyzed. As I lay on the ground squeaking out pathetic noises, my parents came rushing in.

I totally was not dead or hurt

I am perhaps translating what I think my father was thinking, instead of actually transcribing the thoughtful things he said to comfort my mother after making sure I wasn’t dead or really damaged.

This happened more than one time**. But it never once deterred my mental stance of confidence. I was filled with a strange survival-detrimental confidence that I was really good at being on ladders.
**At least sixteen before I even hit high school.

I totally am the Pirate Empress, though

It was probably all of the times I smacked my head on the floor that proves my father right here.

If I were my parents, I probably would have sold me to the circus.

Life Lesson: Morning People Will Probably Eventually Rule the Whole World

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Life Lesson #6,120: Do not get dressed in the dark. Even if it’s only dark because it’s cloudy outside and you’re too lazy to turn on the light.

That is how you discover your shirt is inside out. At work. At 10:00 in the morning. After two meetings. With the C-level executives* in your office.
*CEO. COO. CFO. C-More-Important-Than-I-Will-Ever-Be-O.

I am not a morning person. I have never been a morning person. I was not a bright, chipper small child up with the sun. I was not even a person before noon during my teen years. In my 20s, I continue to bodily drag myself out of bed before the hour of 9:00 in the morning. Maybe by the time I’m 50, I’ll have a healthy relationship with dawn, but right now, we’re mortal enemies.

BAD SUN! SHOO!

Closing the curtains doesn’t even help. I still know it’s there.

But every now and then**, I have to drag myself out of bed on a cloudy, rainy or snowy morning. This is a strange blessing and curse all rolled into one. For one thing, the sun is forced to refrain from taunting me, due to being locked behind the shelter of clouds. But, on the other hand, it’s still blissfully dim and all I want to do is stay in bed. So getting ready becomes even more difficult.
**Sporadically and spontaneously and generally on the most inconvenient days, because I live in the South.

As has been mentioned previously, I work in a proper corporate business office, where I am expected to wear proper corporate business attire. There are skirts and heels and fancy shirts and dressy sweaters and other things I have had to spend a bunch of money on to ensure that I look appropriate and good at my job.

Hurray!

Of course stars and sparkles appear when I successfully get dressed in the morning. Does this not happen for you?

I am successfully good at accomplishing other morning activities (showering, hair brushing, makeup) in a lit bathroom that has bribed me into awareness with promises of hot water. But no amount of wardrobe budget and steamy showers can spare me the horrors that come with getting dressed in the dark.

Grumblemumblebitchwhine

Selecting the proper attire in a dark closet clearly requires a lot of finesse.

I have a tendency to select items at random and fling them out of the closet onto my bed, signifying that they are destined to be part of the day’s outfit. Lots of these items are black, because I am a champion at color-coordinating. After other preparations are complete, I tend to hurl these clothing options onto myself, achieving a successful dressed state.

Grrrrrgrumblemumble

It’s hard to see the stars and sparkles in the dark.

However, some mornings***, I am not quite so successful. Apparently.
***Like THIS morning.

Some mornings, not all of the clothes go on the right way. And without the supervision of the blindingly bright, evil dawn sun, there’s no chance to catch the devious, inside-out shirt until well after I’ve left the apartment.

You know, until after I’ve finished my second meeting of the morning.

I need more coffee for this nonsense

It was not subtly inside out either, guys. There were tags and seams and possibly the opposite side of shirt-decorations visible.

So in other words, guys: Happy Tuesday. I hope your clothes are on the right way.

My Cat Does Not Understand Going to Bed Early

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Or: The Story of the Adorable Demon That Lives with Me

This weekend I was very busy and adventurous*, which resulted in a remarkable number of hijinks, but a very minimal amount of sleep.
*preening and flash-dancing because my blog got Freshly Pressed and that makes me so happy it was distracting.

So by the time Sunday night rolled around, it was time to throw on my onsie pajamas and hit the sack. At 8:00 o’clock at night. Because I am practicing for senior citizenship.**
**I just want to be really, really good at it already when the time comes. You know, already have all the early bird specials memorized at restaurants and be outraged by those meddlesome kids who won’t get off my lawn? I like to set attainable life goals.

They are so warm and so comfy and I love them so much.

Yes, I did perform my flash-dances in these pajamas.

My cat did not agree with this life choice.

This is the only stick figure cat I have ever drawn

I do not know how to draw stick figure cats.

So, at bedtime (still 8:00 o’clock), I scooped up my cat and carted her off to bed with me. Normal people allow their cats to explore and figure out sleeping space on their own. My cat prefers to be specially invited and then hand-carried to bed, or she will sulk on the floor all night.

She is like carrying a fuzzy sack of potatoes. I love her so much.

***Yes. This is what I call my cat. This is not her name.

I snuggled into bed with her at my feet, and started to fall into the blissful slumber of someone who has collectively managed to have less than eight hours of sleep in two and a half days.

At 8:15 p.m., my feline companion became concerned about whether or not I was alive. To express her concern and check my vital signs, she licked my ear, and then stuck her face into my face to check if I was breathing.****
****For those who are curious, cat-faces directly impair breathing.

Sleep is for the weak and the dead

I told you I do not know how to draw stick figure cats.

Once satisfied that I was clearly still alive – a fact established my hacking struggles to breathe around her affection – she decided it was time to go exploring. She quietly explored for a time, and then determined that my apartment was in need of redecoration.

Admit it. Your cat redecorates too

Because all things – most especially palettes full of wet paint – look better on the floor. Most especially beige carpet.

She put all her efforts into redecorating until I finally went and reorganized all of the things capable of being knocked over. This left her frustrated; clearly I was not appreciating all of her hard work.

By this time, it was 10:00 o’clock at night. A strange peace fell over the house as she fell into a sulk and vanished from my sleeping space.

And then, at 11:47 p.m., she began to sing the song of her people.

I mean, this isn't even cute anymore

I’m so serious. Drawing stick figure cats is something I hope to never do again. I wonder if there are specific art classes for this.

In the bathtub. For optimal echoing. Of course.

This continued, despite repeated interruptions by me (picking her up and putting her in bed; staying up and petting her; playing with her with the laser pointer; locking the &%^$! bathroom so tub singing was impossible; unlocking the #%$!@ bathroom so she would stop crying about the closed door) until about 2:13 in the morning.

When I woke up for work at 6:15 this morning, she was fast asleep, on the bed at my feet, purring happily.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP - you can hear it in your head, can't you?

Yes. I still own an alarm clock that beeps at 100,000,000 decibels. It’s the only one I have not broken.

She protested with annoyance when I moved and woke her up.

And that is why I am never going to bed early again.

It’s Probably Time We Talked about Baby Showers

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Or: It’s Probably Better if My Pregnant Friends Don’t Read This One.*

*But if you do, just remember – your pregnancy is super special and like no one else’s and I love you and you deserve a thousand baby showers.

Guys. Guys.
**Also, ladies. Ladies. Because generally, you’re all a little more involved in this.

We need to sit down and have a rational discussion here. A rational discussion about office baby showers.

Nope. Definitely awkward.

Because this is just a really awkward conference for everyone involved.
Click for source, which I’m sure wasn’t awkward and was amazing and thank you for letting me use your picture.

I think it’s cool when people make babies. Awhile back, we discussed the fact that I clearly love babies because I am a sane***, non-sociopathic human being. And I think we should, in fact, celebrate the fact that women are going to produce entirely new people through the magic of science and reproduction.
***Ish. Sane-ish.

AAAAAHHH-ZEEE-VAIN-YAAAHHH

In my head, all new babies are shown off in Lion King fashion.

That’s cool stuff, guys. That’s science.

And, in the right context, I support the baby shower. Because every woman-in-the-process-of-making-more-people needs stuff. Babies require a lot of stuff. Diapers, blankets, cribs, various carrying devices, clothes…A LOT of stuff.****
****I have not made any people, so I base this list entirely on the gigantic registry lists I have hunted through for baby shower presents. I know I’ve left things out.

Since bankrupting new mothers is usually frowned upon, a baby shower is in order. One baby shower. One baby shower that your friends and family come together to throw.  This should result in a giant present fort of supplies and adorable things for new parents to use to take care of their future tiny person.

Not quite as good as a Christmas present fort

One giant present fort. From one baby shower. From people who love you and do not feel oddly obligated to buy you awkward things when they’ve never even met your family.

But then there is the now-longstanding tradition of the office baby shower. The office baby shower is frequently thrown during the work day – during a lunch break or squashed between meetings when everyone is already frazzled. Sometimes, they are thrown immediately after the work day ends, so you are obligated to stay late or look like a cold, evil baby-hater.

Honestly. I may need spinal surgery

No excuse is acceptable for missing the office baby shower.
(But getting accused of baby hating will apparently make your stick figure body disconnect from your stick figure arms)

Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, you’re friends with your coworkers. Sometimes you’re even the really good kind of friends that see each other outside of work and actually hang out on weekends. That’s cool. Then you should get an invitation to the real baby shower, which should be an actual event showering love and affection on the expectant mother*****
*****This is my favorite phase. She’s “expecting.” Expecting a baby, but, you know, it really could be anything. “The expectant mother was expecting a human baby, but was really surprised when she had a litter of robots instead.”

In most offices, however, the office baby shower is a strange combination of awkward discussions avoiding the topic of how the baby will actually come out, and people milling around waiting for enough time to elapse that they can politely leave. In case you were wondering, the time you have to stay increases exponentially if there’s cake. Cake means you have to stay longer, otherwise you look like a glutton who uses babies as an excuse to cram sugar in your mouth and run away.

People are frustrated with the last-minute panics of remembering to bring gifts, and the mental debates of how much they were required to spend. In general, even the mother feels awkward.

So can we all just agree to cancel these?

…No? Well then can we all just agree that the cake should never, ever, ever look like this?

Nightmares. So many nightmares

This little terror is courtesy of Cake Wrecks. Click for source and hours of entertainment!

Because if not, I’m bringing this cake to your next office baby shower.