Living Falling Down

I’ve had a baby blanket since I was…well, a baby. It’s white with red trim and has the remnants of some long-ago washed out image of Raggedy Ann and Andy’s Circus. I no longer need a security blanket to comfort me while I sleep, or protect me from the boogeyman, but I can’t bear to throw it away or pack it into some box to be eaten by moths and slowly disintegrate over time. Today it still sits on my bed, proudly serving the useful function of keeping my head from sliding off of my satin pillowcases into some jarring position in the middle of the night.

Technically, it’s my second baby blanket. When I was born I “inherited” my first blanket from my older sister, by which I mean my parents bought her a new one and convinced her it had super powers that the old one didn’t so she wouldn’t get jealous of the baby having a blanket of her own. That attempt of my parents to assuage my sister’s feelings haunted me for years as my sister would run around the house with her blanket as a cape saying I couldn’t play superhero with her because my blanket “wasn’t special”. Granted, when I received the thing it was tattered and contained a lovely coffee stain on the bottom corner, but as long as I wasn’t being carried off in the middle of the night by those furry things from Where The Wild Things Are I figured it was doing its job just fine.

After a few years, my mother decided that the lovely and familiar piece of fabric that I was dragging merrily behind me had reached the point of being dispensable, and as I think in hindsight about the giant gaping tear in it I think she might have been right. At the time, however, nothing would part me from my blanket. Zeus himself could have thrown lightning bolts at my feet and that frilly-looking man from the fashion network who used to give me nightmares could have chased me in those stiletto boots of his but I would still not have relinquished it. My mother bought me a brand new blanket (which had a strange way of mysteriously walking itself into the freezer or trashcan in the middle of the night), she brought me new stuffed animals in the hopes that I would hug them at night instead (I ended up sleeping in a menagerie of fluff-filled friends, I don’t think my back actually touched mattress for months), and even resorted to stealing my blanket and chucking it into the dumpster outside. Yet every night without fail there it would be by my pillow, waiting to protect me from the dark and smelling slightly of the meatloaf we ate the night before.

For a while, it became routine for my mother to take me out shopping on Saturdays through baby stores and children’s boutiques. It was that time in my life when I was rapidly growing out of every piece of clothing I owned so it wasn’t as if we didn’t have reason to shop, but I’m fairly certain that a main purpose of these trips was to find something that I would accept to replace the blanket which was, by that point, in two distinct and separate halves.

Now I would like to take a moment in this story to note that my mother is infinitely patient with me and truly deserves some sort of velvet-mounted medal for all of the wonderful nonsense I’ve inflicted on her through the years. She tried several times to sit me down and explain that it wasn’t that she didn’t want me to have the blanket, it’s that it simply wasn’t healthy to keep the molding old thing around. As an adult I can look back and admit she was right, but at the time all I heard was “Blah blah blah Heather blah blah throw out the blanket blah blah.” There may or may not have been more blahs. My memory isn’t flawless.

However, on one miserably cold Saturday morning (I remember because I was wearing three layers of coats) mom and I went into this off-the-main-road mom and pop run antique store. My mother insists that the purpose of that outing was to replace parts of the Tiffany-style lamp that our dog had broken for the fifth time by racing through the house at breakneck speed until he slammed headfirst into a wall- the same wall he had hit four times previous - but judging by the fact that I was the only one of her three children she brought in tow I’m thinking she had some mom-sense that we would finally find what we were looking for. The store was really an old Victorian-style house that had been converted, and after dusting snow and damp off of our clothes we moved from the foyer to what was once the dining room. There it was, hanging stretched across two chairs for display, a perfect, brand-new replica of my blanket!

I remember making a noise somewhat like a small pig who’s discovered its curly tail has been set on fire before leaping over an antique coffee table to hug the thing. It was the blanket as I had never had the opportunity to see it: Raggedy Ann’s face still had color, Andy’s face hadn’t been scratched out by a blue crayon, and the Circus performers hadn’t been washed out to the point where they were no longer discernible from the train on which they sat. If my memory is correct, my mother grabbed up me and the blanket with one arm and went marching straight to the cash register where the grinning saleswoman was forced to ring up the item manually because I would not remove my vice-like fingers from it.  We then went home, abandoning the lamp-bits in a fit of jubilant celebration and singing with the radio at the top of our lungs.

When we arrived home, my mother marched up to my bedroom, retrieved the old blanket and, in an epic triumphant fashion, dropped it into the kitchen trash…

…Where it stayed for about five minutes before I sneakily ran it back upstairs. It took her two months to finally throw it away (she found my secret hiding place while I was at school and actually drove it away from the house to find a dumpster) but thankfully by then I had grown sufficiently attached to the new one and I didn’t fight it…too much.

I’ve taken much greater care of the second one, and even now more than a decade later the design can still be seen, which is good considering the design is retired and there won’t be another opportunity to make a switch ever again. To be honest, I would never make another change - my blanket is one of the few things in the world that I know is unequivocally mine, something that no one can ever take from me. It’s a rather comforting thought.

Speaking of comfort, I think I’ll go take a nap.

• Leave a comment... (13)

I auditioned for American Idol today.

It’s okay, I’ll wait for you to stop laughing at my expense…Are you done now? …How bout now? All righty then.

I managed to get a rare perspective on this year’s auditions, not necessarily from the front lines, but just a enough to the left to get a whole different picture than anything I had heard of thus far. This wasn’t because of any major event, or some Cinderella-esque turn of fate that left me in the limelight, but rather a lot of smaller instances that left me in back row center, giggling insanely at the wonderfulness that humanity can accomplish.

As I’m not currently writing this blog from a Hollywood Studio apartment, you can guess how far I managed to get into the actual competition, but I am thrilled at the experience and would gladly saddle up and drag everyone I know back next year. Is it because I’m a glutton for punishment? I am, but that’s not the case here as the whole process was painless, exciting, fun and an incredible ego-booster, and I didn’t even pass the first round.

Allow me to explain:

Two days ago my family and I showed up at the Amway Arena around 8am to register for the show, along with about 3,000 other hopefuls. There was music playing in the line (courtesy of the contestants), news cameras everywhere, and in a rare Floridian event a wonderful breeze blowing that cooled everyone off and resulted in a crowd of genuinely happy people. I had expected to be waiting in line for several hours (and had brought provisions of sugary snacks and playing cards accordingly) but in reality I was waiting for about ten minutes. Ten minutes. Then an American Idol employee (Hello Patrick, you wonderful man!) struck up a conversation with my party and moved us over to a special shorter ADA line that was out of the sun and where stunningly attractive EMTs were standing by. If you’re wondering why I would need to be in a disability-accessible line, reference back to the previous blog post on POTS. Florida Sun + waiting in line + uncontrolled excitement makes for a rather wobbly and purple-looking Heather. In this line we waited for another ten minutes tops while enjoying the company of afore-mentioned Adonis EMTs before we experienced the glory of American Idol costumer service - a one-woman registration parade who came out and took care of all of our paperwork without requiring us to go inside (I would NOT have made it up all those stairs) or wait in the heat any longer than necessary. I do not know how that woman managed to carry all of those stickers, papers and things without losing any in the wind (I have a sneaking suspicion the wristbands had found a convenient pocket in her bra) but with the utmost courtesy and care she took care of us in a whopping total of two minutes.

Let’s pause and take a look at the math here, folks. 3,000 people standing outside the Arena, I counted 20 employees (maybe more maybe less) working the crowd, and yet those spectacular people managed not only to pick out those in need of help in no time at all, but safely had them on their way in less than twelve minutes. We expected to be there for a minimum of three hours (we arrived at a slow point of the day in terms of contestant traffic) but ended up being there 22 minutes, half an hour if you count driving, parking and staring open-mouthed at the giant American Idol sign while squealing like prepubescent children.

Now, while Registration day was all about efficiency, Audition day was a massive block party with free wandering serenades and the best people-watching known to exist.

Parking was terrible, as expected, and we were forced to walk a long way to the Arena, but when we arrived we were not pushed into the crowd of 18,000 outside who would proceed to do commercial promos and crowd shots with Ryan Seacrest for 2 hours (sad I missed it, but considering all the complaining I heard about the heat it’s hardly a deep sadness). Instead, we were escorted to the ADA entrance where two overworked yet exceedingly cheery Idol employees (Mario and Amanda, King and Queen of Multitasking) were singularly responsible for over a hundred contestants and their families in wheelchairs, on crutches, carrying canes, and in one case sporting a pair of lovely purple feet. Even though there were only two of them for the great mass of us, and contestants could not travel anywhere unescorted, we only waited about five minutes before we were brought into the still-empty arena (and blessed air conditioning) where we were the first in the stadium to be seated and were practically catered to by a butler who looked like the Monopoly man. Our comrades in arms (and one very large cast) quickly became our friends and immediately we began swapping rumors and intel on the auditions, which we were all nervously excited about.

I am not a social person by nature, it is a trait I have had to learn and still struggle with, but apparently if you place people next to each other in a Colosseum-sized arena and tell them that they’ll be allowed to sing publicly social interaction becomes not only natural but enthusiastically pursued. During the two hours it took people to file into the arena and take their assigned seats, I made at least a dozen new friendships and somehow picked up the magical ability to start conversations with total strangers with only a smile. Seriously, you would have to cram 70 hippies into a van with politically-charged folk music and three megatons of weed in order to get the same level of cheer and good will towards others that I saw today.

You might think that this was because everyone knew the cameras were on and thus were presenting their best behavior, however I would like to relate some instances that occurred not only when the cameras were off but no where in sight:

1. I walked through a door and a woman pointed at me dramatically and said “Look at her! That’s the best smile I’ve ever seen!”I don’t know about before, but it was certainly a bright smile after.

2. A rehearsing girl struggling and slaughtering (and I mean ripping apart note by note, stabbing them and leaving them in a ditch to die a horrible, slow death) a Carrie Underwood song in a corner was not only applauded but was then set upon by not one but THREE professional voice instructors who had her singing like Miss Carrie herself in under three minutes.

3. A young man darted through a crowd and dove in prince charming fashion to open a door for an older woman wearing a medical germ-proof mask without being asked, and followed this chivalrous act with a string of compliments. (To this man I would like to say thank you. If you could have seen the smile on her face you would understand why.)

4. The first person to audition and receive a golden ticket was applauded by the crowd. The first person to audition and fail received a standing ovation.

5. In a two minute walk through the concourse, I counted seven times in which I saw a complete stranger walk up to a practicing singer and not only offer their praise, but their help if the singer so desired it. There was no competition, no survival of the fittest. Every person who got through was celebrated as though they were personal friends with everyone in the crowd and the only time I heard a negative word spoken about another contestant was when these words were uttered, “Did you hear that? She was brilliant!…I hate her!” I would like to add that that comment was followed with thunderous applause from the speaker.

Yes, it was a forum of peace, love and happiness the likes of which I have never seen, and in some way it restored my faith in a dwindling humanity. For if we all can come together for a common goal and support each other the way I saw strangers uplifting each other today, then I believe the Cockroach Overlords might have trouble exterminating us after all.

On a final note, in the off chance that someone from a Google search finds this blog and shares it around, I would like to take this opportunity to speak to some people I met today:

1. To the woman who spent the entire day shushing me and complaining that I was making it impossible to hear what was going on (when I was speaking in a normal tone of voice in the back row of an ampitheatre filled with over 18,000 other people) I would like to ask that you take a chill pill. Also, I heard your daughter sing and it was quite lovely.

2. To all those who spent time and effort making signs referring to “Poker Face” only to find out that they had changed the crowd song to “Heartbreaker”, I feel your pain. I spent months dilignetly learning nine different songs only to be allowed to sing four lines of a chorus.

3. To the two producers who were so intent on rushing through my group’s audition so that they could go on their lunch break that they not only didn’t listen to us but actually rested on your hands and sighed: I don’t blame you for being exhausted or dismissive, especially considering how many people you have to hear, and I do not begrudge you your decision to let all of us go home empty handed, it’s your right and I’m no David Cook. However, if you’re going to tell someone that they’re just not good enough for you, common curtesy dictates that you are supposed to look at them when speaking and avoid waving your hand like you’re swatting an annoying fly. I wasn’t hurt (I had successfully completed my goal of auditioning without passing out) but the others in my group seemed offended.

4. To the Girl in the Yellow Dress: As comical as it was watching you grab the butt of your super-short dress with a fist and hold it down whenever you walked up and down the stairs, I would still suggest wearing an outfit that did not suffer the risk of full-backwards panty viewing whenever you take a deep breath.I apologize to whatever fellas might find fault with this plan.

5. Finally, to the girl rehearsing in the bathroom stall next to me who started in with a full-volume belted version of “At Last” right as my cheeks hit the can, I would like to award you the LFD Comedic Timing Seal of Approval. I nearly peed myself laughing. Luckily I was in a venue that could handle such calamity.

Now we just wait and see if I show up on tv. In the meantime, I want a cookie.

• Leave a comment... (14)

I’ve never understood the need of people to keep an online diary of their thoughts and actions.

A private diary I can comprehend. It becomes a sort of time capsule of your life to be left behind for the prosperity of the future. Sharing those intimate daily workings with the world at large would just scare me. That, and if the government found out what I was doing on a daily basis I would institutionalized immediately.

However, I have heard that sharing the minutia of the inner workings of your thought processes with an outside, unbiased and rational individual can lead to a better understanding of self and clearer, less-inhibited emotional state. As I lack a rational individual and am too cheap and lazy to go find myself a therapist who will just sit and stare at me going “uh huh” for three hours while I lay on the fluffed up couch and spill about the kid who chased me with an earthworm in the third grade, I am left with the cold, unfeeling emptiness that is cyberspace and those poor, hapless souls who happen to stumble upon this blog after a google search for blueberry muffin recipies. In such a situation I can see why an online diary of sorts would be not only useful but beneficial, if not utterly boring for those looking for an entertaining read.

In an effort to compromise, allow me to tell you a hypothetical story about an imaginary family, one that has absolutely no relevance or relation to my family or anyone I happen to know, I assure you.

So when I- I mean, when Emily was a little girl she used to share a room with her little sister Sarah, and their older sister Jane slept in her room down the hall. It was approximately two in the morning when a high pitched and rather whiny scream emitted from down the hall and woke the two girls from their peaceful slumber. Leaping ever so gracefully out of bed, then picking herself off the floor after the graceful leap failed to transcend any kind of distance, I, er, Emily fled down the hall to her sister’s aid, meeting up with her parents in the hallway. Jane had left her room in a hurry, screaming bloody murder and waving her arms like one of those cartoon characters who’s running away from a swarm of killer bees. She steamrolled over her younger sisters and the family dog, leaving them in a huddled heap on the carpeting, all the while screaming about a monster that had tried to eat her hair.

The voice of reason, or at least the voice of that particular hallway, the girls’ mother bravely stepped forward and demanded that the dad go check out the room. Armed with a shoe in one hand and a large umbrella in the other, he advanced into the room with the great crowd of estrogen huddled behind him, brandishing his weapons in what he hoped appeared to be an imposing and intimidating way. Three steps into the room, they glimpsed movement at the foot of the bed and the estrogen hoarde and one yelping canine went scurrying away as if a nuclear bomb had been dropped in the child’s bedroom and radiation poisoning was imminent.

Standing in what he assumed was a confident manner, the father poked daringly at the offending intruder with the blunt end of the umbrella. What he discovered was not the boogyman, or some crazed insect swarm bent on eating a small girl’s hair while she sleeps, but a small and terrified bat fluttering at the base of the window screen trying to find a way out. The children in the hallway never forgot the great booming laughter that emanated from the room (which to them signaled that the monster had caught daddy and he was now possessed) or the way that their father, out of breath and crouched over from laughing, beckoned them in to see the horrifying, hair-eating boogyman. Ever so much more confident, the dad carefully caught the frightened creature with the shoe and a nearby box, releasing it to the wild (at which time Emily swore she heard tiny squeaks yelling “FREE, I’M FREE”). The dog was recovered from under the couch, the children were safely placed back in their beds and one little bat flew happily off into the night to tell stories of the great umbrella-wielding maniac who threw it out a window.

I hope you enjoyed the tale which had absolutely no relevance at all to me.

The End.

• Leave a comment... (0)

I do not consider myself to be a fangirl. Yes, there are celebrities I would like to meet, and I would probably squeal like a prepubescent girl if I ever got the chance to do so,  but I don’t think I’ve crossed that dangerous line to fall into fangirldom.

Now, for those of you who are not aware, the fangirl (note: one word, NOT fan girl. A fan girl is that girl in a harem that’s responsible for holding and waving the giant palm frond.) is a delicate creature who borders that line between normalcy and madness. She typically has chosen a person or subject of interest to fixate herself upon and has dedicated a great portion of her time into either researching said subject or explaining/celebrating her fixation to others. These are the girls that spend seven hours a day on a Twilight/Harry Potter/Anime/Jonas Brothers chat forum recounting in great detail the last time they had a dream about so-and-so marrying them and having an insane amount of children. These are also the girls who follow celebrities (and bands in particular) from place to place showering them with gifts and personalized affection. You know that girl at the concert that threw her panties on the stage? THAT is a fangirl.

Now that isn’t to say that all fangirls are obsessed to the point of throwing their underoos at some stranger who’s face has been plastered all over their bedroom, or that the somewhat more elusive “fanboy” isn’t guilty of the same level of “enthusiasm”, but there is a point for girls where that line between reality and fantasy becomes a bit blurred. It’s one thing to LIKE a celebrity or popular story like Harry Potter, and another thing entirely to decide that you’re going to stalk a singer by posting pictures of yourself on the windshield of their tour bus or start planning out your hollywood wedding to Ron Weasley (note: not Rupert Grant, I’m talking about a fantasy wedding to the character).

The sad fact of the matter is that celebrities have neither the time nor the inclination to put themselves at risk of incarceration to start or maintain a relationship with what is most likely a twelve-to-fourteen year old girl. Realistically, we should be thankful to those who go out of their way to sign autographs, take pictures and talk to their fans, to give them some sort of mental or physical memento to remember their time with someone they admire, because not only are they not required, they are usually not recommended to do so. Allow me to explain: When I was a young girl I used to live next door to a record producer, who shall remain nameless, and frequently met and spent time with their famous clients, who shall also remain nameless. I met my share of bodyguards, managers and publicists and as a result I picked up one very important piece of knowledge: While celebrities usually love their fans and would like nothing better than to sit down and have long interactions with them, the people who work for those celebrities are incredibly wary of them. Actually, it’s their job to be wary - they are responsible for watching out for the fangirls and fanboys who take the obsession too far and become a danger. For a fangirl a picture left on a tour bus windshield is just a token of their affection, to a publicist that is a photo of someone who managed to get past security and leave something on the traveling home of their client. Imagine if someone broke into your house and left a picture of themselves on your fridge with the note “I <3 YOU!” in bright red letters. You’d probably call the cops and change your locks.

So while there is nothing wrong with being a fan - it’s something I enjoy and share with my friends - it’s important to remember that celebrities are PEOPLE who deserve respect and privacy.

And to the twelve year old girl on the David Cook Official fan forum who was asking David if he would post a video of himself taking a shower: STOP IT. You’re creeping me out.

Also, David Cook rocks. That is all.

• Leave a comment... (6)

I live in Florida. The Sunshine State. There’s an orange on our license plates AND our state flag.

So how come naval oranges can only be found in California? Those hoity toity Hollywood types are stealing our Floridian orange pride with their glammed-up citrus! How dare they take a central and pivotal character from our dearly beloved state and hoarde it over there in their Sunset Boulevards!

It’s not like we Floridians said, “Hmm, California looks so content over there with their Disneyland. Why don’t we build a bigger and better version just to show them up?” And it’s not like we would ever follow such a declaration by building not one, but four large Disney theme parks, several series of Disney-themed hotels, two water parks and a Disney golf course. That would just be rude!

I say to California: Give us back our oranges! You’ve got all those fancy celebrity scandals and movie studios, I highly doubt you’ll miss a couple of orange balls floating around your soundstages and production lots. With the heat here, and our lack of spiffy federally funded buildings like your Alcatraz, we certainly need them more than you!

We might be willing to consider letting you keep the fruit if you give us Arnold. It’s not that we’re looking for new management, we just want to hear him yell “I’ll be back!” as we drag him out of your state.

• Leave a comment... (0)

I am an addict.

It’s hard for me to admit, but I feel that it is important to share with those around me who can help lead me from temptation. If left to my own devices, I’ll succumb to the terrible pleasure and take hit after hit. Then, once the high has worn off, I’m left in a sea of guilt and self loathing.

CURSE YOU BLUEBERRY STREUSEL MUFFINS!

With their nice, flaky tops and warm, melted blueberries I can’t resist them. Just the smell alone is enough to drive me into a nom-craving fit. Next thing i know, I’m in some alleyway somewhere with a baking pan and batter sharing spatulas with Little Debbie and Aunt Jemima.

it’s a terrible habit, but how could anyone resist the pull of freshly baked muffins? WHO, I ASK?! WHO?!

I tried presenting the muffins with a sensible Cease and Desist Notice, but their representative has yet to contact me. They’ve also blatantly refused to obey the restraining order, which shows to me a total and complete lack of decency on their part. If any muffins are reading this, I’m asking politely that you leave me be. My thighs will thank you.

You can, however, leave me the number to your associate Cinnamon Bun. I love that guy.

• Leave a comment... (2)

I would like to take the opportunity to extend a hearty and heartfelt greeting to my fellow nerds out there, but as I am unable to virtually submit a Spock hand gesture, I offer you this:

01101000 01101111 01110111 01100100 01111001

Now, if you are able to discern what that says without the use of Google or a college professor, I encourage you to either apply for a job at NASA or get a girlfriend. Also, contrary to legend, sunlight is NOT fatal and if the constant stream of computer illumination isn’t giving you cancer the mold from your mother’s basement probably is.

It’s not that I disapprove of the stereotypical nerd lifestyle, in fact I’ve lived it for the majority of my stay on this big blue planet. However, in retrospect, it wasn’t the most healthy existance. I had to lose the twenty pounds I gained when living solely off of ramen noodles and candy corn, and once I finally managed to get up from the overstuffed chair which had housed my buttox while I was obsessedly attached to online Sudoku and Facebook I found that it had lost all definition and resembled two hams that some madman had beat mercilessly with a potato peeler. It took months of playing Dance Dance Revolution before I regained the ability to walk without hearing the sound of my own fatty demise racing behind me wearing cleats and swinging a waffle iron. My soul-crushing addiction to muffins didn’t help any either, but I’m working on that (I’ve finally kicked the hard stuff - no more apple cinnamon).

My point is, it IS possible to have a genius IQ (or just a penchant for anime in general) without becoming lost to social interaction. Believe it or not, people who have people may not be the happiest people, but they are better adjusted and tend to live longer. Yes, I will miss the candy corn and World of Warcraft, but now that I live in the real world (where they have these things called “friends” - I’m still trying to figure out what they’re for) not only have I achieved a more healthy approach to life, I’ve also found other nerds who have escaped the alluring draw of technology’s cold, binary logic to embrace the warm, not-so-binary allure of other people’s company.

Also, Spock wasn’t nearly as cool as Riker. There, I’ve said it and I feel much better for it.

01100010 01111001 01100101

• Leave a comment... (21)

It has been suggested that those reading this blog would want to get to know me a little better, but I recognize an attempt at spying when I see one and thus you will get no details out of me to take back to the cockroach overlords. However, in the spirit of increased understanding and to appease the poltergeist of blogging, I shall give you a glimpse of how insane I really am so that you can sit back in your office chair, sip your mocca latte while listening to Coldplay and laugh pretentiously on my account.

A Few Facts:

1. I believe that Hawaiian Sweet Bread, Corn Beef Hash and Tortellini were created solely for my own enjoyment. Anyone who says otherwise can watch me clamp my hands over my ears and hum loudly.

2. I wouldn’t kill for the above, but I would kick you in the shins, grab it, and run away. I might even take the time to shout something insulting or demeaning, but I’d have to be in the right mood.

6. Whenever I hear the word “pickle” I giggle a little inside my head. I have no idea why.

14. I adore socks. I am a faithful follower of the Sock Fairy, a mystical and enlightened being who secretly steals socks out of drawers to unravel and then knit together into giant multicolored scarves for small, sockless gnomes. In her honor, I have a sock collection with every type of socks imaginable - even some with bells on them. Although, strangely, I rarely wear them with shoes. Shoes are not as fun as socks.

16. Someday I swear I will hug a chinchilla. I don’t think I can die happy until I do. I could probably eat cake happy, or go water skiing happy, but I require a chinchilla for more substantial happiness.

20. Give me a flashlight, two Hershey kisses, your wallet and a kitten and I will find some way to annoy you with a flashlight.

I’m certain that covers all of the pertinent and necessary personal information that anyone would care to know about me. That, and I have a dog too. Although that strikes me as the kind of information that no one would be interested in…excluding of course the government spies who are monitoring my every move because they know I have the secret of Atlantis locked away in my left shoe. Sorry, fellas, but I promised the mermaids that I’d keep their secret safe…not that there are any mermaids or underwater cities or giant squid pets named Steve. That would be silly.

• Leave a comment... (2)

I would like, if I may, to share some truths with you of which you may or may not be aware.

1. You are the chimney of your pants.

Think about it. If your jeans, or slacks, or tear-away atrocities were buildings of some sort, your torso would be the chimney, or quite possibly the attic (which could lead into a strange metaphor about how your ideas and thoughts are the lost and probably forgotten skis and boxes of clothing up there, but I’m not really sure where that would lead). So, in light of this enlightening revelation, I ask you all to clean out your flue.

2. Wherever you go, there you are.

This is one of those few statements that is always completely true…unless you’re not exactly where you are, in which case you’ve either slipped halfway into an alternate dimension or have become dismembered. Either way, you might be in trouble.

3. It would be funny if it weren’t so painful.

Take a moment to process this one: You see a man fall down a set of stairs and then face first into a cake, you’re going to laugh. Especially if it’s on television and hilarious sound effects have been added. However, if you happen to be the man cascading down the stairs towards a frosting-covered fate a good hearty bit of laughter would probably be the last thing on your mind. Yet you know that same guy will be snorting hysterically when he watches the video with it’s “bonk bonk splat” sound effects while he’s getting his cast put on in the emergency room.

4. Crabs love mushrooms with cranberry sauce.

They do.

5. No one has ever offered a crab a mushroom slathered in cranberry sauce.

This, naturally, places some doubt upon the validity of truth number four, but as I’ve yet to be disproven on either count, I stand by my proclamation. In this same strand of life-changing discoveries, I would like to elaborate and tell you also that no one has offered a pickle to a pineapple, a cookie to an antelope and regardless of that book that claims otherwise, no one has ever given a pancake to a pig. I personally have never offered a popsicle to a bullfrog, so I propose myself as the authority on the subject.

That said, I’m off to proposition a pear to a porcupine.

• Leave a comment... (1)