Archives for posts with tag: funny

I am not what you might call a “relaxed” individual.  On the long, long resume of all my wonderful skillz, if you see “resting” on there you will also probably see “lying” shortly thereafter.  “Lying” as in “fibbing”, of course, and not “lying down.”

My mom thinks it has something to do with my caffeine intake.

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Whatever, Mom.

Last year Santa got me a massage for Christmas.  I needed a massage because I was having trouble putting my arms down and turning my head.

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It’s a long story, but the situation (namely, school) that led to that unfortunate condition has tended to repeat itself ever since, which is why I asked for a massage again this year.

And I think that is why Santa got me a

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for a massage.

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It turns out that a massage and a Groupon for a massage are not exactly the same thing.

Last year I had quite the boring time getting a massage at this old white Victorian house just up the road from my parents’ house.  The whole thing was really uneventful, as you might suspect a massage to be.  It looked something like this:

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This year was…um…different.

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Yes.  Yes that is a gun store.  The epitome of relaxation and peace of mind.

Somehow the thought of walking into this place and, you know, voluntarily removing my clothing wasn’t really the most comforting thought I’d had in a while.  But I’d driven an hour to get there, and that’s a loooong way to drive without turning your head.

So I went in.

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My therapist actually turned out to be a very sweet lady, and I’m glad to say that I am once again quite the ambiturner.  But I still wouldn’t consider the experience a relaxing one.  Not only was I vaguely concerned with what I convinced myself was just a car backfiring in the parking lot, but I am also extremely ticklish.

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It wasn’t too big a problem when my face was all smushed up in that little padded toilet seat they make you smush your face into.  But just because the therapist couldn’t see my face of silent torture does not mean my body spasms went unnoticed.  I can’t even tell you how many hiccups I faked.  And hiccups are most decidedly not relaxing.

But giggles (and anxiety over tipping etiquette…separate story) aside, I left the office like spaghetti sliding out of a colander.

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If you think turning your head is important for safe driving, you should try operating a vehicle when your oiled-up noodle arms keep sliding off the steering wheel.

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As it was, however, I decided to take advantage of my delusional crazycloud and got three vaccinations and another piercing.

Yep.

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Avoiding eye contact is the most basic principle of avoiding someone you don’t want to deal with.  Normal people will stop talking to you if they are constantly faced with either the top of your head or the point of your chin, so go ahead, wear your sunglasses inside.  However, if the person you are avoiding is exceptionally abnormal (is that why you’re avoiding him?), maybe you should try staring at him really hard or something until he runs away.

But assuming your darty eyes are not enough to hold off that annoying person in your life, here are nine more defense strategies to help you in your plight.

Step 2.  Create a Diversion

“Look! A bird!”  “Oh no!  There’s a fire in that trashcan!”  “Is that Barack Obama over there?”  For example.

Step 3.  Pivot

Never underestimate the power of a quick toe swivel. Oh, what’s that? You forgot something at your desk? Better turn around mid-stride and go get it right now!

Step 4.  Yawn

So you’ve lucked out and seen your nemesis before he’s spotted you. Quick, look away before you can make the dreaded Eye Contact!! It will be weird if you pass by them with your eyes closed, but NOT if your face is all scrunched up because you are yawning so big. And you can seriously stretch this out for as long as you can handle.  Go big or go home.

If the sight of your tonsils doesn’t scare ‘em away, you might need to try…

Step 5.  Dropping Something

I don’t go anywhere without at least twenty pieces of paper tucked under my arm for this exact purpose. Oh no! There’s someone walking towards me that I don’t want to see! Better drop this stack of paper all over the floor and occupy myself with picking them up. Of course, if the avoidee is the kindhearted type, DON’T TRY THIS ONE. Inevitably they will only take your woopsiedaisy as an excuse to linger and chat you up while they hold your twentieth piece of paper hostage.

Step 6.  Throw Things At Them

Blow things at them.

Swat things at them.

Bat things at them.

Throw up on them.

Whatever.

Step 7.  Wear Headphones

You know that awkward feeling when you have an entire conversation with someone before you realize they haven’t heard a word you’ve said because of those freaking invisible earbud headphones? And then you silently and awkwardly try to disappear? Yes. Do that.

Step 7.b.  DO NOT TAKE THEM OFF

DON’T. Getting tired of your playlist? Too bad. Fortunately, nobody will know the difference if you turn off the music (but keep your headphones on) and just kind of bop your head or tap your foot to some kind of invisible rhythm.

Step 8.  Hide

Step 9.  Actually Stay Home

Go roll around in the ball pen at McDonald’s, catch some sniveling child’s plague, and - Voila! - you’ve crafted yourself the perfect pajamas-and-hot-tea kind of day.

(This can also help with Step 6.)

And if your nemesis comes around bearing soup/medicine/glitter, gratefully accept and then sneeze on them until they go away. Warning: this one does NOT work if the avoidee is your roommate, in which case…

10.  Move

I was nine the first time I realized my sense of humor wasn’t always considered…appropriate.

I was at a friend’s birthday party, and, as I have done for probably every friend’s birthday since I learned how to work a computer mouse, I had made her an extra-special birthday card.

I’d heard a pretty funny joke shortly before said party, and thought I was pretty much the smartest person ever when I figured out how to turn it into a birthday note.

It’s festive because of the clown; it’s funny because of the cannibals (right?).  I was so excited when she peeled the card off the top of her gift, but…something was off as she started reading my joke.  Was she…confused? a slow reader? disgusted?

And then the reality of what I’d done began to sink in.

Panic started seeping in as she flipped open the card.


I was momentarily relieved!  My joke wasn’t a flop, my friend was just dumber than I’d thought.  Phew!

But then.  But then she handed the note to her mom.

And she got the joke.

And she didn’t think my joke was “age-appropriate.”

 

Now I only tell that joke to ten-year-olds.

We were freezing.

Wee One was scared.

But it was time.  Time for him to learn how to swim.

We went to the local pool complex a lot when I was an au pair.  Wee One would watch his older sisters dart around the pool like little fish, and he was all too excited to join them until he realized he’d have to relinquish both his swimmies and his death grip on my arm to do so.

It had snowed during our previous pool adventure, so I thought the water was relatively quite balmy for our first swim lesson.  Wee One, however, strongly disagreed.  As I carried him like a baby spider monkey into the pool, I could feel his arms gradually tighten around my neck.

And with each step we took further down into the water, he shimmied a little bit further up my torso…

…and onto my face.

Needless to say, we did not learn to swim that day.

Some evil demon had replaced all the edible food with aisles and aisles of POISON.  And I was pretty upset about it.

I usually love going to the grocery store.  Going to the grocery is the greatest because a) it is something I can check off my to-do list without sitting at my desk, and b) it is where all the prettypretty food lives.

When I go to the grocery store, I like to think of myself as a Great Samaritan.  I generously welcome box after box and bag after bag of Little Orphan Annie-esque homeless victuals into my shopping cart.  I hand out life-purpose and the promise of a good home like creepy men in unmarked white vans hand out candy!  I’m a freaking ANGEL!

But when I’m sick, I don’t feel so angelic.

So when the evil demon disguised as my taste buds replaced my granola bars, carrot sticks, and pudding cups with ipecac, pesticide, and vitameatavegamin, I had a bit of a problem with that.

I am such a grownup, calling my mommy and essentially asking her to feed me like I haven’t been doing that for myself for, gosh, the past five years.

But there was an excited, anticipatory silence on the other end of the line.

(I know it was an excited, anticipatory silence and not a bored, uninterested silence because I know my mom and I know the difference and it sounds like this:…………………………….. and not this:……………………………..  Okay?)

And when she was done being silent, she spoke:

My mom is a pretty good cook.  Actually, that is a lie.  My mom is one of the best cooks I’ve ever met.  Granted, I haven’t met Emeril, but he yells a lot and makes some pretty weird stuff, so I feel like my mom’s ratings are pretty safe.

Point is, when she said she had a recipe, I got pretty stoked!  Immediately I started thinking of yummy soup or sugary bread or something, I dunno.  Something delish.

Who does she think I am, a Rockefeller?

I was confused.  There I was in a store full of poison and I had just been instructed by my own mother to voluntarily pay for some and take it home.  To eat.  With my mouth.  I figured it was payback for sending her this recipe for Christmas Cake.

But I was tired.  And probably a little grumpy.  So I trudged home laden with my lettuce, apples, cheese mold, money chips, and opium dressing to make this salad.

And it. was. so. good.

Sometimes I love being wrong.  And sometimes I love being sick (it’s the reason I’m temporarily excusing myself from working on my thesis to write this post).  But always I love my mom.

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