Archive for August, 2005
Also, I would now like to trademark the pushing of different kinds of envelopes…What about for a contest, it could be like “Pushing the self addressed stamped envelope”. Or at work it’ll now be called “Pushing the interoffice envelope”. In the Philipines it’ll be called “Pushing the Manila envelope” (I probably lost a lot of readers there. Farewell friends, I’m sorry you no longer respect be because I have made you cringe one too many times. Goodbye.). This is my blog! If you dont like the way I push the punvelope, I guess you can stop being my pun pal! It was pun while it lasted.
This story has things wrong with it on so many levels…I was babysitting last night (level 1 – 26 year old babysitter in the hizee!) and some 15 year old girls who are friends of the family were staying at the apartment. So my reason for babysitting (evaluating the merits and flaws of Huff and The Comeback On-Demand while eating as many fun-size, unnaturally colored snack foods as possible) was hindered by their presence. The next level of wrongness might have been the conversation I was having with 15-year old blonde about how it’s fun to watch TV in other people’s houses, or the fact that I resented both blonde and brunette 15-year old because they both were like 75 lbs and looked like DeLiaS models. But no, the next level was the phrasing of the following question asked of me by blonde 15 year old: “Hey, have you seen my scar?”
A scar is not like, say, a commercial or a new haircut or a billboard in Times Square. It’s not something you see haphazardly or unintentionally. So when blonde 15 year old pulls her shirt up and reveals a 6 inch long scar that runs the entire length of her stomach, I think, yeah I definitely have not seen this and I’m not sure when she thinks I might have.
When pressed, all she really said was “Oh this lady that like, I sorta know but not really, hit me with her car”, so as eager as she was to show it, I have no real scar backstory to relay… except this warning: watch out for drivers you maybe kind of know.
The other levels to this story are more about how the six year old I was babysitting not only said “I love you because you’re made of love. And candy.” but also that he and his best friend Dean (their names are Jess and Dean, Gilmore Girl fans) are in a rock band called the Mini-Beatles and write their own songs. Sure they’re songs about Scooby Doo and Yu-Gi-Oh but they have a video and girls with scars partying at their house.
Yes I still babysit. And no, the rest of the club is on vacation but we’ll resume regular meetings on Monday, Wednesday and Fridays in September. (Takin’ it to the Babysitters Club level, friends. Because I’;m a 26 year old who still cares about the empire that Ann M. Martin built).
Amy and I were watching TV on Sunday when we happened across “I have an 84 lb. Baby” on TLC so of course we were riveted. What is even more riveting is that the parents of the 84 lb. kid were British….impressive that they were using pounds at all. I guess the title would be less impressive if it was like “My baby is 4 stone, wouldn’t you say guvnah?”
But that is what began the Real People are so Gross Crisis of August 21, 2005. Following the 84 lb. pituitary case was “I am my Own Twin” about people born with two sets of DNA, sometimes born hermaphrodites, sometimes born with checkerboard YOU HEARD ME I SAID CHECKERBOARD black and white skin; then “Feral Children” where we watched Oksana the Russian girl adopted by wild dogs bark and clean herself under a fireplug on all fours.
I had to go before watching the touching story of “The Boy Whose Face Fell Off” and “Flesh Eating Tumors” but believe me I was upset to miss them. Thank you The Learning Channel. I really did learn a lot that day!
There are a couple of irrational things I think about on a regular basis. Bedtime, for one. And NOT because my plush queen sized bed is uncomfortable or my thread count is too low. Rather, it’s because I think (honest) I am more vulnerable to murderers, monsters and bogeymen if I don’t have a sheet and/or duvet on top of me. I also can NOT sleep with an arm hanging out over the side of the bed. Why in the world would you willingly try to bait the murderer who lives under your bed and who feeds on phalanges by dangling them enticingly over the side? You WOULDN’T. Not if you’re me. I swear, I really do these things, I don’t kid about monsters who want to kill me.
The other irrational thing I worry about is garbage disposals. Great for getting rid of your eggshells and orange peels, yes. Also great for chewing up your hand because you reached in to get a fork that fell in there after a long night of entertaining Ted and Francine Q. Neighbors. That was the moment when Larry Q. Husband flicked what he thought was the light switch but no, it was the disposal switch and now all that’s left is a gnarly stump of bad memories and I have to wear my antique engagement ring on a chain around my neck now.
Note to my readers: I don’t have a garbage disposal, but whenever I am near one, this is what I think about and my heart skips a few beats imagining the hook they will have to fit me with after what will come to be known as “when Ted and Francine came over for tapas”. Poor Liz. Such a beautiful hand…until Ted and Francine came over for tapas.
I know that the bedtime thing is probably more of a Freddy/Jason type of nightmare born out of seeing one too many naughty camp couselors get kebabed on a spike between the top and bottom bunk. The garbage disposal though, I’m not so sure of. Probably I got that from Scream – after all, when you can get killed by an automatic garage door opener, anything is fair game. So for me, the disposal represents my own little Wes Craven tale of what happens when a member of the upper middle class accidentally taps the bumper the wrong chemically imbalanced member of their housing development in the Whole Foods parking lot. And the trailer for it will include a hippie in a backless shirt who lives on the outskirts of town saying to the camera “Looks like someone shoulda started a compost heap”.
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