Jon Stewart has been flirting with me, and I’m not really sure how to handle the whole situation.
I mean, I love him, but, you know, not that way.
I mean I could love him that way under the right circumstances, like if my husband told me he was hiking the Appalachian Trail, and it turned out he was really shacking up with Jon Stewart’s wife in Argentina.
But that would never happen. Probably. I’m pretty sure. Because my husband would rather walk a golf course than hike a trail, and I would be kind of suspicious if he said he was playing golf and he didn’t come back for a few days. Mostly because he can’t last more than 3 hours on a course without deciding that he completely despises the game and should never play again.
But back to the Stewart thing, you are probably wondering how I know about his not-so-secret crush. My answer is, “Well, women just know these things.” And that is true. We are amazingly attuned to men who are attracted to us. I totally knew, for example, when my dry-cleaner had a crush on me, even though it took him 18 months to inform me of this. And with him, there were really only two clues: 1.) he always had my form filled out before I even walked in the door, and Dos.) he kept giving me random discounts when no one else was there.
It was so obvious.
My two clues with Jon Stewart are: 1.) his recent hysterical interview with David Sedaris, who just happens to be my favorite author, and whose book I had just ordered on Amazon the same exact day he appeared on the Daily Show, and Dos.) his completely random attack on my sworn enemy, Donald Trump, who would completely justify someone’s use of “toupee-dar“.
I mean, for those two events to happen on his show within the span of one week is just way too much of a coincidence.
And then he announced that John Oliver will begin guest hosting on June 10th, and that just makes everything as clear as the unflavored Knox gelatin mixed with warm water that I paint on my daughter’s hair when she has to do a synchronized swimming performance.
Because June 10th is exactly when my vacation starts. And if Jon Stewart is not going to be hosting his show, just where exactly do you think he is going to be?
And on the other side it would say, “And Hates Cutesy Bonding Activities That Require the Use of Wooden Spoons”
I think you people know me better than the people who know me better.
Yesterday, I got a wooden spoon in my box at school. It said, “Positive”.
We did this thing at the beginning of the year where we decorated wooden spoons and wrote someone who inspired us on one side, and one of the qualities we most admired about them on the other. Now we are supposed to pass the wooden spoons secretly to people we work with who exhibit these traits.
So far this year, I have gotten “Fun” and “Positive”.
Granted, I just started working at this school last August. But I cannot imagine what I have done to give anyone the impression that I am either fun or positive.
My idea of fun is sitting in my armchair with my farting bulldog watching The Daily Show.
As for being positive, when I complain about something, and someone says, “It could be worse,” I say, “Well, it could also be better.”
Maybe that sounds positive to some people.
Some people also seem to have gotten the impression that I am smart – probably because I teach gifted students.
They obviously have not seen my bathroom drawer full of abandoned hair appliances that I bought because the infomercials convinced me that each one was the solution to my frizzy hair.
Or the long scar on my hand that I got because I thought I could remove the wall-sized mirror in our bathroom by myself, but didn’t actually plan where I was going to put it once I got it off the wall.
If I was going to put a spoon in my box, I think that it would say, “Cranky Klutz Who Repeats the Same Mistakes Over and Over…”
But that probably wouldn’t fit on the spoon.
See? Not positive.
Dear Man Who Rescued Me from My Solitude While I Waited for My Daughter to Finish Swim Practice, Foolishly Thinking I Could Spend My Time Writing:
I was so overcome during our conversation the other day that I could not find the words to properly thank you. So, here it is.
First of all, thank you so much for offering me your used earbuds so I could listen to your daughter’s video on your phone. Your generosity apparently knows no bounds.
Secondly, thank you for educating me about gun control. Now that I know that the government is out to get us, I am going to save up some money for an AK-87 (the bigger the number, the better, right? but I thought an AK-97 would be too greedy) so I can defend myself. Because when the government finds a way to persuade the military men and women who have sworn to protect our country to start dropping bombs on my house, I want to be ready.
Once I was edified about my need for an arsenal in every room of the house, your insights into the welfare system and health care illuminated how completely selfish it is for my friend to ask for assistance for his son, born prematurely, who maxed out his health insurance life-time benefits before he turned one. I can’t wait to inform him that his money-grubbing ways are, in a large part, responsible for our titanic national debt.
I only wish you had been around to admonish me before I made my foolish choices in the last two presidential elections. Of course, you would have had to find some kind of loophole in the 22nd Amendment in order to keep the man who, “at least you knew where you stood with him” in office. I say just blast a hole in that pesky little alteration to the Constitution with your assault rifle “that isn’t any more dangerous than a revolver”. That’ll knock some sense into people.
I’m probably leaving out something important, but I think you can get the gist of my gratitude. It’s not every day that someone takes as much time as you do to rectify all of my clearly preposterous beliefs and assumptions.
I’m only sorry that you did not get the chance to enlighten me on abortion and gay marriage.
Maybe next time…
Mrs. Cap’n Firepants
On most nights, the routine goes like this: read to Dimples, check a few e-mails, then travel down the long hall to the living room for my daily dose of The Daily Show.
As soon as I cross over from the Forbidden Section, Wonderbutt (who is usually forlornly sprawled as close to the border as possible) perks up and follows me to the living room. I settle myself into our big old leather chair, and Wonderbutt places himself on the floor directly in front of me, and whimpers a couple of times. When he first started this, I thought he was angling for an invitation to join me on the chair. (Which is silly, because it’s the one piece of furniture on which he has always been allowed.) Under this erroneous assumption, I would pat the space beside me several times. Eventually, he would leap up, and make himself comfortable, sometimes resting his head in my lap, but oftentimes stretching out on his stomach and kicking me squarely in the crotch. Fortunately, I am female, so crotch kicks are not quite detrimental to my health. Also, fortunately, like Wonderbutt, the chair is oversized. With a little manipulation, we both fit on it quite well. In a matter of minutes, I am turning up the television so I can hear Jon Stewart over Wonderbutt’s snores.
One day, I realized that he only demands an invitation when I am on the side of the chair closest to the end table. (Wonderbutt, not Jon Stewart. Jon Stewart is invited to share the chair any time he chooses.) If I am on the other side of the chair, the dog hops right up with no hesitation. I tested out this theory and, sure enough, right side – whimper, left side – immediate leap. So, it seemed that the whimper was not a “Please, may I sit with you?” request, but a “Get the Heck off my side of the chair” rebuke.
Being the troublemaker that I am, I decided that, from now on, I would always sit on the right side. I needed to prove who is boss, after all.
Last night, I finished reading to Dimples and wandered out to the living room, fully prepared to engage in the nightly ritual of “allowing” Wonderbutt to settle on the less desirable side of the chair.
And, there was Wonderbutt, already fully esconced on the chair. Pretty much taking up the entire space, but quite obviously occupying the right side, his declared favorite, with no room for me. His head leaning on the arm rest, and his tongue sticking out in what I’m pretty sure was an “F you” expression when combined with the look in his eyes.
Wonderbutt has no doubt about who’s the boss. It appears that I underestimated my opponent. Again.
I am especially looking forward to my nightly cuddle with our bulldog, Wonderbutt, on the couch tonight. You see, my husband, Cap’n Firepants, got a fun surprise this morning. He walked into the living room (which also happens to be the bedroom for Wonderbutt and our golden retriever, Mrs. P.I.B.), and discovered what he thought to be signs that Wonderbutt had decided to convert the room into a bathroom as well. Then, he heard crunching, and found Wonderbutt snacking on some of the potpourri we once had in a bowl on an end table. It turns out the oddly shaped brown item the Cap’n spotted on the floor was one of the portions of the potpourri that Wonderbutt had spurned. This is interesting because Wonderbutt does not usually spurn anything once he has determined that it can be ingested. He has eaten a metal barrette, plastic bags, carpeting, carpet padding, and numerous “indestructible” toys. I’m kind of curious what made him draw the line at this particular piece.
To be honest, I am not sure how the potpourri lasted as many months (18) as it did. Who knows what horrible sin the bowl committed that finally brought it to the attention of Wonderbutt?
So, the reason that I am contemplating a pleasant evening with Wonderbutt is because I am an optimist. (Don’t laugh. I hear some of my loyal readers snorting. Maybe I’m trying to change. Did you ever consider that?) And, I figure that, since our little gaseous windbag chose to feast on sweet-smelling dried flowers and leaves, I should, for once, experience an evening of orange and lavender scented flatulence.
Now, if I could just figure out how to quiet his snoring, I might actually enjoy having a 65- pound bulldog spread out across my legs while I laugh and shake my head at the idiot gas-bags they like to lampoon on The Daily Show.
There are some people in this world that might benefit from their own dose of potpourri every once in awhile.