Category Archives: Crash
I don’t know how I came to be so fortunate, but our Tennessee Family Reunion happened to coincide with the exact dates of the The World’s Longest Yard Sale.
I mean, what are the odds? Especially when I had no knowledge that such a sale existed?!!!!!!!
Here’s how we found out: Once Cap’n Firepants and I stopped yelling at each other about where we should each go, we noticed an inordinate amount of traffic on our route to Chuckles Entertainment Center, and mentioned this to the man kind enough to take our money for our round of Bible Verse Miniature Golf.
“Oh, yeah, that happens every year when we have The World’s Longest Yard Sale,” he said.
So, of course, I thought this was some kind of hyperbole. But it turned out it wasn’t. There really is such an event and we just happened to be smack, dab in the middle of it. The sale, I kid you not, goes 690 miles from Michigan to Alabama.
And we almost missed it.
I could not allow such a momentous event to take place under our noses without attending it, ourselves. So, all Family Reunion plans were completely readjusted in order to make room in the schedule for a visit to The World’s Longest Yard Sale. And, just to make things interesting, I threw down the gauntlet.
“We all put in a dollar, and whoever takes the picture of the tackiest, ugliest item at the sale wins the pool,” I challenged.
And so, folks, I give you some of the entries in the Firepants Rummage Sale Contest. It is only some because some people (I won’t name any names, Crash, even though all you did the entire week of our Family Reunion was take pictures) did not send me an entry.
Now, we actually already determined a winner. And it’s no coincidence that he happens to be the patriarch of this fine family;) But I’m going to let you decide who the rightful champion should be…
This exchange happened between my sister, Crash, and me a few days ago. You see, about 20,000 years ago I did what I thought was a really nice thing and surprised my sister in North Carolina for her birthday. Her birthday usually coincides with my Spring Break, so I figured I would give her the best gift of all – me. She seemed quite happy about it at the time, but little did I know that I was setting her up for an annual hopefulness that seems to have gradually turned into full-blown paranoia. Every year at this time, she asks if I’m going to surprise her again. And, of course I say “no” because, even if I was, I’m certainly not going to tell her. This year, as you can tell, the hopefulness has turned into fear, and I’m trying not to take it personally.
I mean we all know the difference between “half-ass” cleaning and the cleaning you do when you are afraid you are going to get murdered by a serial killer and your home is going to be featured on C.S.I. But my sister should know by now that I would be perfectly satisfied with no-ass cleaning because that’s exactly the kind of house I live in on a regular basis.
The other day, there was a story in the news about a woman who got injured because her friend decided to keep his ammunition in his oven, and she decided to preheat it to make some waffles. Now, there are a few things wrong about this story, but my biggest question is: why do you need to pre-heat the oven to make waffles? I mean, I’m not a kitchen person, but I’m pretty sure you don’t bake waffles.
You might ask what that all has to do with this post, but I think that you will agree with me that keeping your bullets in the oven is a perfect example of, half-ass, “Oh crap, I have a visitor, what am I going to do with this armful of armament, I know, I’ll put it in the oven” kind of cleaning. Never predicting that, when you left the room to go take a whiz, your neighbor would suddenly take it upon herself to make some kind of mutant form of waffles that must be put in the oven instead of in the waffle iron that was sitting on your counter.
What I’m getting at, Crash, is you can totally put your ammunition in the oven if you want. Because: A.) I don’t cook, so I think we are all safe on that account, 2.) I don’t clean, so I’m never going to find it in there, and III.) I’m not coming to visit this week, so I really don’t care where you decide to store your ammo.
Although I do feel obligated to mention, Sis, that someone who earned the nickname “Crash” because of her less than graceful performances in the past, should probably not be around live ammunition on a regular basis.
Oh, and I am coming to visit. No, I’m not. Yes, I am. No, I’m not…
Don’t you love having a sister? Happy Birthday.
First of all, let me state for the record that I love funerals. I mean, what’s not to like? People dressed in black, talking in whispers, singing gushy sentimental songs out of key.
My sister, Crash, claims that she hates them. Which worked out in her favor because she recently just managed to get herself uninvited to one. She finds this upsetting, so I just want to remind her that she is totally invited to mine when I have one. In fact, I expect her to attend. And, just to please her, I already have a smash-bang good one planned, with a flash mob and everything. It’s going to put the “fun” back in funeral, I promise.
So, we’ll both sit this one out, Crash. It’s okay.
“I hate Jenny Lawson.”
“You hate your Maid of Honor?” my husband, the Honorable Cap’n Firepants asked.
“O.K. Wrong Lawson, dude. Don’t you even remember my Maid of Honor’s first name?”
Quickly sidestepping that land mine, the Cap’n said, “Well, who is this Lawson you hate?”
“She is a writer. And I hate her.”
“I think we’ve established that. Care to explain why?”
“First of all, she had a crazy childhood.”
“So did you.”
“But hers was a happy, crazy childhood. And funny. And she lives in Texas.”
“In the Hill Country.” This will make the Cap’n hate her, too. He has always wanted to move to the Hill Country. “Where vultures try to resurrect your buried dead pets and scorpions invade your attic.”
“That doesn’t sound so good.” Although he did kind of perk up at the dead pet part. There are moments when he does not have kind thoughts toward Wonderbutt, our Bulldog who Ate the World.
“It’s funny! Well, the pet dying part was not funny. I cried. But she made it funny. That’s why I hate her. And she uses profanity indiscriminately.”
“Well I’m glad she does not use discriminating profanity.”
“Haha. Seriously. She is hysterical.”
“So, what I’m getting here is that she wrote a book that made you laugh and so you now hate her.”
“Exactly. Plus she collects taxidermied animals that are dressed up. How am I supposed to compete with that?” Again, Cap’n Firepants seems to brighten with a thought.
“It sounds like you’re jealous,” he says after a moment, perhaps thinking that is a better thing to say than, “Wonderbutt would make a fine tuxedoed and taxidermied collectible.”
And this is where the conversation ended. Not because I threw a deadly scorpion at Cap’n Firepants and a starving vulture ate his carcass. Though I seriously thought about it.
Only because this conversation did not really happen, except in my head. And I really hate it when I can’t even control the conversations in my head enough to make myself look good.
If you are interested in hating Jenny Lawson, too, I highly recommend her book, Let’s Pretend this Never Happened.
(And by the way, Crash, thanks for texting me today that I should read this book – which I finished this weekend, laughing so hard that I was crying – and then not saying anything like, “She’s just as funny as you” or “You could totally write a book like that”. Instead, you just said, “We thought r life was crazy.”)
(And by the way, Parents-in-New-Jersey, you are not the crazy set of childhood memories to which we are referring. Thank you for reading my blog and not being crazy. Although, if you were crazy, I might be able to make a lot of money off of the stories. Now I just have to do it the hard way and make up my own stories. Don’t worry, though. I’ll just make them up about Crash and Cap’n Firepants – not you.)
(And by the way, People Who Might Read Jenny Lawson’s Book, I would probably advise you not to read the iBook edition on your iPad while you are sitting in the middle of a group of parents at your daughter’s dance class. Particularly if it is the chapter entitled, “My Vagina is Fine. Thanks for Asking.” People look at you funny. And not in a good way.)
My sister, Crash, texted this picture that was ostensibly taken near Appalachian State University by someone she knows.
Assuming this is an actual sign, and one of us isn’t being bamboozled, what the heck does it mean?
The guess from her friend was, “Watch out for flying, drinking, hula hooping college drunks.” At first, I thought that was a bit redundant. I mean, don’t all drunks hula hoop?
My take was, “Angels cross here, so don’t throw boomerangs at their knees by accident.”
Another possibility, “It’s best to walk in erratic 3/4 circles so raptors won’t land on your shoulder.”
Any other ideas?
By the way, my Spring Membership Drive is still going on. Yesterday, I snagged one more subscription! Only 5.988888 million or so to go to reach my goal! I’d be much obliged if you are a new reader and commit to a subscription!
Today is my dear sister’s birthday. She is probably hoping, as she does every year for the last decade, that I will be surprising her in North Carolina. Unfortunately, I can’t do that again until she stops expecting it. Do you hear that, Crash?!!!! Anyway, I just want to say Happy Birthday to my crazy sis. Sorry I can’t be there. But here is the next best thing.
The only television show that rivaled my obsession for Nancy Drew when I was growing up was Little House on the Prairie. I wanted to BE spunky little Laura – although my personality, through and through, was goody two shoes Mary.
Even more appealing to me than the television series, though, was the book series. One thing that now amazes me as an adult was the ability of Laura Ingalls Wilder to not only remember her childhood in such detail, but to have the foresight that these stories might be interesting to other people. Many of the real-life tales in the books must have seemed like mundane every-day experiences for her generation. But now, we can’t believe that people would save up for glass window panes or be excited about oranges and a tin cup in their Christmas stockings. And the dangers of Indians and wild wolves that surround your house are absolutely foreign to those of us who grew up in Soccer Mom Suburbia.
I figure my life, too, is going to seem amazing to future generations. I mean, look at how much has changed since the 60’s.
For example, recently the battery on my car key died. Not my car – the key. Now, just think how odd that sentence would have sounded back in the day. Not the Prairie Days. The Scary, Hairy Days of the Hippies. About when I was born.
Anyway, fortunately my car still has an actual lock into which I can stick the key, so I have been using that. Dimples, however, keeps forgetting that I cannot unlock the car from a mile away. So, she hits the car running 20 mph, yanks the door, and falls flat on her butt when it doesn’t open. (She and Wonderbutt both seem to have problems with doors.)
Yesterday, she complained, “I’m tired of having to wait for you to unlock the door,” as I turned my key right and opened all of the locks.
I raised my eyebrows (at least it felt like that was what I did), and smirked. “Kid, how would you like to wait while I opened the door with my key, sat my butt down in the driver’s seat, settled my purse on the seat, forgot you were there, put my seatbelt on, closed my door, started the car, heard you tapping on the window, remembered you were there, took my seatbelt off, leaned over behind the passenger seat, and reached with the tips of my fingers to pull up a little thingamabob on your door to unlock it?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“That’s right, Missy. That’s how things used to be when I was a kid.”
“Was that back when Aunt Crash opened her door while your mom was driving and almost fell out of the car?”
“Yep. Those were hard, scary times. No child safety locks, no car seats, and no seatbelt laws. It’s amazing we survived.”
Okay, so it wasn’t wolves and Indians. But some day it might seem interesting.
Secondly, even if I did make New Year’s Resolutions, I think it would be presumptuous of me to assume that you would be the slightest bit interested in what I feel like I need to improve.
Therefore, I’ve decided this post will be about what I feel like you need to improve. These are my Resolutions for the World:
- For every reality show you watch, you must exercise thirty minutes a day. If it’s Toddlers and Tiaras, you must run naked around an entire public park with a tiara on your head.
- If you participate in a reality show in any way, shape, or form (whether it be the production, the music, or even provide a single prop), you must donate a dollar to charity for every misconception you allow to appear on T.V. uncorrected. Unless you are a Kardashian. You ladies have to donate a hundred dollars per transgression.
- If you are an adult who participates in Toddlers and Tiaras, you must donate yourself to the local zoo as an attraction to be ogled for at least a month.
- You must read my blog at least once a day, or several times a day from different computers.
- Spay or neuter your cats and dogs so I don’t have to cry every time I hear Sarah McLachlan’s song from the ASPCA commercial.
- If you are a doctor, SEE YOUR PATIENTS AT THEIR SCHEDULED APPOINTMENT TIME, FOR GOD’S SAKE!!!!
- Stop voting for politicians for stupid reasons, like “they have good hair” or “they like chicken-fried steak.” But don’t vote for Donald Trump if he decides to run. No one with that hair can ever be taken seriously at World Summits.
- Laugh at least three times a day.
- Do something stupid at least once a day so other people can laugh. (If you need help, my sister, Crash, and I can give you pointers on this one.)
- Cure cancer.
I think that about covers it. I was going to give you a handy little checklist so you could keep track of your goals, but I don’t want to spoil you. Just print this out and stick it on your fridge. And, if my list seems a little too ambitious for you, just focus on the important parts, like #4 and #10, for this year. You can always build on your success in 2013.
My sister, Crash, just got an iPhone. The one I coveted, then decided wasn’t good enough, then coveted again when Cap’n Firepants declared he was contemplating an upgrade of his own. iPhone upgrade, I mean. Though he probably secretly thinks about trading me in for a better model, too.
Crash has never had an iPhone, and she is approaching this brave new world with all of the zeal of a drunken gorilla. This is her trying to use FaceTime, iPhone’s video conferencing feature.
So far, we haven’t FaceTimed each other yet. Partly because I’m scared of her picture. And partly because I enjoy trying to interpret her texts so much.
It’s not like she’s never texted before. She has owned a cell phone. But it apparently did not have autocorrect. Either that or she has recently started smoking weed because I suddenly can’t understand
twenty-five fifty-three percent of what she’s saying.
It reminds me of when she would call my dorm room in college and my roommate would pick up. Roommate would say, “Hello!” then listen for a few moments and hand it to me.
“I think it’s your sister,” Roommate would say, hesitantly. The implication being that she wasn’t absolutely sure it was not the crank caller who graced us weekly with pornographic rants, but was willing to hazard this guess because of the higher pitch of the voice and the lack of heavy breathing.
We had moved to Louisiana when my sister was about ten, and she had thrown herself into the culture wholeheartedly, somehow adopting an accent that was a combination of Cajun, Hillbilly, Southern Belle, and the Bronx.
Crash’s iPhone autocorrect appears to embrace different cultures with the same zeal as my sister. Usually autocorrections bear some kind of similarity to the new words it suggests, and the replacements tend to be in the same language, but Crash’s autocorrections sometimes appear in another language altogether – bearing no resemblance to the original word at all. Here are a couple of her recent ones regarding Wonderbutt’s new Zazzle store.
It doesn’t help that even her communications that come through the way she intended sometimes have me scratching my head. So, I’m continually asking myself if I should know what she is talking about – or point out that she’s had another autocorrect malfunction. This somewhat defeats the whole purpose of texting – a brief correspondence that cuts through all of the pomp and circumstance of an actual telephone conversation. I spend more time deciphering Crash’s messages than I do on composing my blogs – which, believe it or not, is a lot of time.
Crash used to call me right after she sent an e-mail, and proceed to tell me everything that was in the e-mail. I’m thinking she may have to do some texting follow-up calls as well. I don’t want her to stop texting, though. She is my human Wonderbutt.
If you’d like to read more about my feelings on autocorrect, click here😉