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Sure, He SAYS He’s Filming a Movie…

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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?

Obvious, right?

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.

Mrs. Cap’n Firepants Trades Nothing for Something and Ends Up Playing for the Philadelphia Phillies

So, first of all, I am totally psyched that The Daily Show returns tonight.  My daughter wants to become a teacher because she gets summers off.  I said, “No, you need to be Jon Stewart because he gets two weeks off for every holiday, plus the entire summer – in both hemispheres.”  Not that I’m bitter or anything.  Just suffering from separation anxiety.

“Who’s Jon Stewart?” my daughter asked.

Yeesh.

In other news, my anti-depressants seem to be somewhat working, which means my That-Idea-is-Stupid-Filter is working again.  Which means it’s very difficult to think of blog topics.  The only reason I am typing anything now is because I forgot to take my lunchtime dose, so my filter is being stomped down by the amazingly strong irritation that I begin to feel when things start wearing off.

I always thought people were idiots for refusing to take their medication because they lost their creativity, and now I’m beginning to understand it a bit.  I mean, it’s nice to go 12 hours without feeling an overwhelming desire to slit my wrists, but it does seem like I generate a whole lot more writing ideas when I’m miserable.

I don’t see why there has to be a trade-off.  I mean, there is such a thing as getting something for nothing, despite what your mother may have told you.  I just heard about Mike Cisco being traded to the Los Angeles Angels for no compensation.  Nada.  (That means “nothing”, right?  I mean, I’ve never really checked, but I’m just guessing from the context clues.  If it means something else, and it happens to be offensive, I completely apologize.)

So, anyway, the Angels got Cisco for nothing.  I don’t see why I can’t get my sanity for nothing.  My sanity certainly doesn’t effect as many people as a baseball player, who I admit I never heard of, but whose trade qualifies him for the Yahoo sports page.  You’re not going to see my trade on any sports page, so I’m pretty sure that means that I am worth less than Cisco.  Ergo, I should get my sanity for less than nothing.

Reading that over, it seems like there might be some fault in that logic, but I can’t really be bothered with such trifling trivialities.  It’s almost time for The Daily Show and my bulldog is demanding my presence on our armchair.  And if Jon Stewart talks about the Cisco trade, I want all of you to be my witness that I brought it up first.  That’s what he gets for going on a two week vacation.

The problem is, I don't have a trading card.  I need to work on that.photo from:  http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/

The problem is, I don’t have a trading card. I need to work on that.
photo from: http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/

I Guess I Should Depend on More Than the Daily Show to Keep Me Informed

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…

Sincerely,

Mrs. Cap’n Firepants

fox

This is War

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.

It might appear that he is snarling, but that is just a combination of his sleepy look and his underbite. I think.

Is it Possible to be a Socialist Socialite?

So, I realized yesterday, a bit belatedly, that I am a Socialist.  Apparently, I have been for some time, but I was of the mistaken belief that I was a Socialite.  I just needed Jon Stewart to point out my error.  Well, and then I needed to Google it.  Because sometimes I think I know the definition of something, but then, well, I’m wrong.  But sometimes, shockingly,  the internet can be wrong, too.  Like this time.  According to this definition of Socialism, I could also be called a Fabianist – which I will completely deny.  Because Fabian was way before my time.  And I only like guys who pose next to living tigers.  Rare, endangered ones that need large financial donations in order to save them from extinction.  (The tigers, not the guys.)

Anyway, I want to thank Jon Stewart for pointing out my economic (and possibly philotherianistic) beliefs.  I think he’s really the only person who understands me.

Now, I should probably clarify; Jon Stewart did not announce, “Mrs. Cap’n Firepants – you, my dear lady, are a Socialist.”  That would have been totally cool, though.  To have Jon Stewart talk to me directly, I mean – not the labeling part.

No, I inferred that I am a Socialist from his amusing attempt to define Socialism using the language of other people who seem to like to bandy that term about.  (I’ve always wanted to use the word “bandy” but no one in my family seems to really like to bandy things because they are far too thoughtful and deliberate, so it’s never actually applied to anything in my life.)  As I was laughing at how funny it is that the same people who call everyone else Socialists, by their own definition, are Socialists, I turned the spotlight on myself for a moment (because everything is about me), and realized that even though I have not once, not ever called anyone a Socialist, I am one.  It was like some major epiphany right in the middle of The Daily Show.  I don’t know if Jon Stewart fully realizes the power he possesses.

You see, we throw this fair at our school once a year, and the teachers are expected to work the booths.  The first few years, I noticed that a couple of the grade levels not only had the cushiest jobs (like selling donated cans of soda – as opposed to sitting in the dunking booth), but they also made the most money to spend on desired curriculum materials.  When I suggested rotating the jobs, no one could agree on a fair way to do this.  Then I said, “Why don’t we just split the money evenly after each fair?”  there was a lot of grumbling.  But we did it.  And it seemed to work.

Then I said, “Everyone needs to give me 5% of what you earn for coming up with this awesome idea, and I will split the rest with you evenly.”

And that didn’t work.

Anyway, my point is, I am a Socialist.  Just by nature of participating in and supporting the public school system, I am a Socialist.  I think.

So, I would like to thank Jon Stewart for helping me to come this realization.    And I would like to apologize to everyone I have offended with my Socialistic form of bullying.  I shall work on rectifying this matter as soon as I start making enough money to not care anymore.

Bath and Body Works Does Not Carry This Scent

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?

Taken in Happier Times - When Potpourri Could Roam Freely on Our Tables

Taken in Happier Times - When Potpourri Could Roam Freely on Our Tables

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.

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