Wonderbutt the War-Waging Bulldog has been on a literal tear lately. Markers, socks, Rainbow Loom rubber bands – nothing is safe from him. I would threaten him with coal in his stocking, but he would just eat that, too. The coal and the stocking.
We came home the other day to find that the kitchen was Ground Zero. Placemats, kitchen towels, newspapers, and Dimples’ book were all victims of Wonderbutt’s fury. And just when we thought we had it all cleaned up, we found one of Dimples’ birthday cards right outside the dog door, like a welcome mat for the Poop Pen.
Does Homeowner’s Insurance cover this? Or is it considered an “Act of God”? Maybe an “Act of Dog”?
(Click on the thumbnails to see a larger view of mass destruction.)
Depending on your source, “ludicrosity” may or may not be a word. I honestly thought I made it up, but it’s littered all over the web – which just goes to show you that it’s impossible to be original any more.
Ever since I realized that my anti-depressant was making me happier than everyone else, then found out that someone obviously switched it with a placebo right at the moment that I was about to receive some not-so-anti-depressing news, I have been experiencing weird moments of ludicrosity that I decided I should start chronicling. If you don’t think they are funny, don’t tell me. Because I will start crying.
I had the above online exchange with a student who kept posting on Edmodo without following our class rules.
Kind of begs the question, “Why the heck did you put a door there if it CAN NEVER BE OPENED?!!!!”
So many things to love about this app. The price, the name of the company, the fact that 116 people have rated it already…
This is what happens when you buy a cheap bluetooth keyboard; they give you instructions that were apparently written by the student featured in my first image…
And finally, I think this was actually meant to be funny. I hope.
So, I finally seem to have found a great anti-depressant that allows me to feel somewhat sane and fairly happy. The only problem is that it seem to have the side-effect of making every other adult I know completely despondent. And, you know, it’s not really any fun being happy when you’re the only one smiling.
I can’t find any warnings about this on the paperwork provided by the pharmacy. But it’s clear to me that, while my medication is helping me, it is slowly depleting the jubilance levels of the rest of society. Before I started taking this medicine, everyone was way happier than me. Now, suddenly, these same people are cheerless and glum – and peering at me very suspiciously. It’s enough to make me go back to being depressed.
Even my dog, Wonderbutt, glares at me like I’m insane for experiencing any kind of joy.
I feel like a Tigger in a world of Eeyores.
Except Tigger wouldn’t care.
So, maybe a better analogy would be that I’m a Piglet who took one sip too many of Tigger’s 5 Hour Energy Drink. Now, instead of being debilitatingly anxious about everything, I am anxious that I am debilitatingly happy about everything that no one else seems to find remotely joyful.
I am depressed that I am not depressed.
As the holiday season approaches, I start looking at one of my browser bookmark folders in which I save gift ideas throughout the year. To some of you, this may sound like an extraordinarily organized and proactive way to handle shopping for presents. In reality, though, it’s like some kind of cryptic diary that my psychiatrist would probably love to get his hands on. The problem is that I indiscriminately bookmark items of interest to that folder. It’s possible that I thought of someone when I saved each one, but I don’t actually label them with anyone’s names. Some of them are gift ideas for me. Some of them might be good for hostess gifts. And some of them would be better off never invented.
For example, could someone please tell me why I felt the need to bookmark the Star Wars sunshade?
My husband loves Star Wars, but I’m pretty sure this gift would quickly find its way to File 13 if I chose to stuff it in his stocking.
And which of my beloved family and friends was I planning to bestow this lovely gift on? It’s an alarm clock that sends your own money to your most hated charity every time you hit “Snooze.”
Could someone please tell me exactly what was I drinking when I saw this Golf Drinking Game, and thought it would surely make a great gift for someone some day?
I have about 100 products that I’ve saved in this folder since January – and about 2.75 of them make viable gifts.
So, the question is, which will offend people more? Receiving a Star Wars car sunshade, or getting a polite phone call from me requesting that we put our relationship on hold until after the holidays?
I guess I just need to consult Dr. Freud’s Therapy Ball.
Can someone send me one for Christmas?
Sometimes I forget that not everyone is as enamored with fat gassy bulldogs with an underbite as I am. Wonderbutt was hanging out on the Starbucks patio with Cap’n Firepants and me the other night, and getting lots of lovin’ from passersby. But then a tall, burly guy rounded the corner with his latte and stopped short when he saw Wonderbutt. He glared at me and backed away slowly to find a seat somewhere else. I know I can be pretty intimidating, but I can’t help but feel that Wonderbutt had something to do with the man’s quick retreat.
In previous posts about my dorfenbergerthalamus, I have mentioned that I have full-blown panic attacks if I am not early for an event. I’m a bit more lackadaisical about other types of deadlines for some reason. And if there is no deadline at all, well…
It doesn’t help that my procrastination consistently gets rewarded. For example, when people submit things that they would like to post to one of the websites I manage, it’s inevitable that they will make revisions two or three times. So, why post it immediately? Instead, I use what I like to think of as the Microwave Popcorn Approach. Don’t open the door until there’s at least 3 seconds between pops. In life this translates to: don’t take action until people calm down and move on to the next emergency.
Or unless you smell smoke. Then you should probably move your butt pretty fast.
So, when Toyota sent me a recall notice, I set it aside and made a mental note to take the car in if I smelled smoke. Which I would probably have done without the recall notice anyway.
Then I got a couple more notices. The popcorn kept on popping.
Then I didn’t hear anything.
Recently, I noticed the Toyota recall notice at the bottom of a stack of paperwork that includes orders to get a mammogram from two years ago.
“Hmm. Let’s see. Spend Thanksgiving holiday getting my breasts smushed or hanging out in the lounge at Toyota?” I thought to myself. Pretty much anything wins over smushed breasts.
Then I got the next recall notice. Recalling the correction of their recall. Basically, whatever they did to fix the problem for all the poor suckers who dutifully raced in there after the first notice did not work. So now those conscientious people get to bring their vehicles back in. Not yet, though. We will all be informed when the correction of the correction is ready to be implemented.
And yes, I am well aware of the fact that my glee over these circumstances dooms me to losing my carburetor on the highway while I’m going 65 mph and singing “Roar” at the top of my lungs.
Nevertheless, I feel procrastination has won out once again.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make a quick dash to the kitchen to see if I can put a stop to that annoying, high-pitched sound. I guess my popcorn is finally done.
Among the many valuable skills that I have for which I cannot seem to find someone to pay me, I have the ability to create and maintain websites. One of the websites I update is for a local children’s sports team. Included in this site is an embedded Google calendar to which the various coaches can add information about practice from their own Google calendars.
I was double-checking the calendar’s upcoming events the other day to make sure I had put them all in, when I came across an unexpected entry. See if you can find it in the realistic reproduction I have posted below:
Friday, September 27, No practice
Monday, September 30, 7-9 15 & Up practice
Tuesday, October 1, 6:30-8:30 12-14 practice
Wednesday, October 2, Birth Control
Thursday, October 3, 7-9 15 & Up practice
Did you spot it? Fortunately I spotted it and quickly removed it – hopefully before anyone else noticed. Apparently, one of our coaches decided to share a bit too much on the team calendar.
Either that, or she was making a statement about how much she enjoys working with children…
Men, the next time you feel inclined to give a woman a compliment and mention pregnancy in the same sentence – don’t. I don’t care how staggeringly laudatory the words sound in your head. Just. Keep. Your. Mouth. Closed.
We all know the old adage, “Don’t ever ask someone when her baby is due even if she looks like she’s pregnant because she may not be. She may just have an unfortunate deposition of her weight, and then you look like an idiot and she hates herself and really hates you and it just causes an overall environment of ill-will.” ~ Ben Franklin in Poor Richard’s Almanac (I think I suspect why Richard needed some sympathy – and it wasn’t because he was poverty-stricken.)
But that’s not the only way to get your teeth knocked out.
Let’s just say, for example, you announce to a woman you haven’t seen for three months, “Wow, you don’t look like you just had a baby!”
And she didn’t. Just. Have. A. Baby.
She had a baby exactly 10 years and 8 months ago.
I have it on very good authority that said woman will be slightly confused for a moment, then say, “Thanks.” You, the man, will walk off feeling quite proud that you just made someone’s day.
Oh, you made it all right.
You made it miserable.
Because the woman then thinks, “What did he mean by that? Does he say that to every woman he hasn’t seen for three months? Does he say that to every woman? I did gain weight over the summer. So, is he saying I don’t look like I just had a baby because I look like I’m about to have a baby? Oh. My. God. That man just called me FAT. And it’s 7:15 a.m. on the first day of school, and I think I might just need to find a closet somewhere and start crying.”
At least, that’s what I imagine she would be thinking. I wouldn’t know.
So, you know how you’re looking for your wedding rings in your dog’s poop pen, and you’re thinking, “Gosh, I hope I find them!” But then you’re also thinking, “Gosh, I hope I don’t.” Not only because of the grossness factor, but also because finding them in there means that you were dumb enough to set them down somewhere that your bulldog, Wonderbutt, would eat them, which means you are losing it even more than usual, and also because of the medical implications it might have for Wonderbutt after ingesting a solitaire cut diamond ring which could technically etch glass so probably did not slide through his intestines without causing some kind of damage that would require you to finance the yacht your veterinarian has had his eye on ever since you brought Wonderbutt in for his first checkup.
And then you think how you can blame your husband for the loss of such rings by saying, “Well, this wouldn’t have happened if you would hire a maid like I asked – or at least invest in a water softener.” Because you wouldn’t have to take off your rings so often if you didn’t have to spend all of your time cleaning the toilet with Lime Away. And then you remember that you’ve been meaning to Google Lime Away to see if it damages rings or just makes them look cleaner, too.
While in the midst of the Lime Away Google, you get somewhat sidetracked, and learn that Miley Cyrus recently suffered from a bad case of twerking, which, of course, compels you to learn what twerking is in case you need to add it to one of your Pathophobic Pinterest boards and then you wonder how you have gone this long without noticing that twerking is a thing, but it is not a disease or even a symptom of one. And, speaking of being oblivious about stuff, you wonder how long it would take your husband to notice you aren’t wearing the rings because it’s already been three days and he hasn’t said anything. And you resolve to make this into a psychological experiment as well as a metaphor for your marriage. But then you blurt it out during dinner that you can’t find them because you suck at keeping secrets and, besides, your husband is the Finder in the family – as long as the thing you are trying to find is not a place on a map.
And he gets worried, and you remind him of all of the other things you’ve lost that eventually turned up and even the things other people have lost that eventually turned up – like the wedding band that was wrapped around a carrot. And that does not really comfort him for some reason. Mostly because he has been trying to grow carrots in your backyard ever since you moved into this house, and the squirrels keep eating them.
And because your husband is not really full of sympathy, you seek comfort in typing your frustrations into a blog post on your computer, and you glance down at the floor when you can’t think of anythingelse2say.
And. You. See. Your. Rings.
And you pick them up and do the best twerking exhibition ever – with only Wonderbutt there to appreciate your rhythmic perfection.
And he doesn’t.
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…