Monday, February 28, 2011

In which I chronicle the things people say that are rude, hilarious, or hilariously rude.

Inspired by my lack of inspiration this week, I've decided to compile a list of the funniest, crappiest things people have said to me. That I can remember. A lot of them I've repressed because they weren't funny enough, but don't worry. They resurface in random outbursts periodically. Usually sometime near my period. (See what I did there?)

Here are the ones that make me laugh (so I don't cry):
  • "How did you get married?"
  • "Oh, you're the new Sunday School teacher? Why?"
  • "I see you're wearing a sweater and a pea coat today. You're looking very ... English Department."
  • "I like riding your bike because it makes me appreciate mine."
  • "You're boring. And it's not just because you don't drink."
And the back-handed compliment bonus round:
  • "If I didn't think you had potential, I'd have fired you by now."
  • "If I didn't think you had potential, I'd have dumped you by now."
  • "If I was just married and starting out, didn't need a lot of space or anything, I'd like to live in a place like yours." (Spoken by a girl much younger than I am.)
  • "You've lost so much weight, you look like you've lost a person!"
  • "If you got your nose fixed you'd be, like, a ten!"
  • "I think you'd be a fantastic career assistant." (After a discussion on how I'd like to move on from being an assistant.)
Now, you might be saying to yourselves, this is depressing as hell! And you're half right. When I heard these things the first time, I was pretty devastated. Well, not all of them. Some made me laugh immediately. Right in the face of the dummies who said them and then probably immediately regretted saying them.

In each of these instances, I realized—sometimes immediately, sometimes much later—that these comments were much more of a reflection on the speakers than on me. For example, the girl who asked me how I managed to get married? She doesn't know she's crazy. And she really wants to know because she's a little...you know...desperate. The guy who can't figure out why they asked me to teach? He's got a smidgen of the misogyny, that's all. And the guy who thinks I'm boring? He's an alcoholic misogynist. (One of the more common breeds of both, I've found).

Basically, I'm not really worried about it. I'm so not worried about it, that I'm immortalizing these people on my blog and maybe someday on my "This American Life" type NPR show after I'm randomly discovered by someone who thinks I have a great face for radio. Because it's funny. And it reminds to be careful of what I say to other people. I'd hate to be driving to the grocery store, listening to a brilliant humorist on public radio, only to recognize myself as the jackass in one of her stories. That would be so embarrassing.

Monday, February 21, 2011

In which I swindle my husband into buying me donuts at 11pm

It was an under-the-weather type of weekend. Complete with headaches, sore throats, bitching, and rain. Oh! And foot-stamping! I stamped my feet. I stamped! My feet! As does a bratty housewife whislt demanding an increase in her feathered headband allowance from her ever so patient and hard-working husband. I should be so much more humiliated than I am.

So yesterday my husband (who is both hard working and endlessly patient) puts my whiny ass down for a nap like the ill-mannered child that I am. But first he asks me what I'd like to eat.

"Nothing," I whimper, helplessly. "Unless we have white pasta with some sort of cream sauce. Or donuts."

"What?"

Minutes later he comes back carrying a plate of cinnamon toast.

"Oh, honey," I croak. "That's lovely!" "Are we out of donuts?"

"Seriously?"

So for the rest of the day, I pepper our conversations with such gems as these:

"These frozen Chimichangas are pretty good, but they taste nothing like donuts."
"Hey, Rob? What happened to those donuts we had? You say they're still at the store? Hmm..."
"Will you pass me that donut? Oh, that's a remote? That's cool. I need that, too."

At the stroke of 10:30, a clang rings out as I strike the bottom of Rob's barrel of good will. He puts on some jeans and I put on my most fetching drive-thru ensemble: fleece snowflake hammer pants pajamas, black wool socks, plaid moccasins, and a gray pea coat. Fun fact...I'm wearing this outfit with the full intention of getting out of the car and entering a place of business. Rob is the only one with enough wits about him to know how shameful that is. He will not, under any circumstances, allow me out of the car.

Half an hour later, we're back on the futon watching Hot Fuzz, me gripping a bottle of chocolate milk and clutching half a dozen Krispy Kremes to my chest like I'm hiding them from the Gestapo. My husband next to me, shaking his head with what I can only assume is a mind-boggling sense of adoration mixed with physical attraction.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Kickers and Diggers.

Rob and I went skiing/riding in Utard this weekend, which was awesome. Especially the part where I took a really benign fall, then proceeded to slide down the mountain for about 25 yards, laughing all the way, ha-ha-ha. Now I'm about to get on an airplane with both ass cheeks still a-throbbing.

Also, Happy Valentines Day from the Raccoon who ate your cat and routinely gets into your garbage!


Monday, February 7, 2011

An IM conversation in which Rob helps me with my homework.

This is only funny if you know 1) anything about Winnemucca and 2) that Rob is from there.

Friday, February 4, 2011

What can I say? Something about me just screams serial killer.

Last night in my Gothic Literature Seminar, we discussed Alejandra Pizarnik's fragment "The Bloody Countess." It's an icky-poo, true-ish story about this ... shall we say troubled? ... Hungarian Countess who killed hundreds of adolescent girls in really creative, effed up, Law & Order SVU types of ways. Go ahead and look her up if you're crazy. You'll notice I linked to her wikipedia page for your perverted convenience.

I made the mistake of submitting a discussion question that had to do with the story. At the beginning of class, I asked the professor what made this story Gothic Literature and not just historical writing. We seriously spent two minutes talking about this before moving on to other subjects. And let me make this clear, I was not the only student to ask a Bloody Countess-related question. Just one of several people, in fact. And my question was the simplest and least monstrous, if I do say so myself. Other people were like, "What is the significance of the teenage virgin blood baths?" and, "What, then, are the moral implications of forcible lesbian cannibalism?" But here's what happened:

Every time someone mentioned the Bloody Countess for the rest of the night — that's the next FOUR hours — they pointed, or gestured, or shot a glance at yours truly.

And so, dear Internet homies, I ask you. What. The hell. Is wrong with my face? Why did my classmates want to use me as a stand-in for a sadistic, psychopathic murderess? Is it because I was drinking Clamato? (Note: I wasn't.) Maybe it's the vampire connection and they just used me as the visual on account of my skin is a bright shade of migraine-inducing ├╝ber-white? Other than that, I got nothing.

Unless it's the Mormon/Vampire connection. In which case, I blame Stephenie Meyer. For this and every other bad thing that has ever happened to me. Yeah. That seems fair.