Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Lesson of the day:

1 Beer, of the consumed variety
+ 1 sheet of 20 year old origami paper
+ 1 book of origami directions written in foreign language
= a paper lotus blossom so ugly that it's not even worth sharing.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

There are times when I wished I had a paint gun, just so I could shoot down billboards.

Back in Jersey, there was a pink billboard up on Rt. 3 with a wrinkly dog on it. It said something to the effect of "feeling fat and wrinkly? Join Spa Woman!" It made me ill. Yeah. Put an image of a bloated, floppy dog on a billboard, and ask me to compare my non-furry, non wrinkly, non drooly body to it and all its dogness. Make me feel like a furry, flabby bitch. It made me sick.

Now that I have moved to Baltimore, 2 other billboards have made it to my list. One showed up earlier in my tenure here:

Well gee, up until now I had thought of the word Virgin as maybe having a stigma, but not being dirty. If anything I consider virgins being, well, anything BUT dirty. What a bunch of assholes. Now when I hear the word all I think of is this bloody-looking nasty graphic. Someone really got their message across. Good Job!

And lately I've been peeved at this billboard:

Well, that's news to me! Sign me up!

Look, marriage has been good to me. I'm very very happily married and if it's for you I say go for it. But if anyone thinks extra cash (and I've never seen this extra cash)is the end-all-be-all ingredient for a happy healthy marriage, they're an ass. I have read the demographic for these ads are young mothers who don't intend to marry the father of their child, but wake up people. Maybe there is a good reason for that. And if they do want to marry the person, should it be because they want the commitment and companionship or the $$$? Are children better off in any two parent home, even when the parents are joined out of pressure and not out of love? I have a hard time believing that.

I also believe that most people have a good idea of what the best decisions are for themselves and their situations. Be it their opinion about their level of health, decisions regarding their sexuality or their choice to commit. Its when outsiders begin to think it is their right to choose for, or impose their "ideals" upon others that things get a bit fucked up.

So get me a paint gun. Preferably loaded with black or blue pellets. Shoot the shit out of these billboards and call it a day. Perhaps these groups can better spend their advertising money on buying themselves some lunch.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Wherever the hell I've been, Tommy brought me back.

Last week my husband and I came to the conclusion that if one of us buys the farm, the other one is pretty much screwed. So we decided to get life insurance.

Boy's boss knows someone who can help us. Beautiful. We make an appointment to meet the guy at a restaurant close to work, so I can slip in and out during my lunch hour. Everything was set.

When I walked into the restaurant, there was a strange man at the front table with what may be the worst comb-over I have ever seen in my life. Envision a pudding bowl haircut, with a full and blunt bang. Now imagine every one of the hairs creating the bang derives from the very back of the person's head. The mass was thick and yellow in color, and did no justice for the ruddy skin and bulbous nose sitting underneath. The style made any one of Phil Specter’s look reasonable. It was tragic.

And this tragedy was sitting next to my husband. His name was Tommy.

Tommy went right to. He began by describing the difference between Cash Value and Term life insurance. He said he liked to describe these things with his hands. He curled his sausage-like fingers as if he was squeezing balls or groping breasts as he described first the cash, then the term. Look, his hands were right across from the girls. He'd look me dead in the eye, curl up one hand, and then the other. He was too damn close and looked too damn pervy for that kind of gesture. I found I was inadvertently sitting with my arms crossed tightly across my chest.

The sun was in his eyes, and he kept scooting from left to right until he decided to block the light with a worn-out Red Socks hat. The look truly complemented the jeans that were too short and dated leather football jacket. The hat pushed his hair out to the side of his head in thick bail-of-straw-like slabs.

And this guy was going to work with us. This hot mess. I am putting every ounce of energy into concentrating on what he's saying, because if I don't, I will bust out screaming, or crying, or laughing, or some strange hybrid of aforementioned expressions. He looked like an overgrown five year old who was dressed by his Mommy. The look ain't working for someone in his 60's who, again, is selling us LIFE INSURANCE.

The hat is not helping for the heat. As he takes off his jacket, he says, "I assume your husband has told you I carry a gun".


And there it is - a pistol in a leather vest-like harness.

I am sitting in the restaurant on my work campus, with a man who looks like a demented freak and is packing heat. I pray nobody sees me, as I have no fucking way of explaining this one.

Thankfully through all of this I manage understand every word he has said. Again, mind over matter - had I lost focus I would have lost my shit. Strangely enough he made sense and had proposed a decent course of action. He asked if we wanted to sign for physicals to get the process going.

My husband said yes. Fuck. Guy's got a gun. Guess we had to.

20 minutes later I called my boy. All I had to say was "What the fuck was that?”

That evening, My friend JMcD called. "Why did you stop with the blog?" he asked.
That same evening, I spoke to my girl SSanti. She wanted to know the same.
I didn't bring it up - they did.
And I had just met Tommy the same day.

One thing I've figured out - when the universe drops hints, you act.

Game on.