The Price is Right
So I haven’t written a blog in a while. Get off my back, people! You don’t realize the work that goes into one of these babies – creative genius does not come cheap or easy.
Sorry, that was the manic part. The depressive part is that I really enjoy blogging. Exposing my friends and family’s secrets gives me a greater thrill than passing along bad news. I’m just running low on time. Every time I sit down to write, some Tom, Dick or Harry interrupts me with some ridiculous request.
Example: The small blond one who lives with me might ask, “Mom, can I have some breakfast?” Of course, he doesn’t see the candy bars right in front of his nose.
Or, “Lise, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” I swear, Craig will intentionally will throw himself under a bus to get my attention. And breaking his leg to do so – don’t think I don’t see right through that stunt.
Kristyn and Dawn also have developed a bad habit of bothering me with work-related issues, especially during The Price is Right. It would bother me even more if I was paying them.
I could sit here and blame others all day and, believe me, I would if I thought they might acknowledge anything was their fault. But, I know my mother won’t, so I’ll move on.
Skipping ahead to the “me” part – my resolution this year is to write once a month. And it’s that time of the month.
Doing what I do best
I’d like to begin my first blog of the year by acknowledging and thanking some random people in my life. Without their accidental input I may have taken a different path and who knows what dumpster I would be living in. So, even though at the time I may not have expressed my gratitude in a socially acceptable way, I offer it up to them now.
To Mr. Deal: In eleventh grade you thought I was skipping your journalism class and called my mother to rat me out. But, I wasn’t at the mall – I was at home doubled over in agony. Isn’t it funny that I might have died, all alone, when my appendix burst? But, lucky for me, my mother did come home. And even though she also didn’t believe me and returned to work, I had the last laugh when I was lying on the table prepped for surgery. Funny, huh? Thanks, Mr. Deal.
To the well-built fellow at the health club: Initially, I thought you did the double-take because I looked especially fetching in my workout clothes. But when you burst into gales of laughter and pointed out to your goon friend the toilet paper I was dragging around, I realized this was not the case. What you don’t understand is that, now, I am diligent about checking for such things every time I leave a public restroom. I’m happy to report it has only happened once since then. Mucho gracias, buff dude.
To the guy I had only one date with: Without your generous offering of cheap tequila, I might never have known that it didn’t agree with me. I also appreciate the fact that you never sent me a bill for having to have your carpets cleaned or your floor mopped. I do regret the cat incident, but frankly, cats are a dime a dozen. Anyway, I wish you only the best.
To the woman at the cocktail party: Thank you for pointing out in harsh and vulgar terms that, just because a woman is older than the man she came with, she is not necessarily his mother. I discovered that wealthy older woman are free to date men of any age and this is not a bad thing. That information has come in handy more than once and I appreciate the fact that you could share that with me without the use of physical violence.
To the boy who called me names (as a teenager) on the Putt Putt course: You confirmed my suspicion that 16 year-old boys do not like to be called gay, or to be told that they are lacking in, uh, certain areas. I also ascertained that a big mouth is no match for a sharp tongue. But, outwitting a dimwit isn’t an accomplishment, anyone can do it. And dimwits do not “grow out of it” as they get older, they get worse.
To my original college roommates: It is clear, as an adult, that having one’s boyfriend over 24/7, in a room meant for half a person, would be considered rude. Also, covering his eyes as you change clothes isn’t really giving you much privacy. I am grateful that you had me moved to another floor during break as opposed to the middle of the school year. That was classy.
To the woman at the toll booth that wouldn’t accept my fare in pennies: Thank you for not calling the authorities after I ignored your instructions and gently tossed the money in your general direction. I learned that my aim is, indeed, poor and that if I can’t afford to pay the tolls, I shouldn’t be on the road.
And lastly, to the boss that had a picture of a playmate on the shelf behind his desk: I know that sort of thing wouldn’t fly in today’s work environment. But thanks to you, even back in the day, I realized a boob is a boob, whether it’s sitting in a frame or on the desk right in front of you.
Happy New Year.