Self-Congratulation Corner

So there I am, staring at the ceiling, naked as the day I was born, feminine hands massaging my breasts.  This scenario gets only slightly less sexy when I tell you that I was at my annual "girly" exam.

"These," she says, pointing down, "are normal."

And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. My boobs have been officially approved by a licensed professional.

Now I need to find my smelling salts. Being referred to as "normal", for perhaps the first time in my life, has given me the vapors.

P.S. Ok, what the hell are smelling salts? Other than a frequently reappearing motif in tales of Victorian times.

The Costco Chronicles: Sample Nazi

15 Year Old(ish) Guy (empty sample cup in hand): Can I have another one?

Chinese Chicken Salad Sample Lady: Did you already get one?

15 Year Old(ish) Guy: Yes.


Chinese Chicken Salad Sample Lady: Did you like it?

15 Year Old(ish) Guy: Yes.

Chinese Chicken Salad Sample Lady: OK.

You Know What Never Gets Old?

Church lessons comparing GPS guidance to Jesus leading the way. I could sit through that rehash 49,576 times. And now that I think about it, I probably have.

Oy.

I'm Vewy Fwightened

 

 

Friday is landscaping day in my condo complex. It takes the guys pretty much all day to accomplish the task, because there is a lot of ground to cover. First, they ride around on their mowers, then they trim the edges and finally, they clean up the clumps of cut grass that end up on the walkways. The place looks like freaking Shangri-La. They do a fabulous job.

During our poop-and-pee extravaganza this morning, we came across a section of walkway that had a higher than usual concentration of grass clumps on it. I felt a tugging at the end of Dolce's leash and turned to see if she was doing anything I would need to clean up. Nope, she was simply rooted in place.

Now, the thing you have to know about Dolce is that I have yet to plumb the full depths of her neuroses. Seriously, this dog is weird. 

She actually belongs to my niece and was named after the design team of Dolce and Gabbana. Dolce came into our lives right around the time my niece discovered fashion, Paris Hilton and The Simple Life. She was certain, right from the start, that the dog simply must be called Dolce.  No other name would do. I know. My entire family is somewhat touched in the head. What can I say? We're a small and nutty, yet lovable, bunch. Kind of like Grape-Nuts. I guess. Hell, we're all we've got. What do you want me to do?

Anyway, it turned out that my sister (niece's mom) had taken on more dogs than she could handle, and Dolce had to go.  I agreed to be her foster mommy until my niece was old enough to be able to take her back. This means that for the last three years, I've had to manufacture a weak giggle every time someone said to me, "Oh, your dog's name is Dolce? What's the other one called, Gabbana? Hahahaha." Oh my, you are clever! And so very original!

And now, back to our program.

So, I pulled gently on Dolce's leash to let her know it was time to move on. She responded by sitting down. "Come on, baby. Let's go." She put her paw on the leash. She was clearly trying to tell me something. I did a quick mental inventory. No abandoned mine shafts in the neighborhood.  Pretty sure no bombs planted nearby. What could it be?

I finally made the connection. She was afraid of the grass on the walkway. I tried reasoning with her.

"Dolce, it's just grass. You walk on it every day. You pee on it. You even do that thing where you try to cover your pee by scraping your back legs on the grass."

She either didn't understand what I was saying, or was unconvinced by my argument.

I tried the take-charge approach.

"Come on, let's go." I turned and walked purposefully. The leash strained and Dolce remained where she was. I looked back at her. She gave me one of these:

By this time, Miles was losing his patience. He put the full force of his 8 pound body into pulling us along. Something had to be done.

Since I didn't have a coat I could gallantly lay on the ground before her, I took the only other option available to me. I carried Dolce. For the entire remainder of our "walk".

Dolce : 1
Mustard : Total Dumbass

You Know What We Need More Of?

Trust fund drug addicts.

Because the world can never have too many lazy, self-indulgent, narcissistic parasites taking up space and never quite accomplishing anything of value. Just imagine what chaos would ensue if these idling hipster suddenly stopped sucking at the tit of their families' fortunes and started relying on their own merits.

For one thing, purveyors of ugly, obscenely overpriced clothing would need to scale down, negatively impacting tax revenues for local governments. City-provided services for children, the elderly and the disabled would then be curtailed. Not to mention the factories in Guatemala, China and Vietnam losing work which supplies the local populations with lifestyles they could otherwise only dream of.

The multitudes of hanger-ons who make their way in this world on the backs of the stupid rich might spend less time partying and more time breeding.  Or working in customer service.  Think about it.

Then there's Dave, who lives in Panorama City and finances his band (they've got MAJOR label interest...) by supplying various and sundry pills to help the millionaire druggies pass the time and briefly distract themselves from the horrors of their lives.

Let's not forget the housekeepers, gardeners, auto mechanics, delivery people, attorneys, financial planners and all the miscellaneous support personnel who make life bearable for these sensitive angels.

OK, so every once in a while, you have to pretend to be interested as they mumble about not knowing what to wear to the art opening in a re-purposed warehouse in downtown L.A.  Big deal. It's not too much to ask.

You give, you take, and the world goes around.

Say What?

Yesterday I was at CVS, returning a lipgloss.  I loved the color, but upon unscrewing and pulling out the wand, I was greeted by a brush so wonky, it was unusable.

There I am, explaining the situation to the cashier, who just happens to be wearing latex gloves on the job. The kind that the proctologist slips on right before diving in. Hey, who am I to judge? Whatever floats your boat, lady.

Apparently, locating the lipgloss on the receipt I give her (which has a grand total of 2 items), scanning the information into the cash register and retrieving the $10 for my refund, is a task requiring intense, and completely silent, concentration. Also about 7 minutes.

So, I have plenty of time to take a look around. A display of really cool looking flashlights right at the checkout stand catches my eye. Who can't use another flashlight in their life?  It might be nice to buy one and keep it in my car. As there is no price sticker on the display, I do what anyone else in my situation might do.

"How much are these flashlights?"

Cashier, pointing to the far side of the store, "There's a price scanner right over there."

I look down at the scanner two inches away from her hand. I look up at her. Can't she... isn't this where... might it not be quicker for her to.... in fact, isn't it her job....

Aww, shit. Never mind.

Asinine Quote of the Day

"Although God can bring a tsunami, not all tsunamis are brought by God."

English translation: "I am an idiot, it is safe to completely ignore anything I say."

Someday My Prince Will Come

I'm as girly as a girl can get.

I love clothes. My make-up collection is, umm, abundant.  OK, it's freaking huge, so what? If you catch me without a pedicure, know that something is very, very wrong. I enjoy doing interesting things with my hair.

Wanna see me have fun? Watch me plan, shop for, cook and serve a lavish meal to people I care about.  I can sew, crochet and knit. I even get excited when I find the "Magic Sponge" 2-packs at the dollar store.

If you are a man who does not hold a door open for me, know that you have reserved your very own seat in the "friends only" section of my life.

I like to giggle and flirt and wear sexy shoes. I have tiny lapdogs. OK?

I most definitely enjoy being a girl.

But I must be missing a gene, which you seem to have in spades. I'm not complaining. I have a feeling this lack is somehow tied into my prowess with power drills, belt sanders and other assorted household tools. Also, when I come across an uninvited guest in the form of a bug, I calmly scoop it into a cup and take it outside. No screeching or squishing required. (If you stomp on that critter, do you think you are making any sort of dent in the thriving bug population in your environment? You're not.) So, I'm quite happy without this particular womanly/hormonal/chromosomal thing.

You know what I'm not happy with? Your incessant, relentless, interminable, unremitting, ad nauseum monologues about your significant other. Oh, the conversation may start innocently enough, but it's only a matter of (brief) time before you get that coy look on your face and, holy-one-note-samba, Batman!  We're knee deep in another pointless narrative about your "sweetie". 

Let me put it as plainly as I know how.

I don't care. I am not interested. I don't give a crap.

It is simply common courtesy which prevents me from getting up and walking out of the room every time you open your mouth to speak.

You are a grown woman. Do you have NOTHING ELSE going on in your life? Really?

There is something I haven't been able to figure out, though.

What the hell do you talk about when you're with Prince Charming?

We're Number One!

Someone has to say it. It might as well be me.

You know the people who camped out at 3 am to watch a bunch of tall dudes drive by, oops, sorry, I mean the "Laker's Parade" at 11 o'clock on a Monday morning?

They are not the most productive members of society.

Also, your stupid parade (really? our standards are this low?) inconvenienced thousands of people who were trying to get to work.  You know, the people with jobs? The ones who pay the taxes that keep your city limping along?

Why do I hear crickets?

Miracle on Las Palmas Ave.

From time to time, my work takes me to Hollywood.

That's not quite as exciting as it may sound. I grew up there, so I know the truth about Hollywood's charms.

But you should still visit LaLaLand on your next vacation. Totally. They need your money.

So anyway, the stars must have aligned just right, because I actually found street parking near the unholy intersection known as Hollywood and Highland.  And it only involved a 10 minute walk to get to where I needed to be. Score!

Now, it used to be that walking the streets of Hollywood was something you did if you were:
a) a prostitute
b) a pimp keeping an eye on his merchandise
c) homeless
d) crazy
e) both c) and d) and possibly a)
f) a tourist, often sporting a backpack (if European), a shell-shocked expression (if Midwestern), or a camera slung about the neck (if Asian).

Things have changed, though. Hollywood is experiencing a renaissance to rival Florence, Italy, circa 1500. These days, you can't swing a cat without starting a hipster domino chain reaction. Massive construction projects are in full swing to accommodate the artists and other creative types stampeding to the area like thirsty wildebeests to a remote watering hole.

And the construction projects bring multitudes of construction workers.

On this day, I had dressed for the weather in a sundress and wedgie sandals. I looked kind of cute, I thought. Making my way down Las Palmas toward Hollywood Blvd., I saw before me a line of construction workers sitting in the shade of a wall, obviously on a break.  I briefly contemplated crossing the street so as to avoid walking directly in front of them.

Then I said to myself, "Mustard, you have just as much right to be here as they do. You're a strong, intelligent woman.  You don't take crap from anyone. Now, hold your head up high and get to stepping. And, for the love of corn, try not to let your boobs jiggle too much."

So, on I went, arms firmly plastered to my side to keep the girls in check, gaze gently focused on the middle distance, playing it cool. But, behind my sunglasses, I stole furtive glances at the group of men. Approaching, then passing them, I was surprised, relieved and, I'll admit it, a little disappointed that not a one of them gave me a leering look or a"Whassyonaing?".  Not even a "Uumm, mamita".

In an instant, my world came crashing down. I had clearly lost my mojo to the extent that not even construction workers were interested in looking at me.

How could this be? A single tear welled up in my eye (the left one), and threatened to wend its lonely way down my cheek. Lord, could things get any worse? Tilting my head up and to the side to keep the flow back, I caught, out of the corner of my eye (my peripheral vision is legendary) the scene unfolding behind me.

The stony-faced group of eunuchs had miraculously transformed into a bunch of ogling, nodding, hand-flicking horndogs, appraising me from behind. And, from the looks of things, very much liking what they saw.

Pigs.

Daddy, Why is the Sky Blue?

OK, where the hell does English get its words? And why must my mind continually worry these questions like a tongue working a loose tooth which hangs by a thread, yet refuses to fully commit to taking the plunge?

Cockroach, for instance.  Did the first roach spotted by English eyes bear an undeniable resemblance to a rooster, and therefore necessitate this specific prefix to distinguish it from the non-cock variety? [ex. "I just stepped on the biggest roach." "Did it look like a cock?" "No, dude, if it had, I would have said I just stepped on the biggest cockroach. Don't you listen when people speak?"]

Dictator. Hilarious word to describe a heinous human being. Major cognitive dissonance here. Also, am defeated by this word because I dissolve into fits of hysteria at the mere mention of it. I kind of feel like I should have grown beyond this somewhere around 6th grade.  High school at the latest.

Did you know that the word "literally" means both "actually" and "virtually"? Don't believe me? It's in the dictionary. So, a word which means both itself and its polar opposite. Got it. I think.

Titmouse. Now you're just f-ing with me.

Midwife, anyone? Is she working her way up to being a full wife? Was there, at some point, a quarterwife? And just exactly what did she have to do to be promoted to midwife? Never mind, I don't want to know. OK, maybe I do. No, wait. Shit. I'll have to get back to you on that one.

Yet another thing to occupy my mind. Thanks a lot, English language.

Annoyance of the Day

People who use their Facebook status to give you a minute-by-torturous-minute account of their day's mundane activities. No, I don't care that you made breakfast, washed the dishes, checked your email , gazed at the clouds in the sky while thoughtfully picking your nose, or counted the number of bumps in your cottage cheese ceiling (732,409).

There are certain things we all do which, though not shameful, should be kept private and not shared with the world. Didn't your parents teach you that?

And to add insult to injury, you have the gall to ask me why I deleted my old account, set up a new one under an assumed name and neglected to include you in my now blessedly small group of friends.

Really?

Easy Rider

Hey! Speedy Gonzales. I know that the taxes you pay contribute toward the upkeep of this freeway. And I suppose you have just as much right as anyone else to turtle along in that gloriously empty fast lane.

But how about you take a gander around you? See all those drivers risking life, limb, death and destruction in their hustle to pass you? You think they might be trying to tell you something?

No?

OK. Can't blame a girl for asking.

Comment of the Week Prize

The very first "Do As I Say Comment of the Week Prize" goes to JRN for the following line:

Even the guy with the Art Garfunkel crotch quits calling.

Why? Because 3 seconds after reading it and making the connection, my insides felt like this:

From protracted, and utterly uncontrollable, hysterical laughter.

Congratulations, JRN. If you'd like to say a few words, the floor is yours.

Self-Indulgent Self-Reflection

Because I live in the greatest country ever dreamed up and made real, I have the time, freedom and mental energy to think through nonsense such as this. Much gratitude to the founding fathers. I wouldn't be here without you. Love you guys. I mean it.

Yesterday I happened to read about a woman who washes out and reuses her ziploc baggies. She does this from a "waste not, want not" perspective, while also doing her small part to conserve resources and throw away less stuff. Before you start rolling your eyes at me (yes, I can see you, stop it already), I'm not even within a stone's throw of earth-worshiping environmental maniac territory. But I do like to keep a clean house, and the earth is the only home I have.

I thought through her reasoning, and it made sense. I could easily see myself doing the same with absolutely no negative impact upon my time or lifestyle.

So why is it that when I rinsed out my avocado-half-containing baggie this morning and laid it to rest bottom side up on the draining board, I had the distinct feeling that I had taken the first, irrevocable step into crazy lady town?

And now I am sitting on pins and needles, knowing that the moment I step foot outside my door, I will be ambushed by all the homeless cats in the neighborhood, assuming that they now have the green light to move in with me.  I can feel their bulgy eyes piercing through my walls.

Thanks a lot, baggie washing woman who put this fool idea in my head.

I Could Write a Book

You looked harmless enough.  I guess I had my guard down. And now I see that I should have picked a different line. Because it has become painfully obvious that this is the moment you have been waiting for all day. Maybe even all week. I don't know.  What is clear is that you've landed your time in the spotlight and damn if you aren't going to milk it.

Do you not have a debit card you can swipe and spare the rest of us the agony of watching you practice your penmanship on your "Little Angels" checks? How long is your name and why does it involve 85 loop de loops to complete your signature?

Yes, that's right, take a moment to visually scan your check, top to bottom, side to side.  This is, what, the millionth time you've filled out one of these? You can never be too careful. It's possible you could have left out a hyphen or a comma or something, thereby totally voiding the check and causing mass hysteria.

Maybe if I were inclined toward a more generous nature, I could learn a thing or two about standards of excellence from your shining example. But, I'm not, and right now I just want to pay for my groceries and get on with my day.

With a flourish, you ceremoniously tear out the check and hand it to the clerk. My heart does a happy little dance. Prematurely, it seems.  Because now we must wait for you to enter the details of this transaction in your book and gently settle your pen into its special nook in your purse.

"Oh!" you proclaim, diving back into your purse to fish out the wallet containing your ID.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU NITWIT?" I want to yell. But I play it safe, staring at the gum display like my life depends on memorizing every word on the colorful little packages.

In distant galaxies, stars get born, then die.

And still we idle, waiting for your check to be cleared by the special check-clearing machine.

Just some food for thought. We're now a decade into a whole new century, why don't you visit us and take a look around? You might find that you like it here and decide to move in.

Also, I could be wrong, but I think your horse and buggy are double parked.

To Serve Man

(OK guys, this one's just for me. So, if your religion is important to you, and you happen to be my friend in real life, I strongly suggest that you stop reading right now. Not kidding.)

Hi. I'm a Monsignor. For those of you who don't know, that translates to "My Lord". Yes, that's right.  I travel through life, in all serious pomposity, with that title. Don't snicker. It was conferred upon me by the head of The Roman Catholic Church. So, yeah, I'm a pretty big deal.

I stand on a stage and read words that someone else wrote. I've done it for about 50 years now, but somehow, I still need my script. If the boy doesn't bring the book and hold it up in front of me at the appointed time, I must stand still, purse my lips and glare at him until he scurries over to the right spot.

My job isn't easy, you know. Sure, you can see by my baby soft hands that I've never put in a day of manual labor. And even a careful listen of my many homilies will not give you the slightest indication that I've exerted my mental facilities toward anything beyond platitudes and vague generalities. But, take my word for it, without me, this place would fall apart.

Here's a partial list of my many important duties: telling people what color to wear for particular church seasons, critiquing the skills of the professional musicians who work for me (no, I have never studied music nor do I play an instrument, why do you ask?), allocating funds for different church building projects, throwing water at people who have learned the "in" words of my church. Oh, there are so many things I am responsible for, I couldn't possibly list them all here. You'll just have to take my word for it. And if you need further proof, simply take a look at the sour, put-upon expression I carry around like a security blanket.  That's a face you must earn, my friend.

What? What do you mean I should be a beacon of joy to the troubled masses that come to my door for some comfort? Yes, of course I spout the usual "God loves you and through His Grace we are saved" routine. That doesn't mean I have to put it into actual practice. What are you, some kind of revolutionary heretic? Here, I'll give you some poems you can recite over and over, which will maybe help you get over this "critical thinking" thing that's obviously bugging you.

Well, actually, I do manage to smile once in a while. It usually happens when I come up for a breather from my strenuous job (see above) to regale you with some juicy tidbits about the people we know in common. No, I'm not gossiping. How dare you? Wait, why are you walking away in the middle of my story about Father So-And-So? You're no fun. It's no wonder you're not of my flock.

OK, I gotta go now and guilt the sheeple into giving me ever increasing amounts of their hard-earned money.

My Vagina's Better Than Yours

Your little darlings are lovely. Really. They are.

And I'm certain that the womb they marinated in is a treasure beyond all measure.

So, it's no surprise that you feel entitled to park your giant SUV head out, in opposition to all the cars surrounding it, including mine. And to prop your rear door open against my car while you prepare your little ones for a trip into the store. As you studiously avoid acknowledging my presence, I wait for you to lift the barricade and allow me to enter my car. And I take this moment to thank the gods that you have given the world the mighty gift of replicating yourself.

My prayer of gratitude completed,  I say, "Excuse me, I'd like to get into my car." I choose not to address the issue of your door rubbing the bejeesus out of my paint job. I've learned to pick my battles carefully. I know this one's a no-win.

Somehow you find the time and energy to heave a huge sigh and move your door exactly 2 inches. I do a silent count to 10. Dammit, my adoration for children takes the day. They shouldn't be subjected to the torrent of inappropriate language I am itching to unleash upon your sorry ass.

Speaking of which, I have to give credit where credit is due. You are definitely in shape. Which leads me to wonder why you didn't choose to park 20 feet away, where the empty spaces all around would have given you plenty of room to stretch out . Hell, you could have opened all of your doors at once and set up a picnic on the blacktop without hindering anyone else's access to their own cars.

Maybe the extra 15 seconds of walking would have been too much for you? I guess it only counts as a "workout" if you're in a gym and paying loads of your husband's money to a trainer to pour his undivided attention down the bottomless caldera of your self-importance.

I love You, You Love Me

No, I don't have a best friend.

I'm an adult. Either you're my friend or you're not my friend. And I make it pretty clear which category you live in.

I suppose next you'll ask if you can cheat off of me during the History test in 3rd period.

Annoyance of the Day

OK, if you're going to type tryin', why not just go ahead and include that freaking "g" at the end. It's the same number of keystrokes, you poser.

Maneater

The other day, out of the blue, I was overcome with the desire to steal some other woman's man. No one in particular. Any man would do.

Perhaps I was experiencing a bit of late spring ennui, or just randomly channeling Nelly Furtado. Who knows. The one thing I was sure of is that I clearly needed to fill some empty space.

In between running my own business, moving into a new home, nurturing a newly born blog, tap dancing a couple of days a week, working on a major side project, caring for two exceedingly needy and insecure chihuahuas, and trying to keep some semblance of a social life, I regularly have at least 5, maybe 6 minutes of downtime per week.

I'm no fool. I'm aware that it takes a bit more time to start and build a romantic relationship. But, I figured that if I found a man who was already accustomed to having a girlfriend, I could simply get her out of the picture and insert myself, one, two, three.

Rocking my oldest and most threadbare yoga pants, a sweater that long ago lost its shape in an unfortunate dryer incident, a sexy pair of flip flops and a haphazardly constructed pony tail, I was ready to take on the world. Also, I needed to buy some shampoo.

Why not kill two birds with one stone, I thought.

Pulling into the Target parking lot, I was determined to claim the first girlfriend-toting man I saw, then run in and pick up the shampoo.  Fail-proof, right?

I walked up to the front door, and what luck! There was a couple on their way out of the store.  I quickly managed to make momentary eye contact with the guy half. But, the girl was on to my evil plan. Someone must have tipped her off.  Or maybe she was psychic. I don't know.

She hastily grabbed her man's hand and jerked him toward her so fast, any hopes I had of making him mine were instantly shattered.

Had she not been so eagle-eyed vigilant, the scenario would have ended differently, of that I am sure. As it turned out, I was no match for the stable and secure bond those two obviously share.

The Costco Chronicles: Live and Learn

Every once in a while, I say to myself, "Mustard, now you must try to be a kinder, more gentle little creature." And I set out upon my day with a smile on my mug, determined to spread little rays of sunshine everywhere I go.

And then, I get an earload of this:

Woman at Costco handing out samples of salsa: "Try some Texas Caviar?"

Man walking by, holding the hand of a little boy: "Oh, no, we don't like that."

Sample lady: "It's ok, there's no, umm... uhhh... alcohol in it."

Huh.

I did not know that.