You Just Keep Me Hanging On

If I had a wish for today... It would be that the damn period button on your phone... Would stop working... Because every time you text me... I'm left with this uneasy feeling... That there is more to come... And I can't get on with my day... Because you're trying to communicate ... But somehow it takes 132 separate messages... and an unholy amount of ellipses... for you to clog up my phone memory... to say nothing of stealing my time... and say absolutely nothing... at... all... and the fact... that you are a college graduate... does not... in the least...  make you appear any less of a ... DUMBASS


PS... I luv u... ur my homegurrl... hv a gr8 day... l8er

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter

Sometimes I wonder why I'm so weird.

I say to myself, "Mustard, it can't be so hard. Watch what others do, and do like them.  Combine your mad observational skills with your gift for mimicry, and next thing you know, you'll have your very own passport to normal town."

I get my hopes up. I drive to the mall, park my car and walk around, mentally cataloging the words, mannerisms and general demeanor of the masses.

And for a little while after my foray, I can "pass". But, inevitably, the effort wears on me, and the facade surely falls.

Recently, it became clear to me that my efforts have been in vain. A careful scrutiny of my family proves that strangeness this profound is imprinted into my DNA and I might as well stop this losing battle with mother nature.

Ten minutes after arrival at my dad's place, my niece, Paprika, turns on the stereo, blasting a song from one of the 80's hair bands. With a faraway look in her eye and an expression bordering on idiotic ecstasy, she does a half squat and sways her hips rhythmically from east to west. Interestingly, her flow bears absolutely no relation to the beat emanating from the musical masters assaulting my ears. Upon seeing the fun being had, my father joins in, doing his own version of the squat and sway.

"We are dirty dancing!" he proclaims.

"Woo hoo," chimes Paprika.

As it turns out, the rhythm does, in fact, get me. By invisible forces, I am brought to my feet and add my own two cents to the boogie. Now, it is generally agreed upon that I'm a pretty spiffy dancer. So, it's no small surprise that both of my loved ones put an abrupt halt to their festivities and stare at me.

As my dad walks away, Paprika drops her verdict. "At least you won't hurt yourself when you fall, cause you're not that far from the ground."

A little later, the three of us are hanging out, eating pizza. It suddenly occurs to me that Paprika can help me settle a question that's been nibbling at the edges of my mind for some time.

"Hey, Paps, what does ZOMG mean?"

"ZOMG?"

"Yeah, you know, Z-O-M-G?"

"Umm, I don't knowwww?" In a judgmental cadence that comes so naturally to teenagers.

My father, from whom I inherited my worship of books, swoops in to settle the matter. Sprinting into the adjoining room, he comes back with this:

Handing it to me, he says, "Look in here. This book has every word in it."

I resist. "Dad, the word I'm talking about is a current slang term. I don't think it's in the dictionary."

He insists, now waving it frantically in the air, "No, no, it's in here. Everything you want to know, you can learn from books. Just look."

One of us has to fold, and I know it's not going to be him. I sigh and take the book.

All of 300 pages long, copyright 1975.

"This book is 35 years old."

"Every word in the English language. Just look for it."

Like a dumbass, I turn to the listings under "Z".

"It's not in here."

"What?"

"The word."

"What word?"

"ZOMG"

"Oh, then it must be in Latin. Let me think. Zomg? Well, the root, zo, probably comes from...."

I tune him out. He'll be occupied with this fruitless train of thought for a while.

I look to Paprika, hoping we can commiserate about the unique nature of my parent.

She is busy. Looking at the mirror on the wall, and practicing running her tongue around her lips. She tries left to right, then right to left, altering speed and angle of attack.

I give up. Thanks a lot, DNA.

I'm Like a Freaking Yo-Yo Over Here

This post has nothing to do with being offended.  I just need to let some stuff go. Yep, it turns out that I am, in fact, human. No need to worry.  I'll be back to my Mustardy self in no time.

This morning I played for the funeral of an 18 year old boy.  He may have died due to alcohol poisoning.

I walked into the church overflowing with people, firmly resolved to keep my emotions under control. I'm the dork who cries at weddings and funerals of people I don't know. And then others try to comfort me with things like, "Oh, were you close to the deceased?"

"No, I didn't know him at all."

Awkward silence usually ensues.

Today, I actually held myself in check pretty well. Until the hockey team lined up in a double row along the center aisle. Achingly beautiful, in full uniform and holding their hockey sticks, they looked on, grief and bewilderment clouding their faces, at the casket holding their friend and teammate passing before them. 

That's when my face crumpled up and the tears blurred my vision so I couldn't see the music in front of me.  It's a good thing that my hands can do their thing while the rest of me falls apart.

To my surprise, the presiding priest came across as having a mind and a mouth that were in full communication with one another. And, here's something I never thought I'd say, I might consider attending his church, just to listen to him speak. Yes, he was that thoughtful and captivating. Maybe miracles do happen?

At one point during the eulogy, the priest walked to a woman sitting in the front row who was holding a baby in her arms. Now, what he didn't know, and what I could see from my vantage point, was that she wasn't just holding the baby. Underneath the blanket that covered her, she had undone her shirt and was breastfeeding the child.

The closer the priest got to her, the more nervous this lady looked. And when she realized that he wanted to use her baby to illustrate a point he was making, you could almost see the hamster frantically running on his wheel, as she tried to figure out her course of action. Just as he reached out his hand, she managed to slip her breast out of the baby's mouth and deftly tuck it back into her bra. With literally not a micro second to spare, another Catholic Church sex scandal had been averted. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

At this point, I had my lips tightly pursed together, and my body was about to explode due to the effort of keeping thunderous laughter from erupting out of my mouth. The kind of inappropriate laughter that can only make its appearance in church, or a dramatically serious play or other solemn and quiet gathering.  I finally allowed it to escape under the guise of a coughing fit, while giving thanks that the waterworks had run their course and I, once again, had full use of my eyes and facial muscles.

Not for long, it seemed. My professional composure cracked once again during the prayers.  The priest called the mother, father and sister of the boy to come and stand around the casket. And, as he put his hand tenderly on the box holding the body, he asked the people gathered to forgive any wrong done to them by the boy who was no longer here. In the silence that followed, I watched men gruffly wiping at their eyes, young adults being enfolded in their mother's arms and the family at the center of this tragedy holding on to each other for dear life. Once again, I disintegrated. And with a vengeance. Transformed into a massive puddle of grief, I gave up trying to hide the tears.

You know those films that advertise themselves like, "You'll laugh, you'll cry, you won't know what hit you"?  The whole morning was like that. Several hours later, I still feel like I've been worked over by the thugs of a mafia boss I owed large amounts of money to. And, as I sit here typing, I know that I have to pull myself together and play a massively energetic show tonight, when I'd rather it be just me and my piano, giving quiet comfort to each other.

So, for me, and anyone else who needs it, I present to you Miss Liza Minelli, here to save the day:

Yadda Yadda

So, when your mouth opens to speak, does it consult with your brain first? Or do words spill out of their own accord, randomly selected from the bubbling cauldron of cliches you carry around in your head?

"It is what it is."

Really? I thought it was something it was not.

I can't thank you enough for setting me straight.

The Fungus Among Us

No, you're not cool, unique or rebelliously self-expressive. I don't care what your friends (and I use the term ironically) at the tattoo parlor told you.

Your "full sleeves" look like you contracted a nasty skin disorder from a box of Crayolas.

Congratulations! You managed to be a lemming and a poser, and it only cost you several thousand dollars.

Peek a Boo, I See You!

Good morni-

Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were busy. Talking to the grocery bagger in a foreign tongue. While you are scanning the items I am purchasing.

Could I trouble you for an instant? Just some eye contact, perhaps an acknowledgment that we are standing in front of one another, engaging in a moment of human interaction?

No?

Ok. Maybe when you are done laughing hysterically at whatever it was your co-worker just said to you. I'll wait, I don't mind. I've already taken out my wallet. My keys and sunglasses are right here on the little shelf in front of me, so... I'll just look around at the display. Or something.

This is not in the least bit awkward.

And now you've tallied my last item. I'm pretty sure I know what comes next.

Only, it's not happening.

Really, all you have to do is touch the button that produces the total amount I owe you. It's not all that difficult, nor time consuming. But, I can see that all your attention is focused on the riveting story you are regaling your colleague with. Wish I could understand it. I like to laugh, too.

By some happenstance (divine intervention?) your finger brushes up against the keypad, and the total for my purchases appears on the screen. Only, I can't see the numbers from this angle. Maybe if I crane my neck and lean over a bit.

You know what? How about I just hand you this twenty, and you give me back whatever you think is fair.  I mean, what's this world come to if we can't trust each other with a few dollars, right?

I said I'll hand you this twenty. Come on, lady, work with me here, I can't do this thing alone.  Here, I'll wave my hand around and hope against hope that you'll see my money out of the corner of your eye.

I am using up reserves of patience I didn't know I had.

I add an "excuse me" to my efforts.

I do have to give you props. Because you can take the twenty, make change and pile the mountain of bills, coins and receipt, into the palm of my hand, without a hitch in the flow of your conversation.

"Thank you," I say.  If only one of us is allowed good manners in this scenario, I'll gladly volunteer myself.

Como se dice "Dumbass" en espanol?

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.

Oops, My Bad!

Sorry, next time I'll be sure to slam on my brakes before you cut me off, with no warning whatsoever, as I travel at 75 MPH. Please be patient with me as I work on sharpening my mind-reading skills.

Random question: is there some kind of magnetic field in Southern California that disables the turn signals on 89% of the cars on the road? Just wondering.

Sometimes You Just Have to Stop and Smell the Ragweed

A series of Unfortunate Events (UEs).

UE #1: This morning I take the dogs out for their morning poop-and-pee-extravaganza, and upon returning home, I discover that I have locked the door and left the keys on the other side.

UE #2: My landlord has the spare. His mom died a couple of days ago, and I feel like a jerk calling him about my petty issue of the day.

UE #3: Momentarily contemplate breaking my door in, then decide instead to call my friend (apparently I have my priorities straight and remember to take my phone with me everywhere). She is also the friend of my landlord. I ask her if she can go pick up the key from him and bring it to me. She is wonderful, so even though she has just gotten out of the shower and has somewhere she needs to be, she agrees to help me out. (side note: I have the BEST friends in the entire world.)

UE #4. Did I mention that I am possibly the least attractive I have ever looked, having just rolled out of bed, piled my hair up in an unbecoming bun, stuck a pair of sunglasses on my unwashed face, and hoped against hope, not having brushed my teeth,  I wouldn't come within 20 feet of another human being? Before you judge, remember how hard it is to get the smell of dog pee out of carpet. I had to get those suckers out before they got any bright ideas about watering my floor. Also, I have a noticeable rash on my face from something stupid I did a few days ago.

UE #5. Five minutes later, I get a call back from my friend. "Bad news," she says.  "They're at the funeral now, and the reception is immediately following. We can't get the key to you until this afternoon." It is now 10:20 am.

UE #6. I search for a local locksmith on my phone, and call the number on the first listing. A man answers, in a tone you would use to address someone who just mugged your frail, aging mother.
"Yeah, hello!"

Me in my little girl voice, "Is this the locksmith?"

Still yelling, "Yeah, yeah. What?"

Now contemplating hanging up, but desperation drives me forward. "I locked myself out of my home and need help getting back in." I close with a weak giggle. I'm not amused, just nervous.

"What city do you live in?"

I tell him, hoping that since the number I called looks local, he'll be nearby and I won't have to wait long.

"I can get there in 30, 45 minutes."

In an ever diminishing and squeaky voice, "Aren't you local?"

"Yeah, I'm local! But I have other things to do, I can't just zoom over there the second you call me!"

I am now wondering about the wisdom of inviting this rage-bomb to break into my home. By some miracle, we come to a meeting of the minds, and he agrees to hurry things up.

UE #7. True to his word, 20 minutes later, he pulls into my parking lot, and I wonder if he is going to murder me in retaliation for taking him away from whatever he was doing before I called. But, he actually apologizes. "Sorry I was so short with you. You're not the only one having a bad day." My dogs, of course, want to devour him.  We make it to my front door.  He takes one look, dramatically rolls his head from side to side and says "Shit! Did you recently have your locks changed?"

"Yes." What could possibly be wrong with that?

"That's what I was afraid of. This is a pick-proof lock. I can't get in here. And not only that, but these locks are notorious for malfunctioning. In the past 6 months, I've gone to 6 or 7 homes where people's keys just stopped working."

At this point I am having visions of hiring a demolition team. I have no words. I stare at him like a donkey. Somehow this does the trick and he takes pity on me.

"OK, hold on. There might be a way. Lemme make a phone call." He shouts into the phone for a few minutes, then, "Yeah, I was right. It's impossible to pick this lock."

I am weighing the possibility of moving and just buying a whole new set of stuff.

"There is one thing I can do, though."

I don't even ask him what it is. Instead I say, "Yes, do it!"

Not two minutes later, we are standing in my living room, and I am the proud owner of a broken doorknob. Instantly forgetting my humble state, I  ask him if he can make the doorknob look less ghetto. And he does it!

We are now best friends.

UE #8: I think we make plans to get a pedicure together. Or get our hair done. I'm not sure. He talks so fast, and I really have to pee, so I just smile and nod yes to everything he says. Ten minutes and $75 later, he leaves.  I close the door behind him, and turn around to answer my phone.

It's my landlord. He can bring the key and let me in.

"What do you do?"

"I play the piano."

"No, what do you do for work?"

"I play the piano."

"What do you mean?"

"I move my fingers on the keys and sound comes out."

"You get paid for that?"

"Yes."

"That's weird."

Attention Whore or Insecure Control-Freak? I Vote Both

No doubt that all present were thrilled to bits that she hijacked this most important day.

Just one morsel of advice to the happy couple, if I may. 

Since he's clearly lacking a working set of balls, they should start the search for a sperm donor ASAP.

Aaaahhhh, L'Amour!

Hey, I'm a modern woman.

I understand that in your busy and hectic day, you may not find the 2 seconds required to prop a door open as you walk through it, so that it doesn't hit me in the face as I follow you out of the bank.

I get it. You are under no obligation to be aware of other people in your vicinity, nor to extend the slightest courtesy to them.

But can you explain to me one little thing?  How was it that you were able to fit in a nice, long stare at my ass as I was walking to my car?

You didn't think I saw that, huh?

Jackhole.

Annoyance of the Day

Maybe you think that spelling your daughter's name "Erynn", "Kymberleigh" or "Payj" makes her (and you, by inference) different and exotic.

I just think it labels you a major a-hole.

And don't tell me that it's an ancient Celtic spelling. We're not in ancient Celtic times.

Dumbass.

Random Musing of the Day

Where I add absolutely nothing of substance to the important conversations of the day.

You know that sound the whipped cream nozzle makes just as the last glorious fluffy bits of yumminess sputter out? 


That's the loneliest sound in the world.

The Call of the Wild

Here we are, with the lights down low.  You've said (some of) the right things, I've pretended to laugh at your jokes, and we're both wearing fewer pieces of clothing than we started out with. At this point, we're on the homestretch, and it's pretty much a no-brainer.

Until I inhale. And wish that I hadn't.

Listen, if this were the year 54,790 BCE, and you and I were roaming the Serengeti in search of mates, I would be positively giddy upon smelling your, uh, pheromones. Happily would I follow my nose to the source of your olfactory buffet, and the continuation of both of our genes would be a done deal.

But, on this night in the 21st century, I hope you won't be too offended if I just ask you to put your pants back on and go home. Somehow, the topiary you've been cultivating "down there", for what looks like the last ten years, ruined the mood.

You're Getting to Be a Habit With Me

OK, bend over U.S., it's time for another leader of a shameless regime to have his way with you.  Don't worry, though, because the cowardly suck-ups of the current administration brought their industrial sized bottle of lube.  It won't hurt too much. Until you wake up the next morning.

On the bright side, we can leave this awful country and move to Mexico, where the easy-going laws are fairly enforced, the streets flow with milk and honey, crime is almost non-existent, and the future looks so bright, you gotta wear shades.  That's why people are clamoring to move there in droves, and no one ever wants to leave.

It will be a piece of cake. We can sneak over the border in the dark. They don't really care about that sort of thing over there. I hear they're likely to throw us a Welcome-to-Our-Country party.

Am I In Backwards World?

This picture wrings tears out of me every time I see it.  There aren't words strong enough to describe the beauty of this man.

On the other hand, we have this:




The world is seriously f*cked.

Hot Topic

Look, if you're going to compare a situation to Nazi Germany, I strongly suggest that you brush up on your historical facts, lest you risk sounding like a complete imbecile. Especially if you happen to hold a history degree from UCLA.

I know it's probably too much to ask that you put together a cogent and coherent argument against a position with which you disagree.  I'm sure you're busy doing important things that positively impact millions of people. After all, you are on the city council of the second largest city in the U.S. 

Maybe your time is taken up with the superb job you're doing balancing the city budget, with a nice healthy surplus which will be used to shore up the city's crumbling infrastructure.  Or perhaps you've put your prowess as a leader into building a school system which is unrivaled in preparing the next generation to meet the challenges of an ever-changing world.  I bet that, even as I sit here writing, you're rounding up the last, desperate stragglers of the gangs that used to rule the city through intimidation and violence.

Wait, what? You haven't gotten around to these things yet? You banned the construction of fast food restaurants?

Oh.

Well, I guess it is easier to just spew out some scary words that everybody knows about, whether or not they actually address the circumstances at hand. I mean, the point is to get the people's attention, right?  It's not like they're going to question you. Or even think about what you said. Hey, you've given the self-appointed victim crowd a new banner to march under.

Congratu-freaking-lations! Baby, you're a star.

And you didn't even have to rub more than two brain cells together.

Truth in Advertising

Finally! A product that does what it says.

Yes. Yes it does.

You Had Me at Shalom

I saw a sign on a school today.

It said, "Hebrew School - Where Judaism is Fun!"

I guess this is an angle that never occurred to Abraham and Moses. Too bad. Given the disproportionate contribution of the Jews to every aspect of society, had there been more of them in the last couple of thousand years, the world would today be a far better place. I'd say this was a missed opportunity. Good going, fathers of Judaism.

Things That Make You Go WTH?

I take my dogs out for a walk and it takes 20 minutes of hardcore searching, followed by 37 revolutions around a 3 inch radius of grassy patch for them to find just the right spot on which to "do their business". But, on my carpet, they can drop it in 10 seconds flat, no turning required.

Why.

Heal the World

As the driver of the lead vehicle at a red left-turn only stop light, you hold a position of power unlikely to occur in any other arena of your daily life. Why waste the opportunity?

After the light turns green, take a few moments to fiddle with your radio, check yourself in the rear-view for any stray nose hairs, send that important text that says “LOL”, maybe even sort the loose change that always accumulates in the cup holders.

When you glance up and see the light turn yellow, you will know that the time has come to initiate your turn. At most, one, maybe two, cars can slip in behind you, but the others will be compelled to wait another 4-6 minutes for the next green left arrow. They should think of this as a mini vacation, a gift bestowed upon them by a generous stranger.

Unfortunately, most people will not recognize this enforced idling as the blessing that it truly is. Your kindness will likely be repaid with the blaring of horns and a growing crescendo of obscenities. Pay them no mind, for you can go your merry way with the secret smile that says to the world, “Hey world, I’ve done my part to make a better place for you and for me.”

Land of the Undereducated

Are you willfully ignorant or just plain stupid? Before you start comparing Cinco de Mayo to the Fourth of July, you should do a little bit of light reading. One is a national holiday honoring independence, the other is not. I'll leave it up to you to figure out which is which.

Furthermore, I will honor the flag of this country and display it whether or not it offends you. And while we're on the subject, if you hate the United States so much, why are you here? I don't see a fence keeping you in. If you're not willing to put any effort into making this country a better place for all to live and thrive in, either shut up or ship out. And if you have a problem with that, I suggest a strongly worded complaint to the Department of Go Make Hot Monkey Love to Yourself.

Am I Missing Something Here?

There are a bunch of YouTube "How to Play Piano" tutorials which are closed captioned for the hearing impaired.

Anyone?

Things That Make Life Easier

What good luck! Just last week, the tree trimmers stripped every tree in the neighborhood of those pesky, foliage-laden branches. Whew, dodged a big bullet there. Because, when the temperature starts nearing inferno levels, the last thing you want is some shady trees to walk under. The very last.

Kindly Shut Up

Ok, let me get this straight. She would rather have him be a terrorist with non-Muslim ties? What the hell is this lunatic even talking about?

Hey, Contessa, why don't you move to Tehran, where you can finally enjoy the freedom of full self-expression. You know, because the rest of us intolerant dullards, who want to write off people who believe that it's ok to kill innocents, are so obviously cramping your style. I'll even throw in a parting gift. Your starter burka is on me. No need for thanks. I'm a giver, it's what I do.

Self-Congratulation Corner

I must have looked extra cute today because no less than 3 guys yelled at me from their cars as I was driving around town.

Either that, or my gas cap was hanging open. I didn't check. Why ruin a good thing?

Random Sh*t That Gets My Goat

At the UPS store this morning, I walk in with a package ready to go, aside from the one 12 inch opening on the box. I couldn't find my packing tape, and I was hoping that I could use some of theirs to seal it before shipping it off.  So I  greet the clerk, sweet as you please (really!) and say I have a package to ship and would I be able to use a bit of their tape on it. She says, "Yes. It will be one dollar for the tape." Now, all told, I was going to need maybe 14 inches of tape, so I thought that was kind of a steep mark-up, considering that I could get 150 feet of it for a dollar from the local dollar store. Just to explore the situation a bit further, and still in the pleasant manner with which I interact with all service people, I say "That's a lot to charge for such a small piece of tape." Does she say, "You know what? You're right, I'll give it to you for a quarter." Or even, "Yes, I know, but that's kind of our policy and I have to stick to it." Nope. She gives no response at all. Unless you consider a stare-down as a sort of response. Which, come to think of it, I guess it is.

Why I Love Men #259

Yesterday, I overheard a group of guys shooting the shit. One of them told a joke. Some laughed, others didn't. Then someone piped up with, "I don't get it." Joke teller:  "You don't get it? It's because you're stupid, man." Awesome!