Sep. 27: One silly phone call

Day #27 of our blog challenge. We’re almost done! Today’s prompt:

Describe a distinct moment when your life took a turn.

It would be easy/quick to respond to this one with “the day I found out I had cancer,” but that’s obvious and not very fun. Instead, I’m going to grab a moment from a long, long time ago. I’ve probably told this story here already, but YOU dig around in 13 years of archives and figger it out. Here goes:

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Freshman year at Walla Walla College, if you were in the student photo directory, you got a prank call from me and April. It was our thing; we were dorks who thought we were super fun to talk to. And pre-caller ID days, we could be anonymous. Wait, read that word again, but in a sing-song voice: AAAA-NOOOON-Y-MOOOOUS!! Much better. Prank phone calls were the best, Jerry; the best! Not a single WWC student was off-limits when it came to our favorite evening activity.

I knew a senior named Victor Manullang; I had met him four years earlier when he was a college freshman and on a date with my sister. I was a high school freshman (read: complete moron). I remember teasing him a lot, asking WHAT ON EARTH was he a history major for because THAT’S SO STUPID and THAT’S SO BORING and WHAT CAN YOU EVEN DO WITH THAT MAJOR and I wouldn’t stop because, in case you missed it, I was 14 and stupid. So, when I got to WWC as a freshman and saw that Victor was a fellow student, I wasn’t exactly excited about revealing my identity as that bratty girl—not that he’d remember anyway. (Right?) I avoided him. I was afraid he would try to talk to me, and that would mean he remembered me from four years earlier and that would not be a good thing. If you were 18 once, you get how completely humiliating that would have felt—now, though, it seems insanely silly.

One night I came to April’s dorm room and found she and her roommate passing the phone back and forth, laughing hysterically. April whispered that they had called our friend Kevin’s room and were talking to his roommate. I wanted in on that action, of course, and grabbed the phone. I started talking and flirting and doing all the stuff we usually did on our prank calls, and I don’t know how it hit me, but suddenly I realized who Kevin’s roommate was: I was talking to Victor Manullang. I stifled a scream and tossed the phone to April, and I don’t remember what happened next, but April said my name so I slammed the phone down.

(Kids, that was a thing back then, slamming a phone down. It’s sad you can’t do that anymore, it really is.)

I screamed at April WHY DID YOU SAY MY NAME, HE’S GONNA KNOW IT WAS US! and she screamed back WHY DID YOU THROW THE PHONE AT ME? and who knows what else but a lot of things I’m sure and then I remembered that Kevin’s (and Victor’s) room was directly across the courtyard from April’s and he could probably totally see us so I screamed again and ran for the light switch and we sat there in the silent dark and I don’t know what we were waiting for, but we were definitely hoping that that was the end of our prank phone call (to that number) for the night and then…

THE.

PHONE.

RANG.

He knew it was us. There was a lot of chaotic screaming and blaming and cursing and I turned the lights back on and I don’t remember what happened after that. Maybe we answered the phone and pretended we were asleep, that we’d been asleep for hours and knew nothing about any random anonymous callers. Maybe I forced April to answer and pretend she had acted alone. I don’t remember the details, but I know that we were caught and it felt like it might just be the worst thing that had ever happened in the history of ever.

Oh, but then. THEN! At lunch in the cafeteria the next day, Kevin and Victor set their trays down and sat directly across from me and April. They were both grinning ear-to-ear. There was a lot of embarrassed chuckling and non-meeting of the eyes. They wouldn’t stop smiling; they *might* have been proud to get attention from freshman girls. We eventually felt less uncomfortable and actually had a conversation. And then the next time they saw us in the cafeteria they sat with us again. And the next time, and the next time…

And, slowly, Victor and I became friends. Yes, he remembered me being that teasing know-it-all from long ago, but it was okay. The two of us hung out when neither was dating someone else. He moved to Ohio for a few years, and we wrote letters and talked on the phone. He got a job in Portland around the same time I graduated and moved back home, and we were each other’s dates for stuff when everyone else said ‘no.’ We watched TV together over the phone. We went to movies and concerts and ball games and plays and new restaurants. We vacationed with friends in Las Vegas and L.A.

But we weren’t dating. That would come later, when both of us gave up on someone better coming along and he cut off that awful mullet. It took 14 years from when we first met, ten from when we first became friends, and just.like.that, we lived happily ever after.

I didn’t realize at the time that the ridiculous prank phone call had changed the direction of my life, but whenever I look back on that night, I feel genuinely glad for my freshman immaturity.

 

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If you’re a blogger and want to do our blog challenge with us, let me know and I’ll send you our list! Otherwise, tune in here (and on Sherilee’s happy little blog) every day in September.

Jun. 23: Don’t ring mah bell

Neighborhoods like mine are magnets for unwanted doorbell ringers. When the kids aren’t home, I don’t answer the door unless I’m expecting someone. But when they are home, they race for the front door and then wake me up come get me when the person there asks “Is your mom or dad home?”

We are looong overdue for a “no solicitors” sign. We used to have a doormat that said GO AWAY, but it was always out of order; people would ring our doorbell and say, “I love your mat! Wanna buy magazines?”

I don’t like guns, but these people make me wish I did. And that I kept a collection by the front door.

Last night I searched for “soliciting” on Pinterest and found some very exciting options. Tell me what you think.

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This sign was the most common search result (soooo… I don’t like it).
What’s good about this particular one, though, is that the pretty frame is deceiving;
it draws people in by giving them the impression that it has something nice to say,
and then it says GET THE EFF OUT. Sneaky-good.

 

Not my cat. I like my cat. But a random cat, sure.

I’m afraid too many people don’t understand what the word “soliciting” means, exactly.
This explains it a little. I like the idea of having a window decal more than hanging a sign,
but our front door windows are six inches from our doorbell and therefore we cannot
be sure an idiot would see the message before pressing the doorbell. Because idiots are such idiots.

 

This could not be more straightforward.

 

This could not be more awesome.

I like it.

This could definitely work on some people.
Heh heh heh.

 

I wouldn’t do the Pokemon thing, but I’d have no problem
asking for some kind of show tune or Robert Frost poem.

A Robert Frost poem WITH VOICES.

Again with the sensible. I like the sensible.

Good. Very good. Probably too wordy, though.

I think this would be like the GO AWAY doormat; people would ring the bell
just to say how hilaaaarious we must be!! To have a sign like that!! So funny!!!!!!

The message is cutesy, but the butterfly ruined it for me.
Also the “y” in “says”—why is it way up there? Bad font choices irritate me.

I like. I like very much.

For the most part, I like the message of this one… but I might add the words “we know” to the end.
I hate those little poopus kids who come from other neighborhoods to sell stuff.

Simple. Good.

Disgusting… and probably pretty effective.

So many choices, right? I’ve gotta put something out front, because no way am I spending my summer pretending that our yellow Lab is way more vicious than she seems. Even an idiot who doesn’t know the meaning of the word “solicitor” will figger that one out.

May 9: Total misrepresentation

Katie is on the student newspaper staff this year. For the April issue, her assignment was to report on Rex Reader, an annual PTO-sponsored reading program. She thought it’d be a cinch because she’d interview the closest PTO officer (me) and be done with it. I find just a few problems with her reporting skills:

1. I was not aware I was being interviewed that time she plopped down on the floor by my desk and asked me two questions about Rex Reader and giggled at the dog during my answers.
2. In her very short article, she managed to make me sound like a complete moron.

See for yourself (I highlighted the “My mom is a dummy” paragraph for your pleasure):

This is slander or libel or somethin’ sinister I saw on Law & Order once. Pretty sure.

Feb. 17: Roadus rageus maximus

OK, so I was driving home from work today, on a 35-mph hour street leading up to Division, and a car stopped in front of me with its turn signal on. This usually means the person is going to turn, correct? This person did not turn. This person stayed right there in the street, where I could not get around him. I waited for a bit before I honked a little tiny honk, like “ahem!” He stuck his hand out and waved to the side like I should go around him. I could not go around him, though; besides there being no room, there was also a bike lane and the only time I’ve ever been stopped by a cop was when I once went in a bike lane to pass a turning car. Even if there had been room to pass this guy, I probably wouldn’t have.

So, I sit there, waiting and waiting while this jackass is pretty much parked in the middle of the road, and finally I lay on the horn. This time I really gave it my all. It was a big ol’ HOOOOONK! and didn’t do a bit of good. The driver waved me on again. I’m all, I CAN’T GET AROUND YOU, EFFER! (Should I mention that the car had California plates? It seems like that is a detail that should not be left out. California plates. Yes.)

Another guy walks over from the side of the road, where the car would have turned had it done what its blinker said it was going to do, and gets in the back seat of the car. I think, OK, NOW he’s going to go. But did the car move? No. So I lay on the horn again, and this time three hands come out from the windows to wave me around them. Hands of JACKASSES, all three. Idiot jackasses, in fact. Because only idiots do what these guys were doing.

Cars are starting to line up behind me when another guy comes over and gets in the other side of the  car. Finally, the blinker turns off and the car moves forward. Of course, even though they’re moving, by now I’m completely pissed at their rude behavior—we don’t drive that way in Oregon, idiot jackass from California!—and can feel my blood start to boil. It’s right about now that I think it’s probably a good thing I don’t keep a gun in my car, because I would have totally used it on them. I’m thinking I might have to start carrying one just for situations like this. My gun would not shoot bullets, though; I’m a peace-loving person. Instead, I think I’d make it shoot staples or nails or maybe live piranha. That would get my point across just fine, and I wouldn’t go to prison. Not for life, anyway.

Aug. 11: Fill ‘er up

Yesterday Mom and I are out running errands like mad women who had just gotten out of chemo—which is exactly what we were—and I stop for gas. Here in Oregon we can’t pump our own gas, so I stay in my seat and pull the thingie to open my gas tank cover. And, because I’m an awesome multi-tasker, I also open the passenger side window to give the attendant my debit card so he won’t have to walk all the way around the car because I’m not just an awesome multi-tasker, but also kind of a nice person sometimes.

Unfortunately, I don’t pull the thingie to open my gas tank cover. I pull the thingie that pops my trunk open. Apparently I suck at multi-tasking.

So I say to my mom, forgetting that her window is wide open, “OH GEEZ, I just popped my trunk. I’m such an idiot. Everyone here just saw the dumb girl do it. I’m so embarrassed!” She starts giggling as the attendant, who undoubtedly heard what I just said (along with everyone else there), walks toward the car.

I say, “Nope, I’m not gonna look like a dummy. Be right back.”

So I hop out of my car. In Oregon, if you get out of your car at a gas station, the attendants sometimes freak out a little because they think you might be trying to pump your own gas and that means they’ll have to call 911 or yell at you. As soon as I get out of the car, I see the attendant look my direction (he’d been interrupted on his way to my car).

Knowing he’s watching me, I go to the trunk and rearrange stuff, totally looking like I popped it open for good reason. And Mom even tries to help. She yells out to me, “Jen, did you find my iPhone back there?”

“No, it’s not in here!”

“OK.”

I think her “OK” sounds like she doesn’t really care that her iPhone isn’t back there or possibly missing, or that she might, in fact, not even own an iPhone. So I yell back, “Did you check under the seat?”

And she giggles, “Oh, it’s probably in my purse.”

I slam the trunk closed and get back in the car.

“Thanks, Mom. That totally fooled ‘em.” We chuckle conspiratorially.

Just then the attendant appears at her window. I hand him my card and say, “Fill it up with regular unleaded, please.”

Mom starts giggling again. “It’s all unleaded now, Jen.”

“I know, but there are different kinds. There’s regular, and plus…” And then I realize that she’s talking about the type of gas, not the quality.

“Oh. Geez, first I pop my trunk and then I ask the guy for unleaded gas as though he’s going to put something else in there. Could I be any dumber?” I start to bang my forehead against the steering wheel.

Mom just sits and giggles. She’s too nice to agree with me. Also, when she gets the giggles she can’t do much else.

So I’m sitting there, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world and glad this is not a gas station I go to very often, especially when the attendant leans back in Mom’s window and says to me, “Ma’am, I can’t pump the gas until you turn off your engine.”

Jun. 3: This ain’t Waffle House

When Katie and Jack had a sleepover last week they begged for pancakes for breakfast. I hate making pancakes. They’re like making cookies—the first couple are no big deal, and after that it gets old and I want to be DONE. So I offered waffles. I don’t know why they’re different but they are. I think of them as less messy and less work but occasionally I’m wrong. Occasionally.

To keep with my extreme laziness, I used Krusteaz baking mix. But to keep with my extreme need to never leave things as they are, I added a bunch of cinnamon and tossed in some powdered sugar for fun. Jack didn’t like the way they looked—he accused me of trying to get him to eat whole wheat, can you just IMAGINE what a horrible mom that makes me???—but they smelled good so he gave them a try. They must have passed his inspection, because he ate six more. I have to admit, the one tiny bite I had was pretty tasty.

This is when I usually share my delicious and easy recipe. I’m so sorry. I do not have one.

Because that last waffle, combined with a lot of distracting chat with Cassie, came out like this:

See why I hate making pancakes and waffles and other stuff that requires accuracy and timing and attention? Pffft. Next sleepover breakfast: corn flakes.

Apr. 19: School day

I showed up at the school first thing this morning to help with our Rex Reader program. Sunshine’s in charge of it, and she got all bossy and told us what to do and where to go (such a meanie). For the kids who read 200 minutes or more in the last two weeks, we gave them these super-cool pins that say “PAW-some Reader!” around a wildcat (the school mascot) pawprint. Fancy Lori™ and I did the 5/6 grades and got all bossy by making the kids add up their own minutes. It was fun to play hardasses. At least we weren’t like Mean Dina, who wouldn’t give sweet little Alec a button EVEN THOUGH HE READ 200 MINUTES and then she made him cry and then she threw her head back and laughed her evil laugh at him. That’s pure, diabolical wickedness in Mean Dina.

It took just a few minutes to distribute the buttons, and then a bunch of us gathered in the conference room to put special wrappers around the candy bars that were being given to all the volunteers. This is volunteer appreciation week so we’re telling volunteers how much we appreciate them with cheap chocolate.

If it were up to me, about half the volunteers would get squat. I had to go through the database and generate a list of volunteers, and that was easy. But there’s a clipboard sign-in that way too many have been using INSTEAD of the computer—I find this infuriating because I have to enter all those sign-ins manually and it’ll take hours. Hours. Even more of them have not submitted the required paperwork and/or attended the volunteer training session required by the school district. But apparently rules do not apply to those people. They keep leaving me nasty notes that say they don’t have a nametag or aren’t in the computer, but it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I let them know they have to turn in paperwork and/or be trained; they don’t do those things, and they still complain.

I’m not supposed to hate people who willingly work for free, am I? But these people who don’t follow directions are making my life increasingly difficult. I talked to the principal—he’s the guy I have to answer to if I’ve allowed a volunteer to work without being processed properly—and he suggested a kind, firm note. I’m thinking a “P.S. Don’t make me knife you!” would be totally appropriate, too, because if history proves anything, I know this note will have little effect. Parents who ignore the required procedures will still show up to chaperone field trips, facilitate reading groups, and lead pencil sharpening seminars.

I’m just doing what I’ve been told I’m supposed to do. Why won’t they?

School was out by the time I left this afternoon; it was a very, very long volunteering day for me—properly trained, applied, and logged in, of course. Thank goodness I took that Starbucks break with Sunshine late this morning or I mightn’t have accomplished so much. Yay, me! And now I’m gonna strip off this bra and take a nap.

Sep. 9: A quickie

Once again, things are just too crazy-busy around here for a real post.

• School started yesterday. Katie and Jack both had good days; they enjoy their teachers, like their classmates and came home with a shockingly low number of new swears.
• I, on the other hand, learned lots of new naughtiness because I spent the first day of school volunteering. My job was to collect bunches of forms and do stuff with them. That about sums it up. Oh, I also shoved Cassie for making my blood pressure go up about eleventy-thousand points for a minute. The real treat of the day was lunch at New Seasons with a very fab group of gals: Dawn, Sunshine, Jenn K, and Dina.
• I’m headed out to the doctor in a few minutes and hoping he’ll have the magic touch to fix whatever’s wrong with my back. I’m still sleeping sitting up on the couch every night and dealing with a lot of pain when I do strenuous activities like stand, sit, roll over and fetch. Even my beloved Vicodin isn’t helping anymore. I hate my back. Hate it, hate it, hate it! Wish me luck.
• My friend formerly known as “Lovely Lori H” is now to be called “Fancy Lori,” as she is an art gallery-visiting woman of refinement. Please make a note of it.
• The “Obama indoctrination” hubbub kinda cracked me up last week. It was hard to get very upset about it; I certainly wasn’t interested in anything GWB had to say once he showed us what a lying jackass idiot he was, and I wouldn’t have wanted my kids to be forced to listen to him. But then I read Obama’s speech and OHMYBUDDHA, I was suddenly furious. What was wrong with it? Even if a lying jackass idiot president gave that speech—and George Sr. pretty much did, back in the day—I’d agree there were some very good points. My bloggy friend Jen E wrote a good reaction post yesterday. All I can really say is that people need to calm the hell down.
• And while I’m fired up, I’ll share this news item I found on Emerald City Guy’s blog: Third Nationally-Recognized Pastor Declares Anti-Obama Death-Prayer. This is scary stuff, folks. It’s also exactly why I’m no longer a Christian. If church leaders can get away with such hateful behavior, how can we ever expect their sheeple to be any better?
• In order to calm down a little, here’s a picture of a cute little teddy bear.
  
  It helped me. I hope it helps you too.
• My seester got a new job. Yay, Kath! It’s better than the one she’s had because it’s a different one.
• My dear friend Kim F’n turned the big four-oh the other day. You might have seen her mention it on Facebook—she was pretty much insisting everyone on Facebook acknowledge her day, and also that as many status updates as possible were dedicated to her. Our friend Gary even declared that September now be known as “Sepkimber.” I think that’s awesome, but since Kim and I share a birthday month, I suggested “Jenkimber.” Kim would not go for that because EVEN THOUGH SHE’S YOUNGER AND “KIM” COMES AFTER “JEN” IN THE ALPHABET, she wants her name first. So now September is “KimJenber.” I agree, it’s totally clumsy, right? But I’m alright with it because I’m too old and worn out to argue with Kim’s logic EVEN THOUGH THERE IS NONE. My point? You don’t have to call September “KimJenber” IF—please note the uppercase IF—you buy us sapphires. Many sapphires. Sapphires are good.
• We both also enjoy a great deal of rum.

I need to get my hair did and then leave for the doctor’s office. “Spineless,” my arse, Fancy Lori!  :)

Aug. 12: Pass the duct tape

The power cord on my laptop falls out of its socket on the power box thingie all the time. I usually don’t notice it’s happened until it’s been out for so long that my computer shuts off in the middle of writing my most profound blog post ever. This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad fate to fall upon the world. So I fixed the problem; I cut thin strips of duct tape, wrapped it around the pluggy thingie, and now it’ll never fall out again.

I know. It’s an amazing thing, my intelligence.

However, I don’t fix everything with duct tape, and in fact, I use it more often for removing lint than anything else. But you probably know someone who thinks duct tape is the best way to repair just about everything. And to those people, I say HEY, YOU USED TO BE MARRIED TO MY MOM. I’m pretty sure that a-hole’s handiwork could be featured prominently on There, I Fixed It. Kludges + Jury Rigs. If I had photo evidence of his stupidity I’d submit it to the site. Unfortunately, my sister took every picture of him and sacrificed it in a fitting ceremony involving a few big meals and my downstairs toilet.

Aug. 11: Step away from the camera

Something I’ve learned, not first-hand (thank goddess), but by watching others:

If naked pictures of you exist, they will always, always end up where you don’t want them.

‘Specially if you’re a celebrity. How people can act so violated and angry over nude photos being released—photos they posed for and maybe even took themselves—is hilarious to me. But the fans who defend them are embarrassingly gullible; they’re often convinced it was all unintentional and that the star is the victim. So rarely is that the case.

Once? Oops. Twice, Vanessa Hudgens? You’re a freaking moron. I don’t think your fans—or your fans’ parents—are going to be so forgiving this time. I, for one, am tired of trying to explain to the little ones in my house why some of their favorite celebrities do this kind of thing. “They’re just not very smart” only explains so much (and yet it applies to so many of their favorite celebrities).

I think it’s time to introduce the kids to “safe” idols like Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama.

Mar. 12: Screwed by a scroll

Today I started tweaking my blog layout a little and it turned into me spending an embarrassingly high number of hours making teeny tiny changes no one will probably ever even notice. And then, just as I was about to publish the new design, I did something that gave me a horizontal scroll bar.

I hate horizontal scroll bars. Hate them. To me, they mean the designer designed for one browser, one resolution, and/or one monitor size. Like, y’know, only bad designers do.

Have you noticed the Wikipedia home page has a horizontal scroll bar? If you scroll over you’ll see there’s nothing on the far right of the page. I have no idea why it’s there. I assume it’s intentional but it appears to be pointless.

My horizontal scroll bar is also pointless. There’s no special surprise waiting for you way over yonder. No winning lottery numbers. No witty joke. Not even a cute picture of a puppy. Nothing.

And do I have any idea how this horizontal scroll bar showed up or how to get rid of it? No. Because I’m a moron. I’d like to blame Blogger, but I think we all know where the problem lies… and until I figure out what I did wrong, you’re stuck with the same old design I’ve had for I don’t know how long.

I’d be sorry, but you didn’t even know I was working on a re-design until about 20 seconds ago, so why are you so mad? Geez.

Feb. 4: Super-size my drink, please

Oh, geez. People are freaking out over Burgerville—best fast food restaurant in the northwest—offering beer and wine, even though only ONE of its locations has applied for a liquor license. It’s possible that alcohol won’t ever even be served chain-wide.

KATU piece
KPTV video
KGW piece

Personally, I think the idea’s kinda nice. But nooooo, these party poopers gotta ruin it for those of us who like to drink a nice bottle of wine with our French fries. What’s next? We all have to learn the new code word for ordering our marijuana at KFC?

The only thing that might (might!) make me stop eating at Burgerville is if they started serving kitten nuggets. Because Burgerville is great and delicious and superb and many other superlatives. And with alcohol? Even better. Or as Kathy said:

“Best. Drive-through window. Ever.”

June 23: Measure twice? Ha.

Eleven years ago at this time, the house in which we currently live was being built. We had made all our color/carpet/vinyl/lighting selections, signed the papers, and sold our other house. We came by every few days to check on its progress. Puppy Scout even took a big poo in what was eventually the master bedroom. We were all very excited about moving into our new home.

Little did we know that something sinister was occurring in the house at that time. No, it wasn’t being haunted. It was much worse. Apparently the (finger quotes) builders (close finger quotes) spent most of their workdays sitting on their thumbs instead of building our house according to the blueprints. These evildoers were either blind or very inexperienced or four-year-olds or idiots; generally, their construction credo was “Meh.” Every time we have done something Home Depot-y to our house that requires even a small amount of precision, we have found more and more evidence of this.

Studs are typically 16 inches apart, are they not? There are areas in this house where there are no studs for several feet. I wish I was kidding or being even a little bit sarcastic; I am not. If there was ever a bar fight in here, people thrown against the walls would go right through them like cartoon characters. I think the only thing holding the roof up is the paint and what we now realize are load-bearing posters.

When we had our floors redone the contractor told us there was no ductwork behind one of our vents. Who knows, we’re probably heating our crawl space all winter long. When we replaced all the base trim after the floors were done, there were places where the walls went inward a good half inch away from the trim. Three tubs of putty later, I think it finally looks alright.

Once upon a time we wanted to hang shelves. A three-day-long flood of cursing ensued. Now the only thing holding up that wall is the spackle from all the “oops” holes. Oh, and the shelves. And the books on those shelves.

After today’s fiasco, I am more sure than ever that these (finger quotes) builders (close finger quotes) may not have even had a measuring tape in their possession at the time they were pretending to build our house. We tried for the fourth time to hang curtains in our family room windows. We’ve never been very successful because the windows are large, which means the curtains must be plentiful, which means they are heavy, which means they require extra-strong brackets. It seems that the area surrounding the family room windows is one of those with few to no studs, so getting the brackets to stay in the wall is a challenge. My solution (this time) was this: buy a big ol’ piece of wood and nail the hell out of it into the studs, then screw the brackets into that. Sounds brilliant, right? Thank you! I thought so too. But finding the elusive studs and determining a straight line in which to nail the hell out of them proved to be our biggest challenge yet. And this simple little task—nailing a straight board into what should be a straight wall—that turned into a day of cursing at those jackasses from 11 years ago really just made me hate our house more than ever.

Don’t give me any of that “at least you have a roof over your head!” stuff. Because I’m pretty sure we live in a 4-bedroom, 2½ bath structure of cleverly arranged sheetrock and we’re but a blustery day away from it being a pile of rubble.

May 12: Boo-friggidy-hoo

Mother Sues Town After Child Steps In Dog Dropping

Read the full story insanity here.

Feb. 29: What, no Darwin award?

You gotta read about this guy who drove through a barricade and ended up in the river. His little dog apparently got caught under his brake pedal but he had trouble getting him out because he had a cup of coffee in one hand and his cell phone in the other. He said he lived through the accident because God heard his prayer.

So, he was saved because he prayed? Isn't this just proof that there is no God? Should we really be worshipping a god that would save this jackass?

This reminds me of all the times I didn't study for tests and prayed I'd ace them anyway. I mean, if you can't even manage to get ONE hand on the steering wheel as you careen down the highway with your dog roaming loose in your car, you better damn well not ever STOP praying.

I'm betting the airbag must be pissed, what with God getting all the credit for its hard work. Also, according to his dog's photo the guy hasn't heeded Bob Barker's advice.

I implore you, why are these people allowed to live? They're lucky their deserved punishment (slow torture involving ice picks, razor blades, rubbing alcohol, and Celine Dion) is frowned upon in today's society.

Oct. 3: Nekkid yardwork is insane

Listen, I'm a patient, reasonable, gorgeous woman, but this just isn't working for me. In the past few days our local news has been reporting about some guy in Happy Valley that likes to do his gardening in the nude. Neighbors have complained. Is it any surprise? The guy looks like David Crosby. Nudists/naturists never look like Taye Diggs or Eva Longoria. If they did, I don't think people would complain so much. Also, nudism would be a spectator sport with cheerleaders and trading cards. And ESPN would be a lot more popular.

But my point is not that this guy's a goblin. It's actually this: if you choose to work in your yard naked, you are nothing short of an idiot. Let me count the ways:

1. thorns
2. weed-whackers
3. bees
4. rakes
5. sunburn
6. angry neighbors with archery skills

Now this guy's showing up all over the news talking about how he means no harm but he has the right to "thrill his soul" in the outdoors if he so chooses. I'm not arguing with whatever his reasoning is; I just think it's a dangerous sport. Sunbathe, sleep, whatever else... but garden?

Also, the guy's a goblin.

Happy Valley, a perfectly nice little burg, skanked itself up when it recently expanded its boundaries to include Clackamas Town Center. This is not helping.