Something So Stupid I Should Never, Ever Tell Anyone

I am an idiot savant. At least that's what my friends at law school always said.

It's true. I'm a very intelligent person--really, I am--but then I do some of the dumbest things ever known to mankind.

And the worst part of it (or the best part, depending on your perspective) is that I always tell on myself. I tell all the moronic things I do and laugh right along with everyone else who is laughing at my stupidity. I'm not really sure why I tell on myself. Some people say it's because I am a really secure person with a great sense of humor. Others say it's because I don't have enough damn sense to keep my mouth shut.

Whatever the reason I tell everyone about my idiocy, I'm about to do it again right now.

Okay, last week I received an email from another attorney, Elyse, with an attached document that was about 26 pages long. The note she sent along with it said, "Sorry, I scanned this upside down."

Sorry, I scanned this upside down. She wrote it like it was some little insignificant tidbit.

I scanned this upside down. Was she kidding me?! Upside down?

How was I supposed to read it? I was so frustrated, I considered not even reading the thing, but it was a pretty important document, and it involved me, personally.

Well, sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do, right?

So I turned my computer monitor upside down and started reading.

That's right, I turned the monitor upside down.

In all honesty, it worked just fine--until I got to the bottom of the first page and realized that I had to put the monitor down and scroll on the keyboard to get to the next page.

Then I had to hoist up that monitor and turn it upside down again.

Over and over again.

Page 3: This d@mn thing doesn't look like it, but it's actually pretty heavy!

Page 7: I'm so sick of putting this thing down and lifting it up again just to get to the next page! And my arms are really starting to hurt!

Page11: Jeez, Elyse, would it have killed you to take 30 seconds and scan this the right way?

Page 13: I can't believe how effin inconsiderate Elyse is! I am really gonna rip her a new one about this!

Page 16: That stupid d@mn Elyse! She doesn't care about anyone but herself!

Page 18: I hate you, you f***ing b*tch!

Page 21: Screw you, you f***ing wh*re, Elyse! I give up on your dumb @ss and your stupid document! I hope you burn in h*ll!!!!

(Just so we're all clear here, when I was thinking all this, I was thinking the REAL nasty words, and NOT the sugar-coated words with symbols that make me think I'm not really swearing.)

I was still flaming mad an hour later when I told a friend about what Elyse's arrogance and inconsideration caused me to do: Elyse...upside down...hoist up...scroll down...re-hoist...gave up...b*tch!

My friend stood there with her mouth hanging open as I told my story. Finally (I think when she accepted that I wasn't making up any of it), she regained the power of speech and said,

"A$$hole, why didn't you just use the rotate button?"

What??? There's a rotate button?

She had to be lying! Why didn't I know about this "rotate button" contraption? If such a device did exist, why would it be such a closely-guarded secret?

So I opened the document, left my monitor rightside up, and saw two semi-circular arrows at the top of the screen.

I clicked on them, and guess what happened?

(Sit down for this...)

My document turned rightside up!!

A rotate button!

Who knew?

Just Say No

So many of you have been so kind with your messages of concern because I haven't been around lately.

I almost wish I could tell you that there was a family emergency or that I was in a horrible accident. I wish I could tell you almost anything other than the truth, which is that

I am a rotten, stinking, depraved addict!!

I always thought this only happened to other people. This couldn't happen in my family, and certainly not to me. I have ten years of post-high school education, for crap's sake! What they say, though, is true: No one is immune.

And I'm not talking about a little booze or prescription pain meds here. That stuff is for amateurs. I'm talking about the hardcore, Queen Mother of all drugs.

That's right, people, I'm battling FACEBOOK and I'm neglecting everything in my life because of it. All I can think about is when, and how, I'm going to get my next fix.

I wake up in the middle of the night and toss and turn until I get out of bed, sit on the floor in the corner of the dining room, log on, and "throw" intangible Mardi Gras beads at the girl who sat next to me in third-grade homeroom.

My husband knows I've experimented, but he doesn't know about my problem. I'm careful not to show any signs when he's near. I always make sure I listen for his car in the driveway so I will be cognizant of the exact moment that I need to "X" out of the "Seinfeld" or "Brady Bunch" quiz I am taking, unplug the laptop, and run into the laundry room and pretend to sort the darks from the lights from the reds.

I have to worry about my four year-old daughter, though. She's a little narc. The first time I put her in time-out she'll sing like a canary about what happens when she's hungry and I'm looking at pictures of the husband and baby of a girl I haven't laid eyes on in twenty-five years. I think I need to decapitate her Dora just so she understands that no one better ever find out I make her pull out the kitchen drawers and climb them like steps so she can reach the bowls and the Fruity Pebbles.

You need to know all of this so you can protect yourselves from me. DO NOT TRUST ME. If I am driving by your house and I NEED to take yet another I.Q. test, just know that I will not hesitate to break your window and climb through it to get to your Internet connection.

And heaven help you when I lose my job and my cable gets disconnected because I can't leave my wall long enough to show up in court. Do not doubt that I will steal your grandmother's wedding ring and take it to the nearest pawn shop to get my DSL back. I'll do whatever I have to do to have access to my friends' status updates and the additions to their photo albums.

I know. I need help.

Do you think MySpace works the same as methadone?

"I Feel Hot And My Throat Hurts--A Lot!"

Why do you think my little girl is crying?

Is it because I won't let her have a Facebook and I don't care if she's the only person in the entire school without one?

Is it because I won't let her stay out past 11:00 on the weekend and I'm ruining her life?

If those were your answers, you are wrong; neither of the above is why my little girl is crying.

(However, both are why my teenager is crying.)

My little girl is crying because her school is closed today!!!

Because it's closed? What the...huh?

That's right, the poor little thing doesn't know yet how it works. My little baby has not yet realized that a day off school is one of the most coveted occurrences in all of adolescence, and that she undoubtedly will engage in boundless groveling and unprecedented deceit to experience such happiness.

She has no idea that someday very soon she will be standing in front of the television at 6 a.m. chanting, "Please, God, let it be here! I will do everything you want for the whole, entire rest of my life if you just let my school go across the bottom of the screen!"

My little angel doesn't know that at least one morning a week for six solid years she will curl up in a ball on her bed and claim she has debilitating cramps.

She cannot comprehend that at 6 a.m. one day in the not-so-distant future she will lock the bathroom door (for the security of the impending operation) and fake puke, complete with guttural sound effects. Then she will flush the toilet so that the alleged vomiting can be neither proved nor disproved, and she will marvel at the brilliance of such a plan!

And on those rare, precious days when her prayers are answered, or I decide that I'd rather pretend I believe her than risk accusations of child neglect for sending a sick kid to school, she will weep again. But on those days, she will weep with tears of joy.

Kool and The Gang

Have you ever had a 10 year-old threaten to beat your ass?

Have you ever had a 10 year-old threaten to beat your ass in front of his parents???

It happened to my husband today and I was lucky enough to be present for it. Honestly, it was one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life! Despite the utter sadness of the whole situation, it was absolutely hilarious to watch!

When my husband politely asked to see the Defendant on the legal papers he was serving, "Big Kool" (according to his license plate), "Lil Kool" (according to his license plate) and Juvenile Delinquent Kool (no license plate yet, although I'm sure he will be making them someday soon) walked right up to our car and treated us to a most creative display of obscene gestures and profanity.

Then the 10 year-old future inmate puffed out his chest, spread out his arms and yelled to my husband, "Don't make me beat your ass!"

And Big Kool just stood there and let him say it, over and over again!

I know it's rude to laugh at people right in front of them, but how could we do anything else? The kid literally came up to my husband's chest and he really thought he was scary!

I almost felt bad for not being afraid of the kid. He tried so hard to be menacing and we completely destroyed his self-image. Maybe we should have cowered a tiny bit. Or maybe we just shouldn't have laughed quite so loudly. Or so much.

That was one show that was definitely--definitely--worth the price of admission!

What is wrong with some parents???

With Love

Ninety-eight years ago today the world received one of its greatest blessings when my grandmother was born in High Shoals, Georgia. She was the third child, and only daughter, of the town preacher and his quiet, obedient wife.

By all accounts, Grandma was a beautiful girl and, also by all accounts, she knew it. Legend has it that she won the "Pretty Girl Cake" at her town's festival every year for ten consecutive years, and for ten consecutive years, she feigned surprise when the cake was handed to her.

Grandma was full of life and energy, much to the chagrin of her sober father. She had heard the rumors that her own mother was kept from the boy she loved and forced by her family to marry the town preacher. Grandma was not about to lose her spirit to custom, and on December 7, 1926, she ran away to marry the handsome, exciting boy who stole her heart.

Every girl who marries the bad boy lives on a roller coaster with him, and Grandma was no different. But he was her passion and she never regretted her choice to follow her soul's prompting to be with him. Even after Alzheimer's robbed her of her children's faces and her grandchildren's names, she asked, "If Thomas were alive, do you think he would still love me?"

Sometimes I dream that she is still alive, that I have another chance with her. I dream that I go to see her more often while she lives in her tiny retirement apartment and that I pay more attention to the old stories she loves to tell. In my dreams I tell her how much I love her and I thank her for being the strength in my childhood.

In my dreams I hear her story about the "Pretty Girl Cake" just one more time.

I am not afraid to die because I know Grandma will be there to take care of me, just like she always has. She will pat me on the head, take me by my hand and introduce me to all of her friends. She will say, "This is my granddaughter, Missy. Isn't she pretty?" When her friends smile politely at me and ignore her question about my beauty, she will ask them over and over again until they finally tell her, "Yes, Mary, she's beautiful."

And then she will tell all of them how "proud" she is that I thought enough of her to write about her on her ninety-eighth birthday.

Of Sailors and Roosters

I think it already has been firmly established that I am quite immature, and now that I'm not constrained by Sue's cleanliness, I can talk about something that really amuses me.

So here goes: I will fall in the floor laughing until tears are rolling down my face at any name that can have a sexual implication or is "dirty" sounding in any way. There, I've said it, and I AM NOT ASHAMED (although I'm well aware that I should be.)

And this is something that everyone knows about me. Racitay (she values her anonymity so I have disguised her name), a good friend of mine with whom I work, occasionally warns me of the names of some of our clients in hopes that I will refrain from hysterical public laughter. "Okay, Melissa, we have a Johnson and a Ball today. Can you handle it?"

"Uh...no, shouldn't there be two Balls with the Johnson?" And then I giggle and giggle and giggle, just like I'm a teenager.

Actually, I'm probably more immature than a teenager because my fifteen year-old daughter gets absolutely disgusted by this behavior of mine. She can't stand it that I have to practice before I call the pediatrician's office and say the doctor's name. I am not kidding you here; there is no way I could ever call and say,"I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Cox," without fits of laughter if I didn't practice it first. Whenever my daughter witnesses this event, she gets that I-so-can't-believe-this-is-my-mother-look on her face and says, "God, Mom, how old ARE you?" as she stomps away from me.

I once had a friend whose last name was Seaman and he suffered relentless torture every day of his life (not from me...I have enough couth to make fun of someone's name behind his back) because of that name. Why, I ask you, would anyone give that name to a child? If that is your last name and you somehow manage to carry on through life with that name, then for the love of all that is holy, have the decency not to procreate!! Or at least give the child some other last name. Really, isn't that just the right thing to do?

Listen to this one. I knew a girl whose last name was Simon, but her parents chose to pronounce it "Seaman."

What??? Now that's just child abuse. If your name is spelled Simon and you have a daughter, pronounce it the common way, let some junior high student make up a limerick rhyming it with the body part associated with virginity (I'm trying to be classy in my posts), and let her move on with her life.

Jeez, I don't know what ever happened to the Simon/Seaman girl, but it wouldn't surprise me if she married the first man she ever dated, even someone named Cox or Ball, just to get rid of that name.

And I won't even get started on people who name their sons Dick.

Now before you go off thinking that it's terrible of me to be so cruel and immature about someone's name, just know that I have EARNED the right to make fun of someone's name.

My mother always said that before she named me Melissa, she made sure it was a name from which no nasty nickname could be derived. That was very important to her.

Oh, really, Mom?

Nice job.

Did it never cross your mind, Mom, that "Melissa" might become "Missy"...

and that "Missy" might become "MISSY PISSY" for at least forty consecutive years????

Woof! Woof!

I'm so thrilled to be participating in Sue's blog carnival (even though Sue completely ignores me and my love for her)!

I thought Sue's stringent rules for the carnival would preclude my participation because Sue required that the post be about something that amuses me, and that the post be "clean."

And that combination was my problem.

A post about something that amuses me? No problem.

A clean post? I can do that too!

But I can't do them together. Nothing that amuses me is clean! Seriously! I even asked my friends and family if they could think of anything clean that amuses me, and no one could come up with anything.

Not a single thing!

(This is where I want to start telling you about all the unclean things they came up with that amuse me on a regular basis--and there are many--but I need to show respect for Sue. Dang that Sue! Look, I even said "Dang" for the first time since I was five.)

I had resigned myself to being a mere spectator at Sue's carnival, but then I went to the grocery store and cast my eyes upon the most wonderfully amusing thing I had ever seen! And it's clean!

But my amusing story does not begin at the grocery store. It begins in my seventh grade world geography class twenty-eight years ago.

I was twelve years old, and I was going through what other people like to call "that awkward stage." I, however, knew it was much more than awkward. And if you don't believe me, here's proof in the form of my seventh grade school picture that my family members (who mistakenly believe that they are really funny) have displayed at every important event of my life for nearly three decades:


Ooooh, Baby!

But it was much worse than the picture actually shows. On that particular day I was wearing Collection Brand stretch blue jeans purchased at Montgomery Ward (keep in mind that this was the era of the skin-tight Jordache), and brown earth shoes.

I know that I was wearing those jeans and those shoes because I wore them EVERY SINGLE DAY of my seventh grade existence. (Just for clarification, I had several pairs of identical jeans--I wasn't that gross!)

Okay, so maybe I wasn't that girl we all remember that smelled like urine, but I was totally uncool, to say the least.

Anyway, Satan's spawn, a.k.a. Shelley sat right behind me in world geography, and believe me when I tell you that she was the original Mean Girl. She constantly made fun of my hair and my weight and my brown earth shoes (like her blue duck shoes were any better). I hated her and I hated world geography because of her.(Incidentally,I have no idea what countries correspond with the red dots on the Feedjit map on my sidebar. I'm pretty sure about the United States, but the rest are shrouded in mystery. And it's all because of HER!)

So imagine my surprise one day when I walked into geography class and saw that she had put a note on my desk that said, "You're a saint!"

How nice! "Maybe Shelley actually likes me!" I thought hopefully (and pathetically).

Then I noticed the little, tiny arrow at the bottom of the page indicating that I should turn over the paper.

I did as instructed, and saw a single word: Bernard!

Saint Bernard!

"You're a Saint Bernard!"

(Just so you know, that is not the amusing part of this post.)

In retrospect, I can't really argue with Shelley's assessment of me, but, still, is that not the cruelest thing you ever heard in your life? I was crushed. (However, I did feel a little better when my mother responded to my recitation of that day's events by saying, "Shelley said that to you? But Shelley has a pig nose!")

So fast forward to January 21, 2009. I can't say that I've gone 28 years without thinking about Shelley and her Mean Girl note (how could I, with my family telling the story in fits of hysterical laughter every chance they got), but I really thought that my adult super coolness had made Shelley an emotional non-issue in my life.

Wrong again!

I discovered just how wrong I was this week when I came face-to-face with Shelley in the grocery store in the--wait for it--dog food aisle! I am not even kidding you, she was standing there looking at dog food!

Oh my, how times have changed! In case you've ever wondered about this, I'll just let you know that 28 years, many, many pounds, overprocessed hair, and sun damaged skin do nothing to change a pig nose.

I could get really nasty right now and say that I'm not sure if the dog food was for her pet or for her, but that would be too seventh grade-ish.

Let's just say that I'm fairly confident churches named "Saint Shelley's" will be dotting the globe in the not-so-distant future.

And that amuses me more than you will ever know!

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!