In case you were wondering about my day.
This has to be the Monday-est Monday that ever Monday-ed. I’m trying to stay positive. By that I mean, I’m trying really, really, really, really hard not to stab anyone. Wish me luck, people.
Remember in school when we had to write haiku? Neither do I, so here’s a refresher. Haiku is Japanese poetry, three lines long, with seventeen syllables. It’s written as 5 syllables, 7 syllables, then 5 again. It’s usually about nature or an experience. Someone, somewhere, thought this up, folks.
I live in the Eastern US, where “nature” has been eleven straight months of rain, followed by a swath of single-digit weather. I wrote this lovely haiku about it:
Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain
Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
Ice, ice, ice, ice, ice.
I know. I agree. I am far too talented to be wasting my life working instead of creating masterpieces.
Looking at it, haiku are like limericks for the snootier among us, minus the humor. Haiku doesn’t rhyme, and not to disparage a centuries old tradition, it sounds just a bit disjointed and rambling when read aloud.
In my mind, all haiku follows this:
These words make no sense.
Here are seven syllables.
Oh look, it’s a dog.
Don’t hate me for my talents, embrace me in all my haiku glory.
I have never liked non-rhyming poetry. Non-rhyming poetry is cheating. Don’t believe me? Let’s look at a beloved classic, in non-rhyme form. This is my absolute favorite literary piece of all time:
I don’t like them in a home, with a rodent. I don’t like them, wherever you put them. I don’t care for this dish of green eggs and ham. I’ve told you several times, Sam, I don’t care for them.
Now let’s go one step further. Green eggs and haiku.
I don’t like this meal.
Sam, take them away from me.
I won’t eat these eggs.
Look, I’m not saying that the haiku process takes the fun out of poetry (hey, at least with a haiku I wouldn’t have to come up with a word that rhymes with purple for that piece about grape jelly I’ve been struggling to write). I’m just saying it seems like the kind of poetry put together by someone who thought rhyming was overrated and just a tad too, well, rhyme-y.
I may be in the minority here, though. April 17 is National Haiku Day, believe it or not, so make your big Haiku Day plans early. My plans on Haiku Day? I am going to protest by reading from a book of limericks on the White House lawn.
Nobody likes “leaves, all floating down – stupid leaves need to be raked – damn it I hate trees,” but you know what we all have in common?
Everyone loves the man from Nantucket.
I know I just wrote about RVs recently and it’s not exactly a topic to expand on, but here we are, expanding. Why, you ask? Well, because apparently Facebook overheard our conversation or caught me “thinking” about RVs and decided to throw a gazillion ads at me to show me the life I’ve been missing. I’m still not sure how Facebook manages to get inside my head, but that’s a topic for another day.
I will admit, some of the ads for tricked-out RV homes sort of reinforced the crazy notion of quitting the 9 to 5 life and hitting the road. I can see why people would choose the open road, permanently. Obviously, this isn’t my first or even best dream. But hey, If I can’t pull up stakes and move to Ireland, then I wouldn’t mind travelling America’s highways like Jack Kerouac.
What’s my plan, you ask? Why, purchasing one of the exorbitantly priced, grand motor homes Facebook, in all of its algorithmic wisdom, felt I was qualified for (both mentally and financially, presumably, which just goes to show, Facebook is stupid).
If I’m going on the ultimate road trip, you’d better believe I’m going to do it in style… and in such a luxurious manner that the locals will ask, “Who was that woman?” whenever I pass through their town. Yeah, sure, that’s what they’ll say. What they won’t be saying is, “Who was that annoying tourist with the obnoxious, oversized RV who took up 50 parking spots at the Piggly Wiggly!?”
I’ve done a lot of research (insofar as I skimmed the ads Facebook so kindly showed me) and have decided on the motor home that will fit my personality … which, knowing how my personality changes from day to day, came down to either a Chinook pop-up tent mounted on the back of a scuffed-up 1998 Ford Ranger, OR a completely pimped-out 29-ton, 45-foot-long, 600 HP, 732 square foot hunka hunka burnin’ love called the EleMMent Palazzo Superior. It looks like a brick-shaped Cyclops coming at you at 80mph. Awesome, right!?
Of course, it will have a few of the creature comforts to which I feel entitled. At least two 42” flat screen TVs, a waterfall shower, a king size bed, 800-gallon fresh water tank, at least one bar, and oh, global Wi-Fi (the importance of which, I believe I’ve mentioned before). Heated floors? Yes, please. The 732 square foot interior seems a little small, but since the master bedroom is separate from the rest of the coach, I could, in theory, accommodate five “overnighters.” Get your minds out of the gutter… I’m talking book club, here!
I plan on adding some of my own, small personal touches … as you can see here. I mean, after all, this will be my new home!
Another feature that caused me to fall in love with this behemoth is the nifty little sky lounge that emerges, with the touch of a button, on the roof. How cool is that!?
The Sky Lounge will also have a bar (okay, so if you’re keeping track, that’s two bars) and a fireplace. In case I want to pass out while taking in the sights, the couches can be used as beds, because of course they can.
Okay, okay, I know what some of you are thinking:
- That thing costs about $3,000,000, and…
Yep, that’s it. That thing is amazingly, ridiculously, laughably expensive. No kidding, the starting price sits at $3,000,000.
Why on earth any advertising algorithm in their right mind would target me for this is beyond understanding.
I’ve got it handled, though, just so you know. I plan on winning the next Mega-Millions Lottery. I had a dream last night that showed me the numbers, so I’m putting all my money into tickets. I’m sure to win – I mean, this is my well thought out retirement plan, it can’t fail, right?
Given the choice, and enough money, I’d never wear clothes – or be sober – again.
It’s all fun and games until you remember that tomorrow is Monday.
It’s unbelievable the lengths someone will go to for the sake of vanity. Case in point? This lady happily taping her neck to hide her throat wrinkles and wattles.
The inventor of this medical-grade neck wrinkle tape is no stranger to the beauty scene; she gave us the lip plumper (an adult lollipop with no flavors, basically). She is apparently a grandmother of three at the age of sixty, so there’s that.
No offense to this beautiful lady, but there is no way this tape would work for me. I superglue my fingers together every time I try to fix a vase, so I can’t imagine trying to tape my neck wattles in the back.
First, you know as well as I do that I would end up taping my hair to my neck. Doesn’t matter how carefully I pull it back, it will end up taped to my shirt, my face, the mirror, and my dog. And while this tape may not work on neck skin, I guarantee it will stick to anything and everything else. That’s just a given.
Second, I am well aware of my own luck. The tape would blow out half-way through a presentation at work, setting my epic folds free in a glorious explosion of skin and fat … I can see the slow-motion capture on YouTube now. My peers would be utterly transfixed and fascinated by my waving wattles; they couldn’t possibly be expected to take me seriously after that. The tape, under the super pressure I’d need to rein in my wrinkles, would slingshot across the room, taking out a few coffee cups on the way and smacking the new CEO square in the forehead.
Look, I’m all about women doing whatever they need to do to feel better about themselves, but neck tape? Please, ladies, just say no to neck tape.
I agree that our necks can make us look much older than we are, so I proudly introduce my own invention: wattle staples. These can be used in any common stapler, and they aren’t just for neck wrinkles! Got sagging boobs? Staple ‘em. Droopy butt? Staple it! And those obnoxious butterfly wings under your arms? Staple those, too. I have a staple for everything! Defy your age, and gravity, by Stapling It! You know, I really should be on Shark Tank with all of my fantastic ideas. I’ve got entrepreneur
stapled written all over my face.
OK, so the concept of taping your neck is actually not a new one. There are lots of other brands and uses, too. Many stars have been taping body parts for years. I applaud them for not going under the knife, but I am disappointed that they are setting the example for us common folk that aging is unnatural and evil. It’s not. I’ve earned every wrinkle, crease, and droop on my gloriously imperfect body. And so have you.
Come on, I mean, we have fake nails, fake boobs, fake butts, fake eyelashes, and even fake hair; now, we have neck tape to complete the package? Yes, feeling good about yourself is important, but why aren’t we happy with ourselves to begin with?
I blame media for setting unrealistic beauty goals for women. Aging stars are displayed in all of their perfection, looking half their age, as beautiful and timeless as money can buy. And make no mistake, money does buy youth. Age-defying stars and models probably spend more money on time-stopping surgeries than most of us will ever invest in mortgages. Even those stars who want to age gracefully are often victims of post-photo shoot airbrushing because the editor of so-and-so magazine decided they didn’t want a naturally aging woman on their cover. God forbid. Hell, even those stars who are already flawless are routinely airbrushed to create a next-level completely unattainable vision of youth and beauty.
For the rest of us, thank God there is medical-grade neck tape! Ladies (and some guys, too), do what you need to do to feel beautiful, it’s none of my business. Frankly, though, spending $16 plus shipping and handling on neck tape is a little silly when you can get duct tape at the dollar store for fifty cents. You’re welcome.