I was so happy all day thinking it was Thursday. And it’s Tuesday. Tues. Day.
I was so happy all day thinking it was Thursday. And it’s Tuesday. Tues. Day.
Today is “chore day.” I hate chore day. As you might imagine, I’ve been trying my best to avoid any and all activities around my house that might involve laundry, cleaning, or just general adult-like responsibilities. So. Instead of being productive, I’ve been searching for a new ride, as my current one is in desperate need of repairs. As of this afternoon, I had my search pretty much narrowed down. Unfortunately, upon further examination, the front-runner has been disqualified.
Somewhere in my internet excursions, I came across this little gem as a profile for an internet dating site:
The first thing I had to do was to check and see if I’ve been sleep-posting to dating sites again. The second thing I needed to do was to install security cameras to catch whoever is spying on me, because really, this is just plain creepy. The third thing I did was to ponder this poignant missive, and wonder why there is rarely any truth to online dating profiles. As a service to you, my loyal readers and followers, I have decided to create a list of common dating profile phrases and define them for you. You’re welcome in advance.
Ok, I may seem a little harsh, but if you must know, my own online dating stories have been pretty much epic fails. From the guy in the questionable hairpiece (I swear it was moving) to the one who claimed he was 6’4” and was actually a circus midget in real life (no really, he was in the circus, born and raised), I have been stalked, the recipient of highly inappropriate pictures (which I didn’t ask for, I’ll have you know), and otherwise disappointed to the point that I hardly even change out of sweatpants for dates anymore. I have the escape text pre-programmed into my phone, and I carry mace in my purse. Not the spray; an actual mace.
What if online profiles just said what they mean? Read this one I recently posted on a dating site:
I’m just putting this profile up to get likes on the cute picture of me and my dog. I hate to go anywhere, and doing things is usually too much of a bother. My main profile picture is from eighty years ago when I was a cheerleader in high school. I may have gained five, ten, a hundred and ninety pounds since then. I hate people. I especially hate people anywhere near me. Ever. I enjoy the quiet comfort of my couch and a healthy dinner of chocolate cake and Captain Crunch. I snort when I laugh and have been known to belch at a funeral. I think I look sexy in my fuzzy sweatshirt with the coffee stain on the sleeve. Ok, on the sleeves. Ok, on the sleeves and collar. I think I look sexy in my fuzzy sweatshirt covered in coffee stains and chocolate sauce. I really want to find someone who loves me unconditionally and gives me the attention I need while leaving me alone 99% of the time. If you want to get back to me, that’s fine. I don’t really care either way. If we end up going on a date I’ll have to get dressed and leave the house, so it’s okay if you don’t contact me. In fact, don’t bother. I’m kind of a bitch anyway.
Still waiting on the right swipes to start rolling in. They’re coming though, any day now.
What if there was a dating site that matched you with pet profiles? What do you think? Wow, I wasn’t even thinking THAT, you guys are sick. Seriously. Ewww.
What I meant was, you could look at their profile and see their pets and connect through your love of animals. They could call it Puppy Love, and the motto would be:
“Who cares about the owner, check out this adorable kitten.”
It’s impossible to be disappointed with the outcome of any date that included a fantastic pet encounter as well. Heck, I’d suffer through a bad date just to hang out with a kitten or pupper. You just can’t go wrong meeting a cute bundle of fluff. The guy (or gal) might be an asshole, but hey, at least you met a new doggo! Can you imagine the break-up? Yeah, so, I don’t think this is going to work. You’re an asshole. But I can still visit Caden the Corgi, right? Right!?
Tucked in between “news articles” about alien abductions and man-eating butterflies on the World News Daily Report, I found this gem hidden away. Long story short, it claims that an elderly lady trained her cats to steal jewelry from her neighbors; the epitome of “cat burglars.”
I admit, there is a part of me that wishes this was a true story. I could absolutely get on board with training my cats to do cool things other than bringing me dead bugs. Let’s face it, though; cats only do what they want to do, and it always involves a smug, self-serving attitude and a “what’s in it for me” end goal.
I can see me, 20 years from now, in full Crazy Cat Lady mode. I’d train my cats to do things like weed my garden, mow my lawn, put away the dishes, and fold the laundry. In my fantasy, I am the ruler of the roost, the commander of the cats, the kitty whisperer. The truth is, I live to serve my cats. They have me so well trained that I respond to the smallest puking noises they make, even from a dead sleep. I have given all of my furniture to them to use as thrones, perches, or beds. I believe all of the cat food commercials I see, and my cats eat better than I do. I clean litter boxes religiously and keep lint rollers to clean off the clothing that my cats allow me to wear when they aren’t using it as a bed.
On that note, the article makes me laugh when it references that these cats were voluntarily malnourished; apparently, according to the report, they deliberately made themselves seem skinny and underfed so that people would take them in to their homes to feed them. After the neighbors opened their hearts and homes to the skeletal felines, the cats would abscond with anything of value. Only then would the elderly cat-keeper reward them with food.
Really? If I tried to train my cats this way, they would laugh at me. “What’s in it for me? Better make it worth my while. And don’t even think about not feeding us, we know where the treats are. More important, we know where you sleep.”
Now I have no doubt that a cat COULD think of this clever scheme. The only thing that keeps cats from taking over the world is the lack of opposable thumbs. But would they really want to? And perhaps therein lies the real reason cats don’t rule world…they simply can’t be bothered.
Let’s review the cons against this whole organized feline crime spree:
Now, let’s review the reasons cats would voluntarily choose to do something, heck anything, at all:
Lastly, let’s consider the odds of a cat being trained by a human to do something that he does not already want to do:
As much as I wish this story could be true, I think this will forever be relegated to the land of satire.
And that’s probably a good thing.
In route between my little town and the next biggest town – keeping in mind, over here, these size estimations are all relative – is a billboard advertising a casino located one state over. The message on this billboard changes monthly and often depends on who the headlining entertainer is or what the latest “jackpot” includes, such as $3 million and an SUV, or some such thing. Anyway, this month’s message is “My casino is my family…” and it had a woman surrounded by happy, smiling, hugging people – presumably casino employees.
On our first drive by this new sign, without missing a beat, my daughter, ever the smart-ass intelligent woman stated “If your casino is your family, then you have a problem. Cause that sounds like an addiction. That’s not a billboard for a casino, that’s a cry for help right there.” Then, having voiced this sage observation, she went back to looking at her phone without another word.
Although her perfect, deadpan delivery doesn’t translate well to the written word, I’m telling you, this girl has a serious shot at a successful stand-up career.
While we wait for my daughter’s future to manifest, I’ll leave you with some words of wisdom from the queen of deadpan herself, Margaret Smith.
You know, there is really nothing like a trip to the grocery store — with all that entails, including the ill-mannered, deliberately slow-moving people in the aisles and the rude people at the check-out and the downright annoying people in the parking lot hell-bent on their
suicidal mission game of chicken — to make you truly understand that you still have a long way to go in realizing your goal of being a “good person.”
Ah, well. Tomorrow is another day.
A Nifty Look at Firsts in the Self-Service Industry
This may be an older topic, but I’d like to visit it for a moment. For the first time ever (yes, ever), the people of Oregon are pumping their very own gasoline into their very own cars, and it is Armageddon out there (read here). The concept is hardly new – as the rest of us know all too well, and it doesn’t affect everyone within the state; the angst is, however, very real.
Some people are claiming that only qualified people can pump gasoline (I guess those that have that rare Masters’ Degree in Pumpology), others are claiming it will end jobs in the illustrious gas pumping job markets, and others are somehow incorporating this into the global warming argument.
In the spirit of this, I’d like to point out a few other “self-service areas” that we, as modern technological wizards, have overcome.
How his hands must have trembled in fear, rattling his plastic Slurpee cup, as Maurice Von Slurper stepped before the intimidating machine in his local 7-11. Could he? Couldn’t he? What if he spilled? Did he dare take on the challenge of mixing two flavors into the same cup? Would it overflow? What if he under-filled it, and ended up still having to pay full price? I cannot imagine the thoughts flowing through this man’s mind as he pulled that lever for the very first time.
Maude Moola stared at the ATM on the wall in abject fear. It not only sucked her card away from view, but it was asking VERY personal questions. She drew a deep breath and reached out a shaking finger to push “Enter.” There were whirring sounds from deep within the machinery, and she jumped back in terror. Then, suddenly, cash spit out at her through a narrow opening, and her card reappeared magically before her eyes. In a later in-depth interview with her local paper, Maude was quoted as saying, “I truly hope they give that tiny little man in that machine a break now and then. I feel for him, I really do.”
Cindy Ma was a risk taker, it’s true, and she boldly punched that touch-screen to explore the cinematic options as they unfolded before her. She snatched the movie from the slot and held it triumphantly over her head as the spectators cheered. It is rumored her first words after dominating the Redbox and opening the clear plastic case to her movie were, “Blue Ray? What in the world is a Blue Ray?”
Not only can you now check out books via self-serve in some libraries, you can return them that way as well. Henry McHermit was thrilled, absolutely thrilled, that he now only had to wear pants one time per library visit; the book return was done with a machine built into the outer wall of the library. He didn’t even have to exit his car. Joy of joys! Unfortunately for McHermit, he decided to celebrate by going through a drive through Burger King where the cashier was, in fact, a person and who sat up much higher than our pantless McHermit realized. Charges are pending. McHermit assures us that he is planning on wearing pants to the hearing. Everyone involved breathed a sigh of relief.
Poor Barry Scanner was stuck in the endless loop of “unexpected item in bagging area” and “item removed from bagging area, please replace the item” for nearly twenty minutes as the first user of the self-check-out lane at the Piggly Wiggly. In that twenty minutes, Mr. Scanner developed intense feelings for the register. “Her voice,” Mr. Scanner explained, “just droned on and on, repeating the same two phrases over and over in a nagging way. It reminded me so much of my ex-wife.” His heart was broken, however, when he found that the love of his life was also working at Wal Mart, Home Depot, and three other grocery stores at the same time. “I had to break up with her,” he sobbed. “So many people scanning items, over and over…and who knows how many items were scanned before mine?” The self-service register was unavailable for comment, but a source close to her says that the machine kept repeating “Item not found” when informed of Mr. Scanner’s intention to break up with her.
So, Oregonians, take heart. You will overcome your current situation, I swear. Get out and pump that gas with confidence and swagger; just not with a lit cigarette. Or a cell phone.