Starts With an X

When I Was Little … September 5, 2008

When I was little, I thought that, because I could bend wire hangers, I had Wonder Woman powers. I seriously contemplated whether to tell my parents or not.

When I was little and before I could read, my older brother and sister — Chet and Venus — used to grab a random book off the shelf, flip to a random page and do this: “Says here you’re supposed to do our chores.” And I believed them.

When I was little, I watched a whore house sting go down, kitty corner from my house. I thought the prostitutes were so glamorous in their heels and handcuffs. ‘Splains a lot.

When I was little, I thought all Latinos were Mexican, some were just from other parts of the world, like Mexicans from Puerto Rico.

When I was little, Serena and I once put our butts together when one of us had to fart to see if we could make the other one fart. It worked but no one believes us.

When I was little, I bravely told my mom to stop telling me what to do because she didn’t have a remote control to my life. That was the hardest I had made her laugh at that time.

When I was little, I thought midgets had no knees.

When I was little, I invented words and used them regularly. My family still uses “awnchicali.” For anyone wondering, it means alright.

Fender Benders Make Me Responsible September 4, 2008

I’m lazy. Sometimes I’m so lazy my own laziness kicks me in the ass. Such was the case Tuesday evening.

I’ve been rollin’ with an expired license since February. Yeah, as in six and a half months ago. How do you let it go that long? Um, you fly with a passport and you obey every traffic law there is.

That means actually going 25 through the entire school zone when there isn’t a backpack in sight and you’re running 20 minutes late. That means driving on the freeway with another car permanently glued to your ass because people get pissed off when you go the speed limit. Seriously, try going 65 mph and count the birds that fly your way.

I’ve really only been doing that the past three weeks. Before that, I was so busy I didn’t even realize it had expired. But for the last three weeks I’d get this sense of doom every time I got behind the wheel. I’d start telling myself I let it go too long and that that Saturday was the day I’d get it taken care of NO MATTER WHAT.

No matter how cozy Jake’s naked chest looked, no matter which reality show marathon was on, no matter how unfortunate it is that I never get to sleep in, no matter how long it would take to get driver’s license photo-ready, I was going to do it, dammit.

Those are the precise thoughts that ran through my head as I situated myself behind the wheel Tuesday evening, after work. Right when I was in the thick of my little “no matter what” speech to myself, I heard a loud honk and then a crash. My car jerked like a bumper car.

“FUUUUUUUUUUCK!”

I put it in park, released the seat belt I was sure to already have on during my expired license/good driving phase and took the walk of shame. It was 5 p.m. so everyone was in a mad dash to get out of there. Hello, coworkers. Yes, I just caused this poor woman and her SUV that looks as though it’s spit-shined daily to crash into my vehicle.

“Sorry.” That’s all I said. Then I looked at her car, then mine and looked at her. “What do you want to do?”

Since it was private property we exchanged insurance info and went on our ways. Me, driving EXTRA EXTRA cautiously. I’m talking ten and two hands at the wheel, checking all three mirrors and the blind spot before making a lane change, throwing the hand traffic signals out the window on top of it. Hey, ya never know.

Guess what I did the next day? Yup, I’m staring at my brand new license now. Damn, it feels good to get in my car and not feel like I’m 16, taking the driver’s test all over again.

Ya know what I missed most during those three weeks? My road rage. Or, I guess I should say my EXPRESSED road rage. I can’t wait to honk at someone and give them the thumbs up for cutting me off. That’s when the real driver in me will be back.

I Know the Best Kept Weight Loss Secret September 3, 2008

I’ve never understood the weight loss quick-fixers. Ya know, the people who sport track marks from all their B-12 shots. The ones who fell to their knees and bellowed out “NOOOOOOOOO!” when Phen-Fen was banned. The folks who consider a colonic part of their beauty regime.

All they want is to lose weight. But yesterday isn’t fast enough.

When I heard a rumor that Phen-Fen was coming back on the market, Phen-Fen version 2.0, I thought of these people. I thought how sad it is that no one’s ever shared the secret with them. What a poor reflection it is on our health care industry that a doctor has never pulled them aside, looked around to ensure no one’s within hearing distance, and just blurted it out. The secret, that is.

And what about these people’s parents? I know it’s the world’s best kept secret but hell, so is Santa — to an extent. There is a time and place when you have got to let your offspring in on it for their own good.

It reaches a point when you have to just consider yourself privileged to know and do your civic duty by letting others know.

So, here it goes. I’m about to share the secret to weight loss. The information everyone but the weight loss quick-fixers know about.

There is a way to lose the weight. No, don’t roll your eyes at me, I’m serious. Put the Slim Fast down and listen. No, it’s not a quick fix but once you do it, it really works. And, get this, the more you do it THE. MORE. YOU. LOSE. No, this is not a cruel joke. It is true.

Here it is (drum roll):

DIE UHTIN ECK SUHRS IZE

Ta dah! I know it looks like a foreign concept. And I can see how it would be, having never known about it, but it really isn’t so strange. You just watch what you eat and get physical activity. I know, crazy huh! No pills, no injections, no special shakes. Just good ol’ DIE UHTIN ECK SUHRS IZE.

No, I don’t practice it. I just have the honor of knowing about it.

Tomorrow is the Beginning of My Hell August 29, 2008

I loathe what tomorrow marks. Actually loathe isn’t a strong enough word. …. And I can’t think of one that carries just the right balance of dread, doom and detestation for what tomorrow brings.

It’s the beginning of college football.

I know because I’ve been victim to a countdown that began the moment the Detroit Pistons were eliminated from the NBA playoffs. As he pressed the power off button and set the remote down, Jake turned to me with a slight smile, “I’m not even that sad, know why?” Oh, God, I know I’m not gonna like this. “College football’s right around the corner and MSU’s lookin’ good!!!”

Yeah fucking right they are.

You don’t understand what it’s like for me. Jake has nerves. Serious nerves. He gets the butterflies when his team plays. He paces during commercials. He turbo texts his friends in Chicago (and not with T9!) with every play. He just wants Michigan State to win. So. Fucking. Bad!!!!

And so do I. Only because the mood in our house could make a funeral look like good times when they lose. You should have seen him when it looked like MSU was gonna beat Notre Dame two years ago (when it would’ve been an upset) and then had a “fourth quarter collapse.” The man had tears in his eyes. I wanted to hug him but he went into that caveman mode when they get all quiet and stiff-lipped and you know to just leave them the hell alone. We drove home from the MSU bar in complete silence. He stared at the dashboard and didn’t look up.

Why? Because I swear to God the man thinks he’s on the fucking team, people. He uses the terms “we” and “us” when referring to them. When I ask him how he can be on the team even though he never did a single two-a-day he just shakes his head and starts singing the MSU school song. Then he takes off his shirt and reveals a chest that’s painted white with a big, green “S” in the center of it. His “teammates” must be sporting the “M” and the “U” somewhere in Chicago.

OK, I exaggerate. But only a little.

This is what I will go through for the next four months: For 16 Saturdays Jake will rise with the sun and get on the Internet. He must be fully informed, you see. Then, he’ll start watching the games, doesn’t have to be his team. Then, he’ll get to the big game. Then, he’ll either be in mourning or act as though he won the highest earnings in the lottery’s history. Then, he’ll watch the rest of the day’s games. Then, he’ll re-watch the MSU game because he DVR’d it. Then, he’ll wrap up the evening with — what else — ESP mother fucking N.

I loathe what tomorrow marks. If anyone can think of a worse word than loathe, a word that eats pieces of shit like loathe for breakfast, let me know.

T9 and Mad Libs: Separated at Birth August 28, 2008

Jake and I have an ongoing debate about texting. I use T9, he refuses. What boggles me is that this guy texts like a teenager. A turbo texter, if you will. He’s the guy who has a reply before your phone officially gives you the “sent” signal. Yeah, that one.

Yet, he prefers to push the “2″ button three times to type the letter “c.” I try and explain the time he could save but he gives me the hand, the one that isn’t busy getting carpal tunnel.

Anyway, recently I’ve discovered that the option that allows me to text faster, is actually putting words in my mouth. I’m writing things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. Some of them I’ve caught. Others I haven’t been so lucky with. The ones I don’t catch end up looking like a game of Mad Libs.

Here are a few of the messages I intended to send and the three messages T9 “translated” for me.

Me: That night started so well.

T9: That night started so wellsfargo.com.

Me: The pool guy put *Ludwig in a new hole!

T9: The polygamist guy put Ludwig in a new hole!

Me: The movie starts at 8:40.

T9: The movie startswithanx at 8:40.

*In case you’re wondering, Ludwig is our name for the pool vacuum that does all the hard work while Jake and I sit on our asses.