Accidental Comic

Snow Refutes Science

2010-02-22T13:44:00.000-08:00

Apparently, record-setting snowfall in the northeastern U.S. has entirely disputed decades of research on global warming. Because, of course, the only logical way to determine what is happening in the world and what will happen is to look only at the moment you're in. Isn't that what's meant by "living in the moment"?

With this logic:

I am always blogging (my three readers are amused by this)
The sun always shines in Oregon in February
I never have hot flashes
My dogs never bark
I am always eating dried blueberries
My roots always match my hair
Oprah is never on television

Whew. It's good to know that the future holds only exactly what is happening to me at this very instant. Otherwise, I might have to face change and you know what they say, "I'm flexible, just don't change anything!"

When I was in high school and college debate (yes, I AM that nerdy), one of the most effective ways to shoot down someone's "case" (basically, suggestions for improving something in the world) was to prove that no one had died from "it," whatever "it" was. Therefore, there was no need to improve education because no one had died from it, no need to list exactly what was in processed food because no one had died from it, no need to invent the internet because no one had died from not being able to FB all their friends while pretending to be doing their algebra in math class..

I believe there is a certain element (molybdenum, I think) that needs to see the grim reaper standing on the street corner with a cardboard sign that reads "Will wipe out the planet for food" before accepting that things need fixin'. I say this as someone who didn't replace her refrigerator until it had shuddered its last moanful cooling sigh and unidentifiable plant life had begun to sprout in the crisper. Yet even with my "I can hold out with the best of the denialists" tendencies, I am capable of seeing that a snowflake here or there (or even 8 feet of snowflakes) doesn't mean earth's heating and cooling system isn't in need of flushing.

So please, if you insist listening to people who scream at you about Al Gore's conspiracy to make the world a better place for all living creatures, at least let logic come up for air occasionally. One quick test: ask yourself if everything you are is summed up by you at the moment you are reading this blog. Or are you more the sum of who you have been, who you are, and who you will be? Our planet's kind of like that too. At least that's what the voices in my head keep telling me.

For the Birds

2010-02-09T13:04:00.000-08:00

How to Attach a Birdfeeder in 47 Easy Steps

My neighbor, Vern, built me a birdfeeder in about five minutes flat. He’s 65, been doing it for years, has all the proper tools and most of his fingers, etc. Naturally, I figured I could attach the feeder to the post I already had in approximately three to four times it would take Vern. After all, I do watch Home & Garden TV. A LOT.

Of course, those shows are heavily edited. So in the interest of full disclosure, let me tell you what it took for me to attach my new birdfeeder (which is just lovely, by the way, thank you Vern) to my post.

1. Gather up the proper tools. I chose my Rubbermaid stepstool, a screwdriver, the power drill, some drill bits and some screws.
2. Place birdfeeder on crossbeam of post.
3. Discover that feeder will not fit on crossbeam unless two inches are removed from each end. Curse quietly.
4. Go to shed to get saw.
5. Go to house to get keys to shed.
6. Open shed, get saw, saw off crossbeam, place birdfeeder on crossbeam of post.
7. Insert appropriately-sized drill bit into drill.
8. Press button, observe nothing happening. Curse slightly more loudly, hoping neighbors aren’t within earshot, especially the pastor who lives on other side of creek.
9. Return all supplies to shed in case of rain, plug drill battery into wall and wait 24 hours for it to charge.
10. Repeats steps 1, 2, and 7. Notice drill dying after three slow rotations.
11. Call neighbor and ask to borrow her drill. Walk to her house to get it. Have cookie while there. Leave before she notices cookie missing from cooling rack.
12. Fumble with her drill trying to insert bit, which does not work like mine. Give up on that and decide the wood is soft and you can just use the screwdriver function.
13. Insert first screw in base of birdfeeder. Observe that you cannot get drill under roof of birdfeeder. Curse loudly, hoping neighbors hear and avoid home projects of your own.
14. Screw screw in by hand.
15. Strip screw.
16. Go to kitchen for a wine cooler. Notice nice buzz and be grateful.
17. Get hammer, some nails, and reading glasses so you can actually see what you’re doing out there.
18. Stop working on stripped screw and try another, this time from the outside in. Realize that the one screwdriver attachment to neighbor’s drill is too small to work with the large screw you are using. Add new words to your vocabulary of profanity. Wonder if you could get a gig on Comedy Central now that you are working dirty.
19. Pull out screwdriver and attempt to screw in by hand, despite brace on right wrist. Hope orthopedist can’t tell from x-rays what you’ve been up to.
20. Strip second screw.
21. Notice that these screws (unsure whether they’re “wood” screws or “metal” screws as all screws are made of metal and this terms don’t actually make sense) have a hexagonal head.
22. Get brilliant idea.
23. Go into garage for those thingies that fit over hexagonal-headed things.
24. Return to project. After eight attempts, place appropriately-sized hexagonal headed thingy (HHT) over hexagonal-headed screw (HHS).
25. Start screwing. It works, by jove!
26. Get so excited, HHT flies out of hands into bushes.
27. Shout new Russian and Sanskrit curse words you didn’t know you knew.
29. Search for HHT in bushes, being careful not to step in nearby dog poop.
30. Find stick to remove unseen dog poop from bottom of shoe.
31. Find HHT while searching for stick.
32. Finish screwing in two screws and put in four more.
33. Notice that post is wobbly and it seems to be coming from the base.
34. Check it out. Find that concrete has chipped away and no longer holds post firmly.
35. Go to shed and get concrete, pour some in the hole, add water from hose and mix with poop-removing stick.
36. Let set overnight.
37 Return next morning to check to see if concrete has set; remarkably, it has. Notice neighbor’s drill bit attachment imbedded in concrete.
38. Chip it out with hammer and left over screw.
39. Notice there’s still a wobble.
40. Go to garage for really long nails (perhaps this is where the band, Nine Inch Nails, got its name.)
41. Hammer nails in to post randomly in an attempt to stop wobbling, operating on the “It couldn’t hurt” principle.
42. Declare your project completed.
43. Return all tools to their various spots.
44. Apologize to neighbor for dents in her drill bit attachment and missing cookie. Also for cursing.
45. Return home and have a victory drink.
46. Look out window and notice bird feeder is at a 20 degree angle.
47. Fix problem by tilting head correspondingly and drinking heavily.

Won't You Be My Caveman

2010-01-20T11:27:00.000-08:00

Have you heard about the new Caveman diet and exercise program? Probably not. After all, how would you? These are cavemen -- they don't blog or tweet. They rely on drawing pictures on the walls of their apartment in black Magic Marker to get the word out. It's a crude form of marketing, but in a few million years, everybody will be on the program.

I spend time deciphering wall scribbles and know that there is a group of men who have decided the best way to stay in shape is to go back to their Neanderthal roots (which, by the way, is my hair color two months after a trip to the beauty shop). The Caveman diet consists of meat, nuts, berries and other things they can scavenge without having to cook it themselves. Have you recently had a box of donuts go missing before a big meeting at work? Check for the heavy footprints of a homo-erectus outside the break room.

I can understand the logic in avoiding processed foods and eating closer to the source, but if the new cavemen are going to reap the true benefits of this diet, they're going to have to hunt and gather all their own food -- and do so without the aid of four-wheel drive vehicles, gunpowder, GPS systems, and FishFinders. This task may prove a little difficult for urban-dwelling hunter-gatherers, who will have to rely on a diet of rats and whatever they can dig out of the trash. And of course, everything will have to be eaten raw. That whole wheel and fire not having yet been invented can be a bummer

My favorite part of the program, however, is not the diet, but the exercise plan. Because today's cavemen aren't actually chasing woolly mammoths through parking garages, they need to find other ways to get their hearts pumping and their muscles toned. But they can't go to a gym because the original cavemen never hung around together pumping iron and drinking sweat-flavored water. No, the new caveman exercise program consists of squatting behind bushes and leaping out. This is known in some parts of the country as "a punishable crime," but that just adds to the adrenaline rush. The guys get their strength training tossing occasional boulders at each other and grunting -- because dragging women around by their hair has not yet been officially sanctioned by the group.

To me, there is are two benefits of this diet and exercise program. First, these guys won't find mates with whom to reproduce. And second, because when we women see men digging through the garbage for pastrami or squatting in the shrubbery, we'll run for our lives. Which may be just the exercise program that works best for us.

I'm Out of Touch

2010-01-09T14:23:00.000-08:00

I feel so very out of it some days. Today, for example. I just returned from the grocery store where I was the only customer not wearing an earpiece.

Remember the good old days of 2007 when if people wanted to chat loudly about brand of toe fungus cream their spouse wanted they had to hold their cell phone up to their ear to do so? At least then you knew they were conversing with a real live person and not having a schizophrenic breakdown in the personal hygiene aisle.

Now even the blue hairs have a Bluetooth. And that's what bothers me the most.

I thought I could count on grandma and grandpa to hold the line against having to be technologically wired to everyone in their lives at every moment of the day and night. I figured if kids wanted to be turned into droids that was their business, but the Red Hat Ladies and their consorts, they were supposed to uphold the tradition of personal freedom to roam without anyone knowing where they were. A freedom I was more than willing to fight for.

The truth is that when I leave the house I want to leave the ringing phone behind. I don't want to read my 53 e-mails about Viagra and Faux-lex watches. I'm okay not being able to hook up to the Internet to read whether Tiger's mistress's former boyfriend's massage therapist is a third cousin to John Edwards's mistress's aromatherapist. I just want some old-fashioned piece and quiet.

You can be in communication with everyone you know all the time. But when someone points at my technology-free ears and calls me "Out of touch," I'll just nod and smile. You're damned right, I am.

I Need a Drink

2010-01-01T14:55:00.001-08:00

The aughties, as some are calling them, were fast times. We had to be able to search for an iPhone app while reading our GPS device and text-messaging the pizza parlor to make sure they used real cheese, not that fake stuff... and we had to do all of that while driving in rush hour traffic on the way to our court-appointed anger management class. Is it any wonder that as the decade closed, we heaved not so much a sigh of relief, as one of exhaustion. Especially those of us over forty who shouldn't have been up at the stroke of midnight.

The energy drink market sprang into action starting at the turn of the new millenium to help us get up for our daily demands -- kind of like Viagra for our entire body. Red Bull, Jolt, Monster, Rockstar, and 5-Hour Energy Drink all arrived on the scene, vowing to give us the buzz we'd need just to make it through our 20-hour days. Beverages went from something to quench our thirst to something that would ignite our mind, invigorate our body, provide more stamina, and help us feel less sucky.

Then the economy started feeling sucky (apparently, it wasn't drinking enough sugar) and we were all hyped up with nowhere to go. No point in feeling up all the time when you're curled up in the fetal position lamenting the loss of your livelihood.

Naturally, the beverage industry took notice and now a whole slew of drinks designed to help us chillax and mellow out are now hitting the market, uh, not running because that would require energy. They're lumbering towards the shelves, taking their own sweet time. One even promises a vacation in a bottle, apparently because most Americans can no longer afford to take one in a car or plane.

These drinks, with names such as Slow Cow, Ex Chill, and Relax contain melatonin, valerian, rose hips, and dander of the three-toed sloth. Okay, maybe not so much the latter, but there's a creature that seems none-too-rushed. In my opinion, the names need some work to stand out in a sea of liquid -- how about Mellow Yellow, Dude Where's My Stress?, and Can o'Bliss. (Please tell me you go that last reference... if not, sound it out. It's okay, I'll wait.)

I can't wait to see what other moods we'll want our drinks to provide in the future. As a menopausal woman, I think there would be a great market for estrogen-laced beverages that minimize hot flashes while leveling out mood swings and enhancing libido. We could call it Cougar Cola.

The Gift that Keeps on Posting

2009-12-22T09:13:00.001-08:00

Still scrounging for that last minute gift for the person who has everything except the decency to make a list? Well, for a mere $290, you can get Aunt Millie, cousin Nerdling, or Tad the paperboy a lifetime subscription to MyWill, an online service that will make sure that after they die their social networking sites are "handled."

A company in Sweden has determined that we the living shouldn't have to worry about what will happen to our online friends and followers once we've gone to the great Wifi-free zone. The company offers a basic service to deactivate up to ten Internet accounts and send five e-mails written in advance by the client:

"Dear Friends, If you are reading this e-mail, it is because I am no longer on this..."

SORRY, YOU'VE EXCEEDED YOUR WORD LIMIT, PLEASE TRY AGAIN

"Everyone. Died. Sorry. :("

But the better deal is the lifetime subscription with will provide "detailed management" of social networking. Just think, once you're gone, you can have MyWill continue to post on FaceBook and Twitter, and perhaps send a few funny YouTube links to your friends. I would so love to be on the MyWill team because I have some great ideas for posthumous posts:

"Jim has changed his status to 'undecided.'"

"Just sitting here waiting for stuff to happen. Same ol' same ol'."

"Snidely has sent you a pitchfork from 'Whose L'il Devil RU?" To accept and send a pitchfork back..."

"You'll never believe who I saw today! Michael Jackson!"

"Helen is now following Buddha, Ra, and Zeus, just in case."

"Norman was tagged in the photo album, "Guess What I'm Coming Back As?"

"Yes, that was me standing behind you, breathing on your neck as you texted your new girlfriend last night. A little soon, don't you think?"

"Guess what, Achmed? That whole 72 virgins thing was a lie!"

Heck, I'm having so much fun, I tell you what. If you would prefer to keep your hard-earned U.S. dollars in the U.S., I'll provide this service for a mere $289 a year. And, as a bonus, the people on your holiday list don't have to die first. If they've got the flu, are feeling a little blue, or are just too damned lazy to keep up with their online social obligations, I'm there for them. Please specify whether they'd prefer to keep or lose their friends and followers.

Happy holidays!

A Vampire Holiday

2009-12-19T14:57:00.000-08:00

Vampires have been a huge hit this past year. I'm sure that if preteen and teenage girls were polled, the latest flock of the undead would certainly outrank Santa in popularity. Because while Santa may bring gifts once a year, vampires are hunky and to die for, OMG!!!!

All of this leads me to the logical conclusion that somewhere in the country there must be a mall vampire who has usurped the usual spot of the jolly Kris Kringle. Look, right past Sears near the holiday graveyard with the festive fog and toe-tapping screams... yep, it's him, it's Edward Cullen. (If that name doesn't sound familiar to you, ask any twelve-year-old who he is, or substitute "Dracula.")

The line of 12-20-somethings who have waited in the cold since 4 a.m. snakes through the red and green headstones, while vampire's little helpers dressed in in black and red pass out cinnamon-flavored dental floss. Because dental hygiene is a must when you make a living with your teeth. Finally, the first girl runs past the velvet rope and hurls herself into Edward's lap.

Edward: Happy holidays. Have you been a good little girl?

Preteen: I can be as good or as bad as you want me to be.

Edward: Uh, let's start over. What do you want for the holidays, young girl?

Preteen: I'm not as young as I look. And I want you to suck my blood.

Edward: I'm sorry, I can't do that. My contract specifically prohibits breaking skin. I could catch Swine Flu. And while there may not be many things that can kill a vampire, the CDC hasn't determined yet if that's on the list.

Preteen: Okay, how about a hickey? Your assistant can take a picture and it will look just like you're sucking my blood. Plus, I can show the bruises to all my BFFs on Facebook.

Edward: No can do. Nothing involving my mouth and your neck. I can sneak up behind you quietly and then turn into a bat and fly away.

Preteen: That's pretty lame. Who wants their picture with a bat? That's the one part I don't like about vampires. It would be better if you turned into a koala bear or something cuddly like that.

Edward: Look, you're going to have to make up your mind here, there are hundreds more just like you in line. Wouldn't you like something else like a karaoke machine or Global Warming Barbie?

Preteen: (sulking like only a preteen girl can do} Forget it! I'm going to go to JC Penney's. I hear they have a holiday werewolf.

Happy Global Whatever

2009-12-16T09:44:00.000-08:00

Well, the holidays are officially here. Although WHAT HOLIDAYS is not as clear now as when I was, say, eleven. Back then I assumed everyone except my two Jewish friends had a Christmas tree, a nativity scene on the mantel, and a crazy uncle who got liquored up and rearranged the lawn reindeer into sexually-suggestive poses.

Things are way more complicated these days. And I don’t just mean because parents can’t decorate the house with spun glass angel hair like my dad used to, at least not without Child Protective Services getting a phone call. You can still buy the stuff on eBay and it doesn’t even come with the usual warning: “Touching this decoration will leave you with shards of glass in your fingers for years and may result in one or more trips to the Emergency Room before the holidays are over.”

Now that we’re in the 21st century (at least most of us are), we’ve become more aware that there are other winter holidays beside Christmas and there are many people who don’t celebrate anything in particular during the entire month of December, except maybe Jimmy Buffet’s birthday (December 25). These people have been here all along, it’s just that we couldn’t see them from our tiny little universe in Abilene, Texas or Mistletoe, Maine or Christmas Valley, OR. Maybe we weren’t looking hard enough.

It’s hard to be unaware of the rest of the world these days, however. Part of this is because the Internet has connected us with people outside our hometown, something I’d have given my sister’s collection of Monkees records for back when I was young. Not to mention that in the past decade many American jobs have been shipped overseas and we’ve taken to playing a kind of Where’s Waldo game, trying to find the exact location of our former paychecks. And when we call customer service to try to figure out why the gas company charged us $8713 to heat our house last month, our phone call often ends up being an exercise in international diplomacy.

You (joking): Even my brother the arsonist doesn’t spend that much money on gas.

Them: Excusing me. What is this “arsonist?” Is new American pop star?

Yup, it’s a global world now. Always has been, unless you’re a member of the Flat Earth Society. To you, it’s more of a large map world. Which must be a struggle, seeing how hard to is to get the thing folded up at night.

Now when it comes to holidays, even our children realize the winter holidays include Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Diwali, Winter Solstice, and Ramadan. These days, I’m a spiritual but not a religious person (this phrase drives my religious friends nuts. To them, it’s like saying I’m a woman, but not a female). But I’m totally okay with celebrating anything. If you believe it and you want to invite me to your party, I’ll be there. I’ll kiss under the mistletoe, light candles or diyas, spin a dreidel, exchange presents, pretend to believe in a jolly fat man who can find anyone’s house anywhere without stopping and asking for directions, wear a Uwole, dance around a fire, or abstain from sex – all of which are part of the traditions many people around the world honor. The only thing I won’t do is fast. Not with so much gingerbread and eggnog around every corner.

Some people think that by honoring many celebrations, I and my fellow co-conspirators have declared “War on Christmas.” Really, nothing can be further from the truth. I have a Christmas tree at my house. Of course, I may have it up to protect from witches, ghosts, and evil spirits, as many ancient pre-Christian societies did – that’s for me to know and you to find out. Besides, I’m from German stock (kind of like chicken stock, only with a beer chaser) and we Germans started the tradition of cutting down perfectly healthy trees and bringing them indoors where we could dust them. So I feel compelled not to let my people down this time of year. Of course, mine’s a tiny little fake tree with lights permanently attached, so it probably doesn’t count.

I’m writing this column to ask everyone to try to play nice this holiday season. Just because someone wishes you the wrong holiday or says something stupid like “Have a nice day” instead, please just have another swig of nog or a Jimmy Buffet-inspired margarita egg nog and assume they meant well.

Glad to Have a Job

2009-12-16T09:16:00.000-08:00

My boss is a jerk. And I work for myself.

Usually I don’t bad mouth myself behind my back, but when it comes to the holidays, I’m a real Scrooge, so I deserve to be publicly chastised.

Just a quick look around my office shows how little holiday spirit there is at my place of employment. Not only does my boss not let me put up a any kind of decorations for fear that I might offend myself, she’s also confiscated my red, green, gold, and silver Sharpies to make sure I don’t write a festive note to tuck in with my monthly letter to Verizon inquiring why they continue to charge me for text-messaging when I have assured them repeatedly that my thumbs aren’t really opposable.

My boss has even changed my radio presets to prevent me from accidentally hearing Alvin & the Chipmunks or Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer as I slave away pretending to be working. I came in yesterday, after having beaten off the holiday traffic between my kitchen and office, humming a seasonal tune to cheer myself up. I got a look from her that would have frightened a lesser employee, but at this point in our boss/employee relationship, I know she’s usually all talk and no action when it comes to discipline. I could – and have – come into work wearing my pajamas and all I’d get is an eye roll. And a note on my personnel file that says “Continues her childish behavior.” Like that scares me.

Needless to say, we’re not having a holiday party this year. Last year, we actually took fifteen minutes out from our day to play online solitaire while wearing party hats and eating fudge, but apparently harsh economic times have put the kibosh on festivities of any kind. She says if I feel the need to celebrate the season, I should do it on my own time. Which I would, if she didn’t follow me home every night. Despite that restraining order.

And I can forget about time off for a little shopping or general holiday cavorting. I worked up the nerve to ask her last week. Our conversation went like this:

Me: I was wondering if maybe I could take Friday afternoon off. I’ve really got to get a few gifts to send to my sisters next week.

Boss: You should have done your shopping at garage sales in July like I told you to. See, this is what happens when you don’t listen to me.

Me: But it’s just a few hours. You won’t even have to pay me for the time off.

We both laughed and laughed.

Boss: I can’t afford for you to be away from your desk. What if an editor calls with an important assignment? What then?

We both laughed again.

Boss: I’m serious. Someone could call. With an actual paying job.

Me: Well, if she did, she’d get my voicemail.

Boss: Oh, that’s very professional, now isn’t it? You remember last month when you were looking for someone to fix the roof and the first three companies you called went right to voicemail, what did you do?

Me: I called the next one down the page.

Boss: My point exactly!

Me: But I’m not a roofing company. I’m a humor writer.

Boss: So you say. If you were a roofing company, we might not be having this

discussion. After all, they actually work for a living.

Me: What are you implying?

Boss: Implying? Nothing. I’m saying that anyone who wears reindeer slippers to “the office” and takes breaks every hour to pet the dogs so they don’t feel you’re taking them for granted shouldn’t be in here begging for time off. She should be thanking her lucky stars I don’t can her. You know, plenty of other people have lost their jobs recently.

Me: So I guess a bonus is out the question?

I really need to update my resume. I wonder if one of my other personalities is hiring.