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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
For the Birds
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Won't You Be My Caveman
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 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.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
I'm Out of Touch
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.
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.
Friday, January 1, 2010
I Need a Drink
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 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.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Gift that Keeps on Posting
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 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!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
A Vampire Holiday
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
