Why’s Everybody Always Picking on Me?
I’m pretty convinced that there is a tattoo on my forehead that everyone but me can read. It’s big and clearly shouts, “PICK ON ME!”
Seriously, why else would I always end up being the target of everyone’s pranks?
Ever since I was a wee girl, my siblings would pull various stunts that would emphasize my clumsiness, leave me red in the face or result in my screaming and flailing about in terror. And then my friends started joining in. Before long, I just learned to expect that, at least once a week, something will happen to scare the bejeebers out of me.
Brandy, my sister, is the undisputed master of scaring Mindy.
Don’t get me wrong, others have scared me. For instance, one of my coworkers when I worked in the housing office in college, would always try to scare me when I would be walking about campus in the middle of the night. Her best was the night we saw The Blair Witch Project. As my roommate and I walked back to our room, my coworker hid around the corner, waiting for our approach. When she jumped out, I nearly peed myself in terror. The scream probably woke up everyone on campus that night.
My little brother, Allen, tries pretty often too. He always liked to hang outside of the bathroom door and scare me as I walked out after taking a shower. I’d then chase him down the hallway on trembling legs, trying to punch him for leaving me quaking in fear.
But Brandy is a woman who spends her days plotting how to scare people. And she scares anyone and everyone. Ask her husband why he’s terrified of being in dark spaces with her or why her daughters hate the walk from their bedroom to the living room.
Sometimes Brandy’s scares are unintentional, like when she says something to me when I’m in the middle of some task, like laundry, and because I think I’m alone, the sound of her voice results in me clinging to the ceiling.
Another innocent scare happened tonight as we drove home from Target. I turned a corner to pull onto the highway, and Brandy commented on a hitchhiker she saw. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed him standing on the corner, leaning out into the lane with his thumb held high. When I saw him, I screamed bloody murder and yanked the steering wheel to the left, trying to pull away from him so I didn’t run him over. I actually reacted in fear so badly that I pulled a muscle in my chest. Sad, huh?
But the number of intentional scares Brandy has initiated far outweigh the number of innocent ones.
You know how I mentioned Allen would lurk outside the bathroom and scare me? Brandy has scared me after knocking on the door. How? She’ll hide, so I’m confused when I answer the door, then she’ll jump out and scream. I once punched a screen door, because she jumped out and scared me so bad after I answered one of her phantom door knocks.
So, it’s no surprise that, as I sat in my car answering a text message before leaving her house tonight, she managed to leave me quaking and beating my car horn in fear.
Brandy stepped outside to bring in her dogs and noticed that I was sat in the car doing something (texting). She didn’t hear my engine and thought my car had broken down, so she walked over to see if I needed help. Eventually, she heard my engine and thought it was the perfect time to enact a new scare. Clearly, dancing about in my headlights in her black coat and dark jeans wouldn’t work as I was otherwise engaged. So she began pounding on my passenger window.
Sat in my car, in the dark, in front of the woods behind Brandy’s house, I was already a bit creeped out. So when something dressed in black started pounding on my window, I began beating at the horn, screaming and trying to stop from having a fatal heart attack.
What did Brandy do? What she always does, laugh her butt off.
Things I’ve Learned, the 2010 edition
If you had asked me a year ago today what would happen over the upcoming year, I can honestly say that I don’t think I would have gotten a single prediction right.
No, I wouldn’t have said that I was going to be rich, a published author, wife, mother, etc. Those would have been the predictions of a crazy person.
I probably would have said that I’d still be in a relationship, that I’d have finished my master’s degree, and still be working at my last job, prepping for a big move to another part of the country.
See, totally wrong on all counts. I’m single, still working on that degree, and I got my dream job and work with some awesome people.
But what has happened over the past year has taught me quite a lot, and most of it has been absolutely hysterical. As it should be.
Honestly, if the year wasn’t hilarious, it could only be because I died before the year even started.
So, without further ado, I present for you all the things that I learned in 2010, in no particular order.
- Being out of shape can, and will, result in someone thinking I’m pregnant.
- The Apple TV remote is so small that I will forever lose it inside my couch. While it’s small, it’s the perfect size to use as a microphone when I’m singing to myself.
- Never watch the trailer for The Human Centipede while eating a chili dog.
- I’m not allowed to play Super Mario Bros. Wii while unsupervised.
- It is possible to inhale the following things in hilarious, yet painful, ways: chili, spaghetti noodles, chai lattes, just-out-of-the-oven brownies, and jalapeño seeds.
- Even Santa Claus gets speeding tickets.
- I can, and will, lock both my keys and my glasses in the car at the same time.
- I can hurt myself with my own footwear. And I don’t mean fall down or trip on it. I mean kick the flip-flop off my foot and hit myself in the head with it.
- Never think about how long I’d survive in a horror movie while showering…or really doing activity in which people die in horror movies.
- Even after doing it for the first time when I was six, I will still manage to fall into my laundry basket and get stuck.
- A quorum of 2/3 majority must be established before voting can occur.
- If I happen to slip and fall down on the paint in front of Target during a rain storm, I will always hear, “Don’t slip!” when I go to that Target with my sister.
- My cat continues to hate me.
- Apparently, if I wear my hair down and tuck my glasses inside of a beanie, I’m hot.
- It doesn’t matter how long I step away from my phone or computer. Amir will find a way to hack my Facebook.
- It is possible to mistake my finger for a potato while using a vegetable peeler. And it fricken hurts.
- Speaking of…four stitches and a tetanus shot costs $1,653.48.
So with all of the awesome things I learned this year, I can’t help but make a couple of predictions for the upcoming year:
- I will have finished my first novel and start writing a second (bonus points if I finish the second!)
- I will finish my master’s or go insane!
- I will be a 40s-style lounge singer
Stay tuned!
A Cut Above the Rest
Just last night I was sat in this very spot trying to think of something funny to write about. I tried and tried, but my poor brain just wasn’t feeling it. Instead, I answered one of those survey thingies I’m so fond of. And that’s fine, because I definitely have a doozy of a story today.
Now I should start by saying that Thanksgiving Mindays are nothing new. Ever since I took up cooking for Turkey Day, I’ve walked away with battle scars. One year, I burnt my left thumb, and just a month later, at Christmas, I burnt my right in the exact same spot. And then there was Thanksgiving with the Murphys.
So, as you can see, I probably shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a kitchen.
This year, I had lucked out. I wouldn’t be cooking the entire feast. Instead, I was only responsible for two things: mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes. Easy, right?
If you’re anyone but Mindy.
I started with the sweet potatoes. With the exception of having selecting four massively huge sweet potatoes, which meant I would have to boil them in two batches, they were easy-peasy, bacon-cheesy. I did scald myself slightly on the water as I was removing a chunk of sweet potato, and I did think of Thanksgiving with the Murphys, wondering if that would be the worst of my drama.
I really think I jinxed myself.
Not even 10 minutes had passed, and I had set up a new pot of water so I could boil the potatoes. As the water warmed, I grabbed my brand new Oxo veggie peeler and a small potato.
And two seconds later, I gasped in pain. I had mistaken my right ring finger for the potato and now had a diagonal gash across the top, through the fingernail.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. <— Standard Mindy reaction to blood, especially her own.
Alexis, who was sat on the floor eating lunch, immediately looked up to see me wrapping my finger in a kitchen towel. She didn’t learn what was going on until a few seconds later, when I called her mom and asked, “How do you know if you need to get stitches?”
I have since learned that, if you need to ask that question, you either need stitches or you don’t need them. Yes, I know that makes no sense, but I had to share a little of what I dealt with today.
Brandy called Allen, who came right over to look at my finger. His first thought: I needed stitches. His second: let’s try wrapping it up. So, with a large chunk of gauze and a lot of whinging from Mindy who was experiencing some pretty horrific pain, he tried wrapping it.
Yeah, pretty quickly that proved to be a failure. And as the blood began seeping through the gauze, we decided to go with Allen’s first idea, so off we headed to the hospital.
On the way, I couldn’t help but joke. One, it’s my way of dealing with things I can’t really handle. Two, I was certain I was not the first, nor would I be the last, Thanksgiving casualty they saw at the emergency room.
I was right, by the way.
When we walked into the hospital, everyone asked how I got my injury. I was the first potato peeler injury of the day. Go me!
No one was surprised to hear it, though.
In the emergency room, I found myself getting nervous, especially when words like X-ray and tetanus were thrown about. Fortunately, it was determined I didn’t need the X-ray. Unfortunately, I did need the tetanus shot. Along with two other shots to numb my poor finger.
Okay, I had already been stabbed by needles twice this week. I got my flu shot Tuesday, and I had blood drawn Wednesday. Now I was getting stabbed three times???
Let the fainting begin.
It’s silly to say I don’t like needles. As the guy who drew my blood joked, “Does anyone really like being stuck with needles?” If you do, you are fricken weird.
I got the tetanus shot first, and surprisingly, that hurt less than the flu shot did. Though I currently feel like I’ve been punched in the arm for the past eight hours straight.
Then, the doctor came in to work on my finger.
I’m pretty certain he could sense my apprehension. Well, I’m pretty sure everyone within a 50-yard radius could sense my apprehension. I turned away with a sickened squeal as he unwrapped my finger. But then he became generous and laid the bed down flat so I didn’t have to watch him work.
Then I proceeded to crack everyone up.
I had been holding on to my wallet, but as the doctor prepared to work on me, I clutched on to it for dear life, my head turned to my left and my eyes squeezed shut. And he hadn’t even started yet.
The doctor warned me that he would numb my finger with two shots, one to each side of my wounded finger. And boy did he ever.
As the first needle broke my skin, I burst into loud hysterical laughter.
No, seriously, I burst into loud hysterical laughter, which in turn caused all of the attention in the place to turn to me.
And when he administered the second shot, I laughed even harder. But you know what, my finger went numb nearly immediately, and I still can’t feel that puppy eight hours later.
I got a grand total of four stitches. I know, I’m going to have a fricken sweet scar. Jealous? You should be. Dear God, I can’t even type that with a straight face.
So, I took a couple of pics. The first should only be viewed if you can handle gross stuff. The second is the PG version. When viewing these, remember how you spent your day chilling with relatives and stuffing yourself silly. You could have had a much more awesome day, a Minday to be exact.
Of course, tomorrow, when the numbness has worn off, and the pain kicks in, I won’t be so silly. In fact, I will hate this particular Minday.
For the record, typing this hilarious story up took ages. You never realize just how much you use the ring finger on your non-dominant hand until you try lopping it off.
My Parents are Asexual, Right?
Recently, I’ve endured several conversations on how my friends and family learned about sex or conversations about their sex lives and sex toys in general. For the record, I played no role initiating these conversations, and in most, I was only subjected to them; I was not an active participant. Remember? No?
Hi, I’m Mindy, and I’m a prude.
I blame Sex and the City. Good God, pretty much every woman I know has seen the TV show and/or films. (I’m refusing. I made it more than 10 years without buying into the hype. I can survive this. God, I hope I can survive this.) As a result of the craze that is SATC, everyone and their Manolo Blahniks are talking sex. And unfortunately, I’m being pulled into the mix.
Some of the conversations have made me turn redder than my shoulders after 15 minutes in the summer sun. Such as the one a couple weeks back when it was asked if I had…well, you know…a toy.
And at times, the conversations were entertaining. For instance, there was the conversation I heard where the speaker threatened to rent a hotel room for…ahem, self-satisfaction, so that the ghost of her dead mother couldn’t see what she was up to. I would hope that ghosts can read minds, and at the mere thought of…hands-on lovin’, the ghost would want to go see what her other children are up to. Otherwise, do you think ghosts can wash out their eyes with soap? I know I wanted to after my mom made the aforementioned threat.
EW!
No child ever wants to this about his/her parents having sex. Horrific, I mean, ew! Parents are asexual, and the muffled noises we hear at night, well that’s just them playing army commandos, right? I don’t ever want to think about the process my parents used in conceiving me. I prefer to believe that I miraculously appeared in my mom’s uterus. I know it’s not true, but really, that’s a visual I don’t ever want to have again.
I remember Mom trying to talk to Paul and I about sex back in 1989. It was probably the most mortifying day of my life. Yes, it even tops that time I fell on my face in front of my entire office and flashed my underwear in the process. On that fateful day in fifth grade, the boys and girls were split up so that we could learn about our respective puberty cycles. Even though Paul and I had a pretty good grasp of what to expect, Mom still felt compelled to review it with us that evening following school. Worse, she did so with her mom sat next to her on the couch.
Say it with me, y’all: AWKWARD!
Some people may not mind learning about the birds and the bees from their parents. Okay, we didn’t mind that, but with Grandma there, it was a tad uncomfortable. I mean, it kinds begs you to start walking through the process of how you came to be. And not only did I have that disturbing mental picture of Mom and Dad doing what Barry White always alluded to, but I also had the same with my grandma. No wonder some people choose to rot their brains with drugs or video games.
Now do you wonder why I’m so strange? Or is it starting to become a bit more clear?
The Interview
Throughout my life, I’ve learned that there are some people who are a bit hesitant to believe just how accident-prone I can be. I find it funny, because I am very upfront about this fact.
How the heck could I keep something like that hidden? I’m the same girl who can’t be around a hot guy without seriously injuring myself. I seriously once nearly gave myself a concussion trying to retrieve a cap to a water bottle because a hot guy was sat about 10 feet away from me.
Usually, the way things work is that, when I disclose my not-so-secret affliction, people think, Oh, isn’t she cute? She thinks she’s accident-prone. I bet she’s tripped like once in her life.
Ha! I wish.
What then follows is that I do something, quite by accident of course, that proves that, if anything, I underestimate just how much of a walking disaster this girl can be.
And sadly, the person doesn’t quite believe how bad it gets. Then I tell The Interview Story. (It gets caps, because it’s totally epic in terms of having a Minday).
So, to show you how much of a Minday I can cram into a short span of time, I present The Interview Story:
Back in July of 2006, I was ready to move away from being a clerk at The Star and do something different. I applied for higher ed jobs, but just to fully cover my bases, I also applied for jobs at other newspapers in the area.
One newspaper called, and the editor asked me to come out for an interview that Sunday. It was a bit weird having to head off to Overland Park to meet with the editor on a Sunday, but hey, I know they tend to work some crazy hours, so who was I to judge?
The night before I crawled into bed and the nerves kicked in. Oh my God! What if he starts asking me all these questions about Kansas? I only know that the State Song is “Home on the Range” and that they’ve been having a massive debate on evolution since we crawled out of the primordial ooze! What if he asks about the Gross Domestic Product of the average tree trimming service in Olathe? Oh no!!!
So obviously, giving in to an exhausted sleep was a blessing…until I woke up at 2 a.m. and started right in again.
Sigh.
The next morning I awoke, not refreshed per se, but as ready as I pretty much could be. I showered and did the normal morning routine. I even actually did more to my hair than just my standard French twist. I straightened it, and I felt pretty darn confident about myself, even if I had to suck it in to squeeze into the skirt of my suit.
At 9:15 a.m., I was as ready to go as I could be, so I grabbed the portfolio of my stories, my wallet, cell phone and a pair of flip flops to change into once the interview had completed and I was back on the road heading toward home. I said goodbye to Zeus and the evil Satan Kitteh then walked outside, shutting the locked door behind me.
I shut the screen door and turned toward my car, my arms ladened with all the things I needed to take with me. Then, as though I had walked into an invisible brick wall, I stopped short. Without even looking at the items in my hands I knew what one thing they were not carrying: my car keys.
Son of a….
I dropped everything on the porch and turned back to the door. Even though I knew better, I turned the knob, which of course did not give due to it being locked. Crap! I thought. I needed to get going as soon as possible, but how could I do that when my keys hung on the other side of the door, laughing at me for being so stupid as to walk out without them???
The back door! I thought, then ran round the house, but it too mocked me as I jiggled the locked knob.
I needed to get in as soon as possible, but how? What could I do?
That’s it! I’ll call Brandy! I rushed back around front, grabbed my cell and speed dialed my sister. When the answer machine clicked on, I wanted to scream. Instead, as calmly as I could I said, “Brandy, it’s an emergency! Please call me on my cell when you get this.”
I hung up and waited, but as the second minute passed, I knew she wouldn’t call in time. I needed to get to Overland Park in 35 minutes, and if there was traffic, I would be out of luck!
So, I did what any desperate woman would do. I walked around the side of the house, found the basement window that Paul had once broken into and did the exact same thing. Of course, not realizing how the window opened, I kicked out the wood covering the broken window pane, and shimmied into the tiny gap. I actually (and surprisingly) fit, but of course scratched up my stomach and arm along the way. A small price though, because I WAS INSIDE!!
I rushed upstairs, grabbed the keys, rushed out the door, grabbed my items and jumped into the car. I sped out to Johnson County and arrived at the newspaper’s office with 10 minutes to spare.
As I had been instructed to do, I started to punch in the editor’s number when a man walked out of the building. He noticed me and knocked on the window. “You’re here for the interview?” he asked, and I nodded. “I’ve got to go cover a fire. Want to come?”
Knowing that flexibility is what comes with the territory of being a reporter, I said sure, grabbed my portfolio and hurriedly followed him to his car. During the drive he asked me quite a few of the standard interview questions. We drove from 435 and Metcalf to 135th Street and Metcalf but we couldn’t find any sign of a fire. So, the editor said screw it and drove back to the office so that he could continue the interview.
In all, the whole thing took two hours, but it gave me a glimpse not only of what the job would be like, but also what my potential boss would be like. And to be honest, I really enjoyed it. I could easily do the job at this paper.
Interview completed, we made general chit chat as he walked me to the front door. I even joked about my hectic morning, but it wasn’t until I was outside and walking to my car that it dawned on me. My keys weren’t in my hands. Nor were they tucked inside my portfolio.
Nope, they were hanging from the ignition inside my locked car, where I left them when I had jumped from my car to join the editor.
Oh joy.
The good thing is that I kept my hatchback unlocked specifically for this occasion. Back at that time I locked my keys in my car on average of once a month. (Fortunately, since I got the new car I don’t have to do that anymore.)
So, in my suit, I climbed through the hatch and into the front seat. As I was sliding down into the driver’s seat, I looked up to notice that the editor had walked out of the front of the building and was looking right at me.
Awesome, huh?
The funny thing is that I actually got a job offer from the paper. Unfortunately, it came one my first day of work at UMKC.
Oops.
Questions and Answers
Being the aunt of three nieces and two nephews, I’d say I have a pretty good idea of the inquisitive nature of a child. As the kids grow and are exposed to new aspects of the world around them, the questions fly. They take on the traditional kids questions about the color of things. They ponder philosophy – Are my lost toys in Heaven? And ask questions that seem to have no answer (at least not to any of us) – How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?
Of course, I was an inquisitive child as well. My question of choice was WHY. Why is the sky blue? Why don’t dogs meow and cats bark? Why is candy yummy but liver’s yucky? Why are boys so stinky? Why can’t school be every day? (Yep, really asked that one.)
I had no bias toward questions or who I asked. Anyone and everything was game. The grocery store clerk shed her opinion on why peas tasted gross. My teachers deflected why I wasn’t allowed to read instead of doing math. My family would all but duct tape my mouth shut so as to not have to ponder why I wasn’t a twin, didn’t have pierced ears or blue eyes.
While my family bore the brunt of me, Mom had it the worst. All day, every day, I questioned whatever popped into my tiny, annoying, little mind. In the car, in the bath, at the dinner table, in bed as she read me to sleep. I’m sure that Mom was so grateful when I started reading on my own and the questions stopped. Instead of asking multiple questions to whomever was at hand, I asked myself and went off in search of answers.
I had moved on.
My past actions came back to haunt me at 16. No, I didn’t come into close contact with younguns going through that inquisitive phase. No, I got my license.
Before you scratch your head and ponder exactly how that works, I’ll just explain. A few weeks after I received my license, Mom, Brandy and I set off to what Mom referred to as “Mindy’s Mecca”: Wal-Mart. I should have wondered why Mom volunteered to ride in the backseat. It was so out of character, but being the ditz that I am, I failed to realize it.
We drove nearly five miles as normal, chatting and listening to the radio. Then it began.
“Mindy, I think it’s time for a little payback.” My ears perked up. Oh God, what had I done?? I was driving great – my hands were at 10 and two, I kept checking my mirrors and was driving the speed limit.
“Mindy, why is the grass green? Why do girls have to sit down to pee? Why can’t I have a pet monkey? Why did Evil Kneivel’s parents name him that?” And on it went.
I wanted to crawl into a hole. Brandy’s skin glowed bright red as she shook with laughter. Mom just wouldn’t shut up.
Then it hit me.
“If you don’t stop that,” I roared, “I’m going to pull over and give you the whoopin’ of your life!”
Silence met me. Mom’s favorite threat from over 10 years earlier had come back to bite her in the butt.
In the future, when I have kids, I may just pull the same scam when they’re driving Mrs. Mindy.
Here (Satan) Kitteh, Kitteh
I am a firm believer that what you name an animal helps shape the personality of said animal.
For instance, we once had this adorable baby Manchester Terrier we named Cujo. And while he didn’t trap a mom and son in their Ford Pinto until the boy died (read the book), he did nearly tear my dad’s thumb off…at the tender age of six weeks.
I adopted Nevaeh when she was a year old, so I didn’t feel right changing her name. But with her name being heaven spelled backward, I knew that being her owner wouldn’t be easy.
God, was I right.
I always joke that Nevaeh is Satan, because you can’t pet her without her trying to rip your hand off. She has an intense loathing of my niece Alexis, due to some trauma she suffered back when Alexis was a toddler. Every time Alexis visits, Nevaeh will scratch her. My sister Brandy refuses to come near her, for fear that Nevaeh will attack her…again.
While I love my cat, I do give her a wide berth at times, because back in 2005, I found out just how evil that cat can be!
My sister Jamie came into town along with her husband Ken and their four (yes, four) dogs. For the most part, having the dogs here was nice, except for a certain scare involving our nosy neighbor, a pit pull that managed to jump a six-foot privacy fence and animal control (but that’s another story for another day) and the incident that I am about to relate.
Less than an hour after the aformentioned pit bull scare involving my sister’s female dog Brendel (she may be a pit, but you couldn’t meet a bigger teddy bear of a dog!), Ken and I were getting ready to close up shop at my house and head to Brandy’s for an afternoon of cake, ice cream and water fights at my nieces’ birthday party. Before we left, I needed to grab all of the presents, including Mom’s, from her bedroom.
While Jamie and Ken’s three male dogs were outside, Brendel had the run of the house along with my wubbable, cuddly Zeus. To prevent any freakouts, we locked Nevaeh in Mom’s bedroom. But with me being the rocket scientist that I am (I really am starting to believe Mom when she says that, while I’m intelligent, I lack common sense), I totally forgot that’s why our little kitty was locked away for the day.
I entered Mom’s room, my arms laden with the books I was bestowing upon Brittany. I just wanted to put my items into the big bag of gifts from Mom and I so I could take them over to Brandy’s house. But I didn’t think through just exactly what I was doing, or else I probably could have prevented a lot of drama…and a lot of pain.
Mom’s door failed to latch properly, so whenever we needed to keep it shut, we propped something in the jamb to keep the dog or cat from pushing it open. Mom had done just that to keep Nevaeh away from the dogs.
But as I had gone inside, I had forgotten to latch the door behind me. But, in my defense, I never even thought about the dog going after the cat. Zeus and Nevaeh got on so well that I didn’t think about Brendel. And why should I have?
Gee, I don’t know…maybe it’s because cats and dogs are mortal enemies and Zeus and Nevaeh getting along was actually going against Mother Nature.
As I dropped the books on the bed, Brendel rushed into the room, scaring Nevaeh into the rear corner of Mom’s bed. I pushed the dog outside and shut the door. And yet again, I didn’t think about the door being pushed open. Way to go common sense!
Not even 30 seconds later the door burst open again. This time Brendel didn’t hold back. She leapt onto the bed and chased Nevaeh out of the room. Ken caught the dog and put her away. I took off after the cat so that I could lock her back into the safety of Mom’s room.
I chased Nevaeh out into the dining room then to the top step of the basement stairs when she finally came to a stop. I bent down to pick her up and forgot about the one thing that was about to change my morning from bad to worse: Zeus.
As I’ve said before, my cat and dog get on very well. But Nevaeh wasn’t thinking about their past friendliness. She was only thinking dogs = bad. So when she spied Zeus behind me as I squatted down to pick her up, she went into full-tilt freak-out mode. She tore her way up my legs to my torso, but she didn’t stop there. No, she climbed all the way up my body, stopping at my head.
Looking as through we were performing a poor man’s reenactment of the face-sucker scene in Alien, Nevaeh clung to my face, her claws dug into my poor temples. My hands grasped her forelegs, trying to pull her off my face. I tried screaming for help, but screaming through my kitty’s furry belly just wasn’t cutting it. I grabbed the paw dug into my right temple and ripped it out. I could finally call for Ken to come and rip the evil kitty off my face.
Ken walked into the kitchen and saw the quivering, snarling, white-hot ball of feline terror attached to my head. I’m sure I looked quite hilarious, and in retrospect, I laugh just thinking about what Ken probably saw: a woman with a calico face.
Without a word, Ken ripped the other claw out of my head. Nevaeh, still freaking out, scratched at him then took off to parts unknown (we later found her hiding inside the back of the couch – don’t ask, I don’t know). I ran to a mirror to see what damage had been done. Blood poured off my nose, lip and temples. I didn’t realize it at the time, but when she climbed up my face, she used her teeth, biting my nose and upper lip. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I tried laughing, but found I couldn’t. So I cried. Boy, did I cry.
Jamie called; I cried.
I called Mom; I cried.
Of course, Mom forced me to put Ken on the phone, because in my gibbering, Mom thought that the dogs had gone on a rampage and that I had been mauled and the cat mortally wounded. She didn’t have to rush out to the emergency room, just to the pharmacy to get me some extra-strength allergy medicine.
Oh, did I mention that I’m massively allergic to cats?
So we got the situation taken care of and were able to get to the party, but I learned one major lesson. When kitty’s upset, RUN AWAY!!!!! I know that her reaction was natural, but that ain’t going to stop me from running away anytime she starts puffing up at a dog. It’s just not worth it.
And that is just another reason why kitty = Satan.
Look Who’s Talking
We’ve all seen it. Better yet, we’ve all done it (though most are loathe to admit it). I did it about three minutes ago in the privacy of my bathroom.
Ewww, you perv! I’m not talking about that!
I’m talking about talking to yourself.
In my case, I’m usually giving myself crap for my latest Minday…like when I fell over in my office while stretching earlier today.
Seriously, we all do it. We even joke about how it’s okay to talk to yourself, it’s just kooky to answer yourself. And for that I must ask, really???
What I find to be the most bizarre about talking to one’s self is not the answering. No, it’s usually just the talking to one’s self that creeps me out. Well, no, not the regular “Doh!” or even the “Mindy, I can’t believe you just fell down while stretching!” I’m talking the full-on having an animated conversation in public so that other people give you a wide berth on the sidewalk.
Now, I wouldn’t mention this if it weren’t for the fact that I have seen this happen on multiple occasions over the past two days. Seriously, one of them was so animated I thought he was conducting an invisible symphony. Another one looked like she was having an argument with herself, complete with angry mutters and head shakes.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making fun of these people. I’m just now wondering if I’m that kind of girl. When I fell down earlier, had a student passed by my office at that moment, would he or she have seen me giggling like a lunatic as I chided myself for no longer being so flexible?
Great. Now I’m thinking of every Minday I’ve had – from major to minor – and how I responded while alone. Oh man, I know that when I fell in the little pond at my last house, I totally razzed myself out loud as I drug my soaking wet self out of the pond and into the house. And don’t even get me started about the time that I babysat the toilet at NACA last year. And oh my God, not the time I Naired my eyebrows off.
I’m so screwed.
A Minday Kind of Day
You know you’re having a Minday when you accidentally drop a ponytail holder in the toilet, and upon recognizing what you’ve done, think to yourself, I don’t remember eating a ponytail holder!
So…I’m not the brightest crayon in the box
While my hair color may be brown, but I really do act quite blonde at times. Over the 30 years of my life, I’ve had some moments that would make even the most ditzy blonde seem like a rocket scientist. You all know that I can be quite silly; heck, laughter is my favorite thing to do. So, laughing at myself, of course, is something that happens quite often. Yes, I am a fan of self-depricating humor.
You have to be when you’re me.
I have had so many funny things happen to me, it’s beginning to be hard to keep track. But during a recent Twitter conversation, I remembered what is perhaps one of my dumbest moments of all time.
If they have something similar to the Darwin Awards for blonde moments (and I was blonde at the time), I probably would have won it for this. Enjoy!
During my senior year of college, late one Saturday night, I found myself very bored. I thought that I should be all beauty conscious and pluck my eyebrows. But as I looked at my eyebrows, I wondered if there was an easier way to do it.
I didn’t have any wax on my hands, and being sometime after 10:30 p.m. (I only remember because my roommate was watching Saturday Night Live), I really didn’t want to rush off to Wal-Mart. Instead, I dug around in my bathroom caddy and found something that could work: a bottle of Nair left over from formal earlier that year.
Now, I’m sure all of you, who have way more common sense than I apparently have, are thinking to yourselves, “Mindy, please do not write what I think you’re about to write.”
For that, I would like to apologize in advance.
Blatantly ignoring the warning on the bottle that says, “DO NOT EVEN THINK OF USING THIS ON EYE BROWS UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE THE LAUGHING STOCK OF YOUR UNIVERSITY!” I pulled out a Q-tip and deftly applied the Nair to the spots I wanted to remove.
Anyone who has ever used Nair or any other dipilatory can attest that when applied to any part of your body, it fricken burns. No, this isn’t like when your brother gives you an Indian burn or when you get carpet burns from….well, you know. It fricken burns like the unholy flames of hell are unleashed upon your skin, and when it’s on your eye lids, I’d say it’s magnified times a gadzillion.
I didn’t even make it the 10 minutes you’re supposed to have it on your skin. After about five or six minutes, I grabbed a washcloth and wiped it off…along with nearly all of my left eye brow and half of my right.
Yeah, you did read that right. Wiped those suckers right off my face.
I would have rather gone Mona Lisa and taken them all off because a person with 1/2 of one eye brow and 1/4 of the other looks a bit more bizarre than someone with none.
My roommate must have heard whatever sound of terror I made. She came out, took one look at my wonky eye brows and doubled over laughing. Well, at least I brought joy into her evening.
By the time Monday rolled around, nearly all of campus knew about my eye brows. The only thing I could do was draw on the other half of my eye brows. Of course, I took dance that semester, so some days I’d sweat off the eye brows, leaving brown streaks down my face. To quote Johnny Bravo, “Man, I looked pretty.”
It took ages for my eye brows to grow back, and when they did grow back, they did so in patches. I had bald spots for what felt like decades. They’re okay now. Looking at me, you couldn’t even tell that I had a run in with Nair.
Even though that has come and gone, I can pretty much assure you that it won’t be my last blonde moment.
