I’m proud to say that I’m a survivor.  I’ve seen a lot in my 86 years but yesterdays visit to Wallsave was a terrifying experience.  I live in an assisted thriving community now called the Eternityshire Estates.  Our shuttle takes residents in to the city twice a week.  I decided it was time to stock up on Dinty Moore beef stew and such so I packed my hip wallet with my money and meds. 

   When we arrived at our drop off I was a bit confused to see that my old trustee Pay-n-Prosper had been torn down and replaced with a new gigantic building called “Wallsave: Santa Fe”  Apparently it’s like the other Wallsaves around the country with a bit of Santa Fe flare.  I noticed the food court was painted like the desert.  Even the security fellow had an embroidered badge patch in the shape of a cactus.  It seemed like a pleasant enough store but the sheer size of it overwhelmed me a bit.  I wouldn’t have worn my nylon socks if I knew I would be doing this much walking.

    After wandering for a half hour or so I made it through the greeting area and headed for the sign marked “beauty care.”  I was in need of some cold cream and deodorant.  I have never been to reliant on perfumes or anti-perspirants in the past but our resident advisor issued a notice that all resident need to use scented under arm care products as of the first of the month.  I am on my 3rd notice so I decided that I would just buy something that smelled nice and be done with it. 

   The deodorant section wasn’t easy to find at first but a young many in a burnt amber vest directed me to a long isle that was as colorful as my favorite holiday sweater.  Every color imaginable and almost as many brand names.  I was alarmed to discover that all of them appeared to have different smells too.  I called over the young fella to help me out and that’s when the horror began. 

   He began to read of names like “Arctic Ice Crystal Blast, Powder Blast with Molten Lava Fusion Crystals, Titanium Clean Extreme Raw, Magma Fresh With AmourPiercing Floral Bullets, Mercury Scent Insanity 2, Scent Of Leather Berry With Almond Roca Gel, Atomic Blast Boquet and Original Scent”  Then he noticed they were out of original scent.  Although there was nearly 700 scents to choose from I was more intimidated by the idea that people had apparently evolved to become extremely stinky.   What happened to Powder?  Fresh? Clean?  Unscented?  They have all been transformed and blended with the forces of nature to become Frankendeodorants. 

   It seems to me that if our scientists spent half as much time on cures for disease as they do on new antiperspirants we would be living in a better world.  A healthier world.  One that already smells like fresh powder.  With normal scented people fusion.  At least that’s what I plan on telling my resident advisor.  I may have walked away without deodorant but I feel lucky have escapedwith my life and arm pits in tact.  Besides, I hate to break a 2 dollar bill on meaningless purchases like Ocean Burst Advanced with Barnacle Mist Crystals.

  

It’s super annoying when parents and other old people mistake our hair styles for “just rolling out of bed.” Yeah, it looks this rad by just sleeping on it…NOT! Try several cans of Mega Hold Hair Spray! Not to mention a regular trip to the drug store for some green dye. Or whatever color is currently the most shocking. On any given day we have nearly a dozen products in our hair and we’re tired of the old fart generation refusing to get it.

We don’t want them to accept us. Just don’t confuse our intentionally messy hair for not having combed it at all. It’s NOT BEDHEAD! Although we use that too. The art of getting you hair to look like you didn’t even touch it is getting tougher all the time. The slighted misplaced cowlick can blow the entire statement. Retro can mistaken for Lazy if you’re not careful. Celebrities often get it all wrong.

Because we are in a band we know that image is everything. We don’t just play songs, we scream them. We haven’t ever played our guitars. We WAIL THEM!!! If we had some $9.99 Super Craftmaster Plus cuts we would confuse our audience. Our messages would be lost. Although we don’t have any written lyrics our statement is always clear. “We are rebelling!” At least two weekends a month. None of us have cars so we need to bum rides to gigs or borrow Larry’s step-dads van. He is super paranoid that we will get eyeliner on his seats so sometimes we don’t even bother asking him and just take the bus. Just because our parents live in one of the richest areas in town doesn’t mean we don’t roll public transit. It’s one of the only places where we feel truly at home. You’ll find our gum on most of the back seats. it’s a point of pride.

The important thing is that when we show up at a show ready to thrash, our hair looks like we’re headliners. It’s so perfectly manicured that you would assume we’re either homeless or supernatural. Or somewhere in between. The crowd notices the effort and they respect it. They bob their head to our distorted tunes while our elders shake their head in disappointment. Our parents and other lame old people think we are leaving the house “looking like wrecks.” Yeah, a twisted wreck of GothRock, Rad Hair and and Rebellion! The good news is that Summer is winding down and the windy Fall weather is really great for inspiring new in your face hair trends.

We’ll try to write again soon but we’re all leaving on a family trip to Orlando. We’ve agreed to go to Disney world but I guarantee we’ll get kicked off the Tea Cups.

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Goth For Gigs

(If you are interested in booking us, go to H-E double hockey sticks! We don’t deal with fascist capitalists!)

I was talking with my mom the other day about something I had to get done, but that I didn’t want to do at all. She said she knew doing “it” would be a “bitter pill for me to swallow,” but that I had to do it because … blah blah blah …

I soon found myself staring at the opening and closing mouth as she dispensed her sage advice, which went in one ear and out the other. The problem was, you see, I couldn’t stop obsessing on the figure of speech she had just used.

A bitter pill to swallow!? Hmm …

It makes little sense when you think about it. In fact, the only way this oft-used saying makes sense is if we rephrase it to “A bitter pill to chew.” But who chews a bitter pill? Exactly! Nobody chews a bitter pill. That’s why we swallow pills—because they are bitter!

Then later that day one of my neighbors commented on another neighbor’s newborn baby. She said the baby was “Cute as a button.” Well, what’s so cute about a button?

Here is a picture of a button. This is cute?

Then you’ve got people who are “worry warts.” What does worrying about things have to do with warts? I think warts are totally disgusting and I certainly do not want one, but I don’t spend all my time worrying about getting them.

“Who let the cat out of the bag?” How about, “Who put the cat in the bag?” And why? Did they get scratched while putting the cat in a bag? I hope they did because forcing a cat into a bag—or a hat—is mean.

“A little bird told me that …” A little bird told you something? You need psychological help.

“A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Fine, but let’s see a bicycle take a fish out for dinner and a movie!

“Beware of Greeks baring gifts.” Or, sorry Mr. Papadapolous, but I can’t accept this present.

“I have nothing to declare but my genius.” Well, if you’re a genius shouldn’t you have the sense to not be such a braggart?

Anyway, this is the type of stuff I think about when I know I should be working.

My mother is not a happy person. She’s a marvel of modern medical technology. Things keep falling off and the doctors keep pasting them back on. Think Jamie Summers, except 64 and pissed off. Instead of using her bionics for good, my mother focuses her energy into darting off rage-crusted letters to unsuspecting customer service people.

Over the years, my mother has written massive missives to the likes of AT&T, P&G, Whirlpool, and thousands more. These letters are typed formally on her trusty IBM typewriter, artfully dotted with whiteout as she misspells an impressive litany of incredibly foul words. Perhaps my favorite was a letter she sent to Betty Crocker accusing “her” of secretly changing the brownie mix. My mother’s wrath knew no bounds as she accused Betty of killing her reputation as “the best brownie maker in Fulton County.” She went on to reserve a very special place in hell for Betty, one far more creative and “appropriate” to the, ahem, situation.

Now over the years, I have made the mistake of sending my mother gifts for mother’s days. Flowers, plants, cookies, pretty standard fare. The letters these gifts have inspired will someday be archived in the Smithsonian. I kid you not. My mother may well be the Hemmingway, nay Martin Amis, of customer service letters.

I provide the preceding as a backdrop for why I wrote the following card to accompany my mother’s day flower arrangement. Proflowers was gracious enough to provide me ample space to affix a special note to mom. And here’s what I had to say:

“Happiest Mother’s Day! I hope this year the flowers show up wilted, stink nasty, spread plague, promote pestilence, endanger wildlife, eat your cat, mock the mailman, marry beneath them, and do anything else that may possibly annoy you. With all my heart, I hope this inspires an all star letter to customer service.”

I hope everyone is getting ready to celebrate their mom this Sunday, I know I am. I just read it’s the day of the year with the most calls placed. Come on - do people really rely on a Hallmark holiday to pick up the phone? What about calling on Parent’s Day - yeah, that’s a holiday too (I wonder who thought up that one)! I’m excited because I get to see my mom this year and I have the most loving mom and mother-in-law (you both are still reading my posts, right?)

There isn’t too much you can do to make fun of your mom, especially on Mother’s Day. But, I found the below pretty - well, cute. Still trying to think of what you can do for your mom? Make her laugh! Check out our site for some great jokes to tell her.

A dictionary for mothers:

• Bottle feeding: An opportunity for Daddy to get up at 2 am too.
• Defense: What you’d better have around de yard if you’re going to let the children play outside
• Dumbwaiter: One who asks if the kids would care to order dessert
• Family planning: The art of spacing your children the proper distance apart to keep you on the edge of financial disaster
• Feedback: The inevitable result when the baby doesn’t appreciate the strained carrots
• Full name: What you call your child when you’re mad at him
• Grandparents: The people who think your children are wonderful even though they’re sure you’re not raising them right
• Impregnable: A woman whose memory of labor is still vivid
• Look out: What it’s too late for your child to do by the time you scream it
• Prenatal: When your life was still somewhat your own
• Puddle: A small body of water that draws other small bodies wearing dry shoes into it
• Show off: A child who is more talented than yours
• Sterilize: What you do to your first baby’s pacifier by boiling it and to your last baby’s pacifier by blowing on it
• Top bunk: Where you should never put a child wearing Superman jammies
• Two-minute warning: When the baby’s face turns red and she begins to make those familiar grunting noises
• Verbal: Able to whine in words
• Whodunit: None of the kids that live in your house
• Whoops: An exclamation that translates roughly into “get a sponge.”

This morning, I arose from my Easter Dinner-fueled hibernation with merely two minutes to spare before I was expected at work. But I did not panic. I simply brushed my teeth and opened my laptop. I work from home—sometimes no more than six feet from my bed. Hell, sometimes in my bed!

Maybe working from home is The American Dream 2.0, but I have to be honest: after a little more than a month-and-a-half, I’ve had enough of being a stay-at-home employee. For the sake of full disclosure, I should describe my circumstances, which are unique for a 24-year-old with a good job; since I recently broke-up with a girlfriend with whom I was living in a posh apartment, I have moved back in with my parents (to avoid several months of pricey double rent payments). So while I am working from home, I am also working FROM MY PARENTS’ HOME. And therein lies the rub.

My mom is funny… and quirky. VERY quirky. Not to mention given to fits of obscenity and utter obnoxiousness. AND she’s a nurse on a rotating shift, so many days she’s at home while I’m working here, or “trying to work here,” I should say.

When my mom is cleaning the kitchen—which is my preferred workspace due to openness, natural lighting, and WIFI signal strength—she listens to her music at concert volume. No joke: concert volume. We’re talking The Bee Gee’s, Earth, Wind & Fire, Rod Stewart, and A LOT of generic salsa music. Our kitchen sounds like a fusion of American Bandstand, a sultry lounge, and the Disney version of a Mexican Barrio. And I can handle all that, even if it’s audible in every other room of the house. But when she’s watching my 10-month-old niece, that’s when she breaks out “Drew’s Famous Sleep-over Party Mix” and “The Chipmunks’ Dance Party Mix.” Now we’re talking screechy covers of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and high-pitched, chipmunk-esque renditions of “I’m Too Sexy” (the latter being disturbing on various levels). I would challenge anyone, save for someone with a hearing disability, to work productively in that environment. It’s like trying to center your Chi at a Hannah Montana concert.

For some reason, the WIFI signal in my house is disabled when the microwave is active. If anyone has insight as to why this is the case, please let me know; with my limited understanding of the technologies at work, I can’t wrap my head around this apparent opposition of “wavy things.” Of course, my productivity is directly tied to the Web; I use an online program to manage my daily tasks and communicate almost exclusively vie email with the other members of my company. And it just so happens that my mom uses the microwave often because she is, in fact, a twenty-first century mom. I think you go see where I’m going with this. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Vice President of Operations, we’re having BLT’s for dinner tonight and Mom likes making the bacon in the microwave. Can we talk through how my Website works another time?”

Of course I’m asked to do random other tasks, merely by virtue of my constant presence. Run to the store. Hold the baby. Get the mail. I wish I were joking, but when my mom’s home, I’m a full-time gopher and a part-time employee. Did I mention I’m 24 with a good job?

And then, even when my mom’s at work, we have the other myriad temptations of being at home. As a 24-year-old guy. Recently singled. Alone. With no one else around. On the Internet full-time. With no access restrictions like those in place at large corporations. And so many possibilities…