Country mouse v. City mouse

Here are some directions to tell if you're a city mouse or a country mouse.

Do you know what a mountain oyster is? Have you ever eaten one?

If you answered yes to either of these questions, you're a country mouse. If you said yes to the second question. . .Gross.

Do your teeth number in the single digits? Do you have teeth?

This one is difficult because it really could go either way. What? Crackheads don't have teeth and they're city mice.

Do you own a Jesus trucker hat? In pink?

If you answered in the affirmative or had to stop to think about if you did or didn't: Country mouse.

Is your idea of a fun day off the farm to get on the PART bus without any clue, Any CLUE, where it's going, therefore causing you to stand in the aisle and yammer on to the driver about what is happening and where you're going causing said bus driver to miss the FREAKING EXIT SO THAT NOW WE HAVE TO TURN AROUND AND WE'LL BE FREAKING LATE AND MISS THE NEXT BUS?

Eh, I think you get the picture.

Ripping off the hands. . .

Sooo. Apparently 'Sex on Skates' has a girlfriend, which isn't surprising. Who's probably blond and beautiful, which isn't surprising. And he's totally nice and sweet and easy to talk to, which is a little surprising.

Then again, I suppose it's not. It's the short ones that are always assholes.

For some reason I've got this knot in my stomach. It's probably the sickening feeling of watching my biological success fly out the window. Obviously. (Here's a tribute to my bff.) I should probably just pull the hands off of my biological clock. That way it could just run and run and no one would notice. There wouldn't be the pressure of watching those hands move continuously around the clock face delineating my eventual decline. Towards the point of time in the future or maybe distant present when the pain in my stomach is the recrudescence of my insides. Or maybe the knot in my stomach is just a physical manifestation of all my doubts and insecurities. Which it probably isn't because if it was. . .It would hurt a hell of a lot harder than just a little knot in my tummy. It would be like that thing in Alien, the alien I guess, that goes tearing out of someone's (I forget who, actually I've never seen Alien. But I digress.) stomach. Not to say that I'm chronically insecure or fragile or anything. I'm kind of dichotomous in that regard. There are moments when I'm the most confident, charming, and vibrant person you'll meet.

And then there are times when I'm not. I'm timid and scared.

I find these latter moments strike when I'm asleep.

You honestly didn't think I was going to admit frailty did you?

I think it's because I always get my hopes up. Whether there is cause to or not. I truly am an optimist in that regard. I always think I have a chance. I always have confidence that I can do anything. I suppose you should blame my parents for that. After 20 some odd years of hearing that you're the best and the smartest, a person starts to believe it.

And then the grim truth of reality sets in. It's not anything to really be sad about. It just is. That's the thing about reality. There is no evaluative nature to reality. It's not good or bad. It's indifferent.

Time tumbles along without you. Whether or not you're happy about it or not. Just because you've ripped the hands off the clock doesn't mean it doesn't still run. You've just merely invented a device which clouds your perception.

That is something I can justify.

Yes, I'm That person.

I will beat your kids in public if they're not behaving. I will reprimand random teenagers if they're being disrespectful. I will tell you how you suck at being a parent.

I'm at the doctor's office with my mother. There is a pregnant woman here with three children under the age of 6. And one on the way. Did I mention she's preggers AGAIN? The youngest, about 1, has done nothing but sob and cry continuously since they've been here. The middle one is running around the office lobby knocking things over and being a general pest and the oldest one is off somewhere getting x-rayed. I imagine this is the result of her careless and neglectful mother; she probably was off doing something dangerous while her mother stared into oblivion. Her mother, who, I might add, has not once gotten off her fat-ass to do anything about her children. I should also mention that 2 of her 3 children only have on one shoe.

I know what you're thinking, that they're probably destitute and can't afford two shoes. No. These kids all look healthy and well groomed. They're wearing nice clothes and the shoes they do have are nicer than mine. She's just lazy. I understand lazy. I am the epitomy of lazy. I can spot it from a mile off, as the crow flies. (I'm good but I am lazy. It would take much more effort to spot laziness around a curve and I'm just not willing to do that.) But I will be damned if I'm going to sit around in public while my children are running around like a bunch of rabid, stupid prairie dogs whining and crying and being destructive all whilst foaming at the mouth and snot dripping down their face. It's a matter of upholding an image. Your children are a reflection of you. Well-behaved, pleasant and polite children make people think you are well-behaved, pleasant and polite. All the while, you may be a chronic alcholic and no one would know! Well at least not until your children are old enough to begin manifesting signs of emotional abuse and binge drinking. If you think about it, it just makes good sense to make your children behave. Think of all the hitches, problems, crisises, and personalities you could keep squirreled away from the world simply by having good kids. I know from personal experience it works. And not because I have kids of my own. . .

I understand that the woman has to be tired. 3 small children and 1 on the way. She's obviously a baby factory but that's no excuse. It's one thing to be complacent and give up but couldn't she have picked a different morning? One when, I, wasn't there?

Hi, My name is Bob.

You know what really, really gets my goat?

It's not that I don't support the right of everyone to make a living, I'm not a nazi or one of those anti-immigration crazies that thinks we should ship everybody right back home. I'm quite moderate on the issue. The immigration issue, not the nazi issue. (My stance on nazi's is that I think they're evil. All of them. Nazi's are bad.) The thing that gets to me is the customer support on the phone.

Today at work I got a voicemail from an unknown number. I go to check my voicemail and the woman that left me said voicemail had an accent so thick I couldn't understand her. I swear to you she read off the order number and it sounded like she said "B as in beldar." I'm not kidding. I don't even know what a beldar is or where it is or if it is a thing or if it's just some overseas wacko prank calling me.  So, I figured that I would call them back and maybe talk to someone else that doesn't have an accent.

Apparently the Biotech company has sold their collections department overseas. I explain the situation to the foreign operator and he asks me for the person's name. After a short pause I mumble an estimate of what her name was. I was reasonably sure that her first name was Amelia, which I could believe because the British folks did establish a colony in India but her last was Jimenez. Sure. She married a Mexican dude in India. Right.

Okay, so her last name wasn't really Jimenez but it sounded like Jimenez. Simmons.

I told you she had a thick accent.

Besides I think it's safe to say there probably aren't a whole lot of Simmons'es in India. What company says to it's employees:

'We're changing your name so the Americans can identify with you.'

First of all I think it's crap. If you have some odd Indian name at least you'll sound confident when you say it. Secondly, it just functions to throw the Americans off more because we hear something we kind of understand, IE Amelia, but then stop listening because we're now trying to justify the fact that your name is definitely not hispanic, but we can't figure out what it is. At least we know we'll screw up your Indian name. Not to mention it's kind of insulting to your employees.

It's not about avoiding confusion, it's about minimizing the confusion. I already have the expectation that I have no clue; I don't need the reassurance that I really don't.

Besides, if as a company you're going to change your employee's names, name them all the same thing. Like Bob.

Oh and by the way, apparently she said:

'D as in delta.'

Riiiiiight.

The Sex-Pie Incident

The sex-pie failed me.

But not in the way you're thinking. I still have not wooed said blonde David, but it was a success in a certain regard. I did prove that I could bake; I just didn't do my Southern heritage justice. Well I did in the pie regard, just not in the 'wooing-a-future-husband-with-baked-goods-regard.' I guess this just means that I have to step up my game. I'm not really sure where you go from homemade Peach Pie but you know, just look at it.

See below:

Apparently when you look like sex on skates you spend a lot of time away from home. I like to pretend he's at the skating rink working on his fitness, because he's 'Sex on Skates.' Get it?

Okay, he's probably at the gym working on his fitness instead. I refuse to believe he's shacking up with some chick. Refuse to believe it. So just don't mention it. He wasn't home the multitude of times I tried to drop off the sex-pie thus I was stuck with it.

It's probably because I started calling it the 'Sex-Pie.' When you enumerate these intentions things tend to not work out. Or at least that's the way it happens with me. Things are all grand until you apply that 'Label' and then it falls to hell.

Needless to say I feel like a lame-o-zoid creepo because I made a sex-pie for the neighbor and had to pawn it off on the building manager and a guy at work. Which knowing my luck. . .well one of them is gay so I guess that's not an option. You should probably know that I also made a pie for my gramma's 88th birthday and a gluten-free version for my friend. So it wasn't like I baked it out of the blue.

Although you could probably argue that's why I made my gramma and my anti-gluten friend a pie.

But we won't, will we?

I will not support or deny that supposition.

Moxy on the Move - McDonald's

Just to prove to everyone how classy Moxy and I are, this weekend we went to the McDonald's. Woo Hoo!

Moxy in the window at McDonalds.  

Notice how many people are actually in the McDonald's.

Moxy was extremely excited about McDonald's. Say what you will about it being gross and all but there is a reason they're the most popular restaurant in the world. The answer is salt and processed meat. 

Moxy loves Ronald McDonald.

Nevermind that it's more than a little creepy that there is a bench with a fake clown sitting on it; I feel like this is just training children to trust perverts in wigs even more. But Moxy loves Ronald. The man does have an actually decent charity.

Find the Moxy!

These shoe bins kind of creep me out. Who lets their kids take their shoes off in a restaurant? Who lets their kids play in those pee infested balls and slides? At least this one is inside so random people off the street can't get in the them to sleep and stuff. I swear I think I just remembered a repressed memory of finding a homeless person in a slide one time when I was little. Maybe that was my cousin...

Anyways! See you next time!

(I promise more Moxy on the Move posts when the summer is over and I don't miss valuable pool time galavanting all over creation.)

Fashion No-No's I noticed whilst at the bar, Sober.

Okay. Here is a list of things I noticed at the bar in the last ten minutes, whilst sipping on my vodka-tonic:

1. Polka dots are supposed to be small. The size restriction on polka dots should be limited to less than a 2 inch diameter.

2. Sandwiches are our friends.

3. So is purging after we binge. Bulimia is sometimes under-rated.

4. Leopard print and acid washed denim do not match. Commit fully to the leopard print or don't. Either way it's an all or nothing situation.

5. Smocks belong at the art studio.

6. If your earings look like the tail-end of an exotic parrot. . .yeah, that's a no. And it probably has mites.

7. You're not cool because your shirt says 'SL,UT - Salt Lake, Utah.' You're an automatic douchebag.

8. Just because your dress is short does not give you carte blanche to show the back half of the bar your snatch. In fact, in a short dress you work harder to hide it. It may look like roast beef but no one really likes Arby's anyway; it's just an option when the Wendy's is closed.

9. Dale Earnhardt has been dead for years now. Let it go.

10. Florals really do belong on furniture. And that's about it. You look like my gramma's couch.

Stay posted. We may be here a while.