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Best Regards

November 28, 2011 By

I woke up on Thanksgiving Day to a text from one of my best friends. We chatted a bit (via text, since it was still too early for me to actually hold a conversation). Before signing off, knowing that she’d be going to see her parents that day, I sent a message to them. At first, I was thinking of telling her to give my best to her folks, but then I remembered something. I remembered a certain cassette tape of a certain comedy routine that we listened to way too often when we were in high school. So instead, I asked her to remember me to her parents.

It all started with a George Carlin tape my mom had called Playin’ With Your Head [Explicit] (affiliate link). My mom had it originally, but I “borrowed” it so BFF and I could listen to it. We loved it so much that we listened to it all the time. We had the entire tape memorized and ended up wearing it out.

A few years later, I was checking out a new website called Amazon that purported to have everything, and I saw that it was just released on CD. I bought two copies, because it wasn’t fair that I should have the CD and BFF didn’t. When I gave it to her, we recited it as we had always done, and her mom was laughing at us.

One of our favorite bits is part of the opening sequence, called “Love and Regards” on the CD. Here’s a quote:

…at least it’s better than just being sent someone’s “best”. Y’know, some people just send you their best.

“Give my best to Dave.”
“Your best what? Frankly Susan, if this is your best, maybe you ought to keep it to yourself.”

But even that, even that is better than just being “remembered” to somebody. God, that’s the lowest one of all, isn’t it? That’s hardly worth even telling the poor person.

“Remember me to Dave.”
“Okay.”

“Dave! You remember Susan?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s it.”

That’s what BFF did – she remembered me to her parents. She laughed and they were confused since they had not listened to George Carlin hundreds of times like we did.

But there’s an even more important matter at hand.

When the fuck did I get so old that I actually considered sending someone my best? Young people don’t do that – do they?

Filed Under: Friends, Funny

They Thought We’d Never Notice

September 2, 2011 By

Has anyone seen that commerical for tooth whitening where the woman gets invited to Vegas and they’re going to be there in 2 hours? I have a bunch of issues with this commercial:

First, where in the heck do they live that’s only 2 hours from Vegas? If you leave Las Vegas and drive for 2 hours (assuming there’s no traffic and you can do the speed limit), you end up in the middle of nowhere. There are a few smaller towns about 90 minutes away (Kingman, Laughlin, Mesquite) but I don’t get the sense that they’re the kind of towns that girls who live there go, “Woo hoo! Vegas road trip!”

They’re seen driving over the new Hoover Dam Bypass Bridge not once, but twice. Really?

Then there’s the sign that says Las Vegas City Limits. It’s in the middle of the desert, which leads me to believe that it’s the sign you see when you enter Vegas from either US-95 or I-15 coming from the north. For those not in the know, the actual city limits of Las Vegas are in the middle of the city – the southern edge of the city being Sahara Avenue. Everyone who’s ever been to Vegas knows that all the good parts of the Strip are SOUTH of Sahara. So where exactly is the Strip? It’s in unincorporated Clark County. I did a paper on this for a Nevada history class, but that’s another post for another day. What I’m trying to say is, if you are traveling into Las Vegas from the south, like these women apparently are since they crossed the bridge over the Hoover Dam not once, but twice, then you’ll see the city limit sign after you’ve been driving through populated areas for a while.

The only thing I can conclude from this commercial is that these women live in Boulder City and have absolutely no sense of direction, which is why what would normally be a 20 minute drive took them 2 hours. Apparently they left on this road trip, headed south, went over the bridge into Arizona, realized their mistake, turned around and went over the bridge again, majorly overshot the city by taking I-93/95/515 north through the Spaghetti Bowl, ended up on US-95 or I-15 way north of town, turned around again, headed south and finally found all the bright shiny lights.

Or maybe they’re smarter than we thought and took the “scenic” route so those whitening strips would have time to do the job. Then they could pick up that hottie they see the minute they get to Vegas, who is also obviously lost because after 8 years of living here, I have yet to see a single tourist who looks that good and that well put together yet appears to be here alone.

I think that pretty much explains it. Though I’m still not quite sure why it appears that they are driving over the bridge in the same direction both times.

Don’t you love it when there are obvious inaccuracies in movies, tv shows, and commercials when it comes to certain locations?

As a side note, I have to give credit to the people in charge of the original Las Vegas version of CSI. I’ve seen a few episodes when one of their investigations is featured on the news (on the show) and they show our actual newscasters from our local CBS affiliate. It’s not a show I watch regularly, but I give them kudos for getting it right.

Filed Under: Funny, TV

The T-Shirt

April 18, 2011 By

Mister likes to wear t-shirts around the house. He has a huge collection of these shirts, nearly 40 of them in his favorite color – black. He also has dozens in other colors that he rarely, if ever, wears, so we won’t talk about those here today. I want to talk about the black ones.

Since Mister is so fond of his t-shirts, they’re pretty much all he wears unless he’s leaving the house. As a result, some of them have started wearing a bit thin in places. I’d even go so far as to say that a few of his shirts are air-conditioned. Observe:

T-shirt before

This kinda drives me nuts a little bit because he has so many shirts yet he can’t just toss the holey ones and work his way down the pile. He just keeps wearing the same holey shirts over and over and over again. Finally, I’d had enough. Inspired by the fine folks at this DIY blog, I decided that I was going to do what a good wife does and fix his shirt.

I took myself to the fabric store and found the perfect fabric to patch his shirt with. Since I wanted to surprise Mister, I took the shirt, new fabric, needle and thread to work and did this during lunch. Then I snuck the finished shirt back into the house, carefully folded it and put it back in the pile.

It wasn’t until Saturday morning that he got the shirt out of the pile. I was just waking up when Mister got a shirt out of the closet and went into the office. I waited in bed for a few minutes to see if he had any reaction to it, but since I didn’t hear anything I got up and went into the office with him. I saw that he did indeed have the new and improved shirt on and didn’t seem to notice that I had fixed it. So I said, “Nice shirt.”

“What the…?”

He saw the thread that I used to fix the small holes in the front and on the pocket corners. Then I told him that I patched the armpit holes too. He was laughing pretty hard by this point, but pulled the shirt off and saw the colorful patches I put on the armpits. Yes, colorful. On a black shirt. You see, Mister isn’t exactly a fan of hippies, so I – well, see for yourself:

Tee shirt after

Tie-dye smiley face fabric! And hot pink thread on the smaller holes! Let me tell you, I was giggling the whole time I was sewing this.

While all this is going on, Mister ordered himself a new copy of his national history honor society certificate. He also bought something else for himself – when he mentioned this, I figured it would be a pin or something. The conversation went something like this:

Him: So I ordered my certificate today.
Me: OK
Him: I also bought myself a little something.
Me: That’s fine.
Him: I got myself a t-shirt to wear around the house.
Me: (blank look)
Me: You’re kidding, right?
Him: And I’ve decided that I’ll let you pick ONE t-shirt from my pile to get rid of.
Me, thinking to myself: Oh, honey, you have NO idea what you’re in for!

So I threw one t-shirt away. He thought I was going to pick one with bigger holes in it, but I told him that I picked from what was in the laundry and didn’t want to pick from the closet because I’d end up picking one pile of shirts and didn’t want to make him mad. Little does he know that his t-shirt pile would be getting smaller anyway.

Also while I had his shirt hidden in my desk at work along with my needles and thread, Mister started asking me if we have a sewing kit. I had to lie and say no because I didn’t want to reveal why I had a sewing kit with no needles or black thread, so I bought a small kit at the store. He had something else he wanted to fix, and it took every ounce of strength I had to keep quiet about my plans.

The new and improved t-shirt is now in the trash, though I’m not sure why Mister wouldn’t be proud of my handiwork. I’m such a good wife to be mending his clothes!

Or, as Mister says, “You know this means war!”

Filed Under: Funny, Love

The Vending Machine Is Conspiring Against Me

June 29, 2010 By

It’s a very busy time at work right now. Deadlines loom, and we need to make sure all our i’s are dotted and t’s are crossed. It’s a bit stressful, to say the least.

Add to that a raging case of PMS. Oh yeah. Now we’re having some FUN!

Around lunchtime today, I decided that I could take it no longer. I needed caffeine, and as a non-coffee drinker, that meant soda. Diet soda is my preference, since I’d rather get all my fat and calories from solid food. I gathered up some change and went downstairs to the break room, found the pretty red vending machine, and fed it some quarters.

This is one of those fancy, new-fangled machines that brings a little conveyor belt up to the row your selection is at and lets it go on a gentle ride towards the exit. It’s pretty cool because it doesn’t come tumbling down through the entire machine like the marble on a game of Mouse Trap, only to let it explode all over you.

I made my selection – B1. The soda can leaned forward, hit the glass with a thud, and wedged itself there. The conveyor belt tried and tried to grab the can, but it was useless. It gave up and spit my money back out at me. I wasn’t worried since this has happened before. I fed my money in again, selected B1, and was told it was sold out. I tried B2, figuring that it would knock the other can loose and I’d get 2 for the price of 1.

No dice.

The second can did exactly the same thing. Now I was getting upset. Was this some sort of conspiracy? Why are there two cans of soda, leaning against the glass, teasing me like that? I banged on the glass a bit. A few other people banged on the glass. They wouldn’t budge.

I went around the corner to the security desk and told them what the issue was. They don’t keep keys to the machine and could only put in a service ticket, and told me not to bang on it. Apparently someone did that a bit too hard once and broke the glass. I work in finance, so I don’t want to be responsible for such an expensive accident.

I went back to the machine to see if there were any unblocked paths for my chosen chemical fizzy drink. One more shot, so I put my money in the machine, typed in B3, and finally, I got a soda. The other two just sat there. I looked at the machine and realized a bit too late that if someone got something from row A, it might knock the sodas out. I had spent my money by then, so I started asking people if they wanted to buy an orange juice. No takers. If I could have gotten those sodas out, I would have, but I decided that I wasn’t going to sell my sanity for two cans of soda, so I went upstairs and started foraging through my desk for any chocolate I could find. I needed ALL the chocolate.

As further proof that the vending machines, or universe, or something is conspiring against me today, I stopped at the store to replenish my chocolate supply. As I walked around trying to buy as many unhealthy goodies as possible, I encountered Real Margarine. I told my sister about this find (I was on the phone with her. Yes, I am that person.) and she said, “Real margarine? As opposed to what?” Looking at my basket o’ goodies, I thought this entire exchange was pretty funny.

When I got back to my car, I turned the key and they engine struggled a bit before finally turning over. Great, my battery is pretty much done. Didn’t need to be waiting outside in 108F heat with my newly purchased ice cream. But it did start, so I rushed home to put everything away (in the kitchen – I can’t eat that much that fast), let Mister know about the battery, and we went back out in the heat to buy a new one. Batteries don’t last long here in the desert.

Finally got home, again, locked the door, and tore into my junk food. I really, really needed it at this point.

Tomorrow’s forecast shows more of the same. I really hope it’s better. After all, tomorrow is Hump Day.

Filed Under: Funny, Grrr

Steamers, Without The Butter

August 5, 2009 By

This is not a true story about someone I may or may not be related to. But it is too funny and needs to be shared with the world at large.

It all started with a Facebook update:

“i will write a book about last night!!! I put a crack in the mooon! last night was explosive,…… No pun !goin to the hospital hit the cell!”

This was posted the day after the 4th of July, by someone who is known by, oh, everybody he’s ever met to not always use the best judgment when it comes to activities that could land someone in the hospital. Out of concern, I called him.

“Hey, it’s me, I just wanted to see if you were still alive.”

He called back the next day and told me the whole story.

“Me and my buddies were at the fireworks in [insert small town here] hanging out. When it was over, we were looking at the pile and noticed that there was a canister that still had a wick in it. We found 5 of them, actually. So we took them.”

“Obviously, being you, that’s what you’d do.”

“So we took them back to my house and were trying to figure out what to do with them. We wanted to set them off but they’re too big for the neighborhood. Then someone mentioned that the putz down the street blew up my garbage cans with some M-80s. So we brought them to his house.”

“Good idea, since it’s in the same neighborhood and his yard is half the size of yours.”

In my mind, I’m sitting there trying to imagine what 5 commercial sized canisters of fireworks looks like when set off from the backyard of a quarter acre lot. I couldn’t wait to hear the rest.

“So we brought them over to Putz’s house at like 4 in the morning and set them off. It was the funniest fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life! But then we realized that every neighbor within a 5 mile radius would be calling the cops, so we took off running.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if The Family heard it – I’ll have to ask my dad.”

“As I was jumping over the 4-foot chain link fence, I hit my balls. I reached into my pants and they were all bloody. Putz said he called me on the phone because he figured it was us, but I didn’t hear the phone ring. I must have landed on it and answered it when I fell on the ground. All he could hear was me saying, ‘Oh, my balls, my fucking balls!’ I tore my ballbag open! They’re coming out – they’re all grayish and kinda look like steamers without the butter.”

“Thanks for the visual. So did you go to the hospital?”

“No, I was at a cookout today and some of my friend’s moms are nurses. One of them looked at it and put some of those little white bandages on it. They’re not staying on, though.”

“Well, it’s hard to get a bandage to stick to sweaty balls. You should still go to the doctor.”

“Yeah, if it doesn’t get better I might do that.”

Then he said the funniest thing that I have ever heard come out of his mouth.

“Kirsten, I have a date tonight. What am I going to do?”

“Well, I know what you aren’t going to do. How’s about you show her your torn nutsack? According to your FB updates, you don’t seem to have an issue showing everyone else.”

A week later he told me he was still laughing about the whole incident, even though by the time he went to the doctor it was too late to stitch them up and he had what he called “the never-ending ballbag period.” It’s people like this that, if you happen to be related to them like I may or may not be, make family get togethers loads of fun.

Filed Under: Funny, Holidays