Losing an Argument…with my Dog

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Where There’s Smoke. Or Not.

Last week my smoke alarm went off while I was doing laundry, and there was no smoke so I figured it was broken and took the battery out. Then the next day while cleaning, I went to put the battery back in the alarm and it continued beeping…I then realized it wasn’t just a smoke alarm, it was a carbon monoxide alarm too, and that it had begun beeping while I was running the clothes dryer (which could produce CO). And oh crap, I’d felt sick to my stomach that morning so maybe it wasn’t the 12 new supplements I’d started taking, maybe I had CO poisoning! So I called the fire department. Two enormous fire trucks running the sirens, an ambulance, and a CO tech in a suburban show up on my narrow little street blocking multiple driveways and giving my nosy neighbors, who happily stood on their lawns enjoying the show, the highlight of their weekend. Roughly 15-20 men piled out in big fire gear…you would have thought my house was burning down and 437 children were trapped inside. And there I was, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt with paint stains on it I wear to clean, no make up, hair disgusting and plastered to my head, smelling like an alluring combo of Windex, Pledge, and sweaty person. And I’m talking to this HOT paramedic who tells me how cute he thinks Rosie is (who at that moment is running all over my lawn trying to coerce the men into playing with her while Chili barks her head off), and that he lost his dog in a BREAK UP (read: he’s single). As if I wasn’t already wanting to die of embarrassment, the hordes of firemen come out and tell me it can’t be the dryer because my dryer is electric (I told them I thought it was gas.). Oh, and it wasn’t the CO alarm, it was the fire alarm (which they nicely showed me I would have known if I’d bothered to read the back of the alarm). Obviously, since there was no smoke or fire anywhere, the alarm was malfunctioning, and they came for no reason (deduced that one by myself!). One guy asked me as they went to leave, “You live alone, right?” I nodded, and he smiled knowingly. They were SO nice, but they may as well have patted me on the head and told me what a poor, helpless and clueless woman I am. I felt like saying, “No wait! I bought this house by myself! I pay the bills! I mulched all these planters without help! I can hang shelves! I’m not an idiot!” But, all I did was wave sheepishly as they drove away. So tonight, Ladies and Gentleman, I clearly impressed the brave men of my local fire department and paramedics team with my obvious intelligence and my extreme beauty. As soon as they left, the friggin’ alarm went off again. I almost smashed it with a hammer.

Vehicular Stress-Induced Tourette’s Syndrome

I had a realization today. I have literally no control over what comes out of my mouth when I’m behind the wheel of my car, which I always am because I’m a sales rep. And this time of year the northeast is insanely congested and everyone’s driving like either they’ve never operated one of these newfangled motor vehicle thingies before, or they’re going for the grand prize in the Indie 500. So, today some douche rocket cuts me off and these words spontaneously burst forth from my pie hole: “Whoa there, Fuck Face McGee!” And then I spend the next ten minutes wondering:

1) Who exactly is Fuck Face McGee? An Irish gangster?  (And then I picture myself interviewing him, Barbara Walters-style, trying to figure out who he is really, which is even more comical in light of what he looks like as discussed in #3).

2) Is there such thing as stress-induced Tourette’s Syndrome, and if so, can you get it from driving?

3) Does Fuck Face McGee have vaginas for eyes/mouth and a penis for a nose since he has a fuck face?   And why do I picture him looking a lot like a dirtier version of Squidward from my nephews’ Sponge Bob cartoons?                                                            

4) Do other people go temporarily insane in situations like these and instead of getting violent, get spontaneously creative instead, and make up comical-yet-insulting nicknames for people they don’t know?

Please advise.

The Jewpie

I have roughly 900,547 Jewish friends, and most of the men I’ve dated in the last decade have been Jewish, so I’m Jewish by injection (Dad, I totally mean Jewish doctors with syringes.). But despite my Jewish groupie status (Jewpie?) and apparent Shiksa role due to my preference in men, I really can’t understand this. It defies logic, and since I’m not actually Jewish, I wasn’t born with the innate genes that can help me figure this out.

Conversation with Pretty Much all my Jewish Friends at Some Point in Time:

Jewish Friend: I am dating a non-Jew who I really like.

Me: So what’s the problem? Is he hung like a field mouse? (Or* Is she bat shit crazy but you can’t break it off because she scores really high on that ‘The crazier she is, the better she is in bed’ scale you guys have?)

Chosen One: No. I have to marry a Jew.

Me: Honey, you’re an atheist.

Friend: That doesn’t matter. I want kids and I have to maintain bloodlines.

Me: You sound like Hitler. The irony.

Chosen Friend: Don’t say Hitler!

Me: But you do! That doesn’t even make any sense. You’re not religious so why does it matter if you marry a Jew if you’re not trying to create a master race?

Friend: Seriously, you’re a sick person. You need help. You’re lucky I love you. But to answer your question, my ancestors died in the Holocaust because of our faith so I should honor them by maintaining our heritage and blood lines.

Me: That makes no sense at all. But, you’ve shamed me into shutting up. Relish the moment, that shit doesn’t happen very often.

Jewish Friend: Sadly, I know. Mmm, blessed silence….

Me: You said “Mmm”. Let’s go eat!

Friend: I guess that’s over. (*Sigh*)

Me: Hey, you should know better than to make yummy noises in front of an Italian.

Friend:  It’s like you’re eating for Jesus.

Me:  I make Hitler remarks, you make Jesus remarks.  This is why I like you, everything is fair.

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***Contents of above blog edited for accuracy and sensitivity by various Chosen friends in exchange for me not unnecessarily annoying them any more than usual, plus maybe some cookies. So, blackmail and bribery, basically. I’m an excellent friend.

Just Say No

When you’re past a certain age and your friend says they’re buying a round of shots, don’t try to relive your glory days.  ‘Cause, Bitch, those days are over.  You can’t hang.