Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Now on DVD!
See Jessica Simpson's boobs, ass and legs wear a bikini! Marvel as Jessica Simpson's boobs, ass and legs kick some guy! Wonder how Jessica Simpson's boobs, ass and legs got a career as they "sing" and writhe around on a dance floor! Also included: some extra scenes with girls' boobs, asses and legs who AREN'T Jessica Simpson, and the movie The Dukes of Hazzard.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Creepy things the cable guy said to me today
1. "I can't come in unless you're 18."
2. "Whoops, dropped my knife!"
2. "Whoops, dropped my knife!"
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
In Which They Actually Get Married
Rehearsal dinner, I’ve noticed, is a bit of a misnomer. It should be called a rehearsal and dinner. It’s not a dry run of getting food from the plate to your gaping maw so you don’t embarrass yourself at dinner, although that might not be a bad idea to pursue on your own time. I’ve seen some of you eat. But enough of this pedantry. The first part of the rehearsal takes place at wherever the wedding will occur, whether it’s a church, a beach, a park or Graceland. Hey, I’m not judging. Snickering a little bit, but not judging. The rehearsal goes over each step of the ceremony in mind numbing det- er, to ensure a smooth ceremony the next day.
Proper wedding procedure is impressed upon the wedding party, and the timing of everything is fine-tuned: everyone knows what music plays when, at what pace to walk down the aisle, and how often to cry. The whole ceremony is run through once, and then again going backwards, and again in pig Latin for good measure. Barring any unmistakable signs from God, you should be good to go.
The dinner afterwards is a chance to kick back and relax before the chaos that is a wedding sets in. You’ll get to mingle with the wedding party and family members, and meet new people. (Who’s that? Who, indeed.) After the rehearsal dinner, it’s a good idea to get to bed early so you’re well rested for the wedding. You won’t, though. There are holes to be punched and ribbons to be tied and photos to be matted. You’ll wish you had slept, though, when you get up at an ungodly hour to be brushed, teased, pinned and sprayed into tonsorial and cosmetic perfection.
First up is hair, where a stylist will attempt to defy both gravity and humidity with up to one metric ton of bobby pins. By the end of your session, there will be enough metal covering your head to block out the alien overlords’ mind control messages sent through the ozone hole all the hairspray used created. Trust me on this: I have an inside source. When getting your makeup and hair done, it’s a good idea to take a look at the makeup and hair of the artist working on you. That can be a pretty good indication of whether you’ll end up looking like a mutant Technicolor mime. Just a heads up.
Okay, on to the wedding, yes? The wait is over, The music is beginning, people are walking down the aisle. Don’t trip, that’s frowned upon. And as far as processional music goes, you don’t get more for your money than with one Ms. Heather, P.A. and I.T. extraordinaire. Everything from ‘Canon in D’ to the Spice Girls’ timeless ‘Two Become One,’ nothing says impending wedded bliss like the piano stylings of Heather. That's what we were talking about in the front seat.
After the wedding, guests are sometimes given nuptually approved projectiles or noisemakers, depending on whether the bride and groom prefer bodily or aural assault. As P.A.s Heather and I were bell hander outers, and we figured out immediately that bell distribution is not so much an art or a science but rather an alarmingly accurate popularity contest. She whose basket runs out first is obviously cuter and has a better sales pitch. Yes, we were making sales pitches for people to take free bells. What of it? I can’t remember who emptied their basket first, but there were some undocumented trades that no doubt skewed the results.
Next up? Can you say, ‘limo ride to the reception?!?’ Because I can! Sorry if my excitement is disproportionate to what a limo ride would seem to warrant, but the last time I had been in a limo was when I was six, and it had a phone and a TV in it, and that absolutely blew my mind because it was 1987. Cut me some slack. Limo advice: try to snag a forward or reverse facing seat. That long side bench seems like a good idea, but I ran some numbers and leather seats plus formal wear equal zero butt traction and potentially embarrassing situations. Enjoy your imaginary celebrity status and how all the other peons in regular cars are wondering who you are and what’s going down in Mankato that demands your presence. And once you return from your brief fugue from reality, it’s time to go to the reception.
First on the reception agenda is some serious mingling. Eat, drink and if you’re a P.A., forcibly eject people from seats that you were too slow to mark ‘reserved.’ Now that’s a party! When the mingling winds down, and if you’re lucky you get to sit at an exclusive booth with Gare-bear and Jan. But that’s only if you’re really special. The rest of you will have to settle for one of the other tables. Dinner was punctuated with guest-induced bouts of head table PDA, teary speechifying and plenty of photo ops. More mingling, and before you get to embarrass yourself on the dance floor, you must be embarrassed by the announcement of the wedding party. Have fun with that.
Enter the usual wedding reception folderol: bouquet toss (Heather, your vertical leap is envied by bachelorette gazelles everywhere), garter toss (revealing the blue sneakers the now Mrs. Kim was wearing… awesome.) and the assorted dances (father-daughter, mother-son, bride-groom, me-handsome/funny/smart groomsman… oh, wait. Wrong wedding. Wrong plane of existence). Then it’s time for the mandatory - trust me, I asked - starting of the public dancing as hosted by the wedding party and watched by everyone else.
Now, I’m not much of a dancer. At least at DC’s everyone else in my area was too busy trying not to roll an ankle to watch me look ridiculous. Unless of course, you’re Tara, who was too cool for line dancing and instead chose to spend the evening in a more dignified manner: perched atop a bale of hay amidst the townies. But anyway, the key to reception dancing if you’re a rhythm pariah such as myself is a child. As a dance partner, a child allows you to play off your dork-dancing as silly dancing for the sake of said child. Patented dance moves include ‘Modified Ring Around the Rosie,’ ‘Look What My Arms Can Do!,’ ‘Yes, My Dress Is Swishy, But You’re Right, Yours May Be Swishier,’ and ‘Oh, Are You Thirsty? I’ll Be Back Soon, I’m Just Getting Her a Drink.’ The rest of the reception will be a blur due to factors unknown.
Upon return to your hotel, the wedding detox process should begin immediately, for sleep is looming in your near future, bidden or no. It’s customary to wait until you actually enter the hotel room to begin, but choosing to change out of your dress in the hallway outside of your hotel room is purely a judgment call on your part. Next up is makeup removal. Good luck with that one. Be sure your sandpaper is non-comedogenic. Onto the hair. Here, you have some options. The first is the standard removal by hand. This is tedious and can take upwards of way too long. I am currently mentally beta testing a new method I think shows great promise. Based on nothing more than my experience with Warner Brothers Saturday morning cartoons, I think that if you could obtain an oversized horseshoe magnet and then hoist it over your head it would suck all the bobby pins out of your head in one fluid motion. It’s an essentially flawless plan, unless you have a metal plate in your head. But chances are you’d be aware of that and have the presence of mind to exclude yourself from my human trials. If you’re lucky enough to accomplish all of that before collapsing from exhaustion, consider yourself a wedding superstar.
Proper wedding procedure is impressed upon the wedding party, and the timing of everything is fine-tuned: everyone knows what music plays when, at what pace to walk down the aisle, and how often to cry. The whole ceremony is run through once, and then again going backwards, and again in pig Latin for good measure. Barring any unmistakable signs from God, you should be good to go.
The dinner afterwards is a chance to kick back and relax before the chaos that is a wedding sets in. You’ll get to mingle with the wedding party and family members, and meet new people. (Who’s that? Who, indeed.) After the rehearsal dinner, it’s a good idea to get to bed early so you’re well rested for the wedding. You won’t, though. There are holes to be punched and ribbons to be tied and photos to be matted. You’ll wish you had slept, though, when you get up at an ungodly hour to be brushed, teased, pinned and sprayed into tonsorial and cosmetic perfection.
First up is hair, where a stylist will attempt to defy both gravity and humidity with up to one metric ton of bobby pins. By the end of your session, there will be enough metal covering your head to block out the alien overlords’ mind control messages sent through the ozone hole all the hairspray used created. Trust me on this: I have an inside source. When getting your makeup and hair done, it’s a good idea to take a look at the makeup and hair of the artist working on you. That can be a pretty good indication of whether you’ll end up looking like a mutant Technicolor mime. Just a heads up.
Okay, on to the wedding, yes? The wait is over, The music is beginning, people are walking down the aisle. Don’t trip, that’s frowned upon. And as far as processional music goes, you don’t get more for your money than with one Ms. Heather, P.A. and I.T. extraordinaire. Everything from ‘Canon in D’ to the Spice Girls’ timeless ‘Two Become One,’ nothing says impending wedded bliss like the piano stylings of Heather. That's what we were talking about in the front seat.
After the wedding, guests are sometimes given nuptually approved projectiles or noisemakers, depending on whether the bride and groom prefer bodily or aural assault. As P.A.s Heather and I were bell hander outers, and we figured out immediately that bell distribution is not so much an art or a science but rather an alarmingly accurate popularity contest. She whose basket runs out first is obviously cuter and has a better sales pitch. Yes, we were making sales pitches for people to take free bells. What of it? I can’t remember who emptied their basket first, but there were some undocumented trades that no doubt skewed the results.
Next up? Can you say, ‘limo ride to the reception?!?’ Because I can! Sorry if my excitement is disproportionate to what a limo ride would seem to warrant, but the last time I had been in a limo was when I was six, and it had a phone and a TV in it, and that absolutely blew my mind because it was 1987. Cut me some slack. Limo advice: try to snag a forward or reverse facing seat. That long side bench seems like a good idea, but I ran some numbers and leather seats plus formal wear equal zero butt traction and potentially embarrassing situations. Enjoy your imaginary celebrity status and how all the other peons in regular cars are wondering who you are and what’s going down in Mankato that demands your presence. And once you return from your brief fugue from reality, it’s time to go to the reception.
First on the reception agenda is some serious mingling. Eat, drink and if you’re a P.A., forcibly eject people from seats that you were too slow to mark ‘reserved.’ Now that’s a party! When the mingling winds down, and if you’re lucky you get to sit at an exclusive booth with Gare-bear and Jan. But that’s only if you’re really special. The rest of you will have to settle for one of the other tables. Dinner was punctuated with guest-induced bouts of head table PDA, teary speechifying and plenty of photo ops. More mingling, and before you get to embarrass yourself on the dance floor, you must be embarrassed by the announcement of the wedding party. Have fun with that.
Enter the usual wedding reception folderol: bouquet toss (Heather, your vertical leap is envied by bachelorette gazelles everywhere), garter toss (revealing the blue sneakers the now Mrs. Kim was wearing… awesome.) and the assorted dances (father-daughter, mother-son, bride-groom, me-handsome/funny/smart groomsman… oh, wait. Wrong wedding. Wrong plane of existence). Then it’s time for the mandatory - trust me, I asked - starting of the public dancing as hosted by the wedding party and watched by everyone else.
Now, I’m not much of a dancer. At least at DC’s everyone else in my area was too busy trying not to roll an ankle to watch me look ridiculous. Unless of course, you’re Tara, who was too cool for line dancing and instead chose to spend the evening in a more dignified manner: perched atop a bale of hay amidst the townies. But anyway, the key to reception dancing if you’re a rhythm pariah such as myself is a child. As a dance partner, a child allows you to play off your dork-dancing as silly dancing for the sake of said child. Patented dance moves include ‘Modified Ring Around the Rosie,’ ‘Look What My Arms Can Do!,’ ‘Yes, My Dress Is Swishy, But You’re Right, Yours May Be Swishier,’ and ‘Oh, Are You Thirsty? I’ll Be Back Soon, I’m Just Getting Her a Drink.’ The rest of the reception will be a blur due to factors unknown.
Upon return to your hotel, the wedding detox process should begin immediately, for sleep is looming in your near future, bidden or no. It’s customary to wait until you actually enter the hotel room to begin, but choosing to change out of your dress in the hallway outside of your hotel room is purely a judgment call on your part. Next up is makeup removal. Good luck with that one. Be sure your sandpaper is non-comedogenic. Onto the hair. Here, you have some options. The first is the standard removal by hand. This is tedious and can take upwards of way too long. I am currently mentally beta testing a new method I think shows great promise. Based on nothing more than my experience with Warner Brothers Saturday morning cartoons, I think that if you could obtain an oversized horseshoe magnet and then hoist it over your head it would suck all the bobby pins out of your head in one fluid motion. It’s an essentially flawless plan, unless you have a metal plate in your head. But chances are you’d be aware of that and have the presence of mind to exclude yourself from my human trials. If you’re lucky enough to accomplish all of that before collapsing from exhaustion, consider yourself a wedding superstar.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Flabbergasted.
The scene: University College (the department of redundancy dept.), IUPUI last Wednesday.
Outside temperature: A bone-chilling 50 degrees.
What I saw: Some girl wearing a jean mini-skirt, gray wool leg warmers and black ballet slippers.
What I thought: Nothing. My brain and all thought processes completely shut down for the next two hours thanks to the utter stupidity of that girl's ensemble. I can't even imagine what she must have done to her roommates to piss them off enough to allow her to go outside wearing that.
Outside temperature: A bone-chilling 50 degrees.
What I saw: Some girl wearing a jean mini-skirt, gray wool leg warmers and black ballet slippers.
What I thought: Nothing. My brain and all thought processes completely shut down for the next two hours thanks to the utter stupidity of that girl's ensemble. I can't even imagine what she must have done to her roommates to piss them off enough to allow her to go outside wearing that.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
KEEM! + Jota
Weddings. These days, it seems like you can’t swing a cat without whacking someone who’s married, engaged or yelling at you for swinging cats around. Seriously though – everyone is getting married. And yet here I sit… baby-sitting. I would’ve thought that thirteen years of being paid to take care of someone else’s unruly children would be enough for anyone. Trust me- it totally is. Anyway, where was I? Weddings. Read on. Or don’t, because there’s a fairly good chance that this may be that dreaded “you had to be there” type of humor. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?
In these days of information, technology and ya damn kids and your music, families and friends are able to travel from far and wide to celebrate together when one of their own gets married. Planes, trains and automobiles are all popular forms of transportation, and also combine to form a humorous John Candy movie. They also include two of the means I employed to reach a recent (I don’t want to hear it from any of you; in the grand scheme of things, including dinosaurs, Pangea and the Big Bang, five months ago is very recent) wedding. After a thankfully Iowa born-and-bred-crazy-free flight to exotic Wisconsin, it was time for some errands and general milling around. Side note: if you think packing and wearing unusual and bright colors will make you unique, you are wrong. It will only make people think that you and your friends plan your outfits like some trans-state Bobbsey twin weirdos, but also for some great photo ops. Once everyone has assembled, pack the car, being very careful of your friend’s outfit for the rehearsal dinner, because it’d be really bad if it got caught in the trunk latch and got grease all over it. So would any guilt trips said friend kept throwing at you even after you apologized approximately one million times. Also, road trips can only be improved by a box of fresh and presumably delicious baked goods on your lap which you are forbidden to eat.
Music is important for entertainment reasons, and also to deafen the person in the back seat to the discussion the front seat people are having about her. Er, I mean… we were just singing. Really. Singing so intently that we got lost and ended up in Austin, Minnesota, the home of a 16,500 square-foot SPAM Museum. You might think that a town with that particular claim to fame would smell terrible, and you would have no idea how correct you are. The air is pregnant with SPAM. Lost in SPAMopolis and trying to find the road out of it is the perfect time to spice up your road trip experience by agreeing to converse only in Español. No, really. Adds a whole new dimension. Or dimensión, if you will. This tactic should be abandoned a while before you reach Mankato – or wherever your final destination may be – with two of you singing loudly with voluntary lisps and the third not exhibiting any such sense of fun while she irritably searches for the correct street. This is fine, ethpethially if you’re one of the lithperth.
It’s important for the wedding party to look their best on this day. Approximately two billion photos will be taken and besides, after that everyone will be looking and pointing at them and telling them how nice they look and how smart and funny and talented they are. Ahem. First on the agenda are manicures. Whether it be for aesthetic value or a specific function – perhaps so that your new acrylic talons can latch into the bouquet as you soar over the heads of the less ambitious eligible bachelorettes – nice nails are a must. You can bring your own homemade nails to use; otherwise they are more than happy to harvest some from one of the cadavers they keep in the back. Ha, just kidding, the nails are acrylic. But wouldn’t that cadaver thing be gross? ‘Cuz of that myth where your hair and nails keep growing after you die. But in reality, that’s not true. That is where hair extensions come from, though. Not really. News flash: I may be a compulsive liar. Where was I? Oh yeah. The nails are actually acrylic, and they glue them onto your own nails so securely that there’s no way to get them off except to chew them off in AP Chemistry like some kind of feral dog and oh my God that was terrible, I’ll never do that again. Sorry- I have some weird cuticle-claustrophobia thing that seems to manifest itself every so often. But that’s MY issue. Let’s move on to pedicures before I stroke out.
If no one’s going to see your feet, I suppose this step isn’t really necessary. But come on, it’s fun and everyone else is doing it. The first step is to soak your feet in boiling (shut up, it was really hot) water while trying to find a setting on the massage chair that doesn’t induce a spinal cord injury. After a prolonged soak, an experienced pedicurist can gauge when your “foot soup” is done. Hopefully said soup is a broth or consommé rather than a cream of corn. If you’re one of the latter maybe you first head to a podiatrist or at least have a very large tip ready. Really good pedicures include a foot massage, which is pretty much just an extremely one-sided tickle fight. Accidentally kicking the pedicurist is frowned upon. The pedicurist then clips, chips or sands away anything that’s not legitimate foot material. With a fresh coat of polish in the color of your choice and perhaps a design or rhinestone if you’re feeling spendy, you’re good to go. Just know that the second you walk those feet off the lot, they depreciate by about thirty percent.
Tune in next week (I promise!) for an exciting recapitulation of the rehearsal dinner, hair and makeup, and if space allows, the actual wedding with all the inherent wacky hijinks.
In these days of information, technology and ya damn kids and your music, families and friends are able to travel from far and wide to celebrate together when one of their own gets married. Planes, trains and automobiles are all popular forms of transportation, and also combine to form a humorous John Candy movie. They also include two of the means I employed to reach a recent (I don’t want to hear it from any of you; in the grand scheme of things, including dinosaurs, Pangea and the Big Bang, five months ago is very recent) wedding. After a thankfully Iowa born-and-bred-crazy-free flight to exotic Wisconsin, it was time for some errands and general milling around. Side note: if you think packing and wearing unusual and bright colors will make you unique, you are wrong. It will only make people think that you and your friends plan your outfits like some trans-state Bobbsey twin weirdos, but also for some great photo ops. Once everyone has assembled, pack the car, being very careful of your friend’s outfit for the rehearsal dinner, because it’d be really bad if it got caught in the trunk latch and got grease all over it. So would any guilt trips said friend kept throwing at you even after you apologized approximately one million times. Also, road trips can only be improved by a box of fresh and presumably delicious baked goods on your lap which you are forbidden to eat.
Music is important for entertainment reasons, and also to deafen the person in the back seat to the discussion the front seat people are having about her. Er, I mean… we were just singing. Really. Singing so intently that we got lost and ended up in Austin, Minnesota, the home of a 16,500 square-foot SPAM Museum. You might think that a town with that particular claim to fame would smell terrible, and you would have no idea how correct you are. The air is pregnant with SPAM. Lost in SPAMopolis and trying to find the road out of it is the perfect time to spice up your road trip experience by agreeing to converse only in Español. No, really. Adds a whole new dimension. Or dimensión, if you will. This tactic should be abandoned a while before you reach Mankato – or wherever your final destination may be – with two of you singing loudly with voluntary lisps and the third not exhibiting any such sense of fun while she irritably searches for the correct street. This is fine, ethpethially if you’re one of the lithperth.
It’s important for the wedding party to look their best on this day. Approximately two billion photos will be taken and besides, after that everyone will be looking and pointing at them and telling them how nice they look and how smart and funny and talented they are. Ahem. First on the agenda are manicures. Whether it be for aesthetic value or a specific function – perhaps so that your new acrylic talons can latch into the bouquet as you soar over the heads of the less ambitious eligible bachelorettes – nice nails are a must. You can bring your own homemade nails to use; otherwise they are more than happy to harvest some from one of the cadavers they keep in the back. Ha, just kidding, the nails are acrylic. But wouldn’t that cadaver thing be gross? ‘Cuz of that myth where your hair and nails keep growing after you die. But in reality, that’s not true. That is where hair extensions come from, though. Not really. News flash: I may be a compulsive liar. Where was I? Oh yeah. The nails are actually acrylic, and they glue them onto your own nails so securely that there’s no way to get them off except to chew them off in AP Chemistry like some kind of feral dog and oh my God that was terrible, I’ll never do that again. Sorry- I have some weird cuticle-claustrophobia thing that seems to manifest itself every so often. But that’s MY issue. Let’s move on to pedicures before I stroke out.
If no one’s going to see your feet, I suppose this step isn’t really necessary. But come on, it’s fun and everyone else is doing it. The first step is to soak your feet in boiling (shut up, it was really hot) water while trying to find a setting on the massage chair that doesn’t induce a spinal cord injury. After a prolonged soak, an experienced pedicurist can gauge when your “foot soup” is done. Hopefully said soup is a broth or consommé rather than a cream of corn. If you’re one of the latter maybe you first head to a podiatrist or at least have a very large tip ready. Really good pedicures include a foot massage, which is pretty much just an extremely one-sided tickle fight. Accidentally kicking the pedicurist is frowned upon. The pedicurist then clips, chips or sands away anything that’s not legitimate foot material. With a fresh coat of polish in the color of your choice and perhaps a design or rhinestone if you’re feeling spendy, you’re good to go. Just know that the second you walk those feet off the lot, they depreciate by about thirty percent.
Tune in next week (I promise!) for an exciting recapitulation of the rehearsal dinner, hair and makeup, and if space allows, the actual wedding with all the inherent wacky hijinks.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Valparaiso University
is a fine, respected institution. Full of virture, one might say.
Check your diplomas, kids. That's right. Virture. And I'm still on the fence on which is worse: the fact that there's a typo on my degree... or the fact that I had to be told by someone else that there was a typo on my degree.
Sigh.
Check your diplomas, kids. That's right. Virture. And I'm still on the fence on which is worse: the fact that there's a typo on my degree... or the fact that I had to be told by someone else that there was a typo on my degree.
Sigh.
Monday, March 07, 2005
People from Iowa are Insane.
Considering the possibilities, I've been quite lucky when it comes to the crapshoot that is airplane seating. The people I sit next to on planes are generally about as uninterested in me as I am in them. This past weekend, my neighbor completely decimated my record of non-crazy seatmates. Thanks a lot, lady.
It all started innocently enough. There was a baby two rows up I initially pegged as a source of annoyance. I had a window seat, which I enjoy because I'm twelve, and was waiting for takeoff and the pilot’s announcement that I could listen to my music without inadvertently taking control of the plane via my MP3 player. As I was looking out the window, I heard a soft voice behind me. I turned to see an elderly woman talking to herself. Or maybe to me. It was hard to say, so I let her mutter uninterrupted. One of the only things crazier than talking to yourself in a public setting is answering a person who is obviously talking to herself.
Perhaps she was muttering to the overlarge tote bag she was carrying. It contained a breakable Annoyance to Airline Personnel, which I helped her slide underneath the seat because I am polite to people I don’t know. Most of the time. She sat down with much harrumphing, buckled her belt over both her coat and purse, and settled into her seat.
“Ladies and gentleman, we’d like to thank you for choosing Northwest Airlines,” the pilot announced. “We’re going to be experiencing a bit of a delay, we just flew in from Minneapolis and we need to fuel up. Thanks for your understanding.”
“What?” the woman next to me asked. I filled her in on the situation at hand. “Well, I don’t see why they just didn’t get gas in Minneapolis.” She kept going on and on about the gas situation. “Do you see the gas truck? Do you see it?”
“Nope, I don’t.” But my window is only the size of my face, so my view of the outside world is rather limited. She rocked back and forth, trying to see out the other side of the plane. “I don’t see the gas truck. Do you see it yet?” I’ve never seen someone so distrustful of a simple announcement in my life. Personally, I’d rather have too much fuel than too little, so fuel away, folks. I’ll wait. She then regaled me with the epic saga of Her Flight to Chicago (Thrice Diverted for Fuel) and Her Expectance of a Steak Dinner for Her Inconvenience and the Receipt of Only a Can of Soda and Some Chips.
Sigh.
A million years later, when her story was finally done, the pilot announced that we were ready to go. “Did you see the gas truck? I didn’t see the truck,” opined my new conspiracy theorist buddy. “They’re very sneaky,” I replied. Luckily, the jet engines had just kicked in and she didn’t hear me. We taxied to the runway and began to take off. The ‘fasten seatbelt’ light was on. It was a completely full flight. I was still in the window seat. Chewing off a limb would not have helped me, and if it would have, let’s just say that this would have been much harder to type. I’m telling you this so you know that there was no way – at all - for me to escape.
“So,” she began abruptly, because going insane is like getting into cold water- it’s best to do it quickly - “did you happen to catch that special that was on the other night? It was with Peter Jennings, and it was all about UFOs.”
“No… I missed that one,” I said carefully. “I remember seeing the commercials for it, though.” “Well let me tell you,” she continued, “it was fascinating. They had interviews with some of the nurses at Roswell who saw the bodies…” she went on, further in depth than any TV Guide blurb, as if to prove to me that she had actually seen the whole show. She stopped just shy of humming the theme song. “Do you know anyone?” she asked. I shook my head. “Know anyone?” I asked, confused. “Anyone who’s been abducted,” she said, matter-of-factly. Oh. Duh. Abducted. By aliens. From space.
“Uh… no?” I said slowly. She forged ahead. “I don’t either. But there are documented cases and medical records of metal implants in people’s heads. Up their noses! There are records of this. And I don’t think the government is scammin’ us.” Yeah. Here I encountered a fork in the road of our conversation. I could either choose to be amiable, or I could play with her mind. I initially opted for amiable, as I was still strapped in beside her.
“Well, I used to watch The X-Files,” I began, half jokingly, for how do you hold a serious conversation with a person like this? Her reaction stopped me cold. “Oh,” she said, her over-plucked eyebrows rising in a non-verbal scoff. “I don’t watch The X-Files.” She said the show title like it was something disgusting, to be held pinched between two fingers at arms length - this fictional drivel was apparently blasphemy in the face of a true believer such as herself.
“I know a man who said he’s seen several things in the sky, you know, questionable things. And I think I’ve seen something in the sky once or twice myself.” Hmm. Play time. “You know, when you see something in the sky like that, you should look at the time.” “The time?” she questioned. “Yeah- lots of abductees report missing time. You wake up and it’s minutes or hours later, and that’s the only way you know you’ve been abducted.” Her eyes widened. I could see her brain filing this information away for later use. That kind of scared me. “Okay. Okay,” she said. Then came the moment of truth.
“Do you believe in aliens?” she asked, looking at me over her glasses. If there was one thing I wanted to focus on, it was to NOT disagree with a crazy person in an enclosed area. I decided on ambiguity. “Well, there is a lot of universe out there,” I said vaguely. “You’re right!” she exclaimed, apparently taking my hedging as a resounding agreement with her particular brand of crazy. “And there’s so much garbage out there, too! Just orbiting the planet forever, doing nothing!”
Turns out, I had recently learned that in reality, orbits degrade. Objects orbiting us will eventually spiral down towards Earth, most likely burning up in the atmosphere. I informed Crazy McAbductee of this.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening in newfound respect. “Are you… a scientist?” She said the word ‘scientist’ like most people would say ‘made of chipped diamonds’ and some other people might say ‘the scion of Elvis.’ “Well, I have a degree in Biology. And I read a lot.” I explained. Let her make of that what she will. “Oh, I read a lot, too,” she replied. And then, “Well, actually I watch a lot of TV.” If you could choke on a laugh, I would have needed the Heimlich maneuver. I feel a great personal sense of pride that I didn’t laugh at any point during the conversation.
She then proceeded to tell me about another program she had seen, about someone who had written a book after spending years in the Middle East. To her, a television program about an author seemed to be appropriate middle ground for us. He had been on “one of those fast-talking programs- Hardball,” she seemed to recall. Why haven’t they made the announcement about electronic devices yet? It’s entirely possible I just didn’t hear it over her subsequent lecture about Iraq. The way things were, are and should be were apparently well within her grasp. She branched out, telling me about the class struggles and discrimination of these people she knew so well.
“And they were just killin’ Jews!” she exclaimed later in the conversation. “They’d see a Jew on the street and just kill him!” That’s horrible… would you mind keeping your voice down? This isn’t a good conversation for people to overhear bits and pieces of. I tried to dissuade her from talking by replying with a series of disinterested ‘mmhmms’ and ‘ohs,’ and she eventually quieted down. For a grand total of about five minutes.
“Do you play the piano?” she asked, apropos of nothing. “A little,” I said, wondering where this was going. “You have such long, beautiful fingers,” she said. “Oh, uh- thank you.” More silence.
She hopped from topic to topic in this manner: periods of silence sandwiched between bursts of random insanity. Topics covered include her daughter’s take on retirement (take twenty years off when you’re fifty, go back to work at seventy), the height of corn in Iowa when she was young (twenty one feet), oceanfront property in Arizona (it may not happen in her lifetime, but it’ll happen) and places she’s traveled (my God make it stop). All punctuated with just enough silence to make me think it would be okay to reach for my music right before she began talking yet again.
“How would you like to stay in Hawaii for free?” Oh sweet Lord- don’t tell me you’re a telemarketer, too? “And how would I go about doing that?” I asked, ready to give up on life. She proceeded to tell me about some mission trip/university/cult with centers all over the world. She told me the real name, but for brevity’s sake lets just call it Jesus U. Apparently you can work there and stay for free for months at a time. She cleaned rooms because she doesn’t do computers and blah blah blah sunsets and foreigners and life-affirming experiences. “That sounds like a good program,” I said, my eyes glazing over. Apparently that was the phrase that triggered the hypnotically suggested sales pitch buried deep within her brain. “Well, Howard Somethingorother had a vision in 1973- no, 1972. He saw the waves on the shores of the island and thought that instead of waves, what if they were Christians bringing the word of God to all the shores of the world?” Um, the ocean life might suffer? She continued her sales pitch, and ended by telling me the name of the program again. “I’m sure you can look it up on eBay or email,” she concluded, proving why she was sent to work scrubbing toilets and not installing hard drives.
Finally, we landed. We started to head towards the gate, but ended up having to stop about seventy yards away, because God hates me. I could see the gate through the window, tantalizingly out of reach. Madame Mental Illness decided that this was the time to tender her goodbye.
“It has been nice talking to you,” she said thoughtfully, choosing her words carefully. “I wish you… fulfillment, and… enlightenment… and I wish you to be useful.” Bzuh? As it turns out, this was less of a goodbye as it was a launching pad for a tirade about the welfare system, or something.
"People just expect the government to pay for everything. When I was growing up, we depended on our family and friends. And my social security check comes each week, and my sister gets the same amount as these people with two, three billion dollars! The same amount of money from the government! How is that fair?"
"Well, I suppose you'd have to decide on a cutoff point, and that could get-"
"Three billion dollars! That's your cutoff point! And when my house was destroyed in Florida by a hurricane, you don't just expect the government to buy you a new one!" (Atrocious switching of person hers, not mine).
"Isn't that why people buy insurance?"
"NO! You buy insurance, and suddenly someone scratches your car, and they raise your premiums! And then they kick you off your policy! And then you can't go anywhere else to get a new policy, because it's too expensive!" Evidently she had some things to get off her chest. I sat silently, afraid to move for fear she would direct her rage at me. She calmed down as we pulled up to the gate.
"It has been nice talking to you! And one day, I hope to see your name up in lights! Even though I don't know what your name is!" I sighed- what harm could it do?
"I'm Lisa." Her eyes lit up.
"Oh! I'm Lois," she exclaimed, and leaned one shoulder into me, almost conspiratorially. She winked. "We L's have got to stick together.” And we did for a while longer, because the aisle was too narrow for me to get around her and run screaming into the airport.
UPDATE: Although it seemed disturbingly plausible last night, this is NOT the Lois who taught my Language 10 class. Exonerating evidence:
Phone: Ring!
Lois: Hello?
Lisa: Can I speak to Lois [insert last name here], please?
Lois: Speaking.
Lisa: Did you go to Seattle last week?
Lois: Uh, no.
Lisa: Oh- sorry, I think I have the wrong number.
Phone: Click.
Case closed.
It all started innocently enough. There was a baby two rows up I initially pegged as a source of annoyance. I had a window seat, which I enjoy because I'm twelve, and was waiting for takeoff and the pilot’s announcement that I could listen to my music without inadvertently taking control of the plane via my MP3 player. As I was looking out the window, I heard a soft voice behind me. I turned to see an elderly woman talking to herself. Or maybe to me. It was hard to say, so I let her mutter uninterrupted. One of the only things crazier than talking to yourself in a public setting is answering a person who is obviously talking to herself.
Perhaps she was muttering to the overlarge tote bag she was carrying. It contained a breakable Annoyance to Airline Personnel, which I helped her slide underneath the seat because I am polite to people I don’t know. Most of the time. She sat down with much harrumphing, buckled her belt over both her coat and purse, and settled into her seat.
“Ladies and gentleman, we’d like to thank you for choosing Northwest Airlines,” the pilot announced. “We’re going to be experiencing a bit of a delay, we just flew in from Minneapolis and we need to fuel up. Thanks for your understanding.”
“What?” the woman next to me asked. I filled her in on the situation at hand. “Well, I don’t see why they just didn’t get gas in Minneapolis.” She kept going on and on about the gas situation. “Do you see the gas truck? Do you see it?”
“Nope, I don’t.” But my window is only the size of my face, so my view of the outside world is rather limited. She rocked back and forth, trying to see out the other side of the plane. “I don’t see the gas truck. Do you see it yet?” I’ve never seen someone so distrustful of a simple announcement in my life. Personally, I’d rather have too much fuel than too little, so fuel away, folks. I’ll wait. She then regaled me with the epic saga of Her Flight to Chicago (Thrice Diverted for Fuel) and Her Expectance of a Steak Dinner for Her Inconvenience and the Receipt of Only a Can of Soda and Some Chips.
Sigh.
A million years later, when her story was finally done, the pilot announced that we were ready to go. “Did you see the gas truck? I didn’t see the truck,” opined my new conspiracy theorist buddy. “They’re very sneaky,” I replied. Luckily, the jet engines had just kicked in and she didn’t hear me. We taxied to the runway and began to take off. The ‘fasten seatbelt’ light was on. It was a completely full flight. I was still in the window seat. Chewing off a limb would not have helped me, and if it would have, let’s just say that this would have been much harder to type. I’m telling you this so you know that there was no way – at all - for me to escape.
“So,” she began abruptly, because going insane is like getting into cold water- it’s best to do it quickly - “did you happen to catch that special that was on the other night? It was with Peter Jennings, and it was all about UFOs.”
“No… I missed that one,” I said carefully. “I remember seeing the commercials for it, though.” “Well let me tell you,” she continued, “it was fascinating. They had interviews with some of the nurses at Roswell who saw the bodies…” she went on, further in depth than any TV Guide blurb, as if to prove to me that she had actually seen the whole show. She stopped just shy of humming the theme song. “Do you know anyone?” she asked. I shook my head. “Know anyone?” I asked, confused. “Anyone who’s been abducted,” she said, matter-of-factly. Oh. Duh. Abducted. By aliens. From space.
“Uh… no?” I said slowly. She forged ahead. “I don’t either. But there are documented cases and medical records of metal implants in people’s heads. Up their noses! There are records of this. And I don’t think the government is scammin’ us.” Yeah. Here I encountered a fork in the road of our conversation. I could either choose to be amiable, or I could play with her mind. I initially opted for amiable, as I was still strapped in beside her.
“Well, I used to watch The X-Files,” I began, half jokingly, for how do you hold a serious conversation with a person like this? Her reaction stopped me cold. “Oh,” she said, her over-plucked eyebrows rising in a non-verbal scoff. “I don’t watch The X-Files.” She said the show title like it was something disgusting, to be held pinched between two fingers at arms length - this fictional drivel was apparently blasphemy in the face of a true believer such as herself.
“I know a man who said he’s seen several things in the sky, you know, questionable things. And I think I’ve seen something in the sky once or twice myself.” Hmm. Play time. “You know, when you see something in the sky like that, you should look at the time.” “The time?” she questioned. “Yeah- lots of abductees report missing time. You wake up and it’s minutes or hours later, and that’s the only way you know you’ve been abducted.” Her eyes widened. I could see her brain filing this information away for later use. That kind of scared me. “Okay. Okay,” she said. Then came the moment of truth.
“Do you believe in aliens?” she asked, looking at me over her glasses. If there was one thing I wanted to focus on, it was to NOT disagree with a crazy person in an enclosed area. I decided on ambiguity. “Well, there is a lot of universe out there,” I said vaguely. “You’re right!” she exclaimed, apparently taking my hedging as a resounding agreement with her particular brand of crazy. “And there’s so much garbage out there, too! Just orbiting the planet forever, doing nothing!”
Turns out, I had recently learned that in reality, orbits degrade. Objects orbiting us will eventually spiral down towards Earth, most likely burning up in the atmosphere. I informed Crazy McAbductee of this.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening in newfound respect. “Are you… a scientist?” She said the word ‘scientist’ like most people would say ‘made of chipped diamonds’ and some other people might say ‘the scion of Elvis.’ “Well, I have a degree in Biology. And I read a lot.” I explained. Let her make of that what she will. “Oh, I read a lot, too,” she replied. And then, “Well, actually I watch a lot of TV.” If you could choke on a laugh, I would have needed the Heimlich maneuver. I feel a great personal sense of pride that I didn’t laugh at any point during the conversation.
She then proceeded to tell me about another program she had seen, about someone who had written a book after spending years in the Middle East. To her, a television program about an author seemed to be appropriate middle ground for us. He had been on “one of those fast-talking programs- Hardball,” she seemed to recall. Why haven’t they made the announcement about electronic devices yet? It’s entirely possible I just didn’t hear it over her subsequent lecture about Iraq. The way things were, are and should be were apparently well within her grasp. She branched out, telling me about the class struggles and discrimination of these people she knew so well.
“And they were just killin’ Jews!” she exclaimed later in the conversation. “They’d see a Jew on the street and just kill him!” That’s horrible… would you mind keeping your voice down? This isn’t a good conversation for people to overhear bits and pieces of. I tried to dissuade her from talking by replying with a series of disinterested ‘mmhmms’ and ‘ohs,’ and she eventually quieted down. For a grand total of about five minutes.
“Do you play the piano?” she asked, apropos of nothing. “A little,” I said, wondering where this was going. “You have such long, beautiful fingers,” she said. “Oh, uh- thank you.” More silence.
She hopped from topic to topic in this manner: periods of silence sandwiched between bursts of random insanity. Topics covered include her daughter’s take on retirement (take twenty years off when you’re fifty, go back to work at seventy), the height of corn in Iowa when she was young (twenty one feet), oceanfront property in Arizona (it may not happen in her lifetime, but it’ll happen) and places she’s traveled (my God make it stop). All punctuated with just enough silence to make me think it would be okay to reach for my music right before she began talking yet again.
“How would you like to stay in Hawaii for free?” Oh sweet Lord- don’t tell me you’re a telemarketer, too? “And how would I go about doing that?” I asked, ready to give up on life. She proceeded to tell me about some mission trip/university/cult with centers all over the world. She told me the real name, but for brevity’s sake lets just call it Jesus U. Apparently you can work there and stay for free for months at a time. She cleaned rooms because she doesn’t do computers and blah blah blah sunsets and foreigners and life-affirming experiences. “That sounds like a good program,” I said, my eyes glazing over. Apparently that was the phrase that triggered the hypnotically suggested sales pitch buried deep within her brain. “Well, Howard Somethingorother had a vision in 1973- no, 1972. He saw the waves on the shores of the island and thought that instead of waves, what if they were Christians bringing the word of God to all the shores of the world?” Um, the ocean life might suffer? She continued her sales pitch, and ended by telling me the name of the program again. “I’m sure you can look it up on eBay or email,” she concluded, proving why she was sent to work scrubbing toilets and not installing hard drives.
Finally, we landed. We started to head towards the gate, but ended up having to stop about seventy yards away, because God hates me. I could see the gate through the window, tantalizingly out of reach. Madame Mental Illness decided that this was the time to tender her goodbye.
“It has been nice talking to you,” she said thoughtfully, choosing her words carefully. “I wish you… fulfillment, and… enlightenment… and I wish you to be useful.” Bzuh? As it turns out, this was less of a goodbye as it was a launching pad for a tirade about the welfare system, or something.
"People just expect the government to pay for everything. When I was growing up, we depended on our family and friends. And my social security check comes each week, and my sister gets the same amount as these people with two, three billion dollars! The same amount of money from the government! How is that fair?"
"Well, I suppose you'd have to decide on a cutoff point, and that could get-"
"Three billion dollars! That's your cutoff point! And when my house was destroyed in Florida by a hurricane, you don't just expect the government to buy you a new one!" (Atrocious switching of person hers, not mine).
"Isn't that why people buy insurance?"
"NO! You buy insurance, and suddenly someone scratches your car, and they raise your premiums! And then they kick you off your policy! And then you can't go anywhere else to get a new policy, because it's too expensive!" Evidently she had some things to get off her chest. I sat silently, afraid to move for fear she would direct her rage at me. She calmed down as we pulled up to the gate.
"It has been nice talking to you! And one day, I hope to see your name up in lights! Even though I don't know what your name is!" I sighed- what harm could it do?
"I'm Lisa." Her eyes lit up.
"Oh! I'm Lois," she exclaimed, and leaned one shoulder into me, almost conspiratorially. She winked. "We L's have got to stick together.” And we did for a while longer, because the aisle was too narrow for me to get around her and run screaming into the airport.
UPDATE: Although it seemed disturbingly plausible last night, this is NOT the Lois who taught my Language 10 class. Exonerating evidence:
Phone: Ring!
Lois: Hello?
Lisa: Can I speak to Lois [insert last name here], please?
Lois: Speaking.
Lisa: Did you go to Seattle last week?
Lois: Uh, no.
Lisa: Oh- sorry, I think I have the wrong number.
Phone: Click.
Case closed.
Monday, January 24, 2005
He Who Smelt It... Invented Something to Mask the Stench
I remember reading somewhere that every nanosecond after we encounter an odor, our ability to detect it decreases fifty percent, so that a bothersome smell can soon go unnoticed. I think I read it in my notes from a Principles of Physiology class, so to approximate the accuracy of that statement multiply it by however much I was paying attention in class that day. (Aside to my tuition-paying parents – 100. Full. Whatever the maximum amount of the ‘attention scale’ is. Always.) Theoretically, then, any unpleasant odors should be undetectable before they become annoying. But I’ve noticed that there is a growing epidemic in our country. No, an epidemic besides ring tones and Anna Nicole Smith. The epidemic I’m referring to is The Stink, and it’s everywhere. You’re not alone, Stinky McSmellyhouse. Well, maybe you are- because you smell. But you’re not alone in your problem is what I’m saying. Luckily, the arsenal of anti-stink paraphernalia grows everyday.
Perhaps the most common weapon is the aerosol spray. Simply spray a graceful arc of atomized chemicals through your problem room in the manner of a rhythmic gymnast with a ribbon dancer and voila! For days, everything will taste like a metallic spring waterfall. And by the time the spray wears off, the original offending smell will seem so much better in comparison, you’ll welcome it back into your sinus cavities. Unfortunately, these sprays usually contain CFCs which travel into the atmosphere and up north to club baby seals. Or something like that. So there is a downside.
Does that sounds like too much work? Is the thought of all that arm motion making your biceps ache? Or perhaps raising your arm in the air would only exacerbate the problem. If that’s the case, I’d suggest some deodorant and then maybe an air freshener that attaches to the wall, so you don’t have to bear its burden while freshening your space. According to the commercial, surely a non-biased source, you’re just two presses away from an odorless room. A faulty install could give you a scented, plume-shaped stain on your wall, but the people on the commercial sure seem to like it. Admittedly, I’m taking their word for how well it works. Smell-o-vision doesn’t exist… yet.
For those of you underwhelmed by the prospect of taking an active role in the Battle of the Stink, don’t worry. There’s the old passive aggressive standby of the candle, which offers so many options for scents that I may have permanently damaged my olfactory receptors when I worked in the candle room at Hallmark. The candle room was ostensibly open to the rest of the store but effectively separated by an unseen wall of stink. The unholy combinations were worse than anything you’d want to cover, and the horrors my nose endured in the name of minimum wage may have killed a lesser person. From ‘Storm Watch,’ which tried to purport that an impending lightning storm smells like dryer sheets, to ‘Green Grass,’ which smells like burning lawn clippings on your kitchen counter… but that’s enough Hallmark bitchery from me. Candles are great stink-maskers, but if your problem is such that this steady stream of scent is a necessity, perhaps your needs would be better served by something that doesn’t include an open flame. Never fear… read on.
A popular option is the plug-in variety of de-stinkers. Simply plug one in and you’re on your way to a life less smelly, all thanks to the miracle of electricity. And if you’re worried about that air freshener stealing your precious outlet, calm down. They come in so many configurations that you’ll be able to find one that will allow you to continue your stinky life unhindered. They come with an extra outlet, with a fan, with a night light, with an outlet and a fan, with an outlet and a light, with or without an automatic transmission. You could use a different kind each day for years without repeating. Okay, maybe not years. Months, then. At least weeks. And hey, if you’ve got enough time to deconstruct my hyperbole, maybe you could better spend that time finding out why your house smells so bad in the first place, jerk. Moving on.
“But Lisa!” you whine. “I have stink in a room with no outlets. What am I gonna do!? HELP!” First off, dial down the desperation there, buddy. Glade was built on the frantic sniveling of whiners like you (this may not be true). And secondly, why are you whining to me? It’s not like I can do anything about it. For now. (And the second I can do something about it, I’m escalating that can’t to a won’t. Take that, little people.) But it just so happens that the air freshener industry has heard your pathetic little cry. Behold, the portable air freshening fan. Put it anywhere, and it will spin its little battery-operated heart out, ensuring you a steady stream of fresh air, 2 cubic centimeters at a time for your olfactory enjoyment.
Recent additions to the freshening family is the Whisp, which contains a microchip to tell it to regularly belch visible puffs of white scent-smoke. I just hope it smells better than the liquid smoke used in model trains, because that stuff reeks. Someone I knew had one. No, not me. I am a dork in many different ways, but model trains are not in my repertoire of geekery. A plus side of these is they seem to be great entertainment, judging by the reactions of the (paid) people (acting) in the commercials. So if, say, you forget how to read and the cable goes out and all your board games are destroyed in a fire, you can happily sit around counting the puffs, making sure they all smell the same, or holy crap just TALK to each other already.
If electricity and batteries confuse you, which isn’t surprising considering the challenge personal hygiene and basic housekeeping seem to pose, listen up. Gel fresheners are available right at your fingertips, and have few to no moving parts. Some are pretty, with a sparkling crystal disc of colored gel, while other gels are covered by conical plastic sheaths. Ever wonder why that is? I did. Upon prying the cover off of one, I found it’s because depending on the scent, the hidden gel looks like a quavering tower of snot. Seriously. And those covers don’t snap back on too easily, so you’re left with cracked plastic shards and a shrinking phallus of phlegm until it doesn’t stink anymore and you can justify throwing it away. Feel free to learn from my mistakes here. Seriously.
If all these de-stinking promises sound good to you, but they don’t cost nearly as much as you’d like to spend, there is a solution. The ionizer operates on the premise that air smells bad because it hasn’t been filtered through the three easy payments of an expensive, unnecessary machine. Perfect for air snobs everywhere. So as you prance around your fancy house with your nose in the air, rest assured that anything you suck in through that schnoz will have blown past some metal plates and is now superior to other air.
Now that the stench of your living space isn’t interfering with your mental processes, let’s move on to the important issue: What exactly are you doing to create such a stench? Because if you can’t be in a room without it being artificially de-stunk, maybe you’re asking yourself the wrong questions. Instead of “Hmmm, am I in a kiwi-strawberry or a vanilla mist type of mood?” perhaps you should give thought to “Hey, has anyone seen the cat recently, because it smells like something is decomposing in a heat register.” It’s fun to throw money at the symptoms, but for God’s sake, take a shower or something- we’ve got to start eliminating possible sources.
Smell you guys later... or will I?
Perhaps the most common weapon is the aerosol spray. Simply spray a graceful arc of atomized chemicals through your problem room in the manner of a rhythmic gymnast with a ribbon dancer and voila! For days, everything will taste like a metallic spring waterfall. And by the time the spray wears off, the original offending smell will seem so much better in comparison, you’ll welcome it back into your sinus cavities. Unfortunately, these sprays usually contain CFCs which travel into the atmosphere and up north to club baby seals. Or something like that. So there is a downside.
Does that sounds like too much work? Is the thought of all that arm motion making your biceps ache? Or perhaps raising your arm in the air would only exacerbate the problem. If that’s the case, I’d suggest some deodorant and then maybe an air freshener that attaches to the wall, so you don’t have to bear its burden while freshening your space. According to the commercial, surely a non-biased source, you’re just two presses away from an odorless room. A faulty install could give you a scented, plume-shaped stain on your wall, but the people on the commercial sure seem to like it. Admittedly, I’m taking their word for how well it works. Smell-o-vision doesn’t exist… yet.
For those of you underwhelmed by the prospect of taking an active role in the Battle of the Stink, don’t worry. There’s the old passive aggressive standby of the candle, which offers so many options for scents that I may have permanently damaged my olfactory receptors when I worked in the candle room at Hallmark. The candle room was ostensibly open to the rest of the store but effectively separated by an unseen wall of stink. The unholy combinations were worse than anything you’d want to cover, and the horrors my nose endured in the name of minimum wage may have killed a lesser person. From ‘Storm Watch,’ which tried to purport that an impending lightning storm smells like dryer sheets, to ‘Green Grass,’ which smells like burning lawn clippings on your kitchen counter… but that’s enough Hallmark bitchery from me. Candles are great stink-maskers, but if your problem is such that this steady stream of scent is a necessity, perhaps your needs would be better served by something that doesn’t include an open flame. Never fear… read on.
A popular option is the plug-in variety of de-stinkers. Simply plug one in and you’re on your way to a life less smelly, all thanks to the miracle of electricity. And if you’re worried about that air freshener stealing your precious outlet, calm down. They come in so many configurations that you’ll be able to find one that will allow you to continue your stinky life unhindered. They come with an extra outlet, with a fan, with a night light, with an outlet and a fan, with an outlet and a light, with or without an automatic transmission. You could use a different kind each day for years without repeating. Okay, maybe not years. Months, then. At least weeks. And hey, if you’ve got enough time to deconstruct my hyperbole, maybe you could better spend that time finding out why your house smells so bad in the first place, jerk. Moving on.
“But Lisa!” you whine. “I have stink in a room with no outlets. What am I gonna do!? HELP!” First off, dial down the desperation there, buddy. Glade was built on the frantic sniveling of whiners like you (this may not be true). And secondly, why are you whining to me? It’s not like I can do anything about it. For now. (And the second I can do something about it, I’m escalating that can’t to a won’t. Take that, little people.) But it just so happens that the air freshener industry has heard your pathetic little cry. Behold, the portable air freshening fan. Put it anywhere, and it will spin its little battery-operated heart out, ensuring you a steady stream of fresh air, 2 cubic centimeters at a time for your olfactory enjoyment.
Recent additions to the freshening family is the Whisp, which contains a microchip to tell it to regularly belch visible puffs of white scent-smoke. I just hope it smells better than the liquid smoke used in model trains, because that stuff reeks. Someone I knew had one. No, not me. I am a dork in many different ways, but model trains are not in my repertoire of geekery. A plus side of these is they seem to be great entertainment, judging by the reactions of the (paid) people (acting) in the commercials. So if, say, you forget how to read and the cable goes out and all your board games are destroyed in a fire, you can happily sit around counting the puffs, making sure they all smell the same, or holy crap just TALK to each other already.
If electricity and batteries confuse you, which isn’t surprising considering the challenge personal hygiene and basic housekeeping seem to pose, listen up. Gel fresheners are available right at your fingertips, and have few to no moving parts. Some are pretty, with a sparkling crystal disc of colored gel, while other gels are covered by conical plastic sheaths. Ever wonder why that is? I did. Upon prying the cover off of one, I found it’s because depending on the scent, the hidden gel looks like a quavering tower of snot. Seriously. And those covers don’t snap back on too easily, so you’re left with cracked plastic shards and a shrinking phallus of phlegm until it doesn’t stink anymore and you can justify throwing it away. Feel free to learn from my mistakes here. Seriously.
If all these de-stinking promises sound good to you, but they don’t cost nearly as much as you’d like to spend, there is a solution. The ionizer operates on the premise that air smells bad because it hasn’t been filtered through the three easy payments of an expensive, unnecessary machine. Perfect for air snobs everywhere. So as you prance around your fancy house with your nose in the air, rest assured that anything you suck in through that schnoz will have blown past some metal plates and is now superior to other air.
Now that the stench of your living space isn’t interfering with your mental processes, let’s move on to the important issue: What exactly are you doing to create such a stench? Because if you can’t be in a room without it being artificially de-stunk, maybe you’re asking yourself the wrong questions. Instead of “Hmmm, am I in a kiwi-strawberry or a vanilla mist type of mood?” perhaps you should give thought to “Hey, has anyone seen the cat recently, because it smells like something is decomposing in a heat register.” It’s fun to throw money at the symptoms, but for God’s sake, take a shower or something- we’ve got to start eliminating possible sources.
Smell you guys later... or will I?
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