comedy, Culture, Depression

Mixed Eggs and Scrambled Feelings

EGG.Before Top Chef and Chopped there were lesser known cooking competitions that aired a jillion years ago. A short-lived program involved a European Chef and his gorgeous model wife who performed the show from their stunning home. If you were a woman watching this show it was almost impossible to maintain even a low level of self-esteem.

To qualify as a contestant on the show the host asked the cooks to prepare an egg any style. I couldn’t understand why cooking an egg would be a litmus test for chefs and I still don’t. However, what I did learn recently is that for me cooking an egg is symbolic of my life. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here; I’m not talking about renewal or hope. I suffer from depression…eggs remind me of my fucked up life.

My eggs are always free-range, scrambled with tomato and shredded cheese. I drop two small pats of butter into my heated pan and then wait one complete second for the butter to melt. I then hang a fork which I dipped into the raw eggs over the pan so I could test an egg dribble for proper heat. For thirty years the “after dribble” has played out the same and I have ignored signs that a disaster or at least a bad egg awaits.

Instead of cooking, the egg dribble spreads a little and then rests as if mocking me. I wait a full two seconds and dump eggs into pan. Shockingly, I learn that waiting only three seconds for butter to heat is illogical even with the best stove. The heavy shredded cheese stays wherever it landed in the pan while the lighter weight tomato pieces travel within the goo slightly. Thirty years of egg cooking and I have never heard the sizzle that is supposed to happen when egg meets pan. What is it about just waiting for the pan to heat the butter adequately that I can’t do?

My lack of patience and sometimes terminal uniqueness has caused many challenges in my life. I’m not letting the pan-of-life heat up enough, not letting things just happen. In the last year I have:

  • Rushed a relationship, lest the man not be interested if he got to know me better. This of course leads to said man running wildly into woods while screaming.
  • I have lost my shit repeatedly while waiting for returned texts and e-mails from…you can guess who.
  • Ignored reading “how to replace a toilet lid” directions only to buy a stumpy lid for an elongated toilet. Now every time I sit down the lid violently shifts to one side.
  • Experienced hundreds of Mac “Wheel of Deaths” from moving faster than my Mac, which in the end delays anything I’m working on.
  • Finished friends sentences because I just couldn’t stand waiting for them to say the same thing for the million time. In case you haven’t done this to friends, I can tell you first hand, THEY DON’T LIKE IT.

One of the differences between children and adults is the ability to delay gratification. I honestly feel that I delay gratification for so long that I should be considered a martyr. For instance, I wait too long to eat or drink while I’m working and then complain that I have no time for sustenance. I guess I have the least amount of patience when the most amount of feelings are invested. I’m positive if I wait I will be forgotten about. So like an annoying nat, I keep popping back up.

So there you have it…eggs on low heat don’t cook well. Life on impatience doesn’t work.

Anyone else out there rush to wait? Please tell me I’m not the only one…

Culture, Love

Dating a Centaur?

I’m sorry, but if I’m considering a relationship with a horse, then more people need to read about it, hence the repost!

centI believe my working with dogs has set the bar higher for me in terms of what I want in a man. I’m looking for a guy who shares the most favorable traits of a dog. Notice I said favorable, this is to rule out licking of the genitals, and rolling or eating of poop.

Perhaps what I need is a Centaur, the half-man, half-horse from Greek Mythology. There are many positives that can be gained from a relationship forged with a Centaur.

I would be able to converse with my Centaur because he’s half-man on top. He could also stay up on current events, which we could then discuss afterward. If he’s a Trump supporter, he will be shown where the barn door is.

I’m not exactly sure what’s safest for my Centaur’s tummy, but I know that I’m sure as hell not eating hay, even laced with chocolate. Going out to eat might cause a challenge because his horse ass wouldn’t fit in a chair. However, my human ass is headed in that same direction so we could commiserate.cent1

Because he would have horse feet, I would have to learn to be a farrier. While he wouldn’t be able to farry (?) his own feet, he could still massage mine. I’m also assuming his feet wouldn’t smell, because his feet are really more cuticle than flesh.

I guess we would have to be careful not to exercise too close to eating because of the possibility of his getting bloat. This really wouldn’t present a problem for me as my horse ass doesn’t like exercise.

I can’t get away without mentioning the possible size of his bowel movements. I know what you were thinking, but wait for it. I’m 47 and can’t even admit to p**ping so thinking of the ramifications involved with my beloveds crap is terrifying. The cool thing here is that because he has arms he could let himself out and even pick up his poo. This works out well, because I have shame issues and don’t look forward to sharing a bathroom. Pretty funny to think about my shame compared to an animals whose poop could be the size of a small child.

Certainly if I can’t talk about human bodily functions, sex is off the table, but how can one not address that I could have a husband who isn’t hung like a horse, he’s a hung horse. My body can hardly accommodate the smallest speculum at my gynecologist office or a tampon slimmer than my pinky. I experience zero relief when I remember that an infant comes out of there since an infant has never come out of mine.

While I don’t anticipate meeting a Centaur on Oahu because we have limited parking, please let me know if you could think of any additional pro’s or con’s for this particular type of dating.

Naaayyyyy!!

comedy, Culture, Love

Dating a Centaur

centI believe my working with dogs has set the bar higher for me in terms of what I want in a man. I’m looking for a guy who shares the most favorable traits of a dog. Notice I said favorable, this is to rule out licking of the genitals, and rolling or eating of poop.

Perhaps what I need is a Centaur, the half-man, half-horse from Greek Mythology. There are many positives that can be gained from a relationship forged with a Centaur.

I would be able to converse with my Centaur because he’s half-man on top. He could also stay up on current events, which we could then discuss afterward. If he’s a Trump supporter, he will be shown where the barn door is.

I’m not exactly sure what’s safest for my Centaur’s tummy, but I know that I’m sure as hell not eating hay, even laced with chocolate. Going out to eat might cause a challenge because his horse ass wouldn’t fit in a chair. However, my human ass is headed in that same direction so we could commiserate.cent1

Because he would have horse feet, I would have to learn to be a farrier. While he wouldn’t be able to farry (?) his own feet, he could still massage mine. I’m also assuming his feet wouldn’t smell, because his feet are really more cuticle than flesh.

I guess we would have to be careful not to exercise too close to eating because of the possibility of his getting bloat. This really wouldn’t present a problem for me as my horse ass doesn’t like exercise.

I can’t get away without mentioning the possible size of his bowel movements. I know what you were thinking, but wait for it. I’m 47 and can’t even admit to p**ping so thinking of the ramifications involved with my beloveds crap is terrifying. The cool thing here is that because he has arms he could let himself out and even pick up his poo. This works out well, because I have shame issues and don’t look forward to sharing a bathroom. Pretty funny to think about my shame compared to an animals whose poop could be the size of a small child.

Certainly if I can’t talk about human bodily functions, sex is off the table, but how can one not address that I could have a husband who isn’t hung like a horse, he’s a hung horse. My body can hardly accommodate the smallest speculum at my gynecologist office or a tampon slimmer than my pinky. I experience zero relief when I remember that an infant comes out of there since an infant has never come out of mine.

While I don’t anticipate meeting a Centaur on Oahu because we have limited parking, please let me know if you could think of any additional pro’s or con’s for this particular type of dating.

Naaayyyyy!!

Culture, Women

Help a Dane!

flagjpgHeard a report on NPR today that I thought was both cute and stupid. Apparently the rate of skin cancer among Danes (those hailing from Denmark and yes I had to look up) is quite high. A public service announcement (psa) has been created in an effort to decrease the risks of cancer for the Danes and will air in sunny vacation destinations such as Greece, Italy and France.

The announcement pleads with residents of the above countries to be especially nice to Danes that don’t appear to know about the damaging rays of the sun. It suggests that residents give the Dane in question some water and maybe get him or her to a shaded location. I have zero doubt that if I was a resident of Greece, Italy or France, and I tried to a help a Dane, he would think I’m trying to mug him as I shuffle off into the darkness with him.

I have always believed in being nice to strangers and of course animals in need. I don’t have a problem with offering a Dane some assistance. However, I walk around with the weight of the world on my shoulders and now the Danish government wants me to care for their vacationers? Seriously? Do they really not know that their pasty white skin will fry in the sun?

How the hell would I identify a Dane, I didn’t even know what country these guys reside in. Why would anyone listen to me? With over twenty years of experience working with dogs, I can’t even get my clients to listen to me let alone a Dane. I spent a week in Florida during my spring break from college and was advised by a resident that I was roasting. Instead of thanking them, I said “Great, I’m hoping to get a tan.”

GAME CHANGER: I watched the psa below and it’s hysterical. I just assumed it would be a cold delivery. I guess this is why I’m not a reporter. I’m a horrible person. I lost the version with the exact translation. The below description isn’t funny at all. However, watch the commercial, you will at least smirk.

 

Help a Dane

Every year, thousands of Danes travel to sunny destinations on holiday. Unfortunately, many of them return home with a sunburn. Sunburns are painful in the short run and they increase the risk of skin cancer in the long run.

This is an appeal for help.

You can help The Danish Sun Safety Campaign prevent sunburns and deadly skin cancer by reminding the Danes to remember shade, sun hat and sunscreen.

Sign up now to Help a Dane at
helpadane.com

 

comedy, Culture, Love

Death, Taxes & Dating

image206

It’s been said that the only two things in which we can depend upon in life are death and taxes. The two things in which I can depend on are death, taxes, and dating. At this point they each remind me of the other.

Death

  • There is no coming back from this one save for reincarnation.
  • Some individuals find it impossible to face their own mortality.
  • Every year I say I’m going to sign a health directive and never do. I actually don’t think this is because I can’t face my mortality. I think it’s just because I’m lazy. Who knows though?
  • None of us can guarantee the way in which we die and if our final requests will be honored. AREN’T YOU HAPPY YOU DECIDED TO READ THIS?????????

Taxes

  • At one point or another most of us will have to deal with taxes. This thought usually makes me physically ill.
  • Last year it took me 22 minutes to get up the nerve to leave my car in order to enter my accountants office.
  • Finding the several thousand dollars needed to pay my taxes often resembles pulling a rabbit out of my ass.
  • At the end of every tax season I swear to myself that I will do better next year, by putting away the 4.712% money that I’m supposed to as well as mailing my GE Tax, Estimated Tax and whatever else every quarter.

Dating

  • The mere thought of going on anymore dates in this lifetime makes me physically ill.
  • My last date never even left his car to greet me. It was basically like hailing a cab.
  • While on a date, which is going poorly, which is all of them, it feels as if the evening will never end. I’ll be stuck in suspended animation with a guy picking his nose and yes this happened and yes it was the guy who didn’t get out of his car. Did I mention that his car was covered with bird-doo on the passenger side?
  • When the date is over I recall the Jim Carey movie “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” and agree that a machine whose purpose is to remove any memory that you want is a great idea. Because I have food issues, I might choose to forget how good chocolate is.

Feel free to share any perfect storm of events that makes you want to live in a plastic bubble.

 

Culture, Depression

If the Signs Existed, Would you Read Them?

rad

There’s enough traffic on Oahu, that it’s become necessary to employ radar speed signs to ensure the safety of pedestrians, drivers and dogs. The combination of construction work, resident speeders, and sun worshipping tourists have made this necessary.

I enjoy radar speed signs for a bizarre reason. There’s something profoundly satisfying to me about getting a request correct regardless of how easy it is to comply. My town wants me to drive at 35 mph, and look I can do it, I’m a genius. Someone roll-out the red carpet.

I began to fantasize about how awesome it would be if a flashing sign would  present itself for every stupid decision I was about to make. When my eyes would rest on specific subject matter, a hologram would appear to show me what’s a good decision. For the sake of ease let’s assume a speed limit of 20 mph is optimal.

candy

1) I’m at the supermarket, hungry and in need of a snack. I look at a Baby Ruth, and my hologram begins flashing the number two. I view the peanut M & M’s and the number rises to a flashing six. I half heartedly glance at the apples, and the number hits a steady 20 mph.

2) I pass my reflection in a store window and instinctively suck in my stomach until it hurts to inhale, my hologram flashes an eight. I exhale to let my gut out to it’s natural resting place and pretend to like who I see in the reflection, my hologram reads a steady twenty mph.

3) I’m wasting time on Match.com and view a profile of a guy who lives with his mom, and enjoys LARP ( Live Action Role Playing) my hologram hits a flashing four. I then look at a guy whose profile name is “LARGEGIRTHFORU” and the hologram breaks into pieces.

4) I’m watching the movie Sixteen Candles and realize at one point I was Samantha’s age, but now I’m her moms age and tears start to roll down my face. My hologram flashes a 1. I inhale and make believe my best years are yet to come and my hologram reads a steady 20 mph.

Some women like myself, just need to see the big, red flashing numbers to know what to do.

*MORE IMPORTANT, ANYONE KNOW WHAT THAT BUENO BAR IS ON UPPER LEFT? NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE.

 

Culture, Depression

Deja Poo

pugHad a terrifying thought the other day while performing my duties as a dog walker. With the exception of the times when I’ve saved my clients pets or home from danger, the majority of my time is spent with one or two dogs in tow.

I LOVE these dogs otherwise they wouldn’t be clients. Of course they all crap on our walks, some even do it more than once. There are even those who have 24-hour access to outside, but prefer to crap in my presence.

My realization was that my job has become symbolic of my life. Considering I live on a rock surrounded by water, my walks are basically in a circle. My life has also become a never-ending treasure trove of shit. Crap I  have to deal with alone, crap I don’t know how to deal with and don’t have anyone to ask, crap I have no control of and then the daily crap, which consists of money problems, cash flow issues and being broke.

So basically, my job and my life is about walking around in circles picking up crap. Yes, everyone has crap to deal with, but it seems slightly overwhelming to be both dealing with it figuratively and literally. Below are some of the epiphanies I’ve had recently when comparing my job to my life: molly

  • I’ll never get to a destination that’s a surprise while on one of my walks.
  • Every route will lead me back to where I began.
  • While on walks I will only see individuals I’ve seen hundreds of times before.
  • Despite the slight temperature change in Hawaii between Winter and Summer, I’m always hot. So basically my walks are likely always going to be done while boiling to death. If it’s voggy (volcanic fog) then I have the pleasure of being cooked while sniffing toxic rain.
  • Until these dogs start speaking aloud, I will spend most of the day in silence. Actually, let me rephrase that, I spend most days without the dogs responding to me aloud. To that end, they never complain or tell me that I’m having a bad hair day.
  • I’m almost guaranteed to have to pick up a co-walkers turds while on our circular journey.
  • By nature of being a turd, it will:
    •  Stink
    • Contain mucous if the dog is stressed
    • Contain blood if the dog is sick
    • Contain shoelaces if he is a “foreign object” eater.
    • At one point or another I will plunge my thumb directly into the poop. PROFESSIONAL WARNING: the poo bags with handles aren’t good if you own a large dog with a large butt-hole. The handles take away from the surface area, which should be dedicated to the poop itself.

I do for a living what many pet lovers would love to do. I try my best to be gracious that I’m afforded the opportunity that allows me to care for these great creatures. I’ve been doing it for so long that I’m often too tired to do anything else and I’m beyond experiencing caretaker fatigue.

Add to this the guilt that I feel because I’m working with animals that might sense my exhaustion. Additionally, I’m too old to be doing this job. Everyday I get another pain that reminds me I was supposed to marry wealthy to avoid work.

Complaining is encouraged on this site, so feel free to join me and dig in. While you may complain about your crap, just don’t make me pick it up. : )