Random crap Saturday? Sure thing, buddy-roos.
I am attempting to get ahead of the game because if you want a post on Tuesday and Wednesday, also known as “the day I will be in New York City and then the day after when I’ll be playing insane catchup at work because it’s not like anyone’s going to do any of my work for me” then I’ve got to be proactive about this shit. So I’m writing this mid-week. I don’t know what’s going to be happening on Saturday. Whole damn world could have gone up in flames by then, what the hell do I know. It does make it hard to put time indicators into a post, though. I’ll write “blah blah blah so TODAY…” and then realize, well, shit, this is posting like five days later, at least one person’s going to be all, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN TODAY” and then I’ll have to explain myself. I’m so not in the mood to explain myself. STOP ASKING I DON’T WANT TO.
So in perusing the news (aw, aren’t those the most adorably rhymey with their oo sounds?) I saw the following, which I thought I would address. As I do. In my most impressive way. Also, other stuff. Because I’m rambly.
Oh, and side note SIDE NOTE! Whose brilliant and amazing and potentially future Tour de France competing nephew totally learned how to ride a bike this past week? NO not Ding Dong Joe’s. MINE MINE MINE. Yep. I’m looking at a photo of him doing it RIGHT NOW. NO, I’m not putting the photo in here, the internet doesn’t get to see The Nephew. In even MORE exciting news, even though the bike has training wheels, they are TRICK training wheels, and they don’t actually hold the bike up. They are not sturdy. They are actually mounted on springs. So it looks like they’re supporting you, until the bike starts to go over, and then they are ASSHOLE training wheels and they RETRACT and the whole thing crumples onto its side. SIDE NOTE WITHIN A SIDE NOTE. Who thought that was a good idea? Who was sitting around inventing training wheels that could seriously injure a child? That seems like a foolish thing to invent, like the Snuggie or cans of orange-making spray tan. ANYWAY. Guess what? It matters not. THE NEPHEW DOESN’T NEED ANY STINKING TRAINING WHEELS.
He’s got this shit DOWN, yo. The only thing he’s not sure on it how to put it all together. He can balance, and he can steer, and he can pedal, but doing all three at the same time doesn’t always happen. So sometimes he’ll pedal and balance, but not steer, and drive into the ditch; sometimes he’ll balance and steer, but forget to pedal, and then ask his mom why the bike stopped. When he gets them all in conjunction, though, WHOO! You all look out. I am quite sure he’s a prodigy. I mean, I have no empirical evidence that points me toward this, but I can’t imagine that many other 2 year and almost 11 month old children are RIDING BICYCLES THEMSELVES. I mean, my dad reminded me the other night on the phone that a certain blogger you might know of had her training wheels on her bike until she was EIGHT. And they only came off because her father was SO DISGUSTED BY THIS that he took them off one night all skullduggery like and then said someone must have broken into the garage and stolen them. I attempted to explain that it was NOT MY FAULT, that I am QUITE SURE I have an inner-ear issue that makes me unable to balance, walk in a straight line, walk on ice, stand on ladders or chairs, and eat foods that are good for me, but he wasn’t having it. I think it’s because I threw that last one in there. I knew I was overselling my inner-ear disorder that I self-diagnosed with the help of Web MD. Web MD also told me I probably had cancer, but it told me that when I had a stomachache, a headache, menstrual cramps, a sprained ankle, and a mosquito bite, so Web MD has totally become the website that cried wolf. Or, cancer, I guess. The website that cried cancer.
Wow, what a long side note. I could have summed that up with The Nephew learned to ride a bike this week, I’m so proud, couldn’t I. Huh. Imagine that. But really, what kind of fun would that be?
Oh, since I’m writing this so far in advance, while you’re reading this, I’m either AT my Saturday job and WASN’T fired, or sitting at home on my ass because I was. I have two more mail days to find out if I was because that’s how they fire people. So it’s a crapshoot! Am I at work? Am I at home? WHO KNOWS?
Anyway, if I don’t get to the news portion of the random crap there’s going to be a revolt. Also this is going to be cuckoo-bananas long. Well, long-ER, I guess. Who are we kidding.
So it’s Scripps Spelling Bee time! I’m a total spelling bee nerd. Part of that is because, well, words, you know? And part is because I adore all the little nerdy kiddos. And part is because of the fantastic musical The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, which, if you haven’t seen, and it ever comes to your town, you go, buster. Or bustette, I guess, whatever, all-inclusive over here at Ye Olde Football. And PART is because I was ONE of the spelling bee kiddos, once upon a time. I never made it that far – I got 7 people away from going to Washington, can you even imagine? Seven! So sad. For three years – all three years of junior high – I was the best speller in my school and went to Syracuse for the LONGEST DAY OF SPELLING EVER, in which you had to take a written test (I always aced those, if the whole spelling bee was written, I’d be staring at trophies right now) and then, if you made it through that, you went on to the actual spelling bee where you stood in FRONT of people and cameras and spelled like the kids on television. I don’t remember the words that got me out in sixth and seventh grade, but in eighth grade, which was my last shot, the word I spelled wrong was “opprobrium.” I don’t think I’ve ever used that in a sentence since. How often does life call for the word opprobrium? Oh, you want me to use it in a sentence? FINE. It means “something that brings disgrace.” Here’s a sentence: “The fact that The Nephew COULD HAVE DIED while riding around using those asshole training wheels is a total opprobrium.” (I think I spelled it starting with an a. I’d never heard of the damn word. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ve heard it ever again.) I totally have more spelling bee stories. I’ll tell you someday. It was smack in the middle of my most awkward stage. Lots of opportunities for embarrassment.
Anyway, the youngest kid to ever compete lost this week. She was dinged out on the word “ingluvies.” WHAT THE HELL SPELLING BEE. I sometimes feel like you’re making things up. That isn’t even a THING. Oh, shit, wait, Andreas will be mad, it’s totally a science thing. It’s the crop or craw of birds. I bet you knew that, didn’t you Andreas? Anyway, how old do you think this kid was? Like, 10, or something? Nope. Six. She’s six. And her thoughts on the Spelling Bee? “Overall, it was just boring. Really boring! Really boring!” Hee! It totally is, when you’re not spelling. When I was a CHAMPIONSHIP SPELLER ZOMG? We used to all have to wait around for them to score – BY HAND – our written tests. It took three or four hours. When you’re a kid, that seems like a year. And you’re not allowed to leave, because what if you didn’t come back? So they would lock you all in a room and play movies. What kind of movies?
THREE STOOGES MOVIES. FOR THREE OR FOUR HOURS. ON TOTALLY THE HIGHEST VOLUME.
Listen, I hate the Three Stooges. So much. I don’t find slapstick at all humorous. So this was killer torture for me. I’d bring a book or two, but I always finished them. Plus, the volume was SO EFFING LOUD. You couldn’t concentrate. It was a nightmare. I think someday, when I meet my reward, and I am sent to the burny place, my own personal hell will be an auditorium filled with pre-teens shrieking while Larry, Moe and Curly poke each other in the eyes. Over and over and OVER.
So anyway, kiddo, congrats for making it that far. I predict a long life of awesomeness for you. Try to have a little childhood in there, too, though. You’re six. Take a little break from the word-studying to play a little, please. You’ll be better for it.
OK, next: distressing news from the dating world. Well, distressing for the hot men; good news for me, suckers.
According to this article, men with beards are LESS ATTRACTIVE TO THE LADIES.
Huh! This is interesting. See, I never liked the beards, until randomly last summer, and I don’t even know what happened or what hot bearded wonder made me realize this new strange obsession, but once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. ALL THE BEARDS FOR ME.
Apparently a study was done, and beards “aren’t necessarily a key tool for attracting the ladies.”
Heh. “The ladies.” I like that. We sound like we’re in a 70s porn.
However! Check THIS out!
“Both men and women said that with beards, the men looked older and more aggressive than they did with their beards shaved. The viewers also ascribed higher social status to the men when they were bearded than when they were baby-faced. Women said that the clean-shaven faces were more attractive than the whiskery ones.
“Vasey and Dixson wrote that their research suggested that beards did not evolve in early humans because women found bearded men more attractive (as Charles Darwin believed). Rather, natural selection favored bearded faces because hairier men were more successful at conveying aggression and securing loftier social status.
“The scarier guys, not the cuter ones, got the girls.
“’These findings suggest that beards play a stronger role in signaling a man’s age, social status and potential threat than in augmenting physical attractiveness,’ they wrote.”
So APPARENTLY, although beards are not ATTRACTIVE (they are, shut it) they mean the man with a beard is a big DEAL and quite FANCY. Also, scary-threatening. Huh. Mostly, I just think they’re attractive. I didn’t think too hard about WHY. So, apparently, I’m looking for someone scary and threatening and high up, social-status-wise? Well, that’s peachy. I can’t imagine that’s going to work out well for anyone involved.
I also like that Charles Darwin believed that women found bearded men more attractive. Because Charles Darwin – well, you’ve seen him, right?
Of COURSE Darwin thought women found beardy-men more attractive. He WAS a beardy-man. I like to think of him all “women love chin-whiskers I’M WRITING A THEORY ABOUT IT!” and putting it in a book.
ANYWAY, this is all VERY GOOD NEWS, because it means more hirsute men for me. Thank you, women of the world who have bad taste in what is awesome!
AND, in further romance news: A CONVERSATION WITH AMY’S DAD.
Dad: So it was on the news that men and women can’t be friends.
Me: On the news? Or on When Harry Met Sally?
Dad: THE NEWS. I don’t make things up, you know.
Me: Yeah, ok. That’s wrong, though. I have male friends.
Dad: It doesn’t count if they’re gay.
Me: WHAT doesn’t count. The friendship? I’d beg to differ.
Dad: No, of course the friendship counts. But that’s like being friends with a girl.
Me: Ooh, I would so like you to say that to a few of my friend’s faces. Right to their faces. They’d love that.
Dad: BECAUSE THERE’S NO SEX.
Me: I’m pretty sure they have sex.
Dad: NOT WITH YOU. This is maddening.
Me: Agreed. The whole theory is ridiculous. Besides, I have straight male friends. I’m not schtupping them, either.
Dad: Online friends don’t count.
Me: Why do you assume all of my friends are online? I have straight male friends in real life, too.
Dad: I don’t know your friends.
Me: Also, why don’t online friends count? Are you saying you can’t have sex with online friends?
Dad: The distance makes it a little difficult.
Me: You’d be surprised. Anyway, so you’re saying THE NEWS told you I can’t have male friends without having sex with them?
Dad: Yes. You might think you’re friends, but it’s not true. Really you just want to be having sex with each other.
Me: Oh, I really don’t think that’s true. Also, are you sure you didn’t recently watch When Harry Met Sally? This sounds eerily familiar.
Dad: I DON’T LIKE THAT MOVIE. You know I don’t like that weird guy with the face.
Me: Yes, your Billy Crystal face-hatred is legendary. It’s true.
Dad: So you might think they’re your friends. But really you want more. Or they do. Someone does.
Me: I find this whole theory really sexist and disturbing.
Dad: Yes. I told you! It’s all about sex.
Me: Not SEXY. SEXIST.
Dad: It was on the NEWS.
Me: Oh, Dad. Oh, you and your news. I promise I’m not having sex with my male friends. We have no interest. They’re like brothers to me. Sincerely.
Dad: Well, don’t come crying to me when they make a move on you.
Me: I will attempt to restrain myself from coming and crying to you. It will be difficult, but I shall persevere.
Dad: Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Me: I never will. I never, ever will.
So, you guys, it was totally on the news. Isn’t this something. I apparently want to have sex with all my guy friends. Or they want to have sex with me. IT WAS ON THE NEWS. NO not the gay ones. NO not the internetty ones. Just the real ones (because, apparently, the rest of you are made of cardboard.) This is fantastic, because I was so hoping someone would show up and help me do the laundry. And if I give someone a…um…hand, they’ll do that for me, right? Laundry, I mean? Great. I’ll be right here waiting. Patiently. Not at all checking my watch WAITING FOR LAUNDRY HELP. What? You think my priorities are screwed up? Listen, you do your laundry all alone for like your whole life and see if you don’t jump on the next offer of laundry help.
Happy weekend, weinerschnitzels. Enjoy enjoy enjoy!