You Take the Good, You Take the Bad…
…you take ’em all and there you have the Facts of Life theme song running through your head all day. You’re welcome.
You know, now that I’ve brought up the Facts of Life (a show I watched religiously, by the by), I’m realizing that I have absolutely no recollection of the premise. It was a girls’ school, right? And so they all lived…in a house together? With a woman who sported a giant red beehive? I’m so confused.
And this is not helping.
Perhaps I was a little too young to grasp the subtleties of Blair and Natalie, but I do remember having a bit of a crush on Mackenzie Astin when he came on the show as…uh, some blonde boy who lives at an all-girls school? What the fuck was going on with that show, Internet?
Photographic evidence points to the fact that I had a crush on a boy who HAD THE SAME HAIRSTYLE AS A MIDDLE-AGED CLORIS LEACHMAN (and who also wore Mom Khakis*).
Anyhoo, disturbing 1980s sitcom tangent aside, this post was meant to be a celebration of the fact that I am completely in love with spring this year. Spring is, by far, my most favorite season. As soon as I see the first magnolia tree bloom, I want to take spring on a date. When I see the first baby robin hopping around the yard, I want to kiss spring with an inappropriate amount of tongue. And when I smell the first honeysuckle blossom, I want to get drunk on boxed wine and return spring to her parents’ house past curfew with her shirt buttoned all wrong.
Alas, as it is with everything in life, there are some negatives that accompany the positives, and there are some trappings of spring that I could do without. And with that, I bring you…
Jive Turkey’s I Wanna Sex Spring Up (But Could Do Without This Shit) List of Springtime Annoyances:
- Mother. Fucking. Centipedes. Internet, it has been consistently warm for, oh, about a week or so. In that seven day time frame, the centipedes in our basement have managed to hatch (or however the fuck those disgusting a-holes are born) and grow to TERRIFYINGLY LARGE proportions so that they can hang out on my basement stairs and GROSS THE FUCK out of me. I know I have spoken of my hate for the many-legged before, but I cannot say it enough: I hate centipedes. The only way I can even manage to go down the basement stairs is to scream obscenities at those hateful little assbags as I pass. I do not, however, insist that Brad squash them. We have a deal: the basement is their domain. As long as they stay down there, they can live. They make an appearance upstairs, they meet their end via Puffs Plus with Lotion.
For the record, I hate this fucking lotion bullshit. I buy Kleenex (note: all tissue is Kleenex to me) to wipe things off of other things, not to lubricate. However, I ALWAYS accidentally end up buying the shit with lotion, because the box looks almost fucking identical to the regular stuff. This means when I go to clean my glasses with Puffs All-in-One Masturbation Sheets, I end up with smeared lenses and it takes me a good ten minutes to figure out what the fuck is going on. I am a busy person, Puffs! I do not have time to fuck around with your moisturized tissues when there are jerking off jokes to be made on my blog!
- Crotch Rockets. You know – those annoyingly loud buzz-buzz-BUZZ-y little faux-motorcycles (faux-torcycles?) that all the small-dicked douchecanoes in my neighborhood ride up and down the street at all hours of the evening whenever the temperature hovers above 50 degrees. I’m not sure if “crotch rocket” is a widely accepted term for these stupid things, but it’s what Brad calls them (and also how he referred to them when he called the police to report their running of stop signs in front of our house last summer). I know precisely where these asshats live (thanks to their SUPER RAD PURPLE BIKES parked outside their houses), and I must tell you I am tempted to go into their houses at 11:30 at night and tiptoe into their baby’s nurseries and shout “ENNNNHbuzzbuzzbuzzENNNNNNNNHHHH!” into their tender infants’ ears and see how THEY like it.
Incidentally, Sadie laughs at them as they pass when we’re out for a walk. SEE? EVEN MY BABY KNOWS YOU HAVE A SMALL DICK.
- It burns! It burrrrrnnnns! Friends, I am pale. I have moles and freckles. I am also not sounding very sexy in this description of myself. What I am trying to say is: I am a virtual fucking PLAYGROUND for skin cancer, and as such, I slather my pasty ass in sunscreen whenever I know I’ll be outside for any substantial amount of time. It’s a pain in the ass (my kingdom for a non-sticky, high SPF sunscreen! You lie, “lightweight” formula!), but whatever. I do what I can and try not to freak out if I leave my sunscreen at home and am forced to crisp in the sun for an hour or two. But – as you may recall – I gots me a baby to freak out about now. And she seems to have inherited my swarthy complexion.
- Weeds are the world. Sharing the podium with centipedes in the Freakishly Fast-Growing Organisms Olympics are all the damn weeds currently populating the landscaping in front of our house. Seriously, Internet, it’s been warm for ten minutes and it looks like fucking Grey Gardens out there. I have not yet found time to do any weeding because most of my daylight hours are spent 1) working, 2) rehearsing, and 3) taking care of a small person who I thought would be able to chill out while I gardened but instead seems hell-bent on finding new and inventive ways to crawl into traffic.
Please note the one missing sock, which she always removes immediately after we get her dressed. I have no idea why she does it, but I would like very much to take that little naked foot and dip it in some caramel NOM NOM NOM.
- Joggers who make me feel like I have to follow them with my car, just in case. I know I bitched about my distaste for jogging last week, but now it’s time to move on to the joggers themselves. Oh, I have no problem with you fine running folk who can physically sustain a quick jaunt through the park. Jog on, my sculpted-assed friends! I’m referring to the folks who look like they are one ill-advised speed-walk away from having a massive fucking coronary on the sidewalk in front of Dunkin Donuts. Hot weather is not the time to throw on your 10-year-old black Reeboks and try your hand at running a casual 15 miles. And there is always, always one remarkably fit but INSANELY OLD gentleman running uphill on a random four-lane highway, drenched in sweat and barely able to lift his feet off the ground. ALWAYS. Think of your grandkids, man! No one’s going to care about your marathon training when you’re not there to hand out Werther’s Originals on Christmas Eve! Also on notice: the dudes around my office who insist on running while sporting only a skimpy pair of running shorts. Friends, there is a time and a place for nudity, and that time and place is ANY TIME OTHER THAN WHEN YOU ARE RUNNING. I don’t know about you guys, but there is nothing grosser than seeing slow-mo footage of a dude running, when you can see his man-boobs jostling to and fro and his, uh, other things being aggressively…mobile. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Just put it the fuck away, male joggers. If we want to see your junk out on parade, trust me, we will let you know.
That’s all I got, Internet. I’m sure I could think of more, but I’m far too eager to get outside for a walk in the cancerous sun to linger here any longer.
*Can we be honest about pleated pants here for a second? And by “honest,” I mean “let’s just admit that the only thing pleated pants do is give you a gigantic phantom boner when you sit down.”
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.