The One with the Suspicious Plant

My father gives me a Christmas amaryllis every year, but this one is different. This is not a normal plant. (Insert ominous music here..)

Dad had purchased several amaryllses (amarylli?) to give to various family and friends. He made me come over to choose mine since they were in different types of containers. I noticed that one of them was trying to peek out the top of its box, even without its soil, and without water. I thought it was cute, and maybe a bit poetic, that it was trying to grow even under rough circumstances. I took it home.

As I was mixing up the special soil mix, I put the bulb on a dishtowel where the sun was coming through the kitchen window. I had my iPod on, but I really think I heard it emit a little noise, like a sigh. Had to be my imagination. I found a place for the amaryllis upstairs in the office by the window. I gave it water and then forgot about it for a couple of days.

The next time I went into the office, I was shocked at how much the plant had grown! Its stalk was at least two inches taller. Two inches in two days? Freaky! I sat down at the computer to answer some messages. My dog, Moose, was nestled comfortably behind me, breathing contendedly. A second later, I heard the kids downstairs playing with Moose. I looked around...nobody else was in the office. Who had been breathing? Was someone playing a joke? Was it me breathing? I sat very still for a moment. I stared at the freaky plant. It stared back innocently. No way. I have obviously seen "Little Shop of Horrors" too many times.

Last night, the doorbell rang. I walked past the office to answer the door, shooting the two-more-inches-taller amaryllis a wary look. At the door was a bunch of high school students, collecting money for charity. As I looked around for some cash, one of the kids asked to use the restroom. I directed her upstairs. I gave the kids the money and they went on their way. As I shut the door, I realized they were forgetting their friend, who had not come downstairs. I went up, but the bathroom door was open and nobody was inside. I looked out the window and the kids were merrily proceeding down the street. Their friend must have slipped by me somehow....right? RIGHT?????

The One Where I Try to Be a "Regular" at the Sunshine Cafe

It started with my favorite radio people: Kerry, Bill and Gina (X96 Radio from Hell). They broadcasted one day from the Sunshine Cafe, and sang its praises. There was some mystical granola pancake. I had to go there.

I took my son to the Sunshine cafe about a week later. It was a little tiny place, but it just radiated happiness. It was bright and cheerful. The food was fantastic! I fell in love with meat-lovers hashbrowns. I didn't see the granola pancake on the menu. Maybe it was just something special they made for the radio people.

A few days later, I was headed home from work for lunch and instead found myself at the Sunshine. I was alone, so I sat at the counter. As I was contemplating the bacon burger, in walked a woman with gray curly hair. She sat down next to me and reached over the counter and helped herself to an iced tea. I figured she was going to get in trouble but a few minutes later, one of the cooks yelled, "Mabel you got a perm! Lookin' good!" Mabel was clearly a regular.

I watched in fascination as the whole staff made a fuss over Mabel's perm and asked where her husband was. I was insanely jealous of Mabel. Nobody asked me about my hair or my husband...nevermind that I don't currently have a husband, I do have hair, which they clearly did not care about!

As I left that day a quest began to form. I was going to be like Mabel. I was going to be a regular! At some point in the near future, I would walk in to the Sunshine and they would all say, "Kelly! You've got new shoes again!" I had found my "Cheers."

I took my kids there for breakfast again, hoping for some sign of recognition from the staff that I was becoming a regular. Nothing. But these things take time. Undaunted, I took coworkers there for lunch a few days later. That time, I am pretty sure one of staff gave me a look like, "You have been here before." It was only a matter of time now. I was well on the road to regulardom. I figured at my next visit, they would surely ask my name and pronounce, "You are one of our regulars!" It was coming, I could feel it!

Yesterday, I dragged my friend Brent to the Sunshine. I thought the staff was extra friendly to me and they didn't charge me for my diet coke. I was getting so close! As we were leaving, I noticed a woman with a giant granola pancake. I asked her, "Is that THE granola pancake?" She nodded smugly and said, "It's not on the menu, but the regulars know about it." Damn. Another Mabel.

I am not giving up. I will be a regular. I will order that granola pancake and they will be forced to acknowledge my regularness! (heh.) And you know what? Once I am a regular, I will probably end up being friends with Mabel, and then I can talk her out of that perm.

The One Where I Call In Sick

I missed writing my blog last week because of a nasty stomach flu. You know it's going to be bad when you wake up at 2:30 am from a perfectly good dream about bunnies because you have to throw up. I should spare you the rest of the details.

After several hours of "fun with stomach bile," (didn't spare you the details) it was obvious that I was not going going to work the next day. At 7:00 am, I picked up the phone to call my boss and suddenly panicked. It was Monday morning! Would he believe I was sick on Monday morning? Should I try to talk in sick voice? Stomach flu doesn't cause sick voice! Should I have someone else call for me? No, that's dumb, I was sick, not dead.

Guilt! I felt guilty! Why? I was genuinely sick with a stomach bug that had traveled through several persons I knew in less than three days. It was in the best interest of the company for me to stay home, even if I felt well enough to go, which I didn't. I looked in the mirror. My face was an odd shade of green/yellow. Should I send my boss a picture? No, I could have faked that with green/yellow makeup. Plus, who sends their boss a picture to prove they are sick? Someone who is just plain crazy, that's who.

I picked up the phone and dialed his number. Voicemail! Horray! Now I could work on the message until it was truly believable. I recorded the message seven times, finally deciding that I just didn't sound sick. I was far too happy sounding. He would think I was planning a day of chick flicks and pedicures.

I switched to email. The first email had way too much detail about throwing up at 2:30 and again at 3:17. It was like a log book of vomit, including when it changed from something of substance to yellow bile, to dry heaving (did it again, heh). He would think I was throwing in extra detail just to try to sound believable!

By email number 4, I had a perfect, regretful message about being sick with a stomach flu. It was a masterpeice! Short, simple, no detail... just the way a sick person would write it! I saved myself a copy for reference next time I was planning a day of chick flicks and pedicures.

I went back to bed, exhausted from trying to call in sick. When I woke up, I checked my email. There was a reply from the boss! Oh no! I knew it was going to say, "Please see me about this tomorrow. I will be having someone from HR join us." Panic! Guilt! I opened the email. It said, "Stomach flu is no fun. Get better."

The next day, I felt 100 times better. My face had returned to a normal color, so before I left for work I added a little green/yellow makeup.

The One With DVR Commandments

The DVR. What a wonderful invention! Trying to tape something on a VCR was really hard. There was a line from City Slickers, where one of the guys has been trying for a hours to explain to another one how to do this (while they are herding some cows) and Billy Crystal says, "He's never going to get it, the cows can program the VCR by now!"

The DVR is much easier. I don't know how we lived without it! Just push a button and you are good to go. No tapes to mess with because the programs are stored in the sky. It's lovely. Of course, there have been issues. I can solve them with a few DVR Commandments.

1. Thou shalt not have blind faith in the DVR. Anyone who recorded the final American Idol last year knows what I mean. The program ran overtime, but DVRs all over the planet stopped recording, and we were left going, "SO WHO WON??? Chris or Adam!!??" (By the way, it was the wrong choice. Way to go, America.)

2. Thou shalt not record really stupid stuff. Our DVR appears to resolve schedule conflicts by consistently choosing the dumbest thing on the list. This is why, when I am settling down to watch a brand new "Law and Order," I find out it has not recorded at all, but instead we have several episodes of "Simmons Family Jewels." I am also completely befuddled as to why my 16-year-old daughter wants to know what Gene Simmons is doing, but I suppose that is another blog of its own.

3. Thou shalt not record any more "Malcolm in the Middle." With our DVR, if something is taping, it takes over one of your TVs, usually the one in my bedroom. The kids have been taping endless episodes of "Malcolm," which means it is often running on my TV. This is bad because I have become hopelessly addicted. I want to be Lois. I want to have houseful of boys who are terrified of me. I am starting to find myself barking out Lois-isms, and I like it. "Look at those Parker boys across the street... honest to God, those are the ugliest little boys ever born. They look like boiled beets, don't you think?"

4. Thou shalt not allow the DVR to completely take over. Anyone with OCD tendencies, like I have, will understand. If I realize that I have a bunch of recorded programs stacking up, it starts to look like a LIST to me, and compulsive people need to cross things off LISTS. It can really interfere with other things, like eating, sleeping, and going to work. "Tell the Japanese that our agreement will have to wait. I can't come in today because there are seventeen Malcolm in the Middles in my DVR. "

Maybe the DVR wasn't such a great invention after all. Has it improved our quality of life , do you think? Shall I consult the cows?

The One With an Incident at the Nail Salon

One Saturday afternoon, I decided to get my nails done before getting ready for a date. I called ahead to make sure the salon could fit me in. I was assured that they could do my nails in about 20 minutes, which would be about 4:00.

I rushed to the salon and announced that I had an appointment at 4:00. A sweet Vietnamese man came over, inspected my nails, and ushered me into a chair, saying, "We be with you. Twenty minute."

(I need to stop right now and make it clear that I am NOT intending to make fun of the Vietnamese, although I am pretty sure they make fun of us quite often, especially when they hear something like, "Oh my heck!")

After 30 minutes, I got nervous and waved at the sweet Vietnamese man, let's call him Tony. Tony sang out, "Twenty minute!" I noticed five or six contented women getting pedicures and relaxing in big massage chairs. They all seemed to be staring at me, like it was somehow against the rules for me to talk to Tony.

After 3o more minutes, my nervousness changed to annoyance. "Um, Tony!" I said, with a little glance at the shocked-looking pedicure women. "I was told to come at 4:00 and it's 5:00." Tony said, "We busy. Saturday! Just a few more minute." I looked at the pedicure women again and it was clear that they were really hoping I would sit down and be quiet.

Something about those women gawking at me with disapproval suddenly got me mad. Those women obviously had all day long to sit around in massage chairs. None of THEM had to clean their house, or worry about dating. In fact, the only thing on their to-do list all day was apparently "get a pedicure and judge everyone."

You know when your neck gets all hot and you realize that you are just about to say things you shouldn't, but you can't stop? Yeah. So, here is pretty much what came out of me next, directed with fury at sweet Tony,

"NO! YOU EITHER TAKE APPOINMENTS, OR YOU DON'T! WHY DO YOU TELL PEOPLE TO COME HERE WHEN YOU CAN'T HONOR THE APPOINTMENT?! THIS IS BULLSH*T!"

The pedicure women were now in total shock, mouths open, and clearly a bit frightened. For some reason, that just made me angrier. I glared at them with complete hatred and begin formulating a verbal assault that would have gotten me kicked out of Centerville.

Tony came rushing over, clearly well-versed in damage control of crazy banshee clients.

"You see, today Saturday. We so busy. You come tomorrow? Sunday? We no busy Sunday. You come Noon tomorrow? First appointment. No wait. Sunday?"

He was pleading with me. He had the saddest eyes. He was so sweet. It wasn't his fault that Saturday was busy. I went to my car and started to cry. I was a terrible person. I didn't deserve to have Tony do my nails. I was going to have to find a new nail salon, and probably a new town to live in.

On Sunday, I skulked back to the salon, with a box of chocolates for Tony and a rehearsed apology. He wouldn't let me say anything, he just smiled and gestured at the empty salon. "See!? We no busy! Sunday! No busy! You. You come Sunday." I nodded. He continued, "Sunday no busy. You... always come Sunday. You Sunday Girl!" I was so happy. Tony had forgiven me! I was his Sunday Girl! It wasn't until later that day that I realized that I had been effectivey banned from the salon on Saturdays...

The One Where the Firemen Never Come

I think of myself as easy-going, which may be wrong, because we all know people who think they are easygoing, but who are decidely NOT easygoing, and I could be one of those. It's like that line from "When Harry Met Sally," when Marie says, "Everyone thinks they have good taste and a sense of humor but they can't all be right."

Anyway, I do try to let the small, stupid stuff float on by me in a small-stupid-stuff cloud, but there are a few things around my neighborhood that should be addressed:

Gnats: Yuck. I was unaware that I had moved to a swamp. I can't walk to the park and back without accidentally swallowing some of these horrid little things. Even if I am sure my mouth is closed, they find a way up my nose because I have to breathe. The only way to scare them away is to wave my arms around in front of me, which causes all the people in cars to honk and wave back because we are just so damn friendly here in the swamp.

Dogs running free: The first time "Pheobe" came bounding across the street toward me and my little dog, I screamed loud enough for the fire department to hear me. This caught the attention of a man watering his lawn (sadly, NOT a firemen) who said, "Oh,that's just Pheobe." Pheobe is a gigantic, red, beastly-looking dog. She does happen to be nice; but that first time, if I'd had a weapon of any kind...well, she would have probably turned it on me, which is why I don't carry weapons. Anyway, we get ambushed by about one freedom-loving dog per week, some of which are not nice like Phoebe. I'm very unhappy about it, because the fire department never comes, no matter how loud I scream.

Babies running free: Last week I came across a toddler, who was teetering along the edge of road wearing only a diaper. I looked around and could see no other toddlers in his gang. The street was strangely quiet, and I wondered for a minute if I was on hidden camera as some kind of reality social experiment, but I wonder that far too much. Anyway, I leaned down and said to the baby, "Where's your mommy?" He stared out me with an open mouth. I realized maybe in this politically-correct day and age I should rephrase, "Where is your legal guardian, who could be a mommy, or a daddy, or two mommies or two daddies?" He closed and opened his mouth a few times, perhaps gathering a few gnats. He reminded me a of a guppy.

I scooped up Guppy and took him to the closest house. I rang the doorbell and a tired looking woman in a bathrobe opened the door. "Is this your baby?" I asked. She stared at me and yelled, "Melanie! You let the baby get out the back door again!" I started to tell her that he was found dangerously close to the road, etc. etc. and she just shut the door. No "Thank you for saving my precious baby," no chocolates, no offers to have the fire department praise me in a little ceremony. Nothing. Rude!

When I got home, as I was pulling my brand-new neon blue recycling bin into the garage, it all became clear. It is obvious that some of the residents of my town have misunderstood our new recyling program. It is only supposed to be newspapers and cardboard, people. I think the flyer said it would be awhile before they can allow metal, plastic, mean dogs, and Guppy babies.

The One Where I Explain Facebook to Dummies

My friend Julie recently asked me to help her with Facebook. She had signed up to spy on her kids (which is the same reason I signed up), and was quite confused because Facebook is purposefully designed to scare adults away. I have learned a few things about Facebook; however, and I am happy to share with Julie and other Dummies.

After you sign up, the first thing to do is to collect some "friends." The best place to find friends is high school. Yep, that place you thought you had escaped 20 years ago is baaaack! And guess what? There are people out there who still remember that rude thing you said to them before English class. Don't worry about that. Just have your apologies ready...and it helps if you mention that you are a "totally different person now."

Once you have "friends," you can interact with them in several ways:

Poke: this is like a little cyber- jab in the ribs. You can "poke" anyone. It's great fun. I am a willy-nilly poker. I poke people because they are cute, or because I am annoyed with them, or because they are simply there. The best part is that you don't have to explain why you poked them. I REALLY wish we could do this in real life. I'd like to walk down the hall at work and just poke a few people, some that I like, and some because I fantasize about stapling things to their head.

Sending pretend stuff: you can "send" your friends just about anything, like pretend chocolate, pretend alcohol drinks, and even pretend farm animals. The first time someone sent me a farm animal, I was hugely offended, but now I know it's meant to be a nice gesture.

Chat: my least favorite. Someone will see me online and want to chat instantly, as in right this minute. This only happens when I didn't have time to be messing around online in the first place. Without fail, I am sitting there with wet hair, late for something important, staring with great amounts of guilt at my hair dryer, and simultaneously typing, "Not much, how about you?" because I don't want to seem rude.

Commenting: I love to comment! A friend will post something like, "Nikki is taking a nap," and there is a little space after that for your comment, like, "Wow, Nikki, you took a nap last Thursday too. You are the napping queen!" So much fun! People who dislike Facebook say that there is no need for us to know the minutia of each other's lives; but I think it's great, because I'm nosy. It's socially-acceptable spying!

Unfriending: If someone really annoys you, you can "unfriend" them, but be careful, because once you "unfriend," you can't re-friend without their approval. I have unfriended a couple people I dated because, well, that is a whole other blog...(grumble grumble). I also unfriended Marie Osmond because she was filling up all my space with a lot of benevolent, worthwhile charity information, which was preventing me from seeing who was drinking pretend alcohol and playing with pretend farm animals. It's about priorities.

There is more, but I don't want to overwhelm. Just remember, little grasshoppers: I wish for you to poke with wild abandon, comment on the ridiculously inane until your fingers bleed, and spy without fear of being arrested!

If this was helpful, Julie and the Dummies, I hope you will reward me by sending pretend chocolate and maybe a pretend chicken. Oh, and let me know when you are taking a nap.

The One Where Other Dog Owners Bug Me

For a couple of years now, I have been the owner of Moose, the Shih Tzu. Moose is a house dog whose duties include religiously following me from room to room, scouting for exciting new places to nap, and continuously hoping I will accidentally drop cheese.

The highlight of Moose's day, other than accidentally-dropped cheese, is the W-A-L-K. We have to spell this word because when he hears it, he becomes a Tasmanian Devil and spins himself into a frenzy if you take too long to find your shoes. I am serioulsy afraid he is going to smack into the wall. We only say "W-A-L-K" when we are very, very sure we are ready.

I like the W-A-L-K. I'm a little nosy, so use it as an excuse to check out what all the neighbors are up to. Did you know that there are 15 houses within a mile of mine with big red stars hung over their garages? What's the deal? It's probably a secret code.

The other thing I have noticed is that most of the other dog walking people are idiots. I try to avoid them but sometimes, encounters with idiots are unavoidable.

One kind of idiot are the owners who feel the need to demonstrate that their dog is so well trained that it does not need a leash. These people are smug, I tell you. Their dog is so perfect that it does not even flinch when it sees another dog. It just goes calmly around following all their commands like a stupid doggie robot. OK, so Moose may be over there wrapping himself around a tree because he saw a cat, but at least we are law-abiding, you Smug Smuggersons!

My least favorite form of idiot is the one who thinks that because we both have dogs, we are now friends. These people will ask my dog's breed, his name, his age, my name, where I live, and probably what color of underwear I'm wearing, if I'd let them. OFF YOU GO! If we were friends, you would have gotten a Christmas card.

At the other extreme are the people who act like they are much too far above allowing their dog to interact with mine. I ran into a couple of those the other day. Their Yorkie came running right up to Moose, so I stopped briefly to allow Moose to do the doggy-meet-and-greet. They yanked Yorkie back, and I swear I heard them telling it, "Muffy, we do not socialize with Shih Tzus." I stuck my tongue out at them after they walked past and made a note of where they were going. Maybe I will put a red star on their house later.

The One Where Mothers Know More than Mister Driving Instrutor

Ah, the bestowing of the driver's license. I don't think any of us will ever forget that moment in time when we obtained that little card. That little card meant so much more than the ability to drive a car - it meant that society trusted us. Society had decreed through that little card that we were grown up and responsible and should be allowed to go places and do things.

Guess what? That little card doesn't mean crap to your mother. This may come as a total bummer, but I think the other parents will understand what I mean. Just because you hoodwinked Mister Driving Instructor doesn't mean you can hoodwink me. You see, I have been watching you. While you've had your "learner's permit," I have been pretending to sit there enjoying the scenery, but in reality, I have been watching you like you were the last chocolate in a See's box.

Here's what Mister Driving Instructor doesn't know. You are far more concerned with what music is playing than you are the other cars. And guess what else? I see you visibly shaking and breaking out in a sweat when your cell phone rings. Of course, you won't answer it in front of Mister Driving Instructor, or in front of me, but I see the panic in your eyes...you might be missing SOMETHING IMPORTANT. There might be SOMETHING IMPORTANT about some vampire character and you will never know about it because you are driving with your mother. And you know what else? Just last week I had to remind you not to drive over the curb in front of the nice policeman. Yep, I am on to you. That little card may be in your wallet, but you still have a lot to prove to me. You got that?

On an unrelated note, it looks like we are out of eggs and dog food. And here I was, just about to take a nap. I suppose I could probably trust you just this once...

The One Where the Grumpy Teenagers go Back to School

The first day of school was met in my house with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

Grumpy Teen #1 is of the opinion that ANY day that does not involve sleeping until Noon and laying around on the couch, simultaneously watching some atrocious TV show (like "Secret Life of the American Teenager" -- the writers on that show need to be taken out and shot), and texting and Facebooking and Twittering, is a BAD day. I told her she has a lot of BAD days coming up in her life.

She and her friends decided to show their rebellion against school by, get this, NOT wearing anything cute on the first day. "We're just gonna, like, wear just jeans and like, a concert t-shirt." Ooooh. I am sure everyone at the high school will feel sufficiently slapped in the face.

Grumpy Teen #2 dragged himself from the basement, where he has been playing video games since early June. I think his only words to me all Summer were, "Why do I have to shower? It's stupid."

OK,we all know that Jr. High sucks. It is pretty much the worst few years that anyone has to endure. If there was anyone who deserves Jr. High, it's this kid, who obviously kidnapped my sweet, adorable son and replaced him with this unshowering, non-verbal basement dweller.

Miraculously, Grumpy Teen #2 showered without any nagging, and emerged looking quite respectable for his first day of Jr. High. I am still not sure why I cried... but maybe it was the showering. In the midst of my tears, I had an unstoppable desire to walk him to the bus stop. Obviously, that would have been social sucicide for him. I momentarily considered driving to the school and helping him find all those classes. He has no idea how to do this, I am sure of that. But I realized, there HAS to be someone at that school who is specifically assigned to find all the basement-dwelling, non-verbal, clueless boys and escort them to the right rooms.

So, here it is, another chapter in the continual process of letting go. I don't like it a bit, and to protest, I am totally not wearing anything cute today.

The One in which I Introduce the Blog

Hi all,

Many of you will remember me from my days of writing a humor column in the Herald Journal. In those six years, I learned a lot of things, such as the police do not necessarily think it's funny when you refer to them as "baby cops." I also learned that referring to my ex as "husbutt" was, indeed, quite funny, and still is.

The Blog is called "For No Apparent Reason," because, while a few of my musings will be extremely timely and politically intriguing, most of them will be about hair clogs in the drain, or the fact that my teenagers do not wake up unless the house is on fire.

I hope that some of you who used to read my column will read this blog, and I hope that the people who used to send me hate mail (this includes the Police) will never see this.

Cheers!