I have a tendency to change song lyrics. I don't mean to do it at first, but once I start, I end up modifying the whole song, giving it new lyrics which match a theme. Years ago, when Beyonce released "All the Single Ladies" somehow my brain though, "this would be an excellent song about PUPPIES!"
Without further ado, I give you All the Single Puppies, a parody of All the Single Ladies.
All the single puppies, (all the single puppies)
All the single puppies, (all the single puppies)
All the single puppies, (all the single puppies)
All the single puppies,
Now put your paws up!
Up in the park, running 'round, doing my own puppy thing,
Decided to sniff, now you wanna flip, cause another puppy noticed me.
He's licking me, I'm licking him, don't pay it any attention,
Just ate some snacks, yum, yum snacks,
Don't you bark at me.
Cause if you liked me, then you should've given a treat to me,
If you liked me, then should've given a treat to me,
Don't be mad when you see that puppy likes me,
If you liked me, then should've given a treat to me.
I got a collar on my neck, a nice shiny tag,
and I'm rocking a matching leash,
I need no permission, did I mention,
Don't pay him any attention,
Cause you had you turn,
And now your gonna learn
What it really feels like to miss me. (Bow wow)
Cause if you liked me, then you should've given a treat to me,
If you liked me, then should've given a treat to me,
Don't be mad when you see that puppy likes me,
If you liked me, then should've given a treat to me.
All the single puppies, (all the single puppies)
All the single puppies, (all the single puppies)
All the single puppies, (all the single puppies)
All the single puppies,
Now put your paws up.
As you may have surmised, I have a lot to say about a lot of things. In my opinion, most of the things I have to say are both interesting and comical. This makes me the PERFECT candidate to host a talk show.
MANY, MANY, MANY, many, many, many, MANY, MANY talk shows fail due to low viewership. Why doesn't anyone watch? Because they aren't interesting. Sure, they may be good for the first few days, maybe even weeks, but after a while the host runs out of things to talk about. For me, this isn't the case.
Talk shows aren't just about one person talking to the camera the entire time. No, talk shows require multiple people talking. Who else would be on the talk show? Ms. Diver.
Together, we would make a FANTASTIC talk show.
What proof do I have of this, you ask? Well, the other day as we were lunching, that's right, lunch is not only a noun, but also a verb. I love that fact because I love to lunch. "Shall we lunch?" is one of my favorite things to ask. It is best asked with a British accent such like that of Dame Maggie Smith portraying Dowager Countess Grantham on Downton Abbey. Oh, don't even get me started on how much I ADORE Downton Abbey. LOVE IT! Dame Maggie Smith as Dowager Countess Grantham and her one liners that deliver wisdom with a ZING! Too good.
I mean, just read that quote. "Vulgatiy is no substitute for wit." That is so true. Rappers and singers can put all the cuss words they want in a song and that doesn't make me think, "Wow, how original and inspiring." But when they make a clever play on words or one that you makes you think, that's a good song.
A great example of this is Childish Gambino and their song, Freaks and Geeks. I'm not going to link to it due to its explicit nature which is a shame. I really wish they didn't drop so many f-bombs and n-words because it takes focus away from their absolutely brilliant lyrics. I was floored with their line "took the G out from your waffle, all you got left is your ego." How brilliant is that? Seriously, that is awesome. So much so, I need to break this down to truly appreciate this word play. "Took the G out from your waffle" - alright, so waffle means running your mouth without really saying anything, just babbling on and everyone knows what being a G is. (Mom, it stands for gangsta or gangster, think Al Capone.) But the BEST part of this is the play on the brand, Eggo Waffles. If you remove a 'g' from Eggo, you're left with the word 'ego'.
I mean, really, it doesn't get much better than that.
BUT back to the point, Ms. Diver, Ms. Hamilton, and I were lunching the other day. Ms. Diver looks at me and says, "I'm going to try this. I'm just going to throw this out there and you join when you can."
With that, she begins to sing, "Come and - "
Two words. Two words was all I needed to know where this was going. And so I joined in as we sang the chorus of the following:
Ms. Hamilton perplexed by our singing asked, "Is this a thing that you two do? Have you both done this before?"
Ms Diver responded, "No, but I had a feeling though it would work."
In addition to the chorus of the fantastic Gullah Gullah Island Theme Song, I continued singing the verse, "Just put your foot in your hand, that means hurry up, don't miss the good things that we've planned." Apparently, I was the only one of the three of us that remembered that portion of the song. But that was okay as I was then joined by Ms. Diver as we completed the melody with, "so come and let's play together in the bright, sunny weather, let's all go to Gullah, Gullah Island, Gullah, Gullah Island, Gullah Gullah Island."
In case you were wondering, Gullah Gullah Island was a show on Nick Jr. when Ms. Diver, Ms. Hamilton, and I were kids. I also just learned it was the first show designed for children that featured a black family, which is awesome. I think the most interesting thing about that fact is that as a child, I never thought "Oh wow! A black family!" Instead, when once I learned to read and saw that they all had the same last name, I thought, "They're a family in real life? A real family who sings on a TV show? Can my whole family be on a singing TV show?" But no, to this date, my family had not been on a singing TV show. Sad.
So why am I telling you about this? Well after the grand finale of our impromptu duet, Ms. Diver mentioned, "you should write about us on your blog." And although that may have been said in jest, I followed through.
I think Ms. Diver and I would have a wonderful talk show. Ms. Hamilton, whom (it is whom, right? Because you know HER and when it's him/her, you use whom and if it's she/he, you use who. Back me up on this or correct me because I'm not sure.) most of you know as the JV field hockey and lacrosse coach would be fantastic on the show. She would be the person who would just shake her head at Ms. Diver's and my antics. To be fair, they are pretty incredible antics.
Our show might not be syndicated world-wide, country-wide, or even state-wide. However, I think it would be a great thing. Perhaps, I should start an online petition or kickstarter to call for the need for us to host a talk show.
And how do I know we'd never run out of things to talk about? Because Ms. Diver does incredible things like going to see Cher, having Semis perform at Carnegie Hall, travel the world. And I do things like go white water rafting, kayaking, hiking, dog related activities, rescue animals in bizarre scenarios, y'know, the usual. Since we do such different things, the discussion topics are endless.
Oh, how I desperately want this to become a thing.
At some point between November and March, I lost my checkbook. This didn't seem like the end of the world as I use approximately 20 checks every 5 years...at most.
However, when a doctor told me she only took cash or check, I was dumbfounded. Who doesn't accept credit card? Regardless, I was out of luck. I don't carry around cash or checks. I am a the definition mugger's least favorite person. If someone mugged me, they wouldn't get a single valuable thing from my wallet.
Just to prove my point, here are the items in my wallet:
My Driver's License
1 Credit Card, 1 Debit Card
My Health Insurance Card
1 penny that is stuck in the corner of the zippered pouch
Expired Coupons
Loyalty Member Cards - Panera, Rite Aid, Safeway, Lakeshore Learning Center
Gift Cards with less than $5 on them
My Red Cross Blood Donations Card
A receipt
Yep...that's it. By mugging me, the mugger would get exactly $0.01 IF they took the time to get the penny out. Combine that with the fact that when threatened, I tend to kick, and I have a mean round-house. (Thank you years of karate.) Mugging me isn't a very lucrative or wise plan.
Since I rarely carry cash, I knew I needed to order checks from the bank to pay for the doctor. Plus, I figured it's always good to at least have access to a check book.
To get checks, I needed to go to the bank. Easy enough, I drove to the bank, and entered.
Teller: Hello, how may I help you.
Me: Hi, I would like to order checks.
Teller: How many would you like?
Me: I don't know. Maybe 50 checks?
Teller: And how will you be paying for them?
Me: (Sarcastically) Can I write you a check?
Teller: No, the check company only takes cash or credit card.
Me: Ha - oh, you're not kidding. You're telling me the company that makes CHECKS doesn't accept CHECKS?
Teller: No, they take too long to process.
Me: I feel as though that may be foretelling of the future of checks.
Teller: -silence- Credit card or cash?
Me: Credit card.
Teller: You will receive your checks in the mail in 2 - 4 weeks.
Ok, cut to 3 weeks later. The mail arrives and I open a small package. Inside are my checks, finally. However, it seemed like they sent me more than 50 checks. No, this was much more than 50 checks. They sent me 10 checkbooks and EACH one had 50 CHECKS. I was now the proud owner of 500 checks.
500 checks?! What in the world am I going to do with that many checks? At the rate I'm going, those checks will last me until I'm 150 years old. (This is correct, I did the math. Every 5 years I will use 20 checks, so 20/5 = 4 checks per year, 500 checks / 4 checks per year = 125 years worth of checks. 25 years old + 125 years worth of checks = 150 years old. MATH IS WONDERFUL.)
I called the bank to clarify my new possession of 1 and a half lifetime supplies of checks. They informed me something went wrong with my order, so they just sent me the STANDARD NUMBER OF CHECKS that they send to people AND they expect I would need to reorder in 5 years. Which leads me to my next question, WHO IS USING 100 CHECKS PER YEAR in this day and age?
500 checks is only supposed to last me 5 years? 20 checks lasts me 5 years. That gives me a 480 check surplus. I am at a loss. Part of me wants to write VOID on those 480 checks and then make 480 tiny paper airplanes.
The main problem with that plan is I only know the first three steps of making paper airplanes. I first learned these steps when I was in second grade. It was after school, but for some reason some of us second-graders sat in the cafeteria watching as a teacher taught us the steps to making paper airplanes. I am positive this teacher immediately regretted her decision as once some of the students learned to make these airplanes, any scrap of paper was commandeered to be artfully folded into something resembling an airplane. Afterwards, these airplanes flew threw the school causing quite a ruckus.
To show us how to make a paper airplane, we were to follow along with the teacher. First, she took two corners of the paper and folded them to the middle of the page. Easy peasy.
Step two, she folded the paper in half. Got it. Step three: she folded down the beginning of the wings. Step four -
I don't know step four because after step three, my paper slightly resembled an airplane and I thought, "I HAVE AN AIRPLANE! THIS IS THE COOLEST DAY EVER!" With that thought racing through my mind, I jumped out of my seat to send my airplane soaring through the sky.
I ran, holding my airplane up, then released it. My airplane promptly nose dived towards the floor. But, at 7 years old, that was good enough for me.
Now that I'm thinking about it, perhaps checks should be shredded considering they do include your bank account number, routing number, address - y'know, all that stuff that would be on a hacker's Christmas/Chanukah/Eid list.
However, there was one crucial member I left out of the mouse brigade, GusGus.
GusGus is shorter than the other two mice, he is also a bit chubs. Ok, he is very chubs. GusGus LOVES to eat. I don't blame him. He is a mouse. What else is there to do in the life of a mouse? You can only run through so many mazes before it becomes a bit redundant. What else are you going to do? EAT.
One evening after returning home from work, I turned on the kitchen light to reveal GusGus chomping away at a large crumb. The moment he became aware of my presence, he dropped his crumb and worked his way to the mouse hole.
Normally, the mice bolt towards an exit. It happens so quickly that at times, I can barely register what is happening before the mouse is out of sight.
With GusGus, I had PLENTY OF TIME to register. GusGus' little belly dragged against the floor. He shuffled along, putting forth an enormous amount of effort, desperate to make his escape.
Imagine you are watching a race. The starting gun sounds as a herd of racers take off, dashing down the track. You look back to see one kid left behind. He is giving his best, but has managed to only traverse mere feet away from the starting line. He isn't running as much as he is shuffling. All you can do is hope he somehow finishes. While all of this passes through your mind, the others races complete the run.
Now, EVERYONE is watching the one kid. Talk about an anxiety attack. At first, everyone cheers him on, but the encouragement proves fruitless as he speed remains that of a turtle. The cheering stops. Now it's plain old AWKWARD. You look away, stare at the sky, anything that will help distract from this painful scene.
You look back, positive that he is almost finished the race. NOPE! So again, you look away, attempt to make small talk with the people around you. Finally, the kid closes in on the finish line. Again the cries of cheers fill the stands as people celebrate this kid's determination, but mostly are cheering that the awkwardness is over.
GusGus is that kid. GusGus worked so hard towards escaping that even Lila found little appeal in hunting him and instead, she stopped, stood next to me, and together we watched him escape.
That''s right, even Lila thinks chasing GusGus is a joke. It wouldn't be a chase so much as a walk over and stand next to him while he wobbles slowly on the floor.
My friend, Tana also lives in the apartments. She doesn't have a single mouse. Why? Because she has TWO cats.
I need to borrow these cats, but I am not sure for how long. I'm guessing the mice would quickly learn of our feline residents, but what would happen when the cats leave?
I'm sure the mice would eventually venture out again, risking their tiny critter lives. I assume once the smell of cat wore off they would return. SO, what if I took some cat hair and placed strategically in corners frequented by my mice? I think that is a brilliant idea.
Although, I have to obtain cat hair. I am not sure how to go about this process. Cats are not usually the biggest snugglers. It is also VERY DIFFICULT to reason with a cat. At least when it comes to Lila, I can say, "Lila" in a very serious tone with my attempt at a deep voice, and she immediately rolls over.
If I say a cat's name in a serious tone, the cat completely ignores me. Cats are so sassy. I can see it playing out like this:
Once I unsuccessfully attempt to reason with the cat into giving me it's cat hair, I will rely on catching the cat. I can already imagine my endless hours of me chasing a slinky, maneuverable cat around the house. Cats possess the ability to leap from refrigerators, dart into tiny spaces, and jump onto counters, knocking over anything and EVERYTHING in their path.
That is rude, cats. You knock over things, break things, and don't even bat an eye lash. A cat will knock over a vase, watch it shatter into a million pieces, then look at you with it's cat-ferocity as if saying, "What." Not, "What?' No, that would imply the cat was confused by their actions. No, cats know exactly what they did and they don't care. They are the honey badgers of the domesticated animal world.
Meanwhile, I chase the cat and given my determination to catch the cat, as by that point I'd challenge myself to catch the cat, I plow through any object in my way. As a former soccer goalie, diving onto the sofa or even the floor in a vain attempt to grab the cat surely results in a few broken household items along with some injured body part.
But I put injury aside. When it comes to a challenge, as I've said many times before, this is my life -
Although, usually I am the one issuing the challenge to myself.
By this point, exhaustion is sure to set in. I fall to the ground. The cat glares at me. I crawl towards the cat, saying, "it's ok" over and over again. The cat lets me come near enough and I snatch her by the leg. I've made her a girl cat.
She smacks me in the face, claws extended. Her sharp swipe tears through my skin. Blood drips down my face. I release her leg and wince as I wipe my forehead, covering my hand in drops of blood.
The cat retreats to a tiny nook, possibly under a bed, in the dead center where my arms are unable to reach. But of course, I still try, laying down on my belly, shuffling my body, underneath the frame of my bed. At this point, I realize I am stuck. There is nothing left for me to do, but try and grab the cat.
As I extend my fingers towards the hostile scratcher, she hisses, a warning that I need to back off. Too bad I am stuck and unable to back off. I stop trying to grab her and instead we stare at each other. Her, hissing, me, frustrated. My continuous wiggling proves useful as I back out from underneath the bed. Of course, I manage to hit my head as I break free. Poor brain. It deals with so much.
"Fine! You win!" I call out to the cat as I leave the room. I approach the spot where I managed to grab her leg, and lo and behold, there is a tuft of cat fur. CHALLENGE COMPLETED!
I grab it and shout out in victory, completely oblivious of my open wound's determination to bleed. I plop down on the sofa, victorious.
And with my luck AFTER all of this subsides, Joey returns home from wherever he is. Because of course, he isn't there when I am having INCREDIBLE ADVENTURES.
He will look at the dried blood on my face and ask what happened. All I will say is "THE CAT."
Knowing Joey, his response will be along the lines of, "soooo, we still have mice."
"Go ask GusGus" I will respond. "Oh, and don't go in the bedroom, there is a very angry cat under the bed. I'm not sure how to make her leave."
Yes, I can very easily see this playing out - how? Because something VERY similar has happened before. I was left wounded by an angry cat who didn't want to play. She managed to cut open my forehead with her claws. Lovely cat. Therefore, I guess we are stuck with the mice until the exterminator shows.
At the end of November, Joey and I moved to a new apartment and by new, I mean built in the 1950s.
Around the end of December, I noticed little brown droppings. Horrified by my new discovery, I vacuumed every nook and cranny of the apartment.
EVERY NOOK AND CRANNY - I moved bookshelves, our 5 person sofa which weighs 300 pounds, moved our shoe rack, curtains and morphed into a vacuuming fiend. I would find every piece of tiny mouse poop.
Knowing that mice are nocturnal, I went on with life as usual. Until I noticed a new trend emerging from Lila's usual habits. She would go to a dark closet, sit down, and stare at the ground. If a dark closet was unavailable, I found her sitting behind the sofa and staring at the ground.
I started to worry. Was Lila depressed? Bored? I enrolled her in Doggy Daycare, hoping her playtime there would cause her bizarre habits to subside. Yet, she still spent evenings in the closet. I shared my concern with Joey, who assured me Lila didn't show the usual signs of depression. As we talked, Lila sat, alone, in the closet, focused on the carpet. I called her name. She didn't even flinch. Joey called her name. No response.
Finally, I got up and walked over to the closet. I turned on the light to reveal that Lila wasn't depressed; no, Lila was staring down a hole in the corner our of closet floor. A hole that most likely leads to a tiny underground Ratatouille-sized family of mice.
My neighbors have informed me that they too battle the mice. One neighbor in particular is Eileen. If you've ever seen Ratatouille, the old woman Mabel in the movie is my neighbor, Eileen. Eileen is 82 years old and always has her hair in curlers. In addition, Eileen's favorite outfit consists of the following: a pink and white nightgown complimented by heavy industrial boots. According to Eileen, she frequently falls asleep in her recliner with the tv on in the background, then wakes up at bizarre hours, like 2am. I love Eileen.
I am not sure if Eileen owns any weaponry, but it wouldn't be a big surprise if this scene played out in our complex. Although, rather than target the ceiling, Eileen would target the floor.
Last weekend, Eileen had a gentleman caller. However, being elderly and easily confused, the gentleman caller first came to my apartment in search of Eileen. He knocked on my door and stood in bewilderment as I greeted him.
"Did you just move in?" he asked.
"I moved here in November." I replied.
"What happened to the old lady that lived her?" he asked loudly, which indicated he may be hard of hearing.
"I don't know."
"Ok," he responded sadly. He turned away and made his way up the stairs.
I closed the door and it dawned on me.
"Wait!" I swung the door open, hoping to catch the man. Luckily, his age slowed him down and he was only 20 feet away from my door. "You're in the wrong apartment building! She lives in the next building. She's still there!" I continued, excited to be able to help.
"Really?" he said, eyes lighting up.
"Yes."
"Thank you!"
ADORABLE.
ANYWAY, after I discovered the mouse tunnel in our closet, I stuffed the hole with an old t-shirt. Then I put a box on top of the t-shirt. This is obviously not a long term solution, but so far, it's working. I then carried Lila out of the closet. That's right CARRIED. I had to physically pick her up and carry her out of the closet. She is so infatuated with our critters that any time she hears a sound coming from the kitchen or closet, she bolts from the sofa, her usual spot, runs to where she thinks the sound came from and STARES, waiting.
The pathetic part of this is that usually she focuses so hard on the spot where she believes the mice will appear that she completely misses them running behind her.
The most mice we've seen at any one time is three. The first time we saw a mouse, I decided he needed a name. Normally, I choose the name, but this time, I asked Joey for his input.
"What should we name the mouse?" I asked Joey
"Hector," Joey replied without batting an eyelash.
I am so PROUD! Normally, whenever I try to give a name to a random animal, Joey acts perplexed. It used to be that when I told him that I named a random critter, he would respond, "Why would you name it?"
It has taken nine years of being together for Joey to realize when it comes to me, it's usually easier to go with the flow. Rather than question my desire to name every animal that crosses our path, he MIGHT AS WELL give his input on a name.
So Hector it became. Whenever we saw a mouse in the house, (nice rhyme) we would announce Hector's visit. We saw Hector by himself three times. I am very well aware that it could have been a different mouse each time, but I choose to believe it was Hector. LET ME BELIEVE!
This was fine and dandy until last week. Last Wednesday night, I walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. The room illuminated to reveal Hector frozen still, STARING AT ME.
His stiffened stature caused me to freeze as well. This means at 9:00 pm on a Wednesday night, I was caught in a STARING CONTEST WITH A MOUSE. I didn't dare call out for Joey and startle Hector. I wanted to catch and free Hector and his family in a wild meadow filled with flowers, sunshine, and happiness.
"How can I catch him?" I thought to myself. "I know, I LIGHTLY BOP HIM WITH A BROOM. I won't hit him hard enough to do damage, just enough to stun him."
FLAWLESS PLAN - aka dumb plan.
All I needed was to reach for the broom, let me move my arm ever so slightly to the left to grab the broom and I'll -
The moment I tensed my arm, Hector took off into a newly carved hole under our cabinets.
"Oh well," I said out loud.
I took a step further into the kitchen and was cut off by another mouse who ZOOMED past me into the hole.
Ok, I am not one of those girls who screams when she gets scared. I don't scream and pretend to be scared merely to gain attention. Like when you are at the ocean, standing in the sand and a crashing wave makes its way towards you, DON'T SCREAM. That is stupid."OMG THE WAVES ARE COMING! AHHH" Those girls drive me crazy. Either a) let the water touch your toes, you will survive or b) MOVE OUT OF THE WAY.
When I see girls/women doing that, I stare at them with frustration. They are giving women a bad name. We are NOT a weak gender that requires rescuing. We can manage on our own. Sure, we LIKE when someone comes to help us, who doesn't? Yet, women need to stop perpetuating the stereotype that we can't handle life without a strong, rugged man saving the day. I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, do you know what that means? U
Ok sorry, side tracked. I have MANY more thoughts about that and also my issue with society perpetuating what men and women should look like and act like. If you're a kind and respectful person who is trying to be a good human being, you're awesome in my book. ANYWAY, even though I am not one to shriek, the second mouse startled me so much that I let out a quick shriek. I immediately covered my mouth, surprised that sound managed to escape. Joey called out from the bedroom. I explained that alongside Hector, we now had Gladys. That's right, I named her Gladys.
So that is my life's current situation. I am trying to handle living with mice - as in, I want to catch these mice and free them, but I think we may need to call an exterminator.
After what seemed like a never-ending blast of winter, spring finally peaked her warm, welcoming head out from under the snow this weekend. The sun shone through, melting away layers of snow and ice.
Joey and I spent a good portion of Saturday and Sunday strolling down random streets. Lila frolicked in the fields. Life was good.
Cut to Monday morning. After begrudingly readying myself for work, I leashed Lila. We stepped outside. The wind blew its sharp icy breath and in the distance I saw ....
THE WEATHERGEESE! (If you have no idea what weathergeese are, read this first.)
"WHAT?" I asked, shouting at no one in particular. "You aren't supposed to be back." I said to the geese, oblivious to the glances of other work-bound neighbors.
"No, no, no. It's supposed to be spring. Why are you back?" If I was my neighbor, I would avoid me. They probably all think, "There's that crazy girl talking to the geese."
Lila glanced at the geese, confused as to why I sounded upset. As we closed in on the geese, two soldier geese cried the alarm.
Lila LIKED the honks. She ran towards the geese with full speed. The soldier geese honked faster, wings flapping. Halfway towards the geese, Lila stopped dead in her tracks and went to the bathroom instead.
After she finished, she walked away from both the geese and myself as if she were too cool for school.
A soldier goose eyed Lila. When she was finally a safe distance away, he let out a honk which I interpreted as, "What just happened?"
I looked at the goose and shrugged. I too couldn't explain Lila's bizarre actions.
After leashing Lila and returning her to the apartment, I went off to work.
I returned from work expecting to see the field filled with geese, preparing for a winter storm.
Instead, I saw this -
This is a picture of approximately 25 ROBINS. To the right of this was another group of an additional 25 robins for a grand total of 50 ROBINS!
Um, what?
What happened to my weather geese? Were these the new spring weather robins?
Was there an EPIC BATTLE between geese and robins? The victor laying claim to the next months' weather? OR have my weathergeese turned INTO springweatherrobins?
Ok, realistically, I know the geese haven't morphed into these tiny, red-breasted birds. Yet still, a small, teeny tiny, eensy, weensy part of me thinks, "what if the very soldier goose I saw this morning is still on the field, tiny and less intimidating?"
No one is scared of a robin.
Am I now left to predict weather solely on the migratory pattern of birds?
Tuesday morning, I planned to greet my springweatherrobins, but instead laid eyes on an empty field. No geese, no robins.
"Oh well," I thought to myself. "They must have moved on."
Tuesday afternoon after returning from work, I made my way to the apartment. In the distance, I heard a noise. I glanced towards the fields on to be greeted by THE WEATHERGEESE!
I bet you thought they were gone. NOPE! Apparently, the robins and geese are sharing custody of the fields. Neither of them likes the other, so they schedule their field time accordingly. Although, rather than the usual 50 weathergeese, only 10 showed up. So maybe they knew a small snow was on it's way.
As I made my way inside, I called out to the weathergeese, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME! What am I supposed to do? IS THIS A SIGN? WHAT DO YOU - Oh hey RayRay - I waved at him- I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS!" In case you were wondering, RayRay is my neighbor. He already knows I am crazy so I don't think he was even slightly phased by my outcry. I really don't know. Are they trying to send me a message? Am I supposed to interpret their presence as something more than just the weather? I don't know. Will I ever see the robins again? I don't know. What is it about my neighborhood that makes it THE place to be if you're a bird? I DON'T KNOW!
Thank goodness I took pictures. Each time I asked Joey if he saw the geese or robins on the field, he said he didn't know what I was talking about - there wasn't anything on the field. I AM NOT THIS CRAZY!
I think the weathergeese are trying to hold out with the last of winter while the weatherrobins are cheering on spring. If this is the case, GO SPRINGWEATHERROBINS! Weathergeese, I love you, but I am finished with this snow.
Point of the Story: Bring on the sunshine! I am ready for spring. Let's go SPRINGWEATHERROBINS! ....And hey to RayRay.
As a child, a handful of idioms and phrases confused me. Eventually I figured out my mistakes and realized I had been saying these phrases wrong for my entire childhood. Although, I will admit, embarrassingly, that figuring out the mistakes took years - many, many years. Here are my top phrase mistakes:
1. The Phrase: Giving someone an ultimatum
Meaning: According to Google, it's giving someone a final demand, which if not followed will result in the break down of issues.
What I Heard: Giving someone an OLD TOMATO
Gross.
My Interpretation: Here's the scenario: you're starving. That is, dying from hunger, which is the very definition of starving. I hand you an old tomato, an old moldy tomato, covered in flies. Now you have two choices:
Option 1 - Eat the tomato, get sick from the mold, contract a food-born illness and die.
Option 2 - Starve to death. Both ways you die. You are left with a really tough decision that you don't want to make.
I am proud of my six year old self for coming up with that reasoning. It's logical and actually resembles the real meaning.
I like my saying much better, so when it is appropriate to say "give someone an ultimatum" I say, "well I guess you have to give them an -" I pause every time for a matter of seconds. In these seconds, an internal battle wages in my head. Should I use the proper term or my term? If I use my term, I will have to explain it. BUT I like my term better. The solution? I mumble "old tomato" which sounds just like ultimatum. Since the person is expecting to hear the word "ultimatum", they assume that is what I said. Even though, I know and know you know that I am in fact suggesting they hand the person an old, rotten, moldy, fly-covered tomato.
I think the phrase SHOULD BE "give someone an old tomato." It makes sense.
2. The Phrase: Taking someone for granted
Meaning: Not appreciating someone What I Heard: Taking someone for GRANITE (a type of rock)
That's granite. It's clearly NOT a person.
My Interpretation: This one never made sense to me. I spent the first 14 years of my life befuddled by this phrase. I KNEW granite was a type of rock. What type of people were made out of rocks? Why would I ever think someone was a rock?
I remember my dad using this phrase when my sisters and I were acting selfishly, not appreciating my mom. My dad would tell announce, "Stop taking your mother for granted." Of course, I heard, "Stop taking your mother for granite."
From my dad's tone, I always knew this was a bad thing. But WHY?
10 Year Old Me Thoughts: I'm NOT taking mom for granite. Mom isn't made of granite. I know that. Why would I even think she was made of rocks? I'm not taking her to the store to buy granite. Why does Dad think I am confused about what Mom is made out of? That is a silly phrase.
Due to the years of confusion, whenever I do say "take something for granted" I emphasize the "T" sound followed by the "-ED" sound I make it VERY CLEAR for all similarly confused children that the word is "granted" not "granite."
You're welcome tiny and confused children.
3. The Phrase: Might as well Meaning: There isn't any reason for you not do to it What I Heard: MIDAS well (as in King Midas)
My Interpretation: This one also made zero sense to me. The only MIDAS I knew was King Midas. I also knew the story of King Midas.
Actually NO, I think I remember the story, but I always seem to combine it with parts of Aladdin, leading to my own, incorrect version of King Midas. Without further ado, MY VERSION of King Midas:
There once was a King named Midas. He lived somewhere with waterfalls and rocks and tropical leaves. There isn't a reason for his residency in the stone temple in the Amazon. It's just whenever I think of King Midas, this setting comes to mind.
One day King Midas was walking in his tropical land. He came across a MAGIC LAMP. Clearly, this is the part where I mix up the story with Aladdin.
The King rubbed the magic lamp. Magic, sparkling, colorful smoke surrounded the King. From the smoke emerged a genie. The genie said, "you have rubbed the magic lamp, For that I grant you 3 wishes" Because that is the amount of wishes genies give to people. I'm not sure why, but it's always 3.
The King thought and made a wish. It doesn't matter what he wished for. It's only the third wish the matters. The king then made another wish. Again, no one cares what he wished for because that's wish number 2. For his FINAL wish, King Midas said, "I wish everything I touched turned to gold because I love GOLD!"
OH! I forgot to tell you. King Midas was a greedy king. Being greedy is bad, so he was also a bad king. And he had a son. I am not the best at retelling classic stories.
The genie granted the King's wish. The King's hands lit up as the magic entered through his finger tips. Once his hands ceased illuminating, he ran over to a rock, maybe it was made of granite, and touched it. Instantly, the rock turned to shimmering gold!
"THIS IS AMAZING!" shouted the King as he ran around touching random tropical items, like banana leaves. I like banana leaves.
The genie and his magic lamp disappeared. The King ran back to his castle, again, I imagine a stone temple-esque thing, waving his hands in the air, ecstatic with his new ability.
For some reason, he passed a wooden swing-set. "I will turn you to gold" shouted the King in glee. He placed a single finger on the seat of the swing-set. The spot where his finger touched turned gold instantly. The gold spread through the set overtaking the wood until standing before King Midas was a solid gold swing-set. I also imagine cool sound effects happening whenever he turns stuff to gold.
The King, thrilled that his power remained, rushed back to the castle.
When he arrived, the King ordered everyone to the Grand Hall for a demonstration. Sevants, cooks, guards, and the entire castle staff crowded around the King's royal throne.
"Watch what happens when I sit on my throne" he announced, trying to restrain the excitement in his voice.
The King slowly lowered himself into his throne. As soon as he made contact, the throne, like the swing-set and banana leaf, turned to solid gold.
Gasps and came from the crowd. The King laughed as a roar of thunderous applause filled the Grand Hall. The King spent the rest of the day turning trinkets into gold much to the delight of his audience.
The King demanded a feast to celebrate his new power. Cooks and servants worked feverishly to create such a feast. The servants filled Grand Hall with tables covered by the finest linens in the land, gold platters covered with exotic fruits, juicy roasts, and sweet breads to the King's liking.
Once everything was in place, the King walked the Hall, examining the delicacies set before him. "Very good," he said as he eyed the roast. Next to the roast sat a strand of green grapes. The King felt his stomach rumble. To ease the pain, the King plucked a green grape, tossed it in the air, with the intention of catching it in his mouth.
Unfortunately, the King forgot his ability turned EVERYTHING he touched to gold. He had not seen the grape morph into a solid gold sphere. For if he had, perhaps he wouldn't have tried to swallow it.
The solid gold grape flew in the air. The King positioned himself directly under it, mouth wide open. By the time the King realized the grape was no longer edible, it was too late. The sphere lodged itself in his throat. He choked on it and died.
THE END Again, that's not how the actual story ended, but that's how I completed mine.
SO when people something along the lines of, "MIDAS well go to the grocery store" I reasoned that they were explaining that King Midas would go to the grocery store, therefore we should go to the grocery store because we will get gold. I NEVER was given gold, so I determined that phrase to be a lie.
I really want a bunch of solid gold bars to stack into a pyramid.
And FINALLY,
The Star Spangled Banner - alright, this one is a bit different. I know every word of the Star Spangled Banner, thank you years of chorus. However, growing up in Maryland, I learned that the "OH!" portion of the song was to be screamed at the top of your lungs.
Now, I was under the impression that EVERYONE in the U.S. screamed the "OH!" as some sort of "Hooray, we've made it this far through the song. We're almost finished with this awkward part of our lives!"
That, however, is not the case. As a freshman in college, I headed to Virginia Tech's Lane Stadium to witness my first college football game. Before the game, the Corp of Cadets marched on the field, proudly displaying the U.S. flag. Everyone in the stadium rose as we sang along to the Star Spangled Banner.
And by sang along, I mean murmured because that is what you do when singing the national anthem. We murmur it under our breaths, rocking back and forth in anticipation for the game.
We reached "...gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there."
"OH!!!!!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. As I did, dozens of people turned to look at me in disgust.
It was only then that I realized I was the only one in the section that had screamed. Wait. Why was I the only one to scream?
Seeing my puzzled expression, an acquaintance took me aside to explain that in Maryland, we scream "O" because of the Orioles, our baseball team. Since our team is nicknamed "The O's" we call out "O" in their support. Additionally, people NOT from Maryland think it is really RUDE to do during the Star Spangled Banner.
What the people NOT from Maryland don't know is that ANY time the Star Spangled Banner is sung in any form in Maryland, we shout "OH!"
Singing it in school? Shout "OH!" Singing it at a sports game? Shout "OH!" Practicing it in chorus? Shout "OH!"
Those are the only times you sing it. So it makes sense that I assumed it was always to be shouted. No one ever sat me down as a child and explained differently. Therefore, I am here for you, CHILDREN OF MARYLAND to let you know, when singing the Star Spangled Banner in another state, do NOT shout "OH!" It's rude.
The Oriole's O
CHILDREN OF MARYLAND, reserve the "OH!" for Orioles' baseball games and Ravens' football games as I do. But don't fret, because you better believe that when I do have the chance to shout "OH", I do so at the top of my lungs.
Point of the Story: Sayings are much more fun when you hear them wrong. Plus, "giving someone an old tomato" is too good. It SHOULD be a saying.
