Literally or Figuratively?

If any of you have been following my Facebook or Twitter today, you may know a little bit about where this story is going, but now you’re about to get the full story. Be prepared to laugh your toukus off. 

Actually, I recommend you take a quick break to go to the bathroom. That way you don’t laugh so hard you pee.

You good? No? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

This morning was just like any other Monday morning. I was behind the wheel of my car, speeding down the highway, listening to a podcast. Just like any other Monday. When I looked up at the rearview mirror and saw movement, I didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary.

Until I realized that the movement wasn’t in the mirror. It was on the mirror.

A spider was busy circling the outer rim of the mirror. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to die. I wanted to set my car on fire. All I could do was say, “Don’t wreck the car; don’t wreck the car; don’t wreck the car.” 

It took every ounce of willpower in my body to keep the car moving and not drive it into the concrete divider in the median while trying my best to keep an eye on that eight-legged monstrosity (did I mention that he was the size of a dime?). I watched him circle the mirror twice, then climb onto the ceiling where he promptly disappeared.

Not long after that, when I got to work, I offered a quick compromise to the spider via Twitter.

Ok, Spider, I’m going to set my car keys on the seat and slowly back away. It’s all yours. Please don’t kill me.

I just wish I could say that this is where this comical story ends, but when your name is Minday, that’s never the case.

As I was walking into the building, my stomach decided to let me know just how scared it had been by the spider. It growled a warning that I only a few minutes before sh!t would literally get worse. Yeah, I literally had the sh!t scared out of me by the spider. 

That is not a joke.

But later in the day. I did joke. Starting at about 4, the jokes began to flow on Twitter.

So…anyone want to come battle the spider residing in my car? The reward will be knowing that I can actually sleep at night.

The spider is as big as a small grapefruit and answers to the name Jerry. He does speak, too. #imaybeexaggerating

Also the spider does not fear fire. In fact, he took my lighter and is taunting me with it. #stillexaggerating

My cat eats spiders, but in order to get her, I need to find a way to get home. Jerry says he’ll drive. #notsureitrustaspidertodrive

Jerry has offered to show me his driving record. He pulled out a little spider wallet. It’s got a Spider-Man design on it. #wierdlycute

As kind as Jerry is being, I just can’t get past the fact he’s a spider. I also can’t get close to him. #skinisliterallycrawling

How do you politely kill a spider? #askingforafriend #itsnotforjerryiswear

On the drive home, I had a brief scare. While sharing the story with my sister (who howled with laughter by the way), I felt a tickling on my leg and began screaming. My sister laughed even harder as I swiped at my leg to make sure that it was only my jeans and not an arachnid trying to dig its way into my flesh. It was just my jeans. I know.

There were no spider sightings. I did threaten to leave Nevaeh in the car for an hour or two just to be on the safe side, but I didn’t know if that would be frowned upon or not. 

Is it?

Did I Learn Anything in 2012??

While 2012 started out on the sucktacular side, it ended up pretty spiffilicious. Seriously, I went from being horribly depressed to having wacky dating adventures, finishing a novel, meeting HBJ (the hottest guy I know!) and just having some darn good fun in the process. In all, I’d count the year as a success just based on those things alone, but as I like to reflect upon the previous year’s hilarity, I figured I’d give you a look at what all I learned over the past 12 months. So sit back, relax, loosen your belt and prepare to laugh.

  • I am more than a bit obsessed with Funko dolls, amassing a collection that includes Freddie Krueger, Michael Meyers, Jason Vorhees, Leatherface, Beetlejuice, Sally, Jack Skellington, the Mayor, Edward Scissorhands, two Captain Americas and Edna Mode. They are amazingtastic.
  • My cat has now taken to guarding my pajamas from ebil.
  • Battlestar Galactica is the bomb-diggity, yo.
  • Krampus is as Krampus does.
  • Apple’s “will fit your ears” earbuds do not fit my ears.
  • Batman has satisfied me.
  • I heart Tarder Sauce, aka Grumpy Cat.
  • Ermagerd, Gersberms.
  • Adam Scott is still hot.
  • Nic Cage is the greatest actor in the history of ever.
  • Adding cherry vanilla flavoring to NyQuil only means it tastes like cherry vanilla-flavored devil juice.
  • You can actually have hot chocolate that does not taste like hot chocolate.
  • Even at the age of 33, it is still possible for me to fall out of bed.
  • Chocolate soda is nowhere near as awesome as it sounds.
  • I have a crush on Neil Degrasse Tyson.
  • It’s Obama’s fault that I miss Suzie and no longer live in Texas.
  • If Oprah described War Horse: YOU get a death scene! And YOU get a death scene! YOU get a death scene! EVERYBODY GETS DEATH SCENES!!!
  • Little baby people don’t have sideburns. They have to grow them when they’re older. But if your little baby already has sideburns, that’s awesome. Don’t be concerned.
  • Also, two beavers are better than one. They’re twice the fun. Ask anyone.
  • It’s good to be a geek.
  • My new apartment is haunted by a polite ghost who writes hello in the mirror, knocks on the door and folds socks.
  • I English good.
  • The idea of playing defense in softball is to catch the ball with your glove. Not with your mouth. Not with your bare hand.
  • Just because you’re 33 doesn’t mean you can’t have a Captain America-themed birthday party.
  • Teddy Roosevelt is a BAMF.
  • While lemon in your Coke is delicious, drinking Coke right after eating a lemon granola bar leaves you feeling as though you drank dish soap.
  • You can burn your eye with shrimp if your Japanese steakhouse chef has bad aim.
  • Rainbows taste like bacon.
  • I can blame Spiderman for all my problems.
  • I apparently dated a pirate.
  • Harry Potter Puppet Pals are even more amazing live.
  • All you need is love and a cat.
  • Zombie burgers are soooooooo good!
  • I cannot listen to the beginning of “Somebody that I Used to Know” without singing my ABCs.
  • The greatest meme in the history of memes is Thor learning to text.
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  • Do not, under any circumstance, make Oprah angry.
  • I’m about as big of a Tommy Lee Jones fan as you can get, but there is not enough fandom in the world to get me to see a movie about him and Meryl Streep trying to have sex. Ever.
  • Squats are a tool of the devil.
  • Mrs. Captain America does have a nice ring to it.
  • I have witnessed with my own eyes that it is possible to eat a bowl of cereal while driving.
  • My dentist is the devil.
  • Ten years later, Suzie and I can still tear up the River Walk. And it’s still Cleavage Friday.
  • I can touch my nose!

Honestly, I learned so many awesome things. This is really just scratching the surface, but man was it fun. And so, I leave you now with what’s pushing me to learn some more awesome things in 2013. Enjoy!

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Things I’ve Learned, the 2010 edition

If you had asked me a year ago today what would happen over the upcoming year, I can honestly say that I don’t think I would have gotten a single prediction right.

No, I wouldn’t have said that I was going to be rich, a published author, wife, mother, etc. Those would have been the predictions of a crazy person.

I probably would have said that I’d still be in a relationship, that I’d have finished my master’s degree, and still be working at my last job, prepping for a big move to another part of the country.

See, totally wrong on all counts. I’m single, still working on that degree, and I got my dream job and work with some awesome people.

But what has happened over the past year has taught me quite a lot, and most of it has been absolutely hysterical. As it should be.

Honestly, if the year wasn’t hilarious, it could only be because I died before the year even started.

So, without further ado, I present for you all the things that I learned in 2010, in no particular order.

  • Being out of shape can, and will, result in someone thinking I’m pregnant.
  • The Apple TV remote is so small that I will forever lose it inside my couch. While it’s small, it’s the perfect size to use as a microphone when I’m singing to myself.
  • Never watch the trailer for The Human Centipede while eating a chili dog.
  • I’m not allowed to play Super Mario Bros. Wii while unsupervised.
  • It is possible to inhale the following things in hilarious, yet painful, ways: chili, spaghetti noodles, chai lattes, just-out-of-the-oven brownies, and jalapeño seeds.
  • Even Santa Claus gets speeding tickets.
  • I can, and will, lock both my keys and my glasses in the car at the same time.
  • I can hurt myself with my own footwear. And I don’t mean fall down or trip on it. I mean kick the flip-flop off my foot and hit myself in the head with it.
  • Never think about how long I’d survive in a horror movie while showering…or really doing activity in which people die in horror movies.
  • Even after doing it for the first time when I was six, I will still manage to fall into my laundry basket and get stuck.
  • A quorum of 2/3 majority must be established before voting can occur.
  • If I happen to slip and fall down on the paint in front of Target during a rain storm, I will always hear, “Don’t slip!” when I go to that Target with my sister.
  • My cat continues to hate me.
  • Apparently, if I wear my hair down and tuck my glasses inside of a beanie, I’m hot.
  • It doesn’t matter how long I step away from my phone or computer. Amir will find a way to hack my Facebook.
  • It is possible to mistake my finger for a potato while using a vegetable peeler. And it fricken hurts.
  • Speaking of…four stitches and a tetanus shot costs $1,653.48.

So with all of the awesome things I learned this year, I can’t help but make a couple of predictions for the upcoming year:

  • I will have finished my first novel and start writing a second (bonus points if I finish the second!)
  • I will finish my master’s or go insane!
  • I will be a 40s-style lounge singer

Stay tuned!

A Cut Above the Rest

Just last night I was sat in this very spot trying to think of something funny to write about. I tried and tried, but my poor brain just wasn’t feeling it. Instead, I answered one of those survey thingies I’m so fond of. And that’s fine, because I definitely have a doozy of a story today.

Now I should start by saying that Thanksgiving Mindays are nothing new. Ever since I took up cooking for Turkey Day, I’ve walked away with battle scars. One year, I burnt my left thumb, and just a month later, at Christmas, I burnt my right in the exact same spot. And then there was Thanksgiving with the Murphys.

So, as you can see, I probably shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a kitchen.

This year, I had lucked out. I wouldn’t be cooking the entire feast. Instead, I was only responsible for two things: mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes. Easy, right?

If you’re anyone but Mindy.

I started with the sweet potatoes. With the exception of having selecting four massively huge sweet potatoes, which meant I would have to boil them in two batches, they were easy-peasy, bacon-cheesy. I did scald myself slightly on the water as I was removing a chunk of sweet potato, and I did think of Thanksgiving with the Murphys, wondering if that would be the worst of my drama.

I really think I jinxed myself.

Not even 10 minutes had passed, and I had set up a new pot of water so I could boil the potatoes. As the water warmed, I grabbed my brand new Oxo veggie peeler and a small potato.

And two seconds later, I gasped in pain. I had mistaken my right ring finger for the potato and now had a diagonal gash across the top, through the fingernail.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. <— Standard Mindy reaction to blood, especially her own.

Alexis, who was sat on the floor eating lunch, immediately looked up to see me wrapping my finger in a kitchen towel. She didn’t learn what was going on until a few seconds later, when I called her mom and asked, “How do you know if you need to get stitches?”

I have since learned that, if you need to ask that question, you either need stitches or you don’t need them. Yes, I know that makes no sense, but I had to share a little of what I dealt with today.

Brandy called Allen, who came right over to look at my finger. His first thought: I needed stitches. His second: let’s try wrapping it up. So, with a large chunk of gauze and a lot of whinging from Mindy who was experiencing some pretty horrific pain, he tried wrapping it.

Yeah, pretty quickly that proved to be a failure. And as the blood began seeping through the gauze, we decided to go with Allen’s first idea, so off we headed to the hospital.

On the way, I couldn’t help but joke. One, it’s my way of dealing with things I can’t really handle. Two, I was certain I was not the first, nor would I be the last, Thanksgiving casualty they saw at the emergency room.

I was right, by the way.

When we walked into the hospital, everyone asked how I got my injury. I was the first potato peeler injury of the day. Go me!

No one was surprised to hear it, though.

In the emergency room, I found myself getting nervous, especially when words like X-ray and tetanus were thrown about. Fortunately, it was determined I didn’t need the X-ray. Unfortunately, I did need the tetanus shot. Along with two other shots to numb my poor finger.

Okay, I had already been stabbed by needles twice this week. I got my flu shot Tuesday, and I had blood drawn Wednesday. Now I was getting stabbed three times???

Let the fainting begin.

It’s silly to say I don’t like needles. As the guy who drew my blood joked, “Does anyone really like being stuck with needles?” If you do, you are fricken weird.

I got the tetanus shot first, and surprisingly, that hurt less than the flu shot did. Though I currently feel like I’ve been punched in the arm for the past eight hours straight.

Then, the doctor came in to work on my finger.

I’m pretty certain he could sense my apprehension. Well, I’m pretty sure everyone within a 50-yard radius could sense my apprehension. I turned away with a sickened squeal as he unwrapped my finger. But then he became generous and laid the bed down flat so I didn’t have to watch him work.

Then I proceeded to crack everyone up.

I had been holding on to my wallet, but as the doctor prepared to work on me, I clutched on to it for dear life, my head turned to my left and my eyes squeezed shut. And he hadn’t even started yet.

The doctor warned me that he would numb my finger with two shots, one to each side of my wounded finger. And boy did he ever.

As the first needle broke my skin, I burst into loud hysterical laughter.

No, seriously, I burst into loud hysterical laughter, which in turn caused all of the attention in the place to turn to me.

And when he administered the second shot, I laughed even harder. But you know what, my finger went numb nearly immediately, and I still can’t feel that puppy eight hours later.

I got a grand total of four stitches. I know, I’m going to have a fricken sweet scar. Jealous? You should be. Dear God, I can’t even type that with a straight face.

So, I took a couple of pics. The first should only be viewed if you can handle gross stuff. The second is the PG version. When viewing these, remember how you spent your day chilling with relatives and stuffing yourself silly. You could have had a much more awesome day, a Minday to be exact.

Of course, tomorrow, when the numbness has worn off, and the pain kicks in, I won’t be so silly. In fact, I will hate this particular Minday.

 

For the record, typing this hilarious story up took ages. You never realize just how much you use the ring finger on your non-dominant hand until you try lopping it off.

The Interview

Throughout my life, I’ve learned that there are some people who are a bit hesitant to believe just how accident-prone I can be. I find it funny, because I am very upfront about this fact.

How the heck could I keep something like that hidden? I’m the same girl who can’t be around a hot guy without seriously injuring myself. I seriously once nearly gave myself a concussion trying to retrieve a cap to a water bottle because a hot guy was sat about 10 feet away from me.

Usually, the way things work is that, when I disclose my not-so-secret affliction, people think, Oh, isn’t she cute? She thinks she’s accident-prone. I bet she’s tripped like once in her life.

Ha! I wish.

What then follows is that I do something, quite by accident of course, that proves that, if anything, I underestimate just how much of a walking disaster this girl can be.

And sadly, the person doesn’t quite believe how bad it gets. Then I tell The Interview Story. (It gets caps, because it’s totally epic in terms of having a Minday).

So, to show you how much of a Minday I can cram into a short span of time, I present The Interview Story:

Back in July of 2006, I was ready to move away from being a clerk at The Star and do something different. I applied for higher ed jobs, but just to fully cover my bases, I also applied for jobs at other newspapers in the area.

One newspaper called, and the editor asked me to come out for an interview that Sunday. It was a bit weird having to head off to Overland Park to meet with the editor on a Sunday, but hey, I know they tend to work some crazy hours, so who was I to judge?

The night before I crawled into bed and the nerves kicked in. Oh my God! What if he starts asking me all these questions about Kansas? I only know that the State Song is “Home on the Range” and that they’ve been having a massive debate on evolution since we crawled out of the primordial ooze! What if he asks about the Gross Domestic Product of the average tree trimming service in Olathe? Oh no!!!

So obviously, giving in to an exhausted sleep was a blessing…until I woke up at 2 a.m. and started right in again.

Sigh.

The next morning I awoke, not refreshed per se, but as ready as I pretty much could be. I showered and did the normal morning routine. I even actually did more to my hair than just my standard French twist. I straightened it, and I felt pretty darn confident about myself, even if I had to suck it in to squeeze into the skirt of my suit.

At 9:15 a.m., I was as ready to go as I could be, so I grabbed the portfolio of my stories, my wallet, cell phone and a pair of flip flops to change into once the interview had completed and I was back on the road heading toward home. I said goodbye to Zeus and the evil Satan Kitteh then walked outside, shutting the locked door behind me.

I shut the screen door and turned toward my car, my arms ladened with all the things I needed to take with me. Then, as though I had walked into an invisible brick wall, I stopped short. Without even looking at the items in my hands I knew what one thing they were not carrying: my car keys.

Son of a….

I dropped everything on the porch and turned back to the door. Even though I knew better, I turned the knob, which of course did not give due to it being locked. Crap! I thought. I needed to get going as soon as possible, but how could I do that when my keys hung on the other side of the door, laughing at me for being so stupid as to walk out without them???

The back door! I thought, then ran round the house, but it too mocked me as I jiggled the locked knob.

I needed to get in as soon as possible, but how? What could I do?

That’s it! I’ll call Brandy! I rushed back around front, grabbed my cell and speed dialed my sister. When the answer machine clicked on, I wanted to scream. Instead, as calmly as I could I said, “Brandy, it’s an emergency! Please call me on my cell when you get this.”

I hung up and waited, but as the second minute passed, I knew she wouldn’t call in time. I needed to get to Overland Park in 35 minutes, and if there was traffic, I would be out of luck!

So, I did what any desperate woman would do. I walked around the side of the house, found the basement window that Paul had once broken into and did the exact same thing. Of course, not realizing how the window opened, I kicked out the wood covering the broken window pane, and shimmied into the tiny gap. I actually (and surprisingly) fit, but of course scratched up my stomach and arm along the way. A small price though, because I WAS INSIDE!!

I rushed upstairs, grabbed the keys, rushed out the door, grabbed my items and jumped into the car. I sped out to Johnson County and arrived at the newspaper’s office with 10 minutes to spare.

As I had been instructed to do, I started to punch in the editor’s number when a man walked out of the building. He noticed me and knocked on the window. “You’re here for the interview?” he asked, and I nodded. “I’ve got to go cover a fire. Want to come?”

Knowing that flexibility is what comes with the territory of being a reporter, I said sure, grabbed my portfolio and hurriedly followed him to his car. During the drive he asked me quite a few of the standard interview questions. We drove from 435 and Metcalf to 135th Street and Metcalf but we couldn’t find any sign of a fire. So, the editor said screw it and drove back to the office so that he could continue the interview.

In all, the whole thing took two hours, but it gave me a glimpse not only of what the job would be like, but also what my potential boss would be like. And to be honest, I really enjoyed it. I could easily do the job at this paper.

Interview completed, we made general chit chat as he walked me to the front door. I even joked about my hectic morning, but it wasn’t until I was outside and walking to my car that it dawned on me. My keys weren’t in my hands. Nor were they tucked inside my portfolio.

Nope, they were hanging from the ignition inside my locked car, where I left them when I had jumped from my car to join the editor.

Oh joy.

The good thing is that I kept my hatchback unlocked specifically for this occasion. Back at that time I locked my keys in my car on average of once a month. (Fortunately, since I got the new car I don’t have to do that anymore.)

So, in my suit, I climbed through the hatch and into the front seat. As I was sliding down into the driver’s seat, I looked up to notice that the editor had walked out of the front of the building and was looking right at me.

Awesome, huh?

The funny thing is that I actually got a job offer from the paper. Unfortunately, it came one my first day of work at UMKC.

Oops.

Here (Satan) Kitteh, Kitteh

I am a firm believer that what you name an animal helps shape the personality of said animal.

For instance, we once had this adorable baby Manchester Terrier we named Cujo. And while he didn’t trap a mom and son in their Ford Pinto until the boy died (read the book), he did nearly tear my dad’s thumb off…at the tender age of six weeks.

I adopted Nevaeh when she was a year old, so I didn’t feel right changing her name. But with her name being heaven spelled backward, I knew that being her owner wouldn’t be easy.

God, was I right.

I always joke that Nevaeh is Satan, because you can’t pet her without her trying to rip your hand off. She has an intense loathing of my niece Alexis, due to some trauma she suffered back when Alexis was a toddler. Every time Alexis visits, Nevaeh will scratch her. My sister Brandy refuses to come near her, for fear that Nevaeh will attack her…again.

While I love my cat, I do give her a wide berth at times, because back in 2005, I found out just how evil that cat can be!

My sister Jamie came into town along with her husband Ken and their four (yes, four) dogs. For the most part, having the dogs here was nice, except for a certain scare involving our nosy neighbor, a pit pull that managed to jump a six-foot privacy fence and animal control (but that’s another story for another day) and the incident that I am about to relate.

Less than an hour after the aformentioned pit bull scare involving my sister’s female dog Brendel (she may be a pit, but you couldn’t meet a bigger teddy bear of a dog!), Ken and I were getting ready to close up shop at my house and head to Brandy’s for an afternoon of cake, ice cream and water fights at my nieces’ birthday party. Before we left, I needed to grab all of the presents, including Mom’s, from her bedroom.

While Jamie and Ken’s three male dogs were outside, Brendel had the run of the house along with my wubbable, cuddly Zeus. To prevent any freakouts, we locked Nevaeh in Mom’s bedroom. But with me being the rocket scientist that I am (I really am starting to believe Mom when she says that, while I’m intelligent, I lack common sense), I totally forgot that’s why our little kitty was locked away for the day.

I entered Mom’s room, my arms laden with the books I was bestowing upon Brittany. I just wanted to put my items into the big bag of gifts from Mom and I so I could take them over to Brandy’s house. But I didn’t think through just exactly what I was doing, or else I probably could have prevented a lot of drama…and a lot of pain.

Mom’s door failed to latch properly, so whenever we needed to keep it shut, we propped something in the jamb to keep the dog or cat from pushing it open. Mom had done just that to keep Nevaeh away from the dogs.

But as I had gone inside, I had forgotten to latch the door behind me. But, in my defense, I never even thought about the dog going after the cat. Zeus and Nevaeh got on so well that I didn’t think about Brendel. And why should I have?

Gee, I don’t know…maybe it’s because cats and dogs are mortal enemies and Zeus and Nevaeh getting along was actually going against Mother Nature.

As I dropped the books on the bed, Brendel rushed into the room, scaring Nevaeh into the rear corner of Mom’s bed. I pushed the dog outside and shut the door. And yet again, I didn’t think about the door being pushed open. Way to go common sense!

Not even 30 seconds later the door burst open again. This time Brendel didn’t hold back. She leapt onto the bed and chased Nevaeh out of the room. Ken caught the dog and put her away. I took off after the cat so that I could lock her back into the safety of Mom’s room.

I chased Nevaeh out into the dining room then to the top step of the basement stairs when she finally came to a stop. I bent down to pick her up and forgot about the one thing that was about to change my morning from bad to worse: Zeus.

As I’ve said before, my cat and dog get on very well. But Nevaeh wasn’t thinking about their past friendliness. She was only thinking dogs = bad. So when she spied Zeus behind me as I squatted down to pick her up, she went into full-tilt freak-out mode. She tore her way up my legs to my torso, but she didn’t stop there. No, she climbed all the way up my body, stopping at my head.

Looking as through we were performing a poor man’s reenactment of the face-sucker scene in Alien, Nevaeh clung to my face, her claws dug into my poor temples. My hands grasped her forelegs, trying to pull her off my face. I tried screaming for help, but screaming through my kitty’s furry belly just wasn’t cutting it. I grabbed the paw dug into my right temple and ripped it out. I could finally call for Ken to come and rip the evil kitty off my face.

Ken walked into the kitchen and saw the quivering, snarling, white-hot ball of feline terror attached to my head. I’m sure I looked quite hilarious, and in retrospect, I laugh just thinking about what Ken probably saw: a woman with a calico face.

Without a word, Ken ripped the other claw out of my head. Nevaeh, still freaking out, scratched at him then took off to parts unknown (we later found her hiding inside the back of the couch – don’t ask, I don’t know). I ran to a mirror to see what damage had been done. Blood poured off my nose, lip and temples. I didn’t realize it at the time, but when she climbed up my face, she used her teeth, biting my nose and upper lip. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I tried laughing, but found I couldn’t. So I cried. Boy, did I cry.

Jamie called; I cried.

I called Mom; I cried.

Of course, Mom forced me to put Ken on the phone, because in my gibbering, Mom thought that the dogs had gone on a rampage and that I had been mauled and the cat mortally wounded. She didn’t have to rush out to the emergency room, just to the pharmacy to get me some extra-strength allergy medicine.

Oh, did I mention that I’m massively allergic to cats?

So we got the situation taken care of and were able to get to the party, but I learned one major lesson. When kitty’s upset, RUN AWAY!!!!! I know that her reaction was natural, but that ain’t going to stop me from running away anytime she starts puffing up at a dog. It’s just not worth it.

And that is just another reason why kitty = Satan.

Look Who’s Talking

We’ve all seen it. Better yet, we’ve all done it (though most are loathe to admit it). I did it about three minutes ago in the privacy of my bathroom.

Ewww, you perv! I’m not talking about that!

I’m talking about talking to yourself.

In my case, I’m usually giving myself crap for my latest Minday…like when I fell over in my office while stretching earlier today.

Seriously, we all do it. We even joke about how it’s okay to talk to yourself, it’s just kooky to answer yourself. And for that I must ask, really???

What I find to be the most bizarre about talking to one’s self is not the answering. No, it’s usually just the talking to one’s self that creeps me out. Well, no, not the regular “Doh!” or even the “Mindy, I can’t believe you just fell down while stretching!” I’m talking the full-on having an animated conversation in public so that other people give you a wide berth on the sidewalk.

Now, I wouldn’t mention this if it weren’t for the fact that I have seen this happen on multiple occasions over the past two days. Seriously, one of them was so animated I thought he was conducting an invisible symphony. Another one looked like she was having an argument with herself, complete with angry mutters and head shakes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making fun of these people. I’m just now wondering if I’m that kind of girl. When I fell down earlier, had a student passed by my office at that moment, would he or she have seen me giggling like a lunatic as I chided myself for no longer being so flexible?

Great. Now I’m thinking of every Minday I’ve had – from major to minor – and how I responded while alone. Oh man, I know that when I fell in the little pond at my last house, I totally razzed myself out loud as I drug my soaking wet self out of the pond and into the house. And don’t even get me started about the time that I babysat the toilet at NACA last year. And oh my God, not the time I Naired my eyebrows off.

I’m so screwed.

So…I’m not the brightest crayon in the box

While my hair color may be brown, but I really do act quite blonde at times. Over the 30 years of my life, I’ve had some moments that would make even the most ditzy blonde seem like a rocket scientist. You all know that I can be quite silly; heck, laughter is my favorite thing to do. So, laughing at myself, of course, is something that happens quite often. Yes, I am a fan of self-depricating humor.

You have to be when you’re me.

I have had so many funny things happen to me, it’s beginning to be hard to keep track. But during a recent Twitter conversation, I remembered what is perhaps one of my dumbest moments of all time.

If they have something similar to the Darwin Awards for blonde moments (and I was blonde at the time), I probably would have won it for this. Enjoy!
During my senior year of college, late one Saturday night, I found myself very bored. I thought that I should be all beauty conscious and pluck my eyebrows. But as I looked at my eyebrows, I wondered if there was an easier way to do it.

I didn’t have any wax on my hands, and being sometime after 10:30 p.m. (I only remember because my roommate was watching Saturday Night Live), I really didn’t want to rush off to Wal-Mart. Instead, I dug around in my bathroom caddy and found something that could work: a bottle of Nair left over from formal earlier that year.

Now, I’m sure all of you, who have way more common sense than I apparently have, are thinking to yourselves, “Mindy, please do not write what I think you’re about to write.”

For that, I would like to apologize in advance.

Blatantly ignoring the warning on the bottle that says, “DO NOT EVEN THINK OF USING THIS ON EYE BROWS UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE THE LAUGHING STOCK OF YOUR UNIVERSITY!” I pulled out a Q-tip and deftly applied the Nair to the spots I wanted to remove.

Anyone who has ever used Nair or any other dipilatory can attest that when applied to any part of your body, it fricken burns. No, this isn’t like when your brother gives you an Indian burn or when you get carpet burns from….well, you know. It fricken burns like the unholy flames of hell are unleashed upon your skin, and when it’s on your eye lids, I’d say it’s magnified times a gadzillion.

I didn’t even make it the 10 minutes you’re supposed to have it on your skin. After about five or six minutes, I grabbed a washcloth and wiped it off…along with nearly all of my left eye brow and half of my right.

Yeah, you did read that right. Wiped those suckers right off my face.

I would have rather gone Mona Lisa and taken them all off because a person with 1/2 of one eye brow and 1/4 of the other looks a bit more bizarre than someone with none.

My roommate must have heard whatever sound of terror I made. She came out, took one look at my wonky eye brows and doubled over laughing. Well, at least I brought joy into her evening.

By the time Monday rolled around, nearly all of campus knew about my eye brows. The only thing I could do was draw on the other half of my eye brows. Of course, I took dance that semester, so some days I’d sweat off the eye brows, leaving brown streaks down my face. To quote Johnny Bravo, “Man, I looked pretty.”

It took ages for my eye brows to grow back, and when they did grow back, they did so in patches. I had bald spots for what felt like decades. They’re okay now. Looking at me, you couldn’t even tell that I had a run in with Nair.

Even though that has come and gone, I can pretty much assure you that it won’t be my last blonde moment.

The Truth is in the Scars

Being the walking disaster I am, it is only natural that my body is littered with scars. They run the gamut from mundane (like the three small dots on my right thigh from scalding hot grease), to silly (the two-inch line on my right forearm from a wire coat hanger, which totally explains why Joan Crawford thought they were evil), and finally, to the serious (the two-inch long scar just above my left butt cheek where I had a good-sized lypoma removed from where it clung to my sciatic nerve).

Some of my scars are pretty obvious; others, fortunately, lurk just out of sight on my pale skin. If I were to tan, though, you would be able to see the patchwork quilt that is my body.

As I have funny falling down stories, I also have funny scar stories, though some are one and the same.

So, for your reading, and not to mention Schadenfreude, pleasure, I present Scar Stories.

  • On the bottom of each foot, I have inch-long diagonal scars from incidents spaced exactly one month apart. The first came as I waded through a creek barefoot and cut myself on a wickedly sharp tree branch. The entire hobble home, I repeated, “Crap, crap, crap, crap….”

    Exactly one month later, I stepped off my porch, again barefoot, and right onto a glass bottle my brother had just dropped.You’d have thought I would have learned my lesson about wearing shoes the first time, but how else would I have broken two of my toes about 5 times each?

  • My right wrist has a bizarre little nub of a scar about two centimeters long where I punctured my wrist.

    Yes, you read that right, I punctured my wrist.

    How does one puncture her wrist, you ask? Well, if you’re goofing around hanging upside down off the side of your dad’s El Camino and accidentally smack your wrist down around a rusted, jagged part of wheel well, odds are, you’ll puncture your wrist.

  • My right index finger sports a v-shaped scar at its base. That scar reminds me that you never get in the middle of a dog fight. Not even if you’re trying to shut the door to keep them from running outside, because you could accidentally put your hand through the window…like I did.
  • My face sports several scars, the most obvious of which is the giant one in the middle of my head that looks like I tried to create my own bhindi. At the tender age of five, when I brought home the chicken pox and thus infected my entire family, I was told that I could scratch at any of the scabs…except the giant one in the middle of my forehead.

    Well, I didn’t actually scratch it. The couch did. I just happened to move my head up and down repeatedly against the cushion trying to quell the mad itch that was driving me insane.

  • About an inch above my chicken pox scar, running at a diagonal slash is where I had a run-in with a shingle. Those things look all flimsy, even when they’re flying at your face like an errant frisbee, but they are incredibly heavy. And when they hit your head after being tossed like a frisbee, they really, really, really hurt!
  • My left ring finger has a faint scar between the second knuckle and the base of my finger from where I nearly ripped my finger off. I had always heard that turquoise gem stones were bad luck. And after the day my turquoise ring got caught on a chain-link fence and sliced my finger in half, I believe it. The worst part was trying to get the ring off my rapidly swelling and bleeding finger. Man, that hurt.

    I still have the ring if you ever want to see how damaged it was in the process.

  • Just a couple inches below my ring finger scar, an inch-long scar runs parallel with my life line. That one came about when I was about six and my brother, his friends and I decided we wanted to built a fort out of scrap lumber. Too bad I wasn’t looking at what I was touching and found the one nail that had not been removed from the 2″ x 4″.
  • The outside of my right thumb has a backward checkmark that runs alongside my thumbnail. This lovely scar is there more due to repetition than anything. You see, I have this bad habit of cutting myself whenever I cut tomatoes. It started when I was six and has followed me throughout my life. It doesn’t happen every time, but it does happen often enough to give me such a cool scar. Yeah, you’d think I’d know how to cut tomatoes now that I’m 30 years old…but you’d also think that I’d know by now how to walk up a flight of steps without falling up them.
  • My final scar is awesome, because it’s THE MYSTERY SCAR.

    How is it a mystery? Well, for starters, I have no idea how I got it. Seriously.

    It’s a bizarre half-circle of spots that runs on my left side from just above my hip bone to my rib cage. The best way I can describe it is to use the phrase I coined as a child when telling others about it: it looks like I was bitten by a gremlin. Really, it looks like a half-circle of teeth marks. It’s quite cool, really.It’s one of those scars that only pops up when I tan. And while people say tan fat looks better than white fat, I’d rather show no fat at all, so the odds of seeing it are like the odds of having lunch with Nessie, Bigfoot and an alien. Sorry, y’all.

Only time will tell what other scars I manage to accumulate. For now, I’ll just continue to refrain from being exposed to sunlight for prolonged periods of time in order to minimize the appearance of just how badly battered my poor body truly is.