Blue Lawn Chair

Apparently, I care about lawn chairs.
I’ve always known that I typically give inanimate objects personalities and feelings. The “As-is” section at IKEA (what is with that name? There doesn’t need to be a hyphen between “as” and “is.” Also, if they are going to do that, why is “is” not capitalized?? Or is that their attempt at trying to be charming and show they are based in a place where English is not the first language?) depresses me like you couldn’t believe. Sad, friendless, broken items longing to be chosen by those passing through, often times dealing with the shoppers’ mockeries.
 
Okay, call me crazy. Whatever. I’ll accept it.
 
When last in Minnesota, I stayed with relatives who live in a house with a lovely backyard leading to a lake with a dock. One day during my trip, someone placed two blue plastic lawn chairs on the aforementioned dock. That evening (or maybe it was the next? It really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of this story) the weather took a turn for the worse; heavy winds, a deluge of rain, and a tornado of death, Wizard of Oz style (maybe I am being a bit dramatic…except for the wind). So, this torrential wind blew one of the two blue plastic lawn chairs into the lake.
 
There it sat, all day. I couldn’t help but think of the poor, abandoned lawn chair ending up like the items in IKEA’s “As-is” section (GAH! Just capitalize “is” and remove the hyphen!). All alone, insults from even the broken and discarded IKEA items pummeling it from all angles in Swedish, mocking the blue lawn chair for being a lame American item wanted by no one.
 
By the second day, the lake even decided it didn’t want Blue Lawn Chair in its waters and had pushed it to the most muck and algae-ridden part of the lake. Enough was enough. I stood up on the dock in my swimsuit and declared (to no one, but out loud) “I’m going in!” And in I went. I cannot adequately describe the revolting, stomach-churning feeling of swimming through and attempting to stand in the thick, mucus-like algae and who knows what else in which Blue Lawn Chair had ended up. All I can say is I felt submerged in some radioactive waste, surely full of disgusting parasites and leeches, conforming around my body, giving me some horrific super power like being able to pop my eyes out and juggle them. Absolutely purposeless except maybe as a weird party trick.
 
I grabbed Blue with one arm, determined to evade my demise as the eyeball juggler, but equally determined to get Blue (new nickname) back on the dock. The rigid plastic edges of the chair scraped my arms and legs, and I struggled to get Blue onto my back, carrying him (or her??) to safety like a drowning child. Eventually, I made my way back, thrust Blue onto the dock, and climbed up myself. I noticed cuts on my legs that later would be surrounded by bruises. But it was worth it to get Blue reacquainted with Other Blue Lawn Chair. I sighed with relief, proud of my efforts.
 
Then, the wind blew an innertube left on the dock into the lake. I declared, with less gusto and again to no one, “I’m going in.”

Laugh at Yourself (Part 2)

Another one of those charming moments in life that is horrible as it happens but funny at a later point happened to me this morning. Pride engulfed me, however, when I found that I was able to laugh at the absurdity of the situation even in the midst of its occurrence.

This morning, I woke up at the butt crack of dawn as I spent the night in Maryland and needed to high tail it to work early in hopes of beating the dreaded D.C. beltway traffic. I arrived a bit before 7:00 at the metro parking garage in as decent a mood as one can be running off so little sleep. I relished the idea of so much leisure time before work- I envisioned myself sitting in a café and reading the paper in preparation for a Monday of work.

This fantasy of a calm and relaxing morning came to a careening halt within mere seconds, however. As I descended the stairs of the parking garage, I realized that my absentmindedness brought on by lack of sleep caused me to forget to change shoes. Unfortunately, flip flops are not exactly work attire, so I dashed back up the stairs to my car to change shoes.

To understand this anecdote completely, I need to share some background information. Until recently, the automatic lock feature functioned on all four doors of my car. Recently, however, the one on the driver’s door stopped working when I tried to lock it from the outside by pushing the button on my key. I quickly adapted to this minor inconvenience, however, and began locking it from the inside once parked. That non-functional automatic lock really screwed me over this morning.

Okay, time to backtrack. Once I arrived at my car to change shoes, I popped the trunk but was dissatisfied with my footwear options. I remembered that the perfect pair for my outfit (wow, I just sounded so girly I can’t stand it) was in the passenger’s seat. Since the only way I can get into the car is to manually unlock the driver’s door, I did so, quickly grabbed the shoes, locked the door from the inside, as is now habit, and slammed the door shut. Then, I turned around and what did I see on the driver’s seat? Yes. My freakin’ keys. 

I should have just worn the flip flops to work. 

Yes, I do have three sets of keys to my car. Guess where set number two was? I am almost too embarrassed to admit this- in the center console. And the third? At the apartment, of course.

My heart jolted with hope when I remembered that I left the trunk open. I figured I could just push the seats forward or crawl through the little compartment into the main part of the car. What actually happened is I spent about 45 minutes looking like a total idiot hanging part way out of the trunk trying to use random objects in the trunk to unlock one of the rear doors.

The middle compartment was marginally too small for my whole body to fit through- the best I could do was squeeze my head and one arm through it. My first attempt to infiltrate the car was to try and push the back seats forward. After much struggle, I managed to undo the three latches securing the seats in the upright position. Yet even so, the seats wouldn’t budge. I looked through the back window to investigate.

This world is full of dark humor sometimes. The only way to get the seats down is with, you guessed it, the key. So plan B commenced with my using a strange metal object I found by the spare tire in the trunk to try and reach the lock in the back and push it up. Naturally, it was about an inch too short, so I tried to attach it to a pen in sheer desperation and to a few other objects I could find. Well, it turns out I couldn’t MacGyver myself out of that situation, so I finally caved and called AAA. If I had known from the get-go that AAA services are free, I would have called them prior to my prolonged display of idiocy.

One thing I found slightly discouraging was that not a single person offered to help me, and at least 15 to 20 cars drove by (it’s a popular garage). I mean, was not a single person concerned that there were legs clearly dangling out the back of a trunk? Maybe in their positions I would not have stopped either.

Let me conclude by saying that I am madly in love with AAA. The representative with whom I spoke was a super nice lady, and didn't even make fun of me when I offered to drive out of the parking garage to meet up with the driver to make it easier to find me. She reminded me that my keys being inside the car would make that a bit tricky...

They sent a guy over and he had the door opened in about five seconds flat. That freaked me out a little bit; what if a criminal were to secure a position as a AAA driver? That’s probably a wee bit paranoid of a thought. Well anyway, instead of being pouty over my lost hours of morning of café relaxation, I kept visioning my legs hanging out of the trunk and my head peeking out between the back seats and couldn’t help but chuckle. Oh, my life…

NOOOOOOO!

Laugh At Yourself

I discovered this morning that I have learned to laugh at myself, literally. This newfound ability, possessed by few, is sure to open limitless doors for me. For the past three days, I have set my alarm for 5:00 AM to simply give myself the option to attend 6:00 yoga. Yesterday, my brain heard the dreaded chime of the iPhone alarm and asked me if I was freakin’ kidding (literally, the terminology my brain used) and instructed my body to sleep until 7:45 instead.

I wasn’t going to take that rebellious attitude from my maniacal mind this morning- oh, no. I was done putting up with its lazy attitude and decided to get my butt in gear (is that a saying?). I jumped out of bed at 5:00, dressed for yoga, grabbed lunch for work and hit the beautiful, traffic-free road by 5:20. Leaving this early put my arrival time at the studio around 5:30, which is a bit too prompt to attempt to enter class. I also realized while driving by that it was still pitch-black inside- a good indicator that the instructor was still snoozing or en route.

The first thing I noticed when I parked in the garage was that my car had no vehicular company whatsoever. I assumed this was simply from being a good 30 minutes early and put my seat back and turned the radio up. After about 10 minutes, another car parked in the garage, I reckoned that was a good indication I could go inside. I greeted my fellow yogi with a nod and “good morning” and we walked to the studio, which still had a locked door and not a single light on.

He and I stood there, alone outside the studio, as an awkward silence descended upon us like an ominous storm cloud. Eventually, he caused the dissipation of the silence cloud by asking if the classes normally start this late. I shook my head no, and we began chatting about how we liked the studio, where we were from, blah, blah. At around 5:50, he expressed his concern that, perhaps, the instructor forgot to set his or her alarm. Then, it hit me.

“Oh man… I think Fridays are the one day when there isn’t a 6 AM class…” I announced, as my eyes widened to the size of shiny quarters in the horrific revelation that I had dragged my bum out of bed two hours earlier than necessary.

“No way!” he responded. “I swear I checked that!” and, as he looked at his phone, “oh, crap. You’re right.”

Instead of getting angry at realizing I lost hours I would never gain back, I bent over in crippling laughter, a fit that my comrade yogi immediately joined me in. We stood there, laughing at our own misfortunes for a good five or ten minutes. When we finally caught our breath, we departed, and I went for a run. The End.

Me this morning, minus the weird hat and makeup, and wearing a shirt

Let's Go Skinny Dipping

Most authors must work hard to secure a spot on my list of beloved writers by showcasing their talents in at least two or three fantastic pieces of profound and captivating literature. Or, they can circumvent these criteria by writing something hilarious that quickly sets me of on a laughing fit so extreme that those around me would confuse it with a seizure, potentially leading to an unnecessary 9-1-1 call (and we know how the dispatchers LOVE those). Upon their arrival, I would be forced to awkwardly explain my inability to contain my reactions to good comedy writing. Okay, enough of that over the top scenario...

As I mentioned in a previous post, this looks more like an erotic adult novel. Don't be fooled. 

Using some kind of writing wizardry, Carl Hiaasen managed to bypass both criteria with his novel Skinny Dip. Yes, it is funny, but not the aforementioned, fit-inducing hilarity. It falls into the category of smart humor that makes you laugh like a buffoon in your mind while emitting only a reasonable, quiet chuckle. Sometimes the mere ridiculous nature of the plot is enough to make a smile spread across the reader's face.

Carl Hiaasen just emanates "funny guy"- I wouldn't mind hanging out with him!

Personally, I lack the patience to sit through seemingly endless introductions spanning multiple chapters while eagerly awaiting the start of the action. That is quite simply a waste of my oh-so-precious time. So when the first page of Hiaasen's novel transported me to the middle of the ocean where a woman was struggling to surface after being pushed off a cruise ship by her husband, my literary hunger was satiated. The rest of the novel chronicles Joey Perrone's (the woman pushed overboard) rescue by island-dweller Mick Stranahan and their subsequent plan to mess with her womanizing, scum-bag of a husband Chaz until he goes bat-sh** crazy. Chaz's personality is almost unbelievably atrocious at times. One shining example is his attempts to apologize to his mistress that he shot in the leg after she finds out about how he killed his wife. He begs and pleads like a helpless child, saying "Come on baby, I was crazy in the head!"


Hiaasen's talent in writing shines through most notably in the characters his words create. One such example is the bodyguard of his protagonist's slimy husband, a large, hairy, ape-like, alligator-eating fentanyl addict nicknamed Tool. Tool has done some bad things in life including stealing fentanyl from cancer patients. One such patient, Maureen, assists him during the course of the novel and convinces him to change his ways. One reason Hiaasen is such a successful character writer is that he incorporates their thoughts and unique speaking styles into his novel. It is exceptionally easy to imagine exactly how Tool speaks in lines of dialogue like in the following passage: "Tool gestured at the wooden cross. 'Least he was a 'husband, father, son, brother'- I ain't none a those things, Red. I got no wife and no family...one lousy cousin, he's up at Starke for robbin' a (expletive removed) laundry-mat." Laundry-mat!? That is genius!

I loved this book so much that I actually BOUGHT another one by Hiaasen: Sick Puppy. I already love it based on the title and cover. Yes, I judge books by their covers. Stay tuned for that review in a few weeks (it is in a queue of about six books).

No Need to Turn on the A/C

Unless you've seen Gilmore Girls, you're likely to equate Melissa McCarthy and Kristen Stewart in their one-dimmensional acting ability. Even while delivering a half-vampire baby which I assume hurts with or without an epidural, Stewart's face is a blank slate. I think Hell may freeze over the day Kristen Stewart expresses something other than nonchalance. I will be completely floored, as I'm sure will anyone used to the crude McCarthy using her weight to her comedic advantage if they watch her portrayal of Sookie St. James in Gilmore Girls. Sookie is a vivacious, generous, goofy and bubbly. And then there is Mullins, McCarthy's character in her latest flick, The Heat.

If you've seen Bridesmaids, The Hangover III (if you have, I'm really sorry), Identity Theif (also sorry) you are already well-acquainted with this character. Personally, the "haha she is overweight" thing never really did it for me. Her appeal in my mind stems from her little known ability to embrace varying roles. And as for Sandra Bullock... I've stopped having any expectations about her performances. I'm not sure how she agreed to partake in both The Blind Side and All About Steve within the same year. Maybe she owed a favor to the mob of horrible Hollywood films (you know, the angry Italians actively trying to ruin acting careers). Anyway, this role seemed somewhat beneath her, but she did an average job and looks really hot for her age.

This being a movie review, a summary must be in order. Okay, here goes:
Agent Ashburn (Bullock) is a snarky, over-confident FBI agent sent to Boston to work on a case regarding a drug dealer. She is forced to work with Mullins (McCarthy), the crude Boston cop who, to put it lightly, curses like a sailor. Naturally, they don't get along, but Ashburn is jonseing for a promotion and her only means of acquiring it is by showing she can work well with Mullins (I think you need a map to follow that reasoning). So they fight, and they catch the drug dealer guy, and then through all the turmoil become best friends. How utterly predictable.

Let's see if we meet all of the requirements to dub this a crude comedy with female leads:
-Fart jokes: check
-Excessive use of the F word: check
-An ongoing joke about McCarthy's weight: check, check, check
-Random, extremely unnecessary bloody scene: check
-Complete and utter failed attempt at a serious emotional scene where the characters bond: check

Also fun fact: Melissa McCarthy and Jenny McCarthy are cousins. Seriously.