The big Five-O(prah)

Fifty years ago today my father was born.
Coincidentally, fifty-four years ago today Oprah was born.
For obvious reasons, both of these people have contributed to my life in very significant ways: my father genetically and Oprah - well, how does Oprah not contribute to my life?
Oddly enough, for some reason my father is never quite as amused as I am when I instruct the cake decorators to write "Happy Birthday Oprah" on his birthday cakes.



My brother keeps stealing my socks.
I purchased the socks in question (of the tube variety) from Walmart approximately two years ago. They came in a pack of twelve and cost me under six dollars.
I have caught him wearing them several times and confronted him about it. "I didn't realize they were yours!" he exclaims each time.
Fair enough, maybe he did not know they were my socks, but at the very least he knew they were not his socks.
What makes matters worse is that he has hulk-like calf muscles that stretch out the top of the socks, causing them to lose elasticity and bunch around my ankles if I attempt to wear a pair that he has come in contact with.
- 1/25/08

"It is important that I start to spend more time with your wife," I told Matthew one Saturday morning. "She needs to get to know me better before the baby is born so that she will be comfortable with me holding it," I explained.
Other people in the room immediately piped up, volunteering themselves for babysitting duty once the tiny person finally arrived. I waited until they had all finished listing off the reasons why they would be the ideal candidate before finishing my conversation.
"I do not want to babysit your child," I told him honestly. "I want to play with your baby when he is happy and then if he starts to cry or soils himself I would like to hand him off to someone else so that they can deal with him." He laughed and shook his head, knowing that I was entirely serious, and assured me that I would be able to play with his baby in the future.
- 1/20/08

Do you know how long it takes to burn a box of miscellaneous documents?
I do.
Approximately an hour, assuming you dump them all into a giant heap, toss a match on, and poke them with a large stick every so often.
It only took a few minutes for me to realize that burning things had lost all the appeal it had once held for me. As a preteen, my best friend and I were one matchbook shy of pyromaniacs. In fact, one of our adventurous actually cost my best friend the use of her left eyebrow, primarily because her eyebrow hair had been singed off.
- 1/16/08

My brownie leader used to call me pig pen. I am assuming it is because, as a child, I was too energetic to be concerned with things like brushing my hair and ensuring I looked put together.
- 1/08/08


For some reason they find my sarcasm and indifference to them endearing

"The boys all have crushes on you," he told me, elbowing me in the side in an attempt to somehow lend credence to his point.
"Dude," I paused, "one told me earlier this morning that I have body odour and another one just finished trying to tell me I have dandruff - neither of which is true, I just went and checked in the bathroom to make sure."
"Which proves my point," he laughed and waggled his eyebrows.
"You think you know every thing because you are married now," I glared at him, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
I had forgotten that there was a five year window in which boys acted like complete douche bags in order to show their affection.


Holiday Traditions

When I was a child, each Christmas eve my grandfather would take his twelve gauge shotgun down from his gun rack, put on his winter coat and boots, and inform us that he would be spending the rest of the night sitting on top of the roof waiting for Santa Claus. His dedication was impressive, if not slightly disturbing, as he would spend the next several hours banging around on the rooftop in what I can only assume was an attempt to strike fear deep into our hearts.
I do not ever recall having genuinely feared for the life of Kris Kringle, although I do remember fearing for the life of my grandfather.
My grandfather liked to endear himself to us in many ways. He had once taken his dentures out in front of me in an attempt to amuse both myself and my sister. He had held them in his hand and pretended they had taken on a life of their own, making it seem as though the dentures were trying to take a bite out of his forearm.
I was scared shitless.
Not only was my grandfather quite literally falling apart, but it also appeared as though the body parts he shed had some sort of vendetta against him.
It was clear to me that he did not stand a chance against Santa.


Feminine Issues

- I woke myself from a dream last night when I shouted out, "I do not want an IUD!"
Wow. Okay. Fair enough. I hear you loud and clear, Subconscious, although I have to say that I was never actually considering an IUD to begin with.

- Half the time I only know what day of the week it is because my birth control tells me so. God help me when I reach the little green pills that just say 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, and 28.

- Our conversations usually cover a wide variety of topics and this day was no exception.
"I just do not understand how they could make an actual model of someone's vagina. I would imagine that it would involve pouring some sort of molding gel into the vagina itself, but how would they ensure that the gel filled every nook and cranny? And how would they ensure that nothing got stuck up in there? I tell you what, if I ever do make a model of my vagina I am going to have them recreate it in purple and pink sparkly latex and then I am going to give copies of it out to my friends for Christmas. I won't tell them that it is my vagina though, I will tell them that it is a beer cozy."


Stop salivating over my orange peel

I am sitting at the kitchen table about to peel an orange for my breakfast when my mom walks into the room and sits down next to me.
"Oooooh," she says, staring at my orange. "That would be a good one to zest."
I give her a sideways glance and proceed to scoot my chair a few more inches away from her.
"What?" she questions.
"Nothing," I reply, "you are just kind of creepy."


It takes more to impress me now, but not much

Bars are always more fun when you are underage.
Actually, most things are more fun when you are underage. Once you have hit the age of majority the thrill is usually gone.
Sometimes we spend hours discussing our glory days. We reminisce about all the things that seemed normal at the time, but that we have since come to realize were extraordinary. It seems as though the bits and pieces that make up my life all belong to different people and this one part belongs primarily to him.
I remember one evening, in the middle of winter, when I drunkenly lamented about the profound sense of loss I felt at not being able to write my name in the snow with my own urine. The bar wench brought pitcher after pitcher of beer to our table for the boys and I spent the evening sampling all the girly drinks the menu had to offer. Just before he packed me into a cab and directed it to my home, he pulled me into an alley and pointed at a snowbank emphatically.
"Look! Look!" he whined.
And so I looked.
There, in urine, my name sparkled in the moonlight. "Megan." it said.
"It is beautiful," I told him, moved far more than I probably should have been, "but why is there a period at the end of my name?" It turned out that, upon finishing with my name, he realized his bladder was far from empty and a period was the only artistic embellishment that he could come up with at the time. It did not matter though. I spent the fifteen minute cab ride home smiling and asking the cab driver if he had ever written a girl's name in the snow.