Lessons Learned

I've learned a couple things in the past few days that I thought I should probably share with you all.

I've talked about the first one in the past, but apparently, it is still a lesson I need to learn as I lay here in buttloads of pain because my brain still hasn't learned the lesson that catching yourself when you're falling is often nearly as painful as just letting yourself fall.
This time, I was freezing so I very gracefully stepped out of my shower for a second to turn off the light which I forgot to turn off (see my last post), but the floor mat wasn't where it was supposed to be so I tried to scoot my foot over to it and pull it towards me so I didn't make as much of a puddly mess, but when I did that, I slid on the pool of water that was forming under my foot. I tried to catch myself with the towel bar, which wasn't happy with my antics and pulled completely off the wall.
At this point, I was doing a naked wet split, half in and half out of my bathtub, and I was falling forward with a pointy metal stick in my hand. Flailing, I tipped forward and was saved by a giant package of Costco toilet paper that was sitting underneath the towel rack, and I ended up planking on the toilet paper, to keep from breaking my leg on the edge of the bathtub. It was all pretty humiliating, and my husband slept through the entire ordeal, including me repairing the towel bar.
I keep having to remind myself when I am in awe of my pain levels that my shower acrobatics are entirely to blame.

I'm not gonna draw it. Feel free to submit your own artist's rendering.




And then I learned that sometimes, it's best to make a comment aloud into your empty house instead of commenting on the internet.
Usually, I keep my political commentary on my own Twitter page. I like to couple humor with fair points, but lately, I've been getting way too bold and when comments on safer accounts didn't blow up in my face, I branched out, and guys, I flew way too close to the sun.

I should have known better. It was a Bernie tweet. It's like MAGA jerkholes are just trolling his tweets all hours of the day and night waiting for some poor sap to comment so they can tell them that they're an asshole who needs to read a book and who has no idea of anything that has ever happened in the history of the world.  In fact, I'm kinda sure that that is exactly what they do.
When you see a comment section with absolutely NO comments that agree with the original post's point, THERE IS A REASON. Other people who agree already know this lesson, that's why they're not commenting. They know that these people will take any semi-valid point you make and purposefully misunderstand it so they can berate you because they need more love and understanding in their life and their moms should have hugged them more.

I just have to say, thank all the fluffy kittens in the world for Twitter's conversation mute option. There was just one guy trying to school me when I muted it, on the ridiculous notion that the current administration might consider cutting safety net provisions and that rich people might not want to just donate money to the government willy-nilly until some of those programs are enhanced. A masochistic curiosity brought me back to find that at least 15 people had joined in after I left to tell me that I was the stupidest person who ever existed and I should be ashamed to use words. I have no idea how many more people are going to join in, but it inspired me to take details about myself and my location off of the page, in case people decide to harass me for my humorously made point.
But lesson learned. Don't comment on Bernie Sander's twitter unless I have some sort of deep desire to be verbally abused.
I wish I had had something like that paper clip dude in Word that had stopped me in the first place.

I should have looked at kittens instead.

Cheeseblarg's Guide to Not Hating Everyone and Everything

This Tumblr post was brought to my attention recently and it strikes me as something that's really important to share:

http://thespoontheory.tumblr.com/post/137585788887/riotrite-cream-and-stars

Though it hadn't completely occurred to me, it goes along with my general philosophy on life and that philosophy is this:

If something bothers you and you can't control it, always try to come up with a situation in which it is completely reasonable so it is more bearable.

It is probably part of the reason why I excel at fiction writing, and humor writing to boot. I am always imagining reasons why people behave the way that they do so that is is less insulting to me. I can almost always come up with a creative reason why bad behaviour is excusable, so I am rarely upset for long when strangers are jerks (or make products that would otherwise be silly if not considered in the right context).

How many times have you come out of a store to find a car is parked 4 inches away from your driver's side door so you can't get into your car without crawling over the passenger's side seat, possibly causing you to become biblically familiar with your gear shift?

Inexcusable if the person is just a lazy asshole, BUT if  you imagine that the driver was about to have explosive diarrhea and needed to get into the store so fast they didn't have time to park right? I'd give them a pass! I know what that's like, and sometimes, not ruining your pants/car interior/everything, always and forever, is worth parking like a jackhole.

Ever have a waitron who seems like she is competing for world's grumpiest server? You smile sweetly at her, say please and thank you, don't make any unreasonable requests or uncomfortable jokes, you're the ultimate diner but nothing can make her lighten up? In fact, you've been her patron many times in the past and have tipped her 30% but she still treats you like you stole her boyfriend and parked right up against her driver's side door?

While you might want to request another table when you can, if you get stuck in her section, you can just pretend the poor lady is experiencing a terrible case of vulvodynia. If your genitals hurt all the time and you had to bring pancakes to people all day, how nice would you be?



How about this?

If only nature would find a way to cover these oranges so we didn't need to waste so much plastic on them. pic.twitter.com/00YECaHB4D

— Nathalie Gordon (@awlilnatty) March 3, 2016

Plastic is no doubt wasteful, but there has got to be a reason other than overconsumption or laziness that naked oranges are good right? Thinking about the dialogue above, we can understand that there are some people whose needs outweigh the dismay at convenience packaging. I know that with the hammer-smashy hand arthritis I've had, having a pre-peeled orange would be a godsend... if I could eat citrus without it exploding my bladder, of course.

That is not to say that people should have carte blanche to act like dickbags because other people will excuse them. Like in the example above, there are likely much less wasteful ways to package peeled fruit that can simultaneously make them easy to consume while not using a buttload of plastic. Like covering them in fondant or a hard candy shell! (<---That's a funny joke for people who will be mad about putting dirty sugar around healthy natural fruit...)

There are people, though, who we all damned well know don't have excuses, who are just so self-absorbed that they're horrible to other people and it shouldn't be allowed, and I thank you for calling those people out, BUT there are definitely times when you can't really control other people and if you tire of being indignant (which is totally understandable, because lately, there is so much to be indignant about), you can make up little stories in your head so you don't have to wallow in the misery of all the assholes in the world.

with the chance of extra exclusive content!

The Real Reason Cats Knock Cups Over

I am sure you have all seen the hilarious sign that reads: "Please don't leave drinks unattended [the cat's an asshole]!"

What if cats aren't the assholes?

Hooked on Straws

We've found that my cat's favorite toy in the entire world is a regular plastic drinking straw. On the bright side, his toys are REALLY cheap, or free, basically, if I bring extras home when I go out for fast food. He'll even fetch them if they're thrown for him, and will come back and drop them at your feet to throw again... after mauling your hand a little.

There are only two negatives... my house is full of chewed on straws. I tuck into bed at night and find them buried in my sheets. And then, there's this:

edited to add:

Hanukkah 2013: 4th Night- Narwhal Ball

On the fourth night of Hanukkah, your Cheeseblarg gives to you:

A nar-ball in a fake tree.

And with him, we have come to the end of Operation: Recreate Papercraft Tree Ornaments. I'll have you know that he is being a total jerk to all the other ornaments on the tree. For those of you that are new, narwhals are total dicks.

Suck It Narwhal Shirt by cheeseblarg

Design t shirt designs on zazzle.

Don't forget to comment for your chance to win my needle felted Dino Ball and come back every day for more awesome presents I made just for you'se.

Life Lessons - Tire Balancing

There are many things I have learned in life, the hard way, and I thought I would use my stupid mistakes as examples to help all of you, in this new series I've aptly titled, Life Lessons.


This is the first in the series: Tire Balancing



I think that asking if you want a newly mounted tire "balanced" for an additional cost is some sort of mechanics' practical joke.

I learned this lesson in my early 20s while getting a new tire at a used tired place.

I was wrong. Even though I only had $50 to my name, I REALLY did want to spend that extra money, but I was working under the assumption that tires are actually round by nature.  They're not. I think they might be triangular, or hexagonal, but they sure as hell aren't naturally round, which I learned, as my car rocked and wobbled as I drove it away from the shop, fifteen dollars richer, but substantially less comfortable.
I'm surprised they weren't openly laughing at me when I came back a few days later to report there was something wrong with the tire they sold me.

Zed: Well, you said you didn't want it balanced!
Me: Right, because I didn't realize that "balancing" was a secret code word for AN ACTUAL WORKING TIRE!
And then I paid $15 to get my tire made in to a circle.

So here's your lesson:
You want your new tire balanced. It's worth the money. Only an asshole gives you the option to drive away on a triangular tire.

They call it a PET for a reason...

My husband bought a $3 fish tank from Good Will. He likes fishes. I have a general distrust of any pet that you cannot hug without killing.

He hasn't actually gotten a fish yet, because, as he informs me:

Mr. Rose: I have to get gravel and fish food and you have to get it an "air stone" because fish will use up all the oxygen in the water and suffocate.

Me: Wait, that doesn't sound right... if they use up all the oxygen, does that mean they are just swimming in liquid hydrogen? Does it cease to be water? Since water is H2O and they're using ALL the oxygen...

Mr. Rose [interrupting]: Fine, let me rephrase that. I have to get an air stone because if I just put the fish in there it will die. I don't know why.

Me: I think it is because fish are assholes.

The Reality of Reality Shows

I've come to the conclusion that if I ever find myself on a reality show, this will be my speech for the interview room:

     interview room courtesy of DXstock 

Yes, apparently the reality show I am in takes place in a partially demolished building in Russia. It's probably a reality cooking show or something with magical ponies.

I don't necessarily think I would actually lose said magical pony cooking show, because, I'm pretty awesome, I just don't want to have people at home rolling their eyes at me, as I do, with the usual competition chatter:

• I didn't come here to lose.
• I'm the best and I came here to prove it!
• Failure ISN'T an option!

I'm more realistic than that.  I think failure is always an option, or well, a very possible outcome. You may not CHOOSE to fail, but you seriously need to understand that the odds are pretty much pushing you that way and it is better to choose to fail than to have failure thrust upon you, by, say, falling off a cliff and breaking every bone in your body on TV. Yeah, I'd rather choose to fail less painfully in that case.

and of course the shirt is for sale! 

Are You Experienced?

One of the crappiest things people can do, in my opinion, is insisting, when someone reports their personal experience, that said person with experience is clearly stupid/crazy/lying/in denial and is unaware of what is going on in their own life.

This applies to all sorts of experiences,
Like fat people who are told:

or writers of blargs who are told:
JUST STOP BEING DEPRESSED! YOU WON'T HURT IF YOU JUST GET OVER YOUR LIFE CRUSHING DEPRESSION!
Yeah. Not depressed.
DEPRESSION MANIFESTS IN COUNTLESS WAYS!
Does it ever manifest in being happy and content with your life, and being really motivated, because then maybe, yes, I am terribly depressed, but otherwise, NO, I AM NOT AND I AM GOING TO SHOVE A WAREHOUSE FULL OF TWINKIES UP YOUR BUTT IF YOU DON'T STOP TELLING ME I AM!

If someone is trying to tell you that your account of your own experience is wrong, or tries to assign feelings to you without really listening to you or even asking you how you feel, chances are, they are either trying to manipulate you, or they are an asshole.

After having been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia last week, I was sent to see a therapist yesterday to treat my "depression caused" Fibromyalgia. I willingly submitted to testing and answered questions on a little digital box to measure my sanity:

Er, does that count having to wake up to pee 10 times a night?
No. You have a reason for that, it means if you don't have a valid reason.
Okay, then no.

What? I don't abuse drugs at all! What the hell kind of question is this!? I don't think you can abuse a substance less than not doing them at all, unless I started doing nice things for drugs, like making them fancy dream houses with a working elevator or something?

False?

What's going on here? I mean they haven't in a while.

 Well, I guess true, now...


And after about 10 minutes, I had read and answered all of the questions to the best of my ability, since it asked many loaded questions along the line of "Have you stopped beating your wife? Y/N" What!? Wait! I don't even have a wife. Crap. This test should have been written by someone with a background in ambiguities.

And then the very lovely man who was assigned to talk to me plugged the test box into the the computer and a piece of paper issued from his printer with my results and after reviewing them, he said "As I am sure you are well aware, there is not a damned thing wrong with you psychologically." Which is what I have been saying to my doctors all along.

One-Uppers and Grief Shamers

While writing my post about Suffering Magnets, I came to the realization that I may be a One-Upper.

You know, those people who tell you something of equal or greater horror when you tell them something bad that happened to you?


I don't mean to be a One-Upper, it is just that people tell me something has happened to them and then, in an effort to relate, I tell a story about something similar that has happened to me, which usually tends to be a bit more terrible because, as we have established, things are always bafflingly fucked up in my life. So I hear the words just flowing out of my head and I think, 'SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP. They think you are playing the Grief Olympics.. they think you are an asshole, just shut the hell up'... but OMG it just feels so good to share grief, to remove it from your stupid jerk head and let it out into the world like a little grief dragon, to let it stretch and spread its wings after keeping it cooped up in your belfry of a brain ALL THE TIME.

I'd like to quietly listen and say, "Oh jeepers! That is just so awful, you poor person, what can I do?" but it is rarely what ends up happening. Even though I try... really really hard.

 But in no way am I trying to be a Grief Shamer.

Grief Shamers are the type of people who won't let you have a second of complaining without reminding you that no matter what you are are upset about, other people have it 7 billion times worse so you should just STFU and be glad your grandpa was eaten by a tiger because your ENTIRE FAMILY could have been eaten by A STREAK OF TIGERS EQUIPPED WITH LASERS!

I don't even believe in shaming "First World Problems."  I think sharing suffering make it suck less and there is no shame in that. So, if people wanna complain to me about Bravo's Twitter team spoiling the winner of Top Chef for every time zone other than Eastern, like a bunch of assholes, or finding that their bag of chips is lacking in delicious powdered flavor, I have no problem with that. I just have a problem if you don't want to hear about the time my Chili Cheese Fritos were kinda flavorless, too, and were full of bees that stung my throat and I had to go to the emergency room, but I couldn't get in because it was full of wolves... with lasers.

Suffering Magnets

Does everyone have these people?

The ones who pop up when you are really upset and end up making everything SO MUCH WORSE?

Inevitably, every time you're really upset there they are, like some sort of suffering magnet, ready to beat you down until you are quivering jelly on the floor with their special misery boot-imprint stamped right on your globby forehead.

It should be legal to set those people on fire.

Just sayin'.

Some things, not so helpful.

I'm a smart ass.

 Beyond that, I tend to think very literally sometimes, which is fairly apparent in my humor stylings.

As a result, I have a hard time not being a psychic jerk to people who stand on the side of the roads panhandling, when they have stupid signs. By psychic jerk, I mean I don't actually antagonize real people, but I fantasize about it, because being a jerk in real life sucks but in your imagination, it is awesome.

The sign that bothers me most is the "ANYTHING HELPS!" sign.

I think you really need to be specific about what ACTUALLY helps. If I ever find myself in a situation where I need to beg for money on the side of the road, I already have my sign planned.

Cake continues to be a lie.

Yes, I'm alive. Thank you for checking on me.  I went for a three-hour cruise on the S.S. F.U.NABLAPOMO and after several days of getting stranded on the isle of Mai Intestines Haight Me with the professor and Mary Ann, I am back.


And now that I can tentatively keep food down again, my body delivered the following message via twitter:

"I think I'd like Pepperidge Farm vanilla cake with chocolate frosting for breakfast. I don't have any but that's what my body wants."

Well, I mean, I wrote that, I don't have some internal twitterater, but it was a direct message from my body.

So I set out to find my precious Pepperidge Farm Golden 3-Layer Cake, directly.

And then, 4 hours later:

THERE IS NO CAKE!

Seriously, this town is like a black hole of things that JRose wants to eat.



And yes, I am aware that I can ask my store to order things, but that doesn't put the cake in my mouth when I want it... which is now.

Why you should leave aversion therapy to the professionals.

I hate black pepper. You know, the seasoning, that everyone in the world uses, that makes people sneeze? Yes. I hate it. And I hate it, I realized a few years ago, because I was conditioned, as a child, to hate it.

Here is a pro-tip for you: If you decide that it is a good idea to do DIY aversion therapy on your grandchild to get her to stop sucking her thumb by mixing something bad tasting into nail polish that is placed on her thumbnail, don't use a common spice that will be in her food for the rest of her life. Unless you want to be a dick, in which case, go for it.

Why the long face?

Sometimes, really cheerful people say really inanely stupid things when they should probably not talk.

Spring Forward, Fall Back... into bed

I realized, this morning, when I woke up at 6:45 am, that the "extra hour of sleep" that comes from us "falling back" only counts when you are the type of person who actually has things to do and wakes up using an alarm. Otherwise, it is just losing time as you lie in bed staring at the dark ceiling, waiting for the world to catch up with your obnoxious bladder that insists on waking you up ridiculously early, and who is in cahoots with your brain that refuses to let you go back to sleep after getting up to pee way too early in the morning.

And by tonight, my body will refuse to go to sleep at a decent time, and I will then get into a cycle where I get less and less sleep until I begin threatening people, and screaming randomly while crying, and then something will snap and I will sleep for five sixths of an entire day, after which I will get back to sleeping like a normal human being again.

In summary, if I continue to live in the United States, I should move to Arizona or Hawaii.

The Mouse in the House

There's a mouse in my house, which is difficult for me, because while I don't want vermin in my house, I like mice a lot and I don't want to be part of crushing their little skulls or otherwise ending their lives just to rid my house of creatures that are probably going to give me the plague, or Ebola, or some variation of mouse-related cancer.

But, if they would meet my demands, they could totally stay.

click to see bigger

p.s. The Halloween Scavenger Hunt deadline is being extended as several people have let me know that they need more time. Remember, you don't have to get all the pictures... the person who gets the most first is the winner. 

Shove me in the shallow water...

I've felt left out on Facebook lately, as I am sure many others have.  Feel free to share this important message!

Evil Mike: A Cautionary Tale

The summer before my 10th grade year, I met my first boyfriend, Evil Mike*, over the phone while at my friend Veronica’s house.  Because I was awkward and weird and had REALLY low self-esteem, I immediately agreed when Evil Mike, after talking to me for a week or so, asked me to be his girlfriend.  This happened over the phone, of course, and I had not actually seen him yet, as the internet didn‘t exist so I couldn‘t force him to send me a picture before I accepted. I thought he was funny enough though, in a fart joke sort of way, and his voice was very attractive, which, you should know, is never indicative of how someone actually looks, but Veronica had assured me that he was “totally fine” so I figured I was good.

Yes, Clint Eastwood is my ultimate measure of sexiness, thank you.

I was still 14 when I agreed to his proposal of datitude, even though I was forbidden from actually dating, so our first date required the “best friend secret rendezvous” maneuver, wherein I’d spend the night at my friend Katriya’s house (because she was the friend my family liked/trusted the most) so I could do things my parents didn’t want me to do because they were bad bad ideas.  I got all dressed up in my sexiest acid wash mom jeans and an off-the-shoulder tube shirt with a horrendous flower pattern and applied my iridescent tan lipstick and off we went to meet him and his friend at Loehmann’s Plaza, where we were going to see Child’s Play III.

Katriya and I sat outside on a planter that doubled for an ashtray, nervously waiting for him to make his first appearance.  “Over there, that’s him!” Her voice was not kind  as she pointed at the pair of heshers coming out of the arcade.  “Veronica LIED!” I hissed at her as she began to laugh. Please let it be the blonde, please let it be the blonde, fuck, of course it’s not the blonde.  His friend was fairly attractive.  He, on the other hand, totally wasn’t.  He wasn’t much taller than I was, fancied himself a body builder, but his frame didn’t support it well so he just looked a bit like a tall little person. Beyond that, he had a mullet, but not just any mullet, it was a super mexi-mullet. And he was wearing a fitted jean jacket with Eddie Van Halen air brushed on the back of it. I wanted to flee. To pretend it wasn’t me, but it was too late. He had spotted me.

We bought tickets.  I can’t remember if he bought my ticket for me or if I had to buy my own. I spent the whole movie alternating between chastising myself for my desire to dump him on the spot because he was so repulsive to me and thinking how incredibly awful the movie was.  Really, have you seen Child’s Play III?! Serious crap! He spent the whole movie trying to touch my boobs and making me very uncomfortable by actually acting like he was my boyfriend. The only high point was that he smelled of Drakkar, which he might have bathed in.

Afterwards, we broke off from our friends and walked around the deserted outdoor mall. “So, what do you think?” I somehow realized he was asking me to assess his attractiveness. “Oh, yeah. You’re as fine they said.” I’m a liar, a dirty liar. Which should pay off right? Flattery and what not…  “And what about you?” Of course, he didn’t hold to the same principles that I did as his response was not flattering in the least. “Well, you’re not the beautiful flower they said you were, but you’re okay.”  He was entirely wrong.  I was an AMAZINGLY beautiful flower, and he was a jackass.

When I got back to Kat’s house, I called Veronica and informed her that she was a lying jerk, and she told me I was shallow (which I took to be a confession that she knew damned well that her pants were on fire) and she convinced me that I should give him a chance, which was a really bad suggestion, but somehow when you are 14 and you have really low self-esteem, you make really bad decisions, and instead of dumping him, like a sane person, I dated him for approximately two years.

Those were not two consecutive years, of course, because he would break up with me every couple of months/weeks/days because he was convinced I was either cheating on him at that moment, or was planning on cheating on him at any second, and I would cry and  plead with him not to dump me and he would declare that I just wanted to be with him because he was “sooooo fine.” Each time this declaration would come and each time it was really hard not to guffaw the moment he’d say it, but I somehow managed not to laugh openly at him and would assure him of all the stupid reasons I didn’t want him to break up with me, my level of attraction to him had ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with it.




* Evil Mike's name was coined after I started dating my husband, who is "good Mike" or just Mike.  But evil Mike was evil... or compared to all other Mikes who did not make my life miserable for 2+ years... Come to think of it, he wasn't really clever enough to be evil, I guess... he was really just a dick.. but Evil Mike has a better ring to it than "Dick Mike." 

_____________________________________________________

Remember, tomorrow is the last day to buy your Limited Edition September Sticker! 

http://cheeseblarg.blogspot.com/2011/09/september-sticker-sale-t-rex-wants-ice.html

VIRUS WARNING! QUICK! GIVE ME MONEY!

While I am entirely against violence and revenge, people who create those viruses that pretend to be virus warnings that try to trick computards, like my sister and her husband, who don't have anti-virus programs on their family's laptop (because WHO NEEDS ANTI-VIRUS!? YAY! THE INTERNETS! OOH WHAT'S THAT!? CLICK CLICK CLICK!

)

into paying said virus makers to remove the virus on their site that pretends to be "Window's Helpful Security Tool"... those people, they should have acupuncture needles inserted into their peeholes. I'm just saying. I don't condone violence*, but they kinda deserve it.

*This statement, the result of 11 hours of wrestling with a fake security warning virus out of the goodness of my heart, which kept me up until 6am, running and rerunning two different malware removers and spybot s&d, to try to get my sister's computer usable for her work trip (which she told me about last night at 7pm), only to find that the virus keeps me from being able to finish the last step to remove it (installing an actual anti-virus program) so that the whole hard drive needs to be wiped, though the backup OS disk has been lost of course, is not representative of my usual feelings or intentions towards hackers, who really should DIAF until I get more than 4 hours of sleep. Really, die.

<3, JRose