I am a Bald-Faced Liar . . . And So Are You

How's your weekend been, dear readers? Mine has been a bit strange. I suddenly became sick Friday night with, well, I am not sure what. One minute I was happily typing away on my computer, the next I was lightheaded and suffering from a pounding headache and nausea. As to quote John Cleese, "I got better" on Saturday, but I was still a bit woozy and remained that way for the weekend, which is my excuse for wearing my shirt backwards all day Saturday, even though I kept denying that and instead thinking it was actually inside out. (It wasn't, but it most certainly was on backwards.) Maybe it was because I was all hopped up on generic over the counter pain medication. Yeehaw! Or, maybe, it 's just that I am the world's biggest space cadet when sick. I am not sure.

Anyway, in a time honored routine, I huddled in bed and read while my devoted and delightful Chihuahua of nearly ten years tried to make me feel better by using my head as a trampoline. He does this every time I am sick. That or he uses my head as a stage to tap dance on. And, as usual, he performs his little jump/dance routine for about five minutes while I whimper for him to stop, then he settles his delicate five pound frame next to me and sleeps quietly until I feel better. I do not even pretend to understand his methods, but I know he loves me with all of his little heart, as I do him. I think he is practicing an ancient medicinal dance of his native Mexico to restore my health.

But enough about me.

Spammy and Rebel gave me this most prestigious award, with the following instructions:






If you want this award, you must:
1. Thank the person who gave you the award (Thanks, Andrew and Rebel! :) )
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog
3. Link to the person who nominated you
4. Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself and at least one outrageous truth, or vice-versa
5. Nominate seven "creative" writers
6. Post links to the blogs you nominate
7. Leave a comment on each blog letting them know they've won the award.

So to that end, here are my lies . . . or are they truths?

1. When I was 5, I became so angry at a boy I had a crush on because he kept ignoring me that I decided to get his attention by running up to him at recess and then shrieking "I hate you! I hate you!" before kicking him in the crotch. He still hides from me to this day.

2. I know how to make a guitar out of a gasoline can.

3. When I was 7, I loved the book Matilda so much that I hid the school's copy in my desk the entire year and disavowed all knowledge of its whereabouts, so nobody else would take it from me until I was finished. Um, well not really keep it until I was finished so much as keep it so I could obsessively read it every day for the year. Do not judge me.

4. I never once got in trouble at school, because I was a goody-two-shoes. Or should I say I never once got caught getting in trouble at school. ^^

5. When I was a child, I wanted to be a veterinarian because I loved puppies and kitties and they loved me! When I was told I'd have to touch blood, I shrugged. Puppies and kitties would need help, anyway! But when I was told I'd have to touch saliva, I lost all interest.

6. When I was a junior in high school, my local homeschoolers' group took a week long trip to Chicago. My first day there I ended up getting lost at O'Hare Airport and spent hours walking in circles, wondering where everyone was. I finally gave up and sat on my luggage until someone noticed that I looked confused and pathetic. It works every time. :D

7. I am so shy that when I was twelve, I entered a local talent contest to play the piano and froze on stage. I got over my stage fright by running off stage and never, ever playing in public again.

I nominate 9 bloggers for this award, just because, well, I don't see why I have to choose seven:

Aly
Amarantha
Bruce
Eric
Jourdie
Math
Penguins
Ryan
Sky

And whoever can correctly guess which is truth and which is fiction--or guesses better than everyone else--will get, um, well, will get their name mentioned with lots of exclamation marks and be awarded e-cookies when I post the truth. :D

Forsooth! My Socks Lied To Me

I apologize, guys! I was going to post something about writing, but I had to spend another day glued to a chair, working our county's run-off election, so I just whipped this up. I hope you enjoy it! In case, you're wondering--you really aren't, I know--the election was much like last time, except our ward captain abandoned us, so I got stuck filling out paperwork for two precincts. *twirls finger* I hate paperwork. I hate paperwork almost as much as I hate lying footwear.

This makes me tear up to say it, but my socks are liars. *pauses to dab eyes* They are unrepentant, shameless liars! Liar, liar, pants on fire, Mr. Socks!

I am getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry. It just upsets me when my socks are deceitful. What happened, you ask? Why does Zella accuse her socks of bearing false witness? Aren't socks by nature truthful creatures? What motives could socks have for lying? Can socks even talk? And why did Zella name her socks something as atrocious as Mr. Socks?

I recently had to buy some new socks. My sock supply has decreased in recent months. I am not sure if they have a hidey-hole they retreat to or what the deal is, but my socks are disappearing at an alarming rate, and the ones that remain are holey. No, they are not saintly socks bestowed with spiritual powers. My socks have no religious affiliation. (On the contrary, my socks are apparently diabolical and quite criminal in nature.) They are just full of holes and wear marks, and they are falling apart.

Monday, I left for work about an hour early to buy myself some new socks. This is necessary, because I live in a very rural area and it takes me roughly thirty minutes to get to town. Also, I am picky about my feet and what goes on them, so I wanted plenty of time to buy my new sock soul mates. My socks must be 100% cotton, black or dark blue in color, plain, and neither too short nor too tall in height. In case you're wondering, I am not picky about the stylishness of my clothes, not in the least (I am notorious for wearing mismatched socks and dressing like a slob, in fact), but I have some medical issues that make me picky about my feet's comfort--and let us not forget I am too lazy to ensure they match my outfit-- hence the rigid requirements.

I usually don't shop for clothes in a store--that's what garage sales and Goodwill are for, my dears--so I went to our local Wal-Mart--the same one I encountered the Bratz dolls in--and walked around for several minutes trying to locate the socks. When I found them, I was mortified. The only socks available were shocking neon colors of some unidentified but most certainly not cotton fabric with disturbing plaid, striped, or polka-dotted designs, and they looked too small for my feet. What is a pathetic nerd to do when confronted with such footwear? My eyes were starting to hurt from this visual assault when I noticed that the socks were all marked as "Girls' Socks". Not "Ladies' Socks." I was in the kids' section. Oops!

I didn't want to admit that I had no idea where the women's socks were, so I went to the counter and nonchalantly asked for the socks. I assumed since I am always mistaken for a thirty year old, the clerk would automatically point me in the right direction. For once in my life, I assumed right. She pointed me toward the women's socks, which were the direct opposite direction of where I had been.

*stifles sob* This is where my tale becomes tragic. *blows nose* I circled the three sock aisles repeatedly, searching for socks that met my requirements. Alas, I could find none. There were a lot of hose (which I dislike) and colorful socks (which are right out!) and those little socks that have their edges below the ankles (ICK!) and some socks that went to the calves (NO!). But no socks that met my requirements. I began to slightly panic, because I had to be at work in twenty minutes, no socks were suitable, and I have a serious depopulation problem in my sock drawer.

Just when I was beginning to think that the socks of the world hated me and that no socks in the world loved me and that my poor little, erm, not so little for a petite woman's, feet would be unprotected for eternity, my little nerd eye spied some black cotton socks on the bottom rack. I grabbed the package and was delighted by two facts:
1. There were ten socks in the package and they cost less than the packages that only held six. (I am notorious for being a miser, so this made my skinflint heart beat with joy).
2. The pictures of the socks showed them as coming roughly up to one's mid shin, which is exactly where I like my socks.

I was elated. I would have danced a jig if someone had not been standing there. I grabbed two packages and scurried to the self-check out.

Once I paid for my new treasures and carried them out to my car, I quickly drove to work. I arrived, parked, and stared longingly at my socks for some time. I really wanted to wear a pair of my new socks to work, I thought I deserved to wear my new socks to work, and, gosh darn it, I was wearing my new socks to work. I tore into the package and pulled out a pair . . . only to discover they had . . . had . . . lied to me!

My socks were not shin length. Those Benedict Arnolds were ankle length. :( THEY LIED! I feel betrayed. What has the world come to when you can't trust your socks to be straightforward about their length? They were the only socks that even remotely matched my description, so I would have bought them, anyway. But this . . . this treachery? It is inexcusable. *cries in corner*

But, if you want me to be honest with you, I like my new socks because they are comfortable, though I am not sure I could ever truly trust them. (Or, rather, I would like them if they weren't lying liars who lied about their true lying selves.) ^^

What are your feelings on socks? Are you picky or will you wear anything?

Granny Zella Wants to Rant

I had a disturbing incident in Wal-Mart the other day. No, I was not attacked, nor was the item I was looking for out of stock, nor did that crazy woman who works there lead me on a wild goose chase around the store, though she has done that in the past. I just saw something that set off my inner granny. *beats cane against floor*

Allow me to explain with some background information:

I have recently decided that I have been lazy this summer. True, I have only had a couple of weeks off, but I am already getting bored . . . and disgusted with my boredom. I have been reading and blogging regularly--which I am pleased with--and I have been working at the library a couple of days a week, but I feel like I need to do something slightly more constructive with my free time.

To that end, I have vowed to work more on my writing--more on that another day--and resume painting. I used to love to paint. There is just something so soothing about mixing paint, applying that paint with methodical brush strokes, and then seeing what becomes of it. My family has never really quite related to my writing--though, for the most part, they have supported it--but painting and visual art? Now that is something they understand. My grandmother is a talented ceramics artist and we have other artists scattered through out the family, the best being my father. Nicknamed Picasso in high school for militantly refusing to draw what he was assigned--he would draw everything but what he was told to--my dad actually won a full art scholarship for four years when he graduated high school, but he turned it down to join the 82nd Airborne (Yes, my dad jumped out of planes for four years. ) and then the navy. After that, other than some time he worked as a tattoo artist, my father's artwork has mostly been hilarious but decidedly politically incorrect cartoons he drew to amuse my brother and me. (You may have gathered that my father is a somewhat colorful individual. You would be correct.) I never inherited my father's amazing talent for art, but I did inherit his interest--and his ornery defiant streak. :P

It has been awhile--about two years, to be precise--since I last painted. I decided to start small by buying a couple of those paint by number things (Don't laugh! They are harder than they look!) just to get used to painting again before I started painting my own stuff. So I ended up in Wal-Mart last week, wandering around looking for the craft section. I assumed that the craft section would be near the toys, which was incorrect. (They were near the school supplies. Logical, no?)I didn't find paint sets in the toy section, but I did see something that morphed this twenty year old nerd looking for paint into a raving granny brandishing her cane like a weapon--Bratz dolls.

Have you seen these monstrosities? I had heard of them before, and even seen pictures on the commercials, but I had never seen one up close and personal. They look like hookers! Parents are buying their children dolls that look like prostitutes! I don't consider myself a prude, but that just really bothers me. Why would you buy your kid a doll that looks like a streetwalker?! What kind of message does that send! (I kept trying to craft a mock conversation illustrating this point, but it was just not really PG, if you know what I mean.)

And that's when the little gray-headed granny inside of me emerged. If I would have had a walker, I would have thrown it at someone. If I had false teeth, I would have lost them. When I was a kid, we didn't have skanky dolls! All you had were Barbies. And you had to like them! Regardless of the fact that they were all skinny, pale blondes, and you were a stocky, swarthy brunette. (I always wanted a Jewish barbie. They always have those princess dolls. Why not a Jewish American princess doll? Oh, erm, well, maybe not . . . )

If you happened to amputate Barbie's leg--that was not me. I do not know how that happened--you just got more Barbies and strict warnings to not perform surgeries upon them. We didn't have dolls that looked like strollops! And if you were somewhat disappointed in the manliness of her compadre Ken, you just had to live with it and let them have their little pie-in-the-sky perfectly manicured dream world. (Well, actually, if you noticed the overly masculine army dolls that were intended for boys, you could buy Barbie a harem of macho guys in fatigues. I had a couple of these army dolls for my barbies. They were buff and came with assault rifles! Shortly after their arrival, Ken lapsed into a deep depression. He would just sit in the little Barbie convertible all alone while his lady friends were having fun with other guys. One day Ken was found decapitated. No suspect was ever determined. No, honestly! We don't know who did it. I wasn't there! I SAW NOTHING! I WANNA LAWYER! YOU CAN'T PIN THIS ON ME! He didn't die anyway! His head was duct taped back on and he now lives in a plastic tub in my basement! He looked somewhat happy last time I saw him before I closed the grave, erm, container! *dramatically points in direction of basement door* SO, THERE! IT WAS NOT A DOLL HOMICIDE! I PLEAD THE FIFTH!)

Ahem, where was I? Granny Zella is getting old and can't remember what she was complaining about. Platypuses, was it? They are funny creatures. I don't trust them. They have beady eyes. Hmm . . . *scratches head* Granny Zella doesn't remember now. Well, whatever it was set me off and upset me in K-Mart. Or was it McDonalds? Yes, it was their sweet tea. They don't put the sugar in at the right time. They don't know how to make proper tea and that infuriates Granny Zella. She has contemplated fire bombing their tea machine, but her arthritis prevents her from doing it. Granny Zella is getting old and feeble and she wants to take a nap. (And she wants to know why she is being forced to refer to herself in the third person. Granny Zella finds this a little creepy.) *toddles off*

P.S. I have shared this blog link with a couple of you already, but if you have never read Allie Brosh's Hyperbole and a Half, you are missing out! (For my Sparkler blogger friends, she is like a cross between Auntie Sparknotes--without the advice but with the hilarious drawings--and Dan Bergstein.) You must read her work! Try her latest. The part where she says "I would have shanked an infant for juice" was more than I could handle. :P)