I'm a #@&* Genius

Please note: I am not claiming to have an IQ of 160. I honestly don’t know what my IQ is. That is not what a #@&* genius is. A #@&* genius is someone who comes up with amazing, innovative, world-changing ideas. These ideas are then presented to family, friends, colleagues, or passers-by in the following format:

“Holy #@&*! I’m a #@&* genius! [Explanation of brilliant idea] Check THAT out! [Lots more profanity].”

This display is accompanied (and punctuated) by victory-like dances, vulgar gestures, aggressive pointing in the audience’s face, unwelcome displays of affection, and other simultaneously attention-attracting and off-putting behavior.

The #@&* genius process (and unveiling) is accelerated and amplified by caffeine, alcohol, and sometimes antihistamine. (Once, while on Benadryl, I had a lengthy journey of introspection and discovered my spirit animal is algae.)

Some #@&* geniuses are sell-outs. They get patents, make infomercials, audition for Shark Tank. True #@&* geniuses hate these douche-nozzles. #@&* genius ideas are meant to fizzle out, or at best be knocked up into some duct-tape-riddled prototype and then abandoned in one’s garage. Most often they are simply battered out of existence by the ridicule of one’s more sober friends and/or elevator-mates.

Having said all of that, I’m a #@&* genius and here are some of my #@&* genius ideas:

1. Pair people who have extra skin from pregnancy or sudden weight loss with people who need skin grafts. I have not researched this medically at all; it isn’t the #@&* genius way. It is slightly better than my original Extra Skin Idea, which was to sell it to a pork rind factory. That one seemed a little bio-hazard-y. Although, one could argue that the sorts of people who eat pork rinds deserve whatever ill fate awaits them from eating people rinds instead. I also don’t think that the facilities that produce pork rinds are called “factories”. Unfortunately.

2. We all know that mangoes are delicious but infuriating. Cutting them up is annoying, getting all of the luscious, luscious mango flesh off of the stupid, stupid mango stone is next to impossible. I have witnessed my husband cram a mango stone into his mouth and then commit a series of appalling and invasive acts upon it in an effort to harvest every shred of tastiness. Instead, peel your mango (that’s not that difficult) and then jam corn cob holders into either side! Now you can gnaw away at it with relative dignity and success. Right? Amazing. You’ll probably have to rearrange them as you eat. Deal with it.

3. So. There are tanning beds. There are also strange cylindrical tanning chambers that require a person stand upright whilst lifting his or her arms above his or her head and hanging onto some sort of handle (while muttering to his or herself, “Yes, yesssss! Tan aaaall the crevices. Get ‘em good. Yeahhh…”) Point being: how has no one thought to branch out in terms of tanning furniture?  Perhaps a nice relaxing tanning recliner. Does anyone know if tanning bulbs can be converted into fiber optic technology? Then they could be woven into a tanning hammock. You and your significant other’s romantic spa day could include a couples massage, pedicures, and side-by-side tanning on a tanning love seat, where you and your lover’s pools of butt sweat and tanning oils mingle…like your burgeoning love, or something.

See? I’m a #@&* genius. I wish you were here, dear readers. You are missing my victory dance.

Cows Think You're a Jerk (And They're Right)

No adorable Rhodesian ridgeback/hound mixes named Marla were injured in the making of this image. Only very confused, and fed way too many French fries. Although she would certainly argue that “way too many French fries” is not a thing. She’s pretty cool.

So…Rebecca’s a vegetarian. Not the judgy, pushy kind. I won’t make you feel uncomfortable snarfing a steak in front of me. Although, if you are eating ribs, I can’t say I won’t stare in horrified fascination; but that is more about the actual physics of the endeavor.

Many people have asked me why I became vegetarian. For a long time I would reply, “I don’t know any animals that deserve to be killed and eaten. But I know a few humans that  do.” Then stare ominously at whomever asked the question, as if maybe, perhaps, that person might be on that list. Make em think about their lives a little. Do a little introspection. Check their locks when they get home.

 I had to stop saying things like that since I got a Big Girl Job and life stopped being fun. So it goes.

It should be noted; however, that I am merely a lacto-ovo vegetarian, which means I eat (humanely-acquired) eggs and dairy. To some this may be considered Weaksauce Vegetarianism. Hmmmmm. Now I’m trying to think of what sort of sauce “Vegetarian Weaksauce” would be. Something that would really offend a vegan, while remaining vegetarian. Maybe a nice hollandaise? Let’s go with that.

Dammit, now I want Eggs Benedict.

My mother is a farm girl, so she was Not Amused by Them Shits when her moderately idiotic teenage twin daughters announced they were going vegetarian. I don’t blame her. I don’t plan on letting any of my teenagers EVER finish the sentence, “Mom, I have been doing a lot of thinking; and I’m going to…” I plan to grab their face-flesh in either hand and say, “No you weren’t, and no you aren’t. Now go mow the lawn.” I authentically believe that my mother would have preferred that I get a face tattoo than become vegetarian. Or join a cult. Or join a cult which the primary tenet of their religion is acquiring face tattoos.

Dammit, now I want to join a face tattoo cult.

We all know there are many reasons to be vegetarian. I hope to not belabor the point; but I probably will. Here are some thoughts on being vegetarian:

The meat industry is notoriously inhumane. From factory farming to slaughtering practices, profit, rather than the animal’s basic needs, is the primary focus. I’m not going to link to any of the horrifying videos people have taken of animal cruelty in the meat industry. You know where to find them. They are, unfortunately, plentiful. Some nerd in Poland did an excellent job of very systematically discussing the ethics of the eating meat from factory farms. Click here to read it. I like to think that the future holds at least a rudimentary bill of rights for animals, which will afford them a good life and a swift, painless death. It isn’t completely far-fetched, check this out.

The meat industry is bad for the environment. It creates air and water pollution, and, in some countries, desertification of what was once viable land. Here is more information on the environmental impact of the meat industry. More calories can be produced from the same amount of land if it is used for vegetables, fruits, and grains than the grazing land for herd animals. I have heard that if an additional 10% of the world’s population went vegetarian, it would end world hunger. I don’t know if that is true or not; some hippie chick at a street fair told me.  I have learned the hard way about citing hippie chicks at street fairs as reliable sources in research papers. MLA is a harsh mistress.

Actually BEING vegetarian isn’t too bad at all. Once upon a time, being vegetarian could get you accused of witchcraft, non-meat protein products were borderline inedible, and your mother wouldn’t stop looking at you and weeping silently. Things are better now. Being vegetarian has now gone past being cool, was lame for a while, and now has kind of an ironic, retro feel. Vegetarian options are plentiful at grocery stores and restaurants. In fact, this. I want to put that business in my belly for sure. Right? In short, a person of average intelligence, average income, and average motivation could become vegetarian without it really cramping his or her style too dreadfully.

Heck, YOU could probably become vegetarian. 

Intro to Jesse

Scene 1

 [A mediocre American restaurant]

(Busboy gathers dishes from a messy, empty table. Floor around the table is covered with crumbs and debris. Waitress approaches.)

Waitress:   (Collecting dishes and trash.) Thanks, this is pretty bad.

Busboy:     Little kids always leave a mess.

Waitress:   (Moves chair, recoils.) That’s a lot of…crackers? Maybe? Ugh.

Busboy:     What can you do? Kids are gross.

Waitress:   Indeed! We should just kill them all.

(Busboy, with bemused expression, carries full bus bin off stage.)

(Fade to black.)

************

That’s it. The first conversation I ever had with my husband. I’m sure the irony is apparent.

When I meet someone I find interesting, I always wonder what their significant other is like. Is he or she similar or different? What first drew them together? Is the significant other worthy of my friend? They had better be.  I hold my friends in high regard.

(Seriously, don’t eff with my friends. I run a discount thug service. Our tag line is, “dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.”  What are you talking about? Copyrighted? Naw. )

I should not write these things with a drink in my hand. Moving on!

The point is, dear readers, I know that you adore me, and have surely been wondering Who From My Sizable Throng of Admirers I Had Chosen to be My Lucky Man-Bride.  Or What Idiot I Suckered Into Enduring My Absurd Shenanigans Until We Both Die.

In either case, the answer is Jesse H. Luttrell.

Fun facts about Jesse H. Luttrell:

1.       His favorite food is pizza
2.       He looks amazing in navy blue
3.       He keeps disposable gloves in his car like a damn serial killer
4.       Somehow, he can construct a computer from its component parts, but cannot fold a bath towel
5.       He has a phobia of loose change

We are neither completely similar not entirely opposite. We both like good food and good books and travel and a rousing debate. He can easily bench press me and I can run circles around him. He is (sort of) conservative and I am (mostly) liberal. I am seventeen years a vegetarian and he is an enthusiastic carnivore.

No doe-eyed youth has ever approached me and asked what the secret to finding lasting love is. But if anyone ever did, I would answer,

                Find yourself a worthy adversary.

I have been in relationships with people who didn't listen to my perspective on anything. I have been in relationships with people who deferred at every turn. The relationships that work are between people who are willing to clash with one another. I guarantee that you aren't going to agree with Prince/Princess Charming 100% of the time. Find someone you can have a clean disagreement with. One where you both give your honest perspective, debate the subject, and come to a compromise. (And still wash dishes while the other dries afterward.) A worthy adversary.

That is the extent of my wisdom for the evening and possibly forever.

Of all of the jerks that I have asked to guest-write a post for bloggily, Jesse is the only one who has given me a concrete “uhh, sure?”

 I hope this post is a worthy introduction to whatever he comes up with.  Stay tuned, folks! The next post you see will be authored by the one and only Jesse H. Luttrell.

Vomiting with Rebecca

I’m a power-through-being-sick kind of person. I haven’t been the kind of sick where you can’t get out of bed and need someone to bring you tea and saltines for as long as I can remember.

When you are a kid, you lie limp and moaning, your parents bring you things, let you watch cartoons, and help you hobble to the bathroom. When you are a college student, you skip class and recline in bed all day. When you are a 32 year old teacher with 3 children, life giveth not a shit that you are sick. Not a bit of a shit. No shits.

Here is where it all falls down, too. Because I am what I call “someone who finds the humor in everything,” and my husband calls “someone who is notoriously unsympathetic to sick people.” I learned early in our relationship that he involuntarily prefaces every retch with a noise similar to what a rancher might use to bring in the cattle. It is physically impossible to resist laughing when my husband is throwing up. My heart feels bad for him while my face is giggling its face-ass off.  And then when I am sick he is really nice and takes care of me; which just makes me feel worse.

These experiences do provide opportunities for introspection, though. You can learn things about yourself, such as whether or not you can finish your sentence at the teleconference meeting you are facilitating and hit the mute button before you throw up. I totally can.

Here are some observations I have made through the haze of nausea:

1. Throwing up into a trash bin full of dirty diapers is a sensory experience that I cannot describe.
2. Peanut butter smells gross.
3. Even if they have just WITNESSED YOU HURLING WITH THEIR BEADY LITTLE EYES, small children will still jump on your stomach immediately afterward. They don’t care. And you aren't even allowed to throw them out into the snow. There are laws against it. Imagine you told a full-grown adult co-worker that you had just thrown up in the restroom and that co-worker belted you in the gut. You would murder him or her, am I right? Anyway.
4. Throwing up is like crossing a rope bridge. Don’t look down.  Now is not the time to reminisce about what you have eaten for the past ten hours. Not. The. Time. 

That's all I have for now. I know this one is short; but I'm a sickie. Give a girl a break.

Rebecca Whines About Winter

Holy meth-fueled goat orgies, I hate the cold.

I am aware that this is not that interesting of a topic; but I can’t stop thinking about it. I suspect my cerebrospinal fluid has frozen.

Cold ruins great things. Take Halloween, for example.  You have to choose between integrating winter wear into your costume and freezing your face off. Drinking until you can’t feel temperature anymore doesn't work when you are in charge of a herd of miniature, sugar-charged robots or elephants or whatever.  My plan is to buy one of those sleeping bags that cinches around one’s face in a vaguely pinkish hue, cut the bottom out of it and walk around trick-or-treating as a length of someone’s colon.  Dress the kids as doctors and they can be little proctologists.

I have been asking for a pluggy-inny-type heat rocks for lizards for every gift-giving holiday from everyone I know for as long as I remember. That isn't the sort of gift a lady gets for herself.  So far it hasn't happened.

Once winter sets in, the phrase, “I can’t wear this outfit; it is horrible” leaves my vocabulary, and is replaced by the phrases, “Oooh! THAT’S fuzzy,” and, “More layers. BRING ME MORE! Bwahahahahaha!”

If you ever hear that I was found dead in a dry sauna, just know that I died happy.  Really, really happy. There was probably an upsetting smile on my gross, dehydrated, raisiny face. Dying in a dry sauna is actually on my list of Causes of Death I am At Peace With, alongside items “While Having Sex” and “Of Baklava.”

For those of you who have children, you know that taking them anywhere amid frigid temperatures is surely penance for the more appalling acts you have committed.

 First, make a pile of all of the wintery things you must wrap around said children in order to fend off a Jack-London-style death.

Then, snatch a child from the writhing throng before you.  This is an important choice. Once bundled, this child will instantly be too hot and pissed: choose the child whose wails are the least abrasive, and who isn’t coordinated enough to take his or her own clothes off.

Meanwhile, the medium-sized one will have scattered your carefully collected pile of hats, socks, boots, and mittens to the far corners of the house, and the largest one will declare that she isn’t going wherever it is and flee.

Catch the large one, pin her down with a knee to the chest, cram her in winter garb. Then, using threats of physical violence and/or destruction of her personal property, prevent her from stripping while stuffing the medium-sized one’s wiggly little arms and legs into boots and mittens. Now everyone should be sweaty and weeping softly.

Small and Medium under each arm, Large held in thrall by threats hissed through gritted teeth: to the auto. This is the worst part. While your children sit comfortably in the preheated car, you complete the ten-minute-long process of buckling them in while your rump is collecting snow. That, and your jeans are riding down and your traaaaaaaamp staaaaaaamp is chilly.

I guess the point of all of this is: I hate the cold, and I plan to be in a bad mood until spring. So don’t talk to me or even make eye contact until it is at least seventy degrees out. You may think I'm looking at you; but I am seeing you as a tauntaun from The Empire Strikes Back. I may try to take out your guts and use you as shelter. Mkay.

The Post that Gets Rebecca Fired (or, "On Teaching Online")

Okay, not really. At least I hope not. 

It is just that it is really difficult to write a humorous article about your current employment because the only way to make it any good involves heaping ridicule upon one’s bosses, clients, or co-workers (hi, guys!) and that shit, as I mentioned before, will get you fired.

So we’ll see how this goes.

Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong. Except that I routinely use my closed laptop as a means to convey food and beverages from room to room and up and down stairs. That is going to backfire catastrophically at some point.

Teaching online freaking rocks, especially if your hygienic comfort zone is somewhere in the range of “slovenly”, as mine generally is.

The isolation makes us strange, though. It really does. A few times a year we all meet for training. We creep into the hotel ballroom like the munchkins emerging from among Technicolor flowers in the MGM movie The Wizard of Oz. We huddle in small groups, talking about how strange and terrifying all the traffic was.  Everyone’s outfit is elaborately coordinated, as though the product of hours of absentminded contemplation while various programs took forever to load.

Teaching online is like dating online. The extent of the information people have about you is a photo, some email interaction, and your voice in the live classroom setting.

That is a looooooooooooooooot of leeway. Some might argue: too much. Not me, though.

Things I have done while actively participating in staff meetings and/or while teaching a 10^th grade English class:

·         Treated gaping flesh wounds
·         Signed for various incoming parcels and packages
·         Peed
·         Been vomited on
·         Conveyed elaborate instructions to various repairpersons using exclusively body language
·         Pursued a two-year-old in a horse costume down the sidewalk in a rainstorm (my headset has amazing range)
·         Mopped things you don’t want to know about off of the floor
·         Picked out an outfit a la 80’s-movie-style montage

Try any of that shit at your office and see what happens to you.

It is a two way street, though. At any given time, my students can do what so many of us would have given anything to do in the middle of a high school English class: walk the eff away.

And they do. They don’t tell you either. I could not even hazard a guess as to how many times I have wrapped up an eloquent five-minute-long response, (to a question the student asked, mind you) asked if that made sense, and been met with silence.

My solution is to be as strange as possible. My secret hope is that my student’s recently acquired girlfriend is sitting on the couch.

Yeah, babe, online school is pretty okay. I can do whatever I want. It’s pretty sweet.

Then I start singing into the computer microphone.

Oh Tyyyylerrrrrrrrrrr, we really need to finish your eeeeeeeessssssayyyyyyyyy……

Your main points are pretty goooooooooood….

but let’s look at that concluuuuuuuussssssiiiionnnnnn.

Even when they are actually paying attention communication can get a bit snarled.

During one session, while discussing the Civil Rights Movement, I listed several examples of manifestations of Jim Crow laws. Instead of the combination of quotation marks and the end parenthesis I had typed, the program auto-filled a perky little emoticon.

My message read, “Several examples of this were segregated seating on buses, as well as restaurants with signs reading ‘whites only *winky face*.”

As if to say, wouldn’t that be hilarious and fun?

Backpedaling out of an involuntary emoticon situation is something I never thought I would have to do. 

And finally, the three chaos factors that are in perpetual orbit around my desk: the children. These spilling, throwing, smashing, screaming juggernauts are bloody determined to get me fired.

The middle one has been known to  (in the forty five seconds it takes me to get to the restroom and back) climb up onto my desk, grab my office phone, poke the redial button and gibber in her strange alien tongue into the receiver until she sees me running at her. Fortunately, my deranged phone thinks that when you hit redial, you actually want to call the staff member whose extension happens to be the first four digits of the last number you called. And all of the teachers already know I'm weird. 

Nothing derails a live online lesson on citing your sources like a tiny voice saying, Mommee, remember when Ishmael lived in your belly and then came out of your crotch?

Or screaming from the upstairs restroom, 

HEEEEY! THERE’S NO TOILET PAPER FOR MY BUUUUUUUUUUTT!

And so on.

I can state categorically and without guile that there is never a dull day in my line of business. Both in spite of this and because of it, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

A Very Short Horror Story by Rebecca

The Rat

It all started with an ingrown toenail. Sierra was repulsed by malformations of any kind. The prospect of having to cross paths with an amputee would be enough to drive her to the other side of the street. Even a large scar or a lazy eye would make her shudder and turn away. This was why she ignored and ignored the toe until it was so swollen and throbbing that she could scarcely ease it into a sandal and hobble in to the doctor’s office.

Once there, she flinched and moaned until the doctor, out of exasperation, injected sufficient anesthesia to numb her to all sensation well past her ankle. One would not characterize Sierra as being robust of spirit. Soon, her toe yellow with iodine and packed in gauze, she limped back out to her car.

She arranged her deadened foot safely out of the way of the pedals and got on the highway. To complicate things, she had agreed to house-sit for her brother that weekend, which involved a two-hour-long drive. She had reached cruising speed and the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon to her left when her phone rang in her bag. Her brother.

“Have you left yet? I tried to reach you before you left. I’m sorry. Can you do me a favor?”

“You mean besides watching your house for you all weekend?”

“Har. Yes. Lucifer needs to be fed and I forgot. Will you stop at a pet store and get him a rat?”

“Are you serious? After the day I have already had? I just had minor surgery on my toe!” she snapped.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he said, sounding regretful, “You can cancel on the house. I didn’t know you were injured.”

 She sighed, enjoying making him feel bad for a moment.

“No, it’s fine. Just a gross ingrown toenail. But I’m not buying a rat!”

“Fine,” he replied, “then you can spend the weekend alone in a house with a hungry python.”

“Aarrgh! You are so annoying!” she hit the steering wheel with a fist, “fine! I’ll go buy a disgusting rat for your disgusting snake, you disgusting person!”

And she hung up the phone.

At the next exit that promised commerce, she pulled off and drove around until she found a chain pet store.

“I need a rat,” she mumbled to the perky clerk who asked brightly if he could help her with anything.

“What size would you like? I can let you pick it out,” he chirped, trying to lead her to a cage that was writhing with rodents.

“No! Just get one. I don’t care what size,” she growled, feeling herself beginning to sweat. 

The clerk walked rapidly away. She leaned her weight on her right leg. Her foot did not seem to be coming back to life at all.

“Is this one okay?” asked a voice at her elbow.

She whirled, startled, and found herself face to face with a rat.

It had round, red eyes and huge, yellow front incisors. Its body was covered with thick, coarse, off-white fur. It clung to the hand of the clerk with red, scaled claws, and its repulsive, ropey tail wrapped around his wrist like a serpent.

“Yes! It’s fine!” she shut her eyes, but the image of the rat stayed in her mind.

The clerk calmly put the rat into a small cardboard box, closed it, and punched holes in the top and sides with a pair of blunt scissors. Immediately, the rat stuck his nose out of one of the holes.

“It can’t get out, can it?” she asked, and the clerk just stared at her.

Sierra paid and limped away as fast as she could, panic and humiliation washing over her in waves.

Sierra put the box in the passenger seat. The rat was completely contained, but the mere sight of the box made her jumpy.

Once again, she arranged her numb foot on the floor board, and put the key in the ignition. Back on the highway, she turned on the radio, hoping to take her mind off of her cargo. She managed to find a station with some pop country that came in distant and fuzzy.

Sunlight was beginning to fail and headlights were winking on in cars all around her when she heard it. A slowly, steady grinding sound. Of course! The perfect ending to the perfect day. Car trouble. 

She snapped off the radio and tipped her ear toward the dashboard, trying to find its origin.

Suddenly Sierra felt a chill. She realized where the grinding sound was coming from.

 It was the box.

The rat was chewing the box. But something about the sound was terrifying. 

It wasn't the frantic attempts of a primitive creature that smelled its own death in the corners of its cardboard prison. No; it was the slow, methodical execution of a plan. The rat was slowly, steadily, gnawing at the box. It was only a matter of time. The rat was going to escape.

And it seemed to know it.

Sierra screamed and swerved. Her breath came quickly.

Grind, grind, grind.

At this point it was nearly dark. The interior lights of Sierra’s car had gone out long ago. She realized with mounting panic that very soon she and the rat would be in a completely dark car together. She rolled down the window, ready to fling the box to the will of the Fates in the median of the highway.

She took a deep breath and shifted her anesthetized foot. She was being irrational. The cardboard box was thick. It was just a rat. She had about an hour left in her drive. Surely the box would last that long.

Grind, grind, grind.

She leaned back in her seat and stepped on the gas. Everything was going to be fine. As if to confirm this, the grinding, gnawing sound abated. The prisoner had given up. She imagined it curled inside the box, placidly awaiting its doom.

But…what if it had stopped chewing, not because it had given up, but because it had already escaped?

She reached out to touch the box, to check if was still sound. But then she recoiled, imagining the rat, crouching on top of the conquered box, its nose quivering through the darkness toward her outstretched hand…

She shrieked again, resolving to pull off at the first exit and drive to the sanctuary of a lit gas station. But the miles were desolate, and the signs on the side of the highway gave no hope of rescue.

As minutes passed, her heart thundered and her imagination went wild. Her mind began to vividly animate the rodent's escape. She was sure the rat was perched on the back of her seat, slinky tail wrapped around the head rest, filthy claws clinging to the upholstery, whiskers nearly brushing her neck…

But then she heard it- grind, grind grind.

The sound sent ripples of relief through her taut and shaking body. The rat had begun to chew the box again. The gnawing noises sounded softer and wetter than before. The box was probably nearly shredded, but at least she knew where the rat was. She was twenty-five minutes from her brother’s house, surely the box would last that long.

Sierra sat up straight and drove, strangely soothed by the foul, moist sounds of the rat gnawing at its soggy and disintegrating prison.

At last, she turned onto her brother’s street, thinking how she couldn't wait to take a shower. Even her jeans were soaked in sweat.

As she pulled up to his house, and the motion-sensing light snapped on, Sierra began to scream. In the yellow light she would see that her jeans from the knees down were black with blood. Shredded gauze, sticky with clotted yellow matter littered the floor.

Five pointed, white bones protruded from a tangle of flesh. The rat, now slick and crimson with gore, perched, satiated, on the ruin of what had once been her left foot.