This week I was contacted about possibly being next year’s Ziploc spokesperson for upcoming new products. They were very sweet and asked what my fees would be if I was selected and so I quickly responded in the most professional way possible by clarifying that if the “new products” they’re offering include home-made waterbeds for cat then I expect royalties, because I invented those years ago.
The rest of my response:
I’m almost certain this would be a bad idea so I’m in, but only if Ziploc meets these conditions:
1) My fee of $100,000, or $200,000 worth of Ziploc bags. The Ziploc bags should be filled with $100,000.
2) The cat waterbed must be put into production, or at least a prototype made.
3) I’m going to need a human-sized ziplock bag that I can get in, so I can swim but not get wet. Something with an oxygen tank, preferably.
4) I don’t have a four but I think people take you more seriously when you have a four so I’m just going to leave this here.
Surprisingly, they have not responded.
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Bonus: If you’re too tired to go back and read about cat waterbeds my talented friends made that post into a comic years ago. They pretty much nailed it.
me: Dude. I think I might need that stuffed bobcat.
Victor: Just keep walking.
me: Look at his paw. It’s like he’s saying, “YOU GUYS? TAKE IT DOWN A NOTCH, OK? JUST SIMMER DOWN.”
Victor: Hm.
me: We could carry him around in the trunk and you could pull him out to use as your supportive buddy to help you convince me not to do something stupid.
Victor: I’m fairly certain that buying that bobcat would send the wrong message.
Ignore the photobomber on the right.
Clerk: I can give you a huge discount on it if you want him. He’s falling apart.
me: I just don’t know. It sort of looks like he wants me to calm down, but it also sort of looks like he’s leaning on an invisible bar. Like a really shitty mime.
Victor: Do whatever you want. It’s not that bad.
me: That’s sort of the problem. It’s not bad enough.
Clerk: I’m confused.
Victor: Welcome to my world, sir.
Ps. I did not buy the bobcat, but I took a picture of him and then later I thought, “OH MY GOD. I could put a trucker’s hat on him and call him ‘Little Smokey’ and have him lean out of the car window like ‘Hey there, big mama. What’s your 10-4?‘ and no one would ever bother me at red lights because who is going to fuck with a girl being defended by her pet bobcat? No one, that’s who. But when I went back to the store, the bobcat was sold and I was a little upset, but Victor was all, “Calm down.” And I was like, “THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT LITTLE SMOKEY WOULD HAVE SAID IF HE WAS HERE.”
And that’s when I learned that the time to buy a used, almost free bobcat is when you see one. Let that be a lesson to you.
I just tried to leave a comment on someone’s blog, but instead of posting my comment, the blog stopped me and was like, “Not so fast, you. Are you even human?”
Is this really a problem? Are there a lot of houseplants and robots trying to leave comments on blogs? Also, what does this even mean? Why ask if I’m a human and then give me a weird photo of a wall? I assumed I was supposed to write the calligraphy on the wall, but when I wrote “B O” it said I wasn’t a human, which is ridiculous because if there’s one thing that humans are good at, it’s at recognizing B.O.
I complained to Victor that computers were judging me for not being human enough and he looked at me like I was insane and said that I need to type in “130”, not “B O”, and that there must be something wrong with my eyes. And he’s probably right, but I’m pretty sure that just proves that I’m human because I suspect robots almost never have to get stronger glasses.
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And now, time for the weekly wrap-up:
Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):
Last week I had insomnia and asked everyone on twitter what they wanted and these were the things they requested:
Conversation at an estate sale filled with extremely questionable things:
Me: I’m pretty sure I need this doll.
It’s like that song “Eyes Without a Face,” except just the opposite.
Victor: Nope. Nope. Nope. All of my nopes.
me: Sir, how much is the doll with no eyeballs?
Estate sale guy: It’s $75.
me: Seems pricey. But, hang on…does that include all the human souls trapped inside it? Because that might actually be a good value.
Estate sale guy: It comes with an extra set of doll clothes.
Victor: Does it also come with an exorcism?
Guy: It’s real old. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.
Victor: Well, thank God for that.
Victor said I couldn’t bring her home even though I tried to show him how lovely she was:
“Give us a cuddle. And some blood.”
Then Victor made me put her down, but when I went in the next room I found another doll and I was like, “I felt sad for a doll with no eyes until I met a doll with no arms”.
This is where I would put a picture of the doll and her missing arms, but I think it cursed my phone because all I can find is a picture of her face:
“Come closer. I can smell your marrow from here.”
Victor: SERIOUSLY? Did Satan’s grandma live here?
me: They probably removed her arms to keep her from smothering people during the night. Now she can only hug you with her teeth.
And then Victor made me leave.
But not before I bought an antique book for a dollar:
I’ve been missing for awhile, but I’ve been trying to find my words.
Meemaw died yesterday, at the age of 80.
If you’ve read here long enough then you already know meemaw. She’s Victor’s grandmother and she (and her late husband) helped to raise Victor, offering him a loving home and a sense of compassion and generosity that has kept him from strangling me over the years. We were lucky enough to be able to move Meemaw down to live by us last year, so we could spend more time with her, but a lot of that time was spent in hospital rooms as she battled cancer and heart and lung problems.
Meemaw had a penchant for telling her favorite stories over and over, but she told them with such joy that we always laughed like it was the first time. Sometimes it was the story about Victor getting his head stuck in a fence at Disneyland. Sometimes it was about breaking her back after falling out of a moving jeep while shooting at rabbits. Sometimes it was about picking cotton, or rolling cigarettes, or digging up a corpse, or meeting the man of her dreams as a 17-year-old waitress and marrying him 10 days later, or traveling the world as the wife of a career soldier, or making dresses from feed sacks.
A few weeks ago, family gathered around her hospital bed and she started to tell one of her favorite stories that we’d all heard so many times we could each mouth the words.
“When we were little,” she said, “mama would sometimes give all us kids a fresh-laid egg. And we’d walk for miles down the road toward town, each cradling our egg in our hands. There were six of us kids…” She trailed off as she lost her breath and we waited patiently. She looked a bit lost and after a moment her sister gently laid her hand on her arm and smiled widely as she picked up the story exactly where meemaw had left off.
“There were six of us kids and we’d walk into town because we could trade in our egg at the main store for a cold Pepsi. We always chose Pepsi because it came in a bigger bottle and we could make it last all the way home if we sipped it slowly. On really special days mama might give us two eggs and then we felt like we were rich because we could buy peanuts to go with our Pepsi.”
Meemaw smiled gratefully and nodded as she picked up the end. “And in all those years, none of us ever dropped a single egg.”
It was the last time I ever heard her tell that story.
It was also the best time though, and I don’t know if I can do justice in explaining why. Partially it was seeing the caring sparkle in both of their eyes as they recalled the story, but it was more than that. It was seeing that even in her last days, as meemaw struggled to carry her egg, someone she loved caught it and carried it safely home. She never dropped her egg.
It struck me that sometimes an egg is not egg. Sometimes an egg is a story. Sometimes it’s a shared secret, or a sweet relief, or a treasured memory or learned lesson. Meemaw carried so many fragile eggs with her throughout her life, keeping them safe until she could hand them over to people she loved. Sometimes the eggs contained kindness, or generosity. Sometimes they were lessons in patience. Sometimes they were lessons on the importance of family. Sometimes they were late-night milkshakes, or handmade quilts, or staying up through the night to rock you to sleep when you had a fever. Meemaw gave me two things: (1) She taught me that you don’t always have to get even. Sometimes you just have to get quiet. (Because when you get really quiet that’s when people start to feel anxious and regret being jerks and then you’ve gotten even with them without actually doing anything at all.) And more importantly (2) she gave me Victor. Or rather, she instilled in Victor a sense of joy and love and generosity that made him able to be a wonderful husband and dedicated father. And Victor protects those values she taught him and we carry them to pass them on to our daughter, who may one day pass them on to those she loves.
Sometimes an egg is not an egg. Sometimes an egg is a life. Sometimes an egg is a lesson. Sometimes an egg is a gift.
Even in death, meemaw never dropped her egg. She simply passed it on to us so that we can continue to gently carry it with us as we each walk down our own paths using the lessons she gave us.
May we all be so lucky.
PS. This is the song meemaw chose to be played at her funeral this weekend. I can’t listen to it and not smile.
I can’t keep a houseplant alive to save my life but I can make my sweet potatoes grow into unwanted plants with literally no effort at all. I can only imagine this means I have some sort of super power which allows me to drain the life of fern and transfer it’s leaves onto a yam.
This is a terrible superpower.
Unless yam plants are a good thing. Are they? Could I just put a yam-growth in a vase and use that as my new houseplant? If they’re so hardy why don’t we grow them instead of the more easily murderable plants? I’m pretty sure the only difference between a yam-growth and a lily is that one has a better name. I just need to find a better name and then I can sell my accidental yam-growths and live off the proceeds. Something like “YaMandrake” or “Potato-Pansy”. Maybe if I keep letting it grow it’ll get really enormous and then I can create a portable yam hedge that you can bring with you to use when you’re stalking someone in the desert. BYOB. (Bring Your Own Bush.)
I just tried to look up “Can I keep a sprouted potato” but after I typed in “Can I keep a” google auto-suggested “Can I keep a wild rabbit, a gun in a car, a wild turtle or a fox as a pet“.
WTF, google. I just want to keep a potato.
Then when I added the “s” for “sprouted” google was like “OH, I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!” and suggested “Can I keep a shotgun in my car” or “Can I keep a squirrel as a pet“. Jesus, Google. I know I live in Texas but way to stereotype me.
When I got to “Can I keep a spr” google auto-changed the whole question to “Can you have a spray tan when pregnant?” I don’t know, Google. I guess?Why are you asking me? YOU ARE GOOGLE.
Remember when Google was there to answer questions instead of just raise more? Me either.
Eventually I typed in the whole question but all the links told me how to keep my potatoes from sprouting, rather than how to grow my sprouted potatoes into a giant bush. I considered googling “How to grow a giant bush from a potato” but I was afraid of what the auto-suggestion would be after I typed in the first part of that search, and so I decided to just give up and wait to see what happens with my potato. It’s like a science experiment, but in laziness.
Also, I glued some googly eyes on the potato so it looks more life-like, and will be less likely to be thrown away by Victor if the potato can stare at him accusingly. I was going to call him Mr. Potato Head but that seemed too obvious so instead his name is Samuel Ignacious.
Introducing Sam I. Yam. He’s naturally smiley and high in vitamin C.
I’ll keep you posted on my big bush.
PS. Victor just found Sam and he claims that what I’m doing is a very common children’s science experiment and he was like “Seriously? You never grew a potato plant when you were a kid?” He says I’m supposed to cut the potato and add water and put toothpicks in it, but that sounds suspiciously like a recipe and I think he’s just trying to trick me into accidentally cooking. He insists that every child made potatoes sprout into plants and I was like, “Not us. We were poor. Some of us had to eat our potatoes, Victor. We couldn’t all go around wasting toothpicks and putting googly eyes on our pet potatoes, Daddy Warbucks.” Then Victor countered that googly eyes aren’t supposed to be part of the science project but I’m pretty sure that just proves that he’s doing science wrong.
The Mack Files: Digesting life in bite-sized pieces through the lens of clichés, quotes & “truisms”. Often irreverent, always honest.
Barking at the Moon: If your dog is your furry child, you will laugh out loud at Tracy Beckerman’s book about her family & a one-dog wrecking ball named Riley.
Wonder and Joy for the Wired and Tired: Feeling wired, tired, and stretched too thin? You’re not alone. Re-ignite your sense of childlike wonder, joy, and well-being with this enlightening and entertaining book by Dr. Pam Stephens Lehenbauer, well-being thought leader and author of the blog, Mother Nature’s Apprentice.
Stuff and Thangs from Xanaru: A mostly funny stuff about my quest for happiness through stories, art, friendship, Great Danes, one naked weirdo alien cat and indiscriminate swearing.
How the Hell Did I Not Know That?: Humorist Lucie Frost shares daily Instagram reels with learnings of the day—words, music, whatever–with plenty of laughs and all the curse words.
Beautiful Writers book: Writers! This coming-of-career memoir (w/ the BEST advice from celeb authors, real shit you haven’t heard) is life. A page-turning beach read doubling as how-to. #Magic
