Inside the Bird Box

Attention: I’m adding a new category to this blog, which is apparently still kicking. Anyway, the category is called: “Funny. At Least to Me.”

My reasoning for this category is simple. I’ve read enough of my own site, and I have to admit that the majority of it bores me, makes me sad or doesn’t quite get at the surface of what I need to say. As I’ve said in a prior post, this doesn’t necessarily bother me.

This blog was/is supposed to be a mad scientist/writer project, so there’s a lot of experimentation on here. Some meh things. Some pretty decent things. A lot of moving parts. It’s actually a breathing organism. Meaning, I edit, delete and rearrange things quite frequently.

I’m learning to live with this monster blog. It’s not so bad. But like I said: a lot of sappy, heart-heavy shit on here, which is truly me feeling my way around the dark. But I’m craving some funny bits lately, so I thought I’d dedicate some time to a category full of them.

So here’s my first Funny. At Least to Me story:

Today I made the grave error of sucking down an iced Dunkin Donuts coffee too late into the day. Though I’m a walking stereotype of a copywriter, I don’t particularly enjoy the taste of coffee. But I need my drugs, man.

So I drink coffee, then I can’t sleep. Sean, my fiancé, also can’t sleep. I suggest we watch something. Our long-limbed dog kicks the computer screen in her sleep to remind us of her presence. My fingers lightly graze her butt hole, and I shiver in disgust.

Sean and I shove our rude dog back into her place and settle into the unattached, dull plotline of “Bird Box,” the movie on Netflix that apparently everyone has seen.

Sean tells me: “I would never let you drive a car during a crisis.”

It’s a wonder that no one has killed themselves after watching it because this film is one of the biggest piles of cinematic garbage I’ve had the displeasure of seeing in a long time. I expect better from John Malkovich.

We’re watching the part where the little girl gets out of the rowboat, and I decide I don’t care. My neck is giving out. So I excuse myself and start up the old shower.

The warm water loosens some of the balls twisting around in my neck. My soap is something citrus. Very calming.

I forgot to bring a towel. A toothpaste-stained hand towel hangs from the towel bar. I open the curtain and call out to Sean to please bring me a towel. We have two bathrooms. He thinks I’m in the one I’m not currently occupying.

His face is the face of pure startled horror as he finds me in the bathroom staring dead-eyed at the door. I’m the Bird Box creature, a living nightmare. He clutches his heart and legit almost falls backwards over the second floor’s railing.

Clem

180620_1855870361450_891528_n (1).jpg

I bought my rabbit, Clem, eight years ago from a thin, springy woman who ran a rabbit rescue from her large house in the country. Upon entering, I remember a sharp, rusty odor, but there was not a wad of fur or dropping to be found. Her house was immaculate for someone with animals living in every pore; rabbits munched and frolicked in their cages in the garage and living room. She even had a “private stash” in her bedroom that weren’t for sale.

I found this woman slightly unhinged. Little did I know, I would soon understand her need to cut across four lanes of traffic and throttle her car to the side of the road to retrieve an unventilated box of abandoned kits.

Clem was not my love at first sight. Nay, I had my heart set on a four-year-old Rex that looked just like the Velveteen Rabbit, one of my favorite fictional critters as a kid. My boyfriend, Sean, adored him too, but convinced me that it wasn’t such a good idea, since he had a large tumor on his hind leg. This would be our first pet as a fairly new couple, so I agreed to move on, reluctantly.

Clem flopped around a cage with a litter of rabbits that were indistinguishable from each other. They each had shiny black coats and stubby ears. We knew he was “the one” when he plopped right in front of us and shoved his nose into my hand. For 20 bucks, he was ours. On the ride home he nuzzled my waist, poking me with his whiskers and every now and then stretching his neck and sniffing the air. We named him Clementine; I didn’t learn that he was a male until a year later, when we went to get him neutered. I remember correcting the vet, who then schooled me by showing me my rabbit’s testicles.

Rabbits are not rodents; they’re lagomorphs, which is something I always threw into my father’s face. He assumed that rodents were less than those of the canine and feline families, and called Clem a “chew toy.” But I’m here to tell you rabbits are as sassy and conspiring as cats and as athletic as dogs. Did you know that rabbits can do kick flips with their hind legs? That they can throw cardboard boxes across the room? Pretty badass for a chew toy.

Clem has his own special brand of sassery. When I would study for college exams, I’d arrange all my books and notebooks across the floor and work, and Clem would come bounding across the carpet then nudge my hand. I happily mirrored his affection, but I’d have to shoo him away after the third or fourth round of pets in order to get any work done. Clem detested being shooed, so he’d devise a plan out of spite. He’d stare at me while threatening to chew through my lamp’s power cord. I’d sternly tell him NO and he would inch closer and closer to the cord anyway until I launched from the floor. The fluffy-tailed bastard would bolt underneath my dresser.

His favorite game to play with me though was the one where he’d rip a page from my notebook and flee with it into his cage. So fun. And everyone knew that once he was in his cage, he was untouchable; one could likely lose a finger in a single instant of reaching into his highly protected turf.

In literature, rabbits have always been depicted as tricksters, and I believe that every rabbit has a little of that witty, conniving Bugs Bunny in him. I believe Clem receives great pleasure when I bumble around the room to catch him. He is after all prey, and maybe he wants to be true to his nature by making his large, dim-witted oppressor hustle.

Clem lives for yogurt drops, his preciouses. All I have to do is rattle the bag of Yogies to get him to emerge from his dark tunnels. He rips them right out from my hand without a thank you. I was curious to know why he’s so hooked and decided to test them for myself. It turns out that the tart, artificial strawberry isn’t half bad. Hell, I prefer them to Smarties. Clem also saws down at least a quarter of a bag of hay a day. His mouth is constantly at work, rolling around in little circles.

A rabbit’s chow-down is much more complicated than it looks. They chew in sequences, first chiseling hay like a paper shredder, then grinding it down between the molars on one side of the mouth at a time, then pumping their intricate jaws to bring food to the back of the throat. They have a total of 28 teeth, including their trademark front incisors. Rabbits are delicate creatures; their skulls are not solid bone, rather they are thin and fenestrated, resembling a lace-like fabric.

There came a point when I felt guilty about Clem being alone all day, so I bought him a rabbit friend, whom we named Dexter. He’s cotton swab white with black rims around his eyes, which makes it look like he wears glasses like Dexter from Dexter’s Laboratory. Dexter and Clem hit it off right away. They cuddled together so tight that they looked like one rising and falling ball of yin and yang.

13925169_10210833883788102_7641990146806061604_n

Around the time Dexter hit his teenage rabbit years, the love spell wore off. Dexter grew impatient with Clem’s dominance, his insistence that Dexter should clean his fur whenever he commanded. He was smaller than Clem, but faster, and growing into himself. He didn’t like to be bossed around and thumped in protest. I noticed they started sleeping on different levels in the cage. Dexter took the top bunk, and Clem huddled in the bottom one. It was a tragic observation. They were supposed to be brothers for life.

One day I was doing laundry in the basement, I heard a loud clamor coming from the ceiling. I slammed the laundry basket on the floor and heaved myself up the stairs. When I opened my bedroom door, Clem and Dexter were one again, except this time a tangled tumbleweed rolling around on the carpet. Patches of Clem’s fur were scattered across the floor in between small red dots of blood. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there deciding which finger I could afford to lose. I had a feeling this was an ultimate death match to decide who would be the alpha once and for all. Finally, Clem staggered, so I scooped him up, saving him and his dignity. Dexter’s tail was raised, and he was still grunting heavily. This fluffy bunny wasn’t fucking around.

In the end, Sean and I bought another cage and split them down the middle. It was devastating for us to watch. Their brief and passionate love was no more. I’m going to be honest with you; I felt a little resentment toward Dexter, even though I knew he was transforming into a man rabbit who wanted his space and independence. Clem couldn’t handle that. To him, he and Dexter needed to share one beating heart — one that beats 180 beats per minute (at rest). Was Clem’s affection too big, too suffocating for Dexter? Clem handled their breakup fairly well, though, in the time he spent chasing Dexter around the apartment, he made up for in eating. The poor bastard put on a couple of ounces.

It’s interesting how much value you can get out of 20 dollars, and also how much work. I guess most pet owners stumble over these crossroads.

The brushing of a rabbit is serious manual labor that you have to keep on top of. There was one year I was up to my eyeballs in jobs and homework. I vividly remember the messy hair buns and basketball shorts, the Monster Energy drink-induced nights where I was trying to decipher the Canterbury Tales, the braille of English. I slipped. I couldn’t keep up with Clem’s high-maintenance fur. What happens when you don’t brush a domestic rabbit? Well, they start to ingest their fur, which does startling things to their digestive tracks. Anyway, Clem ate so much of his own fur that it formed a web-like weave around his shit. The result was solid, golf ball size turds that Sean and I had to chop off with a pair of designated scissors.

Let me just say that rabbits aren’t as cute with solid rock turds hanging from their butts. Or when they’re yawing. Or when they’re eating their poop, which is pretty standard for most animals.

I thought we almost lost Clem. He wasn’t eating for a couple days so I rushed him over to a pet clinic near me. They turned me away because apparently Clem is considered “exotic,” which blows my mind. Clem, exotic? Give me a break. Exotic basically means risky, specialized, not to mention expensive, in veterinary terms.

So I drove Clem 45 minutes to a pet emergency center that was open 24 hours. I couldn’t locate his carrier so I sat him in my front seat, draping my cardigan over his head so he could hide, which he seemed to appreciate.

“We’re almost, there, Clem. Hang in there, old chap!” I told him. I turned my wheel gently, as opposed to cranking it. I didn’t want to freak him out even more than he already was with his wet, black eyes maniacally jutting out of their sockets.

I shoved my rabbit underneath my armpit, and we entered the emergency room. The receptionist, a young man with messy hair, jeans and a slight lisp, escorted us to our room and left us. I began to pace. I texted my friends about Clem’s updated status even if they didn’t ask. I let Clem sit underneath my chair as we waited for the vet.

About 30 minutes later I asked the receptionist how much longer until we were seen. Just as he was about to respond, a loud screeching alarm blasted through the hallway, bouncing off walls. Dogs began to bark, and two women in blue scrubs hustled past me with carriers with whiskers protruding from them.

“There was a gas leak. We all need to evacuate,” they told me. Clem was statuesque in his spot on the floor where scooped him up.

Rain pelted the street and cars. People huddled with their pets under umbrellas or scurried to their cars for shelter. Clem buried his head in my lap.

This was it. I thought chopping a poop ball off my rabbit’s ass had officially made me a crazy bunny lady, but I think the moldy cherry on top was waiting out the rain in my car with my supposedly dying rabbit until the firemen fixed the gas leak and told everyone to go inside.

The firemen waved everyone back in. We sat in the lobby waiting to be resituated, dripping in our chairs. A sick pitbull rested his head on his owner’s lap. The woman stroked the spot around his half-shut eye. A vet tech who was holding a cat in its carrier dozed off against a wall and dropped the cat’s fluids bag on the floor. Everyone in the waiting room peered at it on the floor until the tech noticed and snatched it up. Clem and I had a staredown contest with an overweight Yorkie who looked unamused with the entire situation.

Finally, Clem and I were herded into a room again where I began to pace back and forth, anxious to hear my rabbit’s fate. A vet tech popped her head in. She was pretty and looked slightly older than me. I stared at the infinity symbol strung on a chain around her neck when she spoke to me. I stared at it some more when she told me the final bill to keep Clem over night and administer medications. 1,200 dollars minimum.

“Lady, I love him, but he’s a rabbit. Give me a break, huh? I suppose you don’t do payment plans?” I laughed.

“No, but we take credit cards,” she said. Not a drop of sympathy in her clear, blue eyes.

“Ah, I figured as much. I think I’m gonna just take him home then. I mean, I just don’t have that kind of money. Is there any way I can just give him the meds on my own?”

“Well … I will check back with the doctor and see what I can do.”

She was tired. Clem and I were tired too. I took a peek at him. He was trailing off in my arms, but not really, as rabbits only sleep when it’s safe, which isn’t often for an animal born into fear.

We nursed Clem like he was a newborn. Five different medications, including one you have to mix into a green sludge. We’d take turns wrapping Clem burrito-like into a towel and shoving syringes past his two teeth. He jerked and sneezed as we force fed him the green sludge and spit it up if we gave him too much too quickly. Why is love always such a messy operation?

In two weeks, Clem was in perfect health. He rejoiced, kicking his hind legs, and all my began innards began to frolic.

19554831_10214107016894384_2080952709580504680_n

I need tampons: A true list of things

Ready, set, being productive on my lunch break. Yeah!

•My eyebrows were officially touching in the middle, so I decided to throw in the towel and get them waxed so my boss doesn’t stare at them when she addresses me anymore.

•Coffee. Dunkin Donuts. Duh. Sarah lives on Dunkin. Not Starbucks. Starbucks can be quiet now.

•Call Sean. Complain about how fun it is to ask people direct questions and not receive answers. Oh who knows? People in business don’t want to admit when they don’t know things or they don’t care to know things. It’s unprofessional, so let’s keep everyone guessing and questioning themselves.

It’s like that game… where the fuck is Waldo? Waldo’s not here. Waldo is on vacation (again). Can I transfer you to Waldo’s voicemail?

Sean’s wiring a water purification trailer that will be shipped off to an oil field in Nebraska, or wherever this one is going. His job is monotonous and draining, but he’s doing okay today. Most days, he has this gift of mental separation when he works. I’m envious. I need like 10 Ted Talks to even get me moving in the morning. Okay, 10 is a little obscene. TED Talks are good, but they can feel a little like organized religion if you consume too many at once.

I tell Sean there’s this delicious melon that I cut up and put into the fridge. I can’t remember the name of the melon. But if cantaloupe and honeydew had sex, this melon would be its baby. Sean’s excited to taste. I’m excited he’s excited to taste.

Whoever gets home first is making the Tilapia tonight. I hope it’s Sean. He’s a better cook, and I can’t follow basic instructions. I stick metal forks into toasters. Not always, but sometimes.

•Box of tampons from Jewel. And why yes, as a matter of a fact, I will take two. What a delightful little sale. Even though how expensive tampons are makes me die a little inside whenever I’m forced to purchase them. If it was up to me I would bleed all over the place. Women’s rights? Too soon?

Get up to the counter and the two boxes go flying in opposite directions. The guy wearing dark sunglasses in front of me hands me a box. The cashier snorts into her shoulder. I basically threw the other one at her. I apologize and tell her that I go all Hulk on my period sometimes. She says she does too. I chortle. The sunglasses guy laughs nervously to amuse us, and then he stops. He looks out the window like he has somewhere to be. I feel like giving him a nudge in the ribs. Some guys are afraid to get in on period humor.

Last night I told Sean that he better cuddle with me or I would slit his throat. See? Hilarious. Or at least I remember him laughing.

How to be good at hipster karaoke – A paradox made simple

You have to have a signature something: a little leather backpack, a thrifty cheetah print jacket, a shirt with Marilyn Monroe wearing a Blackhawks jersey. If you’re simply wearing jeans and a plain black t-shirt, don’t panic; it’s okay, I can help you. Stop what you’re doing, and immediately go to the bathroom. Tear a hole into your shirt so your bra is showing. Men– turn your pants inside out and put them back on. Phew, that was a close one. Now you are a little more presentable before your big show.

Pick a song sung by the opposite sex. If you are a bearded man, scream Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know.” If you are a woman, slip into some James Brown and sing it like it’s made with cool ranch dip. Don’t sing songs that you look like you would sing.

Second thing, whatever you do, DO NOT SING WELL. This just isn’t cool, folks. Plain and simple. You can put your heart and soul into a song, gyrate, play air guitar, and close your eyes, but it can’t have any real talent written on it. People came here to see entertaining, not good. The drunker you are, the louder the cheers. If you’re on key for too long, be prepared for a couple of boos.

The ticket is to master “trying hard without making it look like you’re trying hard.” If all else fails, stick close to your friends. They will love you and cheer you on no matter how boringly halfway decent you are.

If you want (this is for the brave souls): go out with a bang. Pretend to jerk off the microphone in the hipster haters’ faces. Ironically, they will love you after you do this. But always remember… it’s not about them liking you, it’s about fun.

Oh look, you’re up next.

Good luck…err…I mean – whatever, man.

How indifference to differences can get a little… weird

I know that this sounds like the first half of a joke, but seriously, what’s up with people not seeing things like color, gender, or weight?

Let me repeat: what’s up with people not SEEING color, gender, or weight? It’s nice to know that people are beginning to treat others equally, or at least claim such, but don’t pretend that differences aren’t there entirely. It makes you look like you’re hiding something. Or you’re just insufferably awkward.

If someone is black, someone is black. There doesn’t have to be attachments or undertones to that statement. People try to step around or gurgle “black” because acknowledging and saying the actual word “black” is supposed to be racist or something. It’s not. It’s a fact.

Stop defying sound, natural observations because you are uncomfortable for some unsaid or said reason. And it’s also not a matter of juggling political correctness. It’s a matter of being plain weird.

I have some examples. One is in real life. And another from popular culture.

So, my boyfriend and I watch the show Louie. We don’t have FX, so it’s excruciating, but worth it to buy the new episodes off Netflix. Actor Louis C.K. writes, directs, and is the star of his own show. It’s one of my favorite things I can get my grubby fingers on when it comes to television. I wish I had a t-shirt with Louis C.K.’s face on it, that’s how much I love him.

If you know anything about C.K., you know he’s a realist and tells things like they are. There is no place C.K. doesn’t go—from farts and jacking off to divorce, depressive tendencies, and class differences—nothing is truly off limits for him. Sometimes, his honesty is painful to look at or so unfortunately true, you can’t help but laugh. Even when he’s being distasteful, it’s done tastefully, which makes for a genius of a comedian.

There’s an episode off the most recent season in which Louie (Louis C.K.) goes on a date with Vanessa (played by actress Sarah Baker), a fat girl—a hilarious, charming, intelligent, and cute fat girl at that.

But she’s still a fat girl. Thus, it takes a lot of work for Vanessa to score a date with Louie, himself a round fellow who runs into rejection a lot. But she still has to court his favor because like the majority of people still stuck in the physical portion of first impression mode, Louie isn’t interested.

Louie determines that she is undateable, which is not to be confused with unfuckable. Sure Louie would fuck her, she points out, but he would have a harder time with getting to know her a on relationship level because she’s fat. And when she calls herself fat, Louie says “no, you’re not fat” because he is uncomfortable, and that’s what uncomfortable people say. That’s a lie, and she calls him out on it. She’s disappointed in him because the lie contradicts what he stands for, or what she thought to be true about him, one of the reasons she was attracted to him in the first place.

See scene for yourself. Awesome stuff.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8KiRrqrlZc

This is what makes this show brilliant, not to mention gut-bustingly funny. It calls human nature out on its bullshit when it thinks it’s being completely transparent.

…which is why I’m confused about something very pertinent to the show. It’s not an episode at all. It’s a casting decision.

So here’s my question: why is Louie’s ex-wife, Janet (played by Susan Kelechi Watson) on the show black? Or the reverse question: why are Louie’s children on the show not interracial? I’m not mad. I’m not pulling a racist card on Louis C.K. But on a logical level, why is this not so?

ImageImage

The show is good. The writing is good. The acting is good. But still, the discrepancy is distracting. It pulls me out of the viewer/story experience, and the plausibility of a character(s) in a show that aims to be as raw real life as possible.

I’m not the first person to ask this question or its opposite. I sure as hell know everyone is thinking it, but they either don’t care or are afraid to address it, just on the off chance it’s racist, which it’s not.

Actually, the topic was publically addressed in a Jimmy Kimmel Live interview. When asked why he chose a black actress to play the mother of his white children, C.K. responded, “If the character works for the show, I don’t care about the racial.” This in my opinion is the equivalent to “I do what I want.” And that’s cool; it IS his show.

But I don’t buy that. C.K. is a keen observer, a more careful creator than that. I believe his casting choice to be a social experiment on viewers. Maybe he is daring viewers to see past color.

And this is great on a wider cultural, social level, but doesn’t add up on the basic 1+1 level. It’s weird, and it doesn’t make sense. It’s common for C.K. to be weird, but he usually somehow explains his weirdness. So… I feel like I’m missing something.

My follow-up question is: if you could use a fat girl to convey a message, why can’t you use a black woman to convey a message, too? Or an interracial family? Those would not only make more basic sense, but could be used to address real color issues THAT STILL EXIST. I feel like the show is missing out on these elements that could make it that much better.

A second example has to do with a webinar I attended for work recently. I won’t go into any specifics because I’d like to keep my job and feed my family (my boyfriend, my bird, and myself). The host of the webinar works for a company in the industry I work in and for. The topic was on attracting and retaining women in an industry that is predominately male. The people attending the webinar, keep in mind, were WOMEN IN THE INDUSTRY. Also, keep in mind “Women in Industry” was in the title and description. He didn’t miss the literal memo.

So, I was confused when he spent the majority of his interview sweating to be politically correct about gender. I felt that it was distracting and defeated the whole purpose of the presentation. He continued to clarify himself after every question, which all began with something like: “What do you think women in the industry…”

Basically the host reinforced that there is no difference between male and female employees. He cleared his throat and bumbled over the actual word “women.” Over and over again. I began to feel bad for the guy.

I thought, okay… that’s great that you are at the point of acceptance, at least for rhetoric’s sake, but the reality of it is that women are asking questions on behalf of themselves and other women so they may further themselves in the workplace. They are the target audience here, so you don’t have to tiptoe around the fact that they are clearly women.

Another fact: there still is inequality between men and women in the workplace because women are still paid less and are still less likely to hold positions of power, particularly at an executive level.

If we want to promote women in the workplace we have to first simply acknowledge that they are indeed women (not men) and also accept that they need more of a boost. Being a woman in a male dominated industry should be taken as an advantage. I’m not saying we should throw a parade every time a woman gets hired in this industry, but still some acknowledgement on the strides and tangible examples of excelling professional women would be helpful in bringing more women in (the objective).

Going into deeper meaning of things: not seeing in color, gender, or weight (for example) may sound ideal, but in my humble opinion, it actually does more harm than good. It takes away from the whole uniqueness, diversity, and celebration aspect. It makes us seem like we’re all the same when we are clearly not (and that’s a good thing!).

It also says “We are now wiping our hands clean of isms or ists because, guess what, those things no longer exist. We’re good now. Everyone is on the same page about equality.” Nope, this is simply not true.

Denying differences may pave a smoother road for more passive forms of isms.  These forms are not blatantly aggressive or hurtful, but they still always stick out like a sore thumb. I just don’t think it will do us good to waltz around differences, ignore them, or pretend they don’t exist. Maybe I’m just being a pain in the ass, but I remember when it was cool to embrace our own and each other’s differences.