Statistically Speaking...

Since we all know that 63% of statistics are just made up on the spot (or was it 54%?), I figured I would generate...I mean share a list of lesser-known, but highly important and thought-provoking, statistics about humans.

1.  Americans who are big fatty boombalatties:  47%

He's smiling now, but he probably won't feel so good following his quadruple bypass.  We laugh about what a fat country we've become, but after we all keel over and die from heart disease, hypertension, cancer, or just because we couldn't squeeze out of a window to escape a fire, the only people laughing will be...well, those in every other country on the planet.  America has become a great example of what NOT to do.  "See all of this excess food at your fingertips?  Try NOT eating all of it at once."

2.  Farts suppressed or disguised by girls:  92%

3.  Farts suppressed or disguised by boys:  8%

What is it with the weird male v. female farting disparity?  Guess what, folks:  girls get gas.  I for one am a Master Gas Passer.  At least every other day I hear my husband remark, "Jesus.  Was that you?"  But we are expected to act like we don't fart, or poop, or have B.O.  Fuck all that.  I am a human, humans stink, and so do I.  So there.

4.  Americans who have educated themselves about the viability of trickle-down economics:  4%

5.  Americans who would gleefully shoot someone who disagrees with the viability of trickle-down economics:  49%

6.  Teenagers who think adults are borderline retarded:  93%

 7.  Adults who fear & loathe (and conveniently have no memory of what they were like as) teenagers:  93%

Poor teens, and poor adults.  They could be such wonderful allies for one another, but instead they descend to complete douchebaggery in their interpersonal dealings.  I had countless interactions much like this one when I supervised adult mentors for teens in foster care:

ME:  So, why isn't he allowed to see his brother anymore?

MENTOR:  Well, the last time they hung out, they said they were going to stay home and watch a movie, but instead they snuck out to the beach and [with horrified expression] got high.

ME:  Huh.  So he's, what, 17?  And his brother is 20?

MENTOR:  Yup.

ME:  Did you have an older sibling?

MENTOR:  Um...yes.

ME:  Do you remember what you did with your older sibling when you were a teenager?

MENTOR:  Uh...

ME:  Did you ever sneak out?  Did you ever get wasted?

MENTOR:  I don't even want to think about what I did.

And therein lies the problem.  Adults repress their teenage memories, teens go into denial about their impending adulthood, and so their coexistence is a big, fat, dysfunctional defense mechanism.  Bummer.

8.  Americans who vote for reality show contestants:  88%

9.  Americans who vote in governmental elections:  42%

10.  Americans who complain about the government:  97%

If you're unwilling to do a goddamn thing about it, folks - not even get off your fat, teenager-hating, trickle-down-defending-but-not-comprehending butt to go vote - then you should probably just shut the fuck up.

And in conclusion, here is a totally rad picture of a fire cat.  It has nothing to do with anything, but it's really pretty.

Boredom-Induced Thinking

When I was a kid, if I ever told my mom I was bored, she'd say, "I can find something for you to do."  That was my cue to go become un-bored or I would be doing some sort of mind-numbing chore like polishing my parents' silver from the 1960s.  I never understood why the silver needed to be polished.  I don't remember anyone ever using it.  In retrospect, I think my mom just held onto the silver so she would have a powerful threat to keep me from saying I was bored.

These days, I have no silver to polish and am opposed to deep cleaning due to....um...religious convictions.  When I'm bored, I simply occupy myself with random thoughts such as these:

• Are my pets sick?  

When I don't have much going on, I obsessively monitor my pets.  I begin to believe that they are acting strangely, when in actuality they just shouldn't be watched so closely.  "Why has Sid (the cat) been lying in that same spot for all this time?  Does he usually do that?  Why does he have that look on his face?  Should I take him to the vet?"  I also begin obsessively monitoring myself and come to the conclusion that I am dying.  But I suppose we're all dying, so that one's no biggie.

•  Would I make a good U.S. President?

Hell, no!  President of the United States has got to be one of the worst jobs in the world.  Give me a managerial position at Taco Bell any day.  You're like America's Mom in that you don't get any credit for your hard work, and everyone blames you for everything.  But I think the worst thing about being President is that you never get to leave work and go home for the day.  Your home is your job, and it's full of your coworkers.  You never have the option of turning off your cell phone and disappearing for awhile.  What a nightmare. 

I would much prefer to be Supreme Dictator of the World.  I would give myself 6 months of vacation per year, live in a secret location and wouldn't even have a cell phone.

•  Even though I've been a vegetarian since '94, if I were hungry enough, would I eat meat?

Answer:  Yes.  Yes, I would.  Next!  (this particular line of questioning never takes up too much time)

• Did I create my evil cat, or was he born that way?

My cat Sid is very cute, on the outside.  He looks like this:

Unfortunately, looks can be deceiving.  On the inside, Sid is more like this:

Sid is the only one of our four pets who we got as a baby, so we can't blame previous owners or a faulty upbringing for his evil tendencies. We can only blame ourselves...OR we can choose to blame demonic possession.  Sid scratches and bites without provocation, yowls all night (I have to pack my ears with silicone), and thinks the world is his litter box.  Even as a kitten, he was like this:

Although I prefer to believe that Sid is simply the proverbial "bad seed," I realize that I do need to take some of the blame for his temperament.  If I had it to do over again, I would not name my kitten after a sadistic, self-mutilating, heroin-addicted murderer.  My bad.

Okay, I'm done talking about boredom.  It's time to watch football.  The best thing about the NFL is that you can sit on your butt for 9 hours, staring at a screen, and truly feel like you're doing something (i.e., "I'm busy!  I'm watching the playoffs!").  What a racket.

Random Acts of Cruelty

First off, I would like to give a great big shout out to Google Images.  There is never a dull moment when one enters the world of GI.  I just did a GI search for "Random Acts of Cruelty" and found some images that seemed pretty relevant, like this:

and this:

However, this one also popped up:

So...is it assumed that a randomly cruel person is NOT going to adopt this kitten, after sadistically placing said kitten in an adoption box and raising his/her expectations of finding a home?  Or are the utter cheesiness & misspelled "you" the random acts of cruelty?

Google Images can also offer hilarious juxtapositions, such as these two images appearing side by side:

Oh, wow.  Google, is there anything you can't do?

Random acts of cruelty have been bumming me out lately.  I get it:  you're unemployed, the job market sucks, you just found out your boyfriend/girlfriend cheated on you, your car's making a weird sound, and you stubbed your toe this morning.  But you know what?  The guy behind the counter at Walgreens isn't responsible for any of those happenings, and maybe if you smiled at him and exchanged some pleasantries, you'd create a better situation than if you instead chose to cuss him out, call him racist slurs and question his parentage.  I'm just sayin'.  On top of all your other problems, now you have also acted like a complete asshole.  Congratulations.

People do not utilize logic when they randomly take their angry feelings out on strangers.  Logic goes like this:  "I feel crappy.  Chances are, other people feel crappy, too.  Maybe if I try to be positive with other people, they will feel less crappy, then act less crappy, and then I will feel less crappy, and then the world will be less crappy."  A void of logic goes like this:  "I feel crappy, and even though I represent only one seven billionth of the human population, my feelings in this moment are clearly the most important thing ever in the history of the world, so I am going to cut off and flip off this stranger on the freeway, almost causing an accident, and feel completely justified because I feel crappy, and, as previously mentioned, I am all that matters.  And after I act that way, I will feel better, because being a douche bag creates profoundly wonderful and long-lasting feelings of self-worth."

Unfortunately, in this society we not only engage in these types of behaviors, but we also excuse them through accountability-be-damned statements like, "The Devil made me do it."  I'm sorry...the Who did What??  Give me a break.  And we not only EXCUSE the behaviors, but we also glorify them through the encouragement of professional jerks like this guy:

I watched this guy tear someone down for about 90 seconds one time, and that's all the air time he'll get from me.  He's just abusive.  He is the Random Act of Cruelty King.  I only interact with abusive people intentionally if I am being paid to teach them how to systematically change their behaviors so they can be more valuable to the human race.  I certainly don't watch them abuse other people for entertainment, because that, Ladies & Gentlemen, is totally fucked.

Perhaps the key is to be like this kitten and turn one's fuzzy back on the jerks.  Stare calmly in the opposite direction and envision a world in which people don't randomly spew hate everywhere because they're feeling sorry for themselves. 

I guess what I'm saying is this:  step up, humanity.  We're not in preschool anymore.  And if you are in preschool, you should NOT be reading this.  There are way too many cuss words.  Why aren't your parents supervising your internet use??

My Basketball Dream (aka: The Night I Kicked My Sweetie Wicked Hard)

 (do you like my horribly retouched picture?)

One night, I had a dream that I was watching a middle school boys' basketball game. I was in the stands and saw this big kid from one of the teams attack a smaller kid from the other team. He started beating him up, then pinned him on the ground. Somehow, I knew the bigger kid was planning to bite off the smaller kid's ear. I ran down onto the floor and grabbed the bigger kid from behind. He kept trying to get to the kid on the floor, and I was trying to immobilize him by kicking his leg out from under him, but I was having that dream issue where my body kept moving really slowly, as if I were underwater.

I've studied dreams a lot over the years, and sometimes when typical things (like moving really slowly) happen in my dreams, I'm able to notice and control the situation. In this dream, I realized I would be able to control my movements better if I concentrated really hard. I wrapped my leg around the front of the boy's leg, focused on my heel, focused on his shin, and then BLAM! I kicked him wicked hard! I was so proud of myself for connecting with force and immobilizing my dream foe.

And then I was awakened by this:

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!! OW!!! OH MY GOD!! OH MY GOD!! OW!! OH MY GOD!! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!?!?!"

Those would be the agonized cries of my poor then-boyfriend, now-husband, whom I had just rocketed out of a peaceful sleep by kicking him squarely in the shin with full force. I imagine him transitioning instantaneously from feeling like this:

to feeling like this:

Poor Sweetie.  :(

When I became fully conscious and realized what I had done, I began laughing hysterically and uncontrollably. See, folks, I have this problem. When it comes to people (including myself) completely losing control of themselves physically, I find it hilarious. For example, when people trip and fall flat on their faces, I always laugh first before composing myself enough to ask if they're okay. I recognize that this is a character flaw, but I can't help it! It's just way too funny!

So I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. Finally, I calmed down enough to try to explain, through intermittent bursts of giggling, what had happened. Unfortunately, it came out kind of like this: "I'm so sorry (hahahahaha!) Sweetie! I (bahahahahahaha!) was having this dream (bwah ha ha ha!) where I was trying to (hahahahaha!) kick this kid!" To which he replied, "That really doesn't make me feel any better."

I realized I was making him believe I was an even more horrible person by the minute, but there was nothing I could do. For the next 20 minutes, as he tried to forget his shin pain and get back to sleep, I kept erupting into hysterical giggle fits. Finally I managed to squeak out, "I love you, Sweetie." And he responded, "Yes. I can tell by your actions."

What can I say? I have issues. And yes, even though this happened over five years ago, I laughed the entire time I wrote this.

Join My Church...Or Don't. I Don't Care.

I was raised without any religion.  People frequently mistake that for being raised atheist.  In truth, I was once guilty of the same assumption.  Until I entered my mid-20s, I always considered myself and my family members to be atheist (except for the brief time period when my sister joined the Church of Latter Day Saints...perhaps I will revisit that topic at a later date).  It wasn't until I met a true, "practicing" atheist that I realized I'm not an atheist.  True atheists care way more than I do about religion.

After realizing I wasn't actually atheist, I thought maybe I could better be characterized as agnostic.  However, it wasn't until after I had a wonderful conversation with a young man on a plane that I realized my true religious calling.  The conversation went something like this:

Boy On Plane:  Are you Catholic?

Me (removing ear bud):  [Internally:  Goddammit, can't you see the headphones and the book?  I don't want to talk to you!]  Excuse me?

BOP:  Are you Catholic?

Me:  No.  Are you?

BOP:  Yes.  What are you?

Me:  Uhh.  I guess I'm agnostic.  Do you know what that is?

BOP:  I think so.  That means you just don't care, right?

BEAUTIFUL.  I love it.  Although I realize that's not what agnostic means,  the kid's statement perfectly categorized my religious philosophy.  Following that conversation, and after careful consideration of the history, practices, and beliefs of various religions, I determined that no current religious doctrine applied to me.  Therefore, I created my own, brand spanking new religion.  It is called the IDK & IDC religion.  You are welcome to join.

[Please forgive me for the use of text speak.  It just seemed so fitting when naming this religion.]

See, the thing is, folks - I'm busy.  I'm a busy woman.  Over the past 12 years I've worked and volunteered in the domestic violence, child welfare, animal rights, and juvenile probation fields.  I've worked with people living in poverty, coping with mental illness, transitioning out of prison, and trying to overcome addictions.  And I really don't have the time or energy to think about what grand master spiritual dude(s)/dudette(s) is/are overseeing all of this or what's going to happen after I go extinct.  I've got shit to do!  Like, NOW, while I'm ALIVE.

Also, like all people, I have been heavily influenced by my upbringing, which went something like this:

Little Me:  Dad, do you believe in God?

Dad (grimacing):  Fuck no.  [Remembers child's age.]  Um...I mean, no.

Little Me:  Why not?

Dad:  Because God doesn't exist.  And organized religion is the scourge of the earth.  More people have been killed in the name of God than for any other cause.

Yup!  That's my dad!  The funny thing is that I had only planned to ask that preliminary question as a precursor to this follow-up question:  "How can God be my father if you're my father?"  That's what I was actually wondering.  But my dad's response made that second question just go flying out the window as I ran to the dictionary to look up the word "scourge."

When I was 8 years old, I had another sobering conversation with my dad.  I had said something about suicide - nothing about killing myself, but just some random comment about suicide.  And here is what my dad said:  "Life may be shit, kid, but death is nothing."  That, in a nutshell, was my dad's teachings about the afterlife.

When I was about ten, my mom became a little worried about her children's lack of exposure to any religious experiences or knowledge.  To test whether or not this concern was valid, she asked me if I knew what the Golden Rule was, and I said, "If you take something out, put it away."  At that point I think my mom grew concerned that her daughters might end up in Hell, if there was such a place, so she decided to do an intervention in the form of having my sister and me memorize the Lord's Prayer, which we did, although we had no idea what the fuck we were saying.  "Hallow-ed be a what now?"  It's hard to go from 0 to 60, religiously speaking, in a matter of hours.  But we learned the prayer, which I'm grateful for, because now I can somewhat capably fake my way through the majority of Christian ceremonies.

And now, since I can't think of how to end this post, I'm going to tell another story about a childhood conversation between my mom & me.  It took place around the same time as the last couple of stories, so I was somewhere between 8 and 10 years old.  My mom wanted to tell me this joke:

Q:  What's 99.44% evil?

A:  Poison Ivory

However, she didn't know if I was aware of Ivory Soap's ad campaign, which claims that Ivory Soap is 99.44% pure.  She wanted to find that out before telling me the joke, so the following conversation occurred:

Mom:  Do you know what's 99.44% pure?

Me:  I don't know.  Cocaine?

Oh, my poor mom.  But don't blame me, folks.  Blame D.A.R.E.  That program taught us WAY too much about drugs.

The Day I Shot My Facebook In The Face

This morning, I killed my Facebook account.  Ahhhh...it's hard to explain how good it feels.  It's like I just went from being a chronic hoarder to completing the most thorough spring cleaning possible as well as the post-purge Goodwill drop-off.

When I first joined Facebook a few years ago, it was with cautious optimism.  I had avoided joining MySpace because I had no desire to reconnect with anyone from my past, but when a friend explained to me that Facebook is a great way to share pictures with friends and family members, I made the decision to join.  I love pictures, and I wanted to be able to watch my friends' kids grow up even though we live far apart.

As soon as I joined, I started receiving friend requests from people I knew from the past but hadn't heard from for ten years or more - folks from elementary school, high school, previous jobs, previous cities, etc.  The reconnections peaked my curiosity while simultaneously triggering my obsessive-compulsive tendencies.  "What is everyone I've ever known up to these days?"  "What do these people who I don't even know think about my random thoughts?"  "How was my 3rd grade friend's trip to Belize?  I must know!"  I got sucked into Facebookland quickly and soon began collecting friends like I used to collect rocks, snow globes, and stuffed animals, except that those things were inert and relatively harmless, while Facebook friends were a living force, ever updating, morphing, and doing doing doing.

Within months of joining, I found myself compulsively checking Facebook.  I didn't play the stupid games, but I still maniacally checked people's postings, updates, pictures, friend connections, and blah blah blah.  Millions of previously unimportant factoids were suddenly significant enough to investigate several times per day.  It was an addictive habit, offering no true benefit while sucking up time as well as emotional & mental energy for nothing actually productive or important.

Before I knew it, I had 20 million Facebook friends.  Okay, not really, but that's how it felt.  Some of the "friends" were people I'd known from the past and not even liked.  How had this happened?  All I'd wanted to do was share pictures with friends and family members, and suddenly I was having feelings about how many comments I'd received on my status updates and how many people I didn't even really know had wished me a happy birthday!  WTF?

So this morning, inspired by the turn of the new year and the fact that my football team pulled out a victory, I killed my Facebook page.  I could not have predicted the wonderful feeling of calm that would wash over me upon its death.  It is quite astounding.  Since I shot my Facebook account in the face, I have gone from feeling like this:

to feeling like this:

Joy.

You Know I Love You, Portland, But...

We all know when a sentence begins that way, it's time to prepare for something bad.  Those types of statements never seem to turn out well for the listener.  "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but..."  "No offense, but..."  "You know I've always tried to be faithful, but..."

I do love Portland.  As American cities go, it rocks pretty hard.  BUT...there are things about Portland that drive me totally cuckoopants, namely:

#1 - Portlanders Don't Dance

They don't.  It's as if they are allergic to dancing; their throats will close up and they'll die if they uncross their arms and move their bodies in any sort of a rhythmic fashion.  I don't get it.  Portlanders clearly love other joyous activities, like eating delicious food and appreciating nature, but dancing is a huge no-no.  

The fact that Portlanders don't dance does not, however, keep them from occupying every square inch of the dance floor at any given live music event.  Okay, kids, here's a hint:  it's called a DANCE floor, not a stand-stock-still-like-a-fucking-statue floor.  It's annoying enough being the only person dancing without having to try to maneuver around a bunch of rigid, totem-pole-like bodies.

So here's some advice, PDX folks:  if you like music but don't want to dance, how about just staying home to listen to music & read a book?  And if you really feel the need to go out and see live music but have no intention of dancing, try standing against the wall.  Don't stand on the dance floor.  That floor is there for dancing purposes.  And just so you know, standing with your arms crossed while you stare at people performing for you and (maybe) slightly bob your head does not make you look cool.  It makes you look like a dorkus malorkus.  You disappoint me, Portland.  Shake your fucking booty already.

#2 - Excessive Apologizing

"I'm sorry," seems to be every other sentence that comes out of Portlanders' mouths.  On rare occasions, these folks are apologizing for an actual slight, but usually they are apologizing for absolutely nothing.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I think I might have done something, or might do something, that could perhaps offend or bother you in some way, shape, or form.  I'm sorry again.  Am I apologizing too much, or with not enough fervor?  I'm sorry for that, too.  I am so, so sorry."

What the fuck?  Shut up and stop apologizing, or I'll give you something to apologize for.  Okay, that didn't make any sense, but hopefully you get the point.  If you're going to apologize, first do something worthy of an apology.  That way at least you'll get to have some fun.

#3 - Stupid Dog Owners

You know I love dogs, but I do not love stupid dog owners.  Portland is rife with them.  It's very simple:  if you do not have 100% voice control over your dog (and I can pretty much guarantee that you don't), said dog should not be off-leash.  Period.

I have a psychotically dog-aggressive dog.  Let's call her Cujo.  Cujo goes for a long walk everyday, and, even though I never walk Cujo in any off-leash dog areas, pretty much everyday we get approached by at least one off-leash dog.  When I see the dog approaching, I lift Cujo into the air by her harness and call to the dog's owner to let him/her know that I have an aggressive dog.  And then a conversation much like this occurs:

Dog Owner:  Oh, don't worry.  My dog is really friendly.

Me:  Okay, but my dog is aggressive.

Dog Owner:  My dog is sweet.  He wouldn't harm a fly.

Me:  [internally:  I hate you, you stupid person.]  My dog is aggressive.  Do you see how she's thrashing around like a fish on a line?  She wants to kill your dog.

Dog Owner:  Oh, okay.  Come here, Bingo!  Come!  Bingo!

[Bingo doesn't listen.  Bingo continues trying to get to Cujo, because Bingo has no survival instinct.]

Cujo (thrashing madly):  [internally:  PUT ME DOWN!  I DESPERATELY NEED TO KILL THIS DOG!] 

Dog Owner:  Bingo!  Come here, boy!  

[Bingo doesn't listen.  He continues trying to get to Cujo, who is now whirling in the air like the Tasmanian Devil.]

Dog Owner:  Oh, just let her bite him.  It'll teach him a lesson.

Me:  I don't want my dog to bite your dog.  Could you please just come get him?

Dog Owner (unmoving):  Okay.  Bingo!  Come here, boy!  Bingo!

ARGH.  It's unbelievable to me how often this happens.  Get a clue, folks.  Your out-of-control, off-leash dog is a danger to itself, other dogs, and people.  Having to leash your dog isn't the end of the world and will keep all of us a whole lot safer.  Especially you, because one of these days, I'm just gonna snap.

#4 - The Weather

I don't even want to talk about it.  I'll start crying.

#5 - Too Many White People With Too Much Facial Hair Spending Too Much Money Trying To Look Homeless

Other than that, Portland, I love ya.  Rock on, all you hipster, bike-riding, PBR-swilling, vegan weirdos.