Strutting your stuff downtown

Posted on May 15, 2012 by Karla Telega

Is there a correlation between blushing and spontaneous combustion? I’m afraid that if I read Fifty Shades of Gray, I might find out. I’m kind of a vanilla girl, so I admit to some ignorance about safe words, harnesses, and why some people spend good money to see Carrot Top.

I pride myself on an extensive vocabulary, so I was surprised yesterday, when my daughter used a word I’ve never heard before: merkin. I blame it on my revulsion at watching The Real Housewives of Anywhere. Apparently, one of these women sells merkins.

I looked up merkin on Wikipedia, and was nearly blinded by a picture of a hot pink hairpiece pasted to a woman’s lady parts. A merkin is a pube wig!! Even though I’m genetically predisposed to post-menopausal hair loss, there is no way I’m going to walk around with dryer lint glued to my naughty parts.

The first step in wearing a merkin is to have all your God-given hair south of the navel yanked out by the roots. Merkins are for people who like to shake it up with different colors and textures. PETA has recently issued statements condemning the use of animal fur to cover these particular bald spots, although they were blushing as they said it.

Are you shitting me?

Yes, you can purchase a fox or mink merkin. Personally, if I had mink, I’d have my hand down my pants 24/7. I can just imagine the indignant look on the fox who learned that his fur would be used as a human hall runner.

Not to be outdone, they’ve come out with a new line for men called the Jerkin’ Merkin. (OK, I totally made that up, but it has a nice ring to it.) The question on everyone’s mind at this point is, “Are they dry clean only?” I can’t imagine the cleaning bill for such a specialty item, or the looks on people’s faces when you pick up your pubes at the dry cleaners.

What you do in the privacy of your own pants is your own business, but I don’t think there will ever come a day when I decide to super glue something to one of the most sensitive parts of my body. Taking it off would be a bitch.

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Wait for it, Mom

Posted on May 11, 2012 by Karla Telega

I get regular friendly email reminders from FTD to tell me that I have a problem with procrastination. In my defense, it’s often just a case of being an inconsiderate boob being forgetful. Flowers say: a) I walked past the greeting card aisle three times, and was so focused on deodorant and Tootsie Pops that I forgot to stop and select some crappy card containing a heartfelt sentiment; or b) I’m out of stamps.

My mom lives in Arizona, and I don’t. My laughable budget doesn’t allow me to get much farther than the corner supermarket: a considerable distance from her house. Since I can’t be with her for Mother’s Day, I carry her in my heart.

Here are some of the things she taught me, that I have tried to pass along to my children. Editor’s note: I am not making this up.

Paddling is best done with a wooden spoon. It stings real good without leaving a mark that would alert child welfare authorities.

Chores should be a family affair. Just don’t drop the old barn on any member of the family while tearing it down.

Teach your children to do it right the first time. For example: the proper use of firearms should be exercised at all times if you live next to an international airport. (Obviously, this was before the days of Homeland Security).

Play with your children, even if it involves running around in the backyard throwing pancakes at each other. Don’t include syrup, because that would just be weird.

Teach your children proper nutrition. Stamp glue doesn’t count as a food group.

Finally, be sure to worship together–unless you find a church that provides a bus to whisk your kids to Sunday School while you sleep in.

I encourage you to cherish the memories, and show your heartfelt appreciation to the woman who bore you with those special words: Mom, your crappy card is in the mail.

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You can’t pick your neighbors

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Karla Telega

If “Dick” had a piano drop on his head, causing major brain damage that turned him into a nice guy, I wouldn’t waste my time with a moment’s remorse for his misfortune. In fact, it would be cause for some amount of rejoicing. I can honestly say that I never wished a piano-related injury on anyone until Dick moved next door.

First, my apologies to PETA for this allegory. You all are doing a great job, in your own annoying, self-righteous way.

A man was out hunting ducks one day. He had just brought down a nice mallard when a lobbyist showed up and said, “You can’t do that, a%#hole!” Obviously, the lobbyist didn’t know that he was talking to Dick Cheney.

“Never mind that my net worth is more than God’s,” he replied, “my children will starve if I don’t bring home a duck.”

The lobbyist wasn’t swayed. “Tough sh*t. These are living breathing creatures, and your piddling problems don’t matter.”

The lobbyist is now undergoing reconstructive surgery after having his nose blown off.

I don’t own a shotgun, I don’t know any lobbyists, and no ducks (or lobbyists) were harmed in the making of this allegory.

Dick (my neighbor, not Cheney) cusses me out if I mow outside the lines, or park my motor home in my driveway. Mostly, he hates my dogs. I have a Doberman and a Great Dane, so when they bark, people in Nome, Alaska jump.

Being as how they are alive, my dogs need to pee and poop and stretch their legs. I have a fenced in yard, I’m outside with them every minute, and as soon as they bark, I bring them in.

Dick is not satisfied with my attempts to be a responsible pet owner. If I hear, “I’m reporting this” one more time, I think I may go looking for a shotgun … or a piano.

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My brains are on fire

Posted on May 4, 2012 by Karla Telega

I’ve only known a few vegetarians in my lifetime. These are people who have never opened a box of macaroni and cheese in their lives. They shop in the produce aisles, at roadside stands, and at black market Amish bake sales. I’m sorry, but you can chop, parboil, and puree a radish all you like and it’s never going to taste like a Snickers bar.

Years ago, while waiting to pick up my kids from preschool, I noticed one of these emaciated souls eating something that looked like candy. My curiosity peaked, I asked her what it was and she offered me a piece of crystallized ginger. It had nothing on salt water taffy, but tasted sweet, with a nice little bite to it.

Of all the home remedies that were forced on me as a child (one of which involving a hose and warm water, that would make any suspect confess to a multitude of crimes) my mother never gave me ginger. It is a proven remedy for headaches, as it reduces inflammation in the brain.

I’m pretty sure that my brain is in a constant state of inflammation. I don’t suffer headaches often because I possess a skull roughly the size of a gym bag, easily accommodating lycra biker shorts, towels, energy drinks, and oversized brains. But my neurons seem to be under-performing lately.

I can only attribute that to brain cells spontaneously combusting every time I try to form a coherent thought. Admittedly, I killed a lot of brain cells in my misbegotten youth, when I enjoyed a liquid diet that would put down a fully grown wildebeest. In the interest of science, today I’m enjoying a liquid diet composed mostly of diet ginger ale.

If my blog is less chaotic than normal, and noticeably free of dog jizz, then I owe a debt to Canada Dry. Still, I’m not likely to resort to Mom’s method for curing constipation. I don’t have any crimes to confess.

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Out, damn spot!

Posted on May 1, 2012 by Karla Telega

Spring is here and a young dog’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. I share my home with two dogs. Colt had boy-dog surgery when he was young. Maverick (the name wasn’t changed, because he is anything but innocent) still has all his original equipment. Mav is a Great Dane, which is the only size dog they sell at Costco. It means that his boy parts are large enough that you expect 20 clowns to spill out of them at any given time.

One thing all dogs have in common is flexibility. They can reach their noses around to forbidden territories, while we’re still struggling vainly to lick our own elbows. (Go ahead and try it, we’ll wait.)

I have a rather small house with oversized furniture. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for parking a large economy size creature with a maddening tendency to stand up just as you’re stepping over him. Fortunately I have a large capacity wash machine that can handle a queen size comforter. Said comforter is currently on the spin cycle.

Leave Maverick in the guest room for five minutes, and you’ll find him stretched out on the bed, smoking a cigarette and reading Fifty Shades of Grey. He always looks very pleased with his bad self.

I frequently question the wisdom of having big dogs as I get older. Walking them is a challenge, snuggling with them can cause lack of circulation to important body parts, (e.g. legs, arms, and spleen) and I hesitate to think how many pounds of kibble I’ve hefted over the last few years. It’s not for the weak of heart.

You may think that canine self-gratification is a frivolous blog topic, unless you own stock in laundry soap. The math is pretty simple: large randy dog = don’t go to bed without your snorkel and swim fins.

I should point out that Mav is constantly turning his head because he only is able to see out of his peripheral vision. Let this be a warning to your schnauzers and shih tzus, Mom was right when she said it would make you go blind.

REBUTTAL!!!  Do you see anything but innocence in his eyes?  (he did enjoy fifty shades of grey)

As Karla's closest friend, marketing director and her muse up until now I have been a silent partner. That has now ended as I am the owner of the very inscrutable dog in question. Karla is not the sweet person you all envision!

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Power to the old people

Posted on April 27, 2012 by Karla Telega

I read an article yesterday in the Huffington Post promoting senior empowerment. The writer argued that we torpedo ourselves by living up to senior stereotypes. She further claimed that self-deprecating senior humor causes our self-esteem to recede faster than our hairlines. Phhht!

Seriously, ageism is a crappy deal. A lot of seniors struggle against discrimination in the workplace – and I’m talking about the newly old. I’ve seen the system fail people that I love, but anger and righteous indignation (while frequently justified) polarizes us.

I just don’t think that schooling ourselves to be politically correct about aging is going to empower us. Trying to avoid stereotypes is like ignoring the elephant in the room. We’re all getting older, and it’s scary. I believe that fear is what really robs us of our power, and humor helps to combat the fear.

If you go to the “About Me” page on this blog, you’ll find my mission statement:

“As a humor writer, my goal is to use laughter to diffuse the anxiety of aging; challenge others to bring humor into their daily lives; and prove that there is joy and laughter to be found at every stage of life’s journey.”

When I’m going through shit, finding others who have been through it is very healing. When we relate to each other, we accept our human condition and find that we’re not so very different, regardless of our age.

I may exaggerate and look for the ridiculous in life, but my goal is always to embrace the underlying truth. Facing our fears takes away their power and gives it back to us.

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Just scratching the surface

Posted on April 24, 2012 by Karla Telega

I didn’t think it was a big deal: a couple scratches on my bumper and a barely-visible dent on the rear hatch. Five years ago, I decided I wanted a badass car, so I bought a Jeep that can withstand direct hits from anti-aircraft missiles. Unfortunately, it’s not trail-rated, so the undercarriage is susceptible to damage from rocks, roots, and small fluffy woodland animals.

Naturally, I wanted to make sure that the rear-ender hadn’t turned my axles into twisted heaps of rusting metal. The online accident report form for my insurance company didn’t include a box for “I don’t know a U joint from a drive train, so I just want someone professional to crawl around under my car with a flashlight.”

Instead, the other driver’s insurance company contacted me, and shoved their amazing friendly customer service down my throat. (The jerks!) So my car is in the body shop and I’m driving around in a rented SUV with a home entertainment system, GPS, and free mini-bar. I was surprised the first time I threw it in reverse. There on the dashboard was a panoramic view of every crack in the pavement behind my car. I felt a wave of nausea as I started backing up and saw the world moving behind me.

How lazy do we have to be that we can no longer turn our heads? Where’s the sense of adventure if we don’t have multiple giant blind spots when we’re backing up? Don’t you hate it when people keep asking rhetorical questions?

Maybe I should be having fun with it, but I don’t want to count the seemingly infinite number of cup holders. I don’t feel like crank-calling Onstar to ask if they have Prince Albert in a can. And mostly, I don’t want my friends to see me driving something that looks like I should be taking my kids to Lacrosse practice. People have been shunned from the neighborhood barbecue and paintball tournament for less.

It will be nice to have my car looking pristine and new, but a couple scratches and the odd dent are badges of honor. After all, the car that rear-ended me was at least eight inches shorter after the accident, the radiator was at a 45 degree angle, and the hood looked like an accordion. Pit my car against any sedan, and my badass Jeep is going to come out the winner, as long as there are no fluffy woodland animals around.

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Double down

Posted on April 19, 2012 by Karla Telega

My friend has been on the hunt for Knorrs Leek Soup for several months now. Very few people (not in rehab) would pursue an activity to the gates of hell or insanity, but for the perfect clam dip, my friend would. She called Knorrs’ headquarters IN GERMANY, to find out why they don’t stock the soup mix in the U.S. anymore. There was no small amount of rejoicing when we found it at a local Piggly Wiggly.

This gives rise to the delicate issue of double-dipping. My mama told me horror stories about how when saliva is introduced into the dip, it starts to break down. This could turn a perfectly good thick paste into a slightly thinner paste. *Shudder* Since then I’ve taken great care not to be the cause of a sour cream state of emergency. I can only hope that others sharing the bowl are equally vigilant.

My distaste for separation of dairy products seems rather odd in light of the fact that I have a cat, ergo my kitchen counters are crawling with e coli. Fortunately, I know this, and knowledge is power. I have carefully choreographed food preparation routines to avoid serving litter box juice to the ones I love. It’s the least I can do.

People are not going to fess up to double dipping, so it’s the not knowing that makes a communal bowl of dip a thrill-seeker’s paradise. “Hey guys, let’s go base jumping then share some clam dip.” When I finally get up the courage and scoop, inevitably there’s breakage from somebody else’s chip. A half-soggy chip crumb is now hitching a ride on my chip. Gaaah!

I grew up playing with snakes and eating dirt (long story). I’m a staunch supporter of the five second rule. I’ve swapped sweat at the gym, grown up with the community bathhouse, shared bottles of soda, and have been known to French kiss. I don’t know why throwing dairy products into the mix puts saliva on a par with weasel snot.

Fortunately, God has genetically engineered clam dip to taste good enough that it’s worth the risk. I may not go base jumping anytime soon, but break out the chips and dip, and I can feel the adrenaline pumping.

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This is a courtesy notice

Posted on April 15, 2012 by Karla Telega

I live in a community, which is to say that my every breath is scrutinized by the HOA police. The homeowners’ association sent us a courtesy notice, indicating that they take offense at the green slime growing on the front of our house. This could be easily remedied by hiring a power washing service. Easy is not the way we roll.

We searched the yellow pages for someplace that rents pressure washers, and found that they are all located in North Carolina. This would explain why so many of the houses in South Carolina look like they’re molting. Not wanting to be caught crossing the border with contraband cleaning tools, we opted for a somewhat more primitive solution.

We have a ladder left by the contractors who painted our house. There’s a reason they didn’t want it anymore. The ladder has notches on it’s side, indicating all the people who died trying to clean out their eaves.

I drew the short straw, so perched precariously atop this demon-possessed ladder, I slopped bleach on the vinyl siding. My brush refused to stay screwed onto the telescoping pole, and I had bleach dripping in my hair and running down my shirtsleeves. My husband stayed safely on terra firma, squirting the hose to rinse my handiwork.

You would think that my medical condition would exempt me from hazardous duty. I’m allergic to sudden death.

All evidence to the contrary, I’m still alive. Even after a shower, I reek of bleach and Febreeze. That’s right, we Febreezed our house. If you’re going to go to all that trouble, you may as well have your siding smell like ocean breeze, or fresh linen. I thought I’d be proactive and head off any complaints from the HOA that my house stinks.

Hopefully, my neck and shoulders will have a chance to recover before our next courtesy notice regarding the placement of our ornamental Chevy. They probably will want us to weed-whack the grass growing around the blocks. The fussbudgets!

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What’s that behind you?

Posted on April 12, 2012 by Karla Telega

(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed here are my own because, guess what? This is my blog and I do what I want to!)

Magicians rank right up there with clowns for yuck factor. Their carefully guarded secrets still are just sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors, and distraction. Why would I want to see people pulling rabbits, scarves, pigeons, or rutabagas out of a hat?

Still, there’s something to be said for distraction. I’m on day three without a cigarette. (pats her own back) I’m watching Deadliest Catch marathons, knitting matching covers for my washer and dryer, snaking out the sinks, waxing the driveway, teaching myself Swahili, and cleaning the car, air ducts, and random stray dogs.

Yesterday, was the ultimate distraction. I went on a field trip as research for my next book. The Harley dealership was huge and majestic. Hundreds of gleaming motorcycles greeted me with the promise of open roads and cute guys wearing leather chaps. I wanted to get a bike back in another lifetime, but my ex forbade it. Probably one of the reasons why he’s now my ex.

I actually drooled on one of the Softtail Deluxes, and considered a used Sportster as a starter bike. I found the bike I wanted for my roguish character, and checked out everything from leather jackets, to belt buckles, to Harley cribbage boards. I’ve led such a sheltered life. I never knew they had cribbage tournaments in the back rooms of biker bars. That’s definitely going in the book!

Can I afford a bike? No. Would the numbness in my hands be a detriment to riding a bike? Yes. But, for one shining afternoon, I had no desire for a cigarette, and it didn’t even require a magician.

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