Dipshit Friday: The Key Edition

Back in the day, there used to be a feature here on Stimeyland known as Dipshit Friday. I think it might be time to bring it back. In keeping with the theme, as long as this is posted at least 15 seconds before Friday ends, it still counts as Friday. You know, if you’re a dipshit.

Yellow square with the black silhouette of my pontificating gerbil wearing a big red dunce cap. Next to the gerbil in red letters, are the words "Dipshit Friday."I locked myself out of my house earlier this week.

I had all day free while my kids were in school, so I decided to go on a long run in training for my half marathon that is coming up next month. I walked out of my house wearing my Camelbak water backpack, locked the door, and put the key in a pocket of the Camelbak that I wasn’t planning on opening until I returned home.

Then I ran. And did some walking. And then ran some more. And then walked. And ran. And then wandered around a park for ten minutes, looking for a water fountain to refill my Camelbak, then ran some more and then finally stopped running and limped home. It was a rough run for me.

As I walked up my driveway, I took off my Camelbak and started rooting around for my key. I smelled so bad that even I was offended and all I could think about was drinking some cold water and showering.

That was when I discovered that my key was gone. I knew that it had to be in the Camelbak pocket. There was nowhere else it could be. I mean, I’d locked the door with it. I’d put it in the pocket. I’d returned and unzipped the pocket. Where was it?

I looked everywhere in the Camelbak. I doublechecked my work. I looked around on the ground in front of my door in case I’d just dropped it instead of putting it in the pocket. It was nowhere to be found.

The only thing I could figure out was that I’d accidentally put it in the wrong pocket and it had fallen out during my run when I was grabbing an energy chew or when I got that phone call and was afraid it was Quinn’s school and I panicked trying to get my phone out of the pocket. Or, I thought, maybe it was at mile eight when I got all tangled up in the Camelbak straps and my headphones cord and had to stop to figure out how not to strangle myself to death.

I’m extremely good at doing more than one thing at a time.

Anyway, I knew Jack would be home in a little over an hour and he has a key to the house just in case his bus ever drops him off when I’m not home. I sat down on the steps and called Alex to tell him what had happened somewhere over the course of the last 12ish miles.

“Are you going to retrace your steps to find it?” he asked.

He was extremely helpful. Jackass.

I went to the backyard to sit in our hammock. Our trusty hammock has been with us through thick and thin for two years. I knew it would provide me comfort until Jack arrived.

I sat on the hammock—and promptly fell to the ground as it disintegrated under me after having been outside in good and bad weather for two years.

Goddammit.

I sat there for a while…on the ground…partly held up by the broken hammock…because, you know…TIRED. I eventually moved to a chair on my back porch where I could watch my cat watch me.

Photo taken through glass of my cat staring at me.

WHY DON’T YOU STOP STARING AND HELP ME, CAT?

Eventually she got bored and fell asleep and I was all, SCREW YOU CAT.

After that, I headed back around to the front of the house and sat by the driveway to wait for Jack. When he arrived, he was absolutely delighted to be a hero and let me in.

Photo of Jack using his key to unlock the door.

Jack is NOT the dipshit in this story.

We went inside. I showered. Jack basked in being awesome. When it was time to get Quinn from the bus stop, I headed outside and ran into Sam in the driveway as he arrived home. We stopped and chatted for a minute and during the conversation, I looked at the ground.

Where I saw…

Photo of a silver key on my asphalt driveway.

Of course.

I must have sat right next to that key for like twenty minutes as I was waiting for Jack’s bus to arrive.

And that’s how you do Dipshit Friday.

Dipshit Friday: The Alex Almost Ate Dog Food Edition

All of this happened in December, but it is still quality dipshittiness.*

My friend Heather got an unsolicited bag of Pup-Peroni (don’t click that link unless your speakers are turned off, for realsies) in the mail, which was awesome, except for the fact that she doesn’t have a dog.

Score for Cassidy! (Our dog.)

She dropped the bag at my house and I left it on my counter until such a time as I felt that Cassidy would deserve such a scrumptious treat. Just so as you know, this is what the bag looks like:

Scene: Alex comes home from work, sees the bag on the counter, becomes excited that I purchased beef jerky, wonders briefly why I bought chicken flavor (because that is the wording that caught his eye on the package), and is seconds away from eating it before the doubts start to surface.

At this point, he proceeded to berate me and the Pup-Peroni people for not making it clear on the package that the jerky is intended for dogs. I managed to find the tiny writing that said “DOG SNACKS,” but that didn’t assuage him either.

I assume that the thinking behind making that text so small is because the good folks at Pup-Peroni assume that the GIANT “Pup” on the front would be a pretty good indication to most individuals that THIS IS NOT HUMAN FOOD.

Awesomely, Pup-Peroni’s slogan seems to be “Dogs Just Know.” Evidently Alex doesn’t.

* Judges? Yes! “Dipshittiness” IS a cromulent word.

Dipshit Friday: Will She Get to Her Point Already Edition

I don’t know how often any of you participate in research studies, but whenever I get the chance, I will opt in because I firmly believe that knowledge is power.

Aside 1: If you are of a certain generation, you just heard the Schoolhouse Rock song in your head. I know I do whenever I hear that phrase.

Aside 2: I also always opt in to letting medical students take part in/observe/use me as a guinea pig because, again, “It’s great to learn, ’cause knowledge is power!” My one exception to that was when I was in labor with Sam and my water didn’t break and this condition seemed to be something that the doctors thought their medical students should “feel.” I think I’m forgiven for refusing that one.

Anyway, so I was at an autism center a while back because we’re doing some testing with Jack and there is a study there that asks that you allow your child’s information to be confidentially shared to embiggen the pot of knowledge about autism. Or some such. It was a while ago and I don’t really remember. Regardless, it was innocuous and and all I had to do to participate in the study was to sign the paper.

Aside 3: I signed the form wrong THREE TIMES before I finally got it (semi) right. Evidently “knowledge” does not equal “common sense.” (What? There were lots of options for signatures. It was confusing.)

Here’s the thing about participating in studies. There is always a section along the lines of “What are the risks or discomforts of the study?” This study had—by FAR—the best risks/discomforts section I’ve ever read.

Don’t try to read it. I’ve typed most of it below.

“5-10 minutes of your time will be required to fill out the additional intake form. You may get tired or bored when we are asking you questions or you are completing questionnaires…To address these potential risks, participants will be allowed to take breaks while filling out forms, do not have to answer all questions on the forms, and will be given flexible scheduling options…”

I don’t know. I might have to reconsider my participation.

Personally, I consider the risks off set by the extreme joy I got from reading that paragraph. Although I do have to say, no one offered me any flexible scheduling options.  It was all, “You have 45 minutes to fill out this form,” but then the guy came back an hour and a half later.

By that time I was yet another victim of their study, bored and tired.

Dipshit Friday: The You’re Glad You’re Not Our Pet Edition

Welcome to Dipshit Friday, where I tell you something embarrassing about myself. This is different from every other day of the week because I put a fun little button to the left there.

Feel free to grab the button and play along on your own blog!

Today I’ll be telling you about something terribly funny that Alex and I did to our dog in October of 2000. October 31, 2000, specifically. You might be aware that October 31 is Halloween and that the year 2000 was a time before Alex and I had children—human children, that is.

What do you do with kids on Halloween? You dress ’em up. What do you do with (furry) kids who can’t talk back and object to what you dress ’em up in? You put them in embarrassing, albeit adorable, costumes.

 Just look at her jaunty clown cap!

The neighborhood children found her hilarious. You know, after she stopped barking at them. I feel that the joy she got out of greeting porchful after porchful of kids made up for the abject humiliation of the costume itself.

She should really just feel fortunate that they don’t make giant red clown noses (or shoes!) that fit dogs.

I do feel that the blame for this Dipshit Friday lies not on me and Alex (him: “That was one of the stupider things we have done. Not the stupidest, but…”), but rather on the enormous pet industry that produces all of these costumes. Because, frankly, it is nearly impossible to resist a dog costume that has those little blue pompoms on the front legs.

Dipshit Friday: Bad, Even For Me, Edition

Welcome to Dipshit Friday, where today I will be sharing with you one of my biggest job interview failures. This particular failure took place back when I was in college.

As now, I was a much better writer than I was at presenting myself in person. I was also young and unschooled in the idea that one might want to, you know, prepare for a job interview.

I don’t even remember what year in college it was, but I had applied to be a summer intern at Spy Magazine in New Yawk City. Do you remember that magazine? It was fantastic and I think I would be a great asset to it.

Now.

Too bad it no longer exists.

I’d submitted some humor pieces and, lo and behold, the powers-that-be at Spy actually liked them. They invited me to interview in New York and I moved heaven and earth and called in a favor to get a place to stay. Well, I made my sister call in a favor, but it’s kinda the same thing.

Anywho, I spent a weekend in New York, which was fun and all, but what I really want to tell you about was the hour I spent interviewing.

First of all, I dressed as a Berkeley college student, and an ill-fashioned one at that. In case you’re wondering, haphazard Berkeley college student doesn’t scream New York. Especially if that haphazard Berkeley college student wears a short, yellow, flowered dress with black knit tights.

But that wasn’t the worst thing. I started off WAY on the wrong foot by not being able to locate the front door of the building I was supposed to go to. Being Stimey though, I did find the back door and rode up in the freight elevator making my triumphant entrance into THE BREAK ROOM of Spy Magazine.

Shortly thereafter I managed to locate the front desk and, by the way, fantastic way to impress your potential bosses with your intelligence by showing them that you can’t find the front door of A GIANT OFFICE BUILDING.

 I was summoned by the managing editor of the magazine, who led me back to the office where I would be doing my interview. I stepped on the back of her shoe, tripping both of us.

I have no recollection of the man who interviewed me, mostly because I was so traumatized by the too-late realization that this was an actual job interview, which might have required more preparation than just subscribing to the magazine.

I very adeptly demonstrated my complete cluenessness about the magazine, at the same time managing to tell them that I sure did prefer the short, funny, front-of-the-book pieces to the much longer and harder to read actual articles that came later.

It gets kind of fuzzy after that.

It may come as a shock to you that I wasn’t hired for this particular position, but I did learn a valuable lesson about job interview skills. Also? They were kind enough to kick my idiot ass out the front door.

Dipshit Friday: Mouse Mania

Welcome to Dipshit Friday, where I feel less silly about sharing my mouse obsession, because I’ve stated right up front that I’m a dipshit. (Feel free to play along! You don’t have to talk about mice if you don’t want to. But you certainly can.)

I’ve really been enjoying cleaning out the mouse cage a couple of times a week because it gives me a good excuse to cuddle with the mice and also because after I put them back into their little glass box, they run around like crazy. They’re all, “Where’s our stink? Where’s our stink? You took away our stink! And also our food caches!”

They amuse.

I don’t know if I’ve properly close-up introduced them to you. This next set of photos is dedicated to j* who commented on my last mouse post, “Do you… touch them? The mice?”

Why, yes, j*, I do.

Squeaky
I think Squeaky is the youngest. She’s always doing something fun.

Scabbers
Scabbers is the prettiest. Her fur is so curly and shiny that she’s almost iridescent.

Poseidon
Poseidon also has a subtitle: Climber.

Whiskers
Whiskers is the mouse most likely to have someone else’s stray poop stuck somewhere on her body.

Gerbil
My friend asked her husband what he imagined I would name a mouse and he guessed Gerbil.
I am apparently getting far too predictable. Or he is my humor doppelgänger.

I had a moment of panic the other day when Gerbil hadn’t come out of the tiki hut for a long time and I convinced myself that she was in there giving birth. Fortunately, she had not. I’ve been doing some math and we’ve had the mice for about 16 days. The gestation period for mice is about 19-21 days. If my math is correct, that means that by next Dipshit Friday I will either be in the clear, baby mouse-wise, or it will truly be Dipshit Friday and I’ll be suing the pet store.

My other friend (I have two!) came by to let her kids pet the mice today and insisted that I blog about the, and I paraphrase, “Super nerdy sign you put up there.”

I insist that Quinn made me make it. Also? It really IS Mouse Town.

Jack made a sign too.

Why he made it out of a cross, I don’t know. We’re not running a cult here.
(My guess is that it’s actually a sign post.)

I had to make some changes to Mouse Town since the last time you visited. They removed the roof from their grass-topped hut, rendering it useless. I purchased them a super indestructo castle to replace it. I also purchased them a bird ladder to help them get to their ceiling wheel.

And, you know, for escape attempts.

Don’t worry, the lid is securely clipped onto Mouse Town.

Each time I clean Mouse Town, I try to create fun obstacle courses out of their toilet paper tubes and stuff so they have new stuff to explore and interesting ways to get around their 10-gallon space.

Gotta keep those rodent neural pathways firing!

I don’t know if it’s working though. They don’t seem to be getting smarter.

Squeaky, you’re doing it WRONG!!!!

I prefer to call them “imaginative.”

Or super cute.

Hello, friends!

*****

Special Dipshit Friday Addendum: Sam’s Dipshit Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From Stimey’s Dipshit Tree:

Remember how Sam lost Library Lion and I was going to have to buy a new copy for the library even though we already owned one? This was a multi-day traumatic experience for him, culminating in one day where he started crying and saying he didn’t want to go to school because it was library day and he was too stressed to deal with the whole thing.

Today I came home around noon to a message on my machine from Sam: “Hi, mom! I found Library Lion. Don’t buy a new one.”

Three guesses where he found it.

In his very own personal cubby at school.

The denizens of Dipshit Friday welcome you, Sam.

******

Some of you may have noticed my new commenting system. I finally got so annoyed by Blogger’s commenting system that I decided to convert to Intense Debate. I hope you like it. I tried to find the least annoying comment system I could find that Blogger would accept. I hope to be able to interact a little more with you all because of the threaded comments and the fact that I’ll have your email addresses. (Which I will only use to reply to your comments or to e-stalk you.)

Dipshit Friday: Mother of the Year Edition

I saved this story for y’all ‘specially for Dispshit Friday.*

Sam’s Spring Concert was yesterday. The fact that it was yesterday was memorable because I had two other events that I would have liked to attend that were also yesterday. Obviously, I chose to go to Sam’s concert. Alex even made plans to meet us there after work. The concert was to start at 7, with the kids supposed to be there at 6:30.

Here’s the thing though. (And there’s always a thing, isn’t there?) At some point after everyone got home yesterday afternoon, I started to feel a little woozy. I don’t know if I’ve come down with a mysterious case of The Vertigo or if it’s still just The Ague, but regardless, it’s obviously very Serious and something that should allow me to lie down on my couch without guilt, right? Especially if my children are happily and safely playing video games nearby.

There’s a problem with “lying down on the couch.” When I “lie down on the couch,” I “fall asleep immediately.”

At some point my cell phone rang. I opened my eyes for a second, did a little count of my kids, figured that since they were all there, I didn’t really need to answer the phone, and closed my eyes again. When my cell phone rang again, I started to reconsider my decision, but after a quick recount of my kids, I closed my eyes again.

Then my home line rang. This time when I opened my eyes, they fell upon the clock. Because it’s me and I am the worst mom in the world, of course it was 6:50.

I’m not sure exactly what happened next, but I think I did a lot of jabbering and yelling about, “ohmygodit’salmostsevenputonyourshoesgetinthecarwehavetogonow!” I also did some wiping off of the drool on my face and wondering as to whether there was a pillow imprint on my cheek.

Obviously those phone calls were from Alex, who was all, “I’ve never gotten anywhere before Jean. What’s going on?” I called Alex as we careened toward the school in our car. I told him I was about four minutes away and he said, I kid you not, “I’ll try to stall them.”

A couple minutes later, I dropped Sam off, parked the car, and we ended up getting to the auditorium just before the second graders marched by on their way to the stage. I even managed to take a photo of Sam, pre-show.

Of course.

But at least we made it. All hail Alex the Hero. Hooray for Sam, who did a great job. Woohoo for our front row seats sitting on the floor in front of everyone else. (Ahhh! So that’s how you get the good seats. You don’t arrive early…you arrive late!)

Lesson learned: I can never lie down again.

* Feel free to play along! I know there are dipshits among you.