If I Had a Magic Wand: Thwap!

So the question was recently posed to me:  What would you do if you had a magic wand for one day?

Oh!  What would I do?!  The question is….what WOULDN’T I do?  I’d be bippity-boppity-boo-ing all over the place like a magic Mad Hatter and there’d be nothing you could do to stop me.  Because I’d be magic.  With a wand.  And you’d be defenseless and republican.

So I’ve composed a list outlining exactly what I’d do with a magic wand over the course of one day.  (Keep in mind that I’m magic…so travel is super fast and I can go anywhere with a snap of my magic fingers.)

Also, my wand would have sound effects.  So with every wave, you’d hear “Thwap Thwap”.

1)  You know those extreme coupon crazies who hold up the grocery lines so they can acquire 200 pounds of band-aids and toe nail clippers?  Thwap Thwap!

2)  I would Thwap my Ma and Pa in the head to erase all of the grief and woe I bestowed upon them in my youth.

3)  I would also Thwap my brother who I abused and tormented as if he were a pet….for to take away the mental anguish.

4)  I would Thwap my kid so maybe she wouldn’t talk so much and make my nerves get nervous.

5)  I would Thwap my chronically depressed cat nine times so she can go towards the light and be happy and at peace.

6)  All libraries would remain open for 24 hours…and there’d be coffee and pastries served up for free and you wouldn’t have to pay your fines to use the public computers.

7)  I’d Thwap Fox News and CNN into a boxing ring and start banging on a bell while yelling “Jesus or Obama?!  You tell me!”

8.  Casey Anthony would be Thwapped repeatedly and condemned to a lifetime of solitary confinement while being fed a diet of Ex-Lax and Tab cola.

9)  I’d Thwap my lips fuller.

10)  All ground beef would be free for the taking….without violence.

11)  I’d Thwap myself invisible and make pompous soccer moms fall down in public…like three times in a row…then start pouring malt liquor all over the place so people would shake their heads sadly and say, “Oh.  She’s gone to drankin’ again.”  They’d be Thwapped humble!

12)  Stretch marks…be Thwapped!  For everyone!

13)  I’d Thwap this country debt free and make the Chinese have to buy everything American made.

14)  My sharpie pens would never run out of ink.

15)  I’d Thwap gas station owners just because they own a gas station.  Guilty by association.

16)  I’d Thwap Brian Wilson for wearing that Spandex suit out in public.

17)  Lindsey Lohan?  Thwapped in the face.  Paris Hilton?  Thwapped in the knees.  Sarah Palin?  Thwapped everywhere.

18)  All fish would taste like chicken.

19)  I’d Thwap my mortgage Paid in Full.

20)  The ocean would be restored to its original condition…free from pollution and 3 eyed fish of unknown origin.

On Awkward Moments

At what point precisely does a situation become awkward? I’ve been in so many awkward situations that I should change my name to Awkward D. Fluffnstuff. My way of working through this type of thing is to laugh inappropriately. It doesn’t really lighten up the situation…it’s just something to do other than stand there looking half stupid. I won’t lie. There have been times when I’ve staged an awkward situation just to test someone’s mettle. Don’t judge me.

So what exactly makes a situation awkward? Well, I’ve put together a little list here. You can write this down, make a copy, print it out, mail some flyers. Let the people know. Some awkward situations can be avoided. Others become the legends that we read about in books and have no control over whatsoever.

Okay, here we go. My top 20:

1) Pooping in public.

2) Accidental cough-n-pees.

3) Parental sexuality.

4) Holding the door open when the person is a little too far away.

5) Being orally assaulted by a racist cab driver.

6) You say goodbye to someone and walk off in the same direction.

7) When someone goes for the high-five and you hug them.

8) Eavesdropping on conversations and laughing out loud at the funny stuff.

9) Asking someone “Oh! When are you due?”….and she’s not pregnant.

10) Long elevator rides.

11) Falling down in public. (This is funny if you’re not the faller)

12) You walk up to a group of people and they all stop talking.

13) Talking to a man whose fly is wide open.

14) Encounters with close talkers.

15) Being questioned about Jesus.

16) Tooting during a professional massage. Clearing your throat or coughing doesn’t help.

17) The gym, in general.

18) Laughing at a funeral and not being able to stop. Pretending you’re crying doesn’t help.

19) The person in front is walking slightly slower than you are. You walk at an uncomfortable speed to get past them.

20) Knowing damn well your friend ain’t reading no text when you walk by.

The First Time I Started Using a Computer

The night I discovered the internet.

I’m one of those prehistoric people who remember when a floppy disk actually flopped. We got our first computer when I was a sophomore in high school…an Apple IIC. My mom bought it from a chick who later became the wife of my first husband. Not that it matters.

It came with a shoe-box full of the crappiest games of all time. There was an asteroid shoot ’em up game, a skiing game. I don’t remember anything else. I mainly used it for school…typing off reports and whatnot. It had one of those printers with the teeth. You know what I’m talking about. The paper had to be lined up like an astrological event in order to print right.

But the memory that’s burned into my cranium is the night I discovered the internet. I was dating an Agronomist at the time, and he spent a ridiculous amount of time in his lab, creating a magic formula that would make Ragweed extinct, leading to all the allergy sufferers worshiing the ground he walked on. So if I wanted to hang out with him, I came to the lab. I loved it in there. Sometimes he’d let me wear the white coat and pick up beekers for phoney analyzation.

So this one night, he was hunched over some petri dishes, totally engrossed in chemicals and I was being Chatty Cathy…which was obviously grating on his last nerve.

“Hey. Shut up and go over there….it’s a computer. Someone said you can talk to other people in there.”

Oh goodie! An activity! I sat down and was face to face with some wagon-wheel looking thing. Turned out to be Netscape. I honestly can’t remember how I bumbled my way into one of these chat rooms. They didn’t have names like “Married But Flirting”, or “I Love Feet”. They were just numbered. So I picked a number and in I came like a half-drunk cowboy talking smack.

There weren’t moderators back then. It was just mass confusion, and I was smack in the middle of it. There were Ohio State students asking to meet up in the bushes over by the Varsity Club. Which I agreed to do. I wasn’t actually going to meet them. I was merely entertaining myself. There was something funny about knowing some half-stupid med student was poking around in a bush asking if SugarBooger869 was in there somewhere.

After a bunch of rebel-rousing, I settled down to talk to some chick on the other side of the world. It blew my mind that I was actually speaking to a live human being on the other side of the planet!! I demanded to know why I hadn’t been informed of this invention! My boyfriend pointed out that I should’ve gotten a job and gone to college so that I would know the answers to these type of questions.

Needless to say, the boyfriend ran like the wind. But my computer? It’s still right here, baby. On my lap. Screw that De Beers diamond-is-forever nonsense. I’ve got a better slogan:

Boys, Men and Dogs come and go; but your computer will never leave your side and leave you feeling worthless and abandoned, forcing you to crash diet and cut off all your hair.

Turkey: Love It or Leave It?

Do I have a choice? Really? I mean, how would my mother react if I informed her that from here on out we wouldn’t be eating turkey on Thanksgiving? Well, I’ll tell you. There’d be no initial response. There’d be a pause. Maybe a few minutes…maybe a few days. Then she’d suck her teeth, squinch up her left eye like she’d just sucked a lime and nod at me. This nod can clearly be interpreted as, “Oh okay. You wanna play like that? You wanna play like THAT?? Mm Hm. Okay, then.”

Then she’d leave. Upon her departure, the unease would creep in and wrap itself around my throat like one of those scratchy handmade scarves my Aunt Linda used to give me every year for Christmas. I’d try to shake off this unease. But it’d no doubt stick to me like stink. Around Halloween she’d probably start calling and leaving messages.

“April. I’m going to forget about your complete and total lapse of good sense last year and let you know that Thanksgiving will at MY house this year.”

I’d make a juvenile comment like, “Yeah, that’s what YOU think.”

A few days later she’d call back.

“April. I realize you’re trying to assert your faux sense of independence here, and I’ve had just about enough of it. Okay? Enough. Your Uncle Elmer will be here this year with his new lady friend and I don’t want you showing up again wearing your 12 year old sweatpants. Please. Enough of the shame.”

A quick glance at the calendar lets me know that in a week or so, I’m going to have to make a choice. To be or not to be a recipient of my mama’s last will and testament. Still. I’m holding strong to my No-Turkey stance. She hasn’t broken me down. Not yet.

Three days before Gobble Day, she leaves a Cruella Deville-ish message that flash-freezes my bone marrow.

“April. Now you hear this. You remember that time you got sick in the back of the station wagon on our way to Wyoming? And Daddy had the camera rolling? Remember? You were 16…had vomit all down the front of your shirt…in your hair. Yeah. Well, I have a YouTube account and my finger is hanging like a spider over the “Enter” key. If you’re not here by the time your Daddy says grace, it’s over with. You hear me? OVER WITH!”

So. Of course there’ll be turkey. I have a reputation to protect and defend and I’m not going out with puke on my shirt. I’m too cool for that.

My first job: Sears. A Wasted Life

I was in the middle of an intense Ab-Isolator session when the call came in.

“Ma’am. We’d like to offer you the job of sales associate. Be here at 9 a.m. sharp. Under the escalator.”

Well. I guess this was it then. Grown up life. I’d already blown through my graduation money, so it was high time I got out there, put on my helmet and belly flopped into the middle of the rat race.

So I found the escalator. I saw Randy before he saw me. In this brief purgatory, I debated staying or running across the parking lot and hiding out in Taco Bell all day so my mom wouldn’t know I was a complete and totally irresponsible delinquent. I decided to proceed.

Randy wore one of those black rubber digital watches. You know what I’m talking about. I don’t even need to describe it. He glanced at it to remind me that he was the manager and had his whole eyeball up in the sky and wouldn’t tolerate one smidgen of tomfoolery. I sniffed, Don Knotts style, to let him know I didn’t give a wippety-ding-dong about his pathetic superiority.

It was obvious that Randy hadn’t been manager for more than five minutes. An awkward silence followed by crickets chirping caused me to clear my throat and take charge of the declining situation.

“Sooo. What sales will I be associating?”

I smirked at the brilliance of my own wit. Randy and I were obviously NOT on the same page. Randy was that hardcore.

“I like your vest.”

(If humor doesn’t work, then I suggest you move right along to insincere flattery.)

“Oh. Thanks! “

(Works every time.)

“You will be responsible for making keys. All kinds of keys. House keys, car keys, lockbox keys, storage keys. Take this manual and familiarize yourself with the foundation key shapes so the customer isn’t forced to wait while you learn on the job.”

I took the tri-fold pamphlet like an Olympic baton.

“Gotcha.”

“We’re professional here, April.”

“Right.”

I tuned Randy’s nasal ramblings right on out of my head and focused in on the monstrous metal beast of a key maker behind him. Yesssss. Let me get on that thing! My ears perked back up when I heard Randy say,

“…and there will be some days when you’ll be working in our parking lot location.”

The parking lot location! The key hut!!

“When do I go out there?”

“You must first learn the ways.”

I wanted to get one centimeter from his face and hoarsely whisper, “Grasshoppaaahhhhh.” But I didn’t want to get fired before fully experiencing the hut.

I didn’t stay long with Sears. After numerous complaints about excessive “Will Be Back At:” sign hangings, I was kindly let go. Whatever. It didn’t matter. I was fixing to go work for a massage therapist with an English sheepdog named Zack. I didn’t need this stupid job anyway. Boo-Ya!

Beam Me Up

What would I do if teleportation was possible? Well, I’d buy myself a cake. A full blown sheet cake. And upon this cake, I would write: “I’m ’bout to bring the pain!” That’s why I’ll get a sheet cake…so I can fit all that on there.

I already know where I’d beam myself first; however, prior to launch, I would have to dress appropriately so as not to be identified as a genius from the future times with a devious agenda and appetite for destruction. Parachute pants, leg warmers, an Olivia Newton John leotard with matching braided headband and some jelly shoes. Then I would tease my hair into the stratosphere and make it stay that way with two cases of double maximum power to the square root of 76.Aqua Net.

This ain’t no Jeopardy question. I’ll tell you the answer straight out. 1985. Roughly around the end of May, beginning of June. Around the time most schools release the savages for the summer. I’d have to do some sleuthing before I began Mission Bring the Pain. (I know this is a long name, but I’m not bogged down with walkie-talkies and teams and whatnot.) This sleuthing would be for the sole purpose of obtaining the physical address, location and coordinates of one Brian Mullins. A.K.A. He Who Will Feel the Pain.

There’s a reason I won’t let my kid ride the school bus. Because I know the type of junk that goes down on the bus. I was one of those kids who sat in the very back. The VERY back. It wasn’t always thus. I had to earn my place just like one of the guys. Took all of 6th grade to accomplish this. By 7th grade, I was one of THEM. We were drawn together for one purpose only. The ancient art of Pencil Fighting (insert karate chop sound effect).

Not just your run-of-the-mill pencil fighting, either. This was EXTREME pencil fighting. And there were rules. Rules that were obeyed and adhered to like a Baptist to the Bible.

1) Two challengers face off, each armed with a regulation wooden pencil taken from a factory-sealed pack.

2) The only recognized regulation competition pencil is the Dixon/Ticonderoga #2 yellow – graphite core, cedar shaft, latex eraser with aluminum stay.

3) The pencil may not be sharpened or altered in any way prior to initial combat.

4) A Pink Pearl Eraser flip determines which fighter strikes first.

5) The loser of the eraser flip becomes the “Defender” and holds his or her pencil firmly with both hands in a horizontal position.

6) The winner of the eraser flip becomes the “Striker”, and then brings his pencil down in a vertical strike across the opponent’s pencil with full force, attempting to break it in two.

7) If the Defender’s pencil does not break from the Striker’s attempt, then it becomes the Defender’s turn to strike.

This repeats until one player’s pencil breaks in two and cannot continue.

8) If a pencil is cracked, but not fully broken in two, referee determines whether said pencil can continue.

9) If both pencils break during a strike, victory goes to the striker.

As with anything associated with rules, there are fouls. With pencil fighting, the top shelf foul is “whiffing”. This is when your opponent completely misses your pencil. Brian Mullins was a Whiffer. He was the king of Whiffers. If he had kids, they’d be Whifflets.

So on a hot summer day in 1985, Brian Mullins became a permanent part of my very being. Several eye witnesses sided with Brian and claimed the bus had hit a pothole, causing him to bounce up during mid-swing, resulting in the Whiff. MY side of the bus clearly saw a rabid 8th grader who just couldn’t handle being trumped by a girl…aggressively attacking his winning opponent with an illegally sharpened combat instrument. The cause of the Whiff is irrelevant. What IS relevant is that 25 years later, I still have Ticonderoga #2 pencil lead in my knee.

So what would I do after tracking down Brian Mullins? The only fair thing there is to do. Stab him repeatedly in the face and eyeball with a handful of sharp Ticonderoga Kindergarten pencils. Then I’d teleport my butt right back to here and now, leaving him scarred and sucking his thumb.

Screw you, Brian Mullins. Screw you.