I’m not sure there’s a more dreaded situation than someone calling you up and saying, “Hey!  What are you doing this weekend?”

Uggggh.  Even if I’m doing absolutely nothing, with the way you’ve worded the question, you’ve now forced me to answer, “I’m not sure?  I think there was a thing we were doing?  I’ll have to double check and let you know.  Why, what’s up?”

Know why I have to answer that way?  Because I have no way of knowing what kind of nightmare you’re going to try to pull me into with your vague-ass question.  What will it be?!

Let’s roll the dice, shall we?  I shall also provide you with a visual reminder along the way of who I am, just in case you forgot.

You want me to help you move and you live in a five floor walk-up, and when I show up you haven’t even STARTED packing yet?  I’m rolling the dice aaaand…

You want me to work at your old high school’s band boosters gift wrapping even though I didn’t go to your school and was never in marching band to begin with?  Look, bucko.  I vowed to never return to my own high school after I emotionally limped away from that hellhole twenty-five years ago to nurse my wounds after four years of goddamned torture.  You can imagine my feelings about hanging around yours.

You want me to come to your Scentsy party, which by the way I am never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever (*please see footnote at the bottom for further reference) coming to?  I would rather put on a scuba suit made of feta cheese and slide down a gigantic cheese grater into the arms of a nude, olive oil-coated Rush Limbaugh marinating in an ocean of balsamic vinegar.

(Don’t ask me, “What is Scentsy?”  Google it and then run for your life.  And for the love of god, my husband and mother-in-law read this blog, let there be no further talk of nude Rush Limbaugh.  In the entire universe.)

You want me to come over for a “Wedding Video Watch-Party” where you will make everyone spend their Saturday night watching your two-hour long wedding video, and by the way I was actually present at said wedding?  I remember it well.  It just happened a month ago.

Uh oh.  Someone said the word “wedding” on the interwebz, which is the opposite of pulling the emergency brake.  Here we go.  Make yourself comfortable!

Deep breath:

Besides your wedding, I was also present for the engagement announcement party, the ‘formal’ engagement party, the wedding dress shopping, the friends bridal shower, the family bridal shower, the bridesmaid dress fittings, the dual bachelor and bachelorette parties, the rehearsal dinner, the breakfast with ‘the girls’ before the wedding, the wedding reception, the after-party, the brunch the next morning, the goodbye dinner with your relatives FOR THE LOVE OF GOD ENOUGH WITH YOUR WEDDING THAT I HAVE ALREADY DEVOTED MONTHS AND MONTHS OF MY LIFE TO, NOT TO MENTION LIKE FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS UGGGGGGGH THIS IS WHY I ELOPED.

I can hardly wait until you have a baby so that I’ll have to quit my job in order to attend the “Destination Gender Reveal Party” you have scheduled at 10am on a Tuesday in Indonesia, where you will request that everyone show up in authentic costumes from Alice in Wonderland so we can make handcrafted Lewis Carroll books for your spawn out of sustainably-sourced bamboo paper; the very same party where you will insult everybody by loudly and snottily correcting anyone who doesn’t refer to the book by its proper title of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”.  LIKE IT MATTERS, SHARON.

What?  Of course I can bring the ice sculpture of the Cheshire Cat!  What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?!

I’ll make you a deal.  If you don’t get mad when I decide to liven things up when you reveal the gender by collapsing into a heap of sobbing tears on the floor, raising both arms to the sky and crying out, “Oh god, why?!!!  WHY?????!!!!!!” then I’ll think about it.

Some of you people get married and have babies and lose ALL TOUCH WITH REALITY.  You can at least let me have some fun with it.

Okay.  I’m over it.  Wedding rant done.  Back to it!

You would like to get together for a nice evening of cocktails and conversation at that fantastic new place we’ve been wanting to try out? I’m rolling the dice…

We’ve got a 7!   7 is a winner!!

The point is, could be something awesome, could be something I would sell my soul to get out of, but with the way you asked, there’s no way to know until AFTER I’ve already told you my availability, which then means I’ll have no way to get out of it.  Give people an ‘out’ for Maude’s sake!

If you say, “Hey!  What are you doing this weekend?” and I answer, “Oh, nothing!” now I’m on the damn hook.

Now I look like a jerk if I turn you down for the hideous thing you want me to do, and that’s not fair, because there are way, way more interesting reasons that I’m a jerk, and now you’ve just made me look like an ordinary jerk, you bubblegummed bastard!

Interesting jerk behavior includes putting Worcestershire on everything before I even taste it, hating a sports team forever because I didn’t like a star player’s face who’s not even on the team anymore, hiding behind store displays when I hear someone yell my name out in public, and not feeling even remotely bad about blocking children’s views of the otters at the marine center.

< Eyeroll > I like the otters, too, Bryson/Greyson/Flotsam.  You’re not the only one who wants to see them frolicking.  Stop being so selfish, 8-year old!

 

*ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever

With all the fun we had last week dismantling your psychic abilities, I’ve decided to poke fun at astrology today, so if you’re into astrology, it was nice knowing you.  Don’t let the Capricorn kick you in the ass on the way out!

< soft sobbing >

This is what I do.  I push people away because I’m scared they won’t accept me if I gave them the chance to get to know the “real me”.  I’m afraid.  Please love me.

Actually, it’s just because I think astrology is general hokum and balderdash – but you’re free to be into it.  As I remind people all the time, I’m not the police of anything, even when you’ve run into me and I’m wearing a full SWAT team uniform and holding a riot shield.  It was for a sex thing!

I spun my Debunking Wheel this morning and it was either debunk astrology or debunk the Richard Gere gerbil myth, and I don’t feel like getting that edgy today.  I had a lot to drink (vitamins) before I went to bed late last night (9:30pm), so I’m not up for medical/sexual rodent arguments today (I am always up for those arguments).

I am a Taurus.  If you’re into astrology you’re smirking right now and saying, “No shit, Sherlock.”  If you’re not into astrology, you’re welcome to join my anti-astrology club called “Science”.

I found this thing about Tauruseseses on the internet today while I was searching for “general hokum and balderdash”.  It was on an astrology site, and it’s a little mnemonic for how to spell the word Taurus in the most complicated way or something.

Here it is:

T for trailblazing
A for ambitious
U for unwavering
R for reliable
U for understanding
S for stable

There was this crazy long description of the attributes and flaws of the Taurus right before it that was – Oh Mylanta – so freaking long.  I only made it part of the way through before I saw the word “sensual” and just stopped reading.

Know who else is a Taurus according to the article?  Saddam Hussein.  Know who else?  Hitler.  Know who else?  Tony Danza.  If “sensual” applies to me because I’m a Taurus, that means it would apply to all of them, too.

Thank god for that Tony Danza, at least.  His sensuality brings up the average for everyone else.

Honestly, though, I’m still trying to figure out, in 2019, just who exactly the boss was on “Who’s The Boss?”  It’s a real conundrum.  I mean, is the “boss” the woman who hired a male housekeeper employee, or is the “boss” the male housekeeper employee who was hired by the woman?

THERE’S NO WAY TO KNOW.  IT IS ENTIRELY POSSIBLE THAT THE WOMAN IS NOT THE BOSS OF THE MALE EMPLOYEE DESPITE THE FACT THAT SHE IS HIS EMPLOYER.  FOR REASONS HAVING TO DO WITH HOO-HAHS AND DING-DONGS SEXUAL POLITICS.

Hey, I don’t have a degree in Human Resources, mostly because I spend a lot of time trying to avoid all humans, so I’ll have to leave that one up to the court of public opinion.

What that means, basically, is that we’re all going to die having never gotten to the bottom of this debate.  This debate that could have easily been avoided altogether had they kept the original title of “A Bozz Can’t Have A Da Titz, Capisce!”

Please note in this promo photo for the show:   The only person who is, in fact, the actual boss also happens to be the only person who’s not wearing a sweatshirt that says, “I’m The Boss”.

It is also clear to me that, where the figurative rubber meets the figurative road, Mona is the boss, because Tony and Angela couldn’t even figure out they had boners for each other until like a million seasons into that show.  Mona tried to get it on with Tony from the very first season because Mona knows exactly who Mona is, which makes her a BOSS.

So let’s take this Taurus mnemonic on one letter at a time to prove how wrong it is.  Like you’re doing literally anything else right now.

T for trailblazing:  This is true.  I invented the laziest grilled cheese where you spray two pieces of bread with cooking spray, put them into the toaster, then when they’re done you take them out and put a slice of cheese on them and stick them in the microwave on a paper towel for 10 seconds to melt the cheese.  No pan required.  No dishes to clean afterwards.  As we have previously discussed, you are required to put yellow mustard on all American grilled cheeses, and don’t give me any shit about it.

A for ambitious:  Please see above.  I’m going to make the mustard thing happen nationwide.  Yellow mustard adds a much needed zip!

U for unwavering:  Once I have decided that I don’t like you, it’s forever.  You should probably move away, or else find some way to live with the fact that every time you walk by me I’ll be fantasizing about you losing big on one of those Japanese game shows where they make you wear a diaper full of squid tentacles to recite the alphabet backwards and if you mess up they chop off your pinky finger.  Do you think you can handle that?  I have a fairly vivid imagination, too, so I’ll have an image of that burned in HD in my brain when I think about it.

R for reliable:  You can always count on me to not ask before taking the last mozzarella stick out of the shared basket – and yes that’s every time, Miss Manners.  I was raised with prison rules when it came to food (and pretty much everything else if we’re being honest here).  If you didn’t snatch food off a platter like a jackal tearing the leg off a zebra carcass, you were out of luck.  You’re lucky I only took the last mozzarella stick and didn’t just grab all of them out of the basket when first they arrived, lick each one of them and yell, “GUESS THEY’RE ALL MINE NOW.”

What was the next letter oh my god this is sooooooo duuuuuuuuuumb.

SCIENCE.