Thanks for seein' about a girl, friend. here's where I'm writing my own history—for you, for me and anyone else who needs to laugh to keep from cryin' every once in awhile.

Un-Easy As Pi(e)

The cliché "Easy as pie" is talkin' more 'bout eating the pie and less about making one, right? SIDENOTE:  I'm freestylin' this post because it doesn't have a topic per se; it's more like a general breezy theme at this point. I want to wonder aloud about some things that have perturbed me of late.

The other day I saw an advertisement for Pictionary where, apparently, you are no longer required to draw a picture. What in Sam Hell is this about?! Sure, it was hyped as a travel game, but instead of driving your teammates crazy with pre-Egyptian hieroglyphic chicken scratch, you now get some punk-ass "pre-drawn" cards which you can combine or use as props. Do kids do anything to generate their own entertainment anymore? If you want a game with less fuss, last time I checked ain't smack wrong with "I Spy." Geez. These kids get everything. iPads that read to them; they've got scooters that do the scootin'; shoes with wheels; (processed) food piping hot at the touch of a button; and trophies for losers, too.

Random, but why does Lindsay Lohan continue to get credit/clothed/paid/fawned upon for exhibiting behavior that leads one to believe she--this is the right word but the wrong one--aspires to pull an Anna Nicole who deigned to pull a Marilyn who was begat by whichever other damsel in distress preceded her? Who's gonna get really creative with the attention-seeking stunts so I think less about bitch-slapping my TV screen in an effort to wipe that runny, substance-filled, whiny-behind nose of hers?

Sister Wives. Don't even act like you ain't watchin' this sensational crock-a-hot-mess of a predicament. I could kiss TLC for filling the gap before the new season of Big Love begins. Watching this man smilingly weave between three wives, 12 kids, a girlfriend plus 3 more kids all from the sweet hot seat of a 2-seater luxury convertible (... because seriously, what kind of dad has 12 + kids and a convertible?! De Nile is now flooding Utah.) just makes me want to remix one of Jermaine Jackson's biggest hits:

How does he (Kody) do what he did when he did what he does to all these women?

And don't you love how he pats them all like prize sows? He hugs them and then gives them the same pat you used when your mama made you hug that smelly older person that was nice but stank.

Meanwhile, my mama taught me many things directly and indirectly--and by indirectly I mean either with a deadly side-eye or a swift flick of the hickory switch. Chewing with my mouth closed was one of these things. I learned this directly by watching her and other family members chew at the dinner table; I learned this indirectly by recognizing fork tines when they were aimed in my direction. Lately near my cubicle I've been subjected to someone I'll call the Great Masticator. There is not one chip available for calorific consumption that this person's incisors won't applaud; not an apple that won't yield chomping louder than a lumberjack's chop; not a lollipop being sucked so hard, so juicily and so loudly that won't make a bona fide porn star blush.

I am not an unreasonable person. Although it's impossible for me not to cringe when I eat chips or Froot Loops, I understand that some foods are inherently noisy. I'm no Emily Post. I have not yet mastered the decadent poise required to eat French onion soup without giving off the impression that I'm miming Edward Scissorhands. I even spent a year with my sister and we frequented a Korean restaurant where I became the proudest and most determined of soup bowl slurpers. I lick my fingers when grubbin' on ribs and Doritos, and am not averse to clappin' like a Clump when the food gets so good that I just get happier with each bite.

But I try to chew with dignity. I won't be dining with Queen Elizabeth anytime soon, but I'm not at the trough with Wilbur and friends either. Once the food is in one's mouth that's it. I don't need audible evidence that your mouth geysers have erupted to the point where without looking I can tell you're about to drool on yourself mid-chew. I also shouldn't be able to count exactly how many chews it takes you to finish a cracker (6-12 depending on size), chip (average of 4,234) or an apple (∏ * √ ∞²).

It's (obviously) reached the point of infuriating and results in my wearing headphones for nearly 7 hours each work day, and half of that time is spent with the volume up louder than my ENT doctor would ever support. This issue combined with the persistent annoyance of the ! e-mails plus papers placed everywhere BUT in my inbox (which I just removed altogether this very morning) threaten to send my Pressure into the stratosphere. I had started grinding my teeth out of frustration, but you'd know that the one minute I didn't have my headphones on I heard the Teeth Sucker (aka Him Over There aka He Who Laughs Too Much Like Ernie or Bert or Both) and exclaimed aloud without warning, "Our dental insurance plan sure is SWELL!"

But that's another rant entirely right there.

The Hermit Casts Off Her Shell

Sass In the City