The End of the World : 2012

Today at work during a meeting my boss said that the world was ending in 2012. This prediction is according to the Mayan calendar and some other important people. After this proclamation, one of the VPs took a REALLY big sigh and then said, "Yea I know ... Gosh, I sure hope it does."

And I could tell by looking at him that he was 100% totally serious.


I'm glad we're all on the same page at that joint.


UPDATE 5/28 : Today, that same VP resigned. Bless his heart.

Eff Ya

So this is awesome.

And this.

And even this.

I'm going.

To all of them.

And that's what gets me through the days.

Being homeless = maybe it is all it's cracked up to be.

Phyllis Diller is not dead.

I met him on Cinco de Mayo and I've been meaning to write about him since that fateful night... I think of Phyllis often. Every time I get in my car and see the dirt and hay he left behind; each time I smell an assy cigarette; whenever I see a lime; often; many times a day; I am very fond of him. (I know, improper semi-colon usage. I give.)

The ghost of Cinco de Mayo, Phyllis was.

Sigh.

Oh, Fantasma.

I honestly couldn't have found a more troublesome person to partner with than this guy. I swear. Bless his stinkin' heart. We were perfect for each other. I don't even remember meeting him. I do remember his silouette floating towards me on the dance floor. I was holding myself up with the rail, probably half dancing while spilling my cocktail all over myself. And here comes a bushy head of hair (the epitome of a rat's nest), boots, a somewhat filled-in beard, and a jacket, you know, like a suit coat. And, of course, Phyllis' trademark: his fucking death rattle.

He owns the death rattle.

So then we had this conversation telepathically:

Fantasma: You're pretty.

Me: Haha.

Fantasma: What? (death rattle death rattle.) Why is that funny? You're the prettiest girl in here.

Me: What's my name?

Fantasma: I don't know your name. (pause) And I never will.

Truer words have never been never-spoken. So I think there were some introductions, some dancing, probably some drinking, and then a decision to leave. Upon leaving I (at least) had the good sense to ask someone sober, whom I trust, "Do you know this person? Is he safe?" Sober, trusted friend looked more terrified than usual and then suddenly relieved. Laughing, he rhetorically asked "Why? It's not like you're going home with him?" I patted said friend's back reassuringly and walked out the door.

"Phyllis. We have to go to my brother's house. I can't go home with you."

Needless to say, a series of events happened that are both too hysterical and too fuzzy to recount. Eventually Phyllis would disappear into the night... just like the ghost of Cinco de Mayo should (well, and had to, considering my brother did kick him out.) Okay, it's too good of a story.....

We had some beer. I don't know how or why... wait, Phyllis Diller is Fantasma so, obviously, we have Tecate. I remember (and my brother will totally back me up on this one) as we were standing in the kitchen, I was sooo excited because there was cold Tecate! I was THRILLED, jumping up and down, here here here (imagine me passing the beer around), and then... me, deflated, "Ahhh.... if only we had a lime."

Four people in the kitchen silently looking at each other and then...

Fantasma: "Oh. I have one." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a lime. A real lime! Then his death-rattle-death-rattle-laugh confirmed he was just as surprised as all of us ... "Well it is Cinco de.... sha sha sha." ...As he floats into the other room. Maybe one of the most awesome things ever to happen in history? Oh yes. I skipped after the floating dustmite.

We looked at vinyl (I think he said David Bowie was his favorite artist... or son?), I talked about his ridiculous smoker's cough, got some ghost information, discussed the seriousness of his mole, and lamented about his awesome boots (i.e. how a ghost floats in boots yet still wears them in like they've kicked the entire state of New York's asses.) He was like a long lost ... dead person. But not dead. Just like this really cool person... really drunk, cool person.

And he didn't care that I called him "Phyllis Diller" or that I slurred my words. He just smiled at me and said very nice things to me. "You're so pretty," he said using his eyes. His mole told me I was funny. His hair laughed at one of my jokes and told me I was too pretty to be single. You know... Come to think of it, I actually think he may have been sent to me by the Saints of Cinco de Mayo. The real ones. Like, saved for when someone is having a very bad, very sad Cinco de Mayo and so she gets the best gift of all from the Saints... the best Fantasma ever! Of course...

So eventually my brother had to kick him out. But he did so reluctantly. It was hard on them both. I was like, "Ahhh, dude, I left for two seconds and you blew it." (What? We were having SO much fun. I'm serious.)

As he politely escorted Phyllis down the hall, I heard my brother say, "I know dude, but you can't hit on my girlfriend. That's MY girlfriend." And then the ghost of Phyllis Diller offered up his death rattle for me one last time... a cold, long, echo-y, death rattle that shook the hallways of the entire building and will never be forgotten... (Nor will the hole he burned in my car with his cigarette.)

Phyllis Diller. I swear to hell. Maybe next year. Hasta entonces, descansa. El sueño, fantasma dulce.

I THINK WE'RE DEAD... I REALLY DO.

Time is going by really really really slow.

I know I am dead because I am in heaven. I know because three things have made me insanely happy today. I need you guys to stick with me on this one. I'll keep it short.

Numba One: Gina.

Listening to her voice message from last night on my way to work this morning was the first time I've cried from laughing. Tears. Real tears. Not, "stop it, I'm crying" tears. Real, sniffling, wet, tears coming down my cheeks from her comedy. I love her. So much.

Numba Two: This is for Karma.

It reminds me of her... because I think I am having an overdose and dying and need her help. And if you don't immediately go here and watch "it", you will regret it for the rest of your lives. I Think We're Dead.

Numba Three: This is for me. 

I re-read one of the best texts I've received recently. Well, maybe the best ever.

Him: By the way: Regarding my reply earlier, "I'm so sorry for everything" ...repeat four times.....

And THIS is for all of you because, just like I told Him, "Baby, we'll be fine."

And I think we're dead.

Silky Johnson

Note to self: One's vibrator, lubrication, and journal should not be hidden under your mattress. It's not only too obvious but it's also ironically easy to forget about. For example, when movers are coming to clear out your room (and of course Grandma is overseeing every detail) it can make for an uncomfortable situation.

Grandma: "You've got stuff in here, come and get it!" 

Me: "There is absolutely nothing left in there that is mine.....oh...."

I glance down at the monkey and sparkly...."stuff" as my audience surveys me.

Two VERY conservative and uncomfortable men were frozen like hostages while hoisting a mattress as they waited patiently for a resolution, sweat dripping from their brows.

Me: "Oh heh heh. I'll take those. Chloe's diary and oh! a fancy pen... is that a water gun, heh, heh, cell phones these days... ope! lotion... she's... stuff... that kid... she's something... "

Hey, I'm 34! It's just how it is. It's like plastic surgery for the single ladies, some choose to do it to hold onto their youth... you just don't go around advertising it. In my mind, it's not much different than my grandma hiding her coffee maker when the "ward" comes over with her fancy silky cover made out of her old garments. 

Stan Cortel ... obviously! [Old School Legends T Mobile]

Okay, I am sure you've seen the "Old School Legends" T Mobile commercial. You know, the one with Charles Barkey, D. Wade, Dr. J., and Magic Johnson. If you haven't (and even if you don't love sports) check out the ad:

You can click here for the video if it's disabled above.

Well, there has been copious curiosity as to whom the adorable old man is that walks past with a walker and says, "Hang up the phone, Barkley. I'm taking you to the hole!"

Some people thought it was Frank Layden (including my sis). I guessed either Sonny Smith or Bob Cousy. It has become quite the controversy. So... my sister decided to email Reggie Miller. (For those of you who don't know, Reggie Miller is a former basketball star and commentator on TNT. He has a mailbag for fans to send important questions such as this one to him.) Anyway, the exchange went like this:

From: MANDY
To: Reggie's Mailbag
Sent: Sat May 09 22:10:42 2009
Subject: QUESTION
Who is the old white guy in the new Tmobile commercial- the one using the walker that says, "Hang up the phone, Barkley. I'm taking you to the Hole."

Maybe you could ask Barkley...

My friends and I can't find a definitive answer, but my best guess is Frank Layden.

Thanks for your help!

MANDY

Reggie aka the "talking vampire bat" (thanks, Nick) responded with:

From: Reggie's Mailbag
Date: Sat, May 9, 2009 at 8:36 PM
Subject: Re: QUESTION
To: MANDY
No idea...
Reggie

I wouldn't stand for such an apathetic response, so naturally I got involved:

From: SHARON
Date: Mon, May 11, 2009 at 1:00 PM
Subject: Re: QUESTION
To: Reggiesmailbag@turner.com
Cc: RC, SHNICKENS, MANDY
Dear Reggie,

We know you're not "Reggie" and we love you just the same. Maybe even more.
But were you Reggie... why NOT ask Chuck who the old guy is?

Is it... Sonny Smith, Chuck's old coach from Auburn? Is it Bob Cousy? (My guesses.)

It may not be as important as the million of questions you receive
about short jumpers off the back board or Artest's much improved
perimeter defense but... COME ON! We're not the only ones wondering
you know.

Tell your sister I said hello.

Regards,
SHARON

Reggie aka the "computer programmed to respond in two word phrases, followed by ellipses" says:

From: Reggie's Mailbag
Date: Mon, May 11, 2009 at 1:44 PM
Subject: Re: QUESTION
To: SHARON
Will do....
Reggie

You'll do what? Ask Chuck? Tell Cheryl hi? I mean, come on! What a disappointment!

Luckily, SHNICKENS is VERY resourceful so he did some investigating and found the ad-agency that produced the commercial for Tmobile. He suggested I give them a call; he had phone numbers, addresses, emails, everything so of course I had to call. I left a very ahem, graceful voice message and followed up with this email (our contact's name has been changed for her sake but BIG props to "Gracie" for being such a good sport!):

From: SHARON
Date: Mon, May 11, 2009 at 1:21 PM
Subject: T Mobile "Old School Legends" Spot Inquiry
To: "Gracie"
Dear Gracie,

I hope you are doing well. I just wanted to follow up to the voice message I left you this morning.

I have a question regarding your firm’s ad, the T Mobile “Old School Legends” spot.

We appreciate Charles Barkley, Dwayne Wade, Dr. J. and Magic Johnson’s performances in the ad but we are curious as to whom the old man with the walker is. The one who says, “Hang up the phone, Barkley. I’m taking you to the hole!”

Can you please let us know who this gentleman is? Some speculation has been made that it is Sonny Smith or Bob Cousy.

If you could clear this up for me, it would be greatly appreciated. Reggie Miller’s people won’t answer our calls.

Thank you in advance for your time.

Best regards,
Sharon

SHARON
Events & PR Manager

Immediately I got a return email that "Gracie" was looking into this for me! What a sweetheart! Shortly after, I received the following email from her... MYSTERY SOLVED!!!

From:"Gracie"
Date: Mon, 11 May 2009 15:10:25 -0600
To: SHARON
Subject: Re: T Mobile "Old School Legends" Spot Inquiry
How funny! This is not the first time this question has been asked..

The actor is a very charming gentleman named Stan Cortel from Ft. Lauderdale, FL.

"Gracie"
Sr. Corporate Communications Manager

Things like this make me happy. Especially because my sister will be able to sleep tonight. As will SHNICKENS. And me. And RC.

A girl walks into a bar...

She orders a drink. Once her drink is gone the bartender looks at her and says, "Can I get you another?"

Girl: "Yes, please."

Because obviously, when someone's glass is empty there is only one thing to do... fill it again.

When your glass is full, life is good. You've got what you need, it makes you happy, and you don't really think about it. You just enjoy drinking it all in.

My glass was empty this week. Like, drink thrown in my face and empty glass slammed down in front of me. And I tried to figure out why the bartender would do such a thing, and not ask if he could get me "another" or give me a reason or say, "don't go." It made me sad for a minute but then after a series of tears and more tears and talking to myself about it for 48 hours, I realized that my empty glass would be filled again. But maybe with something different this time.

I am not mad; I am hurt. But I learned something. There are so many things to fill (what only seems like) an empty heart with. If we've filled it so much with the same thing until it just finally bursts, it really just leaves room for other things. And you remember and appreciate what those things are. And they've always been there.

And if the bartender offers no type of apology and makes no attempt to.... well, do anything but shrug his shoulders, it's simply time to let go. And it probably has been for a long time.

You learn things about yourself when your heart is broken. But you learn more about the person that broke it.

I'm not super big on drama but I am honest. And I am a good friend. And I would do whatever I could to save a friendship that meant something--anything--to me. It's not an easy pill to swallow when you realize how unimportant you were to someone you cared about. But I'll find something to chase it with. It happens every day, right? And to my friends that I trust with my life and heart, let's have a round on me... thanks for sticking by me. Even when I was over served.

This song randomly shuffled on my iPod today. I haven't heard it for a while and it brought me lots of happiness:

Better Days
by Peter & the Wolf 

My old man, he sailed away
By a boat upon the sea
My mother held her head high
And smiled down on me
She said, "Boy, get wise
Work harder, do something with your nights
Look smarter
I promise you it's better days ahead"

And you, you were my friend
When I had nothing to my name
When all the world turned on me
You still treated me the same

And we've been through hell, you and me
Caught drama
Girl tragedy, oh brother
I promise you it's better days ahead
Talk to me, now. 

(Go listen to the song wherever you can find it, it will make you happy too.)

UPDATE: Here, someone found it for you:

crakkah!

Many of you don't know this (mainly because of my abnormally high IQ and highbrow vocabulary) but I come from the darkest pit of Utah. I am talking the bottom of the glass bottle we used to make homemade acid out of. I have lived in trailer parks. First when my mom and "dad" were married during their senior year in high school, and then again when I got knocked up instead of attending my college classes. My childhood was basically like growing up with that asstard Larry the Cable Guy. (Why didn't I think of capitalizing on our lynching of minorities, whiskey swilling, and lazy grammar?!)

Anyway, I was the only one who was fortunate the escape the dirty, dirty projects in the battered child shelter mecca that is Mapleton. My siblings...well, let's just say they were not so lucky. Our teeth were black as tar and the front ones were capped with silver by age 4. We ate pigs in a blankets or tuna on toast every night (if we were lucky!) We were rationed pieces of bologna. And we got our mullets yanked and our half mutated ears clipped if we climbed into the top of mom's closet and split a Chips Ahoy five ways. Oh yes, we moved from dirty Flying J truck stops to even dirtier vacant shacks (with cockroaches in our cup o' noodles and dead hookers between the mattresses) . While everyone was wearing Girbaud jeans, we were wearing track shorts and meth-stained underroos... to school... in the winter. It wasn't pretty. Our "babysitters" locked us in the removable hard top of our Bronco and feed us spoonfulls of "sugar" through the cracks.

Anyway, I digress. My point: Following is an actual email I got from my sister, Mandy yesterday. She married Cody... who fits right in with the slothful, camel toe sporting, career dogs that we are. This email did my heart good. It's nice to see them so happy. And it makes me think, maybe, just maybe, one day they'll get out of that storage unit and into a real RV (even if it doesn't have a motor.)

Start Email:

For those of you who know that Cody wears this particular brand, screw you! It was hot, and I was all outta tube tops!

xoxo Mandy


End Email.
(Please look very, very closely at above picture.)

The scene before the scene (at least what we got from the police dispatcher, Todd Jackson):

EXT. CHRISTENSEN TRAILER HOME – DECK – MORNING

Cody, naked from the waste down, struggles with the screen door.

            CODY
    Have you saw my weekday britches?

            MANDY
    Try pushin’ it open, doortard!

Cody cuts through the screen with a pocketknife, climbs through the hole and moves onto the deck, noticing Mandy’s new top.

            CODY
    Godammit, woman! How many times…? I can tell by your black eye I told you once already, stay outta my dang drawers drawer!

            MANDY
    Now you know how I feel when you stretch my pannies out with all yer junk! 

Cody raises a backhand high in the air, gritting his teeth.

            CODY
    Oooooohhh… You better get yer ass down ta Walmart’s as a.s.a.p. as possible…

            MANDY
    Oh, don’t you worry, you sumbitch. Ima go ta walmart all right, but not fer yer ass.

Mandy rises from her Marlboro hammock and heads toward the tattered screen door, looking back over her shoulder at Cody.

            MANDY
    I heard they’s havin’ a swap meet down there ‘smorin’.
    Ima check out how they’re set fer new husbands.

                            [(CONTINUED)]