Allow me to introduce a new segment called, You Know What I Just Love? And since this is a sarcasm blog you should read that as You Know What I Just Hate?, which is what I would call it except that having hate in your life = bad, but loving things sarcastically = good. This is simple science.
So, let’s begin with the very first installment of You Know What I Just Love?
I just love it when I’m waiting to be serviced at a store (no, not in that way you perverts) like Publix and the server is all “oh, I’m just going to pretend I don’t see you standing there and continue this oh so important conversation about my paper mache hobby, or something as equally intriguing. Oh, you moved to the left. Now to the right! You’re doing the fox trot? An Irish jig? Supermanning that ho? Nope. Do. Not. See. You. Sincerely I don’t. And even if I did? Meh. I’m not getting paid per customers served. I’m getting paid per hour and it’s about time someone paid me to talk about how soft my pink fuzzy slippers are. Seriously, they’re the softest. Wanna feel? Oh, that’s right, you can’t because I’m pretending I don’t see you.”
I freakin love it when that happens. My mind is totally not shouting “I’m going to stab you!” because I didn’t just work all freaking day and am not tired and don’t just want my Publix sub and get the hey home to enjoy said sub. I totally want to spend my entire night here. Sincerely, I do. All night. Maybe even all day tomorrow. That would be the bestest.
Finally, after Publix lady finished talking about the time she had the worst cramps ever she turned her attention to me and was all smiles and “oh, can I help you?”
And I was all, “oh, I didn’t want anything, just enjoying your stories, but since you asked, I’ll have a sub.”
Then she was all, “have you seen these?” and pointed to a stuffed Easter bunny on the counter.
Me: No, I haven’t.
She wound up the stuffed Easter bunny and it began to hop on the counter and she was all “isn’t this adorable?” And honestly? It was adorable. She did it again, because once is never enough, and it hopped off the counter and crashed to the floor and she was all “oops” and I was all “way to go lady, you just killed the Easter bunny.” She laughed nervously and threw him in a drawer and I was all “shouldn’t you fill out an accident report or something?” but apparently this sort of thing happens all the time at Publix and they’ve adopted a throw-it-in-a-drawer-and-pretend-it-didn’t-happen policy.
She started making my sub and somehow we started talking about our dogs and I started feeling a little less stabby. Then, THEN, as she was putting the cheese on my sub she was like, “would you like some?”
Would I like some cheese? Does a bear shit in the woods? No one knows, we’ll probably never know, but YES I WOULD LIKE SOME CHEESE. I LOVE CHEESE.
It didn’t end there. When we got to the pickles, she put them on my sub, extended me a few and was all, “would you like some?”
Would I like to eat some Boars Head pickles rightnow? If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound? This question is ridiculous. That’s like asking if a deaf person sits in a room with the tv on full blast does it emit noise? Of course it doesn’t. What this has to do with Boars Head pickles, I do not know; you guys really should take your ADD medicine before you come here.
But the answer to the pickle question is YES! YES I WANT BOARS HEAD PICKLES. And guess what Publix lady? I freaking love you. Sincerely, I do. Even though you made me listen to your super interesting paper mache and fuzzy slippers story and you killed the Easter bunny (don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone), I. LOVE. YOU. Because you gave me pickles and cheese.
Huh, look at that. This segment started out about something I sarcastically love and turned out to be about something I actually love. See what happens when you keep the hate from your life? You get pickles and cheese.
And now, sports fans, the time has come. Please welcome the mahvelous parents-in-law in their blogging debut. Or is it parent-in-laws? I bet you thought, based on the title, that would come first and then the Easter bunny would be killed, but we all know what a master I am at the twists and turns.
The last few times the husband has talked to his parents they’ve been all “when is K going to write about us on her blog?” Because apparently? They’re fame whores. Which is news, shocking news, to me, and let’s just say it’s been difficult, but I’m dealing with it. I’m pretty sure they’ve learned some new things about their daughter-in-law recently and they’ve handled that pretty well so I guess I can accept that they’re all look at us, we’re awesome. Because, honestly? They are awesome. So here is your SARCASM GODDESS blogging debut, parents-in-law, but don’t say the husband didn’t warn you.
I should clarify that when I say “they” are fame whores, I’m pretty sure it’s just my F-I-L that wants to be featured here and my sweet M-I-L is just an innocent victim in this whole thing. Kinda like the time I inadvertently called her a chicken and offered to build her a chicken coop to sleep in. That was also my F-I-L’s fault.
I suppose I should tell you the entire story, lest I ruin my reputation as a sane, normal person.
The in-laws, the husband and some friends and I are in a college football pool/game thingy that the husband made up because he is a genius. The husband was the commissioner for the first two years but last year the F-I-L took over and somehow confused the word “commissioner” with “dictator” and kept changing the rules all the time. Which was annoying for obvious reasons, but also because I’m the only person in the history of the world who’s allowed to make up rules and change them as I see fit. Duh.
At the start of the college season, everyone had to have their picks in before the first Saturday game. Then the rules changed to the night before and then, depending on his world traveling schedule, we had to get them in at whatever time he declared. Then one day we got an email that said we have to have our picks in by 11:00 p.m. because he goes to bed with the chickens. And I was all “I didn’t even know they had chickens. And why are they sleeping with them?”
So I responded, “If I build you a chicken coop, can I have til midnight?” It was HILARIOUS. Sincerely, it was. It took me ten minutes to hit “send” because I couldn’t see through my tears.
A few weeks later the in-laws were in town for Thanksgiving and my M-I-L was all “apparently I’m a chicken,” and in my head I was all “OMG she read the F-I-L’s email as she is the chicken, whereas I took it as my F-I-L was sleeping with actual chickens and I replied to all that I wanted to stuff my M-I-L in a chicken coop!” I said nothing to her but suddenly all the hate mail she’d been sending me made a lot of sense. I was all “husband, why is sending me these letters?” And he was all “oh, she’s always hated you.”
Kidding! The M-I-L LOVES me. (Although, after this post, that may change.)
That is the stuffing-the-mother-in-law-in-a-chicken-coop-story. (Words of advice to those about to acquire a mother-in-law, offering to build her a chicken coop as a place to rest her weary head is not the best way to score points. In fact, I would venture to say It Is A Very Bad Idea. Unless, of course, your mother-in-law has an affinity for chickens, which come to think of it, the M-I-L was thoroughly amused by the rubber chicken at the bookstore That One Time. OMG, maybe when I offered to build a chicken coop she was like finally, all my dreams are coming true and the reason for the hate mail was that I never actually built the chicken coop. Sigh. In-law relationships are so confusing.) When the husband told me his parents are positively dying to be featured in my blog, the mother-in-law/chicken coop story was not the story I wanted to tell – that was just an added bonus, you’re welcome. No, there was one story, the only story, that automatically came to mind.
It happened a few years ago. The ‘rents-in-laws, the husband and I were talking about the movie Borat (spoiler alert if you haven’t seen it) and you know the part where Borat and the big fat naked guy wrestle? Well, we were talking about how appalling that scene was and then the F-I-L says…
Are you ready?
F-I-L: He had his sac in the guy’s face.
The F-I-L said sac.
Some of you are probably all “so?”
Allow me paint a picture of the F-I-L for you. He takes tea from a china cup at high noon, wear’s a bow tie and top hat, is an export swordsman and will call out anyone who questions his lady’s honor. In other words, he is a gentleman.
Now you understand my shock?
Gentlemen don’t say sac.
I know. It’s taken me years to recover from that one. Hearing the F-I-L say “sac” was more disturbing than the Borat scene. And that scene was disturbing. Yes?
There F-I-L, I featured you in my blog. Is it what you had in mind? Perhaps you thought I would write about how you saved the gravy and the pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. Or maybe you thought I’d wax poetic on your stellar golfing skills. Hahahahaha. Sorry, this is a serious conversation, no time for jokes.
On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being THE BEST, how accurately do you think I conveyed your awesomeness to my adoring readers?
I’d say? At least a 12.