Monthly Archives: July 2012

Bad humans! Very bad humans!

By Aprill Brandon Buffy A. Summers Huddle Brandon

Greetings, worthless humans. In case you haven’t figured it out yet (which of course you haven’t because you’re worthless humans), this is not Aprill. The quote, unquote “Alpha” is busy doing stupid human stuff, like actually voluntarily taking a bath and going poo-poo in my giant water bowl.

So I, Buffy, her quote, unquote “pet,” took this opportunity to take over her blog. Now mind you, I could have done this at any time during the past eight years (the woman is about as observant as Helen Keller). But honestly, I don’t feel the same need as you nose-breathers to share every little detail of my life:

“Just scooted my butt on the floor. Now it’s time for a nap.”

Why do you people enjoy reading crap like that?

However, thanks to certain grave injustices that have recently taken place, I have had no choice but to use this rather pathetic excuse for a public forum (with all nine of her readers) to air out some grievances I have with your kind. Specifically, grievances I have with my…ugh…”owners,” but it applies to all of you vile creatures that sweat out of your…(shudder)…pores.

Now, when I first moved in with my humans, who I not-so-affectionately nicknamed Loud One and Spiky Head, it was mainly because I took pity on them. They were completely clueless. I mean, these are creatures that greet their own species by shaking hands. The same hands they use to clean up after themselves when they go potty! Which they do INSIDE THE HOUSE! Like low-life CATS! Utterly disgusting. Not to mention the food they eat. I may have eaten my fair share of sidewalk vomit but I know what they put in that fast food you all love so much thanks to the fact Loud One and Spiky Head leave talk radio on when they leave (as if THAT will trick me into thinking you didn’t just abandon me for anywhere from five minutes to five days…I’m…uh…not really that good at telling time).

Newsflash: That dead bird you just yelled at me for eating? It’s healthier than that cheeseburger you just scarfed down.

But when they kept insisting on calling me by the ridiculous moniker of Buffy, even though I told them repeatedly my name is Steve, I decided to stay simply because I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I inflicted these two idiots on any other innocent dog.

And so, things went fine for awhile besides the occassional degrading newspaper swat, which I tolerated because, well,…heh…I did, in fact, know those were her favorite shoes. But THEN, three weeks ago, they did something so unforgiveable, something so completely horrible, I had no choice but to finally speak up.

I should have known something was up when they took me to the weird-smelling place again with the mean human female who always sticks things in me. Nothing good ever happens in that place. Seriously, one time when we went there, I woke up the next day missing some VERY vital body parts.

And this time was almost as bad. Apparently obsessively chewing on your tail is now illegal in this country because I left that place wearing…I…I don’t even know if I can say it…they put…the…CONE OF SHAME on me!

Exhibit A:

The cone of shame! In the words of our biggest celebrity, Dug, I do not like the cone of shame.

And they made me wear it for no less than three weeks. Do you know how hard it is to climb stairs or eat food from the floor or not propel yourself backward at 60 miles per hour after running into the door at full speed because your haven’t quite grasped the concept that you have a contraption three times the size of your normal head around you?

And you DARE to call us the lesser species.

That kind of thing should be downright illegal. It’s just inhumane. No! Worse! It’s incanine! How would you feel if someone made you wear an embarrassing piece of plastic that made all the other dogs laugh, not to even mention the insufferable taunting from cats and squirrels.

You humans just think you’re so great. Ooooh, I have opposable thumbs! I’m so awesome! I can turn doorknobs and grab things from high shelves! But you know what? You’re not that great. In fact, you are all just glorified mailmen and we dogs could easily take over “your” world with one simple…oh, hang on. Loud One is trying to talk to me. What is it, woman? I’m busy writ…oh, what’s that? Wait. You’re spelling something. OH, OH, OH, YOU’RE SPELLING SOMETHING! I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SPELLING BUT SPELLING ALWAYS MEANS SOMETHING GOOD! ARE WE GOING FOR A WALK!? OH MY GOD, IT’S A WALK, ISN’T IT? OR A TREAT!?! IT’S A TREAT, ISN’T IT!!! AHHHH! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!!!

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Thanks for nuthin,’ technology

There are a lot of downsides to moving far away from friends and family to make it “big” in the big city (or in my case, make it “small-medium-ish” in the big city).

But one of the upsides is that you ALWAYS have the ultimate excuse to get out of undesirable social events, such as the lesser holidays, weddings of second/third cousins, high school reunions, the “Let’s help Bob and Sue move across town!” scenarios and, most importantly, showers, both of the wedding and baby variety.

But now, thanks to technology, that convenient trump card has swiftly become obsolete. To wit: This past Saturday I, while hanging out at my house in Boston, attended a baby shower for a couple who lives in Branson that was thrown by a group of our mutual friends from Texas.

Thanks a lot, Steve Jobs (or whoever is the Steve Jobs equivalent over at Google+). No, really.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It really was great getting to see them all again, or at least the tiny, overly pixellated versions of who I suspect was them (Thanks to my 1998 computer software, I could have been participating in an amateur porno convention online for all I know. The dialogue would have probably been the same. We’re a super classy bunch).

And it was an incredibly thoughtful and sweet gesture by a group of people I’m proud to call my friends. The problem is simply that I’ve never really been one of those people who enjoys baby showers. In fact, I even wrote a column a few years back (which I have conveniently re-posted below for your reading pleasure) about my dread of these events.

This was compounded by the fact I couldn’t really communicate with anyone since my crappy computer had an approximate 17-minute microphone delay:

“So, Aprill, how’s Boston?”

“Can you guys hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Guys?”

“We can hear you, Aprill.”

“GUYS!?!”

“Aprill? Can you hear us?”

(15 more minutes like this)

“Oh, Boston’s great! I love it.”

And lest you start to think what a horrible friend I am (which I may deserve but for far more devious reasons than this), let me just add that I am super excited for Trysta and Steve and their soon-to-be-born unholy spawn baby and know they are going to be wonderful parents (Oh, and P.S. guys, your gift should be in the mail soon…at the latest, you should get it before she goes off to college).

30 Women & A Baby

As much as we like to think equality between the sexes has come a long way, baby, there is still one giant gap that exists between men and women. Alas, pending some major medical breakthrough, I don’t foresee this gap ever being bridged.

Yes, it’s sad but it’s true. In a recent study it was found that 99.9 percent of all babies come from women.

I know, I know. You’d think that since we’ve put three women on the Supreme Court, we could get at least a few men knocked up, but apparently the medical community is much too busy with other stuff, like curing cancer and finding new poisons to inject into our faces to combat wrinkles.

To be honest, I’m actually all right with the fact that my gender is shouldering this burden alone (or miracle, for those of you who are more of the “glass is half full” mind-set).

But what I am not all right with is that this biological difference gives men another Get Out of Jail Free card. Despite the fact that it takes two to make a baby, women are the only ones who are required to attend the dreaded (insert dramatic music here) baby shower.

Oh sure, maybe not all women hate baby showers. I once read a study that said one leader will emerge out of every group of 20 people. I have a feeling those numbers also apply to the amount of women who actually enjoy the finger sandwiches, uncomfortable small talk and swapping of horrific birth stories that make up your standard baby shower. As for the rest of us…well, dental surgery is an apt comparison.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love babies. I love holding babies. I love smelling babies. I love handing babies back to their mothers when they start crying.

I also love mothers. I fully believe they deserve all the rights and privileges as the rest of us. In fact, some of my best friends are mothers.

So the problem with baby showers is not in the actual act of celebrating the mother-to-be and the brand new life she is carrying. That is a wonderful thing and should be celebrated. No, the problem lies in the mechanics of the event.

See, a baby shower is essentially when you thrust together a group of women who have nothing in common other than knowing a pregnant female and then give them nothing to do for a couple of hours other than to watch this chick open presents and drink punch (which doesn’t contain even a trace of booze).

For you men out there reading this (all two of you who actually made it to this point before you flipped over to the sports section) and have no idea what I’m talking about, let me give you an inside glimpse at what you get to skip out on.

You ring a doorbell and are greeted by a perky woman whom you’ve never met. As you’re shuffled inside, you look around and see a bunch of women of all ages clustered in small groups of two or three, all of whom you’ve also never met. You stand there awkwardly until eventually some brave soul, usually propelled by the fact that they can’t stand the awkwardness anymore, will leave her cluster and strike up a conversation with you. Now if you’re both mothers, this tends to go well, since you can swap war stories about the time little Johnny got a toy army man stuck up his nose or the time little Aprill felt the need to announce to her entire second grade class that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, thus causing a mini-riot at Hardin Elementary (true story).

However, if you are a woman of child-bearing age sans kids such as myself, the resulting encounter typically goes something like this:

Random Woman: “Hi.”

You: “Hello.”

Random Woman: “So, how do you know the mother-to-be?”

You: “I’m her second cousin. And you?”

Random Woman: “Her dentist’s niece.”

You: “Ah.”

Random Woman: “Yeah.”

You: “So, great potato salad, eh?”

Random Woman: “Oh yes, it’s delicious.”

You: “Yeah.”

At this point, one of you will generally make some lame excuse to get out of the conversation, such as, “Oh, I think that’s my child on fire…will you excuse me?” This goes on for about an hour and then, just to add to the awkwardness, you will all be forced to play awkward baby-themed games with each other. These generally consist of smelling chocolate that’s been smeared on a diaper (fellas, I’m not even kidding about that).

Then finally, FINALLY, it’s time for the mother to open presents. This is the best part because now all you have to do to “ooh” and “ahh” over tiny baby outfits, many of them involving a hat intended to make the infant look like a tiny bear or dog.

Then at last, like a drowning man coming up for air, the last present is unwrapped and you are now free to leave. Just be careful not to trample grandma in your madcap rush to the door.

So gentleman, take it from me. Rejoice in your freedom from this barbaric tradition. And the next time your significant other returns from one of these things, be kind and give her the only known cure for the post-baby shower hangover: A glass of wine the size of her head.

I hate summer. There. I said it.

I know what I’m about to say isn’t going to be very popular. But hey, you know what? Abraham Lincoln wasn’t universally appreciated for his views in his lifetime either.

(Although anyone wishing to assassinate me needs to get in line behind my ex-boyfriends, my ninth-grade English teacher, Kim Kardashian, those Jehovah Witnesses that came to my door last week, Khloe Kardashian, Octomom, my former basketball coach, pretty much the rest of the Kardashians and the entire country of Amsterdam).

OK. Here goes…

I am not a fan of summer.

Oh, screw it. Enough sugarcoating. I downright dislike summer. At certain points, I even loathe it. And as for August? Well, I want to sew one of its orifices to another month’s orifice (preferably July’s) and make them crawl around and do stuff and junk and other mean, evil things. (Confession: I never actually saw “The Human Centipede”).

In fact, I even made a chart about how much I hate summer:

And yes, I am well aware that this makes me the cheese who stood alone and that I might be the only person ever to list summer as my least favorite season. But contrary to the disproportionally angry responses I received on Facebook when I dared to insult this oh-so-holy season, it is not illegal to hate summer.

And yet, when you dare to say this out loud, people act like you just punched a baby in the face. And not one of those ugly babies that no one cares about. One of the super cute ones.

It’s like being a vegetarian in the South. Or a Republican in Portland. Or a woman in Utah. You constantly have to defend your reasoning for daring to be this way.

But to that I say, why does everyone love summer anyway? The major holidays– Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day– are only fun if you have a boat or are good friends* with someone who owns a boat. The rest of us landlubbers just get to look forward to sweating onto our plate of charred meat, sweating out all the beer we worked so hard to chug and trying to prevent our pets from committing suicide in response to the ceaseless BOOM-BOOMs going on all around them.

*Or have really big boobs. Or even semi-big boobs. Or…you know, boobs.

And sure, summer is great when you’re young and when apparently based only on the merit of your immaturity and acne, you earn the right to have those three months off. But once that stops, what’s left? The same stresses you have to deal with in your daily life during all the other seasons, only now with more BO that you pretend not to smell on other people or yourself.

Not to mention the mosquitos. The tiny, tiny unforgiving summer wardrobe. The trying to maintain the delicate balance between not getting skin cancer and not having the skin tone of a corpse. The constant need to shave my man-hairy legs. And seeing people wearing Crocs unironically.

I mean, just look what you have to look forward to during every other season compared to summer:

Now, I thought maybe when I moved to Boston, my summer issues were over. Because after living in South Texas, the land of eternal summer, for five years, it seemed like a breezy, 75 degree, sunny oasis in my heat stroke-destroyed mind.

But HA! No! It’s hot and humid here too! In fact, I haven’t stopped sweating since May!

And so, I maintain my stance. I hate summer.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go scythe off my leg hair and put on 12 more pounds of deodorant.*

*Sorry, fellas, but I’m already taken.

Showing some skint

And no…no, that’s not a typo (although it is a nice example of alliteration and clever word play, if I do say so myself).

But don’t fret. It will all make sense when you read my latest article for the Weekly Dig, which I have conveniently linked for you HERE.

On another note, Happy Friday the 13th, everyone. If you’re anything like me, you’ll celebrate this unofficial American holiday by completely forgetting it’s Friday the 13th until you start reading all those stupid tweets on your feed about it being Friday the 13th.

Update on the Zombie Spider Apocalypse…

Just wanted to let those of you who read my last blog post know that after killing the zombie spider that had taken up residence in my home THREE times on THREE separate occasions, there have been no other further sightings.

And, as to any question whether or not it was actually three spiders I was dealing with or if it was indeed the same spider, I can now officially say it WAS, in fact, a zombie spider. After the last time I killed it, I’d double-check that his corpse was still in the same spot every 15 minutes for the next six hours (don’t you judge me) until my husband came home and got rid of the body.

Apparently while human zombies can only be defeated by chopping or blasting off their heads, spider zombies cannot re-animate after being flushed down the toilet.

So, suck it, zombie spider. I hope you rot in zombie spider HELL.

The Zombie Apocalypse is worse than we thought

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but the fact there has been an influx of news stories about people eating other people’s faces and cooking their roommate’s large intestine with onions and a nice herb butter is the least of our worries. It has come to my attention that this whole looming zombie war has taken on a thoroughly horrifying new turn.

It all started last week when upon innocently entering the kitchen, I was assaulted by what can only be described as a giant, icky, furry, black, gross, evil, huge, nasty, hideous, monstrous, hairy, possibly more dark brown than black, gigantic, dirty, sneaky, ugly, beastly minion of Satan hellbent on the destruction of humanity. Or, in other words, a big-ass spider. And by assaulted, I mean he was on the kitchen wall, moving three inches to the right and then two inches up and than four inches back left before sitting in the same spot for five minutes and starting the whole pattern over again.

But trust me, he was plotting his vicious assault on my face, which he could have initiated AT ANY POINT.

Naturally, I did what any idiot with a crappy computer and spotty Wifi that they’re stealing from the guys across the street would do, which was to throw on my spider-killin’ gear– my husband’s thickest boots and his motorcycle helmet (which is ANOTHER blog entirely…SPOILER ALERT: We don’t own a motorcycle), and oven mitts, one of which was clutching a bottle of Febreze and the other a flip-flop– and prepare myself mentally for a lengthy battle.

An hour later, I was still standing in the furthest corner of the kitchen away from the arachnid-occupied zone, tracking the enemy’s movements and trying to stifle my scaredy-girly screams every time it moved more than six inches at a time so the neighbors would stop calling the police (out of a genuine concern I might be getting murdered, I’m sure).

Realizing how ridiculous this was (but probably not as much as I should have), I began my attack, spraying it down with Febreze while emitting a high-pitched squeal that set off every single dog in the neighborhood to barking. Unfortunately, this failed to actually kill it (but did make it smell amazing) and so in a Hail Mary tactic, I flung the flip-flop at it, which knocked it off the wall and onto what I’m assuming is the stairs in the kitchen that lead to the basement.

I say “assume” because I refused to actually double-check if it was dead and consequently haven’t gone down to the basement since (despite the fact the washer and dryer is down there…although this could eventually become a problem considering I’m currently down to my last pair of giant, old lady undies).

It should have ended there. But then three days later, lo and behold, I encountered ANOTHER giant, icky, furry, black, gross, evil, huge, nasty, hideous, monstrous, hairy, possibly more dark brown than black, gigantic, dirty, sneaky, ugly, beastly, minion of Satan hellbent on the destruction of humanity, big-ass spider.

IN.

THE.

KITCHEN.

This time, I decided to change up my battle plan and try to kill it with my Swiffer Sweeper (leaving a wide berth between me and it so the chances of it jumping on my face and brutally devouring said face were lessened). I nailed him on my first try but unfortunately, the idea that we were both touching the same object made me immediately drop said Swiffer onto the stairs below.

Having learned my lesson, however, I did timidly peer down the steps to see if I could locate the spider’s mangled corpse but then a loose hair from my head tickled my upper arm and I ran screaming out the house, a cartoon cloud of dust left in my wake.

Now all of this could just be a coincidence or, if my worst nightmare has come true, we have a nest of spiders somewhere in the house. It could be…except…

TODAY there was ANOTHER giant, icky, furry, black, gross, evil, huge, nasty, hideous, monstrous, hairy, possibly more dark brown than black, gigantic, dirty, sneaky, ugly, beastly, minion of Satan hellbent on the destruction of humanity, big-ass spider.

IN.

MY.

BEDROOM.

Which coincidentally is RIGHT BESIDE THE KITCHEN.

I hate to think this, let alone say it, but [glances nervously back and forth] I think [lowers voice to frantic whisper] it’s all the same SPIDER!

Think about it! They all looked exactly THE SAME! They were all hanging out in the same relative AREA! I never found any of the actual dead spider BODIES! And every three days, it would RE-APPEAR! (like JESUS!!!).

While I don’t want to alarm anyone, I think we need to stop focusing so much on what to do to prepare for an attack of human zombies and instead start stockpiling and training for the spider zombie apocalypse that is evidently already here. Cause, yeah, sure, human zombies want to eat your still living flesh and suck your brains out of your skull, but spider ZOMBIES!? They are wicked icky and gross and move weird and are stupid and ugly and I hate them.

So, I think we can all agree which one is worse.

Alas, it may already be too late.

It may already be too late.

31 Things I’ve Learned in 31 Years

1. Yoga pants are a lot more fun to wear when you’re not actually doing yoga.

2. Facebook has turned a whole generation of people into really crappy philosophers.

3. Your 20’s are the time to make mistakes. Your 30’s are the time to make fun of idiotic people in their 20’s.

4. A true friend is someone who doesn’t send you spam email about what a true friend is.

5. People who are the most uninformed about politics are usually the ones on TV screaming about them.

6. Cheese is…it’s…it’s just amazing.

7. Free never actually means free.

8. A dog wearing the cone of shame and trying to climb up stairs is simultaneously the funniest and saddest thing you will ever see.

9. Speaking of dogs, they don’t need all-organic, gourmet food. They say hello by sniffing butts and consider random sidewalk vomit a treat. They’ll be just dandy with plain ‘ol dog food.

10. Throw out every diet book you’ve ever bought. If the diet actually worked, it’d be a bigger seller than the Bible and the dictionary combined and we’d all be a size six.

11. America may have its issues, but the one thing we got right is our superb “standing in line” skills.

12. Everyone should strive to see as much of the world as possible. If anything, just so you can truly understand why America’s superb “standing in line” skills are so important.

13. When your biological clock finally finds batteries, babies magically stop looking like loud, whiny blobs and actually start looking like adorable mini-humans.

14. Relentlessly pursuing happiness is bound to make you unhappy. You can’t feel the peaks of happiness if you try to ignore the valleys of sadness and the seemingly endless plateaus of “meh.”

15. Delicate ecosystem balance aside, all spiders should be systematically hunted down and murdered in cold blood.

16. Having Instagram does not make you a photographer.

17. Giving your kid a normal name that is “creatively” spelled is only fun for you.

18. People will judge you based solely on your iPod’s playlist.

19. The key to a good marriage is not marrying a celebrity.

20. LOL is not an appropriate way to end a sentence. And never will be.

21. Never put too much stock in winning awards. Just remember: Kathie Lee and Hoda have won multiple Emmys.

22. Orange is not a desirable skin tone.

23. When you start to feel bad about your age, rejoice in the fact your teenaged self never had YouTube, Twitter and Facebook to record all your stupid thoughts and most embarrassing moments.

24. You’re never too old for Jell-O shots.

25. Cooking is only fun if you don’t HAVE to do it.

26. Another key to a good marriage: Marry someone you like doing boring things with because doing boring things together will constitute about 90 percent of your relationship.

27. You never know how strong you are until you have to pee really bad and the line to the bathroom is 20 people deep.

28. Cheese really is just so amazing. I know I already said that but it just really, really is.

29. Age ain’t nothing but a number. Size ain’t nothing but a tag in your clothes that can easily be cut out.

30. You don’t truly know someone until you share a bathroom with them.

31. Mmm…cheese.