If They Find Me Dead

Just wanted to let everyone know that if they find me dead at some point in the near future it will likely be because everything I eat is expired. I am currently making biscuits that expired in February which I shall eat with eggs that expired in March and then I will polish it off with some peanut butter that expired in October. Just thought I should let someone know. Ya know, just in case.

Marry Christmas!

In the spirit of Christmas, and because Mommacita refuses to post even on Christmas, I have decided to post a Christmas poem I wrote two years ago for a ward talent show. It's my present to you who still check this updated-once-a-year page, so feel free to insert your name in for mine and read it for your own ward talent show. Ho Ho Ho.

Marry Christmas

There is not a good reason why each Christmas season

must be so hard for the lonely.

And nothing’s unkinder than constant reminders

that I’m lacking my “one and only.”

The mistletoe’s mocking and the single red stocking

like a donkey I’m forced to carry.

But the worst of it all is the maddening call

for a Christmas that has to be Marry!

It’s very apparent this language is errant

in making the day about marriage.

But the thought to me came that I know who to blame,

and he rides in that big deer-pulled carriage.

He’s bearded and fat and wears a red hat.

(He loses big points for style.)

Yes, it’s clear that Kris Kringle began as a single

and probably was for a while.

That plump little elf only thought of himself

and of getting his lady in red.

He claimed saying “happy” just wasn’t that snappy--

that we should say merry instead.

But now I am knowing that, despite his Ho-hoing,

dear Kris had a secret concealed.

By repeating that phrase at a quickening pace,

his plot is clearly revealed.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,

MerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmas,

Merrychristmasmerrychristmasmerrychristmas

Merry Kris mus marry kris Must Marry Kris!

Must Marry Kris?!

I believe he’s a criminal for such a subliminal

desperate attempt for a wife.

He has in the doing successfully ruined

all Christmas for my single life.

I loathe him! I hate him! I’ll ever berate him

when I see him with his bell at the mall.

He thinks he’s so slick cuz he used a cheap trick

to capture his beautiful doll.

But then again, maybe he isn’t that crazy

for taking up that sneaky cause.

It’s easy to see that there’s no Mrs. Me

but we know there’s a Mrs. Claus.

So I’ll follow his lead cuz I have the same need.

And it’s a need that I have a lotta.

I’ll update my wish list, forget about Christmas,

and wish you a Merry Limon-gotta!

Merry Limon-gotta, everyone!!

Nice Jean Skirt!

I was talking with DP last night and I was reminded of a conversation I witnessed many years ago at a certain longtime job of mine.

LRD and I were sitting in our cubicle talking--as we worked, of course--when the department secretary (DS), who used to work with us, came in to drop off some paperwork.

LRD: DS, I love your skirt!

DS: (looking down at her ankle length jean skirt) Oh!

LRD: You look like a cowgirl!

DS: Oh. (clearly disappointed)

LRD: (clearly recognizing that disappointment) But, I mean, like a cowgirl dressed up and going out for the night!

DS: Oh! (much more comfortable with that description)

LRD: To a barn dance!

DS: Oh. (not so comfortable)

At this point I started laughing so hard that they both stopped talking and that was the end of the awkwardness. Luckily, the two of them were good enough friends that DS wasn't offended. Sometimes I replay this moment in my head and think about how DS's reaction went up, down, up, down. Then I replay old episodes of the Simpsons.

Doth Mine Eyes Deceive Me?

I'm pretty sure that I saw it. But sometimes you're walking across campus (or down a crowded street) and you see flashes that your brain then has to decode, and by the time you realize what you saw it's too late to casually run back and take another look.

So I'm pretty sure I saw it. But I can't be positive. I mean, it looked like it. But why would she have done that? Why would anyone do that? I don't think even normal ones look good, but to make one that can so quickly be compared to the original is just a bad idea. Especially when not even the original looks very appealing.

But there she was, walking right past me. With a tattoo on her arm. A tattoo of her own face. On her arm. Her face is now on her arm. Her slightly bulging arm. Her slightly bulging face is now on her slightly bulging arm. The same short black hair, the same round face. On her arm. Two faces. One body. Too much.

There it was, the bulging face on the bulging arm, and I with only one second to appreciate it. Depreciate it? I will always regret that I didn't stop, run back, grab her by the bulging shoulders and shake her and scream, "Why?! Why did you put your bulging face on your bulging arm? Isn't one of your bulging faces enough for the world? Can't you just look in the mirror like a normal person? Don't I already know what your bulging face looks like from looking at your bulging face, which happens to be right next to your depiction of your bulging face? Do you often wear masks that hide your bulging face, but still want people to know what you look like in case they ever see you without the mask? (still shaking) Do you think that people can't get enough of your bulging face? Cuz they can! Believe me they can! It's bulging!"

I could probably go on for a while. But the more I picture both bulging faces shaking in horror, the less I want to keep shaking.

Or maybe it was a tattoo of some animal or the word MOM. I did just see it for a second. I guess I'll never know.

Hearing Aids and Sweaty Butts

A girl who had been struggling with a staph infection sat next to me in Sunday school. We'll call her Staphanie. The lesson had already started, so we were forced to whisper a greeting.

Staph: Hi!

Limon: Hey. How are you doing?

Staph: Eh. Groany sound. Um. Eh.

Limon: Well, you made it to church, so that's a good sign.

Staph: My butt is sweating.

Limon: Your butt is sweating?

Staph: (laughing hysterically but mostly silently)

Limon: (realizing that she did not say her butt was sweating, flipping through rolodex of possibilities) Your brother's wedding?

Staph: (laughing harder and less silently)

Limon: What? What did you say?

Staph: But it's spreading!

Limon: Oh, that's a relief.

Do I need hearing aids? Anyone else ever had a mishearing quite so awkward?

Life of the Unemployed

10:00 AM: Wake up. Realize that you don't have anything to do. Roll over.

11:00 AM: Wake up. Realize that you don't have anything to do, but decide that you are probably starting to break the word of wisdom or something. Get up.

11:15 AM: Eat a bowl of cereal.

11:25 AM: Eat another bowl of cereal.

11:35 AM: Sigh because Wimbledon is over and you no longer have anything active to watch. Turn on old episodes of Stargate: SG-1.

3:00 PM: Play that song from the closing credits of the second Narnia movie on the guitar.

3:30 PM: Put on the 60-minute P90X DVD your roommate had illegally burned.

3:35 PM: Realize you are really out of shape.

3:50 PM: Realize that Plyometrics is a fancy way of saying squatting and jumping until you want to throw up.

3:52 PM: Wonder if there was anything life-changing on the rest of the video.

3:53 PM: Press pause to take a "short" break.

3:55 PM: Decide that Plyometrics will still be there when you are unemployed next week. Remove DVD.

4:00 PM: Eat a pork chop that your roommate hasn't eaten yet because you have no food because you sold your contract for the summer and you don't really have any place to live and therefore no cabinets to put food in and therefore no food.

5:00 PM: Try to convince your roommate to play tennis.

6:00 PM: Hit the ball out by two feet for the sixty-fifth time.

6:10 PM: Return home in shame.

6:15 PM: Watch So You Think You Can Dance.

8:00 PM: See 11:35 AM.

10:00 PM: Go alone to see "Drag Me to Hell" at the dollar theater because rottentomatoes.com gave it 95% positive reviews and you don't have any friends that would want to go see it with you.

12:00 AM: Play the guitar.

12:30 AM: Review your scheduled activities for tomorrow.

12:30:05 AM: Fall asleep watching something on hulu.com.

4:38 AM: Dream about having something better to do with your life.

Hanky, Anyone?

My roommate uses a handkerchief. When he sneezes or needs to blow his nose, he rolls a little onto his hip to reach into his back pocket and pull out the folded white handkerchief. He then puts the hanky to his nose and blows several times with incredible force. And I feel like there must be something the hanky isn't catching that ends up on his lap. Maybe not, but I just don't like to think about it. Then he does the obligatory pick and roll, when he shoves his hanky-covered fingers into his nostrils and, in perfect symmetry, massages the inside of his nose in circles. Then comes the worst part. He takes two corners and shakes the snot-formed wrinkles out of the hanky. He folds it back up to conceal its use and rolls once more onto his hips and sllllliiiides the germ farm back into his pocket. 

This whole process is unbelievable, and though it only takes twenty or thirty seconds, it's the kind of gift that lasts a lifetime.