The Pantyhose Roll-volution

The other day, one of my friends asked me if I ever wear pantyhose. After nearly choking on my lunch and exclaiming “Oh God, no!” I explained that there was no reason for me to wear pantyhose, since I’m not a bank robber, the Duchess of Cambridge, or a pregnant woman trying to avoid varicose veins.

I will admit that Spanx is an incredibly cute name for pantyhose, but it’s still pantyhose.

I remember the days when my parents would force me to wear pantyhose to church or fancy events. The worst part was having to get into those things.

They were so tight. It felt like I was squeezing a condom onto a watermelon.

That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was dealing with the top of the pantyhose. The band would cut into my stomach, thereby creating these unflattering rolls of fat. I might as well have been a chain of sausage links.

“They’re a perfect fit for you,” my mom would say.

They were a perfect fit for a fetus, not me.

“They make your legs look nicer.”

Apparently ham hocks stuffed into matte nylon casings looked nicer than my natural legs.

My mom used to wear pantyhose almost everyday for work, and we tried to tell her that her legs looked better without it. Even the cat agreed, but she never listened.

Then one day, our old cat Speedo couldn’t take the sight of it anymore, and he took matters into his own hands:

Please do your part to save a cat. Ditch the pantyhose. Who’s with me?

Letters to Our Cat

This blog post is dedicated to all you cat people out there, and our blogosphere bestie, Cassie Behle (and her cat Chloe), who is unfortunately too busy with wedding planning to dedicate herself to her blog right now. Don’t worry Cass, we fully understand that wedding planning and dealing with diamonds and cake take priority over writing blog posts about cat crap and hairballs. We certainly do not want to see you turn into a crazy-old-spinster who dies and has her face eaten off by 50 cats. Yes, it happens!

Now onto our regularly-scheduled blog post: Letters to Our Cat…

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Dear Cat,

Effective immediately, you will stop going around the house as if you own it. You do not own it. We pay the bills. Stop annoyingly scratching at closed doors, turning on and off light switches, taunting the dog, biting the leaves off our plants, and eating our breakfast when it sits out on the counter.

If you cannot come to terms with this arrangement, we will be forced to evict you.

Sincerely,

Management (Your Owners)

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Dear Management (My Owners),

Effective immediately, you will stop telling me what to do. I don’t care if you own this house.

If you can’t come to terms with this arrangement, I will be forced to stare at you creepily in the dark every night while you sleep, pee on your favorite rug, vomit in your shoes, tear up your new bedspread, and poop in hard to reach places in the back of your closet.

Sincerely,

Cat

I have amazing resilience. I can stare all night and scare the bejesus out of you when you wake up.

Dear Cat,

You son of a @*&%#. You better sleep with one eye open, cat. One eye open!

Sincerely,

Management (Your Now-Very-Pissed-Off-Owners-Who-Will-Start-Forgetting-to-Feed-You-On-Time)

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Dear Management (My Owners-Who-Are-Now-Very-Pissed-Off-and-Own-a-Cat-Who-Is-Also-Now-Very-Pissed-Off),

I just used the litterbox and then cleaned my paws off on your pillows. I also beat up the other “sweet” cat that you make me share my room with against my will. FYI- beatings will continue until your attitudes improve.

Sincerely,

Cat

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Dear Cat,

We are throwing you out!

Sincerely,

Management (Your Almost-Happy Owners)

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Dear Management (My Almost-Happy Owners),

I scratched the hoods of all the cars parked in the garage. I peed on the wheels too. Since my diet has changed, I have also been experiencing intestinal discomfort. Hope you don’t mind the mess, but sometimes I can’t quite make it out of the garage in time, if you know what I mean. Can I come back inside?

Sincerely,

Cat

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Note: no further letters have been written at this time. Speculation is that owners are in therapy. Periodically, neighbors have reported seeing them running circles around their house, screaming and flailing back and forth in hysteria, chasing what appears to be a small–and very fast–cat.

One Smart Sister

Although my big brother would argue that I’m really just a sister of average intelligence, alliterative blog titles are so much more catchy. Besides, “One Retarded Brother” just didn’t have as much of a ring to it. Yes, critics, I know that the term “retarded” is no longer politically correct and is considered derogatory. That’s kind of the point.

This, my friends, is the face of a genius little sister. 🙂

First, I’d like to say mahalo to Michelle Gillies over at Silk Purse Productions for nominating me for the Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award (check out her blog… she is very witty, and I like witty). Michelle, the doggies are so excited to receive another award. If you were here, they would lick your face (and smell your butt). Luckily you live in Canada and will be spared such frivolities.

After receiving the Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award, I had some time to reflect upon sisterhood and what it means to me. I don’t actually have a sister, so everything I know about being a sister, I learned from my brother. I adore my older brother. He is the best big brother anyone could ask for, and I just can’t say enough about that dingleberry.

In the spirit of the lovely Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award, I’m supposed to share some things about myself. Instead of telling you how much I detest socks with sandals, or how I frequently choke on my own spit for no apparent reason other than a defective epiglottis, I figured I would share some things I’ve learned from being one mean mischievous smart sister.

1. You can resort to violence (when no one is looking), and capitalize on your cuteness. During a fight with your sibling, hit as hard as you can while no one is around. Pull hair if feasible. When someone discovers you both, act like an innocent fawn tiptoeing through the tulips. Pout. Make your eyes as large as physically possible. Make your bottom lip quiver. Try to get tears to well up in your eyes. Think of something terrible if you need a crying prompt, like the time your cat died.
2. You can always blame it on your sibling. Be smart about it. Don’t just point at your sibling and triumphantly yell “It’s his fault!” after an incident. Cower away from everyone and act as if you are having an anxiety attack. When everyone rushes to you out of concern, stutter “It-it-its hi-hi-his fau-fau-fault!” and then burst into tears if you can manage it.
3. You can use blackmail to get what you want. When you see your sibling smoking with his friends, make a mental note. The next time your sibling refuses to let you have a bite of his cheeseburger, nonchalantly say “Do I need to tell dad about the time you…” Trust me, you won’t even need to finish that sentence before you are savoring that cheeseburger.
4. You can use the child abuse hotline to your advantage. If your sibling starts to yell at you, and threatens to hit you, simply shout “I’m dialing!” If your sibling looks confused, clarify that you’re now old enough to know how to use the phone, and you have the child abuse hotline on speed dial.

I bet Michelle Gillies is really regretting passing me this Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award now, eh? 😉 Don’t worry, I’m redeeming myself by passing the honor to one of my blogger sisters, Addie over at Betwixt and Between, who happens to be way cooler and nicer than me.

A Typical Work Week in the Silva Household

MONDAY…

TUESDAY…

WEDNESDAY…

THURSDAY…

FRIDAY…

Post-Holiday Meltdown

Is it just me, or do the holidays get more expensive and exhausting every year?

By now, if you haven’t spent your entire paycheck, come down with the flu, sold a kidney, or lost your mind, I’d say you’re in pretty good shape and coping quite well with your post–holiday meltdown so far.

I really don’t understand how Christmas has become so expensive and exhausting over the years, especially if the purpose of the holiday is supposed to be getting together with loved ones and celebrating Jesus’ birthday.

The other week, I was sitting next to a kid in a waiting room who was coloring a picture of the nativity scene. I complimented him on his artwork and how well he colored the baby Jesus. He looked up at me with a bewildered look and shouted “WHO THE HECK IS BABY JESUS?” I told him that baby Jesus was the little guy in the manger who he was coloring with the dark red crayon. He lit up instantly, grinning from ear to ear, and yelled “NO, THAT’S SANTA!” Now that’s just sad.

Speaking of Santa, I kind of recall kids asking the old man in red for much simpler things back in the day… like Hot Wheels or Barbie dolls. These days, it’s all about iPods, iPads, and other costly gadgets. I feel sorry for all the parents out there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the fallout from all this is a rise in alcohol consumption and adult tantrums.

I know I’m probably going to sound a bit Kardashian-like here, but being Santa is extremely tiring. It’s incredibly strenuous having to run around shopping for gifts, attending parties, and entertaining out-of-town guests, all the while maintaining a jolly attitude. I justify going around smiling, being kind to others, and spreading Christmas cheer as my annual cardio workout and community service.

Believe me when I say that Santa has a rough gig, but baby Jesus has it made. Baby Jesus gets to spend all day drinking and relaxing in a crib while people visit and adore him. Who in their right mind would rather be Santa than Baby Jesus on Christmas?!

Not me. While other people are out playing Santa every year—caroling and spreading the Christmas spirit—I’ll be kicking back in my crib with some eggnog, watching “Die Hard” marathons on TV, and grunting intermittently from the couch to signal the family I’m still alive.

Despite the usual caroling, shopping, and other Santa-inspired nonsense, I actually do look forward to Christmas dinner each year. There’s just something special about it, a certain je ne se quoi, if you will.

These are a few of the things that I think make Christmas dinner so special every year:

• One of your relatives will always get too inebriated during dinner, resulting in intriguing conversations; fearless actions (i.e. awkward hip gyrations and ass slaps); inappropriate outbursts (i.e. “I’ve got your taters right here swinging, baby!”); and overall bickering when voices that should be inner voices end up on speakerphone.

 “I was just saying that cranberry is good for a urinary tract infection. That’s it. It’s a perfectly acceptable dinner conversation. I mean, we’re eating cranberries for God’s sake!”

 “You brought a Democrat to dinner? Jesus Christ! Have you lost your damn mind?! I need some more scotch!”

• Someone will bring a dessert they made that looks and/or tastes absolutely disgusting (yes, worse than fruitcake). You should prepare yourself in advance to expect a strange concoction to arrive at the dinner table from someone “trying a new recipe” which ultimately looks like something scooped from a baby’s diaper.

• Speaking of fruitcake, there’s always at least two in attendance on Christmas: 1) most likely one of your relatives (refer to the first item above) and 2) an actual fruitcake made with those rubbery chunks of artificially-colored fruit that defy the natural world as we know it.

I’m happy to report that I accomplished quite a bit over the holidays this year, but I’m sad to report that my post–holiday meltdown so far entails a bad case of the flu. Unfortunately, it’s not how I planned on ringing in the New Year, and not exactly what I had in mind for “out with the old, in with the new,” but oh well.

I wish all of you a healthy and prosperous 2013, and please, let’s all take a moment of silence to give thanks to vodka for getting us through another year! Cheers!