Beware of Schwees Bearing Gifts

When you have a Schwee, things are never boring. You have to get accustomed to walking around at DEFCON 3, ready to run, laugh, or apologize at any moment. Schwees are not easy to be with, but they make the world a better place.

Most of the time, people just don’t get Boyfriend Extraordinaire. They hear his comments and questions without realizing he’s making fun of someone or something, and they just continue talking to him. Meanwhile, I am usually on the other side of the room laughing, because only I seem to understand his humor.

Also, you cannot get a straight answer out of him to save your life. This used to bother me and I would almost lose my mind trying to get him to be logical and stop joking around. We once had a half-hour battle (totally my fault because I let it continue) over the concept of whether his eyes were a part of his head, or if they were independent of it. He’s actually rubbed off on me and now I cannot answer his questions without turning it into a joke.

On the way up to Michigan, he offered me one of his curly fries from Hardee’s as we sat at a picnic table and dined on lunch, which we were sharing with the seagulls. I refused the curly fry and we had the following ridiculous conversation.

Me: No! I don’t eat curly fries. It’s totally inhumane what they do to potatoes to get curly fries.

B.E.: What are you talking about?

Me: Well, they force it to grow around a steel pole in the ground. It’s unnatural!

B.E.: No they don’t! They have these things that cut the potato in the curled shapes.

Me: No, that’s what they WANT you to think. They torture the potato, pushing it and twisting it around this pole all its life!

B.E.: Okay, fine, but they don’t hurt the potato. It’s an HONOR to be a curly fry. Only special potatoes are chosen to grow up this way and have the distinction of being curly.

Me: No way being contorted like that isn’t agony! Michael Moore did a documentary on it. I know what really goes on with making curly fries! I will not eat them.

So, we torment each other with our crazy conversations.

On the way home from the trip, we passed Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, and given that B.E. had taken years of French in school and has frequently translated for me in the past, I asked him what it meant.

B.E.: Well, Lac means lake. And obviously Fond du means fondue. So, it’s a big, fondue lake over there.

Me: We ARE in Wisconsin. It’s probably a big, melted cheese lake then.

B.E.: That’s right. In Wisconsin, of course they have a town named after a big, melted cheese lake. Fond du Lac. Fondue Lake. You gotta love Wisconsin.

If for one second I believed anything he said, imagine how stupid I’d look to others if I tried to repeat any of what he tells me.

Perhaps the one area of our relationship that causes me the most unease is that moment when he says he has a present for me. I fear his gifts, not because they’re dangerous, but because I just have no idea how to react to them. Let me show you.

B.E.: I got you a present!

Me: Oh no. You didn’t. Schwee, you don’t have to bring me presents. I keep telling you.

B.E.: I know, but I like to give you things. And this is going to be perfect.

Me: But Schwee! Oh god, this scares the shit out of me.

B.E. (laughing): NO, you’re going to like this one! It’s perfect for you!

Me: Like the Pooh overalls? Both pairs? Or the salt and pepper shakers you gave my mom? Oh man, Schwee, you REALLY don’t have to give me presents!

B.E.: Shush! Close your eyes and hold out your hand.

I felt him fastening something enormous and heavy on my wrist. My stomach dropped.

Dammit, it’s some kind of jewelry. How the heck am I going to pretend to be flattered and grateful when it weighs this much?

I opened my eyes and found this fastened to my wrist.



He calls it a bling watch. He says that the girl who orders street lit for the library should have a bling watch. It has a spinner hubcap on it, with fake jewels.


And it actually spins.


You can open up the wheel cover to see the time beneath. It isn’t just for looks. This piece of crap actually keeps time.


What the hell do you say to this? I mean, I’m not sure if he got this for me at the flea market as a gag gift or as a serious gift. He never laughed when I was gawking at the watch, unable to bend my hand because of how huge the watch is, and unable to lift my arm because of the weight of it. He was so proud of this gift, and I seriously don’t know if he was proud of coming up with such a hilarious gift, or if he truly thought it was the best gift ever. I’m leaning toward the hilariousness of it, but I can’t be sure.

I don’t know if you have a Schwee in your life, but if you do, consider yourself pretty damn lucky.

Also, if you do, let’s get together and sell some of our insane gifts.

I Did It!

Finally! I've been working all weekend on this and it's finally done!

If you're interested in reading about our adventures on the trip, you can click the picture below to read my travel blog.



Or, if you're not really into reading all the silly stories about our goofy antics, feel free to visit the following Tabblo pages of just photos.

And, now I can finally get a good night of sleep again. Whew!

A Boy and a Frog

Do you love Kermit the frog? Of course you do. Everyone does. It ain't easy being green.

Do you love Christian Bale? Of course you do. Everyone does. He's the goddamn Batman.

Once again, Neatorama pointed me to a fabulous webpage that had me laughing so hard I was holding my guts in today.

Kermit and Christian have a lot in common.

You may love them more after this.

Don't thank me. Just send money.

Energy Crisis Solved!

The other day I had a conversation with a friend that somehow spiraled into the worst giggle-fest I’ve experienced. We were both wheezing from laughter about 5 minutes into it, and I thought I’d share it to illustrate how stupid and juvenile I really am.

For reasons I don’t know, masturbation was the subject.

Me: Wouldn’t it be great if we could somehow harvest the energy people create when they masturbate? You just know that there are some people out there who could power small cities on their own.

Him: That would be awesome! I read somewhere that the human body generates something like 8 kilowatt hours of energy doing nothing, but tossing one off must create something like eleven-hundred kilowatt hours!

Me: I’ll bet some people create more. Imagine how cool it would be if you just had to give yourself an orgasm everyday to power your own home. Really ambitious people could sell their energy for those who can’t get it up anymore.

Him: There would never be an energy crisis again!

Me: You’re out somewhere and the power suddenly goes out. Someone just has to shout out, “Quick, everyone, drop trou!”

At this point we were almost in hysterics. He said things I couldn’t understand either because I was laughing too hard to hear, or his words just weren’t being enunciated through his own laughter. I think he was talking about spreading this theory as truth through email.

Him: Imagine the email and blond jokes if they thought it was true! Of course, blonds get the email and they don’t check anything out on Snopes. Everytime a light went off somewhere, they’d call a friend and have a masturbation session to save the electricity! But they wouldn’t know the difference between the power being out or someone just turning off a light.

Me: OH! Blinking Christmas lights would totally throw them off! Rub – stop – rub – stop – rub.

After that we were choking and sputtering and gasping for air. My ribs hurt and I had to beg for a change of conversation to recover.

It would be great if the average 13-year-old boy could earn his keep by doing what comes natural. And porn surfers could create this endless loop of powering their computer to surf porn, masturbate, and then power their computer to surf more porn. Think of all the worthless people who have nothing to contribute to this world – they would suddenly have value!

I certainly hope that scientists are working on this. With both hands.

It Ain't Easy Being Blue

About six months ago I happened to be in Kenosha, Wisconsin (I say “happened” even though I spend an abundance of time there) and waltzed into a hair salon to get a trim. My former, long-time stylist had, six months prior, given me a Mrs. Brady shag hair-do that I hated-hated-hated, and I waited a half-year before I was willing to let anyone else touch my locks. Finally I was so frustrated with the overgrown bush that sat atop my head that I didn’t care who cut it, but I needed it cut. And what happened? I fell a little in love with the lady who cut my hair. Now she’s the only one I’ll allow to touch my noggin and I have to go all the way to f’ing Kenosha whenever I need my hair cut or dyed.

If you live anywhere in Illinois or Wisconsin (perhaps even Iowa or Michigan), you are aware that there was psychotic weather that blasted through Kenosha today, with three tornados that had been spotted around 3 pm.

At about 3 pm, I was leaning back in the chair at the sink, having the blue dye rinsed out so that she could finally give me her artistic cut, when someone came running into the building and announced that the tornado sirens were going off.

I fully expected her to stop what she was doing and assume whatever position she was trained to assume during an emergency, but she just shrugged and said, “I’m busy.”

Have I mentioned that I love my stylist?

No one stopped doing hair. No one ran out into the street to check out the sky. No one turned on a radio or checked the weather. It was business as usual.

I said, “I’m so glad the storm held off until my hair was blue again. I don’t care what happens now, if I’m flying through the air for miles, as long as I have blue hair again.” I was kidding, of course, but I was relieved that I was blue before any tragedy would hit. Is that vanity or is that just good time management?

She said, “See? That’s why you’re one of my favorite people!”

Really? Oh gee!

I thought she only liked me because I tip her $20 whenever she does my hair. I feel so awful for her because I watch the schmucks who go in and get a $30 haircut and tip her a few singles. Even the women who get elaborate dye jobs tip $5. It makes me a little sick. I did the math and realized that in the three hours it takes her to bleach, dye, cut and style my hair, she likely could have cut and shampooed six people, and if they each tipped her $3 (which is low, but typical), she’d have gotten $18 in tips in the time it took to do my hair, and for me to give her $5-10 seemed unfair. She always acts like I hand her a diamond tennis bracelet when I give her the twenty, but it only seems right to me. Even if the entire cost charged to me for the three hours of work only totaled $60, I don’t base it on a percentage of the total charge but what I think her time should have been worth, and then I feel guilty for only giving her $20.

While I was there, I witnessed a slew of personal tragedies, without even considering that we were working through a tornado warning.

There was a terrible car accident where a deliveryman had crashed into the car of one of the stylists, so the police were called and a huge to-do was ongoing because this was the second time this deliveryman had hit a car belonging to one of the stylist’s, and he continually blamed them for parking in the parking spaces where they were supposed to. Uh-huh. That made no sense to the police, either.

A teenage girl came in and there was a collective gasp when the stylists saw her. She had that horrendous orange tan that announced loudly to the world that she spends an abundance of time in a tanning bed or swimming in sweet potatoes. But the most shocking thing was that she had clearly bleached her own hair, which was naturally dark, and it had taken on that nauseating orange-yellow color that’s as unnatural as her tan. Her hair looked downright scary. And what was even worse was the bleach hadn’t been evenly applied, so she had dark spots like a jaguar all over her head.

I’ve seen some freakish people before. Hell, some I see almost everyday, but I could not stop myself from gawking at this mess. The stylist who drew the short straw and was responsible for giving her a real hair color again was so terrified of this girl’s hair that they had to have a mini-meeting in the back to discuss what could be done and what colors might actually give her the blonde hair she was looking for.

Once we were out of earshot, my stylist, who is probably only about 25 herself, laughed quietly at the teenager and said that her friends liked to call people like her a rotisserie chicken because of the all-over orange look they seem to think looks good. I giggled. What is it about the beta-carotene look that is appealing to them? I liked the rotisserie chicken reference, too, but it made me hungry.

A family came in and I realized something quickly: it’s summer. Part of why I hate summer is because there are more kids out and about, raising hell and wreaking havoc wherever I go.

There were two boys between 6 and 8 years old, a younger girl of about 4 or 5, and an older girl of about 9 or 10. The girls got their hair cut first, and the guy cutting their hair was not having any of their nonsense. The boys grew impatient and began running around the salon side-kicking things, including hair dryers, women’s purses, chairs, and their own mother’s legs. She, of course, did nothing.

My entire body was tensing up, and I glared at the boys as if my Librarian Stare of Death had any kind of strength this far from my power source. It did not. They ignored me.

Finally, the stylist who was working on their sisters had enough. After the boys grew bored kicking things, they began bombarding him with rapid-fire personal questions and I think this was just too much.

He said, “HEY! You don’t get to talk! I get to do all the talking. You’re paying for my time – I’m not paying for your time. You don’t get to ask questions. You don’t get to do anything. You’re here to get your hair cut and that requires you to sit still and shut up.”

Dude! If he wasn’t gay, I’d kidnap him, marry him, and have no children with him for many happy years.

The mom took the boys out to the car to wait their turn and the girls didn’t make a peep for the entire rest of the time they were in there.

Usually this is a busy but quiet salon and I’m not sure that summer is going to be good to them.

My intention when I went there today was to get blue hair again and sorrowfully announce that this would be my last blue. The cost is just too much, and I have been unsuccessful doing the re-dye between seeing my stylist every 6 - 8 weeks. It was going to be sad, but I need to pay some bills off rather than make my hair blue.

But, as with all my good intentions, I not only didn’t make this announcement to my stylist, but I committed to a future appointment. AND, as if that’s not enough, we totally bonded today and I actually think we’re friends now. We laughed, we cried, we shared deep, dark secrets, and when I left, there was this awkward thanking of one another for being so wonderful, and I thought she was going to hug me. I probably would’ve hugged her back, too. I almost invited her to our Kool Kids gathering this evening, but it was a long drive for her and she worked until 9. It’s too bad. I think the girls would’ve liked her. She’s this extremely tall, extremely thin, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous girl who spends her time reading and hanging out with friends. Sounds familiar. You know, because we’re all tall, thin, drop-dead gorgeous chicks. (Ahem! *cough* *gag*) Whatever. We read, too! So, now that we’ve bonded and made plans for my next visit, I couldn’t bear to tell her that I can’t afford her anymore.

Eh, what’s more important? Having awesomely blue hair and a stylist who makes me cry, or paying my car insurance? CLEARLY the car insurance will be sacrificed! I mean, really, was that a choice at all?