Category: Published on Other Sites
Your Little Jessica is Clearly in the 58th Percentile
Posted by Amy Vansant in Humor Blogs, Published on Other Sites Tuesday, 8 May 2012 06:40 No Comments
First Published in Defenestration
It’s so cute, the way your little Jessica jumps for the bow in my Chloe’s hair. Jessica has good taste, I can tell you that! Jessica is…what? Three? Oh, she’s four? So is my Chloe! They must be in the same class at Key School! No? Not in school? Oh. Well, Jessica’s only four. I understand. Chloe’s been in school since birth, but she’s 98th percentile in “attention adaptability” so we feel it would be irresponsible NOT to keep her away at school most of the time. They charge us four times as much, but it’s worth every penny.
Yes, she is quite large for her age. Funny story about that…As a baby Chloe clamped on to me and we couldn’t detach her for six days. Had to pry her little gums open with a pair of silver ice tongs and a car jack. But there’s a bright side! We’re sure that incident accounts for her 99th percentile score in “atypical evolution progression,” and it saves so much money being able to share clothes with her. Thousands, really.
Whoops! Looks like Chloe’s lodged in the slide tube! Oh don’t worry, she’s broken free of much stronger materials than that — there she goes. Told you. Nothing to worry about at all.
The Heartbreak of Dog Bullies
Posted by Amy Vansant in Dog Humor, Humor Blogs, Published on Other Sites Friday, 24 February 2012 14:46 6 Comments
First published as a gracious guest blog on Naked Girl in a Dress
Newspapers are bursting with stories about children being bullied; but rarely is the phenomenon of Dog Bullying broached in polite company. It’s possible this is because when I hang outside polite parties with my ear pressed against polite windows I’m mishearing polite things, but I think polite people (my friends) just don’t discuss it.
My dog is a frequent victim of bullying. While my husband and I take pains before walks to be sure his kerchief is tied at a perfectly jaunty angle, other dogs repeatedly approach him in an aggressive manner. My mother-in-law’s mutt so intimidated our beautiful boy that he became one with the furniture, slinking around the room in the shadow of Lazy-Boys, terrified that mangy shelter-trash might notice him. We practically had to BEG him to come out from under the bed for his evening massage.
We whisked our baby away from that hostile atmosphere, only to have him double-teamed by a brother-sister terror squad during an otherwise peaceful beach walk. Jealous of his charm and poise, they menacingly circled our boy, forcing me to go Crouching Mommy Hidden Dragon on their furry asses until their cigar chomping owner finally put them back on their Hell Hound restraints.
Following the attack, my sweet puppy, Lord Underfoot, stared at me from behind one perfect curl flopping attractively over his left eye.
“Why?” said that beautiful, terrified gaze. “Why, Mommy, do they taunt me so?”
I’ve given that question a lot of thought and tried to learn from our mistakes. Attire is one area where I feel we’ve erred. We know now never let our dog wear a retractable key chain on his collar. It makes it much too tempting for other dogs to pull on the keys and snap them back into a dog’s face. Just hide the house key for him in one of those plastic rocks.
The Flu Diaries
Posted by Amy Vansant in Humor Blogs, Literary Humor, Published on Other Sites, Women's Humor Tuesday, 21 February 2012 07:03 17 Comments
First published in The Big Jewel.
Sunday
Brother-in-law invites us over to watch football. Upon arriving, he admits his youngest daughter is getting over the flu, but that he kept that fact a secret for fear my hypochondriac husband wouldn’t visit. What a scamp! My laughter drowns ominous foreshadowing music playing in the background.
I spend hours singing “Living on a Prayer” with older niece, who isn’t yet showing symptoms of illness shared by younger sister, a.k.a. “Patient Zero.” 40,000 viruses swarming video game microphone sing backup in screechy virus voices, but go unheard thanks to my stirring rendition of “Life is a Highway.”
I rock on.
Monday
We drive home. Viruses begin digging trenches, preparing for the upcoming battle. My white blood cells float around, high-fiving the red blood cells, nary a care in the world. They are complacent, thanks to the infrequency of my interaction with weapons of mass destruction known as “children.”
Tuesday
Normal work day. The viruses share battle plans through their hive-mind. “We are the Borg,” they say. “Existence as you know it is over.” The white blood cells shrug. They never watched Star Trek The Next Generation. They assume someone is mumbling about 1978 professional men’s tennis and, inspired, trot off for a quick match.
Wednesday
Wake up with sore throat, which I blame on window left open all night and/or allergies. White blood cells think “open window” theory seems a reasonable assumption and return to throwing clay in pottery class. One of the white blood cells puts on “Unchained Melody” from the Ghost soundtrack and they all have a good laugh.
Slightly Stalky
Posted by Amy Vansant in Humor Blogs, Published on Other Sites, Women's Humor Wednesday, 18 January 2012 06:11 3 Comments
First seen in Skirt! Magazine.
Wednesday Night Dart Night. Single and in my early thirties, a friend who had experienced my competitive nature and lived to tell the tale suggested Dart League at the local Irish Pub could be a fun place to meet men. While I did love the idea of throwing sharp pointy things, I remained dubious. Meeting men in a bar sounded so… meeting men in a bar. But I was tired of drinking café lattes at Starbucks alone with a good book while not-so-secretly trolling for sensitive types. (sorry, “girl alone with book at Starbucks,” we all know what you’re doing).
I agreed to go.
From the moment I stepped into that bar, I couldn’t take my eyes off of HIM. I knew the tall, brown-haired guy talking to the blonde with the impossible tits was THE ONE FOR ME.
Him, or the guy in the back who looked like Pierce Brosnan. A soft spot in my heart for Remington Steele opened that small window of possibility.
Remington stood surrounded by an entourage of enraptured beta-men, spinning the tale of his latest conquest. His night of passion had ended with the girl requesting an escort home. He refused.
“But it’s dangerous out there!” she told him.
Remington opened the kitchen drawer, found a knife, handed it to her, mumbled “There you go” and shuffled back to bed.
The entourage erupted into laughter.
“Stranger Danger” bells ringing in my head, I removed Remington from the running.
The players gathered to pick Dart Night teams. Bribing the guy in charge to team me with The One proved impossible. On the upside, “Tits” had left the building. I heaved a sigh of relief. Against that girl, my breasts were like bringing marbles to an A-Bomb fight. And we’re not talking Little Boy. We’re talking Fat Man.
Teamed with one of the better players (much to his chagrin) and not the object of my desire (much to my chagrin) I had a fantastic evening drinking vodka and sodas with a splash of cranberry. I tried to explain the irresistible pull of The One. Tall, clean, thin; he was definitely my type. He even had blue eyes and beguiling lips capped on one side by a hybrid dimple/laugh line. Sure, if I was going to build him like a car online, I probably would have thinned out his nose and sharpened his jaw, but that was getting really picky. He was also in his early thirties hanging out in a bar playing darts, but I couldn’t really complain too much about that thanks to the whole “glass houses” thing.
Physically, it was easy to see why I was attracted to him. The confusing part was why I had the sort of feelings for him that usually came after I actually SPOKE to someone and recognized a kindred spirit.
I awoke the next morning consumed with how that blue-eyed devil had stolen my heart, vowing to return to the scene of the crime. First, I washed my sheets, hair, clothes and coat because EVERYTHING smelled like smoke. At least when you came back from trolling at Starbucks you smelled like coffee and jazz CDs.
I spent the rest of the day planning my outfit, my hair, my banter. I returned to the pub at the crack of happy hour to find it empty but for two people: a bleach blonde guy and The One. Luck? Fate? Stalker intuition? Something had brought us back together. Vodka, perhaps.
The Sad Story of Chakra Khan
Posted by Amy Vansant in Humor Blogs, Literary Humor, Published on Other Sites Wednesday, 4 January 2012 05:43 10 Comments
A scene from my self help video, built upon lies.
First seen on You, Only Awesomer!
It all began in the late ’90s with a dream, a shelf full of crystal jewelry and a simple sign in the window offering chakra alignments.
When I started my shop, “Chakra Khan,” I didn’t set out to scam people. I had the purest of intentions. I have a real gift with auras. But then these boys started sloping into the shop with their flannel shirts and ankh tatted girlfriends, begging me to help them get in touch with their inner selves. I started feeling important.
I started getting greedy.
My decent began with tiny, white lies. If someone was perfectly aligned, I’d tell them they were little left of center. After I “fixed” them, they’d be so grateful they’d almost always buy some essential oils or a crystal necklace. But it wasn’t enough. I began offering “Free Alignment with Purchase of Oil.” On my signs, I underlined and italicized the “essential” in “essential oils” to emphasize how critical they were, like I was some kind of Madison Avenue slickster.
It wasn’t long before I was padding bills and making more repairs than necessary. Once I had a girl so off kilter, she stepped out of my door and smacked right into the side of the shop, like a child trying to walk after spinning in circles. I pretended not to notice and shut the door.
I’d never put much stock into being rich, but suddenly, I was able to buy the giant purple amethyst geode pair I’d always wanted. It had calcite growing along one edge and a row of amethyst “flowers” inside of it… I hardly had it displayed on my mantel before I found myself starting to purposely misalign my customer’s chakras, assuming they’d soon return and pay to have them realigned. Instead, I found shutting down the first and second chakras created an empty feeling that my musician clients actually appreciated. It enabled them to write more emotionally tortured music. Word got around. I became a sought after consultant for the post-grunge movement. I spent a full six months touring with the rock band Creed.
