Super Earthling

Interplanetary Dumbass

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 10:26:00 +0000

Aw…their ain’t nothing sweeter then gratitude. But she don’t need to thank us none. Me and you was glad to educate her in our ways. Your welcome little alien! Don’t be no stranger! :D

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Are You Ready, Tom?

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 17:50:00 +0000

Perhaps sugar and spice are not always nice…

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Not a Word Will He Disclose

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 11:29:00 +0000

For my latest cerebral undertaking, I’ve painstakingly and expertly paired vintage photos with meaningful and entirely appropriate captions from old, outdated publications, resulting in this sweet montage of joyful, carefree little boys.

In case you ever wondered why little boys grow up to be the way they are, perhaps this will provide some enlightenment.

Ah, yes indeed, if I’d been a little boy instead of a little girl, I’m sure I’d be all misty-eyed right now, wistfully reminiscing about my torn and twisted boyhood, but, of course, I wasn’t and so I’m not. :)

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Illustrated Definitions of Words Ending in “TION”

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 20:45:00 +0000

In a previous post, I helpfully and expertly provided everything you need to know regarding Big Words about Religion. I hope my post helped you to have some fun discussions about religion with your family and friends!

After reading today’s lesson, you’ll be able to converse confidently using big words with a TION suffix. In case you sucked at grammar, or have just forgotten what you learned, a suffix is the thing that gets tacked on to the end of a word, while a prefix is used at the beginning. The suffix tion changes a word from a verb into a noun.

There. See how much smarter you feel already? :D

I’ll list each TION word alphabetically and then use it expertly in a sentence.

Here’s ABOMINATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane was an abomination.
(Editor’s note: Remember to substitute the correct name in place of “Jane” when using these sentences.)

Here’s CONGLOMERATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane had a conglomeration of stuff.

Here’s HUMILIATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane experienced humiliation.

Here’s IMAGINATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane had imagination.

Here’s STIGMATIZATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane suffered stigmatization.

Here’s SUBLUXATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane had a subluxation.

Here’s TEMPTATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane liked temptation.

Here’s TRANSFORMATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane had a transformation.

Here’s VISUALIZATION, expertly used in a sentence: Jane loved visualization.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you vastly improved your vocabulary by learning about some words with the TION suffix, including what they mean, and how to adeptly use them in a sentence. There are many, many, many, many, many, many more words ending in TION. Like PROCRASTINATION. That’s what you’ve been doing while you’ve been reading this post!

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

What Sort of Contagion Do You Choose to Spread?

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 11:27:00 +0000

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Thanks and Have a Nice Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 11:30:00 +0000

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Don’t be Afraid to Dirty your Fingers with Stardust!

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 00:44:00 +0000

UPDATE: Oh but that’s not all! I need to tear your attention away from my own super amazing blog for just a moment so I can share this must-read post on another wonderful blog "30 Things to Stop Doing to Yourself" (take time to browse their other great posts too). I discovered this fabulous post through my daughter. Seriously...between this sensational article and my deliciously awesome New Year's post, you'll be well on your way to transforming your life!

If you enjoyed my post and think it may bring a needed smile to someone’s day, PLEASE SHARE! Thanks :)

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

When Life Gives You Material…

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 11:32:00 +0000

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

A Bra Story of Lift, Separation and Humiliation

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 11:30:00 +0000

At about $60, I’d call my new underwire bra expensive--at least more so than the cheapie ones from Target I’d been wearing. It was recommended by Oprah for providing excellent lift and separation for larger-busted women. Since my “girls” have sadly ventured south, I finally gave in and went to Nordstrom for my first bra fitting in decades (which is a blog-worthy story in itself.)

My pricey new bra not only lifts and separates as promised (an amazing feat, I assure you), it also fits like it was tailor made for me. Plus it makes me look about 15-years younger. It’s kind of like when you slather lotion all over your hands and they look 15-years younger for the next 5-minutes, except that the bra makes me look younger for the whole time I wear it, which makes me wish I could surgically attach it to my body.

So before heading for the Portland airport last week for a 2-night trip to Vegas with my husband, I put on my new bra along with my standard, comfortable air travel outfit, consisting of jeans and a black top with a scoop neck decorated with tiny circular silver-trimmed black plastic studs. I’d worn the top through airport security several times and had never had any problems with the small amount of metal in the studwork. I always make sure not to wear metal jewelry.

I felt happy, hopeful and excited and, more importantly, looked fabulous with the girls right back up where they’re supposed to be.

Everything went fine until we went through security.

Surprised at the alarm I’d set off, I touched the studwork on my top, saying to the security guy that it must be the metal, although that hadn’t happened before. They said it wasn’t the metal on my shirt because there was too little of it. They asked me to walk through the scanner again. BUZZ!!!

“Do you have any other metal on you, ma’am?” the security guy asked.

“No.” A tiny bead of nervous perspiration trickled down my temple. I hoped it didn’t make me look like a guilty terrorist.

“Are you wearing an underwire bra, ma’am?” he asked.

DOH!

“Oh, yes,” I said. I gushed nervous laughter and began to babble, which I tend to do when I’m tense. “It’s new. I just got it. I haven’t worn underwires in years because they were so uncomfortable the way they dig in all over,” I told the guy, who eyeballed me like I was an idiot. A guilty terrorist idiot. “So since I hadn’t worn one in so long--an underwire bra, I mean, not a regular bra, because I always wear a regular bra,” I went on, pausing just long enough to giggle and perspire, “I wasn’t even thinking about--”

“Female security attendant needed for full body pat down,” he said into a mouthpiece. And that shut me up fast.

As the woman put on a pair of blue plastic gloves, she calmly explained exactly what she was going to do. In response, I laughed and babbled to her all about the details of my new bra. I could see my husband, who was a few feet away, sort of cringing as I just kept talking and talking and…

Since I didn’t have to get undressed, I opted just to stay there instead of going into a private room. The rest is kind of a blur. It’s possible some of what I recall now may be an ever-so-slight exaggeration of the truth.

Although I suffered from PTMD (Post Traumatic Mortification Disorder) during the flight, and fretted about the deadly atomic rays that would shorten my life, I bounced back quickly, determined to fully enjoy my short stay in Vegas. While my husband toiled away in business meetings, I glitzed myself up, Vegas style. I curled my hair, donned shiny metal jewelry, my good jeans and a black top that was trimmed with black sequins.

Satisfied that I looked like the world famous author I am, I commenced practicing how I’d smile for the media as they interviewed me and took my photo after I won the mega progressive slot prize. Then I sashayed down to the casino and had a ball losing half the money I’d brought.

It’s a good thing I didn’t win the millions I’d planned on because I would have looked shitty for the photo shoot. The dry desert air had all but mummified me. My skin was flaking, my lips dry and cracked, my eyes were all bloodshot and my hair wild with static electricity.

When it came time to leave, I’d already carefully thought out my return flight outfit. I decided to do something I never ever do outside the house. Go braless. It was quite chilly in Vegas so I wore my black top with the studwork, a black cardigan over it, and a black pashmina scarf, hanging long and loose, cleverly concealing the sagging girls.

All I had to do was to briefly discard the sweater & pashmina while I walked through the security scanner and I’d put everything back on before anyone even noticed my unfortunate droopage.

Do I even need to tell you what happened when I walked through that damned scanner?

BUZZ!!!

Apparently it was some new type of ultra-sensitive, savagely life-shortening, extreme gamma ray scanner that the tiny studwork on my shirt set off. The entire security scenario I’d gone through at Portland’s airport was repeated. Back again through the scanner *BUZZ* where they showed me the picture of the glowing area near my neck and chest.

“We’re going to have to do a pat down, ma’am.”

Aw shit. “No, it’s just my shirt,” I assured them, running my fingertip along the studs. “See? That’s all.” I smiled my biggest, most innocent non-terrorist-looking smile. I’m pretty sure I almost had him convinced but then I spoiled everything by laughing and perspiring and biting the peeling cracked skin on my lip, making it bleed. And then I may have started babbling about how they thought I was a terrorist at the Portland airport too.

The guy called over a female attendant. My shoulders sagged along with my boobs.

What happened next was public mortification to the max.

I was not happy. I knew this mortifying event would most likely scar me for life.

But, true to my often annoyingly cheerful and positive glass-is-half-full nature, once again I quickly bounced back. How could I not, knowing the next day we’d kick off our family’s traditional holiday celebration by attending the annual Holiday Ale Festival?

It was great fun! With more than 50 winter brews, created specifically for the fest, the event is held under enormous clear-topped tents in the heart of Portland’s downtown. It’s packed with festive elbow-to-elbow people singing carols and having a joyous time.

Naturally, I wore my new underwire bra.

(BTW: once I got home from Vegas I happened to note on Oprah’s Facebook page something about the 7 things you should never wear when traveling by plane. Guess what was on the list.)

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

See Miss Cook. See Mr. Brown. And Important Stuff About Using a Knife.

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 11:45:00 +0000

Never cut an apple that you plan to eat raw with the same knife you just used to slice an onion without washing the knife first.

In case you’re wondering what the stuff about cutting an onion and apple has to do with the image above, the answer is nothing. It’s just a pungent lesson I learned firsthand today, so I thought I’d share it with anyone else who might be a dumbass like me.

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

The Pain and Heartbreak of When Babies Go Bad

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 11:16:00 +0000

Cute, cuddly, soft, sweet, huggable and adorable…that’s how most people feel about babies. Just look at the typical baby below.

Awwwww…

She’s just had a bath and is all dressed up in a darling little pastel outfit with hand-knitted booties. You can almost smell the baby powder and baby lotion. You can almost hear her gurgling a sweet little “gooooo” just for you. And don’t you just want to wiggle her little toesies and say “cootchie-cootchie-coo” so you can hear her endearing little gush of baby laughter?

But today’s topic is different. It isn’t about rosy-cheeked, cute as pie little dumplings who make mommy and daddy proud. No…this post is about the heartbreak of VBB: Very Bad Babies. I hope to make you aware of this growing problem causing devastation and heartbreak for thousands of families.

Take a long, hard look…if you dare. It won’t be easy. The disturbing photo below reveals a hardcore, badass gang of VBBs. The average person isn’t used to seeing beer-guzzling, cigar-chomping, tribal-tattoo-bearing babies wielding knives and guns, gurgling obscenities and giving grownups the finger as they toddle around in their stinky, poopie diapers--or worse yet, no diapers at all.

I’m sorry. I know that was hard to see. Nobody, least of all the parents of these infant delinquents, wants to admit something so heinous is possible. But it is. And VBB gangs like this are developing rapidly all over the globe.

Why?

Is it because their parents are too busy spending hours on the Internet to care for the needs of these poor, deprived babies? Could it be because their mothers ingested too much chocolate while their babies were still in the womb? Perhaps it’s because of the proliferation of processed foods? Too many video games? Too much TV?

Or is it because people are more worried about vampires and zombies than monster children?

Please, do your civic duty. Pledge to do your part to help find the reasons for this appalling problem so we can stop the population explosion of VBBs before it’s too late!

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Big Words about Religion

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 11:40:00 +0000

Have you ever felt perplexed about religion and all the big words that go along with it? Well now you can relax and breathe easier because I’m going to simplify this complex topic for you. After reading this lesson, you’ll be able to converse confidently about religion and will dazzle your audience with your amazing knowledge of big religion words!

Here’s THEOLOGY, expertly used in a sentence: Jane liked theology.
(Editor’s note: Remember to substitute the correct name in place of “Jane” when using these sentences.)

Here’s PIOUS, expertly used in a sentence: Jane was pious.

Here’s DOXOLOGY, expertly used in a sentence: Jane sang a doxology.

Here’s MONASTIC, expertly used in a sentence: Jane was monastic.

Here’s IDOLATRY, expertly used in a sentence: Jane did idolatry.

Here’s SECULAR, expertly used in a sentence: Jane did secular stuff.

Here’s ATHEISM, expertly used in a sentence: Jane did atheism.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you vastly improved your vocabulary by learning some big religion words, what they mean and how to adeptly use them in a sentence. Now you are all set to invite friends and family over to have a lively religious debate!

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

How Chocolate Saved the Wallflower

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 11:37:00 +0000

Even though I’m Super Earthling, I wasn’t popular in grade school. I was taller than most of the boys. I was shy and had zero self-confidence. I didn’t have cool clothes. I was basically a complete dork.

That made me an instant wallflower at coed functions, like the after school dances at the school’s social center. I was always in the last group who were picked to dance. Sometimes I didn’t get asked at all.

Years later I still remember that awkward period and how much it hurt when people made fun of me because I didn’t fit in and wasn’t cool.

There were occasions when I got picked on by a bully while others laughed. It was damn tough being a wallflower on the outside when, on the inside, I believed there was an attractive, likeable, confident, talented girl just waiting to emerge.

While everyone else seemed to have a blast at grade school parties and social functions, I felt tortured inside.

There were times when I thought about the future and just wanted to disappear because I couldn’t imagine years of going through the same shit. Maybe I could run away to someplace where girls like me were cool. Or maybe I could…

Fortunately, my foodie nature intervened, saving me from peril.

And that’s how I became a chocoholic. While being a chocoholic has had its share of problems, including my lifelong career as a yoyo dieter, I will always be grateful to chocolate for helping me to swallow down the pain and discomfort of being a decidedly uncool, unhip kid. Chocolate became my friend, my comforter. Is that psychologically screwed up? Maybe even crazy? Of course it is, but it’s okay because I learned to embrace my inner craziness a long time ago.

By some amazing miracle, I blossomed once I got to high school and became pretty and popular. Not mean girl popular, because I was never a mean girl, especially after knowing what it feels like to get picked on. I was just happy popular--as in I had lots of friends and got asked out on lots of dates and never had to be a wallflower again.

Yes, sure, I was a raging, diehard, card-carrying chocoholic before the age of sixteen, but if one must have a vice, I can’t think of a better one.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned about the lifesaving properties of chocolate and how becoming a chocoholic at an early age, and stuffing your face with chocolate during times of severe stress, can protect you from all sorts of hurt.

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Alien Conversations: Gogee Grapula from the Planet Yaxilangah

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 10:30:00 +0000

Being Super Earthling entails many important responsibilities, including hosting visitors from other planets. Over the years I’ve come to know some of them quite well.

I thought my readers might enjoy a glimpse into a recent visit I had from my little pink alien friend Gogee Grapula from the planet Yaxilangah. She’s very sweet and rather naive. The ways of Earth are understandably strange to Yaxilangahans, often causing spontaneous laughter, frustration and even fits of outrage.

Here’s part of what Gogee shared with me on her last visit…

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned the importance of keeping an open mind about aliens. You learned never to skimp on saliva when serving soup to a Yaxilangahan, and to show them the flushing box if there’s a lull in the conversation.

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Channeling the Beat Generation and the Original Hipsters

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 11:00:00 +0000

During high school and afterwards, I remember going on dates to coffee houses in Chicago’s Old Town.

They were filled with hipsters, who were quite unlike today’s neo-hipsters. These were the precursors, the aficionados of jazz music and the jazz lifestyle, with their own lingo, dress and attitude. They were cool, man, cool.

I’d sit there mesmerized, listening to them read their esoteric poetry, which was accompanied by the beat of bongos and sometimes a few plucks on a big bass fiddle in the background.

I was a wee bit too Doris Day-ish or Gidget-like to be considered hip, but inside I knew I was a hipster clear down to my soul.

Today I embody a curious mix of both of the above. Just use your imagination. It’s better than anything I could draw.

I’m an avid reader as well as a writer. I love books and hate seeing them thrown in the trash. I rescue old, dilapidated books and give the pages new life by embellishing them with my manic artwork, and reassembling groups of words on the page to create curious new stories.

I’m sharing a few of my altered pages with you today. You might enjoy making your own. It’s a fun, liberating, creative outlet that’s environmentally friendly too.

As you read these profound poetry pieces, imagine a dark, smoky room with me at center stage, playing my bongos as I give my soulful reading, the deep strum of a bass fiddle in the background.

(For easier reading you'll find the highlighted text alone shown beneath each altered page.)

(Above) His Sainted Mother

He lifted her down from the carriage while she peeled off her parrot. She reached up on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his animals.

Angel's feline eyes flattened in long-suffering boredom. Hunter could only stare, dumbfounded as his wife and his sainted mother, Mamie, attacked from the rear.

The stable boy grinned at Mamie. Mamie snorted from whence she had come.

(Above) Talk a Fantasy Out Loud

The look in his eyes. Serious. I was suddenly saddened. Reached out for him.
Powerful and amazing. I couldn't concentrate. Did I finally want to try?
Nervous. We waited. We analyzed.
Maybe this is how I could explain it. The smell was familiar and foreign.
It's exhilarating to verbalize your imagination. Talk a fantasy out loud.

(Above) Prepared by the Compositor

Opposite. Prepared by the compositor.
Appropriate. “Flopped.” Not a mirror image.

(Above) Searching for Shoes

Searching for shoes. My first dressy dress. Getting lost among the extravagantly beautiful things.
Looking for something made in Paris. Nothing seemed right.
Bras, camisoles, and slips. Lace-encrusted push-up bras in deep reds, golds, leopard.
Confections.
A buttery-soft black silk camisole. Outrageous. No excuse.
How does it look?
Ridiculous.

(Above) Phantom Husband

A phantom husband. I have a confession to make. Rumor has it the fine white china was smeared. I haven't been able to confirm or deny that yet.
Trust me. I'm just offering tranquilizers. Just to protect me.
His laugh surprised me. My helplessness had wounded me.
You've forgotten.

(Above) Chocolate Cake, a Large Slice

Wondering what might be wrong. No great losses, but now anything could go wrong.

Chocolate cake--a large slice.

According to the clock, our house had altered. I longed to come home. Silence and separateness distract me.

Wanting the heady taste of the chocolate.

Do you want some cake? Some coffee?

I'll bring it to you.

(Above) The Stub

The stub. Known as the stub.
Stub. The stub. Within the stub.
Stub.
Not ordinary.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned how to help save our environment by embracing your inner beatnik and creating esoteric poetry out of discarded pages destined for the trash. You also learned that today’s hipsters are totally not the same as yesterday’s hipsters, daddy-o.

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Helping Vampires and Zombies in Puberty

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 10:30:00 +0000

Puberty: The stage in the development of humans and other primates marked by the development of secondary sex characteristics, including menarche in females. In humans, puberty occurs at the onset of adolescence, causing individuals to become physiologically capable of sexual reproduction.

Clearly there’s been a grievous omission in the above definition. Yes, humans and primates are affected, but what about vampires and zombies?

As we all know, puberty can be traumatic; even more so if you’re one of the prepubescent walking dead on the verge of adulthood. Who can they turn to? Who answers their questions?

I ask you…is that not heart wrenching?

I’ve counseled thousands of vampire and zombie adolescents and have shared the following compassionate, reassuring and comforting words with them…

Finally, with teen pregnancy often being glorified these days, I did my best to detail the gritty truth about what happens to females during the birthing process…

And now I turn to you, dear readers, asking that you join me in my quest to educate these poor young people about their changing bodies. Remember, it’s not their fault that they’re vampires and zombies, so I beg you not to shun them if you see them on the street snacking on one of your neighbors.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned the importance of compassion and understanding when it comes to those less fortunate, and you learned how to skillfully address the often sensitive subject of puberty--even though you may be drained of blood or eaten by a grateful student should things go terribly awry.

With sincere gratitude for doing your part,

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Diet Cheater Visited by Satan, God and a Holy Unicorn

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 10:30:00 +0000

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned the vital importance of staying on your diet. The chilling incident above details merely one of the many possible pitfalls of being a lying, cheating, chocolate-obsessed dieter whose caloric transgressions are so deceitful and blatant they’re worthy of summoning Satan, Satan’s minions, and God into the same nightmare. The one good thing is you might get a holy teddy bear and a holy unicorn from God.

NOTE: If this post brought a smile to your day, PLEASE share it and help spread the word to everyone on the planet about Super Earthling. Thanks!

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Why my Husband’s Avatar Resembles Jesus in a Jumpsuit with Work Boots

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 10:30:00 +0000

When I started the Super Earthling blog, I told my husband and daughter I wanted them to be a part of it so it could be a family enterprise. It was important that they each have their own separate “Super” moniker, and I told them I’d create avatars for them according to their specifications.

In my Illustrated FAQ I explain our familial Super connection as follows:

The next generation’s Super Earthling is my daughter, Jen, whose official title is Spawn of Super Earthling. But she won’t get my cape and mask until I go up to the spirit in the sky. My husband, Mike, while indeed a man of great virtue and wit, can’t be a bona-fide Super Earthling since we don’t share the same gene pool. However, decades of marital osmosis, along with the fact that Mike excels at inadvertently providing me with awesome blog fodder, has made it possible for me to graciously grant him the title of Super Earthling by Proxy.

The last sentence above, you know, the one about my husband inadvertently providing me with awesome blog fodder? You’re about to see exactly what I mean. The following is EXACTLY how the creation of his avatar came to be.

“Okay, so you can choose any sort of image you want,” I told Mike. “It doesn’t even have to be a person. You just tell me what to draw and I’ll do it. Give it some consideration over the next few days and when you decide, just let me--”

“I want to be in a jumpsuit,” Mike said immediately.

“A jumpsuit? Oh…you mean like the spacesuit I made for myself for that picture in the FAQ you liked?”

“Yeah. Like that. But don’t make it puffy. It should look like a guy’s jumpsuit with cool patches and emblems and medals on it. And I want to wear my Chicago Bears cap.”

I got right to work and called Mike to show him the finished result.

His face fell. “It’s pink. You put me in a pink jumpsuit.”

“Yes, but it’s tailored,” I pointed out. “You’re secure enough in your masculinity to wear pink, aren’t you?”

“No. Yes! Susan, you know I don’t wear anything pink. Change it to gray.” Then his eyes bugged. “Jesus! You gave me red shoes with bows on them. You made me look gay! Are you trying to be funny?”

I shrugged. “I thought it would add a whimsical touch.” My smile was all innocence. “Notice I made them flats instead of heels like mine. And I didn’t give you red toenail polish.” I broke the prolonged silence by adding, “You know, you did say you wanted your outfit to look just like mine except for--”

“Forget it.” Mike crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “I don’t want to be a part of your blog anymore.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said, rolling my eyes. On the verge of further blurting that I thought his ‘I’m taking my toys and going home’ mentality made him a big baby, I paused and took a breath. For the sake of argument avoidance, I instead said, “I was just kidding about the shoes. I’ll change the picture and--”

“I don’t want to wear that glass bubble on my head. And don’t put me floating out in space. Just put me in a gray jumpsuit, not a spacesuit. And my Bears cap. And give me black shoes. Men’s shoes with laces,” he instructed. “And black socks.”

“Okay, but I’m curious about the jumpsuit. You’ve never worn one in your life, so why do you want to wear one in your avatar?”

“I’m going for a certain image.”

“And that would be an image of…?”

“You know, like a working guy.”

“You mean like a window washer? Or a guy who works in an airplane hangar, or maybe a janitor, or a retro gas station attendant? Or like Jack LaLanne, may he rest in peace--sort of like that? Even though you don’t do any of those things?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“But--”

“You said I could have whatever I wanted, right? So I want to be in a gray jumpsuit because I think that would be cool. Like I’m a badass character in one of my videogames. That’s how I want to look.”

“Like a badass working guy videogame character,” I restated, just to make sure were on the same page, which was necessary because our brains work so entirely different from each other it’s not even funny.

“Right. I mean, look at your avatar,” he said. “You made yourself look younger and thinner than you really are, so--”

Upon being nailed by my steely glare, a round of his nervous staccato laughter rang through the room. “Oh shit…I didn’t mean that, honey. Honest. You look beautiful. And thin. And young. You look just like your avatar.” His desperate, apologetic grin became almost clownish in width. He gave me a hug and kiss as I stood statue still. “You look just like you did when I married you, sweetie. You look better and sexier than Angelina Jolie. You look--”

I interrupted to let him know he’d groveled sufficiently and that I’d let him know when I’d finished his new avatar. Here’s what I created:

“Is this what you had in mind?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s great…but while you were drawing it, I was thinking. Do you think it’s a bad idea for me to be in a jumpsuit? I mean, like you said, I’ve never even worn one. People might not get what I was going for. Maybe my avatar should look exactly like me. Can you do that? Make me look like when I go to the office. Put me in khakis and a polo shirt, tucked in, with a belt. I like my green polo because it’s comfortable. And instead of my black shoes, put me in my boat shoes. I’ll just be me.”

“Sure. No problem.” Here’s what I created:

“My hair looks short. And thin.”

“Your hair is short and thin,” I reminded him. “You said I should make you look like you really do.”

“I look too conservative and boring,” he mused. I wisely kept my mouth shut. “Can you give me more hair? A little longer and not so thin. And maybe I should just be wearing my shirt on the outside for a more casual look. And get rid of the socks. I just want bare feet with the boat shoes.”

“But you never dress that way for work,” I noted. “You always wear socks and look neat.”

“Yeah, but that’s how I’d dress if I could dress the way I really wanted to.”

“If you dressed the way you wanted to, you’d be in jeans and a T-shirt every day.”

“Yeah but I think it’s better to keep me a little on the dressier side,” Mike said. “So people don’t think I’m a bum or something.”

A while later I presented him with this:

“I like the hair,” he said. The hair is good, much better, more like me, don’t you think? But,” he went on before I had a chance to lie in response, “I was thinking about what you said, you know, about jeans and a T-shirt. That’s what I usually wear around the house. So that would be the real me, wouldn’t it?” I nodded in agreement. “Okay, so keep the boat shoes with no socks, but put jeans on me, and a blue T-shirt. Make sure it’s not pink. And you can put my super name on the shirt across the chest.”

I smiled at that last part. “I see…and just what is your super name again?” I asked, knowing damn well he’d never get Mike, Super Earthling by Proxy right because men simply do not pay attention.

He gave a hopeful smile. “Super Earthling?”

“No. That would be me,” I informed him.

“Uh…Super Earthling…Proxy. By Mike. Proxy Earthling.” He paused and smiled, and I returned his smile, waiting for him to bury himself further. “Super Proxy Mike! See, I remember!”

I called him later for his approval on this:

“Okay, that’s very accurate.” He laughed. “But it makes me look dopey.” Nothing. I said nothing! “I like the jeans but I’ve decided I want to wear my Bears cap. And since I’m wearing my Bears cap, you can have me wearing my Bears T-shirt. I think that’s how I usually dress when I’m just hanging around, so let’s make that my avatar. Oh, and put me in work boots.

I didn’t see that one coming. “Work boots? But why? You don’t wear work boots. The last time you wore them was when you worked construction years ago.”

“I think it would look cool.”

I shrugged. “Jeans tucked in or out?”

“Tucked in.”

“And so you’re going for what sort of look here…?”

“Like a regular guy. In work boots.”

“I see.” Here’s what I came up with:

“The work boots came out good,” Mike said. “Do you think I should be wearing them in my avatar? Maybe I shouldn’t wear them because I don’t wear work boots in real life. What do you think?”

“I think you should look however you want to look, sweetie. I want you to be happy with your avatar because once I post it on the blog, I’m not going to change it. Whatever gets posted is the way it will stay. Permanently. So maybe you should think about it for a while so you’ll be sure to be happy and satisfied with your decision. Just go with whatever makes you happy. It doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks.”

“Okay, I thought about it.”

I frowned. “When?”

“Just now, when you were doing all that talking. What do I like to wear in the summer?” he asked. “Shorts,” he answered. “And when I’m not wearing boat shoes, I like wearing sandals. I think that’s a good look. It’s casual. It’s a good summer look. What do you think?”

“I think it would be a great avatar if we lived in Florida, but since we get very little hot weather here in Portland, you don’t really wear shorts all that often. But if it makes you feel good inside to see yourself in shorts and--”

“My khaki shorts. Not the black ones. You said they’re too long.”

“Um, right…khaki shorts and sandals. If you like that look, then I say go for it!” I winked and gave him a thumbs up.

“And give me more hair. Longer hair.”

“You mean like the length I keep trying to get you to grow your hair but you refuse?” I asked for clarification.

“Yeah.” He grinned.

And so I created this:

“Hey, that’s perfect,” Mike said. “Great job. But you know how you suggested that I should go with whatever makes me happy and that it doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks?”

“Yeah?”

Okay, if that’s true, then I want to go back to the original version I had in mind for my avatar. Me in a jumpsuit. There’s just something about the idea that I like.”

“Okay, sure, no problem,” I said. “So you want to go back to this avatar then?”

Mike shook his head. “No. Take off all the badges and emblems because it makes me look like I’m in the army or something. Just make it a plain jumpsuit. A gray one. Like a regular working guy. And I don’t think the Bears cap goes with the jumpsuit, so scratch that. But I decided I want long hair. And get rid of the gray.

“So how come whenever I suggest covering up your gray you always look aghast and refuse?”

“Because real men don’t color their hair. Cary Grant never did and you loved Cary Grant.”

“Yes, but I always said Cary made a mistake by going all white,” I reminded him. “He would have looked better with darker hair with just some gray at the temples when he got older. Anyway, that was decades ago. It has no relevance to you and your hair today. So how long do you want your hair in the avatar?”

“Shoulder length.”

“What?! Are you serious? You want me to make you look like a hippie or a druggie, or some Jesus freak?”

He smiled like he loved the idea. I was flummoxed.

“Don’t you think that would be cool?” my typically conservative-leaning husband asked, clearly no longer in his right mind. “And give me a mustache and beard.”

“Michael, you know you look like a bad imitation of Pancho Villa when you have a mustache.”

“That’s in real life. Just don’t make me look like Pancho Villa in the drawing and it’ll be okay.”

“But if I draw you the way you’re asking, you’ll end up looking like Jesus if he scrubbed toilets for a living. Is that what you want?”

“It would be cool,” he stated without hesitation for the umpteenth time.

“Mike, seriously. Think about what you’re saying. I mean, that’s like me making my avatar look like the Virgin Mary.”

“But I wouldn’t do that,” I continued, “because, one, I’m not a virgin; and two, I’m not Catholic; and three, if I were Catholic, I’d probably end up going to Hell for committing the sin of cartoon idolatry.”

“But I wouldn’t really be Jesus. I’d just look like him,” Mike pointed out, sounding curiously rational.

“I just don’t get why you’d want to look like that,” I said, “because, God knows, you’ve never looked anything like Jesus in real life, nor have you ever wanted to before. Plus it’s not like we even go to church anymore…and if we did, you wouldn’t go there looking like a drugged out, toilet-scrubbing Jesus because that would make sweet baby Jesus cry.”

“No it wouldn’t. Jesus has a sense of humor. He’d think it’s cool,” Mike said.

“And don’t worry,” Mike continued with a smile. “If you go to Hell I’ll go there with you.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better. I’ll get the handbasket ready.” I sighed, realizing I was getting nowhere fast. “I suppose you want to be wearing your sandals in the avatar so you look like you’re wearing Jesus-Christ-water-walkers with your jumpsuit. I mean, why not, right?”

“Hey, I haven’t heard that term in years,” Mike said, laughing. “But if you call them that, your younger readers might not know what you’re talking about. Plus your blog readers might think you’re verging on being blasphemous. So put me in work books instead. I like that idea better.”

“Well of course,” I said. “Because there’s nothing whatsoever blasphemous about my husband’s avatar looking like Jesus in a jumpsuit with work boots.”

Exactly,” he said, as if it made perfect sense. “And give me some tools in my pockets,” he added.

“Um…you mean like carpenter tools?”

“You know, like a hammer and a wrench or something. Working guy tools. That’s the avatar I want. I’m positive.”

“Okey-dokey.”

“Yes! That’s it! I love it! That’s my avatar!”

I blinked. “You’re kidding. Do you maybe want to sleep on this to make sure?”

“No, really. It’s perfect. Great job! Thanks, honey!”

“Because, like I said before,” I reminded him, doing my damnedest to penetrate his thick skull to reach the tiny, twisted little portion of his brain where reason and logic are supposed to reside, “once I post your avatar there’s no going back. My Super Earthling blog might not have a lot of followers yet, but it’s catching on fast. Are you sure you’re going to feel the same way in a month or two when my 500,000 new followers are gawking at your Jesus in a jumpsuit avatar and wondering WTF?”

“Ahahahahahaha! 500,000 followers!” Mike said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “That’s a riot, honey. You really are funny. Ahahahahahaha …”

And that’s the honest to God true story about why my husband’s avatar resembles Jesus in a jumpsuit with work boots.

My daughter’s “Super” moniker and avatar? That’s another whole story in itself.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned valuable information about the inner workings of the male brain; that male thoughts are skewed and populated with strange, WTF ideas that have absolutely nothing to do with anything females might consider sound, logical or rational--but make perfect sense to the male; and you learned how to gleefully exact vengeance by following your spouse’s instructions to the letter and creating the avatar of his choosing after he laughs at you and your blog. Finally, you learned that if you have to go to Hell because you’ve dutifully obeyed your spouse, to make damn sure he’s right there in the handbasket with you.

NOTE: If this post brought a smile to your day, PLEASE share it (*humble groveling…soulful anime eyes*) and help spread the word to everyone on the planet about Super Earthling. Thanks!

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

How to Avoid a Mental Collapse and Death-by-Roasting while on Vacation in Central Florida in August

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 10:30:00 +0000

I’m truly thankful to be alive to tell you about my steamy tale of woe. When I say steamy, trust me, it’s meant in the most UN-erotic sense imaginable. When it’s 6 bajillion degrees outside and 4,000% humidity, erotic urges as well as the desire for chocolate (yes, really) are laughably nonexistent. Unless maybe if you’re an iguana.

I don’t want to insult Floridians. Honest. I don’t hate your lovely state…generally. I only hate it if I have to go there. In August, I mean. It wasn’t my idea to travel to Orlando in August, it was my husband’s. To be fair, it was the idea of the organizers of the huge business convention he had to attend. I’m guessing they must have got a damn cheap price for everything seeing as how it’s the time of year rational people avoid frolicking in steam pits.

Since we were going to be there in Orlando, home of the famed **Malt Steamy World Resort, anyway, we decided we may as well extend the trip for a few days and visit the parks because we were able to purchase tickets at a slight discount off the usual $75,999 for two people for four days of Steamy bliss.

(**In case you hadn’t realized it, Malt Steamy World Resort is fictitious. Since the real company is notorious for their litigious nature when their name or characters are bandied about, especially in a negative light, I have employed artistic license, ingeniously disguising the company’s identity so well that you have no clue whatsoever about the name of the actual resort in Orlando. Such witty, clever thinking is, of course, why I’m Super Earthling.)

I need to make it clear that I’m not a summer sort of girl. I’m pale to the point of often being mistaken for a white china dinner plate. My husband seems to find it amusing to tell me *repeatedly* that I have chicken legs. Not in shape, but in color. After a short time in the sun, I become a red china dinner plate who still has white chicken legs.

By sharing these painful truths I’m hoping to become more sympathetic and endear myself to you.

My wardrobe, sense of style, and…fluffy body shape reflect the fact that I’m not a sun worshipper. The majority of my attire is black except for my jeans. I don’t wear shorts and expose my chunky knees in public. Ever. The closest I get is capris or rolling up the cuffs on my jeans. I never wear anything sleeveless to avoid having people mistake the flapping white flesh above my elbows as wings.

I brought along my sketchpad and made use of it while on the long flight from Oregon to Florida. A believer in positive thinking and the law of attraction, I envisioned myself luxuriating in Downtown Steamy, which was across the street from our hotel. It was billed as a great place to shop and relax over a cool drink. I pictured myself going there and having strong coffee and a croissant at a cute little outdoor café for breakfast and then sipping champagne for lunch as I worked on sketches for my blog. I would, of course, look like a celebrity.

But it wasn’t like that. At all. There were no cafes, cute or otherwise. There were just shops filled with Steamy logo stuff, and outrageously priced restaurants with mediocre food. And then there was the sun. And the humidity. Seriously. I can’t even explain how horrible it was.

I was chagrined.

After the convention ended, Mike and I headed for the Steamy World’s Steamcot theme park with its Global Showcase areas. This entailed taking a bus from our hotel, which was a very nice hotel, but not one of the “starred” resorts that are super close to the theme parks. The hotel’s starless standing placed our totally unshaded bus depot at the extreme far end of the truly humongous transportation area. The walk to Steamcot’s entrance gate alone was ungodly long in the relentless sun and drenching, hair-frizzing humidity.

Once inside the gate, after another reeeally long walk, there were a couple of attractions and shops. To get to the Global Showcase (the part that features assorted foreign countries to browse), the lengthy, full sun trek nearly did me in. I became twisted, maniacal and teetered on the brink of insanity. My only respite was in blurting expletives as we walked, causing my husband to elbow me repeatedly because there were children all around us and I should control myself so as not to taint their tiny sunburned ears.

I tried I really did. But I had lost all semblance of normalcy and decency by then. I found myself letting forth with colorful language like a drunken sailor and I didn’t give a damn.

In case I haven’t proven myself to be a sympathetic enough character, please allow me to further endear myself by making another painful and deeply personal confession: I don’t have cute feet and can’t wear cute shoes.

Those little red open-toed mules that you see me wearing in my Super Earthling avatar? They’re nothing more than wishful thinking. Simply the stylized dream of a girl stuck with size 9-1/2-wide, flat, archless feet.

The only shoes I can find that fit me are pitifully uncute. If I were going for the cover of Hot Elderly Babes, then the standard orthopedic styles I can wear would give senior citizens with foot fetishes excited palpitations. Crocs’ clunky but comfortable clogs have become my daily go-to shoes. My dressy shoes are a pair of black mary jane walking shoes which are, thankfully, mostly concealed by the bottoms of my long black pants. The only sandals I can wear are of the industrial sort with sturdy straps. Flip-flops are out of the question because my feet are too wide and spill off the sides.

So for my Steamcot outing, I wore capris jeans, a long-sleeved stretchy black top, sterling silver jewelry, and my clunky clogs without socks. I never go anywhere without makeup, jewelry and nicely styled hair because that way people will be mesmerized by what’s going on with the top third of my body and be completely oblivious to the fact that my bottom third is a pathetic cry for fashion help.

I didn’t wear a hat. I hadn’t thought to bring one to Central Florida in August. (Yeah, I know…but remember, Super Earthling is super, not perfect.) But I did have my big, fashionable movie star sunglasses. My husband looked normal with his Havana-style shirt, khaki shorts, sandals (no socks, of course), ball cap and sunglasses.

By the time we were halfway to the global area of our choosing we both had badly blistered feet, were sunburned (I tried to remember to pack sunscreen but I can’t be expected to remember everything), my hair looked like Bozo’s and everything I wore was drenched with sweat, including the pantiliner threatening to slip off my panties and travel down my capri-clad leg. On top of that, my just-before-leaving-for-vacation-freshly-colored brown hair had bleached to a curious shade of orange on the crown of my head.

Thank all that’s holy that I had the good sense to wear waterproof eye makeup because my face was sheeting perspiration to the point where it was dripping from my eyelashes and the tip of my nose.

The park was crawling with children. Unhappy, cranky, crying, whining children, complaining about being hot as they and their families slowly roasted beneath the ruthless sun. We heard numerous parents reprimanding their offspring, warning them to shut up and have fun or else they’d have to leave. Their reddened faces becoming hopeful, the kids begged to leave. The parents advised them to ignore the heat and focus on the costumed characters. The children cried harder. The parents screamed at them about all the money this was costing and shouted about how they should be grateful.

Normally cheerful, pleasant and patient, I slowly found myself morphing into a bad-tempered persona somewhere between cranky, disagreeable old bag and whining rotten child. I informed my husband that this uncharacteristic display of bitchery would most likely become my permanent personality should we ever be foolhardy enough to move to Florida to retire.

Mercifully, we finally arrived at the German biergarten, looking forward to air-conditioning, icy cold brews, and smiling, attentive staff. We were chagrined to find a tiny outdoor area that was dirty and unkempt with staff crankier than I was by that time and only two almost identical types of pale, lackluster beer that may as well have been Bud or PBR. It was just barely cold. The soft pretzel we ordered to split had that awful fake butter stuff on it that tastes neither like butter nor margarine. It was an abomination and not traditional German fare as promised.

Our grueling trek had been for naught…and now I was too damn cranky/sore/tired/wet/blistered to give two shits about shopping at any of the global markets I’d planned to patronize. I just wanted to leave. But I wanted to do it without having to use my feet. I thought, ever so briefly, about slinking my butt into one of the wheelchairs, available for handicapped guests, and rolling myself back to the front gate, but I was afraid God might think I liked the idea of being wheelchair-bound and graciously grant my wish.

So I kept hobbling along, lamenting the fact there were no vehicles of any sort, horse drawn, mechanical or otherwise, to transport par-baked theme park attendees around the oven-like grounds. To my glee, Mike discovered a ferry that, while not delivering us back to the front of the park, would at least give us a short respite from walking on sore, blistered feet beneath the scorching sun. (Have I mentioned yet that there was little to no shade?) As I hauled my roasted self on the ferry I was reminded of the River Styx in Greek mythology where dead souls are transported to the afterlife. I wondered if there would be cold beer on the other side. As with the wheelchair scenario, I decided it was best not to ponder that thought.

We still had miles to walk after the ferry to return to the front gate, and then that across-the-Gobi-Desert-hike to get back to where the bus would pick us up. Somehow we made it…right after the bus departed. They ran every 30 minutes. I debated about indulging in unbridled bawling.

That was day one.

It was because of all of this that happened that first day in the theme park that I narrowly avoided a nervous breakdown during a mortifying fashion catastrophe the next day.

This is what I looked like when I left our hotel room on the 2nd day. Explanation to follow:

Day number two made day number one seem like a breezy island hop in the Caribbean.

The temps were hotter and the humidity higher. I shopped in the hotel’s boutique for a hat or visor because I was too stubborn, tired and crabby to purchase one while we were in Steamcot. The only thing without cutesy dots or stripes or flowers was a straw visor with black trim and an extra-wide brim. It looked like shit. But I bought it to keep my husband from lecturing me while we trekked through Magic Steamdom.

Since every damn top I brought was black and stretchy, even I knew it would be like encasing myself in a slowcooker. So I looked for something white or light colored in the boutique. Apparently everyone who shops for clothes in Orlando wears a size small or extra small. I reasoned it was probably due to extreme moisture loss due to continual roasting. God help them if they ever move to a non-humid climate. One glass of water and whoa! Thar she blows!

I did bring one light colored garment with me. It’s an all linen camp shirt, about 2 sizes too big. It served me well when I was heavier but made me look like a barge. A seriously wrinkled barge cuz, again…linen. The reason I brought it was for bumming around the hotel room comfortably during the daytime when my husband, Mike, was at his convention meetings. It was for those times nobody would see me. Dear God in heaven…I had no choice but to wear the damn thing.

My feet were so badly blistered, going without socks was impossible. The only shoes I could wear semi-comfortably were my black mary jane walking shoes. The only socks I’d brought along were black for the evenings. Back down to the boutique where I found some white half-socks. I cried, I mean literally cried, on the way back to the room to get dressed because I knew it could be my last day on earth because I would DIE a thousand deaths if anyone ever saw me looking the way I knew I’d look in my wrinkled mess of a tent-like shirt, rolled-up capris, super dorky straw visor and black shoes…with white socks.

At least I had my big, beautiful movie star sunglasses to hide behind.

Remember the picture I showed you before? This one:

Notice the sunglasses. As soon as we arrived at Magic Steamdom, my glasses fell apart. Desperate, I asked Mike if he thought I could wear them anyway. He looked at me and, to the man’s credit, tried not to laugh. He really tried because he knew how miserable I was, appearing in public looking like a dumpy old bag lady. But this was the last straw. As I stood there tilting my head just so, trying to get the glasses to stay on my face, he burst out laughing.

I had already endured the popping eyeballs on a group of twenty-something cute, skinny girls whose gazes flew to my white socks and mary janes when I got on the bus.

They kept looking at me and snickering. I don’t blame them. The only thing that kept me from whimpering was taking joy in the thought that one day when they’re as old as I am, God will punish them by giving them public humiliation due to fashion disasters of their own.

At least they couldn’t see my eyes…and the abject humiliation and mortification there--because I still had my movie star sunglasses at that point. I listed that in my gratitude journal.

Mike told me I really needed to find another pair of sunglasses. We searched all over. There was one pair that was decent but it cost almost $50. No way was I going to spend that much on sunglasses I didn’t even like. Mike laughed again, pointing out the only other alternative: children’s character sunglasses. He made a joke about me getting those instead. After noticing my steely glare, he urged me to get the pricey sunglasses. As I argued with him, some rich bitch came along and snatched them up and bought them, without even blinking an eye. I know she was a rich bitch because she plopped the fifty buck sunglasses on her whiny, snotty-nosed kid’s face.

And that’s how I ended up looking like this:

Do I even have to begin to express my mortification? The degradation? The shame and embarrassment? I think not. Now I no longer looked like a dumpy bag lady…I looked like a crazed escapee from a dork asylum.

On day three we went to the Steamy Movie Studios theme park. I was no longer in my right mind. I kept hearing growling noises and snarling and even after I realized they were coming from me I didn’t bother to stop them because they somehow gave me comfort. I slapped band-aids all over my blistered feet and wore my sandals without any socks. And I wore a dark shirt. Fuck the sunglasses, I didn’t need any.

The world around me had become one big, giant irritant. The sound of whiny, crying, screaming kids had become unbearable and I wanted to scream at them to shut the fuck up and then scream at their parents to control their lousy brats. It was crowded. Horribly, terribly crowded. I was surrounded by rotten kids, tottering, cranky old people, and huge groups of people who had obviously never heard of deodorant.

And I was ready to mow them all down if they even looked at me funny.

Yes, I know this all makes me look bad but part of my mission as Super Earthling is to tell all, so that my fellow Earthlings can learn to avoid the same mistakes I’ve made. I am committed to honesty. To sharing the good along with the bad. Freely and openly admitting to the world when I have morphed into a scary, demented, snarling beast-woman, capable of mowing down toddlers and the infirm. And people with B.O.

That’s why I’m going to share with you the shameful and yet awesome story of what happened next.

It started when some big fluffy Steamy Movie Studios animal character, all dressed up like a brightly uncoordinated idiot approached me, dancing around me as my flesh melted from my body, pooling onto the steaming pavement.

“Hoo-hoo! Hee-hee! Ha-ha!” the character sang as it danced around me. I figured he/she/it had lost its mind too, being dressed in that hot, furry costume. But I didn’t give a shit. I was long past giving a shit.

“Hoo-hoo! Hee-hee! Ha-ha!”

“Hoo-hoo! Hee-hee! Ha-ha!”

“HOO-HOO! HEE-HEE! HA-HAAAAAAAAAA!”

And that’s when I reached my breaking point.

After scaring the poor costumed character (who was probably some impressionable teenager who’ll never, ever be the same again) shitless with my perfect impersonation of Robert De Niro on crack, I felt invigorated. Oh yes I did. I felt empowered! Invincible!

My husband was scared. And Embarrassed. And keeping his distance lest I turn my De Niro wrath on him.

I elbowed past Mike and everyone else in my path.

And then I went to war with the sun.

Don’t ask me where I got my death ray ice guns because I don’t remember. Perhaps they were on sale at one of the kiosks. Perhaps the universe smiled upon me in my hour of need and magically provided them. All I know is that I gave it all I had. After what seemed an eternity of fighting, it was over.

The next morning, day number four of the hell that is Orlando in August, we set out once again for a theme park to use up the heinously expensive admission tickets we’d already paid for in advance. We boarded the bus and rode to our destination. But we, as well as everyone else on the bus, didn’t disembark. We all stayed on the bus and headed back to our hotels.

Why? Because I had succeeded in blotting out the sun.

Wind whipped as torrential rain slashed upon the scorched earth. Thunder boomed and lightning cracked through the dark, sunless sky. Everyone ran for cover after getting off the bus but I stood there basking in the cool water drenching my battle-weary body.

Ten minutes later, the coolness disappeared. It became more humid than the steam pits in hell and the heat returned with a vengeance. That’s when I ran for cover.

Although I’d succeeded briefly in blotting out the sun that day (Floridians, that’s why you had that dark and nasty rainstorm a couple of weeks ago), alas, the sun gods weren’t happy. For the rest of the trip, and even after I returned to the lovely, non-humid Pacific Northwest, I was plagued by threatening dreams.

That’s exactly how it all happened.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned valuable information regarding why traveling to Orlando, Florida in August is a dumbass idea; how to pack properly for a vacation in hell; how to traumatize costumed characters, toddlers, the elderly and stinky people for life; how to cling to the last vestiges of sanity; and how to blot out the sun if all else fails.

NOTE: If this post brought a smile to your day, please share it and help spread the word to everyone on the planet about Super Earthling. Thanks!

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

Happily, Life Provides Swollen Ankles and Adequate Indignity

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 08:08:00 +0000

I recently returned from a trip to Orlando, Florida. Yes, that would be Central Florida…in August. (I’ll explain in a future post.) I’ve been working diligently on a series of new blog drawings, prompted by a couple of unholy, hellish incidents I endured while in the midst of the aforementioned swampland where humidity reaches 4000% before dawn and the sun mocked me all day as I tried to escape its skin-roasting rays while sci-fi-sized bugs hungrily eyed my plump flesh.

Today’s post focuses on my amazing ability to maintain a positive attitude even when I’m feeling highly unattractive and bordering on hysteria.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned valuable information regarding how to continue working with a positive, upbeat attitude and renewed vigor even though you may be suffering from jetlag, you resemble a swamp creature with swollen ankles, clown shoes and a crooked tiara, and you’ve just returned from a land where it’s so ungodly hot and humid you didn’t even feel like eating chocolate.

NOTE: If this post brought a smile to your day, please share it and help spread the word to everyone on the planet about Super Earthling. Thanks!

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

How I Survived The Beef Fat Incident and Lived to Tell About It

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 10:20:00 +0000

Prepare yourself to be traumatized by a story so heartbreaking it will surely move you to tears. But in the end, as with all of Super Earthling’s gripping Life Lessons, you will come away from this experience wiser and more enlightened than you are at this moment.

Life as Super Earthling has been eye-opening. I’ve learned it’s rarely easy for people who grew up in a happy, loving, sunshiny, joy and laughter-filled family like this:

to understand what it’s like to grow up in a dysfunctional family…like this:

Over the years, friends I’ve told about The Beef Fat Incident have asked if I perhaps exaggerated or artfully colored the tale with an extra dab of dramatic flair to make it more interesting. Their questions were like a knife in my heart, making it difficult to express myself clearly as I responded. Exaggerating? Seriously? I think not.

Little did my clueless friends know that

I realized these progenies of Leave it to Beaver-type families who looked at life through rose colored glasses, would never believe my heartrending tale of beef woe unless I pretended that I came from a somewhat normal family. Being Super Earthling, I think I managed this difficult task rather convincingly.

And now I’m going to share my tale with you. As the story unfolds, do keep in mind that,

But since I write comedy and not horror, and because I don’t want to give anyone bloody beef nightmares, I’ll leave the gritty truth to your imagination. It all started when I (sweet, innocent little Susan, the future Super Earthling), sat at the kitchen table at dinnertime under the watchful eye of my father as he served me the dinner he’d just *cough* cooked, for lack of a better word…

poor little beef-hating Susan said with a distinct shudder as she eyed the bloody, bulky mass of still pulsing flesh ringed with a greasy, juicy inch-thick strip of translucent white fat on her dinner plate. The sickly pool of deep red juices oozing from the not nearly dead enough piece of cow reminded her of a scene straight out of a horror movie.

Susan’s rare-cooked-beef-loving father said, spearing a glob of the gelatinous, greasy white stuff and aiming the fork at the mouth of his horrified daughter. It was difficult for her to focus as the cow’s pitiful death rattle filled her ears.

A true humanitarian in the making, Susan considered her father’s words about the deprived children in China, offering what she believed to be a sound and reasonable suggestion, once her gag reflex had subsided.

Clearly not amused or a proponent of her charitable idea, her beef-fat-adoring father spoke words to Susan that filled her with a small speck of hope.

Susan’s tiny child brain struggled in vain to come up with additional sarcasm so she could get the hell away from the table and the horrendous globule of shiny beef fat aimed at her mouth. But there was a problem…

Her burgeoning brainpower and first class wit helped little Susan to form a brilliant plan…

Perhaps, Susan thought wisely, it was not the time for levity.

“You have no idea how good you have it,” her father admonished, turning the forkful of fat this way and that, salivating as he admired the hideous congealing blob that had been savagely torn from the underside of the now mercifully dead cow’s hide.

Having already endured more beef-related trauma than she thought she could possibly bear, poor, dear little Susan wasn’t prepared when her father’s next words caused her mind to implode.

Horrified, speechless and forever traumatized by the heinous, gut-roiling mental image her father had just verbally painted,

affording her sadistic, beef-devoted father enough opportunity to deposit the congealing chunk of fat on the back of the unsuspecting youngster’s tongue…

And it was then that Susan, future Super Earthling, had her first

Much of what happened after that is a blur, except for Susan’s chilling and distinct memory of her father’s dire warning that whatever she didn’t finish on her plate would be served to her the next morning for breakfast. Cold. Today, Super Earthling hesitates to tell you that her father was indeed a man of his word, but tell you she must.

Understandably meat leery, over the years Susan cautiously ventured into beef territory with agonizing slowness and considerable apprehension…always cognizant of the distant, ghostly mooing of cows she had haplessly ingested through no fault of her own.

Born and raised in Chicago (you know, former home of the Union Stock Yards--the city known as the Hog Butcher to the World)

Susan grew up willingly eating White Castle sliders and Italian beef sandwiches. She discovered that beef (as long as it bore no resemblance whatsoever to the unsuspecting cow it once was), cooked well done and

was not altogether a bad thing.

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned valuable information regarding how to survive (mostly mentally intact) and thrive after suffering a blood-drenched, fat-smothered, undead mooing animal ordeal at the hands of an authority figure.

NOTE: If this post brought a smile to your day, please share it and help spread the word to everyone on the planet about Super Earthling. Thanks!

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

How to Maintain Your Cool When Someone Calls You a Ho

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 10:30:00 +0000

One of the reasons I excel at being Super Earthling is because acute blunderosity occurs in my life far more often than average, thereby providing me with an infinite number of lessons learned that I graciously share with others. In this valuable Life Lesson you will benefit from one of my recent online gaffes so that you may avoid committing the same social networking blunder in the future.

The unfortunate ho incident that follows occurred while I was signed into Twitter using my author pseudonym (Daisy Dexter Dobbs) account.

I don’t tweet a lot, and when I do, I don’t DM (direct message) people unless I want to send private get well wishes, condolences, or to offer congratulations.

My name, tiny Twitter bio and website URL are already there in my profile if people want to know more about me or my books, so there’s no reason to annoy the hell out of my followers by spamming them.

It’s especially annoying when the spammer is another writer.

The other day I decided to follow a writer who was now following me. He uses the title of one of his books as his Twitter handle instead of using his own name.

The next morning I signed on to Twitter and there’s a DM from @McCrappyBook saying (with slight modification to protect the spam perpetrator’s identity): “Since you're into reading, do you know the series of 23 [his particular genre here] books & e-books by Scot, Rufus McSpammypants?”

I focused on the “Since you’re into reading” part and I’m thinking, does this jerk even realize he’s spamming another writer? Did this spammy McRatbastard even bother to learn anything whatsoever about me before he followed me or sent his brazen spam DM? No, clearly I was just another potential dollar sign in the vast sea of poor clueless suckers @McCrappyBook is following.

I figured that was the end of it.

Not so.

I woke up the next morning to this tweet (not a DM this time) from @McCrappyBook: “One presumes you didn't like my one intro message. Hey, ho...can't please everybody. LOL”

My eyes bugged.

I read the tweet again. Jesus. There it was, a big “Hey, ho” right there in public for all the tweeting world to see.

I seethed and complained and sputtered to friends, neighbors, countrymen and all who would lend an ear about how stunned I was at the sheer audacity of this miserable lowlife spamming sonuvabitch writer actually sinking to the scummy level of calling me a

just because I didn’t like him spamming me!

Once I’d calmed down a bit I noticed that aside from calling me a ho, his tweet refers to his “one intro message”, which had me laughing as I fumed.

This idiot considered a 100% pure prime spam message about his books, complete with Amazon link, to be an intro message? What the hell ever happened to

Oh how I wish I could say this was the end of my story. How I yearn to leave you with this heart tugging tale of woe so you can feel sorry for poor little mistreated Super Earthling and add your compassionate comments here assuring me you know I’m not a ho but a very nice woman who truly doesn’t deserve to be labeled a ho in public.

But then this wouldn’t really be a tale worth telling, much less a Super Earthling Life Lesson, if it ended here, would it?

The next day I came across a delightful comment on another blog. It made me smile to read what the charming 75-year-old UK writer named Barry had to say. He’s just now venturing into indie publishing. I replied to his comment, letting him know how wonderful I think it is that he’s following his dream rather than letting age, or anyone’s discouraging opinions, stand in his way.

Why, you may ask, is this little tidbit about Barry from the UK relevant to my tale of being called a

Barry sent me an email thanking me for my nice comment. Apparently he’d tried to post a comment on my blog but, as often happens in the world of blogging, something went awry and the comment wouldn’t post. So he tells me “Hey ho!” and goes on to thank me,

because I realized this nice man very probably wasn’t calling me a ho too and that the phrase “hey ho” must be some common UK expression meaning something akin to “oh well” and my mouth fell open into a silent scream of horrified mortification as I recalled how I whined and complained and ranted and raved the entire previous day about Mr. @McCrappyBook calling me a

when in fact he never did.

*deeeep breath*

So as you can probably imagine, I felt just the teensiest bit embarrassed for having leapt to such an outrageous conclusion.

Of course, that doesn’t erase or excuse the fact that Mr. @McCrappyBook a/k/a Rufus McSpammypants is still a spammer, so there was a scrap of vindication trickling around inside me somewhere beneath the flood of humiliation. And because Super Earthling is, after all, still human, regrettably I am prone to the occasional albeit brief vengeful notion.

In any case, I learned my lesson (although I doubt old Mr. McFuckityFuck has learned his, or ever will).

In this Super Earthling Life Lesson you learned valuable social networking protocol regarding how to react AND how not to react when someone calls you a ho.

You are cordially invited to follow @SuperEarthling on Twitter. If you send a tweet saying “Hey ho” I’ll know you came from reading this post. (Don’t worry…I promise not to kick you in your privates.)

NOTE: If this post brought a smile to your day, please share it and help spread the word to everyone on the planet about Super Earthling. Thanks!

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

The Bloodcurdling Labor Pains of Birthing a Bigass Illustrated FAQ

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 09:35:00 +0000

I’m recovering from a stressful pregnancy and agonizing birth. I was long past my due date, intensely impatient, and couldn’t wait to get the damn thing out. Labor was intense and lingering. The unborn offspring was forever pestering me, kicking its tiny feet and fists and wailing holy hell 24-7, from conception to birth.

Lord how I wanted to just get a C-section and be done with it. But that wasn’t possible since the baby wasn’t nestled in a fleshy sack inside my gut. It was inside my head. In my brain. Wiggling and digging its annoying little toes in my gray matter.

At least I didn’t have to be bothered by all the slimy, messy fuss of umbilical cords, big bloody livery placentas, or a saucer-eyed expectant father in danger of fainting. I didn’t escape postpartum blues though, probably due to the appearance of excess poundage after I’d been eating for two…dozen.

It was more than two dozen actually. I gave birth to a massive litter.

If you’re a normal person, you might be thinking this all sounds rather alienesque, or perhaps ever so slightly mentally ill-ish. If, however, you’re an artist, writer or other creative type, chances are understand because you too have given birth from your spinal cortex.

I, Super Earthling, am proud to announce that I had finally given birth to a bold, bigass, endlessly burgeoning FAQ! I’ll share a couple of newborn baby pictures with you:

To see the questions for the above answers, as well as the other illustrations, visit the shiny new Illustrated FAQ page here (there’s also a button on the menu at the top of the blog).

You’ll also see a link up on the menu bar for the Life Lessons page. I’ve updated that with a list of categories and topics covering some of the posts you can expect to see here in the near future. Most of the posts will be illustrated.

Special thanks to Sandra, of the splendidly interesting and entertaining Absolutely Narcissism blog (fabulosity at its finest!). Her gentle nudge, suggesting that I post or get off the pot (okay, she didn’t exactly say that but I thought it added a certain dramatic flair) was the final push I needed to put the finishing touches on the FAQ drawings and get them posted.

(*For the rest of this post, please imagine me with huge adorably sorrowful anime eyes and a timid but irresistible smile.*)

This is a brand new blog. I haven’t done any real promo for it yet because I wanted to keep things under wraps until I had the FAQ ready. So thanks very much for taking time to come check it out. I appreciate it! If you like what you see, I’d be ever so grateful if you shared it so other people can find Super Earthling too. If, on the other hand, you hate this blog, then all I have to say to you is: Lima Beans (if you read the FAQ you’ll understand).

Please, PLEASE, don’t make me beg for comments on my posts and on my newborn FAQ because, dammit, I will. Seriously. Sniveling, teary-eyed begging, as ugly and demeaning as it is, is not beneath me. Super Earthling may indeed be super…but she is also needy, insecure and hungry for approval and real mashed potatoes because she was deprived of these things as a tiny child.

Thank you! :D

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

The Illustrated FAQ is in Gestation and About to be Born!

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 19:21:00 +0000

I’ve been deeply embroiled in the artful creation of my truly awesome new blog’s amazingly illustrated FAQ. I’ll be posting it in all its splendiferousness next week.

Dear God, it’s sheer glorious magnificence! Everyone on the planet will shudder with awe! And they will surely know without doubt why I am called Super Earthling!

After that I’m signing up for a much-needed course in self-confidence. :D

Here’s a tiny peek at just a few of the bazillion panels:

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

OMG, Super Earthling's First post. This is SO Exciting!

noreply@blogger.com (Super Earthling) — Sat, 30 Jul 2011 21:39:00 +0000

Keep your little eyeballs glued to this page for incredible posts oozing with absolute fabulosity as Super Earthling provides one awesome and unforgettable Life Lesson after another, covering just about every topic on the planet.

As you can see, this blog is a work in progress. Just click the little About Super Earthling button above to learn more about what you can expect from Super Earthling.

Stay tuned planet Earth: Super Earthling’s first Life Lesson will be posted soon!

In the meantime, follow @SuperEarthling on Twitter and join Super Earthling on Facebook!

--Susan, Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out