I have always hated it. Nothing irks me quite so much as when a stranger, who happens to be taking up space where I am, looks at me boastfully, with a cocky grin, and says, "Come on, smile. Don't be so serious. It's not that bad."

Like really?! Does this person, someone I've never laid eyes on, happen to roam the recesses of my mind to know what I'm thinking? Or does that person have an inkling what is front and center in my life?" If I want to frown, by God, I'll do it, and I'll do it damn well! And don't be so freaking cocky to tell me otherwise! Sheesh!

So, yeah, I've absolutely spent 98% of my life (and I'm damn old, so that's a lot of years) being serious. Still, I can laugh with the best of them, especially if I've had a few gin and tonics. No one enjoys a joke more than me or multiple bouts of belly laughs recalling memories with my bestie. Hell, I can even laugh at myself on occasion (I've always heard you might as well laugh with the masses, especially if they're laughing at you!). Still, if I had my druthers, I'd choose seriousness over laughter. I mean, who wouldn't - in all serious earnestness - pick seriousness over laughter when you can contemplate current world affairs, decode the thoughts running rampant in your teenage (alien) daughter's psyche, question your partner's daily (and nightly) activities, or chew on the idea of what your co-worker has been saying about you? Opposed to laughing, this type of attitude is a sure win in my book and pretty much a necessity in this life, too.

It all comes down to the fact that being full of giggles and glee is highly overrated. After all, has anyone proven that laughter is good for the soul? So go ahead....prove me wrong. Until then, I'll just be seriously contemplating the philosophy of life....and what I'll eat for supper.

There were three friends who all worked at the same factory, who cares which one. Every day they'd sit together on their lunches and eat their food, having joyous conversation as they did. In the factory they're nameless, but I'll have a heart and give them some fun names. We'll say Ed, Edd, and Eddy to keep things simple (subject to change).

Every day Ed brings in a nice, juicy burger than internally he can't stand. He bought a giant pack of burgers and felt the need to go through them as fast as possible, so he always had on in his lunch.

Edd always had two tacos with him, packed with care so the hard shells wouldn't shatter if he dropped his bag.

Eddy always had a pizza. He liked pizza.

One day they were around the table and Ed spoke something odd.

"I'm tired of having burgers. If I have one more in my lunch, I'm jumping off the roof of this building."

Edd nodded and slapped his tacos off the table. They crushed loudly against the wall. "Poor tacos, but you're right. I'm done with these, they're awful. I'll join you if I get the same."

Eddy laughed and set down his slice of pizza. "I'm not even Italian."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing, but if I get this one more time too I'll join y'all."

The next day comes around, and they all get the same meal.

They climb to the roof and jump. I didn't think they were serious.

The next week their wives are all standing at their funeral, sad over the event that took their husbands.

Ed's wife speaks first. "If he had just told me that he didn't want burger's, I wouldn't have packed them for him."

Eddy's wife speaks next. "Exactly. He just needed to speak up and now I feel bad."

Edd's wife finally speaks. "He packs his own lunch."

"You have no self-esteem, Cinderella," Dr. Grimm said as he looked at her reclining on the other end of the couch. "We've been through this. Have you tried the affirmations I recommended?"

"Like, 'I'm the fairest of them all?' or "'I'm going to live happily ever after,'" or even, "'I'm not too hot or too cold--I'm--"

"Just right,'" the psychiatrist finished for her. "Yes, those are a good start," he said, encouraging her.

"Or, One side, Rapunzel, I have the most beautiful long hair and--guess what?--I'm not even trapped in a tower." How 'bout that one?

"Well, now remember, we can't make ourselves feel better by making someone feel worse, right? Not the way to self-esteem."

"Do you blame me? After all, for starters," she mumbled, "look what they named me. After they gave me the job of sweeping the cinders out of the fireplace and the chimney. The irony is just so overwhelming!"

"More like sarcasm with a touch of spite. But it's kind of pretty, in its own way," the doctor said to reassure her.

"Yea, well what about my other names, after my other jobs?"

"Like..." he goaded her.

"Like Dust Bunny. Or ShitShovella. RattaPooie. Excremetia. PigStyessa. GraveRobberta. DiaRRhita--do I really need to go on?"

"What about your fairy godmother? Has she been around lately?"

"Hmmph!" Cinderella scowled. "No, she's all wrapped up in some wooden puppet whose nose keeps growing. I can only imagine what's in her for it."

"You mean what's in it for her?"

"You heard me right the first time."

"What about Snow White? You two were very close at one time."

"She's got her own problems," Cinderella said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. "She doesn't know which dwarf is the father."

"Well, isn't that easy? What I mean is...just see which one's the happy one."

"Very funny," she told the doctor. "Even so, I told her that, and she said now that she's pregnant, there aren't any ones named Happy anymore. There's just Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Doc, Bashful, and Horny. And to add insult to injury, all seven of 'em went to the brave, little tailor in town and had a belt made for her that is embroidered with, 'Seven at one blow.'"

"Clever."

"No, it's really just gross!"

"Don't you have any other friends?" he asked, redirecting her.

"I know a kindly woodcutter," she answered. "But, you know, how many times can you listen to him when you ask him 'How was your day?' I remember one day I asked him--and his answer?"

"Yes?"

"'I chopped 49 pieces of wood. Not too shabby.' And I asked him, 'Anything else?' And he says, 'Um, lemme think. Oh, and I slaughtered that wolf at Grandma's.' And I say, 'Oh, yes, and that."

"Hmm. I see. Yes, there's that." He paused a psychiatrist's moment. "And your neighbors?"

"What about my neighbors?"

"The pigs."

"Those pigs?" she seethed. "How'd you like to live next to three pigs? Sure, they're three little pigs now, but they're gonna be three godawful big pigs soon. I can't take the smell as it is."

"Didn't you send the big, bad wolf to huff and puff and blow their houses down?"

"My woodcutter friend, remember? It's hard to keep a big, bad wolf around. And even before that, my wolf had COPD. He couldn't have even wheezed one down if it was made of hay. No, he just hung out at Red Riding Hood's grandma's place."

"Isn't that where you met the other kindly woodsman?"

"Yea. I don't know what there is about Grandma's place. Must be Grandma, I suspect. It gets the wolves and gets the woodsmen. And the wolves just keep on coming; and the woodsmen just keep on coming."

"And Grandma?"

"Cute, Dr. Grimm. The whole thing turned out really ugly. Now Red's up to her ass in woodsmen and wolf guts. She won't even speak to me, the little bitch."

"You clearly have woodsman's issues."

"No. I just have happily-ever-after issues. And no thanks to you and your affirmations. Do you know how many affirmations there are in fairy tales? Well, let's see, between 'Once upon a time' and that 'Happily ever after' thing, there are...um..none! That's how many! You want self-esteem? I rode to the ball smushed in a pumpkin with rats pulling me. Watching the damn clock all evening. Running until I lost a shoe, and the one I was wearing broke and now I've got 27 stitches I had to have sutured by Doc at Snow White's cottage."

"What about that stalker you have who you told me about a couple of weeks ago?"

"Stalker? What stalker?"

"Jack, I think."

Cinderella laughed. "Jack? No, you're confused. He's the bean-stalk guy. Stalker? Ha! Yea, lemme tell you about Jack, the little shit. He's got the goose that lays golden eggs and a singing harp."

"The harp sings?"

"Well, if you call it singing. It's more like bad rap--'Fee, Fie, Foe, Fum, Gonna tap that be-atch in the bum...gonna hit that thang--'"

"Spare me, please."

"Well, I asked him if I could borrow the goose. I'm a little behind on my tithes, y'know. And you know what he tells me?"

"No, what?" Dr. Grimm asked.

"He said, 'Over my dead body.'"

"Well, that's a thought."

"Ain't that the truth," she said menacingly.

"Look, Cinderella--"

"Latrina. That's my new name. Last week it was Maggerite. Before that it was Scabbarelda. My life, ladies and gentlemen. Shee."

"Suddenly, Cinderella doesn't sound so bad, does it?" Dr. Grimm asked. "Look," he continued, "I know how wicked your stepmother is and how ugly your stepsisters are. But look on the bright side, the handsome Prince is scouring the kingdom looking to see whose foot fits into that other glass slipper."

"If it doesn't shatter. It should have been made of polycarbonate. With the stitches and the swelling, no way. He's gonna pass me right up and move on to my ugly stepsisters and their ugly smelly feet."

"Isn't it your other foot he's going to be looking for?" Dr. Grimm pointed out. Cinderella didn't hear that; she was on a roll.

"He's not that handsome, by the way. And I can just picture that fungus-toed sister of mine trying to cram her fat Fred Flintstone yellow-nailed foot into it. Three pounds of shit in a one-pound bag, if you ask me. Hell, the stink alone would be enough to blow him away."

"So I've heard," Dr. Grimm agreed. "Would you like to know what I recommend?"

"Poison apples for the girls tonight? Painting a mustache on that mirror--too late--Ha! she already has one! Sprinkle a trail of troll-chow to their bedchambers? Or should I just call the Wicked Witch Problem-Solving Service?"

"They have a service now?"

"Yep. 1-800-EAT KIDS. You want someone to sleep, like, forever? You want a couple of kids pushed into an oven? They even got a guy on their team, Rumpel-something, who's all into firstborns."

"Oh, him! Don't even get me started," the psychiatrist huffed.

"You know him?"

"Yea. I know him, the son of a bitch. Got my own firstborn." His eyes began to tear. "Spinning gold! Why does everyone fall for that? Tearing himself in two was too good for him. You can quote me on that."

"Oh," she cooed, "I'm so sorry for your--Oh! Now I remember! Rumpelstiltskin, that's his name. Yea."

"You know his name!"

The mood in the office changed. The psychiatric rapport evaporated, and Dr. Grimm's face became hard.

"Stick with Cinderella," he advised sternly. "Just try to find a way to be proud of what you do. Be all defiant about it. I'm tired of listening to all of your whining and sibling rivalry drama. Don't be a pussy!"

"A pussy?" Cinderella bristled. "Oh, don't worry about that name," she said. "That's my next job."

"We'll take that up next week. You can pay at the window."

"I don't have anything small on me," she said, still angry. "Can you break a golden egg? Or how 'bout a singin' harp?"

Then she stormed out, but still so lovely as ever.

Once in Spain, while touring Roman remains and rubble, I found myself in the sleepy small coastal town of Tarragona, where plenty of historical sites, albeit small and poorly curated, abounded in the former Roman capital.

I remember being startled the first night by fireworks over the beach.

I remember sitting at a café in the middle of a hot afternoon and watching a local, a white haired fellow looking like he was smuggling a cannonball under his shirt, drink beer alone at a table before slowly nodding off to sleep in the shade of his table's umbrella, ironically displaying the name of a brand of espresso.

I remember gaping at some of the largest and most beautiful mosaics I'd ever seen in a nearly empty museum.

And I remember my language lesson.

While my Spanish had improved since arriving, it was still wobbly and dependent on my understanding of French and Latin cognates. After a long day of tramping around dusty old ruins baking in the sun of late July, I ate at a charming restaurant across the square from where I'd watched the local man fall asleep in a chair. I proceeded up to my room and decided to clean up and then plan my mañana.

Grabbing my tiny travel toothbrush, I rifled through the fraying wicker basket with the usual bathroom freebies. In my haste, I grabbed the tube that said crema and read no further; thinking, hello, cognate for cream or paste, as in toothpaste. Had I done so, I would have seen crema de afeitar.

ya te gusta la broma, amigo?

The taste resembled what I imagined an otter's anal gland fluid would taste like. For a moment, I thought that perhaps the Spanish had a different idea of how toothpaste should taste instead of minty and refreshing. Perplexed and slightly nauseated, I stopped brushing, set down my toothbrush, and took a closer look at the tube I'd just used to lather up my mouth. I found another tube still in the wicker basket labeled crema de denta, and then voilà: I had my two cognates: cream of tooth. So what the fuck had I scrubbed into my gums?

A quick scan through my travel dictionary (this was in 2007, mind you) uncovered the truth: crema de afeitar was, indeed, shaving cream.

As a toddler, my eldest child couldn't pronounce "L." And her favorite items to get excited about, yelling and pointing, were...clocks. But, she couldn't just say, hey look at all the clocks.

Oh, no. She had to make an exhaustive list of all the colors, sizes, and styles. I'm in Family Dollar, like...."Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I hope the cashier has HIS Radio blasting up there."

Age had its privileges, and pretending to be deaf was one of them. Unfortunately for Amelia, she was only 20. The only thing she had resembling wrinkles were the dark bags under her eyes. And the man on the bus in front of her was still glaring.

“Eh?” she tried again.

“I know you can hear me! I saw you talk to the bus driver!” The man finished off his sentence with a triumphant flourish of his red nose, up and down and up again. Amelia decided one thing then and there: she would never ride the campus bus again. Even if she was late for class. She’d just get a bike, go green and healthy. It was not worth having to deal with these drunk, patronizing, moronic fraternity assholes who seemingly grew and spawned with the mold under the seat. There was always one of them on the bus! Always! She decided to try another tactic.

"No habla inglés.”

She didn’t think it would work given the fact that she practically glowed in the dark. Hell, she was so pale that moths bounced off of her all summer, but he was drunk enough that it seemed worth a shot. The frat idiot stared at her with increasing perplexity before his face started twisting up in disgust.

Oh fuck, she thought, fuck fuck fuck. She looked around the bus, but everybody seemed to be religiously looking at phones or textbooks, or just plain asleep. She was on her own. The frats thick lips drew further back, and Amelia prepared to pull the pepper spray out of her purse. She’d grabbed it about 10 seconds after boy stumbled over to her, just to be safe, and it looked like she might have to use it after all.

“Achoooooo!” The puffy faced nitwit sneezed a mighty sneeze, spraying globs of spit and pale snot all down the front of her overalls. The wispy excuse for a mustache that hung like a rotting blond possum from the boys upper lip flapped like a shutter in a tornado, and Amelia would later swear to God and Jesus and her best friend and her worst friend and her mom and her grandmother that at least a dozen vomit-yellow hairs drifted to the floor, dislodged by the destructive force of the sneeze.

Amelia jumped back, arms held out like a scarecrow, shaking like a dog. “What the fuck man?! What the fuck is wrong with you! You- you- you pissant little motherfucker! You lumpy little shit, you- She stopped to take a few fast breaths, then continued. “You sorry excuse for a functioning human, toxic and smelly and, you know what? If I had a time machine, I'd go back and give your parents a condom! No no, what am I thinking, you obviously came from a broken condom. I’d go into debt, just to pay for your father to have a vasectomy and for your mother to have her tubes tied! No, I’d make your father move to Spain and your mother to Alaska! I’d never let them meet!”

Frat boy looked up at her, confusion writ on his sweaty face. “Who are you again?”

Amelia pepper sprayed him.

"So, what do you do for a living?"

"Oh, I'm an office worker. I just sit in a cubicle all day, look over spreadsheets to make sure there's no error, and pour the boss coffee whenever he demands it. What about you?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. I just sit in a lair all day, look over my spy cameras to make sure that my minions are not befriending the hero, and pour myself a cup of tea whenever I run out."

"That sounds... pretty boring, actually."

"Yeah, I know. I am the most feared villain in this part of the... what did you say?"

"I say that your job sounds like it sucks." The civilian takes a sip of his coffee. "Don't villains usually come up with intricate plans to rob a bank, or run an underground cartel, or order assassins on the hero, or anything cool like that?"

"You make it sound so easy." The villain shakes his head. "Do you think my lair cleans by itself? Every day, my idiotic minions would do all kinds of things with trash besides throwing them away. They would fold classified documents into origami and throw them across the room, take pot shots at the waste basket, or write secret love notes to pass them around."

"You know, that sounds like exactly what happens in my office." The civilian goes to the coffee machine, which has a huge block of rubble crashed into it. "Too bad that everyone is dead now. I really can't believe that you ordered an attack on this building, caught the hero by his neck, only for the hero's friend to revive through the power of friendship, erupting another explosion that ripples through the building, makes you drop the hero into safety, while you yourself gets trapped under a rubble alongside me."

"Oh, shut up! You're just a plain office worker. You wouldn't...sniff...know what it's like." The villain is on the verge of tears. "Do you know how much time I spent making this plan? Months! For the last 6 months, I have been taking intel on your company. I know that this place is only used for buying and reselling bamboos, which the hero is weak to; I know that the hero passes by this place every 4 weeks because he needs to visit his family; I even know that your name is Jeff because I memorized everyone's name and face. And now, 6 months of work, all for naught...sniff..."

"Jeez, you're pathetic." Jeff, the office worker, takes another sip. "It sounds to me that you're a bit of a perfectionist, as well. Who would ever waste this much time to get something right. You're a villain! You ought to have fun in your job. If it fails, that's fine! Just as long as you have fun in the process!"

"But...sniff...if my plan fails, then my minions would hate me..."

"Idiot! Your minions already hate you for making them your minions!" Jeff shakes his head. "In fact, everyone in the world probably hates you right now."

"Then... what do you suggest?"

"Do what I do: whenever I get to my cubicle, I purposely make the spot as messy as possible to upset the next worker. Whenever I check my spreadsheet, I would purposely make some right values wrong so the next checker would have something to do. Whenever I pour coffee to my boss, I would mix milk with the coffee, even though my boss is lactose intolerant!"

"Jesus... You're fucking evil!"

"Says who?" Jeff takes a sip but stops. He looks at the villain, and the villain takes a look back.

"You know, my office could always use a perfectionist." Jeff says. "Absolutely nobody cares about the job, so error appears everywhere in the paperwork. If you work there, I'm sure you would get to the top in no time."

"Not a bad offer. I could also use a substitute in my lair. My minions are saying that I am only putting on a farce on how ruthless I am. Recently, some of them have gotten so bold that they are taking breaks without my approval."

"I actually don't have a family anymore. They all died from your last attack. Once our company's building is rebuilt, no one will notice if I am gone."

"I actually do have a loving, caring family, but they have been upset recently that I've turned to the dark side and refused to contact me anymore."

"..."

"..."

"Wanna switch?"

"Hell yeah!"

For more and more New Mexicans, the purpose of a home seems to be to keep certain people out. Mi casa es su casa or Bienvenidos signs on peoples' doors are being replaced with Protected by the 2nd amendment or If you can read this, you are in range.

We have security cameras and alarm systems installed and we can check our front door surveillance from our cell phones. Anyone still making a living as a door-to-door solicitor has to be the bravest person alive.

The next time someone comes to your door, consider how brave that person must be. Also, consider the fact that anyone actually ringing your doorbell is obviously not trying to break into your house. So be respectful and polite and if it is a Girl Scout, buy some cookies. It is absolutely un-American to not buy Girl Scout cookies. Then lie on the couch and eat half a box of thin mints. Once you break open the plastic, they go stale really fast so don't take any chances. Eat them all, feeling safe and secure in a home that is protected by a fool proof security system.

Then sit and stare at the ceiling for a while and consider the plight of the Jehovah's Witness.

They always come in pairs and dressed professionally, like lawyers. All things considered, though, who would you rather have come to your door, two Jehovah's Witnesses, or two lawyers? Like lawyers, they usually lead off with a question, like "Will there ever be peace in the world?

One has to admit. They ask good questions. And they are brave. I agree with almost nothing they say, but we can at least agree on the weather and how we need rain and Selena's best song was "Dreaming of You."

And once there was one named Candy, who had the most beautiful brown eyes. She smiled seductively (I think) and asked:

Can anyone really know who wrote the Bible? My answer: no

Why does God allow the strong to oppress the weak? My answer: good question

What is the name of the scarlet colored beast of Revelation?" My answer: Gossamer?

Then Candy smiled again and read some Bible verses off of an iPad. She informed me that the correct answers were yes, original sin and the United Nations. I said I totally agreed and would she like to go out for dinner some time so we could talk more in depth about the scarlet colored beast but her partner, a tall grey haired man, said they had to be going now, grabbed Candy's arm and guided her down the sidewalk.

A classic scene of 1960's Americana is a Kirby Vacuum salesman, wearing a suit and tie and pushing one of those monstrous machines while a housewife dressed in high heels, a dress and an apron sits on the edge of the couch watching with interest. Among 1960's status symbols, owning a Kirby Vacuum ranked up there with a color TV, a station wagon and the thing I wanted more than anything, all 26 volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica.

As a child, I remember being totally captivated by the encyclopedia salesman who piled 26 volumes containing all the knowledge of the world on our living room floor. And all it would cost to have all the world's knowledge would be just the change Dad brought home in his pockets every day. I couldn't believe my mother sent them away. Never mind the fact that we lived directly across the street from the public library.

Today we literally do have all the knowledge of the world at our fingertips. So, just to prove how valuable the World Wide Web is, I decided to document everything I learned on the internet in an eight hour period. Here it is:

I scored 100% on the Nearly Impossible Knowledge Test, which means my IQ is around 160. But I still paid $20 in shipping and handling to get a "free gift" fitness watch. And I can't even figure out how to turn on.

My male celebrity soulmate is Jeremy Irons and my female soulmate is Alicia Silverstone.

If I were an Inside Out character, I would be Sadness.

If you dream about being afraid of heights, it could be because you are afraid of heights.

You can use Coca Cola to clean the toilet.

No other adult males have any friends either.

The pyramids were not actually built by aliens (darn it).

In 14 hours and 50 minutes, you can go from Virgin in Utah to Hooker in Oklahoma and visit Love's Travel Stop.

The worst excuse ever given for being late for work (until now, that is) was "I got stuck in the blood pressure machine at the grocery store and couldn't get out."

Until 1997, New Mexico was the only state to have a state cookie. That was the year Massachusetts selected the chocolate chip cookie.

Shortbread, biscotti and macaroon are all acceptable words on Scrabble but biscocho (or bizcocho) is not. Another slap in the face to New Mexico.

There are at least 14 kinds of tacos:

1. al pastor

2. birria

3. barbacoa

4. camarones

5. pescado

6. lengua

7. tripas

8. suadero

9. sudado

10. deshebrada

11. frijoles/ vegetable

12. carne adovada

13. chicharrones

14. Taco Bell.

Actually, Taco Bell doesn't really sell tacos. Whatever it is that they sell, though, if you like, eat it. I am not going to judge.

I'm late for work, but oh well, if I get fired there's this job I found on the internet where I can work from home explaining the benefits of products to customers. No sales required!

Whether or not this year's family reunion will be scarring me for life is hanging by a thread on Grandma Cecil’s swimsuit top as she stretches over the cooler for another “Natty Daddy.” My fate now relies on the craftsmanship of an underpaid Walmart seamstress who probably hated her job.

Don't break small rules when you break big ones.

You're carrying a class A narcotic with intent to distribute. You are crossing the street. Why would you wait for the crosswalk? Why wait for the flashing orange hand to turn to a little striding white man (racist), why so serious about it?

Jaywalk son, everyone does!

Wouldn't you? Why so serious?

Me. I'm not. But I am. Listen.

I cross in the crosswalk and only on the walk signal.

I take it serious as shit even if I have to wait for a bit

but I also know that to live on the

Wilde side I have to remember that life is "far to important a thing to be taken seriously" so I'm not always so serious wit it and I member time was I got turned round with weight in the trunk and accidently ended up driving in circles around Jake's parking lot on the way to drop in off for the college kids near Villanova and I chased streetlamps and played cards like a cereal killer whose verbosity was inversely proportional to the chemical aftertaste internal mind escapes from frosted special K flakes that stayed on me like dandruff, cause you know I lived a bit rough and only money and white privilege saved ya boi, so know the mental is like a koi pond and I be swimming in the beyond, no seriously, nothing is wrong, just nuffin bruv, to speak on how we dance from song to song and shuffle along this mortal coil, chortle as we cut our noses to spite our face to face with myself I can't held but look a garden sentence in the face off with one another and come together to all split the sumptuous prize money between 218 and county 3 dollars is what ladies and whatever who cars about gender at this fucking point, why so serious? party people I know I'm definitely not serious

except when I need to be.