NothingSacred

Creepiest Craft Ever

I know you've been there. Your kid comes in and tells you that they have a school report and that they must construct an Indian a Native American costume in which to deliver it. They tell you this at 4:48 on a Tuesday. It is due at 8 AM on Wednesday. It was assigned two weeks ago.

After you finish beating your child (you guys do that, too, right??), you haul cookies to your local craft store to gather supplies for what will undoubtedly be the shoddiest, most poorly crafted costume in the room that will make all others wonder if you are the developmentally disabled mother of an above-average-intelligence child ('cause all our kids are brillz, huh??). Sadly, those other Alpha Moms already KNOW you so you'll have to suck up their pitiful glances in your direction as you drop off Chief Hot Mess.

Anway, back to your trip to the craft store... which seems to have been taken over by total fucking aliens and possibly a busload of German tourists. Nothing is where it should be logically placed, the place is like a wandering through a warehouse of absolutely useless-for-your-needs crap.

And can I just ask: When did pattern-makers decide that Native American costume patterns were no longer needed by moms? Yes, I get it. Playing cowboys and Indians isn't PC, but fer Chrissakes, are we going to just ignore the fact that our national history includes Native Americans? And sometimes school dictates that not only Pilgrims show up to a party!??! WTF?! I found patterns for cowboys & pilgrims, soldiers, gladiators, and even entire passion play set-ups but not a SINGLE Native American one! Evidently the pattern-makers think a retarded chimpanzee can knock together a good Tecumseh costume... but they are mistaken. Long story short: I was on my own.

So as I wandered the aisles, heart racing in panic, eyes darting through the wares (There! There! I can construct a full headdress out of a pink boa, right?!?), what should fall upon my gaze? Only the creepiest fucking craft box I've ever seen.

Behold, The Reborn:

You really have to see it in person, but hurry! It's on clearance. Strange these devil-spawn reborn babies aren't flying off the shelves!

Maybe it was because I was in a Hobby Lobby (which, you know, is so Christian it's closed on Sundays...) but when I was faced with the word "Reborn" in the baby context I couldn't help to wonder if this isn't some sort of new post-abortion therapeutic craft? (In which case they should hand them out at Planned Parenthood.)  Or some sort of Evangelical Baptismal deal... which is silly since a baby has no sins from which to be "reborn"... but whatever.

My absolute favorite is the little "Make a Baby!" florette!! Which got me to thinking maybe this isn't a craft at all, but there's a tiny man trapped in that box, all studly and fertile, just waiting to knock a sister up. Or maybe it's a cut-rate spermbank option? You crack open the box and find a little vial of hobo semen, a turkey baster and a squeeze-tube of cut rate lube and instructions in broken Chinglish. I don't know. 

I don't know what the fuck is in that box, and frankly, it has kept me up wondering. Mostly because now I am too terrified to sleep for fear of dreams of little "reborn" preemies. And the type of woman who would want one of these laying around her house.

Oh! The costume? Yeah, I ended up renting one from the local dinner theater. Yep. Suck that, Alpha Moms!!

And I heard from a friend who witnessed it: Deuce (Chief Dinner Theater) told the entire class a long, elaborate story about how he & I made the damn thing in my studio! Yep. He lied his ass off. Without me even TELLING him to! God, I love that kid.

Oh shit. I just realized I haven't returned that costume yet....

If Beavis & Butthead were Girls....

They'd write shit like this.

Sweet Edna just emailed me this exchange that she found on facebook. Enjoy:

 

Kelly C___: Off To Stark State Hell Yeaa Im Geeked For Sum College Haha. Doing All This For My Little Mama She Deserves The Nothing But The Best Of Life  Mommmy Loves You Aleigha Your My World.

Like · · Share · 3 hours ago near Canton · 

Krystal E____:          whats your major ?
2 hours ago · Like

Kelly C_______:        ultra sound tech accosiates
about an hour ago · Like

 

And my head just fucking exploded...

Comparing Family Plans

Dear, sweet Edna.... She brings so much joy (and snot-spurting snorts of laughter) to my life.

As I've written before, Edna and her dear husband, Darth Vega (from now on referred to as DV) have four gorgeous little ones. A couple of them may even have been planned.

For years Edna has struggled with differing birth control methods as she's really sensitive to any sort of hormonal interference and unusually suspect of Big Pharma malfeasance.  So they've tried a variety of methods, usually falling back to their Catholic fave, the rhythym method. (Enter into evidence, Your Honor, their family as an example of how reliable that is.)

*Let this blog in no way insinuate that any of the mini Ednas blessing our beautiful world are not, each and every one, entirely welcome and joyous.

So, ths last time Edna was pregged up the topic of The Big Snip came up with DV. Now TOM has done his fatherly duty and had this procedure and I'm happy to say we've never been happier! TOM has told DV about this miraculous endeavor, but DV has been a little, well, gun-shy to embrace this solution.

So last winter when Edna was first blooming with girl 4, DV said he thought he was ready to go for it. She relayed the good news and I encouraged her to have him go get it RIGHT THEN, while he thought it was a good idea. DV can be a bit... mercurial. I told her it was perfect timing. She was already pregged and by  the time she was unpregged he'd be 6 months in on shooting blanks. Well... they dawdled. And then they had the ultrasound. Once DV heard it was another girl suddenly the Snip didn't sound so attractive. I'd warned her to strike while the iron was hot. 

So I haven't heard anything about it in awhile, but then, yesterday, I got these texts. (Which are a real labor of love for Edna as she still uses a flip phone! (*snicker*) 

Ok, so here is what DV is requesting. He wants Edna to drop her phone plan, which she clings to fiercely as she's always had the phone plans in her name. It's her weird little independence symbol. But she doesn't want to give it up. DV, on the other hand, just got on a family member's plan so he could upgrade to a new iphone and pay a ton less. So for Edna to do the same (and enter the 20-teens in phone tech) she would have to get on DV's family member's plan. Which she's not crazy about doing. But you know how that is... you like to be in control of your own bills, you know?

Well, DV evidently views this as some way that would make it harder for Edna to ever leave him if she ever wanted to do that.  Something as ironclad as getting out of a phone contract with AT&T. Forget the other things that may keep her around when things get rocky... 4 kids... and a legal contract... and a promise before GOD! Those things are CAKE to get out of compared to shaking lose of those bastards at the phone company! 

So, DV won't get clipped until Edna submits to the ultimate act of commitment: joining him on his phone's family plan. Thus... for Edna to get the family plan SHE needs (no more babies) she must accept another sort of family plan.

You see now how Edna keeps me laughing til my cheeks hurt. 

Learnin' the Internets

 

TOM just posted this to his facebook and it made me so deliriously giggly, I had to share it with the world (C'mon, he's only got a few hundred friends... and we all know my blog circulation is WAAAAAY bigger than that!). 

Thanks to my brother in law, my Grandma finally got email!

So I sent her the following message: "I’m really glad you have email now! I can send you pictures of the kids and drop in to say hi more often this way! Write me back so I know this is you. Love you!" 

 
She replied: "First I need your e mail address."

Simply put, I do not want this in my hair...

I'm still not sure what persuades some product marketers to be so galdarn happy to shout out what is in their special formula, but the name of this product dissuades me from not only buying, but from even handling the package it comes in. They would have as much success trying to sell me Cinnamon n' Semen Hair Mask. I don't want that in my hair!

 

Why?? Why???

There's a reason there is fine print-- it hides the ingredients that might make you think twice about getting near things like this! You don't emblazon this crap on the front and highlight it as the title of the product!

And where in the world are they getting this special ingredient from!? Is it cow placenta? Pig placenta? Good Lord, if it's human placenta, where in the world are they getting it?!? Is there a Chinese placenta factory? Are the henna conditioner plant managers sneaking down to hospitals around the country and pilfering the human waste trash cans?? (Assuming, of course, they aren't finding many in areas that serve those crazy placenta-smoothie drinking mommies...)

I am so confounded by products like these, but endlessly amused by them as well. (Big thanks to B-Rod for tipping me off, and GIANT thanks to MC for snapping the shot.) 

Mmmm! Salty...

 

For when you're in the mood, but he's not....

I love that it is "spicy"~ I'll say!

And it has both natural and artificial flavors. I'm not sure which one of those is scarier in this case. 

(Big thanks to DB for this little gem!)

I've never considered myself a feminist...

But my bras are in serious danger of a scorching after this.

 

Below, find my first foray into video blogging, er, vlogging. Enjoy!

 

 

OH MY GAWWWD! 

I could go on and on about all the special treats this Times-Call letter gifted me, but sadly, if I can gnaw this chain off and get away from the stove I have to get Trey to Pre-K. 

 

Oh, and could this make me feel any worse as a mom? I'm half-drowning trying to keep up with what I'm supposed to do as it is, and now this? A super mom who not only bakes and gardens and all that, but actually means GRINDING FUCKING WHEAT BERRIES when she says "make it from scratch"!??! Holy hell! I need to give up the race. I'm never, ever, ever going to be able to keep up with these alpha moms. 

Essential Items

 

Picnicking just got a whole lot sexier.

 

(Thanks R!)

Would you like some breast-milk in your eye, dear? Part 2

So happy baby news abounds... and with it the usual lunacy that swirls around all things natal. 

My dear friend Edna just gave birth to her fourth (4th!) little flower, Lilac, who joins her older sisters Gardenia, Jonquil and Violet. Edna is probably the strongest lady I've ever met as not only does she continue to give birth to sweet little angels, she does it from home! I know, I know... it sounds crazy to me, too. Home-birthing is for tougher broads than me, and I give them mad props for doing it the old-fashioned way. For me, it's all epidurals, all the time. In fact, I like (need?!) them so much that when I had Deuce my OB informed me that should I have any more children I should request my epidural in the 8th month. Yeah, I'm a screamer.

 

Anyhoo, as I said, Edna recently delivered another beautiful, healthy, perfect little blossom. Now, there's a whole underworld of home-birthing that I'm sure you all already know about-- but in Edna's state (one of those sorta mid-westerny ones), home-birthing is basically illegal, and thus gets very underworldy.

And since that scofflaw Edna has done it 4 times, I'm pretty sure she's catching the attention of local authorities. Especially now that she's moved away from a major city in mid-westerly state where it is easier to stay under the radar to, say, illegally give birth in a blow-up hot tub in your house to a suburb just bursting full of regular joe, I'll-have-my-epidural-now, hospital-birthing moms. 

So this time as Edna went in to file the necessary paperwork on little Lilac, she evidently caught the attention of some overzealous paper-pusher just jonesing to flex her authority. Super Clerk proceeded to call Edna to verify that she had, in fact, given Lilac a dose of those "prophylactic eye drops" all our kids are obligated to endure in hospital births.

No, she told Super Clerk, she had NOT given Lilac the drops as she is well aware that the drops are used to fight a possible infection if the birthing mother has any STDs. Since Edna is certain she does not have gonorrhea and syphilis and she birthed in the comfort of her own home and thus didn't expose her baby to any of the multitudes of germs and infestations and infections often picked up from seemingly-sterile-'til-you-get-a-flesh-eating-bacteria-hospitals, she was pretty certain little Lilac didn't need 'em . Furthermore she has no intention of giving Lilac the drops. Was there anything else Super Clerk might require?

That was when Super Clerk told Edna that the drops are required "by law" in fairly-small, mid-westerly state and informed her that she would need to set up an appointment with her pediatrician to administer the drops. When Edna informed her that that was also not going to occur she must've touched off some sort of over-worked government-employee crazy switch. Because when Edna asked again what her options were to satisfy Super Clerk since she was opting out of dropping chemicals in Lilac's eyes, Super Clerk actually said this:

"Well, you could squirt breast-milk in her eyes."

Uh, say what?!? Yep. That was Super Clerk's solution. Since breast-milk has antibiotic properties, Edna could grab hold of her new little peanut, force her eyelid open with one hand, grab a teat in the other and spray her down with nature's best! 

I was still chuckling about the absurdity of Super Clerk the next day when Edna rang me up to report that Super Clerk had just called her AGAIN to double-check that she had, in fact, squirted breast milk in Lilac's eyes! And Super Clerk had called Edna's midwife to tell her that the breast milk eyewash needed to occur asap and inquire with the midwife what religion Edna is so that she can finish her paperwork. So now Edna is is busy trying to research which religions are exempt from middling-sized mid-westerly state's nanny-statist rules on eye-chemicals to let Super Clerk know that she has converted. 

As if that's not enough, with all this birthing going on, Edna decided to share this fun little nugget with me: the rising popularity with earth mother types of placenta smoothies. Yeah. You heard me right. Some batshit crazy moms are now mixing up a little afterbirth for the ultimate bonding-with-baby-slash-I-might-be-a-cannibal cocktail. Pardon me while I go throw up.

There. Better.

I know you're all with me when you scream manically, WHAT THE FUCK!??!?!

And one more quick fun foray into recent birthing stories. My dear friend/sister Noele, just had her first son this past week. Little Dane joined his big sisters Kenya, China & Romania much to everyone's joy. Noele and HOM didn't find out what they were having, and Noele must've been pretty certain it was another girl as they didn't have any boy names chosen and when she was asked at her pre-birth appointment about circumcision she thought they were talking about HOM! She said she thought, 'well, certainly they must mean vasectomy, as HOM is already circumcised!'

Needless to say, we're all pretty thrilled with their new arrival, and when I asked her about that circumcision decision (because we were rolling our eyes at those whackadoos in San Francisco who are trying to ban it... for now a sane judge has blocked it from being on the ballot) for little Dane she told me the funniest thing happened to her and HOM.

After the doc came in and snipped the little guy, he turned to HOM and asked him if he'd like to keep the foreskin!! 

I can't imagine what one would want with a foreskin. I know I never kept any of my sons'... but I'm pretty sure they didn't ever ASK me that... then again, I was all hopped up on epidurals, so you never know. Is this some new trend? I'm hoping to God it's a wacky Boulder County thing and not some new nationwide craze.

I mean, really, what do you do with it? My first thought was: Dry it out and use it for a lucky key ring.  And then it hit me. Only nutbags who drink placenta smoothies would want some crazy shit like this. It's clearly meant to be a garnish for your placenta smoothie! 

Bring some munchies, it's gonna be awhile

You know I love me some governmental retardation. Wait, that's practically a redundancy, isn't it? Well, when it comes together in that archetype of governmental hellholes we must all endure (no! NOT the post office, Edna!) AND it is in photographable signage form?? I'm as happy as a pig in slop.

I write of our local DMV, where on any given day one can while away hours on end waiting in a fluorescent holding tank reminiscent of an airport smoking lounge in Southeast Asia. You look around at your fellow captives... everyone is miserable, everyone has somewhere else they'd rather be-- anywhere else really.

If you haven't been able to garner childcare and have your beloved offspring very loudly losing their minds on the filthy floor whilst enduring the hard glares of the surrounding "patrons" it is perfectly understandable that you might re-evaluate your stance on Dr. Kevorkian's mercy killings.

And then you see it. The new regulations for proof of residency one must provide to renew your ID. It's a long list. Turns out the government certainly doesn't want to make it too hard for anyone to get an ID. And there it is. Almost at the bottom. One little nugget that will brighten your whole day while simultaneously reaffirming that the government has, in fact, lost its damn mind.

These are just some "suggested" materials to prove residency, which implies that there are many more things one could bring in and the DMV is playing fast and loose with the whole notion that one even needs to obey this rule. I mean, half of these things you could "pre-print" yourself. But, REALLY?? 

A Medical Marijuana Certificate?!?! That will suffice is securing your DRIVER'S LICENSE!??! 

Is this really the best form of proof that you are capable of driving? I mean, shoot, maybe I could just bring in a bar tab from Oskar Blues? Or pictures of me lighting a doob on my front door step next to the address plaque? Would that work?!

I don't know, this just makes me a little nervous. Now I'm looking into all the cars on the road next to me wondering which stoner couldn't find an electric bill or their tax forms or really ANYTHING else with their name and address printed on it, but sure enough(!), located their pot card! 

Evidently Gas, Grass or Ass, nobody rides for free is now 2/3rds state-sanctioned.

(Big thanks to Miranda R. for tipping me off to this)

 

 

 

 

Hot Tub Etiquette: Boulder Style

So I recently joined a swanky new athletic club in that world-renowned bastion of wealthy, ultra-liberal, trustafarian mecca, Boulder, CO. I know. I can't stand the place, either. But I needed a change for my workouts. Something a little more demanding than my local Y had been providing so I made the plunge into an athletic club that is populated by a group of people who evidently work out all day, every day.

Plus, it has an outdoor pool, which was the real selling point for facing a summer with three rambunctious mini-men.

You would not believe how toned, taut and lean these people are! All of them. Even the septuagenarians (who kick my ass in spin class AND yoga). It's ridiculous. Every time I go to the pool I am surrounded by women my age, chasing toddlers, with stomachs that I swear are only made in Hollywood FX editing rooms. Of course I'm the only mom in a full piece. I keep telling myself that surrounding myself with them will only serve as inspriation once fall hits and I start getting serious about my workouts again. That is, if I want to continue working out with these people, who may or may not (as evidence below will show) be complete and utter pigs.

Anyhoo, yesterday Deuce, Trey, and my step-daughter, Ruby,  who moved in with us last fall went for an afternoon of swimming. (Ace is off at summer camp in the mountains, and truth be told, I miss the hell out of him.) 

I was glad Ruby went with us because she's old enough to understand how funny this sign is that I've been meaning to shoot a pic of it for a couple months now. It makes me giggle and shake my head every time I see it.

Really?!?! "Shaving and personal hygiene is prohibited"?!?!? I THINK that means that they'd rather you didn't shave or wash in the hot tub, but this is Boulder, CO ... so it did cross my mind that they are saying don't shave AT ALL. Ever. But I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. Which leads us to... 

Why the hell does this need to be posted?!?

What sort of disgusting pig-people were doing this activity to begin with to necessitate it being printed on this sign?! And how many stinky, hairy, hippy athletes were engaging in this activity to deem it important enough to be the second thing listed-- above the health warnings to preggos?!?! 

I immediately conjured up images of distance swimmers standing in the hot tub, shaving any extra body hair that might be causing them drag. Men in Speedos with their legs propped up on the edge, women in swim caps, yanking aside their suits and spreading their knees to catch any stray pubes that might be poking out. This pool does attract serious swimmers, after all. Triathletes and what not. 

Here's the kicker. As we gathered our belongings to leave Ruby leaned over to me and whispered, "Oh my god! That woman is BREAST-FEEDING IN THE HOT TUB!!!"

Sure enough. There sat a super-taut Boulder mommy with her baby, tit out, in the hot tub full of kids blithely enjoying her soak like there's nothing weird at all going on. Sadly, we weren't fast enough with our cell phones to get a pic of it. Dang!! 

So all you out there remember your etiquette when you visit Boulder-- milking yourself in the hot tub: okay. Shaving your hairy ass in it: not okay. Got it?

Milan's Crack Epidemic

I know, I know. I've been gone awhile. Two years, it seems. Where the hell does the time go? I've been concentrating on learning silver-smithing, so I suppose I'll use that as an excuse. 

So this year The Old Man turned 40. I was riddled with anxiety over finding the perfect gift and creating a celebration worth the achievement, not to mention totally annoyed at the prospect of trying to cook up something memorable that would require much effort and secrecy on my part.

Then, thanks be to my sainted silver-smithing instructor, I got wind of a study abroad trip to Italy through my local, beloved community college. A drawing trip to Northern Italy! Perfect! TOM had never been to Europe, he was telling me he wanted to take a drawing class (sure, sure, for fashion drawing, but STILL, it's drawing) AND I wouldn't have to bust my tail arranging a big blow out party. A no-brainer.

Needless to say, TOM was bowled over by the gift. We headed out May 16, for ten days in Milan and Venice. I could write for days about the trip, and the people we were with, and the loveliness of the whole thing, but that would be a digression from my point here and I have limited time until Trey wakes from his nap and Ace & Deuce get bored watching TV and demand a little more hands-on parenting.

Milan, our first stop, is a city unlike any other in Italy. It is very forward-thinking, less in love with its past. It seems enchanted with progression. Fast-moving, bustling, lots of cutting edge design stuff happening all about. We visited all over the city, but each day would find ourselves back at the piazza of the city's grand, delectable Duomo.

And it was there that we witnessed, first hand, Milan's crack problem. In that piazza there isn't a direction to look in without spying some unfortunate victim of what can only be described full-blown crack-addicted epidemic! You know that sent this little country mouse into a tizzy.

TOM and I immediately set out to photo-document all the abuse going on in broad daylight. He would point them out, I would get all touristy and pretend to be taking pictures of the grand vistas just past the victims. What follows are the photos we nabbed in just a couple short days in the city.

I wonder if her friends know her dirty little secret.

Crack! Right there on the steps of one of the most beautiful cathedrals in all of Italy! 

This poor abuser has been outcast for her crack problem.

Double!!

She loves crack.

Even the artists are into crack.

TOM, at a sidewalk cafe near the Duomo. We were shocked the restaurants would allow such blatant crack usage.

But I shouldn't have been... eventually even the cappuccinos were getting in on the act.

And then it happened. One of our own fell victim... bless his heart.

I've got a boner for exercise

I like exercising as much as the next guy (maybe more), but while doing a little Christmas shopping at my local sports super-center (not Dick's- I hate those guys-- their pricing is ridiculous and I'm pretty sure they thought up the name of the joint after deciding to put a nine hundred percent markup on everything) I came across a little something that made me re-evaluate just how much I love to work up a sweat. Because this guy seems to really like exercising.

 

With Friends Like These

I'm a cat person, let's just get that out there. I know it's not as cool as being a dog person, but I don't care. And what's the coolest thing for a cat person? A kitten! And my mom got one-- yay! So I've been going over to visit him everyday and squeeze up his sweet little kitten face and kiss all over his sweet little kitten lips (I'm practically turning into Edna over here, he's so fuckin' cute he makes my earlobes hurt!).  

 

Anyway, the other day I walk into Mom's kitchen to see the little scamp and see a ziploc bag on her kitchen island that looks to be full of papier mache paste.  It is expanded with air and smells a bit of the loft I lived in in Denver that was above a microbrewery.  "Hey Mom, where's the cat? And what the hell is this?" I ask and point to the science project.

 

"Oooh! That's Amish Friendship Bread! I need to mush it!" Yeah. You need to do something with it, or it'll be all over your kitchen cabinets in about three seconds, I think as I grab a bottle of water from her fridge.

 

"Amish Friendship bread, eh?" I ask skeptically. 

 

"Yes! I got it from my friend, Francie. You just mush it around in the bag and add some stuff and then split the recipe into four bags and pass it along to your friends. It is supposed to be delicious!" She tells me as she pushes the air out of the bag and proceeds to "mush" it around. Pass it along to your friends? This sounds not only unsanitary, but contagious, the dietary equivalent of an STD. Great. I see a bag of mush on my counter in the near future. I take my water into her craft room and play with her new baby kitty yum-yum.

 

Fast forward four days, I'm in my kitchen making yet another delectable and nutritious meal for my family (ok, a box of mac n' cheese with turkey dogs sliced up and thrown in) when Ace walks in the back door with a tin foil wrapped loaf, a ziploc bag of paste and a piece of paper. "Grandma made us some bread," he tells me and rips into the foil to happily spread crumbs all over the floor. Super. 

 

I take the bag of goop and the "instruction sheet" and give it a look-see. 

 

DO NOT REFRIGERATE! It blares across the top. Ohhh-kaaay. Why would I want to refrigerate something that I'm gonna eat in... TEN days? Keeping it on the counter seems perfectly reasonable.  

 

If air gets in the bag, let it out. It is normal for the batter to rise, bubble, and ferment. Never use any type of metal mixing spoon or bowl.

Ok, that sounds easy enough. I throw the bag on the counter and forget about it. 

Day 1-5: Mush the bag.

Luckily I remember to "mush" the bag these first few days only because if I don't let the air out it I'm afraid it will explode all over my kitchen. "Rise, bubble and ferment" is right. It is starting to behave like a teeny, beige version of the La Brea Tar Pits. I start regarding the bag as an Amish Goo Grenade and am thankful that the Amish are a nonviolent people as this as a weapon, while gross and possibly annoying, could not inflict much real damage. 

Day 6: Add to the bag: 1 cup flour, 1 cup milk, 1 cup sugar. Mush the bag.

Ok, I can do this. I'm not particularly busy on Day 6 and Ace has ravaged the loaf that Mom sent over, so he really likes the stuff. I may as well try, right? I can do this house-wifey stuff if I try. Wait. Did that just say to add MILK?! Am I to still regard the warning across the top of the page not to refrigerate? Really? With milk in it? I'm no stranger to what happens to milk sitting out for God's sake. I'm a mom of three with a mini-van. My ride always has the pungent smell of rotten milk from some lost sippy cup. Oh Lord. Please don't let my house smell like my car.

DAY 7-9: Mush the bag.

I like mush the bag days. Those are easy. But I've started keeping an even warier eye on the concoction now that it has rotting milk in it. The bag starts expanding more rapidly.

Day 10: Pour the contents of the bag into a non-metal bowl and add: 1 1/2 c. each flour, milk, sugar. Mix together using a non-metal spoon. Label four ziploc bags with today's date, this is your new Day 1. Measure 1 cup of mixture into each bag, seal them and give them to four friends with a copy of this recipe.

My Day 10 was last night. So I finally read the whole recipe.  

First of all, what is with the whole non-metal bowls and spoons directions, I wonder, as I slowly mix together the ingredients in a glass bowl with a wooden spoon. Wouldn't this be a helluva lost faster if I just used my mixer? Oh, crap. That has metal beaters. Can't do that. What exactly is in this that can't be touched by metal, anyway? What'll happen, I wonder. Corrosion? Explosion? Salmonella? 

I'm no baker, and more than a little miffed at having to mix up this bowl of mushed glue by hand, so I start thinking about it. I think the rule is not anything to do with messing up the ingredients with metal, but just that the Amish aren't allowed to use electric mixers. And they are jealous we can. They're like, Hey, if we have to stir this shit by hand, so do you, infidels! Just be grateful you aren't wearing a rough cotton dress, a bonnet and crazy homemade boots! 

I mean, really. What could be that bad about metal touching it? Well, I can't be sure. Because then I see this: 

Keep a bag for yourself, you'll be baking every 10 days. Only the Amish know how to create a "starter" recipe, so if you give them all away you'll have to wait until someone gives you one back.

Yeah, that's not really incentive for me to keep another bag of mystery explosives on my counter there, pal. And what is this enigmatic "Only the Amish know" crap?! I'm getting really nervous about eating this loaf of bread I'm sticking in the oven, in, get this, a LOAF PAN. Now I don't know about you, but my loaf pans are all metal. You see my quandary. Is metal suddenly ok to put the batter in? Why? Or more likely, I think I've just caught those Amish in the big, gut-busting lie this whole edible chain-letter farce is.

 I'm just certain that all the Amish ladies are back in houses just rolling with laughter about this. They've got all us leaving bags of rotting ingredients on our counters for a week and a half and then they just wet themselves over the idea that they've made us dig through our cabinets for that nasty old wooden spoon. They are having Amish giggle fits over us trying to make this bread with the "secret" Amish ingredient that somehow makes perishable food edible after being un-refrigerated. I keep wondering how many "friends" ago left-over milk is still left in this batch I have. I probably have milk so old in there it would be cheese if we'd just stop all that darn daily "mushing"! 

I think that's it. This is a big, Amish joke. Well, the joke's on them, really. Know why? 'Cause I could go on and on and talk all the smack I want to about them and their crazy non-refrigerated bread and they'll never know!! Why? Because I'm doing it on the internet. So there. Suck it, Amish people.

Oh, and this: 

Cool until bread loosens from the pan and turn out on a serving tray. Keep refrigerated.

Really, you little Amish yucksters? I'm to keep the COOKED bread refrigerated? Why? I just left the nasty-ass dough out for ten days! What could possibly need refrigerating now?! 

I'm telling you people, the Amish are after us. They are ridiculing us and in the same breath totally indoctrinating us by forcing us to use their stone-age tools to make their loaves of Amish bread that are probably filled with magic "REPENT, Sinner!" Amish dust that'll make us give up all our technological wonders. And it is working. Why? Cuz that shit be yummy! 

Now I'm just looking around for four "friends" to pass these bags of expanding goop along to. 

Does Anyone Else Smell... Cheese?

Oh, the true thrill of discovery can rarely be as dumbfoundingly dazzling as this little gem from my trusty pal, Edna. (and it has a how-to video!!) 

First off, let's give a shout out to all the preggos and new parents in the house shall we? Not only do you get to bring forth new life to utterly complicate and inconvenience your own, but you get to do it 2009 when the world's marketplace is literally flooded with product after product to "help" you out (luckily you are flat broke, so you buying this shit is really just an exercise in hypotheticals).  Sure, there is the bane of my existence, but I'm always on the lookout for newer and more useless crapola to waste your hard-earned dollars on. Edna never lets me down.

Speaking of "letting down", this little treasure promises to whisk away all of a new mom's worries when that little trick of motherhood occurs. Because we all know what a total problem and heart-wrenching waste "letting down" can be.

Without further ado, I proudly present to you "Milkies".

Slim and portable, no one will even know you are

 wearing it. Best of all — it collects your leaking

 breast milk when you nurse, allowing you to store 

extra breast milk effortlessly. When you have 

breast milk available all the time, 

you will never resort to formula.

 Ok, really? Are they serious with this thing? I can only say "yes, sadly they are" because I've seen their five-minute video explaining how very much every new mom needs this contraption. (PS- Dear Milkies People: Next time try not to use actual pregnant women in your ads-- the facial swelling is just too much. Also, you may want to consider hiring a make-up artist for your "actors").

Just a couple things, because I know what a sensitive topic this can be and have no desire to get my house egged by a ninja group of La Leche League Nazi Bitches (That's the full name of the organization).  

I can only assume a woman who would consider this is one of those women who leak milk nonstop and thus cannot think of anything else other than her dripping nipples. And for a woman like that, who is dissatisfied with the traditional nipple pads, is this really going to work for her day in and day out? Is a lactating mama expected to really wear this fucking plastic milk bag in her bra? And when the inevitable hormonal hot flashes occur, are we to believe that this thing will not slip around and spill a pint of milk down her front? And should I even venture a guess what one of these things smells like after a few hours riding around on swollen teats? Are the ladies supposed to constantly be dumping these "saving"? Because if not, let me tell you, things are gonna get pretty darn ripe, pretty dang fast. 

 Howabout the sound effects? What does a full one of these sound like when you walk around with 'em shoved in your bra? I bet is is not unlike my childhood piano teacher who was four years younger than ancient and when she sat next to you you could hear her insides sloshing back and forth like her entire body was not filled with organs, but a great, angry sea. 

Furthermore, really? Are you encouraging even MORE post-natal psychosis by suggesting women need to be concerned about all that "wasted" breast milk leaking all over? They need to worry about that, too? As if all the rest of shit they have on their mind isn't enough, now you want to make them stress over spilt milk? And trust me, I've been there, that's exactly the kind of thing that could send a hormonal, flabby-bellied wreck of a woman into hysterics. Now she's gonna feel bad if she doesn't catch every last "precious" drop? Gimme a fucking break. We're now inventing things to be stressed out about. As if there isn't enough to worry about right now.

I have to add that I did hear from a certain, nameless source that these may come in handy for those women who pierced their milkers. Yep, you probably didn't know if you aren't pierced (luckily I have friends who love to "share"), but once you shove metal bars through your nipples and then try to breast feed milk literally shoots out like a sprinkler. Front, sides, everywhere. Yeah, that's not something they advertise in piercing shops. Although they probably should. I can see them now, big surgeon general warning posters, akin to the death knell affixed to cigs, hung next to the posters of tattoo-sleeved rock-a-billies and skulls.  Plus, another smaller, screechier version put out by the La Leche League Nazi Bitches.  Well, I'm sure it is only a matter of time before those warnings are legislated by Congress. 

Another little known side-effect of the nipple pierce: If you want to fight, say MMA style, you gotta tape 'em down so they don't get yanked out. Yeee-owtch!  Who knew there was such upkeep and consequences for an impulsive decision like nipple piercing? Not I, but thankfully I've got all these pervy friends... 

Tending the Garden

Forgive me for not being able to leave Schick's new "Trim Style" bushwhacker alone, but over the weekend I got a chance to see the commercial again and this time I actually paid more attention to the visuals as I wasn't so gobsmacked over the "trim style" name.  HO-LEE crap! I want to meet the ad execs who pitched this idea and the razor exec who thought it was a good idea! 

Check it out here, and notice the shape-shifting BUSHES in each scene. 

schick TrimStyle

Oh, I see, "whatever my 'style'", eh? Yeah, I see all sorts of "trim styles" portrayed. The Sculpted Natural V, the Landing Strip, even the rarely seen Circle Muff (??). I love that they show the two girlfriends with their similar, but ultimately individual little muff cuts.   

Just a couple observances: A) Where is the skanky girl who hops out of a cab and the conveniently placed topiary molts all its leaves? and B) I notice that all the little bushes start out all scraggly, branches akimbo.  Wouldn't it be even better to watch a peasant-skirted, hippie girl pad her bare feet past one, you can practically smell the patchouli through the tv, and the bush she flits by gets even crazier?  Now I think that's a message that cannot be denied!

So this is how it is going to go down, eh? The twilight of our great American experiment will be memorialized with Rock of Love Bus, Perez Hilton and commercials on beaver-shaping.  Awesome. 

Now for something a little extra special

Thanks to my gal, Anne, who twittered this beauty of a story over.  You're gonna love it! (And now you all know what I'm getting everyone for Xmas-- guys included!)

Cuchini- Taking care of Front-Junk since 2008

Since "Muff Cut" was taken...

Despite getting nearly nothing done today, or perhaps because of it, I feel the need to at least pop a quick post up.  After my extraordinarily productive Tuesday, I suppose I should forgive myself for not getting more done. I did pay my property taxes today before 8 AM, so that is something, and after the anal raping I received on them, I probably should have just gone back to bed.

Ace was finally well enough to get back in school, but sure enough around lunch time the phone rang yet again this week with a call from the office. This time Deuce needed to be picked up. Hardy boy that he is, he didn't even puke in my car even after I drove him all the way out to Costco.  What a sweetheart. 

So to top off the stomach flu that has gripped the casa, I'm pretty sure I gave myself a combined affliction of tennis elbow and carpal tunnel syndrome planting all this infernal vegetation around the patios, and I'm now convinced after picking up yet another giant pile of cat puke, that I may have to get my little kitty in for bulimia counseling. 

Anyway, to try to get myself in a better mood I thought I'd share this special offer from our good pals at Schick, who to my knowledge have NOT taken any government bailout money and for that should be applauded.  The creative team in charge of naming new products, however, may need to get out of the office a little more, as they clearly have no idea that the word "trim" has multiple meanings.

 

I saw this revolutionary new personal grooming tool on a tv commercial, and you can believe the name immediately caught my attention. How happy  was I then to find a print ad of it in Sunday's paper?  Pretty darn happy. Not, strawberry ice cream on a hot day in July happy, but tickled nonetheless.

As you can see, this razor you can use on your legs and then flip it over, and voila! A waterproof bikini trimmer right there to handle your shaggy lady business! The idea is not a bad one, necessarily, but the product name "Trim Style" leaves those of us with pervy mindsets to immediately start questioning why they didn't just call it "Quattro: The Beav" or "Schick's Coochie Cutter".  I mean, "trim style" makes it sound like there is a catalog of "haircuts" you can do with this thing.

I think I might start breaking that out in conversation.  Like, "Yeah, what's your trim style?" or "Do you use product with your trim style?"

Also, I guess I've never figured out why one would need a specific razor for the bikini line as I've never had that much of an issue managing with the regular-size one I'm using on my legs. So, the product is sort of redundant, no? Can anyone clue me in to why a "trim styler" is a better way to prune the hedges? To me it seems sort of like attaching a ball peen hammer to the bottom end of a regular hammer. Could just be me. Whatever, this has definitely got me in a better mood. So there is that.

Deuce Wisdom #49

Earlier this week, as The Old Man and I were with the boys in their playroom, attempting to organize the chaos.  I believe Trey was upside down in a laundry basket screaming at us for not understanding his little Hitleresque decrees while Ace was maniacally bouncing a stuffed animal off the wall. It was average day.    

I was putting away laundry when TOM called me into Ace and Deuce's bathroom and asked Deuce, who'd been MIA for some time, to repeat to me what Deuce had just told TOM about his activities.

"Well," Deuce began as he turned toward his sink. "Jesus sent me a postcard."

Uh, what?

"Jesus sent me a postcard, to my brain, and he told me to clean up my sink. So, I washed my sink three times." He waved his hand across his basin in his best Vanna imitation. 

And seriously, he did a damn good job at it.  Well, I suppose he did have the added pressure that this was a decree from on high, so he better put in a good show. What can I say? Deuce is a pleaser.

So my question is this: Any of you been sent a postcard from Jesus to your brain lately? What did you get? And do you think I'll be getting a Jesus postcard to the brain? If so, what do you think it'll require?  (And if any of you say "don't leave your kids in the car anymore", I will hunt you down.)

Sky Mall-- Mocking the Aged

Ok, a quick one since I've got the three monkeys to myself tonight and I still haven't figured out a dinner solution (Thank God for crap movies. Even Trey at two seems enthralled by "Never Back Down", which is a current Karate Kid.  Ace and Deuce are so into it they've doffed their shirts and are adopting little sneers.  Awesome.) 

A sweet little find from my beloved Sky Mall:

I'm pretty sure that whoever invented the marketing scheme for this little device spends his spare time ridiculing retards, too. It is a given that he's going straight to Hell.  

So let me get this straight, one is supposed to be embarrassed by their hearing loss but should buck up because they can find "image enhancement" with this little dork supplement? "A more youthful appearance"? Say what? Poor old guys are going to get duped into buying this thing thinking they'll look cool and hip, when really they're just getting suckered into the biggest tool accessory available! Next thing you know grandpas are gonna start sagging their slacks just to enhance their youthful image! Sheesh. This just seems criminal to me. 

I'm going to catch my 90-year-old granddad wearing this thing at our next family reunion and I'll just feel awful.  He doesn't even own a cell phone. 

Porn for the Masses, Part Two

I almost don't even need to comment on this, as it is pretty obvious what is so hilarious about it!

I love that it is "nuttin'" on black "azz"! Does calling it "azz" make the rump sexier or blacker? Or both?! Does the faux-Ebonics vouch for the blackness of the cast here? 

Mostly, I just like that it's guys and girls with lots of big butts in yo face, yo! Now if that's not a winning sales pitch, I don't know what is! (Other than the fact that this teaser promises "fast-paced" action. Again, is that a bonus? I guess asking for a claim of "proper lighting and ass-zit make-up" is too much to hope for?)

-- I can assure you that installment three of porn-in-your-hotel blogging is the best, so be sure to tune in again for the orgasmic conclusion of this series!

Porn for the Masses, Part One

So while on our romantic escape weekend, at a very swank hotel mind you, The Old Man and I decided to peruse the selection of in-room movies.  Naturally we had to check out the "adult" titles available (just out of curiosity, I swear!), and let me tell you, hotel porn has come a LONG way since Spectra-Vision, baby!

We couldn't believe not only the number of titles available (it rivaled our nearest porn shop, we eventually passed out exhausted from laughing before we got to the end of the list!), but the particular nuance and fetishes that they cater to now is astounding!

 Now, I thought in-room porn had hit its pinnacle when they started running the token gay film, but it has gotten MUCH "better"! There's something for everyone (within reason, of course, we didn't see any kiddie porn, but at the way they are adding titles and titillations it may only be around the corner!) Luckily, the screen before you scroll through the teaser pages asks you to not go further if you aren't of age.  Yeah, I'm sure that stops loads of kids.  It sure would've worked for me... yeah, right.

So of course I had to grab out my handy phone and get some shots of my favorite new releases, if you will, to share with you.  I'll be doing a three part series here to share them with you (don't want you to get too much of a good thing all at once now, do I?)

Without further ado, may I present Porn Offering Number One: The Cable Guy (not starring Jim Carrey).

So alright, I get it. Guys have a consistent fantasy about showing up to some horny woman's house delivering pizza, or cleaning her pool, or retrieving "red mice" from a clogged toilet and before a guy can get in a day's honest work, whoops! The missus is slobbing his knob! Yeah, this one's premise is a bit trite. But what I like about this particular treatment is that little blurb they threw in over in the upper left quadrant:

"Reality Based".

Say what? Uh, excuse me? Reality based? Are you shitting me?!?! They go right ahead and contradict that with the opening line of the description: "What a fantasy!"  So which is it, porno-summary-writer? Real or fantasy? And God, wouldn't you love to have that job?! Talk about easy! First off, your biggest challenge would be finding synonyms for "horny" and secondly your customer base isn't exactly a choosy, literate bunch, are they? You can sort of sit back and rely on a good still from the movie to get the attention of the viewer!

Just for argument's sake, let's say this is "reality based".  Where? When does this happen? I am a married lady who has to occasionally open the door for a workman or delivery guy. Never once has it crossed my mind to start humping his leg. And if I had a friend over?!?! Well that would make it even LESS likely, as everyone knows three people can keep a secret only if you slowly, methodically poison the one most likely to rat after a glass of merlot... which would mean that I would have to poison myself! 

Yeah. "Reality-based".  In your dirty, naughty little dreams. Now bend over and prepare to get punished for your insolence!

 

Nudey Marcus

This past weekend, on our romantic escape to the city, The Old Man and I spent our Saturday shopping. And by "shopping" I mean we walked around the very upscale mall nestled in the most chi-chi part of town (as they usually are) and enviously eyed all the things we would NOT be buying. 

We spent a particularly extended time in Neiman Marcus, which to my estimation is the crown jewel of department stores, the Notre Dame of consumerism. There I fingered $420 cashmere scarves, caressed Prada bags, stroked the spikes of a pair of Louboutins, fondled a particular Missoni maxi dress long enough to get the stink-eye from a sales lady, soaked myself in enough perfume sample sprays to smell like what my father used to call a "French whorehouse" and in general bemoaned my newfound pennilessness, wistfully reflecting on the days when I would blithely saunter through that very mall and happily charge whatever shiny object caught my eye never the wiser to the actual American Express bill (it went straight to my sweet, enabling mother).  

I also must say I spent a fair amount of time glowering at the very few shoppers still making purchases. I eyed them with a mixture of unbridled jealousy and disdain for the mere suggestion of spending filthy amounts of money on luxury goods at a time like this (i.e., when I can't!). I found them all to be grossly ill-mannered, frankly. Vulgarity and obscenity popped to mind. Then again, why wouldn't it when I happened across THIS in men's sportswear?

Highly inappropriate for a such a well-heeled, haughty mercantile, wouldn't you say? And not to mention... that is one BIG sack! Minus, of course, the most important piece in a man's tackle box! This poor dummy has been reversed castrated! But I bet he really fills out a pair of pants. 

 In my covetous mind, filled with barely-concealed wrath for anyone still able to shop at my erstwhile cathedral, I imagined that they had to can the dummy-pantser due to slow sales. They were obviously able to keep the mannequin shirt-squire on staff, probably because of his particular elan with scarves, but the pants guy? So gone. And for a brief second I let myself feel sorry for him, for myself, for all of us. 

Really though, what is the larger message that dear Neiman (or is it Marcus?) is sending us? "Fuck it!" That's all I can come up with. "You can only afford half an outfit from here anymore, so... fuck it!"  

And with that I grabbed TOM's hand and we headed slowly over to the Gap to check out the clearance rack. 

More Useless Crap to Buy

In an age where we are slowly assimilating into a new way of economical thinking, perusing and weighing each purchase with such prudent solemnity that we now give as much importance to saving a couple cents on store-brand toilet paper that we used to give on vehicle purchases that I thought I'd post something not only hilariously useless by definition, but also the purchasing equivalent of using cash as diaper wipes. Enjoy!

Ok, first... "warm and stylish"?!?! Hmmm, I was under the impression that dogs were equipped with something very useful to keeping warm... fur. Turns out that hair all over beasts not only is super-soft and yummy to pet, it's also fully functioning in keeping the dog warm. Without any need for overcoats. Except for those crazy Mexican hairless dogs that look like a science experiment gone inexorably bad. But let's be honest. Those dogs can be hairless... it's hot as fuck in Mexico. Hence, we should leave the little fuckers there.

 

   Honestly, if you have to CLOTHE your dog to fit your climate, you've chosen the wrong fucking breed, my friend. You can get a dog in about any shape, pattern and speed.  Pick and choose to best fit your surroundings, got it? There's a reason certain breeds are from certain places. (Note to those of you getting upset: Before I get too far... let me go ahead and clear up about those little runts that basically exist to dress up in fun little costumes... you know, the itty Paris Hilton dogs... they don't count for this particular screed. They are basically living baby dolls. Dress them as you must, they have no other function but to let model your independent spirit and fashion elan. I point this piece toward owners of mutts like the ones pictured... you know, dogs with abilities other than shaking uncontrollably and making goo-goo eyes.) Now then...

"Stylish"? Really?!?! For whom? The dog owner? The dog? A shearling coat? I'm pretty sure those went out of style for humans around the time Al Gore started growing the mountain-man beard, no? Although I can't help but laugh at the surreal perversion of a dog wearing what amounts to fur! (It is "faux" fur... so it is sophisticated fake fur, mind you.) Literally, a wolf in sheep's clothing! Too fucking much. It's the same sort of mindfuck one generally only gets after copious amounts of LSD!  

And how 'bout that collar? Sure! I want to make my dog look like a dork! I was hoping my own acid-wash jeans pulled up to my diaphragm and this braided leather belt would do the trick, but just to make extra sure in case you didn't notice my fanny-pack, here, I'll strap this fashion disaster to my hound just so you have no doubt about how rarely I get laid. Oddly, I can't figure out why he's not been acting like my best friend lately!

Do note, also, that crazy shifty eye on the poodle.  I almost feel like the geniuses behind this product photoshopped a person's eye onto that dog, the look it gives is so filled with human emotion. It's like I can read his little mind with that look! He's warning us. He's not happy. He thought he scored big when he nabbed the modeling job, but then he showed up to the studio and that bastard trainer of his strapped this doofus-beacon onto him! Worse than that time he was dyed purple! He's sending us a silent scream, telepathing the complete desperation one would feel if ever persuaded to A) buy this crap or B) be forced to wear it by a ruthless "master". (Master my docked tail! Only because of those damn opposable thumbs! Curses!)

Monkey Creepers

Dear Ashton-Drake Galleries,

I had to write as urgently as I could to hail your recent achievement in the realm of miniature art! What a doozy you’ve unleashed on us! I must say this piece, “Monkey Cuddles” must have really set the art world abuzz! A crowning achievement, I might insist, on top of just a “delightful” one! Don’t uncut the level of accomplishment this little critter will undoubtedly bestow upon your esteemed establishment! Accolades from far and wide I can assure you! 

I mean, just look at it! What a treasure to, literally, behold! What with the beady little eyes, which you claim are a sweet blue (odd for a simian, but still, artistic license will take you everywhere, although I might have described them rather as “a close approximation to the creepy, soul-searing blue of albino eyes”) and the giant ears that look to be filled with raw hamburger meat, how could this thing not make me “smile every time I see her”? Oh? Its a girl? Ok. I guess I should’ve known that from the “genuine mohair topknot”.  You know with babies it is always so hard to tell!

How in the world did your talented artist get the underdeveloped monkey fetus this is obviously modeled upon to stay in that position? Did she pin it down? That upright posture is just so authentic for apes and babies alike!  

Tell me, is that hair individually applied or is she dipped in glue and rolled through a box of lint? I do adore little hairy chests! But not bellies! Good for you knowing where to draw the hirsute line! If you are running short of the body hair, which I’m sure is a real concern as these things must be flying off your considerable shelves, I will happily amass all the detritus that has collected under the seats of my minivan as I think it is a close approximation to whatever it is you are currently using on this little gem of yours. Of course, you’ll have to pick out the french fry crumbs and sticky candy bits.  But I think there may be one whole lollipop under there that has this exact level of fuzziness! And who wouldn’t want to hold that in the palm of their hand, just like little Monkey Cuddles here?

I am sure what with your close association to the “art world” you’re already well-aware of the obvious phallic nature of the “tiny sculpted banana”, and are pleased to be on the cutting edge by pushing the infant-adoring-penis-like-objects meme. What with that beguiling little smile (not unlike the Mona Lisa, I note, certainly no mistake!) and puffed out cheeks, she looks “ripe” to deliver some oral pleasure! I love how you subtly highlighted this with the hot-pink lips. How very subversive!

I would love nothing more than to hold Monkey Cuddles in my own palm, but unfortunately it is currently holding only $19.00.  It looks like I’m short the $.99 cents I would need to add this little treasure to my collection of wee, portable art objets. I am heartbroken.  Certainly by the time I earn the necessary funds you’ll have sold out of this precious Lilliputian rarity for I see there is a level of urgency on your “reservation” form. Well, in any event I only wished to convey my sincerest admiration for your company’s clear triumph in the cut-throat miniature art scene. Well done, Ashton-Drake Collections.  This will certainly not give me endless night terrors. 

Delightfully yours,

Monkey Lover

Sky Mall Treasure #52

Oh, I love flying. I do. I don't care where I'm going, either. Sure, I do mind that the seats have gotten 79% smaller and they charge you for everything but oxygen now and are talking about adding in charges for toilets and barf bags, but I don't care. As a kid I lived for flying. The little microwave meals on the plastic platters, served up on your own special little fold-down table. In my mind, it was high class, and I was livin' large.  'Course, I was sucking down twenty-five cigarettes being smoked in my immediate vicinity ( and that was just my mom and dad...is it any wonder I struggle with that nicotine addiction?), so fresh oxygen to the brain really wasn't happening.  

But still! I love to fly.

 

I like packing everything I need into bags and seeing how little I actually need to survive. I like the compartments of the plane, the smell of the jet fuel, the noise of the jetway. I like the busy anonymity of airports and that everyone is a little more willing to have a Bloody Mary or Screwdriver (classic drinks, I say) at ten AM on a Tuesday. I particularly like the funny little drawings on the safety cards, that look vaguely foreign and vintage, like they were all designed in 1970's South America. I steal them. I can't help it. Something about those cards makes me a fucking kleptomaniac and now I have a drawer stuffed with them.  Someday I'll wall-paper a room in them. Or perhaps decoupage my coffin? Just another crafty little idea that percolated. See? I can't help myself. I'm off track again, aren't I?

What I truly love about flying now? The Sky Mall catalog.  Sure, it loses a bit of appeal now that they've pulled those back-of-seat phones out (at least out of Frontier planes, who I try to fly exclusively due to their brilliance of personalized tvs. Can't be beat. Seriously. Plus Udi's food-- natural, fresh, yum! Yes, please! And another vodka tonic if you would, dear!). So now you can't get rip-roaring drunk and order these goods-- and I bet Sky Mall really felt that squeeze when the phones were 86'd-- but it hasn't at all stopped them from publishing the greatest collection of pure crap concentrated in one spot!

I love it! I settle in, buckle up, tuck my water bottle in (bought after security check for an unreasonable price hike) and my pile of books and magazines that I doggedly lug with me no matter how short the flight, plug in my headphones and find my channel and then immediately reach for the Sky Mall magazine. In very few instances do I find nothing to laugh at, and in most I find a plethora of giggling goodness!

So here's one of my recent finds, the SkyRest.

I love this part

<------------------*

"Can you say the same?" Well, probably not if this asshat is sitting next to me! Can you imagine?!?! This guy squeezes in next to you and whips this damn thing out! I can just envision the blow-up process as he's huffing and blowing and wrestling with it on his lap, bumping you, the plastic seams ripping up your arms. And then you know the asshole in front of him is going to throw his seat back as far as it will go the moment the wheels leave the ground. Thump! As the smelly velour ricochets off his face and into your lap. "Here, " you weakly offer. 

And then he's stuck with a real conundrum.  How to get the damn table down once he's got it blown up, because you know he forgot to do that first. Now he's winded and sweaty from blowing this thing up and wild-eyed, trying to hold it above his head with one hand and blindly unhook the tray table. I'm talking a farce of Mr. Bean proportion going on mere inches from your person!

Once he finally does get the damn thing down and settles onto it, you better just hope that the flight is smooth, short and his bladder is strong. 'Cause guess who gets to hang onto the Dork Pillow while he uses the loo? Don't even get me started on what would happen if a guy (and only a guy would purchase this fucking retard thing) brought it out and I was sitting in the window seat. ('Cause guess what? I don't have an iron bladder, and it is guaranteed that on even the shortest flight my bladder will send "pin's-outta-the-grenade" signals to my brain and I have to be the person who shoves her ass in everyone's face to squeeze past for the bathroom-- oh, I always get the window seat-- I like having the wall to lean on-- instead of say, a giant inflatable!) How in the world would you get past this?  Although, I can't even imagine how the flight attendants would allow this thing on anyone's laps to begin with, considering the fits they throw if even the shoulder strap of my carry on is spilling out from under the seat in front of me. It has to be a safety issue, right? Wait, I'm going to go check my flight safety cards...

Weird, doesn't mention anything about inflatables other than the seat bottom and the slide/rafts... I guess this guy would feel pretty pleased with himself if he ever was to make an emergency water landing, eh? 

But back to pseudo-reality.  How much would you hate this guy when he had the nerve to DEFLATE the thing at the end of the flight? Squeezing out all his old stank breath into the pressurized, recycled-air cabin.  I might have to punch him. Certainly I'd have to roll my eyes in disgust and make a mental note to blog nasty shit about him afterward! 

Anyway, it's a total steal if you're interested-- only $29.99!

Been Caught Stealing

From my recent GIrl Trip in the City-- 

An innocent afternoon, shopping along the avenue with Nan and Carmen, we were admiring the wares of the street vendors. Even got ourselves a little something pretty.  And then we passed along a restaurant that had a table set up outside, velvet ropes up around it, displaying the culinary delights available in the Manhattan version of a mid-range eatery trying hard not to be a greasy spoon. 

Of course it caught my attention, I was hungry (that's what walking all day on a bitter hangover stomach will do to a gal). I was thinking, if the economy gets much worse they won't be able to leave plates of food out like that or these recently canned jag-off hedge fund managers will come screaming by in tattered $10,000 suits and worn John Lobb shoes and snatch the plates right off the table-- wait, a sec. What the fuck?! 

Yep. That's right. Someone made off with the burger from that plate! Holy Hamburglar! I only hope it was an out-of-work cabbie or working man and not said hedge-fund managers since those frickin' bastards deserve to starve a little.

Now a little something out of this world...

"On a desolate stretch of desert, in the wee hours of the morning, a little green bundle was left behind."

That's the introduction to this little bit of wonder. I'm not sure whether this counts as an End-of-Times-Bellwether, but it comes precariously close to the precipice.  That's even BEFORE we really think about the revolting image "a little green bundle left behind" in the desert could be! I mean, really, isn't that something that requires a scatologist? Hell, it could be infectious! But, no, in this case, it doesn't require a human crazy enough to devote their time to feces. It requires much more out of a person. A total suspension of reality, I'd say.  Folks, may I introduce to you, Roswell, Baby Alien.

 Yeah, I am not sure what is the most frightening thing about the existence of this thing.  Is it that someone actually created it? Or that there are people out there who would actually shell out to buy it? ($79.99 or three easy installments of $26.66 if you are in the market for an object guaranteed to lose you friends.)  

I do need to note that this may be the ONE instance that a baby version of something got smaller eyes, rather than larger, to make it look (relatively) appealing. 

"With his tie-dyed style one-piece jumper, and his black reflective eyes, you won't be able to resist this alien baby doll's "look of love." 

Oh yeah, I'll say.  That "look of love"... the one used effectively by car salesmen, gigolos, and zombies right before they either rob you blind or eat your face off. He's not fooling me with that little come-on! Baby alligators look cute, too, but they'll still bite your damn finger off!

What sort of person is out there, dreaming of building a lasting and loving relationship with Martians? A sad and lonely one, I guess, and one that needs to be directed, toute suite, to some sort of group therapy situation where they can interact with their own kind! Like, say, a bar. 

I have to admit, the fact that this little fucker is crafted from the same material as Real Dolls (look it up) further creeps me out and sends me all sorts of wrong pedophile/alieophiliacs (I just made that word up.) messages. Honestly, I hope the government is tracking any deranged individual who purchases one of these things, particularly if they do it on the lay-away plan!

Thanks to Edna, yet again.

Ladies Loose in City

Wait, that doesn't sound right. We're loose everywhere! 

Just kidding, my friends are all as pure-hearted and unsullied as I am. Ok, now you know I'm really joking.  Anyway, we are meeting in New York for the weekend in celebration of various birthdays, all which seem to cluster together.  I appear to be strangely attracted to Aquarian women, but then again, who isn't?!! The main event is the momentous occasion of Edna's 30th birthday.  

In recognition of this achievement, we will head to a wretchedly cold, overpriced locale to make public nuisances of ourselves.  I've packed my thermal underwear, ski mask and one-gallon flask for the adventure. (You may not be able to tell, but my vote would've been for a Vegas vacation, where the temps are mild and the drinks aplenty.  Course, the cabs rape you in both spots.  You ain't lived 'til you've been cab-raped!)

So for the second time in a couple weeks, I am packing up and heading out. I am once again dragging this laptop along in hopes that I may, just maybe get a spare second to write (I know, but at least pipe dreams are some sort of dream at all!).  The Old Man was completely right (Again! Dammit!) about me lugging along the laptop to the Disney cruise. I didn't open it a single time.  On the plane out it was all home work and overpriced vodka.  On the ride home it was tears and vodka.  In between it was the best vacation of my life.  But still! This time I'll do it! Right? My girlfriends will understand that this may be my only opportunity for six or seven hours of uninterrupted quiet time to really let the muse flow. Right?  Well... it remains to be seen.

At any rate, I will surely report back any and all ways that 1) New Yorkers piss me off and 2) the severity of our self-degradation and humiliation. (Spoiler: That last one is a sure thing).

Until then, might I spout off a tiny bit about the product that evidently taking the land by storm.  At least, that's what one would think, what with the non-stop TV advertising, the Fox News reports, the ads in the Sunday circular taking up perfectly good coupon space that, frankly, I totally am not in favor of, as well as a fucking EMAIL about it that landed in my inbox today! What am I talking about, you ask? None other than the fucking Snuggie, aka the mark of a lazy, surrendered people.

 Have you seen this fucking thing? Well, of course you have, because if you haven't, you ened ot get out more (or watch some more tv, like I do.).  It is basically a blanket with sleeves.  In the world's most horrendous colors.  The print ads are just laughable, but the tv ad, it drives me to distraction.  See it here  "Blankets are okay, but they can slip and slide..." it whines.  Are fucking joking me?  Blankets are now too hard for us? We can't handle blankets?!?!

And the damn things are basically shapeless, revolting, oversized robes worn backward.  Think about it. And it looks to me like when you are lounging around with your free-wheeling hands and super-warm arms, your ass is hanging out the backside of it! I don't know about you, but if I've got a blanket on while I laze on the couch, my ass and back are part of the area most in need of warmth! Plus, if you are that cold while you engaged in your leisure activities, here's an idea: Get off your ass and MOVE! Maybe that's your body telling you "Hey you, I'm flabbing away into oblivion. I am so inert I can't even keep myself warm anymore."

I may even go so far as to name the Snuggie an End of Times Bellwether item, folks. I mean, this is getting retarded.  And thank god my inbox is clogging up with another offer on it.  I was too fucking lazy to get up to find the phone to call and order one off the tv! 

Anyway, Cheers! Clearly my attitude is already all fired up for a little fun-time in NYC.  No worries about me holding my own with natives, I'd say my cranky, bitchy nature is already all revved up!  

More plusses: I get ANOTHER chance to review the fine products of the Sky MAll catalog, which never leave me wanting!

Redneck Haircut

It's official. The mullet is dead.  But during our trip down south, The Old Man and I witnessed what we fear may be its replacement on our visit to Orlando's fine tourist attraction, Gator Land.  We're not quite sure what to make of it.  This guy was walking around out in public, without a hat, so it seems perhaps this was intentional and not the result of a lost bet as I had originally assumed could be the only rational explanation for it. I would've asked him about it, but he and his pack of friends looked suspiciously like they may be white supremecists and would have no problem killing us all and dumping our bodies into the alligator marshes. 

I invite any of you that might know what would possess this chap to do this, to please leave your thoughts. Also, feel free to suggest some catchy names for this, as it will surely become trendy with all the other rednecks any second. All I could come up with is "The Accountant".

Sponsored by Trojan

Ok, I am slowly adjusting. My attitude has greatly improved. I've remembered that no matter where you, eventually the light bill comes, so maybe taking off for the beach wasn't exactly practical. Besides, I would eventually end up bitching about the heat there, right? And the giant bugs (something Colorado is blessedly lacking). And the crime. And all sorts of shit.  

Anyway, the only thing still needing re-acclimation is my skin, which I realized just now has entered a level of dehydration that leaves me looking like a cross between Magda from There's Something About Mary and one of the alligators we fed at Gatorland in Orlando (Oh Lord! Talk about Redneck paradise! That place was thick as a politician's epidermis with hillbillies! Wait 'til you see photographic evidence in an upcoming post!).

So, I just returned from my chiropractor who informed me my back was too tight to crack due to stress (weird... I don't feel stressed... course, all the kids are away, so perchance that helps??) Therefore, I will not take this chance to go on and on about this silly "stimulus package" or the fact that those fucking cretins on Wall Street gave themselves bonuses for their abysmal performances in 2008-- no, that would rile me up even more.  Instead, I will share a sweet little nugget The Old Man and I gleefully spied on St. Maarten.  It speaks for itself, I think.  Although their tagline could definitely be something like "Don't Forget Protection!"

End of Times Bellwether #642: At-home Paternity Test

Has it truly come to this, folks? Really?!?! We now must have the convenient take home "who's-your-daddy" DNA kit? This is a sad, sad day, folks.  

And the guy in the picture looks so happy! You know he's thinking, "HOW FAR behind am I on child support?!?! Oh SHIT!"  And the poor kid is like, "This one? I get to look forward to shitty eyesight and balding? Oh great! Load me up on the "sorry I was never there" gifts and make-up trips to the baseball game now, Pops.  Sheesh! I can't believe my mom banged you! Either she was drunk, or you've changed a lot in the last seven years!"

"For Questions Only DNA can Answer"-- what a fucking tag line! What other questions are there that only DNA can answer? Murder. Rape. All the good stuff.  And what is with New York? Why not there? I would think with that big city and all that New York would be one of the places most in need of a handy little papa-deciphering kit like this.  I mean, in Lincoln, Nebraska, couldn't you just look around and go, "Yep. He's the one. Looks just like 'em".

Which brings me to the awesome natural ability of kids to look exactly like their dads when they are born. I hear it is a trait leftover from our cave-dwelling days.  The pre-historic "IdentiGene", if you will. Clearly everyone knows who the mother is (the fat, bloated, tired one), and then the baby comes out and yep, no question! Flat nose, protruding brow, fleshy lips, woolly-mammoth sized ears-- this one belongs to Graak!! I'm sure the Geico Cavemen are still relying on Mother Nature's paternity test. Whilst the rest of us now trek over to the Tyra Banks show to publicly embarrass ourselves and everyone who ever knew us.  

And it's true-- it still works! I tell you what, boys, if your kid pops out and doesn't have ANY resemblance to you-- either book your trip to Maury Povich, or pop on down to your local Walgreens and grab you a box of IdentiGene! Thankfully, for the little girls, they grow out of this phase pretty quickly (although not soon enough for that poor little LopAnthony twin. But then, what did her mother expect breeding with the human equivalent of Gollum?).

Confidential, eh? Yeah, except when you have to buy this box IN PUBLIC! Avoiding eye contact with the clerk, looking over your shoulder, hoping you don't see anyone you recognize (unless it's that one guy, then you'll need to take him aside for a sample. What was his name again?). 

Here's what's funny for me about this.  The lady that stops in to Walgreens to pick up a pack of gynelotrimin and canker sore treatment, sees this on the shelf, shrugs and throws a few boxes in.  You can just see her, can't you? Piling up her boxes of Identigene on the counter, the clerk's eyes bulging, and just sort of casually saying, "Yeah, I'll take a carton of Newports, too".

Interesting side note on the sociological front... would we determine the country's sluttiest city by tracking sales of Identigene? Something to ponder. 

Mariah Carey-- diva, poet, giant

Edna and I have a long-running disagreement about Mariah Carey.  She steadfastly defends her, while I cannot abide.  No, I'm not talking about Mariah's glass-shattering vocal range or any of that-- I'll give it to her, she can certainly sing.  I speak, instead, of how fucking gigantor she is, and yet simultaneously, how childlike. First thing's first.  Her size.

 There's no getting around it, Edna, Mariah Carey is akin to a wildebeest in stature.  Now listen, before you start getting all crazy on me-- I have nothing against tall women or rotund women! In fact, nearly every woman on the planet is taller than me as I'm only one inch taller than what Edna would probably consider midget (and thus horrifying and wrong). I have friends of ALL shapes, and we all beat ourselves merilessly for not looking more like Gisele and Angelina. 

 So I know the feeling of being outside the norm of quote-unquote desirability! In fact, I have a similar shape to Ms. Carey (not much waist to speak of, broad shoulders, etc-- I have yet to invest in new funbags, but my time's a' comin'!). That said, I also know that my figure dictates certain things.  IE, I cannot wear big Kentucky Derby hats.  I cannot tote around the au courant giant purses that seem to be everywhere this season.  If I did I would like like a pack mule. Fine.  I love big flow-y hippie shirts. However, they make me look like Violet Beauregard after the gum incident and so I avoid wearing them. There are certain things that my body has not cooperated with my mental images on.  Here's the problem with Mariah Carey.  It is not that she is gigundous-- and don't get me wrong, Mariah isn't FAT, she is just what one of my southern friends pig-headedly refers to himself as: "big-boned". He usually says this through a mouthful of hog, barbeque sauce running down his chins as he tries to keep his beer bottle from slipping through his greasy fingers-- it is that she shoves herself into clothes four sizes too small and 20 years too young! 

  She really is big-boned.  Have you SEEN the size of those fucking meathooks?!? How could you not? She flaunts them around like Porterhouses during every performance-- jazz-hands a flappin', waving her yardstick fingers at us. Unfortunately for her, she inadvertently calls attention to her overall gigundousness by holding them up in front of her face (only highlighting how fucking big her head is, although in comparison to the linebacker shoulders she's got, her head occasionally looks a little pinnish, particularly if she's slicked all her hair back.I know the feeling, trust me. I'm sporting that oh-so-sexy look right now).  

Now, I would be a real son-of-a-bitch if her size alone was what frustrated me to such a degree that I occasionally catch myself wishing harm to her. [Not BAD harm. Not stalker harm or anything. Little harm. Hemmorhoids. Canker sores. Alopecia. You know, that sort of thing.]

 My issue isn't her size, per se. It is how she uses it, or even how she misuses it.  Tall women are POWERFUL! They shouldn't act all weak and delicate.  And it pisses me off she tries to hide behind some little girl bullshit! Amazonian women should be strong and unapologetic. Mariah Carey acts like she just stepped off a school yard at recess whenever she's in front of a camera and it really irritates! Not to mention how she completely mistreats the public-at-large by wearing ridiculously small clothes!

There is no excuse for it. She's a gazillionaire. I've seen her place on Cribs! She gets free merch all over the place and yet only seems to keep the stuff that comes from Gymboree and Baby Gap! She's not fooling anyone into thinking she's not a giantess just because she refuses to shop outside the Missy section! If there is one celebrity who needs an emergency "very-special-episode" of What Not to Wear it is Mariah Carey. But, I think her love of miniature clothing is indicative of a larger problem. A dirty little secret the media industry has been keeping from us.  

Mariah Carey is fundamentally retarded. She has been developmentally stilted and reveals it in her weird-o rooms full of Hello Kitty shit and her love for tiny t-shirts and denim belts she thinks are skirts.  She acts like a little kid, and frankly, I feel sorry for that poor sucker who married her. You know he was thinking he was gonna be living the high life, rolling on the gravy train, eating his Count Chocula with a silver spoon, and all those other cliches.  He's a gold-digger, clear as Saran Wrap. And yet, I feel sorry for him now. I bet he wakes up scared to death about the crazy woman sleeping next to him in bed, wondering how he got there, wondering if she's gonna make him play My Little Ponies again today, or if she's going to roll over on him and squish him. 

As further evidence of Ms. Mariah Carey's undeniable, certifiable juvenile nature, I would like to present the following to you. It was the whole reason I started writing this today and then got a little carried away. Sorry.  All I wanted to share with you is this, from Mariah's book of poems, a few lines from her poignant poem, "The Unicorn".

I love my unicorn, he knows

  I am true,

My troubles go poof, my unicorn

  named Boo

 

Marxism

Naughty Games

    Every year The Old Man and I find ourselves faced with that final trek to pick "one or two" more toys for each boy as the big day approaches (that'd be Xmas, for all you people already entrenched in 2009).  This year was no different. We found ourselves swimming through crowds with the rest of the procrastinators; pushing through half-empty aisles, rummaging through the leftovers.  Basically searching for something desirable in a pool of misfit toys-- if only Hermie had been there to cry with us about it.

As we scanned the dwindling supplies at a local Wally World, a little something special caught my eye. Don't ask me why my attention was immediately drawn to it. I really wouldn't know. Ahem. 

Oh, ok-- we all know I have a notoriously dirty mind. But forgive me, I don't think this is much of a stretch.  When you see it, you tell me what it looks like! (The pic isn't the best-- we had to take it with the phone, and both of us were shaking from giggling)

Yeah! Exactly! It is Dora with her gigundous cock/joystick protruding through a giant bush! It even has a happy-to-see-you little curve in it! And howabout that tiered dickhead? It couldn't look more like pulsing man flesh unless they'd painted veins down the side of it.

 So this little gem poses a few interesting questions for us.

For instance, why in god's name did the manufacturer choose "skin" as the preferred dye color for the batch of plastic to be used as a joystick? Did they intend for Dora to look like an overzealous, outrageously well-endowed child predator? 

Secondly, did anyone else know that Dora is, in fact, a tranny? I was not hip to this, I must say. I have heard the rumors about Bert and Ernie, but not a peep on the Mommy Beat about Dora!  Now, I know that children's programming is getting more and more progressive-- showing more shows with "two mommies" or what have you, but I had no idea that Nick Jr. had gone so far as to incorporate this sort of sexuality normalization into their programming! I guess I should have been suspicious about her friendship with that little monkey and the fact that she has a verbal relationship with her backpack, but call me naive, I thought she was just your average bilingual know-it-all. 

Thirdly, I must apologize in advance for the following... 

I am sorry... 

My mind is a nasty, filthy little cavern of wicked scenarios that induce sophomoric attacks of snickering to myself.  Trust me, I paid the price in elementary school for it.  Anyway... all I can envision with this little "joystick" is little Aiden/Brayden/Jaden sitting in front of the tv, controller grasped tightly in his paws clutched into his lap as he sits cross-legged in front of the tube, whacking and jerking away, grunting and grimacing, brows furrowed in concentration.  Just beating away at happy little Dora.  Er, Dorian, I mean.  It is almost like this little toy is a precursor to days ahead when Aiden/Brayden/Jaden's mom accidentally walks in on him after he's discovered Cinemax late night.

But of course it doesn't stop there.  What of the poor little handicapped boy who was born without arms and has taught himself to do everything by using only his mouth?  The kid can paint and write and play billiards. He maneuvers his wheelchair with that whole short breath, long breath blow-tube dealy that always blows my mind every time they show it on 60 Minutes.  What about him?  He wants to play the vids, too! And with this?!?! Well, as if he wasn't a laughing stock already what with the armless thing-- now his snotty brother has pics of him effectively blowing a plastic transvestite! 

Well, you can see where this shopping trip got me and TOM!  Who can concentrate on the magic of Christmas when these days you can't help but practically trip over porn wherever you go! You'd think the toy section would be safe... then again, there's always those Bratz slutz selling themselves all over the place now, so I guess really not even the toy aisle is safe.

Excuses, excuses

Pardon me while I feverishly try to pull together all the holiday musts...  

Unfortunately due to the fact that only people blessed with a vagina can actually write, address, stamp and mail Xmas cards, I will be unavailable for the next few days. Oh, and then I get to tackle gift wrapping, which also seems to have the same physical requirements.  Yeah, yeah, I know. One would think that any human with say, hands, could tackle the tasks, but no... vaginas are evidently imperative to success here.

Until then, this made me giggle. Haunted Sofa.  I just keep thinking... could it be a fucking rodent, you tools? And if you are so horrified by it, can't you just replace it?? And I just love the photo of "Nigel"-- looking all, "tormented" by his davenport. Also sort of looks like he just had a thought and is unaccustomed to that occurrence. Or maybe he just realized he married a woman whose belly roll is bigger than her tits-- oy! (Yeah, yeah, those in glass houses...) 

Well, until I can find a couple hours to carve out for myself... take care and happy holidays (and good luck ladies-- I know what you're going through)!!

A Word to the Wise

Vajayjay Maintenance 101

I'm home sick today. Which, of course, leaves me feeling guilty for all the things I'm not doing that I should be. I've loaded up on vitamin C, zinc lozenges and Advil.  So, I thought I would share this ad, as way of feeling like it really could be worse and in celebration of how far we ladies have come. The copy didn't scan very well, so I reprinted it, word for word (emphases not mine) below the pics. I can only say, I know you'll LOVE this, and thanks again to Edna-- who finds the best shit.   

Day after heartbreaking day I was held in an unyielding web... a web spun by my husband's indifference.  I couldn't reach him anymore! Was the fault mine? Well... thinking you know about feminine hygiene, yet trusting now-and-then care, can make all the difference in married happiness, as my doctor pointed out. He said never to run such careless risks... prescribed "Lysol" brand disinfectant for douching-- always. 

First off, can we just agree that the picture alone is worth an untold fortune! I mean, how many times have I felt caught up in The Old Man's web of indifference?! (Uh, none.  But if I did you can bet your grannie panties I'm not just silently sitting back, lip aquiver wondering how to break through. Nope, like you, that's when the kneepads come in really handy, if ya get my drift.  Try being indifferent to those lingual stylings, TOM!)

I love that "she" is wondering if the fault is, gulp, hers!  It is so madly obvious that the campaign team that came up with this ad all were in possession of a third leg.  I'm not even sure if any of the people involved in this escapade from drawing board to manufacturing, sales and marketing were female! Maybe just the "test patients" from the local asylum whose lobotomies precluded them from accurately describing their side effects had a pre-market-debut hand in this. 

And wouldn't you have loved to witness that doctor consult! Again, clearly her doctor is ALSO of the male persuasion. Can't you just see him?! Washing his hands, little mirror headband thing on, stethoscope swinging, cig dangling from his lips as he exasperatedly explains to yet another women how repulsive her natural beav scent is! "Now-and-then care?! Are you nuts? The best meatloaf in the land won't cover up that stench, and let me assure you, nothing turns a man off faster than the sweet smell of sex! Careless risks you take, Madame! Here, try putting some FUCKING LYSOL in your cooter and see if that calms things down!"

That's right, LYSOL!!! Yeah, I bet that will work, as nothing tames vage odor like a chemical burn!

Oh, the joy of finding Tom's love and close companionship once more! Believe me, I follow to the letter my doctor's advice on feminine hygiene... always use "Lysol" for douching, I wouldn't be satisfied now with salt, soda, or other homemade solution! Not with "Lysol," a proved germ-killer that cleanses so gently yet so thoroughly. It's easy to use, too, and economical. The very best part is-- "Lysol" really works!

How much do you love that her husband is called Tom, too!! Haahaa!  

And lo-and-behold, douching with Lysol worked for this fine lady! Those "homemade solutions" aren't good enough for her anymore! She wouldn't be-- and this is my favorite word in the ad-- "satisfied" with anything less! HAAHAA! Do you think this poor gal has ever really been satisfied? Me neither.

 "No sir! Anything less than hospital-grade sanitizer won't be good enough to clean out this snatch! I'm looking for SANITARY!! Do you know how germ-infested this thing is?! I practically gave my husband cooties last time he ventured in!" One might even say she was looking for a clean good enough to eat off of... yeah, right. Keep dreaming. Her Tom doesn't exactly look like a) the muff-diving sort NOR b) he gives a rats ass about the little lady's orgasmic capabilities. 

I'm sorry, but I think (my) TOM wouldn't be allowed within a fathom of my holy under if I'd douched with ANY of the products mentioned (ouch!), but something which has the primary ingredient of isopropyl alcohol?!? Why not just douche with some vodka? Then you could at least drink a little to numb the pain! Jeeminy! You know how bad alcohol hurts on a cut-- humans are just not meant to put that on membranous tissues! Holy fire crotch!

But, at least it is economical. I mean, really, if the old man is so disgusted by your wretchedness already, the last thing you want to do is go foolishly spend extra cash! 

This is just so funny that it is aimed at housewives who are so clearly pressured to keep EVERYTHING just so-- and I mean everything.  Like keeping her beav neat is just one more household chore-- sex is just one more thing she needs to slog through!

Practically, though, it could be a two-for-one job.  I mean, I'm sure the bathroom smelled all clean and disinfected after a douche of this caliber!

What may be funniest is this ad's claims that "'Lysol' really works!" Yeah, I bet it does! Probably pretty good as a birth control method, too! Oh, and while you're at it, don't forget to gargle with Clorox for a sparkly, man-pleasing smile, and battery acid does wonders at cleaning up those horrid cuticles so you can pamper your man with pretty hands!

 

I just adore that "Many doctors recommend "LYSOL" for Feminine Hygiene... for 6 reasons" and then they only list reason Number Five!! I guess those other reasons will retain a sense of mystery, but who needs them when docs claim this is a great product because of its "uniformity". I mean, really, do you need another reason than that?? Dependably strong as hell, Lady, so we won't have to gag our way through another dip in that cesspool!

Also, the "note" is great! Make sure you douche with the correct solution (ie STRONG!!) thoroughly, dammit! ... ALWAYS!! You disgusting pig! Don't go half-assing it this time! I want every last corner of that dark, dank little cave to dazzle! If your pussy doesn't smell like an operating room don't even look at me, Missy!

And now that Lysol comes in a handy aerosol form, I'm sorry, but I can't get the image out of my head of spread-eagling and spraying it down with a little "Crisp Linen" Disinfectant Spray-- clouds of mist ballooning up and raining back down.  There! Now I'm ready for some lovin'! Come 'n git it, TOM!

Heads Up

The other night The Old Man and I were finishing up our telly-watching (that's tv, we weren't reviewing the masterworks of Mr. Savalas) and picking up the usual detritus strewn around a the family room after a night of family wrangling.  Well, I should say, TOM was doing this. I was observing from the couch where I was contemplating whether I was ready to crawl out from under a blanket and join in.

As TOM bent over to fish a car out from under the coffee table, I noticed something on his shorts.  He was wearing those long basketball shorts. Which always leads me to question if I would prefer him in those like he's some ultra-white, aging suburban gang-banger, or if I'd prefer those super-short ball-huggers that seemed to be the rage during my childhood.  I know you guys have pics of your dads wearing them.  With his athletic socks pulled up to his knobby knees. Leaning against the Monte Carlo with a can of beer in his hand.  Quality family time, I tell ya.  Its actually a damn sexy look for a girl of about 17.  For a man who has entered into the height of his body-hair growing abilities, well, shit, then it's just comedy.

But I digress. The color is what draws my eye. A glimpse of yellow on the black nylon (whatever the hell those shorts are made of).  This little blip of color is the only reason I am able to sit up from the couch, not the nagging guilt I should feel by watching someone clean as I recline.  He bends over again, I lean in and squint, what is that?  It's way up in there, so I only get a little glimmer here and there, am I even sure it is there? Am I too lazy to do anything about this?

"Babe," I say, reaching for his leg. "Bend over, I think there's something on your pants."

"Huh?" TOM comes closer and I spin him so he faces away from me. "What? Do I have something on my ass?"

'More than that," I say as I stick my hands up into the folds of cloth (my god, there's a lot of fabric on one pair of those shorts!). "More like you got something on your taint!"  I laugh as I goose the heck out him. I finally free it from his nether parts.  "There," I say and bring it up to my face to look at.  

I can't help it. I know most of you have seen me laugh. I mean, REALLY, laugh.  It's not pretty. It ain't feminine.  There's usually some snorting and spittle involved.  "A sticker?" TOM asks.

I can't talk yet, and nod vigorously. "What? What does it say?" 

"It... it says..." I gasp, I heave, I'm crying as I attempt to read the first line. I can't even read it as a whole, and have to rest between each line, as each one is funnier than the next.

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 Warning:

 CHOKING HAZARD

 -Small Parts. 

                             Not for Children Under 3 yrs.

                            *********************** 

  

I defy any of you to find a sticker funnier than that for a man's balls. 

Hola!

A find by the inimitable Edna.  This happy little box of dried LIpton soup was sent to me after her trip to Puerto Rico, where, clearly, she found gold!

Meet Los Liptons! Your family, too, can take on a hard, plastic shine if you feed them this "special edition" soup! 

I just can't tell you how happy this packaging makes me. It almost leaves me at a loss for words. Almost.

Now, I've never spent an appreciable amount of time in Puerto Rico (although I did spend more time than I'd like in a customs holding cell explaining to the Feds why my mother was carrying so much cash into the country... long story... but let's just say that I lucked out of the body cavity search and eventually the US Customs office returned the money they'd taken for "evidence".), so I really can't speak to what sells there.  But I do wonder what their issue is with using live models at their photo shoots.  

Maybe the budget didn't allow actual breathing subjects for this shot. Perhaps the photographer they'd booked for this project finds live models just too uncooperative. Maybe they had those perfect wigs, so flawlessly groomed, laying about and they just couldn't resist using them. Either way, I'm curious how the project director over at Lipton made the logical jump to photograph mannequins as representatives of a family so ideal they were willing to share their brand name with them.

At any rate, enjoy the bizarre-ity of it all. It is nearly perfect post-modern surrealism. And it is available at el mercado. Sweet. 

A purposeful room-- amazing changes!

Oh yes. I see the huge improvement now. Pick the shit up off the floor, move the couch and its a miracle! Now instead of shooting myself in the head if I were forced to spend an afternoon in this room, I might choose a more leisurely route... like hanging. What a perfect place to while away an afternoon, reading Plath, making sure there is enough Prozac left in the bottle...

Ok, really?!?! A professional decorator had a hand in this? Really? And not even a rug or a curtain or a coat of paint? (It looks like in this scan that the "After" room is painted a sad little yellow, like the white had wilted and given up, but I think that was just the scan. On the original, it appeared the exact same boring white.) I didn't include it, but the lady who pulled off this "purposeful room" had her picture run alongside it. Boy, I bet her phone is just ringing off the hook! Blech!

Amazing Bunion Fix!

  From time to time Edna and I like to send each other fun little ads and whatnot that have funny images or thoughts. I thought I'd share them here.

This is the amazing new bunion fixer! Not only is the product itself a true gem and I'm sure any lady would feel lucky to sport one (or TWO! Act now and get the second one free!!!), but I mean, hey, results speak for themselves! 

You can CLEARLY see in the amazing "before and after" illustration that this thing is like a miracle cure for bunion-y feet! Wow! Those results I wouldn't have believed unless they'd shown me this incontrovertible proof in drawing form!

Clearly in the first line drawing this person's foot hurt, people! Look at the crazy bump, the outrageous redness! Plus, it was giving off its own fire electricity! Ouch! 

And then, presto! Strap on this bunion tape and there you have it! A line drawing of a perfectly fine foot! Like magic! Works so well, these guys don't even NEED photographic before and afters!)

Well, I'm sold.  Hell, I'll buy two! Which, of course, means I'll get four... so I'll have to strap the extras on one of the kids or something, but I digress.  Only one little thing... I don't know if while I'm getting my toe "repositioned" with this velcro and band-aid contraption I'll be able to wear shoes... It looks like that little plastic doo-hicky on top might really hurt if I tried to wear actual footwear. Well, I'll just use my sandals, as who wouldn't want to show this miracle cure off? And what with these bunion-y feet, I haven't flaunted my toes in an age! 

Alternative Treatment for Depression Found

Whilst in St. Paul for my family reunion I came across this little article in the paper that I couldn't resist bringing home to share.

Click on the pic to open it in another window if its too small to read.

After I got done wiping away the tears of laughter, I was left with just a couple questions:

1) How much does each individual "treatment" cost? "Hundreds" of treatments equalling 77 grand is still a pretty penny on a per treatment cost analysis.

2) When the father complained about the bill, and the psychiatrist offered to treat her for free, was he going to hold the father liable for the charges already incurred, or do you think he was willing to forgive the debt?

3) How is the patient doing? Was this treatment effective? If she was suffering from depression and an eating sidorder, she clearly had a bad body self-image, and perhaps this treatment really would reassure her that she is sexually attractive.  That said, after $77,000 worth of treatment, I bet that dad was really hoping his daughter was cured! It probably also crossed his mind that he could have hired a male prostitute at a much lower rate.

In any event, I thought it was so very kind of the doc to offer to "treat" her for free!! Also, I see that reaching this "doctor" is now impossible, but perhaps if one didn't look under "Psychiatrist" in the phone book, but rather looked for "Escorts/Gigolos" he might be reached!

Guns and Ammo

I just really like that this ammo is deadly. As opposed to that ammo that only cops to maiming capabilities.

For a rainy day, this always makes me laugh

Download Mothersday.wmv

This is soooo going to be my sons in 10 years. I still can't decide which will be which, though.

God, we ask you to join these two for remedial fashion, make-up and hair courses...

Clearly this is an abomination against God and a mockery of holy matrimony! Just look at those horrible, Salvation Army dresses! I think we can all see that these two ladies are not taking their vows seriously! Jesus! Only gay men should be able to pick out wedding wear! (Exception: gay male officiants.)

Do you think they are both smirking because their officiant showed up with that super-gay rainbow scarf on?!?! I mean, that's so gay its even embarrassing the blushing brides!!

And Holy Crap, what's with those weeds?!  You can be a feminist without having to hold poison ivy to prove it! 

Ancient Eastern Wisdom

    

Trust my sons on this one.  They had a veritable Jacuzzi going last night.

Buttfloss Bandits

Look at these two fuckin' morons! They robbed a gas station in Arvada wearing g-strings as disguises! Of course, that one asshole wore a sleeveless shirt to showcase his highly identifiable arm ink!  This is the funniest damn thing! I don't know how that lady didn't pee herself laughing at these two assholes! Plus, nice fucking pink backpack, retards! It looks like these two winners grabbed all the stuff they'd need for the heist out of one of their kid sister's rooms! I cna't help myself but wonder if those are new underwear, or used... Ugh! That's not right.

As opposed to the lukewarm variety...

Just what kind of moron approved this, I wonder yet again.

Just what kind of moron approved this, I wonder yet again. Current mood: incredulous Ok so last night The Old Man and I are snuggling down into a nice evening viewing of Intervention. So TOM desperately wanted to go to sleep while Little Mama insisted that she must find out just what happens to this pillhead before clicking off. C'mon! I was 45 minutes invested into the sad story of Brooke, the pain-killer addicted arthritis sufferer! I HAD to see... Cut to a commercial... TOM is trying his best to sleep, I'm trying my best to stay awake. I hear the jingle and the promises. A new breakthrough in acid reflux treatment! This pill neutralizes stomach acid PH, so when acid DOES come up it doesn't burn as much! It's brilliant, its new, you must get it immediately! Only minor side effects of neck rigidity (huh?), fever, third eye, yadda yadda... and then, there it was. The single funniest thing I have heard in possibly three days (hey, I've got three little Martians living with me, they come up with some kooky shit!)-- THE NAME! Oh, yeah. I don't know what genius cocooned this idea, or better yet, what committee vetted it. But by God they stuck with it! (And evidently not a single person said it aloud during all of testing, marketing, retesting and FDA approvals.) And honestly, on paper it looks good.  Acid + Ph + ex (which clearly must indicate that it is gone, as in "my ex", or "extinguished"  or something like that). But when you aren't looking at the tv screen, and you aren't paying attention to the rest of the commercial, here is what you get.... "Call your doctor. It might be time for ASS Effects" Needless to say after laughing up our own little set of "ass effects" (that is to say, laughter till asses are trembling uncontrollably) at whatever douchebags over at said pharmaceutical company's approval of that name, Big Daddy and Little Mama were up for the rest of sad Brooke's story.  Side note: Upon further investigation... it appears that Aciphex comes to us from my absolute top favorite country ever (besides the good ol' US of A, o' course). Japan !! It should be no surprise to me. This is Engrish at its very fucking best!!!