Monthly Archives: May 2013

Happy Memorial Day?

I know the perfect way to thank a Veteran for their service.  But I don’t suggest you take my lead.  It’s only perfect for me.  Anyone who knows me knows it’s very fitting.

If you have one of those cars with the backup “beep beep” that goes off when there is something behind you, there is a reason for that.  Because there is something behind you.  And when it goes “beep beep” really really fast to the point where it’s a long continuous beeeeeeeepppp, then that means whatever is behind you is going down.  In this case it was a flagpole.  Believe me.  I had fair warning.  But who pays attention to that back up beeping thingy anyway?

It wasn’t funny.  It really wasn’t.  But when you have two 15 year old girls in the car laughing their asses off, it is.  So, when I rang the doorbell to the house of the owner of this broken in half pole, with the flag sacrilegiously touching the ground, she opened the door to a laughing me.  Hysterically laughing me.  Like, cross my legs, I’m gonna pee, laughing me.  But I didn’t really find it funny.  Not really.  At all.

Luckily, I know this woman.  She’s really nice.  But I don’t think she was too happy with me today.  Can you blame her?  I knocked down her beautiful flagpole.  I friggin’ KNOCKED DOWN her flagpole.  With my car.  DH wasn’t too happy with me either.  But he also wasn’t surprised.  I can’t imagine why.

And Happy Memorial Day to everyone.  Thank you to all the men and women who put their life on the line for our country.

And the next time my car beeps at me?  I’ll stop and look.  Maybe.  Because last year I knocked down a mailbox in the same manner.  I think I’ll just keep my car in the forward motion.  I’m much better off.  And so are all inanimate objects.

Car Phones, Tape Recorders & Card Catalogs

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My first “cell” phone looked something like this

When the kid starts complaining about something that makes her life difficult, I have to bite my tongue.  I have to refrain from acting like my mother and not bore her with the angst I dealt with as a teen.  So I’ll bore you instead.  Tell me if you can relate.  I know you can.

  • Me:  One bathroom for 5 people.  Her:  Three bathrooms for 3 people.  That means there is a toilet for each ass.  No schedules.  No waiting.  Life should be good based just on this alone.
  • Our song download consisted of a tape recorder, a radio, a quiet room and a lot of time.
  • We only had 3 remote controls in my house.  They were called Mo, Ed and Mark.  On the up side, we never ran out of batteries.
  • Our DVR/TiVo was whoever you were watching TV with.  “What’d they say?” has been replaced by “Rewind that.”
  • My first car phone was the size of a small suitcase, weighed as much as a toddler and did nothing but make and receive phone calls.  It was called a car phone because that’s where it stayed.  In the car.  I was major cool.  Really.  I was.
  • Funk & Wagnalls and the Card Catalog were our “go to” guys for information.
  • People smoked in restaurants.  But at least we got our choice of the “smoking” or “non-smoking” section.  It was super fun when the “non-smoking” section started at the booth right behind you.
  • When we got sick of Pac-man, there was always Pong.
  • If I wanted to go anywhere, I relied on public transportation, an ex-boyfriend with a car, or hitchhiking.  I could have walked, but that method was used in the generation before me.
  • We took a typing class, with real typewriters complete with carbon paper.  Mrs. Darling would smack the back of our hands with a wooden ruler if we so much as peeked at our fingers.  The “Hunt & Peck” method?  There would have been a lot of blood spilled.
  • We sat for hours in class learning how to write in cursive.  Apparently that was a friggin’ waste of time.
  • I got to babysit 2, 3 and sometimes even 4 kids at once.  And all for a dollar an hour.  At least it was easy to do the math.
  • There was no iTunes.  What I did have was $6 of my babysitting money that only took 2 days to earn and this thing called A Record Store where they sold albums made of vinyl.

And the next time you are bored?  Go catch some fireflies.  Or better yet, make a crank call.  Oh wait.  I forgot.  You don’t know how to use a phone.

 

Manufactured Reality

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A friend shared this picture on Facebook a couple of weeks ago.  These fine ladies were spotted in a Swedish retail establishment.  There was a bit of an outrage over them.  It seems that they “condone obesity.”  I have something to say about that.

First, kudos to this store.  America should follow suit.  Second, please define “obese” because I don’t understand.  They look pretty damn normal to me.  In fact,  I think they are hot.  They are curvy, voluptuous and sexy.  They look like you and me.  Not some undernourished, unrealistic waif.

I have a serious problem with the mannequins stores use today.  Because these “models” are probably about a size 0.  A size 0 mannequin is on display in a store that I shop in.  A store that is meant for women.  Most women I know are not a size 0.  These plastic bimbos get us in the door because we want what they are wearing.  So, we go on a quest to find the item in our size, try it on, and inevitably are disappointed because it doesn’t fit us like it fits the chick in the window, who by the way, has her clothing held on by a big-ass binder clip.  There is something wrong with that.  And it’s called false advertising.

I’m guessing that if the media, magazines, STORES, stopped portraying women and girls like this:

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my arm is bigger than this chick’s thigh.

…the percentage of eating disorders would drop.  It’s just a guess.  Because I am no expert.  I have fallen under the spell of advertisers. Until the realistic part of my brain makes me come to my senses.  But I worry about the young girls of our society.  They have to look at this same crap.  And feel the same way.  Except it’s way worse for them because they don’t have the ability to always think sensibly and are swayed by false advertising more than we are.

I don’t know about you, but I want my teenage daughter to feel good about herself.  To have high self esteem.  I don’t want her feeling badly about herself because some plastic bitch said she was fat.  It just makes our jobs as parents more difficult.  And can possibly undo years of hard work we put into our children.

So, shame on you retail stores, magazines, the media.  And bring on those size 12 mannequins. They are more than welcome here!

 

Death of a Grouper

Remember when I posted this on my Grouper post:

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That was on January 22.  Almost 4 months ago.  Since then I have completely changed my eating habits.  That picture actually makes me sick.  It just doesn’t float my boat anymore.

I’m kinda proud of myself.  And to say I’m shocked would be the understatement of the year.  Because when I said I was a grouper, I meant it.  In every sense of the word.  I was literally a bottom feeder.

The ultimate test was this:  I went out to dinner with DH the other night and he ordered desert.  I took half a bite because he made me.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m notorious for caving under peer pressure.  It did not taste good.  For once, I actually ate less than hubby.

As far as the children of Ethiopia go?  I’m sorry kids.  If I could be promised it would make it to you without spoiling, I’d send it over.  But from now on, unless it’s low-fat and healthy, that leftover crap is going straight into the trash.  And I got to this place without a stitch of therapy.  Go figure.

We cannot predict the future.  Anything can happen.  But what I can control, I will.  Honestly, I would like to live to see the kid get married and have children.  Yes, I am admitting it.  I’d like to be a grandmother one day.  And not one that is overweight and wrought with medical problems.  Thank you very much.

“A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips” is so true on so many levels.  So choose wisely my friends.  It’s a matter of life and death.  But it’s okay to splurge once in a while.  In fact, I encourage it.  Go for oysters and wine.  Then exercise those suckers right off.  Wink wink…

Thou Shalt Not Pick in Public Places

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I am the type of person who sometimes does inappropriate things.  Usually because I try to get a laugh.  Because I am a clown.  In my way early twenties while working in corporate, I did an inappropriate thing.  While I was in the elevator with a coworker/friend (Ali), I had the  issue of what you would affectionately call a “wedgie.”  So, because we were alone, I hiked up my skirt and un-wedgied myself.  Problem fixed.  No biggie.  And Ali laughed.  Just what I wanted.

2 Days later, via interoffice mail, I received a memo on official letterhead from the president of the company.  Basically, it was a letter reprimanding me for the inappropriateness of my actions. The letter mentioned something about probation.  I had no idea they had cameras in the elevator.

The blood immediately drained from my face.  I had the overwhelming need to either vomit or pee myself.  I started freaking out and tried to think back to that day.  Did I lift my skirt all the way up or just kind of put my hand up there?  I guess it didn’t matter.  All I knew was that some people are so touchy.  What’s the big deal?  The big deal is that I really liked my job and I didn’t want to lose it over the fact that I was merely trying to make myself more comfortable.  Okay, and make Ali laugh.

It turns out the joke was on me.  Ali got her hands on some “official letterhead” and mailed the letter to me herself.  That was a proud moment in my life.  I taught her well.  Carry on, Ali, carry on.

 

Oops…

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How many times have I sent out an email with that word in the subject line?  “Oops.”  Too many to mention.  But most recently, 3 days ago.

The kid has been diagnosed with a stress fracture in her left foot.  From too many toe stands during dance class.  The doctor is advising against any physical activity that would require her to use her feet.  In other words, she can do nothing.  Except swim.  And since I am the perfect mother, she only knows how to do the doggie paddle.  Hey, at least she can keep her head above the water.

I had to tell her tennis coach that she will be taking a bit of a break.  Here is what my email to her looked like:

“Hi *****,

I wanted to be in touch with you and let you know that (the kid) will not be able to play tennis until at least June 10. She was diagnosed today wit a stress frat urs in her left foot therefore her do for has advised her against any activity including her boved dance and gym.”

Okay, say what? She was diagnosed with what and by whom?  Yes, that went out.  The woman must think I am a complete nut job and/or a dumb ass.  And she would be correct in both regards. At least it’s in good company.  Once I sent the kid’s guidance counselor an email that contained my Christmas wishes that was supposed to be for DH’s eyes only.  (insert cringe here)

I immediately sent out an apology.  With the correct terminology and spelling.  Just one more embarrassing moment to add to my list of Embarrassing Moments.  Oh, and the nice coach lady informed me that tennis will be over before June 10.  Again, I am the perfect mother.  Because I knew that.  Didn’t I?

Pee & Tweet

Tweetpee: a wet idea?

I know you are probably sick of me talking about pee.  But this product intrigued me so much that I just had to share.  So, here’s one more pee story (well, until the next opportunity arises and we all know that could be at any time).

While I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room the other day, a commercial came on the television.  Actually the news was on and the news aired it.  You can currently find this product in Brazil.  But I’m afraid it may be coming to a Walmart near you sooner than you wish.

It’s called Huggies TweetPee.  Somehow this little birdie is part of an “app.”  You know, for your smart phone?  At first glance, it seems kind of weird.  At second glance, it seems even weirder.

Here’s the lowdown: This little bird attaches to your baby’s diaper, in the general area of where urine comes out.  Upon sensing the “wet”, the bird does what it does best — tweets.  No, it doesn’t actually tweet, like “chirp chirp.”  It tweets.  To your Twitter account.  Let me repeat that in case you don’t understand:  The plastic little birdie who is attached to your child’s groin, sends you a message to your twitter account to let you know that you better stop watching General Hospital,  get your ass up off the couch, and change your baby’s diaper.  Pronto.  Or what?  I suppose the pee police will come.

I am feeling a mix of emotions here.  A little bit of jealous with a whole lot of dismay.  The jealous comes from the fact that I had to check my baby’s diaper the old fashioned way.  You know… sniffing, feeling, looking.  What a waste of time.  I feel deprived.

The dismay comes from the fact that someone or somepeople actually spent time and money to come up with this gadget.  Okay, so sure.  We have all been guilty of sometimes letting our babies sit in a wet diaper for a a little longer than we should.  Did it kill them?  No.  But we can still be too lazy to get up and change them.  The difference is that now we will know that the diaper is wet therefore adding more guilt to our already Guilty Mother Conscience.  Well played Huggies.  Well played.

Oh and hey you.  Go change your baby’s diaper.  How do I know?  A little birdie told me.

What a Bunch of Garbage

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I was an Army Brat.  I use capitalization because I believe it’s a real title.  Army Brat.  I should put that on my resume.  One of the places I lived as an Army Brat was Germany.  Some of my greatest memories stem from that time.

There was a family that we were very close with.  Another Army family.  We did some pretty awesome things with this family.  One being garbage picking.  Or I should say “Junking.”  That’s the technical word for it.  But however you put it, what we did was pick through other people’s discarded crap.  What is that expression?  “One person’s trash is another person’s treasure?”  Yup.  That is totally true.

Now don’t go thinking it was real garbage, like empty milk cartons and dirty diapers.  No.  Once a month the town would pick up furniture, art, appliances.  Anything that didn’t fit in the trash can.  As long as it was out at the curb.

Why not donate to a thrift shop?  Because Germans have a lot of pride.  But apparently Americans don’t.  My mother acquired an entire set of china, a dresser, kitchen table and some very fine art while junking.  If I were a betting woman, I would wager a plate of nachos with some salt rimmed margarita’s that my mother still has that china.

The locals thought we had gone and lost our minds.  Hell, it was entertainment for us.  When my dad announced that it was Junking Day, I would jump up and down with glee.  We didn’t have much money so this was about as good as it got.

All I can say is DH is one lucky dude to have found me.  I am a cheap ass date.  But I just can’t seem to get him to take me Junking.  I don’t understand why.  I mean, come on.  It’s free.  FREE.  Need I say more?

To Pee or Not To Pee, That Is the Question

MjAxMi0zM2ViZDU4MzEwZjlkYTc3I love reading the local news stories.  Especially about stupid arrests that have been made.   A house was raided recently in a neighboring town.  What do you think they found?  Not cocaine.  Not marijuana.  Human urine.  300 gallons of it.  Huh.  I wonder if these containers were found by the bed.  Or the couch.  If so, I totally can relate. I have the same “Too Lazy To Get Up and Go To The Bathroom” disease.

If I had a dollar for every time I just walked right on by the bathroom when I had to pee because I was too lazy to actually go, I’d be able to self-fund my own lobotomy.  You know, take out the “lazy”?  It just doesn’t make any sense.  Why would I go and get all comfy on the couch to only have to get up sooner or later anyway.  Inevitably the urge gets too strong to wait any longer when I had the opportunity literally at my fingertips minutes ago.  That right there is piss-poor planning at its finest.  (Don’t pardon the pun.  I meant to say that.)  Sometimes I convince myself that if I wait long enough, I will empty TWO bladder-fulls so that I don’t have to get up TWICE.

Same thing is true when you wake up at 5 in the morning and you have to go so bad you are at risk of embarrassing yourself, seeing visions of the future dance through your head.   But you don’t get up.  You lay awake thinking that you really ought to get up.  Wasting precious moments of blissful sleep.  I have even layed there imagining myself walking to the bathroom.  Levitation may work for David Blaine but it sure doesn’t work for me.  I know this because I have tried.

My parting words to you:  just pee man.  Now as for taking my own advice?  I’ll try.  And the guy/woman with the bottles of urine?  What’s the big deal? In fact, thanks for the idea.

Medieval Torture?

Inflict torture on our bodies.  That’s what we women do.  All in the name of Beauty.  Yesterday, as I was sitting in The Threader’s chair, with tears running down my face, little hairs itching my nose and a strong urge to punch the threading broad in the face and take her stupid floss and shove it where the sun don’t shine, I started wondering why we do these things to ourselves.  After I was finished tormenting myself, I walked around looking like I tried to set fire to my face:

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(There I go looking like Droopy again.  It’s uncanny, isn’t it?)

Then I got to thinking of all the other things we do for beauty.

Bikini Wax.  I did that.  Once.  About 16 years ago.  On the floor of the living room of my best friend’s apartment.  With 2 towels.  One in my mouth to prevent someone from calling the cops.  And one underneath me so when I bled to death, at least her carpet would be saved.  In retrospect, I probably should have gone to a professional.  It was likely equivalent to asking a butcher to cut my hair (sorry P, I know you tried).  And you women who go full-out and do that brazilian wax number?  If I wore a hat, I’d tip it to you.  You are some brave chicks.  There isn’t enough Holy Water in Jerusalem to get me to do that EVER.

Hair Coloring.  All those chemicals that get rubbed into our scalps.  I won’t highlight my hair but once or twice a year because I’m afraid of developing a brain tumor.  My stylist thinks I’m nuts.  But I remember when Jackie O died.  Everyone kept saying it was because she colored her hair too many times.  That totally freaked me out.  I’d rather walk around looking like Lillian Munster.

Fake Nails.  We ingest more chemicals during that process.  That shit seems so toxic to me.  Yes, I used to go get fake nails put on back before I was married.  But now I’m scared to death of all that.  I’m good with my nubs.  Besides, I can’t really hurt anyone, particularly The Threader, with what I have rockin’ at the end of my phalanges.

Botox, boob jobs, nips, tucks.  It’s endless.  All for what?  So we can look good, of course.  People don’t want to look at our hairy faces, sagging foreheads or breasts that wobble to and fro’.  What’s wrong with embracing our natural beauty?  Apparently, this chick doesn’t agree.  She looks much better now, don’t you think?

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Her “before” picture is to the right, believe it or not.  She sure was ugly once.