Monday, April 30, 2012

Beyoncé Tortured; Left For Dead.

Beyoncé is dead.

We were all kind of expecting this.  She had been dragging ass in Waterville for the last few days.

She would swim to the top of the tank and let herself free-fall to the bottom where she sat on the sand and then rolled onto her side.  Every time she'd be still for too long, Jennifer Lopez would sort of jump-start Beyoncé with a little nibble of her tail fin.  Apparently the thought of being eaten alive sent her to the top of the tank like a rocket.  Then, of course, she'd do that free-fall thing and start the whole weird little Danse Macabre all over again.

This morning, however, she was laying lifeless at the bottom of the tank, her dancing days, over.

*marks Clipboard of Death*

RIP, Beyoncé.  

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Sunday, April 29, 2012

Sometimes you have to be rude to be heard.

There's a woman who drives to church every week in a Lincoln Navigator and parks that huge piece of automotive jewelry right at the driveway of the parking lot.  It drives me frakking crazy!  Every week, I drop the girls off at religion class and every week this woman's car is there, taking up too much space to be stationed where it is.  People have to wait to pull in and wait to pull out because her car is there.  It completely congests the drop off procedure and leaves parents (more than just me, I'm sure) grumbling at her under their breath. 

So this week I finally did it.  I put a note on her car.  It irked me enough, that I finally said, "You know what?  I need to let this woman know that she's inconveniencing everyone with her inconsiderate parking job."  

So I left this under the windshield wiper:  
Dear Madam,
This is not now and never will be a parking space.  The yellow lines crossing the cement do not signify reserved parking for grannies with sweet rides.  Your car blocks half the entrance, making it very difficult for cars to pull in and out without hitting your over-sized luxury SUV and we really wish you'd find another place to park it.
Pretty Much Everyone

Not my most christian moment, but hey, I didn't threaten her dog's life.  If she parks there next week, I just might.

Friday, April 27, 2012

How a little shampoo can make your entire life better.

Once upon a time, my hair was dull and lifeless.  It was tired.  So was I.

For years, I suffered with frizzy, split ends, lackluster style and credit card debt.  Marriage and motherhood had robbed me of my youthful perkiness in more ways than one.  Indeed, I was a sad sack.     *weeps* (I promised myself I wouldn't cry, darn it.)

 Just when my hair and my life seemed beyond all hope, I received an opportunity to try the Dove Shine Therapy shampoo and conditioner.  I'll admit I was skeptical...but desperate, so I gave it a try. 

I was astonished to discover I had gone from "Eleanor Rigby" to "Mustang Sally" after one shampooing.  Dove worked wonders!
Not only did it give me the shine it had promised, but it also tamed my unruly mane and gave me back my life.  Its effects were immediate.  My smile became broader, my teeth became whiter, my youthful perkiness returned (saving me thousands of dollars in costly surgical procedures) and my children no longer refer to me as "the disheveled one".   

Best of all, because it's so affordable, buying Dove will finally put the kibosh on my credit card debt once and for all.  
     I was so impressed with my own results that I decided to use the Dove Shine Therapy on my husband and children as well.  Hubby is now radiant, manageable and more attentive to my needs.  My kids' sheer brilliance and impeccable manners have sent my friends into fits of jealousy.  After I tried it on the dog, my husband took one look and said, "Honey, I can SEE myself!"

At last, I am the envy of all my peers!  

Thanks, Dove.

Disclaimer:  **Results not typical. 
Edited to add:   After purchasing a bottle of the shampoo, I have continued to reap the benefits of the Shine Therapy serum.   Vegetable garden is flourishing, 15 pounds of unwanted "junk in my trunk" have disappeared quite mysteriously and my complexion is now flawless.   Why, just yesterday, I stopped traffic.   Behold the power!

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Unsee this.

Fashion Faux Pas:  What should you wear with capri pants, athletic socks and slingback sandals?
Why, a big purple pimp hat, what else?!


Even better:  That's a guy.
Go ahead.  Unsee it now.  I dare you.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Death By Underwire, a.k.a. "These pasties make my thighs itch."

I get to keep my boobs!  (Yes, this is blog-worthy.)  I got those puppies squeezed in a mammography contraption last Friday and by Saturday afternoon I was holding a note in my hand telling me how fantastic my breasts are.   Okay, so their actual words were "your breast examination did not show any sign of cancer or any significant change since the prior study", but what they meant was "Damn, Erika, your boobs ROCK!"

WOOT!  Time to buy some new bras for my healthy (and completely awesome) rack!  

My mother had a tradition for years that every clear mammogram would be celebrated with fancy new duds for the girls.  I liked that.  So I adopted the tradition as my own.  *yoink*  Mine.  
Thanks, Mom.

New bras make me think about gravity and the defiance thereof and all kinds of things that make me question the awesomeness of my breasts. Whatever masochist came up with the idea that our breasts should not suffer the effects of gravity was a fool.  I mean, it's pretty inevitable.  Long boobs are Borg. I have to say, when Long and Low is one day considered fashionable, I will be super-ready for it and jump up and down to show my excitement, probably aiding gravity in its quest, but who cares?!   Resistance really is futile.  And at last I will be chic!

Since Stacy and Clinton haven't made the announcement that low riders are in, I'll make the world believe they've maintained their optimum height...for now.  But because my once bodacious ta-tas find themselves closer to the Navel Sector every year, Flopsy and Dropsy need a boost in the form of industrial strength hoisting.  I fed three children with these things.  They will never be perky again (without major surgery) so I torture myself daily with bras that could set off metal detectors. Eventually, my Xena the Warrior Princess get-up will get a chink in its armor, leaving me to risk puncture left and right. 
I can see the headline: Death by Under-wire.

But I put myself through it because they make my boobs look freaking awesome and those tasseled pasties make my thighs itch.

So thank you, breasteses.  Your gift for not trying to kill me is hot pink.  You're welcome. 

Do you celebrate the good results of your mammograms?  How?

Monday, April 23, 2012

Smells like teen spirit!

Hey, you.  No, not you, YOU!  Yes, you.  Come here a minute.  I wanna tell you something that I think you need to know.

You stink.
I hate to be the one to tell you, but you do.  Like, really bad.  It's not body odor, it's your perfume.  It's just. Too. Much.  

Look, I understand that perfume can be fun to wear.  I also understand that many people like to smell a certain way.  Some people even create their own scents by layering fragrances.  However, when you're going to a meeting place where there will be lots of people sitting in close proximity, you do NOT need to hose yourself down with a cocktail of Jean Nate, Enjoli and Skin So Soft five minutes before you walk in.  You really really don't, and I think I speak for everyone when I say QUIT IT! 

Maybe you didn't know that your nose becomes immune to scents it's exposed to on a regular basis.  It's called olfactory fatigue.  Basically, it means that the more we smell something, the less we notice it.  That's why farms don't smell bad to farmers.  They're used to the smell, and their mind and senses sort of block it out, put it into the background, allowing them to smell other things.  That's why some cat owners don't smell the litter box that hasn't been changed since the beginning of the century.  That's also why you think your fragrance has "worn off" after only a short time.  Just because you can't smell it anymore doesn't mean everyone around you can't.  More isn't better. There is no need to asphyxiate the rest of us because you forgot what you smell like.

Think about this.  Do you turn the car radio up to impress your fellow drivers with your music selections?  Because we're not impressed.  We're just annoyed.  Your idea of musical brilliance is usually much different than your neighbor's idea. Sure, maybe we wanted to hear your mash-up of Weekend In New England and SuperBass at decibels that make the ground shake...but probably not. 

Perfume preference is the same.  Most people don't appreciate being nasally assaulted by the extremely pungent "signature fragrances" of others.  What smells like a spring day after the rain to you may smell like Deep Woods Off to someone else.  And until they put the words "Eau De Toilette" on the label, bug spray will not be cologne.  Please, go easy on it.

Peace out, Stinky.

What smells can you simply not handle?

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Sunday, April 22, 2012

Cindy Brady Dies. Heartbroken family flushes remains.

More sad news from the fish tank.
My Clipboard of Death is a mess of crossed-out names and RIPs.  

Sugar Daddy brought home some new citizens of Waterville recently and something must have been wrong with the batch of Neon Tetras he got because they're dropping like flies.  Um...sinking like the Edmund Fitz...Well, anyway, they're dying.

If you're just joining our Fishy Death Watch, let me break it down for you.

We now have:
Larry, Darryl and Darryl
Debbie Gibson (not Deborah!)
The five remaining Bradys (Jan, Marcia, Greg, Bobby and Peter)
Thurston and Lovey (The Howells)
Bristol Palin II
Vicki (formerly known as Sid Vicious)
Jennifer Lopez

Cindy Brady was the most recent of the ranks to pass, joining Mike, Carol and fellow Tetra, Alice.  She began her trip through the Porcelain Portal on Friday with Kitty Carry-All and red hair ribbons.  She was then plunged and flushed again without all that crap.  ;)

RIP, Cindy.

(What do you name YOUR pets?)

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Saturday, April 21, 2012

Verbal Diarrhea!

Remember a few days ago I was talking about my social anxiety and verbal diarrhea?   Yeah?  Good.  Because today you're going to get a heaping dose of the latter.

You know the cargo pants that you can roll up to turn into capri pants?  The ones with the button on the outside of the pants leg?  Yes, those!  Does anyone really use those side buttons or do they just end up getting caught on stuff like the ones on the back pockets?  I swear those were made by someone who hated upholstery and said, "Hey, let's put a bunch of superfluous buttons on those pants and ruin couches the world over!"

Why do I have 12 eyeliner pencils? Not kidding.  Twelve eyeliner pencils.  I have no idea why.  I mean, I still only have two eyes.  Maybe my subconscious shopping mind knows something no one else knows, like makeup manufacturers will no longer make this stuff so I feel compelled to pick up a new pencil every time I see a makeup aisle.  How many am I allowed to have before it's considered hoarding?

I found unmailed thank you notes from my daughter's 9th birthday in the desk drawer.  She'll be 11 in June.  Should I still send them?  If you'd still like your thank you note, leave a comment below.

I have about 13 contest codes from Mountain Dew boxes.  I figure I can't be a winner unless I sit here and enter them all.  Like a loser.

Very few things bring my children so much joy as watching Carrie Ingalls' faceplant during the opening credits of Little House on the Prairie.  I don't know how I taught them that other people's pain is funny, but...well, it kind of is.

Stay tuned!  Up next: The Death of Cindy Brady. 

Friday, April 20, 2012

Mums on the pot.

Before I left my folks' house this morning, I left this plastic, mum-filled pumpkin on their toilet.  

 *shrug*  I have no idea why I thought it would be funny for my Dad to walk into the bathroom and see this.

Thinking on it now, this could very easily turn into something bigger than an oddly-placed floral arrangement.  The simplest of our silly happenings have turned into jokes that spanned generations.  We have the traditional throwing of the rolls that began one Thanksgiving when my Grandfather asked his grown children to "toss" him a roll and they promptly pelted him with baked goods from up and down the table.  There was also the holiday dinner when my aunt announced that she had forgotten the damn salad, thereby making "Damn Salad" a staple in our holiday meal banter, even if it wasn't to be a part of the menu.

He's got to have seen it by now.  I wonder what his reaction was.  Let's find out.

Me:  Where's mum?
Dad:  Dead phone.  She'll call you. 
Me:  Not MOM.  Mum.  Like the flower.
Dad: They have been put away. Thanks a BUNCH. lol.
Me:  Mums on the toilet. *giggle*
Dad:  That would be "mums on the pot".
Me:  Mums not on the pot anymore.

*snicker*  Mums on the pot. 

I'm going to start using these phrases to respond to small talk.

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Thursday, April 19, 2012

The WTF Backpack - The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of

This picture was linked on my Facebook page by a friend of mine (thanks, Bart), so I don't know what terrifically warped person created it, but I'd like to know who would invest their money in such a thing.  Okay, sure.  I'm a little warped too, and if I had the money, I'd probably buy one, but I couldn't justify that as being a school purchase for one of my girls.  

How do you market this as a functional backpack when it looks like it will eat anything you put inside?  I suppose you could direct it toward a group of parents who miss their children terribly when they're at school and want nothing more than to have them attached at the hip forever.  That might work.  I think this bag would stunt their developing independence in the click of a pincers.  

On the off-chance that the makers of this...whatever the hell it is need some help marketing it, I'm willing to help.  Here's my pitch:

Do your kids actually LIKE to go to school?  Are they annoyingly early for the bus, ready and waiting with teeth brushed and hair coiffed?  Do they wake in a chipper mood, chomping at the bit to do a little learning and leave you behind to sort socks and pine for their return?
Your lonely days will be a thing of the past when you get them the WTF Backpack.  Yes, the WTF Backpack will ensure that your precious little babies won't ever want to go to school again.  This nightmare inducing school bag will have your children resisting their education with both heels dug into the ground and their mouths agape in a large O of terror.  
Oh, holy hell!

"I can't do my homework."  

"Why not?" 

"Because it's backpack."

The WTF Backpack.  So realistic, it'll scare the absolute piss out of you.

Would you buy a bag like this?

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Social anxiety, verbal diarrhea and the poopy face.

Social anxiety.  A LOT of people suffer from it to various degrees.  I'm kind of sort of one of those people.  I don't have full-blown attacks or stutter or suddenly become gassy for no reason, but I do feel more than a little nervous.  When I feel nervous, I talk a lot.   A LOT, a lot.  Think "verbal diarrhea".

I suppose my anxiety could be attributed to my hearing loss.  I often miss things said in a group and become uncomfortable, so as a preemptive strike I may dominate the conversation in a roomful of people I don't know.  It's like Open Mic Night without the funny.

When a room is full of people you don't know, it can alternate between seeming big enough to get lost in or small enough to choke you to death.  I get twitchy when those strangers poke at my protective bubble with their mumbling small talk.

This is not to say that I'm completely unsociable.  I'm not.  I am happy to share my personal space with you and chew the fat, shoot the shit and guffaw and holler at your jokes...until you wear out your welcome and I grow anxious for you to leave. You can usually tell when that time comes.  I get "the poopy face".  It's a sort of vacant, half-smiling, "I'm not really listening to you because I'm severely constipated" expression and it looks a little like this:

I like my bubble, but there is room for more than just me in here.  So you may stay until I start making that face.

Do you get nervous in social situations?

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Are you SURE that's a vagina?

For those of you who are teaching your kids the generic "girls have a vagina" lesson, you ARE teaching them that the proper term for the entire outer package is vulva and not vagina, right? I mean, you know that the words are not synonymous, don't you?  
Just in case, let me give you a quick anatomy lesson. 

Vagina and vulva are not the same thing.  They are not interchangeable physiological terms.
The vagina is part of the inner workings, not the outer.

I asked this question on a social networking forum and got a variety of responses including this one:
"My child is too young to know the technical terms for her body parts." (Ignore the fact that the pet name we have created for her genitalia is four syllables long and she's already made up a song about it.)

And this one:
"Vulva is just a gross word."   (Vulva is not a gross word.  "MOIST" is a gross word.)  
And also this one: "It all means the same thing."
(To say that it's all the same thing is as inaccurate as saying that your hand is a finger and your finger is a hand and that's just plain silly.)

You know what this post needs?  Venn Diagrams!  (I know they look like crazy cartoon breasts.  Shut up.)
It's true that all rectangles are parallelograms, but not all parallelograms are rectangles.  
Likewise, all vulvae contain vaginas (or rather, the vaginal opening), but all vaginas don't contain the vulvae.

Yes, there is a difference and the difference is huge.  Vulva = clitoris, labia (2 sets) urethra, vaginal opening.  Vagina = the canal that leads from the vaginal opening to the cervix.   

Do you need another diagram?  Okay, here:  

So if you choose to shave your vulva, that's cool.  Get creative. Have fun with it.  However, if you choose to shave your vagina, it's not going to end well.  Don't use the good towels. 

Now, I know there will be someone who will get all worked up about this. Calm down. You can teach your kids whatever you want.  Don't sweat it because some stranger on the internet told you that it's the wrong word.   You're not breaking any law of child rearing.  No member of the Vulva Brigade will show up and ticket you for referring to your lady bits as your bajingo and hand you some reading material about the inaccurately named Vagina Monologues. I'm not going to take away your euphemisms.  Hell, euphemisms are fun!  Tell them it's a Harvey Wallbanger or a FlufferNutter if you like.   

I'm just saying that technically, it's incorrect.  

To recap:

The vulva is the correct term for the outside parts as a collective whole.

The vagina is the correct term for the "collective hole".  

What's your favorite euphemism for the VULVA?

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Sunday, April 15, 2012

Double Coupon Day Comes for Jose and the Prophylactics.

It was a Friday night, the young'uns were at a sleepover and The Man and I had the house all to ourselves. I got a phone call on the way home. It was The Man. He asked me to pick up a few things for our evening without the kids. No problem, said I. I'm a grown-up-type person. I can buy stuff.

I normally don't get embarrassed about buying the more personal items. I buy maxi-pads and toilet paper all the time and I'll bet a million dollars that the ladies behind the cash registers have used both at least once. (I can't speak for the gentlemen.) 

It's easy when these products are put on the conveyor belt with a few friends to keep them company. I tend to have about a dozen other things on the belt that help draw the attention away from the economy sized package of birth control. "Let's see, I need socks...(this giant box of rubbers)...and Pez! Yep, that's all for today."

It works for me. The box doesn't call attention to itself and practically sing to the rest of the store, "Guess who's getting lucky tonight?!"

When you show up with Trojans, K-Y, and a big bottle of Jose Cuervo, at the checkout, everyone KNOWS what you're doing with your Friday night. Of course, when you make this purchase at the express lane, the question that begs to be asked is "Will you be able to wait until you get to the car?" 

The Barely Legal To Drink kid standing next to me with his OWN prophylactic/alcohol power duo in hand, caught my eye for an instant before he resumed his intense study of the floor tiles. I wish I could say I was cool enough to at least wink at him and tell him to have a great night. 
Alas, I was not. I merely turned six shades of red as I made my purchase, remembering my frequent shopper card and a "$5 off a $25 purchase" coupon. (Score!) 

That's dead sexy.

This post originally appeared two years ago today, but it's one of my favorites.  Happy Anniversary, Jose and the Prophylactics.

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Friday, April 13, 2012

Obnoxiously Naked

Locker rooms. 
They're full of lockers...and people.  

Naked people...wet...naked people.

Have you ever met someone whose nudity didn't make them the least bit uncomfortable...but it made you VERY uncomfortable?  It's not their nudity that gives you the heebies; it's what they DO while they're naked that does.

(I can already tell I'm going in a different direction than what you're thinking.)

Some people treat the locker room like it's their own private bathroom.   It's not!  Trust me!
I know you're used to letting yourself air dry and you like to put your make-up on before your underwear, but that's at home.  In the locker room, we do things a little more discreetly.  There's a more appropriate way to do your business.  It's the Get In and Get Out system and it applies to everyone.  Stick to the system!  

If you're proud of your body and comfortable in your skin, then by all means, you should let it all hang out, in the proper setting, of course.  I'd suggest someplace like a strip club or a centerfold spread or your kitchen.

Whether you have to rinse the chlorine out of your hair or get the Stank out, you go ahead and take that shower, ma'am.  You've earned it.  Nobody's stopping you.  But when you're finished, please don't spend any more time naked than you have to.  For the sake of your more self-conscious peers, please put your fracking clothes on!  Nobody wants to hear about the mystery rash that showed up out of nowhere, we can't identify it and frankly it's really creeping us out.  Get a cream.

I support the fact that you want to do a thorough job of drying off before you put on your jeans and head home, and I could handle the occasional streak, but the Mister Krabs impression...well...

It's a bit much.
Don't you think?  

(NOTE: This post originally appeared on the blog in August of 2011.  Look at it as a refresher in case you had an inkling to spend any extra time on your private areas at the gym.  Kthxbai.)
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Thursday, April 12, 2012

Don't Bother Me, I'm Sharpening Pencils.

It's amazing to me how I can have three children in school and not one sharpened pencil in the house. 

It never fails.  The words "Mom, I can't find a pencil" are uttered and every sharpened pencil in my house becomes invisible.  I'll turn the house upside down looking for one and find only those that don't have a little graphite lead peeking out from the wood.   What the hell happens to all of our pencils?!

This morning, I set out on a mission to replenish our stock of sharpened writing utensils.  After much work (I may have sprained my wrist), we now have 26 sharpened pencils on the desk.  So when the kids ask me again where they might be able to find a writing instrument, I will simply point them in the direction of the office, instead of searching high and low for one of the blasted things.

You know what?  It's a thankless job being this fantastic.

I even made a really dumb video of myself, performing this menial task just to prove to my friend Jenna that I did (*pfft* Jenna, that nonbeliever).  I can't show you though. I'd die. I mean like, really die. For reals.  But I can show you the fruits of my labor.

Not exactly Mr. Pointy, but I'm sure Buffy could slay a few vamps with these.

And John wonders what it is that I do all day.

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Wednesday, April 11, 2012

To The Obscene Pantomimist In The Car Behind Me

Dear Sir,

I know that you're in a bigger hurry than I am and I can see you in my rear-view mirror as you drum your fingers on the steering wheel and gesture emphatically at me to go ahead and make my turn.  I'd love to heed your request so you could stop waving your hands and making angry faces, but the light is red and I can read.  In case you can't, let me help you out.  That sign across from us says "No Turn On Red".

Stupid ass.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Penis De Milo Lawn Art Update! New Sighting!

I know you've all been wondering what became of the mannequin pieces I wrote about HERE, and then wrote about again HERE and once more HERE.

Well, look who I found!

Found ya, sweetcheeks.

Monday, April 9, 2012

I love Soylent Green because I love people!

Kitchens.  They are the most common room (apart from nurseries) to have some sort of theme.  Some have rooster themes,  some have Italian or French cuisine themes, some have nostalgic 1950's diner themes, some have specific colors that evoke a theme.  The list is endless and spans generations, marking its territory with mushroom-shaped cookie jars and olive or rust-colored appliances along the way.   

Not many people choose cannibalism as a kitchen theme.  

I did.

It wasn't always this way.  When we first moved into this house, "apples" was my theme.  That's it.  Just "apples".    Plain, boring, non-threatening...apples.   But they were everywhere!  I had apples at the end of the ceiling fan pull chains, I had apple clocks and salt shakers and numerous cookie jars (on an apple-lined shelf).  I even painted them on the cabinets. (Side note:  Metal Cabinets are an abomination and should not exist ever, as they are horrifically evil, but that's a post for another day.) 

The kitchen was so ridiculously covered that I eventually developed an aversion to the fruit.  I was sick to death of those frigging apples, but I kept that theme for YEARS.

The apple theme was going full-throttle 
before any of these people inhabited my uterus.

Eventually, I redid the kitchen and something inside me said, "For the love of all that is holy, get rid of the godforsaken apples!  Every kitchen doesn't need a theme!"
However, in my desire to go theme-less, I inadvertently chose one anyway: cannibalism. 

My utensil crock of fabulousness.
It's flecked with Soylent Green paraphernalia.  
My soylent sign.

Yeah, I guess "Soylent Green" accurately describes my theme.    

But, wait! I have this great spoon-rest, too:

"Would you like more mutton, Clarice?"

So make that "Soylent Green and Friends".    Whatever.  I'm just glad I got rid of those frakking apples.  

I'm really more of a people person anyway.

What did YOU choose? 

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Sunday, April 8, 2012

Don't Arm Your Food

Alternate title: NO means "NO" - A Lesson In Self-Control 

Pizza seduces me. It tempts me with its slightly browned cheese and its rich and nommable tomato sauce. It whispers, "Eat me" and without hesitation I do. I can't help myself.
I had a(nother) piece of pizza at dinner tonight, despite the annoying little voice that said,

"No, Erika. Put that back. You don't want another slice."
I ignored that voice and went for the second helping:

"Add more crushed red pepper! Mama-Mia, I like-a the spicy pizza!"


Yes. In my fevered frenzy of seasoning, the smallest particles of (really) crushed red pepper caught the wind of the ceiling fan and...I peppered myself.

_ _ _ _

After about ten minutes of flushing my very sore, very red eyes under the bathroom faucet and cursing the employees of McCormick Spices and their offspring and their offspring's offspring and anyone who knew their offspring's offspring, I spent another ten minutes enduring watery eyes and an uncontrollably runny nose. I now understand what it is that pepper spray will do to an assailant.

I have learned my lesson. If I insist on forcing myself on the pizza, I MUST NOT ARM THE PIZZA. (Clearly, I was asking for it.) Better yet, I should steer clear of that Italian-American tease and never think of it again.

"NO" means "NO". I get that now.

I guess I didn't really want that piece of pizza after all. Now that I think about it, it probably had a parasite in its pepperoni.

(Ah-HA! Did you see what I did there? I rejected the pizza, it didn't reject me. I dumped it first, therefore I win. Humph!)


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Saturday, April 7, 2012

My Review of Hand-Painted Striped Stoneware

Originally submitted at Brylane Home

Hand-Painted Stoneware Brightens Your Table! A Brylane Home Kitchen® exclusive! Sunny striped 16-Pc. Dinnerware Set features salad and dessert plates centered by tangy colors-green, blue, red or yellow - so each place setting is unique! Includes 4 each: 10¼'' dinner plate, 7¼...


By from Where You Least Expect Me on 4/7/2012


5out of 5

Pros: Easy To Clean, Awesome, Unique, Durable, Attractive Design, Nice Weight

Cons: Unfit for zombie warfare

Best Uses: Informal Meals, Decorative

Describe Yourself: Stylish

I bought two sets of these dishes last year and I'm still in love with them. They have not chipped, scratched or broken at all. The colors are fantastic. If I somehow managed to smash half the set, I would buy another in a heartbeat. They're just that cool.

Additionally, in the boxes of the two sets I bought, one mug was missing a handle. It had been broken during shipment, I believe, or perhaps during packaging. I contacted Brylane Home about this and they sent me a replacement mug that very week. (The broken mug made an excellent pencil cup, so I kept it.) I commend the customer service on their resolution of this problem. What an awesome company!


Thursday, April 5, 2012


I like picnics.  Sure, I mean, who doesn't?  

I can hear you now, my Ninja Babies:  "I love picnics!"  "Ooh, picnics?  I love them so much I want to marry them!"  "Picnics, YAY!"

There is a fashionable way for every picnic enthusiast to be ready at a moment's notice, should the opportunity and/or chocolate cake present itself.  

These are called Picnic Pants and you must have them.   

Fabulous, aren't they?  And they don't limit themselves to only picnic use.  Think about it.  How many times have you been at a party and had no chair or table on which to place your plate of nommable deliciousness and wished you could have a table appear out of nowhere?  (I know, John.  Seven.  It was rhetorical.  Put your hand down.)  How many times have you wanted to launch grapefruit into the street?  (Again, John, rhetorical.)

Anyone who doesn't think these are the best pants ever obviously failed to notice that nifty CUP HOLDER on the side!  I mean, come on, people.  That's freaking cool.

I know what you're thinking:  MC Hammer already made these pants popular in 1990. 

I'll admit I thought the same thing when I first saw them, but no, MC Hammer did NOT invent Picnic Pants.  These people did.  And boy, am I glad!  Imagine the possibilities!
I may have to create my own line of picnic wear, come to think of it.  Maybe I can market a pair of cargo pants with extra large rear pockets for carrying your picnic supplies.  I'll call them Junk In Your Trunk.

So get these pants, people.  The next time you're left standing at a party and someone offers you a piece of chicken, your lips may want to say no, but your hips will say:

♫ dunt-dunt-dunt-da-nun-nunt, dunt-da-nuh-nuht, dunt-da-nuh-nuht...♫

Stop!  Picnic time!

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