Showing posts with label Erika. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Erika. Show all posts

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 in...my backpack."










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







Would you buy a bag like this?

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.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

The Bulging Boulevard Boys - Day Two

I know I promised to get a better picture of the Penis De Milo, and although this one is more in focus, it seems that one of them was feeling shy today.  Either that or he's peeing on the house while he's supposed to be in Time Out.   Then again, maybe it's a Blair Witch Project kind of thing.

You make the call. 


Someone was naughty.

I hope they're not some kind of perverted Chia Pet.  (I'll keep you posted as to any other changes.)

Friday, March 16, 2012

Is that a penis in your yard?

When did mannequin parts become a popular choice in lawn decor?  
Penis De Milo?

I wanted to ask that very question of the people who own this house, but I was too afraid to knock on the door and ask, for fear of being thrown into a well in the basement and told to put the lotion on my skin.   

Lucky for you, gentle reader, I wasn't too afraid to drive slowly by and have my ten-year-old take a picture, hoping that no one was home to see us gawking at The Three Pelvises stationed in front of their house. If anyone had come out to ask me, I would have told them "It's for my blog!  People need to see this!"...as I drove away, cackling.


So you see, it was purely for your benefit that I snapped this picture; to expose you all to what I believe may be the new height of modern art.   It's clearly a collection of an abbreviated form of Michelangelo's David.

Don't give me any bull about being able to see this kind of "art" at any clothing store in the mall.   I can't even tell you the last time I saw a naked mannequin at the mall, excepting the time when I walked past a salesclerk wrestling the pants off a member of his display personnel.  I felt like I had just interrupted the filming of a horrifically disturbing rape scene in which the victim had first been dismembered, when he looked guiltily up at me.  One look seemed to say, "What happens at the mall before business hours, stays at the mall"... until it's written on my blog for all of you to read. 

Where was I headed with this?  Oh, yes.

Exposure to the arts.  You needed it, I'm providing it.  

 You're welcome.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Best Forking Spoons You'll Ever Buy.

I was browsing the kitchen stuffs on Ebay and ran across a listing for a set of multi-colored measuring spoons with a "buy it now" price of $1,043.46 

What an exorbitant amount for a set of measuring spoons! Surely there must be something else about them that makes them so special, like they're, oh, I don't know...magical...or made of Plutonium or just the best damned spoons you'll ever buy.

I had to know.  

So I asked the seller this question:  "Do these measuring spoons contain Plutonium? Is that why they're listed for so much? I'd like Plutonium measuring spoons..."


I patiently await his response...



...and I'm kind of hoping they're Plutonium.   


Update!  I got a reply.  It might be easier to just show you what was said, so I'll quote our correspondence here:

Subject: Details about item: RandomNinja sent a message about Farberware Color Measuring Spoons, Mixed Colors, Set of 5 #250989733747
Sent Date: Mar-14-12 21:27:07 PDT


Dear GuyWhoSellsSpoons,

Do these measuring spoons contain Plutonium? Is that why they're listed for so much? I'd like Plutonium measuring spoons...
- RandomNinja 


Dear RandomNinja,

Hello
It's a typo .
we will fix it shortly.
Thank you
"Sam"

-GuyWhoSellsSpoons



 Dear GuyWhoSellsSpoons,

Damn. I really could've used that Plutonium.

- RandomNinja





DearRandomNinja,

Responded

-
GuyWhoSellsSpoons

Clearly, GuyWhoSellsSpoons doesn't care about my Plutonium needs.  "Responded".   Indeed!

I was curious to see what the new asking price of these magical, wondrous spoons had been changed to, so I clicked on the link at the bottom of the email.   $1034.51!!   What the...?


I was not satisfied.  So I emailed him again: 





Dear GuyWhoSellsSpoons,

Wait. So now the buying price is $1,034.51?? I have to ask what the hell these spoons are really made of.

- RandomNinja
I haven't gotten a reply from this last yet, but when I checked the site ten minutes later it was $1031.53.  I think these things really must be made of Plutonium and he's just not being straight with me.

Now I HAVE to have them. Who can loan me a grand?






Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Bristol Gets Tanked

I had intended to announce that four new fish were added to the ranks yesterday.  The Man brought home two Balloon Mollies, a Mickey Mouse Platy and an Albino Bristle-nose Plecostomus. 

As of ten o'clock last night, three of the newbies were happily sharing the tankspace with the others, but the Pleco was nowhere to be seen.  

This morning, I discovered the albino didn't make it.   The Man doesn't seem to think the casualties should be recorded unless they make it one full day, but I am far too serious about this Death Toll-keeper job to get caught up on technicalities.  

*writes down Albino Bristle-nose Plecostomus - Bristol Palin - /3/14/12 - RIP*

Welcome, surviving newcomers, Ringo, Waldo, and Steamboat Willie.  We hope you enjoy your stay.

Happy trails, Bristol.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Buttcrack Hero - In Stereo

Sometimes my life is steeped in the ridiculous. (What fun would this blog be if it wasn't?)
  
Last week's blissful existence was derailed by a little slip that prompted this late night mobile status update on Facebook:   "Sonofamotherbutthumper, one of my hearing aids fell down the cold air return vent. And it wasn't even the one that whistles incessantly. Furking FURK!"

Oh, the drama, right?  Well, I knew it was NOT going to be found that night, so I went to bed and tried to dream of happier things...happier things that cost less money to replace than a $2000 hearing aid.  That was difficult. 

The next morning, the search began.  


I tried to look for it myself, in the logical place, which was the cold air return vent directly below my room.  I know that gravity makes stuff basically fall straight down and not up.  I'm a genius like that.  Of course, I had zero luck finding it, so The Man called the furnace maintenance company who sent over a lovely gentleman with ill-fitting pants to rescue my hearing aid from...wherever stuff goes when it falls down that vent. 


I've mentioned before that people don't believe me when I tell them I'm very hard of hearing.  This time proved to be no different as he lay on the floor with his ass-crack in the air and spoke into the vent, looking for my missing hearing aid.  So as not to hover over the man while he worked (I didn't really need to watch his butt get any more air), I excused myself and went back to my business on the computer.  He came in periodically to ask me stuff and managed to startle me every time.  It was as if he forgot that what he was looking for was a hearing aid and that it was MINE. 

Um...that thing you're trying so hard to find?  Yeah, I kind of need it to hear you, dude.  

It took three hours of search and rescue attempts with lots of banging around and cutting holes in things to locate it, but he did eventually find that mysterious place where lost things go in our house and retrieved my precious battery-operated listening device.  It didn't even cost me $400 to get my hearing aid back.  
It cost $381.99.  

But just look at all the other stuff he rescued as well! He found...*takes deep breath*...
JACKPOT!

 One silver needle, a broken rosary, purple Mardi Gras beads, a plastic princess lipstick, one beaded bracelet, a plastic french fry, six Barbie shoes, one Barbie bathing suit, one Barbie nightshirt, four barrettes, one hair tie, three screws, one nut, three marbles, a Baby Annabel pacifier clip, a purple, plastic boat propeller, a silver pompon, one AA battery, an orange crayon, ten pieces of Barbie dog kibble, four checkers, one yellow Lego (which is actually from the previous owners of the house, meaning that it's been in there for probably twenty years or longer), ten plastic beads, one key-chain, a Mommy's Little Patient "magic" baby spoon, a button, miscellaneous My Little Pony accessories, Green M&M on a skateboard, one Phonak Amio hearing aid and twelve cents.

*exhales*  

Sadly, I'm left to wonder what's disappeared down the other vents in our house.  I'm not curious enough to pay the Buttcrack Hero nearly $400 to find out. 


Now that that's over and done with, I'm happy to say I can get back to the things that matter.  
Those pigs don't fling irate fowl at themselves, you know.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Fishy Update - CeCe went to Sea Sea Sea.

CeCe the Sunrise Platy was found dead at the bottom of the volcano.  The Aquatic Forensics Department is baffled as to what made her throw herself in and tankmates remain tight-lipped about the incident, denying allegations that she was part of a ritual sacrifice.




RIP CeCe
*makes note on Fish Death Toll Clipboard*



Friday, March 9, 2012

KONY 2012

If you haven't yet seen the video and joined the cause, please watch it now and take it into consideration.  
We can make a difference.  








Please help. http://kony2012.s3-website-us-east-1.amazonaws.com/

The sales of the KONY 2012 kits have been put on hold due to such a high response, but you can still show your support by signing the pledge and downloading the kit for free.  

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Pig Sitting

We agreed to take care of Lily's former class pet over spring break as a favor to her old 4th grade teacher.  She's a guinea pig and a lovely house guest, despite being a bit of a squeaky wheel.  We'll make her comfortable here, and shower her with love and affection...provided that she follows the rules of the house.

So welcome back, Bugsly.  I hope you will enjoy your stay with us.  
Wake up call at 8 a.m.?  Of course, ma'am.  Fresh Timothy hay daily?  Very good, ma'am.  Snuggling on Sam's lap for hours at a time?  Absolutely, ma'am.  Leaving little brown Tic-Tacs on my furniture?  

Fuck you, pig.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Help for Cat People - Simple solutions to your cat problems.

The Problem:  Kitteh wants closeness, but impedes blog writing by taking up too much room on the desk or sitting right on the keyboard. 

The Solution:  Zippered Sweatshirt Kitteh Sling. 


 Now, what do I do about this one?

Saturday, February 18, 2012

RIP, Randy Jackson.

And so it begins.
Two weeks ago I told you we were getting fish.  This week three teeny, tiny, little non-fish called Zebra Danios were added to the water. The Man said he'd start with a few inexpensive fish to "get the tank established", so he brought home Larry, Darryl and Darryl.  It seems that of the three, Larry is the only one with the teeny, tiny fish guts to break from his cohorts and brave the doorways of Castle Rohan.  Darryl and Darryl, more chicken than fish, are inseparable. They follow each other around like they've got magnets inside them.  I know, I know.  They're schooling fish.  That's what they're supposed to do.  Still...

I really thought we'd lose Darryl first.  I figured that one of them would wander too far from the other and die from separation anxiety.  I was wrong.  All three are still swimming.

Today, The Man brought home five Neon Tetras and a snail.   We have yet to see the snail put anything outside of its shell, so I cannot confirm that it is actually alive, but the Tetras are...with one exception.  

After his initial release into the tank, Randy Jackson became disoriented and listless as he caught himself in the filter's output current over and over again.  The Man knew the end was near, and he took the net out and scooped Randy from the water.  As he flushed him away, he offered these parting words:

 "I don't want you contaminating my tank, Dawg."

(So touching. *tear*)


*makes note on Death Toll Clipboard* 

 2/18/12  RIP, Randy Jackson.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Woo-Hoo! Free stuff!!

Yesterday I won the lottery!  Okay, I didn't really, but it sure seemed like it.  I brought in the mail and discovered that my friends at Amsterdam Printing had sent me a new pen. I have a thing for pens anyway, but I have a serious thing for THEIR pens.  (I'd like to think it's become more of a relationship than just a thing now, but until I get that official Facebook notice I'll remain in Crazy Stalker Mode.) 

My pulse quickened when I saw their name on the shrink-wrapped envelope and felt by its weight that there was more inside than just a friendly little hello-please-buy-our-stuff-oh-and-here's-a-catalog thing.  

I opened it like a kid looking for the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks, and I mean the old school Cracker Jacks, not the new ones with a 2"x2" paper booklet that you have to be superbly skilled in the art of Origami to use.


Stupid shrink wrap.  Can't.  Open.  Fast enough!  
*squee*  
"There IS a pen in there!  Ooh, which one is it?!"

Now, the folks at Amsterdam know that I love their Manor Pen.  I got a sample of one once and somehow managed to break the dang-blasted thing in half.  I wrote them about this and, being the awesome people they are, they sent me a few new ones to replace the one I had apparently used so hard and so much in my fevered list-making frenzy that it cracked under the pressure.  


This new pen they sent was called the Entice Pen.  It's even been engraved with my first name (and my zip code for some reason). 
Hm, what?  Why yes, I DO have a picture:
Second from the left in "graphite" - smokin' hawt stylus!
  

I.  Love.  It.  
I'm totally cheating on my Manor Pen with this one, but...well...it's got my NAME on it, you know?  That's got to make it okay.  


I wonder if I could get the peeps at Amsterdam to tattoo Random Ninja on something...

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Is Cyber Monday the New Black?

I've heard too many horror stories about the Black Friday sales to feel that diving headfirst into the lion's den to get a deal on the newest craze is something I'd be interested in doing.
No, thank you.

A few Thanksgivings ago, I wrote this poem, poking fun at the insanity that is Black Friday.  That year a New York Wal*Mart employee was trampled to death by the stampede of shoppers.  Sadly, my creative humor was in the right place at the wrong time.  I saved it for another year.

I know some people take their Black Friday shopping very seriously, while others look at it much like Roller Derby, full of hip checking and shoving, but having loads of fun doing it.

I've never seen a scarf or lamp or Wii game that was worth my life.  I'm still gonna have to pass.


Will you be shopping the Black Friday sales or will you wait until Cyber Monday?

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Holiday Commercialism and Totinos Pizza Rolls

A common theme voiced throughout the fall and winter months is that we're all sick to death of the commercialism that the holiday season brings.

So my question for you is this: What can you do or do you already do to counteract the commercialism brought into our homes via television, Internet and written media? How do you make the holidays about something other than "what am I getting" and "I want that"?

I know for my family, we use it as a time (at least for our nuclear family) to be together, showing each other how much we value one another and enjoying the season for its beauty. We love the snow, the cold, the perfect blue sky (on those days when the sky is blue and perfect), the lights, the warmth of the house, seasonal foods, etc.

We have our own family traditions like lighting a red candle in the middle of the dinner table throughout December. While we enjoy our meal together, we go around and tell one great thing that happened to us that day or something that made us smile and made us feel blessed. This year we are planning to open any cards we receive at dinner as well.

Each year my girls and I watch the movies I grew up with...all those wonderful Rankin and Bass productions, George C. Scott as everyone's favorite crotchety Ebenezer Scrooge and of course my Emmet Otter and his holey washtub.

We got hooked on The Polar Express a few years ago and every year we fall into making fun of the commercials we see. (I guess that's our way of working commercialism in as a source of amusement, no?) Last year it was a Totinos Pizza Rolls commercial. It stuck with us all year long and still brings a laugh every time someone mentions them. So I guess for us, in a way, we prefer not to have our holidays commercialism-free, as some of our holiday traditions are the direct result of commercials!

While the holidays do find us huddled around the warmth of the flat-screen TV for a large portion of December, they also bring us together to be entertained and laugh with each other and that doesn't cost a thing.

What do you do to make the holidays more about you and your family and less about the gifting?

Monday, November 15, 2010

Dear Corporate Maven on your way to work,

As I saw you stopped behind me at the light this morning, a short film ran through my mind...starring you. I imagined you parking your Lexus in the lot, grabbing your Starbuck's Morning Fix, adjusting your sunglasses and walking in to your job.

I thought of how many people's lives you would touch today.

Maybe you work at a bank where you would be granting someone's loan, making all their dreams of opening their own bait and taxidermy shop come true. Maybe you'd be turning down that loan on the basis that the 1974 AMC Gremlin they drove up in can no longer be considered collateral.

Perhaps you're in real estate and you were on your way to a very important closing that would pay for another month or two of driving that luxury sedan or nearly pay for your youngest child's first year at the University.

Maybe you're one of the administrators at the hospital and you were on your way to meet with your fellow administrators and discuss important things like whether or not the new hospital security cars should be white and blue or blue and white.

The light changed then and we parted company, you headed to the East and I headed to the South.

So, dear madam, wherever it was that you were going at 8:00 this morning, drive safely, do a terrific job and please know that you looked fabulous!





...and I saw you picking your nose.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

SugarPackets: The Meaning Behind The Name

((EDITED TO ADD: The blog name may have changed, but my love for Tamara hasn't. This story is still worth reading and very much worth remembering. Long live the SugarPacket!)

Did I ever tell you the meaning behind my blog name of SugarPackets?

I didn't think so. It holds a place dear to my heart. I share it now.

Tamara is one of the best friends I've ever had. I will tell you the story of how we met and became friends and you will fall in love with her and a little more deeply in love with ME (which is always important).
Years ago, I was a nail technician. I was working with a client and Tamara was having her nail appointment with the technician behind me. My client and I were chatting and laughing and having a lovely time. Tamara's tech was saying next-to-nothing and Tamara found herself eavesdropping on my conversation with my client. (This is easy to do, as my voice tends to project.)
She went home to her fiance, Kevin and told him...something.
She broke a nail two days later and came in to have it repaired...with me. Kevin came with her. In the course of our ten minute appointment, she kept looking back at Kevin and exchanging a "look" with him. I went to ring her up for her repair and when I returned I heard Kevin say, "Will you just ask her, babe?"
*serious look from Tamara*
"Erika? Will you be my friend? I think you're really awesome and funny and I'd like to hang out with you."
*jaw drop* How could anyone say no to that?! She's wonderful and she thinks I'm wonderful too!
That was...*counting*...fourteen years ago.

When Tamara and I talk, we have so much to say to each other that we have to be reminded of the stories we want to share. If we don't, our time together will come to a close and we'll have forgotten to share that super-incredible story of awesomeness and that just won't do.
We found a solution. Well, SHE did.
We were having lunch together...way back when we lived a mere twenty minutes from each other. *sigh* She lined up a few of the restaurant's sugar packets on the table in front of her. Each packet represented a tale. Sugar packets! It's ingenious!
We'd "ante" them up like poker chips when we needed to remind ourselves of a topic we wanted to discuss. It's become sort of a "thing" we do...and it's caught on here with a lot of friends. Of course, we don't always have access to ACTUAL packets of sugar at all times, so it's become a verbal placeholder over the years. My husband, my mother, friends and friends' friends as well, will now say, "Sugar packet", and when one story is finished or one topic exhausted, the Sugar Packet is retired back to the invisible caddy on the table and another "sugar packet" is ante-ed up. We don't have to interrupt or forget that we had something to say and if we happen to go off on a tangent, we come back to the Sugar Packet at hand.


And that, gentle reader, is the story of the origin of Sugar Packets.
Ooh! Sugar Packet! Remind me to tell you the one about Tamara and the garlic pizza!
See?

Monday, April 12, 2010

And the Truth Shall Set You Free (Even Though You Smell Like Pee).

Fade in: My living room. Picture me cuddling with my seven year old and my nine year old daughters. Enter husband, wearing serious face.

"Honey, you'll want to come see this."

Me: *sigh*

I followed him to the kitchen, where my husband, soul-mate, sugar daddy said, "That's pee on the floor," as he made a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand. Yes, indeedily, it certainly was pee, and a good portion of the kitchen floor and a step-stool were covered with it. The dog hasn't hosed down a room like that in some time and quite frankly, the husband hasn't either. I knew who the culprit was by the fact that the dog wasn't the only pantless one in the kitchen. I looked at the guilty three-year-old Samantha and said, "Sam, did you pee on the floor?" She said, "Yes, but I said I was sorry." This surprised me (marking her territory on the linoleum, not her apology) and I asked her why she would do that. Sam looked up from cleaning her mess like a miniature Cinderella and said, "Well, I had to GO." ...Um...Yeah. Okay, that served me right for asking a three-year-old to explain herself.

Fast forward five minutes.

Back to the kitchen to refill my water. Seeing the monster of a dog, I give him a pat on the head as I pass. His head is damp. Wha...? *double take* "How did your head get...Oh, no." I smelled his furry melon and sure enough, that unmistakeable odor reached my nose. Lovely. Just lovely.

"SAM?!" *walks quickly to the living room where Sam sits watching t.v. with her sisters*

"Why is Brinkley's head wet?"

"He got it wet," said Sam.

"Yes, I know, but HOW did he get it wet, Samantha?"

Child makes up story quicker than you can blink..."He put his head in his water bowl."

I said, "No, his head is wet on TOP. How did that happen?"

Oldest sister Madison pipes up, "Sam, if you tell the truth you won't get in trouble." (Yes! Good thinking, Madison. That's how we'll get it out of her! I was just about to get the folding chair, rubber hose and a VERY bright light.)

Sam confesses. "Yes, I pee-peed on the doggy's head." (Mommy hides behind a pillow, giggling silently, thinking "Remember, you're her mother. Laugh later.")

"WHY did you pee on the dog's head?"

Sam, very matter-of-fact, shrugs her shoulders, explaining, "Because it was kinda FUNNY."

Note: Sam has apologized to the dog and promised not to pee on anyone ever again. Madison and I have recovered from our fits of laughter out of Sam's earshot and the floor and dog are once again, clean and pee-free. Thanks for your support.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

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 was having 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!"

*shake-a shake-a shak-AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! MYEYESITBURNSMYEYESOWOWOWOWOW!!!*

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.

Ow.


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!)




*quietly* Slut.

Some Other Stuff I Wrote