Showing posts with label corn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label corn. Show all posts

Sunday, September 15, 2013

I didn't see that one coming. Fugly Sweaters and Power Tools.

I have come to the realization that I am not psychic.  I know it's true for a lot of people, but I never expected it to happen to me.   My psychic abilities begin and end with knowing just how full the kitchen garbage can get before it spills over into the cabinet under the sink.  And even then it's hit and miss.

But there was a time when I thought I could predict the future.  At least where the holidays were concerned.  I was clearly in denial.


Our first Christmas together as a married couple, I got John a cordless power drill. I was completely stoked and couldn't wait to give it to him.  You see, we are perfectly matched and because I LOVE power tools, my husband would undoubtedly love power tools too.  I knew this was the perfect Husband-y Man-type Thing for my beloved life partner.


I could see it all in my mind: he would open this fantastically shiny and useful tool and immediately declare that not only was this the best gift he had ever received, but that I was an even better spouse than he suspected I would be when he signed up for this whole crazy marriage thing.  I would smile sweetly, knowing full well the extent of my awesome as he bragged about this sweet drill that didn't even require an extension cord to use and me, his wonderful wife.



"Did you see what Erika got me for Christmas?!   Isn't it great?!  I'll be able to get shit DONE now!  How did she know?!  Man, she is the BEST. WIFE. EVAR!!"


That's not quite what happened.  Because I'm not psychic.


He opened it, looked at me and said, "Is this my real gift?"


Damn those delusions of grandeur!



Of course he didn't do any better.  One year I asked for a pink sweater.


Anyone who was psychic would have known that what I meant was that I would like one of those super-soft baby pink angora-type cardigans with the faux pearl buttons that were on all the mannequins at Braun's.  (Good God, whatever happened to Braun's?)


What I got on Christmas Day was NOT that.  At all.  Like, AT ALL.  It was indeed pink, as I requested, and made of yarn.  However.  It was Pepto Bismol pink with stripes of silver tinsel throughout.  And holy shoulder pads, Batman!  I could have played defense for the Steelers in that thing!


I suspected that somewhere a clown was naked and cold.


Now, I am not a completely ungracious receiver.  Please stop picturing Nellie Oleson.  I pretended to love the pastel holiday nightmare and actually wore it a few times. But it was hard to mask my disappointment that it was not what I thought I had so clearly asked for when I said "pink sweater".


I still futilely clung to the idea that one of us would be blessed with the gift of second sight, or at least a knack for insightful guessing.  I remember telling him that I didn't care what he got me as long as it was from his heart.  I said that he could get me a yo-yo and if it meant something it would always be special to me. Mistake.


That year I got a Duncan Imperial.


The lesson here, my friends, is that you must be specific.  Non-psychic spouses do not thrive on uncertainty.   You can't leave anything to guesswork.  Pictures help greatly.  Cut out photos and tape them to the toilet seat, and make sure you mark the exact color, size and number that you would like.  


Yes, it takes the surprise out of your holiday, but sometimes that's a good thing.   If you vaguely hint about something specific, and you and your gift-giving honey pie are as psychic as my husband and I are, you're probably gonna end up with a clown sweater.


Tuesday, May 21, 2013

The Sirens Who Cried "Tornado!"

That's what the weather warning sirens have always been where I live, really.  To me, at least.  I grew up taking those sirens for granted, because it seemed like nothing ever really happened when they went off.  

In these later years, the intensity of our storms has increased exponentially on the electrical front and we've had some very strong "micro-bursts" (thanks for reminding me of that word, Sonnie), but we still haven't really seen a tornado in this city.  Not one that could be classified as such.  Not for over a hundred years if I recall correctly.  And I hope we never do.

Thinking about the families in Oklahoma yesterday and all of those families in Alabama and Missouri not as recently, I'm thankful for those sirens, no matter what they cry.  


Does your town have warning sirens in the event of severe weather?


Saturday, June 30, 2012

Dear Allie Brosh, I'm going to steal your readers...

Ever since I wrote this entry inquiring as to the whereabouts of my very most favoritest writer/cartoonist, I've gotten a lot (Alot) of traffic on that post.  People are searching it multiple times a day and landing on that page.   They're not looking for me, Allie.  They're looking for you and FINDING me.

It may seem cheap, but you know what?  I'll take it! 

I just wanted to let you know, that I'm planning to borrow those readers for a while.  Only until you come back.  You can have them back...provided that you can identify them.
 
Sure, I don't draw clever little cartoons and I don't have a dog that makes a whine like a jet engine, but I'll try my best to keep those folks entertained in your absence.  Maybe I'll post pictures of things that "almost" look like vulvae and call it "Suddenly Bajingo".   Maybe I'll just talk about how much the Intarwebs misses you. 

Maybe I'll use hypnosis and duct tape.

Anyway, I'll take good care of them, Allie.  I swear.



So, hello!  If you were led to this blog through a search for Allie Brosh, please stick around for a while and we can chat about how fabulous Ms. Brosh is and how very much we miss her unique brand of humor.

But first, look into this golden amulet...you're getting very sleepy...

No, no, keep looking at it...wait.  Where are you going?

Friday, June 22, 2012

How Lily either helped someone drive to Texas or buy drugs on an otherwise normal Friday morning.

I forgot to tell you guys what happened with Lily and me last week.  She and I were out picking up stuff for her birthday party that day ...so this was...Friday...and as we were leaving, we passed a young couple, maybe in their early twenties, holding a sign that said: "Out of gas.  Need to get back to Texas.  Anything helps." 

Still driving, we chatted just a little bit about how far away from home they were but the discussion ended there.  Listening to the radio, Lily's mind was still working on the couple. 

Soon she said, "Mom?  ...Could we give them something?" 
I said, "Would you like to?"
She nodded.
"See what I've got in my wallet." 
She said, "You've got five bucks." 
"Do you want to give it to 'em?" 
"Well, can we?" 
"Sure!  Let's go around the block." 

And so we did. 

She leaned out the window and handed the young man a five dollar bill.  His face lit up and he thanked Lily, thanked me and his female counterpart chimed in with a happy "God bless you."  I could tell their appreciation was genuine.

Now, I don't know what they were driving through Iowa for, but I saw their car nearby in the lot (they had actually been standing near it when we pulled in) and it did have Texas plates on it, so there was no second thought of Gee, I hope we're not helping them support their crazy glue addiction.  But you know what?  Despite that little nagging voice of skepticism, it still feels better to give SOMETHING, doesn't it? 


They were grateful, she felt wonderful and I was extremely proud of my kid.


What about you?  Would you encourage your child to give to a panhandler? 

Monday, June 18, 2012

Hey, you like free stuff? I'm hosting a giveaway!!



Do you know what I do when I'm not wordsmithing, killing plants, taking a thousand silly pictures of my dinner, being accosted by mall personnel or peeking into my neighbor's windows?  

I make jewelry.   

I bet you didn't know I was so talented, did you?

Because this giveaway thing is supposed to be really super easy to do, I'm jumping in with both feet and donating two of my newest creations.   Some lucky person will be the winner of a bracelet and earring set from Random Ninja Designs. 



Ooh, shiny!








Awesome, right?  I mean, is there anyone who doesn't like free sparkly stuff?  I am a freebie whore, people.  If it's free, I want it!  I become positively giddy when I see a package waiting for me on the porch and will knock down any small person in my path to get to it.  


But enough about my deplorable behavior, there's stuff to be won.




Go enter mah giveaway, peoples!  
 

Ooh, look!  A Rafflecopter thing!  That sure makes things easier, doesn't it?   Good luck!


(It's come to my attention that the Rafflecopter is not letting many of you comment for whatever reason.   That's okay. It still registers your entry for the giveaway.  Comment when you can.  I won't be upset, I promise.  Besides, you can always make it up to me by subscribing via email. It's over there on the left.  Go there now. Shoo. Skedaddle.)




a Rafflecopter giveaway



The Rafflecopter has spoken!  Jennifer Serafini Myers is our winner!

Please keep reading RandomNinja.  I'm definitely going to be doing this again.  So much fun!!

Thanks all for the terrific response!



















Saturday, May 19, 2012

Getting to Know...Well, YOU! Happy National Masturbation Month!

Did you know that we're over halfway through National Masturbation Month?

Well, we are.  It's true.  And it's already the 19th. I bet you've got some catching up to do.

Don't believe it?  Read this article and report back to me.  Go on, I'll wait.  I'll even link it again to show you the part I want you lazy wankers to notice.

Are you back?  You didn't read it, did you?  But you should!  It's interesting stuff!  I mean, who knew that masturbation was GOOD for you?  Both men and women reap health benefits from diddling their bits and baubles.  It improves your circulation and releases tension and, hey, you can't get pregnant from it.  Awesome, right?

This month-long celebration has generated some strange contests among the more enthusiastic supporters.  Check out these "current" (2009-10) records:

  • The winner of "Longest Time Spent Masturbating/Male" (and also the World Record Holder in this category) is Mr. Masanobu Sato, who in 2008 masturbated for 9 hours and 33 minutes. In 2009 he extended his record to 9 hours and 58 minutes.  Please note that time records indicate duration (length of time for which a participant masturbated).  Damn.
  • The winner of "Longest Time Spent Masturbating/Female" was set in 2008 by Ms. Kitty Kat, who masturbated for 7 hours and 6 minutes.
  • The winner of "Most Orgasms/Male" was set by Big Rob in 2010—at 83 climaxes, a world record.
  • The winner of "Most Orgasms/Female" is Loooo-C, who orgasmed 83 times in 2010.
Makes you tired just reading about it, doesn't it?

Now some of these names don't look real to me, so I can't attest to the validity of the records.  However, if anyone wants to take their best shot at beating these people at their own game, feel free to take matters into your own hands. Judging by those records, you might want to notify your employers before you begin.



Yes, YES, YES.  May is National Masturbation Month.






What are you going to do about it?





Friday, May 18, 2012

Disturbing Adventures in Slumbertown or "Why I killed Alex P. Keaton"


Last night I was under attack.  Zombies came after me in my sleep!

It seems that I was back in my high school days and there was an assembly in the auditorium, which we all know is probably one of the worst places to be in the event of a zombie attack. Everyone knows that when the zombie uprising occurs, you will want to avoid large social gathering places to increase your chances of survival.  True, I wasn’t trapped in the mall, but this did not bode well.

When I became aware of the looming presence of the brain-eating living dead, I realized I needed a weapon, but where to find such a one that could handle this onslaught?  The Props Closet!   I knew there would be an array of swords and sharp, pointy things left over from a recent production of Camelot, sitting ripe for the picking.  Only a Master Thespian, such as I would have remembered they had perfect zombie protection at their disposal.

I pushed aside a canvas flat and found the box I sought.  I chose my weapon quickly, but carefully, remembering that when it comes to zombies, a machete is very handy, and ended up grabbing what I felt was the closest thing.

Holed up in the props closet, armed with Big Ol’ Dream Knife, I braced myself, channeled my Inner Buffy, opened the door and in my strongest zombie-slaying voice shouted,

Bring it on!!”

Onward they came, these dream zombies made of random bits of my subconscious:
My best friend? *slash* Gone.  
The family dog? *slice* Dead.  
Alex P. Keaton (where the hell did he come from)? *swoosh* Severed.
Some guy with a head wound who may or may not have actually been zombified?  Sorry, dude. I can’t risk it. *zing* Dead.

I’ve got to give props to my weapon of choice.  Big Ol’ Dream Knife required very little upper arm strength from this particular heroine to prove effective against hordes of zombies (I’m not the strongest slayer on the block, you know).  It was amazing, slicing those nasty zombie heads clean off, like…well, like a light saber (to borrow from George’s dream).  Who wouldn’t love a knife like that?  Got a chicken you need quartered?  *slappity choppity*  Done!  Cleaning fish?  *bam* Off with their heads! 

Sadly, I learned that Big Ol’ Dream Knife had one fatal flaw.  It was selective.  Sure, it was able to cut through flesh and bone (ew ew ew ew! *shudder*) but it had noticeable trouble with fabric.  I was able to holster it in my belt loop and it didn’t cut one thread. 
The approaching turtleneck-clad zombies would be my undoing…

Aw, crap.

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?

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?

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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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*



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 11, 2012

Before I became a mom, I never...

...answered the door with one breast in and one out of my bra.

...told a passerby at Target that I was on my way to return my crying child at the service desk.


...reminded a fellow parent just how much the overhead compartment on a plane can store.



...understood what was really meant by "extended breastfeeding"(please see also: Co-sleeping,  feeding around a corner, Longboobs McGee, I am not a taffy pull)


...ate food that had been on and/or in another person's face.

...watched Barney and Friends.

...feared that cartoon violence would be acted out in my living room.


...talked with another person's imaginary friends.
...worried that another person's imaginary friends would be a bad influence on my child. 
...scolded an imaginary friend.


...got mad at my husband for falling asleep before me.
...got mad at my husband for waking up AFTER me.
...got mad at my husband for sleeping more soundly than me.


...sounded SO MUCH like my mother.

...started a conversation about poop.
...joined a conversation about poop.
...one-upped a conversation about poop.


How has parenthood changed you?

Friday, February 10, 2012

Father Teaches Daughter Lesson About Facebook

Do you agree with this father's actions? 





What do you think his daughter really learned from this?

We're Getting Fish.

John bought a 29 gallon fish tank and stand during the holidays and chose Superbowl Sunday to set it up...in the office. So instead of having the Exercycle of Doom behind me in webcam pictures, you'll see a tank of iddle fishies...whenever we get them. Right now it's just filled with 29 gallons of tub water.
What he's got so far:  (L to R) Tropical Coral Thing, The Castle at Rohan and the Fires Of Mordor.
John is famous for starting this stuff and then getting frustrated halfway through it and cracking or breaking something. He's also great at using tools that are not meant for the task...like his fists.
Nevertheless, this is gonna be solely his thing (heh, see what I did there?).  I'm only here to figure out the electricity issues: How long an extension cord we'll need and where to plug it in. 
I'll also be in charge of reporting the deaths.  
I may get a clipboard.

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, February 2, 2012

Does This Vagina Make My Van Look Hot?

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about truck testicles. 
Let me try that again.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about blogging about truck testicles.

There's a father in the pick-up/drop-off queue at my girls' elementary school who has an enormous set of chrome-covered balls swinging from his bumper hitch.  I've seen some interesting car accessories in my time. Remember the car bra?  (What was that supposed to lift and/or separate, anyway?)  Recently, I've seen people put eyelashes on Volkswagon Beetles to make the headlights look like eyes.  Interesting, yes, but the truck nuts phenomenon got me wondering, so I started to do a bit of research on this latest (but far from greatest) fad in vehicular personification and I found a guy who makes them on Facebook.  Our conversation went pretty much like this:

Me: So...about those bumper hitch balls...just...WHY??

Ball Guy: Why not ?
Ball Guy: It is a novelty product, we sell them to make a profit. We need the income to pay our bills and cover payroll. Literally hundreds of people have jobs within our industry and dealer program, within the U.S. alone not to mention our dealers in many countries.

Me:  I'm trying to do a little research on this...do you also make a vulva design? 

Ball Guy: No, we get that and breasts request a lot, over the years, however it mostly asked by people who are ignorant of the connotation "he has balls" and what that means.

Me: I know what it means. I also know what the phrase "what a C***" means, but I've never seen one on a bumper hitch.
Me: I don't necessarily want to have a vadge on my van. I'm just saying it should be an equal opportunity thing. Don't you agree?  
 
Ball Guy:  Sure, so go google and search vulva and/or breasts on a truck, find the right company for you and buy and install them. I'm just saying we don't do them, just balls...

Me: No one makes them. Apparently it's not marketable to have a replica of your vulva suspended from the bumper. That's why I thought I'd ask you. Wouldn't you want your daughter to be able to express herself in the same way as any guy who wanted to tout his enormous set at unsuspecting motorists? Think of the children, man.

Ball Guy: So here is your opportunity, start your own company, do something for the children!
 
Me: But...now I'm left wondering if it would be better to make them customizable in different sizes, shapes and whatnot or just have one basic Chaka-Khan "I am every woman" sort of thing.  It can't be any more difficult for my children's classmates to unsee Soccer Mom's kitty swinging behind the van than it is for us to unsee the balls on their dad's truck, can it?


And with that...he left me hanging.   I went back a few days later to find that Ball Guy had deleted the entire conversation from his page.  When I asked why, he said that my last comment was "a little blue and out of line".  

BLUE and out of line?  Really?  Dude, you sell bumper nuts!


Where was I going with this?  Oh, right:
If one day you pull up behind a vulva on a Volvo you just might have me to thank for it.
Possible slogon:  Bumper Vagina.  Bumper vagina?!  I hardly know 'er vagin...ah, forget it.  Too easy.
Ball Dude has since stopped replying and I don't think we are on facebooking terms anymore, so I won't mention his name or even link you to his website.  I know you wanted to put a nice big fleshy set of danglers on your eyelash-clad, bra-wearing Volkswagon and call it The Dragster, but you're on your own with that, chief. 
Sorry. 

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

She did it again!

Our winter holidays started out as normally as they could have, considering who we are.  We had our annual dinner and gift exchange at the in-laws' after church on Christmas Eve, which is always a great time; dinner was wonderful, conversation was even better and there was wine.  Yay, MOSCATO!

It seems like every holiday, something happens that I simply MUST write about because...(because I'm an obsessive over-sharing maniac) because I'm a blogger.  Sharing the mundane stuff like this is my life, my passion. 

This year, Christmas was full of blog-worthy stuffs to relay to you, gentle reader.  Sadly, the majority of it was lost on Christmas morning because that is when tragedy struck.

I'm getting ahead of myself (again).


A Holiday On Hold
The girls each got a new pair of warm, fuzzy, stay-at-home-socks in their Christmas stockings from jolly old Saint Nicholas.  They love All Things Soft and Fluffy, so of course they put them on immediately.   This is important.  Trust me.

After the last present was opened, the plan was for the kids and The Man to clean up the mess from Unwrapaganza while I started a lovely Christmas breakfast for everyone. That plan was rudely interrupted when I heard Lily yell something that derailed our lazy Christmas morning and sent it careening off into a ditch:

"MOM!  SAM GOT A SPLINTER!!"

Sam ran through the dining room in the slippery wood-collecting-socks that evil bastard brought for her and when she skidded to a stop, yes indeed, Sam...got a splinter.  

If you are a regular reader of my family's tales, you will remember that this has happened before.  Many of you are already aware that I have a child who is a magnet for splinters and when she gets one, she doesn't mess around with the tiny stuff that can be gotten out with a simple tweezers or the aid of a needle.  No way, no how!  When Samantha does it, she goes all out - sliding across the hard-wood floors, yards at a stretch, to see just how much flooring she can strip off in one go.  "FIND ALL THE SPLINTERS!" she cries.  She also gets these enormous planks embedded so deeply and so securely into her skin that it requires medical attention to retrieve them.  THIS was one of those times. 

Yeah, that's not gonna cut it.
After last year's ordeal (which I will link again, because it's just that incredible), we knew not to waste any time waiting for an army of white corpuscles to stop what they were doing and meander over to the foreign body that had taken refuge in the sole of her foot, for she was likely to lose the entire appendage by the time they cooperated enough to force the splinter out.  It was time to get dressed and head to the Convenient Care Clinic.  *nodding*  No Post-Gift Exchange Nap for you, Johnny-Boy.  No waking up to the smell of maple bacon crisping in the oven.  Coats on, everybody!  Let's move out!

The Waiting is the hardest part

We got to the Convenient Care Clinic, checked Samantha in and began to wait.

And wait...


And wait...
Three bored children, two parents, one large plank of wood didn't make for a very merry Christmas.  At least we were all together...irritated, but together.



Soon...(what am I saying? Strike that...) After waiting roughly the same amount of time it takes to cook a 20 pound turkey, we were shown to a room where a nurse got the skinny on Sam's allergies (or lack thereof), and a brief run-down of how she came to have a hunk of petrified oak jammed inside her person.  When she had enough information, we were then told to follow her to the next room and you'll never guess what happened there!

Aw, you guessed it: more waiting.


So we snapped a picture of the adorable six-year-old's foot to kill some time:
*pffft* Well, that took all of thirty seconds.  What do we do now?

As if sensing my boredom...irritability...and general impatience that this was taking SO LONG, the more mobile members of Sam's entourage began to play a nifty little game called "TOUCH EVERYTHING!!!"  Fun stuff, that game.   It's guaranteed to make your mother go abso-fricking-lutely insane in a matter of minutes. 

Just when we were sure they had forgotten about us (I have no idea how that was possible, as we are noisy and were cordoned off from the rest of the office by only a curtain), in walked the doctor who would surely save Sam from the stabbing pain of Pinocchio Syndrome and us from the agonizing wait. 

He took one look at it and said, sounding much like Gary Cole in Office Space: "Mm...yeah, I think we're going to have to go ahead and, uh...numb that."  Well, gee, Bill, do you think so?  I mean, look at it.  There's nothing to grab on to.  Any fool can see that we're going to have to go in after it and one of us may not come out alive.  If you want to try that on a frightened six-year-old without Novocaine, be my guest.  Just use your Jedi mind trick and we'll be on our way.  Moron.

Instead of using The Force, we (Dr. Bill and I) opted to put a topical numbing agent on it so the needle wouldn't be as traumatizing to my six-year-old.  Add fifteen more minutes of waiting, this time with Mommy sporting a pair of purple surgical gloves to apply some jelly textured numb-making stuffs to Sam's foot with "gentle PRESSURE" (*sigh*  Poor Sam), follow that with Dr. Bill shooting Novocaine into the entry point, and we were ready to begin. ("BEGIN?!" WTH?!)   He made a few futile attempts to grab the splinter, but found he was unable to get a good grip on it with the smallest hemostat he had, so after all this time, Good Doctor Nimble Fingers couldn't get the splinter out and he sent us to the hospital emergency room.
Damn.  This rivaled last year's splinterectomy debacle in a big, sad way.

At the ER
I am happy to report that after another hour of waiting , an ultrasound on Samantha's foot, two near-fistfights between the Tired and the Hungry, and about a thousand mobile status updates to Facebook, Sam was once again, splinter free.   HALLELUJAH!  

Holy crap!
































By this time, we were an hour late for dinner at my mother's house, so we gathered up Sam, the splinter and the rest of our clan and headed for Nana and Poppa's house, stopping ever-so-briefly at home to grab the presents and the makings of my contribution to our meal (thank God I didn't have to make anything more complex than green bean casserole).

We'll call this next part "Splinter At Large"
When we finally got to my parents' house, Sam immediately wanted to show the splinter to her cousins.  Now, after the morning's ordeal, we didn't expect her to actually take the splinter OUT  to show it off and we sure as hell didn't expect the splinter to make a break for it, but that's what happened.  When she opened the container, it fell.   It fell near(?)...under(?)...IN(?)...the cushions of the couch.  It was lost.  Oh, damn.  That's at least a hundred dollar splinter (and probably more, as we have yet to receive the bill from the ER).  We wanted to keep it and put it in our shadow box of "Stuff that got stuck in our kids".  Shoot.  Now it's gone.  Bummer.

Was Lost But Now Am Found
I went to my parent's house the day after Christmas to have coffee and in a last-ditch effort, searched the couch cushions once more, to see if I could find that blasted splinter.  I picked up a cushion and clapped it once and the splinter fell onto the couch.
*THUD*
Me:  No. Freaking. Way.  I FOUND IT!  QUICK!  DAD, GET THE BOTTLE!  GET THE BOTTLE!  
My Father: Where is it?
Me:  It's still in my purse!
My Father:  Don't move!  I'm on it!

And so we wrangled that splinter into the bottle and closed it up tight. REALLY TIGHT.

That oughta hold it.




 Once again, the world is safe for Samantha's tender feet.  Sort of. 


We're getting carpet this spring.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Anatomy of an Argument...For Underachievers

John and I rarely fight, but when we do, this is pretty much what happens.

Him: "Oh, look! A CD on the floor. No case! That's real nice. That's the way to take care of things!" Me: "Here, hon. Why don't you take it and put it away?"
Him: "Well, I didn't leave it on the floor!"
Me: "Do you want to put it away or do you want to bitch about where it ended up because you didn't put it away in the first place?"
Him: "I want people to put things away where they belong."
Me: "Okay then. I'm not the only person who can do that. Here." *hands him CD, which he takes and drops down on the desk*
Me: "Asshole."
Him: "You're the asshole." *stomp stomp stomp* 
Wait three minutes...he returns.
Him: "Guess what temperature the thermostat is set at."
Me: "69."
Him: "Yup. 69 Degrees."
Me: "Awesome."
Him: "Sixty. Nine."
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Degrees."
What.  That's a serious argument, yo.  
 
Side note: He just came in to the bathroom while I was taking a shower, opened the curtain (I lipread, remember) and said..."Bass... *plays music on pretend guitar*...Bass... *pretends to catch Walter from On Golden Pond*...*shrugs shoulders*  Why??"
And when I looked at him like he had three heads, he hugged me THROUGH the shower curtain.  
He's ALL mine, ladies.  Mine.
 

Some Other Stuff I Wrote