Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts

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.

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.
 

Monday, January 9, 2012

The Year Grandma Stopped Loving You

During our Christmas Eve gift exchange, my sister-in-law pointed out the tag on her gift, saying: "To Jennie.  Mom and Dad".  No "Love, Mom and Dad?"  Really?  *quietly*  I used to be your favorite...

This caused our evening to take a most entertaining turn.  We were no longer so curious to find out what we'd been given, but much more intent to find out whether or not it was given "with love".  It became the mission of one and all to answer the question "Where's the love?" as we hungrily tore through the gifts from my mother and father-in-law to see how our cards were signed and find out whether or not we, too, were among The Beloved.

We used that one piece of hilarity to propel us through the rest of the night.

I'm happy to report that every one of the grandchildren got the coveted Golden Ticket of "Love, Grandma and Grandpa".

All adults in the room were gifted with a lukewarm "Mom and Dad".

This will make next year very interesting as it seems everyone's back in the running for Favorite.  It's so gonna be ME!

Saturday, January 7, 2012

40-Year-Olds Don't Lick The Chocolate Off The Dessert Plate...

It's my birthday.  Today I am 40 years old.

My mother took me out for the day.  There was shopping and wonderful food and lots of laughter and adult conversation.  There was an It's Not Every Day Your Baby Girl Turns 40 Celebratory Drink for my mom and one for the birthday girl.  We we had a lovely grown-up time...until dessert. 

It doesn't even matter what the actual name of the decadent slice of heaven set before me was, because whatever name they gave it would not have done it justice.  This was not just a sinfully rich and delicious confectionery.  This was a chocolate orgasm. 

We joked that it was so good, I could lick the chocolate off the plate.  BUT.  40-year-olds don't lick the chocolate off  dessert plates at the Olive Garden.  40-year-olds recycle.  40-year-olds keep an ongoing shopping list in their purse.  40-year-olds vote and do dishes and drive places and wear reading glasses and stuff.  40-year-olds can remember when Mtv used to play music.

Of course, THIS 40-year-old still snickers at the words "melon baller", "cotton balls" and "pussyfoot". 

So let me rephrase my initial statement:  today I am CHRONOLOGICALLY 40 years old.  Emotionally, I'm still 14.

I licked the plate.  I licked it good.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Finding Jesus.

Last year, while driving my children to school, I passed a house with a plastic nativity scene in their front yard.  It was a very simple reproduction of the Holy Family with SuperStepDaddy Joseph and the Virgin Mary kneeling near the...

*blink*

...wait a minute... 

*blink, blink*

*jawdrop* 

It seems that, in this family's version of the Nativity Story, not only was there no room at the inn, but the manger was full as well.  Mary and Joseph knelt near the newborn child in a plastic, Ten Items or Fewer shopping basket. 

It struck me as an interesting decorative choice and I wondered what made them choose to put a half-naked representation of the Messiah in a plastic shopping basket.  

From a distance, the baby-doll that sat in the basket appeared to be a version of the Rub-A-Dub Dolly I had when I was a child.  Its limbs were straightened, which put him at an odd angle in the too-small basket.  Because this doll was not meant to bend, he looked like he'd frozen solid in the cold, which looked more than a little bit creepy.

Was he a place-holder for their real Baby Jesus or did the third part of the Holy Family get baby-napped years ago, forcing the family to search the bargain bin at the Dollar Store for a replacement?

Sadly, I feared we would never know.  On the way to take the girls to their last day of school before winter break, we noticed that Shopping Basket Jesus was missing.  The basket was there, but the Baby Jesus was not. 

We prayed for his safe return.

This year, our prayers were answered.  He is back, but Mary seems to be a little worse for wear.  Behold: 

Virgin Blows Her Top Over Missing Express Lane Messiah's Return


Rising To The Challenge - Another Holiday Photo

Didn't we just do this?  I can't believe it's been a year already. 


December rolls around and parents the world over start to dress up their children in itchy Christmas outfits they'll never wear again, to capture that cherished image of their little ones proving they're worth the presents Santa will surely bring as they smile sweetly for the camera.   We then send those pictures out to friends and family so they can turn seven shades of green at how adorable and well-behaved our children are seem to be.


Last year's photo session was an adventure.  This year, I decided to cut to the chase and go straight for the (for lack of a better term) money shot.  
 

Hm...nice, but...That wasn't good enough for me. In my quest for Teh Funneh, my Christmas Brain blocked out the mayhem that clouded the lens of last year's photo and we kept right on truckin'.



I got a few decent shots, before their body language began to speak to me, "Dear, sweet woman, we know what you want and we're trying our best to make it happen for you, but someone WILL get hurt if we have to do this much longer."


Again, the holiday photo became a battle.  It wasn't quite the Clash of Titans that we've had in the past, but it was definitely a war between What I Wanted and What I Got.  







 This is what we ended up with:  





To say "next year I won't bother" would be an outright lie.  You know damned well I will!    
 

Friday, November 25, 2011

I repost because I care...and because I can.

It's Black Friday, people. 
If you're one of the many insane people out and about today, you'll miss this reposting.  Be safe.  Remember how to hip check properly and protect your faces.

Black and Blue Friday - a poem

Twas the dawn of Black Friday, and in front of the store,
The people had camped out all night by the door,
Their bottoms were nestled in frozen lawn chairs,
As they peered through the glass, plotting what would be theirs.
The veteran shoppers were dressed for the weather
Eyeing new blood, as they huddled together,
When toward the glass doors an employee came near,
With a key in his hand and his face filled with fear
They watched him approach, with their eyes opened wide
He unlocked the door and then leaped to the side.
Like antelope, torn from their watering hole fun,
When the lion creeps nearer, break into full run,
So into the store the patrons did dash,
With lists miles long and buttloads of cash.
More rapid than eagles, they grabbed at Wii Games
They pushed, kicked and called one another foul names.
The Black Friday shoppers went straight to their works,
They prided themselves on behaving like jerks.
They said, "Puck your mother!" (or words of that sort)
As shopping became a full-contact sport!
Black Friday peeps, know this as you roam-
You're fighting without me, I'm staying at home!

Saturday, November 19, 2011

You want a piece of me?!

When I'm feeling punchy, I'm going to start my shopping at 6 PM on a weekday.  I bet I could kick some ass.  My fellow shoppers are clearly not happy to be there.  They're tired and hungry but they're also armed with metal carts...like Battlebots.  

I'll fill mine with canned goods and garden tools.  

Awesome.

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?

Monday, November 14, 2011

Let's talk about grocery store tantrums.

I am a firm believer in teaching children in the moment.  Sometimes, however, said moment arises and finds you completely at a loss as to what to do.  Well, NO MORE!  Random Ninja is here to save you from your totally unprepared self!   You're welcome.

What will you do in the event that this is the happy day your child decides to be all "HULK MAD!  HULK SMASH!" with a bombardment of spaghetti sauces because you refused him a new Matchbox car?

It helps to have a few grocery store rules to begin with.  I have always given the kids a choice to either hold onto the cart with one hand or sit IN the seat of the cart.  If you let go, you get in the cart. 
That's a blog for another day, so we'll get back to the little noisemakers. 

You must first resist the urge to throttle your child.  Please.  If you leave the store, plan to return immediately.  Leaving is how we teach children that if they can't have what they want, they can just get mom to take them home, which is often what they wanted in the first place. This is a great opportunity for your child to learn what's acceptable behavior in a public place.  Seize it!

If the child is already in the cart, GREAT!  Ignore him.  Don't talk to him, don't look at him, don't pacify him with a box of Cheerios or a new toy that you have no intention of buying him.  Keep shopping and avoid the aisles containing pickle jars and tomato sauces.  If it becomes too much for you to handle without losing your marbles and housing the little twerp in the deep freeze, park your cart somewhere in the back of the store, with the tantrum thrower facing a wall.  Tell him you'll continue shopping when he's calmed down.  Walk out of his sight (behind him usually works best, so you can still see him but he has to crane his neck to see you).   Now you wait.  Read a magazine. 

If he's not in the cart, you have three choices:  
1. You can lay down next to him and do what he's doing (which will earn you bonus glares from passersby).  
2. You can pick him up and put him in the cart if he's small enough for you to lift.
Or 3.  You can leave him flailing around on the ground and walk away.

Obviously, you have to know your kid in order to use number 3, as you'll have some children who live fearlessly in our world and will likely run in the opposite direction, getting themselves into more trouble than this method is worth.  Mine always picked themselves up and followed me.  It's possible that they were afraid I'd actually leave them in the store.  (Moi?!  Never!)  Still, it worked extremely well and I'm happy to say that once I chose my tantrum-squelching techniques and used them unfailingly, tantrums no longer plagued our trips to the store.

Voila! 
You are now armed with a plan of attack or at least a few ideas to formulate a plan of your own.  I hope to see fewer faces peering out from behind the frozen veggies.

Go forth and kick some ass.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Kiosk Snipers!

UGH!  They GOT me.  *collapses melodramatically*

I was at the mall with the spawn, heading toward the exit when a woman approached me and asked me where I was from.  I never should have made eye contact, but she wasn't standing right near her kiosk, so I was caught completely off guard by her interesting use of an ancient pick-up line.  She got me.  I answered, "I'm local."  She asked me if I had a good hair straightener (I flat ironed my hair today, a mistake I won't be making again) and beckoned me over to her little shop of horrors.  I blame being hungry and tired on my inability to say no to this woman, for I followed her like an obedient lap dog.  You would have thought she had enticed me with a fistful of bacon.
Mmm...bacon.

She led me to her stand, where I thought I'd hear a little blurb about how great this new hair straightener is and instead I found myself with a glob of Dead Sea Salt Exfoliant on my hand.  
"Rub dat een", she said very quickly in a very thick accent whose origin I couldn't quite place.  

Holding my hand over a white plastic bowl, she played twenty questions with me, asking me my name, how old I was, if I had a husband, how long we've been married and whether or not I was gainfully employed.  Oh, she was good, this one.  She had me right where she wanted me: wet and trapped.  She had a towel hidden there somewhere, I know, but I couldn't see it and I wasn't too keen on the idea of walking off with one hand covered in Dead Sea Salt, so I remained her captive customer.  She then showed the children and me how terrific this product was as she hosed my hand off with a squirt bottle of water.  

Then it got gross.

She laughed with the children as she told us how NASTY Mommy was and how "she needs a shower", while surveying the depths of the white plastic bowl which was now full of my dead skin.  

Um...ick...and WHAT?!  Did she just say that, really? 
I think we were all a little taken aback that she actually said those words in her sales pitch.  "Nasty" and "needs a shower".  Yup.  Well, that'll sell a bundle of this shit, right?  Absolutely.  Give me 100 units!

I was offered a few backhanded compliments for my trouble: "Your oily skin is a gift from God."   My what is a huh??   

Mesmerized by this woman and her accent, I stayed planted on the spot to listen to what else she found hideous about my apparently troll-like skin and greasy, gunk-filled pores, while my children stood by and helplessly watched the drama unfold, their eyes big as saucers.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.  I had accepted her free presentation with good humor and didn't bloody her lip when she basically told me I was too grotesque to be walking around with normal people.  It was time to end this before one of us got hurt.  

In an effort to bring about the end of my Trial by Esthetics, I asked, "How much?"

I don't know how they train these people for this stuff, but they do have a knack for it. We got the rundown of a professional salesclerk and were told that the skin of a princess could be ALL MINE for the "low price" of $250.  Jeebus, for THAT, I could buy actual princess skin and make myself a princess suit!  

She sensed my apprehension and suddenly, as if by magic, the Discount Gnome came along and bippity boppidy booped the entire line of skin care down to $125.  I don't know HOW she did it!  Amazing!

Still too pricey for my blood, I declined to purchase her wares.  Now, maybe her brother needed a new kidney or maybe it was costing her too much to keep fuzzy Uggs on her little feetsies this winter, because she REALLY wanted me to buy this stuff.  She was so intent on making the sale, that she whipped out that magical Discount Gnome again and this time the price poofed from $125 to a mere $39.99 for two of the four miracle working products with the additional promise that I could come back tomorrow and get the other two for $15 off the price.  Wait, what?  Was that $15 off the original price or off the discounted price? 


Ah, forget it.  Doesn't matter anyway.  Somehow I managed to peel myself from her evil clutches and escape with my children, my one soft arm and what was left of my dignity.  

While I was at the store, I bought a jar of really good-smelling dead sea salt exfoliant and a bottle of lotion.
Twelve dollah.


Eff you, Kiosk Sniper.

















Sunday, October 30, 2011

This Gobbamned SwivelStore piece of sh*t.

I thought my regular readers would appreciate an update on the SwivelStore that I blogged about not long ago.  It's a hunk of junk, but I'm using it.  Oh, yes I am.  I bought and paid for that piece of shit (or four of them) fair and square so I've earned the right to bitch about it all I want.  And I shall.  I may even link the SwivelStore people to this blog and let them see how irate I am about their cheating, lying ways.  
Fartknockers. 

To get anyone who isn't up to speed caught up, I ordered a SwivelStore organizer through the SwivelStore site online. I wanted to take advantage of their two for one deal (stupid stupid stupid), but when I clicked to order the one...(which was going to be two) it took me to a confirmation page that stated that I had ordered TWO sets of TWO.  Who the fuck needs FOUR of these contraptions?!  Then I noted that the "processing" fee came to a total of $31.00 and change.  WHA...???   Husband of Brilliance later informed me that they had charged the same shipping and handling for each individual item, even the free ones, so I got screwed in a whole different door.  Not cool, SwivelStore, people.  Not cool.

There was no "back" button.  That sucker was processed.  I had Sugar Daddy (see: Husband of Brilliance) call the customer service number that I had found through a laborious search.  He got in touch with one of the many SwivelStore drones and was told, of course, that it had already left the processing plant (man, they're lightning fast...or liars) and the only thing we could do would be to refuse its delivery when it came to the door.  Right.  Okay, then.   We're saddled with the $70 bill for four SwivelStore thingimawhoosits.  Great.  

Its flimsy plastic only holds the small bottles and jars of spices, so if you're looking for something that will hold your glass jars, skip the SwivelStore.  You'll use it once and it will break and fall on your head, causing you to curse the existence of such an atrocity.  You've been warned.


They've even made it difficult to attempt to give these things away as gifts (not that I would try to pass such a plastic nightmare off on my family and friends) as they neglected to pack them in anything but a plastic wrapper and a plain cardboard box.  The only indication that they were, in fact, Swivel Store products is the flimsy little 4 X 6 note card with their name on it and instructions for the incredibly vapid, showing how to use it properly.



Swivel Store, you suck balls.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Happy Anniversary, Baby...♫ gotchoo-onmah-MII-HIIND ♫


It's been 17 years since that fateful day when Sugar Daddy and I tied the knot and joined the ranks of millions of other wedded couples. I was going to share with you some photos of that day, but who really enjoys looking at another person's boring old wedding photos?  So let's mix it up a little.  I'm going to show you the ones that DIDN'T make it into the Wedding Album of Extreme Awesomeness.
Behold:

Future MIL and unmade, barely awake me on the morning of Black Saturday.  I can't even tell you who that is in the back.  Maybe Future FIL, I'm not entirely sure.
  

John's friend Brian had to get a shot of John's boxers which were specially purchased for the day.  They had little limousines on them that said "Get me to the church on time". 

The Blushing Bride.
(Hey, Kim, can you spot the Suddenly Boobs in this shot?)

Reception shoes.  They said "Just Married" on them. 

Do NOT incur the wrath of Angry Bride!

What's he doing under there?

UVULAAAAAAA!

Is that a propane tank?! 




♫ a little bit softer now, (shout) a little bit softer now (shout)... ♫


 GET IT, FAIR MAIDENS!! 
 




Lookin' Studly.  Don't light that nasty thing, John!

Awesomeness.

What a couple of goobers.

Working together to wield the knife.  
We had no idea what we were doing and I vaguely remember trying to lick that knife off when we were done, but I was thwarted by someone possessing more manners than I. (I was frosting blocked!)

Because once was not enough...everyone wanted John take his pants off so they could see the infamous boxers. Take 'em off, Johnny-boy!

 Every bride should dance to Sir Mix-A-Lot, especially when they are sporting a ginormous bow on their hind end.


Okay, this one's not that funny, and it DID make it into the album, but it was taken in the backseat of a Saab on the way to the reception.  We submitted this one to the paper...after we cropped out the dome light.  ;)



This one really should have made it into the book.  Someone move those candles!
   Just outside the church. 
No one looks quite ready, do they? 
(Is that my FIL photobombing this one?)




You know what?  Can we get just one more shot of those boxers and your supercool dance moves, John? 

Very nice.  Thank you, honey.





Some Other Stuff I Wrote