Today is a special day. Today, I'm giving a big shout out to all the thieves and shoplifters out there. Now, before you become indignant, let me tell you a little story.
It starts innocently enough, the family and I headed out to the Mall to do some back-to-school shopping. We found a great deal on backpacks. Yay! As usual, The Mr. escaped to the TV section (the big baby), which happens to be right next to the bra section. In hindsight, I realize that this is, in fact, great marketing at work. Think about it, you're a man, your lady wants to look at pretty panties, "Babe, aren't these cute?". You're as cornered as a rat in a barrel. Suddenly, you see out of the corner of your eye, your White Knight. He beckons you, "Come toward the light!" You find yourself drawn like a moth to a flame, "Yeah, those are great. I'm just going to look over here...". Your lady is blissfully unaware that you have abandoned her (cardinal sin, gents) and you get to stand, slack jawed before a huge bank of TV magic.
It's a win-win.
Anyway, I left The Mr. drooling over TVs big enough to fill a wall and went in search of the ever elusive Comfortable, yet Flattering Bra. Perhaps you've heard of it. I've heard whispers, rumors..."It's true, I say. My mother's cousin knows a bartender that has a roommate who met a girl at the bank who swears that she has one! It's real!" I decided that today was my day, I was going to find this Mythical Beast. Onward!
I searched high and low, pulling style after style, color after color. The tags shouted at me, "Best Bra Ever!", "No Pinch Underwire!", "The Best Kept Secret!", "Mega Pushup!". Oh, the sensory overload. I gathered my wits about me and headed to the fitting room with an armload, thinking, "One of these has to be The One."
Things started out fairly tame. Not The One, but nothing weird either. Which, ladies, you KNOW is important when we are seeking the Care and Maintenance of "The Girls". Then, it happens.
The security device.
Don't get me wrong, I completely understand stores using these and don't disparage them for it. However, I definitely have a problem with where they have decided to attach them. Could it be on the strap, where it wouldn't interfere with the fit? No. How about on the upper area of the cup where, while it may feel awkward, wouldn't really be that big of a deal? No.
No.
The security device is on the back. Right on the clasp. Because that's THEE perfect spot to put a large, bulky plastic thing. It's so incredibly easy to reach behind you and blindly try to fasten your bra clasp when there's a plastic bulge the size of Australia. Not. If, by some miracle, you get the damn thing fastened against all odds, now you're faced with a different problem. When a woman is trying on her most important piece of clothing, it's important that it be seamless and comfortable, right? Well, nothing says comfort like Australia digging into your back. I wish ALL bras had Australia somewhere on them, it would make life much more interesting and our clothes would look just that much better on us.
So, while I was trying to appreciate the bra that may well be The One, I was also cursing shoplifters everywhere because thanks to their errant ways and general misbehavior, I got to stand in front of a fitting room mirror (or as it's more commonly know, the Fun House Mirror) and try to ignore Australia hunching on my back like Yoda. So thanks, all you rotten shoplifters, you made my day,
I did prevail, I found The One. I skipped back over to the TV section where not only was my husband still drooling over the big screens, my daughters were standing in front of a 3D TV with 3D glasses on looking like little zombies. As special thank you for "shopping" with me, I let The Mr. pay for The One. Good times.
Remember ladies, when you're faced with roadblocks on your search for The One. Don't despair. Don't give up. You too, can conquer Australia.
"Do or do not, there is no try" - Yoda
Monday, August 6, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
In which we narrowly escape the black market
I went away this weekend and almost didn't make it back. True story.
A girlfriend of mine, Lulu, is turning 30 and so her hubby aranged for a surprise weekend away for her and some girlfriends at a beach condo. Awww. We whisked her away and headed for a weekend with no men, no kids and if we played our cards right, copious amounts of alcohol.
We made a stop on the way to get a snack and pee. We thought it would be a perfect moment to take a picture so that our trip could be enjoyed for generations to come. My bestie, Tracy, approached a normal looking guy and asked him to take our picture. Now, this seems innocent enough, right? How many times have you asked someone to take your picture or been asked to take a picture? It's not like we were asking him to donate a lung or solve world hunger. Nope, it was just a picture.
Tracy: Excuse me, can you take our picture?
Man: No, I don't have time.
*crickets*
Now, intrepid readers, if you had just told a group of women that you didn't have time to take a picture (because let's face it, that's some hard, time-consuming shit right there), wouldn't you make an effort to walk away? Perhaps whip your phone out of your 80's throw back denims and start madly texting or talking or...something? Not our new friend. Nope, he just stood there. And stood there. And stood there. He stood there while we asked a woman to take our picture. He stood there while we laughed maniacally about people who "don't have time". He stood there until his wife/girlfriend/babysitter/parole officer/dominatrix came out of the bathroom and they walked away.
Shit. You. Not.
We made it to the condo in one piece and had some wine while watching the ocean. We walked down to the beach and wiggled our toes in the sand and picked up shells. Good times.
As the day wore on, we decided that we should adhere to the "Safety First" rule and called a cab to take us into town for dinner. Charms specified that there were 6 of us (twice), could they accomodate that? Yes, ma'am, be there in 20 minutes. Yay, let the party start!
We should have known that the driver was a whack job when he couldn't find his way through the parking lot to the unit we were at. When he finally arrived, he pulled up in a mini-van. Looks promising, right? Oh, you optimistic little ray of sunshine.
He opens the door and there, where the middle seat belongs is...nothing. That's right, folks, there was no middle seat. Why? Who the fuck knows. He says he took it out but doesn't know why.
Alrighty then.
If we were smart, we would have sent him packing and found a van with ALL its parts. But not us! We said, "Fuck it!" and off we went with Lulu and Charms sitting on the floor of the van. On the FLOOR of the van. From this vantage point, they were able to see that our driver had a cooler between the 2 front seats. Obviously, he was going to smuggle us out of the country, steal our organs and sell them to highest bidder. Beacause really, could it get any weirder?
Yes, yes it can.
After dinner, we called another cab to take us downtown (for 6 please, with 6 seats!), hopefully for drinks and dancing! While we waited, we went into a little gift store and looked at all the crap that tourists absolutely insist on buying while on vacation but almost always turns out to be something like, "What the fuck was a thinking?" We came around a corner of the store and there was the tallest chick I've ever seen with a pelican at her feet...biting her hand. Seriously, a pelican. One of these...
Except without the birds and about 75 more colored scarves and electric blue paint and glitter around her eyes. And she sang. Why yes, I did have nightmares.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). This guy was younger than the other two and the ride started out without incident. Until he informed us that he was a 3rd degree black belt and if anyone was to ask, he was a fighter not a lover. Oh and he didn't seem to like it when Lulu asked him if he was going to steal our organs and then kill us. Touchy, touchy.
He dropped us off at a "club" where there was supposed to be good music for dancing. There was dancing alright...there was the guy that was just DYING to dance and looked like he was about to bust a move at any moment. The chick who was either dancing with an invisible friend or had dropped some very pretty acid before she left the house. Although our personal favorite was a couple who we don't think was really a couple that was either having a dance off or this was their version of foreplay. They were running into each other and flinging each other around. At one point, she ended the dance by falling slowly to the floor and then just laid there.
Best entertainment ever.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). Apparently, the reason downtown was so quiet is because cab driver #4 thought the party was in his van. I'm pretty sure each and every one of my organs was vibrated to within an inch of their lives (it's a good thing cab driver #1 didn't try to sell any of them then because I think they were damaged) and I think I'm clear on how it feels to have heart palpitations. And did I mention he thought he was in the Indy 500? At one point, while trying to enter the condo address (which Bre had to google on her phone because he didn't know where in the hell he was going), he nearly plowed into an off-ramp guard rail. But don't worry girls, "I got you!" But I'll tell you what, Kristin and DanceBoy were dancing and singing like it was 1999!
Thankfully, we made it home alive (and with all our organs) and had dessert and more wine.
This is where we get to the sad part...we're old. I hate to admit it but we are. Give us a warm blankie and a glass of wine and we'll fall asleep on the couch.
No one lost a kidney or got stung by a jellyfish or was dry humped on the dance floor. But it was amazing and unforgettable and I can't wait to do it again.
I would tell you more, but I don't have time. *wink wink*
A girlfriend of mine, Lulu, is turning 30 and so her hubby aranged for a surprise weekend away for her and some girlfriends at a beach condo. Awww. We whisked her away and headed for a weekend with no men, no kids and if we played our cards right, copious amounts of alcohol.
We made a stop on the way to get a snack and pee. We thought it would be a perfect moment to take a picture so that our trip could be enjoyed for generations to come. My bestie, Tracy, approached a normal looking guy and asked him to take our picture. Now, this seems innocent enough, right? How many times have you asked someone to take your picture or been asked to take a picture? It's not like we were asking him to donate a lung or solve world hunger. Nope, it was just a picture.
Tracy: Excuse me, can you take our picture?
Man: No, I don't have time.
*crickets*
Now, intrepid readers, if you had just told a group of women that you didn't have time to take a picture (because let's face it, that's some hard, time-consuming shit right there), wouldn't you make an effort to walk away? Perhaps whip your phone out of your 80's throw back denims and start madly texting or talking or...something? Not our new friend. Nope, he just stood there. And stood there. And stood there. He stood there while we asked a woman to take our picture. He stood there while we laughed maniacally about people who "don't have time". He stood there until his wife/girlfriend/babysitter/parole officer/dominatrix came out of the bathroom and they walked away.
Shit. You. Not.
We made it to the condo in one piece and had some wine while watching the ocean. We walked down to the beach and wiggled our toes in the sand and picked up shells. Good times.
As the day wore on, we decided that we should adhere to the "Safety First" rule and called a cab to take us into town for dinner. Charms specified that there were 6 of us (twice), could they accomodate that? Yes, ma'am, be there in 20 minutes. Yay, let the party start!
We should have known that the driver was a whack job when he couldn't find his way through the parking lot to the unit we were at. When he finally arrived, he pulled up in a mini-van. Looks promising, right? Oh, you optimistic little ray of sunshine.
He opens the door and there, where the middle seat belongs is...nothing. That's right, folks, there was no middle seat. Why? Who the fuck knows. He says he took it out but doesn't know why.
Alrighty then.
If we were smart, we would have sent him packing and found a van with ALL its parts. But not us! We said, "Fuck it!" and off we went with Lulu and Charms sitting on the floor of the van. On the FLOOR of the van. From this vantage point, they were able to see that our driver had a cooler between the 2 front seats. Obviously, he was going to smuggle us out of the country, steal our organs and sell them to highest bidder. Beacause really, could it get any weirder?
Yes, yes it can.
After dinner, we called another cab to take us downtown (for 6 please, with 6 seats!), hopefully for drinks and dancing! While we waited, we went into a little gift store and looked at all the crap that tourists absolutely insist on buying while on vacation but almost always turns out to be something like, "What the fuck was a thinking?" We came around a corner of the store and there was the tallest chick I've ever seen with a pelican at her feet...biting her hand. Seriously, a pelican. One of these...
That's right, in the store, biting her hand. But it's okay because it's a baby, it's been there for 2 days and birds poop all the time. Phew, thank goodness Tall Chick was an expert on birds.
Our cab arrives. Yay!
We count the seats, yep all there...and we're off! This driver seems normal enough until we notice a bottle of...something between his legs. "Whatcha got there, O'douls?"
Driver: No, no, this is just Ginger Ale.
Riiiigggghhhhhttttt.....
He drops us downtown and we go looking for trouble. I mean dancing. For a beach town, it was damn quiet. The most excitement we found was at the pizza parlor where the staff was doing a floor show. A little Greased Lightning and some flying pizza dough makes for a damn good time. We did find a slightly frightening person that looked like the Bird Lady from Mary Poppins...
Except without the birds and about 75 more colored scarves and electric blue paint and glitter around her eyes. And she sang. Why yes, I did have nightmares.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). This guy was younger than the other two and the ride started out without incident. Until he informed us that he was a 3rd degree black belt and if anyone was to ask, he was a fighter not a lover. Oh and he didn't seem to like it when Lulu asked him if he was going to steal our organs and then kill us. Touchy, touchy.
He dropped us off at a "club" where there was supposed to be good music for dancing. There was dancing alright...there was the guy that was just DYING to dance and looked like he was about to bust a move at any moment. The chick who was either dancing with an invisible friend or had dropped some very pretty acid before she left the house. Although our personal favorite was a couple who we don't think was really a couple that was either having a dance off or this was their version of foreplay. They were running into each other and flinging each other around. At one point, she ended the dance by falling slowly to the floor and then just laid there.
Best entertainment ever.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). Apparently, the reason downtown was so quiet is because cab driver #4 thought the party was in his van. I'm pretty sure each and every one of my organs was vibrated to within an inch of their lives (it's a good thing cab driver #1 didn't try to sell any of them then because I think they were damaged) and I think I'm clear on how it feels to have heart palpitations. And did I mention he thought he was in the Indy 500? At one point, while trying to enter the condo address (which Bre had to google on her phone because he didn't know where in the hell he was going), he nearly plowed into an off-ramp guard rail. But don't worry girls, "I got you!" But I'll tell you what, Kristin and DanceBoy were dancing and singing like it was 1999!
Thankfully, we made it home alive (and with all our organs) and had dessert and more wine.
This is where we get to the sad part...we're old. I hate to admit it but we are. Give us a warm blankie and a glass of wine and we'll fall asleep on the couch.
No one lost a kidney or got stung by a jellyfish or was dry humped on the dance floor. But it was amazing and unforgettable and I can't wait to do it again.
I would tell you more, but I don't have time. *wink wink*
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Measure T and The Crazy Lady
I recently had an encounter with what I believe is the world's angriest woman. It was super fun....
I was recruited by our town Librarian to campaign for a measure that is being presented to the voters in June. This measure would renew an existing tax (1/8 of a cent) that currently provides 87% of our county's library funding. Sounds pretty important, right? I thought so too. I agreed because not only do I love to read, but my kids love to read. I feel that I can swing 1/8 of cent to fund the library and really, if the library isn't getting the money, you better believe that the government would not only refuse to give it back, they would find something else to fund with it. Maybe more private jets.
Anyway.
Part of my responsibility was to walk different neighborhoods, knocking on doors and making sure people knew about the measure and handing out literature. Now, I really dreaded doing this, not because I don't like talking to people because I do. Ask my kids, I talk to everyone. It's a running joke in my family that I make friends everywhere I go...waiting in line at the grocery store, shopping at Target. I figure, if you're just standing there waiting you might as well have a good time doing it and since making snide remarks to (or about) strangers tends to get frowned upon, I get chatty instead.
Moving on.
I fully admit that I'm one of those people that will do just about anything to avoid opening the door to people I don't know (or sometimes to people that I do know, but tell. Shh.), so it didn't hurt my feelings at all if people ignored my friendly little knock. I left my little paper under the mat and moved on. No harm, no foul. Until I arrived at The Crazy Lady's house. This was one of those times when her house didn't give any clues as to the menace inside. It was nicely kept, a happy little welcome sign on the door. Inviting, right? Not so much.
She answered, I introduced myself and told her briefly why I was there. Things like, this tax provides 87% of the library funds and if it doesn't pass, the library faces massive closures. As in most, if not all the libraries will close. She then said, "I'm voting no."
I admit, I chuckled because I thought she was joking. Really, who would vote to close libraries other than people who kick puppies and name their kids Adolf.
I was soon put in my place, because not only was she serious, she was so serious that she kept me on her porch for 5 minutes while she ranted about how, "The government should have gotten all those assholes out of office years ago and then we wouldn't be in this mess. And what are we doing supporting illegal immigrants anyway? All those damn liberals have screwed us up and taken our money and I'm not going to give one more cent for them to clean up their messes!"
And then came the real shocker...
"I'm a published California historian and I donate books all the time to the library! So no, I'm not voting for this!"
Wow. Wow. So, let me get this straight...You're an author and you what, don't like libraries? You don't want people to have access to your books? You're against reading?
Intrepid readers, you should be so proud. I pasted an enchanting smile on my face and said, "Thank you for your time." and walked away.
People like her need a warning sign. Or some poison in her coffee. Either way.
I was recruited by our town Librarian to campaign for a measure that is being presented to the voters in June. This measure would renew an existing tax (1/8 of a cent) that currently provides 87% of our county's library funding. Sounds pretty important, right? I thought so too. I agreed because not only do I love to read, but my kids love to read. I feel that I can swing 1/8 of cent to fund the library and really, if the library isn't getting the money, you better believe that the government would not only refuse to give it back, they would find something else to fund with it. Maybe more private jets.
Anyway.
Part of my responsibility was to walk different neighborhoods, knocking on doors and making sure people knew about the measure and handing out literature. Now, I really dreaded doing this, not because I don't like talking to people because I do. Ask my kids, I talk to everyone. It's a running joke in my family that I make friends everywhere I go...waiting in line at the grocery store, shopping at Target. I figure, if you're just standing there waiting you might as well have a good time doing it and since making snide remarks to (or about) strangers tends to get frowned upon, I get chatty instead.
Moving on.
I fully admit that I'm one of those people that will do just about anything to avoid opening the door to people I don't know (or sometimes to people that I do know, but tell. Shh.), so it didn't hurt my feelings at all if people ignored my friendly little knock. I left my little paper under the mat and moved on. No harm, no foul. Until I arrived at The Crazy Lady's house. This was one of those times when her house didn't give any clues as to the menace inside. It was nicely kept, a happy little welcome sign on the door. Inviting, right? Not so much.
She answered, I introduced myself and told her briefly why I was there. Things like, this tax provides 87% of the library funds and if it doesn't pass, the library faces massive closures. As in most, if not all the libraries will close. She then said, "I'm voting no."
I admit, I chuckled because I thought she was joking. Really, who would vote to close libraries other than people who kick puppies and name their kids Adolf.
I was soon put in my place, because not only was she serious, she was so serious that she kept me on her porch for 5 minutes while she ranted about how, "The government should have gotten all those assholes out of office years ago and then we wouldn't be in this mess. And what are we doing supporting illegal immigrants anyway? All those damn liberals have screwed us up and taken our money and I'm not going to give one more cent for them to clean up their messes!"
And then came the real shocker...
"I'm a published California historian and I donate books all the time to the library! So no, I'm not voting for this!"
Wow. Wow. So, let me get this straight...You're an author and you what, don't like libraries? You don't want people to have access to your books? You're against reading?
Intrepid readers, you should be so proud. I pasted an enchanting smile on my face and said, "Thank you for your time." and walked away.
People like her need a warning sign. Or some poison in her coffee. Either way.
Friday, April 13, 2012
The Great Bikini Debate
I took the girls to Target today and this is what my list looked like:
Just as a side note, we did not arrive at this section for me because not only will I refuse to try on a swimsuit unless I have just ingested copious amounts of alcohol, I'm pretty sure they don't carry what I would be in the market for. I know this because the last time I checked, Target doesn't sell rain ponchos in fun, flirty colors and seeing as how I generally eat too much candy and Pringles, this is all I am willing to subject the general public too.
Moving on.
My oldest is 13 and is entering that special time in her life where she could wear a burlap sack (or a rain poncho in fun, flirty colors) and still look gorgeous and disturbingly attractive. Every year, she wages the Great Bikini Debate and presents all the reasons why she should be allowed to purchase and wear a bikini. Did you notice the wine on my list? In the interest of fair play, I agreed to let her try on some bikinis.
Fuck.
I just can't get on board with the picture of my baby girl prancing around wearing smaller versions of what she wears under her real clothes every day. I'm talking underwear, people! The suit parts were smaller than her underwear. Smaller, slinkier, sexier...pick your adjective. Whatever you want to go with, the reality is that if I relented in the face of the Great Bikini Debate, I would be endorsing the irreversible action of my beautiful girl gallivanting around in glorified underwear.
This, I cannot do. Why? Because I'm pretty sure that if she arrived at the pool wearing something of this nature, what had started as an innocent Jr. High pool party would swiftly come to resemble something out of Girls Gone Wild or an episode of Campus PD. If you think I want to be responsible for that kind of catastrophe, you better think again.
Lesson of the day, you want to turn Happy Mom into Raging Lunatic Mom all you need to do is stick me in a dressing room and parade my daughter in front of me wearing shoe strings and a doily.
On the upside, I got some peanut butter M & M's to tide me over until it's time to drink.
- Wine
- Cotton balls
- Birthday present for Little Bit's teacher (Who is absolutely amazing by the way. But you can't have her because she's ours. Ours, I say!)
- Camera case (For my beautiful new Nikon camera who has been christened Idris which is a Doctor Who thing and if you don't get it then not only do I feel unendingly sorry for you but it's very well possible I might make slanderous comments in your presence or even just flat out refuse to associate with you.)
- Wine
- Lotion
- Swiffer Wet Jet thingys
- Wine (This is a good thing...read on and you'll see why)
- Cotton balls (Looks promising!)
- Candy
- Pringles (These were definitely not on the list because as we all know, you can't have just one and quite frankly if my ass gets any bigger it's going to require its own zip code.)
- Easter socks from the $1 section (Now, these were for me and I love them. Don't judge me.)
- Wine (Did I note that twice? Huh. Fancy that.)
- Camera case (Yay!)
Just as a side note, we did not arrive at this section for me because not only will I refuse to try on a swimsuit unless I have just ingested copious amounts of alcohol, I'm pretty sure they don't carry what I would be in the market for. I know this because the last time I checked, Target doesn't sell rain ponchos in fun, flirty colors and seeing as how I generally eat too much candy and Pringles, this is all I am willing to subject the general public too.
Moving on.
My oldest is 13 and is entering that special time in her life where she could wear a burlap sack (or a rain poncho in fun, flirty colors) and still look gorgeous and disturbingly attractive. Every year, she wages the Great Bikini Debate and presents all the reasons why she should be allowed to purchase and wear a bikini. Did you notice the wine on my list? In the interest of fair play, I agreed to let her try on some bikinis.
Fuck.
I just can't get on board with the picture of my baby girl prancing around wearing smaller versions of what she wears under her real clothes every day. I'm talking underwear, people! The suit parts were smaller than her underwear. Smaller, slinkier, sexier...pick your adjective. Whatever you want to go with, the reality is that if I relented in the face of the Great Bikini Debate, I would be endorsing the irreversible action of my beautiful girl gallivanting around in glorified underwear.
This, I cannot do. Why? Because I'm pretty sure that if she arrived at the pool wearing something of this nature, what had started as an innocent Jr. High pool party would swiftly come to resemble something out of Girls Gone Wild or an episode of Campus PD. If you think I want to be responsible for that kind of catastrophe, you better think again.
Lesson of the day, you want to turn Happy Mom into Raging Lunatic Mom all you need to do is stick me in a dressing room and parade my daughter in front of me wearing shoe strings and a doily.
On the upside, I got some peanut butter M & M's to tide me over until it's time to drink.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
iPods, fractures and a discount
I think there is a conspiracy against me, and my iPod is in on it.
Due to the excessive amount of time I spend in my car, I have been listening to a lot of podcasts. Alot of them. Yesterday, while driving to school, I started the first podcast in my "Stuff Mom Never Told You" queue. Ordinarily, these are fairly benign and often very educational. Good stuff.
Not this time.
The podcast was titled "Is masturbation good for you", an enticing title, to be sure. They started out talking about the different myths associated with masturbation and statistics of who is doing it and where. For the most part, this didn't sound to dangerous, so I kept listening. I was doing really well until the conversation turned to the dangers of men humping hard surfaces. Hard surfaces?? What, like the table or a door? No, no...the floor. WTF?? Guys hump the floor?! Apparently, they do and if they do it too hard (!!), they risk the chance of a penile fracture.
.....
You heard it right folks, penile fracture. I almost had to stop the car so that I could vomit. *shudders*
I decided the safest course of action would be to change podcasts. Yeah, I'm just that smart.
So, I switched to "Stuff From The Science Lab - Those crazy Kimodos". Cool, right? Not so much. Apparently, Kimodo Dragons vomit. All. The. Time. And not just your normal vomit, they vomit things like partially digested goats. Goats!
And, another switch. This time it was about sending Jay-Z and Beyonce on the Virgin Galactic to film a music video. At the cost of $200,000. It's a good thing people don't waste money on stupid shit. Let me tell you that as soon as I heard the words "vomit bag", I switched again.
Then, I noticed the title on the next podcast... How the digestive system works.
Seriously.
On the upside, I went to Save Mart after class to do some grocery shopping. As I was checking out, I handed the lady my S.H.A.R.E.S. card (super cool if you've never heard of it. You earn points every time you shop and then Save Mart sends a check to your school. Check it out.). As she proceeds to push the button telling the register that she is going to slide my card, she accidentally presses the senior discount button. Sweet! $10 off my grocery purchase! I am totally willing to be a senior, if it saves me money.
Due to the excessive amount of time I spend in my car, I have been listening to a lot of podcasts. Alot of them. Yesterday, while driving to school, I started the first podcast in my "Stuff Mom Never Told You" queue. Ordinarily, these are fairly benign and often very educational. Good stuff.
Not this time.
The podcast was titled "Is masturbation good for you", an enticing title, to be sure. They started out talking about the different myths associated with masturbation and statistics of who is doing it and where. For the most part, this didn't sound to dangerous, so I kept listening. I was doing really well until the conversation turned to the dangers of men humping hard surfaces. Hard surfaces?? What, like the table or a door? No, no...the floor. WTF?? Guys hump the floor?! Apparently, they do and if they do it too hard (!!), they risk the chance of a penile fracture.
.....
You heard it right folks, penile fracture. I almost had to stop the car so that I could vomit. *shudders*
I decided the safest course of action would be to change podcasts. Yeah, I'm just that smart.
So, I switched to "Stuff From The Science Lab - Those crazy Kimodos". Cool, right? Not so much. Apparently, Kimodo Dragons vomit. All. The. Time. And not just your normal vomit, they vomit things like partially digested goats. Goats!
And, another switch. This time it was about sending Jay-Z and Beyonce on the Virgin Galactic to film a music video. At the cost of $200,000. It's a good thing people don't waste money on stupid shit. Let me tell you that as soon as I heard the words "vomit bag", I switched again.
Then, I noticed the title on the next podcast... How the digestive system works.
Seriously.
On the upside, I went to Save Mart after class to do some grocery shopping. As I was checking out, I handed the lady my S.H.A.R.E.S. card (super cool if you've never heard of it. You earn points every time you shop and then Save Mart sends a check to your school. Check it out.). As she proceeds to push the button telling the register that she is going to slide my card, she accidentally presses the senior discount button. Sweet! $10 off my grocery purchase! I am totally willing to be a senior, if it saves me money.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
And lice for all!
There is a school district in California who shall remain nameless...but I can tell you that there is an IUSD in its initials and it's in the armpit of the state and if you like tacos, you would love it there. But I'm not going to tell you its name, so don't ask.
Anyway, this district is experiencing an EPIC lice outbreak. And by epic, I mean 70+ cases in grades K-6. That's alot of creepy crawlies. After weeks of trying to get rid of the little buggers, the school is now receiving angry phone calls from parents who can't understand, "Why is my child being sent home from school over and over? There's only a few little bugs. And Eggs. But, why? I don't understand!".
Now, for those of you not intimately familiar with how lice and kids work, let me give you a little lesson.
A live lice decides to take up residence on a kid's head. Let's call him Justin (as in Beiber, who is in fact, a girl). Justin's hair looks like an awesome place to live and so the lice begins to lay eggs on the hair shafts. The eggs hatch and produce a multitude of fellow creepy crawlies that skitter around, making Justin itch and then lay more eggs.
(Are you scratching yet? Because I am.)
Justin decides to be a gentleman and share his manly comb with Kim (as in Kardashian, who is in fact, a gold digging tramp). Kim's little heart goes pitter patter and she practically swoons while she combs her tresses with Justin's comb. Oh, the ecstasy! Well, guess what? Kim has a new friend, and it's name is Lice. That's nice. So Kim's lice carry on the family name by laying more and more eggs which hatch more and more lice.
(I need a shower. With bleach.)
The lice now have control of the school, despite efforts by the staff and teachers to eliminate the spread of these little beasts. Why, you ask? Because the parents are lazy (I know I know, not all of them are lazy. But just enough of them are lazy that the efforts of the valiant are overshadowed by the non-effort of the few) and they don't want to comb through EVERY STRAND of hair on their kid's head. And who could blame them? It sucks, alot. But this is the only way to prevent world domination. You have to treat and comb, treat and comb. And repeat. Because if you don't, the eggs will keep hatching and the lice will keep laying. Remember science and biology? Hell, remember pregnancy? If you don't take measures to prevent it, reproduction will happen.
On a side note...spay and neuter your pets. And strange relatives.
(My head itches. Alot.)
Now that you are up to date on how lice work, let's rejoin our intrepid school district. Where was I...
Right, parents are calling and complaining. So, rather than holding the line and saying to these parents, "Sorry, your little Lice Factory has to be Nit Free and certainly Live Lice Free before they can return to school", the district is considering changing their policy from "No Nits" to allowing children with nits to stay at school and children with LIVE, CRAWLING lice to remain at school until the end of the school day.
Well, that sounds like a stellar idea. Because the lice will totally respect the sanctity of the classroom and refrain from infecting other kids because we all know that lice appreciate and endorse education and the learning environment.
Right?
Are you vomiting yet?
So kiddies, let this be a lesson to you. If you see LIVE CRAWLING lice during the school hours, don't even worry about it, because I'm sure your school district has thought it through.
I need to go and shave my head.
Anyway, this district is experiencing an EPIC lice outbreak. And by epic, I mean 70+ cases in grades K-6. That's alot of creepy crawlies. After weeks of trying to get rid of the little buggers, the school is now receiving angry phone calls from parents who can't understand, "Why is my child being sent home from school over and over? There's only a few little bugs. And Eggs. But, why? I don't understand!".
Now, for those of you not intimately familiar with how lice and kids work, let me give you a little lesson.
A live lice decides to take up residence on a kid's head. Let's call him Justin (as in Beiber, who is in fact, a girl). Justin's hair looks like an awesome place to live and so the lice begins to lay eggs on the hair shafts. The eggs hatch and produce a multitude of fellow creepy crawlies that skitter around, making Justin itch and then lay more eggs.
(Are you scratching yet? Because I am.)
Justin decides to be a gentleman and share his manly comb with Kim (as in Kardashian, who is in fact, a gold digging tramp). Kim's little heart goes pitter patter and she practically swoons while she combs her tresses with Justin's comb. Oh, the ecstasy! Well, guess what? Kim has a new friend, and it's name is Lice. That's nice. So Kim's lice carry on the family name by laying more and more eggs which hatch more and more lice.
(I need a shower. With bleach.)
The lice now have control of the school, despite efforts by the staff and teachers to eliminate the spread of these little beasts. Why, you ask? Because the parents are lazy (I know I know, not all of them are lazy. But just enough of them are lazy that the efforts of the valiant are overshadowed by the non-effort of the few) and they don't want to comb through EVERY STRAND of hair on their kid's head. And who could blame them? It sucks, alot. But this is the only way to prevent world domination. You have to treat and comb, treat and comb. And repeat. Because if you don't, the eggs will keep hatching and the lice will keep laying. Remember science and biology? Hell, remember pregnancy? If you don't take measures to prevent it, reproduction will happen.
On a side note...spay and neuter your pets. And strange relatives.
(My head itches. Alot.)
Now that you are up to date on how lice work, let's rejoin our intrepid school district. Where was I...
Right, parents are calling and complaining. So, rather than holding the line and saying to these parents, "Sorry, your little Lice Factory has to be Nit Free and certainly Live Lice Free before they can return to school", the district is considering changing their policy from "No Nits" to allowing children with nits to stay at school and children with LIVE, CRAWLING lice to remain at school until the end of the school day.
Well, that sounds like a stellar idea. Because the lice will totally respect the sanctity of the classroom and refrain from infecting other kids because we all know that lice appreciate and endorse education and the learning environment.
Right?
Are you vomiting yet?
So kiddies, let this be a lesson to you. If you see LIVE CRAWLING lice during the school hours, don't even worry about it, because I'm sure your school district has thought it through.
I need to go and shave my head.
Monday, January 30, 2012
It's elementary, my dear Watson
If our teens are tomorrow's adults, we are in for a shitstorm. I was driving home from dropping the kids off at school and two cars in front of me was a truck pulling a horse trailer. As we approached an intersection, a high school boy and his little brother stepped into the street. To his credit, they were in a crosswalk but to his discredit, he stepped out from behind a car parked on the street. AND he didn't bother to wait to make sure the driver of the truck had seen him. The guy in the truck wasn't going fast, but he didn't have time to stop due to his HORSE TRAILER and had to swerve completely off the road to avoid hitting this idiot. Rather than being chagrined or scared that he had almost caused an accident that would have surely injured or even killed him (or his brother), this Douche Bag turned and started yelling at the guy in the truck.
What a fucktard.
This is one my of pet peeves. If you are going to cross the road, LOOK to make sure there are no cars approaching! It's not fucking rocket science! Have we learned nothing from the chicken who crossed the road??
My kids could cross better at 5 years old than this dumbass.
Heaven help us...
What a fucktard.
This is one my of pet peeves. If you are going to cross the road, LOOK to make sure there are no cars approaching! It's not fucking rocket science! Have we learned nothing from the chicken who crossed the road??
My kids could cross better at 5 years old than this dumbass.
Heaven help us...
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