So today is Halloween and I texted some friends about my costume:
Unrelated-- this email that I received this morning from Amazon was odd and amusing:
As I've recently learned, today is not only Halloween, it is also Funny Blog Friday. Today is supposed to be a day for writers of humor blogs to get the word out about other funny blogs. I was thrilled to have a guest post today on the blog, whitegirlsbelike.wordpress.com There are several funny posts on there besides mine; check it out if you want to laugh. Or don't click on it if you want to be a unfunny, boring person. Your choice. By the way, the writer of the blog, Alanna, is a new friend I met through Twitter. I knew she was a kindred spirit when she described her ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend as "the poop version of me". I'm going to steal that phrase and make it my own. So today is Halloween and I texted some friends about my costume: I didn't wear a costume but I did wear this fashionable chapeu to show my Halloween spirit: There's a sparkly spider on the front, in case it's hard to tell. Also, the hat pushed on my hair and gave me 70's Farrah Fawcett hair wings. My hair doesn't really look like that. It actually looks worse in the summertime when the humidity is high. I describe it as "meth hair", as it looks like I spent the entire day making meth. I'm assuming meth workers have unattractive hair. I could be wrong since I don't actually know anyone who uses or manufactures meth. This paragraph has taken a strange turn... Anyway, my son asked me last night, "What did I go as on my first Halloween?" I told him, "A crying bee." See photo below: He didn't cry the whole time. Just whenever I tried to take a photo. Unrelated-- this email that I received this morning from Amazon was odd and amusing: So they wanted to me to review Kotex pads. Uh, no. I would only post a review unless it was a joke review. Like, "We have a toilet that has a leak between the water line and the toilet bowl. Once a day I wrap a fresh pad around the line and it keeps my floor dry AND saves on an expensive plumber's visit. On the downside, when we have guests we do sometimes get odd comments because it looks like a giant marshmallow is stuck to the toilet, but other than that it works great! Thanks Kotex!" Lastly, I wanted to share this humorous exchange on Twitter. I keep meeting all sorts of funny and interesting new people thanks to the Bloggess, Jenny Lawson. I got another retweet from her yesterday which generated a lot of comments. Jenny tweeted that yesterday was a new holiday and we could go home and eat anything in our refrigerators: I don't know what was funnier-- the fact that someone had a pet mole or the fact that they kept a barrel of dirt for it to live in. By the way, Felicia was a complete stranger to me. After we tweeted back and forth, we're now following each other. Before the advent of Twitter, than last sentence would have sounded insane. Thanks to Twitter I'm making new friends with people who share my same sense of humor. Hooray for technology for keeping me from becoming a friendless, recluse shut-in!
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Would you like a peek into my world? Below are texts (with names whited-out) that I sent to friends and family over a one hour and twenty minute time span last night. This is what it's like to live with a six-year old. Perhaps you have small children yourself and can sympathize. Or perhaps your children are grown but you can still remember days like these (with a slight shudder). People without kids-- consider this fair warning: Regarding the gummy bear, I eventually found out what happened. Apparently if the kids are good in music class, at the end of the lesson each child gets ONE gummy bear (who-hoo!). The crying boy didn't behave appropriately and therefore didn't receive a gummy bear. My son said that when the regular teacher arrived to take the kids back to their classroom she said to the crying kid, "This had better not be about gummy bears." She talked to the boy for a second and then said, "Yep, it's about gummy bears". Let's take a moment and feel appreciation for all the teachers out there. The ONE small, irrational person living in my house just about pushes me over the edge some days. Having to deal with 26 of them every day would probably cause me to be institutionalized. Anyway, what's funny is that I actually could have sent more texts last night but I was afraid of becoming a nuisance. Other questions that I had to answer during the evening: Son: "Would you rather get shot in the leg or tortured?" Me: "Shot in the leg. Duh." Son: "How long could you survive if it was 400 degrees?" Me: "I don't know and I'm too tired to look it up on Google." Son: "What number comes after a trillion?" Me: "A trillion and one." Son: "No, what big number." Me: "A gazillion." Son: "That's not even a number!" Dammit. He's gotten too smart for me. I would probably be a great candidate for Google glasses since I need to answer a freakin' question for my kid every other minute. I didn't realize how stupid I was until my son became verbal and conversational. I've mentioned before that my version of hell would be endlessly setting one-inch mosaic tiles for all eternity. An even worse punishment would be to have a small child asking nonsensical questions non-stop while you placed those tiles. Also, while they tried to "help" you. Ugh. Just thinking about that makes me feel uncomfortable. Unrelated-- I saw this car as I left my work parking lot yesterday: Have I mentioned that I loathe evil clowns? I don't even like regular clowns. Note to self-- I must avoid this car until Halloween is over. Lastly, I still haven't gone to the bank so I only have $12 cash on me. I will give you the $12 if you can tell me what this is: This nubbly green object was by my car when I ran an errand at lunch. So far I have three ideas of what it may be:
I've been holding onto the text below since last week. I've been trying to think of a way to creatively insert it into a post. I've finally decided that there's no way to do so. Just read and you'll see why: You see-- there is absolutely no topic that can transition into groundhog sex. The coupling happened at one of the busiest intersections in town. I was waiting at a red light so I was an unwitting voyeur to the rodent lovin'. (Just had to google, "Are groundhogs rodents?";Yes-- yes they are). The groundhogs were so into the moment. You could just hear the "bow-chicka-bow-bow" 70's porno music in the background. This happened probably 10 years ago, so I didn't have an iPhone to record the event although you can bet I would have. But then that would have made me some kind of weird animal pornographer, so maybe it's for the best that I didn't have access to that kind of technology. Today I had my annual physical. The regular kind-- not the lady parts kind. I sent this text: My doctor's office apparently moved six months ago: I didn't know. Thankfully the practice stayed in the same building. The receptionist I talked to looked like she'd reached the point where after six months she was sick of giving directions to lost patients; she had her own GD patients to deal with. Unrelated-- I recently saw this for sale at the grocery store: I had never seen this product before. I had the thought-- if you drink AND spill so much red wine on yourself that you actually need this product, perhaps wine stains aren't your biggest problem. Perhaps a little moderation might be in order. Just a thought... Lastly, I just checked my wallet. I have $12 cash on me. I have the Russian song "Ochi Chernye" ("Dark Eyes") stuck in my head. If someone can make that song quit playing in my brain, I will give you the $12 and my undying gratitude. Don't get me wrong. The song is a classic and I like it. After hearing it 472 times in my head in the past two hours, I'll do anything to make it stop. Perhaps wine would help (white, not red). Anyway, scroll to the 3:16 mark to hear "Dark Eyes". Or don't. My last post (on Saturday) was about being blocked on Twitter by the actor Brendan Coyle. When I checked my email on Sunday morning I saw this message from Twitter: Ha, ha, very funny Twitter. Then I got this email today: I'm starting to feel bullied. I dread opening my email tomorrow. It will probably include full-color photographs of Brendan Coyle. Enough already Twitter. It was all a misunderstanding. I'm a good person. Sometimes people don't get my humor. Geez. On a funnier note, my son and I saw this at the Disney Store over the weekend: I've got to tell you that I'm concerned about Chewbacca. He looks like he may have a had a stroke. He's got that pulled look to his face. Either that or this is one of those examples of "Plastic Surgery Gone Wrong!". Just to remind you, this was at the DISNEY Store, not the Dollar Store. Disney-- you've taken on a lot by buying the Star Wars franchise. You need to get your shit together. You can do better. Unrelated-- I've never mentioned this before, but one of my idols is "The Bloggess", Jenny Lawson. I ADORE her. She makes me laugh and I love her. Not in a creepy way. OK, possibly borderline-creepy way. It's all because she reminds me of me. Or I remind myself of her? I think you know what I mean. Not that I have 1/1000th of the talent she has. Anyway, I follow her on Twitter (along with nearly 400,000 other people). I also faithfully read her blog. I try to respond to her posts and tweets with my own funny remarks. She has responded a few times, which made me say "Squeeeee!" on the inside, as any fan girl would. In the last 24 hours I've hit the trifecta. She responded to me once, favorited one of my tweets and today for the first time ever, RETWEETED one of my tweets. Here's the proof: This is the conversation we had yesterday. It's not super funny, but it explains the next example: She wanted to use a hair dryer to dry her shoe but didn't have one in her room: This was a conversation from a few weeks ago. Her response made me laugh: Her book, Let's Pretend This Never Happened, came out in 2012. It made me laugh hysterically. One time I remember laughing so hard that I couldn't breathe and I had to roll onto my back (I was in bed) and gasp for air. My poor son was four at the time and he became very concerned about me. He kept asking, "What's wrong? Are you OK?" All I could do was shake violently and silently. I think he was seconds away from dialing 911. Or at least attempting to. It's something we've practiced but you never know if your kid will actually remember what to do in a emergency. Anyway, this is my sincere recommendation to read this book if you haven't already. Fair warning- empty your bladder before doing so. Or wear a Depends. Whatever works best for you.
Four days ago I wrote about my unusual experience on Twitter with Mr. Brendon Coyle, who plays Mr. Bates on "Downton Abbey" (scroll to 10/21/14 to see original post; copy below). This morning I happened to notice I was no longer following him. I figured I must have accidentally unfollowed him. It's easy to do if you accidentally touch the little follow/unfollow button when scrolling on your phone. Anyway, when I tried to follow Mr. Coyle I got this message: Here it is larger: I couldn't believe it. What did I do that was so terrible? I just asked him, "Do you always refer to yourself in third person?" after he had referred to himself in the third person. I even put a smiley at the end to show that it was meant humorously. I've seen people say the most horrible and vile things to celebrities (and each other) on Twitter; I ask one silly question and am blocked. It's so odd. I even donated to the charity, as he had asked. You may be thinking, "Well maybe she continued to harass him or annoy him in some way." No, I didn't, honest! I sent him the link to my blog post with the hopes he might read it and see that it was all a misunderstanding. I've had no other contact since then and obviously won't have any more in the future, since I'm now blocked. At least he didn't tell me to go f*ck myself, as he did to one fan. A reader of this blog alerted me to that particular story. Google the keywords "Roberta Brendan Coyle" too see what happened. Anyway, I don't know how I manage to get myself into such unusual situations. I seem to have a rare talent for it. Oh well. I won't lose any sleep over this. If nothing else, I have an awesome story to share at cocktail parties in the future. Not that I go to a lot of cocktail parties... you know what I mean though. ********************************************************************************************************************************************** Mr. Bates from "Downton Abbey" called me an idiot on Twitter (and yet I still adore him) My husband and I have been fans of the series "Downton Abbey" since season one. I've always especially liked the character of Mr. Bates, played by actor Brendan Coyle. He make me have impure thoughts. This is why: At least once per episode, I usually tell my husband, "I think he's attractive". I do this to annoy my husband and also because it's the truth. Brendan Coyle is the first person I followed on Twitter when I created my account. Yesterday I happened to be on Twitter when Mr. Coyle posted a tweet that referred to himself in the third person. I immediately thought of those old Saturday Night Live skits where they made fun of Bob Dole; "Bob Dole likes pizza". I thought I would reply with a funny comment. Things didn't turn out as I expected: The horror! I swear this is the truth, but I had to google the word "eejit" to make sure it meant idiot. I was hopeful there might be a kinder, gentler slang meaning that I wasn't aware of. Nope. The explanation I found was: "Irish and Scottish form of idiot". Wonderful. Not only have I offended my TV boyfriend, he thinks I'm a dick. I quickly replied back: So hopefully I smoothed things over with Mr. Coyle and he won't block me from following him. I made good on my promise and donated to the Hospice fundraiser that he mentions. But then I got this email alert: Awesome. My credit card is probably frozen now. You know that saying, "No good deed goes unpunished?" This may be an example. I don't mind though. I know that any Hospice organization anywhere in the world is a worthy charity, so if I have to suffer a minor inconvenience to help dying people live comfortably in their final days, I'm OK with that.
Google Analytics is connected to this webpage. I barely know how to read the wealth of information which is provided; I'm not good with math and statistics. I'm more of a languages and literatures kind of gal. Anyway, with Google Analytics you can see the search queries that are linked to your website. Here are mine as of this morning (warning-- R rated material ahead): I immediately sent an email to friends and family with this chart attached. I wrote: "...Half of these phrases don't even show up in my blog. It’s so bizarre. I may have to put this on my blog at some point. It’s kind of embarrassing though. There are only a couple of non-offensive terms. Will have to think about it…" My friend David replied: "What the Hell is a "Walmart fart piano"?!?!?! I am curious but terrified to look this up. Talk about ending up on a list....." My response: "Uh, that one actually is mine. We found the fart piano in the toy section of Walmart. It's one of my earliest posts." "LOL! I'm dying!" David's response was the tipping point that helped me to decide to post this. I wanted to add my own commentary though: Of course, by repeating these words in this post, I'm guaranteed to get more hits based on those same words-- AGAIN. It will become a vicious cycle. The word "MILF" was in the top spot a few weeks ago. I'll have to check these queries periodically because it's kind of entertaining (though horrifying). I thought about naming this post, "Big Dicks Road Trip" but I didn't want to turn readers away based on the title alone. Actually, could the word Dick be a man's name? Maybe a man named Richard, who is of large stature, took a road trip? I guess it doesn't matter, because this phrase is in NO WAY CONNECTED to my blog AT ALL. But since I just typed "Big Dicks Road Trip", I guess it actually is. I'll stop now. This cyclical reasoning is making my brain hurt.
In the middle of the night last night my feet got tangled in one of my son's t-shirts. I'm always finding his crap in our bed. We have a king-size bed and he likes to pull back the covers and use the large expanse of the mattress as a play area. When he was smaller, every night I'd have to remember to make a sweep for toys or else items would get kicked and they would fall to the floor with a loud thump (joy). One night I slept with something hard in the small of my back all night. I assumed it was a toy car. It the morning I found that I'd slept with a rubber doorstop all night. Awesome. Until I threw it away, my son had a car that made real race car noises. Really LOUD race car noises. One time he threw this particular car into a bathtub full of water; I guess he wanted to play with it while he bathed. The water ruined the noise mechanism so the car would just randomly making the sound of a car shifting gear "Vrrrrooooom-vrrooomm-- vroom" (that's the best I can do for a car impression). It would usually make this noise in the middle of the night for no reason. One time that stupid car was in bed with us and I was too tired to get up and put it in a different room. I just shoved it into the drawer of my bedside table where the sound was somewhat muffled. The things you learn to live with as a parent in order to sleep... Anyway, these memories led to this text conversation with a friend: This is the photo I was referring to: These are fake handcuffs that my son picked out when we were at Walt Disney World last year. I find them all over the place, like the laundry basket, the bathroom, but mostly our bed. I've developed an irrational fear that at some point someone will see these handcuffs in our bed and get the wrong idea about why they are there. These are adult-sized by the way. It's a toy all right, just not that kind of toy. Unrelated-- for some reason I thought about this photo as I drove into work today. Since "Throwback Thursday" has become a thing, I figured today would be a good day to share. It shows my husband and his twin in the Soviet Army; the photo was taken in the early 80's. What's funny is that I'm not completely sure which man is my husband. I mean, I know it's one of the two guys in the back row. If I had to guess, I'd say my husband is the guy second from the left. When I first started dating my husband and we were having to make international trips in order to see each other, a friend asked, "How do you know it's really him and not his brother?" Gah! I was like, "You know I have paranoid tendencies. Why would you even put that thought in my brain?" It would make an awesome plot for a spy novel though, wouldn't it? My husband is eleven years older than me. When he was operating a Scud missle launcher in the Soviet Union, I was back in the U.S. playing with my Barbies. It's weird to think about it sometimes. My son had better be grateful that the Cold War ended or else he wouldn't be alive right now. And then I wouldn't have funny stories about toys that look like S & M accessories in my bed...
When I was out shopping yesterday, I ran across these shoes: The height of the heel is what caught my attention; I would say that they are easily six inches high. I was reminded of an incident from at least 20 years ago. I was out with my friend David and we saw shoes similar to these. I asked him, "How is anyone even supposed to walk in shoes with heels that high?" He looked at me pityingly. The words he spoke have stayed with me to this day. He said, "Oh honey. Those shoes aren't meant to be walked in. Those are throw me down and f*ck me shoes." Ohhhhhhhh. That makes sense. It's such a great description-- "throw me down and f*ck me shoes." I thought the world (OK, the readers of this blog) should know. Feel free to tell others; it's too good not to share. Unrelated-- on the sidebar I've added my Twitter address (@suzdal92). I joined Twitter in February 2011 and until last month I didn't tell anyone I was on there. I just used Twitter as a way to follow funny and interesting people. In fact, I was pretty ambivalent about the whole Twitter following system. Complete strangers would occasionally follow me and I was always like, "Uh, I don't know this person. I'm not going to follow them back." Eventually that person would unfollow me. It was OK, since I was just on Twitter for the pure entertainment value of reading other peoples' tweets. When I started this blog, the main piece of advice I kept reading was, "Link your posts to your Twitter account!" Ugh. Self-promotion. That's not something that comes easily to me. There's a reason I don't work in Marketing-- I don't have that kind of extroverted personality. Anyway, I've started interacting on Twitter with some nice people whom I've met through this blog. I actually enjoy it. Feel free to follow me on Twitter if you want and I'll follow you back. Typing that sentence just made me feel like a nerdy schoolkid: "If you like me I'll like you back!" Who am I kidding? I am a nerdy schoolkid-- housed in the body of an adult woman. Lastly, I received these photos from my Russian Mom today. I wasn't sure if I should post them here, since they aren't humorous, per se. I do think that they are lovely and share-worthy though. My Russian Mom took the pics outside of Moscow at a friend's dacha (summer house). There's something sad about these photos that I can't put my finger on. I think it's the stuffed animals; for some reason I feel sorry for them. OK, I hadn't noticed until just now that the stuffed alligator is wearing a Santa hat. That's funny and kind of odd. It's perfect for my website. Obviously I made the correct choice by posting these.
My husband and I have been fans of the series "Downton Abbey" since season one. I've always especially liked the character of Mr. Bates, played by actor Brendan Coyle. He make me have impure thoughts. This is why: At least once per episode, I usually tell my husband, "I think he's attractive". I do this to annoy my husband and also because it's the truth. Brendan Coyle is the first person I followed on Twitter when I created my account. Yesterday I happened to be on Twitter when Mr. Coyle posted a tweet that referred to himself in the third person. I immediately thought of those old Saturday Night Live skits where they made fun of Bob Dole; "Bob Dole likes pizza". I thought I would reply with a funny comment. Things didn't turn out as I expected: The horror! I swear this is the truth, but I had to google the word "eejit" to make sure it meant idiot. I was hopeful there might be a kinder, gentler slang meaning that I wasn't aware of. Nope. The explanation I found was: "Irish and Scottish form of idiot". Wonderful. Not only have I offended my TV boyfriend, he thinks I'm a dick. I quickly replied back: So hopefully I smoothed things over with Mr. Coyle and he won't block me from following him. I made good on my promise and donated to the Hospice fundraiser that he mentions. But then I got this email alert: Awesome. My credit card is probably frozen now. You know that saying, "No good deed goes unpunished?" This may be an example. I don't mind though. I know that any Hospice organization anywhere in the world is a worthy charity, so if I have to suffer a minor inconvenience to help dying people live comfortably in their final days, I'm OK with that. UPDATE: There are two more updates to this story which you can read here:
http://www.endearinglywacko.com/blog/update-mr-bates-called-me-an-idiot-on-twitter-and-blocked-me and here: http://www.endearinglywacko.com/blog/we-may-be-starting-an-anti-fan-club I had this text conversation with a friend yesterday: If I'm honest, I'm sure I was blacklisted by the "Mother of the Year" organization long ago. I guess I'll never get to use the acceptance speech I've so carefully prepared. It was peppered with obscenities, so they would have probably jerked the award out of my hands and booted me off the stage. I'm realistic about the way the world works. I can image the clip on CNN on a continual loop. It would show me in a fancy, sparkly dress holding on to my award while the presenters tried to wrest it from me; the audience would watch in horror. I can actually imagine this in great detail. What's that saying-- if you can imagine something, you can make it happen? I probably need to imagine better, more positive things. I sent this text as soon as I got up yesterday morning: Thanks so much brain. No, no-- I didn't want to enjoy a night of guilt-free hot sex with an anonymous, handsome stranger. The whole laundry-themed dream was a MUCH better choice. I sent this last text last night and I almost feel guilty posting it, since it's such a stereotypical example of "First World Problems": There are children starving all over the world, Ebola is a thing and there's seemingly a never-ending crisis in the Mid East. These are all important problems, but look at MY problems-- I've run out of wine! My day is ruined! It's funny in retrospect. I felt real irritation at the time that I wrote the text though.
Lastly, when my son got off the bus this afternoon he told me, "At recess my friend Adam said 'motherf*ckin' three times. What does that mean? I haven't really heard that word before." I didn't tell him what it meant; I just told him it was one of the worst bad words and I had better never hear him say it ("Do as I say, not as I do"). Suddenly I feel better about my parenting skills. Looks like Adam's mother won't be getting the Mother of Year award either. I asked my son if a teacher had heard the bad word and he said no. I can only imagine what would have happened. Last week a girl in his class dropped part of her lunch and said, "Dammit". The teacher immediately gave the girl the worst "color change" and said if anyone said that word again that student would be sent to the principal. I'm guessing saying motherf*cker would get you expelled completely. If I saw a first-grader drop part of her lunch and say "Dammit" I would probably laugh and sympathize with the kid. "That's a bitch all right". Let's all stop and say a quick prayer of thanks that I don't work with children. My Twitter account is linked to this webpage. After my post yesterday about Star Wars candy corn I was surprised to get a new follower almost immediately. It was Darth Vader. By this morning I had three more followers: After getting the first notification, I sent texts to a bunch of friends and family. I mean, how could you not? Below is a conversation I had with a friend who is a photographer and equine enthusiast: I suddenly had an image of Darth Vader going into his bedroom, the room NO ONE else is allowed into, and seeing the walls covered in horse posters. He may be part man, part machine but he has the sensitive soul of a twelve-year old girl. Suddenly changes your perception of him, doesn't it? I noticed that the Darths on Twitter are pretty funny. Here are some tweets just from today that I liked: Darth cares about correct grammar. So do I. He has a tragic back story, which is always appealing. I may be falling in love. I'm tempted to send flirty messages. (OK, this is where I was going to insert an example, like, "How big is your lightsaber anyway?" but I thought it wouldn't be ladylike). I'm going to use hashtag #DarthVader when I post this on Twitter, so we'll see if I get any more attention from the man in black (not Johnny Cash-- he's dead; no, I'm referring to feedback from a fictional character, which makes MUCH more sense.).
Last weekend my son told me, "Did you know they make Star Wars candy corn?" No, I didn't know that. I wasn't surprised though, since the popularity of Star Wars hasn't waned since I was a child. He asked me if I would buy some and I said sure. I imagined little white, orange and yellow striped Yodas. How cute I thought. Later I searched online for "Star Wars candy corn" so I could see what the package looked like. I got zero hits. Hmmmmmm. I checked with my son and asked him, "Where did you hear about Star Wars candy corn?" He looked at me like I was insane and said, "STARBURST candy corn." Well shit. I'm glad I double-checked; otherwise I could imagine myself harassing a store manager to special order it for me. Later in the week while at the grocery store I searched for the Starburst candy corn and couldn't find any of that either. That's when I realized that I had devoted way too much of my time searching for a candy that is basically just sugar and wax. I realized that I should be the adult and make better food choices. However, if I'm honest, I really wanted to try Star Wars candy corn.My friend Marge said that she would buy Star Wars candy corn. Apparently there is a ready market just waiting to be tapped. Who knew? Somebody get me George Lucases' email. Completely unrelated--I thought this was funny. I got the following text message from a family member: I was going to add, "Let's not judge her because we've all been there". And then I was like, "Nope, for once, this is one crazy thing that I in fact have NOT done for my son." But still-- no judgement. Just appreciate the mental image of an attorney holding her three year old's wiener while he holds her iPhone and pees. Priceless.
I remembered this story because today I had to take my son to the pediatrician's office to get his annual flu shot. Every time I go in there I dread I'll run into one of the doctors, Dr. Rick (name changed to protect his privacy). Have you ever met someone who the gods have seemingly smiled upon? That would be Dr. Rick. He's a pediatrician in his father's practice. He's unbelievably kind, patient and funny. He's got a wife and four kids. And he's movie-star handsome. His life looks utterly perfect from the outside. I can only hope he has raging hemorrhoids or some other imperfection to make life more fair. Actually, since he's a doctor I'm sure he'd know how to treat himself, so hemorrhoids wouldn't really be that big of a deal. Let's forget about the hemorrhoids. It's not important to our story. Plus I'm tired of typing the word "hemorrhoids".
I first met Dr. Rick when my son was born; he was the first pediatrician to exam him. I remember being woken up by a handsome stranger who walked into my hospital room. It was wintertime and Dr. Rick was wearing a leather jacket that was dusted with melting snow (I just realized my story is starting to sound like erotic fiction). He told me that my newborn was "absolutely perfect", which made me like him a thousand times more. He stayed and answered the gazillion questions that I had. I became self conscious and wondered how horrible I must look after a sleepless night of repeated feedings on top of the repeated vomiting I had experienced the day before (supposedly from the anesthesia used during the c-section). Side note-- after I gave birth a nurse came to my room to introduce herself and before I could even say a word I had to grab the barf bucket and vomit right in front of her. They say you only get one chance to make a good impression. After I was finished I remembered telling her, "Nice to meet you." I even told her, "That's a horrible way to make someone's acquaintance". So yeah, that's a fond memory. Anyway, after your kid is born, it seems like you spend every other week in the pediatrician's office for check-ups and immunizations. The practice we go to has great doctors and we see all of them, but when given a choice I used to ask for Dr. Rick. That changed after "The Incident". If you read the title of this post you know what's going to happen. My son was probably about 9 or 10 months old and he was wearing a one-piece romper. Dr. Rick was holding my son and needed the romper removed. He asked me if I could undo the snaps in the crotch area (of my son's outfit; not his own crotch area. I thought I should clarify that). We were standing side-by-side as I did this and as I pulled on the snaps, my hand flew out with great force and landed on the doctor's privates. It wasn't a graze-- oh no, it was full-on hand-to-genital contact. I was like, "Oh, he's circumcised." OK, that part is an exaggeration. If my hand had lingered a bit longer I might have been able to tell. I cannot begin to convey the absolute mortification that I felt. I couldn't look the doctor in the eye for the rest of the visit. After that, I began to request doctors other than Dr. Rick because I always felt awkward. If this had happened with one of the older (read: less attractive) doctors, I don't think I would have been so embarrassed. Thankfully we didn't see him at all today. But this happened, which was still kind of embarrassing. The waiting room this afternoon was literally standing room only. Apparently every parent in the metro area decided, like me, that today would be a good day for their kid to get a flu shot. We literally had to wait one hour. OK, it was acutally 55 minutes, but it FELT like an hour. I was wearing sandals and I took one off so I could tuck my leg underneath me. I didn't notice that my son, to be funny, had moved my sandal to underneath the chair next to me (yet another example of kids being dicks). So when our names were FINALLY called I stood up in a crowded room (where people were already waiting to grab out seats) and had to say, "Where's my shoe? Have you seen my shoe?". Now I'm sure the phrase "Where's your shoe?" gets uttered at least ten times a day in that office. But I'm guessing it's usually frustrated parents talking to their toddlers. In my case was an adult woman asking a six-year old to help her find her shoe. So that was an awesome feeling. However, in comparison to my inappropriate groping, standing with one bare foot in a room full of strangers is no big deal. Here's a random memory I thought I would share. In the summer of 1992 I was student in Russia at Moscow State University. At some point that summer I hurt my ankle. I didn't twist it or fall or anything like that. It wasn't swollen. I just remember that it hurt to walk and since I had to walk a lot in this major metropolitan city, it started to be a real problem. After several days passed and I wasn't seeing any improvement, I decided I needed to see a doctor. I was supposed to be allowed to visit any of the doctors who worked for MSU. My girlfriend Natasha took me to the main campus where somewhere in this giant building the medical complex was located: I remember we walked and walked down lots of hallways and every medical office was closed. Maybe because it was summertime? I really don't know. The only working doctor that we found was a Urologist. The Urologist's waiting room was full of men and I didn't want to go in there but Natasha made me. I had to give the receptionist my name; the first two letters of my last name don't exist in Russian. Instead in Russian you put two vowels together to approximate the sound. In Russian those two letters would never be together. The poor receptionist kept making me repeat my name; she just couldn't get it. She finally got so frustrated she threw down her pencil and said never mind. It would be like someone spelling their name in English with nothing but consonants. "Z-P-K...." We would be the same way,"Those letters don't go together; you can't even pronounce that." I don't know if it was because I was a woman or a foreigner, but I was immediately the next patient called back. The male doctor told me to remove my pants. I was wearing capris so my ankle was easily accessible. There was no reason to remove my pants and I didn't want to. The doctor insisted I had to. I swear I would not have been surprised if he had told me that all patients were required to have a prostate exam, male or female. "Thees iz old rule from Soviet Union. Prostate eekzam is mandatory for all patients" (I'm trying to imitate a Russian accent; this is the best I can do). Another reason I didn't want to remove my pants is that the exam table wasn't covered in that sanitary white butcher paper that most doctors' offices have in the U.S. I remember it just being like a bench. I sure as hell didn't want to sit where God knows how many bare, hairy Russian asses had sat. Probably dozens just that day. The doctor was insistent; in the end I removed my pants. And then I kid you not (I originally typed,"shit you not", but I decided to keep it classy), he barely felt my ankle and said I had probably pulled a muscle or something and I just needed time to heal. There was no x-ray, no ankle wrap, no prescription pain killers-- nothing. It had been a colossal waste of time. The only thing I got out of that experience was yet another weird Russian memory to add to my collection. Unrelated-- I stopped by the grocery store on the way home. There is a liquor store next door, so I went in there first (priorities). The last time I was at this place, the Korbel was priced wrong. So today this is what I see: If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone at this store has a personal grudge against the Korbel champagne company. I told an employee, "Every time I'm in here the Korbel is priced wrong." He told me it wasn't his fault. I was like, "Not blaming you dude. Just stating a fact". Seriously Lucky's Market-- get your shit together.
My best friend at work is a woman named Marge (not her real name, but my nickname for her). We work on different floors and in different departments and hardly ever get to go to meetings together. But that's all changed. We'll be attending bi-weekly meetings together for a few months I am so excited that I'll have someone fun to sit with. We'll have to be sure to behave and not get separated. I should probably mention here that we are college educated, adult women in our forties. During the meeting today I made her laugh when I passed her this note: Later in the day I decided I wanted to include this incident in today's post so I had to ask her, "Do you still have my note so I can take a photo of it?" She did! She said she's going to keep it forever. I told her I wanted to see this note pinned to her casket lid someday, next to the little pillow that says, "Mother". I told her she'd better not opt for a closed-casket ceremony. At lunch I went to the grocery and this happened: I was sending these text to several people, just to see what kind of answers I would get. Marge sent me this: Later I talked to Marge and she said she thinks she knows the guy I'm talking about. She said one time he told her out of the blue, "I could be a personal chef if I wanted." We wonder if maybe the Kroger employees are playing some kind of game. Like in a week's time they have to say something from a list of 10 weird sentences and whoever finishes first wins. We know four of the sentences this week:
As I think about it, this could be a fun game to play at any workplace. The possibilities are endless. I'll have to start thinking about ten sentences for next week's game. Maybe I'll post them here so everyone can play, no matter where you work. I'm open to suggestions. Lastly, I had this text conversation with a friend today: I'm bad about typing quickly, just to get the words down as fast as I can while I try to keep up with my brain. This leads to a lot of typos. This morning I replied to an outside vendor, "Thanks for your help?" with a question mark at the end, which immediately sounds sarcastic or bitchy. It also made me think of this: "I'm Ron Burgundy?" Here's the clip in case you don't know what I'm talking about: A couple of weeks ago I sent a work email to a guy who is a complete stranger. Thankfully I caught my error right before I sent my reply. What I wanted to say was, “Thanks for the quick reply”. What I actually wrote was “Thanks for the quicky”. Awesome. Apparently I am a slut. But a polite slut since I thanked him for his services.
Last year around Christmas I got an email from the store "World Market"; they had Christmas foods on sale (like fruitcake) with free shipping. I forwarded the email to a female co-worker since she is the only person I know who actually likes fruitcake. Unfortunately, I wrote these words, "I saw these fruitcakes and thought of you!" Only later did I realize how awful that sounded. Honestly, I would be a little offended if someone said that same thing to me ("I saw a fruitcake and thought of you!"). Because of fruitcake meaning crazy. Of course, a real fruitcake is usually laced with alcohol, so that could have another bitchy connotation as well. Basically learn from my mistake-- don't compare people to fruitcakes. I had finished this post and then in a strange coincidence (synchronicity?) I got this email from a friend: "Have to tell you that my Yahoo mail is currently not letting me reply to any of your emails. It is bizarre, beginning a couple of days ago. I can reply to other people's, just not yours. When I hit reply, I don't see your email, nor get your header or return address, and then it hangs up the "compose" email function in general. Have tried different browsers. Will keep workin' on the mystery." Well great. Apparently not only should I not send emails, the universe doesn't want me to receive them either. This is kind of a blow to my self-esteem. I'm gonna love telling my boss, "I can no longer send emails because the universe has turned against me." I now have a vision of myself with parchment paper and an inkwell. On second thought-- me and liquid ink. That will not end well. Quite by accident yesterday I ran across this photo of my son taken a few years ago. In a previous post, I mentioned the fact that even though we all love children, sometimes kids are dicks. I think we can all agree that this photo qualifies as an example: When I look at that face I think: "shit eating grin". What you don't see is that toothpaste was also smeared on the sheets on our bed; it was on the bathroom cabinets too. It was a mess but it's not even the worst mess I've ever cleaned up. I'll spare you the details; here are the only keywords you need to know: sick kid--diarrhea--bed. I was tempted to throw those sheets away rather than wash them. On a more pleasant note, here's a sweet story from yesterday. I should probably first explain that my husband usually speaks Russian to me so I can be slow on the uptake when he speaks in English just because it's unexpected. Anyway, out of the blue my husband told me quite seriously, in English, "You are my loaf." Uh, what? He repeated himself. I asked, "Did you just say loaf? What does that mean?" He was like, "You know loaf-- LOAF!" I finally asked him, "What are you trying to say in Russian?" And just so you know, I'm not making fun of his English skills. I could write post after post about the ways I've embarrassed myself trying to speak Russian. Anyway, because he has a thick accent and maybe because he's a little congested right now (mild cold), I didn't understand that what he was actually trying to say was, "You are my love." Once I understood, it gave me a fit of the giggles, which in hindsight is a really shitty reaction to someone declaring their love for you. I told him I'm going to make that line my own. Later I even told my son the story. I told him "You are my loaf." It's kind of adorable. It makes me think of something warm and soft. Feel free to use it on your loved ones. Anyway, this also happened yesterday: This incident could probably also be filed under "kids being dicks". Except I remember doing the same thing as a kid (waiting outside a locked bedroom door), so I probably shouldn't be so judgmental.
I've developed a mild cold in the past few days and we ran out of tissue on the first floor. I got out a new box and immediately noticed this: OK, be honest, what is the first thing you think of when you see this? Boobs, right? No? Is it just me? I blame the twelve-year old boy who lives inside of me. You can't tell me that graphic designer of this tissue box didn't know what he was doing when he "artfully" placed these decorative umbrellas on the box. I sent in a box of tissue to school with my son at the beginning of the school year. I'm so glad I didn't send in this box. Though his teacher seems pretty nice and normal so she probably wouldn't have noticed. She would see umbrellas, the way you are supposed to.
Yesterday we went to a local Fall Festival. It was a nice day to be outside. We did the obligatory hay ride. We bought freshly made kettle corn. Then we played the Cake Wheel. My son had never seen one before so I had to explain it to him before we put down our money. I told him, "Basically it's gambling. You put your quarter on the number that you hope will win. If the wheel lands on your number, then you win a cake." It's roulette for the kiddie set. My son, husband and I each put down a quarter and the wheel landed on my number. Woo-hoo! I chose a fantastic strawberry-rhubarb pie. It's delicious, in case you're wondering. The gambling thing made me remember when I worked part-time as cashier at a Kroger grocery store when I was eighteen. Our state had just come out with it's first lottery and we cashiers were supposed to ask customers if they wanted to buy a lottery ticket. I hated doing it because I kept getting lectures about the evils of gambling. You would not believe the number of people who felt the need to preach to me. In my head all I could think was, "Quit yelling at me. They're making me ask this stupid question. I don't give a rat's ass if you agree or disagree with gambling. I'm just doing my job." I only worked at Kroger about a year and the greatest lesson I took away from that experience is that people are bitches and bastards. Seriously, when people asked me about working at Kroger I would say, "I've learned that people are bitches and bastards". I also learned that I am not cut out for working with the public. I have a great deal of respect for people who work in retail and customer service. They are truly unsung heroes. Speaking of heroes, I can't believe I didn't get recognized as one yesterday. There were a ton of people at the Fall Festival and of course the lines to the restroom were terrible. I got into one line that was about 12 women deep. An extremely pregnant woman got in line behind me. She was thin and tall and her stomach jutted out in front of her. Basically she looked like a gourd covered in a sweater. I told her, "You need to walk up to the front of the line so that someone will take pity on you and let you go next." See-- I remember what it was like to be pregnant. She declined to do so. I had to make a decision-- should I let her go in front of me? It would be the right thing to do. Except I desperately needed to pee. The whole time I waited in line an internal battle raged in my brain, "Should I let her go first-- yes or no?" I'm proud to say (*cough* brag) that I let her go before me when I was next in line. I turned around to look at the women behind me expecting applause or some other form of praise but I got nothing. Even the pregnant lady didn't seem appreciative of my sacrifice. Oh well. I did the right thing and now I've shared it on my blog so you can spend the rest of your day thinking about what a good person I am. My nomination for sainthood should be coming any day now... Yesterday I received notification that I was nominated for the "One Lovely Blog Award" (by funny blogger Jessie Reyna): I'm pretty sure that this is a legit award and that I'll need to go to Oslo (or some other fabulous international location) to pick up my prize. I just have to send a copy of my social security card, driver's license, and provide a current credit card number to an address in Nigeria and the award is mine. I joke, but this actually is an award that bloggers give to other bloggers so I'm touched that someone likes my little blog enough to nominate me. I suddenly feel like Sally Field, "They like me! They really like me!". Apparently there are some rules to accepting this award: 1. You must thank the blogger who has nominated you for the award. 2. You must list the rules. 3. You must add 7 facts about yourself. 4. You must nominate 15 other bloggers and comment on one of their posts to let them know they have been nominated. 5. You must display the award logo, and if you can, follow the blogger who nominated you. First off, thank you Jessie. OK number two-- l've listed the rules, so that's done. Next, here are seven facts about me:
I'm supposed to list 15 blogs for you to check out but I only have 10. I suck, I know it. In my defense, I follow a lot of funny people on Twitter and I like to check out a lot of funny websites like themetapicture.com and funsubstance.com. There is only so much time in the day.
In any case, here are some creative and funny bloggers who are worth a bit of your time: http://thebloggess.com/ http://www.jessiereyna.com/ http://www.oneclassymotha.com/ http://www.foxywinepocket.com/ http://www.stephaniesprenger.com/ http://accidentaleuphoria.com/ http://www.canigetanotherbottleofwhine.com/ http://likethevodka.com/ http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ http://desertnightcreations.blogspot.com/ All of the blogs I've listed with the exception of the last would be categorized as humor. The last one is the blog of a friend of mine. She makes incredible miniature works of art. I am in awe of her talent. She's actually really funny too but the theme of her blog is not humor. Still very cool though. This morning as I was leaving for work I noticed the house across the street and how nicely decorated it is for Halloween. Up until a few months ago this house was the eyesore of the neighborhood. It had fallen into foreclosure and desperately needed some TLC. I was glad when a nice gay couple bought the house. They completely renovated it and redid the landscaping. Now it's probably the nicest house on the block (bitches). When this couple moved in, I introduced myself to one of the guys, Rob. I didn't get to meet his partner. Sometime after that we had problems with our home internet service and I had to re-install our wi-fi. You know how you can see the names of your neighbor's wi-fi when all the available networks are listed? That's when I noticed that the guys across the street had wi-fi named "RobandBob". I realized that both guys must be named Robert. Then I thought how awkward it must be to call out your own name when you are being, uh, intimate with your partner. Honestly, that would be a deal-killer for me. Talk about taking you out of the moment. I would immediately be like, "Gah! I just said my own name. That's so weird. And un-sexy." Thankfully I don't have that problem. But on the topic of being taken out of the moment, things get interesting once you have a kid. Did I say interesting? Sad and pathetic and doing-whatever-it-takes is a better description. I think every parent quickly finds out that post-baby you will experience intimacy in the most unromantic ways and places. You will learn to grab the opportunity whenever you can, like when your son takes a nap in your bed. Which is how you find yourself in your kid's twin bed, doing it on barnyard animal sheets while Spiderman watches you. You may think I"m exaggerating but I'm not: This reminds me of one of my favorite Louis CK comedy bits. I've loaded the clip below. If you have six minutes to spare and you want to laugh until tears roll down your face, watch this. Not safe for work, BTW. Lastly for one unrelated thing-- yesterday in the breakroom at work I ran into my favorite petite co-worker. I've mentioned her in a previous post. She is adorable and tiny and I just want to scoop her up and carry her around in my pocket all day. I tell her this frequently. Yesterday I noticed that she and I have the exact same phone case. I told her, "Don't ever sit next to me at a meeting, OK? I don't want to accidentally end up with your phone. I don't really want to see your husband's dick pics." After I said that there was complete silence for like three seconds. I wondered-- did she not hear what I said? I think it took her brain longer than usual to process my words, since they were so unexpected. Thankfully she finally burst out laughing. However she told me, "That's it. I'm not going to let you carry me around in your pocket anymore." I ran after her saying, "I'm sorry! I take it back! Please reconsider!". I should probably mention that I've worked with this woman for 18 years so she knows me pretty well and seemingly still likes me. As you can tell, working with me is a great privilege conveyed to a few lucky souls. Try to contain your jealousy.
You may have noticed that I like to post funny texts. I'm blessed to have a group of funny friends and family who put up with me and my random thoughts and observations. I love to send out a text blast and then sit back and wait for the replies. The responses are usually funnier than whatever funny thing I was trying to share. Here's an example from soccer practice last night: This particular soccer Mom is actually very nice; not at all a bitch. I actually admire her commitment to her dinner. The soccer field is at the top of a hill. She had to take two kids in her car along with a loaded plate of food and she didn't spill anything. Just to transport it I'm guessing she would have to put her plate flat on the passenger seat or something. How did it not slide around? Like I said, good for her for wanting to watch her kid play soccer AND still enjoy a hot nutritious meal. While still at soccer practice this happened: On to a different topic. Today I have this bottle with me at work: It has iced tea in it. I sometimes make it at home (half sweet/half unsweet) and bring it to work to have something to drink besides just water all the time. It always seemed like a regular bottle to me until one time one of our male executives stopped by and asked in voice that may have been joking but contained a sincere undertone, "Is that beer?" I guess from a distance my bottle could be mistaken for an aluminum beer bottle. Great. I would have never even thought of that. Now I feel paranoid that other people might think I'm drinking on the job. I've thought maybe I should post a sign that says, "It's TEA, not beer.I don't even like beer. I'm a wine person. Besides I would never drink at work. Unless it was a company-sponsored event and alcohol was served." I probably shouldn't take that guy's comments to heart. He basically lost all credibility with me when one time he farted in front of me. He didn't even say "sorry"-- he just tried to act like it didn't happen. But it DID happen and I will never forget it. Now he can be talking about something important and I'll be nodding my head and making appropriate comments like, "Mmm-hmmm, yes, I see what you mean" but inside my head all I can think is, "I can't take you seriously ever since that time you farted in front of me." Suddenly my alcohol "problem" pales in comparison. I would rather be known as the company alcoholic than the company farter. I think. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's the lesser of two evils.
If you haven't read yesterday's post, you may want to do so now or else this post might not make much sense. You would wonder what would possess me to want to annoy a bunch of perfectly nice suburban soccer Moms. This morning I was talking to a friend at work about the whole over-the-top snack situation at the soccer games. He said I should put Kool-Aid in the snack bags that we'll be giving out this Saturday. It's so brilliant and so evil. I don't even buy Kool-Aid pouches for my own kid but I would make an exception this time ( just FYI, a six ounce drink pouch has 19 grams of sugar; first two ingredients are water and high fructose corn syrup). I was trying to think of what snack pairs best with Kool-Aid. Hostess Ho-Ho's maybe? Or maybe pre-packaged frosting? Like this kind: I would love to see the looks of absolute joy on the kids' faces when they pulled out their pouches of pure sugar. Because that's the kind of person I am. The kind that wants children to be happy. And apparently the kind that likes to push the buttons of complete strangers (the parents). There may be something wrong with me. Unrelated--I'm going to have to go to a custom framing shop soon so I can get a beautiful frame for this award I got at work: Apparently these were handed out on Monday and because I was gone I only received my award today. I'm assuming that everyone got funny awards. I don't work in the facilities management department, in case you're wondering. I'm actually really, really bad at fixing things. So maybe this is a bitchy, ironic kind of award? However, I do have pretty good problem solving skills. Really this award could go either way. I'll wake up at 3 a.m. tonight and wonder about it. Sincere compliment or snide observation? Hmmmmmmmmmm......
If I didn't know any better, I'd swear that my six-year old has decided to engage in some sort of psychological warfare against me. Lately he thinks it's funny to hide in odd places and then jump out and scare the bejeezus out of me. Last night after I took a shower, I literally jumped when I opened the bathroom door because he was standing there silently holding a toy knife. I almost soiled myself. This morning at 6:00 a.m. I thought I heard him come into our bedroom. Then there was nothing but silence. I opened my eyes and found myself looking directly into his eyes; his face was over my face. He said to me, "I'm scared" (he thought he heard a noise) and I was like, "Well that's two of us kid". So my son and I went to Target this afternoon and because I'm a clumsy person this happened: We were at Target because this weekend it's our turn to bring post-game snacks for the soccer team. Previously we had the same team for three seasons and everyone was pretty laid back about the snacks. These kids are from middle-class families and all are well nourished. Honestly no one really needs a snack after a one-hour game. This season we have a new team and there is quite a bit of one-upmanship going on. For one thing, everyone is bringing organic food products, which is great. But after the first game, the snacks got put into individual brown lunch bags; one for each kid. So that helps save time-- also great. This past weekend, my kid's brown bag contained FIVE snacks and a pouch of organic juice. I am not exaggerating. So this is what I got at Target. I paid more to get WHITE bags, instead of the standard brown: That's right-- I'll be putting Halloween stickers on the snack bags. Take that you soccer bitches! Actually they're all very nice ladies. I should probably tone it down a bit. Anyway, good luck to the Mom who has to do the snacks next week. Let's see her top this. Lastly, my little blog has been up a month now. On Google Analytics I can see a map that shows where different visitors have come from: I've had no visitors from the white states. If you know of anyone who lives in one of those five states, please ask them to stop by my website so I can fill in those missing puzzle pieces. You can tell them it's for my own psychological well being. I'm starting to get a complex about the people in those states. Why don't they like me? Tell them they don't have to stay. If they are offended by bad words they can just avert their eyes. In fact, unless they appreciate irreverent humor, they will definitely WANT to avert their eyes. Basically I just want my map filled in. Once the whole map is blue, then I'll start obsessing about the world map. But one thing at a time...
Today my son was out of school again (Fall Break) and he wanted to go to Chuck E. Cheeses. Which we did. A friend texted me that she was going to nominate me for "Mother of the Year" and I was totally on board with that idea. Especially since the first thing I noticed when we walked in the door was the smell of feet. That is the truth-- feet and pizza were the two pervasive co-mingling smells. The place was packed too since school was out. If it's a year before we go back there again I am fine with that. After we ate lunch (NOT at Chuck E. Cheese's) we stopped at a nearby Half-Priced Bookstore. My son and I both needed to pee; he still usually goes with me into the women's restroom although he's not thrilled about doing so. Anyway, just as we started to enter the one-stall restroom, another lady walked in right in front of us. Not rudely or anything-- she just beat us to the door by a second. We stood there a minute and then I realized we might be waiting awhile. I told my son we would use the men's restroom instead. He immediately went into full blown, "What if someone sees us?" mode, like we were going to get arrested or something. Anyway, I had to take the photo below because I have never before seen this same set-up in a women's restroom: Right next to the baby changing table was a deep laundry sink. For rinsing little tushies? This was not the main bathroom sink, by the way. Maybe store management got tired of washing baby shit out of the regular sink so they just gave up and put in the deep sink seen in the photo. Interesting. My son and I browsed for a long time in the kid's section. Note one of the featured titles: One of my weird fears (besides clowns and the death of a close loved one) is aliens. So of course this book caught my attention. Again, this was in the CHILDREN'S section. I wonder what kind of parent would read this book to their kid as a bedtime story? I would be the one having nightmares. Here's one page of text: From what I could tell, the book consisted of "true" incidents told at a child's reading level. Yes, let's make aliens seem as real as possible right before you tuck your kid into bed. As we went to check out, I noticed this next book on display right in the front of the store: You know it's not too early to start thinking about Christmas gifts, especially for those hard-to-buy-for recipients. If you were in a "Secret Santa" group, wouldn't it be fun to give this book? As long as the "Secret Santa" giver actually remained a secret. However, if I was in a Secret Santa group, I'm sure everyone would look at me with accusing eyes when the gift was opened. I would be the only weirdo in the group not giving scented candles and body washes. Well excuse me for trying to be creative.
Unrelated-- I'm taking my son with me to work tomorrow for part of the day. He loves going there. For the longest time he thought that the vending machine at my work was the only place you could get little chocolate covered doughnuts. Anyway, have you ever heard about the seven dirty words that you can never say on TV? Just google it if you haven't. Basically, we have to cover the kiddie version of those same words before my son can come to work with me. Otherwise he tells people things like, "My Mom poops in the tub!" He really did say that once. Of course, HE is the one who has actually has violated the bath water at least three times (when he was much younger; not anytime recently). Anyway, he's been warned of dire consequences if I hear ANY inappropriate words come out of his mouth tomorrow. Lastly, speaking of inappropriateness, a couple of nights ago my son told me quite earnestly, "I like boobs." It's not the first time he's told me this. I think he wants me to be sure that I really and truly know where he stands on this subject. This time however I asked him, "Why do you like them?" and he said, "Because they're cool". There you have it-- a male's perspective on the female mammary glands. Consider yourself enlightened. |
GinaI'm the worst kind of asshole-- I think I'm funny. Archives
November 2016
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