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Archive for February, 2009

inappropriatecard

Dude….this is so exciting!

Apparently, February 26th is Inappropriate Card Day.

It’s like the event is MADE for me! Basically…it’s a whole day dedicated to giving friends and loved ones inappropriate cards. Birthday cards when it’s not someone’s birthday. Happy Halloween when it’s actually February, etc.

But see….in MY world….I think I would like to MAKE some inappropriate cards. Because, frankly, I don’t think there are cards out there that are inappropriate enough for me to give. Take a gander at THESE possible Hallmark moments…

  • Hope your mole removal goes swimmingly!”
  • “Congrats! I heard you don’t have crabs!”
  • “I ate a jar full of peanut butter today and just had to tell SOMEONE. And that person is YOU!!!”
  • “I’m a biped – – and so are you! We’re TOTALLY BFF’s!”
  • “Congratulations on the Sasquatch you found who is now living in your basement eating Cheetos”
  • “Many Sympathies for your botched Laser Hair Removal Session on your inner thigh. Thinking of you.”

So…you heard it here first. And if you’re a friend of mine? WATCH OUT!!!! Consider this post a warning.

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cabkids

I will fully admit that, at the age of 34, I still like to remind my parents of their less than stellar moments they displayed during my formative years. Ok…I actually probably remind them about one or more of these things every time I see or talk to either of them for longer than an hour. Which, if you talk to them, they will GLEEFULLY TELL YOU THAT SEEING OR TALKING TO ME FOR LONGER THAN AN HOUR HAPPENS ABOUT AS OFTEN AS A SOLAR ECLIPSE. But that’s beside the point.

I would like to state, for the record, before I go on since I know that they both read this blog, that they were, on the whole, outstanding parents and I honestly couldn’t have asked for anyone better to raise me into the only slightly nutty human being you see before you today. So for that, I thank them.

Now I shall commence with my nit-picking.

I remember one time somewhat recently (in solar eclipse time), my Dad asked me if there was anything I could recall that I really disagreed with that he did in the way of parenting me when I was growing up.

I looked at him like he had a dancing aardvark on his head. Was he KIDDING ME? Was he ACTUALLY inviting me, with a great big neon lettered invitation, to remind him ONCE AGAIN, about the time that he wouldn’t let me be in the District Level Social Studies Project Fair?

“The Social Studies Fair thing, Dad.”, I said…without hesitating for one second.

He got the look of a cornered animal and nodded his head slowly in resignation and sudden remembrance of the fact that “Of COURSE she would bring this up. She ALWAYS brings this up.” I think he’d been wanting to have a philosophical, more generalized discussion about his parenting method – – one that could be put into a chapter of his own parental self-help book entitled “Things To Talk to Your 34 Year Old Daughter About that She Probably Already Talks About in Therapy” . But noooooo….I pulled out my bow and arrow and shot straight into the heart of my little 5th grade soul that was shattered most epically and dramatically when I was DISALLOWED my RIGHTFUL PLACE in the District Social Studies Fair by my Dad who was….apparently….trying to prove some sort of point about living up to my “commitments”.

WHATEVER, dude. Here’s how it went down, folks.

I made a project about the history of the American flag. So during one of my trips with the family to visit my grandmother, she and I worked together to sew this flag from scratch. I cut out all the fabric stars and stripes…and we hand-stitched some of it together, working side-by-side to finish the flag in time for my project. In addition to that, I made a little replica of a town with tiny little American flags glued to toothpick “poles” outside each of the buildings to represent the patriotism that each and every citizen of this great nation displays on a regular basis – – and I did this while singing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” softly under my breath. As any patriotic 5th grader who’s proud of her country, proud of her project, and proud of her heritage would. (Ok…that last bit might be a liiiitttle bit over the top…but you get the picture. Excited American 5th Grader with Exciting American Project)

I also had to write a report to go along with the project. And apparently the report was lacking in some content according to my Dad’s opinion. He kept telling me to add some more to it and I said that I thought that it was enough. And obviously SOMEONE thought that what I wrote was enough because I won 1st Place in the school for my project in my category and 2nd place in the county. So that qualified me for the District Competition.

Well….Dad must have had big pie-in-the-sky Hollywood dreams for how far my little flag project could take me. ….and my report just wasn’t gonna cut it. He reminded me once again that I needed to add more substance to my report. So I did what any lazy, award-winning 5th grader would do…

I added a paragraph to the report.

I remember distinctly that when Dad saw the report, he went ballistic. I went ballistic. There was much crying and stomping and “BUT I *DID* DO WHAT YOU TOLD ME TO DO!!!” that ensued. It all ended in a bloody mess when Dad told me that I couldn’t be int he District Level Competition. He lay down the law, and it was final.

I threw my 10 year old body over my project in a heap of inconsolable tears. My life was….obviously, irrevocably ruined. How would I get discovered as the greatest social studies project…..person….of all time….NOW????

I recall having to get up from my desk the next day, and shuffle up to the front of the class and mumble to my teacher that I “couldn’t be in the fair”. She looked dumbfounded and just blinked at me. “Why???”, she said.

“B..b.b…because of my D..d…dad. H…he….won.nn’t…l..let me.”

She blinked again. And sadly told me she was sorry to hear that. I looked at her, bleary eyed with tears of unfairness, slowly nodded in agreement, and shuffled back to my desk.

And so ended my career as a Social Studies Fair Genius.

(Dad is currently rolling his eyes as I just dug that knife a little deeper into his proverbial heart for the two hundredth and seventy-fifth time. )

As bad as the Social Studies Fair Incident is, it’s nothing compared to The Cabbage Patch Kid Incident – – – but Dad is absolved of all wrong-doing on that one. Because that little award in wayward parenting goes to my mom.

When I was in the 3rd Grade, everyone who was ANYONE in my little world, had a Cabbage Patch Kid. And on that Christmas, there were record sales occurring in the form of actual, physical altercations at various toy stores across the land. Crazy-eyed mothers, who were carrying intricately laid out maps of the store that was their ultimate destination that day, complete with intricately drawn arrows outlaying their plan of attack to get to the Cabbage Patch Kids Shelf first, found themselves in lines the size of those one might find outside of a Rolling Stones concert. Except I suspect that the tattoo-clad, drunk-out-of -their- mind, Stones fans, would have been a lot more friendly than the mothers in these lines. These mothers would knock down anyone and anything…..man or beast….who got between them and one of these dolls.

My mother made it very, very…..VERY clear to me….that she would NOT be one of these mothers.

Ok…fine. Even at the age of 8, I understood that there were some limits to what a mother could or would do, in reasonable terms, to get a kid a doll.

But I had a secret plan…..and that plan was Santa Claus.

I was 8, so I was beginning to become suspicious of the whole Santa deal. It all seemed implausible to my inquiring little mind. I mean…we had a wood-burning stove that covered the entire opening of the chimney into our living room and, as a result, my parents had told me that Santa actually came in through the front door. But this, of course, caused me to worry about how Santa would know to do this – – what if he got stuck in the chimney, not knowing about the wood stove? Stuck in there with my toys? What if he started to smell like one of the squirrels that often died in the chimney and mom would say of the deceased squirrel, with a disgusted look on her face “serves it RIGHT.” To this day, my mother hates squirrels more than the Grim Reaper. My mom could be talking about puppies and bunnies and kitties with a look of angelic delight on her face, but the moment that a squirrel enters that furry mix, her eyes narrow, and a dark cloud crosses over her face as her upper lip curls into a sneer.

But I digress.

So as Christmas approached, I wrote my letter to Santa with a very large item at the top of it that read “CABBAGE PATCH DOLL”. (Though it was probably spelled more like “CABEGE PACH DOL”. My spelling was as bad as it was comedic at that time.) And I waited with anticipation, hoping that Santa could somehow swing a miracle for me. Because with the amount of eye-rolling that my mother was throwing around at the mere MENTION of the lines at the toy stores and the latest motherly altercation that had ended with a blackened eye, I knew that my chances of her getting me one for Christmas were next to nil. And my Dad didn’t even know what a Cabbage Patch Kid WAS….so I wasn’t getting help from that direction either.

The fateful day of Christmas morning arrived, and I anxiously galloped into the living room to see what Santa had brought me. Let’s see….some roller skates….and a cowboy hat and “Oh Look!” a game………and what’s this package over here? The package didn’t look like it was the shape of anything I’d had on my list that I wanted….so I gingerly began pulling off the wrapping paper with a puzzled expression.

The first thing I saw was a Cabbage Patch Kid Head. My heart skipped a beat – – what…..what was this? Could it be true??? Could Santa have come through for me????

But something was all wrong – – this was a much smaller box than what I knew Cabbage Patch kids came in. And as I ripped into it further….I saw all too clearly what the problem was.

I had received a pair of Cabbage Patch Kid earmuffs.

No….no. You don’t underSTAND. So let me say that one more time…

I RECEIVED A PAIR OF CABBAGE PATCH KID EARMUFFS.

As in, two …..decapitated….Cabbage Patch Kid heads that were attached to a plastic headband.

This had to be a cruel joke of some sort. But no….there they were….right in my hands. The soft little heads sneered up at me mockingly.

Mom had a camera up to her face, as per usual, and began coaxing me to “Put them on!!!”

I complied, but only because I was 8, and 8 year olds complied when their mothers told them to do something so they could take a photo, because they knew at that point that if they didn’t, then a Big Family Scene would ensue and it would all end in tears. And they would STILL have to have the photo taken but just with a tear-streaked, angry face.

As I sat there, completely dejected, with the sappy-faced balls of fabric gracing each of my ears, I tried to figure out where it all went wrong. I had SPECIFICALLY asked for a Cabbage Patch KID….not earmuffs. How could Santa DO this to me? This is like something my MOM would do to….

Hey….hang on a second. Mom. This is like something mom would do…..not Santa.

And at that very moment, I became more suspicious of this whole “Santa” business than I ever had been. I had evidence. I had the evidence sitting right on my head as Exhibit A and Exhibit B.

And so that was how it came to be that, when my friends brought all their Cabbage Patch Kids over to play with….I contributed my ear muffs to the group and, I think it goes without saying, that my earmuffs were not the most popular members of that little team of dolls. I think one time we pretended that one of my friend’s Cabbage Patch Kid gave birth to twins – – which were my ear muffs. But otherwise, the earmuffs pretty much just sat in a corner, as I glared at them accusingly, willing them to spontaneously burst into flames so I could beg my mother to get me a REAL Cabbage Patch Kid in one of the After-Christmas-Sales.

Make no mistake – – I laugh about these things with my parents now. Because it IS funny – – but I think they see there is a tiny pinprick of a grudge still held. And neither of them would, likely be surprised, if one day they find out I actually have a Cabbage Patch Kid stored in my closet and am currently working on a new, improved version of my Social Studies Project.

And the report that goes with it would…perhaps….if all of you are LUCKY….show up in this blog. With THREE additional paragraphs.

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cucumber

There I was, ambling through the cleaning product aisle of the grocery store, AGAIN….minding my own business….AGAIN….

Then I saw it: One…..sad….dejected cucumber, cowering amongst the insecticides.

I looked at it. It looked at me. I thought I saw its lip quiver.

I mean….imagine you’re a cucumber. And you’re laughin’ it up with all the other vegetables – – telling dirty potato jokes, makin’ eyes at the radish you’ve got a crush on. You feel alive – – healthy; you fit in with the group. Then one day, someone picks you up and puts you into their shopping basket. You wave good-bye to all your friends – – your time had come. It wasn’t unexpected and so you relax realizing you are just doing what nature has called you to do. This is your duty and obligation to serve The Circle of Life and you’re ready to make your final sacrifice – – going out like a brave and proud cucumber. (I just re-read this part and guffawed loudly as my mind went DIRECTLY into the gutter. Don’t go there with me people….do….not….do it!)

Then, suddenly, the basket stops moving….and you are removed and put on a shelf with a bunch of gum-chewing, angry, loud, insult-wielding insecticides. They’re sarcastic and rude……they spit on anyone who looks at them wrong. They’re constantly talking about the last bug that they poisoned and how they watched it die a slow, agonizing death on the freshly waxed floor of Aisle 7.

That would be a bad, bad day for a cucumber.

I also started thinking about the person who would decide AGAINST buying a cucumber while perusing the cleaning product aisle. I mean….just ONE cucumber. How would you reach that decision? Would a person think “Ya know…everything in this cart makes sense to buy. I’m feeling good about these purchases. Except……..wait….hang on. Except the cucumber. What was I THINKING??? It looks all WRONG in this cart….wrong, wrong, WRONG! And it will look all wrong in my refrigerator too!!” And then the person would impatiently and unceremoniously remove the offending vegetable, and jam it amongst the Raid cans…..casting it a disapproving eye as they walked away shaking their head.

Poor, poor cucumber.

I thought briefly about rescuing it from the cleaning aisle – – of taking care of it and giving it a new home. I could go and get it its own little plastic baggie from the produce section. Maybe shine it up with a napkin all sparkling and new, and display it proudly in my kitchen…

But it would have looked all wrong in my shopping cart. Wrong, wrong, WRONG!!!

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balloontower

Lookee what I saw while browsing at Barnes and Noble this past weekend.

I have a favor to ask of all of you good readers. If I’m ever yammering on here, as I’m known to do, about the various activities I’ve got going on….and I happen to mention that I’m building an Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal, or, worse, Stonehenge….replica out of BALLOONS in my living room, then please band together in solidarity and stage an intervention. Because I think it’s safe to say that, at that point……I need one.

Badly.

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Here’s the problem with reminiscing: sometimes you have the realization that something you loved as a child was actually really, really, REALLY lame. You fight to close Pandora’s box before all good memories of this thing or event are spoiled beyond repair, but alas…you are often too late. And so there you are…..sitting in the middle of all these escaped realizations, wanting to put everything back how it used to be but you can’t. YOU CAN’T! ……… *sob*

Such was the fate of one of my most beloved, cherished superheros that I, and every other girl I knew, worshiped with the starry-eyed idealism of babes: Wonder Woman.

It all started when I had the thought about her invisible jet being exceptionally flawed by design. I had this thought when everyone has such a thought: while eating a chocolate chip cookie, pondering the superhero universe. I don’t believe I am the only one who has made the realization that, while the jet is invisible….Wonder Woman is not. Thus, any bad, evil-doer’s radar would surely pick up a flying, squatting woman wearing bright, primary colors.

Also…what if she had to use the toilet on the jet? Firstly…I don’t SEE a lavatory of any sort…..do you?

And secondly, let’s say the jet did have a toilet – – so Wonder Woman puts the jet on auto-pilot to go do her business. Once again…an evil-doer or any Captain of a Delta 767 could then see a woman…in bright primary colors….squatting while reading a newspaper. I mean…come on. Wonder Woman would need some privacy. And no one wants a Wonder Woman episode where her jet is shot down while she’s on the crapper.

All of these perplexing thoughts about the invisible jet lead me, against my better judgment, to research other VERY IMPORTANT CONCERNS about Wonder Woman’s powers. And this lead me, of course, to YouTube – – to revisit one of my very favorite childhood TV shows: Wonder Woman.

This was a mistake of gargantuan proportions.

Let’s take a look at Realization Number One: THE THEME SONG TO WONDER WOMAN SUCKED:

The entire theme song is a musical nightmare of epic proportions but my favorite lines are:

“In your satin tights

Fighting for your rights

And the Old Red White and Blue!”

and

“Make a hawk a dove

Stop a war with love

Make a liar see the truth!”

Ok. OKAY. I just gotta say thanks to the good graces of the Holy Superhero Elves that the song wasn’t any longer than it was because I might have had to light myself on fire. Were the lyricists just having a really bad day? Were they drunk or experiencing some sort of emotional shoot-out? Was it the end of a long week of collective writers’ block, and, in a moment of desperation sitting together at 2:30am amongst a bucket of half-eaten Kentucky Fried Chicken and 17 pots of highly caffeinated coffee, one of them just started to maniacally call out the most INSANELY LAME lyrics on the face of the planet just so they could all go HOME? Because WHAT KIND OF RIGHTS WOULD SOMEONE BE FIGHTING FOR IN SATIN TIGHTS? The right to wear Prada???? The right to shop online during your lunch break???

And WHY would you want to make a hawk a dove? For what purpose??? To impress a bunch of magicians???? As entertainment for a wedding reception??? Then Wonder Woman can break out into “Close to You” by the Carpenters… (“Why do birds….suddenly appear….everytime….you are near??”)

And as for stopping a war with love – – what? Is Wonder Woman part of the Peace Train? In between fighting for justice, she also finds time to shake a tambourine at Love-ins?

The theme song disturbed me enough, but then I actually watched a clip of some of the episodes and this lead me to Realization Number 2:

THE ACTUAL EPISODES SUCKED EVEN MORE THAN THE THEME SONG:

Episode Example Number 1: Wonder Woman uses her tiara as a boomerang to pop an inflatable raft

Now….I would like to note a few highlights of this clip. Firstly, Wonder Woman’s tiara is, initially, as she’s taking it off her head, made of cloth…then, inexplicably, it is suddenly metal, and she’s in a GRAY ROOM – – not the beach background anymore. She tosses the now-metal tiara from the gray room, then suddenly it’s the beach again. Hats off to the editor…I hope he enjoyed the 8 Gin and Tonics he was drinking. And I gotta say….is this not the lamest super-power example ever? Using her TIARA to pop a raft? Couldn’t she have laser-eyes like Superman or something – – or really cool gadgets like Batman? Not a flippin’ TIARA to use as a BOOMERANG. Next thing you know, she’ll be pulling her hair dryer out to scare villains away with Vidal Sassoon-force winds.

The next thing I would like to note is the obvious. And that is that Wonder Woman is wearing Granny-Panties. Seriously, if they ever wanted to have a special, patriotic, limited collector’s edition of Depends Undergarments – – – then these would be an outstanding contender for the template. Linda Carter was a very slim, very beautiful woman….but these babies were doin’ NOTHIN’ for her figure.

Episode Example Number 2: Wonder Woman fights a man in a really bad gorilla suit:

Well folks….I’m at a loss for words with this one. Where do I start? The fact that when Diana changes into Wonder Woman, that the special effects amount to what looks like a bottle rocket backfiring into a pyrotechnic flame fart? Or maybe when Wonder Woman throws the “Gorilla” over her shoulder after she’d just said that “At home, on Paradise Island….we live in peace with all animals. Including those you call ‘ferocious'”. Apparently this peace is not extended to men in Gorilla suits. Or maybe you were touched just as much as I was when the ape, during a sensitive, less “Experimental Nazi Ape” moment, reaches out and touches Wonder Woman’s hand. Only James Taylor suddenly crooning “You’ve got a Friend” through a loud speaker in the ape cage would have made the moment more tenderly perfect.

I could go on and on. YouTube has bucket loads of these episodes. If you want a laugh – – just do a search on “Wonder Woman” then sit back with some popcorn and prop your feet up. I laughed until I cried on some of these. But I’m afraid that a few of these tears were the tears of disillusionment. The sad tears of an 8 year old girl who wanted to keep her hero intact and didn’t want to see all the cardboard walls giving way to Wonder Woman’s not-so-mighty girl-punches.

Wonder Woman underroos all across America just cowered in the corner of their respective closets, in an expression of epic shame for the exposure of The Truth. Who needs a Lasso of Truth when you’ve got Youtube?? 😉

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Premiere Che LA

It would appear that once within every decade, like the Haley’s Comet of television, David Letterman has a guest on his show who proceeds to lose the plot in a spectacular light show of wacked-out wackiness while sitting in the chair opposite Dave, attempting to be interviewed.

Last night represented this event for the new millennium when Joaquin Phoenix loped onto the stage looking like he’d just stepped off of Looney Man Mountain that afternoon and brought the gaggle of birds who’d been nesting in his hair for two months with him. I kept expecting one of said gaggle to poke its head out from the snarl of hay-like substance on Phoenix’s head and start signing the message, “Help me, I’m trapped and it smells in here”, with the tips of its wings. And I don’t even want to THINK about what could be living in his beard. Chances are it’s not as friendly as the birds.

I, like the audience, and likely the rest of America who happened to watch this spectacle unfold last night, didn’t know whether to laugh or be deeply disturbed by what we were witnessing. Phoenix sat in his chair inexplicably wearing sunglasses, and giving Letterman one word answers to his questions, sometimes shifting uncomfortably while periodically staring at, what could only have been neon colors shooting from his hands whenever he moved them – – I kept expecting him to say “Whoooaaahhh…pretty…” at any second.

While I felt badly for Phoenix who obviously has been going through some sort of drug-enhanced mental breakdown of late – – either that, or the best acting job of his career – – I couldn’t blame Letterman for dishing it out and poking fun at him. Phoenix’s publicist should have locked him in a room, gagged and tied him to a chair rather than allow him to make that appearance. Letterman’s job is to make us laugh – – and when a half-baked star shows up on his stage unable to form words that resemble the English language, then I don’t blame him for having to make do with what he’s got.

This isn’t the first time Letterman has endured a crazy guest. In 1987, he did an infamous interview with Crispin Glover, who starred in the Back to the Future triligy, where Glover showed up in a bizarre get-up, including a long, crooked wig and suitcase. Dave tried to roll with the interview for a while, but finally just sat back and watched Glover go – – until eventually he had to leave the stage when Glover unsteadily jumped up from the chair, and did an air-kick that landed quite near Dave’s face.

Similarly, in 1997, Farrah Fawcett showed up on Dave’s set completely lit up on *something* and proceeded to slur out story after story that made no sense what-so-ever. Letterman gamely coached her along, but obviously had no idea what to do with Fawcett who was high as a kite and careening out of control before his eyes.

These appearances are in addition to the two stalkers that Letterman has endured over the years as well.

So I don’t know what it is….but that man attracts the nutters like some sort of television velcro. He should just start wearing a sign on his chest that says “Just out of the nuthouse? COME! Be on my show!!! There will be a shrink and supply of medication in your dressing room!”.

I looked up the Joaquin video today but CBS made YouTube take it down – – so I looked it up on the CBS site but can’t link it directly into this blog. Therefore, if you want to see it, cut and paste the address below into your web browser and check it out:

http://www.cbs.com/late_show/video/video.php?cid=446418043&pid=TOnYWLFIAq4k8vA0Me2lpEWu5ovWrJzB&play=true&cc=

Additionally, just for fun, I looked up Farrah Fawcett’s appearance as well as Crispin Glover’s – – and I gotta say – – it is a toss up as to which one is the craziest appearance: Glover, Fawcett or Phoenix. They’re all their own, special brand of crazy and like an array of ice cream flavors….it’s difficult to choose just one.

I hope you enjoy….and if nothing else, it’ll likely make you feel REALLY normal right about now.

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questionmarkclipart2

Ok y’all. I’m stealing Amity’s idea from The Noble Savage and am succumbing to my nosiness. My blog stats show traffic increasing in number quite a bit and my curiosity is killing me to know who’s looking at my nuttiness. Every once in a while, I am shocked to find out another name of someone reading my blog who I had NO idea was….and it’s been extremely interesting, not to mention flattering.

So g’waaaann! Don’t be shy! I’m hoping that some of you lurkers on my blog will de-lurk, leave a comment, and let me know who you are, how you know me, and how you happened upon my blog…..and any other random fact you might care to share about yourself. For instance….are you afraid of clowns? Tell the group! Do you really like to listen to Bon Jovi while eating a big basket of cheesy nachos? This is the place to sing it and sing it proud.

If I know who’s reading what I say, then it helps me imagine your aghast faces during some of the particularly gnarly parts. 😉 And those of you who choose not to tell me? Well….I’ll KNOW you’re still out there….lurking around. Because I SEE the numbers, folks. I am the All Seeing Oz of my blog, after all. Muuahahahahaha!

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