Name of the Game (Calling All Freaks)

January & February suck. Everyone’s waxing philosophic and contemplating the meaning of life. Feeling sluggish, fat, and crappy. Levity is in order (as I have said before). So, c’mon…

Now, some background:

First:

Imagine me in a movie, walking down the street in slow motion – the wind is blowing my hair into my eyes and making it stick to my lip gloss, I’m trying to act cool, but I can’t because of the hair. I can barely see. I trip as I pass by a group of skateboarding 14-year-old boys. With me? Good.

Second:

Earlier in this movie you observed a vignette of my daily life:  Boss is an asshole. Employees, ditto. Kids are whiny and spoiled. Husband takes me for granted. Everyone is a terrible driver (with the obvious exception). People are painfully, irritatingly, stupid… and, despite constant evidence otherwise, this still seems to amaze me. I am THIS close to just keepin’ on keepin’ on.

Third:

But something happens – maybe one disappointment too many, maybe I’m just a bitch… it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that suddenly, and with this song playing in time with my every step, I am ready to kick some ass. You are on my side, of course. My theme song indicates I have chosen to take it or leave it – all of it… to start dishing out my every uncensored thought. You find yourself wondering – “Is she dreaming? Is it fantasy or reality? Is she retarded?”

No matter. What matters is that you love the song. You wish you had claimed it before I did.

So.

When the kids wake up in the morning and try to eff with me, they will hear this song. When the boss tries to bully me into doing the job I’m paid for, this song starts to play. When a giant pick-up truck with Oklahoma plates pulls in front of me out of nowhere, this song plays. When somebody in customer service tries to jack with me… well. Obviously.

And every time it (the song) plays, it starts out kind of quietly, but gets louder (think maximum headphone volume) until something transpires that makes us (me and you) feel better. Like I tell someone off. Or something crazy like that.

“Why drag me into this madness?” you may wonder. Because I love you. And tomorrow when you wake up and have to deal with the daily BS, you will hear this song playing in the background. Our theme song. And you will smile, despite the February of it all.

With that said, please consider the source (me) and, so forewarned, click HERE to listen. or here (if that doesn’t work)

Enjoy, Motha Fucka. (Get ’em up in the back row. I said GET ‘EM UP in the back row).*

*If you don’t listen to the entire song, please disregard.

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Who Has A Mullet Now, Beotch?

It was 6:00a.m. and I pretended to be asleep when I heard my 4-year-old sprinting toward my room. “Oopsy daisy!” said L at the top of her lungs in order to wake me up. “Oopsy daisy” is so far off from what she should have been exclaiming… it’s weak and poorly planned, not to mention misleading. The implication is that she dropped a toy or a piece of cheese, not that she has made a serious and lasting decision about her appearance – and all without consulting me, her stylist and closest confidante.

Regardless, there she was with a big smile on her face and a fistful of hair in her hand. I was convinced it was from her creepy human head hair styling toy, which is what I asked her: “Is that from your doll? The head?  You cut her hair?”

I wish I could do her expression justice by explaining it here, but it’s impossible. A rough interpretation would be that she smiled giddily at me in that guilty, holy-crap-I-can’t-believe-I-did-this way that only a 4 and 1/2 year-old can pull off, while simultaneously shaking her head. Nope. Guess again, mom.

“Shut the EFF up!!” I didn’t yell. Instead I did my dramatic gasp and began sobbing, “Are you shitting me? A friggin’ mullet? This is about me, isn’t it? I haven’t been paying enough attention to you? Or is it my cooking? Is it the hair-washing technique I’ve used at bath time? I’ve tried so hard to keep the soap out of your eyes! I have,” (here my sobbing turns in to crazed anger), “What the crap is going on around here? Doesn’t anyone care about how hard I try to make this family appear normal? Why, just yesterday you flushed your sister’s toothbrush, your own underwear, and some game pieces down the toilet. I turn my back for 3 seconds and now I have 3 feet of water in my house and an extremely unfortunate hairstyle on my child’s head.”

Nah. Actually, all of that is true except for my part of the dialogue. I just said, “What? Why? Where did you find scissors? Why do you want shorter hair? Why are you up in the middle of the night? It’s pitch black outside. Give me a minute to wake up…Jesus…”

And then I laughed (not in front of her) – because it’s FUNNY, I mean, so what? She was not trying to be naughty. She wanted shorter hair. She had some scissors. Now she has shorter hair. She is four.

On the other hand, if she does one more thing to test my patience – such as waking my ass up at 5:59a.m. for the 100th time in 100 days – I will sell her on Craigslist, unless I think I can get more money for her on e-bay.

“Feisty four-year-old female (human) – make offer.”

 

Do Not Eat

I have a list of things I long to do but don’t, based solely on the warning labels that accompany the objects of my temptation. Thankfully, someone out there (in legal) has repeatedly saved me from myself and my complete disregard for common sense.

When I read these warnings I automatically fill in the blank at the end of the message with “you freakin’ idiot”, as in:

Do not eat the cardboard box that contains your scalding hot pizza. Only eat the pizza. Do not eat the box. Only the pizza. Which contains dairy. And maybe came in contact with soy. Or peanuts. Eat the pizza. Not the box. You freakin’ idiot.

I mean, seriously – it’s clearly implied, as is the sneer on the face of the author.

I would prefer that evolution and survival of the fittest supersede these warnings, but what do I know (besides how to spell supersede and use it in a sentence).

My latest temptation was to eat seventeen bars of soap at  my local grocery store. Fortunately I saw the warning just in time:

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to exercise my random act of kindness for the day and shoot an e-mail to legal at a few companies. I have some suggestions for future labels:

“This hairdryer is not a toy. If you plug it in, turn it on, and then toss it to your babbling baby who is playing nearby in the bathtub, something bad will happen. Also, the hairdryer will stop functioning and the warranty will be void.”

“This package of candy Lifesavers is NOT actually going to save your life. If you cannot swim and you choose to jump into the ocean relying solely on this candy as a flotation device, you will drown.”

“Do not attempt to wear this pillow as a hat, as it may decrease your ability to see while driving. Which reminds us, do not attempt to rest your head on this pillow while driving either, as you may fall asleep. Do not sleep while driving.”

You freakin’ idiot.

One Pink Shoe

As I read this book to my daughter last night I had to refrain from commenting on every single page and/or laughing. Pull up a chair and we’ll read it together.

First, look at Barbie’s sister Stacey. She’s wearing a purple half-shirt and tight high-water pink pants, yet it appears Barbie is consulting her for fashion advice. This, as evidenced on the next page, will prove to be a foolish decision.

 

 

 

 

 

“My cinderella costume or my purple denim vest?” asks Barbie.

“No, Barbie! Wear the lemon-lime suit. It’s perfect,” says Stacey, whose crush on Ken has led her to an attempt at sabotage.

Note the rascally pup under the bed… he’s up to no good, I’m sure of it.

 

The pink mock turtleneck ties in with the hat box she’s holding. Gorgeous pumps.

The pink mustang convertible appears to be the size of a clown car, but I’m sure if anyone can manage to squeeze into one it’s Barbie.

 

 

 

 

First, I’ll answer your question about Ken’s pants: I have no idea where you can find a pair. They are straight up FAB.

He and Barbie clearly planned to wear turtlenecks. I bet she didn’t know he’d short-sleeve it, though.

Now let’s take a moment to acknowledge the absurdity of the political correctness in this picture.

Stupid.

 

 

I just cannot get over those pants.

And Ken’s little hair helmet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barbie must not be hungry, she hasn’t eaten a bite! Hmmmm…

What a swell afternoon date at the disco it was!

 

 

 

 

 

 

A hearty handshake and she’ll be on her way.

Surely this is the end of this riveting tale…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Lord there’s more.

Barbie is buying Stacey her first bra, along with a couple of swimsuits. This will prove to be fortuitous momentarily.

 

 

 

 

Here comes Kevin, followed closely by a strange character in an orange shirt. (getting a close-up view of that person is definitely worth the trouble of clicking on the picture.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The girls get to show off their new swimsuits, in addition to the fact that they have no belly buttons.

Who’s the bitch sitting on the side of the pool? She was NOT invited.

 

 

 

 

Wait. A. Minute.

Barbie is going to cheat on Ken, isn’t she?

What a slut.

(sharp intake of breath) Look at that crazy dog! Again with the shoes…

 

 

 

“That damn dog has my shoe,” said Barbie. “I’m calling the police!”

I just realized something… I owe Barbie an apology. This picture clears some things up. Kevin and Dan are actually a couple.

Oops. Sorry, Barb!

 

 

 

“Why fellas… there’s all my missing shoes!”

Did Barbie ever stop to think that this might be Spot’s way of asking for a little attention? Doubtful.

Look at Dan… any second he’ll shake his head and say something about Mentos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What a long, boring, convoluted story about a missing shoe.

The End.