This morning I overheard one half of a troubling conversation between a colleague and his nine year old daughter.
Father: WAIT. WHO did WHAT?
Father: Is he from our neighborhood?
Father: What grade is he in?
Father: Did he MEAN to do it?
Father: Are you SURE?
Father: Were you TEASING him?
Father: Are you SURE?
Father: Well, then you go outside and yell, "My daddy's gonna kick your ass and your dad's ass, too, when he gets home tonight." Go ahead, yell it right now.
Father: Okay now. You're fine. Go to school.
Far be it from me to wish drama on anyone but I would give anything for this guy to show up tomorrow with a black eye and a broken arm. Not because he provided such an idiotic lesson to his daughter. And not because I want to see him damaged for taking his daughter's side. But because he deserves it for being so damn naive.
I wasn't there but I know two things. First, you cannot possibly understand all sides of any story from a two-minute conversation with a third-grader. And second, never ever physically threaten people until you've at least seen how big they are. Sure, this kid might be just a runty little twerp and his dad a peace-loving pencil-neck geek. Or he could be some cruelty-loving, mammoth psycho-kid with an ex-wrestler psycho-pop who happens to like guns. And nunchucks ... which until just this moment I believed were called nukchuks.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Doesn't get more absurd than this
Christine explains, “When I decided to trim down, I knew I had to be realistic with myself. I didn’t want to cut out my fast food so I started choosing Fresco items from the Drive-Thru Diet menu.”
speechless.
speechless.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
2:1 = Heavy Bag
We live on a part of Penfield Road where many walkers and runners pause at the mouth of our wide driveway to cross the street and walk down Park Lane. Standing on the curb, I wonder if any of them turned tonight and looked into the tall windows on the second floor. Because if they did, they would have glimpsed a crazy woman madly beating a heavy bag with a dreamy-looking guy egging her on all while a white cat screamed his bloody head off while standing on the bed next to her. Just because he can scream his bloody head off while standing on the bed next to her.
And even if they didn't see it, I'm positive they could have heard the lunatic screaming escaping her lips.
I'm surprised the cops didn't show up .
To protect the punching bag.
But let me back up and try to explain how we got to this meltdown on Penfield Road.
The state of my life can easily be viewed as horrifically stressful. Afterall, we're out-numbered two-to-one, ferocious/obnoxious/demanding/manipulative/criminally cute creatures to humans. This means we are slaves to their demands.
For example, last night Little Dog woke up at 3:30 and decided to pierce my lovely dreams with an imitation of Cujo's Mating Call. Fearing the White Cat had gotten locked in his crate with him (again), I ran downstairs to rescue him. No WC. He was just lonely. I let him outside which got the attention of Big Dog who also wanted to go out and suddenly I'm standing in 17 degree weather in satin jammies and fuzzy slippers trying to get nitwits 1 and 2 back into the house. Back into the house and, for one, into our bed (uninvited). Covered with snowy paws. Which he warmed up by placing them on our legs. (Not unlike how females warm up their feet at night).
So there was that.
Continuing on the theme of not being in charge of the house, I woke up at 7:30 with a cat draped over my neck. While we can all appreciate the delicate softness of fur, I assure you it's not as pleasant when it weights 14.5 pounds and has claws. Thankfully, before I engaged the White Stole in combat, he decided he needed to jump on the Big Dog who then woke up and stood next to the bed whomping her tail against the frame until someone opened an eyelid. That increased the rhythm of the whomping to a feverish pace which made the bed vibrate enough that I fell out onto the fur-encrusted carpet.
It's not an optimal way to begin the day: fur in your eyeballs, satin jammie flipped up over your butt, dog breath in your ear, cat walking on you. After three or four minutes of laying there, you just accept the humiliation and get up.
I depend on the hot water of the shower to wake me up and start the day, to soothe the harsh and involuntary awakening. Which is great when I hit the shower first. Which is usual. Unfortunately, this morning Mr. Showers Until It Runs Cold had an early meeting. So I got "cool to friggin freezing with a splash of icy." I shaved one leg and had to get out. Out to the Recluse Kitty who was telling me how much she hates everyone else in the house, especially the Fat Runt Dog who charged in while she was telling her story to cry about... God knows what.
I left them there with their issues and fled to the office.
The office provides, as any office does, a plethora of stress-inducing opportunities that can drive you over the edge. For example, we have small bathroom for the women which is sometimes full and by full I mean occupied by someone other than me. In such cases, there exists the possibility of debilitating bladder shyness which means you have to flee that lavatory and race up three floors to the almost-always-deserted ladies' room. This takes a lot of time and in that time, your inbox gets filled up with all sorts of treats. And, if you are in a cross-functional role, the treats are of a massively varied natures, challenging your brain on a vast array of levels of competency and insanity.
Oh, and did I mention this was the second day in a row I had to work 8 whole hours? Exhausting, I tell you. Just too much. I feel I can no longer function without at least three hours of fucking around at home doing pretty much nothing but being able to come up with a long list of "somethings" to tell Jamie about when he gets home. None of which reveal how much online shopping happened.
Arriving home, exhausted from my crippling 8 hours of productivity, I opened the door to the nut house. Cat ran outside (21 degrees), dog barked at me, another cat hid, and the trapped dog yelled at me from his cage. I stood there and asked my purse, "Do you hear something?" After tripping over the eight pairs of shoes in the tiny entryway, I inched down the steps with the mail, the packages that I needed to hide, and the recycling bin. I opened the cage and the mass of creatures bounced and howled and danced around me as I moved through the kitchen to put things down.
I kicked them all out.
They were back in within 23 seconds. Wusses.
I fed them. They cried. I pet them. They cried. I let them sit with me. They cried. And just when they all calmed down, Jamie opened the door and everyone popped up and ran (screaming) to meet him. And they kept screaming. Mostly the cat.
I grabbed the obnoxious hellion and presented him to Jamie. TAKE HIM WITH YOU, I said as he pulled on his tennis clothes. He took the cat. I then ran downstairs and grabbed the dog. HIM TOO! I screamed. And Big Dog was behind me, AND HER! LET HER LEAD THEM ALL. I CAN'T TAKE IT! I CAN'T TAKE IT! I QUIT!
And that is when we had to go hit the punching bag.
And now I sit, calm, on the couch. Little Dog is under the blanket on my lap. Obnoxious Cat is behind my head on the couch, Big Dog is at my feet, and Elusive Kitty is hiding in the front room. I may have bruised knuckles, but we're all calm. Until Jamie comes back home again. And then I'm back to the bag.
And even if they didn't see it, I'm positive they could have heard the lunatic screaming escaping her lips.
I'm surprised the cops didn't show up .
To protect the punching bag.
But let me back up and try to explain how we got to this meltdown on Penfield Road.
The state of my life can easily be viewed as horrifically stressful. Afterall, we're out-numbered two-to-one, ferocious/obnoxious/demanding/manipulative/criminally cute creatures to humans. This means we are slaves to their demands.
For example, last night Little Dog woke up at 3:30 and decided to pierce my lovely dreams with an imitation of Cujo's Mating Call. Fearing the White Cat had gotten locked in his crate with him (again), I ran downstairs to rescue him. No WC. He was just lonely. I let him outside which got the attention of Big Dog who also wanted to go out and suddenly I'm standing in 17 degree weather in satin jammies and fuzzy slippers trying to get nitwits 1 and 2 back into the house. Back into the house and, for one, into our bed (uninvited). Covered with snowy paws. Which he warmed up by placing them on our legs. (Not unlike how females warm up their feet at night).
So there was that.
Continuing on the theme of not being in charge of the house, I woke up at 7:30 with a cat draped over my neck. While we can all appreciate the delicate softness of fur, I assure you it's not as pleasant when it weights 14.5 pounds and has claws. Thankfully, before I engaged the White Stole in combat, he decided he needed to jump on the Big Dog who then woke up and stood next to the bed whomping her tail against the frame until someone opened an eyelid. That increased the rhythm of the whomping to a feverish pace which made the bed vibrate enough that I fell out onto the fur-encrusted carpet.
It's not an optimal way to begin the day: fur in your eyeballs, satin jammie flipped up over your butt, dog breath in your ear, cat walking on you. After three or four minutes of laying there, you just accept the humiliation and get up.
I depend on the hot water of the shower to wake me up and start the day, to soothe the harsh and involuntary awakening. Which is great when I hit the shower first. Which is usual. Unfortunately, this morning Mr. Showers Until It Runs Cold had an early meeting. So I got "cool to friggin freezing with a splash of icy." I shaved one leg and had to get out. Out to the Recluse Kitty who was telling me how much she hates everyone else in the house, especially the Fat Runt Dog who charged in while she was telling her story to cry about... God knows what.
I left them there with their issues and fled to the office.
The office provides, as any office does, a plethora of stress-inducing opportunities that can drive you over the edge. For example, we have small bathroom for the women which is sometimes full and by full I mean occupied by someone other than me. In such cases, there exists the possibility of debilitating bladder shyness which means you have to flee that lavatory and race up three floors to the almost-always-deserted ladies' room. This takes a lot of time and in that time, your inbox gets filled up with all sorts of treats. And, if you are in a cross-functional role, the treats are of a massively varied natures, challenging your brain on a vast array of levels of competency and insanity.
Oh, and did I mention this was the second day in a row I had to work 8 whole hours? Exhausting, I tell you. Just too much. I feel I can no longer function without at least three hours of fucking around at home doing pretty much nothing but being able to come up with a long list of "somethings" to tell Jamie about when he gets home. None of which reveal how much online shopping happened.
Arriving home, exhausted from my crippling 8 hours of productivity, I opened the door to the nut house. Cat ran outside (21 degrees), dog barked at me, another cat hid, and the trapped dog yelled at me from his cage. I stood there and asked my purse, "Do you hear something?" After tripping over the eight pairs of shoes in the tiny entryway, I inched down the steps with the mail, the packages that I needed to hide, and the recycling bin. I opened the cage and the mass of creatures bounced and howled and danced around me as I moved through the kitchen to put things down.
I kicked them all out.
They were back in within 23 seconds. Wusses.
I fed them. They cried. I pet them. They cried. I let them sit with me. They cried. And just when they all calmed down, Jamie opened the door and everyone popped up and ran (screaming) to meet him. And they kept screaming. Mostly the cat.
I grabbed the obnoxious hellion and presented him to Jamie. TAKE HIM WITH YOU, I said as he pulled on his tennis clothes. He took the cat. I then ran downstairs and grabbed the dog. HIM TOO! I screamed. And Big Dog was behind me, AND HER! LET HER LEAD THEM ALL. I CAN'T TAKE IT! I CAN'T TAKE IT! I QUIT!
And that is when we had to go hit the punching bag.
And now I sit, calm, on the couch. Little Dog is under the blanket on my lap. Obnoxious Cat is behind my head on the couch, Big Dog is at my feet, and Elusive Kitty is hiding in the front room. I may have bruised knuckles, but we're all calm. Until Jamie comes back home again. And then I'm back to the bag.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Two steps forward, two steps back
Paula Abdul didn't exactly stun the world with a thunderbolt of untapped knowledge when she warbled that Opposites Attract. Everyone who has dated, or God forbid loved, an opposite knows the attraction is both a blessing and a curse. Sure, we balance one another out but we drive one another to the brink of insanity in the meantime.
My husband and I are opposite in most ways. He's tall, I'm short. I'm punctual, he's tardy. His glass continues to overflow while mine is, and always has been, bone-dry. On the other hand, we're both dreadful slobs who take Eat, Drink, and Be Merry to new places.
Despite being a bit of a shoe horse himself, The Hubs doesn't understand why it's imperative that a woman's closet include at least ten pairs of black shoes. He also think it's okay to wear pants that are too tight. He's wrong. Very, very wrong.
The Hubs fails to comprehend that God Days are the perfect union between Intelligent Design and Evolution. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to attend Sister Mary-Louise's sophomore year "God and You" lectures, I'll summarize. Basically, sure, evolution's all true: it took zillions of years for everything to develop just like science tells us. But the Creationists are also right that it only took a few days - a few God Days which are way longer than mere human days. I mean if you're Infinite, then what's a day? Just because we've arbitrarily decided on 24-hour days doesn't mean that's how God rolls. See? It all works and people can stop fussing over it already. Jeesh.
Geography, too, is a bit of a problem at our house. Having sailed all over the world, The Hubs actually cares where continents, countries, states, and cities are located. Me? Not so much. I tend to believe in more of a quadrant approach to geography. Quadagraphy, if you will. For instance, I could probably place about 75% of the states into the proper quadrant of a map. Ditto for continents. Admittedly, I would score substantially lower on assigning countries outside of Europe to quadrants. And waterways beyond the Atlantic, Pacific, and Mississippi? Nope. I view this as sort of a Dementia Surprise: each time it's "Oh look, that's where Latvia is! Huh, I didn't think it was there."
Fearing nothing, Dearest Spouse fails to understand my various phobias which include (but are not limited to): snakes, crowds, bridges, crazed midnight murderers, police, Gary Busey, highways, drowning, ghosts, hurricanes, dwarves, rats, and fire. These are specific fears that cannot be diagnosed as the Fear of Everything which is known as pantophobia. And I totally agree, how can pantophobia not be trouser-related?! Next you'll be telling me that agoraphobia isn't the fear of bunnies.
The phobia issue is timely because it's been so damn cold! Freezing to death, our kitten shuns his wee bed and prefers to snuggle with us. When Quinty elects to sleep on top of or beside me, there's no problem. But sleepless nights ensue when he decides to sleep near The Hubs. And for this I blame David Chase. If only Christopher had never accidentally killed Cosette, Adriana's little pooch! But, alas, he did. So now Sopranos-watching women all over the world fear for the lives of their small dogs and cats.
While I patiently explained The Cosette Phenomenon, The Hubs closed his eyes and grimaced in agony. Much the way he did when I taught him about God Days. Or shared why I can't watch Shadowlands. Or failed to know that Madagascar is the fourth largest island in the world. Or told him that his pants were too tight. I call this reaction The Face. If he believed in God, I'd swear that he's praying for patience, but he doesn't so it's not that. Maybe he's counting to ten. Maybe he's missing his ex-girlfriend. Maybe he's picturing the many ways he can dispose of my body after he cuts me into 10,000 Reeses-sized pieces. Who knows?
I'm just grateful that we still amuse one another. After all, if you can't laugh with someone, then at least you can laugh at them, right?
My husband and I are opposite in most ways. He's tall, I'm short. I'm punctual, he's tardy. His glass continues to overflow while mine is, and always has been, bone-dry. On the other hand, we're both dreadful slobs who take Eat, Drink, and Be Merry to new places.
Despite being a bit of a shoe horse himself, The Hubs doesn't understand why it's imperative that a woman's closet include at least ten pairs of black shoes. He also think it's okay to wear pants that are too tight. He's wrong. Very, very wrong.
The Hubs fails to comprehend that God Days are the perfect union between Intelligent Design and Evolution. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to attend Sister Mary-Louise's sophomore year "God and You" lectures, I'll summarize. Basically, sure, evolution's all true: it took zillions of years for everything to develop just like science tells us. But the Creationists are also right that it only took a few days - a few God Days which are way longer than mere human days. I mean if you're Infinite, then what's a day? Just because we've arbitrarily decided on 24-hour days doesn't mean that's how God rolls. See? It all works and people can stop fussing over it already. Jeesh.
Geography, too, is a bit of a problem at our house. Having sailed all over the world, The Hubs actually cares where continents, countries, states, and cities are located. Me? Not so much. I tend to believe in more of a quadrant approach to geography. Quadagraphy, if you will. For instance, I could probably place about 75% of the states into the proper quadrant of a map. Ditto for continents. Admittedly, I would score substantially lower on assigning countries outside of Europe to quadrants. And waterways beyond the Atlantic, Pacific, and Mississippi? Nope. I view this as sort of a Dementia Surprise: each time it's "Oh look, that's where Latvia is! Huh, I didn't think it was there."
Fearing nothing, Dearest Spouse fails to understand my various phobias which include (but are not limited to): snakes, crowds, bridges, crazed midnight murderers, police, Gary Busey, highways, drowning, ghosts, hurricanes, dwarves, rats, and fire. These are specific fears that cannot be diagnosed as the Fear of Everything which is known as pantophobia. And I totally agree, how can pantophobia not be trouser-related?! Next you'll be telling me that agoraphobia isn't the fear of bunnies.
The phobia issue is timely because it's been so damn cold! Freezing to death, our kitten shuns his wee bed and prefers to snuggle with us. When Quinty elects to sleep on top of or beside me, there's no problem. But sleepless nights ensue when he decides to sleep near The Hubs. And for this I blame David Chase. If only Christopher had never accidentally killed Cosette, Adriana's little pooch! But, alas, he did. So now Sopranos-watching women all over the world fear for the lives of their small dogs and cats.
While I patiently explained The Cosette Phenomenon, The Hubs closed his eyes and grimaced in agony. Much the way he did when I taught him about God Days. Or shared why I can't watch Shadowlands. Or failed to know that Madagascar is the fourth largest island in the world. Or told him that his pants were too tight. I call this reaction The Face. If he believed in God, I'd swear that he's praying for patience, but he doesn't so it's not that. Maybe he's counting to ten. Maybe he's missing his ex-girlfriend. Maybe he's picturing the many ways he can dispose of my body after he cuts me into 10,000 Reeses-sized pieces. Who knows?
I'm just grateful that we still amuse one another. After all, if you can't laugh with someone, then at least you can laugh at them, right?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Stuff
by tess
Years ago we moved from a large-ish single-story house with 2,600 sf of basement. That space was divided into: a very cold office that could have been used as a spare freezer for eight months a year, a "storage area" (defined by Mr. & Mrs. Packrat as "noun; Excuse to throw away absolutely nothing for years on end"), and a tool room/boat-building area.
Then we moved to Florida. You know, the place that doesn't have basements. So most of our assorted junk went into storage (which is sort of like the witness protection program for belongings, if you think about it). Then we got too cheap to pay the monthly storage fees. Rather than discarding any of the aforementioned crap, we bought shelves and forced it all into our vehicle-free two-car garage.
Now we keep a vat of Vaseline by the door that leads to the garage so that we can liberally slather ourselves before slithering sideways through the booby-trapped garage. One small step to the left or right will set off an avalanche of winter boots, cooking paraphernalia, scuba gear, archaic files, socket sets, and gardening gloves. Mowing the lawn each week requires a small army of gnomes to remove, re-stack, then restore the tubs of clothes, boxes of paperwork, and bags of gear fitting in and around the mower, whacker, edger, and blower.
And this is how we've lived for six years. An epiphany arrived last week in the form of Mike the Moving Estimator. He asked to see the garage, a space we had apparently forgotten existed. The Hubs and I glanced to the left, then the right, high atop the piles, and deep into their recesses. Then looked at one another and agreed, "Nope, this is all junk." And in that moment we recognized the enormity of our problem. With no shortage of belongings, we have apparently binged. And so begins the inevitable purge.
Aside from the ubiquitous collections of broken luggage, dead computers, mildewed books, pegged jeans, damaged furniture, and expired canned goods, our archaeological dig rendered a few artifacts of interest:
*Repair receipts for cars we haven't owned in a decade
*Drafts of college application essays
*Hundreds of pink plastic hangers
*An obscenely tarnished silver baby cup that once belonged to The Hubs
*Resumes dating back to Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch
*Billions of silverfish
*A loaded spearfishing gun
*Thermal paper that was at one time an important fax but is now a discolored roll of blank
*Skeletal remains of a lizard army and their opponents, the frog brigade
*Thank you notes featuring a (poor) rendering of Mick Jagger and his bong
*1991 Pennsylvania occupational taxes which may or may not have been filed
*A three foot tall plexiglass martini glass complete with huge plastic olive
Each Sunday night we pile our kitsch curbside and are amused to discover which belongings are rescued under cover of darkness. One gains a new perspective by watching long-held (and oft-moved) treasures be summarily rejected at the price of Free to a Good Home.
Years ago we moved from a large-ish single-story house with 2,600 sf of basement. That space was divided into: a very cold office that could have been used as a spare freezer for eight months a year, a "storage area" (defined by Mr. & Mrs. Packrat as "noun; Excuse to throw away absolutely nothing for years on end"), and a tool room/boat-building area.
Then we moved to Florida. You know, the place that doesn't have basements. So most of our assorted junk went into storage (which is sort of like the witness protection program for belongings, if you think about it). Then we got too cheap to pay the monthly storage fees. Rather than discarding any of the aforementioned crap, we bought shelves and forced it all into our vehicle-free two-car garage.
Now we keep a vat of Vaseline by the door that leads to the garage so that we can liberally slather ourselves before slithering sideways through the booby-trapped garage. One small step to the left or right will set off an avalanche of winter boots, cooking paraphernalia, scuba gear, archaic files, socket sets, and gardening gloves. Mowing the lawn each week requires a small army of gnomes to remove, re-stack, then restore the tubs of clothes, boxes of paperwork, and bags of gear fitting in and around the mower, whacker, edger, and blower.
And this is how we've lived for six years. An epiphany arrived last week in the form of Mike the Moving Estimator. He asked to see the garage, a space we had apparently forgotten existed. The Hubs and I glanced to the left, then the right, high atop the piles, and deep into their recesses. Then looked at one another and agreed, "Nope, this is all junk." And in that moment we recognized the enormity of our problem. With no shortage of belongings, we have apparently binged. And so begins the inevitable purge.
Aside from the ubiquitous collections of broken luggage, dead computers, mildewed books, pegged jeans, damaged furniture, and expired canned goods, our archaeological dig rendered a few artifacts of interest:
*Repair receipts for cars we haven't owned in a decade
*Drafts of college application essays
*Hundreds of pink plastic hangers
*An obscenely tarnished silver baby cup that once belonged to The Hubs
*Resumes dating back to Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch
*Billions of silverfish
*A loaded spearfishing gun
*Thermal paper that was at one time an important fax but is now a discolored roll of blank
*Skeletal remains of a lizard army and their opponents, the frog brigade
*Thank you notes featuring a (poor) rendering of Mick Jagger and his bong
*1991 Pennsylvania occupational taxes which may or may not have been filed
*A three foot tall plexiglass martini glass complete with huge plastic olive
Each Sunday night we pile our kitsch curbside and are amused to discover which belongings are rescued under cover of darkness. One gains a new perspective by watching long-held (and oft-moved) treasures be summarily rejected at the price of Free to a Good Home.
You'll shoot your eye out
by tess
We shared an uneventful holiday which is exactly the way we prefer them. No decorations. No children or extended family. No drama. Just another day hanging out together. By together, of course, I mean The Hubs in the office and my queen-size butt parked firmly in front of 62" of high-def Awesome. Ahhhh, togetherness!
So we don't do the tree thing. And although I love matchy-matchy trees - the kind that you just know Paris Hilton hires designers for - I also love trees that are anti-matchy. Tree playing the role of display vehicle for miscellanea never meant as ornaments. Tree as anti-establishment, anti-holiday retrospective that expresses one's essence rather than manufactured joy or commercialized cheer. In short, a wickedly cool tree that we're nowhere near super-hip enough to create.
2010 marks the sixteenth year in a row that The Hubs and I have failed to rock out with Dick Clark and his Amazing Dropping Ball of Destiny and Renewal. We celebrated in our own quiet way. I struggled through the final hour of 2009 watching some idiot cook something. And as a new decade began, I glanced over to see the drool spilling from my beloved's lips, down his chin, and onto his dirty t-shirt. Three Two One. Happy New Year!
We shared an uneventful holiday which is exactly the way we prefer them. No decorations. No children or extended family. No drama. Just another day hanging out together. By together, of course, I mean The Hubs in the office and my queen-size butt parked firmly in front of 62" of high-def Awesome. Ahhhh, togetherness!
So we don't do the tree thing. And although I love matchy-matchy trees - the kind that you just know Paris Hilton hires designers for - I also love trees that are anti-matchy. Tree playing the role of display vehicle for miscellanea never meant as ornaments. Tree as anti-establishment, anti-holiday retrospective that expresses one's essence rather than manufactured joy or commercialized cheer. In short, a wickedly cool tree that we're nowhere near super-hip enough to create.
2010 marks the sixteenth year in a row that The Hubs and I have failed to rock out with Dick Clark and his Amazing Dropping Ball of Destiny and Renewal. We celebrated in our own quiet way. I struggled through the final hour of 2009 watching some idiot cook something. And as a new decade began, I glanced over to see the drool spilling from my beloved's lips, down his chin, and onto his dirty t-shirt. Three Two One. Happy New Year!
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Stupid Things on TV
The Boy is gone for the day and I'm sick, so I've had entirely too many hours spent watching Lifetime. Lifetime Movie Network is really just a string of long Public Service Announcements for women. For example, today I have learned that:
You should not marry a man you have known for three days because he really just wants you to bear him a son so he can inherit millions of dollars (and then kill you).
You should not believe your husband when he tells you his best friend has been stalking you and that he truly loves you because really he's having a mad affair and he's after your money (so he's going to kill you).
If your husband tells you he has left you and has gone off to commit suicide (therefore killing himself instead of you), you should make sure to see a body. Because it's highly, highly likely that he's freaked out and faked his death so he can start a new life (without you) (but at least he didn't kill you, so...)
If your husband really wanted a boy and you have a girl.... well. I'm sure you can follow the pattern. The lesson is clear: all men are trying to kill you.
But that's not what I found so stupid today. What made me fall off of my chair laughing was the new Taco Bell ad in which a woman says she needs to be realistic about her weight-loss program and therefore, her "diet" will have to involve fast food, but she's going to eat at Taco Bell because they have a new lower-fat menu. Notice that it's lower fat. Not low fat. Humongous difference.
But the best part of the day was when I saw Sully pitching a Sham-Wow-type mop. He drops an entire can of soda on the floor and then, to demonstrate how wonderful his mop is, he swiftly absorbs everything with a few quick swipes. But that's not the part. THE BEST PART is when he talks about the tough economic times and the importance of being thrifty and not wasteful. Which is fine. Or would be, were he not saying this while squeezing the entire can of soda he just mopped up into a glass.
That's when I had to change the channel. Just a little too much to accept.
You should not marry a man you have known for three days because he really just wants you to bear him a son so he can inherit millions of dollars (and then kill you).
You should not believe your husband when he tells you his best friend has been stalking you and that he truly loves you because really he's having a mad affair and he's after your money (so he's going to kill you).
If your husband tells you he has left you and has gone off to commit suicide (therefore killing himself instead of you), you should make sure to see a body. Because it's highly, highly likely that he's freaked out and faked his death so he can start a new life (without you) (but at least he didn't kill you, so...)
If your husband really wanted a boy and you have a girl.... well. I'm sure you can follow the pattern. The lesson is clear: all men are trying to kill you.
But that's not what I found so stupid today. What made me fall off of my chair laughing was the new Taco Bell ad in which a woman says she needs to be realistic about her weight-loss program and therefore, her "diet" will have to involve fast food, but she's going to eat at Taco Bell because they have a new lower-fat menu. Notice that it's lower fat. Not low fat. Humongous difference.
But the best part of the day was when I saw Sully pitching a Sham-Wow-type mop. He drops an entire can of soda on the floor and then, to demonstrate how wonderful his mop is, he swiftly absorbs everything with a few quick swipes. But that's not the part. THE BEST PART is when he talks about the tough economic times and the importance of being thrifty and not wasteful. Which is fine. Or would be, were he not saying this while squeezing the entire can of soda he just mopped up into a glass.
That's when I had to change the channel. Just a little too much to accept.
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