When my daughter invited her best friend (who happens to be Jewish) to come to the Halloween party at our church, and I assured her hesitant parents the only religion she would be exposed to would be a prayer over the food, her father said to me, "I guess it's all right... as long as you don't try and convert her."
Of course I responded with, "Curses! My secret plan to bring your daughter unto Jesus has been foiled! And it was all falling into place, too!" channeling the always amusing and deliciously evil Mr. Burns. No, really. I find myself very amusing, you see. I may have cackled a bit and rubbed my hands together in maniacal glee. Perhaps. It's all a blur now... I'm just saying it's a possibility, okay?! Gosh! Let it go.
Imagine my surprise when they looked at me in unadulterated, wide-eyed alarm. It was at this precise moment that it occurred to me that perhaps it was time for me to hone my Bullshit Detection skills.
Because apparently her parents actually did believe that celebrating a secular holiday in the gymnasium at the local church-- wherein young revelers dress up in spooky disguises, visit carnival booths, take part in cake walks, scream themselves hoarse in Spook Alley, and finally round out the evening by trunk-or-treating in the parking lot-- really WAS a prime opportunity for proselytizing unsuspecting Jewish children and ripping them forever from their faith in living a religious life in accordance with Scriptures and rabbinic traditions. You know, what with the candy and the cookies and the makeshift baptismal font standing at the ready in the far corner of the gymnasium and all?
Huh. Say it with me now: Awkward.
I am happy to report, however, that in the end I was able to talk them around and they did allow their daughter to attend the Halloween party with Hannah. Fortunately I had the good sense to keep a close watch over the girls, and except for this one tricky moment when a few overzealous Christians attempted to convince her that the baptismal font was a dunking booth, the evening went off without a hitch and she was returned home safe, happy, and admittedly a tad sugared up, but as far as I could tell still totally Jewish.
I am heretofore still an untapped talent. It's a crying shame, really. But in honor of Mrtl's Motif Monday, click here for my shining moment in the spotlight, my 15 minutes. Which, incidentally, only felt like 12 or something but whatever.link | posted by Cat at 8:28 AM
-- I am still loving my job. Like, seriously LOVING it, which is a first, I tell you what. I can't believe I was teaching English to those wacky, moody teenagers for all those years when I could have been doing this. Take THAT [insert karate chop here], stupid college advisor. YOU SUCK, Dr. Fitzmaurice!
-- I am loving the whole soccer mom thing. I am a soccer mom. A SOCCER MOM! Who would have guessed? I don't drive a minivan or SUV with a My Child is an Honor Student! bumper sticker, nor do I wear big hair and religiously attend PTA meetings. But I do drive my daughter to soccer practice every week! Except for yesterday because I totally forgot.
-- Um, let's see... I've finally figured out how to program music in my iPod. Woo! Yay, me! Now if I could just figure out how to download my pictures to it, I'd be golden.
-- I've lost some weight recently, which has caused one of my coworkers to dub me "Calista." You know, as in Calista Flockhart? Whatev. This, in my opinion, is 1) pretty damn rude, and B) so 90's of her. I mean Good God, woman! At least pick someone current, like an Olsen twin or Nicole Ritchie! Geez. Hello?! It's called pop culture, people! *snap* *snap* KEEP. UP.
-- In honor of the season, I have attached a picture of my children in their Halloween costumes. Because it's friggin' cute, okay?! GOSH!
-- Huh. Apparently, I totally need to straighten the painting in my front room.
-- Alli is concerned that her Disney Belle (from Beauty and the Beast) costume may be too immodest-- or risque, if you will-- because quite a bit of 6-year-old shoulder is exposed. Here is my concern: how is this modesty-obsessed child the fruit of my loins? Me! Lover of mini skirts, bikinis, and inappropriately lowcut shirts (I'm talking back in the day, not now, geez...)? Is it possible she is a changeling? Switched at birth?! Good freaking heavens.
-- Incidentally, Alli is also concerned about Hannah, who she is sure will be forcibly ejected from the church Halloween party tomorrow night. You know, because she is the devil? Well, not the Devil, just a devil. A super cute one! Just wanted to clarify. This was Hannah's own choice, by the way. The Fairy Princess thing was tired, she told me. Well, not in those exact words. That would have been weird. But kind of funny, right? "Hey, Mom! Being a fairy princess is wack, yo?! I wanna be LUCIFER!" I have assured both girls that if anyone tries to kick out my cute little devil, all she has to do is start damning them all to hell, and they will SO leave her alone.
-- Hannah suggested I be a Smartie Pants for Halloween, which would entail taping a bunch of Smarties packs all over my jeans. She's a keeper, that one. I am seriously considering it, although I am afraid the candy may attract all the toddlers in the room, who will spot the goodies and attach their slobbery selves to my legs, rendering me immobile and unable to participate in the annual Donut Bite contest. Which would be tragic.
-- Although I personally think a Naughty Pilgrim costume would be hella cute, I don't think people would care for it at the church Halloween party. Eh, whatcha gonna do?
If it is wrong of me to fantasize about buying, oh, say three dozen Krispy Kreme donuts only to strip naked and roll around in their sticky, glazed goodness, all the while shouting "Mwah ha, ha, ha, ha! They're MINE! All MINE!! Mwah ha ha!" and shoving as much gooey pastry into my mouth as is humanly possible when one is rolling all around in said Krispy Kreme donuts, oh, and without gaining even an ounce of weight (due to the aerobic nature of the fantasy, naturally), then baby... I SO do not want to be right.
That being said, I'm friggin' hungry, y'all.
Let's face it, gals. Guys use 'em. And I'm thinking either there are some desperate, seriously stupid women out there, or men just have not figured out that we KNOW.
"We have a connection, I can feel it."
translation: "I want to get in your pants."
"Do you know karate? 'Cuz damn it honey, your body is really kickin'!"
translation: "I want to get in your pants."
"I think I could fall madly in love with you."
translation: "I want to get in your pants."
"Hey, I lost my phone number, can I have yours?"
translation: "I want your phone number so I can call you, take you out, and get in your pants."
"Hey baby, there's a party in my pants and you are invited."
transla-- okay, that one is not so much a line as it is a reason to slap a guy upside the head.
But the following line-- which was once used on an actual date I went on with an actual guy who actually thought it would lead to some actual ACTION-- is quite possibly the Stupidest Kissing Line EVER.
(Disclaimer: The following interchange occurred when I was young and naive and new to the dating game, so don't hold my voluntary participation against me, mm'kay?)
Let me set the scene:
Dorky Date and I were just at that awkward "will he or won't he?" moment at the front door, after a fun-filled night of bowling. I had never been bowling before. I bowled a 33. Shut up. I am not the most gracious loser, I will admit, but my date beat me by, like, 200 points! And gloated! GLOATED, y'all! (Guys, do not gloat if you want action. Heed my words.) And besides the gloating, the boy owned his own pair of (fugly) bowling shoes, a circumstance which I found sort of skeevy.
"Have you ever had a lollipop kiss?" Dorky Date asked.
"Um, nope," was my terse, hopefully off-putting reply.
No such luck. Dorky Date leaned in close to my face, as if to kiss me. A half-inch from my lips he stopped and whispered, "Sucker."
Okay. Sort of amusing, right? And his dorky lips did not actually make contact with my own reluctant ones, so BONUS!
I laughed gratuitously, thanked him for the date, and was about to escape into my house, when he stopped me.
"Have you ever had a Coca-Cola kiss?"
I'm thinking, Buddy, you are pressing your luck, but whatever. Humor him, I thought, and soon he will go away. Maybe Carson was still on...
"Can't say that I have."
He leaned in and I waited for the punchline.
CONTACT! He made actual contact with his dorky lips! And his dorky tongue!
I pushed him away, and gave him my best What the hell do you think you are doing?! glare, but he was impervious.
"The 'real thing,'" he drawled, and, I kid you not, WIGGLED his eyebrows at me. WIGGLED them! I did not even think that was literally possible! But it IS!
Looking back, I see this was the perfect opportunity for The Sneer, but all I remember is rushing into the house and slamming the door.
Yep. Stupidest. Kissing line. EVER.
Let this be a lesson to us all.
(This week, Mrtl's motif is worst date. Hmm. Which to share, which to share... And yes, I'm playing late. Deal.)
Not happy with simply making my junior high years a living hell by refusing to drive me to school, instead forcing me to ride the bus (overrun with cowboys who sat at the back spitting chewing tobacco on the floor, so every time the bus stopped you had to lift your feet, if you catch my meaning), when I hit high school my parents imposed a strict No Dating Until You Are Sixteen policy. You know, to make my high school years a little MORE surreal.
Of course, senseless rules such as these are made to be broken, or at least circumnavigated. I had my first "official" date when I was barely fifteen-- meaning he actually asked me OUT; we weren't just "going together" which usually involved note passing between classes and holding hands in the hallway-- a date which was comprised of a pizza party with friends, lots of JOLT soda ("All the Sugar and Twice the Caffeine!"), and a clandestine meeting with my crush at the movie theater. The 'rents were oblivious.
I remember it like it was yesterday. We saw Some Kind of Wonderful. And by "we," I mean me and my date sitting on the aisle seats, with four or five of my girlfriends and a few guy friends running down the rest of the row. I must admit that imbibing sugary, over-caffeinated beverages before meeting my date? Not the sharpest decision I have ever made. When I belched, as one is wont to do after consuming massive quantities of a carbonated beverage, did I blurt out an embarrassed, yet-oh-so maidenly, "Oh my! Pardon me!"? Nope. As I recall, I leaned across my date and did the thumb to forehead thing. You know the one. An entire row of teenagers raced to get their thumbs to their foreheads, not wanting to be the last. I can't remember who lost, but I DO remember shouting, "You ate it!" Oh, yes I did.
Shut up. Caffeine. Sugar. Do the math.
During the admittedly hawt kissing scene ("I know it's a stretch, but try it...") which made my cheeks flush and my stomach hurt in a new, interesting way, my date busted out the Looks Like I'm Stretching But Oopsy! There Goes My Arm! manoeuver. The squeals from the peanut gallery were a little embarrassing, but at least they were sharing my proud moment of boyfriendliness. And his arm stayed put throughout the rest of the movie. Which, because I have seen Grease one (or a couple hundred) too many times, was causing me a small amount of anxiety. You know, because of that scene at the drive-in with Sandy and Danny and the Wandering Hand?
After the show, he walked me to my friend's car (where everybody huddled pretending not to look while totally looking) and then he leaned in to give me my very first kiss. Muffled squeals floated through the night air from the direction of my friend's car and just as I was beginning to stress about whether or not he could hear all seven or eight of my soon-to be-ex friends acting like COMPLETE MORONS, his father pulled up. I am not kidding, his dad's headlights cast the brightest spotlight EVER upon us just as our lips met. How's that for karma? So, yeah, it was a quick kiss. No tongue. I felt gypped.
(Oh, wait! The motif was worst date, not first date! My bad... Although, to be fair, that was quite possibly HIS Worst Date Ever.)
Worst date. Gotcha.
So, I had this list, y'all. At the tender age of seventeen I decided that I wanted to date at least one hundred different guys before I even thought of getting married. Um, because everyone I knew was getting married? Like, right after high school? And having babies? And I was like, "Uh-UH!"? I made it to 149, and then I met TGIM. The rest, as they say, is history.
Wait. I am talking DATES, here, people, not "relationships" (read: sexual congress). Geez. What am I, a slut? If I went out with a guy, his name went on the list, whether it was just one date to a kegger where he found out I wouldn't get drunk and put out, or if it was twenty dates to nightclubs, movies, dinners, parties, what have you, before I dumped his ass because I didn't want to "get serious" (commitment issues? me? what?) I mean, good lord, people! Get your minds out of the gutter. I only made-out with, like, 92 of them or something! (Just kidding, Mom! No, really. Totally joking.) I put little stars next to their names if we... Whatever. All I'm saying is there's this list, okay?
So, anyhoos, at around number 132, I went out with this guy. Oh, let's call him Gary. Gary G. Because that is his name and if he's out there by damn I hope he is reading this and sees the proverbial light and rushes out to get the professional help he so desperately needs because DUDE! He was (as my Tater says, her cute little pointer finger twirling her hair) CUCKOO.
Dinner. Fine. Perfect gentleman. Okay, sure, there was something a little... off about the way he talked-- he had this little lip curl, sneer thing going on-- but I was willing to deal. He was pretty cute. And you should have seen the guns on this boy! And yes, I am that shallow. Then he was all, "Do you mind if we go back to my place before the movie?" and I was like, "Okay, sure, whatever," and you would think by guy number 132 I would have known better but I was actually still pretty darn naive and never could have GUESSED... but I get ahead of myself.
So we went back to his place and I was sitting on the couch waiting for him to come out of his bedroom, when I heard the pulsing beat of Burning Love come on in the next room. I remember thinking to myself, Hmm, an Elvis fan, and then I took a good look around the room and I noticed something else a little off about this guy: his bachelor pad decor. I don't know, y'all. Maybe it was the framed Elvis photographs, or the Elvis tapestry hanging on the wall that began to freak me out. Or perhaps the Elvis Presley Boulevard street sign, or possibly even the stitched pillow with an Elvis portrait, and the assortment of "I [Heart] Elvis" pins on the coffee table, contained in a bowl featuring a picture of Graceland on it. I don't know, but whatever it was, I was found myself wondering, half-jokingly, but kind of NOT, if I would find flyaway collars, capes, bell bottoms, and the spangled Aloha jumpsuit hanging in his closet.
This is a question for the ages because just as I was beginning to feel more than a little uncomfortable, Gary's bedroom door flew open and he burst out-- cradling an ACTUAL MICROPHONE in hand, his other arm thrown up in the air, I kid you not!-- and he began to serenade me.
"Your kisses life me higher, like the sweet song of a choir!..."
Wow. The sneer and lip curl thing? Totally making sense about then. So did the countless drawled "baby's" during dinner which I had overlooked due to the whole hotness and awesome guns thing. Me. Shallow. Get over it. Dude had even styled his hair in a pretty darn good likeness to the King's 'do (during his early years, pre-enlistment). I began to edge off the couch, but Gary suddenly grabbed my hand and dropped down on one knee in front of me, effectively blocking my escape.
"... You light my morning sky, with burning LOVE!"
I watched in wide-eyed horror as he continued singing to me (and, to be fair, he wasn't half bad), and suddenly those guns? Not so hot anymore. I was rethinking the shallow, I tell you what, and by the time he got to "I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love!" I was seriously freaking out. Thankfully he had to stand up and release my hand to "bring it home," so to speak, complete with rhythmic hip-thrusting, so I was able to spring off the couch and start walking toward the door. SLOWLY. So as not to anger the Psycho.
The music ended and he looked at me, sneered, then drawled, "Thank you. Thank you very much."
Oh, yes he did.
I can't remember exactly what I babbled out as an excuse, but it involved cramps, a headache, with food poisoning thrown in for good measure, but he had obviously heard this song and dance before because he was all, "Don't be cruel, baby," and I was like "GAH!" and I ran out of his apartment to the nearest pay phone and called-- gosh, SOMEONE, I don't even remember who!-- and I told that someone to come pick me the hell up, and I meant RIGHT NOW! Came to find out that this weirdo serenaded all his prospective girlfriends, and I was all "Why the HELL didn't you TELL me?!" And the answer would be? BECAUSE MY FRIENDS FREAKING SUCK. Honestly, guys. Friends do NOT let friends date psycho Elvis stalkers/impersonators. Am I right? Gosh!
I think Gary is in Vegas now, but that's just a guess.
So, yeah. Worst. Date. EVER.
On the bright side, however, I did manage to snag an "I [Heart] Elvis" pin before making good my escape. Huh. I wonder what ever happened to that thing?
ETA: Yes, Jenny, as a matter of fact this WAS the same guy who later asked me if I thought less of him because of what he did. "I couldn't possibly think less of you..." I assured him, to which he replied, "Oh, good." Poor, POOR good-looking boy, indeed. Dumb as a box of rocks.
1. When a person loses weight, all her/his pants suddenly grow longer. No! For reals.
2. If you totally by accident drive your car the wrong way down a one-way street because you are sort of lost and don't know your way around the freaking city, people get mad at you. And honk and stuff. Rude.
3. Sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you really, really don't.
4. When someone is being a complete jackass and you ask him "What the hell is your problem?!" you are not really expecting him to answer. But if he does? It is usually in his best interest to back away... slowly...
5. If you put microwave popcorn in with the "This Side Up" side face down, it still pops. Hey, I'm just saying I don't see what all the fuss is about.
I always thought there was nothing that could even remotely come close to the excruciating agony and frustration inherent in the act of attempting to get medicine down a reluctant child's throat. YOU know: the begging, the bribing, the loud talking, the nose plugging, the crying and screaming, the prying open of tightly pursed lips, the tackling and holding down of a screeching child, the sticky, gooey mess getting everywhere but in the child's mouth, the dry-heaving and gagging... Are you familiar with the drill?
A close second would, of course, be the sliver removal process, with loose-tooth removal trailing in at a distant third. (No, really. My kids totally FREAK when TGIM pulls out the plyers. I know, right?! Weird.)
Well, apparently the newly introduced wart-be-gone process has surpassed expectations and superceded all of the above, skyrocketing to the top of the list of Things I SO Would Rather Not Do But Must Because I Am The Momma. You see, my youngest-- a robust six-year-old drama queen-- has a wart. An icky, cauliflowery, growing-bigger-every-day wart right on her cute little wrist. I won't lie to you: it's not pretty, y'all. She absolutely did not get that from MY side of the family! (*cough* TGIM! *cough*) Okay, I am totally lying. It is a distinct possibility that I had a wart once. Maybe twice. I don't know. It's all so hazy now... But I DO remember the cool medicine! That stuff was RAD!
(Although it makes for good dinner party conversation, I didn't feel it was necessary to bring up the time my sister Jenny discovered a wart on her hand, and growing impatient with the wart-be-gone medicating process, ripped that sucker off with tweezers! Oh, ho, HO! Yes she DID! I thought it might be a little much, you know? Hey now, stop with the gagging, I SAID I didn't tell her! Geez.)
So I told my daughter how when I was a little girl I applied this super neat liquid mediciney stuff to my wart and it bubbled up and turned a pretty, creamy, whitish color, and peeled off another layer of the wart every time I applied it, and didn't that sound cool and totally painless and like something that she absolutely should not freak out about because it was going to be fun?! And painless?! And completely non-freak-out worthy?!
Then TGIM came into the picture. Dear, sweet, naive TGIM. He brought home the medicine and very calmly explained to my suspicious six-year-old drama queen that the wart medicine was Compound W (Equate brand-- shop the sale!-- but why get into that with a child?), which is a form of salicylic acid. Then, in a move unfathomable even to me, he proceeded to expound upon the subject of acids: the definition of acid, the many merits of acid, how there are many varied types and levels of acid, how acid can be used to burn, dissolve, or eat away at things, and how "Wow! Did you know even orange juice has acid in it?!"
Okay. Not only will my children not be drinking orange juice any time in the foreseeable future, but I'm pretty sure the only other part of TGIM's lecture my daughter fully grasped was the "burn, dissolve, and eat away at things" part because when TGIM whipped out that bottle of special liquid mediciney stuff to begin the wart-be-gone process? ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.
There was begging and bribing and loud talking and screaming and kicking and crying and struggling and tackling and holding down. (Due to my tenacity and superior wrestling skillz, I am the holder-downer in the family.) At this point TGIM pulled out the dropper and the medicine was finally dripped onto that stupid little wart. One drip... Two drips... a lull in the madness... then--
Good lord that child can yell.
Cries of "It burns! It BURNS! IT BUUUUURRRRNNNSSSS!!!"echoed through the house. My other two children looked on in wide-eyed horror, likely thinking, Note to self: Never EVER tell Momma and Dad if I find a wart anywhere on my body. Never ever! Never EVER!
So there I was holding my cutie-pie's arm steady so she wouldn't do something foolish like, I don't know, take a swing at me or try to wipe the medicine off or something, and TGIM was busy blowing on the medicine in a valiant attempt to help it bubble and dry faster, and I kept asking, "Are you sure it's burning? Like, stinging burning or really burning? REALLY burning? Because I don't remember it ever burning... Are you SURE it's burning?" which is of course not so much with the comforting, but really. I don't remember it burning.
Then she changed tacks and started in with, "It's touching my SKIN! It's touching my SKIN!" and I realized that she thought it was going to burn her skin, and I was all, "Dude! You got it on her SKIN?!" which again? Not so much with the comforting. I may have exacerbated the situation a bit. Perhaps. So TGIM ran to get some tissue while I hugged and tried to comfort my wailing baby girl, and then it happened.
"I WANT TO GO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!" my panic-stricken daughter cried out at the top of her lungs.
Have you ever had a moment, just a split second, when time seemed to stop? Like, an utter silence, crickets chirping, time freeze sort of thing? Because y'all? This was one of those moments. No crying, no speaking, NO MOVING. Just dropped jaws. And, it being evening and all, I am pretty sure I heard actual crickets chirping.
Then the moment was over. Time resumed its natural course.
I stopped rubbing my daugher's back and fell away from her a bit to stare her in the face incredulously. "You 'want to go home'?" I asked as everyone erupted into giggles around me. "You 'want to go HOME'?!"
She couldn't help it. Her tear-soaked face broke into a smile as she burst out laughing. TGIM grinned and went into action, coming over to wipe away the medicine that had seeped off the wart onto her delicate skin, while every so often her brother or sister would mock-wail "I want to go home!" and they would all begin giggling again.
Honestly. What a drama queen. My silly little six-year-old drama queen. And guess what is the best part of all this?! Just GUESS!
That's right, y'all. We get to do the wart-be-gone process all over again tonight. Yeppers.
What I wouldn't give to be medicating a good, solid case of sore throat with cough due to cold about now.
Members of the Parents Television Council ("Because Our Children Are Watching!") who were probably outraged and incredulous that such an evil, eeeeeeevil gesture in the form of Logan flashing The Shocker made it past UPN network censors onto an episode of Veronica Mars, probably REALLY can't believe that last night, when Veronica asked Weevil-- Neptune's PCH lead biker gang dude-- what happened to "that disco ball" he usually wore in his ear (Weevil likes the bling-bling, yo?), Weevil replied, "Probably stuck in some girl's shag carpet."
You know what I can't believe? I can't believe I JUST got that, that's what! How clueless am I? And HEE! And ew.
Gosh. I learn so much from watching television.
When one is wearing heels to work it is vitally important to remember that objects may now be further away than they appear. For instance, when in heels one might want to recalculate the distance of bum to toilet seat, as misjudging the distance may lead to dropping trou and squatting, then momentarily losing one's bearings when the toilet seat does not meet said bum at the expected time, causing a split second of sheer, unadulterated terror, leading to involuntary screeching and frantic air-scrabbling, followed by a jolt, a gasp, and a rather painful smacking of terrorized bum onto the aforementioned toilet seat.
That being said, I think I've bruised my bum, y'all.
Let this be a lesson to you all.
I think the prize for Most Entertaining 60 Minutes Ever Seen on Network Television would have to go, hands down, to the 107th episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, entitled "Once More With Feeling."
When I first heard that Joss Whedon was writing a musical episode of Buffy, I was like, "OMG, what is he SMOKING?!" But he and the cast blew me away. Not only did Joss write the lyrics to be in keeping with the snappy dialogue and hilarious quirkiness that fans are accustomed to in Buffy, but the music was actually good. Like, amazingly good. No, really. There's a soundtrack if you don't believe me! And the cast even sang their own parts, which had to be scary for the few who were NOT trained singers. Can you imagine?
Anyhoos, I just re-watched this episode again last night (eDonkey! Totally my friend! Not that I would EVER download pirated shows or music! That's BAD!) and I can't get the stinking songs out of my head! I'm thinking maybe writing about it will help, so here goes nothing:
In this episode it seems that all the people in Sunnydale are forced to sing about their inner feelings, including a man praising his dry-cleaning as Buffy peeks out onto the street. Hee. One of the most hilarious songs comes about while the Scooby Gang is trying to figure out why the hell they are breaking into song and dance every few minutes.
Buffy: So did anybody... last night, you know, did anybody, um... burst into song?
Xander: Merciful Zeus!
Willow: We thought it was just us!
[all speaking at once]
Giles: Well, I sang, but I had my guitar at the hotel. That would explain the huge backing orchestra I couldn't see, and the synchronized dancing from the room-service chaps.
Willow: It was bizarre.
Tara: We were talking, and then it was like...
Buffy: Like you were in a musical?
Willow: We did a whole duet about dueling mushrooms...
Anya: ...and we were arguing and then everything rhymed and there were harmonies, and a dance with coconuts.
Willow: ...with the couscous.
Xander: It was very disturbing.
Then Anya, an ex-demon with and unnatural fear of one of the cutest, most non-threatening animals in existence, has a theory, which she shares with the group in the best rock opera song EVAH!
Anya: I've got a theory, it could be bunnies...
-- all pause and stare-- [crickets chirp] -- then --
Tara: I've got a theor--
Anya: Bunnies aren't just cute like everybody supposes!
They've got them hoppy legs and twitchy little noses!
And what's with all the carrots?!
What do they need such good eyesight for anyway?!
Bunnies! Bunnies! It must be BUNNIES!
... or maybe midgets...
(Anya singing "Bunnies")
Oh my gosh, I laughed so hard I almost fell of my chair! There are strobe lights and rockin' music and crazy air guitaring and oh my lord it is just the funniest thing ever! (For the audio, feel free to click HERE, then scroll down to "Listen to Samples": #3)
And the scene where Buffy is confronting the Demon that caused all the craziness in the first place, and Giles tells Tara and Anya that "Buffy needs backup" and they run to her and literally begin singing backup?! That joke NEVER gets old, I tell you what! Woo! (#15)
Hey... I think it worked, y'all! YES! I was totally about to --
Satisfied Dry-Cleaning Customer: [dancing in the street] They got the mustard OOOOOOUUUUUUUUT! (#4)
Buffy: [closes the door]: It's not just us.
My mother has big boobs. No, really. We're talking ha-YUGE! So not kidding! When I was a little girl, I used to sit around just staring at them, thinking, "Woo-hoo! Squooshy!" As I got older I had more of an "Oh my LORD, how will I carry those suckers around?" reaction to them, but as luck would have it, when fate Bob Barkered the old genetic wheel, I did not win the double D grand prize package, worth a whopping FOUR YEARS of assured high school popularity with the boys. Nope. I stayed just as flat as God made me.
For the most part, I was fine with my lot (or lack) in life. I had grown up listening to my mother joke that she could not run or jump around for exercise because she would either give herself two black eyes or just knock herself unconscious, so I awaited the advent of my Monstrous Breast with trepidation. But in a quirky twist of fate, none of my mother's daughters inherited The Boobs. Now I can't speak for my sisters, but despite the social pressures to acquire cleavage through any means necessary, I personally breathed a sigh of relief. I was pretty athletic and as a gymnast and cheerleader I did a lot of flipping around. Obviously a bigger rack may have made that... oh, let's say "uncomfortable." So no biggie! Or, uh, smallie, as the case may be.
Now, admittedly, there have been approximately three times in my life when I did get a little bustier, a tad more mammiferous, if you will. Oh, yes I DID. Of course, each instance of my newfound boobaliciousness came with a kid attached, but hey! What women won't do for bigger boobs, eh?! Those things are POWER!
Whatever. All I know is that my shirts were suddenly too tight in the bust and when I tried to exercise? Things jiggled. JIGGLED! That was new, and quite frankly, unacceptable. I have a strict No Jiggling Policy. However, though I did not care for the working boobs, I loved the bond I felt with my babies when I fed them, not to mention the convenience, so I powered through. And everyone loves big boobs, right?! I mean Hooters is still in business, right?! Boobs = Good Times!
Not so much, actually. On one occasion I was shopping at the mall with my two-year-old son and newborn daughter, and lo and behold, my baby girl, she grew hungry. Babies tend to do that. And when my baby girl grew hungry, well, she let me KNOW about it. So I sat down on a bench in the middle of the mall, gave my son a book and toy to keep him entertained, put my daughter under a receiving blanket I had thrown over my shoulder and proceeded to feed her some boobaliciously tasty lunch. Because that is what mothers do when their babies are hungry. They feed them. Circle of life and all that shizz.
Now let me be clear. I did not pull a Janet Jackson, ripping open my shirt and whipping out my breast. I did not call out, "Yoo-hoo! Lookit! BOOOOOOOBS!" Honestly! The bigger-than-life posters of near-naked busty women in lingerie that plastered the window of Victoria's Secret were showing more boob than I was! I did not flash even the least bit of skin. But you know what? I might as well have done all those things for all the respect being modest got me.
Dirty looks. Whispers. Raised eyebrows. Pointing. And let me point out that these were not the teenagers, either. I was not even a blip on their radar. No, these Rudesby MacNasties were the adults in the mall. And I am playing fast and loose with the word "adults" here because RUDE. One woman actually approached me-- APPROACHED ME-- and demanded that I "take that into the bathroom or go home" as she did not want her son exposed to me and my working breasts, that I should be ashamed for "doing that" in public, and that she was going to talk to Mall Security about my public nudity.
Oh, no she did NOT.
Oh, ho, ho... Had my impressionable young son not been sitting next to me, I would have unleashed my inner bitch and let fly some variant of "Now listen, biznitch, you better step off or I WILL cut you!", but I reined it in and very sweetly said something to the effect of "Are you freaking kidding me?! Get away from me!" I was not about to be told that I had to go sit in some stinky bathroom stall to feed my daughter so as not to offend some random, severely repressed woman with Boob Issues. If she was so concerned about her son possibly seeing with his x-ray eyes that I was feeding a baby WITH MY BOOBIES under the blanket I had over us, well, then she could damn well take him into the bathroom and they could eat their lunch in a stall.
She left in a huff, but truthfully? I was shaken. Should I not have gone out in public-- to the mall, to restaurants, to church-- with a child whose only nourishment came from me? Should I have holed up in my house until my daughter was weaned? I was relatively new to the whole breastfeeding thing, as my son stubbornly refused anything but the quick flow of the bottle, and I felt uncertain of my rights. But I was VERY certain that woman was a bitch.
Was I wrong? Should I have been uncomfortable nursing in public? Because THAT'S WHAT BOOBS ARE FOR! I know, I know, there's the whole Horizontal Mambo Factor, but I think we can all agree that biologically speaking that is their SECONDARY function. And a damn good one, too, you know what I'm sayin'? Oh ho, ho, I think you DO! Just the other night TGIM was doing this thing-- well, never mind what he was doing. The hell?! That's none of your freaking beeswax! GOSH! Nosy!
But I digress.
After that I defiantly nursed in public. No one ever approached me again-- which could possibly be attributed to the wicked fierce stare I cultivated for just such an occasion-- but there were still the dirty looks, the whispers, the raised eyebrows, the pointing.
(steps up on soapbox) I can't help but wonder how a society that glorifies sex-- in our media, movies, television shows, magazines, music-- can be so uneasy with a natural nurturing act between a mother and her child. I was ASTOUNDED to learn that only about half of the states in the United States have legislation that protects women from being kicked out of public places for breastfeeding. BREASTFEEDING! *sigh* Freaking hell, people. We still have a long way to go. (/steps down from soapbox)
Now, the big boobs? They are a distant memory, which is just fine by me. Yes, sir. I am pleased to report that my shirts fit much better now. And the No Jiggling Policy? Totally reinstated and strictly enforced.
And let's face it: my mother's humongous boobs more than compensate for any shortcomings my sisters and I have in that department. Good lord, those suckers are huge. Thanks, Mom!
You know you have seen A Christmas Story one too many times when you realize it is virtually impossible for you to walk past a box at work marked "FRAGILE" without reading it as "Frah-GEE-lay."link | posted by Cat at 12:31 PM
If you still aren't watching Veronica Mars?... You are SO missing out. Yep.
That is all.
Whoa. Hey! Did you know there are five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes in a year? That's how you measure a year in the life. (Anyone? Anyone? Nothing? Moving on, then...) I am so serious. Which, hmm, puts me at, oh, let's see, carry the two... about eighteen million, three hundred and two thousand, four hundred minutes old, AND counting!...
What a downer.
I absolutely despise Ashton Kutcher. Seriously. Like, LOATHE. I find him cheesy and overrated. Hawt? Oh, YES. Good actor? Not so much.
That being said, I gave in to peer pressure this weekend (darn you, TGIM!) and watched Guess Who, starring Ashton Kutcher and the always hilarious Bernie Mac. Now, in my defense, I LOVES me some Bernie Mac! That man brings the FUNNY! Have you ever watched his show? Oh my LORD, it's HILARIOUS! And thankfully this movie was no exception to the Bernie Mac is One Funny Mofo rule, despite Ashton Kutcher having a prominent role.
In a reverse play on the controversial 1967 Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, starring Sydney Poitier (you know it?), Kutcher is cast as Simon, the dorky yet endearing White Boyfriend coming home to meet his black fiance's family (who predictably do not know about the whole Caucasian Thing he has going on). Determined to break his daughter's engagement, Percy Jones (Bernie Mac) does everything he can to make Simon feel utterly unwelcome, from running his credit report to sleeping (spooning! hee!) with him on the narrow basement couch bed. That scene alone is worth the price of the rental. Seriously. And Percy Jones? As father? Does NOT know best. Which makes for hijinks galore, y'all!
And... okay. All right. FINE. Ashton didn't suck. He was actually-- and it pains me to say this-- amusing in this film. And Bernie Mac? Let's just say I was laughing so hard I almost piddled. And that's not just my incontinence talking, y'all! Not that I'm incontinent. Who told you that?! It's a LIE!...
So anyhoos... good flick. And you know, as tempting as it may be to believe that things have surely changed since the days of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, this movie is honest enough to expose some major issues that have yet to be resolved in our society. A few scenes (especially the dinner table scene) were downright cringe-worthy-- seriously, like "stop the movie! I can't listen anymore!" cringe-worthy-- but I was impressed that the movie was not afraid to scratch the surface and draw real blood regarding ethnic and racial clashing still evident today. As Carrie Rickey of the PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER wrote, "What's not to like about a movie that concludes that although race can divide people, love can unite them?"
Indeed. I just MAY have busted a tear or two. Or not. Whatever. This movie is easy on the intellect and good for a laugh. I recommend it.
Just thought I'd share.
Mom Pants. Why, people? Why? Honestly. Hasn't the horror that is Mom Pants been broadcast sufficiently throughout the world, to the American TV watching public in particular? Well, hasn't it?! Today I stood on the sidewalk outside my kiddos' elementary school, patiently waiting to drag their lazy, I Don't Want To Walk In The Rain! butts home in my car (Spoiled, much?! I walked home from school in the rain! Lots of times! It was, like, a whole mile, too! UP A HILL!). Well along came another mother who looked to be approximately my age, armed with an umbrella and a steely glint in her eyes. I envied her determination and obvious will-power in not bending as I did to the aforementioned I Don't Want To Walk In The Rain! whine-a-thon she was more than likely subjected to that morning. But, guys? GUYS?! What I did not envy? Her MOM PANTS.
Now, sistah, why you gotta be like that, huh? I worked long and hard as a high school English teacher to dispel the myth that women above 30 are "old" and "out of touch" with pop culture. LONG and HARD, dammit! I read In Style! I wore the latest styles in business attire (shunning the trendy stuff, of course), and dressed down in jeans and a school t-shirt on Fridays! My students would often compliment my clothing! I was making progress! Of course, one parent complained I looked too much like the students after seeing me on a Casual Friday, but I attribute that to my overall youthful spunkiness, y'all. Plus, she was a bitch.
And there were lectures, people! My students may not have learned to appreciate Chaucer's superb powers of characterization or recognize his crucial contribution to English literature in using English at a time when much court poetry was still written in Anglo-Norman or Latin, but by DAMN they knew that Joss Whedon was a master storyteller in his own right, bringing Buffy and the Scooby Gang to life in a way never before seen on network television! I was well-versed in ghetto, yo? And I knew The Music. I could talk American Idol!
And here you come-- wearing your circa 1988 jeans, with the acid-wash and the tapered legs and the button (gasp!) ABOVE your belly-button -- you just waltz right over and stand next to me, and you Perpetuate the Myth, woman. And to further compound the horror, you top it all off with the same poofy hair style you wore to Homecoming in 1989! WHY?! UNTUCK YOUR SHIRT, WOMAN. This is not the first season of Family Ties. Why are you still dressing like Elyse Keaton? It is 2005! C'mon! Do you not watch Oprah? Oprah does NOT wear Mom Pants. Ellen? Nope. She's stylin'. Do you not see the clothes displayed in the store windows? Do you have to specifically ASK for Mom Pants at the store, or is there a black market I haven't heard about where they barter Mom Pants for jelly shoes and Member's Only jeans jackets?! Just... WHY?! Gosh!
I was frantic. Could my casual yet kicky ensemble of backflap crop denim jeans with a simple green cotton tee and hoodie counteract the damage she was doing to my early-thirties street cred with the urban demo? Would my rep remain intact?
Thankfully her daughter came out and they moved along before too many people were unduly influenced by the Mom Pants horror. I breathed a sigh of relief, I tell you what.
Hey. I totally feel better. Good rant! Just don't get me started on bus drivers who apparently feel completely comfortable cleaning out their ears with their pinkie fingers while in public...
Oh my LORD! Logan Echolls and Kendall Casablancas were freaking HUMPING on Veronica Mars last night! On my television! So not kidding. There was actual thrusting going on, y'all! THRUSTS! On network television! There cannot be freaking THRUSTING on network television! During Primetime! Right?! All naked and shizz. And the moaning?! Did I even mention the moaning?! Good LORD! I was embarrassed, I tell you what. I felt oh-so-dirrty (with two r's!) and thus could not fully enjoy hawt, naked Logan, as 1) I was cringing at the Logan/Kendall tawdry, illicit sexcapades; and 2) I kept looking quickly towards my bedroom door to make sure my kids were all still safely tucked in bed and not standing in my doorway thinking their momma was watching soft-core porn in the bedroom! Not that they know what soft-core porn is! They don't! But still! The EXPLAINING! It would be worse than when I attempted to explain why Satine in Moulin Rouge was writhing and rolling around on her bed screaming, "Yes! Yes! YES!" Because did I mention the humping?! And the nakedness?! And the moaning?!
That being said... RRRAWRRR! More, please. But with VERONICA next time, Doofus.
Noises. LOUD ones. Everywhere. The light above my cubicle is buzzing, like, "bzzzzzzzzzz..." Has it always done that? Has it always been so irritatingly buzzy? My cube neighbor's keystrokes are like my son's fingers crashing through his piano drills. It is as if I can almost feel them, I can almost tell what he's typing, simply by moving with the crescendos and ebbs. Is that weird? Should it be so LOUD here? Yet so quiet? I close my eyes and for a split-second, maybe two split-seconds, which I suppose would make a whole second, but who cares, it just feels so good. I'm in bed, aching head cushioned in my pillow, snuggled under warm covers, right at that exact second the shivering from the chills has almost subsided, the silence of the empty house nearly deafening, but in the GOOD way... until I jump, startled at a sudden, earth-shattering TAPTAPTAP! and my eyes fly open to my boss who is standing at my cubicle, tapping his pen against his blindingly white teeth, and the noise! My God, the NOISE! and suddenly I want to shove that pen right down his throat just to make the pain in my head go away, make him go away, so I can close my eyes again just for one split second, maybe two...
I hate working when I'm sick.
That title goes out to my sister, Jenny, in New Mexico. Hey, sis! What pain reliever SHOULD I use?
I'm sick, y'all... SICK, I say! Just so you know.