I have to hand it to the advertising people. You can make me go from angry to disgusted to laughing to crying in the three minute break you're provided in between real tv. Somehow, I don't think that I give you exactly the response you were looking for. Actually, probably not even close. For example:
Cialis/Viagra/Extenze/etc.
First of all, I am not a dude. This would mean that I do not suffer from erectile dysfunction, because I do not have the appropriate plumbing. That should be enough, but it's not, is it? Nope. Watching Jimmy Johnson and his immovable hair (I'm pretty sure I've talked about this before, but it is disturbing enough to warrant a re-mention) talk about needing pills to perk up his pecker is enough to make me never want to eat again, much less have sex. "Bob" and his megawatt smile because he can get a boner in the circa 1950s-esque situations just makes me feel like he's the creeper version of Ward Cleaver. Beaver Cleaver's dad. This shit just writes itself, doesn't it?! Cialis - seriously, I don't care if I'm married to the hottest man alive, I don't want to take a bath out in the woods. First of all, who dragged the tub out there? If it's about to be sexy time, shouldn't we be in the same tub? And really, if my husband gets a four hour erection, I doubt we'll be running to the emergency room. *eyebrow waggle*
ASPCA
I love animals. I can't bear the thought of anything happening to my dog. But stop with the guilt. My pet is loved, well-taken care of, and spayed. You can also stop with the music that makes me want to perform haikus at poetry slams. *snap snap*
DOUG
Dude, I get it. You have mesothelioma. I'm sure it is a horrible thing to go through, and trust me, I am sympathetic to your plight. However, your commercial is on so much that the ambulance chasers you did the ad for probably light their cigars with lit Benjamins.
19.95/19.99/THREE EASY PAYMENTS!
These commercials drive me to the brink. My dad and I this summer made it a game - "Will it be $19.95 or $19.99??? THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING ME!" Not only that, everything that is under $20, my daughter thinks is the bargain of the year, and "MOM YOU NEED THIS! THEY HAVE SUPPORT STOCKINGS FOR NINETEEN NINETY-FIVE AND YOU GET A PAIR FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Yo, I might be older than the interwebs, but I don't need fricking support hose. Or a hearing aid. I'm choosing to ignore you, I'm not hearing impaired.
NUTRISYSTEM
I am so fricking tired of Marie Osmond's face, I can hardly see straight. Great, you lost 50 pounds! That really is awesome! Now, what's your excuse for your hair? At least when The Trainwreck Formerly Known as Kirstie Alley was the spokesperson for Jenny Craig we got some entertainment from her antics.
I guess what I'm trying to say is this: "People in advertising, you left your A game at home. Your B and C game, too. STOP MAKING ME CHANGE THE CHANNEL WHEN YOUR SHIT COMES ON. It takes entirely too much energy for my thumb to push the button. Bring back the Budweiser Lizards. THAT was fricking genius. You're welcome. Love, Kelly."
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Taco Tuesday!
Not really. It is Tuesday, (I think). Calling this post Taco Tuesday was just my way of cleverly sucking you in. Did it work? Sorry about the no tacos. Come over, I'll make some. I just couldn't think of anything clever for the damned title. So without further adieu, I now present: Shit That Has Happened/I've Figured Out Lately and/or Really Dumb Things I've Done/Let Happen Lately.
1. Set out a potluck dinner on the counter within reach of a two year old. In my defense, who knew his arms were that long? I thought they were T-Rex short, but turns out, he can reach a plate of hamburgers (they weren't fresh off the grill, so no burn hazard, just in case CPS is tracking my blog), pull them down, and chow his way through parts of three different ones while strategically placing the rest on the floor.
1a. Two year olds are ninjas.
1b. Give a two year old a plasticknife spoon and a plastic Dixie cup, and he's entertained for a good five minutes. That's a record breaker, y'all.
2. Placing toddler locks on doors when having a BBQ that will eventually result in several intoxicated grown men needing tutorials on how to open said doors. (Yes, tutorials was plural on purpose.) Oh, and tutorials on how to open the toilet lock. Which may or may not be slightly uncomfortable for both teacher (who is surrounded by drunk guys needing to pee) and guys who need to pee. Real bad. Right now. At least they came inside to use the toilet instead of peeing off the deck, which is amazing in itself.
2a. Please refer to 1a if you are concerned with all the lockdown goings on in my home.
3. Providing deviled eggs to a crowd of hungry men who loooooooooooooooove deviled eggs results in needing several candles and bottles of Febreze. And a spare room in which to either kick your husband into, or to go to yourself in the very early hours of the morning.
4. Cleaning up beer cans after a party so your kids don't realize how much you drink really doesn't matter when your husband tells your kid to take the bags that are strangely light because they're full of cans out to the trash bin.
4a. Kids are smarter than we give them credit for.
4b. Kids will also go on cooler runs for you if you let them play Wii until they can't see straight during a grown up party.
4c. Kids will also perform party tricks (such as "Hey go tell so and so bla bla bla) for the low low price of a dollar.
5. When your husband feeds your toddler baked beans, prepare for an ungodly amount of dirty diapers the next day or two.
6. Leaving the ice cream carton on the top of the stove while the brownies are baking WILL soften the ice cream. Great, if you want to drink it.
7. Never send "the good spoon" or a dish you ever plan on seeing again with your husband to a work potluck.
8. Drunk men will try to talk you into giving your kid a mullet because "They're coming BACK! I swear!"
9. Putting vapor rub on anyone isn't pleasant. However, when its your kid, and you accidentally get some in their mouth instead of under their nose, the dancing/screaming/hullabaloo is something you really should videotape. And then show to their first boyfriend. And at their high school graduation. And at their wedding.
10. When your husband tells you "But I'm not lactose intolerant anymore!" while drinking a huge glass of milk, run away as though aliens are invading. Run, click your heels, dig a hole in the backyard and use it as a bunker - collect everything important to you and take it with you, but go nowhere near his ass. You've been warned.
1. Set out a potluck dinner on the counter within reach of a two year old. In my defense, who knew his arms were that long? I thought they were T-Rex short, but turns out, he can reach a plate of hamburgers (they weren't fresh off the grill, so no burn hazard, just in case CPS is tracking my blog), pull them down, and chow his way through parts of three different ones while strategically placing the rest on the floor.
1a. Two year olds are ninjas.
1b. Give a two year old a plastic
2. Placing toddler locks on doors when having a BBQ that will eventually result in several intoxicated grown men needing tutorials on how to open said doors. (Yes, tutorials was plural on purpose.) Oh, and tutorials on how to open the toilet lock. Which may or may not be slightly uncomfortable for both teacher (who is surrounded by drunk guys needing to pee) and guys who need to pee. Real bad. Right now. At least they came inside to use the toilet instead of peeing off the deck, which is amazing in itself.
2a. Please refer to 1a if you are concerned with all the lockdown goings on in my home.
3. Providing deviled eggs to a crowd of hungry men who loooooooooooooooove deviled eggs results in needing several candles and bottles of Febreze. And a spare room in which to either kick your husband into, or to go to yourself in the very early hours of the morning.
4. Cleaning up beer cans after a party so your kids don't realize how much you drink really doesn't matter when your husband tells your kid to take the bags that are strangely light because they're full of cans out to the trash bin.
4a. Kids are smarter than we give them credit for.
4b. Kids will also go on cooler runs for you if you let them play Wii until they can't see straight during a grown up party.
4c. Kids will also perform party tricks (such as "Hey go tell so and so bla bla bla) for the low low price of a dollar.
5. When your husband feeds your toddler baked beans, prepare for an ungodly amount of dirty diapers the next day or two.
6. Leaving the ice cream carton on the top of the stove while the brownies are baking WILL soften the ice cream. Great, if you want to drink it.
7. Never send "the good spoon" or a dish you ever plan on seeing again with your husband to a work potluck.
8. Drunk men will try to talk you into giving your kid a mullet because "They're coming BACK! I swear!"
9. Putting vapor rub on anyone isn't pleasant. However, when its your kid, and you accidentally get some in their mouth instead of under their nose, the dancing/screaming/hullabaloo is something you really should videotape. And then show to their first boyfriend. And at their high school graduation. And at their wedding.
10. When your husband tells you "But I'm not lactose intolerant anymore!" while drinking a huge glass of milk, run away as though aliens are invading. Run, click your heels, dig a hole in the backyard and use it as a bunker - collect everything important to you and take it with you, but go nowhere near his ass. You've been warned.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Grown up? I gotta grown up for ya right here.
The idea that I am an adult is not okay with me. I have the humor of a 12 year old. I can turn the most innocent thing Elmo says into a "that's what she said" moment. At a BBQ yesterday, someone said "twiddle", and I had to try not to giggle. I have the mouth of a sailor, and my sarcasm is off the charts. I could potentially be creating a monster in my 10 year old, she is not able to distinguish that I'm kidding, for one, and two - she's doing it wrong. Whereas I am hilarious, she is a snot. Whoops. Parenting fail.
I have hair that is becoming more gray by the day. The girl calls it "sparkly". I like that. I'll keep them. Partially because paying to have my roots done every so often is entirely too much maintenance and I'm lazy, and partially because I earned those fuckers.
Don't get me wrong, I know that I'm fixing to turn 35, I'm married, with children and a dog. That technically classifies me as a bonafide grown up. I just miss the zero responsibility days every once in a while (ignoring my responsibilities, like the humongous stack of homework sitting beside me begging to be done, but I'm blogging or playing Farkle online instead does NOT count). That being said, although this may not be the life I planned, it certainly is the one I was supposed to have.
I have hair that is becoming more gray by the day. The girl calls it "sparkly". I like that. I'll keep them. Partially because paying to have my roots done every so often is entirely too much maintenance and I'm lazy, and partially because I earned those fuckers.
Don't get me wrong, I know that I'm fixing to turn 35, I'm married, with children and a dog. That technically classifies me as a bonafide grown up. I just miss the zero responsibility days every once in a while (ignoring my responsibilities, like the humongous stack of homework sitting beside me begging to be done, but I'm blogging or playing Farkle online instead does NOT count). That being said, although this may not be the life I planned, it certainly is the one I was supposed to have.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Cheesenrice.
Alright, here's the deal. I am so behind in almost every aspect of my life that it is starting to become stifling. As in I am choking on my own procrastination, and if I don't get out of this funk I'm in, I may not have electricity, water, a degree, any space on any surface of any floor in my house that is passable, or the internetz. I am physically unable to motivate myself to do anything that I absolutely have to do, outside taking care of my kids. I'm tired, frustrated, pissy, unable to focus (I read the same line 24817 times, and trying to put together a sentence for a homework assignment that seems somewhat intelligent - forget it)... what. the. hell. The time in my life when I need to be the most productive, I am unable to do so.
Quite honestly, it is infuriating, yet I sit here on fricking Blogger instead of crossing things off my to do list. This, I can do. Talking about contemporary social work practices in a manner that doesn't make me sound like a three year old? Not so much. Putting away folded clothes - er, I have trouble with that on a good day. I know I am capable of accomplishing what I need to, usually, the last two weeks have just been really difficult. Granted, we've had a lot of change and adjustment with The Hubs coming home, but that shouldn't equate me staring at the wall like it's this magical mesmerizing portal to Oz or something.
I'm going to be 35 in a couple of weeks. I'd planned on living longer than 70, so this can't be my mid-life crisis. Unless it's possible to have several.
Bleh. Sorry about the pity party, table of one. I'll soon enough get through it. At least, I'd better, or investing in a cattle prod might become a reality after all.
Quite honestly, it is infuriating, yet I sit here on fricking Blogger instead of crossing things off my to do list. This, I can do. Talking about contemporary social work practices in a manner that doesn't make me sound like a three year old? Not so much. Putting away folded clothes - er, I have trouble with that on a good day. I know I am capable of accomplishing what I need to, usually, the last two weeks have just been really difficult. Granted, we've had a lot of change and adjustment with The Hubs coming home, but that shouldn't equate me staring at the wall like it's this magical mesmerizing portal to Oz or something.
I'm going to be 35 in a couple of weeks. I'd planned on living longer than 70, so this can't be my mid-life crisis. Unless it's possible to have several.
Bleh. Sorry about the pity party, table of one. I'll soon enough get through it. At least, I'd better, or investing in a cattle prod might become a reality after all.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
I'm just a preteen dirtbag, baby...
Sweet.
Baby.
Jesus.
My 10 year old is starting her journey towards becoming a woman. Why does that make it sound like it is a magical trip through Narnia on the back of a unicorn while tree sprites and other creatures toss flower petals on you? Because the reality of it is that puberty suuuuuuuuuuuucks. Not only for those going through it, but those of us who are forced to live with those who are going through it.
Now, here is my hope: that having a daughter going through it first will make anything boy-related seem like a walk in the park. For those of you who have had boys go through it first, and if I'm wrong, just nod your head and smile. I prefer to remain ignorant. I don't want to think of my two year old doing gross teenage boy stuff yet. He's still precious. Kinda.
Anyway, back to the girl. So, she broke her wrist on the first full day of school. How exciting! A cast! Signed by her BFFs! Rad! Bathing her? Not so rad. I like to think I'm a good mom, I take care of my kids, I even feed them and change their litter boxes, but giving my 10 year old girl who is developing a bath? It was so awkward for the both of us, we had ice cream for dinner. She had hers topped with chocolate sauce, I sprinkled Xanax on mine. September 12 is when she gets the cast off, and I think both of us will be happier than we've been in weeks.
I'm really hoping that she has Health class before I have to give her the sex talk. We've done an abbreviated version of the period talk. Of course, that was after she saw her baby brother running around the house with two handfuls of tampons and a wrapped (and NEW, just in case y'all freak out) maxi pad in his mouth. With my defense mechanism being sarcasm, I don't think talking about wee-wees and hoo-hoos is going to be my shining moment. Just thinking about this is making me break out in a cold sweat. I'm not real sure how I wound up with this as part of my job description. Maybe her dad should... Oh, God - NO.
Baby.
Jesus.
My 10 year old is starting her journey towards becoming a woman. Why does that make it sound like it is a magical trip through Narnia on the back of a unicorn while tree sprites and other creatures toss flower petals on you? Because the reality of it is that puberty suuuuuuuuuuuucks. Not only for those going through it, but those of us who are forced to live with those who are going through it.
Now, here is my hope: that having a daughter going through it first will make anything boy-related seem like a walk in the park. For those of you who have had boys go through it first, and if I'm wrong, just nod your head and smile. I prefer to remain ignorant. I don't want to think of my two year old doing gross teenage boy stuff yet. He's still precious. Kinda.
Anyway, back to the girl. So, she broke her wrist on the first full day of school. How exciting! A cast! Signed by her BFFs! Rad! Bathing her? Not so rad. I like to think I'm a good mom, I take care of my kids, I even feed them and change their litter boxes, but giving my 10 year old girl who is developing a bath? It was so awkward for the both of us, we had ice cream for dinner. She had hers topped with chocolate sauce, I sprinkled Xanax on mine. September 12 is when she gets the cast off, and I think both of us will be happier than we've been in weeks.
I'm really hoping that she has Health class before I have to give her the sex talk. We've done an abbreviated version of the period talk. Of course, that was after she saw her baby brother running around the house with two handfuls of tampons and a wrapped (and NEW, just in case y'all freak out) maxi pad in his mouth. With my defense mechanism being sarcasm, I don't think talking about wee-wees and hoo-hoos is going to be my shining moment. Just thinking about this is making me break out in a cold sweat. I'm not real sure how I wound up with this as part of my job description. Maybe her dad should... Oh, God - NO.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Holy Mother of God, It's Football Season.
I wait for this the second after the Super Bowl. Preseason football means that fall is on the way, and I love me some fall. I also love me some fall beers. I can't wait to crack into the first Oktoberfest of the season, and I KNOW they're out already, but drinking heavier beers when it's still in the mid-90s is not okay. I love football, too. I'm more of a collegiate fan (GO HUSKERS!!), and I do root for the Chiefs, but football is football, and I love me some men in butt-huggin' pants, wrasslin' each other while I drink heavily and eat chips and dip. I just realized that made it sound a little gay-pornish, but be it as it may, bring.it.on. BRING. IT. ON.
I do have a bit of an issue with all the criminals (Michael Vick, Plaxico Burress, Brett Favre, etc.) making ungodly amounts of money playing ball (What's that you say? Favre isn't a criminal? Well, he sure has hell stolen a shit ton of my tv viewing pleasure...). What kind of example does that make for our kids? Break the law and swim in your cash, kiddies! Well, at least they give me something to rant about while loaded. I'd even throw popcorn at the tv, but I love my tv to much to do that to her.
So, to recap. Football equals fall, amazing beer, gay porn, prison, and love. Got it? Good.
I do have a bit of an issue with all the criminals (Michael Vick, Plaxico Burress, Brett Favre, etc.) making ungodly amounts of money playing ball (What's that you say? Favre isn't a criminal? Well, he sure has hell stolen a shit ton of my tv viewing pleasure...). What kind of example does that make for our kids? Break the law and swim in your cash, kiddies! Well, at least they give me something to rant about while loaded. I'd even throw popcorn at the tv, but I love my tv to much to do that to her.
So, to recap. Football equals fall, amazing beer, gay porn, prison, and love. Got it? Good.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
My dreams make me question my sanity.
When I was pregnant, I had this reoccurring dream that involved Alan Jackson and a golf cart. Very Bonnie and Clydeish, we had stolen said cart and were blazing around Lincoln, Nebraska. The cops were in pursuit, but for some reason, could not catch up to us with our magical golf cart.
When I was a child, I had this reoccurring dream that I was running for my life through our shelterbelt, because I was being chased by this Godzilla-sized gorilla. I'd run, and trip (because there's a bunch of random shit in our shelterbelt), he would gain on me, I'd run faster, I'd trip, and eventually I'd fall face down, to flip over and feel the hot breath and drool drippings of the gorilla on my face.
Of course, when I was a kid, I also convinced myself that, at night, my floor was covered with writhing snakes, so if I had to pee in the middle of the night, I had to jump as close to my door in order to escape the snakes. Very Indiana Jones and his snake pit anxiety.
Last night, my dream involved Quinn, The Pioneer Woman - Ree Drummond - (I should clarify that I don't know her personally, although I sure wish I did, by her blog, she sounds like a complete kick in the pants, and I envy her cooking skills hardcore), one of their ranch hands, and her eldest daughter. For whatever reason, we're driving towards their ranch, and all of a sudden, a tornado appears out of nowhere. At this point, Quinn and daughter disappear, and PW, ranch hand, and I head for a quonset (because THAT makes perfect sense in a tornado), where we pull down a bookshelf (don't ask, I just report the news), and wait out the storm. After the tornado passes, I realize I'm not wearing a bra, because I had decided that if I was going to die, it was going to be in comfort, I guess. Quinn and daughter headed to the house with a BASEMENT, like normal people, and were perfectly fine.
The above dreams were brought to you today by the letters W, T, and F, and the number crazy.
There are many more dreams where I wake up thinking what the fuck is wrong with me?!?!? but I can never remember them long enough to write them down. However, last night's dream was so vivid, that the details are staying with me. I'm pretty sure that if I told any type of professional, they'd up my meds and probably add some more, or just say screw it, and take my measurements for that comfy white robe with the velcro straps they keep talking about...
Happy Saturday!
When I was a child, I had this reoccurring dream that I was running for my life through our shelterbelt, because I was being chased by this Godzilla-sized gorilla. I'd run, and trip (because there's a bunch of random shit in our shelterbelt), he would gain on me, I'd run faster, I'd trip, and eventually I'd fall face down, to flip over and feel the hot breath and drool drippings of the gorilla on my face.
Of course, when I was a kid, I also convinced myself that, at night, my floor was covered with writhing snakes, so if I had to pee in the middle of the night, I had to jump as close to my door in order to escape the snakes. Very Indiana Jones and his snake pit anxiety.
Last night, my dream involved Quinn, The Pioneer Woman - Ree Drummond - (I should clarify that I don't know her personally, although I sure wish I did, by her blog, she sounds like a complete kick in the pants, and I envy her cooking skills hardcore), one of their ranch hands, and her eldest daughter. For whatever reason, we're driving towards their ranch, and all of a sudden, a tornado appears out of nowhere. At this point, Quinn and daughter disappear, and PW, ranch hand, and I head for a quonset (because THAT makes perfect sense in a tornado), where we pull down a bookshelf (don't ask, I just report the news), and wait out the storm. After the tornado passes, I realize I'm not wearing a bra, because I had decided that if I was going to die, it was going to be in comfort, I guess. Quinn and daughter headed to the house with a BASEMENT, like normal people, and were perfectly fine.
The above dreams were brought to you today by the letters W, T, and F, and the number crazy.
There are many more dreams where I wake up thinking what the fuck is wrong with me?!?!? but I can never remember them long enough to write them down. However, last night's dream was so vivid, that the details are staying with me. I'm pretty sure that if I told any type of professional, they'd up my meds and probably add some more, or just say screw it, and take my measurements for that comfy white robe with the velcro straps they keep talking about...
Happy Saturday!
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