Here are two stories about what an idiot I am.
Do you ever look at a word and not recognize it? This happens to me often. Take, for instance, this morning, when I am reading the Arts and Entertainment section of the Kazoo Gazette, and I see that the KIA is putting on a presentation called "Deaf Folklore: Deaf people, culture and identity".
I know the word deaf.
But when I look at it today, all I can see is the word "leaf" with a a d. So I pronounce it, to myself, "deef". So I read this out loud to myself "Deef culture: Deef people, culture and identity". And then I say to myself, "Huh. I wonder what Deef is." And I am sitting there thinking that it's some type of ancient culture or something, like Hmong. And then I realize it's deaf. Let me tell you, though- the amount of time I contemplated whether or not I have ever heard of the Deef culture was absolutely unacceptable.
This happens to me a lot with that show The Closer. Have I talked about this before? EVERY TIME a commercial for The Closer comes on, I read it as "The Close-er"(as in, "You are closer to the remote than I am"), and EVERY SINGLE FRICKIN TIME, I think to myself, "Huh. Is that a show about aliens?". Because "The Close-er" is an alien show type of name, like "The Undead" or "Close Encounters", or whatever. And then I remember that me and myself have had this conversation many, many times before. Even as I just reread this paragraph to myself, I pronounced it "The Close-er" in my head.
Probably the kicker is that people pay me to teach their children the English language.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Art of Awkwardness
The truth is- and I'm cool with this- I am incredibly socially awkward. I don't know why. I'm okay once I know people, but if I don't know people, I am like... TERRIBLE. I like to tell myself that it has something to do with being a writer, and that I spend so much time watching people that I don't bother to actually participate like a normal human being.
Mostly that's bullshit, though.
I'm just weird around people. Some of the crap that comes out of my mouth simply because I can't come up with anything else to say? Unbelievable.
So I get this idea that I'm going to make more of an effort to be "social".
Here's the embarrassing part.
I'd like you to note that I HAPPENED upon the audio book, rather than seeking it out. Anyways, I'm at the library, where I live, and I see this new audio book called "The Art of Mingling". It is basically a book about mingling in situations where you don't know anyone. Cool, I think. I could use that.
I'm not really a self-help book type of person. Actually, the idea of self-help books makes me really depressed. I can't tell you how many students (okay, I can: 3) I have had write about a self-help book called The Secret, and how it changed their lives. I don't want a self-help book to change my life. Maybe that's snotty. Oh well. Anyways, this one didn't seem so helpy. It seemed practical. Plus, I have a two hour round trip drive to work twice a week, so I listen to a lot of audio books.
So I get it.
Today, I'm listening to it.
What I think mostly is that it's a cruel, cruel joke.
I think that this woman who wrote the book was thinking to herself (probably at a party, where she's like, *sooooo* comfortable) was "You know what would be funny? If I wrote a book where I told socially awkward people how to act in social situations, only I gave them really BAD advice, but they took it because they're socially awkward and don't know any better."
Hilarity. Ensues.
Because I'm listening to this audio book, and it is just bad, *bad* advice.
Take for instance (and I'm only about 45 minutes into it, so I'm sure it will get much worse..) the chapter on "Great opening lines".
She made an alphabet of things to talk about. Each letter stands for a topic. "A" for instance, stands for art.
"C" stands for... cat?
Here's her opening line suggestion:
"Hey, can you help me? I'm trying to come up with a name for my cat."
I gave you a few lines of white space there so you could digest that.
.... what, seriously?
That's your brilliant ice breaker? Can you help me name my cat? Because that doesn't sound COMPLETELY RANDOM or anything. It's clear that this woman is not aware of the link between social awkwardness and old ladies and cats. Lots and lots of cats.
Another great ice breaker, falling under her "daring" category (there are two categories- "safe" and "daring", and as far as I can tell, neither one is a good idea).
"Are you people going to talk to me or what?"
No. No one is going to talk to you. Because you sound obnoxious.
Others in the "alphabet" section:
"K" is for kids. Suggestions include:
"Man, there sure are a lot of kids at parties these days"
"I wonder what all of this looks like to a kid"
Wow. Suddenly I have to go to the bathroom. Would you excuse me?
YOU. ARE. NOT. HELPING.
And then I thought, maybe, just maybe, this self-help book is an evil self-help plot to sell more self-help books. Because after you read this, then ask someone to help you name your cat, then get shot down in a major way, you're really going to end up in a dark place and NEED to read The Four Agreements, right?
And I ALSO can't help but think, what if your cat line actually worked, and you become dear friends with whoever you struck up a conversation with, and then that person comes to your house for the first time and says, "Where's your cat?"
But you don't HAVE a cat.
The truth is- and I'm cool with this- I am incredibly socially awkward. I don't know why. I'm okay once I know people, but if I don't know people, I am like... TERRIBLE. I like to tell myself that it has something to do with being a writer, and that I spend so much time watching people that I don't bother to actually participate like a normal human being.
Mostly that's bullshit, though.
I'm just weird around people. Some of the crap that comes out of my mouth simply because I can't come up with anything else to say? Unbelievable.
So I get this idea that I'm going to make more of an effort to be "social".
Here's the embarrassing part.
I'd like you to note that I HAPPENED upon the audio book, rather than seeking it out. Anyways, I'm at the library, where I live, and I see this new audio book called "The Art of Mingling". It is basically a book about mingling in situations where you don't know anyone. Cool, I think. I could use that.
I'm not really a self-help book type of person. Actually, the idea of self-help books makes me really depressed. I can't tell you how many students (okay, I can: 3) I have had write about a self-help book called The Secret, and how it changed their lives. I don't want a self-help book to change my life. Maybe that's snotty. Oh well. Anyways, this one didn't seem so helpy. It seemed practical. Plus, I have a two hour round trip drive to work twice a week, so I listen to a lot of audio books.
So I get it.
Today, I'm listening to it.
What I think mostly is that it's a cruel, cruel joke.
I think that this woman who wrote the book was thinking to herself (probably at a party, where she's like, *sooooo* comfortable) was "You know what would be funny? If I wrote a book where I told socially awkward people how to act in social situations, only I gave them really BAD advice, but they took it because they're socially awkward and don't know any better."
Hilarity. Ensues.
Because I'm listening to this audio book, and it is just bad, *bad* advice.
Take for instance (and I'm only about 45 minutes into it, so I'm sure it will get much worse..) the chapter on "Great opening lines".
She made an alphabet of things to talk about. Each letter stands for a topic. "A" for instance, stands for art.
"C" stands for... cat?
Here's her opening line suggestion:
"Hey, can you help me? I'm trying to come up with a name for my cat."
I gave you a few lines of white space there so you could digest that.
.... what, seriously?
That's your brilliant ice breaker? Can you help me name my cat? Because that doesn't sound COMPLETELY RANDOM or anything. It's clear that this woman is not aware of the link between social awkwardness and old ladies and cats. Lots and lots of cats.
Another great ice breaker, falling under her "daring" category (there are two categories- "safe" and "daring", and as far as I can tell, neither one is a good idea).
"Are you people going to talk to me or what?"
No. No one is going to talk to you. Because you sound obnoxious.
Others in the "alphabet" section:
"K" is for kids. Suggestions include:
"Man, there sure are a lot of kids at parties these days"
"I wonder what all of this looks like to a kid"
Wow. Suddenly I have to go to the bathroom. Would you excuse me?
YOU. ARE. NOT. HELPING.
And then I thought, maybe, just maybe, this self-help book is an evil self-help plot to sell more self-help books. Because after you read this, then ask someone to help you name your cat, then get shot down in a major way, you're really going to end up in a dark place and NEED to read The Four Agreements, right?
And I ALSO can't help but think, what if your cat line actually worked, and you become dear friends with whoever you struck up a conversation with, and then that person comes to your house for the first time and says, "Where's your cat?"
But you don't HAVE a cat.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Another Bizarre Phenomenon: The Car Advertiser
Car advertising. As in, pasting the name of your business all over the side/back of your car via a cling-on. Could be a good idea, right? It's free, after the purchase of the cling thing. It appears in multiple places (wherever you appear), instead of staying in one place like a billboard. Sure, it can be a great idea. Unless you're the most aggressive driver on earth.
Seriously, people. You need to THINK. THINGS. THROUGH. Here are a few questions for you:
* Do you tailgate (not with beer)?
* Do you pass people on the inside lane, even though they're already going 5 miles over the speed limit?
* Do you honk aggressively and make wild hand motions?
If you answered yes to any of the above, car advertising is NOT. FOR. YOU. You see, it turns out that if you are a complete jerk while sporting the name of your business in huge letters across the side of your car, it has the exact OPPOSITE intended effect. It turns out that, after you cut someone off and flip them off, they no longer have a fuzzy feeling about Fuzzy Friends Pet Store. I know. Advertising is tricky that way.
Honestly, what are you thinking? Do you forget?
Today I was on the expressway and this huge white Suburban-looking thing gets within an inch of my bumper as I'm going 75ish. So I get over. As they're passing, I look over to give them the deathrayeye, and there's "Such and Such Pet Cemetery" painted on the side. My first thought is that they're probably keeping themselves in business, driving like that. My second thought is, if my dog dies, that's the LAST place I'm burying her. I mean, I don't like my dog, so I'd probably just bury her in the backyard anyway, but I'm definitely not burying her there now.
All of this brings me to the story of DJ Craze, my arch enemy of Kzoo. That's not his real name, and he doesn't know he's my arch enemy. He runs a DJ business, a fact that wouldn't escape you if you ever ran into him, because the name and info is literally pasted all over his van. The first time I ran into DJ Craze was when I was out running along Drake. It's a bit difficult to turn onto Drake from side streets, because it's decently busy. DJ Craze was having none of that, though. The poor guy in front of him was inching forward, looking for an in, and DJ Craze laid on his horn, starts yelling and wild-hand-motioning out of his open window.
And then I thought to myself, "Hey, If I ever need a DJ, I'm calling DJ Craze!"
No.
I thought, Hey, DJ Craze! I hope all your records skip!
And now, I see him EVERYWHERE. At the post office, at the Y, at the post office again. He looks a lot like mean old man Clint Eastwood from El Torino. Except, if he happened to witness me being beat up by a gang, I don't think he'd save me. Unless the beating was blocking traffic. In which case, I think he'd just bulldoze us all. Every time I see him, I narrow my eyes a little. Should I ever need a DJ, I will know exactly who not to call.
Am I saying that I am some awesome, heal the world driver? No, but I also don't have "Lolalou: College Professor!" written across my car. Though I do have an Obama bumper sticker, and he probably wishes that I didn't.
Car advertising. As in, pasting the name of your business all over the side/back of your car via a cling-on. Could be a good idea, right? It's free, after the purchase of the cling thing. It appears in multiple places (wherever you appear), instead of staying in one place like a billboard. Sure, it can be a great idea. Unless you're the most aggressive driver on earth.
Seriously, people. You need to THINK. THINGS. THROUGH. Here are a few questions for you:
* Do you tailgate (not with beer)?
* Do you pass people on the inside lane, even though they're already going 5 miles over the speed limit?
* Do you honk aggressively and make wild hand motions?
If you answered yes to any of the above, car advertising is NOT. FOR. YOU. You see, it turns out that if you are a complete jerk while sporting the name of your business in huge letters across the side of your car, it has the exact OPPOSITE intended effect. It turns out that, after you cut someone off and flip them off, they no longer have a fuzzy feeling about Fuzzy Friends Pet Store. I know. Advertising is tricky that way.
Honestly, what are you thinking? Do you forget?
Today I was on the expressway and this huge white Suburban-looking thing gets within an inch of my bumper as I'm going 75ish. So I get over. As they're passing, I look over to give them the deathrayeye, and there's "Such and Such Pet Cemetery" painted on the side. My first thought is that they're probably keeping themselves in business, driving like that. My second thought is, if my dog dies, that's the LAST place I'm burying her. I mean, I don't like my dog, so I'd probably just bury her in the backyard anyway, but I'm definitely not burying her there now.
All of this brings me to the story of DJ Craze, my arch enemy of Kzoo. That's not his real name, and he doesn't know he's my arch enemy. He runs a DJ business, a fact that wouldn't escape you if you ever ran into him, because the name and info is literally pasted all over his van. The first time I ran into DJ Craze was when I was out running along Drake. It's a bit difficult to turn onto Drake from side streets, because it's decently busy. DJ Craze was having none of that, though. The poor guy in front of him was inching forward, looking for an in, and DJ Craze laid on his horn, starts yelling and wild-hand-motioning out of his open window.
And then I thought to myself, "Hey, If I ever need a DJ, I'm calling DJ Craze!"
No.
I thought, Hey, DJ Craze! I hope all your records skip!
And now, I see him EVERYWHERE. At the post office, at the Y, at the post office again. He looks a lot like mean old man Clint Eastwood from El Torino. Except, if he happened to witness me being beat up by a gang, I don't think he'd save me. Unless the beating was blocking traffic. In which case, I think he'd just bulldoze us all. Every time I see him, I narrow my eyes a little. Should I ever need a DJ, I will know exactly who not to call.
Am I saying that I am some awesome, heal the world driver? No, but I also don't have "Lolalou: College Professor!" written across my car. Though I do have an Obama bumper sticker, and he probably wishes that I didn't.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Laura, what's the point of having a blog if you're not going to write on it.
As Min not-so-delicately pointed out, it's been awhile. I apologize. I'd like to say that I've been doing something. But I haven't. I just forgot.
So.
I want to talk about that Shorty I Could Take You There song.
Usually the radio is just on as background noise in my car, but every once in a while I make the mistake of actually listening to the lyrics. I suppose that listening to the lyrics of any Sean Kingston song is a big mistake. In the future, I think he should just read the newspaper to a catchy beat. It would be better, Sean. Trust me on this.
In case you were ignoring the actual lyrics like I was, here's the first verse:
We can go to the tropics
Sip pina coladas
Shorty I could take you there
Or we can go to the slums
Where killas get hung
Shorty I could take you there
So. Sean. What you're saying to me is, either you can take me to Jamaica and we can hang out on the beach and drink cocktails... OR... you could take me to the ghetto. Where (according to you) 15 year olds have guns and "killers get hung".
See, Sean, I'm confused. It feels like a trick.
Every once in a while, I use this trick on my husband where I'll give him two choices. I will say on date night, for instance, "Rob, either we can go see a play.. or we can play cards." Rob does not like to play cards. That's mostly because he never wins and he's a poor sport, but that's a whole different blog. The thing is, Rob hates going to plays SO MUCH that ANY OTHER CHOICE ON EARTH sounds like the BEST. IDEA. EVER. So, he's like "Cards! That sounds great! Let's play cards!", whereas, had I just said "How about we play cards?" Rob would have said "I don't LIKE cards". Should you like to use this technique in the future, I will also mention that you have to put the terrible choice first. That way, he thinks for a split second that he's going to have to sit through a play, so when you offer the second, still-not-appealing option, it feels like he's narrowly escaped something horrible.
But this is where my confusion comes in, Sean.
Because ONE of those options (I'll let you guess which) is very UNappealing, while the other is very APPEALING. The game is supposed to be a lesser of two evils thing, but there's only one negative here. See, I would choose the tropics, even if you had offered another option that I actually like- say, watching movies in bed all day or camping or eating a lot of ice cream. So, you didn't have to offer me a really bad option to get me to choose it. But you did...
What this leaves is one of two possibilities:
1. You really, REALLY suck at this game.
2. You're up to something.
And that's why, Shorty, I think you should choose the slums. He THINKS that you're going to choose the tropics, obviously, which means he WANTS you to choose the tropics.
Or maybe that's just what he wants you to think...
Which is why my final advice is this: Stay home. Break up with him and stay home. Screw him and his manipulative, mental warfare.
As Min not-so-delicately pointed out, it's been awhile. I apologize. I'd like to say that I've been doing something. But I haven't. I just forgot.
So.
I want to talk about that Shorty I Could Take You There song.
Usually the radio is just on as background noise in my car, but every once in a while I make the mistake of actually listening to the lyrics. I suppose that listening to the lyrics of any Sean Kingston song is a big mistake. In the future, I think he should just read the newspaper to a catchy beat. It would be better, Sean. Trust me on this.
In case you were ignoring the actual lyrics like I was, here's the first verse:
We can go to the tropics
Sip pina coladas
Shorty I could take you there
Or we can go to the slums
Where killas get hung
Shorty I could take you there
So. Sean. What you're saying to me is, either you can take me to Jamaica and we can hang out on the beach and drink cocktails... OR... you could take me to the ghetto. Where (according to you) 15 year olds have guns and "killers get hung".
See, Sean, I'm confused. It feels like a trick.
Every once in a while, I use this trick on my husband where I'll give him two choices. I will say on date night, for instance, "Rob, either we can go see a play.. or we can play cards." Rob does not like to play cards. That's mostly because he never wins and he's a poor sport, but that's a whole different blog. The thing is, Rob hates going to plays SO MUCH that ANY OTHER CHOICE ON EARTH sounds like the BEST. IDEA. EVER. So, he's like "Cards! That sounds great! Let's play cards!", whereas, had I just said "How about we play cards?" Rob would have said "I don't LIKE cards". Should you like to use this technique in the future, I will also mention that you have to put the terrible choice first. That way, he thinks for a split second that he's going to have to sit through a play, so when you offer the second, still-not-appealing option, it feels like he's narrowly escaped something horrible.
But this is where my confusion comes in, Sean.
Because ONE of those options (I'll let you guess which) is very UNappealing, while the other is very APPEALING. The game is supposed to be a lesser of two evils thing, but there's only one negative here. See, I would choose the tropics, even if you had offered another option that I actually like- say, watching movies in bed all day or camping or eating a lot of ice cream. So, you didn't have to offer me a really bad option to get me to choose it. But you did...
What this leaves is one of two possibilities:
1. You really, REALLY suck at this game.
2. You're up to something.
And that's why, Shorty, I think you should choose the slums. He THINKS that you're going to choose the tropics, obviously, which means he WANTS you to choose the tropics.
Or maybe that's just what he wants you to think...
Which is why my final advice is this: Stay home. Break up with him and stay home. Screw him and his manipulative, mental warfare.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Weird Phenomenon: The No-Help Helper
Earlier this week I was at Meijer in the bean aisle. Beans are tricky. They've all got two names. For instance, what you may not know is that 'cannelini beans' are also called 'white kidney beans'. Kind of like in high school when you had to study mythology and it turned out that the Romans and Greeks all had the same gods, but they had different names and you had to memorize both of them, and you're like WHY THE HELL DON'T YOU GUYS JUST AGREE ON ONE NAME? Anyways.
Usually, in the face of bean confusion, I call my mom. My mom knows beans like the back of her hand. She's a registered beanologist. But that day I didn't have my phone on me. I was at the grocery store with Brady without a phone. Please do not tell Rob this. It will prompt all sorts of discussions about responsibility and blahblahblah.
This was my lucky day though, because just as I was coming to the realization that no beans said canellini, a woman appeared behind me. The woman really did look a little like the fairy godmother from Cinderella, so I'm sure you can see where my thinking was.
Fairy Godmother points at a big jar of beans and says to me "Those beans are GOOD! I made a soup with them and they were fantastic!"
I say "Do you know which beans are cannelini beans? I know they have another name..."
This is where the weird phenomenon comes in.
My fairy godmother then proceeds to pick up four different cans of beans and explain to me that they are NOT what I'm looking for. It goes like this:
"Well, these are pinto beans. And these are great northern beans. And these are black beans..." On and on and on. What is the thinking here? Is this like a process of elimination thing? Was she going to identify and take every can of beans off of the shelf until only one lonely can of label-less beans remained in the back, hiding behind all of the other beans?
"Ah hah!" she would then say, "YOU must be the cannelini beans!"
This is not a phenomenon unique to beans.
Rob and I have both noticed this. Have you ever made the stupid, stupid mistake of pulling over and asking someone watering their flowers if they happen to know where XYZ Street is? Here is the response you're bound to get:
Them: "Well... this is Front Street.." (pause..look around) "and that's State Street..." (pause... look at you.. water gushes out of the hose, making a lake on the lawn...)
You: "Okay..thanks..."
Unhelpful helpers of the world, I am speaking directly to you. STOP. Repeat after me "I. Don't. Know." Say it, now. Say it again. Liberating, isn't it? Use it. It is okay not to know. It is okay to stop wasting people's time in the name of friendliness. Because, you see, I'm not upset that you don't know. That's perfectly fine. I'm upset that, because I have asked you this question, I now have to sit and wait through the answer which, let's be honest, is really just "I don't know".
But I can see you that you are turning over a new leaf. You will do great things with these three new words. I will now take this gift that you have given me, this ten minutes that you would have used to name all of the objects around me like I'm in a F'ING RICHARD SCARRY BOOK, and I will give it to someone who can help me.
I thank you.
Go now.
You are free.
Earlier this week I was at Meijer in the bean aisle. Beans are tricky. They've all got two names. For instance, what you may not know is that 'cannelini beans' are also called 'white kidney beans'. Kind of like in high school when you had to study mythology and it turned out that the Romans and Greeks all had the same gods, but they had different names and you had to memorize both of them, and you're like WHY THE HELL DON'T YOU GUYS JUST AGREE ON ONE NAME? Anyways.
Usually, in the face of bean confusion, I call my mom. My mom knows beans like the back of her hand. She's a registered beanologist. But that day I didn't have my phone on me. I was at the grocery store with Brady without a phone. Please do not tell Rob this. It will prompt all sorts of discussions about responsibility and blahblahblah.
This was my lucky day though, because just as I was coming to the realization that no beans said canellini, a woman appeared behind me. The woman really did look a little like the fairy godmother from Cinderella, so I'm sure you can see where my thinking was.
Fairy Godmother points at a big jar of beans and says to me "Those beans are GOOD! I made a soup with them and they were fantastic!"
I say "Do you know which beans are cannelini beans? I know they have another name..."
This is where the weird phenomenon comes in.
My fairy godmother then proceeds to pick up four different cans of beans and explain to me that they are NOT what I'm looking for. It goes like this:
"Well, these are pinto beans. And these are great northern beans. And these are black beans..." On and on and on. What is the thinking here? Is this like a process of elimination thing? Was she going to identify and take every can of beans off of the shelf until only one lonely can of label-less beans remained in the back, hiding behind all of the other beans?
"Ah hah!" she would then say, "YOU must be the cannelini beans!"
This is not a phenomenon unique to beans.
Rob and I have both noticed this. Have you ever made the stupid, stupid mistake of pulling over and asking someone watering their flowers if they happen to know where XYZ Street is? Here is the response you're bound to get:
Them: "Well... this is Front Street.." (pause..look around) "and that's State Street..." (pause... look at you.. water gushes out of the hose, making a lake on the lawn...)
You: "Okay..thanks..."
Unhelpful helpers of the world, I am speaking directly to you. STOP. Repeat after me "I. Don't. Know." Say it, now. Say it again. Liberating, isn't it? Use it. It is okay not to know. It is okay to stop wasting people's time in the name of friendliness. Because, you see, I'm not upset that you don't know. That's perfectly fine. I'm upset that, because I have asked you this question, I now have to sit and wait through the answer which, let's be honest, is really just "I don't know".
But I can see you that you are turning over a new leaf. You will do great things with these three new words. I will now take this gift that you have given me, this ten minutes that you would have used to name all of the objects around me like I'm in a F'ING RICHARD SCARRY BOOK, and I will give it to someone who can help me.
I thank you.
Go now.
You are free.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
What I Learned in Photography Class Last Night: I Look Like Hell
I knew better than to take this class. I have taken a class with this man before. I'm sure he knows what he's talking about in regards to photography, but... something's not quite right about him. It's not just that he has a penchant for pictures with naked women and fruit. Let me put it this way: I would not be at all surprised to find out that he had appeared in an episode of To Catch A Predator.
And, since I'm not putting his name here, let's be honest. He's a really terrible teacher. I try not to be too hard on teachers,because I am one and I know how hard it can be. But call a spade a spade. The man is a terrible teacher. There is no pre-planning. Basically, people ask random questions and that constitutes the entire class. Booo. Bad class structure.
Here's a quick summary of what happened tonight:
1. I make the mistake of asking a question. Cause I'm an idiot. My question is this: "Could we go over using an external flash? I have the same flash you have, and I used it at a wedding, and I wasn't happy with the way it turned out. I'm sure I'm just using it wrong."
His response:
"Okay, well let's try it. Come stand here by the wall."
He then takes a picture of me with the flash on.
He then shows it to me and says "See. It looks good!"
A. It does not look good. My face looks washed out.
B. ....wow. Great. Thanks for showing me that! That explains exactly NOTHING.
Note: All of this will come back to haunt me later in the class. Wait for it.. wait for it..
2. About halfway through the class he tells us, "If you can see something, even the outline of something, you can still photograph it. It's never too dark to shoot, if your settings are right. I could turn all of the lights off in this room and still take a picture of you guys."
There are no windows in this room.
Is this like the photographer's version of machoism?
I don't know.
But he's got to prove it to us.
Here's how that works out:
"Okay, I'll turn out all the lights...
"... okay, that's too dark. Turn on a computer screen. I can light the whole room with just one computer screen!"
"...okay, that's too bright..."
Finally takes picture. Looks at it.
"Well.. I mean.. you never really know what you're going to get..."
My internal monologue, here on out known as "mim" : Actually...you do. There's a whole bunch of people who can move the dials and know exactly what they're going to get... they're called photographers. That's why I'm here. I was kind of hoping to be one.
2. As you may know, if the light is low and there's another light source, the light source appears blurred in the picture. Example: If you wave a cellphone around, like at a concert, and the light is low, it will look blurry.
In his picture (the magic low-light picture) the computer screen looks kind of vapory, if that makes sense.
This causes him to launch into a discussion of spirit photography.
This discussion includes the sage advice: "If you ever take a picture, and you see some kind of light in there.. that's not a ghost.. that's just a reflection."
Phew.
3. Here's where the picture comes back to haunt me. He hooks the camera up to the projector. The huge projector. You know where this is going. For a while we look at the spirit photography (NOT GHOSTS!!! REFELECTION!!!...or is it?)
Then of course, he puts the picture of me up.
mim: Stop. Stop now...
Him: Look, see how great that flash looks?
Mim: no...
He then zooms in.
Zoom, zoom, zoom!
Listen, I've never had great skin, but NO ONE looks good this big.
Mim: Stop. Stop. Too late...
My eye is now about three feet tall, on the screen.
And the skin under my eye looks..I think the word is 'reptilian'.
But he couldn't stop there.
Because this man has no filter.
Then he opens up photoshop and says "And if you need to correct some blemishes..."
Then he proceeds to take the time to remedy my acne in photoshop.
Because he's an ass.
Fine, dude. So my skin isn't flawless. But do they have a tool in Photoshop that will cover up the fact that you LOOK LIKE A PEDOPHILE???
I'm thinking no.
And so I win, even if only internally.
Really can't wait to see what I learn next week. Maybe he can take a picture of my hips and airbrush me in front of the whole class until I'm a size 6.
I knew better than to take this class. I have taken a class with this man before. I'm sure he knows what he's talking about in regards to photography, but... something's not quite right about him. It's not just that he has a penchant for pictures with naked women and fruit. Let me put it this way: I would not be at all surprised to find out that he had appeared in an episode of To Catch A Predator.
And, since I'm not putting his name here, let's be honest. He's a really terrible teacher. I try not to be too hard on teachers,because I am one and I know how hard it can be. But call a spade a spade. The man is a terrible teacher. There is no pre-planning. Basically, people ask random questions and that constitutes the entire class. Booo. Bad class structure.
Here's a quick summary of what happened tonight:
1. I make the mistake of asking a question. Cause I'm an idiot. My question is this: "Could we go over using an external flash? I have the same flash you have, and I used it at a wedding, and I wasn't happy with the way it turned out. I'm sure I'm just using it wrong."
His response:
"Okay, well let's try it. Come stand here by the wall."
He then takes a picture of me with the flash on.
He then shows it to me and says "See. It looks good!"
A. It does not look good. My face looks washed out.
B. ....wow. Great. Thanks for showing me that! That explains exactly NOTHING.
Note: All of this will come back to haunt me later in the class. Wait for it.. wait for it..
2. About halfway through the class he tells us, "If you can see something, even the outline of something, you can still photograph it. It's never too dark to shoot, if your settings are right. I could turn all of the lights off in this room and still take a picture of you guys."
There are no windows in this room.
Is this like the photographer's version of machoism?
I don't know.
But he's got to prove it to us.
Here's how that works out:
"Okay, I'll turn out all the lights...
"... okay, that's too dark. Turn on a computer screen. I can light the whole room with just one computer screen!"
"...okay, that's too bright..."
Finally takes picture. Looks at it.
"Well.. I mean.. you never really know what you're going to get..."
My internal monologue, here on out known as "mim" : Actually...you do. There's a whole bunch of people who can move the dials and know exactly what they're going to get... they're called photographers. That's why I'm here. I was kind of hoping to be one.
2. As you may know, if the light is low and there's another light source, the light source appears blurred in the picture. Example: If you wave a cellphone around, like at a concert, and the light is low, it will look blurry.
In his picture (the magic low-light picture) the computer screen looks kind of vapory, if that makes sense.
This causes him to launch into a discussion of spirit photography.
This discussion includes the sage advice: "If you ever take a picture, and you see some kind of light in there.. that's not a ghost.. that's just a reflection."
Phew.
3. Here's where the picture comes back to haunt me. He hooks the camera up to the projector. The huge projector. You know where this is going. For a while we look at the spirit photography (NOT GHOSTS!!! REFELECTION!!!...or is it?)
Then of course, he puts the picture of me up.
mim: Stop. Stop now...
Him: Look, see how great that flash looks?
Mim: no...
He then zooms in.
Zoom, zoom, zoom!
Listen, I've never had great skin, but NO ONE looks good this big.
Mim: Stop. Stop. Too late...
My eye is now about three feet tall, on the screen.
And the skin under my eye looks..I think the word is 'reptilian'.
But he couldn't stop there.
Because this man has no filter.
Then he opens up photoshop and says "And if you need to correct some blemishes..."
Then he proceeds to take the time to remedy my acne in photoshop.
Because he's an ass.
Fine, dude. So my skin isn't flawless. But do they have a tool in Photoshop that will cover up the fact that you LOOK LIKE A PEDOPHILE???
I'm thinking no.
And so I win, even if only internally.
Really can't wait to see what I learn next week. Maybe he can take a picture of my hips and airbrush me in front of the whole class until I'm a size 6.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
That little boy's gotta think 'You got a pet. You got a responsibility.' If your dog gets lost you don't look for an hour then call it quits. You get your ass out there and you find that $%@#ing dog.
So, I'm running through my repetoire of kids songs the other day: The fishy song, Bill Grogan's Goat, Baby Beluga,"He's Got the Whole World In His Hands" with a few questionable additions, "What I Got" by Sublime before I realize it references pot and cocaine and have to switch mid-song, the usuals...
And then I land on the Five Little Ducks Song.
I've got a problem with this song.
Sure, it teaches counting.
Counting backwards, no less.
But you've got to wonder what exactly we're teaching our kids here.
Let me refresh your memory as to the lyrics of this song:
Five little ducks went out to play
over the hills and far away
mother duck said "quack, quack, quack"
but only four little ducks came back...
FOUR little ducks.."
And on and on.
I've got two big questions for you, Mother Duck:
(1) WHERE THE CRAP IS YOUR KID?
You sent your five kids out and only four came back. Are you a little curious about where that last one went? You know, just because you have five kids doesn't mean you can spare one. There are three major possibilities here:
(a) Someone kidnapped your kid.
(b) Your kid is somewhere in the woods, hurt and crying for help. Possibly a tree fell on his leg, and now he has to make the heartbreaking decision: do I bleed out, or do I cut my own duck leg off with a rusty Swiss Army knife, sans anesthesia, to save my life? This isn't really a decision that any child should have to make.
(c) Your other four kids did something terrible to that fifth kid. Possibly they sold him for drugs. Or tied him to a tree and left him for dead. Did you even ASK the other four where the fifth is? Because if they're all like "We don't know", I might consider pressing them a bit harder.
My second question is this:
(2) WHY DO YOU KEEP SENDING YOUR KIDS OUTSIDE WHEN THEY'RE CLEARLY BEING KIDNAPPED?
I think the saying goes "Kidnap my kid once, shame on you. Kidnap my kid twice, shame on me." Something like that, anyways. It doesn't exactly take a brain surgeon to realize that if your kids keep disappearing, you maybe shouldn't keep sending them outside to play. Where do you live, exactly? It isn't safe, wherever it is. Why don't you get a membership to the Y and send them there if you're living amidst a war zone?
Mother Duck, the only conclusion I can come to is that you are strung out on cocaine, or heroin, or possibly crystal meth. Perhaps it's your drug dealer who keeps stealing your children. What he doesn't realize is that you're so high, you don't even notice, and that's not the way to get the money you owe him.
And lastly, let me tell you something. I don't really even condone spanking, but if I sent that last duck out and all five came back like "ha ha, mom! we all pretended like we were kidnapped", those kids would be in for the spanking of their lives.
And that's why I went back to singing "What I Got", because both songs are about people with strung-out moms, so what's it matter? Plus, the Sublime song has a better beat. Though it doesn't teach counting...
So, I'm running through my repetoire of kids songs the other day: The fishy song, Bill Grogan's Goat, Baby Beluga,"He's Got the Whole World In His Hands" with a few questionable additions, "What I Got" by Sublime before I realize it references pot and cocaine and have to switch mid-song, the usuals...
And then I land on the Five Little Ducks Song.
I've got a problem with this song.
Sure, it teaches counting.
Counting backwards, no less.
But you've got to wonder what exactly we're teaching our kids here.
Let me refresh your memory as to the lyrics of this song:
Five little ducks went out to play
over the hills and far away
mother duck said "quack, quack, quack"
but only four little ducks came back...
FOUR little ducks.."
And on and on.
I've got two big questions for you, Mother Duck:
(1) WHERE THE CRAP IS YOUR KID?
You sent your five kids out and only four came back. Are you a little curious about where that last one went? You know, just because you have five kids doesn't mean you can spare one. There are three major possibilities here:
(a) Someone kidnapped your kid.
(b) Your kid is somewhere in the woods, hurt and crying for help. Possibly a tree fell on his leg, and now he has to make the heartbreaking decision: do I bleed out, or do I cut my own duck leg off with a rusty Swiss Army knife, sans anesthesia, to save my life? This isn't really a decision that any child should have to make.
(c) Your other four kids did something terrible to that fifth kid. Possibly they sold him for drugs. Or tied him to a tree and left him for dead. Did you even ASK the other four where the fifth is? Because if they're all like "We don't know", I might consider pressing them a bit harder.
My second question is this:
(2) WHY DO YOU KEEP SENDING YOUR KIDS OUTSIDE WHEN THEY'RE CLEARLY BEING KIDNAPPED?
I think the saying goes "Kidnap my kid once, shame on you. Kidnap my kid twice, shame on me." Something like that, anyways. It doesn't exactly take a brain surgeon to realize that if your kids keep disappearing, you maybe shouldn't keep sending them outside to play. Where do you live, exactly? It isn't safe, wherever it is. Why don't you get a membership to the Y and send them there if you're living amidst a war zone?
Mother Duck, the only conclusion I can come to is that you are strung out on cocaine, or heroin, or possibly crystal meth. Perhaps it's your drug dealer who keeps stealing your children. What he doesn't realize is that you're so high, you don't even notice, and that's not the way to get the money you owe him.
And lastly, let me tell you something. I don't really even condone spanking, but if I sent that last duck out and all five came back like "ha ha, mom! we all pretended like we were kidnapped", those kids would be in for the spanking of their lives.
And that's why I went back to singing "What I Got", because both songs are about people with strung-out moms, so what's it matter? Plus, the Sublime song has a better beat. Though it doesn't teach counting...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
My Thursday Brush With Death
Okay, that's a little dramatic. But still...
I love, love, love Kalamazoo.
I also love downtown Kalamazoo, but let's be honest and say that you will meet some of the sketchiest people alive there.
Today I met a man with a tracheotomy voice box, which in itself is not sketchy in any way, but I like to set the scene for you. This man is sketchy. If I tried to describe it to you, you wouldn't exactly get what I mean. Just trust me on this one.
It went like this:
Brady and I are going to the library (AWESOMEST library), and I get the stroller out of the trunk and put him in it, and lock the car, and stroll the stroller up onto the sidewalk. Just then, this man is walking by, so I say hello, and he says hello, and we chit chat, small talk.
Him: How's your day?
Me: Oh, good. Got my coffee. (Yeah, I'm like a genius of small talk, eh?)
Him: Well, that's all you need.
Me: Yeah.
So we walk up to the light on the corner and wait for it to turn red.
While we're waiting, my new friend, speaking to no one in particular, pushes the button on his voice box and says "God, please don't let the devil talk me out of doing what I know I have to do."
Okay.
Maybe I'm paranoid (yes), but does that not make you think that he's going to haul a gun out of his back pocket and kill you?
My immediate thought was the beginning of that book "I Know This Much Is True", where the guy is schizophrenic and saws his arm off in a library because he thought that God wanted him to.
Luckily, that didn't happen.
I was really happy to find out that that was apparently NOT what he knew he had to do.
Either that or the devil talked him out of it.
We crossed the street and I went into the library and he walked off down toward the outdoor mall. Probably what he knew he had to do was apply for a job, or finish "Ulysses", or recycle more often, and I am just a horrible, judgemental person.
P.S. Today, my Gambit-obsessed friend from the "Big Tree" coffee shop was wearing purple-tinted John Lennon glasses. It was difficult to carry on a conversation.
Okay, that's a little dramatic. But still...
I love, love, love Kalamazoo.
I also love downtown Kalamazoo, but let's be honest and say that you will meet some of the sketchiest people alive there.
Today I met a man with a tracheotomy voice box, which in itself is not sketchy in any way, but I like to set the scene for you. This man is sketchy. If I tried to describe it to you, you wouldn't exactly get what I mean. Just trust me on this one.
It went like this:
Brady and I are going to the library (AWESOMEST library), and I get the stroller out of the trunk and put him in it, and lock the car, and stroll the stroller up onto the sidewalk. Just then, this man is walking by, so I say hello, and he says hello, and we chit chat, small talk.
Him: How's your day?
Me: Oh, good. Got my coffee. (Yeah, I'm like a genius of small talk, eh?)
Him: Well, that's all you need.
Me: Yeah.
So we walk up to the light on the corner and wait for it to turn red.
While we're waiting, my new friend, speaking to no one in particular, pushes the button on his voice box and says "God, please don't let the devil talk me out of doing what I know I have to do."
Okay.
Maybe I'm paranoid (yes), but does that not make you think that he's going to haul a gun out of his back pocket and kill you?
My immediate thought was the beginning of that book "I Know This Much Is True", where the guy is schizophrenic and saws his arm off in a library because he thought that God wanted him to.
Luckily, that didn't happen.
I was really happy to find out that that was apparently NOT what he knew he had to do.
Either that or the devil talked him out of it.
We crossed the street and I went into the library and he walked off down toward the outdoor mall. Probably what he knew he had to do was apply for a job, or finish "Ulysses", or recycle more often, and I am just a horrible, judgemental person.
P.S. Today, my Gambit-obsessed friend from the "Big Tree" coffee shop was wearing purple-tinted John Lennon glasses. It was difficult to carry on a conversation.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
More Where That Came From
1. You know what I don't like? When I google myself (oh, shut up- you've done it before), and google suggests things, some OTHER girl with my name comes up and has 18,000 results. Stop having my name and being more famous than me. That's why I gave Brady such a long frickin' name- he'll never have the disappointment of finding himself, only not himself, when he sits around Googling his name. So what if all that comes up is the shameful time results from that 5K he ran in college. At least it will be him.
This reminds me of a story.
A few years back, I had a MySpace profile. One day, someone sent me an email, and it said "This has to be the (my name) from XYZ school in Alaska. There's no way there are two (my name)'s with bright red hair like that."
Well, apparently there is some way. Because I've never lived in Alaska.
I hate how people are always trying to BE me.
Get your own identity.
2. I've been reading a lot of parental information handouts from my pediatrician lately. This is because I have no idea what I'm doing as a parent. I went looking for the one on pacifiers, because I curious if I was creating a mentally unstable child by sticking a pacifier in his mouth every time he cries.
Let me tell you, if you want to feel better about yourself as a parent, read the handouts from your pediatrician.
The thing is, when they specifically tell you not to do asinine things, you know that the only reason that they're telling you is because someone, somewhere did it. Kind of like the McDonald's coffee cups that say Caution! Contents are hot! (no crap?).
Anyhow, here are my 2 favorite pacifier instructions/warnings from my pediatrician handouts:
1. Though the pacifier may fall out of the child's mouth while he sleeps, you should never attempt to attach the pacifier to your child with tape or other materials.
Really? Don't put tape over your child's mouth? Why? I mean, he's got a nose, can't he just breathe out of that? Isn't that why it's there, for like, back-up?
2. Never prop a bottle up in your child's crib so that they can feed themselves when hungry. It is simply too dangerous.
Prop a bottle up for self-feeding? Like that water thing we used to have in my hamster cage? Whatever genius did this also failed to note that babies can't MOVE or pick things up yet. If your kid is cognizant enough to wake up in the middle of the night, locate a bottle that's been left in his crib, eat, and go back to sleep, then he's probably old enough to get up and make himself a midnight snack, and you shouldn't even need to prop the bottle up.
Listen, I'm not trying to act like I'm super-parent. I've only had Brady for four weeks and I've already done some stupid things. For instance, the other night I picked him up out of his crib and his whole side was wet. It didn't smell, though. And his diaper seemed dry, so it wasn't like he peed THROUGH the diaper, and he seemed dry except for that one part. I thought to myself, "Man, that kid is sweating a LOT". Then I put him back in his crib, on his other side so the wet side could dry, and let him go back to sleep. Later, I felt the sheet and realized it was wet, and no kid sweats THAT much, and then I realized that he was somehow peeing out the side of his diaper, and baby pee doesn't really smell, and brilliant me just let him sleep in it. Awesome, Laura.
That said, I would never tape anything to him.
3. A few more stories about my favorite coffee place
I can't write the name of the coffee place anymore. Here's why: There's this special thing you can do to see if anyone has linked to your blog, and I was looking at it the other day, and I found one that I didn't recognize. So I went to it, and it turns out that it's the personal link page of the FOUNDER of said unnameable coffee place, and he has found my blog where I bash his barista for talking to me about my pregnancy. Underneath the link, it says "Not good press. Must respond."
Freaked me right out.
So anyways, same coffee place, different location.
I walk in, and the girl says "Oh my God, you have lost SOOOO much weight since you had that baby! Seriously, your face is MUCH thinner."
So I had pregnancy fat face and no one told me.
Cool.
Same coffee place, location where pregnancy girl work(ed?):
I pay for my coffee in drive through.
Barista guy: I don't think Gambit could work here.
Me: ... who?
BG: Gambit. The X-man?
Me: ......
He then launched into a several minute discussion of who Gambit is, and why he couldn't work at a coffee shop, apparently because he somehow throws exploding cards? I clearly don't know who the crap Gambit is.
The conversation ended when I, trying to go completely against my nature and be conversational, told him that my mom really likes the X-Men movies.
His response:
"Well, that's probably just because of Hugh Jackman. Women really like Hugh Jackman."
Uh huh. Right then, I was picturing in my head the exact look my mom would have given him if he'd tried to tell her that she only like the X-Men because of Hugh Jackman, and it would NOT have been pretty.
I really like it when people say things like "Women really like...".
It makes me feel like a panda bear. Like "Well, you know, pandas really like bamboo."
Pandas like bamboo, women like Hugh Jackman.
The world is crystal clear again, thank god.
4.
Me:.. should we take him out of the swing and put him in his crib?
Rob: No. He's asleep.
Me: What if he falls out of the swing?
Rob:... what are you talking about? You just made up a problem.
1. You know what I don't like? When I google myself (oh, shut up- you've done it before), and google suggests things, some OTHER girl with my name comes up and has 18,000 results. Stop having my name and being more famous than me. That's why I gave Brady such a long frickin' name- he'll never have the disappointment of finding himself, only not himself, when he sits around Googling his name. So what if all that comes up is the shameful time results from that 5K he ran in college. At least it will be him.
This reminds me of a story.
A few years back, I had a MySpace profile. One day, someone sent me an email, and it said "This has to be the (my name) from XYZ school in Alaska. There's no way there are two (my name)'s with bright red hair like that."
Well, apparently there is some way. Because I've never lived in Alaska.
I hate how people are always trying to BE me.
Get your own identity.
2. I've been reading a lot of parental information handouts from my pediatrician lately. This is because I have no idea what I'm doing as a parent. I went looking for the one on pacifiers, because I curious if I was creating a mentally unstable child by sticking a pacifier in his mouth every time he cries.
Let me tell you, if you want to feel better about yourself as a parent, read the handouts from your pediatrician.
The thing is, when they specifically tell you not to do asinine things, you know that the only reason that they're telling you is because someone, somewhere did it. Kind of like the McDonald's coffee cups that say Caution! Contents are hot! (no crap?).
Anyhow, here are my 2 favorite pacifier instructions/warnings from my pediatrician handouts:
1. Though the pacifier may fall out of the child's mouth while he sleeps, you should never attempt to attach the pacifier to your child with tape or other materials.
Really? Don't put tape over your child's mouth? Why? I mean, he's got a nose, can't he just breathe out of that? Isn't that why it's there, for like, back-up?
2. Never prop a bottle up in your child's crib so that they can feed themselves when hungry. It is simply too dangerous.
Prop a bottle up for self-feeding? Like that water thing we used to have in my hamster cage? Whatever genius did this also failed to note that babies can't MOVE or pick things up yet. If your kid is cognizant enough to wake up in the middle of the night, locate a bottle that's been left in his crib, eat, and go back to sleep, then he's probably old enough to get up and make himself a midnight snack, and you shouldn't even need to prop the bottle up.
Listen, I'm not trying to act like I'm super-parent. I've only had Brady for four weeks and I've already done some stupid things. For instance, the other night I picked him up out of his crib and his whole side was wet. It didn't smell, though. And his diaper seemed dry, so it wasn't like he peed THROUGH the diaper, and he seemed dry except for that one part. I thought to myself, "Man, that kid is sweating a LOT". Then I put him back in his crib, on his other side so the wet side could dry, and let him go back to sleep. Later, I felt the sheet and realized it was wet, and no kid sweats THAT much, and then I realized that he was somehow peeing out the side of his diaper, and baby pee doesn't really smell, and brilliant me just let him sleep in it. Awesome, Laura.
That said, I would never tape anything to him.
3. A few more stories about my favorite coffee place
I can't write the name of the coffee place anymore. Here's why: There's this special thing you can do to see if anyone has linked to your blog, and I was looking at it the other day, and I found one that I didn't recognize. So I went to it, and it turns out that it's the personal link page of the FOUNDER of said unnameable coffee place, and he has found my blog where I bash his barista for talking to me about my pregnancy. Underneath the link, it says "Not good press. Must respond."
Freaked me right out.
So anyways, same coffee place, different location.
I walk in, and the girl says "Oh my God, you have lost SOOOO much weight since you had that baby! Seriously, your face is MUCH thinner."
So I had pregnancy fat face and no one told me.
Cool.
Same coffee place, location where pregnancy girl work(ed?):
I pay for my coffee in drive through.
Barista guy: I don't think Gambit could work here.
Me: ... who?
BG: Gambit. The X-man?
Me: ......
He then launched into a several minute discussion of who Gambit is, and why he couldn't work at a coffee shop, apparently because he somehow throws exploding cards? I clearly don't know who the crap Gambit is.
The conversation ended when I, trying to go completely against my nature and be conversational, told him that my mom really likes the X-Men movies.
His response:
"Well, that's probably just because of Hugh Jackman. Women really like Hugh Jackman."
Uh huh. Right then, I was picturing in my head the exact look my mom would have given him if he'd tried to tell her that she only like the X-Men because of Hugh Jackman, and it would NOT have been pretty.
I really like it when people say things like "Women really like...".
It makes me feel like a panda bear. Like "Well, you know, pandas really like bamboo."
Pandas like bamboo, women like Hugh Jackman.
The world is crystal clear again, thank god.
4.
Me:.. should we take him out of the swing and put him in his crib?
Rob: No. He's asleep.
Me: What if he falls out of the swing?
Rob:... what are you talking about? You just made up a problem.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME, CAUSE I'M SO FRIGGIN HAPPY.
1. Me: Rob...
Rob: Yes?
Me: ... I don't look like a man do I? I mean, I'm not mannish, right?
Rob: ... define 'mannish'
Me: Rob...
Rob: Not an unattractive man
Hey! Remember that part in the ceremony where they say 'Does anyone object'? THANKS EVERYONE. Although, perhaps I SHOULD be thanking you, because apparently I'm so MANNISH that no one else would have married me.
2. Yesterday was our five year wedding anniversary and Rob took me to McDonald's on our way to KC and Aubrey's wedding, where we were taking pictures. And I got to get a combo. That's what five years gets you. Next year: a McFlurry.
3. I've been going to the library to get kids books to read to Brady. Okay. I've got a few favs. Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type is stellar. Such sassy cows! I also enjoy anything involving that sassy pigeon who wants to drive busses and stay up late. The other day I read a book about a squirrel with social anxiety disorder, which I also enjoyed. There are people out there writing kids books who understand that adults have to read the damn books TO the kids and don't want to die of boredom. And then.. there are others.
Some major offenders in the "What's Up With This Book?" category:
1. Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile
What the hell is a crocodile doing living in an NY apartment? Let me tell you a story. When we lived in NY, I remember a news story about a woman who was keeping a tiger in her bathroom and was mauled to death by it. Probably because she read Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile as a child. After I read it, Brady and I had a discussion about why wild animals belong in the wild or at the zoo. CROCODILES ARE INSTRUMENTS OF DEATH. And they don't go grocery shopping with New York housewives.
2. Runaway Bunny
Basic premise: Bunny wants to run away. Scary mom bunny is like "If you leave, I will find you.."
Baby bunny: I'll hide out at sea
Momma bunny: I'll become a boat and sail out to find you!
Baby bunny: I'll hide in a cave!
Momma bunny:I'll get a head lamp and go splunking!
Baby bunny: I don't want to go to school, I want to do drugs with my friends!
Momma bunny: I will hunt you down, baby bunny! I will hire a private detective, and when he finds your strung-out, Good Charlotte-listening, dumpster-diving butt sleeping on your best friend's back porch, he'll grab you and send you to a wilderness camp where you'll have to eat lentils and cry before they let you come home!
YOU'LL NEVER ESCAPE ME BABY BUNNY!
Woah, mom. I wonder why he wants to run away. Maybe it's time to take up knitting or join MOPS or something.
3. Giraffe and a Half
I got halfway through this one and wanted to kill myself, but I thought that quitting would be a bad lesson to teach Brady. He would get to be eight or nine and want to quit T-Ball halfway through the season or trade the violin for the clarinet (only acceptable if you're my sister and THAT astonishingly bad at violin), and it would all be because I didn't finish Giraffe and a Half. So I kept reading. But I told him that this had better not become his favorite book.
4. A bone to pick with Goodnight, Moon
I'm down with Goodnight, Moon. But I've got one problem. Goodnight bowl of mush? That, my friend, is filler material. Like in a song where you need something to rhyme and you cant come up with anything, so you make up something random. You can't just make a bowl of mush appear out of nowhere to suit your rhyming purposes. Who's mush was it? And why didn't they take the bowl out to the kitchen and wash it out if they were done with it?
Other things you could have said goodnight to, other than mush:
Goodnight, lush.
Goodnight, Orange Crush (yum)
Goodnight, Rush (the band. I envision this as being the ONLY pop-up page in the 2009 version of Goodnight, Moon. You're reading along, saying goodnight to the old lady in the chair and all the sudden, POW!, there's 3D pop up of Rush on your page. I'd pick out a song for them to be singing, but I couldn't name a Rush song to save my life.)
Goodnight, thrush (a common baby disease, might as well say goodnight)
Or, just don't say goodnight to the brush.
OR- switch the comb and brush.
So, now it says "Goodnight, brush. Goodnight, comb."
(Goodnight, Pontiac Silverdome.
Goodnight, Nickelodean Floam (do you remember that stuff??))
Goodnight, friendly garden gnome)
Anyways, now I'm reading him Harry Potter. Less confusion.
5. I'm done. I'm exhausted. Goodnight, bowl of mush.
1. Me: Rob...
Rob: Yes?
Me: ... I don't look like a man do I? I mean, I'm not mannish, right?
Rob: ... define 'mannish'
Me: Rob...
Rob: Not an unattractive man
Hey! Remember that part in the ceremony where they say 'Does anyone object'? THANKS EVERYONE. Although, perhaps I SHOULD be thanking you, because apparently I'm so MANNISH that no one else would have married me.
2. Yesterday was our five year wedding anniversary and Rob took me to McDonald's on our way to KC and Aubrey's wedding, where we were taking pictures. And I got to get a combo. That's what five years gets you. Next year: a McFlurry.
3. I've been going to the library to get kids books to read to Brady. Okay. I've got a few favs. Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type is stellar. Such sassy cows! I also enjoy anything involving that sassy pigeon who wants to drive busses and stay up late. The other day I read a book about a squirrel with social anxiety disorder, which I also enjoyed. There are people out there writing kids books who understand that adults have to read the damn books TO the kids and don't want to die of boredom. And then.. there are others.
Some major offenders in the "What's Up With This Book?" category:
1. Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile
What the hell is a crocodile doing living in an NY apartment? Let me tell you a story. When we lived in NY, I remember a news story about a woman who was keeping a tiger in her bathroom and was mauled to death by it. Probably because she read Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile as a child. After I read it, Brady and I had a discussion about why wild animals belong in the wild or at the zoo. CROCODILES ARE INSTRUMENTS OF DEATH. And they don't go grocery shopping with New York housewives.
2. Runaway Bunny
Basic premise: Bunny wants to run away. Scary mom bunny is like "If you leave, I will find you.."
Baby bunny: I'll hide out at sea
Momma bunny: I'll become a boat and sail out to find you!
Baby bunny: I'll hide in a cave!
Momma bunny:I'll get a head lamp and go splunking!
Baby bunny: I don't want to go to school, I want to do drugs with my friends!
Momma bunny: I will hunt you down, baby bunny! I will hire a private detective, and when he finds your strung-out, Good Charlotte-listening, dumpster-diving butt sleeping on your best friend's back porch, he'll grab you and send you to a wilderness camp where you'll have to eat lentils and cry before they let you come home!
YOU'LL NEVER ESCAPE ME BABY BUNNY!
Woah, mom. I wonder why he wants to run away. Maybe it's time to take up knitting or join MOPS or something.
3. Giraffe and a Half
I got halfway through this one and wanted to kill myself, but I thought that quitting would be a bad lesson to teach Brady. He would get to be eight or nine and want to quit T-Ball halfway through the season or trade the violin for the clarinet (only acceptable if you're my sister and THAT astonishingly bad at violin), and it would all be because I didn't finish Giraffe and a Half. So I kept reading. But I told him that this had better not become his favorite book.
4. A bone to pick with Goodnight, Moon
I'm down with Goodnight, Moon. But I've got one problem. Goodnight bowl of mush? That, my friend, is filler material. Like in a song where you need something to rhyme and you cant come up with anything, so you make up something random. You can't just make a bowl of mush appear out of nowhere to suit your rhyming purposes. Who's mush was it? And why didn't they take the bowl out to the kitchen and wash it out if they were done with it?
Other things you could have said goodnight to, other than mush:
Goodnight, lush.
Goodnight, Orange Crush (yum)
Goodnight, Rush (the band. I envision this as being the ONLY pop-up page in the 2009 version of Goodnight, Moon. You're reading along, saying goodnight to the old lady in the chair and all the sudden, POW!, there's 3D pop up of Rush on your page. I'd pick out a song for them to be singing, but I couldn't name a Rush song to save my life.)
Goodnight, thrush (a common baby disease, might as well say goodnight)
Or, just don't say goodnight to the brush.
OR- switch the comb and brush.
So, now it says "Goodnight, brush. Goodnight, comb."
(Goodnight, Pontiac Silverdome.
Goodnight, Nickelodean Floam (do you remember that stuff??))
Goodnight, friendly garden gnome)
Anyways, now I'm reading him Harry Potter. Less confusion.
5. I'm done. I'm exhausted. Goodnight, bowl of mush.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
If you're one of my family members, you've heard these stories. Fair warning....
1. Once upon a time Rob went to Disney World, because he was a band geek and his HS band was playing in the Disney parade.
side note: If you think about it, that Disney parade is really friggin creepy. Every day? Every day you have a friggin parade like it's a holiday? There is something really surreal and Twilight-Zoney about that. The two movies that come to mind are The Shining and A Clockwork Orange. I can't exactly explain what I mean, but you'll notice that both of those movies involve gory death, so maybe you get my point.
Anyhow, they go to Disney World. And there's this quartet there, I imagine somewhere along the thoroughfare (I imagine this because I've never been to Disney World, but it seems like it would have a thoroughfare), and it's these four women who sing "Mr. Sandman". And the big exciting thing is, they choose someone from the audience who gets to do the 'Yeeeesssssss" part (you know.."Mr. Sandman! Yeeeeeessssssss Bring me a dream!". Anyways, of course they pick Rob. So he's getting all ready and preparing for his part, and when it's time, the guy points the microphone at him... and Rob says "Thank you"
Like this:
Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du
"Mr. Sandman!"
"Thank you"
"Bring me a dream!"
I don't know, I guess he got nervous or something. Can't you just see everyone's face though? Can't you see Rob's really confused face like, "why the hell did I just say thank you?"
I think I like this story so much because it's exactly the type of thing I would do.
2. Our across the street neighbor Mary comes over the other day with this huge pineapple upside down sheet cake. We're all "Oh, thanks Mary, that was so nice!", and she says "Oh, well, I remember that it's your favorite, so I thought I'd better make it and bring it over for you."
Chit chat, chit chat, blah blah.
She leaves and Rob turns to me and says "I didn't know pineapple upside down cake was your favorite.."
And I'm like "... I thought she was talking to you."
We're both pretty curious who that cake was actually for, but it's pretty good. Almost good enough to be my favorite.
1. Once upon a time Rob went to Disney World, because he was a band geek and his HS band was playing in the Disney parade.
side note: If you think about it, that Disney parade is really friggin creepy. Every day? Every day you have a friggin parade like it's a holiday? There is something really surreal and Twilight-Zoney about that. The two movies that come to mind are The Shining and A Clockwork Orange. I can't exactly explain what I mean, but you'll notice that both of those movies involve gory death, so maybe you get my point.
Anyhow, they go to Disney World. And there's this quartet there, I imagine somewhere along the thoroughfare (I imagine this because I've never been to Disney World, but it seems like it would have a thoroughfare), and it's these four women who sing "Mr. Sandman". And the big exciting thing is, they choose someone from the audience who gets to do the 'Yeeeesssssss" part (you know.."Mr. Sandman! Yeeeeeessssssss Bring me a dream!". Anyways, of course they pick Rob. So he's getting all ready and preparing for his part, and when it's time, the guy points the microphone at him... and Rob says "Thank you"
Like this:
Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du
"Mr. Sandman!"
"Thank you"
"Bring me a dream!"
I don't know, I guess he got nervous or something. Can't you just see everyone's face though? Can't you see Rob's really confused face like, "why the hell did I just say thank you?"
I think I like this story so much because it's exactly the type of thing I would do.
2. Our across the street neighbor Mary comes over the other day with this huge pineapple upside down sheet cake. We're all "Oh, thanks Mary, that was so nice!", and she says "Oh, well, I remember that it's your favorite, so I thought I'd better make it and bring it over for you."
Chit chat, chit chat, blah blah.
She leaves and Rob turns to me and says "I didn't know pineapple upside down cake was your favorite.."
And I'm like "... I thought she was talking to you."
We're both pretty curious who that cake was actually for, but it's pretty good. Almost good enough to be my favorite.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
I'm An Idiot and The Pirate Window
You know how when you're waiting for something- like good news, say- every time the phone rings you think it's whatever you're waiting for? So, every time my phone rings the past week or so, I think "oh! maybe Brady's about to be born!"
Then I remember that I'm the one having the baby, and would probably not be getting a call from someone telling me I'm in labor.
In the meantime, while I'm waiting for myself to call myself and tell me I'm in labor, I've been buying baby clothes on eBay. Awesome deals! But this is my pet peeve (there's always got to be a pet peeve, right? I can't just be happy..): Ralph Lauren/Burberry/Roca Wear/Sean John/Nike baby clothes. Someone is going to have to explain to me:
1. Why they even MAKE designer baby clothes
2. Why people BUY designer baby clothes.
What are you thinking?? They're BABIES. They mess stuff up. They can't control their drool!! They grow out of clothing in like 10 seconds! And yet, on eBay, people bid on this stuff like CRAZY! There was a baby Burberry shirt going for $50 yesterday. I just can't figure out why you would even care if your baby was wearing Burberry. Babies are supposed to wear cute stuff, not trendy stuff. The other day I bought a green onesie with a pirate on it saying "arrgh!" and some striped pants to match. The whole thing cost me $1 at the baby resale shop. Here's the thing: people have their whole lives to wear Burberry. But you can only get away with putting a kid in a pirate onesie for a very limited window of time. It's called the Pirate Window. See, right now, kids look absolutely adorable in hats with bear ears attached. Not too many years down the road, however, wearing clothing with bear ears is going to be your first sign of some serious social maladjustments. Embrace the bear ears. Do not waste the Pirate Window on friggin Burberry.
You know how when you're waiting for something- like good news, say- every time the phone rings you think it's whatever you're waiting for? So, every time my phone rings the past week or so, I think "oh! maybe Brady's about to be born!"
Then I remember that I'm the one having the baby, and would probably not be getting a call from someone telling me I'm in labor.
In the meantime, while I'm waiting for myself to call myself and tell me I'm in labor, I've been buying baby clothes on eBay. Awesome deals! But this is my pet peeve (there's always got to be a pet peeve, right? I can't just be happy..): Ralph Lauren/Burberry/Roca Wear/Sean John/Nike baby clothes. Someone is going to have to explain to me:
1. Why they even MAKE designer baby clothes
2. Why people BUY designer baby clothes.
What are you thinking?? They're BABIES. They mess stuff up. They can't control their drool!! They grow out of clothing in like 10 seconds! And yet, on eBay, people bid on this stuff like CRAZY! There was a baby Burberry shirt going for $50 yesterday. I just can't figure out why you would even care if your baby was wearing Burberry. Babies are supposed to wear cute stuff, not trendy stuff. The other day I bought a green onesie with a pirate on it saying "arrgh!" and some striped pants to match. The whole thing cost me $1 at the baby resale shop. Here's the thing: people have their whole lives to wear Burberry. But you can only get away with putting a kid in a pirate onesie for a very limited window of time. It's called the Pirate Window. See, right now, kids look absolutely adorable in hats with bear ears attached. Not too many years down the road, however, wearing clothing with bear ears is going to be your first sign of some serious social maladjustments. Embrace the bear ears. Do not waste the Pirate Window on friggin Burberry.
Monday, March 23, 2009
My Bed
So. Furniture.
We bought this furniture about 2 and half years ago when we moved back from New York. A bedroom set, to be specific. A delightful sleigh bed and matching dresser in an attractive cherry finish. Dazzling.
I won't tell you where we got it, but suffice it to say it rhymes with "Smart Can". Or "Cart Tan". Or "Tart Man", for that matter.
The summer we bought it, they came up to our apartment and put it together.
"How lovely", we thought.
Then Rob sat on it and it collapsed.
When the repair guy came (yeah, we had to pay the repair guy to come, by the way), Rob started to explain to him what had happened. The guy interrupts him and says, "Oh, I know exactly what bed you have, then. This happens with all of them."
Cool. So they sold us a bed they know can't support any weight. He put these little extra support metal things on the wood slats underneath, so they could hold up. We had to pay for those too. Kind of like if you bought a house whose walls wouldn't stay up. So then you paid someone to come out and prop them up with 2x4s.
Anyways, with the exception of the fact that whatever genius put this bed together used nails that were too long, causing me to snag my clothes on the sharp edges poking out through the end of my sleigh, the bed worked fine.
And then it didn't.
The other night, we're sitting in bed.
Just sitting. Watching some TV.
And the bed collapses.
Just collapses.
Upon further inspection, the metal slats that go into the wood have actually torn the wood. From this point on, I will put the word "wood" in quotations. I'd like to have a woodnalysis done before making any further assumptions as to the bed's predominant material.
Anyways, the "wood" is officially torn, and unfixable. Right now, I'm sitting in my bed typing this. Know what's holding it up? A rubbermaid container. Let's do a cost analysis:
Amount paid for bed and dresser set: $2000
Amount paid for rubbermaid container that's actually supporting the bed: $12
"Don't worry!" I tell Rob. "We have a warranty on this bed." A LIFETIME warranty.
I look it up on my receipt, which I have so wisely saved. There it is, lifetime warranty
Oh my God, I am such a genius. I am so WISE for buying a warranty. Look at all the money I saved myself. Probably I'll get a whole new bed. Some days, Suze Orman has nothing on me.
So I call up Smart Can. It's like I can basically see the lady on the other line filing her nails. I say to her "My bed collapsed. But I have a warranty on it."
She looks up my invoice number.
"Nuh-uh", she says. Blowing on her nails. Gotta get that nail dust off.
Do you want to know what that damn warranty is for?
The finish.
I have a lifetime warranty on the finish of my bed.
The cherry finish.
Could someone tell me WHAT THE F IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO THE FINISH OF A BED THAT NECESSITATES A LIFETIME WARRANTY?
Because my finish is fine, people. Stunning, even. You know what's NOT fine?
MY ONE-HORSE BROKEN SLEIGH, THAT'S WHAT.
There's a damn gap between the end of my bed and my mattress big enough for my DOG TO FALL THROUGH.
Lady's like "No, there's no warranty on the bed itself. You want someone to fix that, you're going to have to pay them to come out there."
I will be DAMNED if I'm going to pay someone to come out again and fix what shouldn't be broken in the first place.
SCAM! SCAMSCAMSCAM!
I told her "Oh no, this thing's a piece of crap. I'm not paying anyone to come out."
She's all "Alright. Bye."
You know what I'm going to do? I'm gonna ruck up the damn finish, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going take a nail file to it. I'm gonna do that twice a year for the rest of damn life. Even when we've replaced the bed, I'm gonna call them over, direct them down to the basement where the bed is sitting empty, and I'm going to sit upstairs and have a glass of wine and laugh to myself. I will make you wish your lifetime was over, warranty!
So. Furniture.
We bought this furniture about 2 and half years ago when we moved back from New York. A bedroom set, to be specific. A delightful sleigh bed and matching dresser in an attractive cherry finish. Dazzling.
I won't tell you where we got it, but suffice it to say it rhymes with "Smart Can". Or "Cart Tan". Or "Tart Man", for that matter.
The summer we bought it, they came up to our apartment and put it together.
"How lovely", we thought.
Then Rob sat on it and it collapsed.
When the repair guy came (yeah, we had to pay the repair guy to come, by the way), Rob started to explain to him what had happened. The guy interrupts him and says, "Oh, I know exactly what bed you have, then. This happens with all of them."
Cool. So they sold us a bed they know can't support any weight. He put these little extra support metal things on the wood slats underneath, so they could hold up. We had to pay for those too. Kind of like if you bought a house whose walls wouldn't stay up. So then you paid someone to come out and prop them up with 2x4s.
Anyways, with the exception of the fact that whatever genius put this bed together used nails that were too long, causing me to snag my clothes on the sharp edges poking out through the end of my sleigh, the bed worked fine.
And then it didn't.
The other night, we're sitting in bed.
Just sitting. Watching some TV.
And the bed collapses.
Just collapses.
Upon further inspection, the metal slats that go into the wood have actually torn the wood. From this point on, I will put the word "wood" in quotations. I'd like to have a woodnalysis done before making any further assumptions as to the bed's predominant material.
Anyways, the "wood" is officially torn, and unfixable. Right now, I'm sitting in my bed typing this. Know what's holding it up? A rubbermaid container. Let's do a cost analysis:
Amount paid for bed and dresser set: $2000
Amount paid for rubbermaid container that's actually supporting the bed: $12
"Don't worry!" I tell Rob. "We have a warranty on this bed." A LIFETIME warranty.
I look it up on my receipt, which I have so wisely saved. There it is, lifetime warranty
Oh my God, I am such a genius. I am so WISE for buying a warranty. Look at all the money I saved myself. Probably I'll get a whole new bed. Some days, Suze Orman has nothing on me.
So I call up Smart Can. It's like I can basically see the lady on the other line filing her nails. I say to her "My bed collapsed. But I have a warranty on it."
She looks up my invoice number.
"Nuh-uh", she says. Blowing on her nails. Gotta get that nail dust off.
Do you want to know what that damn warranty is for?
The finish.
I have a lifetime warranty on the finish of my bed.
The cherry finish.
Could someone tell me WHAT THE F IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO THE FINISH OF A BED THAT NECESSITATES A LIFETIME WARRANTY?
Because my finish is fine, people. Stunning, even. You know what's NOT fine?
MY ONE-HORSE BROKEN SLEIGH, THAT'S WHAT.
There's a damn gap between the end of my bed and my mattress big enough for my DOG TO FALL THROUGH.
Lady's like "No, there's no warranty on the bed itself. You want someone to fix that, you're going to have to pay them to come out there."
I will be DAMNED if I'm going to pay someone to come out again and fix what shouldn't be broken in the first place.
SCAM! SCAMSCAMSCAM!
I told her "Oh no, this thing's a piece of crap. I'm not paying anyone to come out."
She's all "Alright. Bye."
You know what I'm going to do? I'm gonna ruck up the damn finish, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going take a nail file to it. I'm gonna do that twice a year for the rest of damn life. Even when we've replaced the bed, I'm gonna call them over, direct them down to the basement where the bed is sitting empty, and I'm going to sit upstairs and have a glass of wine and laugh to myself. I will make you wish your lifetime was over, warranty!
Friday, March 13, 2009
"No, Laura, you know what we're going to to do when we get home? I'm going to thumb wrestle you until you bleed."
I went downtown to meet with this guy. I parked in the parking ramp. Let me just clarify that all of the parking ramps in downtown Kzoo are owned by the same company. They all take debit cards. Except, naturally, the one I parked in.
I'm on my way out after meeting with this grant guy, and I try to give the lady my debit and she's like "Oh, we don't take debit. The other ones do, but we don't."
Because that makes sense.
That's like "Oh, this McDonald's doesn't sell cheeseburgers, sorry."
There is the natural expectation, when all of the other ramps take cards, that this one will follow suit. And when it doesn't IT REALLY KIND OF MESSES UP YOUR DAY.
I'm like "um.. okay. I don't have any cash."
She says "Well, do you have any change?"
Don't you think I would have thought of that?
No lady, I don't have any change.
I owe $2.
She tells me I have to back up, turn around and go get my parking validated. So I turn around and start going back into the ramp, and I hear the lady behind me yelling "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!!!"
Ya think?
As you can see, I have a chip on my shoulder as far as this lady goes.
Anyways, I go back to the office where grant guy works and, don't you know, they don't validate parking.
The nearest ATM is two blocks away. So I start walking.
I'd just like to remind you that I'm 38 weeks pregnant right now.
I get to the ATM and put my pin in, and it tells me it's the wrong pin. Then I remember that, twice in the last four months, my bank has sent me new debit cards with a note that says "there's been a security breach. we have to cancel your card." So, I don't know my pin anymore.
I try a few different things. They don't work.
Now I call my bank. They put me on hold for a decade, and then they come back on and say "you tried too many times. now we have to send you a new pin in the mail." They can ONLY send it through the mail.
Cool. I guess I'll go home and wait for that.
Fools!
I am now stuck in downtown Kzoo because I cannot come up with $2. Rob can't come bail me out because WE SOLD HIS CAR A FEW WEEKS AGO.
I really can't emphasize to you how pathetic you feel when you're stranded somewhere over $2.
Here's how I eventually get out: I remember that the store where I buy my running gear validates parking. So I go there and buy a $20 pack of running socks so that I can ask them to validate my parking. Repeat: I spend $20 to get a $2 validation.
By the time I get out, the shift has changed and someone new is in the toll booth. That lady is so lucky that her shift was over, because I'd had a brisk walk and plenty of time to come up with some choice words for her.
I went downtown to meet with this guy. I parked in the parking ramp. Let me just clarify that all of the parking ramps in downtown Kzoo are owned by the same company. They all take debit cards. Except, naturally, the one I parked in.
I'm on my way out after meeting with this grant guy, and I try to give the lady my debit and she's like "Oh, we don't take debit. The other ones do, but we don't."
Because that makes sense.
That's like "Oh, this McDonald's doesn't sell cheeseburgers, sorry."
There is the natural expectation, when all of the other ramps take cards, that this one will follow suit. And when it doesn't IT REALLY KIND OF MESSES UP YOUR DAY.
I'm like "um.. okay. I don't have any cash."
She says "Well, do you have any change?"
Don't you think I would have thought of that?
No lady, I don't have any change.
I owe $2.
She tells me I have to back up, turn around and go get my parking validated. So I turn around and start going back into the ramp, and I hear the lady behind me yelling "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!!!"
Ya think?
As you can see, I have a chip on my shoulder as far as this lady goes.
Anyways, I go back to the office where grant guy works and, don't you know, they don't validate parking.
The nearest ATM is two blocks away. So I start walking.
I'd just like to remind you that I'm 38 weeks pregnant right now.
I get to the ATM and put my pin in, and it tells me it's the wrong pin. Then I remember that, twice in the last four months, my bank has sent me new debit cards with a note that says "there's been a security breach. we have to cancel your card." So, I don't know my pin anymore.
I try a few different things. They don't work.
Now I call my bank. They put me on hold for a decade, and then they come back on and say "you tried too many times. now we have to send you a new pin in the mail." They can ONLY send it through the mail.
Cool. I guess I'll go home and wait for that.
Fools!
I am now stuck in downtown Kzoo because I cannot come up with $2. Rob can't come bail me out because WE SOLD HIS CAR A FEW WEEKS AGO.
I really can't emphasize to you how pathetic you feel when you're stranded somewhere over $2.
Here's how I eventually get out: I remember that the store where I buy my running gear validates parking. So I go there and buy a $20 pack of running socks so that I can ask them to validate my parking. Repeat: I spend $20 to get a $2 validation.
By the time I get out, the shift has changed and someone new is in the toll booth. That lady is so lucky that her shift was over, because I'd had a brisk walk and plenty of time to come up with some choice words for her.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
All About "He's Just Not That Into You"
In my defense, it was actually kind of Rob's choice. Kind of, because I refused to see Watchmen. I wasn't in the mood for scribbly face and blue man. Anyways.. we go. It was alright.
First of all, there's this part where Scarlett Johannsen says to whoever "The categories are sexy, cute, smart and funny. Which two am I? You can only pick two."
So I say to Rob, "Which two am I?"
Do you know that that boy chose 'smart' and 'funny'?
Okay, it's not brain surgery here. EVERYONE knows that, posed with this question that is clearly a trick, you need to choose one from the 'looks' category, and one from the 'personality' column. If you choose two from the looks column, it means you're vapid, and if you choose two from the personality column, it means that you're ugly. Guys, please prepare yourself for this question. And "you're all four" is not acceptable. He tried that too.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit hormonal. Come on, though. I've got like 3 weeks left, and I've been so good thus far.
Then, there's this other part in the movie where this guy I really liked cheated on his wife, and it really pissed me off. So, this morning, I made Rob spend about half an hour telling me all the reasons he's never going to cheat on me. Just so we're clear, I'm not even trying to pretend that that's sane. Give me a break. Anyways, thirty minutes later, when he's rolling his eyes and just about to kill himself, I let it go. Then I said "We should watch one of our Netflix movies tonight."
Rob says "Okay, what do we have?"
Changeling.
He gives me this look and says, "What is that about?"
So I tell him.
Then he says, "Let me get this straight. After the conversation you just put me through, you now want me to watch a movie with you where the woman's child is kidnapped and then she gets someone else's kid back?"
Then Rob went into the bedroom and got the Netflix movie, put it in its return envelope and hid it. He said I could watch it in eighteen years.
In other news, Ryan and Jen joined a bowling league and I'm completely jealous. If you want to start a Kalamazoo bowling league, please let me know. I want shirts, too.
In my defense, it was actually kind of Rob's choice. Kind of, because I refused to see Watchmen. I wasn't in the mood for scribbly face and blue man. Anyways.. we go. It was alright.
First of all, there's this part where Scarlett Johannsen says to whoever "The categories are sexy, cute, smart and funny. Which two am I? You can only pick two."
So I say to Rob, "Which two am I?"
Do you know that that boy chose 'smart' and 'funny'?
Okay, it's not brain surgery here. EVERYONE knows that, posed with this question that is clearly a trick, you need to choose one from the 'looks' category, and one from the 'personality' column. If you choose two from the looks column, it means you're vapid, and if you choose two from the personality column, it means that you're ugly. Guys, please prepare yourself for this question. And "you're all four" is not acceptable. He tried that too.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit hormonal. Come on, though. I've got like 3 weeks left, and I've been so good thus far.
Then, there's this other part in the movie where this guy I really liked cheated on his wife, and it really pissed me off. So, this morning, I made Rob spend about half an hour telling me all the reasons he's never going to cheat on me. Just so we're clear, I'm not even trying to pretend that that's sane. Give me a break. Anyways, thirty minutes later, when he's rolling his eyes and just about to kill himself, I let it go. Then I said "We should watch one of our Netflix movies tonight."
Rob says "Okay, what do we have?"
Changeling.
He gives me this look and says, "What is that about?"
So I tell him.
Then he says, "Let me get this straight. After the conversation you just put me through, you now want me to watch a movie with you where the woman's child is kidnapped and then she gets someone else's kid back?"
Then Rob went into the bedroom and got the Netflix movie, put it in its return envelope and hid it. He said I could watch it in eighteen years.
In other news, Ryan and Jen joined a bowling league and I'm completely jealous. If you want to start a Kalamazoo bowling league, please let me know. I want shirts, too.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
"Laura. After the baby comes out, I'm going to drop-kick you."
Notes From Lamaze Class
1. The man sitting next to me had redface and reeked of alcohol. Like, the kind of reeking where it was hard to take a breath while faced in that direction. Had someone given me a breathalyzer, I very well may have failed. This did not give me hope for the future of the poor baby in utero.
2. His wife didn't seem to notice? Or at least she didn't act like it. But then again, I guess if you're husband was boozing prior to lamaze, you wouldn't so much bring it up in front of everyone.
3. I want you to get a ruler. I then want you to measure out ten centimeters. I want you to do this because I don't think you quite understand how big 10 cm. is. I sure as hell didn't. Think grapefruit.
4. Do you know what lamaze is? I knew it was breathing and all. But I thought it was effective breathing. Effective how, I don't know. Stupid me and my faith in constructive breathing. Please don't be fooled; lamaze is exactly this: breathing in your nose and out of your mouth while 'relaxing'. THAT'S WHAT YOU'VE GOT FOR ME, DR. LAMAZE? Really? If all you've got is in the nose and out the mouth and 'butterfly massage' (which consists of me fluttering my fingers over my stomach in circles, Winnie the Pooh style), you can just bring on the epidural, fools.
5. Rob would not let us leave early to watch Lost. Instead, he made us stay and watch a movie about a woman who did not get an epidural. So, instead of enjoying my favorite show, I had to watch someone in more pain than I can really fathom. Thank you, Rob.
6. At one point, there was a demonstration. A dad ("coach", if you will) volunteered, and the lamaze teacher 'birthed' him out of a pink turtleneck, which was supposed to replicate the 'effaced cervix'. This experience was surprisingly effective, as it replaced the non-epidural birth video as the most disturbing thing I've ever seen. Then, Rob has to raise his hand and say "Do babies usually come out with facial hair?" Again, thank you, Rob.
Notes From Lamaze Class
1. The man sitting next to me had redface and reeked of alcohol. Like, the kind of reeking where it was hard to take a breath while faced in that direction. Had someone given me a breathalyzer, I very well may have failed. This did not give me hope for the future of the poor baby in utero.
2. His wife didn't seem to notice? Or at least she didn't act like it. But then again, I guess if you're husband was boozing prior to lamaze, you wouldn't so much bring it up in front of everyone.
3. I want you to get a ruler. I then want you to measure out ten centimeters. I want you to do this because I don't think you quite understand how big 10 cm. is. I sure as hell didn't. Think grapefruit.
4. Do you know what lamaze is? I knew it was breathing and all. But I thought it was effective breathing. Effective how, I don't know. Stupid me and my faith in constructive breathing. Please don't be fooled; lamaze is exactly this: breathing in your nose and out of your mouth while 'relaxing'. THAT'S WHAT YOU'VE GOT FOR ME, DR. LAMAZE? Really? If all you've got is in the nose and out the mouth and 'butterfly massage' (which consists of me fluttering my fingers over my stomach in circles, Winnie the Pooh style), you can just bring on the epidural, fools.
5. Rob would not let us leave early to watch Lost. Instead, he made us stay and watch a movie about a woman who did not get an epidural. So, instead of enjoying my favorite show, I had to watch someone in more pain than I can really fathom. Thank you, Rob.
6. At one point, there was a demonstration. A dad ("coach", if you will) volunteered, and the lamaze teacher 'birthed' him out of a pink turtleneck, which was supposed to replicate the 'effaced cervix'. This experience was surprisingly effective, as it replaced the non-epidural birth video as the most disturbing thing I've ever seen. Then, Rob has to raise his hand and say "Do babies usually come out with facial hair?" Again, thank you, Rob.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
How I Made An Ass of Myself Lately- Tuesday Edition
Nurse: Okay, drop your stuff in that chair and we'll get you on the scale.
Me: Okay
Nurse: Have you been getting a lot of movement?
(In my defense, she was just talking about getting on the scale. Train of thought, hello.)
Me: Oh. Yeah. I've been walking on the treadmill everyday.
Nurse: ....I meant from the baby.
Nurse: Okay, drop your stuff in that chair and we'll get you on the scale.
Me: Okay
Nurse: Have you been getting a lot of movement?
(In my defense, she was just talking about getting on the scale. Train of thought, hello.)
Me: Oh. Yeah. I've been walking on the treadmill everyday.
Nurse: ....I meant from the baby.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Calling All Choreographers
This May, Rob and I will have been married for five years. I've informed him that, for my anniversary present, I want him to learn the dance that they do at the end of Slumdog Millionaire and perform it for me. We'll be at a wedding that night, so maybe we can clear the dance floor and he can do it for everyone. He's going to need some help though. If you feel like you're a pretty good dancer, maybe you'd like to chip in and help out Rob. Go ahead and give him a call now.
This May, Rob and I will have been married for five years. I've informed him that, for my anniversary present, I want him to learn the dance that they do at the end of Slumdog Millionaire and perform it for me. We'll be at a wedding that night, so maybe we can clear the dance floor and he can do it for everyone. He's going to need some help though. If you feel like you're a pretty good dancer, maybe you'd like to chip in and help out Rob. Go ahead and give him a call now.
Friday, February 20, 2009
I Am a Disgraceful Blogger
I don't know where I've been. Out. Sorry. I'm back now.
1. Last night we play Boggle, which I bought on Ebay and got scammed over. Anyways, I don't think I've played Boggle in about a decade. Fun! For a while. Why do I play games with Rob? We're having a good old time until Rob realizes that he's losing. Then, he sets in motion the "Rob M. Win-Or-Die-Trying" method of play. This includes stringing random letters together and, when I ask about it, claiming that the word is a character from Lord of the Rings. Like "Oh yeah, Yuzbutu. He was a wood nymph." Which wouldn't work anyways, mind you, since you can't use proper names. Then he starts trying to use foreign words, which he knows is illegal.
Rob: I have 'pon'
Me: What is 'pon'?
Rob: Like that song? Hey Mr. DJ pon de replay?
Me: You can't use foreign words
Rob: Well, it's Americanized.
Me: Oh yeah? What does it mean?
Rob:.... shut up.
I'm am really, really hoping that someone is going to step in and teach our child good sportsmanship, because I am cutthroat competative and Rob is just a friggin LIAR.
2. About Boggle. I buy it on Ebay. The seller claims that it's new. Except that there's tape all over the box, the shakey-dome is cracked in two places, and it friggin says $1.49 on the side in sharpie, a'la garage sale-style. Liar, liar, liar! I want my $8.59 back!
3. Erin's eating a Spinach salad the other night at dinner and Sierra looks across the table and innocently asks "So. How are your leaves?"
4. We're painting the baby room today! Those of your who are familiar with my painting skills will look forward to seeing this, I'm sure.
5. That is all for now. I'm working on building my blogging muscles back up again.
I don't know where I've been. Out. Sorry. I'm back now.
1. Last night we play Boggle, which I bought on Ebay and got scammed over. Anyways, I don't think I've played Boggle in about a decade. Fun! For a while. Why do I play games with Rob? We're having a good old time until Rob realizes that he's losing. Then, he sets in motion the "Rob M. Win-Or-Die-Trying" method of play. This includes stringing random letters together and, when I ask about it, claiming that the word is a character from Lord of the Rings. Like "Oh yeah, Yuzbutu. He was a wood nymph." Which wouldn't work anyways, mind you, since you can't use proper names. Then he starts trying to use foreign words, which he knows is illegal.
Rob: I have 'pon'
Me: What is 'pon'?
Rob: Like that song? Hey Mr. DJ pon de replay?
Me: You can't use foreign words
Rob: Well, it's Americanized.
Me: Oh yeah? What does it mean?
Rob:.... shut up.
I'm am really, really hoping that someone is going to step in and teach our child good sportsmanship, because I am cutthroat competative and Rob is just a friggin LIAR.
2. About Boggle. I buy it on Ebay. The seller claims that it's new. Except that there's tape all over the box, the shakey-dome is cracked in two places, and it friggin says $1.49 on the side in sharpie, a'la garage sale-style. Liar, liar, liar! I want my $8.59 back!
3. Erin's eating a Spinach salad the other night at dinner and Sierra looks across the table and innocently asks "So. How are your leaves?"
4. We're painting the baby room today! Those of your who are familiar with my painting skills will look forward to seeing this, I'm sure.
5. That is all for now. I'm working on building my blogging muscles back up again.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Another Bedtime Story
So, contrary to what you would think, bedtime might be the most stressful time of my day. This is because the minute I lay down, I start remembering all of these time-sensitive things that I didn't do yet, and will probably forget to do if I don't get up and write myself a note right then. Keeping a pad of paper on my nightstand doesn't work, because I never remember that I wrote myself a note. It has to be on my desk, staring at me when I sit down in the morning. Anyways, I would estimate that I get up and write myself sticky notes about three times a night.
Or, I would estimate that I USED to. Then I found the awesomest thing of all time: Jott. It's like this: You call this toll free number and a computer girl comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?". Then you just say whatever it is you want to remember, like "pay the phone bill", and the voice recognition software turns your voice into text and EMAILS and TEXTS your note to you, AND adds it to your To-Do list. This is also awesome because I tend to remember things when I'm driving a lot, and now I just call myself. You can even have Jott send you a reminder at a certain time.
This would all be awesome if it weren't for Rob.
Yes, Rob again, ruining my perfect plans.
Here's what happens.
I'm lying in bed, and I remember something, so I reach over onto my nightstand and call Jott. Computer lady comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?"
Before I can open my mouth, Rob, who is laying right next to me, says "EAT TANGERINES!"
Then Jott lady says "Got it. Do you want a reminder?"
I now have an email that says "Reminder: Eat tangerines."
It's kind of amazing, because you have to talk pretty clearly to get them to hear you, but Rob must be talking loud enough, or he must be close enough, because it works at least half of the time. Okay, maybe only about one in four times, but nonetheless, I have a friggin reminder that says "eat tangerines". One in four is plenty.
It's like I've been cursed, but I'm still on Earth.
Between laughing hysterically and Rob yelling things, it took me 3-4 tries to get myself a note that says "make the car payment". He must have been on a circus theme last night though, because I recall him yelling "Shoot myself out of a cannon" and "Buy really big shoes." Luckily, neither of those things made it onto the list.
So, contrary to what you would think, bedtime might be the most stressful time of my day. This is because the minute I lay down, I start remembering all of these time-sensitive things that I didn't do yet, and will probably forget to do if I don't get up and write myself a note right then. Keeping a pad of paper on my nightstand doesn't work, because I never remember that I wrote myself a note. It has to be on my desk, staring at me when I sit down in the morning. Anyways, I would estimate that I get up and write myself sticky notes about three times a night.
Or, I would estimate that I USED to. Then I found the awesomest thing of all time: Jott. It's like this: You call this toll free number and a computer girl comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?". Then you just say whatever it is you want to remember, like "pay the phone bill", and the voice recognition software turns your voice into text and EMAILS and TEXTS your note to you, AND adds it to your To-Do list. This is also awesome because I tend to remember things when I'm driving a lot, and now I just call myself. You can even have Jott send you a reminder at a certain time.
This would all be awesome if it weren't for Rob.
Yes, Rob again, ruining my perfect plans.
Here's what happens.
I'm lying in bed, and I remember something, so I reach over onto my nightstand and call Jott. Computer lady comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?"
Before I can open my mouth, Rob, who is laying right next to me, says "EAT TANGERINES!"
Then Jott lady says "Got it. Do you want a reminder?"
I now have an email that says "Reminder: Eat tangerines."
It's kind of amazing, because you have to talk pretty clearly to get them to hear you, but Rob must be talking loud enough, or he must be close enough, because it works at least half of the time. Okay, maybe only about one in four times, but nonetheless, I have a friggin reminder that says "eat tangerines". One in four is plenty.
It's like I've been cursed, but I'm still on Earth.
Between laughing hysterically and Rob yelling things, it took me 3-4 tries to get myself a note that says "make the car payment". He must have been on a circus theme last night though, because I recall him yelling "Shoot myself out of a cannon" and "Buy really big shoes." Luckily, neither of those things made it onto the list.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
PUBLIC ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE AWESOMENESS OF RYAN
Okay, so one else even tried to come up with new rhyme-y phrases. But let's be serious- If you had, Ryan would have schooled you. Coming in with a whopping 106 entries (though, I will admit, some of them are questionable, Ryan:) ) Ryan takes home the prize of a $5 Biggby gift card. The judges (me) were particularly fond of "Dumb Quaker". Nothing against Quakers, but that phrase just sounds funny...
Okay, so one else even tried to come up with new rhyme-y phrases. But let's be serious- If you had, Ryan would have schooled you. Coming in with a whopping 106 entries (though, I will admit, some of them are questionable, Ryan:) ) Ryan takes home the prize of a $5 Biggby gift card. The judges (me) were particularly fond of "Dumb Quaker". Nothing against Quakers, but that phrase just sounds funny...
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Fun Game You Can Play At Home
Last night, we're lying in bed (do you get the feeling that this is where most of my stories happen? Not sure what that's all about..), when Rob starts singing the Heartbreaker song, which you have heard many times, though you may not remember. It goes like this:
You're a
Heartbreaker!
Dream-maker!
Love-taker!
Don't you mess around with me.
And then we keep making up new ones, trying to top one another. This goes on for about a half hour. Here's what we came up with:
Bread baker
Rump shaker
L.A. Laker
Cake maker
Goodness saker
Cold faker
Pipe snaker
Snow flaker
Tent staker
Record breaker
Old Quaker
Muckraker
Pattycaker
Test taker
This is an addictive game, I will warn you ahead of time, but you should try and come up with some. Rob and I are committed to giving a $5 Biggby gift card to whoever comes up with the most. Redeemable only at the Biggby where stalker girl works.
Last night, we're lying in bed (do you get the feeling that this is where most of my stories happen? Not sure what that's all about..), when Rob starts singing the Heartbreaker song, which you have heard many times, though you may not remember. It goes like this:
You're a
Heartbreaker!
Dream-maker!
Love-taker!
Don't you mess around with me.
And then we keep making up new ones, trying to top one another. This goes on for about a half hour. Here's what we came up with:
Bread baker
Rump shaker
L.A. Laker
Cake maker
Goodness saker
Cold faker
Pipe snaker
Snow flaker
Tent staker
Record breaker
Old Quaker
Muckraker
Pattycaker
Test taker
This is an addictive game, I will warn you ahead of time, but you should try and come up with some. Rob and I are committed to giving a $5 Biggby gift card to whoever comes up with the most. Redeemable only at the Biggby where stalker girl works.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Rob v. Penny
It's like this: Rob loves the dog. Let me rephrase that: Rob LOVES the dog. Only all-caps can explain it.
He talks to her all the time, throws her little bits of whatever he's making for dinner, even the meatballs which could have killed her being that they were full of onion, takes her on walks every day (where he claims they "talk"), gets up at 5am to feed her every morning, etc. Rob wants the dog to sleep on the bed with us, which I have forbidden. He routinely says "Penny, I just love you. You're an important part of this family." Then I roll my eyes and tell her to get off the bed.
But it's also like this: the dog loves me.
No explanation. I like the dog, but it's nowhere near an all-caps situation. More of a tentative, lowercase italics type of thing. Mostly she pisses me off because:
1. She stinks.
2. She forgets that she's potty trained from time to time
3. She WHINES
4. She stinks.
5. She tries to beat up on dogs 10 times her size.
I yell at her a lot. It sounds like this:
"Penny. You're disgusting. You smell like a trash can."
Doesn't matter. She LOVES me. If she gets up on the bed, she instantly makes a beeline for me and curls up right beside me. I mostly ignore her. If I'm feeling charitable, I'll pet her a little bit. Until she tries to lick me with trash can mouth; then all bets are off. Rob then says "Penny! Penny!" and pats his chest. She stares at him. "Come here, Penny!" She turns her head the other way, lays it on my back, and stares out the window. This morning when I got up from bed, instead of switching over and lying next to Rob, she just decides to get off the bed.
So we're laying there, and Rob has spent the last 10 minutes or so trying to get her to come lay by him when he suddenly just stops.
It should be said that Rob and I have been together for 9 years now, and I know where he's going with something about 2 seconds after he does.
I say "You're trying to ignore her, aren't you?"
Silence
I say "You think that if you ignore her like I do, she'll start loving you."
Rob says "I don't know who you're referring to."
10 minutes go by. Rob says NOTHING to Penny. It's like a world record, considering that Penny is the true love of Rob's life. Penny seems okay with it.
So anyways, there's a stand off now. Rob is not speaking to Penny. Penny doesn't even notice. I know that Rob's serious because he later took out a bag of lunch meat to make a sandwich and DIDNT GIVE HER ANY. I also know how it's going to end, though:
"Penny! Penny! Want to go on a walk? Come here Penny!"
He can try, but you just can't deny all-caps love, even if it's unrequited.
It's like this: Rob loves the dog. Let me rephrase that: Rob LOVES the dog. Only all-caps can explain it.
He talks to her all the time, throws her little bits of whatever he's making for dinner, even the meatballs which could have killed her being that they were full of onion, takes her on walks every day (where he claims they "talk"), gets up at 5am to feed her every morning, etc. Rob wants the dog to sleep on the bed with us, which I have forbidden. He routinely says "Penny, I just love you. You're an important part of this family." Then I roll my eyes and tell her to get off the bed.
But it's also like this: the dog loves me.
No explanation. I like the dog, but it's nowhere near an all-caps situation. More of a tentative, lowercase italics type of thing. Mostly she pisses me off because:
1. She stinks.
2. She forgets that she's potty trained from time to time
3. She WHINES
4. She stinks.
5. She tries to beat up on dogs 10 times her size.
I yell at her a lot. It sounds like this:
"Penny. You're disgusting. You smell like a trash can."
Doesn't matter. She LOVES me. If she gets up on the bed, she instantly makes a beeline for me and curls up right beside me. I mostly ignore her. If I'm feeling charitable, I'll pet her a little bit. Until she tries to lick me with trash can mouth; then all bets are off. Rob then says "Penny! Penny!" and pats his chest. She stares at him. "Come here, Penny!" She turns her head the other way, lays it on my back, and stares out the window. This morning when I got up from bed, instead of switching over and lying next to Rob, she just decides to get off the bed.
So we're laying there, and Rob has spent the last 10 minutes or so trying to get her to come lay by him when he suddenly just stops.
It should be said that Rob and I have been together for 9 years now, and I know where he's going with something about 2 seconds after he does.
I say "You're trying to ignore her, aren't you?"
Silence
I say "You think that if you ignore her like I do, she'll start loving you."
Rob says "I don't know who you're referring to."
10 minutes go by. Rob says NOTHING to Penny. It's like a world record, considering that Penny is the true love of Rob's life. Penny seems okay with it.
So anyways, there's a stand off now. Rob is not speaking to Penny. Penny doesn't even notice. I know that Rob's serious because he later took out a bag of lunch meat to make a sandwich and DIDNT GIVE HER ANY. I also know how it's going to end, though:
"Penny! Penny! Want to go on a walk? Come here Penny!"
He can try, but you just can't deny all-caps love, even if it's unrequited.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
My Pick For Worst Song in Recent Memory
is "Loosen Up My Buttons" by the Pussycat Dolls
Justification:
1. What it reminds me of is the bad jokes that people tell after Thanksgiving dinner, like "Man! I'm about to pop a button!" So then, Pussycat Dolls (WTF is a pussycat doll, by the way?), I picture you all as huge, fat men in overalls. It is a miracle that Weird Al Yankovic hasn't parodied this song yet.
2. How does one loosen a button? It isn't like a screw, my friend. Maybe that's your problem right there. Maybe it's not his fault at all, maybe you just don't know how to use buttons.
3. Lyric: "I'm a sexy mama"
You should know that no one says this with a straight face. Ever.
4. Lyric: "You've been saying all the right things all night long
But I can't seem to get you over here to help take this off"
Again, you're a fat man with overalls, but now you sound like you have limited mobility, which makes me feel like you're also old. Probably you have a cane. That's sexy. Sexy like a sexy mama.
5. Lyric: "You say you're a big boy
But I can't agree
'Cause the love you said you had
Ain't been put on me"
Where to even start? First, "you're a big boy"? There is something creepy and vaguely pedophile-ish about your word choices.
Second, "put on me"? Now I picture your love as a giant anvil in a road runner cartoon.
6. Lastly, I saw you performing on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. How come only one of the five of you sing? What's wrong, other four? (Pussy) Cat got your tongues? I have this feeling the rest of you can't sing. To which I say, how hard is it to find four other attractive girls who can dance and also sing? I don't think it's that hard. It seems like there are a lot of dancer/singers out there.
Banished.
is "Loosen Up My Buttons" by the Pussycat Dolls
Justification:
1. What it reminds me of is the bad jokes that people tell after Thanksgiving dinner, like "Man! I'm about to pop a button!" So then, Pussycat Dolls (WTF is a pussycat doll, by the way?), I picture you all as huge, fat men in overalls. It is a miracle that Weird Al Yankovic hasn't parodied this song yet.
2. How does one loosen a button? It isn't like a screw, my friend. Maybe that's your problem right there. Maybe it's not his fault at all, maybe you just don't know how to use buttons.
3. Lyric: "I'm a sexy mama"
You should know that no one says this with a straight face. Ever.
4. Lyric: "You've been saying all the right things all night long
But I can't seem to get you over here to help take this off"
Again, you're a fat man with overalls, but now you sound like you have limited mobility, which makes me feel like you're also old. Probably you have a cane. That's sexy. Sexy like a sexy mama.
5. Lyric: "You say you're a big boy
But I can't agree
'Cause the love you said you had
Ain't been put on me"
Where to even start? First, "you're a big boy"? There is something creepy and vaguely pedophile-ish about your word choices.
Second, "put on me"? Now I picture your love as a giant anvil in a road runner cartoon.
6. Lastly, I saw you performing on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. How come only one of the five of you sing? What's wrong, other four? (Pussy) Cat got your tongues? I have this feeling the rest of you can't sing. To which I say, how hard is it to find four other attractive girls who can dance and also sing? I don't think it's that hard. It seems like there are a lot of dancer/singers out there.
Banished.
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