Are you married? Do you have children or furry pets in your house? Do you clean only to turn around and see that everything is dirty again after only five minutes? Then we have the product you've been waiting for!
It's the Crystal Cleaning Cage! Just place your messy family and pets inside the Crystal Cleaning Cage and voila! Instead of mere minutes, enjoy hours of your beautiful, clean spaces! No more muddy paw prints right after you've mopped! No more sticky fingerprints on freshly washed windows! No more crumbs on your pristine counters!
Best of all, it's easy to use! Just construct your Crystal Cleaning Cage (air holes may require some assembly) and it's ready to use immediately! The spacious interior fits your messiest spouses, children, even those pesky shedding pets! The clear walls lets them feel connected to their environment while removing the capacity for new messes to be made. They'll still be able to see the tv while you enjoy time spent in your clean house!
But that's not all!
If you call within the next five minutes, we'll upgrade you to the Grande Cage. Perfect for large families or those with stinky teenage boys! The Grande Cage comfortably fits most larger families, even those who also have the most sheddable pets like Golden Retrievers and German Shepards!
But wait, there's more! The first 100 callers will also get the deluxe pack of Cage Fresheners. Cage fresheners smell like grape kool-aid and add a pleasant faux grape scent to any environment. They'll also get the 1 page instructional guide on other uses for the Crystal Cleaning Cage, which is basically anything that you would possibly need a huge, Plexiglas cage for!
Would you believe there's even more?
Call in the next 3 minutes and 48 seconds and we'll even cut the price of this innovative product. That's right, we'll slash the price from 19 payments of $48.67 to 18 payments of $48.67! That's one whole payment!
So if you're tired of turning around after you've cleaned to see the hurricane sized mess that your loved ones made for you, get the Crystal Cleaning Cage! Only available for a limited time so don't let it get away!
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
Monday, March 31, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
You Can't Teach An Old Mom New Tricks
Remember when you were expecting, or maybe after you came home with a shiny, new baby, and there was the older generation of women who inundated you with advice on everything from feeding to sleeping habits? It might have been an aunt, a grandmother, or even your own Mom. Mentally you rolled your eyes and nodded as you thought, "Ugh, that's the old fashioned way. They don't even use leeches anymore. Gawd."
I think I'm one of those Moms now. And I'm not even old enough to qualify for this position! I was pretty sure that this behavior kicked in with your first impending grand child. Apparently not. Maybe it kicks in if you're brave enough (crazy enough?) to have child number 4. Or if you think you're sane enough to do the parenting thing more than once. Willingly. All I know is that you can't teach an old Mom new tricks.
Okay, well, you can, but it's really hard.
The reason for this, I think, is that we figure anything that works well enough on our kids must be a parenting gem that we have just discovered and therefore must share with those closest to us. (Or strangers on the bus, in the grocery store, or at work. Same thing.) It does not matter that every child is different. We learned a fool proof way to get Mikey to sleep through the night and by golly, it should work for everyone's kid. What do you mean it didn't work for your kid? You must be doing it wrong.
We are so proud that not only are we currently not screwing our kid up, but that we have found one thing that we did so well it worked on the first try. It doesn't matter if Parents magazine suggested it and we were desperate enough to try it or if it was something we pulled out of thin air. What matters is we are, at that moment, a parenting genius. E = I'm a freaking awesome parent squared. Time to tackle teething terrors, potty training, preschool anxiety separation. Bring it on. I can handle it!
Yup, and you need to hold that shining beacon of parenting greatness close to you too. It's fleeting. Tomorrow will once again be fraught with uncertainty. Not to mention you will need all the reminders of parenting success you can get once they reach the teenage years and you want to smack them every time they roll their eyes at you. Since they often roll their eyes so hard you aren't sure how the eyeballs stay in the sockets, the urge will be persistent. You will probably devote so much time to trying not to smack your teenagers that it could likely turn into a full time job. So, yeah, take your victories where you can get them.
And for those new parents out there who have to hear buckets of unsolicited advice from us experienced "veterans", take comfort in knowing that one day, you'll be the old crotchety one spewing unwanted advice and that it will be a full circle. Uh, yeah, that really isn't very comforting is it?
I think I'm one of those Moms now. And I'm not even old enough to qualify for this position! I was pretty sure that this behavior kicked in with your first impending grand child. Apparently not. Maybe it kicks in if you're brave enough (crazy enough?) to have child number 4. Or if you think you're sane enough to do the parenting thing more than once. Willingly. All I know is that you can't teach an old Mom new tricks.
Okay, well, you can, but it's really hard.
The reason for this, I think, is that we figure anything that works well enough on our kids must be a parenting gem that we have just discovered and therefore must share with those closest to us. (Or strangers on the bus, in the grocery store, or at work. Same thing.) It does not matter that every child is different. We learned a fool proof way to get Mikey to sleep through the night and by golly, it should work for everyone's kid. What do you mean it didn't work for your kid? You must be doing it wrong.
We are so proud that not only are we currently not screwing our kid up, but that we have found one thing that we did so well it worked on the first try. It doesn't matter if Parents magazine suggested it and we were desperate enough to try it or if it was something we pulled out of thin air. What matters is we are, at that moment, a parenting genius. E = I'm a freaking awesome parent squared. Time to tackle teething terrors, potty training, preschool anxiety separation. Bring it on. I can handle it!
Yup, and you need to hold that shining beacon of parenting greatness close to you too. It's fleeting. Tomorrow will once again be fraught with uncertainty. Not to mention you will need all the reminders of parenting success you can get once they reach the teenage years and you want to smack them every time they roll their eyes at you. Since they often roll their eyes so hard you aren't sure how the eyeballs stay in the sockets, the urge will be persistent. You will probably devote so much time to trying not to smack your teenagers that it could likely turn into a full time job. So, yeah, take your victories where you can get them.
And for those new parents out there who have to hear buckets of unsolicited advice from us experienced "veterans", take comfort in knowing that one day, you'll be the old crotchety one spewing unwanted advice and that it will be a full circle. Uh, yeah, that really isn't very comforting is it?
Sunday, March 23, 2014
And Another One Bites the Dust
We have older appliances in our house. (With the exception of our coffeepot which was a replacement this past year for his comrade who passed away. R.I.P. Mr. Coffee. Gone but never forgotten.) So we pretty much live on a hope and a prayer that they'll keep functioning so we don't have to replace them. (We praise them loud enough for them to hear with such statements like, "They sure don't make appliances as good as they used to. Look at how awesome ours are!")
But then, a few days ago, the oven dies. Actually, that's not completely true. It committed suicide. I was preparing to make a pineapple upside down cake. I had never made one but it sounds really good, right? (I wish salad sounded as good to me as cake seems to.) The baby was crying and it took 3 times as long to make the cake. I was frizzy and frazzled and apparently, the oven couldn't take it. I no sooner get the cake in, breathe a sigh of relief, and close the door and bam! The oven starts shooting sparks.
If you're looking for a way to take a good five years off your life, this is the way to do it. I had turned at the sound the oven had started making (and that wasn't a good sound to begin with) to see that there are fireworks going on. (I didn't even know that we were celebrating anything!) Or perhaps there was a little man in there with a big soldering iron. Either way, it never bodes well to have your oven spark and catch fire.
Of course, my first thought is, "Crap! How do I get the cake out of there without catching the oven mitt on fire?" This would be funnier if you were here and saw the candle sized flame all the way in the back right corner of the oven. Then again, I suppose it's hard to be rational when you're worried about NOT burning your house down.
Luckily, the oven isn't that bright and didn't find a way to the big appliance store in the sky. It's just the element that's dead. Which means we now have the super awesome task of seeing if we can find the part to replace on this very old oven. (I immediately delegated that task to my husband.) He finds one, goes and gets it, and comes home. It's bigger than the original. Not like a "smidge" bigger, but "I don't think it's going to fit" bigger. But I'm desperate to have the oven working again. Not only because I'm supposed to have my parents over for dinner that night and I need a working oven, but also because I'm like a junkie without a fix. "Wh-what will I b-bake in without an oven? Fix it, fix it now!"
So hubby installs it and sure enough, it's bigger. It still fits inside the oven and we can close the door, but it's not laying flat. I instantly worry that this means I will have unevenly cooked food and hope that the big guy in the sky would not make me suffer through an improperly working oven. He wouldn't be that cruel, would he? I guess we'll see.
In the meantime, I foiled the evil terrorist plot that my oven had cooked up. (Pun!) I'm crossing my fingers and searching for good luck charms (Does a box of Lucky Charms count? That seems to be all I can find.) to help aid Operation "The Oven Better Work Because It Cost 60 Damn Dollars To Replace The Part And That's Almost A Quarter Of What It Would Cost For A New One Nowadays So It Better Just Damn Work Dammit". Yeah, you should probably wish me luck.
But then, a few days ago, the oven dies. Actually, that's not completely true. It committed suicide. I was preparing to make a pineapple upside down cake. I had never made one but it sounds really good, right? (I wish salad sounded as good to me as cake seems to.) The baby was crying and it took 3 times as long to make the cake. I was frizzy and frazzled and apparently, the oven couldn't take it. I no sooner get the cake in, breathe a sigh of relief, and close the door and bam! The oven starts shooting sparks.
If you're looking for a way to take a good five years off your life, this is the way to do it. I had turned at the sound the oven had started making (and that wasn't a good sound to begin with) to see that there are fireworks going on. (I didn't even know that we were celebrating anything!) Or perhaps there was a little man in there with a big soldering iron. Either way, it never bodes well to have your oven spark and catch fire.
Of course, my first thought is, "Crap! How do I get the cake out of there without catching the oven mitt on fire?" This would be funnier if you were here and saw the candle sized flame all the way in the back right corner of the oven. Then again, I suppose it's hard to be rational when you're worried about NOT burning your house down.
Luckily, the oven isn't that bright and didn't find a way to the big appliance store in the sky. It's just the element that's dead. Which means we now have the super awesome task of seeing if we can find the part to replace on this very old oven. (I immediately delegated that task to my husband.) He finds one, goes and gets it, and comes home. It's bigger than the original. Not like a "smidge" bigger, but "I don't think it's going to fit" bigger. But I'm desperate to have the oven working again. Not only because I'm supposed to have my parents over for dinner that night and I need a working oven, but also because I'm like a junkie without a fix. "Wh-what will I b-bake in without an oven? Fix it, fix it now!"
So hubby installs it and sure enough, it's bigger. It still fits inside the oven and we can close the door, but it's not laying flat. I instantly worry that this means I will have unevenly cooked food and hope that the big guy in the sky would not make me suffer through an improperly working oven. He wouldn't be that cruel, would he? I guess we'll see.
In the meantime, I foiled the evil terrorist plot that my oven had cooked up. (Pun!) I'm crossing my fingers and searching for good luck charms (Does a box of Lucky Charms count? That seems to be all I can find.) to help aid Operation "The Oven Better Work Because It Cost 60 Damn Dollars To Replace The Part And That's Almost A Quarter Of What It Would Cost For A New One Nowadays So It Better Just Damn Work Dammit". Yeah, you should probably wish me luck.
 |
| I put water on electrical fires, right? Or is that gasoline? |
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
My Love Hate Relationship With the Mobi Wrap
Have you heard of the Mobi wrap? I wish I had thought of this because it's an ingenious product. I bet the inventor is on an island somewhere, swimming in Gold coins a la Scrooge McDuck, laughing at all the baby bearing parents.
The Mobi wrap, for those of you who live in a cave or just really don't give a crap about baby products, is essentially one long ass piece of fabric that you drape and twist and tie around yourself to produce the perfect swaddle-your-infant baby carrier.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, this is the Mobi. We have a complicated relationship. I love it. Until I hate it. But then I love it again and it's all good. Until it isn't. Confused? If you said "Hell yeah you nut job!", let me explain:
The Mobi wrap, for those of you who live in a cave or just really don't give a crap about baby products, is essentially one long ass piece of fabric that you drape and twist and tie around yourself to produce the perfect swaddle-your-infant baby carrier.
 |
| Lady cover your... Oh, never mind, it's a baby head! |
Yes ladies and gentlemen, this is the Mobi. We have a complicated relationship. I love it. Until I hate it. But then I love it again and it's all good. Until it isn't. Confused? If you said "Hell yeah you nut job!", let me explain:
In order to learn how to wear the Mobi you have to do one of two things. 1.) Carefully read the instructions that accompany the product, complete with helpful diagrams. Not good if you have mirror image issues like I do. 2.) Go onto YouTube and watch an instructional video. Yes, that's how complex this thing is. It has instructional videos. (I went with door number one. I should have gone for the videos though because just looking at the picture I added above makes me realize my Mobi never looks like that.) The first time I tried to use it, my husband was there to observe the process which made for lots of gleeful laughter as I looked like a complete rube trying to figure it out. Now I know how stupid I look trying to wrangle myself in it. I hate that.
But now it's on and I have to figure out how to get the baby in it, again via the helpful little pictures. Maybe my baby is irregular because I can never get him in there as nicely as the picture infants. He likes to zig when he's supposed to zag. So now I hate getting the child into the Mobi.
Now the baby is in the papoose and wow! I have two hands again! Which is great because the baby never wants to be held constantly until I want to do something. If I had zero plans except sitting on my arse watching television all day, he'd be fine in any of the half a dozen doodads that hold, swing, rock or vibrate his ass to sleep. But he heard the washer start and now it's "Wah. I need to be held all day because I'm fussy and won't keep my pacifier in and it'll be this way until Daddy gets home and doesn't understand why Mommy's cranky because she's had the whole day to relax." And isn't baby boy being a perfect damn angel for Daddy just to make Mommy look like an ass? Sorry, I digress.
So I have two hands to do dishes and laundry and make a cake mix (no fancy scratch cakes with a ticking time bomb of a potentially unhappy baby!) and finish putting groceries away. This rocks. The baby can apparently sleep through the electric mixer but not the dog's nails clicking on the hardwood floors, but other than that, life is great. Until I realize that I need to get something in that cupboard. Up there. And I stretch while holding the baby to make sure I don't dislodge him. Or until I have to bend down. Or open the oven sideways so the heat doesn't hit the baby in his sweetly sleeping face. Or until I'm doing dishes and get the poor kid wet because I can't see how close he is to the sink. Then I hate it again.
But I got some stuff done and now I can take it off because now the baby is hungry (again) and I don't care what that picture in the booklet says I am not trying to breast feed with this contraption on. I also ignore the "How to get your baby out" section because I'm a moron and I've found a system that hasn't injured us yet. I love the Mobi when it's all nice and innocent and sitting on a shelf, waiting to be used. Aw, what a nice Mobi.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Real Moms Know How to Swear
I hate those fake Moms who pretend that their children are perfect and they are perfect and their marriage is perfect and everything in their life is disgustingly perfect. It's parents like that who give us real Moms bad reputations. Real Moms who skip church, have cereal for dinner because they're just too damn tired to cook, and have accidentally dropped an F bomb in front of their children. Yup, I'm a firm believer that real moms know how to swear.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not advising you start cussing like a sailor in front of your three year old. You don't need every other word to be the F word. But I also don't think we need to apologize if we aren't perfect and they hear us say shit or hell or damn. Or even the big bad one that starts with an F, ends with a K, and has two asterisks in the middle. (Yes, I'm talking about the F**K word!)
"What if your kid repeats it? What kind of example are you setting?" those stepford Moms might ask. Well, first I would tell my little darling that they don't say that word because it's a bad word. Then I would point out that I shouldn't have said it either and apologize to him or her. I think this teaches them the value of a well placed curse word (because honestly, some days just need a good shit, or dammit, or WTF?) and that even adults can screw things up occasionally. Parents aren't infallible and we should let our kids see us own up to our mistakes and more importantly, apologize for them.
I'm not sure when we decided that parenting was an Olympic sport and we all had to get a gold medal. The fact of the matter is that we're human. I can own up to swatting my kid's behind if he's doing something dangerous, yelling at them for not listening, and smacking a hand reaching to put a penny in a light socket. I'm not one of those politically correct people who feel that a spanking damages a child's psyche or that yelling teaches then harmful methods of expressing their feelings. I'm not advocating corporal punishment either! A swat on the behind every few years is different than a beating with a wire coat hanger. (I shudder just thinking about that movie!) Hearing their Mom say, "Dammit all to hell" when she drops the milk that spills all over her I-just-cleaned-them floors isn't the end of the world. In fact, that's probably the clean version of what she's saying mentally. (Of course, there's no use crying over spilled milk either!)
Unfortunately somewhere along the way we decided that parents had to be perfect. (I blame Barbie and Ken, those smug plastic bastards. Them and their Malibu dream house life.) We cannot admit that we yelled at Susie because we had a bad day, felt guilty, and then made pudding to try and make it up to her. Guilt is a human emotion and we're supposed to be robots. Cold, unemotional, disengaged robots. (Or maybe we're supposed to be smug, plastic bastards like Barbie and Ken? If that's the case, where's my damn Malibu dream house and snazzy pink convertible dammit?) Not to mention, guilt is a bad parenting tactic and we can't fess up to that now can we?
Well, sorry, but that's not me. I'm loud and opinionated but cry at really sad movies (or books, commercials, and YouTube videos). I think parents should be stop trying to be BFF's with their kids and be the parent. (Say NO occasionally. It won't kill them. Or you. I promise.). I swear but always respect my elders. I donate to charity but read trashy tabloids. I'm a mass of contradictions. But I'll be damned if my child is going to turn out to be one of these entitled, spoiled punks that society is manufacturing nowadays. Aw, hell no. Respect wasn't just a song by Aretha Franklin. They'll know they don't have to be perfect for me to love them.
So to all the real Moms who might have dropped a cuss word or drank a beer or farted in front of their kid but tell them they love them every night and spend time with them (even knowing we aren't the perfect paragons of virtue society maintains we must be), kudos to you. And Barbie, you better watch your back because I'm coming for you, you bleached beach loving plastic harlot!
Don't get me wrong, I'm not advising you start cussing like a sailor in front of your three year old. You don't need every other word to be the F word. But I also don't think we need to apologize if we aren't perfect and they hear us say shit or hell or damn. Or even the big bad one that starts with an F, ends with a K, and has two asterisks in the middle. (Yes, I'm talking about the F**K word!)
 |
| Not even if you wash twice! |
"What if your kid repeats it? What kind of example are you setting?" those stepford Moms might ask. Well, first I would tell my little darling that they don't say that word because it's a bad word. Then I would point out that I shouldn't have said it either and apologize to him or her. I think this teaches them the value of a well placed curse word (because honestly, some days just need a good shit, or dammit, or WTF?) and that even adults can screw things up occasionally. Parents aren't infallible and we should let our kids see us own up to our mistakes and more importantly, apologize for them.
I'm not sure when we decided that parenting was an Olympic sport and we all had to get a gold medal. The fact of the matter is that we're human. I can own up to swatting my kid's behind if he's doing something dangerous, yelling at them for not listening, and smacking a hand reaching to put a penny in a light socket. I'm not one of those politically correct people who feel that a spanking damages a child's psyche or that yelling teaches then harmful methods of expressing their feelings. I'm not advocating corporal punishment either! A swat on the behind every few years is different than a beating with a wire coat hanger. (I shudder just thinking about that movie!) Hearing their Mom say, "Dammit all to hell" when she drops the milk that spills all over her I-just-cleaned-them floors isn't the end of the world. In fact, that's probably the clean version of what she's saying mentally. (Of course, there's no use crying over spilled milk either!)
Unfortunately somewhere along the way we decided that parents had to be perfect. (I blame Barbie and Ken, those smug plastic bastards. Them and their Malibu dream house life.) We cannot admit that we yelled at Susie because we had a bad day, felt guilty, and then made pudding to try and make it up to her. Guilt is a human emotion and we're supposed to be robots. Cold, unemotional, disengaged robots. (Or maybe we're supposed to be smug, plastic bastards like Barbie and Ken? If that's the case, where's my damn Malibu dream house and snazzy pink convertible dammit?) Not to mention, guilt is a bad parenting tactic and we can't fess up to that now can we?
Well, sorry, but that's not me. I'm loud and opinionated but cry at really sad movies (or books, commercials, and YouTube videos). I think parents should be stop trying to be BFF's with their kids and be the parent. (Say NO occasionally. It won't kill them. Or you. I promise.). I swear but always respect my elders. I donate to charity but read trashy tabloids. I'm a mass of contradictions. But I'll be damned if my child is going to turn out to be one of these entitled, spoiled punks that society is manufacturing nowadays. Aw, hell no. Respect wasn't just a song by Aretha Franklin. They'll know they don't have to be perfect for me to love them.
So to all the real Moms who might have dropped a cuss word or drank a beer or farted in front of their kid but tell them they love them every night and spend time with them (even knowing we aren't the perfect paragons of virtue society maintains we must be), kudos to you. And Barbie, you better watch your back because I'm coming for you, you bleached beach loving plastic harlot!
 |
| How dare they #*&@%! swear in front of me? |
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Listen, I Can Fix This Debt Thing
Okay, so the national debt is up to something completely ridiculous now, right? 300 gazillion or something? Sigh, you're going to make me look it up aren't you? Alright, alright. Per http://www.usgovernmentdebt.us, today's federal debt is: $17,494,842,866,000. (Holy crap that's a lot of numbers!) I just had a brilliant idea on how to pay off this debt.
It all started with a headline that reads: Colorado collects $2M in recreational pot taxes. Yes, that's right, they collected two million dollars from taxing their legalized marijuana sales. In the single month of January. This means they could potentially have 24 million dollars at the end of 2014. The cool thing? The voters not only approved the tax, they decided where the money would be allocated. (The first 40 million will go to school construction.)
Okay, so let's practice my (very rusty) math skills. If one state could get 2 million in one month, what could 50 states get? Since not all states are as big and populated as Colorado, I don't think all of them would get as much as 2 million. Unless a lot of stoners lived there. So, maybe 85, 90 million a month? Multiply that by 12. (Per my calculator, 90,000,000 x 12= 1,080,000,000.) Okay, that many digits makes a trillion, right? (I'm overtaxing my high school math concepts right now. I mean, the ones I remember from all those years ago.) If the government legalized sales and taxes for all 50 states, we could start dialing down that huge ass national debt we're accruing. Sure, it would probably take awhile to get it down to zero, but it's a heck of a lot better than right now. (Considering we aren't decreasing it at all. In fact, they're saying it's estimated to be 21 trillion at the end of 2014.)
Okay, now that I've outlined my obviously brilliant plan for eliminating the national debt, can I just take a second and say, "Holy crap there are a lot of pot heads and elderly people with glaucoma in Colorado!" I can't help but wonder how many of the purchases were made by actual Colorado residents. Remember how Vermont got a reputation for being the state gay couples ran off to so they could get married? Colorado now gets a reputation for being the state you run to if you have, uh, a medicinal need for marijuana. Yeah, that's it. Medicinal and stuff. (As well as an all new high for the amount of cheetos and ring dings sold.)
So considering that weed not only helps glaucoma but also helps fund school construction, shouldn't we find a nice slogan for it? Maybe this one: Pot, helping to better our education system one joint at a time. Or maybe this one: Don't throw out the "weed" in your garden, sell it to better your children's future!
Hey, maybe this one: Marijuana, the answer to all of your problems.
It all started with a headline that reads: Colorado collects $2M in recreational pot taxes. Yes, that's right, they collected two million dollars from taxing their legalized marijuana sales. In the single month of January. This means they could potentially have 24 million dollars at the end of 2014. The cool thing? The voters not only approved the tax, they decided where the money would be allocated. (The first 40 million will go to school construction.)
Okay, so let's practice my (very rusty) math skills. If one state could get 2 million in one month, what could 50 states get? Since not all states are as big and populated as Colorado, I don't think all of them would get as much as 2 million. Unless a lot of stoners lived there. So, maybe 85, 90 million a month? Multiply that by 12. (Per my calculator, 90,000,000 x 12= 1,080,000,000.) Okay, that many digits makes a trillion, right? (I'm overtaxing my high school math concepts right now. I mean, the ones I remember from all those years ago.) If the government legalized sales and taxes for all 50 states, we could start dialing down that huge ass national debt we're accruing. Sure, it would probably take awhile to get it down to zero, but it's a heck of a lot better than right now. (Considering we aren't decreasing it at all. In fact, they're saying it's estimated to be 21 trillion at the end of 2014.)
Okay, now that I've outlined my obviously brilliant plan for eliminating the national debt, can I just take a second and say, "Holy crap there are a lot of pot heads and elderly people with glaucoma in Colorado!" I can't help but wonder how many of the purchases were made by actual Colorado residents. Remember how Vermont got a reputation for being the state gay couples ran off to so they could get married? Colorado now gets a reputation for being the state you run to if you have, uh, a medicinal need for marijuana. Yeah, that's it. Medicinal and stuff. (As well as an all new high for the amount of cheetos and ring dings sold.)
So considering that weed not only helps glaucoma but also helps fund school construction, shouldn't we find a nice slogan for it? Maybe this one: Pot, helping to better our education system one joint at a time. Or maybe this one: Don't throw out the "weed" in your garden, sell it to better your children's future!
Hey, maybe this one: Marijuana, the answer to all of your problems.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Betrayal of the Buxom Bosoms
I've always been a big fan of breastfeeding, not only because it's best for the baby but also because Hello?! It's free! (Have you seen the cost of formula? Ugh.) Besides that, it's always the right temperature, you don't have to search for a bottle and nipple type that your baby will like, and yeah, did I mention FREE? (Besides, it's much easier for me to find my boob at 1 A.M. than a clean bottle.) I also understand that it's a personal decision and not every woman wants to breast feed and that's fine. (We are women, hear us roar.)
Unfortunately, for those of us who decide to nurse our children, there's always going to be those people who make us feel dirty and ashamed about breast feeding in public. I came across one of these people yesterday. My theory is this: I have a baby, a boob, and a blanket. We're good. Yes, you might know what I'm doing, but it's not as if I'm flaunting my Grand Tetons like I'm at a topless bar, so what's the deal? Even if there's a nipple slip because the baby pulls his head up to look at a noise he heard, so what? It's a breast, people, not a XXX film. And I'm pretty sure that breasts stop becoming a sex symbol once they start producing nourishment for a newborn. Then they turn into practical faucets o'milk.
What really was a surprise was that I wouldn't have expected this kind of small minded attitude from this person so it completely threw me off guard. It made me sad to realize that there's still such a stigma attached to feeding an infant in public if it's not from a plastic bottle. And I considered that it is people like this who will always make news stories for asking nursing mothers to leave restaurants. It's 2014 and we're starting to devolve as a species. A century ago, before formula and plastic bottles, breast feeding was the only way to go. There weren't any other options. No one would expect you to make your child go hungry until you could get to a more private place. No one expected you to re-arrange your life around your kid's feeding schedule. You still milked the cows, fed the chickens, made breakfast for the family etc.
After the initial shock wore off, however, I began to get mad. How dare anyone make me feel bad about providing my kid with food? Did they make me feel bad about growing another person inside me, which is admittedly a little Alien-esque? Nope, it was a "miracle" in there. Did they make me feel guilty about birthing him out of my "no-no" place? Nope, it's so much better than the sterile procedure of cutting him out of me via Cesarean section. So it's ok that my body grew and expelled another living being, but it's unacceptable that I want to feed him from this same body in front of other living people? GASP! The horror! There are adults out there who have never had the birds and the bees talk with their mummies and daddies and I'd surely be opening up a huge can of worms! No one wants to have that awkward conversation with their thirty year old child!
And while I'm trying to get over that, let me ask you this: It's shocking that I want to nurse my child in public, under a blanket, but Miley Cyrus can go on television smoking pot, kissing other women, and twerking and she's considered acceptable as an icon for our children to emulate? It's a sad, sad day when we are more accepting of deviant child television stars than feeding our children from our God given parts. For shame America, for shame!
Unfortunately, for those of us who decide to nurse our children, there's always going to be those people who make us feel dirty and ashamed about breast feeding in public. I came across one of these people yesterday. My theory is this: I have a baby, a boob, and a blanket. We're good. Yes, you might know what I'm doing, but it's not as if I'm flaunting my Grand Tetons like I'm at a topless bar, so what's the deal? Even if there's a nipple slip because the baby pulls his head up to look at a noise he heard, so what? It's a breast, people, not a XXX film. And I'm pretty sure that breasts stop becoming a sex symbol once they start producing nourishment for a newborn. Then they turn into practical faucets o'milk.
What really was a surprise was that I wouldn't have expected this kind of small minded attitude from this person so it completely threw me off guard. It made me sad to realize that there's still such a stigma attached to feeding an infant in public if it's not from a plastic bottle. And I considered that it is people like this who will always make news stories for asking nursing mothers to leave restaurants. It's 2014 and we're starting to devolve as a species. A century ago, before formula and plastic bottles, breast feeding was the only way to go. There weren't any other options. No one would expect you to make your child go hungry until you could get to a more private place. No one expected you to re-arrange your life around your kid's feeding schedule. You still milked the cows, fed the chickens, made breakfast for the family etc.
After the initial shock wore off, however, I began to get mad. How dare anyone make me feel bad about providing my kid with food? Did they make me feel bad about growing another person inside me, which is admittedly a little Alien-esque? Nope, it was a "miracle" in there. Did they make me feel guilty about birthing him out of my "no-no" place? Nope, it's so much better than the sterile procedure of cutting him out of me via Cesarean section. So it's ok that my body grew and expelled another living being, but it's unacceptable that I want to feed him from this same body in front of other living people? GASP! The horror! There are adults out there who have never had the birds and the bees talk with their mummies and daddies and I'd surely be opening up a huge can of worms! No one wants to have that awkward conversation with their thirty year old child!
And while I'm trying to get over that, let me ask you this: It's shocking that I want to nurse my child in public, under a blanket, but Miley Cyrus can go on television smoking pot, kissing other women, and twerking and she's considered acceptable as an icon for our children to emulate? It's a sad, sad day when we are more accepting of deviant child television stars than feeding our children from our God given parts. For shame America, for shame!
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Dealing With Passive Aggressive A-holes
Why does it always seem like there's some passive aggressive jerk whenever you go out in public with a small infant or child? Do these people have radar or something? How do they know to time their entrance so well? Do you think it's a cult?
Admittedly, I have little patience for passive aggressive a-holes who have to make their snide observations, which basically amount to the equivalent of a barbed comment wrapped in a thinly veiled nicety. Like when you point out that you finally get to see my child. Really? When did I sign a disclaimer that states I will expose my brand new child to every person I have ever made an acquaintance with in my life? Because I don't remember that. If I have relatives in my own family that haven't even seen my child, why should I feel guilty that you, someone who has no blood relation and a total of 12 conversations between us, hasn't seen my child? He's only been home 3 weeks, we haven't made it to the J's jet. (Jackass is thine name.)
And also, it's like negative freezing outside. I'm really not planning on toting him outside more than I have to. Just taking a trip to the local Tar-jay (ours is a really sophisticated one, hence the special emphasis on the second syllable) is a big fricking deal now, not only because it's still winter but because it's PUBLIC. I'm okay with it only because I have the cart as a buffer. If you piss me off by trying to breathe too closely to my baby, I can haul ass on wheels. Yeah, that's right, just try to catch me in my souped up little red cart now!
Oh, and did you miss the part where he was born two months early? I spent a month visiting him in the hospital. I'm so paranoid about germs that I'm on the verge of constructing a plastic bubble to see him through until he goes to kindergarten. I'm considering researching therapists so that when he needs therapy for the smothering, over protective nutcase his mother was, I can recommend some good ones. (It's always good to be prepared, right?)
Did you read that sentence where I mentioned that he spent a month in the hospital? That's 30 days and 30 nights of empty arms. Do you really think I'm sharing him with many people right now period? I have to remind myself to let his daddy have bonding time with him and I'm married to the man! Since I'm not married to you, I feel less inclined to just pack him up and hand him over. On the off chance that I deem you worthy of being within 3 feet of my little angel, be prepared for the possibility of filling out a medical history and signing an oath that you haven't been ill, or near someone ill, in the last 6 years. It's ok, it's precautionary.
So the next time you think of making a passive aggressive remark, don't. You never know what type of claws that us mama bears have. And you probably don't want to find out either.
Admittedly, I have little patience for passive aggressive a-holes who have to make their snide observations, which basically amount to the equivalent of a barbed comment wrapped in a thinly veiled nicety. Like when you point out that you finally get to see my child. Really? When did I sign a disclaimer that states I will expose my brand new child to every person I have ever made an acquaintance with in my life? Because I don't remember that. If I have relatives in my own family that haven't even seen my child, why should I feel guilty that you, someone who has no blood relation and a total of 12 conversations between us, hasn't seen my child? He's only been home 3 weeks, we haven't made it to the J's jet. (Jackass is thine name.)
And also, it's like negative freezing outside. I'm really not planning on toting him outside more than I have to. Just taking a trip to the local Tar-jay (ours is a really sophisticated one, hence the special emphasis on the second syllable) is a big fricking deal now, not only because it's still winter but because it's PUBLIC. I'm okay with it only because I have the cart as a buffer. If you piss me off by trying to breathe too closely to my baby, I can haul ass on wheels. Yeah, that's right, just try to catch me in my souped up little red cart now!
Oh, and did you miss the part where he was born two months early? I spent a month visiting him in the hospital. I'm so paranoid about germs that I'm on the verge of constructing a plastic bubble to see him through until he goes to kindergarten. I'm considering researching therapists so that when he needs therapy for the smothering, over protective nutcase his mother was, I can recommend some good ones. (It's always good to be prepared, right?)
Did you read that sentence where I mentioned that he spent a month in the hospital? That's 30 days and 30 nights of empty arms. Do you really think I'm sharing him with many people right now period? I have to remind myself to let his daddy have bonding time with him and I'm married to the man! Since I'm not married to you, I feel less inclined to just pack him up and hand him over. On the off chance that I deem you worthy of being within 3 feet of my little angel, be prepared for the possibility of filling out a medical history and signing an oath that you haven't been ill, or near someone ill, in the last 6 years. It's ok, it's precautionary.
So the next time you think of making a passive aggressive remark, don't. You never know what type of claws that us mama bears have. And you probably don't want to find out either.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
How To Be Miserable In 30 Minutes or Less
I'm thinking about writing a letter to the people in charge of late night television. (I say thinking because there's a 93.7% chance it'll never come to fruition.) I think they need to revamp their programming and consider that bleary eyed moms with brand spanking new babies are their current demographic.
And we don't appreciate the extreme weight loss infomercials.
Now, to be fair, they probably don't expect anyone to be watching television at 4:30 in the morning which is why they have crap like this on in the first place. (Which begs the question why do they have anything on at 4:30 then? And why did they make the infomercial to begin with if it's going to be run when only 3 percent of the population is viewing it? But I digress.)
Do you know what I sat watching, half awake with a nursing baby at my breast, at 4:30 in the morning? A bunch of skinny people who were spouting a bunch of crap like, "I didn't think a 30 minute work out was really going to do anything for me. But here I am now, 40 pounds skinnier and loving life." Screw you paid actors. I hate you and your teenage boy bodies. Especially as I sit here with baby number four in my arms and all his pregnancy weight still on my hips and stomach.
The biggest problem with these damn infomercials about weight loss? They start to suck me into their bullshit. Fifteen minutes of watching fat people sweat their way into six pack abs and I'm now convinced that I could have six pack abs. Never mind the fact that I have never had six pack abs, even when I was at my fittest. Six testimonials later and I'm almost reaching for the phone to sign myself up for some torturous exercise regimen that I know I'm too old and too out of shape to do. I'm smart enough to know my body doesn't bend that way anymore, so why would I try to do it anyway? Because these charismatic spawns of Satan have convinced me that it is all I truly need to get myself back into shape. They're evil I tell you. Evil.
Even better than all of that is their lame ass hand signal for the product. It's P90X3. So the guy crosses his arms in an X and has 3 fingers out on his left hand. Wow. Cool. I would never have been able to think up a gesture as cool as that. Kudos dude. Seriously.
And we don't appreciate the extreme weight loss infomercials.
Now, to be fair, they probably don't expect anyone to be watching television at 4:30 in the morning which is why they have crap like this on in the first place. (Which begs the question why do they have anything on at 4:30 then? And why did they make the infomercial to begin with if it's going to be run when only 3 percent of the population is viewing it? But I digress.)
Do you know what I sat watching, half awake with a nursing baby at my breast, at 4:30 in the morning? A bunch of skinny people who were spouting a bunch of crap like, "I didn't think a 30 minute work out was really going to do anything for me. But here I am now, 40 pounds skinnier and loving life." Screw you paid actors. I hate you and your teenage boy bodies. Especially as I sit here with baby number four in my arms and all his pregnancy weight still on my hips and stomach.
The biggest problem with these damn infomercials about weight loss? They start to suck me into their bullshit. Fifteen minutes of watching fat people sweat their way into six pack abs and I'm now convinced that I could have six pack abs. Never mind the fact that I have never had six pack abs, even when I was at my fittest. Six testimonials later and I'm almost reaching for the phone to sign myself up for some torturous exercise regimen that I know I'm too old and too out of shape to do. I'm smart enough to know my body doesn't bend that way anymore, so why would I try to do it anyway? Because these charismatic spawns of Satan have convinced me that it is all I truly need to get myself back into shape. They're evil I tell you. Evil.
Even better than all of that is their lame ass hand signal for the product. It's P90X3. So the guy crosses his arms in an X and has 3 fingers out on his left hand. Wow. Cool. I would never have been able to think up a gesture as cool as that. Kudos dude. Seriously.
 |
| What's the product? Hawkeye W? |
So tonight when 4:30 rolls around and I'm watching late night television that is not supposed to be viewed by anyone with a pulse, I'm going to look for a new infomercial. Maybe one with charismatic cheerleaders with obsessive compulsive cleaning tendencies to suck me into a new miracle cleanser for my bathroom. At least then I wouldn't need to suck in my gut and squeeze into a spandex work out suit. Unless I wanted to, and let's face it, no one over 95 pounds really does.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)