My Reasons Are Threefold

So, why did I order the DVD's of Freaks and Geeks, you ask?

1.  It's a critically-acclaimed series I've never seen.

2.  Netflix highly recommended it for me. (We've only been an item for about two weeks now, but I swear Netflix can see into my very soul.)

3.  When I'm going to watch it, I have an excuse to proclaim to all within ear-shot that I'm, "... gonna get my geek on."

Maybe It's the Fever Talking ...

Ghostbusters is one of the finest films ever made.

Thank you, Comedy Central, for making my sofa-bound Saturday tolerable.

It's September, and I Suck

Tonight, as I snarfed down the "stress meal" that is the Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburger with a side of Frosty, I realized that I loathe September.

Not just this September, either.

I mean ALL Septembers are on my shit list.

The reason for my extreme ill-will towards this month is simple: It is the month in which I suck on a grand scale. And the source of all this sucking is none other than the beginning of a new school year.

Now, I've been through this MANY times, so you'd think I'd have it down. But I don't. So here I am again, trapped in a swirl of frustration and stress. I pondered the reasons why this time of year always hits me so hard and makes me, a usually calm person, feel so utterly overwhelmed.

And why is it that I seem to suck so hard at so many things right now, when I normally don't really suck that much at all?

It's because I've lost some things that I'd forgotten to appreciate - and I miss them dearly.

The Stuff I'm Mourning

• Knowing  my Students' Names  In the excitement of the end of the school year in June, I forget how nice it is to be in a room where we all know one another - names, pets, hidden talents, shared experiences. Developing those bonds with this year's batch of kids takes time, and right now it just feels like I spend my days in a room full of strangers.

• Puttering in the Kitchen  In the summer, I spent hours chopping fresh fruits and vegetables, trying new recipes, and putting together meals at a leisurely pace = usually while listening to music and singing along (occasionally dancing too - but less often and never with sharp utensils). Cooking was my quality relaxation time. Now it's about rushing to get something on the dinner table and packing my lunches in a zombie-like trance.

• Morning Walks  Nothing beats the AM constitutional for me. But there's no way in hell I'm getting up at 4 o'clock to take one. The evening walk pales by comparison - more traffic, hotter weather, and fewer ducks bobbing contentedly on the lake.

• Being an Awesome Mom  I know that the physically/emotionally burned-out days of September shall pass, but it bugs me to find myself wishing my daughter would fall asleep a bit earlier, stop continually following me all around the house, stop asking so many questions, etc. In the summer, I have so much more to give. And I do give it. To her.

•  Brain-Numbing Television  I haven't watched a "marathon" of anything in almost three weeks. No wonder I'm cranky.

• Blogging  I've had many blog-worthy moments but lacked the energy to put them to words.

At least September's only one of those thirty-day months.

Double Vision

First of all, I can't wait for Julie & Julia to come out.

Streep can do little or no wrong, and it looks like a clever little film.

When I look at the ads for it, though, I'm startled by how much Amy Adams looks like a younger, hotter version of Miranda Hobbes on Sex and the City.

The hair.

The eyes.

The pose (... as in the episode where Miranda admits she needs to go to the Betty Crocker Clinic after eating devil's food cake out of the trash).

Who's with me on this one?

Ode to Billie Joe

My students are always shocked to learn that I've heard of Green Day.

They are, after all, and extremely cool band, and I am, after all, an old person.

The notion of me, the middle-aged lady who nags them about when to use well and when to use good, having a working knowledge of this band is just too much for their little brains to handle.

"Seriously, I have been listening to them since before you were born, Whippersnapper."

Anyhow, a few years ago I saw one of those Behind the Music shows about Green Day, and a comment that Billie Joe Armstrong made just kind of stuck with me. He was talking about "Good Riddance" and how people were so surprised to hear the quiet little acoustic song that could coming from Green Day. Everyone thought they knew what to expect from them: fast, loud, and irreverent. Then they went and hit us with "Good Riddance". I believe gobsmacked is the term the British use to describe our collective reaction to it.

While explaining the process of writing the song and choosing to release it as a single, Billie Joe said that putting out that song at that time was "... the most punk rock thing we could do." It was shocking. It upset the status quo. It flew in the face of the conventional wisdom that says keep doing what's been making you money all along.

I've been thinking about Green Day and this comment a lot lately.

You see, I'm remodeling my kitchen.

I have always been one to pride myself on my lack of fear when it comes to color. There are rooms in my house painted dark brown, lime green, and Caribbean blue. Up until a couple weeks ago, my kitchen featured terra cotta walls and bright red cabinets. I love the drama of these bold hues and enjoy seeing the look of shock on color-shy people's faces when they first experience my home.

But I wanted a change.

I'd been leafing through Dwell magazine, watching snippets of the design shows on TV, etc. and came to an unexpected conclusion: I was craving beige.

So the red cabinets came down, replaced by sleek, sedate ones.

And the terra cotta paint disappeared under two coats of primer and two coats of what Valspar calls Honeymilk. (It reminds me of a freshly opened carton of vanilla ice cream. Yum.)

I love it.

It's clean.

It's modern.

And it's the most punk rock thing I could do.

Such Great Heights

Now that my flu symptoms have diminished, I've gotten back up on the metaphorical horse and started exercising again as part of my never-ending quest to lose ten pounds.

Running has always eluded me; I have the ankles of a frail, elderly woman. But I've always been fascinated by the notion of the runner's high. I have passed (in my car, of course) many a runner in my day; most of them look miserable. Now and then I pass one who is in the throes, jamming along in a full-on runner's high. And it looks sooooo awesome.

Question: Is the runner's high only legit when achieved through, yanno, running?

I have, in my step-aerobicized past, caught a glimpse of the euphoria.

And I've gotten into the Zone of Awesomeness many a time while hiking.

Tonight I did it on a Nordic Track.

Fueled by the perfect rhythm that is the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin'" and the sudden realization that I'm on frickin' summer vacation (as opposed to thinking that I've just been home sick for the past week), I went there.

Though the music and the mood are crucial, that thing that always pushes me into the Land of the High is the fantasy - the story I make up in my head about how awesome I am and all the magnificent and impressive things I am capable of.

Um, do other people do this?

I always seem to have this hokey Olympic-caliber athlete/Charlie's Angels chasing down a perp movie playing in my mind when I hit the high. And I'm totally starring in it.

Is the fantasy fueling the euphoria?

Is it all just one big dopamine-changed hallucination?

I acknowledge that it's a bit silly, but when the swing of the "poles" on the Nordic Track take on a much-too-funky vibe, I am no longer a fortysomething suburban mom, listening to disco anthems while striding along on a piece of outdated exercise equipment.

I am so strong.

I am so lithe.

I am so high.

What My Dog's Body Language Tells Me When I'm Grooming Him

When I'm brushing his back: "Oh, you're petting me with the brush again. I'm going to stand here majestically like a good boy, glancing over my shoulder at you from time to time so you can appreciate my sweet, soulful eyes."

When I'm brushing the top of his head, right between the ears: "I don't like when you tug at those tangles behind my left ear, but as long as you pause now and then to pet me and tell me I'm good, I'll put up with it. I might need to take a shake-my-head break every few minutes, though, okay?"

When I'm brushing his ruff: "Remember that episode of America's Next Top Model when Tyra Banks showed how to hold your head up and look like you're standing in front of a fan when you aren't? Well, I was paying attention to that part, and I'm doing it right now. Cool, huh?"

When I'm brushing his paws: "Don't touch those. No, give that back. Ick. Ick. Ick."

When I'm brushing his legs: "I don't like this, but it's better than the paws, so I'm just going to look peeved at you every thirty seconds or so. Work quickly."

When I'm brushing his butt: "I'm going to give you about ten seconds of awkward gluteal clenching in recognition of the fact that you feed me and stuff. Then I'm out of here, lady."

Let the Good Times Roll

I have been on summer vacation for about fifteen minutes.

In that time I have:

• taken 1,000 mg of Tylenol,

• eaten a slice of cold pizza,

• said, "I don't have to go back to work for three months," aloud, and

• parked myself in front of the America's Next Top Model marathon.

So far, so good.

You Disappoint Me

Maybe it's the cloudy weather, mid-life hormonal fluctuations, or an increase in solar flare activity, but, lately, a lot of things seem to be making me feel really down in the dumps. I'm typically a pretty upbeat (and sarcastic) person, but I've lost that lovin' feeling in recent weeks. 

Here's my list of things that I'm currently disappointed about/in:

• Back in late-April, I set a modest weight loss goal of seven pounds by the end of the school year. Tomorrow is the last day, and I have lost a whopping total of two pounds. Am I exercising more? Yes. Eating more fruits and vegetables? Uh-huh. Making fewer trips through the drive-through? You bet. 

Still, only two pounds have been shed.

I feel like my Real Age "weight loss tracker" graph is mocking me.

Major lifestyle modifications will need to be made. This will be harder than I thought.

I detest setting goals and not achieving them. Very disappointing. 

•  U.S. government agencies are not good at communicating with one another, so we are fewer than three weeks away from getting on the plane for Tokyo and STILL don't have a passport for our daughter. 

We applied seven weeks ago and were assured that it would take about three weeks tops. This week they sent us a letter saying we need to prove that our daughter - an adoptee - entered the country legally before they can process the paperwork. 

The original passport application called for two pieces of documentation - both of which we provided, neither of which could be obtained without proving legal resident status. Not good enough, though. So, we had no choice but to honor their latest demand and Express Mail it to them. Fingers crossed they can process it in time. 

•  The school year is almost over. Even though I love summer vacation, I always go through a bit of a funk when school lets out. I like working with so many people I consider my friends. I enjoy the work I do. I am oddly comforted by the routine of it all. And I suck at good-byes. 

Each spring I go into the last weeks of school with some sort of amnesia of years past and fully expect it to be fun - fun - fun. I forget that the atmosphere in the building can get so emotionally-charged. That there's so much to be done and, sometimes, not enough energy to do it. 

Maybe the memories of the last days of school from my elementary years are so firmly imprinted on my brain that I expect to feel that way again. But it's different now. And that's a little disappointing. 

• The Fashion Show isn't even a pale imitation of Project Runway. I crave Tim Gunn's wisdom and Heidi Klum's accent. I long to hear Nina Garcia use the phrase "taste issues". I only made it through two episodes of TFS before I just plain stopped caring. Between this and The Real Housewives of New Jersey, I'm losing my faith in Bravo, the network that used to be my happy source of background noise. It has been my default channel for a couple years now, but, lately, I find myself flipping channels a lot. My only ray of Bravo hope is Top Chef: Masters. Again, fingers crossed.

• Mostly, I am disappointed that I'm letting the little things get so far under my skin. I acknowledge that the big things in my life - family, health, career - are all going well. I could be dealing with far bigger things than these, but, even after accentuating the positive, I still feel stuck in a rut of ennui. Ho hum.

The Voices in My Head

Ever had one of those days when you get a song stuck in your head and just can't shake it? That was my day today, except that the song kept changing every few hours, so it was basically a series of "stuck songs" playing on the radio inside my brain. 

Perhaps by sharing this phenomena on the interweb, I can shake this pesky little annoyance and get a good night's sleep, so here it goes ...

My Stuck Songs Playlist for May 26th, 2009

1.  "Put It Down" by Mike Doughty - Actually, it's a really great song with a delightfully catchy little melody at the chorus that I totally whistle-jam on. My grey matter spent most of the morning looping this one over and over. Things went dramatically downhill from here.

2.  "Close to You' by the Carpenters - This showed up after lunch, and I'm not completely certain why. It popped in and out of my head though the afternoon, finally diminishing during my commute home - only after I gave in and sang the whole stinkin' thing out loud once with feeling.

3.  "The Rainbow Connection" by Kermit the Frog - After my impromptu Carpenters concert, this little gem appeared. I didn't actually hear Kermit singing it, though. It was more like a Judy Collins rendition, which is even stranger, now that I think of it. I suppose it could have been Ed Helms doing it in Pig Latin (I had to think about whether or not to capitalize that; I decided I should on the basis that it is the name of a language.) on The Office, which would be stranger still. But definitely funnier.

4.  "Stomp the House" by the Jump Arounds - Yes, I live with a toddler, and we own a television. My mind resists the urge to wrap itself around ALL the lyrics, so I mostly just repeat those six seconds of chorus ad nauseam.  For those unfamiliar with the power of Toddler TV and brave enough to give it a whirl. (You've been warned.)

Titular

Now, a lot of people make fun of Sex and the City for its overuse of the pun. 

I for one appreciate a clever play on words and like the fact that, having seen all the episodes numerous times, I can immediately set myself in the right frame of mind (comic, tragic, poignant, etc.) for any episode as soon as the theme song winds down and those white, lowercase letters appear against the black screen.

I find that as I'm trying to come up with the title for a new blog, I often click into SATC pun mode. It gets the job done. And I'm usually pleased with the results. 

Here are, in no particular order, my ten favorite Sex and the City episode titles:

•  "The Fuck Buddy" - Yes, blunt is beautiful.

•  "Are We Sluts?" - I love that they dared to ask the question that pretty much everyone with HBO was asking about these women. 

•  "Belles of the Balls" - A pun with bonus clever points for linking to all four stories. (Trey gets his sperm analyzed, Steve gets testicular cancer, Samantha gets hired because Richard "admires her balls", and Aidan and Big duke it out playing basketball in the mud.)

•  "I Love a Charade" - Again, a pun. And Nathan Lane getting married? To a woman? Priceless.

•  "A Woman's Right to Shoes" - It seemed like just another clever pun at first, but, after watching the episode, you realize that it really IS about the choices me make. Bonus points for surprising me with that one. And for making me wish I'd registered at Manolo Blahnik when I got married. 

•  "The Post-It Always Sticks Twice" - The second I see these words, I think I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me. And then I curse the name Jack Berger. 

•  "Change of a Dress" - More fun with puns. And that scene with Carrie and Aidan in front of the fountain? Heartbreaking!

•  "Politically Erect" - Blunt AND a pun. More bonus clever points!

•  "Running with Scissors" - I love this one because it suits the episode so beautifully. Everyone's mom warned them not to do foolish, dangerous things, and this is the episode that shows us why.

•  "One" - Simple and clever. It's about Brady's first birthday and Miranda's realization that Steve is, in fact, the one. It's also one of my favorite episodes, which for some bizarre reason On Demand tends to skip. Every time I see that this one's an option, I get all happy. 

Inside and Out

There are a couple of movies out there that, no matter how many times I've seen them, I will always stick with when I'm channel surfing. I am this way about all the Ocean's movies, Notting Hill (a bit embarrassing to admit, but true), Good Will Hunting, and The Devil Wears Prada. Are they the greatest films ever made? Not really, but they make me smile, and between Bravo and TBS, I'm pretty sure to land on one of them at least once per week. 

Another movie I feel this way about is Bridget Jones's Diary. I don't love la Zellweger, nor am I a huge Hugh Grant fan - despite the previous Notting Hill reference. I stick with this one for Colin Firth. More specifically, for the moment when he, as Mark Darcy, speaks that simple little line all women dream of hearing: "I like you. Very much. Just the way you are." Sigh.

I couldn't help but think of Mr. Darcy and his heart-go-pitter-pat line as I stumbled upon a string of other programming this week. 

First stop: the BBC's documentary Perfect Private Parts. This fascinating, disturbing, and sad film is about labiaplasty  - plastic surgery in which women have their labia reduced, reshaped, and generally revamped to make their vaginas, um, prettier. 

The film-maker interviewed several women who had either undergone the operation or were considering it. Their reasons varied, but most were centered on having had their privates criticized (and in some cases ridiculed) by men. I'm not a big believer in plastic surgery to begin with, but this struck me as just so bizarre. To go through the risks and pain of surgery to alter a part of you that is so inherently private. It's not like your nose - seen by everyone all day long - this is your vagina, for god's sake. 

And who really knows what one's supposed to look like, anyway? 

Well, apparently some men think they do...

I could not believe that the men they interviewed had such specific opinions as to what an acceptably-attractive vagina looks like. I blame porn. It's all waxed and out there in the movies, so now the general population thinks they gotta look like that too. Isn't it fabulous how porn gets to influence how college-educated, gainfully-employed, and generally-not-crazy women feel about their bodies? Ah, yes, just as it should be. Right-o.

Among the women who chose not to go under the knife, several were shown at gatherings with other women, where they sat around spread-eagled and discussed their relationships with their vaginas. Really? This is necessary for some people? It was all very solemn and empowering as they sat around in little robes on piles of silk pillows in a dimly-lit room. Each woman took her turn to talk about what she liked and disliked (mostly disliked) about her vagina, and the other women would say reassuring things like, "I don't think it looks like a cauliflower at all." 

When the woman who organizes these things started speaking with great earnestness about how the vagina remembers things, my first impulse was to giggle (as did the film-maker). Then I thought how that might come in handy, picturing myself scrambling around the house getting ready for work in the morning and glancing down to say, "YOU didn't happen to notice where I set my keys, did ya?"

I had barely recovered from Perfect Private Parts when I got a gander at an infomercial for Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy. It's a metal (reusable!) vaginal cleansing system invented by a gynecologist named Dr. Dave David. (I'm not making a word of this up, by the way.) Think of it as a tiny, interior shower. Or, better yet, don't think of it at all. 

The premise of this ad is that vaginas are super stinky, and plain old bathing just isn't enough to cut through these noxious fumes of womanliness. We must rinse ourselves out with this little gizmo, or else men will run from us in utter disgust. Seriously, they interviewed a slew of women who deeply believe in the power of Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy and would attest to the fact that it has changed their lives for the better. 

Now, I always figured that things of a life-changing magnitude were a bit bigger in scale: becoming a parent, losing someone you love, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, etc. Turns out it's actually as simple as squirting tap water into your vagina. And paying $29.95 + shipping and handling, of course. Who knew?

The third and final chapter in my inadvertent, gynocentric trilogy of sorts is a bit more reassuring. It comes in the form of the Discovery Channel's The Science of Sex Appeal. The section I saw focused on the power of scent. It was revealed that, when a woman nears ovulation, she takes on an odor that cognitively impairs men. Literally. When a woman produces this smell, men are drawn to her. He is the moth, and her scent is the flame. 

Take that, Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy!

Men's brains are, it turns out, programmed to like us, as Mr. Darcy would say, just the way we are. 

History Repeats Itself: Dora's a Tween!

The internet's been all abuzz lately about this not-so-little lady ...

It's Age-Projection Enhanced Dora the Explorer!

Mattel announced plans to introduce a tween version of the intrepid cartoon heroine, and grown-ups commenced to go nuts about this new "sexed-up" Dora. I don't know if I'd go so far as to call her sexed-up, but she certainly did shed the baby fat and bought herself a tube of lip gloss. She looks like a fairly typical, pretty middle school girl. She hasn't stumbled into Bratz territory, so I'm not too worried about her. I just don't think she's particularly necessary. (Frankly, I'm more curious about what happened to Boots. How's middle school treating that monkey, anyway?)

The thing that surprises me most about this whole deal is how short our collective cultural memory is. This, friends, is not the first time a sweet little cartoon girl has skipped a few grades and made the leap from daycare to middle school. 

Lest we forget ...

Miss Pebbles Flintstone

Yes, those of us who endured a seventies-era childhood are in familiar territory with this Tween Dora controversy, for we all remember when our favorite Stone Age cutie pie suddenly morphed into ...

Prom Date Pebbles!

There she was in her wasp-waisted, mini-skirted splendor. (Thank God she inherited her mother's figure!)

 She was cute. 

She had a knack of getting into trouble. 

She had that big galloot Bamm-Bamm trailing her with dog-like devotion. 

And we hated her. 

The show was dumb, and the only reason most of us watched was because we only had three channels to choose from. 

Are you listening, Mattel? Kids today have limitless media access, and I fear tween Dora's destiny might just be the clearance rack.

While looking for pictures I did learn something, though. There is an entire website devoted to Flintstone's costumes. It bears the highly original address www.flinstonecostumes.com. I had no idea there was such demand for this.

Teen Pebbles Get-Up

I suspect she's violating the school dress code 

in a number of ways.

What I Am Is What I Am

I am more -

than -

more - 

than -

more akin to - 

than to -

 and so much more -

than I could ever be -

And that's perfectly fine with me.

Skills

As I drive to work in the morning, I often see people out going for walks by the lake, jogging, biking, etc. (One lady in our neighborhood has a bunch of exercise videos, one of those yoga ball things, a picture window, a big screen TV, and great devotion to working out at 7 AM. What she lacks, however, are drapes.) 

Anyhow, as I look as these people, I often think that if it weren't for the fact that I have to go to work, I'd be spending glorious, morning hours engaging in these same healthy activities - except I'd have drapes, of course. 

Yes, I'd get up early, have a nutritious meal (eaten at a leisurely pace), read the paper in its entirety, and then slip into something spandex and head out to fill my lungs with the refreshing air of the sunrise hours. That's precisely what my life would look like if it weren't for the whole gainful employment thing bringin' me down. 

I started spring break with the ambition of slipping into such a life for one amazing week. (It should be noted that I start ALL spring breaks this way. And winter breaks. And summer vacation, for that matter.) I imagined myself starting my days with exercise and filling the remaining hours reading great books, tackling enormous home remodeling projects, and treating myself to the occasional well-earned nap. Things didn't really pan out that way, though. 

Now, as my break nears its end, I'm left to ask: What the hell did I DO all week? What did I accomplish? The best way I can think of to explain how I've wiled away the hours this week is by offering you a newly-updated edition of my slacker resume:

Resume of a Slacker

Objectives: to secure a position in which I can utilize my slacker skills, to continue to learn and grow as a slacker

Education:  

Master of Arts in Reality Television Viewing

Bravo! University

majors: Top Chef, Real Housewives, and Project Runway

minors: Millionaire Matchmaker and Make Me a Supermodel

(Additional coursework completed at hulu U.)

Bachelor of Arts in Magazine Reading

Conde Nast College

majors: Reading periodicals that encourage me to eat better, exercise, be smart, and self-actualize (Health, Mental Floss, and O) while eating salty, crunchy snacks and wiping fake cheese-covered hands on sofa cushions. 

minor: mindlessly reading blogs & online entertainment "news", particularly those pertaining to Gwyneth Paltrow and GOOP backlash

Bachelor of Science in Junk Food Preparation and Consumption

Minnesota Institute of Processed Meats and Cheeses

graduated summa cum laude

Career Highlights

•  Fell asleep during third episode of America's Next Top Model marathon after eating a hot dog and some brownies. Woke with face in puddle of drool on arm and shirt. Opted not to change into clean shirt.

•  Reacted to discovery of dog poop on family room floor by saying, "Well, I guess I don't need to take him out again for a few hours."

• Only changed out of pajama bottoms to drop daughter up at daycare at 7 AM and pick her up at 4 PM. Cursed societal demand that I put on pants when leaving the house.

• Brought bag containing "homework" reading assignment into the house on Wednesday. Have stepped over it repeatedly in the entryway every day since.

• Took pillow cases off bed to launder. Threw extra blanket over "naked" pillows to avoid hassle of re-casing them. Have slept like a baby that way since Thursday.

Specialized Knowledge and Training

•  Able to identify healthy bowel movement due to random channel-flip to Tyra Banks Show. (What WON'T that woman talk about?!)

•  Can turn toddler into Wonder Pets! addict with steady supply of DVD's, chicken nuggets, saltine crackers, and apple juice.  

•  Can kill two hours by creating own SNL Shorts Film Festival on hulu.

• Can kill even more time writing blog about what a slacker I am while avoiding laundry, dirty dishes, and homework. 

I Loathe Lanyards

I wear a lanyard at work. 

I hate the damn thing. 

I've received a couple of them at work as gifts/prizes/unsuccessful motivational tools. I dutifully stuffed each of them in my desk drawer to find it months later, wonder aloud "Why did I keep this piece of crap?", and throw it in the trash. Or stick it in some unsuspecting victim's mailbox in the office. 

I've spent my own hard-earned cash to purchase several different ones, hoping the pretty beads would somehow compensate for its lameness, but, alas, I persist in hating the damn thing. 

I hate how my keys and ID go thunk against me with each step I take.

I hate how it makes a really nice outfit look so damed proletarian. 

I hate how it's basically a leash, and I'm required to wear it. 

I even hate the word lanyard. It is impossible to sound sexy and cool while saying that word. Try it. You will fail.

Now, I understand the reasoning for wearing one at work - identification, safety, keeping me from looking TOO stylish, blah-blah-blah ....  I know that no amount of fussing on my part will make the lanyard of wretchedness go away. I accept the futility in trying to throw off these shackles, but that doesn't mean I have get all rah-rah about it and hop on the pro-lanyard bandwagon, which appears, by the way, to be a very crowded bandwagon, indeed.  

"Stupid Stuff I Found on the Internets 

as Evidence of the Crowded Conditions 

on the Pro-Lanyard Bandwagon"

OR

"I Had No Idea It Was This Bad Out There"

The Wrist Lanyard:

When Dangling Crap Around Your Neck Just Isn't Enough

It's dark out! 

Where'd my arm go?! 

Oh, THERE it is. 

Man, that was a close one!

And here I hated the thunk of keys against me.

Imagine the sensation of being whacked with a bottle of 

Lipton Green Tea with every step.

Or if you had to run wearing this.

Even our friends at Coach have stepped into the lanyard arena.

It's extra-pricey and comes with bonus dangly crap!

I also found many sites selling products to make your own lanyards, which reminded me of the only lanyard-related thing I've ever truly loved ...  Billy Collins reading his poem "The Lanyard".

Back in the late-nineteenth century, the lanyard was originally used to carry a jack-knife, so you'd be ready to whip it out if you happened to need to stab someone that day. Interesting to know if you ever end up on Jeopardy! and have Lanyard Lore as a category. Or if you travel back in time and happen to have your lanyard on.

If IKEA Nomenclature Were a Jeopardy! Category and I Were on the Show

Me: I'll take IKEA Nomenclature for 100, Alex.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The name of the most everyday of IKEA's everyday line of dishes and linens.

Me: Um, what is 365+?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Correct! 

Me: Great! Let's try IKEA Nomenclature for 200.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The styrofoam-peanut free way IKEA packages its assemble-it-your-damn-self furniture.

Me: That's easy. What is flat-pack, Alex?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Yes, you're right again!

Me: Wow, I'm on a bit of a roll here, Alex. Gimme IKEA Nomenclature for 300. 

Mr. Alex Trebek: Mammut.

Me: Hmm, what is a line of brightly-colored, polypropylene bedroom furniture for children?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Correct again! You certainly know your IKEA!  And that's a lovely sweater you're wearing, by the way. What's next?

Me: Back off, Alex. I'm married, and you're old enough to be my dad. Just act like a professional and hit me with IKEA Nomenclature for 400.

Mr. Alex Trebek: Of course. The tool IKEA shoppers can totally rock.

Me: What's an 'effing Allen wrench?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Yep! Care to sweep the category?

Me: Don't mind if I do. Bring on IKEA Nomenclature for 500, Alex.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The name of the company the makes the big ass fans that keep the air moving in your local IKEA's warehouse.

Me: Oh, it's gonna take more than that to stop me, Alex. What is Big Ass Fans?

Mr. Alex Trebeck: I stand in awe of your highly-specialized brand of trivial knowledge.

Me: I know. I get a lot of that.

Seven Things I Find Freakishly Disturbing About the Pedi Egg

1. It has blades, and you scrape the bottoms of your feet with it. A simple pumice stone should suffice; no one should need to go all cheese grater on their feet. Seriously, that's just wrong.

2.  When they show the person on the commercial emptying the trough of dead footskin (a term I'm considering trademarking, by the way), there's like a quarter cup of shavings in there. If anything, this emphasizes the overall grossness of the product and makes me shun it all the more. 

3.  As I was looking for a picture to include for this post, I found a whole message board of women talking about how much they LOVE their Pedi Eggs. Really? I love my family, my dog, my job, and, every now and then - a really good cheeseburger; however, I can't picture ever mustering up that level of affection for something that scrapes dead skin off my feet. Nope, I just can't.

4.  One woman on said message board warned of the danger of "over-grating". I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. 

5. It makes me look at people differently - as if I live in a world where everyone has horrific quantities of dead footskin (handy term, ain't it?). There's a rather unnerving Night of the Living Dead quality to it all. Here, I thought I knew my family and friends pretty well, but it turns out they're just a bunch of unexfoliated zombie freaks. "Eggs. Eggs. Must have Eggs..."

6. The feet in the ad are of the gnarly, well-traveled sort. Even foot fetishists would turn away from these hooves in utter disgust. If you're going to shoot an ad that features thirty seconds of gratuitous foot shots, could you at least have the decency to show some reasonably pretty ones? (And I'm not just talking about the befores here; the afters ain't too cute either.)

7. I fear for the repercussions of society's acceptance of this commercial. We already have ads with cartoon mucus sittin' around in someone's sinuses. And don't get me started on the one for the toe fungus stuff  - where they flip that discolored toenail back like they're opening a can of peanuts, for God's sake! We have to draw the line somewhere, America; otherwise, we're going to see before and after shots of Brazilian wax jobs, pictures of the kind of robust bowel movements only a diet supplemented with the active cultures of Activia can bring, and so forth. I don't want to live in that world. And I don't think you do either.

Who Am I To Judge?

I have a bad case of remodeler's envy going on right now. I am fixated on tearing apart our kitchen and bathroom - both of which would require a full-on gut jobs. Unfortunately, we don't have a couple extra grand hiding in a coffee can on top of the fridge, so all I can do is dream.

Unable to actually change my surroundings in any real way, I've been gettin' my fix at HGTV's website, specifically in the Rate My Space section. People send in pictures of rooms in their homes and invite others to rate their spaces on a scale of one to five. 

It is, in a word, glorious. I have learned that ...

a. my hideous kitchen ain't all THAT hideous after all, 

b. lots of money doesn't necessarily lead to lots of style, and 

c. judging others can be a whole lotta fun!

I know I'm being shallow and judgmental when I cruise this site, but that's kinda what it's designed for, so I'm just going to set guilt aside and revel in this a bit.  

It's hard to say which I like better - the people who totally own up to their room's ugliness and desperately seek the counsel of others OR the folks who've dropped a small fortune to create a room befitting the home of one Blandy McBlanderson, Mayor of Blandsville, USA. (Hardwood floors. Granite countertops. Beige paint. Yawn.)

What could possibly be finer than seeing the crap that other people treasure? There's just something about seeing someone's butt-ugly rooster collection cluttering up their kitchen that gives me a tiny, gleeful surge in the superiority center of my brain. And I'm gonna chase that high. Yes, I am.

Speaking of high... there was one twentysomething who was seeking advice for updating her kitchen. I wanted to comment on her page that, based on the shocking number of liquor bottles on top of her fridge, I felt she needed AA more than HGTV right now. Of course, I'm too nice to actually post that to her. So I put it here instead. 

The comments/advice are also fabulous. One woman actually suggested that someone should stencil seashells on the walls to liven up her bathroom. Um, I don't think the '90's are small enough in our metaphorical rearview mirror yet for their trends to be considered retro, so ixnay on the encilstay. Okay?

I also give a thumbs-down to anything that involved using a hot glue gun. 

And all things described as "country" and/or "shabby chic". 

And all rooms with a sign with the word ANTIQUES on it. 

Man, I am GOOD at this judgmental stuff!

The question now is whether I post pictures of my pad on the site and face the judgment of others...

Obligatory Valentine's Day Post

No, my life is not a romcom. 

It has its moments of rom and its moments of com, but Hugh Grant is nowhere to be found, and I haven't seen Rene Zellweger hangin' out in my kitchen in ages. 

Here's what Valentine's Day looked like at my house, which is not a movie set, this year:

I didn't get my ever-lovin' husband anything. 

We usually just exchange cards, but I failed to even get my act together enough to do THAT this year.

Anyhow, I wake up this morning and have realize that I have succumbed to the cold I've been fighting all week. I'm stuffed up, coughing, blowing the old schnozz, etc. and there's no way I'm going to even get past the plodding around the house in my p.j.'s stage today, so hubby's not gettin' a card.

He takes pity on me and is very understanding, to the point where he volunteers to disappear for several hours of errand-running with our daughter in tow. I get to sit home and watch cable TV alone while he takes care of the grocery shopping AND the child. This is a one sweet deal for me, no?

As they're getting ready to go, he shows me the lists for the grocery store/Target and asks if I'd like to add anything.

Me: Yes, could you pick up a Valentine for me to give to you?

Him: You mean I should pick out something I think you'd think I'd like? 

Me: Pretty much.

A couple hours later he showed up with groceries, a sleeping toddler, and a red envelope with a card for me to fill out. It had a goofy puppy on the front, and my husband was nice enough to act surprised when I gave it to him.

So, while my life wouldn't make for a very good movie, it does have the makings of a pretty great life.