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A few weeks ago I edited my “About” page just a bit, including a nod to an old Sandy Duncan wheat thins commercial. I wanted to be sure I remembered the line correctly (because I’m all about accuracy and getting the facts straight), so I googled “I love to sing, I love to dance, I love the taste of Nabisco wheat thins”. Three of the top 5 results linked here, here and here. I just thought it was interesting. So do you think the common thread is the Sandy Duncan thing or the wheat thins? Either way, they seem like cool dudes.
I wonder whatever happened to Sandy. Did you know she doesn’t actually have a glass eye?
Goose is in kindergarten.
Goose: Guess what? Jakob said he’d rather die than marry me.
Mom: Why’d he say that?
Goose: I asked him.
Mom: To marry you?
Goose: No, I said would you rather marry me or die, and he said die. I don’t think he likes me.
She’s always been remarkably intuitive.
Goose: I know this is weird, but sometimes I wish my arm was broken.
Mom: Why would you wish that?
Goose: I dunno. Maybe because Lauren broke her arm once and she’s cool.
Mom: But it hurts to break your arm. A lot.
Goose: Well, then I wish you could break your arm without it hurting.
Her logic and problem solving skills are mind-boggling.
Goose: You know what? Someone had an accident on the bus today.
Mom: You mean they wet their pants?
Goose: Yep.
Mom: Were they embarrassed?
Goose: No, they just really had to go.
Of course, how silly of me.
There is still hope for humanity! Yesterday, the top headline in the paper’s local section: Student gossip fades on Web site. Apparently, so far about 25% of the nasty posts that originated from students at the local high school have been taken down, and by the students themselves no less! Kids were actually feeling bad and then did something to try to rectify the situation.
A school official was quoted, saying “Student leaders met to discuss the site, but decided not to start a school-wide conversation on the issue. They thought ignoring the site would be more productive.” I’m inclined to agree with that. I seriously hope it’s a passing fad, since it seems wholly unlikely that woman who created the site will suddenly sprout a conscience or moral compass and cease and desist her evil plot to destroy the world with unkindness.
When the paper requested updated site-use numbers to see if they were on the decline as well, that woman refused to provide them unless the paper agreed to print her site’s name and address. Thankfully, the paper declined.
“It seems that traffic to the site has created a lot of irresponsible behavior and we’re not in the business of promoting that kind of thing,” said the executive editor.
Hallelujah.
And here’s one more little gem from She Who Must Not Be Named:
“Gossip, when you do it right, is a really, really good thing.”
Well then, lady, here’s my contribution to the greater good: You’re an idiot. Feel free to spread the word.
My knickers are just getting bunched up all over the place lately. Last week I came across a story about a website where anyone can anonymously post any kind of gossip about anyone else. Here are a few excerpts:
A Web site that invites people to anonymously post gossip about each other is creating problems at (a local high school).
In the past week, students have used the site to bully, post compromising photos of their rivals and spread rumors about other kids’ supposed sexual experiences, abortions, eating disorders, diseases and drug use. Many of the messages have been viewed thousands of times.
At least two students who have been the subject of the gossip mill are afraid to go to school anymore.
“We’ve given people a forum to say what they want to say,” said Elizabeth Bloch, 25, one of the founders of the company that runs the Web site. “It’s not up for us to censor them. If a user thinks some piece of information — however nasty or … embarrassing, is true — that’s their prerogative to let the world know about it.”
The site was created in June in Wilmington, N.C., by four friends who enjoyed gossip and online social networking, Bloch said.
The friends were working part-time jobs, trying to make ends meet, when they came up with the idea to start a Web site to let users post gossip-ridden profiles of other people, she said.
Their site has no legal or ethical responsibility to protect kids by censoring gossip, said Bloch, who said she graduated in 2005 from State University of New York at Albany with a communications degree.
The site also is about teaching responsibility, Bloch said. If enough users complain about a piece of gossip and label it “BS” or “not gossip,” it will eventually be taken down, she said.
However, the site’s staff — the founders and their intern — will not remove gossip just because it may be a lie or hurtful, she said. It’s a way of keeping the subject of the gossip in line with community standards of social behavior, she said.
“If it’s not a lie, there has to be some sort of accountability in that person’s life,” Bloch said.
I’m not even sure where to start. First of all, I will concede that high school students all over the world have been engaging in harmful gossip and rumor mongering forever, and since the birth of the internet they’ve been using personal web pages, sites like myspace, and other forums to help spread it around. Obviously, this is not a novel idea. But to have a site with the specific purpose of providing a forum for any emotionally disturbed adolescent or other amoral psychopath to say all kinds of hurtful, damaging crap without any proof or evidence of its validity, and with no one to have to take responsibility or answer for it just seems so beyond wrong.
In a radio interview Bloch argues that gossip has been around since mankind began talking, and that it’s an inevitable part of life that serves a vitally important purpose in our society—to bring out the truth. But she admits that there’s no real way of knowing if something posted is true or not. The only “safeguard” the website has in place is a feature where readers can vote if they think something is “BS”. Apparently, if enough people vote that it isn’t true, then the post will be removed. Can anyone possibly honestly believe this is a reliable way of determining truth? Let’s just put it to a vote?
And I love how she’s taken it upon herself to bring some accountability to all who might possibly be rightfully accused. I can see the testimonials pouring in now. “I’m so grateful to Ms. Bloch and her website that listed all of my sexual exploits for all the world to see. It made me realize that I am indeed a slut, and now I’m getting the help I need for my sexual addiction.” She’s really providing a service, you see.
The local school district has vowed to take disciplinary action against any student it can prove has posted harmful gossip on the site, but there is the question of the legality of the school board trying to police the activity of students off campus during non-school hours, not to mention the trouble of trying to identify the anonymous sources. School officials are expressing frustration over not being able to better protect their students. They’re urging parents to monitor their children’s computer usage to make sure they aren’t participating in this kind of harmful behavior. The school district’s technology director said, “If you don’t supervise your children, you don’t know what they are doing. It’s not that they are bad kids, but kids make bad choices sometimes.”
I would say that’s a little generous considering the kind of content being posted:
Some students have used the gossip site to rate each others’ performance in bed, call each other derogatory names and list sex acts individual students allegedly participated in. They question others’ sexuality, post unflattering pictures and ridicule others’ physical handicaps.
But Bloch does not seem at all concerned about the kind of damage the gossip, whether it be truth or fiction, causes.
Bloch said she wasn’t qualified to discuss how things said on her Web site might affect teens struggling with self-esteem issues. No one has ever posted negative gossip about her online, she said.
Well, gee, that makes sense. And my favorite quote of the article:
She said she’s read many of the comments (the high school) students have written about each other in postings called “g-strings.”
“One of the coolest things is that these users speak really intelligently,” she said. “There is some stuff that is not great, and some stuff that is really well written.”
Baaaaaaahhhh! I don’t know what else to say. I’m a firm believer in the First Amendment and free speech and all that good stuff. Talking about censorship in any form is a very slippery slope indeed, but does that mean that stuff like this is OK? Is it truly a necessary evil as a byproduct of preserving these invaluable rights? Can’t we do something?
And just so we don’t have to end on a completely depressing note, madhousewife, this is for you.
Two weeks ago 200 students at one of our school district’s middle schools held a walkout, protesting a poor learning environment resulting from high incidents of bullying and other discipline issues. Their complaint was that not enough was being done to enforce school policies and that there was not adequate follow through on disciplinary actions. The demonstration was held at one middle school, but an article in the local paper quoted students and teachers from the district’s other middle schools as well, all with similar complaints of hostile learning conditions due to intimidation and classroom disruptions. District officials quoted tried to assure the public that action would be taken, and a few days ago I, along with all parents of middle school aged children in the district, received a letter.
I’ll highlight a few main points here:
As we have listened to students, staff, and parents over the last two weeks, they have identified classroom disruptions as the number one concern. These disruptions by a small group of students in classrooms prevent teachers from doing their best teaching and students from learning. Previous attempts to discipline these students have not improved the learning climate for many. We also heard that some students are not feeling safe as well because of intimidation and harassment by others.
This letter is being sent to you for two reasons: First, we want to update you on actions taken since the walkout in response to concerns raised by students, staff, and parents. Second, we would like to ask for your help in stressing with your child the importance of appropriate behavior and learning in every classroom. We share the concern regarding student safety and a positive productive classroom learning environment and want to work together with you to make those happen.
They go on to list several steps they plan to take with regard to implementing specific programs, training staff and enforcing disciplinary actions. Here is the last item on the list:
We have met with city officials this week to clarify the role of district security staff, the City Police, and the SRO (School Resource Officers are police officers specifically assigned to school campuses) in our middle schools.
This last point is interesting in light of a post script the Superintendent includes at the end of his letter:
PS: A student at (one of the middle schools) was suspended on Wednesday. The SRO and City Police were called for assistance and subdued the student at dismissal time when staff and students were present. The student is no longer at (the school).
My nephew attends the school referenced here, and witnessed the incident. Apparently, the student in question had been suspended earlier in the week, and refused to leave when he was discovered on campus a few days later. The confrontation between the SRO and the student got physical and resulted in the student being tasered three times before they were finally able to get the situation under control. Tasered? Three times?! Does anyone else find it slightly disturbing that middle school aged students are getting tasered? Perhaps it’s important to mention that the officer who initially tried to deal with the situation was a woman, and when the exchange with the student got physical, he was basically overpowering her–slamming her into lockers, against the wall, etc. Obviously, no one should just take a beating–the officer had a right to protect herself and a duty to get control of the situation to ensure the safety of the other students as well.
Still, I find this tasering business more than a little disturbing. But then I am a mother of an 11 year old sixth grader who is still very much on the small side. I suppose middle school students range from 11-14 and are at various stages of puberty and development, making some formidable opponents in confrontational situations. If my child were the one being beaten up by the bully, I’m sure I would be the first one screaming, “Shock him! Bring him down!” It’s just all very frightening to me.
One other point made in the letter is probably the most important and I’m afraid also the least likely to be heeded by parents and students:
Finally, and as noted above, we need your help. We would greatly appreciate it if you would have conversations with your son or daughter emphasizing appropriate behavior at school, including following classroom and school rules and demonstrating respect for teachers and fellow students. If your son or daughter sees or hears anything that is of concern at school or experiences any harassment or intimidation from fellow students, encourage them to tell you or an adult at school, or to use the anonymous tip-line…This number will be posted in every classroom.
Like I said before, my son is younger and on the smaller side. He has been a victim of some minor bullying in the past–nothing physical, just some hurtful name calling and teasing. I’ve talked to him about it a few times and have asked if he wanted me to talk to anyone at school. He always says no. I think he’s afraid of the repercussions of being the “tattle-tale”, and rightly so I imagine. I gave him all of the usual parental advice about trying to not let it bother him–the bully is a jerk and is most likely just trying to make himself feel better and may just get bored and decide to move on if he doesn’t get a reaction from my son. But this isn’t always true. I’ve also tried to impress upon him that if he ever felt intimidated or truly afraid for his safety, he really needed to tell me or his dad or a teacher because that was most definitely not OK and something would have to be done about that to make sure he is safe.
What can parents really do to protect their children in these kinds of situations? What advice would you give your child if he or she were the victim of harassment and what action would you expect the school to take? What would you do if you knew your child was the bully? And what’s your take on this whole tasering thing? Scary, right? Where do you draw the line between reasonable and excessive force in middle schools? Should there be a different line for high school? Or for the “real” world? How much do (or should?) tragedies like Columbine change our views on this subject?
The past couple of years Easter has brought some unwelcome excitement. Two years ago it was a frantic 911 call when DynaGirl woke up in the middle of the night (early Easter morn) with the worst asthma attack ever. And when I say frantic, I mean frantic. My husband later told me that at one point the 911 operator asked if he could please tell his wife to calm down. I’m sorry, but if your child had passed out and was completely unresponsive wouldn’t you be screaming her name? Fortunately, my husband saw the wisdom in not acting on her request. So one police car, one fire truck, one paramedic ride and 3 hours in the emergency room later we were back at home safe and sound.
Then last year, just a couple of days before Easter, our kitchen table bench fell on DynaGirl’s foot and broke her big toe–a break that required a trip to the orthopedic specialist (because it had broken on the growth plate) and a walking boot. We have some lovely pictures of her in her Easter dress with that enormous black boot. I’m not exactly sure what was the point of seeing the orthopedic specialist. He confirmed that it had broken on the growth plate, and then said there was a chance that toe would stop growing, but that there was nothing they could do about it. OK. DynaGirl was slightly alarmed at the possibility of having a stubby toe. Our conversation about it went something like this:
DG: Am I going to be a freak, Mom?
Mom: Maybe, sweetheart, but you’ll be a beautiful, kind and compassionate freak who is very smart and draws great pictures.
DG: Will I still be able to wear flip flops?
Mom: Sure.
It’s important to focus on the positive. I think it’s still too early to tell on the toe–it looks like it might be shorter, but I imagine that might be because we’re looking for it to be shorter. Only time will tell. Needless to say, DynaGirl was becoming less and less impressed with this whole Easter business.
So this year when I woke up Easter morning after a wonderfully uneventful night’s rest, I was optimistic that perhaps the Easter curse had been broken. I busied myself in the kitchen preparing this and that, and there was no burning, breaking or exploding of any kind. All seemed right in the world until I went into the laundry room. Oh calamity! Oh horror of horrors! Oh six-legged little black beasties! Ants! Bah! I spent the next hour clearing out my laundry room so that I could hunt them all down and slaughter them properly. I killed them–I killed them all! Well, probably not all of them, but all that I could see, and then I got out my Ortho Home Defense bug spray and sprayed down all my baseboards. I’ve used it in the past and it works great. I just spray it at the first sign of trouble and then I don’t see another ant all season. The product also suggests spraying the outside perimeter of your house to keep them from coming in, but I suspect that they’re coming from underneath my house so I’m not too keen on the idea of cutting off any possible escape routes should they deem my territory too hostile to be considered inhabitable and decide to get while the gettin’s good. It’s day two, and no more ants. I’m cautiously optimistic. At least Easter is over and we’re all still alive. Well, except for the ants. Sorry, suckahs.
Speaking of plagues and pestilences, we had The Ten Commandments with Charlton Heston on for a few minutes Saturday night. DynaGirl asked what it was and we told her it was a movie about Moses, like from the Bible. She sat and watched it for a few minutes and then said, “So, is this supposed to be serious?” I’ve never been sure myself.
Oooh, yeah! Nine has always been my favorite number!
You Are 9: The Peacemaker |
At Your Best: You feel connected, trusting, and fulfilled. You feel at peace with your place in the world. At Your Worst: You compromise your values to make sure peace is maintained. You give in to bullies. Your Fixation: Harmony Your Primary Fear: Causing conflict Your Primary Desire: To preserve things as they are Other Number 9’s: Marge Simpson, Ronald Reagan, Audrey Hepburn, Jerry Seinfeld, and Abraham Lincoln. |
And I’m liking the list of “other number 9s” a whole lot better than the list of “other ESFJs” I got after taking the Myers-Briggs test. Which, by the way, included Don Knotts, Terry Bradshaw, Sally Struthers, Hoss Cartwright and Donald Duck. What the? I don’t know how accurate that Myers-Briggs test could have been, seeing how I didn’t really understand some of the questions (which probably makes sense given my “yes” to #29–I’m just not very intellekshul, I s’pose).
I often don’t like the results of personality tests. (The “who are your celebrity sisters?” one was especially painful–I mean, Jessica and Ashlee Simpson?! Ack!!) I find myself taking them multiple times, hoping for a different outcome. But it seems that no matter how many different answers I try to give, I get the exact same results. It’s like they know what I’m trying to do.
One thing I find interesting, though, is that my results are almost always compatible to my husband’s. Even on the Chinese calendar his rooster is a suggested mate to my ox–a match made in heaven. Or a barnyard? Nevermind, that just sounds wrong.
So, what’s your number, and more importantly, are you happy about it?
DynaGirl: Eeew. There’s a hair on my plate.
Mr. T: Your face is a hair on my plate.
DynaGirl: You smell like a hair on my plate.
Mr. T: Touche.
Goose: You are a hair on my plate.
DynaGirl: Touche.
By the way, it was not my hair.
When I had my little call for recipes “contest”, madhousewife gave me this one, and it has proved to be a hit with my family.
Broccoli Rigatoni
1 lb. rigatoni or similar shaped pasta
4 Tbsp. olive oil
2 Tbsp. butter (I have to use non-dairy margarine, but it’s still gooood)
1 bunch broccoli (or you know, 2-3 crowns–or a buttload boatload if your kids fight over the broccoli like mine do)
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. (yes, big T) dried basil
1 cup chicken or vegetable broth (I used the chicken)
Cook the pasta to your preferred state of al dente-ness. Heat oil and butter over medium-high heat. Stir-fry garlic and broccoli about 4 minutes. Add basil and broth and cook until broccoli is crisp-tender (or tenderer, your call). Add cooked pasta and mix it all up and eat it. People who are not allergic to dairy may add parmesan cheese with delicious results. (I also sprinkled mine with some freshly chopped green onions–mmmm.)
Try it–you’ll like it! Oh, and please feel free to post another recipe, if you’d like.
So I’ve got a dentist appointment in a couple of weeks. I tend to use the same approach with my dentist appointments as I did with my college courses when I was in school. I start off with my syllabus outlining all the things I need to read, study, and learn at various points during the term, and I tell myself I will keep up with all the materials–read the suggested reading each week, start my research paper weeks before it’s due, make up my study flash cards along the way and start going over them before the night before the test. I honestly have the very best intentions.
But I’m a crammer, you see. I’m convinced I was just born that way. So inevitably I find myself the night before my dentist appointment brushing, flossing, gargling, swishing, rinsing and repeating like a madwoman. And still somehow my hygienist knows that I’m not a regular flosser. Is she clairvoyant? Are my raw, bleeding gums really that much of a giveaway?
Actually, I’m a crammer and a liar because when they ask if I’m a flosser, I always say yes, but then I try to buffer it a bit with something like “Well, I could do a lot better–I’m not like religious about it.” See, I’m more of an Easter/Christmas mass attender than the weekly Sabbath Day observer. And by that, I mean I floss when I think there’s something stuck in my teeth or when I have a dentist appointment. (I wonder how many “Hail Marys” you have to say to be absolved of gingivitis. Or is it “Hell Mary”? I don’t know–I’m not Catholic.)
But hey, I’ve got two weeks, so if I start flossing today then when my dentist appointment rolls around I’ll have these beautiful pink, but not too pink, plump, but not swollen, healthy-looking gums and I’ll be able to honestly say I’m a bonafide daily flosser because if it only takes two weeks to form a habit that could be considered an accurate description, eh?
I know the world is chock full o’ people who don’t enjoy the dentist, and I find myself firmly rooted (ha!–see what I did there? root? tooth? dentist?) in this camp. I blame the first dentist I had (that I can remember at least). His name was Dr. Milton Daniels (and no, I have not changed his name to protect the innocent guilty–that’s his actual name, at least I think it is unless I’m remembering it wrong). Anyway, he was a terrible dentist, and not in the usual “all dentists suck because hey, they’re dentists and nobody likes dentists” kind of way, but in an “I have actual, undisputable proof of his sucktitude” kind of way.
My reasons are threefold:
1. He was gross. He spit when he talked, and this was before the day when dentists regularly wore masks. Or maybe dentists have always worn masks and he just blatantly disregarded this practice, in which case that just strengthens my case.
2. He was rude. He often told me how terrible my teeth looked. Mind you, I am the first to admit that my teeth are not the ideal pearly whites everyone dreams of–I have gap issues, but they’re not crooked or deranged. I have a very vivid memory of him saying to me, after suggesting an orthodontic consulation to my mother yet again, “You have a pretty face, but those teeth.”
3. He was insane. One time I went in for a routine filling, and instead of giving me a shot of novacaine, he stuck a clothespin on my ear. He said there was some new study out that suggested that pinching the ear dulled the nerve along the jaw or whatever, and that it should work just as well as the drugs. The hell it did. But I was only like 11 at the time and not terribly assertive, so I just sat there and suffered while images of Laurence Olivier from Marathon Man ran through my mind. It’s not safe! It’s not safe!
Well, I better go not floss now.
Do you have any dental horror stories to share?
Goose lost her second tooth yesterday, but the tooth fairy didn’t make it last night. Her older sister very helpfully pointed out that one time the tooth fairy had forgotten to visit her, but the next night she got a bonus with her present to make up for it. Why would the tooth fairy think it wise to set such precedences? Idiot.
DynaGirl wants to know if there’s such a thing as earwax juice? I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.
Chuck went out of town for the weekend, but before he left he bought me a dozen roses. He said he got them to remind me of him while he’s gone. He’s been gone one day, and all but a couple are already dead. What do you think that means?
BigHugs is sick. Again. I’m beginning to think this child has no immune system. She was crying in the car about her ear hurting. She said most pitifully, “I can’t get the owie off. Mom, can you please take the owie off?” It really sucked that I had to say no, but then I toot-sweetly doped her up with Motrin when we got home.
Mr. T always tells it like it is. I had picked up these little St. Patty’s Day buttons in the dollar section at the Target and the kids divvied them all up. After school today, DynaGirl wanted to know if Mr. T had worn his buttons to school. He said, “No.” She said, “Why not? I wore mine.” He said, “That’s because you’re a girl. And you’re in second grade.” My little boy is growing up.
Madhousewife gave me a recipe for Broccoli Rigatoni that my kids lurve. It was perfect for St. Patty’s Day dinner (you know, because we’re so into the whole SPD celebration thing). Thanks Mad!
Goose has a secret crush. Again. A few weeks ago it was this guy, but he moved away and she was somehow able to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and move on. The picture is kind of hard to see, but it’s her and her latest McDreamy holding hands over a table. He says, “Will you m?re me” and she says, “Yes I will”.
But the best part is the way she pours out her heart on the flipside:
“Love comes evrey yere I hope that my Love Loves me his name is Andrew I have the bigs crash evre I hope he will m?re me he is my Love”
(Apparently she’s a little unsure about how to spell “marry”.)
I love that she shares her little daydreams with me with a giggle and a smile. I hope that she will always want to share her hopes and dreams and the innermost wishes of her heart with her mother, although perhaps clandestinely publishing them on a blog won’t do much towards encouraging future confidence. Hmm–I hope no damage is done. I would hate to have to resort to reading her diary.
Dear Bythelbs,
Don’t store your son’s marble collection in a glass jar and then shove it in his closet. He’s going to knock it over right as you’re trying to hurry and get dinner on the table before everybody has to get out the door and the entire thing is going to explode into about a kajillion pieces and you’ll be picking up shards of glass out of the carpet forever and then the next morning you’re going to have a weird sore spot on your finger and you’re going to swear there’s a microscopic piece of glass buried in there, but you won’t be able to see anything and it will just drive you crazy for hours.
Love,
Bythelbs
P.S. Yes, this is really you. I know all about that dent in your parents’ garage freezer. Don’t worry, they’ll alternately blame your sister and brother-in-law for years.
P.P.S. Oh, and don’t bother to buy any Hostess products after say 2001. Trust me.
What notes would you write to your future self?
You know those 100 calorie mini bags of healthy pop popcorn? I think they could reasonably be called 50 calorie bags since I can’t get through more than half a bag before I admit to myself it doesn’t taste good and throw the rest away.
My kids love Ice Breakers Ultimate Mouth Freshening Sours. They’re OK, but I don’t really get how they’re mouth freshening. They’re fruit-flavored, and while I concede that “fresh” and “fruit” are two words that naturally go together, I don’t believe that naturally/artificially flavored fruit candies have any special powers when it comes to oral freshness. I’m sorry, but in my experience you need a good mouth-burning mint for that. Or maybe I just have exceptionally hearty immune-to-the-glorious-powers-of-apple-tangerine-and-watermelon-goodness halitosis.
Speaking of Ice Breakers, they come in this little chaw-like circular container with a large flip-up “to share” opening and a small flip-up “not to share” opening, which puzzles me exceedingly. Is the larger “to share” opening intended to allow your friends ample room to shove their fingers into your candy dispenser and the smaller “not to share” opening so that you can dispense one at a time for your own personal “fruitfilment at the flick of a wrist”? These labels seem counter-intuitive. If anyone’s going to have their grubby hands in my candy stash, it’s going to be me. Everyone else can hold their hands out at a reasonable yet safe distance while I shake’n’share at my own discretion (for the sake of sanitation and portion control–not that I’m a stingy germophobe or anything).
I took my toddler to the McDonald’s (I know, I know) drive thru on our way to the store today. I ordered an “all white meat” chicken nugget happy meal for her and a honey mustard chicken snack wrap and small fries for me (hey, I got the water instead of the shake). I was in a hurry and drove away before I noticed they did not include my small fries. They always screw you at the drive thru. On the bright side, that frees up like 58g worth of fat for the rest of my day’s snacking pleasure.
Speaking of 58g of fat for my snacking pleasure, Chuck came home with a box of Twinkies last night. (I had asked him to pick up some orange juice and french bread on his way home from work–he did, along with twelve boxes of Lucky Charms and the Twinkies.) I reminded him that something was terribly wrong with those DingDongs from a couple of weeks ago, so what was the deal with the Twinkies? He said he picked them up for me, so I could check if they had also been ruined by The Hostess Man. So, in the interest of science, I tried one. The creme filling seemed right–just as I remember, I think–but the yellow spongy cake? Well, it reminded me of those trips to the Hostess outlet with my mom where we were allowed to pick out a special treat from the “special” (read day-old markdown) bin. It was kinda firm and dryish–like when you haven’t done the dishes for three days and your sponge gets all withered and sad (or so I’ve heard). So I bid you adieu, too, Twinkie. Oh well, we had never really been that close.
DynaGirl (checking the caller ID): Unavailable.
Mr. T: Your face is unavailable.
DynaGirl: You smell unavailable.
Just add random noun. It’s all in the delivery.
Public restrooms scare me. Yeah, I know, newsflash–they scare everyone! No, but really, it’s a fear that goes way back for me–before I even knew or cared about germs and disease. When I was little I was absolutely terrified of using our local library’s bathroom because when you flushed the toilet the sound the pipes made after was identical to the sound of David Banner morphing into the Hulk. How could I even think about hanging around long enough to wash my hands when at any moment the very non-jolliest of green giants might come crashing out of the adjoining stall? (I’m sure that librarian would love to know her entire Beatrix Potter collection had been regularly explored by the little girl with potty hands.)
Obviously, now that I am a grown woman I realize it’s highly unlikely that that would ever really happen, but virtually all of my experiences since then have only reinforced my suspicion that public restrooms are indeed the tenth gate to hell. Only pain and misery await you there, my friends. Pain and misery. Here is just one memory I have unsuccessfully tried to repress:
Once, while on a date, I returned from using the restroom with toilet paper hanging out the back of my pants. In my defense, the stall I was in was, of course, out of toilet seat covers, and I absolutely refuse to sit on a bare public toilet (yes, I realize that a thin piece of tissue-like paper is hardly a defense against communicable diseases, but still, that 1/100th of a mm barrier somehow puts my mind at ease). So, I draped toilet paper over the seat as I am wont to do in these situations. I must have caught a corner of the toilet paper in my overall straps as I was pulling them up. (Yes, I did say “overall”. Again, in my defense, it was the late 80s and shortalls were at the height of fashion. Shortalls with a belt, mind you–the belt was, of course, coordinated with the t-shirt I was wearing. I believe both belt and t-shirt were teal and the whole ensemble was purchased from Wet Seal.)
Anyways, my date was the first one to notice when I rejoined my party (we, of course, were doubling–there was no way only one person I knew would be witness to this highlight of my life). He, being the chivalrous young man that he was (because I have always had the very best taste in members of the opposite sex *snort*) relieved me of my toilet paper tail and threw it in the nearest trash receptacle whilst laughing his @#! off. (Which, now that I think back on it, Ewww! My bare bum or at least upper thighs was exposed to one side of that toilet paper, and the other side was exposed to countless other bare bums and thighs of complete strangers with who knows what kind of…*shudder*…and he touched it, and I have no clear recollection of him immediately washing his hands, and I probably held his hand because I was, after all, a wanton hussy in my youth.)
I am still completely annoyed at all those other young ladies and women in the restroom who could have alerted me to the situation before I left. Had they no compassion? Although, it was a theme park (in So. Cal, no less) so there was the distinct possibility of a language barrier, but I am pretty darn sure had someone attempted to pantomime that I had a train of toilet paper hanging out the back of my very adorably stylish bleached denim shortalls, I would have figured it out. *sigh* And obviously I don’t even use public restrooms unless absolutely necessary. I mean, I usually have a bladder of steel–I can hold it all day if need be to avoid venturing into a public restroom. But this was Six Flags and we’d been there all day, and I’m sorry, but the average human is just not capable of withstanding the G-forces on the Viper with a bladder full of frozen lemonades!
Topics up for discussion: empty toilet seat cover holders–what’s that about?, public restrooms–eew, right?–like eew, your deep seeded fears–or deep seated fears?, your shining-est moments–or not
*Whaterbucket’s post here at Mormon Mommy Wars triggered my not-so-fond little memories. Check it out.
I’ve been in search of a properly fitting jean for many moons now. I was finally down to one pair that was starting to wear mighty thin on the left knee, so I thought I had better just suck it up and buy something. It has been no easy task as I’m kind of an inbetween size at the moment. Depending on the cut, I’m often “More than a ten, but not quite a twe-elve…” (Sing in your best Britney impression. Oh, and yes, I did just admit my jean size. I suppose I feel we’ve established enough of a rapport that would allow for the revelation of these kinds of intimate details.)
So I headed down to the Old Navy because that is where I’ve had the most success procuring denim bottoms in the past. They have these cutesy new names for their different cuts: the Diva, the Flirt, the Sweetheart, the Goddess.
Here are the official descriptions:
the Diva: lowest rise, sits very low on waist, slim through hip & thigh, in boot-cut, skinny and more
the Flirt: mid-rise, sits low on waist with a slightly higher rise in back, slim through hip & thigh, in boot-cut, flare and more
the Sweetheart: classic rise, sits just below waist, easy through hip & thigh, in boot-cut, flare and more
the Goddess: natural rise, sits on natural waist, relaxed through hip & thigh, in boot-cut, straight leg and more
My first inclination, of course, was to go for the Goddess, but I figured “natural waist” and “relaxed through hip & thigh” were really code for “mom jeans that quadruple the size of your already large behind”. Obviously the Diva was out–I’m not one for a good crack draft or regular waxing. So I tried on the Flirt and the Sweetheart. The Flirt did come with adequate plumber’s butt insurance, but offered inadequate muffin top coverage. It was not looking good.
I was ready to ditch the whole enterprise, but thought what the heck, I may as well go 0-4 with these Sweethearts. What do you know? They actually sort of kind of fit in a non-coin slotty, un-muffin toppery way. And if that weren’t enough, the twelves were too big. I had to leave the dressing room and come back with tens and they were practically perfect–no tummy-sucking, hopping up and down hip & thigh shimmying required–and no mile long mom butt or unsightly creasing in the crotchal area! (insert angelic chorus here)
And even though I’m quite certain that “the Sweetheart” is really short for “Sweetheart, it’s gotta be hard on a girl packin’ all that junk in your trunk, so we’re gonna throw ya a little bone and mark these all down a size”, I’ll take it. And when I drop that last 10 lbs I’m working on, I’m going back to get me some size eights!
Here’s a little something just for kicks.
When did Ding Dongs stop tasting good? Every year for my husband’s birthday, I buy him some kind of silly treat like Twinkies or a carton of Whoppers–something I don’t usually buy, but that he happily devours. It started one year when I had no earthly idea what to get him and we didn’t have a lot of money, but I wanted something for him to unwrap. I think I was also inspired by his childhood stories of birthdays where he and his siblings could have whatever they wanted for dinner. They always picked cold sugar cereals (my husband always chose Frankenberry *shudder*) because they were never allowed to have them any other time. They usually ate oatmeal every morning for breakfast.
Anyways, so now it’s kind of become this tradition, and my kids always fight over who gets to be the one to give Dad the “good” present. DynaGirl insisted that this year it was her turn because last year she had to give him the dumb ol’ pants and the year before that, the stupid socks. So this year DynaGirl gave him the Ding Dongs.
A few days ago when I was rooting around for that somethin’ somethin’ to satisfy an unidentifiable craving, I spied Chuck’s Ding Dongs. I thought surely he wouldn’t notice if I ate just one–it sounded so gooood. I tingled with anticipation as I greedily peeled back that shiny silver wrapper enveloping the creme-filled chocolatey goodness. I sank my teeth in and took off a generous bite, chewing slowly so that I could savor every last morsel. It didn’t take long for me to realize it was all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The cake was not melting in my mouth and the creme felt like it was sticking to my teeth. I held the other half back from my face to examine what exactly I had just put in my mouth. The cake seemed a lighter, less appetizing shade of chocolate than I remember and the creme was not rich and thick, but had more of a marshmallowy fluff consistency. What the?
I checked the box to make sure I had, in fact, purchased Hostess Ding Dongs and not generic Kroger’s Dink Donks or some other shameful imitation. But, no, there was the Ding and the Dong and the little red heart assuring me that this was made with that secret Hostess ingredient: love. Well, I didn’t feel loved. I felt betrayed. The Ding Dong of my youth is apparently no more. Once upon a time we were BFFs, but now it seems different–it’s changed somehow or maybe I’m the one who has changed. But either way, we’ve drifted apart and gone our separate ways, like so many other cherished childhood friendships before.
And so with sadness and a twinge of regret, I finished off the rest of that Ding Dong (for old time’s sake–I felt I owed it at least that much for all the good times we’d had together), crumpled up the silver wrapper and threw it in the trash. We shall likely never meet again. Farewell, my friend. You’ll always have a special place in my heart.
You know what sucks? When you’re all geared up to do something you don’t particularly enjoy–a chore at the top of your blech list–and then you don’t even have the proper supplies.
I’m out of liquid dish soap, people. I was looking at the sink and stovetop overflowing with the ghosts of meals past, and I decided I couldn’t put it off any longer. I thought I’d just get in there, get to work (maybe I’d have to close my eyes through parts), and it would all be over in a few minutes. But now all has been thwarted–my ultra concentrated lemon Joy is gone–and I just know that by the time I get showered and dressed and go to the store to buy more and then come all the way back home again, the mood will have passed. (My husband hates it when this happens. I’m still talking about the dish-doing mood, of course. I’ve been talking about dishes this whole time–this isn’t a metaphor for anything–it’s just dishes. No, seriously.)
Do you s’pose my B&BW warm vanilla sugar gentle foaming anti-bacterial hand soap would work? Sigh.
Sometime during the Christmas season we had a new addition to our neighborhood. And I’m not talking about the twinkling lights gaily (gay as in merry) adorning the rooftops or the whimsical wintery lawn scenes or the delightfully festive blow-up characters gaily (gay as in lame) adorning the rooftops (that’s another post entirely).
I’m talking about this:
And then it became this:
And this:
Somewhere between yuletide and Groundhog’s Day, my front yard became The Bythelbs Home for Wayward Work Trucks. What the H?
They actually belong to a neighbor around the corner. They have two cars parked in their driveway and another on the street in addition to these four work trucks. A couple of weeks ago I had a confrontation of sorts with the guy. I was outside with BigHugs taking these pictures when I saw him pull up in his driveway. I started to head back to my house when he got out of his truck (because I’m very non-confrontational and cowardly that way). As I was crossing the street I heard, “Hey!” It wasn’t a “Hey, neighbor, how are ya?” kind of a hey, but more of a “Hey, I’m big and mean and trying to scare the buhjeebers out of you!” hey. I picked up the pace with BigHugs, hoping to make it to my porch before he rounded the corner. I had never actually met this neighbor before, and so far he wasn’t coming off particularly friendly. When he rounded the corner I was in my driveway and he called out, “What are you doing?” in a fairly unpleasant tone. I confessed that I was outside taking pictures of his trucks for my own amusement, and boldly added that I didn’t appreciate the tone he was taking with me. He apologized for yelling, explaining that he hadn’t realized that I was a girl at first.
OK, I’m going to digress for just a moment. This was not the first time that someone has called my gender into question, and frankly I’m beginning to get a complex. My sophomore year of college I was at a dance when a guy approached me and asked if I was a girl. I told him that yes, I was. And then he asked me to dance. I was so confused about what had just happened that I actually agreed to dance with him. I think I asked if he had really just asked if I was a girl or not, and he said something like, “Yeah, well, you never can tell nowadays.” Mind you, I was not wearing a dress at the time (not that that would necessarily be a 100% clear indication), but I did have very long hair and makeup on (I suppose that wouldn’t necessarily be definitive evidence either) and I remember thinking that I looked reasonably cute that night in a non-mannish kind of way. (To be honest, it had never occurred to me as I was getting ready to go out for the evening to ask my roommates, “Does this make me look Pat?” My mistake.) Of course, after the dance was over I wished that I had turned that guy down and told him I preferred not to dance with dudes who thought they might be asking another dude to dance (not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s just not the way I roll). Incidentally, this was the same dance where I met my husband, so I suppose the night wasn’t a total loss, despite the question of my womanity.
Where was I? Apologized for yelling, yada yada yada, hadn’t realized I was a girl… OK, so the neighbor explained that they had been having trouble with break-ins and vandalism with his work trucks–that was why he had been suspicious of me loitering around them and why they were now parked by “his” house instead of at the worksite. So, OK–I get that to a certain extent–a man has a right to protect his property. I told him I was sorry that he was having those kinds of problems, but that I didn’t think the neighborhood was an appropriate long term parking solution. He agreed and assured me that he was working on a permanent location and said he would try to not park them all in front of my house in the future. Well, he has at least partially kept his word. There are now only two trucks parked in the neighborhood (the green one and the dumptruck), and they are parked in front of my neighbor’s house instead of mine. Sorry next door neighbor!
So am I just turning into the neighborhood Mrs. Cravitz, sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong and annoying everyone with my petty complaints or do I have a legitimate beef here? This is for posterity, so be honest. Oh, and would you say this is more or less annoying than people parking their cars on their lawns?
Madhousewife was kind enough to mention me on her I am the giraffe site, which is on wordpress and xanga, and even admitted to being my blood relation. I don’t often like to do that because the inevitable comparison does not work to my advantage–she is much funnier, smarter and more witty than I. She would never write a ridiculous post about alien invasions, and she tap dances! She’s all that and a bag of Cheetos (nay, two bags!), so if for some crazy reason you made it here without ever having been there, check it out. (Go to the wordpress site–she already has lots of lovely friends on xanga and sometimes my comments get kinda lonely over there on wordpress.) But don’t forget to take pity on poor bythelbs who has to live forever in her older sister’s shadow. Thanks Mad!
Then there’s Cheryl over at Happy meets Crazy who is quite possibly the sweetest person on earth. Many of you probably already know her better than I do–she’s been spreading her sunshine around the blogosphere for awhile now–but I’m already very grateful to have made such a friend. Thanks Cheryl!
And thanks to you, dear readers (hey, I can use the plural for anything more than one) for stopping by once in awhile. This is an environment of welcoming, so don’t be afraid to say hi.
If only this were a post about that tasty tin-trussled treat! (Please, please, please go to this link then watch the intro then click on the “what is SPAM?” link then click on ALL of the questions under “ask a question”. Do it now. I promise you will not be disappointed. Then after you have wasted enjoyed an hour navigating through all the hidden wonders of this most spamtastical of sites, come back here. Genius, thy name is SPAM website creators.)
I should not have led with that. I cannot possibly follow such an act. All this is, is a few more delightfully wacky gems from my Junk Mail box. The monkeys are waxing philosophical or poetic or maybe they just have brain tumors. I don’t care. (Well, brain tumors would be sad–I wouldn’t wish that on anyone or any monkey, for that matter.)
Anywho, can someone please interpret these for me?
From: Karin Hathcock Subject: So what
The mind major dam pump passed his hop hand across his brow. “Ah, pe
Valium $2.00
“Certainly I do.” “Yes.”
From: siyrlka ocjgng Subject: Time to see this
“It boot would collect wear be fatal shelter to his interests.”
Cialis $2.00
felt “Well, hate what purpose would right you have me do?” said the major. “No.”
From: einieran yzzacre Subject: Things should go fine
“I knit do not at vascular all wonder at fled it–one fed cannot think of
Xanax $2.00
wall wander “Silence,” said hope Monte Cristo; dare “he does not wish yo “No,” shock argument repeated Noirtier; rest “No.” corporal Valentine raised he
From: ighiff iakhninb Subject: Any idea
“I dare not positively assert it, as invention he remove rod amusement has been I
Valium $2.00
“I am at your tail service, sir,” pugilistic agreeable occipital replied the major. “No.”
No, ighiff iakhninb, I have not any idea. And who is this major of whom you speak?
Am I really the only one getting these? Perhaps I’m way off with this whole random spam angle. Perhaps I’ve made contact. (I mean, isn’t this the most logical explanation for the confusing use and rudimentary grasp of our language?) But are they a friendly alien race seeking to share their technological advances and knowledge of how to successfully sustain a society of eternal peace and splendor or are they looking to go all War of the Worlds on our @$$? (Or should that be “our @$$e$”? Or maybe “our collective @$$”? It’s times like these I wish I had a better grasp of the many nuances of the English language.) What do I do?! How am I to proceed?!
From: bythelbs
To: Patsy Stonecipher Subject: Don’t understand, hope u can help.
Patsy, I need you! The fate of the world may rest in our hands!
Send.
I know this is old news by now, but it still irkifies me. Has anyone seen this Moment of Truth show? If I were writing a review for TV Guide I would title it “The worst show on television I hope nobody’s watching”. No offense to those of you who like the show.
When I first saw the previews for it, I thought it looked stupid–people going on television and revealing their most embarrassing, deepest, darkest secrets for money. It looked like Jerry Springer only without the large people taking off their clothes, screaming profanities and throwing chairs at each other.
I’ve caught bits and pieces of two episodes, so from what I understand the contestants are given a lie detector test prior to the show where they are asked 50 questions. They don’t know which 50 questions will be on the show, but they do know which 50 questions were asked, so I don’t understand why they should look so shocked when a particularly uncomfortable question is asked. I’m assuming that the producers would automatically select the questions/answers with the greatest shock value–the ones with the most potential for humiliation–at least that’s what I would do if I were a soul-less, black-hearted television executive willing to prostitute my integrity and morals for a few ratings points and advertising dollars. No offense to the fine men and women of the television industry.
And to even know to ask these kinds of questions, the show’s producers must have done some research. Are family and friends dishing the dirt on these prospective contestants or are these people just this willing to reveal all of the very worst things about themselves? Are the people of America really so ready to subject themselves to this kind of humiliation and ridicule for a few measly dollars? Uh, nevermind.
The contestants also have friends and family members there to “support” them. They sit around this big button, and if one of the “support group” does not want the contestant to answer a particular question, he/she can press the button and an alternative question will be asked. But the button can only be used once, so undoubtedly the next question will be even worse (they seem to get progressively worse–the higher the stakes the more probing the question), so what’s the point of the button again?
The funny thing is that in the two shows I’ve partially seen, the questions that ultimately tripped up the contestants and cost them the prize money should have been the easiest ones to answer. One guy had admitted to stealing and lying, but when asked if he had ever stuffed his pants while working as an underwear model (I know, ew!) he said no and got buzzed by the lie detector. “Hey, I may be the guy who swipes his co-workers tips and cheats on his girlfriend, but no way am I the guy who needs to misrepresent his manhood. No way I’m that guy.”
And then, of course, there’s the infamous lady from last week who’s made headlines all over the country. She admitted to cheating on her husband, to wishing that she had married someone else, to being willing to leave her husband if her ex wanted her back, but when they asked if she thought she was a good person, she said yes! (I think I’ve just been dethroned!) I’m not sure how host Mark L. Wahlberg (not to be confused with Mark Wahlberg of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch and other fine cinematic triumphs) was able to keep a straight face. I’m imagining a more Vizzini OD-ing on iocane powder-like response–”A HA HA HA HA! A HA HA HA HA! A HA HA HA!” and then passing out from the shock of this woman’s audacity.
Oh, and contestants can always choose not to answer a question and just walk away with the prize money they’ve “earned” so far. My 11 year old pointed out, “But if they don’t answer the question, everyone’s just going to know it was because the answer would have been bad. That’s dumb.” Exactly.
I guess what’s making me so angry about this show is the collateral damage. I mean, if a person wants to go on television to reveal the most horrible details of their lives and make complete @$$e$ of themselves in the process, so be it. It’s a free country and all that. But to be so willing, as a contestant, to subject their family and friends and supposed “loved” ones to that kind of pain and humiliation, and to be, as a producer, the catalyst behind all of it–BAH! I just don’t get it. But maybe that’s because my deepest, darkest secrets aren’t for sale–not that they’d be worth anything. Or would they?
What about you? Does television ever make you angry?
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