And Now a Word From Our Sponsors

And Now a Word From Our Sponsors (Rough Draft…)

I admit it. I’m a complete sucker for TV ads and believe every one of those advertized“  as seen on TV” products  that I watch way more than I care to admit.  As ashamed as I am, I have maintained a supine position for hours on end with a belt full of electrodes strapped to my middle and exercised those flabby abdominal muscles into fits of rock-hardness.  It actually hurt, but isn’t that what fitness is all about?  Not to brag, but after each session I had such a voluminous, albeit frizzy,  mane of hair. I fully expected to wake up with an awesome eight pack and turned the dial to max to make it happen…like yesterday! Don’t blame me for being efficient and, yes, I am also the proud owner of “8 Minute Abs”.  My nagging curiosity will, at some point, propel me to remove the protective plastic from the VHS box. Why bother with the inconvenience of exercise when the exercise can be done for you? What was way more important than the nagging guilt of pure, unencumbered laziness was the fact that I was getting things done. Such clever multi-tasking meant that I could polish my fingernails and feed my brain with endless hours of Discovery Channel--all while feeling the burn. An added benefit was not having to wash sweat out of my hair everyday and utilizing effort in getting stains out of my shirt’s pits. But, alas, my enthusiasm for exercise, even the kind that I could do without actively participating, quickly faded as most of my hastily hatched plans do. I am a dreamer of dreams but, unfortunately, not a doer of do’s.  My grandiose ideas have a nasty habit of falling to the wayside and are constantly sliding to the bottom of my “to do” list like melted butter on a tilted skillet. 

 I hate falling into the pit dug by “the man,” but the advertisers have us by the bootstraps  and I simply have lost the fight to resist.  I’ve fallen victim to the “easy-peasy quick and easy” mindset, although I’m the first to decry the lack of initiative of the next generation.  If there’s a shortcut or a way around it, sign me up. It’s so simple, really, the creation of a lifestyle that will promote a long and happy life. I know it. Eat healthy. Don’t spend more than you have. Plan and organize. Great results require hard work. But, don’t they make a pill for that?

So, my inability to resist products is the fault of the advertiser who knows precisely how to appeal to my subconscious mind. It’s all very big-brotherish if you ask me, trying to maneuver around in our cerebral cortexes and frontal lobes while manipulating our little self-control  buttons.  I feel so used when I open up that bottle of “Sexy in a Second” and realize that I don’t immediately resemble the beautiful model on the commercial.

In some cases, the advertisement veers from mental manipulation to blatant lie. Case in point--those flex trashbags which resemble the cellulited flank of your Great Aunt Evelyn whose bikini-clad confidence exudes from her like a supernova. The commercial for this product would convince the viewer that not even the horns of an African rhinoceros could penetrate them. To demonstrate this amazing feat of brute garbage strength, a rhinoceros is actually attempting to buck the bag in the commercial. He tries with all of his rhinoceros might, but to no avail. Flex bag wins and I am immediately convinced that I must, as God is my witness, have those damn bags yesterday. Not only will they hold eternally captive the aroma of used kitty litter, but I can keep one in my car should a stray rhino attempt to gore me or my kids on the way to the mall.  Feuled with a newfound confidence and fearlessness , I toss my flex bags in the grocery cart and am momentarily tempted to put one around my neck to wear  like a cape in case the local PD needs backup. Bulletproof vests can’t possibly hold a candle. Arriving back home, I rip open the bags of steel and tuck one in the glove compartment “just in case.”I stride into the kitchen with an air or cockiness unrivaled by even the sexiest of Calvin Klein models and place my new bag of steel in position. Into the bag go shards of glass, Ginsu knives, and diamond chips. As I lift the bag to admire this anomaly, a single shard of pointed glass breaks through the underbelly of my new flex bag and rips into my skin. The pain of the bloody incision  does not parallel the shame that this blatant deception has left within me. I’ve been duped again. I even bought the economy size which was supposed to last for most of my natural life. And, what if I had planned to use one when I bullfight (it could happen)?  I would have been killed.

And, I’d love to know who named the newest acid reflux medication. It's called "Aciphex" and sounds like either a hemorrhoid cream or a cool decoration for the buttocks.  The sound of this product evokes images of butt “Poprocks” as I imagine feeling a sharp, invigorating crackle every time the cheeks rub together. What would happen, though, if I drank a carbonated beverage while using it? Marketing was obviously taste-testing the newest wine cooler when that brand came up for  labeling review. I can just imagine responding to the anesthesia nurse when he reviews the med list after giving me a shot of liquid happiness. I….take……….ACIPHEX.  Muuuhaaaahaaaaaa. AAAAASSSSSSSSSEFFFFECTTTSSSSS.

But wait, there’s more! The new Prell commercial is also a bit of a head-scratcher. I get trying to revive a product from 1975, but it's cheesy. If a shampoo needs to be resurrected from the 70’s, why not Beer on Tap? I used to feel naughty, yet so alive, when using it as a seven-year-old. What would happen if I accidentally drank it, licked my sudsy lips, or inhaled the foam?  I remember sitting in the tub for hours with "Beer on Tap" shampoo foaming atop my head whilst smoking candy cigarettes and drinking Sanka from behind a pair of Foster Grants. Oh the shame. Did I lock the door? Dare I grab mom’s round “Flicker” razor and live the viva loca?  Before wiping away the suds and sliding into my patchwork bellbottoms and crocheted vest, I DID squeeze the Charmin. Oh, Lord, I think I need an Anacin.


By the way, what is wood substrate? "The Man" is really trying to pull the wool over our eyes my consumer friends. If it's a shoe, call it a shoe! Now here’s a newbie--leather blend.  Really?  Is that like an engineered ruby or soy bacon? And what about Bengay? Enough said.

 But, there is hope in ad-land thanks to OB, the company that sells tampons which replace that scratchy plastic applicator with Mr. Pointer Finger. Corporate recently rejected an ad which depicted a male vampire with tampon fangs. So, there is hope for honest consumerism, although I would have definitely bought a pack of OBs for the hell of it and, yes, I would have walked around my house with cotton fangs just for kicks and giggles.

An industry that really gripes me is insurance sales.  Although these companies probably have mass prayer chains in the hopes that nothing bad will happen to you in order to save their all expense paid company retreat to the Grand Bahamas, I view them as the pit boss in the big gamble called Life. Their mantra sounds like this: “Go ahead and have a heart attack or an occurrence of cancer. We’re here to be your shelter from the storm. Really, you can count on us. But, if you so much as get a kidney infection after your three week stint in the ICU, then we’re gonna drop you like a bacteria ravaged poop.”  Understand that I love the insurance folks and know we can’t do without. But, when you have to anticipate the tragedy which might befall you and then buy a policy to match this given trauma is like healthcare roulette, the prize being dismemberment or organ failure. Yeah! After all, what are the chances of becoming an amputee versus a catastrauphic accident victim which requires a brand new face?  Frankly, your choices aren’t all cupcakes and sunshine and there’s not a magic 8 ball on the planet that can help in figuring it out. So, being that I tend to live in Happyville where absolutely nothing goes awry, I always opt for “none of the above”. But, friends, please stay on the lookout for a jar at the local convenience mart with my picture taped to the front, pitifully looking into the far distance with an expression of woe. Bypass the jar full of pennies supporting cat castration and throw your spare change in mine as I’m placing my bets on a life full of well-being and health, thereby forgoing the extra monthly premiums. If my peeps can just fork out enough g’s for a new heart or extra appendage should I need them, I’m golden.

Every year, my local educational unit makes all employees attend a meeting in order to update future planning needs. This equates to staring at a balding, thrice divorced, over 60 guy with a paunch and a gold chain who’s fashionably dressed in casual island wear.  He discreetly, yet confidently, scans the crowd of mostly she-folk in search of a potential date for Friday night’s Moose Lodge buffet. Emitting an occasional hack and obviously winded after each catastrophic description he relays, Insurance Man forgets that he holds captive an audience of teachers who haven’t had adult companionship for eight hours straight. Teachers, being big kids themselves, huddle instantly in cliques at the start of the meeting, sharing any gossip from the day while doodling pictures of rainbows and elephants. The more non-social of the group grade papers in the back pretending to pay attention via an occasional page turn and nod coupled with split-second eye contact. And, in the front row are either the elderly, newbies, or comformists who hang onto Insurance Guy’s every word while taking detailed notes in the margins of the booklet entitled, “You Can’t Take It With You…Planning for Your Untimely Demise.” Have a nice day. The front rowers glance smugly at the whisperers and gigglers who apparently have figured out in advance that their meager wages will be in the tip jar during happy hour at the local Mexican restaurant. Margarita anyone?

But, alas, Insurance Guy is obviously not equipped to address a crowd of female adult ADHDers at day’s end and makes a fatal mistake.  Apparently unappreciative of the fact that this little gathering have had few mind-numbing breaks from the constant tugging of little peeps, Insurance Guy makes a futile attempt to regain the attention of his audience by announcing, “Ladies, you need to hear this. So, pay attention.” Ouch. Yes he did. Unbeknownst to him, this room of teachers, save for the front rowers, are now mentally launching daggers into his nethers and are already calculating the hospital bill for which his firm will not be needed to fork out a copay.  The Aflac duck can kiss their collective hineys, thank you very much. The eyes of the poorly uninsured scream, “You are not the boss of us and never shall you be. We see the gray curly-cue hairs waving at us from beneath the herringbone and will reserve our love for the fund-raising guy. At least he gives prizes and takes the kids off our hands for a fun-enthused half hour presentation of empty promises”. As nerdy as he might be, at least fund-raiser guy has his own hair. So, cram that in your worn loafers Catastrophe Pit Boss, but come back and visit if a nagging cough or symptoms of a bacteria-resistant staph infection develop…just in case.

The prize, however, for adverlying goes to car dealerships and their obvious attempts at subliminal messages and sneaky, under the radar disclaimers which are spoken so quickly and quietly that only an elf on speed might decipher.  To illustrate, a marriage proposal in similar form might go something like this:

Guy: Will you marry me?

Girl: of course I will and I can’t wait for you to see my wide hip expanse after birthing five kids and that means no lovey lovey for you sweetie unless you want to work on number six but no kissing and by the way any extracurricular that you even think of maintaining after the I do’s will be permanently shut down and if you dare to plan an outing with the boys you had better clear it with me at least one month in advance but plan on taking the kids because I will probably have a raging headache and I could really care less that you want me to have dinner ready by 6:00 each evening because that ain’t happening and if you don’t want me using your razor then you’d better damn well hide it.

I DO!

But, guess what Mr. Disclaimer Clad Manipulator of Visual Input? I plan to start extreme couponing soon. I’ve signed up for a class and, if my calculations are correct, the local Food Mart’s going to owe me $9.95 just for loading up on fifty boxes of Lemon Jell-O.  Plus, I’ll have enough croutons for a lifetime of salads. But, there’s always hope those ads will demonstrate a flicker of truth. After thirty years I still walk down the street hoping and wishing that someone will stop me to say, “Gee your hair smells terrific.” It could totally happen.

Letter to Celia Rivenbark, My Author Hero, Regarding Harry the Fibroid

July 15, 2011

Hi, Celia!

It's me--that teacher down the road who has anemia and a crazy, ginormous fibroid named Harry who wants to be a famous almost-as-cool-as-you-but-will never-achieve-that-level-of-fame writer (me, not the fibroid). Anyway, my fibroid is benign (found out today), but is making my figure appear similar to a woman who's 18 weeks pregnant (that's how they measure those suckers...by gestation). My doctor says, "let's axe Harry" and my mother says, "if you don't take care of that immediately you are going to cause me to have a heart attack," but who do I listen to (darn preposition)? Celia Rivenbark. I'll go with your advice and seal the deal. Plus, if it'll make me look skinnier, then game on (geez, another preposition). I'm gonna request to keep Harry if that's possible. I'll buy him a special jar and maybe decoupage it a bit. I can dress him for the holidays, like maybe buy him a little plastic pumpkin to put atop the lid or wrap some big buck teeth around the jar during Easter. I'm wondering if Harry is like those twins that some of us have inside-the ones that never quite developed. Harry's probably sporting a big buck tooth and a huge, hairy unibrow, which will undoubtedly add to his charm.

AND, I went to see Dr. Crane at Atlantic Dermatology and was diagnosed with a massive case of poison ivy AND folliculitis. I took a couple of friends to see Bridesmaids last Wed. at Mayfaire (sold out) AFTER they had a bottle of wine each and, every time I said "folliculitis," they went into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Basically, it makes me look like a meth addict as I'm broken out all over and treatment involves two months of a strong antibiotic and a steroid. So, I'll probably grow an extra appendage or sprout huge patches of hair on my face, chest, and buttocks. The poison ivy which, coincidentally, started in my ear after my six-year-old put a poison ivy leaf in my ear while playing "hospital" makes for a dramatic backdrop for my infected follicules. I look SO DREAMY!

Wait a sec...HOLD THE PRESSES! Forget the book...I can become a carnie. I'll load up Harry, throw some sequins on his jar along with a cool, tassled scarf, and display my beard and the third arm growing from my side once the steroids kick in (darnitall...who made the rule about the prepositions on the end anyway...I give).  I'll get rich that way. Plus, I can go ahead and buy Lindsay's spider monkey and use it as a tax right-off. Oh, the genius of it all.

My sister's sitting beside me reading "Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank" and is cracking up. She asked if you were related to us. That's a compliment (not being related to us as that might not be considered flattery). See, she doesn't READ! I mean, she can and all but she just doesn't unless its diagnostic. She's a nurse at New Hanover RMC and is a nerd. So, if you can keep her attention via words, you're a miracle worker.

So, again, don't forget about me. I've been writing a bunch and getting stuff together. You're my author hero. 

Flashback

What is it about Air Supply that can reignite the spent flame of pre-teen love? Hearing Lionel Ritchie belt out the chorus of "Truly" elicits an automated response of "Why doesn't anyone understand me?" which I loudly verbalize to no one in particular while driving the minivan.  To this day, I hold firm to the belief that my acid-washed Esprit jean mini-skirt was not too short and looked amazing with high-top Reeboks and a neon net shirt. Why couldn't my parents just trust my judgement? 

Decked in white high-heeled pumps that made me look so much older than my fifteen years, I stealthily walked into the eighties with an attitude and hair that could impale eagles.  In fact, I was armed with enough Alberto VO5 treatments to defrizz an army of Sun-In users a mile wide.  I reeked with a confidence that I had not felt before I knew it all.  Unfortunately, my parents did not share my understanding that high fashion involved white lip gloss, geometrically shaped neon earrings, and a tan that could rival anything George Hamilton might try to pull off. In fact, a major dillema I constantly experienced was deciding if I should go to the tanning bed before or after a six-hour UV bath at the beach. 

I was never without a full can of spray to completely restrict hair movement.  Further, I never faltered in my dream of marrying Rick Springfield or Simon LeBon.  With my perfectly coiffed Ogilvie home perm and jelly shoes in every imaginable color, who could resist me? My two-sided, magnified make-up mirror with lights that could blind a camel  reassured me that I was, indeed, like totally hot.  Symbolic of this transition was the packing away of my Shawn Cassidy tee. I was, after all, practically a woman in 1985 and that meant making a more mature fashion statement.

I embraced my Members Only jacket with a fervor unmatched by the bell-bottoms and silk jackets of yore.  Throw in parachute pants and Izod polos rolled up at the collar to enhance the rhinestone-clad Gloria Vanderbilts, and you would see a girl that was going places.  My "Seventeen" magazine assured me that a future as a Barbizon model was well within my grasp and I could feel it. 

But, those years were not without their lows.  The question of hair color on my newly earned drivers' license proved difficult, as there was a significant tone difference from root to tip. Black, frosted, or, yellow?  Eye color? Hmmm, do you mean with or without the purple contacts?  Height? Well, it depends on how much hairspray I used that morning. It varied daily with wind speed and humidity.  Another thorn in the proverbial side of my eighties ego were the girls from a much larger high school who preyed on our surfer boys like wolves in heat.  Sporting convertibles, updos, and gold chains the width of copperheads, they craftily pranced their way into the hearts of the boys who legitimately belonged to my friends and I. The spouting of empty claims of "true love always" forced me to up my game and invest in additional hair products. Calvin Klein soon replaced Gloria Vanderbilt and "Love's Baby Soft" perfume took an immediate backseat to "Obsession."  This was war and I realized that I'd need every banana clip and add-a-bead charm in my arsenal to reign triumphant. Although my life was totally over on several occasions and I was lulled to sleep many a night by reassurances quietly whispered by Peter Cetera, the ending is a happy one.  I got the guy.  Or actually, he got me. Lucky man.  But, I do have a pair of Jordache jeans hidden in the back of my closet just in case.

Meat, Vacuum Cleaners, and Other High Pressure Sales

If I had to create a list entitled, "Jobs That Must Really Suck," door-to-door vacuum cleaner sales would make the top five.  Perhaps it's the lure of a free sample of off-brand detergent, but the Kirby guy always finds a way through the front door. A promise of fifteen minutes of your valuable time becomes an hour and your internal pledge of not making any purchase without consulting the significant other starts to crumble as you view all of the little mites playing tag on the Folger's coffee filter.  There's a forced acknowlegement that you've lost any chance of receiving that prestigious "Mom of the Year" award as your cleaning habits take center stage under the once-friendly glare of the Kirby guy.  Thrown into fits of guilt for single handedly causing the asthmatic conditions of your little cutie and all of her friends, you kindly offer your new white-gloved cleaning partner some iced tea. Promising you'll straighten up and put Donna Reed to shame with your new cleaning regimen, sweat pools at your temples as you realize that this sweet little salesperson is probably the son of a DSS worker. A prayer that the bedroom mattress is off-limits is never heard as vacuum guy pushes into personal territory.  With a whip of his elongated hose, he pushes aside your bras and nightie and starts the hunt for the ultimate prey---bed bugs. Although it relieves you to learn that you have only a "mild" infestation, the evidence on the coffee filter convinces you that you have to buy THIS vacuum cleaner NOW. No other will do. By god, you have a family to protect no matter what the cost.

When you see the price quote, you immediately wonder if just buying an extra house that the family is only allowed to sleep in might be the cheaper route. Heck, you might have to sell a kid or an internal organ to pull off this purchase. But, alas, your panic quickly resolves as vacuum guy assures you that the price quote is "negotiable." In fact, his supervisor can work out a plan that will cut so deeply into his commission that he will actually lose money on the deal. Oh, the sacrifice, but helping this filthy family is just the right thing to do. He hates your dust mites as much as you do and cares about the ashtmatic conditions of this household. Mother guilt kicks in for the upteenth time that day, and you fall to your knees whilst begging to be the proud owner of this miracle machine. "$2,000.00 you say? Payment plan with a low-interest feature? Well, sign me up and call it a day."

Basking in the glory of a mite free home is overwhelming as you watch Kirby guy pack it up and high tail it to the next mini-vanned home on the street. Passing one another, ice cream truck guy gives a knowing wink to your friend with all the attachments and mouths "Suckas."

And, what about all the door-to-door meat salespeople? That's just simply unnatural. It's a good thing southern moms see through such ridiculous sales ploys, because these meat vendors mean business. "No thanks," for example, might be interpreted as "Man, that one-third centimeter slab of graying meat is toying dangerously with my senses. I want to grab it right out of you semi-refrigerated modified Igloo cooler and eat it raw right here on the front porch."

One word of advice to the protein peddlers out there. Project a catchy tune, paint a few rainbows and unicorns on the side of the truck, throw in a free sample of hardwood smoke bacon, and you might have yourself a deal!

Hey Little Girl, Ya' Want Some Candy?

That familiar, nostalgic jingle that signals the ice cream truck has sent kids running for money for decades and has resulted in maddening searches by harried mothers for loose change under the couch cushions. Attempting to "beat the bell" while being the kid to snag the last Nutty Buddy was the epitome of summer and spoke volumes about parental supervision and trust for strangers peddling sweets among the young. "Yep, Junior, here's a pocketful of nickels. Run to the street and chase the mustached stranger who wants to give you some frozen candy.  It's the 70's and, with any luck, he might let you pet the little puppy in the back."  Call it paranoia mixed with a little cynicism, but that same jingle now assumes a more sinister tone as the clinky high notes send moms everywhere into a panic. "Jane, you grab the kids and head inside. I'll get the tag number and alert the cops that we have a perp trolling for kids."  Sorry, but if your plan is to list your occupation as the driver of the local ice cream truck in your e-harmony profile, you'll have every single mom out there running for the hills. There does seem to be something a bit shady about the "ice cream guy," who never is the "ice cream lady." Coincidence? Perhaps. But, peddling frozen confections to youngsters in their bathing suits on a hot summer day is simply over the top. Trust me, people will assume that you are over the age of forty, live with your mother, and keep corpses in the basement. When mama starts chasing your truck down the street, she's not looking to get an ice cream sandwich. She's got your license tag jotted on a sticky and, if so much as one kid goes missing in the cul-de-sac, you're going straight to the pokey. Case solved. Fluffy the cat missing? Bets are on that Edwin the ice cream guy did it.

It doesn't help that the ice cream guy on my street ignores my nonverbals. There's no love lost between us, believe me. As soon as those beady eyeballs make contact with mine, it's on. The game sounds something like this:

"Mom, do you hear it? It's the ice cream truck. I need moneeeeeeyyyyyyy. Nowwwwwww."

"No, dear, I can't hear a thing. Ooooopsie. It's already 2:00. Time for dinner and I'll even let you eat the whole chocolate cake by yourself. Won't that be simply delish? Go. Now. Run. Cover yourself!"

"I need ice creeeeeaaaaaaam." (foot stomp for effect)

"But, we have neopolitan in the freezer. You can eat the whole carton right now if you hurry inside."

"I want THAT (points to probable perp) ice creeeeeaaaaaammmmmm."

Perhaps its the guilt of keeping your kid from enjoying one of the last vestiges of 1950's sit-com nostalgia, but you cave and think that maybe THIS ice cream guy is on the up-and-up. Gee, he's simply trying, in his own self-sacrficing way, to preserve a rite of summer. Heck, he probably helps boy scouts build tree houses and runs his very own lemonade stand on the side. Either way, you find yourself digging in the bottom of your purse for some sticky quarters.

But, then you make eye contact. A mutual and unspoken agreement forms between you and "ice cream guy". It screams, "You don't kidnap my little Johnny and I'll continue to patronize your mobile Dairy Queen." With squinted eyes, you flash that all too familiar "I'm watching you" signal as the jack-in-the box theme song fades in the distance.

Family Photos...Where it Went Wrong

Brown clan at the zoo...they let us out for our afternoon feeding...

Busted...

Jacob's strange but curious fascination with orifices...

Ole'??????????

Me...me....me....what's with the riffraff in the background? Who cares if Carrie graduated? What about me?



Where on Earth did Jacob develop his fear of clowns?

Must...be...the...center...of...attention.

        More photos coming...

My Random Facebook Musings

Happy Cinco de Mayo...
Senor un taquito dora exploria en margarita su vaca escuala ti gato y cervesa grande por doritos y fajita casa hermosa y chihuahua a biblioteca.Mi llamo diego por fiestada la unicornio y werwolfio del torro blanco vampirio sharpio fangio dos ejecutar.Finale, tres cyclopsio en quesadilla tequilla negra medela hola amiga is pegasusio.Corona ti vodkaio por Danielio is un buttholio en maize y salsalito y Julio Eglesia.

Happy Mother's Day...
Some of you may remember my cat Bunny, the one who resembled Mike Kckshefd@# (Duke's basketball coach).She was a ball of hormones and hotness and, every few months, baby kitties would randomly tumble from her uterus when she walked across the yard. When seeking nutrition, she'd stumble to her bowl of Tender Vittles with a look of resignation,dragging kittens from her teets.I can completely relate.Happy Mother's Day.

So Great to Be Loved...
Jacob's grumbling. I say, "Jacob, it could be worse. Mom could've had her leg bitten off by a horse or a Gila monster (it could happen...I saw some in Myrtle Beach). Then we'd NEVER get to go on a quality vacation. When Mom gets some stranger's red blood cells slowly injected into her lifeless body, she'll be as happy as a clam on steroids." He's not buyin'..

Can YOU Feel the Love...
Daniel : "If you're that sick and we go to Virginia, it'll ruin our whole vacation if you end up in the hospital."
Jacob: "Thanks a lot, mom."
Gina: (curled in fetal position) "I'll try to breathe more shallow to conserve the tidbits of oxygen coursing through my collapsed veins."

Drathers...
Would rather have a raging infestation of intestinal parasites while being stabbed in my left eye with a fork while being trampled by a herd of stampeding elk in the middle of the Sahara desert while wearing a wool coat filled with angry fire ants.

Game Time...
Tonight's acronym is brought to you by Beer on Tap--the shampoo you'd love to drink, but can't. And by Prell...makers of the dumbest commercials known to man. So without further ado, here is your acronym:
DIASM
Caller number 5 will receive 2 all expense paid tickets to the Bay City Rollers Reunion Tour (as if that will ever happen).

False Advertising...
OMG...I'm so mad. You know those flex trashbags? The white ones? The ones that rhinoceroses can't even penetrate? They show the rhinoceros horn being held back in the commercial. Uh uh. It's a big lie. They tear. Easily. And, what if I wanted to use one when I bullfight (it could happen). I would have been killed.

Sphincters...
Sunshine, spray on tan and the best homemade store bought chicken make for a good day. Brandon Williams and Daniel refused to share their oysters, so they can just cram it. You heard me. CRAM YOUR OYSTERS BOYS. I have Food Lion chicken and pork rinds, so there.

My Amygdala...
My amygdala is so easily stimulated. Thank goodness my frontal lobe is so well developed or else I'd be dotting eyes everywhere. The frontal lobe is one of the last areas of the brain to develop which explains the sometimes irrational behavior of teens and young adults.It's the emotional control center. Impusivity is fueled by "fight or flight."

Oh the Sacrifice...
Funny.Daniel gets irritated when I pull out large sums of money for shopping. Here's what he doesn't get.The sacrifice.Does he have to wake in the middle of the night to fight the crowds, the angry shoppers who are running on caffeine and a prayer, the flourescent lights which show every imperfection?While he's snuggled in bed, it is me who is fighting tooth and nail to save money for our family. I'm...so...cold.

Androgeny...
For the love of all that is good, please help me. Is Peppermint Patty a girl or a boy?? I need closure.

Angels Don't Poot...
Apparently, my husband thinks it's funny to pretend that he's me while on Facebook. I'm just happy that he spelled pooted correctly. That's a big improvement. Ahhh his sophistication and maturity astound me. He's is grand trouble.

Huh?...
Did you know that people fought in the Silver War to get the Constipation and then the radiation from all the bombs caused an iguana in Japan to turn into Godzilla? Happy Constitution Day. Gotta love second grade.

Random Fantasy...
Is it wrong that I find John Redcorn attractive????

Doin' It 70's Style...Ah yea...
The new Prell commercial bothers me.I get trying to revive a product from 1975, but it's cheesy.If you're gonna' revive a shampoo from the 70s,why not Beer on Tap?I used to feel bad,yet so alive,when I used it as a seven-year-old.What would happen if I accidentally drank it or inhaled the foam?I used to sit in the tub with my "Beer on Tap" shampoo foaming atop my head whilst smoking candy cigarettes. Oh the shame.

Confused Yet?..........
Lindsay's real, real, real name is Lindsay. Her real, real name is Brittany. Her real name is Lissa. Lissa just gave birth to Sara in the hospital in her room. The father is Andy (the dog). I've been babysitting this afternoon. Jacob thinks it's all a little twisted and won't help with the afternoon feedings.

Damn Pommuses...
Jacob's been in basketballball camp all week at UNC-W, so I'm zonked. Starting to get my second wind. We had a stray pommus walk into our back yard and he eye-balled me. He was hurt, rabid (not likely as their body temps are too low), or snake bitten and had to be put out of his misery. Made me sad, but he was in really bad shape.Yes, I said "pommus." That's what Lindsay calls those long-tailed, nocturnal marsupials.

Damn Gangstas'...
Uncle Ed likes my gang graffiti idea.I told him I'd need a badge,a gun,a blue light for my car, and the legal right to drive fast (Christina P. can help there).And clown make-up so I can go incognito.Plus, deputy uniforms for my friends so they can look official (but you guys only get water guns....sorry). We'll need a lookout to cover Paula R. and a first-aid kit just in case.Who's in?Wimps and boys need not apply.

I'm So Loved...
Anyway, I fell asleep on a raft at the lake and floated quite a ways down from our campsites. When I awoke an hour later, there were intestines (looked human) wrapped around my arm and two men were staring at me, waving from the bank. Disoriented and hearing the theme song from "Deliverance" in the background, I paddled as fast as I could back from whence I came.So, twenty minutes later I found my peeps. I asked if I had been missed and everyone said they were asking where I went. That's as far as they got in their pursuit of my whereabouts.Carrie pointed in the opposite direction when Daniel asked where I was. So good to be loved. I suppose I should count my lucky stars that the men didn't make jerky out of me. Hmmm....Gina Jerky...bet it would be super sweet.

Wood Substrate?....
Tired. All day in Wilmington till Thurs. and bible school for Lindsay at Harris Creek at night. By the way, what is wood substrate? "The Man" is trying to pull the wool over us my consumer friends. Is that supposed to sound better than compressed wood or particle board? Isn't that like calling Joran Vandersloot (sp?) a misunderstood young man who's been framed? If it's a shoe, call it a shoe!

Hair Algebra...
chi + teething puppy - chi - $ - good decision-making = hot tools iron + bad hair + birthday money + new chi = good hair.

Hmmm...
It's so weird. I still can't find my camera. I had it in my purse the other day when Lindsay and I went shopping. Hmmmmm.


Portable Fish...
Totally new invention: portable fish. Take them everywhere you go. Here's how Lindsay did it. She put her Japanese Fighting Fish (thank goodness he's a fighter) and placed him in a spray bottle full of water. How she got Weinie in there I'll never know, because I had a heck of a time getting him out.

Raised By Wolves...
My cookies aren't burnt, they're blackened. After giving Jacob the "hungry children of the world you'd better be thankful because some kids have to run around naked walked uphill in snow to school both ways" speech, he says to me, "Thanks for making the cookies I can't eat." Does that count as a compliment?

Bless His Heart...
Pediatrician: "We're going to go ahead and test Jacob for mono."
Jacob: "What the heck? Mom, I HAVE NOT been messing with bat poop."
Gina: "Jacob, man, that's guano."
Jacob: "Oh."

RuhRoh...
Interesting. I walk into Lindsay's room and noticed a large earthworm "bathing" in the bathtub (which was full of water) in Lindsay's Barbie house. According to Lindsay, his name is Inchy and she's going to keep him forever. He did look quite content and has his own bedroom, elevator, and crib. He does have to share the bathroom with one of her Littlest Petshop critters. Picture forthcoming.

Thanks Boat Fairy...
You guys aren't going to believe this, but these boat accessories keep showing up on my front porch. It's like magic...almost like Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. Wait, it's the boat fairy. Boat fairy, if you're out there, thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Because boat accessories are really expensive and Daniel wouldn't be able to get them if it wasn't for you. Boat fairy, you're the BEST!

Hmmm....
I wonder where my camera could be. Hmmmm, who could have had it last????



Andy, was it you??

Irresponsible

The following events occured on the morning of April 16, 2011. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

11:29 am

I've been way too responsible this week. And I already did like two responsible things this morning. I gotta' rest....

11:47 am

Finalizing my plan for my life changes that I planned to implement in January before I lost my list of life changes I was gonna' make for 2011.


11:51 am

So, the mere prospect of rain makes me feel better about my plan to be irresponsible all day and I'm moving ahead with my plan to eat cereal until dark and watch cartoons and paint my toenails and draw pictures of things that make me want to stab people in their thoraxes. Oh..wait...darnitall...I see a ray of sunshine. Shoot. Now I have no excuse to be irresponsible.

1:21 pm

OMG. Daniel's just standing there staring at me. Why is he staring at me?

1:22 pm

So, now I'm hiding beneath my cloak of irresponsibility (woolly blanket), but apparently it doesn't make me invisible. And, beneath my cloak, I'm doing responsible stuff to counterbalance my irresponsibility guilt like researching innovative ways to make homemade candles and mentally making a plan to reorganize my closet.

1:33 pm

Daniel's looking at me like,"Are you just gonna' sit there all day?" I've gotta pretend I'm doing important work on my computer like researching instructionally sound pedagogical practices which impact linguistically challenged individuals or determining the outcome of using research-based strategies versus common sense stuff that works.If I'm quiet maybe he'll forget I'm underneath my cloak of irresponsibility.

1:35 pm

Daniel's still looking at me.

1:38 pm

So, I'm all snuggly and tingly and happy beneath my cloak of irresponsibility, mentally planning my week of leisure during Spring Break. Clams couldn't be happier. Until....Daniel comes back in the room and says, "What would you do if your baby was switched at birth?" Bummer. Now, my brain that's wired to think about 50 irrelevant things at once as a means of task avoidance has now left its happy place.

1:40 pm

Daniel's looking at me again. And shaking his head.

1:44 pm

Oh, and I just did my third responsible thing of the day. I ate a banana. I could've had a Nutty Bar. But, I didn't. I ate a banana. Maybe I could go to Target. That would be responsible. Or, I could knit a shawl for a homeless person or rescue some kittens from underneath a condemned house. But, then I'd have to get dressed. I'll do more responsible stuff tomorrow. I'm pooped.

2:04 pm

Geez, Daniel's in a mood. All I asked for were llama shaped pancakes, a chicken quesadilla, and a foot rub. Maybe I should do one more responsible thing today. Or, I could deflect and watch "Hoarders." Yeah, that would make me feel better.

Now Where Do I Keep My Keys?

So, I recently modified a body part that has thrown off my equilibrium for decades. Let's call them smoobies to keep this blog kid-friendly. What I'm actually referring to are the two asymmetrical (yep) lumps of flesh and tissue which hang precariously beneath my chin and are above my belly button (unless I'm bending over). So, after endless appeals to the male-dominated insurance company that makes decisions about the female anatomy even though they have different parts, I decided to suck it up and fork out 7 Gs for a more proportionate pair. When my amazing doc was able to bend them in half to show what the end result would be, I was utterly convinced that I had made the right choice.

But, alas, I have a problem. Where on earth am I gonna' house my cell phone, keys, and tic tacs? I know what you're thinking and, no, that totally won't work as I've tried it. So, my dear friend Vanessa has suggested a new device. We haven't named it yet, but it's like a bra with little baby pockets and zippers maybe. I was thinking of calling it the "Brocket". Sort of like those pouches that some folks wear around their hips to make for a hands-free day of sight-seeing or shopping. Except, they won't come in neon colors and won't contain a large unipouch in the front.

So, the day of surgery arrived and I'm like, "What the hay?" As I came to from my anesthesia induced fog, I became immediately aware that things were, indeed, quite different. I refused to get in the car with Daniel, as I felt that he was way too irresponsible to handle my care and wanted to stay with the lovely nurses who had the pain meds. Plus, for a brief moment, I thought I was a Ninja and planned to use my saddled unicorn to fight off the random zombies that I might encounter. Days later, I began to enter that completely overrated place in the time-space continuum known as reality and thought, "Ouch. This hurts like the dickens." Refusal of additional pain meds so that I appeared in complete control of myself unlike the drugsters on Cops was not a great plan and one that I deeply regret to this day. I wanted to appear totally cool and collected, although my smoobies were screaming, "We have teeth and we are biting you. We can't punch you in the eyeballs when you run anymore, sister, but we will surely get back at you for the whole dismemberment trick you just pulled. We've got your number and we're DIALING!" Needless to say, I look like a Frankenstonian experiment gone terribly wrong, and was only able to milk being incapacitated for a week. But, my bikini top will never again resemble a pool tarp or tent for the 9th regiment. I'm excited about the new "me." I just gotta figure out what to do with my funnel cake change (that one's for you, Jen).

Kudos to the amazing folks at Wilmington Plastic Surgery and Dr. Morgan who rocks....and to my family and friends who had to deal with weeks of whining and flashing. I love you guys. Bless your hearts.