Thursday, March 31, 2011

Doctors of Death or How I Absolutely LOATHE Going to the Dr.'s Office

Yes.  I know.  This isn't anything new for me.  I have ranted upon this subject before.  I don't like doctors of the medical variety.  Medical doctors don't like me.  Doctors and me do not mix.  They expect things from me I don't want to give.  I expect them to not say anything about my weight.  We don't mesh very well.  Usually things go downhill in a speedily fashion that has people lurching for their smart phones so they can post it on YouTube as fast as they can.

I have a doctor now who is my general practitioner guy.  I'll call him Dr. T.  Dr. T. doesn't bug me about the weight and I don't lie to him.  I don't say, "But I've been eating carrots and cabbage for three years straight and I haven't lost a pound."  I don't say, "I don't understand since I just ran the Boston Marathon last week and I was third place."  I don't say, "But I'm not really fat, I'm just big-boned."  (That one always makes me laugh.  Lots of people with big bones on this planet.)  I don't tell him the big whoppers.  He doesn't bug me about the 'W' word.  We have a tacit agreement.  I enjoy that.
So when I have to go, like to repeat my blood work, and run into women like in 'Trip to the Dr's Office or How I Spent Time in HELL with a Woman Who Could Outcomplain Me Any Day of the Week,' or I have to listen to a lecture from eminent medical professionals, I'm not happy.  Allow me to clarify.  It makes me want to NOT go to the doctor anymore, ever again and with never on top like a big fat red cherry.  HIM, to whom I'm married, often has to threaten me when I put off going to the doctor.

About a week and half ago I got a head cold.  (So I thought.)  But it never got really bad.  At least, not until about five days later and it wasn't a cold but a sinus infection.  Poor HIM, I woke myself up snoring, so I know HIM wasn't sleeping peacefully either.  I sounded like a freight train on crack that was crashing through a stadium full of junkies.  But I hung tough.  I waited.  I waited.  I knew that if I could just tough it out then I would get well and thus AVOID the dreaded trip to THEM, the medical professionals of DOOM.  Then HIM realized I was running a fever.  And I sat down one evening and volunteered, "I think I need to go to the doctor tomorrow."  Naturally, HIM was concerned that I was dying since I very rarely volunteer to such psychological torture.

The next day HIM even made the appointment because he thought I might back out.  (HIM cut me off at the knees in a very clever coupe detat.)  Off I went.  La-de-dah.  The wait wasn't long.  I got weighed and I hissed at the scale liberally.  The nurse took my stats, jotted a note or two down, and told me Dr. T. would be in soon.  A few minutes later in walks someone.  Obviously she is NOT Dr. T.  She is about twenty-eight years old, lily white, and as perky as Kyle the Flight Attendant.  Excuse me, **KYLE** the Flight Attendant.  She tells me her name although I was sick enough that I didn't really care and says she's on a student program and can she speak with me first.

I was less than enamored, but I didn't have anything pressing.  So the student doc goes through pretty much what the doctor does.  She talks to me.  I tell her sinus infection.  She asks about my symptoms.  I tell her sinus infection.  She asks about if I'm achy all over.  I said I'd gotten over my first heartbreak decades before.  She doesn't have a sense of humor, which is a damn shame.  She rechecks my vitals, shoves a tongue depressor down my throat.  (I believe she might have mistaken me for the woman who starred in 'Deep Throat.')  She listens to my lungs and then goes to check my records.

Here comes the part where I start to get irritated.  (As I often do, especially when I'm sick and spending time in a place that I actively dislike and get charged an extraordinary rate for it as well.  Hell, I get irritated when I'm feeling good, too, but that isn't the point in this story.)  "I see you're a diabetic," she says.  "Do you check your blood sugar every day?"

"Borderline," I say.  "Dr. T. checks it every 3-6 months."

But really, here's the part.  THE PART that chaffed my ass raw.  The student doc says in this sort of chipper-oh-how-can-I-not-say-it? tone of voice, "Have you tried losing weight?"

There were so many responses that whirled in my teeny tiny brain that I think I short circuited for a moment trying to figure out which one was most appropriate and wouldn't get me arrested.  I briefly considered asking her at which school in South America did she do her medical training.  Then I pondered asking her if she really thought I had a weight problem.  (It's hard to do that with a straight face.)  But what finally came out, after she obviously thought I had flaked out on her, was an irritable, "What does that have to do with a sinus infection?"

I get defensive about my weight.  (That's putting it mildly.)  I exercise.  I try to cut back.  I haven't been doing as good lately.  I yoyo.  I've lost as much as a 100 pounds once.  I've been insulted over my weight.  I'll never forget the one doctor who told me, "You know, overweight people get sick more often."  So I go into the doctor's office with a chip on my shoulder.  Someone should gag me before I go in and force me to write all my responses.  It might work out better in the long run.

Anyhoo, Student Doctor Girl attempted to volley that one out of the court with some convenient medical talk about statistical averages about illness and obesity.  I countered with, "So, if I was skinny, I wouldn't have gotten a sinus infection?"  (OMFG!  How could I have missed out on that one?  All these years, the skinny people on Earth have been keeping this secret from the fatties!  They never really get sick.  Only fat people get sick.  Only fat people get colds, sinus infections, and other illnesses.  The skinny people have been pretending.  Fat People!  Listen to me!  Time to rise up against skinny tyranny and revolt against skinny people everyone!  Make them eat Ben & Jerry's by the gallon until they pork out!  Make them eat the fattest burger in fast food!  (Incidentally, that's Wendy's Triple Baconator with 1,350 calories, 90 g fat (40 g saturated, 3.5 g trans), and 2,780 mg sodium).  Here's a picture because I can't believe anyone can eat this unless they're sharing it with two other people, and that's coming from a fat woman who knows.
(Insert diabolical mad scientist laughter here.))  (Can I mention that I've never actually eaten one of those?)

The Wendy's Triple Baconator
Well, the long and short of it, was that by the time Student Doctor Girl was done in my room, the shine on her was a little dulled.  She had met FAT Woman and she had lost.  Not only had Student Doctor Girl failed to convince FAT Woman that she was a drag on all things medical and that she was an unproductive fat member of society, but Student Doctor Girl had not come away with her usual feelings of smug skinny superiority.  (I secretly placed Ben & Jerry's in her lab coat pocket to make her weak.  It was Cherry Garcia, followed by Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough in the other pocket.)

Then Dr. T. came in and said, "Thanks for talking with the student doc," to which I responded, "No problem, except maybe the sinus infection."  And of course, it was a sinus infection.  I could have saved them all a lot of time and trouble if they would have just listened to me.  What can I say?  (That I haven't already ranted about?)

Monday, March 28, 2011

Funky Gadgets Rock!

Look new gadget!  Put your mouse cursor over there and see what happens!  Oh, this is demented and lame, but I still like it!  Click the mouse to feed the fish.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Things I'm Not Permitted To Blog About OR How Some Future Psychoanalyst Is Going to Make Money Off Me Because I've Been Denied

Yes, there's a list.  I know I mentioned it before, but it really does exist.  The official list is officially called, 'Things that Caren are NOT permitted to blog about.'

1.  My Mother-In-Law: I have several stories about her, concerning bears, eggs, sausage, and cockroaches in RV's.  In years past I did a Christmas letter that was actually a lot like this blog, and retold several of the stories.  Then my MIL visited and asked me not to repeat the stories anymore, to which I agreed.  (Tear filled eyes were involved and not from me, so of course I agreed.)  Now I'm regretting this agreement, which was Pre-blog.  I mean, this particular material is like gold.  When referring to real life events, some of my writer buddies have often said with me, "You can't make this shit up."  And you can't.  Well, I can, but I didn't have to make it up.  One day I'll either break and tell it anyway or something else will happen.  But I don't think my MIL is reading my blog.  (Her loss.)

2.  HIM's job: This also kills me.  HIM, the one to whom I am married, comes home and tells me things that have happened to HIM at work.  And here comes that principle again.  You can't make this shit up.  I grit my teeth, jot a few notes down in my ideas folder for future reference, and the time HIM is retired or HIM moves to a new job, just so I can tell some of these stories.  For example, I have personal nicknames for all of HIM's coworkers and some of them will even make Lurch giggle.  Damn, they're good, and I can't tell the world about it.  (While HIM was in the Army, there was a cute blond lieutenant.  She was as dumb as a bag of door knobs and had gotten her degree in underwater basket weaving in some state where the size of her boobs was substituted for her ACT scores.  I'm not sure how she passed some of the tests.  Well, I spoke to her for about a minute at some officer function or other and later told HIM that they should call her Lieutenant Cupcake, for obvious reasons.  Okay, I'll say it.  She was pretty on the outside and all fluff on the inside.  (I used that in a book, too.)  I don't know how she got her silver bar.  They must have thrown it at her and prayed she would get married and leave the military.  Anyway HIM thought that was so funny that HIM repeated it to a warrant officer HIM knew.  Then two weeks later everyone in the battalion was calling her Lieutenant Cupcake.  I was actually appalled.  Her own boyfriend, the battalion executive officer, was calling her Lieutenant Cupcake.  And I'm pretty sure that twenty-odd years later, someone still thinks of her that way and she probably has to snarl something at them, "That's not my fucking name!"  The poor woman would probably like to hire a hit man to get the person who was responsible.  And it was all my fault.  No, it was HIM's fault for repeating it to the warrant officer buddy.  I'll just shift the blame.)

3.   The Girl Scouts.  My daughter is a Daisy.  She goes every two weeks to a Daisy troop at her school AND I really, really, really want to jot all my snarky comments down for posterity.  I really, really, really do.  There's some issues about the other girls, some of whom would drive Mother Theresa bonkers.  There's some issues about what we do, because obviously I'm missing the point.  There's some issues about cookie sales.  And really cubed issues, too.  But since I'm the Assistant Troop Leader, I can't say anything.  Dammit.  (Incidentally, HIM went to a Daisy/Brownie meeting last night and he sez that the school is haunted because HIM sees something moving out of the corner of his eye and when HIM looks there's nothing there.  Cue scary music here.  What does this have to do with what I'm not permitted to blog about?  Nothing, but I'm writing the blog, so I get to include it.)

4.  Customer Service.  Customer service is my particular peccadillo.  Most of the time wherever I go there's basic service.  Some places are good.  Occasionally it's bad.  Then there's really, horribly, wretchedly bad, which is the one that really winds my clock up.  It's so bad, vultures circle the place with napkins tied around their necks, holding a fork in their little birdy claws.  This is the one area in my life where I equal HIM in OCD tendencies.  I have actually had a list of places I will NEVER do business with again.  Most of these are in the Dallas/Fort Worth area.  One is in the El Paso area.  We lived in Texas for years and years and so I managed to find companies and contractors to alienate me.  As I now live in Virginia, the list for this area is limited to only a few thus far.  (I'll give an example of one I can talk about since I'm probably not visiting that one ever again.  There's a Walmart in El Paso at which I am no longer permitted to shop.  We bought a TV early one Sunday morning and paid for it in the electronics section in the back.  When we got to the front, there was no one at the door waiting to check our receipt.  The elderly man whom they'd hired to do this job was chatting up the girls all the way on the opposite side of the store.  We stood there for about a minute while he looked down their much younger and perkier cleavages, and we basically said WTH? and went out with our purchase.  After all, we had paid for it.  Anyway, the elderly man chased us out to our car, going at a snail's pace because he couldn't walk very fast, i.e., he strolled after us, but he was yelling all the way.  There wasn't anything elderly about his voice.  "You know you're supposed to wait for me!"  "They told you that when you bought your TV!"  "I don't know why I have to chase you out here!"  He was totally pissed off that we didn't wait eternally for him at the door while he had his nose stuck in a boob crack.  I was so incensed over his rude chiding that I went back inside and asked to speak to the manager.  And I waited for the manager for twenty minutes before HIM determined that my blood pressure was about to pop my arterial ventricles.  I must have written twenty letters about that incident to Walmart, the BBB, and everyone else I could think of writing to.  Never did get an apology from Walmart, either.  And my personal message to that particular Walmart is that they can kiss my big, fat, pink butt, both cheeks.)  Anyway, there's a McDonald's in town that I got banned from because some dumb twat wasn't controlling her son in the play area.  So the kid was yelling at Cressy.  Therefore I yelled at the kid.  For some reason the kid decided that Cressy was his new best friend and asked if he could come home with us.  I told him he needed to go talk to his mom.  His mom thought I was asking the kid to come home with us.  So I corrected her.  Consequently, the mom yelled at me.  My friend who was there with her niece also yelled at the woman.  The mom felt obliged to yell at my friend.  Cressy and my friend's niece were standing there dumbfounded.  There was a comment about how older women shouldn't have kids.  (The Mom of the brat was speaking about me.)  Then I pretty much blew a fuse and made a comment that it was better than getting knocked up at sixteen because someone is such a roundheels ho.  And the other woman pretty much blew her fuse.  Fortunately my tirade was purely verbal and then McDonald's management was called into play.  And I didn't even get to ride in the back of the police car.  Oh, well.  It's great fodder for my mill.

5. My sister.  This one is more of a judgment call.  I will say that when I told my sister that I had been banned from this particular McDonalds, she laughed so hard peas could have shot out of her nose.  But other than mentioning that, I'm thinking I'll get pounded into mincemeat if I go into one of the more funnier stories.

6.  My daughter.  Only certain parts.  It's okay if I repeat her stories.  (Return of Alligator Girl and Attack of Alligator Girl and the Zombie Kids.)  That's because since I illustrated it, it's cool.  She likes that.  She doesn't read in between the lines and understand the sarcasm I use while I'm writing it.  Hopefully she'll understand I'm laughing with her, not at her.  I'm only laughing at HIM because HIM does some truly funny shit.

"Are you Talking about me, Ma?  I don't think so."
Anyway, there's the list.  I'm sure I'll be adding to it soon enough.

Friday, March 25, 2011

My First Poll Ever- Diana Ross Wins!

The first poll closed with a clear winner.  13 people voted on 'What animal would you be if you could pick on?'  7 voted to be Diana Ross, which shows the Supremes have never really lost popularity.  (And see, you can flip your lid, get arrested for DUI, hit a security officer in a London airport, and still manage to come back.  Lesson to Mel Gibson.)

Here's a pic of her not looking so hot.  (I looked and looked for her mug shot from when she was arrested but I could not find it.  But hey, if you want anyone else's mug shot, like Mel Gibson or Nick Nolte, looking basically stoned out of their gourds, you can find it.)

But out of fairness, I'll add one where she looks pretty great.

It was followed up by 3 votes for a leopard, 1 for a wombat, 1 for a hyena, and the pity vote for the weasel came from HIM because he felt sorry because no one else had voted for it.

Anyway check out the new poll.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The Return of Alligator Girl!!!!

So in writing and illustrating my 7 year old daughter's scary story, the Attack of the Zombie Kids!!!, I created a monster, metaphorically speaking.  I made the strategic error of showing her the illustrations I did to her story (See the blog, 'The Attack of Alligator Girl and the Zombie Kids!!') and she was SO thrilled, she wanted to do another one.  ("Right this damn minute and so what if you needed to get eight hours of sleep, Mommy.  Story, now."  This isn't really what she said but it was the general gist of the one-sided conversation.)  This one needed to be bigger, scarier, and more alligator-y.  She wanted uber special effects.  She wanted the James Cameron budget.  She wanted George Lucas to direct and maybe write it, too.  Or maybe the guy who did Wall-E.  She wanted an Oscar nod for best picture and best supporting graphics.  She wanted it Ruh-EAL.  ("Mommy, I shall tell you another story and you will make the pictures.  But this time, really, really good pictures."  And she looked over my shoulder while I did the pictures to ensure quality control.  "No, Mommy, MORE blood.  NO, ickier!")

Therefore, I present:

The RETURN of Alligator Girl!

Wait.  I was instructed to make the opening credits better.  Let me try again.  With more icky blood.

Once upon a time there was a girl.  She was a normal girl.  She had typical days.  She went to school.  She watched Spongebob Squarepants.  She thought that broccoli was the suckiest vegetable ever grown.  She thought that shape bracelets were out.  She thought that boys in school have cooties, and she would never, ever, in a million years, ever kiss one.  Gross buckets.
Then one day the girl went out.  It became night.  The stars came out.  Something really strange happened to her.  She shivered and shook.  She trembled and tumbled.  She got goosebumps and accidentally farted.  (Not really, but as a writer I feel obligated to add to the story and well, I can't help it.)

The girl turned into ALLIGATOR GIRL!!!  Da-da-dah!
(Cressy really liked this illustration.  She said I really captured the luminosity and essence of a truly horrific monster.  But really what she said was, "Awesome.")  Alligator Girl had alligator skin.  Alligator Girl had alligator claws and feet.  Alligator Girl had sharp teeth.  Wait.  I've been corrected mid-story  Alligator Girl had sharp teeth dripping with blood.  And Alligator Girl had red eyes that scares the crap out of anyone looking at them.  Also Alligator Girl has frowny face lines to show that she's really pissed off at EVERYTHING!  (Alligator Girl sounds like me five days a month.)
Does that look like enough blood?  I think so.  But Cressy seems a little blood thirsty.  ("More blood, Mommy!")

Then Alligator Girl lost her freaking mind.  Did she eat the Easter Bunny again?  No, that poor pink bastard got away this time with his cotton tail and chocolate Easter eggs intact.  (And btw, I'm told that the Easter Bunny actually poops out jelly beans.  And also btw, I'm not eating jelly beans anytime in the foreseeable future.)  The Alligator Girl saw a little girl who was minding her little, innocent business while standing outside at night and...Alligator Girl ATE the little girl!
Cressy said, "Awesome," again when she saw this picture.  But what I see is Alligator smooching on someone.  If I told my daughter that, she'd probably say, "Ewww, Mommy."  (And btw, does Alligator Girl look like she's turning into the Hunchback of Notre Dame or is it just me?)

I was instructed by Cressy that the blood dripping from the teeth picture should come after she ate the little girl, so I'm putting this picture here, too.  (Those directors/writers/producers are real prima donnas.)

But Alligator Girl was still hungry!  So she ate a fast food place!  With everyone still inside.

But Alligator Girl was still hungry!  Oh, no!  So she ate a CITY!  (Can you see where the extra budget for special effects is coming in handy.)
And then Alligator Girl was STILL HUNGRY!  So she ate the world.

The end.  And then Cressy said, "And they all lived happily ever after.  And she turned back into a little girl."  (And who am I to point out some of the obvious plot failures in that?  Nuh-uh.  Not this mommy.)

"Great story," I said.  "Thanks, Mommy," Cressy said smugly.

I love my job.

Friday, March 18, 2011

The Attack of Alligator Girl and the Zombie Kids!!!!

One day my daughter came home and announced that she had a new game to play with me.  I, of course, was ambivalent.  Cressy likes to play, she's seven, so that's a no brainer.  New games are part and parcel of life with a seven year old.

"So what's the game?" I said.

"Alligator," Cressy answers in an ominous voice (or as ominous as a 7 year old about to giggle can get.)

"How do you play it?"

"One of us is the alligator," she said.  "And the other one...runs away."

At this point I'm reminded of a game that HIM, the man I'm married to, and HIM's dad used to play when HIM was Cressy's age.  They called it, 'Bear,' and that was probably because they hadn't thought of a more vicious animal.  Papa would sit in a chair in the middle of a dark room.  HIM and HIM's older sister would be on opposite sides of the room.  The object of the game was for the siblings to trade places without getting eaten by the bear, who was played by Papa, who would growl convincingly and attempt to maul and otherwise consume unwary children who dared play the game with him.  Amongst shrieking, giggling, and other stuff, the game went down into history as the one that gave HIM nightmares about bears.  (And I have a great story about bears and my MIL that I'm not permitted to tell, so I'm clenching my teeth in frustration right now.)  Anyhoo, as soon as Cressy said, 'Alligator,' I thought of the Bear game.

And that reminds me of the last time we went to Louisiana to visit Papa and he took Cressy to see this local alligator who really, really, really likes Ritz Crackers:

The photo is taken from atop a bridge and believe me, those little beady alligator eyes were just BEGGING someone to jump in and try to wrestle with him.  (Incidentally, I'm told by HIM that this alligator is about 12 feet long and is used to people feeding him.  He swims up to the bridge and waits when he sees people come up.  And I just shuddered.  HIM just added that this particular alligator's back is broad enough to land a jumbo jet on it and I just shuddered again.)

Back to the game.  I suspected that mostly I would be the alligator and that I would be attempting to catch my daughter.  Then I wondered what the hell they were teaching her at elementary school.  (Was I letting her watch channels she shouldn't watch?  No.  Watching Disney channel.  No man eating alligators there.  Watching Nick Jr.  No man eating alligators there.  Watching Discovery Channel.  Some man eating alligators there but mostly just pumpkin chunking and guys blowing things up, which causes other future problems that I'm not going to think about right now.  Watching some Animal Planet.  Yes, some man eating alligators drifting around the water there, but she only gets to watch World's Funniest Animals and Pet Star.  I could understand it if I let her watch something like RuPaul's Drag Race or Housewives of Ho City, but hey I believe I'm digressing.)  Dang.  Where does the kid get these ideas?

Then the rules of the game, 'Alligator,' commenced.  All alligators were to chomp their teeth repeatedly, as if preparing to consume their prey.  Alligators had little stubby arms like T-Rex in the dinosaur museum.  Alligators in this game can walk on all fours but when Cressy is playing the alligator, the alligator can magically walk on two legs upright.  However, if Mommy is the alligator, Cressy may run to her bed and it is BASE, the wondrous place where all potential alligator victims are safe, safeity, safe.  (Alligators who touch BASE fall over dead instantly and sometimes combust internally.  Very ugly and messy.)  Cressy victims always get a head start while Cressy alligators get a head start.  Mommy victims are usually savagely eaten while Mommy alligators starve to death because their victims have escaped to BASE.  (I was getting the impression that Cressy alligators and Cressy victims have somewhat of a Darwinian edge.)

Then the game was on.  I was designated 'it,' which meant I was the alligator.  My prey, swiftly and with horselike giggles, eluded me by running to her bed and screaming, "BASE!"  This was followed by the nanny-nanny-doo-doo song accompanied by a butt wiggle of demeaning proportion.  (That'll teach me to dare to want to ravage my prey in a typical alligator fashion.  Oh, woe is the slow, fat, middle aged alligator.)  (And to the person who just asked about the nanny-nanny doo-doo song.  The complete lyrics are, 'Nanny, nanny doo-doo, stick your head in poo-poo.'  And I know where she got that from because I taught it to her in the purest form of  a WTFWIT? moment.)  (WTFWIT = What The Fuck Was I Thinking?)

Fortunately for me, the game got old fast.  Then it transmogrified into two alligators hanging out, talking alligator smack, putting down boy alligators, comparing alligator songs, and the like.  (And I kept forgetting to chomp appropriately and BTW, a group of alligators is called a congregation.)  The Cressy alligator finally announced she was hungry and that she was going to get some 'food' in the living room.  I remained on the bed haunted by my alligator psychosomatic inadequacies.  (Personal factoid: while there isn't a specific fear for alligators, the fear of reptiles is called herpetophobia.  I know that when I'm personally shrieking in fear while levitating off the ground when I've seen a snake anywhere near my feet, I often stop and point out that the fear of reptiles is called herpetophobia.)  While I was lambasting in my failure to be a truly vicious carnivore reptile, there was a scream from the living room followed by rapid chomping.  CHOMP!  CHOMP!  CHOMP!  Then Cressy alligator returned to the nest victorious with her prizes, imaginary human legs for lunch.  "Did you hear that?" she explained to me, proud that she had made sounds for both parts.  "That was the little girl I ate.  Here, eat a leg."

And what could I do?  I ate an imaginary leg with her.  I would have put imaginary ketchup on it but I was fresh out and the imaginary kitchen was far away from the nest.

This was followed by more talking alligator smack and putting alligator daddies down.  (Poor HIM, he gets the shit end of the stick even when HIM isn't home.)

Then Cressy asked if she could tell a scary story.  Why, yes, dear.  I love to hear scary stories.  I used to read Stephen King for breakfast.  So here was the scary story.

Once there were kids who went outside at night.

And they became zombies.  They were zombie kids.

Except they didn't want to eat brains.  They wanted to eat the chocolate eggs from the Easter Bunny.  (We're approaching Easter here, so there's some stuff obviously going around in her little head dealing with bunnies and the unfairness of chocolate dispersal.)

So the Easter Bunny had to run away and hide the chocolate eggs.  Under some stairs.  Covered up with sticks.

But the zombie kids found the Easter Bunny.  And they said, "Hey, Bunny, show us the chocolate eggs!"

And the Bunny refused to show them the eggs.

So the zombie kids ate the Easter Bunny.  (They call that Hasenpfeffer where I'm from.  All you need is some onions and a roux.)  They found the chocolate eggs and ate them too.

Then the zombie kids turned back into kids and lived happily ever after.

And it's moments like this that I completely disregard the notion that Cressy has too much OCD like her daddy and I know that stories like that come straight out of MY DNA.  Sigh.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

SUPER Deodorant Power! or How Advertising Has Attained the Level of Ludicrosity

So one day while grocery shopping HIM, to whom I am married, announced he needs a new deodorant.  I was unimpressed.  I believe my actual response was, "Whateveh."  HIM went on a determined mission to find a deodorant that did not fail at six hours and counting.  HIM's words, "I can smell myself."  I can only assume that means a bad thing.  ("I do not smell like flowers and a gentle wafting summer breeze.  I smell like man sweat and man issues and maybe rancid toe cheese.  Not good.")  HIM had been using Old Spice and not because of the commercials featuring the cute guy with the great voice who magically changes from situation to situation while pumping OLD SPICE as the greatest man invention ever.  I'm going to YouTube to check out the commercial so I can be re-impressed with his promotion of a man anti-sweat item.  I'm feeling compelled to insert a link:

Yes, HIM was using Old Spice before this guy ever came along.  (What does the commercial have to do with this blog, you ask in a condescending manner.  Nothing, but I like the commercial and I learned how to add the video to the blog so I said, "WTH!")  However, Old Spice wasn't doing the job, so off HIM went in search of the new, improved DO for his BO.  HIM was serious.  HIM was intent on getting the big guns.  So HIM came back with this:
Curious as to what HIM selected to overcome his mansweat I looked at this product and immediately giggled.  I've got comments!  Lots of comments!  I'm so full of comments that I could bust!  Oh, where shall I begin?  I might tinkle because I can't decide.

Anyway, at the top.  It's new.  No, it's NEW.  No, NEW.  And more importantly, it's The Official Deodorant of the NBA.  (My deodorant is The Official Deodorant of Sarcastic People Everywhere.  Not only does it refresh, it protects when people don't laugh at your sly, yet subtly ingratiating humor.  Also it smells like fresh petunias and Bubblicious Bubble Gum, Gonzo Grape flavored.)  I know that when I'm selecting a deodorant it's terribly important that it should be The Official Deodorant of Somedamnbody because I'm too insecure to have one that simply does what it's supposed to do.  (MY idea for a deodorant: BO Blaster!  It shitcans your BO or your money back!  And you'll smell damn great!  Holy CARP!)  (I feel that I should mention that I bought diaper rash cream ONLY because it was called, 'Boudreaux's Butt Paste Diaper Rash Ointment.'  It comes in a 1 lb container, too.  But how can you go wrong with Boudreaux's Butt Paste Diaper Rash Ointment and in a 1 lb container, too?  It's all self contained in the title.  Hey, it worked and our daughter never had another bad diaper rash after that.)

So now onto the title.  Right Guard followed by Total Defense Power Gel 5.  Since I have an advanced degree in psychology and counseling, I get to say that the excessive title suggests that the person who suggested it suffers from a state of inadequacy.  TOTAL DEFENSE POWER GEL 5.  I mean, Total Defense.  Power Gel.  And let's add a 5, because it can't be Total Defense Power Gel 1 or Total Defense Power Gel 2.  No, it's TOTAL DEFENSE POWER GEL 5.  Hmm.  now let's add the 5 reasons.  1.  Blocks sweat.  (Duh, it's a deodorant.) 2. Responds fast.  (What, in a minute, an hour, what?) 3. Targets bacteria.  (What?  I thought it was supposed to target sweat.  What was I thinking?)  4.  Neutralizes odor.  (What the hell does that mean?  Does it zap it with a ray gun?)  5.  Protects 48 hours.  (This part was followed with a little asterisk that I suspect leads to a qualifier of something like, 'Only protects for 48 hours when you're in the Antarctic, sitting on your ass, with a fan blowing on you, and a case of cold Bud next to you.  For everyone else, well, who the hell knows.  And see it even says, 'Arctic Refresh' on the label.  It's a hint and a half for your ass.)  (And look there's another asterisk next to Arctic Refresh on the label, yet nowhere can I find the part where it says what the qualifier is.  Arctic Refresh * (* Arctic Refresh refers to the freshness of folks who are Aleutian Islanders, Inuits, and peoples dumb enough to live on icy locales and who really don't need deodorant because they don't really sweat there.))

So I managed to cover the front of the deodorant.  Now for the back:

No, that's not really the back of the deodorant.  That's my daughter, making happy time with a pumpkin she called Pumpy. I just wanted to see if anyone was paying attention.

Really, here's the back:

And there's the asterisk explanation for no. 5. Protects 48 hours from odor. 24 hours for wetness.  I don't even want to ponder HOW they tested for that.  (I'm sure it was disgusting.  Somewhere, someone is filing their taxes and filling in the occupation of 'underarm sniffer.'  Do we really want to go back to the part about The Official Deodorant of the NBA and how it was actually determined that it was The Official ONE?  Some poor bastard had to smell armpits, and not any old armpits, but sweaty, nasty, dripping armpits of hairy basketball players who had just played an entire game.  That's right.  I hope that guy got paid a lot because he deserved it.)

So the back is not as funny as the front with the two following exceptions.  Under the section directions, it says, and I'm quoting for comedic clarification, 'Apply to underarms only.'  And under warnings, it says 'for external use only.'  The latter is in bold for anyone who isn't paying attention.

I'll pause to allow the reader time to ponder on the implications of the statements.

Now I'll comment because...well...I can't not comment.  It would make my head explode and brains would get all over my office and the smell would be so awful that HIM would have to break out TOTAL DEFENSE POWER GEL 5 for Removal of Brain Matter - in convenient spray form.  (What?  You don't think they make that?)  Why would anyone have to put, 'Apply to underarms only,' on the back of a deodorant stick?  Because someone looked at it and said, "Goooolllleee.  Ifin this is good for the sweat under my pits, then where else could I put it?  Let me think about that."  And then they did think about it, rapidly followed by an application in the afflicted areas.

I know what popped into my mind about what area would be next on the top ten mansweat parts of the body.  So I asked HIM what would be, next to HIM's armpits, the sweatiest part on his body.  And quite naturally I got the answer that popped into my head.  I got it into my head that if I went down the street and asked random men they would probably call the police on me, but on the inside they would admit that the testicular area is next sweatiest to the underarm area.

And let it be said here and now that once upon a time some stupid person (Probably not the guy from The Stupidest Man Ever blog, but maybe his brother or his cousin or possibly his brother/cousin.  Bet you have to think about that.) said to himself: 'This stuff works so well on my underarms, let's just try it out...down there.'  And he whips his package aside and goes to town in a deodorant fashion on his genitalia.  (My mind is aghast.)  Then when the burning and itching commenced, he probably called up Right Guard and had a discussion with them.  Whereupon they were forced to put 'Apply to underarms only' on the directions.

All of which leads me to the other statement that caught my eye.  In bold.  'For external use only.'  The same man who applied it to his sweaty meat sacs decided that it smelled so darned good, that possibly it good too?  Or possibly this man was more sophisticated than that.  He thought, 'If I apply it to my body and it works, then maybe it will work much better if it.'  Break out the salt, buckaroos, it's deodorant for dinner.  Yippee.

After this man's stomach was pumped, he called up Right Guard and said, "Hey, you all didn't say that I couldn't eat it."  Consequently, they had to put a warning on it. 'For external use only.'  And if the random individual has to look up the meaning of the word, 'external,' then fuck it, he's too damn dumb to use deodorant anyway.

Of course, then I had to prance back to my bathroom and look at my deodorant to see what wonders it portrayed on its covers.  My Secret deodorant is powder fresh and has the same qualifiers.  So look, stupid isn't a gender related issue.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Pain in the Ass Man or How My Husband Invented a NEW IMPROVED Superhero

Even before I write the blog the first thing I have to do is apologize for ragging on HIM.  HIM is the poor bastard to whom I've been married nearly three decades.  (Sounds like a long, long, long time put that way.)  Fortunately for me, HIM has a good sense of humor and doesn't mind if I use him in my blogging.  Also fortunately for HIM, he doesn't always incite my ire.  (I sound like I'm a horrible bitch to live with.  I should let HIM write a guest blog.  It could be called, 'That Bitch I Live With and How She Rags On Me.  Poor Pitiful Me.'  Or it could be called 'O, Divorce Lawyers Come and Call Me, For I Have LOADS of Blogging Evidence of Her Incompatibility and Avid Insensitivity.'  And let me say now that I fully intend to add to that evidence in a long blog followed here.  And I will even illustrate it, for I am unmerciful.  Ha.  Call it bitchy.)  So anyway, sorry, baby.  I had to write it.  (And I have a note to write a blog on the list, and I do have a list, of ALL the things I'm not permitted to blog about.  I feel like a stand up comedian.  You know the ones who talk about their spouses, mothers, siblings, and then catch holy living hell for it.  Well, several of my significant relatives and a few friends have mentioned to me the need to restrain my sharing.  "Jesus Tap Dancing Christ, Caren, don't you have any common sense?  I don't want to read about your daughter's green poop.  And don't you dare talk about that time we visited Juarez and partied with the troop of drunken Albanian circus performers."  Good times.)

That being said I can now get into what has me in a dither.  HIM, to whom I am married.  To all newlyweds and those aspiring to be newlyweds, let it be known that you will fight once you are married, and furthermore, you will be...irritated by your significant other.  You may very well be more than irritated.  And the things that will irritate you may be numerous but they may also be minor, picayune issues that would not normally annoy a mosquito.  Allow me to give an example.

The toothpaste dispenser: giver of fluorinated goodness and the ability to maintain one's teeth until they're in their eighties OR demon-raised issue to cause instantaneous divorce and/or brain hemorrhage?  Answer: possibly both.  It is my concerted opinion that the toothpaste tube can be squeezed at any point of the tube without causing cranial damage to any user thereof.  (It CAN be squeezed in the middle with great glee and an inordinate amount of giggling.)  HIM's opinion: the toothpaste tube shall only be squeezed from the end furthest away from the opening, thereby increasing the usability factor of the contained paste.  Furthermore, as the toothpaste is dispensed in such an orderly fashion, the squeezing shall be followed by the neat and orderly rolling of the toothpaste tube so that every last millimeter of toothpaste shall be used.  (This from a man who doesn't care what the price is of the items on the list at the grocery store as long as he is able to check it off.  Try to picture the dichotomy there.  Squeezing a toothpaste tube until every last bit is used so that it is not wasted versus Doesn't care if something costs a buck more as long as it can be checked off the list.  Hmm.)

The Battle of the Toothpaste Tube OR How Our First Major Argument Almost Escalated into WWIII was my introduction into the inner psychological workings of the male who I married.  (I admit I married HIM.  No one made me say, "I do."  So if I made the error in judgement about not getting to 'know' HIM before we were married I can say it was my responsibility.)  I had, until that point, lived with mostly females.  There was my mother and sister, and then my uncle and aunt and grandmother, and my uncle made himself scarce because my aunt was the queen of that castle.  So the male mind was a complete mystery.  Pretty much anyway, unless one counts watching Starsky and Hutch or Magnum, PI, neither of which really counts.

Upon acute observation I discovered that the male mind worked in this fashion:
And now I'm forced to make two observations.  One is the above illustration is the Average Male Brain at age 20, the age at which we eloped.  Two is that the Toothpaste Wars culminated in the purchasing of a new type of toothpaste dispenser, the stand up, hardened container, which was NOT, for the good of all married kind, squeezable.  Later, after the detente of the Toothpaste Wars was broken when Him and I couldn't agree on using the same kind of toothpaste, (Minty gel for me.  Crappy paste for HIM.) we resolved the issue by buying TWO different tubes.  I could squeeze mine in any fashion that made my little itty bitty brain go berserk with joy and he could obsessively flatten his into minute particles that pleased his inner anal self.  (I'll say it again.  Minty gel for me.  Crappy paste for HIM.)  Yea, consumer freedom.  Boo, Toothpaste Wars.  (And I need, no *NEED* to quote Bart Simpson here.  "There are no good wars, with the following exceptions: The American Revolution, World War II, and the Star Wars Trilogy.")

Now I'm forced to go draw another brain because I've been thinking that HIM's brain isn't the same as it was all those years ago.  This one would be the Average Male Brain at 48, and I can attest that I am an expert in the matter.  I've had decades of personal observation and training.
I can hardly wait to see what it's going to look like in ten more years.  (That was sarcasm.)

So HIM has created a new persona, much like Superman created Clark Kent, or Peter Parker created Spiderman.  He is Pain in the Ass Man.  And he has special powers.  He reminded me of one right now.  The ability to piss me off completely to the point of a vein exploding out of the side of my forehead in THREE words or less.  Furthermore, I will state that HIM just asked me for the opinion of what tie to wear to work tomorrow and HIM didn't care for my opinion when it was freely rendered.  As a matter of fact the tie that I selected was disregarded on the basis that it is too thick.  (I'm trying to understand this one and I need to add that HIM literally means the material is too thick, not that the tie is too wide.  ("It doesn't tie correctly," he whined as he put it back in the closet.  "So why did you ask me for my opinion, then?" I bitched.  "I don't know," he said, wishing he could suddenly be in Outer Mongolia or on a ship in the Bering Straight.)  So what does the tie selection have to do with the thickness of the cloth with which it is made?  This is a philosophical question that will haunt me for, oh, minutes.)  You see Pain in the Ass Man has this special ability.

Pain in the Ass Man also has the skill to know instantaneously whether the toilet paper roll is rolling off the top or off the bottom, for apparently it is critical to the survival of the earth that the roll comes off the top in an orderly fashion saving millions of man lives in the process.  (My reasoning: "Does the toilet paper come off the roll?  Yes.  Does it wipe my tushie?  Yes.  Does it matter whether it's up or down?  Oh, hell no."  I suppose that make me the villain in the matter.  My ulterior plan is to sneak household to household, surreptitiously changing the direction of the toilet rolls to infuriate men all over.  Insert evil laughter here.)  Another expertise is the very weird ability to get up in the middle of the night and straighten all the sheets and blankets, even the ones lying over me, for unstraightened sheets and blankets will cause tumors and an itchy rash that will make your brain seize up.  And let us not forget the infamous ability to correctly arrange sandwich ingredients with condiments.  I shall explain.  You see, Pain in the Ass Man must have the mayo only on the cheese side of a sandwich.  Consequently, mustard must only be applied to the bread on the meat side of the sandwich.  What happens if there is no meat?  Can the mustard be side by side with the cheese whilst the mayo is on the other side?  Will the mustard NOT be applied?  I do not know.  I suspect that under those awful, unforeseeable circumstances Pain in the Ass Man's brain might short circuit and implode.  (Of course, ever since I jokingly asked him if he wanted cat food on his sandwich and he jokingly said yes and I jokingly sprinkled a handful of kibble on the sandwich and sent it to work with him, he usually checks out my sandwiches before eating them.  So if he finds one that the mustard and mayo has been misapplied, he probably calls the Hazardous Waste Team with their full body uniforms to take it away.  Did I mention that he took several bites of the cat food sandwich and wondered why it was so crunchy?  And hey, I haven't done that for twenty years.)

Anyway I have obviously digressed into idiocy.  So love you, dear.  You're a quirky bastard and I'm sure you have a list about me.  But hey, I got to blog about it first and I'm more eloquent.  Also long winded.  So there.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Oh Where For Art Thou, Whoopie?

I saw this commercial recently and feel, as I often do, COMPELLED to make some comments.  Let us first begin with Whoopi Goldberg.  What an amazing actress and entertainer.  I never watched The Color Purple, but I did see lots of her other ones like Jumpin' Jack Flash, Sister Act, and of course, Ghost, for which she got a best-supporting Oscar.  I liked her in Star Trek: TNG.  Anyone who can host the Oscars, with the exceptions of the two dimbulbs who did it last weekend, can't be all bad.  She gets the center square in Hollywood Square, and that's the prestigious one, btw.  And now she's working on The View sparring with BabaWaWa and the girls.  (I know I'm just scratching the surface because I didn't mention her talk show or her series or the many other things she's done.)  Go Whoopie.

Here comes the compulsion, I know you were waiting on tenterhooks, to make pithy comments.  So out comes this commercial.  Go ahead and watch it.  I'll wait.

Intermission whilst the common reader views the commercial in question.

So now you know.  Famous women throughout history have had a little problem.  They've been having a little *gasp* incontinence.  Shh.  Don't say that word out loud.  Someone might hear.

Oh, the hell with it.  WOMEN HAVE BEEN PEEING IN THEIR PANTIES!  According to the commercial, one out of three have this urinary issue.  That's a lot of women running around with their legs crossed and not in a good way.  (This reminds me of my trip to Spokane or How I Love to Fly in Airplanes or How a Venti Chai Tea Latte Almost Ruined My Personal Flotation Device.  See that blog for those intrigued by a great title.)

So Whoopie does this commercial.  She dresses as the famous women, looks pretty cool doing it, and pushes for these pee pads.  Or maybe pee catcher pads would be more appropriate.  Hey women out there, bet you didn't know that other women have this problem too.  And I'll bet some of you didn't know that there was a special product for it, too.  Not only do adult men get to wear diapers, but so do women who drive from Texas to Florida to murder their lover's other lover.  But now for the woman who has occasional 'splitzes' here's something for you.

Now I'm having to cross my legs together while I decide which compelling issue I want to address first.

I'll start with actors who I refer to as THOSE WHO NEED TO PAY A MORTGAGE NOTE.  Not necessarily Whoopie.  She's making a paycheck.  She's got a solid rep.  I bet she's still got money in the bank even after the recession the government said we didn't really have.  Over the years I have seen actors doing some crappy stuff to make a mortgage payment.  Notable mentions include Lee Majors doing a hearing aid commercial.  Oh, where did the 6 million dollar man go?  (Cue clinky music and slo-mo movements.)  Lee, did the money go down the potty?  Or couldn't you hear when the stocks went down?  Lately Henry Winkler has been hawking a reverse mortgage company.  This is a situation where I sincerely pray that he's getting a break on his personal reverse mortgage, for the sake of all involved.  (The Fonz, whose leather jacket is reputedly in the Smithsonian Museum, would be having a fit.)  Then I remember Cher doing some infomercials on hair care products.  And there's a whole slew of actors who have digressed into doing SERIOUSLY CRAPTACTULAR movies for the Syfy Channel.  Some of these actors really believe that any publicity is good.  (Note to actors/actresses doing regular appearances on the Syfy Channel movies, this is NOT a good place for your career.  Nuh-uh.  Go do a Broadway show, for God's sake.)

Hah.  Go back to arty films.  Take one on for free.  Do a sit-com.  Do a commercial for a cancer clinic.  Write a cheesy BOOK.  Don't do a pee catching pad commercial.  This falls under the WTFWIT? category.  Ten years from now, it'll be, "Hmm, I might have made a tactical error."  (For those trying to keep up: WTFWIT? is What The Fuck Was I Thinking?)  (And the person at the very pinnacle of the WTFWIT? catagory who is surpassing every other stupid individual who ever attempted to corner the market is Charlie Sheen.  Where's Willem Defoe when you really need him?)

So here is Whoopi's personal WTFWIT? chart of the highs and lows in her life.  I think she might be aware of them.
I think most people can follow along.

Now I shall do a comparison for Whoopi to understand.  Doing a Poise Commercial is like if Mel Gibson did a commercial for Viagra, except he does the scene from Braveheart (you know the one where he's doing a motivational speech so his men can get all geared up to do some serious killing.) and he's wearing blue paint on a significant part of his anatomy for emphasis.  (I can picture it and we all know that Mel has NOT been having a good previous twelve months.)

I love you, Whoopie.  Please don't do another pee catching pad commercial.

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