10. Squirrels
9. Little brother
8. Pudding cup
7. Samurai knife set
6. Poprocks
5. One small fishbowl containing one goldfish named Sam, one plastic castle, one small brown pirate treasure chest, three gallons of water and four cups of multi-colored aquarium rocks
4. Daddy’s electric razor
3. Bottle of Jack Daniel’s
2. Collection of aerosol cans
1. Eggs (any variety)
Folks, I’m 33: The general age when you start realizing that sizzling the crap out of your skin in the sun for a three-day tan/burn when you were in high school was probably not the best use of your time. Adding to the sun fun, I’m also a mom of toddler twins, so I haven’t slept in about three years. The result? Some days I wake up looking/feeling like I’ve been socked in the face.
Drag your sleepy ass down to your local drugstore and you’ll find an arsenal of miracle-promising, make-you-pretty-again-type lotions, serums, masks and potions. Too tired to get out of bed? I was, the morning I saw the infomercial for “Youthology“; curled up under my puffy comforter, feeling like an old hag, and watching in wide-eyed amazement as a tiny drop of stuff from a cute little white tube transformed chicks’ wrinkles and puffs to smooth and sleek in a matter of moments.
The infomercial says the 90-second, wrinkle-reducing eye serum is an $80 value, but can be mine for only $39! Thirty-nine smackers for me to look 20 again?!
Credit card.
$10 for shipping? Seems like a lot, but the container looks big. So it’s probably ok.
What did you buy NOW?” the husband asked, eyeing the small white box that had finally arrived. “Um, nothin’,” I sang, skipping upstairs, knowing that once he basked in my new and youthful beauty, he would forget about the $50 charge on our bank statement.
The container itself is big. However, open it up and there’s something inside about the size of a chapstick. What the.
Not deterred, I read the instructions like a good girl, washed and dried my soon-to-be-glowing with radiant youth face, popped open the lid of the tiny tube, and prepared to be amazed.
According to the infomercial, in a mere 90 seconds, the area around my eyes would be wrinkle- and puff-free. WOOHOO! I rubbed a tiny amount in the zone of concern as indicated, and waited.
Here’s what they DON’T tell you on TV:
1. The stuff is the consistency of aloe vera. When it dries, some weird whitish crumbly crap will remain bordering the area you rubbed in, even if you spend a long time rubbing (whoops… didn’t sound right!). You can’t just brush it off; it’s like toothpast remnants. If you wet the area, you will deactivate the serum.
2. My undereye area did seem “tighter”. However, when I smiled to test the wrinkle-stopping power, I looked like the Joker. Certain areas were plastered down as if they’d been squirted with high-power super glue; other areas that didn’t previously wrinkle now got all scrunched up and weird.
3. Guess what? Since this stuff gets slobbed on prior to makeup, even if you have decent results from the gel, the “glue power” completely fails once you add concealer, blush, etc. The goop turns your face into a weird texture, which is not condusive to makeup application. The moment I added concealer, I broke the weird glue-like seal and the tightening powers were released, leaving me all kinds of strangely varying smooth and dry patches, and an undereye area that screamed: “Some kind of weird sealant has been applied to me!” My husband would no doubt find this look both attractive and sexy.
4. The tube, as previously mentioned, is like the size of a Burt’s Bees Honey Lip Balm, and this stuff was freaking $50 including shipping. So even if you like it, it’s not going to last long. About halfway through the tube (I was determined to give this stuff a chance!), the pump stopped working and the rest of the product dried up in 24 hours.
5. Money back guarantee, my ass! You will still pay twice for shipping even if you convince them to refund you. By the way, their customer service is a bunch of bitches who will try to shame you into feeling like a stupid freak if you want to return it.
The crappiest part of all:
One month after ordering this little delight, another $49 charge mysteriously appeared on my bank statement. WTF?!? I did not recall wanting or ordering more. Of course, no additional products ever appeared at my door, nor would anyone at the company return my calls to explain the money theivery. Not that I wanted any more of this crappy goop, except maybe to use to pull a prank on someone.
Want the real deal on more products?
Check out my review of the ShamWow!
Tried the SmoothAway? No? Want to know if it works?
Read my review of the Leg Magic!
Got something else you’d like me to review? Submit your suggestions here.
Defacing stuff is fun, even if it’s just your own driveway.
3D chalk sounds like something you would maybe use to scribble mad art while draped in a glow necklace and drunk as hell at some ’90s rave. Well now, thanks to the mad scientist peeps at Crayola, you can relive that fun time with your kids, minus the glow sticks, bad music and bouncers named Thor.
I picked up this little treat at my favorite Vegas Target for a measly $5. Quite a bargain and a loss I could stomach in today’s economy if it turned out to be a dud. The back of the package promises popup-style magic beyond your wildest dreams, assuming, of course, that you have some type of artistic prowess, which I don’t. I can do an assortment of killer doodles, but nothing that would sell.
Pop open the plastic and you’ll find five double-color fat chalk sticks and instructions that for maximum amazement, you should create your masterpieces using a combination of colors. The best part? These freakin’ awesome 3D glasses!
If you have a pretty big noggin, no worries–the Crayola folks seem to be on to the fact that adults are going to be wearing them at least half the time; the specs are one-size-fits-all and lightweight plastic. In addition, Kailey’s sticky lollypop remnants were easily wiped off.
And now for the magic. For an unbiased review, and because I suck at sketching, I wrangled the husband into drafting a few lovely drawings for our review.
Things drawn:
1. Orange box
2. Purple box
3. Pink box
4. Yellow box
5. Yellow moon
6. Star
The kids then followed up with a series of multi-colored lines (”SNAKES! WE MADE SNAKES!”) and some mystery circle-shaped items, one of which was announced to be a dinosaur.
Add glasses.
Drumroll.
Well, it sort-of worked!
Here are some tips.
a) Get your lazy butt off the ground. The 3D effect is a lot more impressive the farther you are away from the chalk sketch you made of your house or your name doodled in bubble letters. Stand up and stand back. Pretty cool, huh?
b) Some colors are more “3D” than others. In our package, the orange really popped up but the yellow didn’t really do anything. So try ‘em all.
c) Minimal de
signs jumped out the most. The husband’s meticulously colored-in solid boxes looked ok, but the single lines and circles the kids drew almost seemed a foot off the ground. So channel Picasso some other time.
Complaints: Only ONE set of 3D glasses? Come on! Everyone was fighting over who got to wear them. Kailey scratched me on the kneecap when I wasn’t giving ‘em up. Little badass.
Fun surprise: The glasses work with the chalk, but that’s not all! I was walking around our garage looking for my beer and a little orange koosh ball scared the crap out of me because with the glasses on, it looked like it was hovering right by my face.
The verdict? It’s not bad! Definitely worth $5. The next morning, of course, I found all of the chalk at the bottom of our plastic shark pool… but I have twins, what can you do.
Check out my review of the ShamWow!
Brand new: Youthology–does it work?
Tried the SmoothAway? No? Want to know if it works?
Read my review of the Leg Magic!
Got something else you’d like me to review? Submit your suggestions here.
Ok, everybody settle down.
Before you spend your beer money on a stockpile of sterile masks, let’s employ that old “knowledge is power” adage: here’s your no-nonsense guide to the Swine Flu.
The world is full of scary stuff: SARS, Hoof and Mouth Disease (could that have a WORSE name?), West Nile Virus, Bird Flu, tainted tomatoes, contaminated peanuts, artificial sweeteners, big scary dogs, creepy spiders, the dark, elevator farts, and theoretical shortages of cheese. Since resorting to living the rest of your life as a home-bound recluse in an attempt to avoid the scary stuff isn’t an option for most (how would you buy cheese?), we’re forced to suck it up and face our fears on a daily basis.
So, what’s the swine flu?
In case you’ve been trapped under a rock for the past week (that would suck!), the swine flu is a contageous flu virus that has infected peeps worldwide. It’s not new, friends, similar strains infected folks in 1918, 1976 and 1998. See? I know stuff.
Why is it called the swine flu? And why do they keep changing the name? That’s pissing me off.
According to the Center for Disease Control (CDC), initial testing showed that many of the genes in this icky virus were similar to those found in flu viruses that infect pigs, and also, I freaking hated Chemistry. But ok, who else knew that pigs get the flu? I’ll bet nobody ever makes them noodle soup, and you would for sure need some heavy duty Puffs Plus for those big, rubbery snouts. I mean really. And as if they’re trying to trick us, the CDC is now calling it “Influenza A H1N1″. Other fun names: Pigfluenza, Bacon Bug, Piggy Pox, the Snort-N-Sneeze, and my fave, Hamthrax.
How can I get it?
Swine Flu is spread just like any other flu. Want to keep healthy? Well, for the love of God, wash your hands once in a while. If you forgot how, the CDC has a helpful guide on their website that includes photos. If you really need information on how to wash your hands, you should know that you probably need to buy some soap, and also, stop being disgusting. Other ways to stay healthy: See somebody doing that pre-sneeze gasping? Get the hell out of the way! If your coworker is hacking up a juicy lung biscuit, keep your mouth off their coffee cup. And quit making out with pigs. I don’t just mean the ones at the bar.
But I like bacon.
The government claims you can still eat pork products. But these are also the same people who funded a $1.2 million study on the breeding preferences of the woodchuck.
What are the symptoms?
The CDC says it’s just your typical flu stuff: fever, cough, sore throat, body aches, headache, chills and fatigue. In addition, several people have reported getting the poops and the barfs. Concerned? Visit your family doc. Two drugs are available to make you all better: Tamiflu and Relenza.
But I’m still scared!
Let’s put this into perspective, people. As of May 3rd, 20 people worldwide have died from the Swine Flu. Folks, 36,000 people kick the bucket each year in the U.S. alone from the REGULAR flu (this official government statistic has been debated online, however–probably by some of the same people who think the Swine Flu scare is being propulgated by fat cat drug companies). More likely ways to meet your maker: Shark attack, falling coconut, pissing off fairground carnies, eating an entire tub of butter.
Did I really say “fat cat”?
See? Knowledge is power. Also, I would recommend some hand sanitizer.
I’m an uncoordinated klutz. I spill things, break things, trip over things, couldn’t walk a balance beam to save my life and I
‘m notorious for making messes. I am single-handedly keeping the paper towels people in business… until now?
cleaning shortcut miracle, shouting, “It’s a shammy! It’s a towel! You’ll say ‘WOW’ every time!”So the guy looks like a circus freak up close and was recently arrested for beating up a prostitute. The thing sucks up an entire bowl of water! “Vacuums” a 2 liter of soda off a carpet! And you can use it to shine your boat! $20, begone! I must have my ShamWow!
According to the commercial, the multi-talented ShamWow all but gets you dressed in the morning, bakes you cinnamon rolls and chauffers you to work. I was more or less convinced that I would be bankrupting Bounty paper towels within a week.
But as you know… I’ve been fooled before, like when I nearly had to be hospitalized following a test run of the Smooth Away.
EXPERIMENT #1: The Bowl Test
The claim: ShamWow can absorb a bowl of water, and then can be held over said bowl and not drip.
See what REALLY happens:
Isn’t the dude a lovely hand model? However, following the experiment above, my husband made this very upsetting discovery:
YUCK!!! ShamSuck. To be certain that our test was fair and unbiased, we measured out the same amount of water and repeated the experiment with a 50 cent Easter Bunny towel from Wal-Mart that was exactly the same size. Guess what? Bunny absorbed every ounce of the water. (Shout out to my MIL for the festive and holiday-appropriate experiment stabilizer.)
Experiment #2: Ability to dry stuff
Claim: ShamWow easily soaks up spills and dries dishes
What we did…
PART A–Banished kids to the living room (no cones or caution tape to blockade the impending wet spill), poured 3 oz of water onto the kitchen tile, applied ShamWow. Rub. Still wet. Huh. Apply Bunny towel. Success! “You’ll say ‘WOW!’ As in wow does it suck. The SuckWow!
PART B–Wet bowl. Apply ShamWow. Rub. Hey, guess what? Not only is the bowl still wet, it is now covered with a shitload of lint. This thing is a pathetic $20 piece of now slightly less orange felt.
Experiment #3: Washing your car, boat or SUV
Claim: It works
Reality: ShamWowItSucks. After violating child labor laws and putting my 3 year-old twins to work scrubbing my SUV, I attempted to dry and shine the hood with this half-assed version of a ripped up old t-shirt. Not only did it not dry the Mommymobile, it left streaks, water marks and a crapload of lint all over the thing.
THE EVIDENCE: I dried the left half of the hood and windshield with a shammy my husband found on sale at AutoZone. Right side? ShamWowed.
Claim: The ShamWow acts like an amazing vaccum! According to the obviously-created-using-magic commercial, you can dump part of a 2-liter of coke on a square of carpet, drop on the ShamWow, flip it over, roll it up, and squeeze out all the liquid… it’s carpet-tastic! Watch the video on the official ShamWow website, and then come back to see what REALLY happens.
Does it work? Click below to find out…
Acts like a vaccuum, my ass.
If you’re doing an art project with your kids and need a couple useless, crappy pieces of felt, head to your local Walgreen’s. Even though scary website weasel dude website claims the ScamWow can’t be found in stores for the advertised price, I paid (might as well have flushed) $19 for the same deal. He also said the towels are guaranteed to last 10 years. So unless I head immediately to a raging bonfire and stuff these things where they belong, they may be laughing at me from my pantry shelf for years to come. Great.
Still need more proof? This is probably the funniest video I’ve ever seen, and except for the action figure battle, mirrors my own experience. Please enjoy.
Check out my reviews of the Smooth Away and the Leg Magic! Just added: New reviews of Youthology and Crayola’s 3D chalk! Got something else you want me to review? Submit your requests here.
Folks, since I accidentally and inadvertently tortured myself with the Smooth Away and Leg Magic for your literary enjoyment, I’ve received numerous requests to review (read: potentially hurt myself with) a variety of other products. Since I’m:
1. Gullible
2. A sucker
3. Bored
4. Need a hobby
5. Like to buy stuff
I am happy to serve as your personal guinea pig for the vast world of Made-for-TV and other questionable items found in stores and online. Below is a list of the most frequently requested items I’ve been asked to review (read: kick my own ass for buying). Please feel free to add suggestions to this post, and I’ll skip happily to the store in an attempt to give you the REAL review you won’t get from the manufacturer, complete with photos and video featuring me putting the goods to the test.
Check back soon for reviews on (not necessarily in this order):
1. The ShamWow (just reviewed it!)
2. Crayola 3D chalk (just reviewed it!)
3. Save-A-Blade
4. Flirty Girl Fitness DVDs
5. Jillian Michaels fitness DVDs
6. P90X fitness DVDs
7. AquaGlobe
8. Alba Sunless Tanner
9. Your Baby Can Read
10. Pampered Chef food chopper
11. Peticure
12. Children’s teeter totter (thank you, Johanna!)
13. Snuggie (Oh man)
14. Evercleanse (gulp…)
15. Various hair products
16. Underbed shoe thingy
17. Magic bullet
18. “No No” Hair remover
19. Green bags
20. Epila hair remover
21. PedEgg (looks sooo gross!)
22. Shark steam mop
23. Cellulite creams
24. Youthology (recently reviewed!)
Other suggestions? (Did I miss anything?) I’ll add anything you guys want!
When you’ve been peed on as much as I have, sometimes you have to call for backup.
To those of you with kids: We are potty training my three year-old twins.
To those of you without kids: I invite you to imagine the horror. When you stop sobbing, go immediately to Target. Buy the largest box of condoms you can find. Carry them with you at all times. I would also advise some kind of backup method, like a chastity belt.
A doctor’s office is, in theory, a helpful little locale brimming with cheery personnel ready to assist you with their vast array of knowledge, and who will, in the gentlest of ways, tell you to stop being a ridiculous hypochondrial ass after you scare the crap out of yourself looking up symptoms on the Internet. Also my kids’ pediatrician has free stickers and toothbrushes.
So, after steam cleaning the carpet for the 22nd time in one day (oh yes, I kept a tally–how else am I supposed to use said experience to bribe the husband into providing backrubs and new shoes??), I decided to consult the “experts” about my situation. My son, having happily let it rip through dozens of pairs of dinosaur and spaceship underpants, was mid-conversation with me sharing a very interesting yet disturbing observation about squirrels when suddenly I was standing, wet-socked, in another puddle. He smiled away, completely oblivious.
I decided therefore, after having a hysterical sobbing fit while stuffing my last pair of socks into the washing machine and muttering rhetorical conversations with myself like a lunatic, that maybe he just wasn’t ready for this adventure quite yet. Maybe I was being one of those horrid “What to Expect: The Toddler Years”-type moms and pushing him so we could check the potty-training box when he was just too little. I needed help, advice, a hug, and wine. Instead I made the now hugely laughable mistake of calling my twins’ pediatrician.
(I should note that I have reenacted the conversation below probably two dozen times–sometimes with added gestures–sometimes without, and it still makes me laugh. I challenge you to share with your fellow rockstar readers your own experiences with some of the ridiculous fools somehow slipping through the ‘you’re canned!’ cracks who should never be allowed to answer a hotline.)
Dr’s Office: “Hello, (I’m not sharing that, are you kidding?!)’s office.
Me: “Hi, I’m trying to reach the nurse’s helpline?” (See how friendly I am? And polite. A virtual Donna Reed.)
Dr’s Office: “Yeah, this is.”
Me: (Explains concerns) “So, based on that, I just want to know if you think physically he’s not ready to potty train. Should I stop and try again in a few months?”
…long pause…
Dr’s Office: “Um.”
…long pause…
Dr’s Office: “Can you hang on?”
Me:“Uh, ok.”
(at least five minutes passes)
Dr’s Office: (laughing) “Hi, it’s me. Well, (laughing), I talked to the nurse, and, what she said is, boys is gonna be slower!” (laughs)
Me: “What?”
Dr’s Office: “Oh, uh…”
(long pause)
Dr’s Office: “Hang on.”
(several minutes pass)
Dr’s Office: “Well. Um. Did you… well, you could maybe, you could give him something to read while he’s sitting there.”
Me: “What?”
(long pause)
Dr’s Office: “Oh. Um. Well, and… and you could, you know, you could offer… you could praise him.”
Me: “What?”
(very long pause)
Me: “Well, thank you for this advice. Bye.”
This was my DOCTOR’S OFFICE, friends. It was as if, perhaps, they were overstaffed that day and, I don’t know, just went outside and picked at random from the hallway traffic.
Epilogue: two months later, and my son is mostly potty-trained, and the doctor’s office closed for business on March 31.
I KNOW I’m not the only sucker having succumbed to the angelic promise of the “helpline”. Anyone sharing a bad customer service story will receive a personalized RockstarMama haiku in honor of your experience.
Have you ever seen an eight foot-long, 600-pound cow sculpted entirely out of butter?
I have.
That’s right, folks, you can’t get this special brand of saturated fat-based art just anywhwere–I’ve been to the Iowa State Fair.
I’m publishing this particular post on request of my wonderful husband (after all, I kind of owe him after the “Boys and Tools” article). “HEY!” You’re saying. “What’s with the setup? Just tell us something funny!” Well, settle down. I’m getting to it.
Last night, the dude tore downstairs in an excited flurry as I was eating a cinnamon roll flavored pudding snack pack, waving a single sheet of paper and exclaiming, “I found the poem! You have to post this! Post it now! Now!”
My reluctance? The poem below is something I crafted nearly nine years ago out of sheer desperation when I was assigned to work a booth at the Iowa State Fair. Not a kissing booth or anything. But dudes… at 9AM, I peered out behind my little magazine stand to find a 300-pound farm boy in overalls and no shirt wearing one gray sock and gnawing on a gigantic turkey leg. Also, it’s just slightly unnerving with such a large amount of cattle all together in one place makin
g all their “MOO” and other noises.
So, at the time, I scribbled this poem on the back of a pamphlet about raising sheep as I watched the parade of freaks pass by my little booth. The poem ended up in the newspaper and I had to later read it live on the radio. I have been told that each year it’s published for readers’ entertainment. And now for yours. The accompanying photos are for those of you who haven’t ventured to lovely Des Moines, Iowa, and if you don’t like the poem, you can blame my husband.
State fair, state fair
People in their underwear
Chicks with ratty ’80s hair
A big fat dude whose feet are bare
State fair, state fair
Mullet head, mullet head
Did you just roll out of bed?
Is your name Biff, Chuck or Jed?
Your hair looks like a squirrel that’s dead
Mullet head, mullet head
Corn dog, corn dog
Did this meat come from a hog?
Mystery stuff shaped like a log
My arteries will not unclog
Corn dog, corn dog
Funnel cake, funnel cake
Batter curled up like a snake
Wash it down with a beer or shake
And wonder why the tummy ache
Funnel cake, funnel cake
Giant pig, giant pig
How’d you get so freakin’ big?
Your larger than an offshore rig
You’d snap my leg just like a twig
Giant pig, giant pig
Midway, Midway
So many games still left to play
Sidewalk like a big ashtray
Might be time to call it a day
Midway, Midway
State fair, state fair
People in their underwear
Chicks with ratty ’80s hair
A big fat dude whose feet are bare
State fair, state fair
10. My blog has had so many visitors today–users are all over my site!
9. Before I run out of power, I better plug this thing in.
8. Ugh, this upload is taking forever!
7. After I placed that ad, I’m certainly getting a lot of traffic.
6. Wow, the server went down. Now I’m really going to have to lay into our I.T. guy.
5. Do you mind if I jump on your laptop for a minute?
4. This one’s so big I’m going to have to stick it on my FTP.
3. Somebody hacked into my site last night, and I didn’t even know until it was over.
2. Hey, this new hard drive works really fast!
1. My inbox is full.
Three days a week, I chuck my Converse in place of the requisite chick-torture heels and steer the MommyMobile across town to my “day job”.
My work digs feature a glorious cubeland a la Office Space, complete with all of the nutty characters and somehow-still-employed freaks a wannabe writer would ever need to fill cast spots on a mildly amusing sitcom. However, I’ve invested five years at this joint, and I’ve recently noticed that the five-year mark is right about when you start really wanting to kick everyone’s ass.
Since office beat-downs are likely frowned upon (although not specifically warned against in the company literature), I felt that drafting a few anonymous letters to a couple of my fellow cubies might be therapeutic. You might recognize some of these characters from your office… and if one of them is you, please stop being a shmuck and immediately go to the store and buy me cookies for having to tolerate you.
Dear Always Cutting Your Nails at Your Desk Guy,
If you spend another five minutes click-click-clicking away, I’m going to come over this cube wall and beat the shit out of you!!! WHY WHY WHY must you clip your nails in the office?! Do you not have a bathroom at home? If I ever see you with your shoe off and a pile of crescent-moon nails under your feet, I’m going to stick that nail clipper up your ass and then I’m going to hire an esthetician to come to my office with her bubbly water tub and ten of the latest OPI colors, since you’ve made it clear that office pedicures are acceptable.
Dear Riding Your Bike to Work Guy,
I heartily applaud your commitment to the environment. However, you smell like wet dog. Please purchase some high-quality deodorant or consider starting the day cooling off in a closet filled with 30 of those dangly car air-freshener trees. You may join us when you smell of lovely pine.
Dear Intern,
Yes, I realize we made you kill bugs, trim the bushes, trap moths, clean windows, investigate things that smelled bad, dash out into the street mid-day to retrieve project documents that blew out of our truck, chase and catch a rogue squirrel and always carry all the heavy stuff, but someday, when you’re stuck at a desk 24/7 dealing with budgets and clients and stress, you’ll realize this was the most fun you ever had.
Dear Walking Down the Hall With Your Rolled-up Newspaper Guy,
You aren’t fooling anyone. We all know you’re going to poop.
Dear Snot Problem,
Every day, I am bombarded by the audio-harassment of your respiratory sounds. These noises include, but are not limited to:
At times, the quantity and quality of your bodily emittances (and, on occasion, the odors) are so hearty that it attracts the attention of passersby, who look at me with both horror and pity. Our office is not your personal bathroom or a barn. I think I speak for everyone when I say that we would appreciate it if, when the mood strikes to be hideously disgusting, you would mind please excusing yourself to the restroom to take care of whatever hygiene-based issue has come up, before I encase you in plastic sheeting and spray a crapload of Lysol on your phlegm-plagued ass. Dude. You’re foul.
Dear Just Heated Up My Very Spicy Meat-Filled Lunch,
The stink of your lunch is now in my hair. Dogs may likely attack me as I walk to my car thinking I have beef and bleu cheese in my pockets. If you don’t start bringing salads, I’m going to take your stained tupperware lunch bins out of the community fridge and running them over in my car as a service to all.
Dear Front Desk Lady,
All I want is the phone number. I do not want to hear about your bunions.
Dear Farted in the Elevator and Then Got Out When I Got In,
For the love of God, you could’ve warned me. I was trapped in there for two floors.
Actually I oddly do feel better now. Huh! Best similar letter-to-someone-at-your-office story posted below will receive, via email, a picture of me napping in the corner office when Corner Office Guy was at a meeting.
Date: March 21, ‘09, Saturday night.
Time: 9:30 p.m.
Place: My house, Mountain’s Edge, Las Vegas.
Situation: Suddenly and unexpectedly dark as hell.
Problem: Idiots.
(Names have been changed to minimize the mockery. And also, in the dark, it was hard to see who was talking.)
9:30 p.m. My living room.
Me: Hey, the lights went out.
Husband: Damn it, the TV went off.
Me: The bigger problem is that now I can’t find my drink.
9:33 p.m. My kitchen.
Husband: Hey, I know! I’ll get that big light we bought for emergencies!
Me: Ha! look at the picture my friend just emailed me. That’s so gross!
Husband: I’m going to lock your BlackBerry in a drawer. Gimmie it.
Me: Hell no. And if you try to take it, I will hide in dark corners and jump out and scare the crap out of you. Did you find that light yet? If we’re going to go outside with the neighbors, I want to make sure my hair doesn’t look like a jacked up bird’s nest.
Husband: Huh. I guess I never charged the battery on the light.
Me: HOLY CRAP. Whatever I just ate was NOT a french fry. Also I totally just stepped in something goopy. Mysterious goop; great. Did you find the light?
Husband: If I had the light, we could use it to look around for your brain. 
Me: I need new socks. What the hell is all over the floor? Wait, what?
Husband: You heard me.
Me: But we could look around, I mean, for YOUR brain. And um…
Husband: Good comeback.
Me: Shuddup.
9:45 p.m. -Text sent via Verizon Wireless BlackBerry-
Me: It’s dark.
Neighbor Mark: Duh.
Me: Rude!
Mark: So?
9:49 p.m. -Text sent via Verizon Wireless BlackBerry–
Me: Hey, did your power go out? I think I just heard a coyote. Maybe they gnawed through the lines.
Neighbor Tim: It’s scary dark.
Me: Wuss.
Tim: You better shut it. Don’t make me come out there and kick your ass!
Me: Come on out then!
Tim: No way, it’s too dark and spooky.
Me: Wuss.
9:53 pm. My cul-de-sac.
Neighbor Emma: Oh my gosh! We should call Nevada Power!
Me: Yeah, I’m on hold right now.
Emma: You’re calling Nevada Power? She’s calling Nevada Power!
Neighor Dan: Someone better get in touch with Nevada Power about this.
Me: Yeah, I’m on hold with them right now. I just said that.
Neighbor Paul: Did anyone call Nevada Power?
Me: I’m on hold with them right now. Clearly nobody listens to me.
Neighbor Diane: Oh no! I was going to call Nevada Power, but my phone is dead!
Me: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I AM ON HOLD WITH THEM RIGHT NOW.
Neighbor Diane (under her breath): Bitch.
Husband: Hey, we should call Nevada Power. Who are you talking to?
Me: F*cking Pizza Hut.
10: 10 p.m. My bedroom.
Twin #1: Can we watch TV?
Me: The power’s out.
Twin #2: Oh. Can we watch Handy Manny?
Me: The power is out.
Twin #1: But can we watch Nemo? Can you get me some juice? I want juice. Will you turn on the light? I can’t see. Don’t poke me! Kailey is poking me. Stop poking me! Mommy, why did you turn the lights off? I’m thirsty. QUIT POKING!
10:16 p.m. Same locale.
Smoke detector: Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Husband: Oh no. I think the smoke detectors are somehow coordinated with the house power. They’re all going to start beeping! Great.
Me: Maybe the battery in that one is just dead.
(Later) Husband: Ok, it was just the battery.
Me: I am the awesome queen of home repairs! Please fashion me a cape, and/or crown.
Husband: Shut up.
10:21 p.m.
Nevada Power: Nevada Power?
Me: Hi, all the power is off in our whole community.
Nevada Power: Mountain’s Edge? We don’t have an estimated time that your power will be reinstated.
Me: Thanks for that.
Things that seem like a good idea in a blackout:
1. Shadow puppets. Problem: Too spooky.
2. Romantic candle-light fun time with husband. Problem: Children.
3. Going outside. Problem: Doesn’t really accomplish anything; plus, you’re obligated to socialize with annoying neighbors.
4. Drink beer left in fridge (absolutely unacceptable to waste beer). Problem: Later still too dark, and also now too drunk, to locate water and/or Tylenol.
5. Going to sleep. Problem: In the middle of the night, every single light, television and alarm in your house will simultaneously turn on at once and scare the sh1t out of you.
Other fun blackout resources:
Got a good blackout story? Let’s hear it!
Either I’m part superhero, or I’m just a total jackass. Probably both.
In case you ever want to scare the crap out of me, and are making a list of ways to do so, here are some things to add:
Yesterday afternoon, I’d just lovingly tucked my three year-old twins snugly into their cribs for a nap (Yes, I still put them in cribs. Got a problem with that? I will keep them contained for sleeping purposes as long as I can, peeps), and plopped, exhausted, at my desk. Just as I popped the Internet open and was writing a glowing post on Tamilee Webb’s website (she has THE BEST fitness DVD you can download called “I want those arms”. Not kidding. She kicks my ass but in a good way) when I suddenly heard what sounded like someone repeatedly and frantically pounding on my back door, trying to get in.
So I did what anyone would do in this situation. I froze and held my breath. Because that helps. Bonus points if you close your eyes or do any type of autonomic fist-clenching.
What happened to that old “fight or flight” thing people are always yammering about? My innate defense mechanism is more like that awkward bird that sticks its head in the sand and thinks that therefore he can’t be seen. You know. Like how you are somehow more protected if you’re under the covers. Head stuffed under the pillow too? You’re golden.
The knocking/pounding continued, getting louder and faster. Part of that could have been my heart, which was thumping like I was about to pop some kind of needed vessel (vessel? Are there vessels? Maybe “artery”).
I considered my options:
I went with option #3, ripped the blinds up like they were on fire and plastered my face and hands to the glass. All very subtle.
But I didn’t see anything. And it was eerily quiet.
Suddenly, I heard the noises again, but this time they were coming from INSIDE the house. I almost threw up in my hand a little.
Here’s something helpful to do should you be faced with an actual emergency: CALL SOMEONE. I of course assumed that the wires to my phone had been cut, ’80s slasher movie-style. But the dial tone greeted me like a friendly savior. So I got the hubs on the line.
ME (whispering, breathless): “I think someone broke into the house! WTF?!”
HUSBAND (annoyed): “I can’t hear you.”
ME: Someone was pounding on the door!
HUSBAND: Why are you whispering?
ME: ARGH! Wait… there it is again…
HUSBAND: What are you talking about? What’s wrong with you now?
ME: SHH! I’m trying to listen.
HUSBAND: Baby, I’m at work, can I call you back?
ME: But! There was banging, and, oh forget it.
This Abbott and Costello skit went on for a while.
Look, friends, had I been alone in the house, I would’ve been locked in my room, hiding in the closet FOR SURE. But my babies were napping in their rooms, blissfully unaware of the potential impending doom and counting on me to protect them.
During the day, she’s just a mommy–master of soapy dishes, eater of snacks, cleaner of messes, afraid of dogs. But in dire circumstances demanding bravery she becomes (DA-DADA-DA!!!) SUPER ROCKSTARMAMA! I’m thinking I might get a cape. Or at least a theme song.
Here are more things not to do in a home invasion:
Folks, I’m not a big person. Maybe 5′5″ on my best day, and no Olympic shotput or discus throw medals hanging in the old closet. But for some asinine reason, I went down the stairs, unarmed, like a little champ, cat now trailing me and meowing, weaving in-between my legs and dragging his tail across my calves in an attempt to lure me toward the Cat Chow cabinet.
I hugged the wall Mission Impossible-style and leaped out into the dining room yelling “HA!” like a total douche. Nobody at the front door. Nobody at the back door. So for sure, I thought, they’re hiding. In retrospect–a burglar is going to hide from ME?!? Not likely. But Super RockstarMama (Da-dada-DA!) went bravely from room to room, opening closets, looking under beds, peeking into showers and behind bookcases. Nothing.
But then I heard the noises again. And this time, it sounded like they were coming from UPSTAIRS.
Like an idiot, I hurled furiously up the staircase “nobody’s gonna hurt my babies!”-style. I bolted down the hallway–if I had been wearing a cape this would’ve been so much better–and flung open my baby girl’s door.
…Kailey was kicking the side of her crib, and the crib was knocking against the wall.
I’m a jackass.
Curse you, daylight savings time!
“Springing forward” has a deceptively cute name. What it should really be called is “Enjoy your dark-ass mornings from now on, sucka…”
Stumbling blindly down the hallway Monday morning in seemingly midnight conditions, I was forced to flip on the harsh overhead lights, which beamed like a spotlight on my white-ass legs.
Me: “Holy crap that’s bright. I can’t see. Oof. Was that the cat? …OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!! I’m hideous! GAAAAAAAA!”
My winter-pale legs shone back at me, random shadows produced by the harsh lighting doing me no favors. AACK!! The lumps! The bumps! The flab! That weird pudgy part at the top where your legs connect to your butt (I like to call this the “transitional area“)! OH THE HORROR!!
I work out. I previously felt myself to be in decent shape (”felt myself?” Probably could have phrased that differently). But were I to parade these white blubbery stems into any springtime beach scenario, the crowds would part, the men would flee, the babies would cry. Some poor sucker would toss me a towel. I can’t go through that. Something must be done.
What’s more alluring than a product with “Magic” as part of the name?! Chugging a Rockstar (vital for mom survival), I desperately scoured the web with panicked fury in search of the elusive “Leg Magic.” $200 and a 2-week delivery? P-HA! Silly Internet peeps are obviously not aware of my ADD-influenced immediate gratification needs. A helpful tip: You can pick this thing up at your local Target for half the price and take it home stat.
Tar-Jay is a magical place; I’m a long-time fan. They have all that fun crap near the entrance that you don’t really need but it only costs $1! One visit to the popcorn stand and you have a decent shot that your kids will sit in the cart for at least a good five minutes, leaving a handy trail of salt and those brown unpopped seed deals in case you’re asked to leave the store when they pitch a toddler-style fit in the toy aisle when you won’t buy them a 50-gallon jug of bubbles. And decent bikinis on show if you don’t have winter flab legs.
I nearly giggled (I may have actually giggled; I can’t recall… I blame the Rockstar) hoisting the box awkwardly into my cart. Buying stuff is fun. Especially when you think your purchase is going to miraculously solve a nagging problem. The box is heavy, maybe 25 pounds, and long and inconvenient when you already have two kids in your cart. Even if you place t
he box gingerly over one child, it’s usually frowned upon. There’s a handy handle on the box made of that kind of plastic that slices the shit out of your palm. But I wasn’t about to ask a sales dude to help me: “Hi. I’m 30-something, post-preggo with twins, and this morning I realized my legs are disgusting. Could you help me carry this? And also get me some tampons, a Red Bull and some of that fancy anti-cellulite cream?” I’ll pass.
Back at home, it was as if the box glowed with hope. May have been the fact that the sun freakin’ finally came out. You hafta put it together, but I was determined to be unusually un-lazy and suck it up as I was pretty sure that if I waited for my husband to come home he would make me return it. P-HA! Husbands. Harder to crush my dreams of hot-ass quads when I’ve already sweated over the assembly, eaten the receipt and the box is in a dumpster. HEE HEE! Chicks are sneaky.
So, when you’ve successfully claimed your handyman (handychick) title, and are about to hop on, here’s what you’ll see (at right). The handles are fun-squishy. Love that.
The Leg Magic crew has provided a handy little knob thing that you can turn to adjust the height. “Oh, how lovely!” you may be saying. However the only t
wo height choices for the handlebars are 2′ or 3′ off the pedals. Seems like odd choices. But that’s just me. What the heck?!? My thumb looks huge in that picture. The BlackBerry camera is like a funhouse mirror.
Other things I recommend:
1. Extra AAA batteries (my Leg Magic said they would be inside, but they weren’t)
2. Shoes (you can try it with socks, but you might fall on your ass. Shoes also provide necessary traction. The whole deal with the pedals will be slipperier than you think).
3. Headphones with some good tunes (mental note to add a “good workout tunes” blog post)
4. Orbit gum (no other reason than I like it. Try the Sweet Mint or Cinnamint flavors. Sweet gold for those of us with an oral fixation.)
A GOOD IDEA: Position this thing near your kitchen or bathroom counter. That way, you can put a book or magazine on the counter to read while using the thing.
Hoppin’ on like a badass, my legs shot out to the edges like I leaped onto ice and I was momentarily frightened that my undercarriage was about to be yanked into some kind of splits-like pose. As I’m not 16 anymore, this was worrisome. I’ve been pregnant, peeps. Sudden surprises like this can make a gal pee herself. I began excitedly pushing the button on the controller monitor thingy, only to discover that it seems to be unfortunately stuck on “stop”. Feeling like a jackass, I resorted to the MANUAL (guys, listen up!) but to no avail. The thing promises to measure your total reps, calories burned, and the time. That would have been useful. Guess I’ll just use my watch–oh yeah, goin’ old school!
Suggested use for this device is to slide your feet out and in (like in the commercial with the totally fit chick who makes me feel like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag) in “60 second bursts.” HA! Little do they know that I can conquer the elliptical for an hour! I am all-powerful! I’ll do 30 min and love it.
OH HELL NO.They are NOT KIDDING about the 60 seconds. At first, it is “la-dee-da” easy. Then I got my ass handed to me. Hit that 45 second mark and you start making faces like a kid trying to poop.After a minute of slidey fun, I hoisted myself off the thing and circled it, panting, like some kind of animal sizing up its prey. I may have actually talked shit to it. But we’ll keep that between ourselves.
A surprise: This thing burns the hell out of your inner thighs. It’s easy to slide your feet to the outside. Hard part is pulling them back in. I didn’t really feel it in my outer thighs or butt as promised. But my inner thighs were on fire (sounds dirty).
More tips:
The next day: Inner thigh soreness continues, a sign it could be working. I’m determined to keep it up, so an update will follow in a few wks.
GOOD STUFF
**Here’s a handy chart of calories burned during similar activities. Love that they have a column called “Sex: Active” on there. As opposed to when you just lie there flipping channels.BAD STUFF
RockstarMama Rating: B-. (Not too bad considering the way I ripped the SMOOTH AWAY a new one!But it’s only gonna work unless you do it reguarly, peeps. I’m going to try it for the rest of the month and I’ll post an update then.)
A final bonus for my loyal readers: Here’s a pic I took leaning over the handlebar thingies upside-down with my BlackBerry. This is not recommended. About a second after I snapped the pic, I pitched forward and fell in a thundering mom pile right on my face like a huge uncoordinated a-hole. I did that for you, baby! But don’t try that at home.
Who else has tried it? What did you think? And I’m up for any other product reviews–send me your suggestions!
Check out my review of the ShamWow
NEW review of Crayola’s 3D chalk!
Read my reivew of Smooth Away!
Got something you’d like me to review? Submit your ideas here!
It’s that time of year again… the birds are chirping, the flowers are blooming, love is in the air, and thousands of Australians are going for a naked bike ride.
Is anyone else concerned about the nut injury potential of a NAKED BIKE RIDE?! I mean, isn’t the bicycle seat already generally known as the most uncomfortable ass-bruising item available in the sporting world?
Nonetheless, this March, naked Aussies will bare their cheeks and take to the streets to promote causes of choice–everything from protecting this ball we call earth to bike/pedestrian safety. Yes, I said ball. Come on! It’s too easy.
According to the World Naked Bike Ride Australia website, here’s the event’s overall mission statement:
“To peacefully expose (heh heh, they said ‘expose’) the vulerability of cyclists, humanity and nature in the face of cars, aggression, consumerism and non-renewable energy.”
Well, and stripping down in the middle of the day.
The au-natural event is billed as the “biggest naked protest in the world.” It should also be noted that participants are allowed to get as bare as they dare. And, of course, body art is encouraged (shouldn’t it be?).
Still a little confused? Oddly intrigued?
NAKED BIKE RIDE FAQ:
If you’re down under and not concerned about squashing any of your down under bits, here’s the schedule of events (not native? Here’s a map of Australia for the geographically-impaired):
Organizers are still needed to pull together nakey rides in these locales in June:
Is the suck-ass economy prohibiting your plane fare purchase? Well, you’re in luck! I mean, you can’t possibly think the Aussies are hogging this bare-ass fun all to themselves. B-Day suit bike rides are held each year in 70 cities and 20 countries throughout the world. You heard me right.
Visit the World Naked Bike Ride official site to find an event near you!
Want to learn more? (Sicko… lol) The World Naked Ride website has all you need to know (and see) and more about the history of in-the-buff-biking.
So, if you have the balls, strip off those clothes and grab your wheels. And maybe a helmet and some sunscreen. Hooray for naked!
Oh for crap’s sake. I’ve been suckered.
As a chick, there is a never-ending, arduous battle to be smooth and hair-free in most places. American society has determined that the high-priority targets are:
A number of options exist for your hair removal needs. Traditional choices include:
These, of course, range from annoying (shaving) to soul-suckingly agonizing (waxing). Nonetheless, we’re expected to keep doing it… for no real reason except “cuz the other kids do it” (damn peer pressure). And so, like suckers, we repeatedly torment ourselves for at best a several-day hiatus of non-neanderthal smoothness. Unless of course if you happen to come across, say, a cool breeze… ever gotten out of the shower after 20 minutes of meticulous and lathery hair removal–foot lodged in the soap dish, bending and squatting at inexplicable angles–and it just happens to be cold in the bathroom? Oh yeah. Goosebumps for two seconds and all that shit pops back like you have cha-cha-cha chia legs.
Enter the Smooth Away.
No razor. No hot gooey wax to rip from your skin. No pointy, pokey tweezers. No flesh-searing chemicals.
Commercial lady, fresh from the shower in one of those impossibly plush spa robes beams euphorically as she gently brushes the little pink and gray pad along her legs, revealing a silky hairless glow. Easy! Safe! Painless! Random chick on the street, with a simple stroke of the pad, reveals a broad, smooth hairless area on her lower arm. It looks… so easy! So fast! And you’re telling me I don’t have to shave?? I must have it!!
Smooth Away can conveniently be found at your local Walgreens or similar establishment. I think I actually startled a little old lady buying milk and walnuts proclaiming “THEY HAVE THE SMOOTH AWAY!!!” as I flung it over my head, waving it victory flag-style like an ass.
And for about $10, it was mine. Muhahahaha! Goodbye, stupid razors!
Back in the privacy of my own bathroom, I giggled like a pothead as I caressed my new purchase.
Inside the box, a weird plastic green pouch was found. I flipped open the pouch to find stuff that looked familiar–the pink thingies and the gray thingies from TV, and a giant warning sign, which basically said to make sure your skin doesn’t have any lotion on it prior to use. What it should have said was: “Please step away from the Smooth Away. Close the weird plastic green pouch. Chuck it directly into the garbage and go buy some razors.” THAT would have been a good warning.
Not deterred, I eagerly applied the gray sticker thing to the pink plastic thing and prepared to be amazed. Huh. So, it’s basically like a really fine piece of sandpaper. You’d think that would have stopped me. Nope. Towelled up like the lady on the commercial, I began to gently rub the Smooth Away on my left underarm. Yeah, it didn’t just look like sandpaper, it felt like sandpaper. Abrasive. Irritating. Sort of like scrubbing your armpit with a Brillo pad.
Well it hurts like f*ck, it must be working, right? Wrong. I peered cautiously onto the affected area, to only find it red and looking a bit like rugburn. The hairs? Still there. Crap.
Pour glass of wine.
Try again.
Here’s something else they don’t tell you. Since it doesn’t work right away, you actually have to buff the hell out of even the smallest patch of hair for a LONG TIME before any of the hairs start to disappear. Oh… oh the friction. So, after a valiant attempt, my poor pit was left red and raw, with patchy bits of hair in places. The worst part? Now I actually still had to shave, and I was now shaving an area the Smooth Away had “exfoliated” (read: scraped the skin off) I slathered my abused underarm in thick lotion and finished the wine.
Determined not to be outdone by the Smooth Away, I made a secondary attempt on my lower leg with the larger pink pad. Dudes. It’s as if I am completely incapable of learning my lesson.
WTH?! This is a tragedy on many levels.
As if it’s not hard enough to have to shave, pluck and wax; now we are encouraged to rub something on our skin that is meant to even out wood. Somewhere, some Smooth Away exec is rich and laughing at us. While this product may come in handy in a torture situation in the kit next to the bamboo shoots and hot pokers, it should never be used on a human woman. Or man.
Save your money. Buy stock in Nair.
Check out my review of the ShamWow!
NEW post: YOUTHOLOGY, does it work?
NEW review of Crayola 3D chalk!
Read my review of the Leg Magic!
Got something else you’d like me to review? Submit your suggestions here.
–Breaking news 3/4/09–
Senator Edward Kennedy is being awarded an honorary knighthood from Britain.
Is it just me, or was anybody else surprised to discover that peeps are still being knighted? It conjures up this medieval image including horses, suits of armor, a lavish feast including whole turkey legs (like at the county fair) and people wearing velvet… perhaps even some type of joust.
Since obviously I’m far-removed here in the sparkly lights of Las Vegas from jolly ol’ England, my curiousity prompted me to do some spy-style investigative digging to discover the answers to the FAQ most non-Brits have regarding this apparently still popular tradition. So here’s your Beginner’s Guide to Knighthood. Let’s rock. 
What’s an honorary knight?
An honorary knighthood
is a super fancy-pants award given to “deserving” individuals who are not citizens of a “Commonwealth realm” (part of the British Empire). There’s no limited number of titles they can hand out (woohoo!), but an an honorary knight, you can’t be snooty and call yourself “Sir” or “Dame”, which is probably half the fun. Disapointing. You do get some fancy initials after your name though, so that’s something.
How are they chosen?
Recipients are chosen by the Soverign, also known as the ‘fountain of honour’ (I’m not kidding), acting upon the advice of the Prime Minister. Other ways to get knighted: get one of your posse to submit a private nom to the Prime Minister’s Office, or get someone more important in your country to you to recommend you to the Foreign Secretary. Certain honors are also awarded at the personal discretion of the monarch. Complicated enough?
Is there a ceremony? A medal of some sort? Do they touch you with that sword like in the movies?
Oh hell yeah. I mean, what would be the point otherwise? Honors are usually conferred 2x/year… on the Sovereign’s official birthday, and at the New Year. Prepare for an elaborate ceremony, including the well-known “knighting” portion, in which the Sovereign taps the recipient on the shoulder with a ceremonial sword in what is called the accolade. So awesome. Make sure to refer to your ceremony program and don’t be in the restroom during that part. Would really suck.
What other folks have been knighted lately?
Do some freaks ever lose their knighthood? Can it be taken away?
Oh yeah. Plus, some have even refused it and others have given it back. “Thanks for the title! Later beeatches.”
How can I become an honorary knight?
The British honors system is a means of awarding merit for those who are deserving, either for achievement or service to the country. There are numerous levels of importance and a bunch of categories, including entertainment, politics, broadcasting, and more. I say, pick a category and get to achieving or else start snuggling up to the Sovereign.
Got more questions? Post ‘em here in what shall be henceforth known as the RockstarMama honorary knighthood knowledge hub. Happy Knighting Day.
Oh hell yeah… it’s Oscars night!
The glitz, the glamour, the unaffordable couture, the stars, the gossip, the little gold man… what more can a girl ask for? Stay tuned for RockstarMamaOnline.com’s live Oscars blog.
————————————————————-
WOOHOO!! It’s 3PST. Live from the red carpet, it’s Seacrest and that tan chick from E!
OH THE GLAMOUR:
WOOHOO! Check out E!’s Red Carpet Pose-Off…
WHAT THE:
OOPS:
Man, I love Steve Martin. Has anybody seen or read Shopgirl? I downloaded it once, but the download was corrupt. Stupid ebook reader.
Oh, Oscars 2009… if only there was more red carpet action and less actual odd broadcasted Wolverine showtune numbers.
CHECK OUT THE COMPLETE LIST OF WINNERS!
But now the fun part… fashion analysis by the weekly mags. Don’t forget to visit your local retailer for even more dress-aster-related fun.
Did anybody actually stay up for the entire show? Got comments? Let’s hear ‘em!
I don’t get dudes.
My wonderfully rugged and manly husband just appeared in the backyard with a wheelbarrow full of tools and a load mysteriously-sourced lumber–the kind that has a number for a name (two by something).
I’m scared. Also, I was unaware that we owned a wheelbarrow. That’s a fun surprise.
Not only will he not tell me what he’s building, there seems to be an excessive amount of electric sawing and use of the nail gun. What is it with boys? It’s as if they are only happy if they’re engaging in an activity in which they can either:
-Get hurt
-Make a mess
-Annoy their wife
-Produce lots of noise
So far, I have been helpful by sitting nearby and periodically raising an eyebrow and/or provide comments such as:
“Is it crooked on purpose?” “What is it?”, and “If it’s hideous, we can throw it away, right?”
While I thought these were well-phrased and appropriate inquiries, I have thus far only been met with vague responses and grunts. There has also been a great deal of bending and measuring; fortunately the butt crack itself has not yet made an appearance. In an attempt to assist, our three year-old twins have been marching around the yard waving toolbox accessories probably not meant for toddlers and having conversations with my husband as follows:
Child: “Is this wood?”
Daddy: 
“Yep.”
Child: “What’s it for? Why is it big? Is this wood too? Is it heavy? Why is it heavy? Where did you get it? Was it in the garage? Did you go to the wood store? Can we go to the store? Can we get candy? I want candy. Can I have a lollypop? What are you doing?”
Daddy: “I’m making something.”
Child: “Is this a tool? Can I see it? What does this tool do? Why is it loud? Can I touch it? Can I hold the orange tool? Can I climb on that? Can I have that? Will you get me juice?”
Daddy: “Please go play by Mommy.”
Child: “Can I throw this? Why is that sharp? Is it brown? What are you doing? I have to go potty.”
It’s just so awesome.
Of course the wife’s dilemma is now that through the unspoken laws of marriage I am required to love whatever this wood-based item ends up becoming, as he has crafted it with his own two hands and spent at least an hour on it.
Also, there is the residual bonus of the fact that watching one’s husband get all sweaty and dirty being all manly with tools is preferrable to watching him, say, roll up the newspaper and head into the bathroom.
I’ll bet he smells all sawdusty. Mmm.
Oh man.
I’m thinking I may have to draft an angry letter to the Orville Redenbacher peeps. That weird old guy in the suspenders may be gone (the one who looks like the landlord from Three’s Company), but surely they have a PR department.
The side of the Natural Buttery Salt & Cracked Pepper popcorn box clearly indicates that while popcorn is a lovely treat to share with your kiddos, you should be cautious so as not to let them choke on it. Helpful. But nowhere on the box does it warn that if you love your carpeting, if you love your furniture, if you don’t want a billion broken salt and peppery bits ground into your rug and if you don’t want your TV smeared with buttery toddler-prints, you should never, ever pop the crap in the first place.
Toddlers have the amazing ability to completely destroy a room, atom bomb-style, while you’re doing some vital mom activity for two minutes like peeing or opening a bottle of wine. I have twins. They work as a team.
You know how a black cat knows to snuggle enthusiasticly on the lap of the only white-pantsed cat-hater in the room? (Who’s still wearing white pants anyway? Maybe they deserve a good fur-ing…) Same logic applies when kids have a kitchen full of ammo and can locate the item with greatest stain potential like a heat-seeking missile.
Complaint #2:
Popcorn clean-up is a ridiculous no-win situation. The vaccuum, which I previously and perhaps inappropriately misunderstood to be used to suck up stuff, seems to freak when encountering one of those weird orange popcorn seeds, like how it gets pissed when it has to help me out with a kitty litter spill.
Said seed is immediately shot, bullet-style, to the very edge of the carpet where you are then humiliatingly forced to actually bend down (crouching in general is no good when you’re over 30–definite risk of crack exposure and expulsion of noises/grunts i.e. “UUUUUGGGGH” upon the actual bending activity), pick up the seed and place the remnant back in the vaccuum’s path, only to repeat this attempted sucking/shooting process, this time with perhaps some added aggravated obscenity-tossing. It is only when you hoist the damn machine skyward, plopping in directly on top of the seed, that the vaccuum admits defeat and the item is hoovered. Don’t start. I don’t even know how to use the tube thingies.
The whole thing is stupid. But so was the whole Redenbacher idea in the first place.
Don’t leave me hanging, dudes. Best mess story posted here will receive a packet of Orville’s courtesy of RockstarMamaOnline. Let’s have it.
