1. Sure, the ticket only cost $22. But the requisite t-shirt is $49 and a button the size of a dinner plate is $16.99. By the time you pay for all of the extra crap, you're a grand in the hole before the thing even starts.
2. If Bobby Brown is hanging around, something has gone terribly awry.
3. Your shoes stick to the floor. With. Every. Step. Likely a mixture of adolescent tears and Sunny D.
4. You find a soggy cheerio in your bra. Wait, that's just parenthood.
5. The shrieking. Oh god, the shrieking.
6. There's a fiery redhead in leather chaps who seems to be hanging around an awful lot- here's hoping it's just Tiffany.
7. The youngest one is the cutest. It's OK to admit it.
8. What is that on the floor of the bathroom? Phlegm? Wet paper towel? GoGurt?
9. There is just so much crying. Is it happy crying? Is it sad crying? It's pointless to try to figure it out- just ignore it.
10. "Step by step, ooh baby, gonna get to you girl." Yep, you're getting to me all right.
11. At the end of the night, you stumble to bed bewildered, ears ringing, reeking of Electric Youth. Best day ever.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Thursday, September 12, 2013
When you wish upon a star, wish for the inventor of Fastplay to burn in hell.
At some point while I wasn't paying attention, this blog reached 10,000 page views. Now, I know for a fact that some of those page views are coming from spammers in Russia. But who cares- aren't Russian robots people too? I say they are, and welcome them to the Snark Side family. Also, I have spent three or four entire days just clicking on my own posts to drive the stats up. You can't win the election if you don't vote for yourself- that's what I say. In any event, a whole mess of people have read this blog since it began, and I am very thankful for that. This blog gives me an outlet to both spread my crazy to the world, and also to act as birth control for several of you. I am honored- and I'm now also considered an "in-network provider" by several insurance companies. The more horrifying tales I tell, the fewer of you pop out expensive babies who will also cause you to seek extensive psychotherapy on a fairly regular basis for 18 years straight. I'm humbled, really I am.
Now that I have your ear, can I warn those childless readers about one of the single biggest threats to human sanity???? Once you have kids, you will quickly discover that they can be super annoying- and can keep you from even the simplest of tasks. I once spent an entire day trying to wash ONE dish. Just one. Once you realize you can't accomplish anything with minions underfoot, you will lay rubber all over the road to the nearest store and snap up every un-vaulted Disney movie you can get your drool-encrusted hands on. (DON'T get me started about the damn Disney vault. Gee, let's make it impossible to buy our products! Sounds like a winning business formula to me!) You will throw that movie into the bluray so fast that you'll have to use a blowtorch to melt the security packaging off. And press the movie in. And wait.
What you'll see is one of world's true human rights violations. A kind voice will tell you "This DVD is equipped with Disney's Fastplay." Oh, awesome, you think. A fast way to just get to the movie. I'll click on that. Thanks, Disney. You've clearly recognized that I am a stretched parent with little time on my hands, and you've decided to make at least one thing in my life fast. I really appreciate that.
WRONG. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. Fastplay takes longer than childbirth. And I'm talking about my 30 and 24 hour labors- not your six hour bullshit. 9,237 previews later, as your child is screaming and waving some type of small axe-like toy, you realize you're an idiot. "Fastplay" actually means 900 previews, four commercials, more previews (likely for movies you can't even buy) and then finally- the actual menu of the movie. Now, you're probably saying, who cares? Shut your trap and watch some previews. (You're saying that to me though, not my kids. Say that to my kids and I'll shank your ass.) Let me tell you why it matters.
It matters because it's wrong to lie. It's wrong to offer battle-weary parents something "fast" and then yank it away. It's wrong to sit in your swanky little office in Orlando and leave us to deal with the "BUT THIS ISN'T MY MOVIE!!! WHERE'S MY MOVIE???!!!??? I WANT AURORA!!!! MAKE IT PLAY AURORA!!!! I WANT GOLDFISH!!!!! MY SHOES HURT!!!" and so on and so forth- headlong into total meltdown.
Thanks for ruining my day, Disney. You really know how to drive me right to the brink of mental ruin and threaten everything I hold dear. Don't worry though, I will soon visit you and spend $4,400 on half-day passes. Per person. Can't wait! Seriously though, I can't wait.
Now that I have your ear, can I warn those childless readers about one of the single biggest threats to human sanity???? Once you have kids, you will quickly discover that they can be super annoying- and can keep you from even the simplest of tasks. I once spent an entire day trying to wash ONE dish. Just one. Once you realize you can't accomplish anything with minions underfoot, you will lay rubber all over the road to the nearest store and snap up every un-vaulted Disney movie you can get your drool-encrusted hands on. (DON'T get me started about the damn Disney vault. Gee, let's make it impossible to buy our products! Sounds like a winning business formula to me!) You will throw that movie into the bluray so fast that you'll have to use a blowtorch to melt the security packaging off. And press the movie in. And wait.
What you'll see is one of world's true human rights violations. A kind voice will tell you "This DVD is equipped with Disney's Fastplay." Oh, awesome, you think. A fast way to just get to the movie. I'll click on that. Thanks, Disney. You've clearly recognized that I am a stretched parent with little time on my hands, and you've decided to make at least one thing in my life fast. I really appreciate that.
WRONG. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. Fastplay takes longer than childbirth. And I'm talking about my 30 and 24 hour labors- not your six hour bullshit. 9,237 previews later, as your child is screaming and waving some type of small axe-like toy, you realize you're an idiot. "Fastplay" actually means 900 previews, four commercials, more previews (likely for movies you can't even buy) and then finally- the actual menu of the movie. Now, you're probably saying, who cares? Shut your trap and watch some previews. (You're saying that to me though, not my kids. Say that to my kids and I'll shank your ass.) Let me tell you why it matters.
It matters because it's wrong to lie. It's wrong to offer battle-weary parents something "fast" and then yank it away. It's wrong to sit in your swanky little office in Orlando and leave us to deal with the "BUT THIS ISN'T MY MOVIE!!! WHERE'S MY MOVIE???!!!??? I WANT AURORA!!!! MAKE IT PLAY AURORA!!!! I WANT GOLDFISH!!!!! MY SHOES HURT!!!" and so on and so forth- headlong into total meltdown.
Thanks for ruining my day, Disney. You really know how to drive me right to the brink of mental ruin and threaten everything I hold dear. Don't worry though, I will soon visit you and spend $4,400 on half-day passes. Per person. Can't wait! Seriously though, I can't wait.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Apples to Apples, Dust to Dust
My house is dusty as holy heck. There was a swear there, but I took it out because I swear too much. It's dusty, and we just moved in. Where does the dust come from? What does it want from me? Sometimes I like to write messages in it and see how long they last- some have reached heiroglyph status. I don't know how to spell heiroglyph, which is pathetic if you consider that I have a degree in archaeology. I have dusty furniture, and a degree in archaeology that I've never used. And an unfinished MA in archaeology, if you want to get really depressing. And I'm not athletic. Or crafty. I'm just a little bit flabby. Sometimes I go months without touching my eyebrows. There's a rather large gecko in my closet. Etc.
What is my point? That I like to whine? That's true, I also whine way too much, and I have nothing to whine about. I have no idea what to do with my life. I have no skills and no talent. And so on, and so forth.
These thoughts have consumed me lately- and basically paralyzed me. I don't hate myself per se. I think I'm reasonably intelligent, and I know that I am a "good" person- whatever the hell that means. I know if I tripped an old man, I'd help him get up. It's been eons since I punched a baby. But I don't LIKE myself, and that's a huge problem.
I took my kids to a very large playgroup at a church yesterday- think 75 kids. As we walked around, I was practically vomiting from self-consciousness. I was standing weird, or staring at something, or thinking that maybe I just stole this chair from someone and now everyone is talking about how much they hate me. UGH. But what about all of the other women there? Were they awkward too? Of course not- they were all amazing.
One lady had just come from the gym, and looked so athletic. One was helping the little kids with crafts and was just so friendly. One had the prettiest red curly hair. Another one was clearly giving very thoughtful advice to her friend. They were all just so amazing. Then there was me- awkward, slightly fat, spit up stained, one unshaven leg ME. A total mess, with all of the aforementioned flaws, plus 9,000 others. Why am I such a disaster and everyone else is so amazing?
The answer, of course, is that they are not amazing. Or maybe they are. Who knows. They could be terrible human beings. But for whatever reason, the first thing I look for in THEM is the good. The first thing and only thing I look for in ME is the bad. I would never look at someone and think they are fat, or messy, or loud. I don't go over to someone's house and decide that they are a bad person because their TV is dusty. So why do I think those things about myself? Why do I compare myself to some mystical version of myself that has never existed? The Mary-Ellen that carries a unicorn while running a marathon through a field of four leaf clovers? The non federally imprisoned Martha Stewart Mary-Ellen? Those people don't exist.
Someday, I will start giving myself the benefit of the doubt and stop comparing myself to people I know nothing about. People who are probably just as self conscious as I am. People who could be serial killers, but MAN, they have some nice shoes on today! Somewhere, in a women's prison camp, there is probably someone saying "Wow, I really wish I was just like Mary-Ellen! She has it all." And that crazy, hooch-drinking former prostitute is right! I do have it all. But that jumpsuit does wonders for her complexion. I wish I had a nice complexion like that. DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What is my point? That I like to whine? That's true, I also whine way too much, and I have nothing to whine about. I have no idea what to do with my life. I have no skills and no talent. And so on, and so forth.
These thoughts have consumed me lately- and basically paralyzed me. I don't hate myself per se. I think I'm reasonably intelligent, and I know that I am a "good" person- whatever the hell that means. I know if I tripped an old man, I'd help him get up. It's been eons since I punched a baby. But I don't LIKE myself, and that's a huge problem.
I took my kids to a very large playgroup at a church yesterday- think 75 kids. As we walked around, I was practically vomiting from self-consciousness. I was standing weird, or staring at something, or thinking that maybe I just stole this chair from someone and now everyone is talking about how much they hate me. UGH. But what about all of the other women there? Were they awkward too? Of course not- they were all amazing.
One lady had just come from the gym, and looked so athletic. One was helping the little kids with crafts and was just so friendly. One had the prettiest red curly hair. Another one was clearly giving very thoughtful advice to her friend. They were all just so amazing. Then there was me- awkward, slightly fat, spit up stained, one unshaven leg ME. A total mess, with all of the aforementioned flaws, plus 9,000 others. Why am I such a disaster and everyone else is so amazing?
The answer, of course, is that they are not amazing. Or maybe they are. Who knows. They could be terrible human beings. But for whatever reason, the first thing I look for in THEM is the good. The first thing and only thing I look for in ME is the bad. I would never look at someone and think they are fat, or messy, or loud. I don't go over to someone's house and decide that they are a bad person because their TV is dusty. So why do I think those things about myself? Why do I compare myself to some mystical version of myself that has never existed? The Mary-Ellen that carries a unicorn while running a marathon through a field of four leaf clovers? The non federally imprisoned Martha Stewart Mary-Ellen? Those people don't exist.
Someday, I will start giving myself the benefit of the doubt and stop comparing myself to people I know nothing about. People who are probably just as self conscious as I am. People who could be serial killers, but MAN, they have some nice shoes on today! Somewhere, in a women's prison camp, there is probably someone saying "Wow, I really wish I was just like Mary-Ellen! She has it all." And that crazy, hooch-drinking former prostitute is right! I do have it all. But that jumpsuit does wonders for her complexion. I wish I had a nice complexion like that. DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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