So, I know I got a little mushy about the American Girl doll store.
But let’s not overlook the freak factor, m’kay?
It is very weird to have serious hairstylists working on a whole row of dolls.
Poor little Arlene Randall. How can I resist opening your email? You were so vulnerable and and honest in your simple subject line.
I am so sad.
Arlene, I don’t want you to be sad. I know sad. Sad sucks. And even though I didn’t recognize your name, I wanted to lift your dark clouds of despair. Turn your frown upside down. How could Yahoo mail put this cry for help in my spam filter? Heartless Toads.
Yes, Arlene Phillips! I am your friend. See, you have hope even in your sadness. We can get through this. I will help you.
Maybe you do not know who i am but i will introduce myself. I am … I think … let’s my name will be kept in secret. Let it be Princess.
Well… ok. I liked Arlene, but Princess it is.
I am a Russia. I am so sad. I am smart and nice princess but so sad at the same time.. I am from
A smart and nice princess? And you’re sad? Oh, now you’ve lost me.
What the heck is wrong with you, Arlene? I am a stay-home mom and freelance writer. I have dogs who shed and children who argue and bills that DO NOT PAY THEMSELVES, Arlene Phillips. I am not a smart and nice princess. And you want to tell me about YOUR sadness? What on earth could be bothering a princess?
I would like to find with whom we will have a nice life.
Oh, the Prince Charming, myth. We all want that, honey. But you need to love Arlene first. Stop moping and whining about how sad you are. Talk to someone about meds, snap out of it, count your blessings, do some volunteer work. Prince Charming will come along if he’s meant to.
I do not know what to do. I want to change everything in my life.
Oh, Arlene. Seriously. You are a princess. You’re probably blonde and thin, t0o. And yet, of all the email boxes in the world, you choose me to vent about your sadness and expect me to relate when you want to change everything in your life? The whining is getting on my nerves. Let’s make a deal, Princess Arlene. I’ll live in the castle you find so dreary, a tragic single existence with nothing to bring me happiness but hand servants who bring me chilled grapes.
You get your royal butt over here. The dog was spayed this morning, and she needs some pain medication. While she’s busy with that, maybe you can change the blankets she puked all over.
After that, Princess Arlene, you can do the dishes, pack the lunches for tomorrow, and solve the argument the children are having over who is the most worried about the dog. Can you do sutures, Arlene? Because it’s getting heated and they may draw blood. If not, go ahead and bring your royal paramedic. I won’t need him.
Hope you are good boy and can be my prince.
Uh, Arlene? Honey? Ain’t no prince at this email address. I’ve got a sweet husband, but he is not available to your highness.
Please, send a letter for me back when you get this letter cause it will make me feel better. I will not be alone. And perhaps we can be
Arlene, consider this your letter, you poor, sad, smart and nice Russian princess. I can not help you. Nyet. I can’t. I do not believe I need any Russian Princess friends, and I am not the prince you’re looking for, of this I am sure. Everyone gets sad sometimes, honey.
But in case anyone else wants to help you, they can leave a caring comment for you. Bless your sad little royal heart.
So, I asked my Twitter friends for a suggested blog topic because you know, I am realizing something about this “blogging every day” business. Y’all, I barely have one salient thought a week worthy of sharing with the Internet. Seriously. I am inflicting all kinds of unnecessary crap on you people.
I am going to have to blog every day in October, too, just so I can apologize for all the stupidity I’ve put out there in the name of disciplining myself to write.
My friend Janelle asked a crucial question, totally worthy of examination.
“Why do I keep all this crap in my purse?”
So I told her I would analyze it, but I needed a list.
Here is my preliminary conclusion: Janelle is harboring a secret fantasy involving Monty Hall.
Remember how on “Let’s Make a Deal” when he would walk around the freakish costumed audience and offer people $50 if they had an ace of spades card with an aspirin stuck to it? Janelle clearly wakes up every morning dreaming that she’ll roll over, open her eyes, and Monty will whisper “Come on, let’s see what’s behind curtain #1.”
Bless her heart.
On to the contents of her purse and what they mean:
1. Tape measure – I think this is self-explanatory. Size matters to Janelle.
2. 100 business cards of people I don’t know – Janelle has an overwhelming compulsion to be nice to people and pretend she cares. So she takes their business cards and says “Well, isn’t that nice.” Then she promptly forgets who they are.
3. Deposit slips, Wallet – These are totally normal purse objects. Except that Janelle’s deposit slips are to a Swiss bank account.
4. $37 in change – This is evidence of a traumatic childhood incident where Janelle had to spend her 8th birthday at a toll booth because her mom couldn’t pay the toll. Either that, or Janelle has embarked on a revolutionary new weight-lifting program.
5. Make up for two-week vacation just in case– Janelle is either overly concerned about hiding the ravages of time, or she is going to regular costume parties as Tammy Faye Bakker.
6. Perfume, deodorant – If Janelle has to go on the lam, she will still smell good.
7. Brush – and her hair will look nice.
8. Pink pashmina in case I get cold in the 103 degree heat – and if someone stuffs her in a meat locker, she will survive.
9. Tide-To-Go pen– This indicates Janelle is on the verge of murdering someone at all times and wants to make sure she can get the blood stains out of her pink pashmina.
10. Travel size stapler – This is in case someone annoys Janelle and she needs to give them a little warning to behave. Also, someone encased her regular stapler in Jello once so she always carries one with her.
11. Memo pad, Post it Notes – Janelle likes to have a variety of ways to leave people threats about what will happen if they don’t shape up.
12. Highlighter, pens, my favorite Papermate pencil – She also likes to have a variety of writing utensils to keep her threats colorful. And “her favorite Papermate pencil” has poison on the tip in case she needs to stab someone.
13. Cell phone charger – this might be normal, except Janelle never mentioned a cell phone. So she either stole this, or has the cord as a possible murder weapon.
14. Two different kinds of gum: Trident Citrus and Orbit Bubble Mint – Janelle likes to vary the ways she disguises her breath after a 3-martini lunch.
15. Mentos – If she needs to create a distraction, Janelle can drop these in people’s diet Pepsi and run away.
16. Matches– When the Tide-to-Go Pen doesn’t work, burn the evidence.
17. Sunglasses – Getaway disguise.
18. Umbrella — well, duh. It’s been raining a lot lately.
And then, Janelle added this: ” and that’s not my big purse.” Which of course, given the contents of her other purse, probably has a body in it.
Seriously, Michelle Duggar.
I woke up this morning feeling determined and ready to accomplish something, ready to pop out a new blog post. The “Today Show” would probably call, so rare have they been lately. The world two people who read this blog would be so happy.
Then, you totally steal the headines by announcing you’re popping out a new kid. Duggar number 19 is preparing to shoot forth from your loins and join the ranks of tater-tot-casserole-eating, tour-bus-riding kids with names starting with J. I have a suggestion for this one, by the way. JustStop.
Of course, you won’t see my brilliant suggestion because clearly, you don’t read this blog. Since I have already offered some sage advice on this topic.
Nonetheless, I wish you and the next Duggar well. I wish you’d stop having kids and start using some of your obviously amazing budgeting and organizational skills to mentor young mothers. But you know, I’m sitting on my ass making jokes about tater tot casserole, so I don’t really have the credibility to judge.
Not that that’s ever stopped me.
Just do not invite me to the baby shower. You have turned fertility into enough of a money-making enterprise that I am absolutely not ponying up for another onesie, and I am not playing that idiotic “name the candy bar in the diaper” game again. I don’t care how much Joshua, Jana, John-David, Jill, Jessa, Jinger, Joseph, Josiah, Joy-Anna, Jedidiah, Jeremiah, Jason, James, Justin, Jackson, Johannah, Jennifer and Jordyn-Grace beg.
My life experiences to date have included voluntarily climbing into a pit of live rattlesnakes, rappelling down a cliff, seeing a child through 4 heart surgeries and producing 9 hours straight of live flood coverage without a break to pee WHILE PREGNANT.
None of them have in any way prepared me for the horror of trying to wrestle protective panties onto a Jack Russell terrier in heat.
Now before you start with the spay and neuter lecture: I know. Bailey went in for her surgical appointment on schedule, but there were issues with her blood work, and the vet wanted to wait until they cleared up. And while we were waiting, things happened. She does not leave the house without supervision, and the corgis are fixed.
We will not be contributing to the pet overpopulation problem. Put your freaking pitchforks down.
So, we are starting off our summer with an informational biology lesson. Unfortunately, Bailey will not sit still to watch the very special “Blossom” episode where Mayim Bialik learns all about the facts of life.
I would love to share that episode with you, but I can’t find it on You Tube. However, in this one, Blossom chair dances in the intro and then plots to go to a “Makeout Party” with her friend, Six. It also contains the following gems of comedy gold.
“This, this is premeditated kissing. That’s a lot of pressure.”
Also: “Andrea said that Mel put his tongue in her ear.”
But back to Bailey. She can’t watch “Blossom” because she’s too busy spending half her waking hours fighting off our corgi, Quince. Who yes, is a) neutered and b) the one with the terminal lymphoma.
Apparently he missed the memo about dying with dignity and is instead trying to cross “sex with a minor” off his bucket list. Bailey, not one to to outdone on the inappropriate futility scale, spends the other half of her waking hours trying to hump him back.
I’d love to relieve her boredom and take her for a trip to the dog park, but I saw that Jodie Foster movie, and I am not interested in re-enacting the bar scene from “The Accused” with dogs. So until this is over, she’ll have to amuse herself by tearing off her puppy panties, ripping them to shreds and stashing them under my bed.
At least she’s leaving my underwear alone for a change.
Look, the “inspector number 27” tags in the underwear were kind of endearing. But now, I see they are accompanied by a second sticker that says “Team 4.”
Really? REALLY? It takes a whole team of inspectors to see if my underwear are up to your rigorous quality control standards?
What, are they too big for one inspector? Is that a fat joke? I am working on it, jerks. We can’t all be built like Michael Jordan.
Oh and does that mean a whole team of people have had their possibly germy, grubby hands all over my undergarments? I feel violated. It takes a village to raise a child, Hanes. It does not take a team to inspect underpants. Now your slogan about “Wait ’til we get our Hanes on you” is creeping me the hell out.
And who are these inspectors? Do you screen them for possible fetishes? Check them against the National Underwear Molester database? This “Team 4” sticker has opened up a whole new panty panic paranoia for me.
Where’s the bleach?
I need an attorney reader to check this out for me. I know there’s justifiable homicide, but what about justifiable slapicide, or justifiable duct-tapeacide?
We spent part of the holiday weekend at the movies, taking in Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. Bonus review: the little soldiers are in it again and not as funny. Ben Stiller is not as charming now that he’s ho-hum about the museum exhibits coming to life. Amy Adams got on my nerves a little. However, because I am unpredictable, I still got a little misty when the Tuskegee Airmen saluted Amelia Earhart. I don’t KNOW why, OK?
But the real show was the people behind us. Family of five including one two-year-old who did not need to be in the 7:40 p.m. showing.
I started to get concerned during the previews, when suddenly a little face appeared right over my shoulder, like a disembodied shrunken head, and started screeching “UP! UP!” about Disney’s upcoming release.
He remained at my shoulder for a while with his insightful screeching commentary about every previewed movie. Until the Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen clip reel started running. The cheerful screeching became a caterwauling scream.
“OH NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!! TOOOOOOO SCARY!!!!! I DON’T WANT TO SEE MOVIES!!!”
At this point, his mother intervened.
“Shhh, our movie’s about to start,” she said between popcorn crunching.
“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!! TOOOOOOO SCARY!!!!!”
The sobs became more insistent. The gentle maternal comfort continued.
“You need to sit in your frickin’ seat and be quiet.” Chew chew chew.
“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!! I DON’T WANT TO WATCH THE MOVIE. I WANT TO GO!!!!” His displeasure became more insistent, and was now punctuated with kicking the back of my seat.
I contemplated several things. Perhaps I could turn around with a smile and suggest gently that he might enjoy the movie more from the deserted section of the theater up front, where he could move around more. Perhaps I could offer to take him to the lobby if they wanted to pay the $30 I had spent on tickets. Perhaps I could just slap his parents upside the head.
“I AM LEAAAAAVING. NO MOVIES! NO MOVIES!”
Then, his mother said this, “OK, you don’t want to watch the movie?”
“Yes!” I thought. “Parental responsibility kicks in! She realizes he’s out of control, a disruption to others, that this is developmentally inappropriate. Score one for mom!”
“Fine,” she continued. “You just go ahead and go, we’ll be right here. Go on. Go. Just leave.”
Oh hell, no.
Really, you stupid cow? Over a movie tantrum, you’re telling your two-year-old, who shouldn’t be here in the first place, that he should just head out to the lobby? Screw you, sweetie, mommy and daddy want to watch a movie.
I turned around. Looked at her, raised an eyebrow, started to say something. I don’t know what.
But the distraught toddler amped up his scream to a sonic boom level and started sobbing, and before I could say anything, she glared at me, scooped him up, and said “Fine, we’re going outside.”
People all around us started muttering “It’s about time.”
He came back about halfway through the movie. Quiet, settled, exhausted from his earlier tantrum. He stood to watch the movie, once again leaning his little face over the seat and next to mine. He continued his commentary, now in hushed tones.
His little hand patted my shoulder. I patted back, and resisted the urge to just grab him and run out. I also resisted the urge to chase down his parents after the movie, and tell them I understand being frustrated, but their kids are only little once, movies are on DVD forever.
And also, warn them that next time, I *am* going to bitch-slap someone.