Face Palm: It's A PSA

Some things need no explanation:

Why do women love chocolate?  'Cause it's loaded with FAT, making it all nice and creamy and even though I know it's bad and will do awful, dimply things to my thighs I eat it anyway!  It keeps me from doing stuff that's illegal...like committing murder.  Duh.

Some things defy explanation:

Why does Nathan Lane, who's obviously a man, sound like a woman?  (This question courtesy of Captain Studly)  I replied 'Cause he's talented!'

Some things, however, require lots of explanation...and pictures.  With that in mind, I give you:

A PSA: How to adjust adjustable-waist pants
(you can thank me later)

Now, before you go gettin' all scared, these are just pants y'all..not Roseanne Barr in a thong.  You'd be surprised what'll set some folks off.

When you fold down the waistband, you can see the white tabs and button that comprise the adjustable waist mechanism.  You may call these whatever you like: doomaflatchies, thingamabobs, doodads, dingfawds.  But if you really want to sound uptown, you say 'adjustable waist mechanism'. 

In order to make this work, you have to pass the button through the precut slit in the elastic to release the button.  Can you unbutton Tom Selleck's shirt?  Faster than you can say 'Jack Sprat!'  Oh, wait, I meant can you unbutton YOUR shirt?  This isn't brain surgery...and yes, I can do it.  Refer to the next photo...

See, easy-peasy.  And look y'all, I didn't even break a nail.

Now, here's where it gets a little tricky and I guess a little elastic bio is needed.  Ooo-kay.  See, elastic
s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s when you pull it.  Like taffy, only without the sugar and sticky.  So, even if one end of the waist adjustment doomaflatchy, I mean adjustable waist mechanism, is sewn down, by the magic of science you can still pull said elastic to practically the moon and back without breaking a sweat.  Pulling the elastic on each side will, voila, help to tighten (or in my case, loosen) your pants.  Genius!!

Do you need a rest?  I know, I know this is some tough shit stuff.

Okay, once you've got the elastic pulled to a level of comfort you can handle (and here's where you should know, if you're turning blue, it's too damn tight), push the button back through the precut slit thereby ensuring that your hard work won't be for naught.  Repeat with the other side. 

Presto!  Now your britches won't hit the deck 'round your cankles.  Feel free to worship me at your leisure.

Sigh...some days it just doesn't pay to chew through the restraints.

For the Love of Pete, Please Shut Up!

Just an FYI for all those folks whose grasp of the English language is a bit lacking:

'Like, um, uh' does not in any way, shape or form, constitute a complete and coherent sentence.  Please learn to speak or shut the hell up.  I cannot fathom why any right thinking individual would put you in the public eye when you can't communicate effectively.  Please read a dictionary.  NOW!  You know, it's a book?  With words and definitions?  No, there aren't pictures.  You have to think, painful as that may be for you.

As a side note, and since I'm in a snarky mood, it's inaccurate to address me as 'dude' because the good Lord made me perfect female.  No, those aren't tumors; they're breasts.  I'm sorry your girlfriend bears a striking resemblance to Calista Flockhart, but most normal women have bumps on their chest.  It's a burden, trust me.  If I were that flat, they'd throw turf over me and heavy, grunting, sweaty men would throw around a pigskin whilst trampling over my loveliness.  See, I didn't even use 'like' in that sentence!  IT CAN BE DONE!

Like, um, uh...thanks for your time, dude.

Here endeth the tirade.  Pardon me while I step down off my soapbox.


UPDATE 10/26/12:  Judging by my email inbox, this post managed to piss off more than one foreigner which I find somewhat amusing considering most foreign folks have a better grasp of English and how to use it than alot of Americans.  Keep calm and read on, my foreign friends!  I am not referring to you in the above post.  Ever talked to an American teenager or twentysomething?  If not, do so and you'll hear what I mean.

Even I Can Solve This Equation

Math and I have never been BFFs.  I cringe whenever I'm called upon to help one of the Co-Defendants with a math assignment.  The worst?  Word problems!  UGH!!  I hate having to weed through all that extraneous crap to get to the guts I need to solve the problem.   

Give me hailstones the size of Volkswagons!  Give me locusts!  Give me Justin Bieber live and in concert 24/7 in my living room!  Anything, but word problems!!

When, I asked my childhood self, would I ever use this crap?

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you, that today is that day.

Here's my version of Mom Math...

1 five year old Boxer with gastrointestinal upset...

plus 1 clean laundry room...

divided by 10 bath towels times 1 cantankerous washing machine that decided mid-cycle to spew its noxious liquid onto the already, ahem, soiled floor...

times 75 minutes to clean up the now swampy floor times 3 loads of now sodden filthy towels divided by 2 liters of pine cleaner times 28 paper towels plus 1 mop which I'll never use again times 2 gagging children equals how many beers for Mom?

If you said 1, you'd be right.  Give yourself a pat on the back!

It's Monday, y'all.

Ah, just another shitty day in paradise!

P.S. There are bonus points if you can guess what the time was when I actually consumed my beer.  Good luck!

Face Palm

Human beings never fail to surprise me.

As a kid, Dad and I would park ourselves on a mall bench and watch the crowds pass by.  Exciting stuff, I know, but boy did we have enough fodder on which I could exercise my bourgeoning talent for sarcasm.

The other night, I managed to escape to the local bookstore all by my lonesome (have I mentioned what a great husband I have?) to score some new reading material.  Ah, peace and quiet and no Co-Defendants.  The checkout was manned (and I use 'man' loosely, but 'boyed' just doesn't have the same oomph, does it?) by a baby-faced whippersnapper who enthusiastically inquired if I had a store discount card.

'No,' I replied, 'but let me give you my phone number'.

You should've seen the look of abject horror on his face.  A few uncomfortable seconds passed before it dawned on me that the twerp thought I was hitting on him.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!  There I stood, a 38-year old suburban mom, wearing my 'awesome wife' t-shirt and sporting more leg stubble than he had facial hair.  Pardon me for saying so, sweet cheeks, but do you honestly think I'd schlep my way into felony territory for a go-round with the likes of you?!  Oh.  Em.  Gee.

Mind you, I'm not opposed to the whole idea of being a cougar, but I am married and I'm in no hurry for DH to check out on me yet.
  

Standing there, staring at the little shit, I channelled my inner Clint Eastwood (him, I'd go felony for, btw) from Gran Torino (Get offa my lawn!) and said...

 I don't want a date...I want my damn discount!

As if.

Perhaps It's Best They Don't Know

I've often wondered what my great-grandparents would think of our fast-paced, techno-overloaded, in your face society with its no-holds-barred attitude.

Take television, for instance.

Do ANY of us really care to hear former Dallas Cowboys coach Jimmy Johnson discuss his, um, johnson and shill for an E.D. drug company?  If by some stretch you don't know what E.D. is, please Google it as the mere thought of him and it gives me the willies dry heaves.  Do moms want their sons to be regaled with horror stories of dryness/wetness/itch/odor south of the belt?  I haven't yet had THE TALK with my son, but thanks to House Hunters, I had the joy of explaining that yes, indeed, my son, those two men do sleep in the same bed and no, they aren't brothers.  I don't want to know you spent twelve hours in the Emergency Department because your little blue pill worked so well that you're now blind, deaf and mute from lack of oxygen to your brain; that your 'plumbing' leaks; or that it's now so much more comfortable for you to do number two.

I can just see them, these two simple country folks, spinning in the grave while the evening news anchor gushes like a pre-teen girl at a Justin Bieber concert, delivering his salacious bounty of all things related to cigars, stains that just won't come out and an Arkansas Willy that simply wouldn't be contained.

Really?

While I give a nod to the irony that, by blogging, I too, add my bit of poo to the pile, I'd like to think that even I have my limits and that some things are better left unsaid and unseen.

Which brings me to my next rant:  VISIBLE UNDERGARMENTS.

I am not talking about pantylines, as those are forgiveable, especially if you've chowed down a few too many donuts and lattes and have to squeeze yourself into your skinny jeans 'cause the others are at the dry cleaners.  I'm talking visible to my eyes, proudly displayed for all and sundry to enjoy, your Victoria's Secret unmentionables.  I have not a care for your choice (or lack thereof) of derriere covering:  bikini, granny-panty, thong, commando?  My policy is don't ask, don't tell.  And, no, Mr. President, I for one do not care if it's boxers or briefs.

However, I must tell you, and please have someone standing by to hold your hand and the smelling salts because the shock may be too much for you to bear all by your lonesome, visible butt-floss IS! NOT! A! FASHION! STATEMENT!  It is a flashing-neon, high-wattage, Vegas-style shout out to every human with a pulse in your immediate vicinity that you, my friend, are bona fide trash with a capital T. 

As the mother of a tween boy, my message for you is simple...

PULL UP YOUR FRIGGIN' PANTS, SLUT PUPPY!