I write stuff here and you read it. You roll your eyes. I try to think of stuff that will elicit more eye rolling. The end.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
It's Not Easy Being The Sane One, Part I
--There are people out there who eat chili with Ritz crackers instead of saltines. Yeah, you read that right. Ritz goddamn crackers! Chili is perhaps the world's greatest food, something to be eaten in winter or summer, for breakfast or dinner. And it's an absolute requirement for anyone with a hangover. The idea that mindless peasants all over the world are fouling this manna from Heaven with the sweetened cardboard that is Ritz Crackers is horrifying and shameful. I can only pray these people will be punished in the afterlife.
--Even as we speak, in bars all across America, millions of people are blithely sipping margaritas made with sweet and sour--and pretending they taste good. Sweet and sour is vile, wretched stuff, and should never be consumed. It's probably perfectly good for rinsing out a kitty litter box or flushing out a radiator, but it's not suitable for the delicate human digestive tract. Its very existence began as a practical joke, I'm sure. Some lazy 20-something bartender got tired of mixing up real lime juice and sugar each time a customer ordered a margarita, so he devised a scheme to make things easier for himself, therefore freeing himself up to take more breaks to sit in his car and get stoned during his shift. At first, he probably just mixed up a huge vat of of lime juice and sugar and stored it in the refrigerator, where it could be swiftly accessed any time a customer ordered a drink. But after a couple of days he probably realized the lime juice was going bad when stored that way--and no way was this lazy prick willing to mix up a new jug daily. So the shiftless swine stopped using lime juice entirely, instead throwing in some limey sugary powdered Koolaid-type crap thereafter known as sweet and sour. His piss-drunk customers didn't notice or complain, so the a-hole bragged to all his bartender friends that he'd found a way to make drinks faster and smoke pot more on his shift than anyone else he knew. The sensation caught on, and voila--fast-forward to the present day, where I can be seen in restaurant after restaurant, bar after bar, year after year, asking waiters and bartenders if I can get a margarita made with lime and sugar instead of sweet and sour, only to be met with a blank stare as if I had just asked if I could please have the manager's panties blended up in my drink. Am I the only sane person left? Why does everyone cheerfully accept drinks made with sweet and sour, when sweet and sour tastes like sugared bile? My liver demands better. Nay, after the hell it's been through, my liver deserves better.
Oh, the list goes on and on. I'll let you in on the rest of it, but I'm sure you're reeling from these first two shockers. Yes, the world is a sick place. Thank God that there's still someone like me--perhaps the only sane one left--to speak the truth and stand up for what's right and decent. Now I call on you, my faithful readers, to join me in my fight. The next time a waiter tries to slip some sweet and sour past you, break the margarita glass over his head and disembowel him with one of the broken shards. Next time you see some halfwit desecrating a bowl of chili with Ritz crackers, ram the spoon up his nose. We can't just sit back and watch the world go to hell in a handbasket.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
The Bad Mommy Chronicles, Part II
So no, this is not a mommy blog. However, from time to time I am compelled to inform you of some cute or interesting thing Diaper Butt has done recently. Or, as in this case, some close call in which he narrowly escaped with his life and all four tiny limbs.
All stories in our house these days seem to begin with, "I left Jake alone for a split second, and by the time I turned my back...," and end with a description of a David Blaine-type stunt performed by my toddler. A few days ago, I was cleaning the living room, and had my eye on Jake, who was playing in his room. He was sitting on the floor talking to his toys, which seemed safe enough to me. I went about my cleaning, and after a moment I noticed it was too quiet in the house. This is always a bad sign. When Jake is behaving himself and everything is normal and good, he chatters away ceaselessly--a trait he gets from his father. When I suddenly realize a silence has fallen over the house, it's time to panic. This kind of quiet invariably means Jake has discovered something dangerous and is stealthily trying to get himself killed before I have a chance to interrupt him. When I peered into his room to see what he was up to, I saw that he had climbed up onto the little table by his bed, and was sprawled across it on his belly, legs outstretched behind him as he gripped the edge of the table and peered over it as if he were peering cautiously over the edge of the world's tallest building.
"No!" I scolded him as I picked him up, envisioning him tipping the thing over with his Tony Soprano belly leading the way, subsequently bashing his big head on the floor.
A few mornings later I was getting some breakfast ready for him in the kitchen when I thought of something I wanted to tell Brian, who was in the bathroom getting ready for work. Jake was banging a wooden spoon against the kitchen floor when I left him. I chatted with Brian for a few minutes in the bathroom until I realized the banging had stopped. Taking note that the house was now filled with that "suicide quiet," I knew I'd better locate my chubby little masochist fast. Leaning around the corner to look for him, I saw he was no longer in the kitchen. I found him in the living room, on top of our behind-the-couch table crawling in a tight circle on the glass top as he looked over each edge. "No!" I admonished him as I picked him up, imagining him throwing the whole glassy, irony death trap off balance as he crashed to the floor in a screaming heap.
Today Brian was at home in the living room, having taken note of the fact that Jake was gnawing on toys in the dining room. When Brian heard the sound of one of our ceramic coasters clanking against wood, he sighed and headed for the dining room, thinking Jake had somehow managed to reach far enough onto the table to grab a coaster and had begun banging it against a chair leg. Instead he found Jake standing on the dining room table clutching his coaster, apparently squatting now and then to thunk it against the table top.
So you see my problem; the kid's an adrenalin junkie. Next, I expect to find doing cartwheels on the roof of our house, or possibly scaling the city water tower, or perhaps attempting to bungee jump off of an overpass. This won't look good to the busybodies at Child Protective Services, so I need to take some preventative measures, fast. I'm still fairly new to the whole mommy thing, so maybe some of you more experienced types can take a look at my list of ideas and see which one sounds best:
-Stapling his feet to the floor.
-Chaining a boat anchor to his leg.
-Magnetizing the floors in our house and making him wear magnetic booties.
-Putting a brick in his diaper.
-Greasing up all our furniture with Vaseline so he can't get enough traction to climb on it.
-Putting an inner tube around his middle so he bounces when he hits the floor after falling off a table or chair.
-Putting an Elizabethan collar on him, like the ones pets have to wear to prevent them from licking a wound too much. (This wouldn't solve the climbing problem, but it'd be fun to watch him walk around wearing the thing. Plus it'd make for some funny pictures to post on my blog.)
That's all I've thought of so far. I'd probably have been able to compile a more comprehensive list if I weren't so busy snatching Jake off the various furniture items in my house. What happened to the good old days when a mother could ignore a kid for hours on end and he'd still be in one piece at the end of the day?
Sunday, May 14, 2006
I'm an excellent host.
As those of you who insist on peeping in my windows already know, my sister and niece were recently here for a visit. I was a most hospitable and gracious host, the likes of which would put Martha Stewart to shame. (I mean, more shame than her recent prison stint, even.)
First, there was the welcome banner I made for their arrival. How many of you put out welcome banners for your guests? Not many, I'd guess. Which is a shame, because it's such a nice gesture, and really lets your guests know how you feel about having them over.
(Candypants is my nickname for my sister, and Brandypants is my niece, whose real name is Brandy. It's one of those things on the incredibly long list of things that's probably only funny to me.)
In my guest bathroom, I went to the trouble of displaying a framed photo of my dear sister, taken at bathtime. Well, technically, it's a picture of my son's body with my sister's head, but still, it's a very charming photo, and I get bonus points for the fact that it's a one-of-a-kind piece of art.
And for my final decorating touch, I put another photo of my sister in a place where I could be sure it would be seen and enjoyed every day. Candypants doesn't think this is such a great picture of herself, but I figured that wouldn't be a problem since most of the time it would be to her back, anyway.
And yes, this is the kind of movie star treatment you can expect to receive when you stay at Chez Karlababble. Plus, I'll allow you to get up with my son every morning and feed him while I sleep in, which is really a treat for my guests. All I ask is that you don't all email me at once with your requests to stay at my place; regrettably, I can't house all of you at the same time. One or two guests at a time, please, and be sure to send a photo of yourself ahead of time so I can decorate accordingly.
(By the way, I've missed you!)
Monday, May 01, 2006
Think of this as an opportunity.
This is the sister I refer to as Candypants. There is nothing in this world I love more than my sister. Well, except for my son. And maybe my husband. And nacho cheese Doritos. And a good long nap. And tiny little Bulldog puppies. And the letter Q. But aside from those few things, (and several dozen others), I love her more than anything. So my full attention must be devoted to her during her visit. This means I don't have much time for blogging. Depending on your outlook, this may be a blessing or a curse.
The thing I love second most in this world (I mean, after my son and my husband and nacho cheese Doritos and long naps and Bulldog puppies and the letter Q and the other unnamed things) is my niece, who is also here for a visit. So between the lovable sister and the lovable niece, I have plenty of activity in my household to prevent me from blogging.
Use this time wisely, won't you? People tend to spend too much time surfing the 'net, which erodes the brain and dulls the senses (particularly on this site). You need a break from this mind-numbing silliness, don't you? Take this opportunity to learn a new skill, experience a new adventure.
Can't think of any new adventures to expand your horizons? Choose from this handy list. You could:
-Take up knife throwing.
-Sell your fresh, un-tainted urine specimens to junkies on probation. (This option is only possible for the handful of my readers who actually have untainted urine.)
-Sleep with a relative.
-Become a pole vaulter.
-Finally kick heroin once and for all.
The possibilities are endless. By the time I write my next post, you could be a whole new, more exciting, more interesting, more adventurous you! And I think we can all agree that the old you was pretty dull. So please, take this opportunity to enlarge your brain, expand your mind, without the interference of the brain-shrinking material this site is known for.
And don't worry, I'll be back very soon to destroy whatever progress you've made.