Monday, December 7, 2009

The Suspicious Advertisement

Saw this on the bulletin board at the market this morning. Alas, I prefer my housework to be done by immature Lithuanians. Although the quotation marks make me question whether this person is indeed "mature", or "Polish". Or, for that matter, a "woman".

Thursday, November 19, 2009

If My Neuroses Were Pokemon

Ash: Hi! I'm Ash Ketchum! Welcome to the Sinnoh Region!

Me: Oh . . . right. Hey, Ash. Nice to meet you here in Pokemon World. Or whatever. I'm thrilled to be here.

(under my breath) Thank God there's still alcohol in this animated, parallel universe.

Ash: What did you say?!

Me: Nothing. Could you lower your voice, please? This isn't pep squad.

Ash: Right!! Are you a fellow Pokemon Trainer? What is your Pokemon?

Me: I have an Anxietor.

Ash: Anxietor! But I have never seen or heard of such a Pokemon!

Me: She's agoraphobic. She pretty much stays inside the Pokeball.

Ash: Let my Pikachu do battle with your Anxietor!

Me: Yeah . . . not a good idea.

Ash: But I insist!

Me: (sigh) All right. Anxietor, it's time to do battle. Come out, please. No, you don't look fat. I swear. Yes, I promise no one will laugh at you. That's right. Step outside.

Ash: What a peculiar pocket monster you possess! Let me emphasize my mirth with loud and frantic laughter! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Me: (to Anxietor). Ignore him. He sounds like a girl.

Ash: Let us begin! Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!

Anxietor! Use Panic Attack!

Ash: How strange! Your Pokemon appears to have turned blue!

Me: Yeah, she does that when she hyperventilates. (slapping Anxietor) Breathe, dammit! Get ahold of yourself, bitch!

Ash: She's recovered! Pikachu, use Volt Tackle!

Me: Anxietor, use Meltdown!

Ash: Your Pokemon is defeated! I'm afraid this Meltdown Attack was completely ineffective!

Me: It always is, Ash. It always is. Come, Anxietor. Time for your Valium.

Friday, November 13, 2009


Meet my shame spiral. His name is Floyd.

Floyd’s job is to guilt me out over my various and sundry failings. This causes me to engage in all manner of unhealthy and self-destructive behavior, such as eating Nutella straight from the jar with my fingers. Or blowing off dinner to watch consecutive showings of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (a little take-out never hurt nobody). All of which, in turn, brings on another visit from Floyd.

See how this shame spiral thing works? Good. Let’s watch Floyd in action.

Here’s Floyd passing judgment on me as I eat the last Skittles from my daughter’s Halloween candy. Skittles happen to be my daughter’s favorite – and why not? It’s the Original Fruit Bite-Sized Candy!

Please don’t give me that look, Floyd. It’s not as if she’ll ever know. Besides, no eight year old girl should eat her weight in sugar. I’m just looking out for her health, right? RIGHT????

Whatever. Where’s that Nutella?

Here’s me borrowing from my son’s change jar so that I can tip the pizza guy.

Floyd does not approve.

Oh, COME ON Floyd. I said borrowing! I’ll pay it back . . . PROMISE! What’s the kid done to earn twenty-three bucks, anyway? Aside from losing a few lousy teeth?

Know what, Floyd? You’re starting to get on my nerves. A woman can’t live in this kind of a pressure-cooker. Besides, Showgirls is on, and I want to watch it guilt-free. With my Nutella. And a bottle of good white.

Floyd, meet my kids.

That’s right. Spend some quality time together.

Now pardon me, but I’ve got to go catch that psychotic, ginger-haired choreographer Hitler-scream at Elizabeth Berkeley. Thrust it, THRUST IT!!!

Friday, October 30, 2009

Apocalypse (Kill Me) Now

One day this past summer, I was stricken with an acute case of MID -- known to the psychiatric community as Mommy Inferiority Disorder. Unlike most mental illnesses, MID is communicable; I myself contracted it after visiting a friend whose child flawlessly performed a piano sonatina for my benefit. Said child is also tri-lingual, gorgeous, and unfailingly polite.

I returned home from this visit to find my own spawn sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV, playing Nintendo.

"Hi guys!" I said. They didn't bother to look up, although my son did flick his wrist like he was brushing away a fly.

"Hello!" I repeated. "Not now," said my daughter. "Sonic just reached level 5 and we don't want to blow it."

This marked the precise onset of MID. I yanked the Nintendo power cord from it's player. After the kids finally stopped crying, they confronted me.

"Whatdja do that for?" asked my son.

"Because playing too many video games turns your brain into mashed potatoes."

"Really?" asked my daughter."Seriously?"

"Oh, yeah. Totally." I sniffed her head. "Smells like gravy."

After the second round of crying subsided, I announced that we were going to do something fun. Something productive. Something creative. "Let's make a movie!" I said.

It got off to a good start. We created a plot, although I had to nix my son's suggestion for an alien ambush. We created the characters out of play-doh. We grabbed some props.

And then it got ugly. First off, my idea to make a stop-animation movie proved to be over-ambitious and totally deranged. I thought it would be "fun" and "educational" for the kids to move their clay figures increments of an inch and shoot pictures of them. Over and over again. Hundreds of times.

Yes, I am batshit.

Secondly, never entrust your children with doing set work. NEVER. Props were moved before I yelled "SHOOT!" A pivotal scene where the car backs over a character and flattens him had to be shot -- and the character re-molded -- twice, as my son couldn't figure out how to press the "ON" button for the video.

Another scene required my daughter to drop a basketball onto a character. She dropped it from a standing position and missed by a good two feet. I told her to crouch, and she missed again. I told her to squat and hold the ball directly above the character, AND SO HELP ME GOD THE GIRL STILL MISSED, EVEN THOUGH THE TARGET WAS A SCANT TWELVE INCHES AWAY.

I admit, I said some inexcusable things to my children. Along the lines of: "A monkey could press that button. And I'm not talking about one of those smart Rhesus monkeys. I'm talking about a regular chimp, straight out of the jungle."

They were outraged, of course, and rightfully so. My son told me "you have a problem with your attitude" -- words I usually direct at him. Man, that karma's a bitch.

I apologized to both of them and assured them that one day I would burn in hell for my words. This seem to satisfy them. They scooted away -- literally, on their Razor scooters. Meanwhile, I got down to the business of editing the footage.

It was like slogging through wet cement in hip-boots. I called for my son and tried to convince him that dragging and clicking with software is a damn good time. He pointed, he clicked, and then he left to go play Pokemon.

By the time I was done, I was unhinged. My husband returned home to find me in my underwear doing martial arts moves in front of the mirror. Luckily I didn't punch it, like Martin Sheen did in Apocalypse Now. I just punched my husband instead.

And so here's the end result. It turned out decent, except for the fact that I seem to have the voice of an 80-year-old hillbilly woman.

Now my kids call themselves auteurs. They also run like hell whenever I suggest turning off the TV to do something "fun".

Monday, September 7, 2009

Where's a Hungry Shark When You Need One?

Okay, I'm going to say it. And damn the consequences.

I hated, hated HATED Ponyo. Hated it!

Yes, yes, I know. It's visually arresting, creatively ground-breaking, magical, exquisite, insert-your-own-breathless-adjective here.

It's also unequivocally and purely wrong.

It's bad enough that Japan unleashed the scourge that is Pokemon. No, they had to create yet another cutesy-yet-deeply-disturbing blight on the cultural landscape.

I'm sure you know the set-up by now. Ponyo is a fish that yearns to be human. When she's first caught by the young protagonist, Sosuke, she looks like this:

Now, I don't know about you folks. But if the little minnow I caught had bug-eyes and a vaguely human face, I'd be a little unnerved. I might even scream and throw the devil-spawn back into the depths from which she came. But no one in Ponyo, whether child or adult, seems remotely troubled by a fish that looks like a genetic hybrid experiment gone tragically awry.

But wait, there's more! Ponyo's transformation from fish to human is instigated when she consumes ham. Yeah, you just read that right. No fairy intervenes, no magic spell. It's the ham.

She just scarfs down a slice of pork, and BOOM! The next thing you know, she's sprouted bi-toed chicken limbs! She looks like newly-animated flesh that's just crawled out of a petri dish!

Dear readers, there will be no more ham sandwiches in this household.

I could go on about how Sasuke's mother takes him on a hell-ride through narrow, winding cliff roads, in the middle of a hurricane. Or about Ponyo's ostensibly transgendered father, a cross between the frontman for Poison and a Barbie doll. Or about Cate Blanchett, doing her uber-enchanted-sexy-fairy accent.

But I won't. I'll just leave you with the subtitled Ponyo theme song, which bores into your head like Satan's own drillbit.

It ain't right, people.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Pristiq Critique

I loathe this commercial. Play the clip to see why.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Middle Age: The Garage Band Version

A weekend or so back, Hubs and I ferried the ol' offspring to Hellertown, PA to visit the fabled Lost River Cavern -- the area's #1 attraction.

The #2 attraction in Hellertown? My money's on these guys:

We tailed the Midlife Crisis Band (MCB) on their way to some sort of church/charity/carnival/thingee that looked like a hoot and a holler. Still, as we drove, I couldn't help but think the band name was a little on the vague side. What kind of mid-life crisis are we talking about here? Viagara and a sportscar? Or your basic vaginoplasty?

If it was my band, I'd use the same name as one of the eighties/nineties bands I grew up with -- with a mid-life twist.

Remember Nine Inch Nails? I don't either, really, but here they are:

The mid-life version: Nine Inch Hemmorhoids.

Ahem. So how was your pregnancy experience?

In high school, because I was freakishly sensitive, I had a thing for Simple Minds.

Mid-life version: Dimpled Hinds.

Which of course refers to my childrens' darling derrieres and IN NO WAY describes my own curdled buttflesh.

The high school jocks liked to crank some Rush:

Mid-life version: Flush.

That's right. FLUSH. As in: Did you remember to flush? Or, alternatively: God &%#@! Who didn't flush? Also: I know you said you did, but I didn't hear the toilet flush.

It's a compelling topic of conversation in this family. If walls could only talk. Or flush the damn toilet.

Finally, this one's a little late-nineties, but we all know Aqua, the group that gave us that hideously annoying "Barbie Girl" song.

Mid-life version: Lycra.

Because every pair of jeans I own has it. As well as a "relaxed fit" in the hips and thighs.