Sunday, September 14, 2014

And you thought swimsuit season was rough...

Well it’s almost that time of year again - time for the stores to start selling skimpy, role-playing, lingerie outfits under the guise of being Halloween costumes. Time to tack the word sexy in front of even the most un-sexy of concepts in order to sell shitty costumes to women with low self-esteem: Sexy Ice Cream Truck Driver, Sexy Big Bird, and my personal favorite of the day, Sexy Ursula:

I’m sorry, Sassy Ursula. Now, in case you forgot, here is what Ursula actually looks like:

Ursula, according to Wikipedia, is an “obese, lavender-skinned, white-haired female human with a facial mole, but from the waist down she has six black tentacles."

Well I’ll be. I always said that if ever there was a character destined to become a slutted-up Halloween costume, it was Ursula the half human/half octopus sea witch from the Little Mermaid. No doubt.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we should all dress up like this:

Or this:

Even though those are totally lovely costumes.  And okay fine, this one isn’t too terrible, aside from the poor choice of shoes.  You're a Ninja Turtle for Christ sake, save the black pumps for the Naughty Secretaries.  A thigh-high brown suede boot would have been a better choice:

But then we have the likes of this:

And this:

Googling the words “sexy Halloween costume” simply takes you to lingerie sites that have slapped a “halloween” tag onto all of their usual inventory. The above picture I found on a site called “Forplay."  Cute.  Nothing says Halloween party like bobbing for apples and gratuitous nipple exposure.

I also found this:

Notice the clever placement of the trident.  I'm willing to bet this little number is available in crotchless.

Look, I know I'm 35 years old, live in the suburbs, and on Halloween night wear a black Columbia fleece and a pair of Sketchers that I've had since, literally, 1997.  But where in bloody hell are other people wearing these costumes?  If you count up all the websites selling these things, there have got to be millions of these costumes taking up space on planet Earth, all in those cheap plastic bags with the snaps.  But there can't possibly be that big of a market for them. I've been to Halloween parties, even when I was younger, and people just don't show up in this shit.  Frat parties?  Probably.  Smart idea, by the way.  Beverly Hills?  Yeah I can see that.  That gross older couple down the street who you've always suspected were swingers?  Most likely.

Anyway, moving on to my next point.  Why do women’s Halloween costumes MAKE NO FUCKING SENSE?

Take this one:

Your classic Sexy Eskimo.  A total idiot.  You know what keeps you warm in the North Pole, ladies? Pants. And not being in a perpetual state of about to suggestively lick a popsicle.  Want to see a man's eskimo costume?  Here:

He's holding a dead fish.  And he's covered head to toe like, you know, he has a brain. Let's try this again.  Women's firefighter costume:

Looks like it's got a good thermal layer.  Those fishnets should hold up well in the event of a backdraft.  And here we have a man's firefighter costume:

Ah, what does it matter.  I have one child and he's a boy.  Speaking of him, a few years ago he dressed up like Nemo.  You know, the fish with one big fin and one small fin, and a tail and all that.  

Oh, yes, here it is:

Crap, that's not right. 

Anyway.  Here's a woman's Luigi costume:

And a man's:

Sigh.   Granted, not many women would want to go out in public wearing those overalls, but how does that translate to Luigi donning a pair of thigh-high white stockings?  This is what he thinks of that:

Me too, Luigi.  Me too.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Mama Watch This

Dear Children Ages 4-6:

Below please find a guide to when it is appropriate, and when it is not appropriate, to yell "Mama, Watch This!"

1.  Mama, watch this!  I can hit a balloon into the air.

Not appropriate.  

2.  Mama, watch this!  I solved the Rubik's Cube!


3.  Mama, watch this!  I can waddle like a duck.

Not appropriate.  Seriously, I'm trying to do the dishes.

4.  Mama, watch this!  I'm juggling the cats.

Appropriate.  Now let me try.

5.  Mama, watch this!  I can slowly turn around in a circle.

Not appropriate.  There is no way I'm stopping what I'm doing to watch that.

6.  Mama, watch this!  I can look up at the ceiling.

Not appropriate.  Come on.  Why is that even a thing?

7.  Mama, watch this!  I contacted Grandma's ghost using the Ouija board.

Not appropriate.

8.  Mama, watch this!  I'm on the roof!

Appropriate.   And I probably should have been watching you earlier.

9.  Mama, watch this!  I'm clapping my hands.

Not appropriate.   What are you, an infant?

10.  Mama, watch this!  I'm reading your blog posts.


Thursday, July 10, 2014

Study Reveals That Yes, This Is What It's All About, Sorry

A ten year study, conducted by a local administrative assistant, has concluded that yes, this is what life is all about.  Filing and typing and answering the telephone.  This is as good as it's going to get for you.  Sorry.

The administrative assistant in charge of the study followed her own career over the course of a ten year period, making detailed case notes on social media such as "Can't they order their own fucking sandwiches?" and "WHAT IS THAT SMELL?? #cubiclessuck".  The administrative assistant dedicated every waking moment of her life to the study, except for weekends when she completely forgot that the study existed.  But then Monday came along and goddammit, the study started again.

While initial findings and inspirational Facebook memes indicated that there was still a sliver of hope, by the end of the ten year period it was clear that no, this is pretty much it.  Printing labels and sticking them onto file folders one hundred times in a row is the reason that you were given the gift of life and born into this world, so you'd better just get used to it.

As a control group, the administrative assistant studied the careers of several friends who did not enter into the field of administrative support.  Such friends include Lisa, who thinks she's special just because she became a lawyer, Mark, who thinks he's cool just because he became a player for the NBA, and Tara who thinks she's hot shit because she plays the violin for an orchestra in Vienna.


Preliminary results indicated that you shouldn't have even bothered going to college, while by the end of the ten year period it was confirmed that yes, college was a total waste of your parent's money.  Further research also found that when you want something, all of the universe conspires in helping you achieve it, except in your case.  Just forget it.  I mean, it's been ten years. 

Complete results of the study may be found on the administrative assistant's Facebook newsfeed, Blogger page, and within several thousand emails to her administrative coworkers who used to be content in their careers but have since concluded that shit, she's right. 

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

How We're Celebrating Independence Day Week At The Office

*Complete financial dependence on corporation.

*Timesheets due July 3rd.

*Halfhearted "Happy Fourth!" to jerkoffs leaving office at 2:00 p.m. on July 2nd.

*Contemplating alternate world where United States never gained independence from England, and how fulfilling and cool our alternate British careers probably would have been.

*Increase in white paper, red and blue pen use.

*Delighting coworkers by performing Stars & Stripes Forever cymbal crashes at random moments throughout week.

*Hot dog eating contest alone in car, just like last Wednesday.

*Setting off Roman Candle.  Somewhere.  You'll see.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

"His thoughts became gloomy again.  All this was very far removed from the life to which he had looked forward.  There are some people who take naturally to a life of commerce.  Mike was not of these.  To him the restraint of the business was irksome.  He had been used to an open-air life, and a life, in its way, of excitement.  He gathered that he would not be free till five o'clock, and that on the following day he would come at ten and go at five, and the same every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, all the year round, with a ten days' holiday.  The monotony of the prospect appalled him.  He was not old enough to know what a narcotic is Habit, and that one can become attached to and interested in the most unpromising jobs.  He worked away dismally at his letters till he had finished them.  Then there was nothing to do except sit and wait for more."

Monday, June 9, 2014

Monday Morning Wodehouse

"Master Maloney was no early bird.  Larks who rose in his neighborhood, rose alone.  He did not get up with them.  He was supposed to be at the office at nine o'clock.  It was a point of honor with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine-thirty.  On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute, or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it."

Monday, June 2, 2014

The Great Outdoors

My four year old son is not an outdoor person. This works out smashingly because a) we moved from a condo to a house so that we could have a backyard, and b) my husband spends 6,000 hours a month cutting the grass.

I’m not an outdoor person either, especially not when we have moths like this one hanging out at the front door, big enough to sell me a set of encyclopedias:

And also this guy, hanging out around back waiting to slit my throat:

No, I can’t say that I blame him. Bugs are icky and having to slather on sunscreen is the absolute worst (drinkable sunscreen anyone?) But the weather is finally nice, we dropped a load of cash on this place, and there’s that thing I mentioned earlier about my husband not having dismounted the riding mower since 2012. SO WE KIND OF HAVE TO USE THE YARD. Life isn’t fair, kiddo.

Out we go into the yard with a selection of bats, balls, gardening equipment, Velcro catchy things, bubbles, plastic lawnmowers, watering cans, gardening gloves, and assorted other crap that has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it because, let's face it, everything has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it - and it's only going to get worse with the upcoming release of Cars 3.

“What do you want to do first?” I ask, picturing him leaping gleefully across the lawn, the dog that we will never have because I hate dogs, chasing joyfully behind. It’s a beautiful image.

“I don’t WANT to play outside!” he declares. He collapses onto his knees, then, upon realizing that he has collapsed into grass that has bugs in it, springs to his feet and runs around in circles squealing.

“But it’s so nice outside. Do you want to play in your sandbox?” I point to the sandbox that my husband spent a month building and is now the storage area for lawn chairs when he cuts the grass.

"I want to go inside."

"What did we even buy this house for?"


"Never mind."

Eventually, after a thorough application of bug spray, he will relent and agree to play some baseball.  This is until, by some fluke of physics, I happen to hit the ball clear across the yard.  

"How come I'M not as good as mummy?"

(Seriously, he thinks I'm good at sports.)

"I'm not good, I just got lucky.  You can do it too, you just have to keep practicing."

"I want to go inside."

"We're not going inside yet."

Baseball is over.  Child goes over to a ceramic turtle, lifts it up, and releases about fifty gazillion ants in close proximity to his feet.  Somehow he's totally okay with this.  We all stand around for a while watching the ceramic turtle become engulfed in tiny black moving dots.  It's rather peaceful.

Wait, what's that sound?


I'll let you decide if it was me, my husband, or my son, that just screamed and ran full speed through the wall of our house like Wylie Coyote.

It doesn't matter.  We're inside now.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Sleeping In

He knocks on the bedroom door at 6:45 a.m., climbs into bed, slides his arm under my neck, and pulls me in so that our cheeks are squashed together.  “I didn’t need to bring Lamby,” says the little voice.  “I have you.”  Lamby being his favorite stuffed animal, this is quite an honor.  We lay there in peace for several seconds.   This is nice.  Maybe we’ll both fall back asleep until 9:00 a.m.

There’s a foot in my stomach.  The little voice can no longer stand the silence and begins to ask questions.  It begins to form hypotheses.  If it’s light outside, shouldn’t we be getting up?  Why aren’t we getting up if it’s light outside?  The conversation abruptly turns to trail mix.  They made some at school.  Ingredients are listed.  More questions are raised.  There were pretzels in the trail mix, but there were also pretzels in another bowl.  Why?  Why is this?  I MUST KNOW THIS RIGHT NOW.

I don’t know.  I’m sorry.  I’m starting to get a crick in my neck.  I roll over, check the time.  6:49.  The sight of one of my eyelids popping open has set off alarm bells in his head. 


“Can we have pancakes?”  he asks.  Now he’s sitting up.  There is zero chance that he'll lay back down again.  Maybe not ever. 

“Not today, buddy," I say.  "We’re going to a birthday party and you’re going to have a lot of cake and stuff.”

“Why can’t we have pancakes?”

“I just told you.”

Almost imperceptibly, the little head starts to rotate.   Weekends are nothing but a slow descent into The Exorcist.


“Okay, okay.  I have to go to the bathroom though.”  I take my phone into the bathroom and sit on the toilet.  I read some Facebook and try to get my eyes to open all the way.



“On the toilet.”





“I need water.”

The doorknob starts to jiggle.   I wouldn't be all that surprised if he flattened himself out and slid under the door, like Judge Doom after he got steamrolled.  I let him in.  He gets some water.  We head out into the hall. 

"Let's go downstairs, buddy.  I have to feed the cats."  

He collapses to his knees.  "I don't WANT to feed the cats." 

"Okay.  I didn't ask you to." 

>>Insert screeching pig squeal sound here<<
"What? What's the matter?"

"I WANT to feed the cats."

"Okay, go ahead then."


I stare in wide-eyed silence at what I can only describe as Gollum, hunched up on the floor, arguing back and forth with himself.

Except instead of arguing about whether or not he should kill Frodo and take back his Precious, he's arguing about whether or not he wants to feed the cats.  Or whether or not he wants his socks on.  Or whether or not he wants a hug.  This type of weirdness carries on over the course of the day.  It's only a matter of time before the pea soup projectile vomit starts flying.  But until then, I will assume this to be normal four year old behavior. 

I check the time.  7:02. 

It's going to be a long weekend.