Another small step (backward) for parent-kind

There are plenty of model parents in this world. I see their Instagram posts, their Pinterest boards, their just general fucking smugness about how they have this all figured out. Meanwhile I’m over here like, how many days ago did they take showers?

So in order to understand what I’m about to share with you, you need to be familiar with this video. I don’t quite get the humor, but if you are a fifth grader, this is like the most hilarious thing to quote.

My friends, I’ve always said that when opportunity knocks, you answer. And opportunity knocked for me a few days ago.

I had ordered some raw almonds online from Trader Joe’s because there’s not one close to me, I like their almonds, and I JUST DID, OK? I got it through Amazon Prime, so, free shipping. Bonus for me. I checked the mail after I got home. I had my box from Amazon, which I opened when I got inside the house. Both my kids were sitting on the couch, using their electronic apparati, when I walked into the room.

“Hey guys, guess what came in the mail today?” I said, barely even able to say this with a straight face.

“What?” they both asked, probably hoping it was a video game for them or something.

Triumphantly holding up the bag of almonds, I replied, “DEEZ NUTS! GOTTEM!” and then I cracked myself up laughing. The six year old laughed, and the 10 year old basically just gave me a SMH face.

I call that a win. I don’t know what you call it. Immature, probably.



Nerd Alert

My husband said that I shouldn’t tell this story because it’s embarrassing. But honestly, if anyone’s going to embarrass me, it’s going to be me. So here we go.

I took my kids to Game Stop to sell back a bunch of games. My older kid picked the new UFC game for PS4. We brought it up to the counter and the (female) Game Stop worker asked us if we watched WWE.

“We used to,” I said, which is the truth. It’s been probably two years since my older son was hard core into WWE. And by “my older son,” I mean, my husband and I.

“Do you know who Shane McMahon is?” she asked.

“Yeah, he’s Vince’s son,” I answered. Already showing my WWE chops.

“Well, he gets to fight Undertaker at Wrestlemania and if he wins, Vince is going to give him WWE,” she informed me.

“Oh, ok,” I said, losing interest. Like, just ring me out, weirdo.

“Of course,” she continued, “He’s going to lose because Undertaker has never lost at Wrestlemania.”

FALSE. And I cannot believe I am having this conversation, but here it goes, because the next thing I say is, “Well, he did lose the one time. To …” and then amazingly, no joke, I can’t remember who it was he lost to. Fortunately my child filled in the name: Brock Lesnar.

“Oh, that’s right,” Game Stop Chick said. “Well, that was just the one time. He probably won’t lose again.”

“No, probably not,” I said, swiping my card through the reader thing and wishing none of this had happened.


Why do drunk people love me so much?

I went to a concert at House of Blues Friday night. It was an 80’s cover band. I’ve seen them before and I was looking forward to going. I wore some leggings with a long top over them, and almost went for the legwarmers, but I just felt like a fraud when I put them on. Plus my husband wasn’t into dressing up at all. He did put on a Def Leppard t-shirt just to be in the spirit of things, I suppose.

Prior to the concert, I was having dinner in the bar with my hubby. We were sitting at a high top table which afforded a great view of the bar itself, a small stage in which a super cheesy DJ was administering karaoke as well as random contests, all 80’s-themed. I noticed that the people coming in to the bar were not only in costume, but were DRUNK AF. Maybe drunk isn’t even the right word. Crunked? Hammered? Plastered? Fit-shaced? Just horribly, horribly wasted. And I’m not talking about your typical 20-something bar-goer. These were 40 and 50 somethings who obvi can’t hold their liquor anymore because it was 7 p.m. on a Friday night and the concert didn’t even start for two more hours.

So, side note: the DJ asked a trivia question about the song he played and said that anyone who could identify the artist would win tickets to an upcoming show. Within the first note I was like, duh, it’s “Shattered Dreams” by Johnny Hates Jazz. Welp, no one else knew the answer although a few tried. I didn’t even want the tickets but won ’em because, BAM. Everyone must know what 80’s prowess I have.

Had I been with a group of wasted MILFs I might have gone for the karaoke. But I’m still recovering from the plague, and may have mortified my husband, so I withheld. Had I taken the stage, the patrons of the HOB bar would have heard my rendition of “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)” by Hall and Oates.

Anyway. Back to this high-top table and the crunked patrons. Now you’d think if you saw a couple sitting at a table together, drinks and food being consumed, that this meant, eh, probably not good candidates to sidle up to and tell your life story to. You’d assume incorrectly. This particularly raucous group was standing at the bar not far from where we were. I looked over at them briefly and one of the gentlemen caught my eye and mouthed the name of the 80’s band, questioningly. I nodded. I guess that was the signal for them to invade us because the next thing I know, this woman, probably about 45, overtook us and in about five minutes, I knew more about her than I know about most of my co-workers who I’ve known for five years. She was BLACKOUT drunk. I saw her in the restroom of the venue maybe an hour later and she had ZERO recognition.

She seemed to really like me. I don’t know why. She was very concerned that I, too, wasn’t drunk. Then she didn’t like that I said I was from Cleveland even though I’m more toward Akron. Then she didn’t like that I said I grew up in the eastern suburbs because she grew up in Lakewood. (East side vs. west side = gangsta shit.) But even after all that, she felt confident enough in me to tell me about her children, where she lives now, the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day parade and the fact that she’s Irish, she went to Catholic school (so did I! Our first thing in common!) and then apologized profusely for how drunk she was. And in the next breath was #sorrynotsorry for being drunk. Oh man, she was a mess. Finally, I’m not sure how, she wandered away from us. Maybe she got bored. Or maybe her attention span was for shit. The next thing I know, she is headed for the karaoke stage. While she didn’t grab the mic, she did provide some strange, non-rhythmic backup dancing to the poor soul who was trying to deliver some Huey Lewis to the people.

Inside the show, I actually tried NOT to stand anywhere near her. I didn’t want to be vomited on, and that chick was definitely headed for Vomitsville. Her group was toward the front of the stage, and I was in the back. About an hour into the show, a large group in the front was escorted out by security. I’m pretty sure it was her group.

I honestly believe that I may have been the only person in the entire venue who was there for the music. It was like a drunken, neon-colored frat party. And yet, the entire time I was watching the show, singing along, nodding my head, etc., I was also thinking: THIS IS THE DREAM. Because it’s always been my dream to be in an 80’s cover band, as long as I’ve been able to play the guitar. And maybe it would play well with my ability to attract drunk people to me. If I was the singer in the band, I would at least be on stage, above the fray, lessening the chance of being barfed on.

I think I’m on to something!

He sees me rollin’.

I see you, Hot Dad Picking Up Your Kid From PSR in the Church Parking Lot.

I saw that smile you gave me. Kind of an amused smile. I’m sure you’re just astounded by how attractive I am. I know. It’s ok. You’re not so bad yourself.

I know I shouldn’t be having these thoughts right now. I’m in a church parking lot, for Christ’s sakes. Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said “for Christ’s sakes.” Or “shit.” Dammit. See, I can’t stop myself.

This will be our moment, our little secret, Hot Dad Picking Up Your Kid from PSR in the Church Parking Lot. In a few seconds, our children will be running to our cars, happy to be done with their religious studies for the evening. But this … this is our time.

You don’t need to know that I’m rocking out to Usher in my car. You don’t even need to know that I’m singing along to it. The windows are closed, so there’s no way you can hear my musical choi-


My dog is in the backseat, happily sniffing the air through my open back window.

So you CAN hear the Usher, the singing, all of it.

I’m just going to casually turn the music down and look away from you now. I’m sorry it has to end this way.

Prepare to have your minds blown.

You guys.

Yesterday, my world was completely flipped, turned upside down. And I’d like to take a minute — just sit right there — because you are about to be as blown away as I was.

toilet tatto

Someone dropped this off at my desk yesterday. What is it, you ask? That, right there, is a “Toilet Tattoo.”

I’ll just wait while you try to wrap your head around the fact that THIS IS A THING.

Simply, it’s an adhesive decoration for the lid of your toilet. The design I am showing above is the more tongue-in-cheek style of Toilet Tattoo; however, these things come in a variety of designs to fit any personality. For instance, there’s a lace-like sticker for those who are a bit fancier than the rest of us. There’s a Chevron pattern that I actually kind of like because — hello, trendy! For the holidays, there’s a squirrel wearing a Santa hat. Honestly – I can’t believe this is JUST NOW catching on! Here we’ve all been foolishly leaving our toilet seat lids unadorned for YEARS! Centuries, even.

The people who came up with these are, frankly, geniuses. This is an entire untapped market of toilet decorating. It’s going to just put the shag carpet toilet lid cover out of business.

Don’t you feel like an idiot for a) not thinking of this yourself and b) not already ordering one for every toilet in your house??????

I’m going to give you some time to recover, and then let’s chat about this. Which one is your favorite?

In today’s episode of “I can’t believe I haven’t been fired yet …”

For some reason, I have been entrusted to manage a small team of people at work. It’s a fun group, and I also do my best to try to maintain levity in the group. Sometimes we border on inappropriate. OK. Forget the “border” part. Sometimes, we are inappropriate.

I suppose that as the leader of the group, I should try to maintain a sense of decorum. But I like a good raunchy joke as much as the next person.

Today, my group had a brainstorming meeting and the conference room was godawful hot. Like, sauna situation happening. We all seated ourselves at the table, each exclaiming some kind of disbelief at the hotness in the room as we entered.

My group is all female except for one lone dude. He gets along really well with us, and he is the one who instituted our “no filter Friday” motto – which means that, on Friday, we are extra-inappropriate.

As we were off Friday for the holiday, I suppose I went with no filter on Monday instead.

The guy in my group entered the room, which as I mentioned before, was fucking sweltering. He had been wearing a cardi over a polo-type shirt. He came in and started unbuttoning the cardigan. I said (*cringe*), “damn, are we getting some ‘Magic Mike’ action here or what?”

I knew it was wrong right after I said it. Everyone laughed, but I was horrified that I had just likened my poor team member to a cheesy stripper. It was demeaning. I felt like a construction worker but in reverse. Ugh.

They let me be in charge of people. I want to say that again.

The infamous Frogman, LHP/RHP

One of my favorite ways to feel superior to others is by openly mocking bad grammar. Especially when it’s done in a public, spectacularly awful fashion such as the newspaper article pictured here. I’ll save you the click by showing you the image.


That’s right, the pitcher is “amphibious.” The definition, pulled from the interwebs, is this…

relating to, living in, or suited for both land and water.
So basically, this dude is half man, half frog??!?!?! That is incredible! I mean, true grocery store tabloid stuff, but REAL. Where has this guy been hiding his entire life? How has he escaped the public eye for so long without notice?
Oh wait.
I think … I think the writer meant “ambidextrous.” Meaning, both-handed.
They use it correctly in the body copy, which means … wait a minute.
Supposedly, the late great Yogi Berra was quoted as saying, back in the day, “He hits from both sides of the plate. He’s amphibious.” Oh, that guy was such a cut-up.
OK, so let’s give the writer the benefit of the doubt. He knew that Yogi quote. And perhaps wrongfully assumed that his readership was in on the joke. But for the rest of us who aren’t quick on the baseball references, it looked like a total dumbass move by the writer and/or copy editor. Now, if they had put “amphibious” in “quotes,” and then made reference to the Berra quote in the body of the article, THEN, as they say, we’d have ourselves a ballgame.
Let’s say that it was an honest mistake and they really DID eff up the headline that badly. They should TOTALLY go with the Yogi Berra thing.

Show finales have made me a paranoid, emotional mess

Man, this yoga instructor can't sing an "om" worth shit. I'd like to teach him to sing. Hell, I'd like to teach the WORLD to sing. I could sure use some Coke right now.
Man, this yoga instructor can’t sing an “om” worth shit. I’d like to teach him to sing. Hell, I’d like to teach the WORLD to sing. I could sure use some Coke right now.

I am an avid fan of Mad Men, and Don Draper, and Jon Hamm, and Jon Hamm’s gigantic … eyes. Needless to say, I tuned in last night for the final episode. I also “went dark” on social media until I had finished both that episode, and last night’s Game of Thrones. Trust me, that was more difficult than I’m willing to admit.

Now, I’ve become a bit jaded over the years, and a few other show finales have put me through the wringer (I’m looking at you, Lost, The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, and Parenthood, just to call up a few from recent memory). With that in mind, I was prepared to just get the figurative shit kicked out of me emotionally. I was ready for anything. Last week, with the revelation that Betty had lung cancer and given a six month prognosis, I was ready for her to blow her brains out at any moment. Television shows no longer make a viewer feel safe. Take any episode of Game of  Thrones. If I get emotionally attached to Jon Snow, then George R.R. Martin will probably have him eviscerated in a horrific fashion just when I least expect it. (Please, George, NOT Jon Snow! I don’t think you’ll kill him, but, just in case. Please don’t.) No longer can we count on everything being wrapped up in a neat little package when the show comes to a close. No more “it was all a dream” or other cop-out endings.

So, while watching Mad Men last night, I was navigating the show’s 90 minutes with extreme trepidation. Sally Draper arrives home to find the kids fending for themselves at dinner. My immediate thought: Betty’s rotting corpse is upstairs and Sally is going to find it. Joan and her Silver Fox boyfriend snort coke for the first time and she  gives him an extra bump. My immediate thought: GOOD GOD NO HE IS GOING TO OVERDOSE THIS IS AWFUL NO NO NO NO NO. But he was fine.

The Campbells board a plane in one of the final scenes. HORRIFIC PLANE CRASH IS IMMINENT. ENTIRE FAMILY KILLED.


Roger marries that french bitch that gave birth to that other french bitch. ROGER, YOU COULD HAVE DONE BETTER!

Don’s hippie friend/cousin/non-blood relation through identify theft deserts him at the yoga retreat. BECAUSE SHE STOLE ALL HIS MONEY AND OMG HE CALLED PEGGY AND HE’S ALL EFFED UP AND HE’S PROBABLY GOING TO DIE RIGHT ON THE PHONE WITH HER, I CAN’T WATCH nooooooooo.

And then Don has this radical moment we’ve been waiting for years for him to have where he actually shows some goddamn human emotion, hugs some guy who thinks he’s food on a refrigerator shelf (I’m minimizing this scene because it actually was making me sob like a goddamn baby because I AM THAT GUY TOO), and then has this epiphany during the savasana and he fucking INVENTS THE COKE JINGLE, YOU KNOW THE ONE, ABOUT TEACHING THE WORLD TO SING. And, scene.

I’m an exhausted, emotional wreck at this point. I’m sobbing, I have no idea what happened there at the end, no one seems to have died in a fiery car crash, there were no curveballs as far as the characters go. For a series finale, it ended fairly neatly. I had to pop some pills to calm myself down afterward, but I blame television in general for that.

Immediately, I hopped online to see what others were saying. Not surprisingly, the reviews were mixed. I’m more on the “loved it” side than anything. I know there are people way smarter than I am, who always saw metaphorical shit happening with this show that I totally missed because I’m a shallow dimwit, who are probably upset because the ending was so direct. I had a few chat sessions with my Mad Men friends and then tried to call it a night. The Coke jingle was bouncing around my head all night. Even into today I wanted to buy the world a Coke.

So, even though it drained every bit of emotion from me, I liked how Mad Men ended. I think the fact that I was such a train wreck is just a testament to how good the show was. I’ll miss you, Don.

Ambrosia, I have questions.

AmbrosiaI was recently listening to the Ambrosia station on Pandora because I needed an infusion of 70’s yacht rock in my life, and I needed it right away. The album cover art happened to catch my eye, which made me realize that I had never actually seen what this band looked like. The picture I had in my mind’s eye is totally different than reality.

After staring at this cover art (calling it, “art,” is a bit of a stretch, actually), I was left with more questions than answers.

For starters, was it ever cool to have this Marge Simpson ‘do like on our friend in the middle? Maybe that’s why he looks so pissed. This dude is, in fact, SO pissed, that his bro on the right is physically restraining him. That brings me to my second question: WHY?

I mean, what possible reason could this guy have to be so angry? As far as I know, all of Ambrosia’s music is of the same ilk — soft and smooth love songs. Is he angry because he had dreams of being in a way cooler rock band, like the Scorpions? And the blond fella doesn’t look too pleased, either. Did someone steal his girlfriend? Are his jeans too tight?

And then finally, to the guy on the left, who I think is the lead singer.

Is he somehow related to Ryan Gosling?

ryan gosling
Hey, girl. You’re the biggest part of me.

Tell me I’m not crazy to see a resemblance.

You guys, I can’t sleep at night with these questions eating away at me.

Spoiler Alert: McDreamy Dies

Hi. I’m hot. And I’m dead.

Last night on a show I thought went off the air years ago, a major character was killed off. Come on, Grey’s Anatomy, who do you think you are … Game of Thrones?

There was a time when I was hooked. And then Izzy kept seeing Dead Denny and had weird ghost sex with him, and THEN they killed George, and THEN they did a musical episode and THEN the plane crash and it just kept going on and on. The plane crash was the end for me, but I was disgusted way before then. This show has been unwatchable for years. If I were Patrick Dempsey, I would have begged to be killed off in like, 2009 when I still had my dignity.

What I think is hilarious is today’s aftermath. First of all, I saw the spoiler last night at like, 10. There was an entertainent site that posted Dempsey’s photo and something like “[SPOILER] killed in Grey’s shocker!” Uh, you posted the photo of the guy whose character was killed. I’m not shocked now, thanks! And given that working in Seattle Grace Mercy Me Whatever the F It’s Called Now is like saying, “I’ve paid all this money toward medical school, but I’m going to work at this hospital where I pretty much have a 50/50 chance of something horrible happening to me, including possible death or dismemberment, and I will almost certainly at some point be held hostage at gunpoint, and will likely sleep with one or more of my co-workers,” I’m not surprised that McDreamy met his end. Will ANY of these doctors live to retirement age? Perhaps that’s the plan at the hospital – kill them all off so we don’t have to pay their pensions!

And then there’s people who are pissed that sites are posting that spoiler. Two things. #1. It aired last night, so it’s fair game. And #2. You should not be watching this show anymore. Period. It’s horrible. Stop watching this garbage and go take a good, long look at yourself in the mirror. Repeat these four words to yourself until they start to sink in: Make. Better. Life. Choices.

And don’t come crying to me when Meredith becomes a quadriplegic. Because what is left for them to do?