I drive a big truck. And when I say "big", I mean extended cab, long bed, lifted, biggie size french fries HUGE! This thing is so large it defies 99% of all parking lots and drive thru banking or eating establishments. Although I loathe driving my husband's monster truck in the preschool carpool there are some distinct advantages.
First and foremost is safety. Honestly, I've only been cut off one time in 4 years. And that's only because Senior Stinky in the toothpaste colored Geo Prism was performing the macarena at brain bleed volume and didn't notice my diesel destroyer nearly crush him.
And, parking Gigantor provides such an impressive upper body workout I've probably postponed those old lady "bat wing biceps" for a few years. (You know, the kind of arms your 2nd grade teacher flapped recklessly around as she wrote on the chalkboard?)
Finally, my hottie quotient has skyrocketed with rednecks, truckers and construction workers. I'm not proud of it, but there's some sick gratification for this nearly 40 year old housewife to get the occcasional cat call or lurid gesture while idling at intersections. Thanks guys!
But, manuevering this mass of twisted steel and hillbilly sex appeal isn't without it's drawbacks. It takes no less than 20 minutes and a 2nd mortgage to fill her up. And, I've maintained greater modesty at pap smears than the last time I tried to dismount the gray ghost at church while wearing a pencil skirt and high heels.
Surprisingly I've maintained a near flawless driving record and incurred nary a scratch on precious' pristine charcoal exterior. But a few days ago, all that quickly came to an end. While making the obligatory 5 point turn to back Big Mac into our garage I heard an unfamiliar groaning nose. Chalking it up to my tone deaf 4year old singing twins, I pressed forward,(well, backwards actually) but the same low frequency song of humpback whale noise persisted. So, I shushed the kids, turned off the radio and hit the gas one final disastrous time.
Just as the old synapses began firing again I looked in the rear view mirror to see my sweet hubby silently (windows up) although somewhat enthusiastically spewing obscenties while frantically waving his arms like an airline tarmac worker with a faulty flashlight.
Note to self: The mesmerizing "song of the humpback whale" can be duplicated by scraping the rear fender of a highly polished Ford truck down the entire rusty length of the white metal hand railing in our garage. Happy Birthday Honey!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Child's Play?
Just when I thought we'd hit our household per capita of crap, my daughter was given some toys with a peculiar and disturbing theme. While many people receive gifts of fancy schmancy electronics, ripsticks and fine jewelry, our holidays and birthdays seem to be fraught with faux feces.
The potty parade commenced with "Baby Alive." Santa wisely vetoed this disturbing doll because her Bride of Chuckie eyes and marionette mouth gave him the willies. But Grandma, undoubtedly seeking revenge, presented pooping Penelope to my 4 year old for her birthday.
This little treasure blinks, giggles and speaks multiple annoying phrases. And her restroom resume goes well beyond the traditional wetting Betty. If you're feeling masochistic just shovel in some of her complimentary baby food. The disemboweled blonde bombshell almost immediately eeks out substances found only in state fair porta potties and sample jars at the gastroenterologist's office.
Sure you can aim Baby Alive at her tiny pink training toilet as instructed. But my little clan of crotch watchers found it much more educational to peer shamelessly up her not quite anatomically correct posterior as the nearly 5 lb rubber toddler did her business right down the front of their shirts...twice. Seriously, I haven't had this much fun since both of my one year old twins contracted the rota virus and I changed 45 eye burning diapers and tackled 6 loads of biohazardous laundry every day for a week.
To add insult to injury another in-law thoughtfully bestowed Bowel Movement Barbie on my daughter. Okay, it's not really the doll, but her blasted dog. The instructions for feeding old Fido (in English and 9 other languages) read as follows:
1) Lift tail to open mouth and raise ears.(Apparently that speeds digestion)
2) Place biscuit in dog's mouth. Release tail.
3) Push down the tail. Oh-Oh!!!
Yep, you guessed it. Just like the few minutes immediately following my last Macho Nacho platter from El Matador, el perrito shoots the just consumed "biscuits" right out his rear at lightening speed. Environmentally conscious and fashionably trashy Barbie, donning a pooper scooper, mini skirt and lace leggins, races in to capture the magnetic excrement and dispose of it in the trashcan.
Only then does the magical circle of digestion begin. My animal loving daughter was then instructed to unload the trashcan of dung right back into the now empty box of doggie "biscuits", just in time for poochie's next meal. What?!
Isn't this taking recycling a tad too far? Before PETA and the Humane Society could incite a riot, the hypocritical manufacturer tried to redeem themselves by saying "Make sure your pets always have fresh food and water." (I'm guessing they didn't mean out of the toilet, even though they didn't include a water bowl).
When our chocolate labrador puppy tried recycling her food, we called the vet, dialed up the zap collar, and sent her to canine counseling. But surprisingly, Mattel views this aberrant behavior more as children's entertainment than a medical diagnosis mandating shock therapy and antipsychotic meds. And apparently they were right since my in-laws weren't the only ones who bought it. The entire Barbie line grossed (and I mean gross) over $3 Billion in worldwide retail sales last year. That's a lot of poop eating puppies!
And why is it that only girls' toys are plagued with realistic bodily functions? (I realize there are plenty of Barbie totin' boys out there, but I'll reserve that tidbit for another post entirely.) Anyway, you gotta know G.I. Joe had a raging case of foot fungus from wearing combat boots in the swamp without socks. And, it would only be fair if Spiderman's crime fighting was postponed occasionally to battle the inevitable bouts of jock itch from wearing excessively snug spandex.
Yes, I understand the product pipeline runs a little dry after 50 years but couldn't Mattel come up with something a little less unsettling for a child's toy? What's next, "Menopause Barbie" sporting a Fu Manchu mustache and estrogen patch who sweats, sobs and swears when you push the button on her back? Or, her yapping puppy with the yeast infection, that drags her itchy hoo hoo all over the living room rug just as Barbie appears with her can of Resolve? Don't you think some things are better left OUT of a kid's imagination?
The potty parade commenced with "Baby Alive." Santa wisely vetoed this disturbing doll because her Bride of Chuckie eyes and marionette mouth gave him the willies. But Grandma, undoubtedly seeking revenge, presented pooping Penelope to my 4 year old for her birthday.
This little treasure blinks, giggles and speaks multiple annoying phrases. And her restroom resume goes well beyond the traditional wetting Betty. If you're feeling masochistic just shovel in some of her complimentary baby food. The disemboweled blonde bombshell almost immediately eeks out substances found only in state fair porta potties and sample jars at the gastroenterologist's office.
Sure you can aim Baby Alive at her tiny pink training toilet as instructed. But my little clan of crotch watchers found it much more educational to peer shamelessly up her not quite anatomically correct posterior as the nearly 5 lb rubber toddler did her business right down the front of their shirts...twice. Seriously, I haven't had this much fun since both of my one year old twins contracted the rota virus and I changed 45 eye burning diapers and tackled 6 loads of biohazardous laundry every day for a week.
To add insult to injury another in-law thoughtfully bestowed Bowel Movement Barbie on my daughter. Okay, it's not really the doll, but her blasted dog. The instructions for feeding old Fido (in English and 9 other languages) read as follows:
1) Lift tail to open mouth and raise ears.(Apparently that speeds digestion)
2) Place biscuit in dog's mouth. Release tail.
3) Push down the tail. Oh-Oh!!!
Yep, you guessed it. Just like the few minutes immediately following my last Macho Nacho platter from El Matador, el perrito shoots the just consumed "biscuits" right out his rear at lightening speed. Environmentally conscious and fashionably trashy Barbie, donning a pooper scooper, mini skirt and lace leggins, races in to capture the magnetic excrement and dispose of it in the trashcan.
Only then does the magical circle of digestion begin. My animal loving daughter was then instructed to unload the trashcan of dung right back into the now empty box of doggie "biscuits", just in time for poochie's next meal. What?!
Isn't this taking recycling a tad too far? Before PETA and the Humane Society could incite a riot, the hypocritical manufacturer tried to redeem themselves by saying "Make sure your pets always have fresh food and water." (I'm guessing they didn't mean out of the toilet, even though they didn't include a water bowl).
When our chocolate labrador puppy tried recycling her food, we called the vet, dialed up the zap collar, and sent her to canine counseling. But surprisingly, Mattel views this aberrant behavior more as children's entertainment than a medical diagnosis mandating shock therapy and antipsychotic meds. And apparently they were right since my in-laws weren't the only ones who bought it. The entire Barbie line grossed (and I mean gross) over $3 Billion in worldwide retail sales last year. That's a lot of poop eating puppies!
And why is it that only girls' toys are plagued with realistic bodily functions? (I realize there are plenty of Barbie totin' boys out there, but I'll reserve that tidbit for another post entirely.) Anyway, you gotta know G.I. Joe had a raging case of foot fungus from wearing combat boots in the swamp without socks. And, it would only be fair if Spiderman's crime fighting was postponed occasionally to battle the inevitable bouts of jock itch from wearing excessively snug spandex.
Yes, I understand the product pipeline runs a little dry after 50 years but couldn't Mattel come up with something a little less unsettling for a child's toy? What's next, "Menopause Barbie" sporting a Fu Manchu mustache and estrogen patch who sweats, sobs and swears when you push the button on her back? Or, her yapping puppy with the yeast infection, that drags her itchy hoo hoo all over the living room rug just as Barbie appears with her can of Resolve? Don't you think some things are better left OUT of a kid's imagination?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Did Someone Order the Pupu Platter?
After a marathon holiday stint of Honey Baked Ham, Mormon potatoes and The Food Network, I decided to make parmesan chicken, sauteed gnocchi and steamed vegetables for dinner. My kids are pretty good eaters, but like most preschoolers their palates are finely honed to sponge bob fruit snacks, otter pops and Lucky Charms. Anything new elicits an immediate yuck response. But following multiple timeouts, various hostage negotiation techniques and peanut M&M bribes, they usually choke their way through most of my meals. This most recent dinner fiasco however will set us back a ways I'm sure.
Just as I'm sliding the parmesan poultry into the oven my 4 year old son says "Mom, I smell diarrhea."(Now there's one for his scrap book). Since the entire family spent a good portion of last week recovering from the dreaded Delhi Belly I immediately think he's had a relapse and cautiously approach the couch to survey the damage. I'm pleasantly surprised to find I won't be donning my HAZMAT suit or even busting out the shop vac for a quick once over. But by now I too am noticing a funky stank permeating the air so I crack the window and blanket the room with a generous layer of Oust spray. A few minutes later Mr. Congeniality sticks both index fingers up his nose, to the 2nd knuckle no less, and claims the stench is starting to "itch" his eyes. With my squinted eyes watering and nose running I desperately empty the garbage, jam a lemon down the roaring disposal and look under the fridge for rat corpses and a week old chile verde burrito.
When the stinging aroma approaches intolerable levels I hesitantly snap back his napping sister's britches with a tupperware tangerine peeler but find no green apple nasties lurking in there either. Only after removing the entree from the oven do I realize the stinking sewer smell is none other than...my dinner. Bon Appetit!
So, to all of you unfortunate recipients of my complimentary cooking, my deepest condolences.
Just as I'm sliding the parmesan poultry into the oven my 4 year old son says "Mom, I smell diarrhea."(Now there's one for his scrap book). Since the entire family spent a good portion of last week recovering from the dreaded Delhi Belly I immediately think he's had a relapse and cautiously approach the couch to survey the damage. I'm pleasantly surprised to find I won't be donning my HAZMAT suit or even busting out the shop vac for a quick once over. But by now I too am noticing a funky stank permeating the air so I crack the window and blanket the room with a generous layer of Oust spray. A few minutes later Mr. Congeniality sticks both index fingers up his nose, to the 2nd knuckle no less, and claims the stench is starting to "itch" his eyes. With my squinted eyes watering and nose running I desperately empty the garbage, jam a lemon down the roaring disposal and look under the fridge for rat corpses and a week old chile verde burrito.
When the stinging aroma approaches intolerable levels I hesitantly snap back his napping sister's britches with a tupperware tangerine peeler but find no green apple nasties lurking in there either. Only after removing the entree from the oven do I realize the stinking sewer smell is none other than...my dinner. Bon Appetit!
So, to all of you unfortunate recipients of my complimentary cooking, my deepest condolences.
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