Seems UF was once again named, essentially, the country's largest permanent kegger.
What cracks me up about the article is the caption on the photo stating the students are holding "a multi-person drinking apparatus known as a beer bong".
Can't you just imagine some poor young staff writer trying to figure out a reasonably intelligent way of describing a giant drinking cup fashioned from a 5-gallon bucket and duct tape? Even if you're working for CNN, it can't bode well for your career when the words "apparatus" and "beer bong" appear in your copy.
But I'm running with it. From this point hence, my margarita glasses and blender shall be referred to as my "external dual-component tequila delivery system".
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Natural Selection
We have an automatic shower cleaner in the master bath. The other day Husband noticed that on the back of the cleaning solution bottle, it says “NOT A BODY WASH”.
..um…
Took me a few minutes to compose myself after that one because you know… they wouldn’t HAVE to put that warning on there unless….yes, unless some mouth-breather actually washed in the stuff and peeled away several valuable layers of skin.
Look, I have an eight-month-old baby, which any parent will tell you is the equivalent of having a frontal lobotomy. I certainly don’t profess to be the brightest match in the box. Hell, in the last three weeks I have put the cereal away in the freezer, tried to unlock my car doors with a Baby Einstein radio, and worn my shirt inside out to the grocery. Clearly my mental acuity ain’t what it used to be.
But seriously? Seems some things should be relatively obvious.
Another case in point- the Today show had a big expose, the gist of which was this… in summer, stuff on a playground gets really really hot.
Again... um...
Dear readers, raise your hand if you’ve ever singed your derriere on a slide? All of you? Ok, hands down. And now who has ever given themselves a nifty cattle brand by letting their upper thigh bump into the chain on the swing? Everyone again? Gee, go figure… All right, who has ever stepped out onto hot pavement barefoot only to go hopping back to the bench like a meth addict Easter bunny? Wow- EVERY LIVING PERSON WHO HAD AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD?
So tell me, then, how it is that we now require a full-scale “investigation” and we need cities to do something about the hazards of hot playgrounds? The Today story featured a little boy who had burnt the bottoms of his feet on those recycled rubber squares used as playground padding. Because he was allowed to go barefoot. In the middle of summer. On a CITY PLAYGROUND. Where the hello kitty were his parents? I mean, I’m all for experiential learning, but I’m not sure third degree burns are developmentally appropriate teaching tools.
..um…
Took me a few minutes to compose myself after that one because you know… they wouldn’t HAVE to put that warning on there unless….yes, unless some mouth-breather actually washed in the stuff and peeled away several valuable layers of skin.
Look, I have an eight-month-old baby, which any parent will tell you is the equivalent of having a frontal lobotomy. I certainly don’t profess to be the brightest match in the box. Hell, in the last three weeks I have put the cereal away in the freezer, tried to unlock my car doors with a Baby Einstein radio, and worn my shirt inside out to the grocery. Clearly my mental acuity ain’t what it used to be.
But seriously? Seems some things should be relatively obvious.
Another case in point- the Today show had a big expose, the gist of which was this… in summer, stuff on a playground gets really really hot.
Again... um...
Dear readers, raise your hand if you’ve ever singed your derriere on a slide? All of you? Ok, hands down. And now who has ever given themselves a nifty cattle brand by letting their upper thigh bump into the chain on the swing? Everyone again? Gee, go figure… All right, who has ever stepped out onto hot pavement barefoot only to go hopping back to the bench like a meth addict Easter bunny? Wow- EVERY LIVING PERSON WHO HAD AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD?
So tell me, then, how it is that we now require a full-scale “investigation” and we need cities to do something about the hazards of hot playgrounds? The Today story featured a little boy who had burnt the bottoms of his feet on those recycled rubber squares used as playground padding. Because he was allowed to go barefoot. In the middle of summer. On a CITY PLAYGROUND. Where the hello kitty were his parents? I mean, I’m all for experiential learning, but I’m not sure third degree burns are developmentally appropriate teaching tools.
Monday, July 21, 2008
What's the HCPCS code on a junkache?
Husband: “GAAAAAAH!!!”
Me: “What? What??”
Husband: “The baby head-butted me in the junk!”
Me: “Oh… is that all.”
Husband: “ALL? It hurts! My junk hurts! I have a junkache! Do they make a medicine for that?”
Me: “Yes, it’s called suck-it-up-ital.”
Husband: “Nice, thanks for your compassion.”
Me: “Seriously? That head came OUT OF MY VAGINA. You want sympathy for a little love tap?”
Viv is also teething, so you can only imagine the context in which I referred to her as the Ambassador of Abstinence. To which Husband shot back:
“I thought that was Pat Robertson…"
Me: “What? What??”
Husband: “The baby head-butted me in the junk!”
Me: “Oh… is that all.”
Husband: “ALL? It hurts! My junk hurts! I have a junkache! Do they make a medicine for that?”
Me: “Yes, it’s called suck-it-up-ital.”
Husband: “Nice, thanks for your compassion.”
Me: “Seriously? That head came OUT OF MY VAGINA. You want sympathy for a little love tap?”
Viv is also teething, so you can only imagine the context in which I referred to her as the Ambassador of Abstinence. To which Husband shot back:
“I thought that was Pat Robertson…"
Friday, July 18, 2008
The End of an Era
My father is one of six siblings, three boys and three girls born into an Irish-Catholic family in the tiniest of towns in Ohio. They grew up working-class (very) poor, my grandfather and grandmother getting by as best they could after the Great Depression financially devastated the family. By all the children’s recollections, they had very little, but were a soundly united front. True, they would scrap like all hell amongst each other. But if an outsider dared to go after one of them? Well. That poor bastard would soon find themselves reckoning with the entire fiery brood, don’t you know. They continued as adults to sometimes scrap amongst one another on occasion, but always came together for the good times and the bad to support each other. Family weddings are the stuff of legend- good drink, lots of music, and lots of loud laughter. Odd as it may sound, my grandmother’s funeral is one of my best memories. It was a fitting tribute, in our own twisted way, when the grandkids slipped a cigarette and a beer into the casket with my grandmother. After all, those two things were favorite pastimes of Grandma's- you know, like knitting or something in other families. Now that she was comfortable after years of her body failing her, she’d certainly want a smoke and a drink for the journey. I don’t remember our parents even trying to feign anger. Hell, they’d probably have done it too if they’d thought of it.
Last night, my father lost his brother. Years as a diabetic had sent him into kidney failure some time ago; he’d been on dialysis for a while, ineligible for transplant because of his age and other health problems. Finally, his body simply surrendered. Even the heart of a wild Irish son can only take so much.
Uncle Skip was my favorite of my father’s two brothers when I was growing up. He was always good with the kids- quick with the hugs and songs. He had a great voice. My father’s family is divided into “the singers” and “the hummers”. Daddy and I are in the hummers. Uncle Skip was very much a singer. I remember when I was in high school, my grandmother’s mind was failing as quickly as her body. She needed a family member with her around the clock in the hospital. It was summer and I was out of school, so I volunteered to spend the night. Uncle Skip took me home the next morning and I remember how sweet he was to me on the ride, doing things like going out of his way to make sure I got exactly what I’d like for breakfast. He was clearly relieved and touched that I’d taken that night shift. At the time I hadn’t thought much of it, it was only one night- for family, you do these things. No thought, no question. What I hope he knew is that I learned that lesson partly from watching him, my father, and the other siblings. As Uncle Skip got older and his body failed, he got a tad less patient and perhaps a tiny bit grumpy at times. But everyone knew it was the pain talking. Fortunately, his wife, Aunt Kay, is one of the funniest and kindest women you’ll ever meet. Just before he died, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. I have a feeling he was hanging on for that, God love him.
My father and his siblings are so fortunate, to have been a complete set for so long. Very few big families can say they were all present and accounted for until the youngest is in her sixties. And while I know how lucky they’ve been, I find myself so sad for my father and my remaining aunts and uncles. My cousin pointed out that the longest relationship you have is with your siblings. I can’t help but think that Uncle Skip’s death must feel like the beginning of a different and very unwelcome era in their lives, where they begin to face the inevitability of slowly losing their original family circle.
Tonight, I will celebrate Uncle Skip in fine family tradition- by drinking and telling stories. I will shake off my sadness and raise my glass to a good man whom I am honored to call a relation. And I will raise a glass to my father, and to the rest of that clan full of stubborn, funny as hell, unruly souls with hearts of gold. Mar sin leat, Lawrence Patrick.
Last night, my father lost his brother. Years as a diabetic had sent him into kidney failure some time ago; he’d been on dialysis for a while, ineligible for transplant because of his age and other health problems. Finally, his body simply surrendered. Even the heart of a wild Irish son can only take so much.
Uncle Skip was my favorite of my father’s two brothers when I was growing up. He was always good with the kids- quick with the hugs and songs. He had a great voice. My father’s family is divided into “the singers” and “the hummers”. Daddy and I are in the hummers. Uncle Skip was very much a singer. I remember when I was in high school, my grandmother’s mind was failing as quickly as her body. She needed a family member with her around the clock in the hospital. It was summer and I was out of school, so I volunteered to spend the night. Uncle Skip took me home the next morning and I remember how sweet he was to me on the ride, doing things like going out of his way to make sure I got exactly what I’d like for breakfast. He was clearly relieved and touched that I’d taken that night shift. At the time I hadn’t thought much of it, it was only one night- for family, you do these things. No thought, no question. What I hope he knew is that I learned that lesson partly from watching him, my father, and the other siblings. As Uncle Skip got older and his body failed, he got a tad less patient and perhaps a tiny bit grumpy at times. But everyone knew it was the pain talking. Fortunately, his wife, Aunt Kay, is one of the funniest and kindest women you’ll ever meet. Just before he died, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. I have a feeling he was hanging on for that, God love him.
My father and his siblings are so fortunate, to have been a complete set for so long. Very few big families can say they were all present and accounted for until the youngest is in her sixties. And while I know how lucky they’ve been, I find myself so sad for my father and my remaining aunts and uncles. My cousin pointed out that the longest relationship you have is with your siblings. I can’t help but think that Uncle Skip’s death must feel like the beginning of a different and very unwelcome era in their lives, where they begin to face the inevitability of slowly losing their original family circle.
Tonight, I will celebrate Uncle Skip in fine family tradition- by drinking and telling stories. I will shake off my sadness and raise my glass to a good man whom I am honored to call a relation. And I will raise a glass to my father, and to the rest of that clan full of stubborn, funny as hell, unruly souls with hearts of gold. Mar sin leat, Lawrence Patrick.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Funny Husband Moment #1,225,846,759,356
Me: I washed our bedsheets. They smelled like sweaty sick chick. And baby butt.
Him: *in a sultry whisper* Let yourself be captivated by a scent inspired by the family bed…sweat… ass…breastmilk… Funky Bedsheet by Calvin Klein…
I love him. So much. Any man who can make me laugh that hard after two days of stomach flu… well, he’s a keeper.
Him: *in a sultry whisper* Let yourself be captivated by a scent inspired by the family bed…sweat… ass…breastmilk… Funky Bedsheet by Calvin Klein…
I love him. So much. Any man who can make me laugh that hard after two days of stomach flu… well, he’s a keeper.
Monday, July 14, 2008
SONNUVABEEYATCH!
Husband and I worked hard to pick a name for our daughter that we felt was classic and beautiful, that reminded us of a wonderful person in our lives (she’s named for a dear friend), and (this was important) wasn’t tremendously common. We did not pick Madison or Emily or Anna because while those are perfectly lovely names, she would have been one of about 10 in her grade at school with that exact same name. Every time I tell someone her name is Vivian, they say “Oh! That’s so pretty! And you never hear it anymore!” SCORE!
So imagine my distress this weekend when my Mom called me from her vacation in Pennsylvania (she understood the significance) to tell me Angelina Jolie had named her baby Vivienne. Now, I realize the spelling and pronunciation are slightly different. And I certainly don’t begrudge Angelina giving her daughter a name she also thinks is classic and beautiful and pays homage to her recently departed French mother.
But still. DAMMIT.
Because you know that now a bunch of TMZ-addicted-People-magazine-subscribing-Perez-Hilton-heads will start naming their babies some variation of Vivienne. And they’ll klass it up, too, with stripper-esque spellings like Viveaynne. And now every time I tell someone my daughter’s name they’ll make some asinine comment.
“Oh! Like Angelina Jolie’s daughter!”
And I’ll be all like, “No bitches, that kid is named after MINE!”
‘Cause my baby was here first.
So there.
So imagine my distress this weekend when my Mom called me from her vacation in Pennsylvania (she understood the significance) to tell me Angelina Jolie had named her baby Vivienne. Now, I realize the spelling and pronunciation are slightly different. And I certainly don’t begrudge Angelina giving her daughter a name she also thinks is classic and beautiful and pays homage to her recently departed French mother.
But still. DAMMIT.
Because you know that now a bunch of TMZ-addicted-People-magazine-subscribing-Perez-Hilton-heads will start naming their babies some variation of Vivienne. And they’ll klass it up, too, with stripper-esque spellings like Viveaynne. And now every time I tell someone my daughter’s name they’ll make some asinine comment.
“Oh! Like Angelina Jolie’s daughter!”
And I’ll be all like, “No bitches, that kid is named after MINE!”
‘Cause my baby was here first.
So there.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Say it with me now, folks...
DUH!!!
As dutifully reported in the above article, teen pregnancy rates are UP for the first time since 1991. What's that old saying? An ounce of prevention...?
PREVENTION, folks. Which in this case, translates to CONTRACEPTION. 'Cause you can't cure teen pregnancy. And you sure can't "cure" teenagers of the urge to have sex. And teenagers are not tremendously obedient types...so...
I nearly choked when I read that "Federal health experts said they don't know why the teen pregnancy numbers went up from 2005 to 2006". Blip in the data, my ass! How many low-birthweight unplanned unhealthy babies get born before we stop insisting that antiquated abstinence-only programs are the way to go? Oh, how I miss the Clinton-era health programs... when we had our heads up out of the sand.
As dutifully reported in the above article, teen pregnancy rates are UP for the first time since 1991. What's that old saying? An ounce of prevention...?
PREVENTION, folks. Which in this case, translates to CONTRACEPTION. 'Cause you can't cure teen pregnancy. And you sure can't "cure" teenagers of the urge to have sex. And teenagers are not tremendously obedient types...so...
I nearly choked when I read that "Federal health experts said they don't know why the teen pregnancy numbers went up from 2005 to 2006". Blip in the data, my ass! How many low-birthweight unplanned unhealthy babies get born before we stop insisting that antiquated abstinence-only programs are the way to go? Oh, how I miss the Clinton-era health programs... when we had our heads up out of the sand.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Inappropriate, Inc.
Recent Phone Conversation with a Friend Regarding her GYN Appointment:
Her: Is it wrong of me that I took some pleasure in the fact that, after looking at my business, the nurse says “oh… I need to get a smaller speculum…”
Me: Hell no! I’d be all like “yeah, you do! ‘cause my petite dainty ladylike va-jay-jay needs it!”
Another Conversation (this one with a co-worker about a sad, sad, failing project):
Her: There are just… no words.
Me: And that it is why God gave us cocktails- for when there are no words.
And yet another workplace conversation (actually about a flashlight during a power outage- really, I promise):
Co-worker: Wally’s got the big one!
Wally: That’s not the first time I’ve heard that… heh heh…
Just another day at work… cocktails, big ones, and itty bitty vaginas…
Her: Is it wrong of me that I took some pleasure in the fact that, after looking at my business, the nurse says “oh… I need to get a smaller speculum…”
Me: Hell no! I’d be all like “yeah, you do! ‘cause my petite dainty ladylike va-jay-jay needs it!”
Another Conversation (this one with a co-worker about a sad, sad, failing project):
Her: There are just… no words.
Me: And that it is why God gave us cocktails- for when there are no words.
And yet another workplace conversation (actually about a flashlight during a power outage- really, I promise):
Co-worker: Wally’s got the big one!
Wally: That’s not the first time I’ve heard that… heh heh…
Just another day at work… cocktails, big ones, and itty bitty vaginas…
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