Well, it’s like Déjà vu all over again.
Last year, my Super Bowl experience was marred by a rather dumb ad from Teleflora. This year, the Saints won and nothing short of total nuclear annihilation could ruin that for me. Even the fact that Teleflora ran another stupid ad.
Look, I know that Super Bowl ads are about the dudes. We foolish women wouldn’t want to sully our pretty little heads with sports talk. No, we should leave that to the stinky, meat-eating, sweaty menfolk and we should stick to talking about fluffy clouds and babies. Or better yet, fluffy babies! I mean, golly, most of the women I knew had to read helpful guides like this so we could act like we knew what was going on with the game.
TANGENT ALERT:
Look maybe it’s because I grew up in The South where SEC football is as sacred as fried chicken, but most of the women I know can talk sports with anyone, anytime. And if they can’t? It’s not, I assure you, because they lack testicles. I am SOFA KING SICK of reading crap like, “Teeeheee, girls, he went dress shopping with you, you’ve got to watch The Big Game with him!!” This ridiculous pablum like explaining what a “goal line” is and then saying, “Not to be confused with two carats flanked by baguettes, set in platinum,” is not funny. If this is scathing satire, I’m sorry, but I missed it. Maybe you need to (sports metaphor alert, ladies!) step up your game a little. I’m not sure why sports guides need to be color-coded either pink or blue, but I’m over it. It’s not funny. It’s not clever. It’s lazy is what it is.
This year’s ad did not resort to telling me that clearly no one wants to see me naked since I got flowers delivered by FedEx. No, this year’s ad went with girl-on-girl crime. Leggy, Boot-Wearing Alpha Bitch makes fun of Curly-Headed, Mousy Admin because who would want to send her flowers anyway? She probably doesn’t even Vagazzle! But never fear, kids! The Mouse gets flowers from Teleflora because Good Girls Who Keep Their Legs Closed get nicer flowers than Skanks. Even though they were probably from her mother, amirite? Whatever.
See, getting flowers is political. And let me tell you something else, and I’m addressing you Aphas out there, you make it impossible for a nice girl to get flowers. Seriously. Because you’re all oooh, these are the wrong color! Oh, what did you screw up? Can’t you remember I hate irises?! Girls like me who just freaking like getting flowers, don’t get flowers because of you. No, you’ve conditioned perfectly nice men into believing that flowers are a minefield. Thanks, sister. If you ask Himself if he gives me flowers, the answer is no. No, he does not. A lifetime of buying the wrong girl the wrong flowers at the wrong time has Skinner boxed him into abandoning the idea altogether. I don’t know why I have to suffer because his prom date never told him she hated peonies? I mean, who hates peonies? That’s not true. I don’t suffer because of it because I don’t keep score. He has brought flowers home to me. Usually because he was a the grocery store and picked some up for no reason. Flowers for no reason are the prettiest flowers, I think.
Sigh.
I’m talking about the ad, so it did its job. But I can bitch about how lazy it is. You want to make fun of getting flowers in a box, how about showing the woman looking all over creation for a vase to put them in? Like, she puts one in the coffee cup on Fred’s desk, one in a random mug from the break room. Or show her trying to shove them down into the jug from the water cooler. Then have her try to gather all those up before leaving. Because that’s what happens. You get flowers in a box, you have to do something with them until you can go home and put them in The Vase Reserved For The Getting Of Flowers From The Men. I was even down with the whole “boxes are for dead people and cigarettes” vibe. We coulda had fun together, me and that idea, but you went with the “you only sleep with felons and therefore aren’t of good moral stock and therefore get dead flowers in a box” vibe.
Fail.
So…y’all may have heard the Saints are going to the Super Bowl tomorrow? Not just going, actually. They are playing in the game. I feel the need to be specific because for many of us long-suffering Saints fans, going to the Super Bowl means you watch. Earlier in the regular season, I wrote a letter to the Saints. A love letter. Today I want to share some thoughts with the fans, old and new.
Guys, there’s room for all of us. I’m a little sick of Facebook groups like I Was a Saints Fan Before They Went To The Super Bowl. Stifle, Edith, stifle. Yes, some of us have been around longer than others, but who cares? I have to ask the people who join groups like that and make such a big deal of trying to call out new fans, Have you been to New Orleans? No, seriously, I’m asking. Because New Orleans is a welcoming city. They’re happy for you to be there because, hell, they’re happy to be at all. It’s a city of creatives, misfits, and wanderers.
I’m just going to throw down the gauntlet here: Those of you who get all oooh, you’re such a poser for acting like a Saints fan just because they’re winning are the same people who think all New Orleans is is Bourbon Street and Pat O’Brien’s. New Orleans is a city that is constantly–whether she wants to or not–reinventing itself, and why shouldn’t part of that mean taking on new Saints fans? Carnival ain’t fun with only three people, you know what I mean? So, yeah, I think it’s awesome that you had the first season tickets ever sold for Dome games, but get over yourself. Make new friends.
I want to be a little sanctimonious for a minute. I know, unlike me, right? I see a lot of “Hurricane Who Dat” pictures. Big storms coming for Miami. I would expect Saints fans to have a little more sensitivity than that. It’s not funny guys. The only thing less funny is you Colts fans with the Hurricane Peyton pictures of the storm hitting New Orleans. Quit making with the asshattery.
Now, I want to talk about the outcome of this game. There is a possibility–just a slight one–that the Saints won’t win. Who cares? Really? So what? No, I mean it. It’s like judo. Kanō Jigorō, founder of judo, wrote:
If one enters a contest with the sole idea of not being defeated, automatically the body becomes stiff and defensive – an unsuitable state for effective sharp action. Whereas, if one regards all as a matter of captivating speed and free movement of the body, without being seriously concerned about being thrown, sooner or later one will develop the desired qualities, and be able to apply them for attack or defense, as opportunity offers.
I could go into this game, all bowed up and ready for a fight; and by the fourth quarter, when the Saints are down by ten, and Peyton’s got the ball, I’ll be sucking back Valium like oysters at Felix’s. I won’t enjoy the game, and, well, I’ll be pissy. I don’t want to be pissy. You wouldn’t like me when I’m pissy. I think, based on what I hear my friends saying, that most Saints fans are taking this attitude. We’re going to watch what could actually be a really great game of football. If my boys win, Sweet Gussie. If they lose, feh. This has been one of the greatest football seasons of my life and losing to the spawn of a former Saint is not going to change that.
So, tomorrow, relax. Enjoy the game. Invite some new fans to watch it with you. Now, I’m off to the drugstore for extra aspirin. This is going to be tough on my heart.
Oh, and I do have one tiny favor to put out there to The Universe: Please, please, dear chubby little baby Jesus, sitting there in your manger with your number 25 onsie, please don’t let it go into overtime. Please? There is not that much aspirin in the world.
Hold on to your dentures, Edna, because you’re not going to believe what I’m about to say.
I am reading a self-help book.
No, seriously. I am reading it. AND TAKING NOTES.
I know, it boggles the mind, and most of you don’t even know me. Before I tell you about this book, I am not–repeat, not–going to tell you the name of it. This is for several reasons, the main one being these people aren’t paying me to endorse the book, and why buy the cow, you know? Another reason is I don’t want to hear that you read the book and it was the biggest load of manure you’ve experienced since touring the elephant exhibit at the zoo.
Essentially, the book is about how we parent out of anxiety, and that parents would do better to remember that parenting is not about kids. It’s about parents. Yeah, that one kinda made my head explode, too. But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense to me.
The woman who recommended it to me is someone I trust completely. She said to me that she was going to tell me about this book and that I would want to punch her in the face, but that I should stifle for a second. So I did. And then she told me that there was nothing new in this book for me. It was not reinventing the wheel, she said. It would, she thought, give me some tools and help me to put theory into practice.
So, I’m a fast reader and am almost finished with it, and I like the way it’s written, for the most part. What I do not like is what I don’t like about any self-help tome. Like why do you need to keep talking about your method? Let’s say I’m reading The Lemonade Life Method: How to Turn Life’s Bitter Citrus into Life’s Sweet Refresher. At many points in the book, it will say something like, “With The Lemonade Method, you will be able to squeeze sweetness out of every pithy situation.” Or maybe it’s something like, “Using The Lemonade Method will not change your life. YOU change your life. The Lemonade Method is just a recipe you can follow to delicious results.” Self-help books, I’ve found, enjoy being meta. And they also like crappy clichés. Oh, and they like to refer to crappy clichés a lot. Like this one talks a lot about whether picking one’s battles is a good cliché to use about kids. For the record, yes, yes, it is.
Self-help books know you, man. They know that if you’re buying them, you’re in it deep, whatever it is. So they slap on extras. Like calendars, and planner inserts, and DVD series. I’m certain that Tony Robbins will be coming out with a line of inspirational tooth whitening strips soon. Or dumbbells that say stuff like, “I challenge you to make your biceps masterpieces,” when you lift them.
Oh, and the seminars. Holy Moses, the seminars. My idea of hell is being stuck in a Wayne Dyer Attract Anything You Want seminar. No, self-help is not cheap. Nor is it something that can be achieved without the use of PowerPoint presentations.
If I come to your house, I will look at your books. I’m not a snob about it. You read what you want. But if I see shelves of Lemonade Methods, I’m going to wonder if we can be friends. I’m down with an occasional One Minute Manager or Be Here Now, I get it. We’ve all been there. But many more than that and I’m going to wonder what it is you’re looking for, and I’m going to assume it’s a life without effort and responsibility. I’m going to assume you like long walks on the beach and horseback riding in the rain; not because you actually like those things, but because you want to be Enlightened Sensitive Ponytail Man.
One of my favorite books is one called Happiness™ by Will Ferguson. Why did I mention the title of this book and not the other? Most people haven’t read this book and you should. Or else you’re not cool and that cute boy won’t ask you out. This book is about a guy who publishes THE ULTIMATE self-help book. And here’s the thing: It works. They system works. And you know what happens? The world economy collapses because the economy of the world is based on the fact that people are essentially miserable.
I think of self-help books as sort of like getting a recipe for a bomb from a news show. A responsible show will leave out a key ingredient or two so you can’t go home and blow your swimming pool out of the ground. I think self-help books leave out one key ingredient to their formula so it just doesn’t quite work and then you have to get the next book in the series: More Lemonade Methods: Adding Cherries Turns it Pink!
So, yeah, I’m a little annoyed that I’m actually getting useful tools from this book. Tools that I’ve already been able to use in the past day AND THAT WORK, but I’m not fooling myself. The tool does nothing if I don’t pick it up and use it. I don’t know if there’s a sequel to this book. I don’t want to look because if there is, I’m going to be disappointed because I think I’ve got all the ingredients to blow my pool out of the ground.
This morning I got a message from a friend of mine asking if I got demands from my parents for tech support. He told me his father had given his mother a Flip video recorder. My friend said, “This piece of electronic equipment may be easier to work than a toilet, yet my parental unit has yet to figure it out. My 4 year-old son grabbed my Flip one day and had it figured out in about 30.6 seconds, yet my mother is baffled.”
He then said that she might have lost her literacy as well since he got the following message from the former English teacher:
would like to make appointment w u to learn how to operate video camera. No..I have not read directions + wld rather not. Mom
I am not now, nor have I ever been, a computer geek. In fact, my mother likes to remind me how I used to say that I would never have an internet-connected computer in my house. Ever. That changed when I went to work in retail. Tech support for retail stores is sketchy at best, and it’s not so much timely either. I realized after my first battle with a line of fifteen people standing in front of me, waiting for the register to magically fix itself, that I needed to be The Guy. I needed to learn to fix the damn things. I needed to be, as my husband says, “The person who isn’t afraid to push the button.” So I asked questions like, “The thing is doing that weird thing again. Can you show me what I’m doing wrong?” And, “Uh, that was really cool what you just did. Will you teach me how to do that?” And, “Hey, tech dude, I’m going for coffee. Want some?” Do not underestimate the power of caffeine bribes to fix a token ring problem. No, my familiarity with products containing chips and more than one button comes from necessity rather than desire. My parents, and their generation, seem not to see the necessity. And why should they? They have us.
This is the mistake that my parents make: They treat the computer—or anything with a digital readout, for that matter–like a tiny baby who has a broken leg and speaks Estonian. It’s small, it looks delicate, it’s foreign, and it might not make its needs known in a language they can understand. They need to treat it like they did us. Decisively and mercilessly. As my good friend says about her mother, “She was smart enough to tell me to come in and give her a kiss when I got home so she not only knew what time I came home, but what I smelled like, but she can’t make the freaking clock on the DVD player stop blinking?”
Many of my friends who are the children of the Pan-Baby Boom Generation wonder what happened. This was, after all, the generation that created the computer age. Steve Jobs and Bill Gates are Boomers, for the love of Pete! Norman Thagard, a SPACE SHUTTLE ASTRONAUT, is the same age as my mother. Good Lord, Patrick Stewart is the same age as my dad and he commanded the freaking Enterprise. The STARSHIP Enterprise. I bet Patrick Stewart can program his freaking DVD player.
My friend with the vowel-deficient mother says the tech thing is just the tip of the iceberg. He says that because our parents are in this phase of life where they are doing less—they’re done raising children, they’re retiring—the use the old noggins less. And this contributes not only to brain farts on the tech side, but breaks with reality as well.
Here’s a little jewel he shared with me:
You know that Dude (No, not his real name. It’s been changed to protect him from his mother should she find out about this discussion) moved back a couple of years ago to run the family business. He’s up there like six days a week while his dad is rarely in. He plays golf, farts around, whatever. Now, the other day, in the middle of the week, Big Dude calls Little Dude to drive to New Orleans (about 130 miles away) and—get this—pick up a gallon of gumbo from Herbsaint because he and Little Dude’s mom love it so much. I think that the biggest thing I cannot wrap my little mind around is that the parents don’t even think about these requests before blurting them out. “I’m hungry. Drive to New Orleans and pick me up something tasty.” WTF?
I’m constantly hearing tales of programming thermostats, setting up televisions, finding pictures—oh, the poor, misplaced pictures floating around in cyberspace. My dad, a very smart guy, regularly sends me a message that invites me to check out some pictures. Not only is there no picture, but there is no way to find a picture. No attachment, no link, nothing. Oh, I suppose I should also mention that the message has usually been rerouted all over cyberspace because he’s typed the wrong address the first go around. Doesn’t he have my address in his contacts book? Yes, he does. In a literal address book. Not his email contacts list. My friend cringes when her parents want her to visit because she knows that she’ll be used as a tech slave to clean out internet caches, program phones, and show her father how to use the new remote control the satellite company sent. My father-in-law, also a smart and lovely man, sends us pictures by the thousands. I know when he’s sent some because my email program takes forever to load. I told Himself that I was thinking of sharing the wonderful world of photo compression with him, but decided maybe I should just bang my head against a brick wall instead. Himself thought this was a fine idea.
I know people get weird around technology. I was once training a group on a new register system when I noticed a woman staring at her screen, clearly stuck. I asked her what was wrong. She said she couldn’t get the sale to total out. I asked her if she had told the register she was ready to check out, and, my hand to God, she looked at the screen and said, “I’m ready to check out.” Then she started crying. My grandmother was at my dad’s office one day several years ago and gave him a birthday card for him to send to me. She kept hanging around, and finally my dad asked if she needed anything else. She said she wanted to see him email it. Granted, this is a woman who thinks you have to strap your furniture down if you have a central vacuum system so that your furniture won’t be sucked into a swirling vortex. I know I’m not immune to The Stupid. I was about to replace my whole sound system the other day until I realized the speakers were turned off. Did I panic? Did I start calling people to demand they show up posthaste to fix my problem? Nope. I remembered Rule #1 of Tech: Did you check to see if there’s power?
I do find it interesting that the people who do not want to take the time to learn about the technology are the ones who expect it to do the most. I suppose it’s just payback for stuff like teaching me to drive, but dear Lord. I didn’t spend ten years learning to drive.
I come across as a little caustic. I’m really not. I’m really a cute, sweet, furry bundle of joy. I mean, look at the title of the blog! Occasionally, lately–and maybe it’s just the weather or something–I’ve had a very low tolerance for social media bullshit. And social media bullshitters. I’ve compiled a list of things I’ve wanted to post, but did not. I was practicing restraint, see? In hopes that some day I’ll get it right.
1. Bergs knows what that means, and NO I don’t want to copy and paste it into my status.
2. Bergs has never been told I look like anyone other than my mother, so quit asking me to change my profile picture.
3. Bergs reminds you that after asking me for a cow/pig/gun/getaway car that many times and not getting a response, do you really need to keep asking me?
4. Dear Blank, Your status—EVERY FREAKING DAY—is that you’re dusting and getting ready for the kids to come home. We get it. We get it.
5. Bergs thinks we don’t need a “TGIF”. God knows, and he appreciates your notations. Give it a rest.*
6. Bergs thinks daily affirmations are best stated reverently, meaningfully….and privately.*
7. Bergs would like to point out this ain’t Craigslist. I know you’re all about The BLAST-OFF, but not here, okay?
8. Bergs does know someone with [insert disease here], but changing my status isn’t going to cure him/her.
9. Look, if you can’t figure out the difference between posting on someone’s wall and posting as your status, I’m going to say you just don’t belong on this here interweb.
10. BERGS ASKS YOU TO STOP USING ALL CAPS!!! YOU’RE MAKING ME CRINGE!! DO YOU YELL ALL THE TIME OR DO YOU JUST NOT KNOW HOW TO PUSH THE “CAPS LOCK” BUTTON?
11. Bergs wonders why, if you’re so thankful for me as a friend, are you copy/pasting some trite crap on my wall? Why don’t you just send me a message?
12. Bergs is astounded. Seriously? You’re really proud your daughter got a job at Hooters? Are you kidding me?*
13. Bergs just found out the guy I’m dating has also been sleeping with a girl in IT. Those whores can have each other.*
14. Bergs would like you to know that MINE is the only brand of sanctimonious bullshit I can tolerate, so take your holier-than-thou platitudes to the Hallmark store, Prissy.
15. Bergs would like for you to know that I, too, can’t wait to see what God has in store for you next. Especially if it involves a long walk off a short pier.
*Suggested by friends who have also practiced Status Restraint.
From Mrs. Collins…
My children have decided (we can assume unanimously by the snickering) that when the Green Lantern uses the bathroom it is : (A) green and (B) he turns into a super-villan named…..The Green Hygiene.
Some things I’ve done in the past couple of weeks.
I have:
- Requested help to find a picture of a mean unicorn.
- Forgotten why I wanted the picture in the first place.
- Called my mom “dude” at least twice.
- Cried when the Saints won the NFC Championship.
- Referred to Himself as The Ham King of Memphis several times more than necessary.
- Written to my state congressional delegation.
- Cringed when “Iraq” was pronounced “EYE-RACK”.
- Forgotten how old I am.
- Wondered why the title loan place on Summer has so much square footage.
- Smiled at the mother and daughter sitting behind me who are having sandwiches and working on compound sentences and direct objects.
- Wondered why Tim Tebow’s mom can choose but she doesn’t think I should be able to.
- Been reminded why I love my husband so much.
- Had lottery fantasies that involve leaving the waitress at Harry’s a $200 tip.
- Laughed hysterically with The Girl Child.
- Wished a painful and oozy venereal disease on at least one member of Congress.
- Wondered why that BP station on Union closed.
- Smiled when I found out my husband answers the question, “What does your wife do?” with, “She writes.”
- Missed being able to share something with my grandmother.
- Wondered how and why I keep making friends with Swedes, and then decided not to over-analyze a good thing.
- Laughed until I cried while watching a video of a chubby baby.
- Said, “Damn you and your hazelnutty deliciousness.”
- Come to terms with my Jell-O issues.
- Been thankful for a friend.
- Seen Donatella Versace topless.
- Stuck my foot in my mouth more times than I care to remember.
- Remembered how hot my husband is when he’s being all manager-y at work.
- Offered to do something for someone and been relieved when they declined.
- Felt like both kicking ass AND taking names because of the shoes I was wearing.
- Been thankful I can spend part of my day making ridiculous lists like this one.
Wow. I guess I was so excited yesterday about the Saints winning that I totally forgot it was our birthday. Yesterday Kittens Farting Rainbows turned a year old! Happy Birthday to us!
So, jeez, where did the time go? It seems like just yesterday we were prattling on about buying a life-sized Cylon Centurion Robot, then The Boy telling his friends about it, about black guys going to Metallica concerts, gimps, and the Cubs at spring training.
We’ve talked about how retailers hate me, dating sucks, and the UN’s steadfast refusal to recognize Zombies as an oppressed group. We’ve also been serious at times, which makes up for posts like this.
Here at The Kitty, we’d like to say thank you to all of you who have read, forwarded, commented, and linked to us. You have no idea–none, really–how much it means to us that you want to spend some of your day here. We had no idea this thing would be around this long, to be honest. Thank you.
Now, to celebrate….
Here’s a list of our Top 10 Most Popular Posts (In No Particular Order):
Um, You Did WHAT With Your Underwear?
Nice Guys and the Women Who Don’t Date Them
The Most Successful Sports Team In Chicago
I’ve been struggling lately with what to write. Well, struggling with what I want to write about publicly. I write lots of stuff that never sees the light of day. Sometimes I go back and read what I’ve written and it’s like I’m Now Me reading something that Teenage Me wrote. Totally gives me THE SHIVERS, as Owen Meany would say. What to write about today was sort of a no-brainer for me. Today is Blog for Choice Day. Each year, on the anniversary of Roe V. Wade, NARAL throws out a question to pro-choice bloggers. This year, in honor of Dr. George Tiller, who often wore a “Trust Women” button, the question is, “What does ‘Trust Women’ mean to you?”
I get a little testy when people who are not me want to tell me what I can and can’t do with my body. With my family. With my future. I get a little testy when people who are anti-abortion assume I’m not pro-life. The two are not mutually exclusive, being pro-choice and pro-life. I am pro-life, I am pro-family. I am also pro-woman. I get a little testy when I hear anti-abortion people talk about how they “choose” to have a child, but don’t want to let me “choose” not to have one. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Caribou Barbie. I get a little testy when the anti-abortion movement deifies a fetus, but pays no attention to a toddler. I get a little testy when people want to make sex education about abortion disinformation. I get a little testy when health care reform gets clogged up because the discussion turns to federally-funded abortions. I’m going to say this once. I want you to write this down, and then tack it to your forehead: THE HYDE AMENDMENT BARS FEDERAL FUNDING OF ABORTIONS. IT’S BEEN THAT WAY SINCE 1976.
The decision to have children is a profoundly personal one. You do not get to make that decision for me. I would never, never assume to know what is better for you and your family. Why do you assume to know what is better for me?
Here’s what “Trust Women” means to me. It means I can make the best decision for myself and my family. It means my body is private. It means I don’t need politicians setting up camp in my uterus. It means that I don’t see abortion as a form of birth control. It means that I’d love to make abortions obsolete. Trust me when I say that.
Trust me to do the right thing. Whatever it may be.
You know what I think is the greatest thing about a blog? I can spend all day Googling terms like vajazzle, manscaping, vaginal Botox, and eyebrow extensions, and then I write about it. So it’s not like I’m some creepy woman sitting at a computer in her sweats with three half-drunk cups of coffee and a bag of Fritos littering her desk. Nope, it makes me A Writer. So, so cool. Why more people don’t blog, I’ll never know.
So, I’m vain. I really am. I caught sight of myself in a mirror not too long ago—I was bending over to pick something up—and could not figure out who that saggy woman staring back at me was. All of a sudden, the word “jowels” popped into my mind. It’s a sad, sad day when you realize something you’ve only associated with pork can now be associated with your face. Really, though, I do okay. My skin looks pretty good considering I’m part of the generation who slathered themselves with baby oil and iodine and baked in the sun for many years. Between sunscreen and quitting smoking, I am managing to stay reasonably soft and moist and young looking. It’s a miracle this is true because being vain is expensive.
I have dramatically reduced my beauty budget. Not only have I switched from Dior to Olay, but I’ve given up extras. Like any treatment with the word “wax” in it. In fact, I am so far from the days where I would spend a few hundred bucks on a day that included the grooming of, or removal of, body hair, that it is incomprehensible to me that someone would spend upwards of $100 to have her pubic hair ripped off and then have jewels and crystals glued on as a replacement. Ladies and gentlemen, the Vajazzle! What I cannot get someone to tell me is if you have to have a red warning sticker attached to your ass that says WARNING: CHOKING HAZARD if you get yourself Vajazzled!
I’m not saying one shouldn’t be groomed. What you want to do in your hamlet is up to you. You are the mayor of your hamlet. (About that: My friend has an issue with the use of the word “vagina” to mean bits that are not the vagina. She said, “If the whole area is a village, the vagina is only one building, and you shouldn’t use one building name when referring to a village. Ergo: Hamlet.”) As one of my dudes says, he manscapes because he doesn’t feel that his ladyfriends should have to navigate through Sherwood Forest to get things done. It’s a public service, really. Now, I did not ask him if he would spend $200 to have his junk waxed and have Swarovski crystals glued to his package, but I’m guessing he wouldn’t. And yes, I just wrote that sentence so I could use both junk and package in it.
It’s not just about taking hair off either. The same salon that offers the Vajazzle! also offers, for a mere $385, eyebrow extensions. You know where I’m going with this, right? I’m now wondering if you get both extended and Vajazzled! if you just move the hair from one place to another? I’d love a reason to legitimately call people assface. That would be cool. What? It would.
No, unlike using a thong to hold back my hair, I will not be your Vajazzle! guinea pig. Sorry, kids. I think it would make for strange panty lines, for one thing. Also? I really don’t want to have this conversation with my husband:
HIMSELF: What the…?
ME: It was research.
HIMSELF: For what? Are you writing about strippers?
ME: It’s called the Vajazzle!
HIMSELF: They couldn’t get a patent on The Itchy? How much did this cost?
ME: $185. BUT I think it might be tax deductible.
HIMSELF: Yeah, you have that conversation with the accountant.
ME: You don’t like it?
HIMSELF: Like? Are you…? Okay, first, you know you’re going to be finding those crystals everywhere. I mean, EVERYWHERE. What if they transfer to me, huh? And second, what makes you think it’s a good idea to use glue anywhere near…JESUS CHRIST, WOMAN! $185?! You can make a payment on a Honda for that.
ME: But, but see? It’s the shape of a TARDIS. Because you like Dr. Who.
HIMSELF: When was it you got hit on the head and how did I miss it?
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