Barbie Girl.

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Here's something that probably won't surprise you: I love Barbies.

Barbie, her kid sister Skipper, her [probably gay] boyfriend Ken, and her Island Fun ethnic friend Miko were my toys of choice in the late '80s.  MY GOD, how I loved to dress them and come up with twisted scenarios for them to act out!

Most of these scenes involved the ladies fighting over Ken.  It was a supply and demand kind of thing, and there was only one of him and there were like 12 of them.  Barbie and her gals had to turn a little slutty.  (It was very much like attending a liberal arts college.)  I would usually spend about two hours dressing Barbie and brushing her hair and setting up her house, only to climax with a sordid scene during which Barbie and Miko got in a big fight because Ken liked Miko more, and Barbie would slap Miko with her bent-elbow arm and then drive off in her Corvette.  And then Ken and Miko would strip down to nothing but their rubbery bodies and slap themselves together while making kissing noises.  It took about 2 hours of preparation for about 3 minutes of drama.

My friend Sloan and I playing Barbies in my closet.  Note the headless Barbie to the left.  

And the Osh-Kosh overall straps.  Oh, the eighties.

Later, I'd decide that Miko needed different arms because she wanted to slow dance with Ken (you know, after the hot sex), so I'd rip Barbie's head off of her body and put Miko's head on that bent-arm body.  As time passed, I had accidentally broken the neck piece that allowed the heads full rotation in almost every one of my dolls, so I had to smoosh their heads down.  So I had a bunch of tall, skinny, no-neck supermodels.  Oh well.  At least their clothes were cool.  And at least they could still go chill in the Hawaiian Hut.

My Barbie interest would ebb and flow.  In middle school my friend Krissy and I would go hide in her room and play with all of her Barbies.  Her parents were divorced and her mom spoiled her something rotten, so she had the dream house and boxes and boxes of clothes and cars and dozens of dolls.  We knew that we were too old to be playing with Barbies, but we didn't care because they were SO AWESOME!  And if you think that the plots of my late '80s Barbie play were awful, you should've heard what our mid '90s Barbies were up to (this was also during 90210's heyday).  Unfortunately, the content of these storylines is not blog appropriate.  Shooot.

Later, during college, I again became very into Barbies.  This time it wasn't so much for the playing, but more for the nostalgia.  So after a few birthdays and late-night shopping trips, I quickly found myself--again--the owner of a brood of Barbies.  They even featured part of my Barbie collection in the feature that our school newspaper did about our house on JMU Cribs.  (Which kind of deserves its own post.)

Fast forward.  I move to Savannah and grow up and get married.  And then I meet Iris, a little fashionista on whom I love to bestow gifts.  For Iris's second birthday, Cassie and I wanted so badly to buy her a Barbie.  But, no!  Ann, Iris's mom, was dead set against it, claiming that Barbies promote negative body image, and that Barbies are whores and so on.  Cassie and I persisted, later telling Ann that we would be buying Iris either a puppy or a Barbie for [birthday, Christmas, random Wednesday].  But Ann was so against Iris having Barbies that even our manipulative tactics were futile.

"Don't you dare buy my kid a stupid Barbie!"

You can imagine how aghast I was, then, when yesterday, at Iris's 5th birthday party, I saw Iris receive not one, BUT TWO (!!) Barbies.  AND ONE WAS FROM HER MOTHER!  And you can imagine Cassie's reaction when I emailed her these pictures.  There was lots of language that is also not blog appropriate.

Basically,  Cassie and I are now in a fight with Ann. And you know what Cassie and I do when we're in a fight with someone?  We go to Target.

Brace yourself for the Barbie-splosion!

Oh, What Happened?

Okay, so I have a quick minute here to share something kind of fantastic with you.  Grandma and I have a big list of errands to tackle on my last full day in the ABQ (I mean, I haven't even met a meth cooker yet), so I can't share too much right now.

BUT!  I was just showing her how to use the scanner (why are scanners so awesome?) and we used this as our first picture.

Oh yes, that's me and my kid brother Jordan circa 1985.  And it makes me very, very happy.  I don't think kids get much cuter than Jordan was.

But time has been cruel, hasn't it?

Shoooooot.

The Wheels on the Bus. . .

Today I had the rare privilege* of going on a field trip with hundreds of ninth graders.  It was about as fun as you would imagine a field trip with hundreds of ninth graders to be, especially since we were only going across town to the tech school, so there were no fun zoos or museums to speak of.  The only fun part was when, during the presentation on the early childhood development pathway, I tried to convince a couple of my girls that the robot babies were actually dead babies.  They didn't buy it.  They also didn't believe that the mannequin heads in the cosmetology room were severed heads of fugitives.**  Shoot.

One of the best (and by best I mean, of course, worst) parts of this trip was that I got to ride across town in a school bus. 

I hate riding school buses.

Hate hate hate hate hate.

And do you know why?  (I mean, other than the fact that they smell and don't have good climate control and they're uncomfortable and always chock full of screaming children?) 

I super hate school buses because, when I was in the tenth grade I had to ride the school bus to school.  And I hated it.  It took 45 minutes each way, and there were a bunch of trashy kids on my bus, and it was uncomfortable and loud and too bumpy for me to be able to get my homework done.  So I'd just sit there, bored and miserable.  If I was lucky, I might get to talk to some preppy girl about her newest pair of jeans from Abercrombie. 

Before too long, I realized that the only thing that would make the bus ride bearable would be sleep.  So I took to sleeping on the bus.  And then I took to lying on the seat and sleeping on the bus.  And then, on one fateful day, I took to sleeping a little too hard on the bus--so hard, in fact, that I didn't wake up for my stop.  And I didn't wake up for the next stop, or the next stop after that, either.

I didn't wake up until much later, when I popped my head up, only to realize that I was the only kid on the bus and that the bus was now on the highway.

Oops.

Both I and bus driver were pretty freaked out.  Fortunately--in a very embarrassing twist--the bus was headed to my brother's middle school.  I had to go to the office, call my parents, and get permission to, in my sixteenth year of life, ride the middle school bus home with my kid brother.

It was pretty humiliating. 

And that, my friends, is why I hate school buses.  But, really, doesn't everyone hate school buses?


*The universe hates me.

**This, coupled with the fact that they didn't believe that I was Jesus the other day, makes me think that I'm losing my touch when it comes to lying to children. 

Matt: Singer/Songwriter

Man, you know how you know when you're bored and determined to be a waste of space?  Well, it happens when you start Googling yourself.  And that's what I was just doing, because apparently I want to become a pile of gelatinous ooze.  Or because I'm just psyching myself up to make the best ice cream that's ever been made.  I'd go with the former if I were you.*

So, anyway, back to the Googling.  Well, I Googled "matt mandy mitch" to see what that would turn up.**

And among a few other things (one of which was a Mitch Hedberg joke-a-day list), this video came up.



I said that it was some kind of children's church.  Matt said that, no, it wasn't.  He said that, instead, it was some kind of Children of the Corn cult.***  Then he broke out into his own verse:

". . .then we kill our parents with knives--IN THE BACK YARD!"

Isn't Matt the best?


*It doesn't matter anyway, because I was productive enough at school in the last two days to make up for seven weeks of doing nothing.


**Yes, I am a narcissistic dork, but you are, too.  Don't even try to act like you've never done it.

***I haven't actually seen that movie because I don't watch scary movies because they scare me.

I Don't Even Know What a Lazor Cannon Is.

Found this in my classroom today.

It left me wondering where one would buy a lazor cannon.  Amazon?  Target?  Or maybe that's a Home Depot kind of purchase?  Also, if I bought the lazor cannon, would I be allowed to use it on chatty teenagers?

What do you think?

Buy Me Some Peanuts and Shut That Kid Up!

After our adventures with Dave, and after we met up with Best Friend in Brooklyn to don our skinny jeans and vintage tees, Matt and I went to Citi Field to attend a Mets game.  Since I'd never attended a professional sporting event (how is that?), I enjoyed this first.  And I enjoyed the air conditioning on the subway.  And I enjoyed the smell of the food.  And I enjoyed the complimentary umbrellas. 

I did not enjoy the heat.

I also did not enjoy the boy who was sitting next to me.  He was approximately 16 years old, and dorky (and not in a cool way) as can be.  Here's the back of his head.

His mom's the one a few seats over in the red.  I wonder if she maybe did drugs while pregnant, or if perhaps she should have told the little shit "no" a few times during his life.  Lucky for me, I got to sit right next to him (Matt got to sit next to a cool, funny old guy), which gave me a special opportunity to listen to his stupid, stupid commentary throughout the game.  Apparently, he believed that to be a true fan, one had to be an OBNOXIOUS fan.  So he screamed, and he yelled, and he made attempts at heckling (even less original, if it's possible, than this guy), and he tried to start chants "CARLOS BELTRAN--CLAP--CLAP--CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!"  At one point he even claimed that he had no friends.  (Shocking!)  It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut. 

The highlight of this Garbage-Pail-Look-a-Like came when his mom left to go get refreshments. 

Mom:  Do you want me to get you something to drink?  A sprite?
GPLAL: No, I don't want a Sprite!  I want a Pepsi.
Mom: But you don't need any more caffeine.
GPLAL: I WANT A PEPSI!  P-E-P-S-I.  PEPSI. 
Mom: Fine.

Thanks for blessing the world with your spawn, lady.

Anyway, on to the rest of the game.

(I kind of wanted to fight this girl for her hot dog.)

(Matt had to keep an eye on me to keep me from stealing her hot dog.)

The stadium was incredible, and the food was overpriced and delicious. (Can't go wrong with Nathan's hot dogs.)  The game itself was pretty cool, and apparently was neat even by baseball-fan standards.  There was a homerun by some guy who was good at hitting, and it made the big apple inflate! 

There was a pitcher who throws something called knuckle balls named Dickey (the pitcher, not the balls), who almost threw a complete game.  And the Mets beat the cardinals 4-0.  Is that called a shutout?  I don't know.  Oh, and there was this guy named Pujols who's on the other team who is apparently super good, but he wasn't good that day.  As Matt put it, "Dickey's had Pujols's number all day."  I guess they were going to meet for coffee and cupcakes after the game.

I think the best part of the game for me was when it rained.  Even though we had received complimentary umbrellas upon entering the stadium, when we saw that it was raining, Matt and I opted to stand with our arms stretched wide, eyes toward the sky (kind of like Andy toward the end of Shawshank Redemption).  It was refreshing and amazing, and also made the stands look pretty cool.

So that was that.  After the game we met back up with Best Friend, but I'll tell you more about that later.

Does This Mean That I'm a Prude?

So, today I was in the middle of one of my very favorite activities, walking through Target whilst talking on the phone, when I was stopped in my tracks.  I was walking past the kid clothing section, a place where I normally do not stop (because, aside from those that I see at Baby Gap--which basically just look like miniature real person clothes--I think kids clothes are boring and not nearly as cute as other people seem to think that they are).  But I stopped as soon as I saw this:

Really?  Madonna?  On your baby?  I mean, it's not like the humor is lost on me.  I get how that's funny.  I just can't seem to shake how by dressing your young girl in this shirt is somehow setting the expectation that she'll one day mature, that she'll one day become this:

[source]

(By the way, there were much skankier pictures that I found that Matt said were not blog appropriate.)  And, I mean, more power to Madonna and her freaky arms and such, but it just creeps me out to have a toddler advertising her future skankiness.

But that wasn't all.  There were Aerosmith shirts for the kiddies.  Because nothing screams "wholesome childhood" like Steven Tyler.  (By the way, my senior year of high school I was obsessed with Aerosmith's song "Pink."  I loved it because, I, too, loved the color pink, and I thought the song was catchy.  Apparently "pink" has more than one meaning, and I was sending out some mixed messages by playing the song on repeat as I drove around in my '86 Ford Escort singing at the top of my lungs. Here's the video for your Wednesday enjoyment.)

And Bob Marley.  "Daddy, am I still too young to smoke pot?"

And the Grateful Dead.  "Hi, Mommy.  When I grow up I'm going to die of a drug overdose."

And Run DMC.  Because no kid's outfit is complete without a faux gold chain.

And ACDC.  I really don't know anything about ACDC except that either Beavis or Butthead wore their shirt.  I think I'd keep my kid out of Beavis and Butthead attire until they were at least eight.

And The Beatles.  Well, no real complaints there.  Except that maybe the kiddos would misunderstand the meaning of the greatest of all of their songs, "Why Don't We Do It In The Road?"  We don't need to be encouraging our youth to forsake safety, now, do we?  Safety should always come first.

You know, though, as much as I might disagree with the messages that these shirts would communicate, I have to say that I don't think they're nearly as awful as some of the tshirt alternatives that are out there for little kids like, "My brother did it" and "Aren't I cute."  I REALLY hate those shirts.  No, your brother didn't do it, and no, you're not that cute.  (Especially when you're screaming in a restaurant or in front of me in line at the store.)

But I think this is the one that makes me want to puke all over myself the most.

[source]

Oh, shoot.  Matt says that he just got Mitch a collar that has this same saying on it. 

**Note** Apparently the person I believed was Bob Marley is really Jimi Hendrix.  Many thanks to the friends who pointed this out to me.  (If it's not Danny, Donnie, Jordan, Jon, or Joe, I guess I am ignorant.)  Jimi Hendrix, by the way, is just as bad for a kid shirt.  But not as bad as 50% Mommy, 50% Daddy, 100% Cute.  I'll take a mysterious death and a rockin' "Star-Spangled Banner" over that shit any day of the week.

Comcast, You Suck.

Yes, Comcast, you suck.  A lot. 

Our internet has been out since Monday night, and Matt and I have been going through withdrawal.  I called Comcast to try to troubleshoot and/or fix the problem, but to no avail.  So the dipshit employee I was speaking with set us up an appointment with a technician--on Friday.  That was Tuesday.  He said that if they could fit us in earlier, then they would call us and let us know so that we could be home for it.  Of course, he didn't call, and someone came out when we were out celebrating our anniversary (and choosing to celebrate at places that had free wifi, passing the laptop back and forth as though it was some kind of drug).  But it's okay, because he set up an appointment for us--at the exact time that I told him we would NOT be available.  Fantastic.  It's cool. 

We pay more money for our cable and internet than we do for electricity, so it's really neat that it's not working and that the incompetence of others will keep us without internet for almost a week.  I'll get to spend lots of time here at Panera, eating mediocre food and listening to little kids scream.  A mom just stood two feet from me and spanked her kid.  He's screaming some more.

Thanks again, Comcast.  Maybe I'll use Panera's internet to find the number of a doctor who will tie my tubes for me.

XOXO

Should You Have Kids?

Well, that didn't take long.  The answer is no.  Thanks, STFU Parents.

Cutest kid of all time.

Can I buy one of these that already has musical and face-making talent?

Talk to the Moose?

Every now and again, something will happen that will make me want to have kids. This is one of them.

I especially like the little girl who screams and, what, vibrates?, at second 20. I like to think that that was just a candid crazy kid moment and was not staged.

Also, what's with the talk to the moose part? Am I missing something?

Hopefully this song is in your head for the next 100 hours just like it's been in mine.

I love my comfy sweater! I love my comfy sweater. . .

(This post is one of the ways that I have avoided tonight's actual purpose: Operation Eliminate Clutter. I also went Mitchmas shopping but only bought things for myself, attended a Mitchmas party that I was not invited to, and stuffed my body with carbonara, even though I am already too fat to fit in a restaurant booth.)

Coma Naps

Today I had a terrifying experience. I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing at 7:35 (I have to be at school by 7:30 a.m.). I panicked, jumped out of bed, and began to get ready for school. Of course, I woke up at 7:35 p.m., and I was just coming out of one of my famous coma naps.

The coma nap is one of my favorite things to do. I'm a good sleeper, and I sleep best between the hours of 3-10 p.m.

And let's not forget, people, that we're in a recession. Naps are free!

My coma naps usually go something like this: I get home from school around 3:00, tired.

And then I look at Mitch and see that he is also tired. (We are E.T. and Elliot.)

Then we lay down in the bed for a snuggle nap. First Mitch has to retrieve a bone he's buried somewhere in my bed.

And then we sleep, usually for 3-4 hours. If you try to call me between 3:30 and 8:30, and I don't answer, there's a good chance that I am in a coma.

Naps have been an important part of my daily routine since I was in high school. My body likes them, and they make me very, very happy. When Matt and I have the "to-have-kids or not-to-have-kids" discussion, one of my many reasons not to have them is because I would no longer enjoy these naps. I know that it sounds selfish or dumb, but I don't care.

So unless someone can guarantee me a child with narcolepsy (who also comes out potty-trained, intelligent, well-adjusted, and cleaning the house), it's a no go.