Wrong Number

For some reason, I often find myself in situations where I'm privy to weirdly private information about others.  Remember the Wild Tiger, Lion Heart note? 

Well, lately, I've been receiving some text messages that were supposed to go to someone else.  But because the writer of said messages does not pay attention to detail--or can't spot it when someone's giving them a fake number--I get to have some entertainment.

Last night I got this message:

Just so you know newman is an always will be my life.  I swear an i mean swear i never wanted to hurt him.  That man has saved me so much.  I love him an always will.

This Newman?

I'm not gonna lie to you: I thought it was pretty funny.  And I thought for about two seconds about texting back or calling the person to tell them that they have the wrong number, but I decided not to.

And then today I got this message:

You may not wanna talk to me because you think i lied to you well i didnt.  When newman started to hit me pull my hair an tell me he will kill me yeah i did something bout that.

Winona Thelma Feldmann!

And now I'm really torn about whether or not I should let this person know they've got the wrong number.  On one hand, I feel bad for them.  On the other, I think it best to stay out of this crazy Newman business.

What would you do?

Probably Not the Best Place for the Superlative Case.

Have you seen this car decal?  I see it all the time, and it always annoys me.

[source]

I'm not trying to diminish the plight of the army wife, of course.  It's just that I think that whole "soldier fighting in a war" job might just be a little bit tougher.

Am I wrong?

Teen Mom: A Rant

Tonight, I was discussing a recent television addiction, Teen Mom, with a friend who is an an avid watcher but would rather the whole world wide web not know of her affinity for trashy MTV reality television. (But I'll give you a hint: her name rhymes with sassy.  It's not really her fault, though.  I made her watch 16 and Pregnant, which is basically like giving a person heroin and wondering why they become a junkie.)

In case you don't watch Teen Mom (because, presumably, you have better things to do with your time or are too old and too mature to indulge in such smut), allow me to provide you a quick overview.  There are four teen moms (fancy that!) and we follow them as they try their hands at motherhood.  Actually, one of the teen moms gave her baby up for adoption (lucky little bastard dodged a real bullet on that one), so only three of the teen moms are actually raising kids. 

(Farrah and her mom)

First, there's Farrah.  She's the best looking of the teen moms featured, but as we all know, pretty doesn't equal smart.  Farrah let her baby fall off the bed, and on a recent episode she tried her hand at speed dating, where she learned a hard lesson: that she is no longer too good for anyone, including the weird guy who had some kind of kickboxing mantra tattooed on his arm in Thai.  Ouch!  Farrah also has some deep-rooted mommy issues, and could, in my opinion, stand to learn another tough lesson--that sometimes moms can be whorebags, and maybe they don't deserve a place in your life. 

(Maci)

Then there's Maci.  Maci isn't the cutest, but she seems to be the smartest (which isn't saying a whole lot, considering the competition).  She named her kid Bentley, a name that seems like it should be tattooed across a teenage boy's stomach.  Currently, she's dating a guy who looks like Landry from Friday Night Lights, only on steroids.  She is trying to get an education, though, so I guess I need to give her props for at least trying.

(Catelynn and her ridiculous boyfriend)

Next up, we have Catelynn.  I actually have fleeting moments where I pity Catelynn.  Her mom is even more of a maniacal see-you-next-Tuesday than Farrah's mom.  Catelynn's the one who put her baby up for adoption, and while I kind of admire that choice (I would have admired the choice to take birth control even more), I can only be sympathetic for so long.  I was especially annoyed with her when she had a second pregnancy scare.  And, am I wrong, or was she prom dress shopping at Fashion Bug?  I didn't even know Fashion Bug was still around.

(Amber)

And last--and least--there's Amber.  My god, I hate Amber.  Not only does she look like Elvira and Miss Piggy had a baby, but she's super super dumb to boot. (Like, was-crying-because-she-couldn't-pass-the- GED-practice-test dumb.)  And she's a bitch.  Seriously, this girl has zero redeeming qualities.  And her boyfriend!  Sometimes I wonder if Amber and her boyfriend are in some kind of contest with each other to be the most loathsome human being on the planet.  Watch out, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Sarah Palin--Amber and her baby daddy are a nippin' at your heels! 

(Amber and her boyfriend even got into a fight!  Was this before or after he cheated

on her with the girl he met in the diaper aisle at Wal-Mart?)

Anyway, I need to go donate our entire savings account to Planned Parenthood now.

Do you watch Teen Mom? 

Father of the Year

So, as part of our Sunday Funday, Matt and Collin and I went to the movies (read: I joined them on their weekly movie date) to see Get Him to the Greek, starring the British guy from Forgetting Sarah Marshall as the same character he played in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.  Now, I wanted to see the movie as soon as I heard that he'd be Aldous Snow again, but I wanted to even more when Matt pointed out that the reason that the preview probably didn't make the movie seem that great was because of how offensive and crass the movie was going to be.  Sold I was.

 We got there early, bought our tickets, got our bucket-sized drinks, and headed to the theater.  And there we sat for a while, bitching about how stupid people are, and mocking the ridiculous previews.  There were previews for Prince of Persia, and for a bunch of other awful looking science fiction stuff.  So we sat there, confused, until Matt had the inspired idea to check his ticket to make sure we were in the right theater.  We were not.  Instead, we were in the theater for Just Wright, Queen Latifah's new flick. This one.



Fortunately, we caught our mistake in time, and made it over to the correct theater across the hall before Get Him to the Greek started.  And it was funny.  Really funny.  Really inappropriately and offensively funny.  And I was loving it. . .until I realized that there were three kids--about nine years old--sitting two rows in front of us.  Collin and I noticed it at the same time, when there was some [very inappropriate for a nine-year old child] banter about mind fucking, and we heard a child's laughter break out.  From that point on, all I could think about was the three kids in front of us, and their piece of shit dad who was sitting with them, looking at his Blackberry and ignoring the fact that this was--next to porn itself--the most inappropriate film he could have taken his three young children to see today.

At some point, I left the theater to use the bathroom, and when I returned I saw that the signs for the two movies had been switched, which accounted for our original confusion.  Matt was happy to hear this, since Collin and I had been laughing for over an hour about how Matt had lead us astray and tried to make us watch some crappy basketball movie.

After the movie was over--and after the asshole dad left his drink in its cupholder; I guess he was just too busy with the Blackberry to think to be courteous and throw it away--we saw the kids out in the hallway pointing out that the signs had been put back where they belonged.  It seemed that they'd made the same mistake that we had, except that their dad wasn't paying enough attention, or didn't care enough, to fix it.  Stellar.  Mom's going to have a fun time explaining to the kids all about fellatio, and the clap, and why people but heroin up their butt.  Father of the year, I tell you. 

Anyway, you (if you're over 18 and are not named Chloe) should go see Get Him to the Greek.  It's hilarious, and it's awful, and I want to go to an Aldous Snow show.  Just don't take the kids, unless you want them to one day be putting heroin up their own butt.**



**Today's episode reminded me a little bit of the time my mom was out of town for the weekend, and my dad went to Blockbuster to rent movies.  I was about 11 and Jordan was 7, and my dad got Boyz in the Hood and Silence of the Lambs.  He, at least, had to good sense to make us leave the room for Silence of the Lambs.  To date, neither Jordan nor I have put heroin up our butt, which is even more remarkable because we went to a high school that was nicknamed "Heroin High."  More on that later.

This and That

Life has been pretty slow around these parts, if only because my current obsession with watching 16 and Pregnant is rapidly causing my brain cells to evaporate.  (But, seriously?  What's wrong with these girls?  What's wrong with their parents?  What's wrong with their boyfriends?  WHY AREN'T WE SLIPPING BIRTH CONTROL INTO SCHOOL LUNCHES??)

So, unless you want to hear about adventures in grading papers (which is almost as bad for the brain as watching 16 and Pregnant) or doing laundry, then I really don't have much to share at this juncture.  Wouldn't be prudent.  

Here's what I've got:

• Got Cassie hooked on 16 and Pregnant as well.  Between the show and the insane commercials that aired throughout, Cassie felt like she was in an alternate universe.  It was pretty fun to watch. 
• Mitch is still the cutest thing of all time.  No surprises there.  He is currently snuggling with me on the couch.  He freaked out earlier today when I was watching 16 and Pregnant and one of the girls was screaming during her really painful contractions.
• I keep wanting to make those strawberry shortcake cookies again, but I'm afraid that I'll get as fat as those girls on 16 and Pregnant.
• Getting pretty excited about the return of The City and The Hills.  I love to ellipt during those shows; hell, they're almost as disturbing as 16 and Pregnant.
• I have a sore throat.  I think it's from yelling at the tv whilst watching 16 and Pregnant.

And I think I might actually be getting sick.  I've been taking my temperature frequently, using both of my thermometers.  I have two because Caitie sent me one after hearing me complain about how my thermometer was broken.  In truth, just because a thermometer does not say that I have a fever when I want proof of how sick I feel, it does not necessarily mean that the thermometer is broken.  Shit.

I should go now, though, because I've only got twenty minutes before the finale of 16 and Pregnant comes on. 

Have you watched this ingenius show?  Is there some meeting I can attend to help fight the addiction?

Redneck Mudder?

So, this afternoon as I was pulling out of the school parking lot, I passed a truck that was entering. "Truck" is a bit of an understatement, because this thing was monstrous, and likely rides up ramps to jump rows of Dodge Neons. It looked kind of like this. . .

. . .only it was that aqua green color that was popular in the early '90s. (The color that I always wanted my car to be when I'd play M.A.S.H., the one my mom assured me that I'd tire of. She was right on this one.)

But the fact that it was a big monster truck wasn't what made me think. It was the license plate on the front of the truck that occupied my thoughts for the next few minutes--the Confederate flag with the words "Redneck Mudder" written across it in big letters. Here it is.



I had trouble nailing down the actual meaning of the novelty plate. Was this someone who enjoyed taking this giant vehicle through mud? Or is this a Redneck Mother, just wittier? Or both? If it was the mother, would it have been written "Wedneck Mudder"?

Matt says it was the former, but I'm not convinced. What do you think?

Secrets

Not my secret, but I share much of the sentiment. What do you think?

(picture from PostSecret)

Notes on American Idol

Matt and I were anti-Idol until the writer's strike a couple of years back. The absence of good TV left us longing for something more, and, desperate for some new television, we threw away our pride.

Yay for throwing away pride.

So, yeah, I'd scoffed and mocked, but Simon Cowell has made me a believer. Here's why:

• Simon is hot. Like hot hot. Like surly British guy who says things like "Chin up" to a crying wannabe singer hot.
• I love passing judgment. Idol provides a great judgment-passing forum. At this point, too, Matt and I are pretty good at predicting what the judges will say. We like to play little predicting games here (similar to our Jeopardy! winning in life game or our "guess what time it is" game), where we predict exactly what the judges will say. You can't go wrong with some, "Dawg, you could sing the phone book!"
• The heartwarming stories. I usually don't get through a single audition episode without sobbing a little. This girl's taking care of her ailing grandma? That girl's dad died the day before? His WIFE died? I could start crying just thinking of past audition shows.
• Ryan. What a strange little man. Remember when he tried to high-five the blind guy?
• Hollywood Week. I f'ing love Hollywood Week. I especially love the group auditions and the drama they bring.
• I love when it's obvious that the judges have hangovers.
• Singing and dancing! Horray for singing and dancing. Second to watching Center Stage twice a week, Idol is the best place to go for singing and dancing fun.
• Wide appeal. I love that I can talk to colleagues, students, my sister, and my grandma about this show. There's something special about a show that appeals to such a wide range of people.

Now, this isn't to say that I love everything about American Idol. I've tired of the gimmicky weirdo auditions and people who try too hard (and, no, "Pants on the Ground" does not fall into this category. That song is BRILLIANT!). I hate the long commercial breaks (we wouldn't watch the show at all if it wasn't for DVR). And I really hate Kara.

I hate how she makes bedroom eyes at young boys. And I hate how she claims every pop song is brilliant (stole that one from Matt. No, Kara, Shania Twain's "I Feel Like a Woman" is not the masterpiece you claim it to be).

Hopefully, this cool cat ("think you a cool cat?. . .lookin' like a foo' with your pants on the ground") will compensate for Kara's tremendous suck.

I've loved Ellen since her ABC sitcom days, since the time her show was called These Friends of Mine and not Ellen. She's super funny and sassy.

Plus, it was from Ellen that I stole one of my favorite games of all time: pretending that the plots of movies actually happened to me. It's best to play this game when in line at a tourist attraction. Tanya and I used to do this like champions. "Hey, Tan, remember that time you went to that vacation resort with your family and then fell in love with that dance instructor? That was crazy! I can't believe your dad thought he'd knocked up that girl!"

Try it sometime. And thank Ellen. And watch American Idol. It's really fun, and Simon's sexy.

Wild Tiger, Lion Heart

Above my dresser, next to the pair of jeans I hope to be wearing by the time I am 30 (damn you, cupcakes!), hangs one of the most hilarious pieces of writing I have ever read. It may be funnier than A Modest Proposal.

My take on this letter will likely reveal me to be mean or cruel, but I can't help it don't care. This thing is great.

On the Thursday before my wedding, my maid of honor, Caitie, and I stopped in Rite Aid because she needed a nail file. As we were walking toward the store, we passed a trash can that was overflowing, and papers were all over the ground around it. One of the papers had some writing on it.

I harbor evil curiosity, and can't resist reading the writing on random pieces of paper. So I picked up this pretty piece of blue paper that caught my eye.

As Caitie browsed Rite Aid's selection of nail files, I began to read it. It was golden. It was literature. I was laughing pretty hard, and Caitie wanted to know what it said. For fear that the author was herself in Rite Aid, I waited until we were back in the car to read it to Caitie.

Here are the contents of this literary masterpiece. It's some kind of journal entry, and it requires no literary analysis. It speaks for itself.

6-15-07
6:34

Called Irene.
Called Randy. Left message. So hard. What am I doing. Being honest & myself. Telling him I NEED HIM tonight. Just to hold me. And be there to keep me safe. And that I know how hard he's working, trying & succeding (SIC) in doing so much. But I know my needs & if he can't be there, I'm going out, going dancing, & I'm going to have a man's arms around me. Not going to be sleeping with him, but I need to be held. And that I still love him.
Called Irene. Told her I did it.

7:30
Randy, my wild tiger, my lion heart, called. He'll meet me at 9:30-9:45 at Safeway. He loves me and he responds to me. I love him so much. He said Don't worry, your man loves you and will take care of you.

It's probably catty and mean, but I can read this thing whenever I'm feeling down, and it will make me smile. Fortunately, Matt, my wild tiger, my lion heart, doesn't mind that I'm a little on the mean side. If he did, I'd be going out, going dancing. . .