This Week in Coupons: What Are They Trying to Say?
I turned a discerning eye to this week's coupon section. I looked beyone the pictures and cents-off promises and read their messages. It seems they offer small nuggets of information, yet fail to disclose the WHOLE story.
For instance...
Product: Perdue Frozen Fully Cooked Chicken Variety What they say: "Finally! ***** [five star] Taste in the Freezer Case!" What they don't say: the scale. Was it five out of five? Out of Twenty? We just don't know.
Product: Juice Juice Harvest Surprise What they say: "Surprise! There are veggies inside!" What they don't say: Whether the surprise is a pleasant one.
Product: Oscar Mayer Lunchables Stackers What they say: "Make lunch more WOO-HOOO!-able" What they don't say: What the hell that is supposed to mean.
Product: Scotties HypoAllergenic facial tissues What they say: [picture of cute kitten] "Sure it's soft, but is it pure?" What they don't say: Our competitors put kitten poop in their tissues.
Product: Boston Market catering What they say: "Throw the graduation party they deserve" What they don't say: How your kid did in school and if he/she was a nightmare or not. Are they suggesting Boston Market would make a crappy party for a crappy kid or a great party for a great kid? Again, we just don't know.
I was so dulled with boredom this week I nearly missed a milestone. Dilf and I have been married nine blissful years. Nine years and two days, as a matter of fact.
In nine years, we've: shared one apartment and two houses; had two babies and two miscarriages; two vasectomies; three cats (one cat is assumed RIP and one lives on a farm, one is Miss Muffin) and one dog; six jobs between the two of us; four cars; two weddings and two honeymoons; and we're on our third bed.
Nine years of going grocery shopping together. Nine years of watching "Law and Order" and "ER." Nine years of laundry. Nine years of sharing a bathroom. Nine years of ordering pizza, renting movies and doing the dishes. Nine years of domestic tranquility.
Nine years of Dilf's big ape arm thrown over me every night -- it weighs a ton, people! Nine years of snuggling in, feeling warm and protected.
We're going out to dinner tomorrow night to celebrate (shout out to Dilf's mom for babysitting.) It's a fancy place, so Dilf will have to wear his dress crocs. They're crocs made from real crocs!
Bad Music Thursday: I Thought There Were Dogs in this Video
I thought there were both dogs AND cats in this video, which is why I thought of it to illustrate the domestic unrest currently found in my household. There are no dogs*, but it IS a dog.
Time had blunted just how bad this song and video are. When I started watching it again, the cold, hard realization sank in. This is truly Bad Music.
Please enjoy this week's entry from Miami Sound Machine:
And it has such a positive message for young girls, too. Ladies, go for the gangsta thug. It ALWAYS works out for the best. Even better, date a nice guy with a stable job who can afford to take to dinner and lend you bail money for your boyfriend, no questions asked. Feel free to use him and cheat on him with the thug.
But please see this week's "Don't Wear Wednesday" for tips on what not to wear when you visit him in prison.
*There IS a dog, at the end of the video. Only one. I had to watch all the way to the end to see him. The things I do for my blog.
A transcript of the first meeting between Miss Muffin and Moxie
Miss Muffin: What the fuck is that THING and what is it doing in my house?
Moxie: KITTY!
Miss Muffin: Great. Smells bad AND stupid. What a winning combination.
Moxie: kittykittykitty KITTY!
Miss Muffin, to us: This is a joke, right?
to Moxie: Goddamn motherfucking HELL NO! You did NOT just stick your nose up my ass! NO ONE sniffs Miss Muffin's ass. NO ONE! (hissing, spitting, rapid-fire batting of doggie nose)
Moxie, disappointed: Kitty no like me? Me like Kitty! Me play with Kitties in shelter! Me live in kitty wing of shelter, Me like kitties so much! Me no hurt kitties, Me LOVE kitties! SO MUCH! C'mere, kitty! Me want to LOVE you!
Miss Muffin, to us: I'm out of here. I'll be back when whoever was moronic enough to actually own a dog comes back to pick Dumb-and-Dirty up.
Moxie: Me lives here now! With you and Girlies and Pack Leaders! Me so happy! Me show you by giving you BIG KISS!
Don Ho Died Over the Weekend. Which Reminds Me of a Story...
In all the excitement of this weekend, I neglected to note Don Ho's passing. Thank goodness Sysm did. Mr. Ho passed away on April 14.
Don Ho has a special place in my heart. Well, not in my heart, exactly. In my painful childhood memories. As I explained on Sysm's blog, My siblings used to tease me that I was in love with Don Ho. See, when I was about 6 or 7 years old, I was minding my own business playing with my toys downstairs (in those days, people only had one TV. Imagine!) and it was about 10 or 11 a.m.
Whatever my mom had been watching while she was ironing (I think it was Jeopardy) had ended, and Don Ho's TV show came on. I didn't even notice the show had changed.
But my sisters did. They accused me of deliberately and passionately enjoying it. From then on they used to sing, to the tune of "Hi Ho, Hi Ho":
Don Ho Don Ho We love to see your show
We love your face You're full of grace Don Ho Don Ho
I have no idea why my sisters were so intent on claiming I "loved" people whom I did not. I was not alone in my plight. My brother was similarly tortured.
For instance, just because Connie Gruba turned around and smiled at my brother as she shook his hand in church one Sunday, my sisters insisted he was carrying on a torrid love affair with her at the tender age of 9. Worse, they'd also sing a mocking tune to him, which requires some explanation.
Connie's father delivered Little Debbie baked goods to the area grocery stores. Thus, to torment my brother while reminding him of his "love" for Connie Gruba, they would sing "La la la, la la la, Little Debbie." That was the company's jingle at the time.
I tried to find a sample of that particular ad, but I couldn't. Instead, please enjoy this truly horrible 1980's era Little Debbie commercial featuring Rich Little rapping:
Thank goodness I resisted the raw sexual appeal of Rich Little. I wouldn't have wanted to hear that repeated over and over again.
Saturday we went here and adopted a puppy. That's her actual picture; they called her "Sadie." We called her that, too, until we realized no one remembered her name and I kept calling her "Sophie" because of Melanie's dog.
We renamed her Betsy. Then, Moxie. It's Moxie! It's not changing again. It's in the vet's file and everything.
Miss Muffin has been spitting profanity at her all weekend. I'll post a play-by-play of their interactions later. Miss Muffin is a foul mouth.
Friday Feature: Double Post Dates Underworld Figure (There's Been More than One)
Double Post didn't judge potential dates based on race or ethnicity. That's an admirable thing. The problem is, she didn't seem to exercise more crucial areas of judgment, either. For instance, most women wouldn't date a man who seemed to be some kind of gangster. Double Post was more accepting than most. Like that one time...
He had glossy, excessively-coiffed hair and he reeked of cologne. He had a wispy fringe above his lip that was trying desperately to be a mustache. He was 5'2", only his high-heeled shoes made him a towering 5'6". His name was Ramone. He had come for my sister Double Post.
He and a shadowy friend who declined to exit the car (did he pull his collar up to hide his face, or was that my imagination?) were taking my sister and an unsuspecting friend of hers on a double date.
They took them to a nice restaurant, where the conversation began with Ramone waxing eloquent about the loveliness of Southeast Asia and the land of his birth. He sighed longingly.
Double Post asked him if he ever planned to return to a place that filled him with such warm memories, but Ramone's face darkened as he bitterly replied, "I cannot return. I killed someone in the Phillipines."
Double Post and her friend hastily announced a jointly-held need to visit the bathroom. Once safely inside the ladies' room, they hatched an escape plan. They phoned my father, went back to the table to claim a sudden onset of illness that required immediate evacuation on their part. Ramone and his cohort gallantly offered to take them back home, but Double Post declined their kind offer. My father, blissfully unaware he was depriving gangsters the pleasure of their gun molls' company, whisked the girls home.
Later, the telephone rang ominously in our house. A low, sinister voice inquired after my sister's health. Luckily, that was the last we ever heard from Ramone.
I do a Bad Prom Dress feature every year, but this year it was made exatraordinarily easy. I only had to visit one site!
It seems the people running this website think adolescent boys need help picturing their prom dates naked. You know how difficult it is to arouse an 18-year-old male. They have created an entire line of "Sexy Prom Dresses" for girls.
That's who goes to prom, right? High school girls? Not "professionals?" And do these girls have parents or some other source of guidance? If so, I don't think they're going to sell many of these.
This one also comes in pink.
I never knew I was a prude. I think I am, though. I'm okay with that.
I always just want to start over. It's part of my perfectionist strain of anxiety. One false move and ...
I've suffered from anxiety since I was tiny. My coloring books were filled with semi-colored pages. The moment I "ruined" a picture by going outside of the lines, and I had to start a fresh, perfect one. But it wasn't just coloring book pages I agonized over. The greater the stakes, the greater my anxiety that I'd "screw it up."
I remember Christmas when I was eight. I was in third grade. Double Post had bought our grandma a pair of earrings for Christmas, and when we arrived at our aunt's house, told me to put them in her pile of gifts. I thought I did. Then, when grandma started opening gifts, she took them from a different pile. I strained to see where the little jewelry box had gone; I was terrified. I didn't enjoy opening my own presents, I was so worried about the earrings.
I couldn't sleep for days. I was awake in my bed at night, trying to read to distract me from thinking about the gift mishap. I was reading my Richard Scarry book. At the end was a month by month story about the seasons, and what happens. It ended, of course, with December and Christmas. I burst into tears.
Double Post came home from whatever bad date she'd been on that night to find me still awake and crying in my bed after midnight. She came in to ask me what was wrong, and I finally unburdened myself. I was worried about grandma's earrings. I was so very, very sorry I had let both her and grandma down.
Double Post found it difficult to stifle her laugh. Grandma had gotten the earrings, no problem. I had been wracked with guilt and worry over nothing. I slept like an angel that night. Wait, do angels sleep?
Try as I might, this destructive behavior pattern sometimes rears it's ugly head. Sometimes my efforts to erase or fix things wind up messing things up even more thoroughly than they were to begin with. I can't turn a page and hide my work. But I wonder what the Almighty Cleanse can do?
I Am Too Bloated to Type. But I Have Advice for Atheists Today.
An overabundance of Easter goodness has left my stomach so distended, I am amazed I am able reach the keyboard.
Yes, Passover and Easter are once again behind us, ABC has shown their Charlton Heston and Edward G. Robinson classic, and people can abandon their Lenten promises and go back to being their rotten, nasty old selves.
It's no wonder that this annual religious micro-burst leaves atheists a bit crabby. I think I know why. Where's their party? It's easier for me not to feel left out when I read about a wonderful celebration like Diwali, because I've got my own party to look forward to in another few months. But what do atheists have to look forward to?
There are the winter and summer solstices, but those have a pagan feel. That's not any better. Civic celebrations, like the Fourth of July and President's Day are celebrated by everybody. I think atheists would feel better if they had a chance to encapsulate their happy feelings into a celebration.
It's not my job to come up with something, because I'm not an atheist. But as someone who adores celebratory events, I can make some suggestions. You have to include something for the kids. How about celebrating evolution, and you could feature dinosaurs and fossils? Kids love that stuff. You could all make a pilgrimage to the local natural history museum.
Next, you need food. You could feature foods that would not be possible without the advent of scientific discoveries. Like ice cream. Everyone loves ice cream. You could do scientific experiments together as a family. And go to a science museum.
Another good theme is space exploration. A planetarium? Space food? Anti-gravity experiments? Rents some movies?
I'm serious here, atheists. You guys need to form some sort of planning committee and come up with a cool party. The rest of us have a few thousand years on you, so you better get crackin'. Good luck.
Special Guest Editorial: I was Double Post's Prom Date
Allow me to introduce myself: I am Double Post's prom date. What? I look like Art Garfunkel? Yes, I get that a lot. But I'm not Art Garfunkel; I am a broken man.
You see, Double Post is a heartbreaker, a dream-maker, a love-taker. She left me a shattered shell, unsure of anything, including my own sexual preference. And it all stems from that fateful night in late May, 1978...
I dressed myself carefully that night, matching my baby-blue tux to what I'd been told she would be wearing. I could just imagine the blue of her dress matching her lovely eyes. I could almost taste the magic.
I picked her up in my dad's station wagon. People didn't really rent limos in those days, unless you were Rick James. She was entrancing. Her spaghetti straps gracefully held up the cascading ruffles of her dress, her hair curled around her ears like an angelic halo of puffy clouds. It was magic.
Did we walk or float into the banquet hall? I don't remember. It certainly felt as if I were walking on air. This would be the night, I thought, that I would finally become a man. I was drifting on the sweet winds of love's promise.
I decided to make my move, and I placed my arm lovingly, protectively around her shoulder, and she ... flinched. And winced. And pulled away. And made a face at me. I came hurtling downward to the earth, and felt my innards splash out onto the parquet dance floor, to be ground into pieces by stilletto heels doing "The Hustle."
The next thing I knew, I was questioning my whole life. I became a flight attendant so I could put as much distance as possible between me and the place of my shame. I was unsure of my heart's desire. Perhaps I wasn't meant for the love of a woman. But men??? I don't know. I already had the lisp and the lithe boyish figure. But, no. A sad, sexless, loveless life was for me.
And all because of Double Post's cold, cold heart.
Bad Music Thursday: 1978. Wait... Didn't Someone Go to Prom that Year???
As a lead-in to the REAL story of Double Post's prom date tomorrow (we discussed how eerily similar Todd's picture was to the Double Post's actual prom picture), please enjoy this stunner fresh from the 1978 pop charts.
(By the way, I must add that this week's choice must've been written in the stars. Sysm initially brought it to my attention, but I decided against it because I thought I had already attacked the 70's enough. I toyed with some other ideas, then decided to match the music to Double Post's prom year. Lo and behold, this song was FROM 1978! Pretty spooky, eh?)
May I present the very "touching" Dan Hill:
I never knew the song was sung by this guy before. Huh.
Denim has become a wardrobe staple, a classic, a universal. But it can be taken too far.
While the Canadian Tuxedo has been roundly mocked and reviled since the mid to late 1990's, perhaps no decade epitomizes the excesses of denim like the 1980's:
Historians have been unable to pinpoint exactly when Americans abandoned all semblance of good taste; some say 1986. But clearly, as Paula Abdul's music and Kirk Cameron's status as a sex symbol began their ascendency, something dark and malevolent had taken hold of our sensibilities. It manifested itself in denim.
Thank goodness the new millenium brought good sense back to the denim world.
Do not try to find rational explanations for anything I may tell you in this, my latest ongoing weekly segment. These are oddities from my youthtful experience; yes, I fully intend to finish up loose ends like my torturous New England vacation. I also intend to reveal secrets I have never told anyone before.
Take this week's entry, spawned while I was cooking dinner tonight. Chicken, to be exact. As I seasoned my chicken dish, I was reminded of one of my childhood terrors: "Scarborough Fair" by Simon and Garfunkle. (Actually, Scarborough Fair by anyone, including Muzak, creeped me out; but Simon and Garfunkle's version was most popular.)
Why did the song cause my little girl insides to quake in horror? Particularly when my elementary school music teacher made us learn it and sing it over and over? I don't know. It reminded me of ghosts somehow. It sounded like it came from the Middle Ages to me, and I still get freaked out about that particular period of world history. The Bubonic Plague? The starvation? The violence and torture? The lack of indoor plumbing and laundry facilities? All horrifying to me. And to my young ears, "Scarborough Fair" sounded like something a scary plague-carrying minstrel would sing as he came into town, infecting everyone and spreading death and decay with each note strummed upon his funny-looking round guitar.
I still can't play "Ring Around the Rosie" with the ÜberGirlies without shuddering, even if Snopes doubts the legend of its origin.
Back to "Scarborough Fair." I had managed to outgrow the abject terror once prompted by hearing the song. Until I went on YouTube to research it, and saw this:
It's like a nightmare! Make it stop! Are those tombstones? This is a haunted video, isn't it? ISN'T IT??!! Hold me, Dilf!
It's no coincidence that Steven King plays a version of this song. Don't bother pointing out that the renowned author of spooky novels spells his name with a "ph", and that this other man is some sort of classical guitarist. I know a horror soundtrack when I hear it.
I will need Nyquil to fall asleep again tonight, whether I'm coughing or not. I'm also shivering, with no physical cause.
This Week in Coupons: Nyquil Haze Makes Reading More Enjoyable
I wasn't going to let a little thing like a drug-induced stupor come between me and my precious, precious readers, so I faithfully took up my three (wait, four) sets of coupons from yesterday's paper so that I could issue my report.
Unfortunately, my beleagured brain is seeing things that aren't there. For instance, I was sure I saw a recipe for Sudafed Pie; it was only a coupon for Sudafed PE. Next, I could've sworn I read something about Revlon's puritanical complex, but I was wrong again.
I think I'm having some trouble concentrating.
I do know some things. Like, American Movie Classics runs some crazy shit in the wee hours of the morning.
