Thursday, December 17, 2009

murphy's crotch law

Ever noticed how undies always land crotch side up? They're like toast, but less buttery and more embarrassing.

Try it. Throw your undies around. Then invite guests over and see how many crotches are visible (undie crotches, not visitor crotches).

Also, ever wondered how many times a person could use the word "crotch" in a blog post? Not enough times, I'd say.

Crotch crotch CROTCH.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Santa hates poor kids. Obvs.

*note: most of the following is not true.

It's a well known fact that Santa hates poor kids. That jolly red bastard may seem fun and fair with his bottomless sack of elf-selected toys, twinkly eyes and belly laughs, but trust me, he is an unsympathetic tyrant with no pity and even less charity in his fur-lined, peppermint flavored heart.

How do I know this? How do I know this irrefutable fact? Because, my dears, I was a poor kid. Ol' Santy fell through many a time during those little years of wonder, and I have not forgotten. Nay, I WILL NOT forget. How hard is it to find a FROG PIANO Santa? HUH?? Three years on the list and NOTHING. Dammit Santa! Give a poor kid a break and go pick up a GD frog piano!!! SEARS. WISH. BOOK. It was there. You know it and I know it. LOOK AT ME KRINGLE. Yeah, more like KRINGE-LE (for "cringe", eh? hey?).

You (the reader) may be thinking "oh boo hoo, poor you!", in which case, I ask that you grab a hanky and dry your non-sarcastic tears. Don't cry for me, Christmastimers. The truth is, it was good for my character. I'm only slightly scarred, and maybe still a bit sad, but over all, I'm doing okaaaaayy (you should have sang that whole bit to the tune of that Evita song). I'm not actually going to make this post about my past crappy Christmases (I did that last year, and trust me, they were a buuuuuummmmer. Both to live through and to read about), and since I've blacklisted Santa, Christmases have been tops (except for the boxing day at West Edmonton Mall. Hell on earth).

Why does Santa hate poor kids so much? Well, the thing about poor kids is that they're dirty and stinky. That's an obvious truth right there. I spent a lot of my childhood rolling around on dirty floors, picking lice out of my hair, throwing my rotten teeth at my siblings – our education was focused more on hoarding bread crusts (we called them "croutons" to feel fancy) and hissing at each other. Who would want to enter a shit box of a house only to have six little gollums clawing at his velvety (and expensive) red coat? Best to steer clear, hey Santa? Poor kids are GROSS.

Now go fifty years back and you'll see the Santa who cared. Things were strictly naughty or nice, and poor kids got cool little sticks or lasting friendships with friendly rats. You know, SOMETHING. These days, the more of an annoying, rotten twirp you are, the more presents you are likely to receive. In fact, if you were to graph this phenomena out, the delinquency of the child would directly corrollate to the increase in wicked awesome presents. Kids don't give a sh*t about being good these days, because their parents are close personal friends of Santa's, a fact that, combined with their guilt for being crappy parents, adds up to major present overcompensation.

So I'm deliberating how best to break this down to my kids. Because I don't want them to become brats, I won't mention the whole devilkin-reward system currently in place. I may just have to explain to them that, unless we can send up the smoke of burnt money from our real, limestone fireplace in our elegant, brand new infill house, we won't register on his sleigh's new GPS. He's also started an exclusive registration system that we've missed out on because we're renters. I'll just have to tell them to hope for a miracle, like maybe Jesus has a few extra candycanes or something. With any luck, next year we'll get that big line of credit... THEN Santa will notice us. I PROMISE.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

sunday diaryah #29

"Dec 3, 92,
Dear Diary,
Boy do I ever hate Jill! She competes with me in everything in school! She is sooo conceited! I have discovered a new feeling inside of me. It's love. A wild love that is just aching to come out. I wish it would go away because I don't have the slightest idea who the love is for. It always seems he's just around the corner, I've always imagined him with black hair and fair skin, tall with a big build. I don't know what color his eyes are though. I don't really want to meet him until I'm older though. Maybe when I go to Lethbrige.

*me note: Prince Eric had black hair and fair skin...

"Dec 8, 92
Dear Diary,
I think Colbey is starting to like me. Because first, he was looking at me lots in gym, in L.A. he was pretending to write on my back, and in Math I was walking to my desk and he ran up and tickled my ribs. It may not mean much, but it makes me feel like a somebody. I know I'm higher than the "Geek Group" and people like Kathy and Jasmine. I think I'm around Jennifer. Except I'm spiritually cleaner. This may all sound conceited but I had to write it down. That's the best way to forget something you know.

*me note: as a mom I'm reading this thinking "a boy was tickling my 13-year-old ribs and drawing on my back???" Funny how the slightest clues from my big crushes were like the hugest deals ever, and these really obvious crush clues apparently barely phased me. Also interesting that I HAD to write down my social standing so I wouldn't forget.

"Dec 10, 92,
Dear Diary,
Today was pretty boring, Deanne got her braces off though. I have to wait for one to straighten for 6 more months. My bite is perfect though. I got christmas elastics. At school Colbey and I are starting to be friends. He's so funny, I can't help but laugh at his jokes, I must admit some of them are kind of rude. But not as much as before. We talk alot. He's really nice. He seems to understand alot. Today in Health he made a rather strange statement about girls, he said, "if everyone would go through metapause, nobody would be grouchy." He looked at me and laughed so I looked at him and laughed. That's the best way to keep him from teasing you is to laugh with him. And he really likes it.
Well, I'm tired,

"Dec 12, 92,
Dear Diary,
Well, I just seem to hate Jill more and more. She hates my guts too. In Math I'm on page 153 and every day she asks me what page I'm on. Today when she asked I started to hum the tune for "I like big butts." Not that I do, I just figured I'd get her off my back. I seem to like Colbey more and more too. He tries so hard at school to fit in. Shilo says he's very different at school than at home. He's so funny! He talks to Pam and I lots, but I think Pam likes him so naturally she'll likely get his attention. Man, do I ever wish I was just a little prettier. I hate my face! It's so short and wide, and with little pink pimples every square inch! My braces don't help much because they make my cheeks poke out every time I smile. Then I've got my pitiful excuse for a nose. And my hair is so dry! Plus all the split ends are on the short hairs so I can't cut them off. And all the curly frizzes don't help much either! Maybe when I get a perm, get off my braces, and grow out of my zits I'll be at least noticeable. I know this sounds pretty pathetic but, what can I say, it's only the truth.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

love letters and naive delusions

As a young teenager who fell deeply in love every three seconds and had nothing but The Little Mermaid and Kevin Costner movies to refer to for examples of romance, I spent a lot of time imagining complex romantic fantasies involving my crushes of the week. Most of them took place in the summertime – a chance meeting at girls' camp (boys were FORBIDDEN), a secret rendezvous during a game of "capture the flag", the tapping of small rocks on my bedroom window at night, or a bashful encounter during a wandering hike in the hills (he'd be enchanted by my beautiful rendition of "part of your world").

I used to fixate so arduously on these fantasies that it was basically as though they had actually happened. The pimply, sweaty boys who occupied my sheltered social circles had unknowingly declared their love to me in an unending variety of ways; a treasure hidden in a pile of sticks where only I would find it, brash acclamations during family day beach picnics, sneaking out of church for discreet meetings in the abandoned outhouses – in my delusions they were all Romeos, Don Juans, and Prince Erics of my heart. My attempts to bring these fantasies to life were carried out by writing myself love letters from them. I would pen some jumbled prose about how they had always seen something "special" in me, how I was "different" from all the other girls, how they wanted to sweep me away to our island of solitude, buy me a horse, plant a garden of roses in the formation of my face, or at the very least, take me to Boston Pizza for dinner. I'd throw in some casual references to things happening in their actual lives ("I'm sorry I didn't see you at the dance, I was grounded for not doing my homework – how could I when all I can think of is you?"), and once the letter was complete, I would crumple it, fold it, make it look as "real" as possible, and act out the scenario of it being handed to me by a secretly jealous friend. Then I would read it, clutch my heart, weep at the injustice of our hidden love, curse the universe for keeping us apart, and write back (using a different color pen):

"I'm so flattered! I think about you ALL THE TIME and really want to go to Boston Pizza with you. Let's meet on Sunday behind my grandma's trailer, there are blueberries in the trees back there. I'll bring chips."

I'd continue these correspondences until I had a small collection of folded paper wads, and then once I had run out of ideas of secret places to meet (I had no idea what else a romantic encounter would entail other than face gazing and snuggling, and making out was still some abstract idea of movie stars mushing around together. My self-esteem was still low enough that the thought of myself doing those things was weird and totally off-putting), I would shred, burn, and bury the notes into "safe from my brothers" oblivion. I WISH I had kept them though. My diaries have some good laughs in them, but the secret letters held all my truly unbridled adolescent angst. Having five siblings was like living with the thought police. Any vague expression of real feelings equated taking the risk of ultimate, suicidal humiliation. The stories of my ridiculous and warped illusions would spread to my cousins, then to their friends, and then to every boy featured in my silly little stories. At the time, thorough destruction of my innermost desires was an unquestionable necessity.

As an adult, I'm still prone to losing myself in elaborate fantasies, but of course they're grounded in a stronger sense of reality now. If I were to write a letter to myself now, it would be from a wicked awesome employer rather than a pubescent boy. It might go something like this:

"Dearest Sarah,

We're big fans and we regularly read your blog. We think you are amazing and we would be damn lucky to have someone like you working for us. We'd like you to join us as "awesome consultant". Job duties would include: sharing all of your crazy original ideas and helping us turn them into stellar and hilarious products, books, films, and tv shows, keeping it real and in turn, keeping us real, "working it" on a regular basis, and helping to make our already awesome office environment ever more awesome through amusing banter, telling hilarious jokes, and wearing amazing clothes.

We will pay you anything, anything. You are worth more to us than our quarterly earnings. If the initial 3-month probationary period goes well, we will name our company after you. We've employed that lady from Super Nanny specifically for your child care needs, and have several top childrens' entertainers and educational activity experts on call for cold or rainy days. The job will entail much family-friendly travel, which we will cover, as well as any expenses along the way. We like to think of life experiences as valuable research for our company, and will happily support your life lessons financially. You may expect retirement a the age of 40, afterwhich, our pension plan will ensure lasting financial security for ever after.

Please call us or facebook us or whatever, and we'll get you started at whatever time is convenient for you.

Sincere, Kind, Warm, and Adoring Regards,
The Most Awesome Company of All Time.

PS. We are in love with you."

My response would be:

"Dear Most Awesome Company of All Time,

I'm so flattered! I think about you ALL THE TIME and really want to go to Boston Pizza with you. Let's meet on Sunday behind my grandma's trailer, there are blueberries in the trees back there. I'll bring chips.


PS. I can start on Monday."

Thursday, December 10, 2009

congratulations, you're a weiner

Admittedly, I have been lost in introspection the last few days. I'm pretty sure it relates to the usual suspects of sleeplessness, momsolation and cabin fever, and I'm anxious for it to end not just for my sake, but for the sake of my husband and anyone else who is sick of my moanings (hollah!). I know from experience that becoming caught up inside of one's own head inevitably leads to depression, and some external social exposure is way overdue. That said, I'm going to go ahead and indulge in a little more "me me me". Just a bit more, I promise, then I'll get back to ideas that circle around things more interesting than myself (if that's even possible).

A brief facebook comment about my being an Aries (wink wink, Kim), and alluding to my indomitable competitive spirit, led me to google "astrology Aries" (I don't keep up with astrology, although I do know that I'm about as Aries as it gets). The first result led me to a cheapo astrology site (this one, if you care) that described me WORD FOR WORD. It was so accurate that I choked up a little (right around the "crappy childhood" part). If you are obsessed with me (and who isn't?), I highly recommend the read.

Anyway, the part that always comes back to me is the competition bit. I'm really competitive. I like to win and be the best at everything. Even though I might act modest at my victories, there is a Little Asshole inside of me that does the hands-on-knees-leg-switch victory dance pretty much all the time. The Little Asshole laughs and points at others' weaknesses, waves its tiny fists at people who get in its way, and throws epic tantrums when someone else gets the job or award that I applied for. One of my biggest personal challenges is suppressing the Little Asshole. Sometimes I win, sometimes it does. I think most of my close friends know this about me.

That isn't to say that I'm one of those people who are intolerable to play games with. With Christmas holidays coming up and board games soon-to-abound, I feel that I need to air this out. I mean I don't think I'm intolerable to play games with. In MY opinion, I'm really fun to play games with. I will make you laugh while simultaneously mildly insulting you (not personally, just your strategies), I will assuage my aggression with self-deprecatory remarks in order to make you view me as harmless and light-humored, I will form alliances with you and inflate said alliance by bolstering any joke or trash-talky commentary you may provide, and then, in the sweetest, funnest way possible... I WILL CRUSH YOU

If, by some dark miracle, I don't win, I will make more self-deprecatory jokes, praise your strategic prowess, and perhaps offer you a drink. Later, once I am alone with my thoughts, drifting off into my sweet slumberland, I will plot my revenge. You got lucky, and the likelihood of it happening again is NIL-ish.

The upside to knowing this about me is that, if you ever do play against me, and if you ever DO win (phfft), your feelings of self-satisfaction at seeing me lose will make the win all the more special. See? In fact, every game should have an extreme aries. Without us, winning and losing is nothing more than a hollow, empty contest of mediocrity. Am I right Arians? Can I get a hell yeah? ... anybody? Yeah? No? Whatevs.

Aannnnywaaaay... who wants to play Settlers? Risk? Monopoly? No? That's okay, I didn't want to play anyway. I'm too busy kicking ass at a little game called LIFE. The actual game. My real life is kind of effed right now.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

skinny sexy face

While I'm on the subject of faces (and while my babies are still asleep), here's another one: it's the "skinny sexy face" employed by EVERY girl in every picture from every bar ever.

The skinny face starts simply enough: chin down. The angle has to come from above in order to accentuate the cheekbones, make the eyes seem bigger, and hide any double chin or waddle flappage. This is an easy trick, and since learning it, I'll admit that I use it, and I've ruined far less pictures with it. We are not all graced with everyday photogenic mugs, so it's good to have a way out of looking like a puffy awkward cushion face.

From that point however, bar girls have taken skinny face to a land far, far away. The chin is tucked down, and any chub under it is sucked up using highly developed back-tongue muscles. They turn their heads to an almost complete profile view, barely turning their faces and exposing their necks as much as possible. They smile without using their cheeks or eyes, moving their lips into a weird loose pout in order to make their lips look fuller and... about to kiss something? Their eyes squint ever so slightly, I think to look "fierce".

Try it. Try to smile while pouting and sucking your chin up (while tipping it down as well), then hold a camera up over your head, turn your face so you're looking at it from the corner of your eye, squint a tiny little bit, and then take a picture of yourself. Do you look like every bar girl in every picture ever? Probably. Do you also look weird and idiotic? Yes.

The best (see: worst) is when girls start using this face outside of the bar. Like, while holding babies in family photos, or in Christmas morning photos. Some girls have their skinny sexy faces so excessively practiced that if you were to pull a camera out and aim it at them, their face would instantly freeze into skinny sexy face. So much for trying even a little bit to look natural. I guess we all just gotta look fierce all the time now. Just can't be in a single picture without looking like we wanna sex you up. I mean, if you actually do wanna sex everyone up than for sure use skinny sexy face with wanton abandon, but you might also want to be remembered as a nice person with human feelings too, so maybe relax sometimes.


  During my time as an older sister of three guys and a girlfriend/wife of a few others, I've discovered that there is a face that guys make during particular times of concentration. Let's call it the mancentration face. I'm not talking about perviness either, (pervs), I'm talking about a face that's universal among guys, and as far as I can tell, is generally used unknowingly by the guys in question.

It's the face that accompanies guitar playing, 2-Unlimited-roger-rabbit-dancing, or while choreographing fight sequences by themselves. The lips are slightly pursed into a small "o", as in "oh my god I'm a wicked extreme dude right now", and their unseeing eyes are fixed directly onto your face as if to say, "you can hardly handle this," which is usually true.

I can't count the number of times I've had a guy play a guitar AT me. Not FOR me in the sweet way. Just at me. As soon as that guitar lays itself in their meaty paws, "the zone" takes over so completely that they seem to imagine my patient, forced-interest expression to actually be an audience of rabid fans. I have three musically talented brothers who have showed me their newly learned riffs many many times, and have sat in the midst of their jam sessions for hours, learning how to deflect the major-intense zone looks by playing video games. I'm not complaining necessarily, because I love my brothers and am envious of their wild talent, but the mancentration face truly abounded among them.

Same for that jumpy, "watch me switch my feet in several crazy combinations" dancing that exploded in the 90s. Oh man, the ORGIES of extreme moves that dudes who otherwise sucked at dancing would shove at any and all who were within a 3 meter radius of them. And the best is seeing the same guys break them out 10 years later (seriously, it is the best. I'm not being sarcastic). You know that those were their glory days and that flippin those bitches out might be all they've got now. Generally, I've got no problem with the moves, it's just the mancentration face that comes with it that tips it over into the embarrassing and slightly pathetic side. I get it! You have EXTREMENESS inside of you. Please do your flippity-switch-swatch-jiggle-dink moves in a direction other than my face.

Lastly, the fighting-arts routines. Lots of guys are into martial arts movies, and that's fine. I can appreciate the adrenaline surges at fantasizing oneself to be a benevolent master of crackin' heads. I've watched my fair share of these films, and they're lots of fun. Buuuuut... things change when they actually want to be that person. Not only that, but when they are too lazy or self-conscious to take real martial arts classes, and think they can self-teach themselves. Throw in a camcorder and you've got awkward and slightly dangerous movie magic. But even better is when they want to show you their new moves. This is the apex of the mancentration stare. Nunchucks flying, safety at serious risk, and that tense "o" mouth and bulging eyes pointing right at you. I'm pretty sure that what happens is, your face morphs into an evil vampire warrior gang leader, and the guy gracing you with his moves actually wishes he could kick your head in. If only! Sorry guy, it's just me! Ooop you canned yourself with a stray nunchuck. I'm going now.

I have yet to find an image that illustrates the exact face that I'm talking about, but maybe next time I'm in Riley Park I'll snap a picture of the fantasy nerds practicing their sword fights. Fingers crossed I get the shot!