my relationship truth-o-meter
As I peruse the paper in my car waiting for the gym (Nordstrom) to open (cardio Wednesday), it strikes me as odd that we have a truth-o-meter for politicians, but not for relationships.
I’m far from a shining example of relationship success or even good judgment, but I have amassed a fair amount of knowledge in my 30-cough years and can finally put my journalism background to work at debunking a few common myths and misconceptions.
So just as political fact checkers toil to research the accuracy of statements such as:
“The majority of Americans want Rick Santorum’s amygdala studied to determine if his insanity is congenital or the result of environmental pollutants.”
I too will try to bring some clarity and truth to the mind-numbing white noise we consider love.
This is specifically dedicated to those of you whose dysfunction combined with my own will hopefully one day fuel a reality TV show capable of earning us enough money to pay for our Botox and/or children’s therapy. Or, at the very least, cocktails at the Gimpy Vomit.
You know who you are.
“There are two sides to every story.”
(the second most annoying statement you will hear during a break up)
Sure two “sides” exist, but think of those sides as individual perceptions of reality. And some people’s reality is so completely distorted, it bears no actual resemblance to the truth.
So the next time a guy friend tells you his wife howls at the moon and sharpens her talons right before giving him half a hand job, you might want to recognize that his “side” should be given as much credibility as, say, Rick Santorum’s.
“The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”
(the single most annoying thing you will be told during a split)
Look, it’s a ridiculous statement that undermines the intelligence of any person experiencing challenges in a relationship.
Of course it’s not always greener, but who the fuck cares if your lawn is already dead?
“Divorce is the most effective diet plan out there.”
Next to salmonella poisoning, going through the trauma of a divorce is truly the best way to shed that baby weight.
But be careful. There is a fine line between fitting into your high school jeans and looking like you’re undergoing chemotherapy.
“Dating is the best form of entertainment.”
Because when that mature, charming, seemingly perfect 50-year-old guy who left a Gucci purse on your doorstep starts pulling up his dead wife’s Facebook page while you’re with him at a romantic retreat in Napa, you have to stop and appreciate the universe’s sense of humor.
And even if you’re finding it hard to laugh it off in between feeling obligated to say how pretty she is and “not at all sick looking despite the kidney dialysis,” at least know that you always can count on me to snort vodka out of nostrils from laughing so hard when you tell me about it later.
Plus, I will blog about it.
“If you’re smart, you’ll be the second wife.”
Shortly before I graduated college I was dating a sweet, successful JFK, Jr. lookalike who adored me.
The problem? I would have been his second wife.
Still so green and naive, this prospect had me feeling like a second round draft pick.
I was in my early 20s, 10 pounds thinner and had no gag reflex. I thought I deserved to go in the first round!
Here’s what I wish somebody would have shared with me then: the second wife is always held in higher esteem. She’s revered and recognized as the do-over that men are determined to make it work with since it’s a universal truth (to men) that one failed marriage is always the fault of the first wife. The second failed marriage, however, has the husband looking like the crushed, taped-up box of returned toys covered in clearance stickers on the Target endcaps. They will do anything the second time around to avoid looking like the unwanted throwback (again).
Their first wife was like the first pancake. Automatically tossed out because the second one always seems to turn out better. This determination not to be wrong (again) combined with the coaching and potty training of the first wife makes for a winning combination.
You see, the first wife always looks like the nagging bitch for whining about the toenail clippings all over the bathroom floor. But the second wife doesn’t bitch about that at all. You know why? Because there are no more toenail clippings on the floor! (you’re welcome)
“Women should marry a man about 10 years older.”
Because no matter how old they get or how many ear hairs they sprout, men never really stop wanting a 25-year-old (and we can only pull that off for about five years, max), it’s in every woman’s best interest to marry up about a decade.
The age difference is not vast enough to make you look like you have daddy issues, but it’s sufficient enough to ensure that your husband will worship you for years to come.
For instance, if guys your own age find you attractive, guys about 10 years older will find you beautiful. If you’re rocking less-than-average intelligence, to that older guy you’re simply adorable. Slutty? No problem. An older man will just think you’re adventurous! And no worries if you’re completely insane because to an older guy, that’s just idiosyncratic.
Not to mention older men are less likely to leave you for a younger woman since their ego prevents them from wanting to be mistaken for their wife’s father.
I really see no downside for either party when sticking to this rule since women are not afraid of a few grey pubic hairs or decreased sex drive.
All we really want is someone other than a Vietnamese woman we can’t understand to give us a foot rub and tell us we’re skinny.
“Men are complicated.”
Men are about the only math problem I can solve without a calculator. That’s not to say I like math or have any daily use for it, I’m just pointing out that I don’t think it’s astrophysics.
Men like breasts.
They expect you to swallow, stay thin, water them every once in awhile with a light beer, and not remind them how bat-shit crazy their mother is. They want you to let them watch endless, uninterrupted sports without judgement. They need to know they are your biggest and best.
Men like breasts.
“Monogamy is a simple formula.”
As long as the fear of losing the person you’re with outweighs your desire for another, you’ll remain monogamous:
I’d be lost without him/her >; Hot sex with spin instructor/nanny = Monogamy
Also, it’s helpful to realize that women cheat because they’re miserable. Men cheat because they can.
“Your soul mate & life mate are never the same person.”
The person who is so inexplicably tied to your soul that there is a cosmic collision whenever you’re together is rarely the same person who remembers to use a coaster.
The sooner you accept this as truth, the happier you’ll be.
Also, men like breasts.
america’s got sweat glands and why i am the worst groupie ever
Nick Cannon: Actual Size
When the Mahaffey Theater offered free tickets to yesterday’s taping of “America’s Got Talent,” I gladly accepted the opportunity to see judge Howard Stern and the contestants he might draw. A former Tiger Woods mistress refilling a maple syrup dispenser while yodeling through her trach tube perhaps? One could only guess what Howard would do to resurrect the old days of being fined by the FCC.
I ordered the tickets online while trying to suppress a recurring nightmare I have that I’m standing naked under a floodlight in Howard’s former E! Studio while Gary measures my inner thigh fat with calipers, Fred administers an IQ test, and Ralph suggests I press charges against my hair stylist.
The taping information on the tickets was vague with the exception of a dress code policy that rivaled that of an Arab country.
It specified NO open-toed shoes!! Or heels!! with enough all caps and exclamation points to make me wonder why I’d consider associating myself with such American keyboard abuse.
I can only imagine this is because of (justified) fears that Floridians don’t get pedicures with any regularity and should Nick Cannon interview any members of the studio audience their high heels could further emphasize that he is shorter than his infant twins.
Nevertheless, I slipped into flat-as-my-shoes-get Mary Janes and a simple black Betsey Johnson dress just in time for the 5pm taping.
Or was it that I was to arrive at 5pm for a later taping?
Line up at sunrise for the 5pm taping?
It was all very unclear, and the search for shoes in my closet that were less than four stories tall left me frazzled and unable to count out five dollar bills for parking.
Nana insists these are silver. I thought they were gold, but I think we can all agree that their public appearances should be limited to quick trips to Walgreens to refill her thyroid medication.
We arrived at the Mahaffey at 4:59pm. Because that’s how Nana rolls.
Yes, in her never-ending quest to be the cool mom who’s not the least bit offended by irreverent assholes like Howard Stern (or her own children), Nana joined us after managing to locate gold ballet flats somewhere in the bowels of her own closet. Or perhaps, from the looks of it, the local Goodwill bin.
“What?!” she said after noticing my brother’s face twist up in a grimace similar to that of someone who just licked battery acid. “I don’t have a lot of closed-toed shoes that are flat.”
Bottom line: if we were going to wait in a queue that choked the perimeter of both the Mahaffey Theater and Dali Museum like a noose, then we were not getting turned away for making Nick Cannon look like a Pygmy.
Worst Groupie Ever
This might come as a shock given the Mary Janes, but I am not a good groupie.
For instance, I’ve been fairly obsessed with Dave Matthews Band my entire adult life. They DJ’d everything from my drunken hook-ups in college to my wedding. A good litmus test for my boyfriends involves putting their iPod on shuffle. If DMB isn’t playing by the third song, I’m well within my rights to end the relationship. And during my pregnancy, I swore that “One Sweet World” actually made my daughter kick. But when DMB comes to Tampa each Summer, I find myself saying things like: “I dunno guys … the amphitheater is pretty fucking hot in July.”
That being said, because a sitter was already being paid $15 an hour for me to be at this taping, I felt I owed it to my forehead to at least get a basal cell carcinoma while standing outside in the blazing hot Florida sun.
America’s Got a Bunch of Idiots … Namely Me
It didn’t take long for me to notice that even though hundreds of people were waiting in line, only a few who may or may not have been wearing pirate costumes (I was hallucinating and close to passing out at this point) were escorted inside.
TV crew members walked by the line suggesting we wave, look at the camera, don’t look at the camera, and squish closer together to determine who remembered deodorant and who didn’t.
Me standing in line
Several pictures were taken, and I can only imagine I looked like a glob of freshly poured asphalt having stupidly obliged the dress code which clearly screamed: DARK COLORS APPRECIATED!!
As 5:45pm approached, and a total of two people were relieved from the steaming cauldrons of waiting purgatory, my brother joked that maybe there wasn’t even a show.
“This is just a sociological experiment to see who would actually stand here and for how long,” he suggested, while giving me a look that said, “I was ready to bolt 44 minutes ago, for the record.”
But here’s the tricky part: there comes a time when your fears of becoming a total moron are overruled by the investment of sweat that’s dripping down your back.
Sure, the rational part of me yearned to say “fuck this” and pass out in a puddle of perspiration on my couch at home instead, but the other sunburned, very dehydrated part of me that spent an afternoon with a leaf blower trying to unearth these not-so-flats was pretty determined to see Howard Stern make somebody cry, dammit.
Luckily for my electrolyte balance, at about 6pm, the crew who pretended to be too important to answer questions, avoiding all eye contact and pressing their earpieces further into their ears as if receiving life-saving information, was finally finished taking pictures of the sweat cascading down our ass cracks.
It was now time to address the crowd and Nana’s 14kt gold lamé flats that shone in the afternoon sunlight like a beacon of bad fashion:
“Sorry guys. We’ve already filled the theater. You’re going to have to come back tomorrow.”
There were other words said, but it’s amazing how much faster your heels can turn when you’re not wearing any.
I was already buckling my seatbelt in the car when the crew promised priority passes and details about the next taping that basically translated into:
“We used you all to make this venue look completely packed. Made you stand out here for AN HOUR knowing the theater was already at capacity with 1,200 people who presumably knew enough to line up here last week. We took pictures of you waving like imbeciles for our season premiere and/or a Summer’s Eve douche commercial.”
In summary, America’s Got Talent at pissing off people and making them question the effectiveness of their deodorant.
Howard Stern Can Still Make You Cry
Beth Stern not at all wearing flats or DARK COLORS!!
Amazingly, I didn’t even need a judge on a reality TV show to remind me of my genetic inferiority.
As I sat outside at Parkshore Grill later that evening, Howard’s beautiful wife Beth turned up looking completely gorgeous, thin, and in no need of Photoshop.
So thanks a lot, America’s Got Talent.
Nothing quite boosts one’s self-esteem like sweating off all your makeup right before standing in almost-flats next to a 6-foot-tall supermodel.
the bitch in the back of the cab
If Peter Pan makes an appearance,
I'm going to be pissed.
After witnessing the horror of criminally sunburned Midwesterners blister aboard a Disney cruise ship for four days, I couldn’t wait to commence “Spring Break: Part Two.”
It would take place primarily in British pubs and not at all star Lilo & Stitch.
I might be a decent mother, but I’m not fucking Mother Teresa, and I was done with trying to figure out how to have a “magical day” in a 24-square-inch bathroom struggling to peel off a *wetsuit from a wriggling child whose bowels just discovered an interesting math fact:
Excessive hotdog consumption + Multiple trips down the Aquaduck waterslide = Asstastrophe
So, because I might not be that smart, I decided there was no better way to recover from the claustrophobia and exhaustion of clamoring for a lounge chair on the Disney Dream pool deck than to turn around the night you disembark and board an 8-hour red-eye to London.
Where’s my vice grip; these head wings suck
British Airways offers several different classes of Transatlantic travel that can be confusing at first, but really should only be broken down into two categories:
- Lay-flat bed
- You’re not fucking sleeping no matter how much Ambien you take
After attempts to use our daughter’s 529 to pay for the first class seats failed, we opted to heed my globetrotting brother’s advice: “drugs are an excellent alternative to first class.”
So armed with a bottle of Valium and tremendous gratitude Tinkerbell was nowhere in sight, we arrived at our pseudo-business class seats which hovered somewhere between lay-flat beds and shoot me in the face.
I think British Airways referred to our upholstered medieval torture chambers as “World Traveller Plus” seats. Apparently you pay extra for a lice napkin, head wings and enough free alcohol to easily overdose when combined with your Valium.
Waiting just long enough to place earplugs in my nostrils to block out the stench of dinner, I sucked down my two Valium hoping not to wake up again until we had arrived in the UK (which, as you know, is short for “Ugly Kingdom”).
Sadly, I woke up about every 20 minutes or so, proving what I have always thought to be the case: my head is HUGE. It is so heavy, no head wing could hold it in place. I would wake up to discover it was tipped back and wedged in between our reclined seats, affording everyone a really awesome view of the back of my throat and my deviated septum.
Welcome to where even your Starbucks-stained teeth look white
The next morning, the traveler who knew to bring a toothbrush and the other who thought dragon breath could easily be combated with a piece of Orbit gum, made their way to the Milestone Hotel.
The polite British receptionist wearing the same exact barrettes I sported in my 5th grade school picture informed us that our AmEx Platinum status had earned us an upgrade to the mumble, mumble room. I knew better than to get too excited because unless you hear Presidential Suite, there’s almost never an upgrade. Mumble, mumble rooms are just the shitty rooms you booked hoping for an upgrade.
There was no time to inquire though as Benny Hill was waiting nearby, eager to show us around. I listened to Benny the bellman during our hotel tour with the same impatience I try not to show while nodding through restaurant specials when I already know what I want to order. But I half-heard him say our hotel was once an “insane asylum.”
Just as I was trying to recover from the confusion of how that could be considered a selling point, our guide thrust open the doors to our mumble, mumble room.
To say my first sight was a resident of the flat six inches from our window wearing a tattered white undershirt and boxer shorts while rinsing out his teacup in the sink would only be a little bit of hyperbole, since the sink covered him from the waist down.
That being said, minus a funhouse mirror that accentuated how Kardashian my ass got on the cruise, the room itself was richly appointed, newly renovated and equipped with comfy slippers – not the crappy hotel ones that are the equivalent to walking around on a piece of gauze.
“Is it okay, ma’am?” the bellman asked me with a look in his eyes that said, “I’m sorry your room sucks.”
Now is a good time to point out that our 400-pound a night hotel boasts “most rooms overlooking Kensington Gardens.” No where did I read about the room category that included sweeping vistas of the man’s hairy earlobes in the next flat.
Does this monument make me look fat?
So after trying to score a non-boxer shorts view, we were informed we could have a Kensington Gardens view room the following day.
“We’re not going to be in the room that much,” Brian reminded me, with a look in his eyes that said, “You make me pack my shit up again and I’ll kill you in your sleep.”
Insane asylum explained
It wasn’t until we woke up the next day that we discovered the Milestone’s connection to insanity: the beds.
If you have ever been ejected from an airplane without a parachute and woken up in a concrete parking lot with a speed bump for a pillow, then you might know what it’s like to sleep in our mumble, mumble bed.
The bed was so excruciatingly hard, not only did it explain why the hotel rendered people crazy at one point, but it made me think the Londoners passed out on the streets and park benches weren’t actually homeless. They were just staying at our hotel.
I’m not dignified enough to live here
On our way to the Camden Street Market, our cab driver was trying to prepare us for the market’s unique combination of tattoo artists, gypsies, skinheads, antique dealers, artists and immigrants thrusting chicken curry samples down our gullet. In one of the most unintelligible Hackney accents ever, he was ranting about how the tattoo ink on David Beckham’s body probably outweighs his wife.
“That wouldn’t be too hard,” I quipped, in the sarcastic tone I reserve for… well… pretty much everything I say.
“Bwwwwwwwaaahahahaha,” he laughed so hard he coughed a piece of his esophagus onto the windshield before loudly proclaiming, “I luv’ a BITCH in the back a’my cab!”
Brian tipped him 150 percent.
And I made a mental note that if pointing out that Victoria Beckham hasn’t eaten solid food since the late 90s was considered “bitchy,” then I could never live here.
Put the lotion in the basket
The punishment for being too exhausted to locate your car? Dismemberment.
The one positive to sleeping on a concrete slab for several days is that it made our flight back home seem luxurious. After turning down a pastrami sandwich wrapped in tin foil (like I said, “luxury”), I decided to embrace my oversized melon, and just wedge it myself in between the seats to catch a few hours of sleep.
Although attractive, my drooling probably was not that conducive to Brian sleeping, so by the time we arrived in Tampa, he was suffering from a sleep-deprivation-induced amnesia, and we could not find his car.
I was not alarmed. This is a daily occurrence for me.
But he was ready to blow up the TPA parking garage in frustration. So I knew I either needed to intervene or call my mommy to pick me up before he detonated the C4.
It was then that I spotted a man wearing a “customer assistance” vest, carrying a pad and spitting out sunflower seeds.
I asked for his help before I got close enough to see that his hair had not been washed since before he was placed on a cocktail of psychotropic drugs that may have curbed his desire to chop me up into little pieces, but did nothing to thwart his tremors or the serial killer look in his red-rimmed eyes.
He suggested Brian go to the police station two floors down so that they could help him locate the inconspicuous, compact, easily lost HUMMER.
And, that’s right. Leave me here with the luggage and imminent fear of death.
Luckily, I watched Nightline enough to know that if you make yourself “human” to a murderer, they might not want to eat your liver.
Hannibal loses his train of thought. Stares into the distance. Twitches. Doubting he works there, I text my Will.
So I decided to befriend Hannibal.
“So…do people lose their oversized, gas-guzzling SUVs often?” I’d ask with a smile that begged, “please don’t kill me…I have a daughter who’s at home waiting for a Big Ben piggy bank and Harrods bear.”
His response would include some twitching, looking away and then nervously jotting down my dimensions on a legal pad, presumably to determine how many of my limbs he could fit in the recycling bin.
Several minutes later and long after I texted my mother my Last Will & Testament, Brian announced that we were in the wrong parking garage.
I never thought I’d be so relieved we were idiots!
On the drive home, I couldn’t help but wonder though…if Hannibal was a parking garage “customer assistance” worker, why couldn’t he have suggested we were in the wrong garage?
Whatever. I’m just glad this bitch’s head was too big to fit in the basket.
*Floridians understand that any water temperature below 90 degrees is not acceptable, hence the wetsuits. As they say in London: brilliant
not my dream
Disney Dreamer Rockin' Out at the Welcome Party
Not only is our Christmas elf Jingles a bit of a drunk who often forgets to hide after a night of revelry, but this year he decided to hijack our Spring break plans by scheduling a Bahamian cruise aboard the Disney Dream.
One would think December gave us adequate time to reserve a concierge suite or beach cabanas for a trip taking place in March, but apparently Disney cruisers know to book those before the ship is even designed. These are the same assholes who make getting dinner reservations at Cinderella’s Castle only possible long after your daughter stops giving a shit about Disney princesses.
who’s going down with us
As our sail date approached, I ran into an acquaintance at Shorebucks who mentioned he and his family also were going on the Disney Dream over break.
I couldn’t contain my excitement. We would know somebody else with whom to commiserate over the repugnancy of the all-you-can-eat turkey leg buffet! (I may have made that up, but it was Disney after all. I knew churros and turkey legs would have to make an appearance at some point.)
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re really excited about it.”
He wasn’t kidding.
I was deflated.
It’s worth noting that the only appropriate response to, “I’m going on the Disney cruise” is: “I’m sorry.”
welcome (to olfactory hell) party
If your elf ever screws you over and you too find yourself aboard the Disney Dream, avoid the “Welcome Party” on the pool deck at all costs. This is merely a ruse to get you to either jump overboard or accept a fruity frozen drink you don’t want, thinking it’s complimentary, but later realizing you were charged $11 for it.
If you can imagine 4,000 people crowded into an area roughly the size of a waffle, then you can appreciate how badly my allergies were flaring up during this event.
For the record, my allergies include, but are not limited to:
- Sweaty people who “arm rape” me in a crowd.
- Cheap hotel rooms.
- Dirty feet; sticky hands.
- The existence of body hair on anyone over 150 pounds.
- An assortment of olfactory assaults too numerous to list…greasy scalp, earwax (yes – I can smell that), any spice (curry) or food (garlic, hotdog) odor emanating not from food, Eternity for men, and anything that smells like scented maxi pads.
it’s the tallest midget
As far as cruise ships go, the Disney Dream probably ranks higher on the list of acceptability. It’s newish and cleanish, and to my delight, every time you enter a dining room, a foreigner is paid 14 cents a day to hand you an antibacterial wipe.
But if like me, you think cruise ships are nothing more than a floating Petri dish of unnamed viruses that will stump your board certified dermatologist into thinking the origin of your skin rash is: “a reaction to drinking too many rum drinks,” then you should steer clear. And for the record, I was 23, and Malibu and pineapple juice were cool at the time.
that’s totally a shit stain
Not being an experienced Disney fan(atic) who looks at a topiary shaped like Donald Duck as the 8th Wonder of the World, the best room I could reserve on short (three months!) notice was a deluxe family stateroom with outside verandah that sleeps five.
Let me clarify that “five” must actually mean “five fetuses.” Because I’m pretty sure at one point my daughter was deciding which parent she liked the least so that she could accidentally on purpose throw one of us overboard to have more space to wave her $16 sword we were waterboarded into buying for the ship’s pirate party.
The cabin featured a split bath which made any imminent asstastrophes (it is a cruise ship after all) possible in privacy while I took my third shower of the day, ignoring pleas to conserve water or obey the 2-towel daily allotment. Trust me, from the smell of it, many of those cruise-goers were conserving water, so don’t blame me for ruining the environment.
Besides having the obvious benefits of a private pool deck where you might actually get a chair (not possible otherwise), concierge level rooms also have another huge advantage: shower gel.
I assumed our room steward forgot to supply us with shower gel only to discover that “luxury” was reserved for concierge rooms only.
“Let me get this straight,” I immediately turned the color of the $11 daiquiri we just threw out, “for $5,000, I am to give my child a bath for four days with a single bar of soap the size of a sugar cube?”
Yep.
Good thing I always bring my own shampoo and conditioner because I had to use Disney’s to shave my legs the rest of the trip.
Shortly after my frustration over the lack of shower gel and annoyance at the impending mandatory muster drill, I spotted a brown smudge on our upholstered sofa bed designed to sleep one of the fetuses. I should mention that we did not have a fetus on board since this was a “vacation,” and anyone who knows me knows that my menstrual cycles are tied directly to my vacation schedules.
“That’s a poop stain,” I announced before dry heaving and covering it with magazines.
Brian looked at me with the exhaustion of someone who has been traveling with me for 15 years.
“It looks like chocolate pudding,” he replied nonchalantly, moving the magazines aside.
“How can you SPILL chocolate pudding in the shape of a diamond?” I demanded, adding additional magazines to the fecal barrier which I diligently saw would remain intact for the rest of the trip.
Luckily the muster drill occurred in the middle of this heated debate, so we could then switch our focus to which assholes would be elbowing us on the way to the lifeboats should our boat Costa Concordia itself right into a reef.
communist dinner
Server Gustavo does not speak Russian and therefore cannot explain to Buela why she may not have four appetizers.
Not reserving our cruise the minute I conceived created yet another last-one-to-the-party challenge: an unchangeable-because-the-boat-was-fully-booked 8:30 pm dinner seating.
My daughter is seven. She’s asleep at 8:30 pm, and that is when we are slated by these Nazis to eat dinner every night? It made me want to scream, “Where the FUCK is my shower gel?!” before punching our waiter Gustavo in his coiffed up pompadour.
In yet another blow, we were seated with a family of three that spoke little English. This ended up being a blessing though because it would have been awkward to strike up a conversation with parents who I’m certain ate their other four children during the Cold War.
Boris and his wife Buela (I have no idea what the fuck their names were, I was too pissed that I had to sit through a 4-hour meal across from them) looked equally disgusted, as our two children fell asleep face first in their macaroni and cheese each night after 63 rounds of tic tac toe.
profiting on a parent’s need for alcohol & caffeine
The Disney Dream features 11 nightclubs and two cafes where the requisite lattes are $5 a piece (your $5k actually buys you a “somewhat-inclusive” cruise).
Although I appreciate how and why most parents need alcohol to cope with the fact that their vacation is taking place aboard the Disney Dream, I cannot understand why you’d bother to take your children to anything Disney only to drop them off at the Oceaneers Lab (the babysitting area that’s name so obviously refers to the bacteria cultures left behind) while you practice your running man on the dance floor of a pink lounge shaped like a champagne bottle.
Don’t get me wrong. We used the babysitting service a fair amount. Like when our daughter expressed some concern over the fervor with which Boris tore through a chilled lobster tail. I somewhat guiltily checked her in to the Lab, a process similar to an Act of Congress, trying to ignore the fact that the little girl right behind her was wearing her wrist GPS unit on her ankle, most likely to match her father’s. I wish I had a photo of him (but want to live), since my description of his ZZ Top-like beard complete with two braids just wouldn’t do him or his Led Zeppelin concert T-shirt justice.
cocktail dresses on disney cruises have me longing for neverland
But for the most part, this vacation was not for us…it was for a sweet, seven-year-old girl who love(d) Disney and being with her parents (for now).
There just seemed something tragic and sad about me sporting a cocktail dress from Dress Barn and ordering a frozen drink I would later spill during the Cha Cha Slide in a Disney “dance club” while my daughter attempted to avoid the Norwalk virus from a Toy Story-themed play area by herself.
In fact, I’m pretty proud to say that I didn’t bother to brush my hair the entire trip and have the pictures to prove it. The optional “Formal” night had me acting like a rebellious teenager, donning Hollister sweatpants, Havaianas and a chipped pedicure. I watched as grown men in suits clumsily shifted their weight from side to side in the Atrium during the character dance party, wondering the whole time what I was doing there.
And then it hit me.
The genius of Disney isn’t in the mandatory gift shop walk-thru at the end of every ride or the $12 M&Ms they sell outside the movie theater on this boat.
It’s in the constant reminder of Peter Pan’s most important lesson: “Once you grow up…you can never go back!”
So I hope that my daughter left that ship wanting to cling to her childhood just a little bit longer.
After all, arguing about poop and pudding and all the responsibilities of adulthood can wait.
For now, she can just use the shampoo and pretend that it’s shower gel.
Look at those douchebags. Being an adult must really suck.
“running in” to walmart. never without consequence.
Not only did someone make the brilliant decision to assign this poor turtle to the “speedy” checkout lane, but this is a place that displays hemorrhoidal ointment, anti-fungal cream, and “Warm Touch” lubricating jelly at the register scattered among the typical point-of-sale purchases including gum, magazines and M&Ms.
Now by no means am I claiming to understand the buying habits of customers who voluntarily get stampeded to death on Black Friday for $1.88 paper towels.
But is your jock itch, bulging ass vein and dried-up Netherlands really something you forget about until you happen to be standing at the cash register tossing a tin of cinnamon Altoids onto the counter?
“I came here for a gallon of milk, but come to think of it…I haven’t had a sufficiently lubricated vagina since before my cashier’s back became a complete right angle.”
I know. I know. What did I expect from a store that is the inspiration for a website devoted entirely to horrifying the world with pictures of morbidly obese women sporting ripped, lace jeggings.
Besides. Just entering the threshold of Walmart should have indemnified my frustration toward the boxed-wine-stained-tooth hag in front of me, coughing up a Camel-coated lung and unsuccessfully attempting to hide her 400 cans of mixed vegetables beneath those two tablecloths.
Ten items or fewer is a difficult concept to grasp, but it’s there for a reason.
Specifically, I have a hair appointment in five minutes, and our cashier is averaging 12 minutes per can. That might not be a math problem I can calculate without a tutor, but it was sufficient time for me to realize why the typical Walmart customer doesn’t believe in evolution.
Not sure our cashier walked upright. Ever.
tierra verde drawbridge opening schedule as follows:
Monday through Sunday: When I have to pee.
thank goodness i know what sport to play to get these killer abs
And what dumbass buys a cell phone holder anyway? Duh. That’s why God invented elastic waistband cut-off sweatpants.
oh look
There are worse Valentines. And for those of you calling me an “ingrate,” I’d be willing to bet you were never the recipient of a Garfield card.
here’s a thought
Why don’t I spend as much time on my Valentine’s dinner as he did on my card? What are you guys thinking…Pop Tarts? Untoasted?
i only wear white when it rains 