Maybe she's born with it...Maybe not

So last summer I was at the Clinique counter buying some miracle lotion that will erase all of my wrinkles and make me look 30 again, and perusing the lipsticks.  (Lipstick and mascara are the only make-up-y things I wear.)  The clerk selected a summer-y pink-y one and had me try it on.  It was quite nice but I was concerned that the color was too young for me.  When I voiced my concerns, the clerk (who works on commission) assured me that no, no, no it was definitely not to young for me and in fact it brightened up my whole face.  Well, then.  Sold.

When I got home later, I asked John if he noticed anything new? (He LOVES this game) He groaned and since I was still on my new-lipstick-high, I threw him a bone and said, "I got a new lipstick! Whadda think?"
John, "It's nice."
Me, "Do you notice anything else?"
John, <Aw, shit> "Uh, your eyes are sparkly?"
Me, "No, but good answer. The lipstick brightens up my whole face!"
John, "Oh, I was definitely going to say that next."

Then I hollered at the boys to come over and asked them the same question and fed them the same response.  "It brightens up my whole face!"  And this became the joke of the summer.  Every time I wore  my new lipstick, I'd ask them if they noticed.

Me, "Do ya notice anything different???"
Random male, "Uhhhh"

Me, "Do ya notice anything different???"
Random male, "You look lighter?"

Me, "Do ya notice anything different???"
Random male, "Oh. Oh. I know this one!"

Fast forward and yesterday I found myself once again at the Clinique counter.  Unfortunately this time I did not have my credit card with me.  I'd gone out the night before with my friend Suzanne and had taken my i.d. and credit card out of my wallet and put them in the cute little clutch that I was carrying and forgot to put them back into my wallet.  Damn.  I told all of this to John and he handled me some bills from his wallet and walked away.  I chuckled to myself because he really thought that those few bills would cover the purchase.  Bless his heart.

I selected my miracle lotions and potions, and a new lipstick, and texted John to meet me at the register.  When he got there, I told him that I'd need his credit card for the purchase.
John, "But I gave you some money."
Me, "Yeah, but it's not enough."
John, "How much does it cost?"
Clerk, <says a number slightly larger then John was expecting>
John, <staring at the clerk>"WHAT?!?"
John, <staring at me> "WHAT DID YOU GET?!?"
Me, "Look, I got a new lipstick."
John, "Unless it comes on a whore who'll do the dishes, it's not worth it."
He didn't actually say that but I know he was thinking it.
Clerk, <holding several items> "You also get a gift with purchase"
John, "Can we have a fistful of each?"
Then he starts picking up random things on the counter, "Can we have this?" "How about this?" "Maybe 5 or 6 of these?"

He was still muttering as we walked away.
Me, "I have nice skin."
John, "It ain't that nice."

As we were walking to the car I started to tell the boys where we were going next,
Me, "So..."
Random boy, "IT BRIGHTENS UP YOUR WHOLE FACE!"

Jessica Jones

I started binge watching Jessica Jones.  Very good show.  She just said the best line:

"I need to update my resume.  Would you put 'day-drinking' as experience or special skills?"

The Force is Strong with this One!

So, everybody probably already knows this but I just found out.  I was looking through the Vanity Fair photos from their Star Wars issue.  Checking out the wacky new creatures and such, and browsing through the articles.  That's when I discovered that Gwendoline Christie is the Stormtrooper in the silver suit.  That's Brienne of Tarth in that rocking silver suit with the kick-ass cape!!  All 6'3" of her!  It's a girl Stormtrooper!! NOW, I'm psych'd to see the new movie and I was very much in need of a 11" action figure.  But, alas, being the last person on the planet to jump on board the Star Wars VII - The Force Awakens toy craze, I was a tad late.  Regardless I put in my due diligence and drove around town checking stores and surfed all over the internet.  No Captain Phasma, anywhere short of the secondary market and I wasn't quite there yet.  Yes, I had to have her but was I ready to swap an envelop of cash for a brown paper bag in some shady Toys R' Us parking lot? Sure, she's uber cool but what if the movie sucks, then what?

Then last night, John came home from a business trip and what did he have?

Captain Phasma, Bitches!

That moment was right up there with the time he came home from North Carolina with Flo's V-Eight Cafe, completing my town of Radiator Springs. He carried it on the plane like a boss. "Kids?" "Oh, no, no, it's for my wife."

You! Are! A! Toy!

So yesterday I saw yet another facebook post crapping all over Barbie and I am here to speak on behalf of the defense.  I had Barbies growing up and I played with them all the time.  I still have one of them and my biggest regret is that I didn't save more of her clothes.  I have never looked back and bemoaned her subversion of my self-image.  Not once.  Mainly because she was a toy.  Sure she was designed by a bunch of misogynistic old men who liked big boobs and tiny waists but let us remember those were misogynistic business men and not give them any more credit then they desire.  There was no master plan being spun in that board room.  They needed to bump up the numbers on the next quarterly report.  And the desire for add-on sales ultimately led to the demise of their (non-existent) plans to under mind the girls today. Not following me?  Let me explain....

This is why Barbie rocks:

Barbie owned her own beach house, her own pool house and her own townhouse.  They were hers.  Not Ken's.  HERS.  The name on the big pink box was "Barbie's Dream House!" G.I Joe may have come over to visit, at least until your brother found out but regardless, he was visiting.  She also owned a camper, an Austin-Healy, a Corvette, a Ferrari, a Rolls-Royce, a Thunderbird, hell, I can't even remember all the cars she owned. You know what she didn't own? A fucking minivan and that very thought went through my head when I found myself purchasing a Dodge Caravan. "Well, shit. Barbie always had a convertible." Barbie drove in style. And she always drove.  If he was lucky, Ken could ride in the passenger's seat but it was far more likely that Ken was left behind and Barbie's friend rode shot-gun.  You'd even shove another friend sideways in the back seat. "Ken, we're going to the beach. Can you grill something up for dinner when we get back??" And this was back in the day when a woman's credit card had her husband's name on it. You go, girl!

You know why else Barbie rocks?  Because Barbie was EVERYTHING.  She was a doctor, a nurse, a dentist, a veterinarian, a student, a teacher, an athlete, an artist, a business woman, a life guard, a pilot, a flight attendant, a chef, a nascar driver, a photographer, a hair stylist, a waitress, a news anchor, and on and on and on.  Barbie had 77 different careers.  I counted. Up to and including President of the United States and a Canadian Mountie.  How cool is that?  When I was 7, I wanted to be an astronaut because of Barbie but here's the kicker. I didn't even know if Barbie was an astronaut back then.  But I knew she could be.  And she'd have been the mission commander too.  Not Ken.  Ken couldn't do shit. "Go stand over there, Honey, and look cute in your beach shorts.  I've got work to do." Barbie could be a scientist and wear a pair of go-go boots.  Nobody put Barbie in the corner.

So let's not fall into the very trap we are trying to avoid, and judge her solely on her looks.  And, for the love of god, let's stop saying that a toy has a greater influence on our children then the words and action of the adults surrounding them.  Our children act and speak the way they are taught to act and speak.  It would be lovely to be able to place the blame else where but ultimately it's our responsibility and we need to own it.  I had to do that very thing last week when I found out my kid was acting like a shit at school.  And let me tell you, it fucking sucks. But we told him and the counselor that if he does it again, the school can deal with him in the same way they'd deal with anyone else.  Actions have consequences and he'd best learn that now. And we'd best remind ourselves as well.

And let's face it, the only time I really remember comparing my physical self to Barbie's was when I realized her hair wouldn't grow back after I cut it. Now if the boys at Mattel could fix that little problem, they could really cure some emotional trauma.

Holy shit! She was an astronaut in 1965!
I know what's heading up my Christmas list!

The Witch is back!

Like the Elton John song, get it? huh?  nevermind

Happy Halloween!

C'mon, is that not the awesome-est feathery witch hat ever?!?

Happy Halloween

My contribution to the party:

John's contribution:

Me, "Sam, take a picture of my awesome witch hat!"

Thanks, Sam

Paper Mache - The Devil's Art Form

It's book fair time once again.  The theme this fall is Monsters.  Cutesy-monsters for the elementary schools but we're going with Classic Monsters.  Wolfman, Mummy, Frankenstein, etc.  And of course, Aliens.  That's a stretch, I know but finally a chance to use my Chest-Burster and Face Hugger! I immediately offered to make Alien Eggs out of Paper Mache.

(And a mummy sarcophagus but that's another story.  Suffice it to say, you can make an awesome sarcophagus out of three cardboard boxes, one x-acto knife and a butt-load of packing tape.The only difficulty is deciding whether to get help from:

a 13 year old boy:
Me, "Can you hold it right here?"
Me, "Tom, can you hold it right here?"
Me, "TOM!"
Tom, "Huh?"
<sigh>

or a grown-up engineer:
John, "You need to overlap the cardboard to make it more stable."
Me, "I don't want to overlap it. This is the top and I want a smooth surface to paint."
John, "words words words, structural integrity, words words words words, sheer force, words words words, tensile strength, words words words words words, algorithms and math shit words words"
<sigh>)

But back to the alien eggs...Before I got started, someone, who I assumed was my friend, told me that it's much easier to use cheese cloth and fabric stiffener so I thought I give that a shot.

I found a 6-pack of giant balloons. The package only contained 5, fine, whatever. I planned on making three eggs so that left a two extra.  One immediately disappeared into Sam-the-Magpie's nest, never to been seen again. I was down to 4; that left one in case something went wrong but come on, what could possibly go wrong. First thing I learned about fabric stiffener? It's a mess. And I'm pretty sure I watered it down too much so it was a huge-fucking-mess. It was everywhere; all over my hands and arms, dripping all over the garage floor, running down the balloon into a puddly mess, and splattered against every vertical surface.  But it only need one layer of cheese cloth so it went rather quickly.  Tom helped hold the balloons still because as I found out next, round things roll.

The whole experience took about half an hour and went something like this:
(Mom, you should stop reading now.)
fuck
fuckfuckfuck
jesusfuckingchrist
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUUUUUUUUCK
that woman is NOT my friend!

I decided that two eggs were quite enough. At least they looked good. Really good, actually.  Ripply and very organic looking. Until the balloons started to slowly leak. And contract. Pulling the stiffened fabric with them. Well, fuck. Now I have scrambled eggs.

John, "I think you can still use them"
Me, "mmpwhhh"
John, "No, really, I think they look cool"
Me, "I really need you to go away"

Here's a picture of the second one. I don't have a picture of the first one because I threw it against the wall.

Nailed it!

I left John standing in the garage as I stomped into the house, swearing and slamming doors. Did I mention that what makes me so good at these types of projects is my even-headedness and mellow nature? After about 20 minutes I calmed down and decided try regular old paper-mache.

Me, "Can you google paper mache? What are the proportions?"
John, "You need to make it on the stove."
Me, "What?! You Do Not need to COOK paper mache."
John, "Well, all of these say you have to make it on the stove."
Me, "You don't have to cook it! The last time I paper mache'd, I was in 3rd grade, in a army school, in Korea! We didn't cook shit!  We were in a fucking quonset-hut! See, this is the problem with the mothers of today. Why do something in 3 steps when you can do it in 12? Everything has to be as complicated as pos..."
John,"Wait, I found one that doesn't need the stove."

Armed with a stack of newspapers and a bucket of flour/water, we went back into the garage to give it another shot.  This one went much smoother. It was still a mess and now there was paper-mache all over the floor, mixed with the fabric stiffener and traces of cheese cloth and newspaper and the diet coke that I accidentally kick over and a rock solid beach towel that I used to wipe up the diet coke that also soaked up some of the fabric stiffener and was now stuck to the floor. My arms were coated, so were my legs and feet. There were globs of it in my hair. John made lots of helpful suggestions and tried to get me to stop swearing and I didn't even threaten to divorce him.  I'm a fucking saint.

Here are my alien eggs:

P.S.  My right flip-flop is 'stiffened' to the garage floor where it will remain for all time.  It will be disclosed to the new owners as "Fine Art - Man's struggle to move Forward only to get Buggered in the Garage"

P.S.S. When John got home from work, he took one look at the "cleaned" up garage and said, "It looks like someone shot an elephant porno in there. There's hard white crusty shit everywhere! I think  it's on the ceiling!"

Happy Fucking Halloween!