I went to the bank today. As I pulled into a parking spot, a dude on a motorcycle pulled up right next to me. (I'd like to say it was a bad-ass Harley, but as I wouldn't be able to correctly identify a Harley even if I was being plowed over by one , we'll just have to go with "motorcycle"). This gentleman had a helmet on, of course - even if he wanted to give himself a severe head injury by falling off his bike at a high rate of speed, the state of Michigan forces him to at least pretend to protect his skull. Anyhew, I couldn't help but notice that he had numerous decals plastered all over said helmet. One of them in particular made me catch my breath with scandalized horror. It said:
If Your Not Into Oral Sex, Keep Your Mouth Closed.
Can you believe that?
Someone actually wants to display that for all to see?
I mean, come on! That tacky decal clearly utilizes the wrong form of "You're".
Revolting.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
A Breath of Fresh Air
I decided to revamp my blog a little. What do you think? Do you find that my words have a whole new tone with the calming green in the background? How 'bout the little flowers? Does seeing them make your soul take wing?
Okay, okay, I admit it. I still can't think of anything to write about. The creative center of my brain is a dark, vacant, blood-spattered place cordoned off with "Police Line Do Not Cross" tape. I think I have become intimidated by all of those women who are out there writing blogs that are better-written and more well-read than mine. I'm an amateur who knows nothing about anything, has a random, unsponsored blog, and who has three readers (whom I love dearly, of course). There are bigger and better powerhouses out there. In fact, thousands of FemBloggers are going to take NYC by storm in a couple of weeks when they all arrive to attend a conference just for women bloggers! And they have business cards for their blogs and everything! How will I ever get my famous, best-selling novel published when these hordes of women are out there, taking their writing seriously and getting themselves noticed?
It's enough to make one want to shut down, huddle down on the couch and eat a lot of cookies. Not that I don't eat a lot of cookies anyway, mind you. It's just now I feel the need to eat more.
Perhaps it would help if I actually started writing the famous, best-selling novel. Instead of hoping that it will write itself...?
Okay, okay, I admit it. I still can't think of anything to write about. The creative center of my brain is a dark, vacant, blood-spattered place cordoned off with "Police Line Do Not Cross" tape. I think I have become intimidated by all of those women who are out there writing blogs that are better-written and more well-read than mine. I'm an amateur who knows nothing about anything, has a random, unsponsored blog, and who has three readers (whom I love dearly, of course). There are bigger and better powerhouses out there. In fact, thousands of FemBloggers are going to take NYC by storm in a couple of weeks when they all arrive to attend a conference just for women bloggers! And they have business cards for their blogs and everything! How will I ever get my famous, best-selling novel published when these hordes of women are out there, taking their writing seriously and getting themselves noticed?
It's enough to make one want to shut down, huddle down on the couch and eat a lot of cookies. Not that I don't eat a lot of cookies anyway, mind you. It's just now I feel the need to eat more.
Perhaps it would help if I actually started writing the famous, best-selling novel. Instead of hoping that it will write itself...?
Monday, July 26, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Another Occasion to Curse My Lack of Brain
Over the weekend I was painfully aware that I was not writing any blog posts. I can't explain it - I suppose I felt a need to satisfy the cravings of my three loyal readers, even if said readers are too polite to tell me that really, they can get by without a post from me. Really. ...But I told myself, "It's the weekend! Give your hard-working brain a rest". So I did, whilst eating a lot of ice cream. Then Monday came and went without me writing anything and I was stressing even more than before. Why? You ask. This isn't homework. There's no due date. True, and true. So I don't know what my issue is. But you, dear readers, certainly benefit from my as-yet-undiagnosed problem, as here I am again, back at the keyboard and ready to bring you something really amazing.
Another Safety Town update.
Okay, before you ask - yes, I've been remembering my blue square every day like a good little mommy. I have a new concern. Or, rather, the Safety Town people have a new concern with ME.
At some point last week, a hand-written note was sent home. It read:
Need to work on address and phone number.
Now, I know that part of this whole Safety Town gig is having the kids know what to do in times of trouble, such as when their mother distractedly leaves them in the Target parking lot and the child needs to seek out a Police Officer and ask him/her for assistance in getting home. A vital part of this scenario would be the child tearfully informing the officer: "My address is..." Hence, it would be helpful if Caity actually knew her address. So the next, most obvious step would be that I immediately forgot about the note and went about my daily routine (Facebook, staring at walls, etc).
A couple of days later, another note was sent home. It read:
Parents of Caitlin: Work on address and phone number.
This was slightly more authoritative, as it actually directed a command to the adults in the household. O-kay! We would get cracking on that address stuff pronto.
Fast-forward to yesterday morning at 8:53, when I remembered that we'd never actually worked on the address and phone number stuff. I had really good intentions. I mean, I thought about it a lot. We know how well that works. Oops.
Thus it was as we drove to Safety Town 30 min later, I drilled Caity on the numbers in our address: "The first number is 3. Can you remember that? What is it? Okay, good. The next number is 1. Tell me both numbers. Are you ready for the next one?" And so on. As we ran into the building, I was practically shouting. "Now what's the street name? No, not Michigan! That's the state!" And so on until I left her in the classroom. And then I promptly forgot about it. Again. (This would be a good time for you to wonder to yourself, 'What the hell is wrong with Wendy? Her kids are going to get lost, not have any clue what their address is, and be totally screwed.')
So I was not surprised when this afternoon, at Pick-Up, one of the teen helpers came with Caity out into the hallway. "Caity really needs to work on her address and phone number," the girl informed me.
What could I do? I hung my head in shame.
Another Safety Town update.
Okay, before you ask - yes, I've been remembering my blue square every day like a good little mommy. I have a new concern. Or, rather, the Safety Town people have a new concern with ME.
At some point last week, a hand-written note was sent home. It read:
Need to work on address and phone number.
Now, I know that part of this whole Safety Town gig is having the kids know what to do in times of trouble, such as when their mother distractedly leaves them in the Target parking lot and the child needs to seek out a Police Officer and ask him/her for assistance in getting home. A vital part of this scenario would be the child tearfully informing the officer: "My address is..." Hence, it would be helpful if Caity actually knew her address. So the next, most obvious step would be that I immediately forgot about the note and went about my daily routine (Facebook, staring at walls, etc).
A couple of days later, another note was sent home. It read:
Parents of Caitlin: Work on address and phone number.
This was slightly more authoritative, as it actually directed a command to the adults in the household. O-kay! We would get cracking on that address stuff pronto.
Fast-forward to yesterday morning at 8:53, when I remembered that we'd never actually worked on the address and phone number stuff. I had really good intentions. I mean, I thought about it a lot. We know how well that works. Oops.
Thus it was as we drove to Safety Town 30 min later, I drilled Caity on the numbers in our address: "The first number is 3. Can you remember that? What is it? Okay, good. The next number is 1. Tell me both numbers. Are you ready for the next one?" And so on. As we ran into the building, I was practically shouting. "Now what's the street name? No, not Michigan! That's the state!" And so on until I left her in the classroom. And then I promptly forgot about it. Again. (This would be a good time for you to wonder to yourself, 'What the hell is wrong with Wendy? Her kids are going to get lost, not have any clue what their address is, and be totally screwed.')
So I was not surprised when this afternoon, at Pick-Up, one of the teen helpers came with Caity out into the hallway. "Caity really needs to work on her address and phone number," the girl informed me.
What could I do? I hung my head in shame.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I Know I Can't Let This Go, But...
... I have to share a small story from Safety Town again.
Confidently walking towards the building for Pick-Up, my square securely cradled in my purse (where it now lives, never to be removed), I was met by several other moms also on their way in. I had a hard time stifling my mirth when two of them suddenly stopped in their tracks. One, white-faced, simply turned and retraced her steps back to her car. The other cried aloud, "I forgot the square!" and raced back to fetch it.
So, no, I am not the only one to know the fear that the lack of the square can bring to one's heart.
Then I went to a garage sale.
Okay, I went to TWO garage sales.
And then I went to Target. I managed to spend only $16.17 (and yes, I went and looked at the receipt just now - it's important to be accurate with such details). Can you credit it? That's a British expression that I've always wanted to use. If you're not so good with context clues, it means, more or less, "Can you believe it?" It's really a marvel. Usually a trip to Target results in an automatic droppage of at least 50 bucks. I think, by saving $33.83 (yes, I had to use a calculator), I have earned the right to spend at least that much at another store as a reward. Wouldn't you say?
Well, if you don't say, then just keep your mouth shut.
Confidently walking towards the building for Pick-Up, my square securely cradled in my purse (where it now lives, never to be removed), I was met by several other moms also on their way in. I had a hard time stifling my mirth when two of them suddenly stopped in their tracks. One, white-faced, simply turned and retraced her steps back to her car. The other cried aloud, "I forgot the square!" and raced back to fetch it.
So, no, I am not the only one to know the fear that the lack of the square can bring to one's heart.
Then I went to a garage sale.
Okay, I went to TWO garage sales.
And then I went to Target. I managed to spend only $16.17 (and yes, I went and looked at the receipt just now - it's important to be accurate with such details). Can you credit it? That's a British expression that I've always wanted to use. If you're not so good with context clues, it means, more or less, "Can you believe it?" It's really a marvel. Usually a trip to Target results in an automatic droppage of at least 50 bucks. I think, by saving $33.83 (yes, I had to use a calculator), I have earned the right to spend at least that much at another store as a reward. Wouldn't you say?
Well, if you don't say, then just keep your mouth shut.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The News You Were Waiting For...
I know my three loyal readers are eagerly awaiting the next installment of the Safety Town saga.
Did I remember The Square today?
As a matter of fact... I did.
I'm sure you feel a little let down. You were probably hoping that I forgot again - you wanted to see what they would do to me.
Sorry to disappoint.
In other, totally not related news, we went to the Oakland County 4H fair this afternoon. The fairgrounds were a comfortable 678 degrees, with the midway laid out over a bed of dusty gravel that did little to add any sense of coolness to the atmosphere. After spending a mere $20 for tickets for the kids to enjoy 2.5 rides each, we trudged through the crowds in a fruitless attempt to find a ride that Jamie could actually go on without needing numerous adults to tag along with him. We settled for a poor imitation of a Dumbo flying elephant ride. By this time the kids were both so dazed from the hot sun and overexposure to carnies that they climbed into the elephants listlessly and rode around without any comment.
It was here that I was able to observe my favorite fair patrons of the day. A grizzled-looking, middle-aged mother with her two teen-ish daughters walked by. One of the girls sported a t-shirt which read, "Uncle Dick's Club for Lusty Girls". As she passed us she whined to her mother, "I wanna go to the beer tent!"
Splendid.
Did I remember The Square today?
As a matter of fact... I did.
I'm sure you feel a little let down. You were probably hoping that I forgot again - you wanted to see what they would do to me.
Sorry to disappoint.
In other, totally not related news, we went to the Oakland County 4H fair this afternoon. The fairgrounds were a comfortable 678 degrees, with the midway laid out over a bed of dusty gravel that did little to add any sense of coolness to the atmosphere. After spending a mere $20 for tickets for the kids to enjoy 2.5 rides each, we trudged through the crowds in a fruitless attempt to find a ride that Jamie could actually go on without needing numerous adults to tag along with him. We settled for a poor imitation of a Dumbo flying elephant ride. By this time the kids were both so dazed from the hot sun and overexposure to carnies that they climbed into the elephants listlessly and rode around without any comment.
It was here that I was able to observe my favorite fair patrons of the day. A grizzled-looking, middle-aged mother with her two teen-ish daughters walked by. One of the girls sported a t-shirt which read, "Uncle Dick's Club for Lusty Girls". As she passed us she whined to her mother, "I wanna go to the beer tent!"
Splendid.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Slacker Mom!
Caity is enrolled in Safety Town this week and next. It's basically a 2-hour-a-day, 9-day class about how to stop at stop signs and watch out for cars bearing down on you and not talk to strangers and other such "try to keep yourself alive in case Mommy isn't paying attention" behavior. I think she enjoys it; I enjoy whittling my child load down to one every morning. It's very freeing. It's amazing how trips to Target (the thrice-weekly sojourns that they are) are much easier to tolerate when there's only one kid whining for a sucker/toy/freedom from the cart. Anyhow, I digress.
Drop-Off and Pick-Up (capitalized because they are clearly Procedures of Importance) at Safety Town are a crazed mass of moms, Safety-Towners, and various, unquantifiable siblings. Dropping off is shuffling one's way to the front of the mile-long line, depositing one's kid with a teacher, and then fleeing. Picking up, however, is a more rigorous process. At the start of the week, each mom was given a laminated square of blue construction paper with a colored sticker on it. Each mom was also given a neon-yellow sheet of paper that says (and I am copying this word-for-word off of the sheet that I got out of the trash so I could share it with you), "PARENTS: YOU OR WHOMEVER IS PICKING UP YOUR STUDENT MUST HAVE THE RECTANGLE CARD EVERYDAY!" Ever the obedient one, and a little frightened of the implied evil consequences that awaited if I failed to comply, I made sure to have the square (it's not a rectangle, really) with me at pick up yesterday. But today. Oh, my. I must have been preoccupied with thoughts of the McSmoothie I'd just purchased because
I.
Forgot.
The.
Square.
I realized my error just as I made it to the head of the Pick-Up line. Swiftly, I removed my driver's license from my wallet and brandished it at the teacher working the door. "I forgot my square, "I said hurriedly, "but here's my license." The teacher frowned, looked gravely into my eyes, and sighed. She paused, just enough for me to fully realize my heinous error, then asked in a surly tone, "What's your child's name?" I cringed, but told her, and she stalked off to fetch Caity.
Tomorrow I will be sure to remember the square. I can't imagine being a repeat offender is a pleasant experience.
Drop-Off and Pick-Up (capitalized because they are clearly Procedures of Importance) at Safety Town are a crazed mass of moms, Safety-Towners, and various, unquantifiable siblings. Dropping off is shuffling one's way to the front of the mile-long line, depositing one's kid with a teacher, and then fleeing. Picking up, however, is a more rigorous process. At the start of the week, each mom was given a laminated square of blue construction paper with a colored sticker on it. Each mom was also given a neon-yellow sheet of paper that says (and I am copying this word-for-word off of the sheet that I got out of the trash so I could share it with you), "PARENTS: YOU OR WHOMEVER IS PICKING UP YOUR STUDENT MUST HAVE THE RECTANGLE CARD EVERYDAY!" Ever the obedient one, and a little frightened of the implied evil consequences that awaited if I failed to comply, I made sure to have the square (it's not a rectangle, really) with me at pick up yesterday. But today. Oh, my. I must have been preoccupied with thoughts of the McSmoothie I'd just purchased because
I.
Forgot.
The.
Square.
I realized my error just as I made it to the head of the Pick-Up line. Swiftly, I removed my driver's license from my wallet and brandished it at the teacher working the door. "I forgot my square, "I said hurriedly, "but here's my license." The teacher frowned, looked gravely into my eyes, and sighed. She paused, just enough for me to fully realize my heinous error, then asked in a surly tone, "What's your child's name?" I cringed, but told her, and she stalked off to fetch Caity.
Tomorrow I will be sure to remember the square. I can't imagine being a repeat offender is a pleasant experience.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Resurrection?
Someone presented me with this query last night: "Whatever happened to 'bloggerdroozle'?" Sadly, it is well known that this blog died a quiet death sometime in January. But it made me ponder - did I have the faith, and the power, to resurrect my journey of words? I suppose I could try. Perhaps this time I will find something - anything? - interesting to write about. Not today, though. Apparently.
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