piecrust promises

Hair today...

Someone really needs to convince me to keep growing my hair out and not cut it all off (again).

This is why I need to stop listening to the Mix Station.

Have you heard the new Taylor Swift song?  (How could you not, it's on the radio every 4 seconds on permanent loop...unless you happen to listen to a station other than one designated for 45 year old divorced women.)

It's driving me crazy.  Like I want to rip out my eyeballs whenever I hear it.  (Which I realize would do nothing to prevent me from having to STILL HEAR it...but you know what I mean.)  It's yet another Romeo and Juliet type song...and it's got the same fatal flaw as the rest of them...does no one realize that they DIE at the end?!  THERE IS NO HAPPY ENDING.  THEY DIE.  THE END. THEY DON'T GET MARRIED, THEY DON'T HAVE PUPPIES, AND THEY DON'T OPEN A MOM AND POP ANTIQUES SHOP.  DEAD. DEAD. DEAD.

Hence the reason it's called a tragedy. 

Yet, here is another stupid pop song about stupid Romeo and even stupider Juliet being oh so damn happy together foreva and eva ahhhhmen.

Taylor Swift was on CSI: Miami last night.  I couldn't tell you what happened or if she had mad acting skillz...because I was too busy grumbling about that damn song which also happens to be playing on permanent loop in my brain as well.

Anyone have anything else that could replace this song in my head? It can be equally bad...then I'd have something new to bitch about.

I wanna hit that hiiiiiigh!

I just spent the last 2ish minutes lipsyncing to "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" in the bathroom at work. 

Because nothing starts off the workday quite like Wham!

Blue...huh. Interesting.

Ever gone into the bathroom and been totally surprised by what underwear you were wearing?  Not in a, "OMG...these aren't mine!" kind of way...but in a puzzled, "I have zero recollection of putting this particular pair on this morning...and no memory of seeing these any of the other four times I've been in this stall today" kind of way.

I would have loved to see what my face looked like while pondering this...eyebrows scrunched together, mouth twitched to the side...wondering.  And now I'm wondering how many other things have slipped through my radar...things that I once would have noted and logged away for future use...no matter how trivial.

It's like when you're driving and you suddenly arrive at your destination with no recollection as to how you got there.  That's my whole life lately.  If it wasn't for television...I'm not all that confident that I would know what day it is.  ("You could usually rely on Dudley to know the days of the week due to television programming") (Sorry...random Harry Potter line...see!  I can remember that...but I can't remember the color of my underpants!  What's wrong with me!)

The days all go by in a blur of routine.  I get up at the same time every morning, go through the same motions to get myself ready, the baby ready, lunches ready, out the door.  Same song and offensive maneuvers to get Amelia in the car, smiling vacantly at the minorly amusing morning radio program, same idle chatter with daycare, same lead foot to get to work.  Same file, same discussion, same lunch.  Same discussion over who picks up the baby.  Same rush to daycare, same lack of information about what my child did all day...already I'm excluded from her life...and she isn't even a teenager yet.  Same drive home, same collapse onto couch, same crappy dinner, same television shows.  Day after day, week after week, until I die.

I need a new hobby.

Design flaw

Resse's Peanut Butter Cups were not meant to be eaten one handed while driving.

Who should I speak to about this?

Please enjoy the balance of your day...

...well thank you Mr. Automated Teller Machine.

How freaking clever is that? The "balance" of your day. Ha!

Classic!

Whaattt? Seriously?

Have you all seen this?

Joel and I were sitting on the couch, watching Project Runway when that little gem appeared on our television screen.  I can't believe it isn't all over the blogosphere yet...

Are these people serious?  This whole commercial (and the website http://sweetsurprise.com/) seems to be a bit familiar...like tobacco company familiar.  Fine in moderation?  Seems like you can't read any label without high fructose corn syrup being at the top of the list...it's everywhere.  The only way to avoid the crap is by buying whole, natural food products and making things from scratch.

Americans eat more corn and more corn by-products than any other group of people in the world.  We also are the fattest and most disease ridden...and those numbers have only been skyrocketing in the last fifty years or so...right around the time that we started to chemicalize the shit out of our food.

I'll be totally honest here...my household isn't going to win any awards or be the poster family for healthy eating.  I love fried high fructose corn syrup covered in trans fat, sautéed in MSG, and then sprinkled with red dye #40 just as much as the next girl...but intuitively...I know this isn't the stuff I should be shoveling into my loved ones.

So then how can I get snarky about this ad without coming off as a complete hypocrite?  Because anytime a group of people get together and try to lull me into some ridiculous false sense of security over a product that you'd have to be a complete idiot not to know isn't good for you...it gets my knickers in a complete twist. Plus, that woman is serving the cheapest, shittiest, generic knock-off brand of Kool-Aid ever...and that's just damn un-American.

What do you think of this campaign?  Are you running out to the store to stock up on high fructose corn syrup?  Or are you equally appalled?

So I was thinking...

...I wonder if there is a hand-size limit for dentists.  I mean, think about it...you can't have giant man-hands and still be able to get inside of someone's mouth...there's only so much room in there.

I wonder if the application for dental school goes something like, name, address, why do you want to be a dentist, are you aware of the high suicide rate, and then finally, in the space below please trace your hands.

And then the poor kid with monstrous hands receives the rejection letter back..."We are sorry to say that you have not been accepted to Drill U. due to your abnormally large hands...however we have recommended you to our sister school, Beefy State, where you can begin your career as a lumberjack."

Best Prank Ever...

So someone out there is getting me good...real good. I'm embarrassed, puzzled, surprised, curious, and downright beside myself with how damn clever this prank is.  

Someone signed me up for a year of Woman's Day Magazine.

Woman's Day Magazine.  WOMAN'S DAY!!!

Like suddenly I'm some menopausal, divorced, then remarried, mindless/dead end career woman in her mid-forties with a couple of elementary school kids from my second marriage and a kid in college from my first and I must have a lot of credit card debt and just no clue as to how to lose that 25 pounds of fat baby weight that I've been carrying around for the last ten two years or what to make for dinner tonight. WOMEN'S DAY!

Woman's Day...of all the magazines that you could send someone as a prank...not exactly the first thing you would think of, huh?  I would say the obvious would be gay porn...but that's just me (TAKE THAT GOOGLE...I SAID GAY PORN.)

So why do I think this is a prank?  Well...one day a couple of months ago, I strolled over to my work mailbox and there it was...glossy and bright in the fluorescent lights with promises smeared all over it...lose 10 pounds in one week! Get organized today! Spicy up your marriage! It was disgustingly pathetic sitting there in my mail slot...just wrong and embarrassing...it's like that girl at the bar who already had too much makeup on and got way too drunk way too early in the evening...and now that she's already made out with a couple of guys...she's just too sloppy and depressing to be able to take seriously...especially with her lipstick smeared all over her teeth and her mascara running down her cheek. (Ok...maybe that analogy went wrong and off the deep end...I just mean that Woman's Day is generally for the ladies who have been around the block a couple of times.  Just go with me here...I could have said, "Woman's Day is for women who have been rode hard for a couple of years and put away wet." But I didn't. I'm trying to class it up around here.)

I snatched it, rolled it, and stuck it under my arm...I made a beeline back to my desk and avoided eye contact at all costs.  Partially hiding under my desk, I examined it carefully, perhaps it was supposed to go to someone else and it got put in my mailbox by mistake...but no...there it was...my name and my work address.

MY WORK ADDRESS...now that's just low...it's one thing to send me old lady magazines to my house...but to my work where everyone can see...that's bordering on cruel.

So that first month I chalked up to a fluke...but four issues later...I'm starting to think this person is just diabolical.  I even called Woman's Day magazine and asked how and why did I keep getting these things every month. Apparently someone signed me up...paid for a full year...no...they couldn't tell me who this person was, so that I could "thank" them.  The lady on the other end of the phone made the comment of, "Well someone must really like you out there...sending you a whole year's worth of the kind of advice today's woman needs!"

More like someone out there really knows how to fuck with me.

And yes...she actually said, "the kind of advice today's woman needs" it took everything I had in me not to vomit.

So kudos to whoever the mastermind is...you got me flummoxed good and proper...just hope that I don't find out who you are...otherwise prepare for an influx of gay porn, sucker.

It's Official: I'm My Mother.

So my mother and I have, what you might like to call, a so so relationship.  We've mostly gotten over that span of about six years when I did a lot of drugs that she didn't know about my rebellious teenage years. She hasn't accepted my lack of the Catholic religion...but she's dealing with it. (Or at least she's stopped openly talking about the baby spending eternity in purgatory and me burning in hell.) (I once had a nun explain purgatory to me like this....it's like having all the pancakes you could ever want, but with no syrup. The pancakes are still good...but not quite what you wanted.) (This is why I am so fucked up...my formative years were spent with a bunch of loonies comparing eternity to breakfast foods.) (Side note...Hey JD! Sister Myra told me that...remember her?) (Moving on.)

My mother and I have a once-a-week, 15 minute max, standing phone call.  It's like taking off a bandaid...you don't want to make the call but you know you have to...and then you do it as fast as possible with the biggest grimace on your face...but you keep saying out loud that it's no big deal.  So these phone calls generally consist of filler...like what she watched on TV that week, which one of my wonderful full members of the Catholic church elementary school classmates she saw in the Safeway, what the baby has been doing (with mumblings suggesting that maybe the kid wouldn't climb the bookshelves or keep stealing the remote if she had a bit more of the Lord in her), etc.  This past week she was talking about something that she heard on the radio...something that she heard on MIX 107.3 to be exact.  This is a station that I know well...non-offensive Top 40's with a little bit of cleaned up pop from the 70's, 80's, 90's, and today!  It was all I was ever allowed to listen to when I was a kid.  It's the quintessential Mom station.  And it's the type of station that I've been avoiding for years...heaven forbid my dial land on that sort of station!  Oh the embarrassment!  Or so I thought...

So I'm driving in the car this morning...and I'm listening to the morning show that is a blend of some music, some talk, some news, some contests...and then I hear it.  "You're listening to MIX 105.1!"  I'm listening to a mix station.  I'M LISTENING TO THE FLORIDA EQUIVALENT OF MY MOTHER'S RADIO STATION...FOR WEEKS! And I never noticed.  There I was every morning...laughing along with freaking Scott and Erica!  Playing along to the $25 Pyramid!  Yelling about how Florida is full of idiots...obviously the category is "Alternative Names for Wombat Dung!"  Singing along to Leona Lewis (KEEP BLEEDING! KEEP KEEP BLEEDING!) and fucking Daughtry.  DAUGHTRY...as in AN AMERICAN IDOL WINNER! WHY DO I EVEN KNOW THAT!? And the entire time...my sweet, innocent, naive child sitting in the backseat...dancing and clapping when they play the pick-me-up song of the morning...laughing at mama yelling at the voices.

When did I become a pre-menopausal woman?  I don't even consider myself to be a woman yet...I refer to myself as being a girl...not a woman.  Women are old and wrinkly and serious and listen to mix stations.

Now I've been struggling with this whole age thing for a while...but this seems like the beginning of the end.

And then this lead me to another line of thought...everyone has a musical expiration date...a time when you stop keeping up with current music and you just stop liking anything new.  New music sounds like noise..."those damn kids don't know what good music!" is you say...and you mean it.

I think I've hit this time period.  I used to listen to all sorts of music...now I just want to hear things from 1994. I've been trying to pinpoint when my musical preferences stopped evolving...luckily iTunes is good at helping out with this sort of thing. 2002. 2002 was the end for me. I pretty much stopped adding in anything new in 2002. I was only 21. I peaked musically at 21.

How soon before I peak at everything else?

So tell me...have you reached your musical peak?