Archive for the ‘Funny’ Category:
My Lips Are Sealed
God knows I’ve made enough mistakes in my youth that I could expound on them ad nauseum. However, after much deliberation, I decided that reviving a post from the past might work best for the following challenge:
What memory or story from your youth would you never share with your own children and why? And if there’s nothing from your history that you wouldn’t have them know, why is that?
What I’m offering up is a true story that both embarrasses me and amuses me endlessly but I’m not sure I could, in good conscience, tell it to my children until they are adults, mainly because I wouldn’t want to make light of or trivialize my stupidity or all the bad things that could have happened to me but didn’t.
Soooo… I give you “Don’t Take the Pot” back for an encore from the 2006 archives of IzzyMom.
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Don’t take the pot.
Yup. You heard me. This message is directed to all you kids out there that are sneaking the computer and going through your mom’s blogroll
Okay, okay. I was just being funny and imitating my parents there. What I really mean to say is don’t SMOKE the pot.
Why? Why, you ask?
Well, because you might decide, at the wise old age of 14 or maybe 15, that when your friend calls you on a Saturday and tells you she got a joint from that stoner guy who rides your bus, that it would be a smashing idea to go to the gazebo by the lake and get high.
So you lie to your parents and say you need to get something from the drug store and instead you get on your yellow 3 spd bike (with the dorky baskets on the back that are better suited to towing people than carrying stuff) and you swing by your friend’s house to pick her up. You guys take turns towing each other to the gazebo only to find there are people there feeding ducks.
Puh! Hopeless dork losers that they are, you leave them to their duck-feeding while you and your friend try to think of a place where two unbelievably cool teenage girls sporting feathered hair and black eyeliner and wearing those little nylon Dolfin shorts (you know, like Richard Simmons and the Hooters girls wear) can go burn one without being too terribly conspicuous.
You end up deciding that the little tunnel of bushes behind the Publix Supermarket will afford you the privacy needed to get baked. While puffing away, some stock boys from Publix follow their noses to your hideout and you guys have to share with them. They are kind of cute and you decide this is for the best since you’re already way too stoned. Being a novice pot smoker, you always let this happen. You never quit while you’re ahead. Dumbass.
As the stock boys depart, high as kites, talking about what kind of food they plan on swiping from the store, you and your friend finally exit the bushes, too, and you get on your bike.
Realizing your condition, you wisely decide to walk the bike instead. As you guys get closer to home, it starts to rain and your friend casually announces that she has to leave now to go to her aunt’s house with her mom.
Whoa, whoa, wait a second. Your brain, in it’s compromised state, is about to catch on fire because it’s working extra hard to process this bit of confusing and bad, VERY BAD, information.
“You’re leaving me? Like this? You can’t. I’m sooo stoned and I can NOT go home like this. I need someone to hang with until I can go home.”
But in the blink of bloodshot eye she’s gone and you are alone, in the rain, high.
Hmmmm. What to do. What to do.
And then you have a brainstorm. You will go to the house of the people for whom you babysit.
Yeah. They’re pretty cool. He’s a cop and keeps weed in a Tupperware in the bathroom cabinet. And they’re swingers. Remember those Polaroids you found? Ewww. Don’t think about that part. Doesn’t matter. They’re nice people. They are. C’mon.
And before you know it, you’re ringing the bell. Mr. Erlich (Officer Erlich) opens the door and you ask if his wife is home. He smiles and kindly welcomes you in while explaining that Karen and the boys are out but will be home soon. He’s just watching a movie and you’re welcome to hang out and wait. Trying your hardest not not let him see how gross and pasty your mouth is (because then he would know for sure that his teenaged babysitter was totally high) you decide to grab a pillow, lay on the floor and watch the movie. This is an awesome plan, you think to yourself as Mr. Erlich brings you an orange soda. Yes, indeedy!
As you open your eyes, you hear a little voice saying “Mommy, Daddy, she’s getting up!” You look up and there they are. The whole Erlich family looking down, smiling widely at you like you just did something hilariously funny.
Oh wait. You did. You fell dead asleep on their floor for 2 hours.
Grinning sheepishly and silently praising the sweet baybay Jesus that you’re not high any more, you apologize profusely and get the hell out of there.
If memory serves you correctly, the Erlichs never ask you to babysit again. You don’t care, though, because you’re really embarrassed (and they never had any good food to eat anyway.)
But still. You know you did something really dumb and you’re pretty sure the Erlichs knew. How could they not? And you hope to God they don’t ever tell your parents. Your dad & stepmom wouldn’t understand. They weren’t young enough to indulge in the Summer of Love and all that cool hippie stuff. They called it taking pot, for pete’s sake.
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Ahhhhh, to have the luxury of being young & stupid…
My parents never did find out about that Saturday afternoon, thankfully. They would have been very disappointed in me. I was the kind of kid that did bad stuff but got good grades and was generally very responsible. The kind of kid that fools all adults…
I smoked pot many more times after that but I finally had to throw in the towel and admit that I was not a good pot taker. I couldn’t drive (well, I could. But only at speeds under 20 mph). I couldn’t go into a store or do anything remotely normal. I could just eat A LOT, read the same line in a book over and over and then fall asleep. I wasn’t much fun.
These days, however, I have hard time sleeping unless I’m dead tired and taking the pot seems like maybe not such a bad idea.
But the eating. The unabated crap-eating…
Arghhhhh…
Maybe not.
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To read more posts based on this Flashback Friday topic, visit these fine blogs:
And hey — if you want to play along on your own blog and do this week’s Friday Flashback, let me know and I’ll link you here.
Scenes from a Mall
In previous odes to jeans on this blog, I’ve totally spouted off on the unattractiveness of the low-rise jean. I went on and on about how they make your butt look bad and that if you’re not a toothpick or a supermodel but rather an ordinary woman with some actual flesh on her hips, you’ve probably been sporting the dreaded muffin-top, too, possibly without even knowing it.
But after a recent trip to the mall, I’ve observed that the tides are turning and waistlines are rising. And rising. And rising.
And while these high-waisted Levis may not look so so bad on this model, I assure you they are still the devil’s handiwork for they will lead to…
…the return of the *ominous pause* MOM JEAN!
And could usher in jeans like these, lace insets notwithstanding.
Look. At. Them. They’re up to her (his?) RIBS!
DO NOT WANT!!!
And yes, celebs ARE doing it but it’s obvious their stylists have deep-seated contempt for them because why else would they let them out in public in these things?
My fear is that these high waisted, tapered leg jeans will open the door to…PLEATS *gasp*
And those…
…will lead to high waists and pleats and tapered legs and buffalo plaids and STIRRUPS!!!
I’m proud to say I never EVER owned a pair of stirrup pants.
But I did own lots of these. And I loved them. They’re good butt pants.
Heidi Klum’s Jordache, however, are NOT good because they’re skinny-leg jeans. Incidentally, she’s their new model in a campaign designed to make Jordache cool again. Um…didn’t anyone tell her that for years Jordache were sold exclusively at Walmart? I don’t envy her task.
But I’d wear those evil skinny-leg Jordache from Walmart before I’d ever let a Kenny Rogers song touch my butt.
Your eyes do not deceive you… That’s him, right there on the hip pocket.
You gotta know when to hold ‘em, Know when to fold ‘em
Know when to give them to charity — and then run…
One of my concerns amidst these extremely high waistlines is that my beloved mid-rise jeans will go away for another 20 years.
Let me just tell you that I was wearing Levis 501’s 15 years ago because I could wear them down on my hips with a fitted shirt and a funky belt and avoid the whole stick o’ denim right up under my boobs look. But today’s jeans are so much better than 501’s and I’m just not ready to give them up.
This is me in my mid-rise jeans. Don’t I look hot?.
I Pretty Much Wasted My BIG! DAY! OFF!
Ah…those weird government holidays that about only half the United States gets off from work. You gotta love ‘em. Well, unless you’re me. I merely resent them because not only do I never get the day off but my husband is home, all up in my bidness and so are both kids. It might as well be a Saturday or Sunday, which are not at all relaxing to me. Those days mostly translate to more people asking me for stuff. Incessantly. And no grown-up TV.
To clarify… Those are the words not of a woman who hates her family but a woman who desperately needs one entire day off and all to herself, preferably with unfettered access to her home, her things and all the stuff she has saved on Tivo.
But alas, we don’t live in a perfect world and after much grumbling on my part I was graciously granted (read: forced out the door) a chance for a having a semi-day off (which really just means I get to leave the house alone — no bed to loll around on, no fave snacks to indulge in and no Tivo, dammit)
While it isn’t particularly relaxing, this gave me the once or twice in a decade opportunity to shop by myself. This means looking at clothes with both eyes instead of keeping one on the kids at all times and in between saying things like “Stop touching that. And that. And those.” and “Please don’t open the door. I’m in my underwear and nobody wants to see that.”
So what did I do? Well, I actually needed a few things from Target so that’s where I went. And because my wardrobe is in desperate need up sprucing up, I started to look at clothes — despite the fact that they have the WORST dressing rooms I’ve ever seen. The lighting is such that you see EVERY bump, bulge and dimple and the dual mirrors that let you see yourself from behind? OMG. BAD IDEA. Nobody wants to see what their ass looks like under those cruel and unforgiving lights nor do they want to acknowledge their backfat. But you see, because of it’s location, it’s super easy and totally normal to deny any existence of one’s backfat — but at Target? Nooooo can dooooo! The backfat just sits there, tauntingly. If it had had a tongue it would have stuck it out at me…
Anyway, I tried on, seriously, about 20 items of clothing but it was a complete bust. I hated everything. However, on my last trip out of the fitting room, I did notice some super cute tops and dresses. I ventured closer and started to get happy. These? These were going to fit properly and look awesome! I could just tell!
And then I saw them. The labels. They were FREAKING MATERNITY CLOTHES!!! I was coveting maternity wear — which would be fine IF I WAS ACTUALLY PREGNANT.
Arrrrgggghhhh.
My “away” time had so far been terribly unsatisfying, making me wish I’d gone to a movie or called up a friend instead.
I suddenly longed for the comfort of my sofa and with that I made my meager purchase of a few household items and promised myself that next time? I was going someplace besides Target. Just because it’s close and they have really cool housewares does NOT mean I have to buy everything there.
Convenience be damned, I had a change of heart and decided not to go home just yet but rather to hit the mall; one of my least favorite places on earth but totally chock full of clothing choices and in some cases, far more flattering lighting.
Stay tuned for Scenes from a Mall — with pictures!
The Free Ride is Over, Mama
In a recent discussion with my mother-in-law, I lamented over the fact that her late husband told us he’d set up a pre-paid college plan for my daughter but as it happens, he didn’t. It’s put us way behind in saving for college. And yes, I’m kind of irritated.
Now as in-laws go, I could have done worse and for that I’m thankful but not quite so thankful when she said “You’ll just have to go back to work when P goes to kindergarten”
Something about the way she said it rubbed me the wrong way; like I’ve just been on an extended vacay for the past seven years because, you know, staying home and running a household and managing the lives of three other people is SO! EASY! and the isolation is REALLY! FUN! and being looked at by the rest of the world as “just a mom” is GREAT! for my ego.
The free ride’s over, mama. Your ass goin’ back to work!
(Actually, it would have been a lot less insulting and far more amusing if she’d phrased it like that)
Bearing in mind that this is coming from a woman who hasn’t worked outside the home a day in her life since getting married eleventy hundred years ago made it almost laughable.
But I bit my tongue and instead opted to remind her —yet again— that I DO work, both as a mother and as a designer/writer/editor of interwebby things upon which i cannot elaborate lest she find out I have this whole other secret life. And that I blogged about her.
And she replies “Well, I don’t know what you do on your computer,” as if this is the first she’s ever heard of it.
*Blink*
And then my daughter, little spitfire that she is, chimes in “Mommy works at night on the computer and she makes money, too”
BOOYAHHHH!
Must high five daughter later for her awesomely awesome awesomeness.
