I wish I hadn’t.
Here’s the word I wish I could scrub from my vocabulary: VAJAZZLING.
If you don’t know what it is, think, “Beadazzler meets bikini area.” Um, yeah.
Seriously? I’m pretty sure our pioneer ancestors would have neutered themselves, had they known their descendants would actually spend time and mental energy on such a thing.
Although, who knows? Maybe pioneer women stuck corn kernels to their nether regions for a little bedtime bling.
Courteney Cox: this should've been your first clue that you were marrying down.
About a month ago I posted about a firelog from hell trying to kill me. I’m sure you thought I was over-reacting, that my toting a fire extinguisher around was overkill.
Well, I’m here to tell you that Google says otherwise.
Since writing that post, every week I’ve had a few blog hits because people googled the following search terms:
Don’t judge the first guy, the one who asked “how to kill fire log?” in his best caveman voice. I know EXACTLY how he feels. Because when your log is shooting 3-foot flames up your chimney, it has become a living thing that must be killed, not just extinguished.
Along those lines, I’m guessing the second person was still in the “curious” phase and not yet terrified, because there’s no way I could’ve spelled “extinguish” when worried that I was going to burn my entire building to the ground.
I’m curious about the guy who googled, “what the hell is a fire log.” Why so angry, sir? And where were you that the topic of a fire log arose without also having someone on hand to define it? Or were you curious about a fire log’s chemical components? Actually, if that’s what you were driving at – if your tone is more of awe than anger – I can completely relate.
And last, for the 12-hour searcher: wishful thinking. A 12 hour fire ? That’s called a furnace.
Judgement: vindicated. Thank you very much.
"And this, Bobby, is why you should never sleep naked." Creepy indeed.
Since I don’t have kids, I’d never heard of “Elf on a Shelf” until I read my friend Amy’s Facebook status the other night, in which she stated, “I don’t know if we’re organized enough to do Elf on a Shelf this year.”
Apparently “Elf on a Shelf” is a kid’s book that comes with a stuffed elf. The premise is that every night in December he flies to the North Pole and reports your behavior that day to Santa. AWESOME.
So much more effective than hollow reminders that Santa can see you when you’re sleeping or awake. Any rightfully cynical child these days will say, “Doubtful. The dude only has two eyes.” This elf is infinitely more plausible. And the thing that lends credibility? He is in a different place every morning to demonstrate that he left over night.
Except – and here’s what I REALLY like about “Elf on a Shelf,” – it seems that most of Amy’s friends are struggling to remember to move the elf. So the kids are growing suspicious. Or it’s forcing the parents to lie. (Which, I’d like to remind them: Santa KNOWS.)
I was laughing out loud (LOL’ing, if you will) as I read her friends’ comments, which tended to either offer advice or admissions of guilt.
For those seeking advice, we have the following tips:
I set the alarm on my phone at night to remind us to do it. UGH!
I email myself every night to remember!
And the admissions of guilt:
Our elf tends to spend 2 days in the same location. 😦
I’m terrible at it too! but, I’m becoming a better liar/storyteller as to why he doesn’t move. 😉
And by far the BEST response, which makes me want to call a publisher and get this girl a book deal to write the sequel to “Elf on a Shelf.”
We have had Elf for 3 years…this year is the first year I have forgotten…and I’ve done it multiple times….so I played it off like he is “crazy” this year….somethings wrong with him. I.E he ended up in the fridge, upside down in a stocking, half in half out of the front door, stuck on a fan blade while it is spinning. 🙂
I love that not only are these kids being watched by an elf, but they are being watched by an elf that is so mentally unstable he’s half suicidal. And you know what? Even if you’re good, he’s probably going to make up some shit to tell Santa, UNLESS you actively bribe him. Or, you might need to learn CPR because next trip back might land him in the liquor cabinet, face down in a puddle of whisky. With this guy, you just never know.
I love it. I’m just mad I didn’t come up with the concept. It’s like Flat Stanley, but with the power of mind control.
And after all, isn’t that what Christmas is really about? One month where adults are allowed to lie and kids are actually responsive to fear-based behavior management. T’is the season!
After a gloriously warm fall, winter has finally arrived in DC. It’s COLD outside.
Walking to yoga last night, I found myself exclaiming, “It’s colder than a witch’s tit!” to pretty much everyone who made eye contact with me. Based on the looks I received, I’m going to stick with that greeting all year round. Seems like it could be a real conversation starter.
When Alan and I headed out to dinner, I told him I’d changed my Facebook status to “I’ll take ‘witch’s tit’ for $500, Alex.”
Instead of laughing, he just nodded and said, “Except it should’ve been titty. The phrase is colder than a witch’s titty.”
First: Not where I come from.
Second: Really? An entymological discussion of “witch’s titty?”
Naturally, I ignored his correction and continued, “I was a little disappointed. I thought people would post responses in the form of a question, like Jeopardy.”
In my world, acceptable responses would have been:
Or, what is something I might tell you to suck if you refuse to play my reindeer games with me?
Yesterday I took advantage of my home-body tendencies and jumped into the holiday spirit – my way.
By which I mean: I glued my ass into my recliner, lit a fire, and – between bites of cheddar bacon mashed potatoes – knocked out my holiday shopping.
First, can I tell you how much I love Etsy? I lost myself there. For – no exaggeration – three hours. While it wouldn’t be my first stop for a family member, it’s a great place to shop for stocking stuffers, hostess favors or staff gifts. Or for me.
I was able to restrain myself, but here’s what I have in motion from Etsy:
pithypants 