The Watermelon Fairy of 2011

Around August of every year, Cali and I sit down and she picks out the costume she wants me to make for Halloween.  This year?  A jacked-up watermelon fairy (see above).  Really, Cali?  A watermelon fairy?!  Not only that….I’m gonna have to make a pettiskirt.  Chiffon.  I hate sewing chiffon.  I curse the chiffon.  I’m not quite sure how I’m going to make those watermelon wings either.  I’m thinking wire, pantyhose and craft paint.  There’s a good chance she’s going to hit the streets looking like a hot mess on a tin plate.  Stay tuned for future progress.

Here are some of the costumes she passed on…thank gawd!  Don’t you wish you could dress like this every day?  I do.  I’d totally go to Publix dressed like a magical mermaid.  The majority of these costumes are available for purchase at Chasing Fireflies.

Sketchy Easter Bunnies

You know those people who like to smell feet and pantyhose?  Those were the kids that got forced to sit on a sketchy bunny’s lap.  I might have sat on a bunny lap once.  As I recall, his hands were dirty.  You have to sit and ask yourself: what is the long-term psychological damage of bunny lap sitters?  Perhaps someone should sling some grant money my way and I’ll look into it.  You know…follow some lap-sitters around from the ages of 5 through 50.  Better yet, film it.  As documented proof that sketchy Easter bunnies cause brain damage.

I’ve compiled a slideshow that I hope serves as a warning to those eager parents out there who force their children into the laps of nasty strangers.

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Easter Peepin’

I’m a Peep freak.  I particularly like letting them sit out for about a month until they’re good and stale.  Then I eat them.  There’s just something about soft marshmallow that bothers me.  Kinda like wheat germ on ice-cream.

Anyway…I couldn’t let this weekend skulk by without honoring my fave Easter treat.  So enjoy my little Peep Peep treasury and a Hoppy Easter to you and yours!

Click on Peeps to enter treasury.

Love Losers

Aren’t you just OVER the whole roses and chocolate stuff?  That’s what I love about Husband.  He buys me expensive clothes and office supplies on this blessed and totally unnecessary day of love and reckoning.  It’s kind of like a jacked up, low-grade Christmas around here.  Stupid Cupid leaves candy and gifts.  It’s all quite enchanting really.

But some of you out there…no matter how hard you try…you just can’t get it right.  You buy your Olive Oil looking wife clothes from the fat store.  Cubic Zirconia.  Walmart chocolates.  Lip balm.  Satin granny panties. Don’t get me wrong…there’s nothing wrong with ANY of that.  But alot of wenches out there want diamonds, top shelf perfume and liquor.

So for all you losers in love…this one’s for you:

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New Year, New Underpants

I’m just playin’.  I buy underpants more than once a year.  I hate it…but I do it.

So.  2010.  For the first half of the year, I was convinced I was riddled with cancer and tumors.  Turns out I was just having a nasty reaction to a colon cleansing performed at the beginning of the year.  I believe the technical term is “healing crisis”.  Whatever they call it…it didn’t feel none too good.

I stopped making resolutions a few years ago.  Don’t get me wrong…I set goals and everything.  I just don’t write them down with a little empty box beside them for checking-off purposes.  So I’m not going to list a bunch of stuff I hope to accomplish in the upcoming year.  Because next year around this time, I’d look at that list and realize I’m not Superman with super-human strength and powers.  Then I’d get depressed and have to bump up my meds.  So no list.

I wasn’t sure about what to write for my final post of the year.  I thought about expounding and pontificating…but figured I’d lose half my subscriptions if I did that.  So.  I decided to give a one sentence description for each month of the year along with one pic.

In all seriousness, my highlight of the year was being named the finalist for AstraZeneca’s National Essay Contest.  My work will be published in several publications and other media outlets, so that makes me a hair nervous….but it’s for a good cause!  Another cool thing was winning two awards for my photography and having an essay published in Louise Hay’s book, “Modern Day Miracles”.

Other than that, here’s what went down.  Happy New Year to you, yours and them!

JANUARY:

We took Cali to her first ever moving picture show about rats who sing and dance which made Mommy and Daddy mad because of how much they had to fork out for lobby-loot, popcorn and soda.

FEBRUARY:

Went to see the Princess Diana exhibit in Atlanta and I spilled B12 vitamin liquid all up in my new handbag and all over my new camera that was taken into the show illegally for to photograph Di’s wedding gown.

MARCH:

Posed and took pictures of my kid’s stuffed animals talking jive ‘n smack.

APRIL:

My daughter picked her nose all month long, including Easter.

MAY:

Got my kid and her BFF all hooched out for their very first ballet recital.

JUNE:

Forced my kid to put on blue eye-shadow and do Mick Jagger impersonations.

JULY:

Took a much needed vacation where we were rudely awakened by screaming and pounding because  our neighbors locked their baby inside after going out onto the deck for some hanky-panky.

AUGUST:

Cali took her twinkled-toed self back to school and Mommy had a cocktail.

SEPTEMBER:

Cali turns 5 and has a ridiculous joint birthday party with her BFF and a horse. (Click on ‘Horse’ to see pics.)

HORSE

OCTOBER:

Went to Disney’s Princess’s On Ice and saw Cinderella all hopped up on Red Bull and Vicodin so she could stand in the same place for 4 hours straight, smiling and waving, smiling and waving, smiling…..and waving.

NOVEMBER:

Got Cali a demonic dog that lived with us less than 30 minutes but long enough to document his goings-on.  (See video below.)

PONCHO

DECEMBER:

I caved and bought my kid an American Girl (Made in China) doll and went on food stamps all in the same week.

The Art of Ugly Christmas Lights

Don’t sit there and tell me there wasn’t a house in your neighborhood that went completely and totally out of their way to turn their yard and house into an abomination of festive commotion.  Maybe YOU are that particular home owner.  (They talk about you at the Association meetings, you know.)  We were never allowed to play with the kids who lived in these houses, either.

“If they do that to the OUTSIDE of their house…can you imagine what the INSIDE looks like?!”

As an abnormally curious kid, it was precisely these houses I wished to enter. I’d lay awake at night and imagine the sinister goings-on that went down in the Houses of Festive Light Bright Happy Times.  Now that I’m grown, I do drive-bys….hoping to catch a glimpse of those who abuse the invention of electricity.  Ever notice that people are never seen entering or leaving these homes?  It’s like they have groundhog tunnels or something.  They probably have an Ugly Lights Club where they all feel a sense of belonging and swap gifts of extension cords and bulb fuses.

Hey, ugly light people: All because you CAN…doesn’t mean you SHOULD.  Mkay?

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So Scared of Santa That I Soiled Myself!

You know how after a world war of some type…they punish some of the leaders for crimes against humanity?  I think they should do that about one week after Christmas.  Round up all these nasty little Mall and Senior Living Center santas and do something to them that will make THEM cry and nearly soil themselves.  Then take a picture of it.  Now THAT would be funny.

Thanks to a strict religious upbringing, Santa visits were virtually non-existent in my house.  There’d be the occasional rogue Santa that would make his way into our lives, but we knew enough to steer clear of him, then pray for his forgiveness and sanctification.

What is the screening process for these Mall santas, exactly?  Does anyone know?  Are they required to keep their binge drinking to a minimum during Mall hours and encouraged to not disclose their criminal background?  Because….NEWSFLASH!  We can see ALL that…loud and clear!

Anyway…here are some shameful santas  and the traumatized children who will probably grow up and wet the bed well into their mid 30′s.

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Rudolph the Red Nosed Volvo

Whilst driving my kid to school this morning, I was cut off by a car decorated in the very same get-up pictured here.  I wanted to shield my child’s eyes but I couldn’t reach back there to her car-seat. Two thoughts immediately crossed my mind:

1)  You’re an idiot and probably eat lunch meat for breakfast while having devotions outlining the dangers of sinful living.

2)  At what point did you say to yourself, “Self.  It has become increasingly obvious that my main  mode of transportation needs to represent the joy of Christmas that is nestled within the folds and confines of my heart and soul.  By cracky, I’m thinking reindeer!”

…and then that particularly stupid person went HERE and purchased a reindeer car costume, As Seen On TV.

First of all….products  ”Seen On TV” usually appeal to a particular breed of people that I try to avoid altogether.  You can spot them just about anywhere.  They like to haggle about prices in places like Walgreens and the Golden Corral.  Like they’re at a flea market or something.  Watching them discover a “Seen on TV” product is liken to watching a NASA spaceship make lift-off.  Or like when the caveman discovered he could make fire.

In a nutshell…..the fool who cut me off this morning fell hook, line and sinker for the overpriced, obnoxious car reindeer costume.  I plan on tracking this fool later this week.  It shouldn’t be hard, what with the costume and all.  And when I catch him…I’m going to show him the true meaning of Christmas.  That being ‘Giving’.  And what will I give, you may ask?

How ’bout a little “Hook Line and STINKER”…As Seen On TV.

I know some of you are frantically beside yourself to know where to find such a mind-blowing exhibition of novelty.  Pssst….over here.  $19.95 + shipping and handling for a never before seen low price of…hang on…gotta count on my fingers here….oh screw it.  It’s cheap.

So go on.  Make your purchase in the safety of your own home, saving yourself the shame of a public purchase.

I ain’t mad atcha.

Sing-A-Smacka-Jig

I’m just gonna let you sit there for a minute.

Okay, have you taken it all in?  This thing?  With the mouth?  I had a run-in with a whole gang of these things in a posh little children’s boutique up in Ohio.  I saw them the millisecond I walked through the door.  I’ve always been sharp on spotting the n’er-do-wells.  I would have avoided them altogether if my Mom hadn’t run over to them, Pee Wee Herman style.

“Oh, hunny look!!  I think you feed them things!”

“No, ma.  I think they sing or something.”

So she squeezed the lips.  I just stood there.  No way was I joining in on her reindeer games.  She became confused.  She stuck her finger in its mouth, right there between those freaky teeth.  Nothing.  Now they had her.  They’d sucked her in with their mysterious talent.  After about 15 minutes of this, it was just sad.  I had to stop it.  But I couldn’t.  Now I was intrigued with my Mom’s inability to figure out a toy recommended for age 3 and up.

I’d noticed the cashier stop chatting up the stock hottie and nod towards my Mom with a smirk all over his face and in his hair.  They eye-balled me, trying to determine if the ignorant gene had been bequeathed to me.  I rolled my eyes and shook my head to assure them that I had NOT been given the stupid gene and was, in fact, highly intelligent with a bright future ahead of me.

Mom’s somewhat gentle prodding of the toy was starting to morph into textbook physical abuse.  She had the same look in her eye that she’d had when I got caught cheating at the Amish school. (That’s a whole different post altogether.)  I’m all about heckling annoying toys.  It brought me obscene pleasure to kick that Hokey Pokey Elmo over in mid-turn-around.  So I fully appreciated my mom’s abrupt change of mood.  But we were in public.  I beat up toys in the sanctity of my own home.  Not out on the streets like a drunk Mike Tyson.

I made an executive decision to take control of the situation.  It took all of about 5 seconds.  I walked over, pushed my mom (who was now sweating profusely) out of the way and punched the Sing-a-Ma-Jig square in the gut.  Lo and behold, it started singing, “When the Saints Come Marching In.”  I’m serious. It did.  Then I started punching more of them in the gut.  More music!  And they were harmonizing!  The faster you punched, the faster they’d sing!  This was GENIUS!

My mom was so proud of me.  Like I was a Harvard graduate.  I jumped up and down like Rocky.  I fought back the urge to snatch my mom’s bottle of water that she carried in her purse because of medication-induced dry mouth…and dump it all over the top of my head.  I turned to faced the boutique’s employees like, “Now what?!  Boo-ya!  That’s how we roll, yo!  Yee-ah!”

It was suggested that we leave and try out the restaurant on the corner for lunch.  Grand idea!  My mom and I had gotten kicked out of a child’s toy store and we high-fived on our way out the door to congratulate each other on our inherited super badness.  That Sing-a-Ma-Jig was like “Bye Bye” when we walked out the door.  And we were like, “Sit on it, sock mouth!”

We don’t care.  We’re renegades.

Ugly Christmas Sweaters

Okay, I’m going to hope my Aunt Linda isn’t reading this.  If she IS reading this, then I apologize profusely for what I’m about to say.  Truly, I mean no harm.

I come from an abnormally large family.  Huge.  We send out a newsletter every 2-3 months…whenever my mom gets around to collecting gossip and typing the thing up.  Anyway…when we were kids, we used to draw names out of all kinds of things.  Bowls, hats, shoes.  And without fail, Aunt Linda’s kids always drew my name.  My cousins.  Three of them.  Now, we all know it’s the mom that does the shopping.  Although looking back on things now…it could have very well been my cousin “Moose” playing a cruel and inhumane trick on me.

After about the 7th year of this nonsense, gift swapping lost its luster.  Because every year I got the same thing.  An ugly sweater vest.  Not a full sweater.  But a vest.  I could never bring myself to question my Aunt on the origin of this apparel.  I just didn’t want to know.

My mom told me to be nice and that I should be thankful for my vest…because there were kids in our very city who were starving without a vest and my ungrateful rear end failed to acknowledge this type of thing.  The cruelest part is that my mom would make me wear those vests to places like church.  Grocery shopping.  Family reunions on my dad’s side.  School.

The day I turned 18, I bagged up the vests and hauled them down to the Save-a-Soul Mission so that they could live on in the hearts of many.  I can hear my Aunt now.  ”Oh, April Lynn.  Those were pretty sweaters!  Anyway, I thought you loved them because every time I saw you, you’d have one on.”

Yeah.  Thank my mom for that.  So without further smack-talking…here’s a plethora of ugliness for you to feast your eyes upon.  If you own any of these pictured sweaters, then I apologize for the offense; however, I will still laugh and point.