Hey, parents! Do you think you might be a crazy person who thinks that your child is the second coming? And therefore your child's needs take precedent over everything and everyone else, including heart attack victims? Well, now you can find out, absolutely free!
The following quiz consists of several true-life scenarios. Simply choose the answer that best fits how you would act in the given situation. At the end of the quiz, just tally up your points, and you'll be able to find out whether or not you're fit to raise a child, you inconsiderate turd!
1. You're at the gym with your 3-year-old, Ferdinand. You think it would be a great idea for Ferdinand to play ping-pong, RIGHT NOW. You see a line at the help desk, where they will give Ferdinand paddles and a ball. You:
a. Walk to the front of the line, and sidle Ferdinand right in front of a very tall woman with long brown hair, a UFT card, and a strong desire to attend cardio kickboxing class in the next two minutes. What? Ferdinand MUST get his balls NOW, or so help me God, he will have a TANTRUM.
b. Wait patiently in line for Ferdinand to get his equipment. He's the next Agassi (of ping pong), everyone!
c. Umm...Ferdinand can't even reach the ping-pong table, so...this scenario is stupid.
2. You're taking your 5-month-old daughter, Violetta Max Pearson, for a walk in her ginormo stroller (for serious, this thing is like an army tank). You approach a skinny patch of sidewalk where not all the snow has been shoveled. A tall woman with long brown hair, a goofy hat, and a basket full of laundry has already begun to traverse this narrow icy road. You:
a. Continue to push little Violetta Max Pearson down the sidewalk, causing the tall woman to go careening into the snowbank. What's a few pairs of socks, anyway? Violetta NEEDS to get to her baby banjo class at Beansprouts!
b. Reluctantly let the tall woman pass, rolling your eyes as she does.
c. Wait your turn like the freaking decent person you are.
3. You're in a public bathroom with your 6-year-old adopted multiracial daughter, Strength. While you are doing your makeup, Strength has wandered over to the light switch, where she is threatening to turn off all of the lights. You:
a. Say in your most gentle, soothing voice, "Strength, please don't turn the lights off. There are other people in here." When Strength - to your SURPRISE and SHOCK - turns off the lights, you chuckle and say, "Now, that isn't very nice, Strength!" In the darkness, you turn to what you think are people (say, maybe the same tall woman from scenarios 1 and 2, along with her shorter - but probably angrier - friend), and give a simpering smile. Don't kids just do the darndest things?!
b. You yell at Strength to march her behind away from the lights, NOW, or she will not get the Sparkle Pony Wonder Corvette for her weekly Thursday night gift-a-thon.
c. WTF. This happened??
How to calculate your results:
Mostly A's: You are definitely not fit to be a parent. Sell your baby to a hardworking couple in Nebraska and buy a new pair of rainbow suspenders and a vintage fedora.
Mostly B's: Check yourself before you wreck yourself, baby machine. We get it - you're a parent, and you have a cute baby. But that doesn't mean that your baby OWNS you. YOU have to be in control of your baby loving, otherwise your baby is going to turn into a hipster douche, just like you.
Mostly C's: I would like to buy you a drink. But you live in the suburbs, don't you?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Item of the Day: When to Sing About Sodomy
I need to say this up front: I pretty much hate musicals.
The musical-obsessed people in the theater world (or "theatre," if you're feeling particularly pompous) view this as a betrayal, because how could you NOT LOVE SONDHEIM THE MAN IS A GENIUS. Other buttwads wearing lots of eyeliner are all like, "Well, AHBviously. Musicals don't have any DEPTH. Straight plays are the only REAL theatre." And then they blow their clove cigarette smoke in your face and proceed to use big words that they don't actually understand.
So, I generally tend to agree with the latter assfaces, but I have a soft spot for Hair. So much so that I decided to work on it this semester. Yeah, um, we're doing it at a high school.
For those of you who aren't aware of the themes and language of Hair, let me break it down for you: 1. Sex, 2. Drugs, and 3. A lot of the "F" word used in both of those contexts (NOT "flatulence," guys - the other "f" word. No, not "friendship" or "flowers." You know, just - just shut up and let me continue, okay?).
In other words, it's *definitely* appropriate for high school performers and their younger siblings.
In other words, it's *definitely* appropriate for high school performers and their younger siblings.
There also happens to be a song called "Sodomy," which we have no intention of cutting from the show. Here are the lyrics!
Sodomy, fellatio, cunnilingus, pederasty
Father, why do these words sound so nasty?Masturbation can be fun
Join the holy orgy kama sutra ev'ryone!
I have two stories about this song.
Story the first: the reason I love Hair so much is because, when I was a kid of, say, 7 or 8 years old, my lovely mother - a then recently yuppie-ized former hippie - would play the soundtrack over and over, and we would dance to it and sing along, without abandon, in the living room.
Guys. I clearly had no idea what any of those words meant. Can you imagine my surprise and confusion when, years later, I came to the realization that I had been singing about butt sex? Like, for years? Without knowing it?? And that, because I tended to get songs stuck in my head and sing them, loudly, at random moments (for example: the grocery store), I had probably done it in front of other adults, who were equally as confused and horrified ("Why is that child singing about sodomy while picking out cucumbers")???
Second story: One of the kids that is currently cast in the musical decided to sing this song for his audition, which was fine, because it showed off his voice and he really wanted the role. The only problem was that prior to his audition, he practiced it in public, in front of his friends.
His venue of choice? His church. After mass. And the priest overheard.
I don't need to point out the irony here, so I won't. What I WILL say is that it almost cost him the role, because his priest told his highly Christian parents about what he had heard. His parents, in turn, flipped out and told him he couldn't be a part of the show. Only after receiving reassuring phone calls from us did they actually allow him to join the cast.
Actually, I should probably go check up on that. I sense several lawsuits coming our way, folks!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Item of the Day: Weather...or Not
I hate the day before an alleged snow day. It just blows.
Everyone is all like, "Did you hear about the forecast? We're supposed to have 10-14 inches of snow. We're DEFINITELY not going to have school tomorrow."
Folks, let's be realistic. How many "snowpocalypses" can we really have per winter? Chances are we're just going to get a light dusting, and then you're going to complain all day tomorrow because you feel cheated out of a purely hypothetical day off.**
**Extended side note: Look. I don't WANT to have this attitude, but time has taught me to be the Negative Nancy here. In high school, this happened to me ALL THE TIME, and I am just SICK of having my snow day dreams dashed to jagged icy pieces.
On days before a forecast blizzard, I would get so psyched to get a mini-vacay. It was seriously like Christmas; I almost wouldn't be able to sleep. I'd wake up in the morning, expecting a white winter wonderland and a radio announcement confirming that my school had been devastatingly buried under several feet of snow, but no. Instead, I would be greeted by the bland tan of dead grass in my yard, which seemed to taunt me with its nakedness ("Yo, Gretch! Enjoy that geometry test today! I'mma just sit here and SUNBATHE...sucka!").
Guys. I am sick of being bitch-slapped by Jack Frost.
Still, I can't keep myself from holding on to some semblance of snow day hope. While writing this post, I got up to look through the window and check the ground THREE TIMES. And the snow is not even supposed to start for another 5 hours.
So, I wish it weren't there, but it is - that little voice in the back of my head that is totally jinxing any possibility of a day of wintry freedom:
omg snow day tomorrow!
Everyone is all like, "Did you hear about the forecast? We're supposed to have 10-14 inches of snow. We're DEFINITELY not going to have school tomorrow."
Folks, let's be realistic. How many "snowpocalypses" can we really have per winter? Chances are we're just going to get a light dusting, and then you're going to complain all day tomorrow because you feel cheated out of a purely hypothetical day off.**
**Extended side note: Look. I don't WANT to have this attitude, but time has taught me to be the Negative Nancy here. In high school, this happened to me ALL THE TIME, and I am just SICK of having my snow day dreams dashed to jagged icy pieces.
On days before a forecast blizzard, I would get so psyched to get a mini-vacay. It was seriously like Christmas; I almost wouldn't be able to sleep. I'd wake up in the morning, expecting a white winter wonderland and a radio announcement confirming that my school had been devastatingly buried under several feet of snow, but no. Instead, I would be greeted by the bland tan of dead grass in my yard, which seemed to taunt me with its nakedness ("Yo, Gretch! Enjoy that geometry test today! I'mma just sit here and SUNBATHE...sucka!").
Guys. I am sick of being bitch-slapped by Jack Frost.
Still, I can't keep myself from holding on to some semblance of snow day hope. While writing this post, I got up to look through the window and check the ground THREE TIMES. And the snow is not even supposed to start for another 5 hours.
So, I wish it weren't there, but it is - that little voice in the back of my head that is totally jinxing any possibility of a day of wintry freedom:
omg snow day tomorrow!
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Item of the Day: Inspirational Messages for those...Sensitive Times
**WARNING**
The following post contains:
WTF.
The following post contains:
- Bold language about feminine times
***
Sometimes, I get my favorite monthly friend (you know...riding the crimson wave, a visit from Aunt Flo, on the rag, Mother Nature's gift, other stupid euphemisms) suddenly and at work. Subsequently, there is no time to run out of the school to acquire products that would prevent me from becoming a walking biohazard.
After three years, I am just starting to wise up to this. I went to CVS a few days ago before school, and I bought the smallest box of tampons that I could discretely hide in my closet. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the brand, so that you can check them out for yourself: Tampax Sport.
Okay, so I was "harpooning" (side note - and this should really be a post in and of itself: back in the 90's, the (now obsolete?) teen magazine YM released an article that revealed some catchy "slang" for inserting a tampon, I suppose because no teenage girl wants Quarterback Bob to catch her saying, "I need to insert a tampon." Anyway, I kind of always liked "harpooning," because it sounds so XTREME), and I noticed some writing on the external packaging of the tampon. On the left side, it read, "What's your game plan?" And on the right side, it said, "Make it happen!"
Guys. Inspirational sports messages - for your cooter - during tough times.
WTF.
And they are all different! Here are some prime examples from my box (get it? My box?? More vaginal euphemisms, people. They are everywhere!):
- Control and Power to perform at your best.
- Focus on the positive.
- VICTORY!
- Get your head in the game!
- Go Team!
Today, my feminine product told me, "You're a take-charge kind of girl!" And I was all like, YES I AM!
What has your tampon done for YOU today?
Monday, January 3, 2011
Item of the Day: Sunday Night Trifecta of Death
For those of you who have awesome jobs that you're excited to go to every day:
1. I am jealous of you. Obvs.
2. You will need to understand Sunday Night Anxiety (or SNA) for this post.
SNA is when, after you've sufficiently romped around, carefree from work duties, on Friday evening, all of Saturday, and then have brunched yourself full of eggs and toast and cheese on Sunday morning, you realize that you have to GO BACK TO WORK in LESS THAN 24 HOURS.
The weekend is effectively DEAD.
What results is a cold feeling that grows deep in your stomach (or your loins, if you're, like, into saying the word "loins"), which ruins any remaining fun you might have planned for the rest of the day. Because, in the back of your mind, you know you're going to have to return to attending pointless meetings, bitching about people being irresponsible buttwads, and spending your entire day wishing you were eating pretzels and hummus on the couch and watching Jersey Shore reruns.
Which, if you were me, is what you would have spent the majority of the last week doing.
So clearly, I don't even need to mention this, but SNA is especially terrible when you're coming back from 10 days of holiday revelry. In fact, I started to develop typical SNA symptoms this past Friday morning, right after I watched JWoww kick the crap out of Sammi Sweetheart. For like, the third time. In retrospect, it was foreshadowing at its best.
But at the time, I was determined to NOT let SNA get the best of me. I spent the whole weekend carousing, trying to forget about the impending MONDAY OF DOOM. And then I actually did a lot of work on Sunday during the day, in order to mentally prepare myself.
However, I forgot about Sunday night slumber. SNA ruins any chance of a good night's sleep. It's a proven fact. Add to that a hefty cat named Ferguson who has Cat-On-Head Syndrome, and freaky dreams, and you're pretty much done for. Lucky me, I have been blessed with all three of these delights!
This was last night's schedule:
10:00 Get into bed, set alarm. Scoot cat off bed. Turn off light.
10:30 Gently push cat off of bed.
11:00 Almost asleep, despite meatball-sized cold ball of Sunday night anxiety in stomach. Cat sits on head, purrs loudly. Wake up completely. Extract cat claws from head. Throw cat off bed.
12:00 Still awake due to SNA; ball grows to size of softball.
12:30 Finally asleep.
1:00 Wake up - cat is on head, purring with same volume of garbage truck. Shout expletives. Hurl cat off bed. SNA pit is size of cheese wheel.
1:30-4:00 Sleep.
4:30 Dream that I attend Oscars, wearing lovely evening gown, but no shoes. Only black socks. Taunted by Ashley Olsen. Wake up, embarrassed. Cat is on head. Goddammit. Allow cat to stay.
5:00 Dream that I attend party and drink seltzer poisoned with arsenic. Foam at mouth. Die. Wake up, relieved. Cat is still on head. Obviously.
5:30 Dream that deranged squirrel is attacking my face. Repeatedly. Wake up in cold sweat. Cat is still on head. Angrily curse cat for influencing dreams. Peel confused cat off head.
5:40 Alarm! Yay.
When I got up, I literally felt like I was Snooki, and SNA was the random dude who stole my drinks at the bar and then punched me in the face.
And my cat was my 12-pound Jersey poof.
1. I am jealous of you. Obvs.
2. You will need to understand Sunday Night Anxiety (or SNA) for this post.
SNA is when, after you've sufficiently romped around, carefree from work duties, on Friday evening, all of Saturday, and then have brunched yourself full of eggs and toast and cheese on Sunday morning, you realize that you have to GO BACK TO WORK in LESS THAN 24 HOURS.
The weekend is effectively DEAD.
What results is a cold feeling that grows deep in your stomach (or your loins, if you're, like, into saying the word "loins"), which ruins any remaining fun you might have planned for the rest of the day. Because, in the back of your mind, you know you're going to have to return to attending pointless meetings, bitching about people being irresponsible buttwads, and spending your entire day wishing you were eating pretzels and hummus on the couch and watching Jersey Shore reruns.
Which, if you were me, is what you would have spent the majority of the last week doing.
So clearly, I don't even need to mention this, but SNA is especially terrible when you're coming back from 10 days of holiday revelry. In fact, I started to develop typical SNA symptoms this past Friday morning, right after I watched JWoww kick the crap out of Sammi Sweetheart. For like, the third time. In retrospect, it was foreshadowing at its best.
But at the time, I was determined to NOT let SNA get the best of me. I spent the whole weekend carousing, trying to forget about the impending MONDAY OF DOOM. And then I actually did a lot of work on Sunday during the day, in order to mentally prepare myself.
However, I forgot about Sunday night slumber. SNA ruins any chance of a good night's sleep. It's a proven fact. Add to that a hefty cat named Ferguson who has Cat-On-Head Syndrome, and freaky dreams, and you're pretty much done for. Lucky me, I have been blessed with all three of these delights!
This was last night's schedule:
10:00 Get into bed, set alarm. Scoot cat off bed. Turn off light.
10:30 Gently push cat off of bed.
11:00 Almost asleep, despite meatball-sized cold ball of Sunday night anxiety in stomach. Cat sits on head, purrs loudly. Wake up completely. Extract cat claws from head. Throw cat off bed.
12:00 Still awake due to SNA; ball grows to size of softball.
12:30 Finally asleep.
1:00 Wake up - cat is on head, purring with same volume of garbage truck. Shout expletives. Hurl cat off bed. SNA pit is size of cheese wheel.
1:30-4:00 Sleep.
4:30 Dream that I attend Oscars, wearing lovely evening gown, but no shoes. Only black socks. Taunted by Ashley Olsen. Wake up, embarrassed. Cat is on head. Goddammit. Allow cat to stay.
5:00 Dream that I attend party and drink seltzer poisoned with arsenic. Foam at mouth. Die. Wake up, relieved. Cat is still on head. Obviously.
5:30 Dream that deranged squirrel is attacking my face. Repeatedly. Wake up in cold sweat. Cat is still on head. Angrily curse cat for influencing dreams. Peel confused cat off head.
5:40 Alarm! Yay.
When I got up, I literally felt like I was Snooki, and SNA was the random dude who stole my drinks at the bar and then punched me in the face.
And my cat was my 12-pound Jersey poof.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Item of the Day: New Age Music
My boyfriend (let's call him "Bot" for funsies) is always finding "treasures" on the side of the street, or in a dark alley, or from the hands of strange men with crazy eyes behind coke-bottle glasses. So last night, when I got to his place, it was no surprise to me that he had magically acquired a giant Tupperware filled with about a hundred CDs.
"Do you want any of these?" he inquired, holding them out to me with pride, "You can have as many as you want."
Now, I may frequently make fun of Bot's treasure hunts (like the time he seriously considered dragging home a giant scraped up dresser that was probably infested with bugs), but I am not one to turn down digging through a pile of mostly 90's compilation CDs. To tell the truth, that is like, my biggest weakness. That, and chocolate of any kind.
I began rummaging through the spindles, placing wanted discs in one pile, and tossing the remainder at Bot, who would occasionally exclaim with glee at new finds ("Sweet! Now I finally have the soundtrack to The Crow!"). But he soon tired of this game, and started making a secret pile.
When I had finished going through all of the CDs, making a pretty sick stack for myself of angry white girl music (Side note: Guys. Guys: Hole, Ani DiFranco, PJ Harvey, Sleater-Kinney, Garbage?! The previous owner was clearly a suburban high school girl in the late 90's), Bot turned to me and said, "I made you a stack of music you'll like."
I looked at him skeptically. This was coming from someone who had, very recently, bought me a 4-pack of deodorant. For Christmas. "Really?"
"Well, I think there is a high probability that you will like the music in this stack," he clarified. "What percentage do you think I'll get right?"
This was a loaded question. I obviously erred on the side of caution and replied, "Uhh...80%?"
I took the stack from him, and I looked at the top disc, and it was - I kid you not - Enya.
ENYA.
I gave him a look, like "WTF?" And all he could say in response was, "What's wrong with Enya?"
What is wrong with Enya:
1. She is like a female Yanni. I'm not trying to hate, but who else could you possibly compare her to?
2. Sail away, sail away, sail away! (Now it's in your head. Merry Christmas.)
3. When I was a freshman in college, I shared a room with someone who was the best roommate ever, except that whenever she needed to concentrate on work - which was invariably - she would just blast the shit out of her Enya CDs.
Guys. I hate Enya.
The second CD in the stack? Jewel.
Oh, well. He didn't make the 80% (he wasn't even remotely close), but he made up for it by finding me a *pristine* copy of Ace of Base's I Saw the Sign. And I guess, sometimes, that's all you can ask for.
"Do you want any of these?" he inquired, holding them out to me with pride, "You can have as many as you want."
Now, I may frequently make fun of Bot's treasure hunts (like the time he seriously considered dragging home a giant scraped up dresser that was probably infested with bugs), but I am not one to turn down digging through a pile of mostly 90's compilation CDs. To tell the truth, that is like, my biggest weakness. That, and chocolate of any kind.
I began rummaging through the spindles, placing wanted discs in one pile, and tossing the remainder at Bot, who would occasionally exclaim with glee at new finds ("Sweet! Now I finally have the soundtrack to The Crow!"). But he soon tired of this game, and started making a secret pile.
When I had finished going through all of the CDs, making a pretty sick stack for myself of angry white girl music (Side note: Guys. Guys: Hole, Ani DiFranco, PJ Harvey, Sleater-Kinney, Garbage?! The previous owner was clearly a suburban high school girl in the late 90's), Bot turned to me and said, "I made you a stack of music you'll like."
I looked at him skeptically. This was coming from someone who had, very recently, bought me a 4-pack of deodorant. For Christmas. "Really?"
"Well, I think there is a high probability that you will like the music in this stack," he clarified. "What percentage do you think I'll get right?"
This was a loaded question. I obviously erred on the side of caution and replied, "Uhh...80%?"
I took the stack from him, and I looked at the top disc, and it was - I kid you not - Enya.
ENYA.
I gave him a look, like "WTF?" And all he could say in response was, "What's wrong with Enya?"
What is wrong with Enya:
1. She is like a female Yanni. I'm not trying to hate, but who else could you possibly compare her to?
2. Sail away, sail away, sail away! (Now it's in your head. Merry Christmas.)
3. When I was a freshman in college, I shared a room with someone who was the best roommate ever, except that whenever she needed to concentrate on work - which was invariably - she would just blast the shit out of her Enya CDs.
Guys. I hate Enya.
The second CD in the stack? Jewel.
Oh, well. He didn't make the 80% (he wasn't even remotely close), but he made up for it by finding me a *pristine* copy of Ace of Base's I Saw the Sign. And I guess, sometimes, that's all you can ask for.
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