Gettysburg: Four Score And Seven Years Off Of My Life

I recently had the opportunity to travel to Gettysburg, PA with my daughter's fifth-grade class. That's right, a hundred and some fifth-graders on a field trip five hours away from home.  I can't say I was looking forward to the trip, but I was looking forward to the breakfast buffet in hopes that bacon would be on the menu.

We were to arrive at the school at 12:00am to board the tour buses that would ferry us to Gettysburg.  I arrived early, looking my best, cooler full of lunch and backpack full of reading material in tow, ready for the bus ride.  I knew I probably wouldn't get any sleep, but figured it was no big deal and kept telling myself "It's only ONE day."  This was my first mistake.

I correctly assumed that I wouldn't get sleep, but I had no idea it would be because the people in front of me tilted their seats back like it was a ten hour flight to London.  And snored.  For five hours.  Luckily there was another empty set of seats, so I moved over and Olivia (my daughter) settled into OUR seats for a rest.  I think I probably got a total of 20 minutes of sleep, but I battle insomnia frequently so I was still doing pretty good.

We arrived in Gettysburg a bit late, but still had time for our breakfast buffet.  The food was good, and I helped myself to two plates of bacon, telling myself that I would need protein to fuel me for my day.  Self-delusion, but whatever, bacon is awesome.  At breakfast, I noticed a man in full Civil War regalia sitting at a table full of parents and kids.  Remember this man, we'll come back to him later.

After breakfast we headed over to some field full of monuments, where Civil War Man was waiting for us.  As we approached him, he began to sing.  Loudly.  It was roughly 7:00am, so nobody was in any mood for singing, but we listened anyway...until he shouted "EVERYBODY NOW!"  A teacher half-heartedly joined in.  The rest of us stared.  It was no song I'd ever heard, something about the North.  I shifted nervously, embarrassed for Civil War Man.  Finally the madness stopped and Civil War Man went into his speech.  On and on about "At 6:00am, just as the sun was rising, 600 Confederate troops stormed over that hill, blah, blah, blah..."  It was too early for this.  I was sleep-deprived and in my mind kept thinking "Did this REALLY happen to this guy??  Is he acting?  What is going ON??"  Delirium had already set in, despite my bacon extravaganza at breakfast.  

©Kari Potochnik

Olivia, perched on a monument, a big no-no according to Civil War Man.

 After Civil War Man gave his speech, we were allowed to take pictures with (but not ON) some of the monuments.  We disobeyed.  Karma was with us, though, as I climbed over a pile of rocks to take a shortcut.  I stepped on a loose rock (wearing flip-flops), the rock pile gave way, I slipped on the wet grass and I nearly went ass over tin cans trying to catch myself.  Olivia's guidance counselor had to stop himself laughing.  I wanted to say "Just laugh.  Get it out.  I'd be laughing at you if you had done it."  I refrained and instead asked him to take a photo of us in front of a monument.  I suspect he had a good laugh in private, though.  Imagine a drunk tightrope walker loosing his footing and plummeting to his death (while carrying a Nine West cross-body purse full of hand sanitizer and bandaids);  that's what I looked like, I'm sure of it.  

©Kari Potochnik

Just after tripping over the rock pile.  If you're very quiet, you can hear the guidance counselor chuckling...

Next was the cemetery tour.  We wandered around the cemetery while a tour guide gave us bits of information.  I spent the entire tour trying to find trees to stand under as it was nearing 80 degrees Fahrenheit.  I was envying the dead; they were in the cool ground while I was feeling my penciled eyebrows slide off of my face.  Thankfully after the cemetery we boarded our tour bus and headed for the tour of the battlefields.  I reapplied my makeup for the seventh time, realizing that any attempt to look pretty was clearly futile at this point.  

©Kari Potochnik

I'm behind the camera, wishing for death to take me. 

Onto the battlefield!  Our tour guide stood at the front of the bus, pointing at hills, monuments, rocks, flag poles and the like.  I began to doze off.  "Surely it's close to lunch time," I thought.  I looked at my watch.  It was 9:18am.  I welcomed death.  I couldn't stop dozing off, and not wanting to offend the tour guide, I discreetly put earplugs in my ears (I smartly brought them along) and not-so-discreetly put on sunglasses to hide my fluttering eyelids.  We disembarked the bus several times for photo ops and such.  I dragged myself around like a tranquilized gorilla.  At one point, the tour guide instructed us to get into two lines as he was going to demonstrate a battle pinwheel of some sort.  I feigned heat stroke and backed away into the shade.  I wanted to scream "It's 90 friggin' degrees!  I put in six years of marching band!  I know how to do a goddamn pinwheel!  I NEED FOOD AND WATER...NOW!"  Again, I restrained myself.

After the battlefield tour, we had an hour free for our picnic lunches.  I packed a five-star, European-style lunch complete with cheese, fruit, nuts, bread, salami, fizzy lemonade, plastic cups, pita sandwiches, Nutella, crackers and even a vintage tablecloth.  Unfortunately, I pretty much dumped it all in a pile on the tablecloth, shoved some pita bread and nuts in my mouth and nearly passed out. I did feel a bit better after lunch, and we ducked into a shop to enjoy the air conditioning.  

In the shop, I noticed several boys from Olivia's class showing off the swords and daggers they'd purchased.  Only in Gettysburg would you willingly allow your ten-year-old boy to purchase these things.  If you were in Target, and your child walked up to you with a bayonet and asked if they could buy it, you'd be like "What the hell is wrong with you, child?!  A damn bayonet, were you born in a barn?! Give me that before you hurt someone!"  In Gettysburg, however, it's all good.  It's "educational."  I was glad, at that moment, to have been lucky enough to have given birth to a female. 

Next up was the wax museum; I LOVE wax museums.  I had forgotten my camera on the bus, so after running to get it, Olivia and I were at the end of the line, where all of the teachers were.  I could tell that they, too, were becoming delirious.  The wax vignettes were not of Madame Tussaud-quality and in fact one of the vignettes appeared to feature Edgar Allan Poe assassinating a black Abraham Lincoln, but it was cool to see regardless. 

©Kari Potochnik

Poe shooting Black Abe.

Back to the bus for my umpteenth makeup application; I didn't recognize myself.  The person I was at 12:00am was merely a memory.  I now looked like an East End London prostitute who had been given two black eyes and had her eyebrows waxed off.  I reapplied anyway, though I wanted to stand up, turn around and weep while shouting, "I'M PRETTY!  RIGHT??"  More restraint exercised, a smart move on my part.  

Off we went to the Shriver House.  I hoped Maria and Arnold would be there; they weren't.  Instead, we found a female tour guide, dressed in approximately 612 pounds of bodice, skirt, and petticoats.  She was also way into her job.  She announced that she had been, for many years, a teacher.  I could tell she had been an elementary teacher because she repeated everything six times, and then posed everything back at her audience as a question.  "We need to stay away from the walls, this house is over 100 years old, and if we lean on the walls we'll crack the plaster and dirty the paint.  What are we going to stay away from, folks??  That's right, the walls."  I wished I had purchased one of those daggers at this point.  Now, this house, being so old, had very narrow staircases, I estimated around four inches wide.  There were 23 people in our group, all crammed into an area the size of a Matchbox car, behind ropes.  It was 2:00pm on a 90 degree day.  We smelled of a barn full of diarrhea-plagued dairy cattle.  As we ascended and descended each staircase, I held my breath.  It was either pass out from lack of oxygen, or pass out from the unmistakable odor of swamp ass.  I took my chances and held my breath.  

In the attic of Shriver house, which was incidentally NOT air conditioned, I muttered that I was hot.  Mrs. School Teacher, with her bionic ears, heard me and loudly announced, "We don't say 'hot' in the South, we say 'tepid.'  We also don't 'sweat.'  Ladies glow and men perspire; HORSES sweat."  I wanted to say "Well, I'll be damned, Miss, I must be a Budweiser Clydesdale because if you'll kindly place your hand under my breasts, you'll find that my bra is throwing liquid like a hydrant!"  I wanted to follow that up with a whinny and a neigh, but again, restraint, restraint, restraint.  

After Shriver House, we were ferried to a visitor's center and museum where we were to watch a movie.  We were running behind schedule, and the movie was ready to start when we arrived.  The visitor's center was staffed by, apparently, retired folks who are passionate about the Civil War.  As we walked into the center, we were suddenly surrounded by elderly people, all wearing red polo shirts and headsets and shouting "MOHAWK!  THE FILM BEGINS IN EIGHT SECONDS! GO, GO, GO!"  They were clearly the Special Ops of the visitor's center, waving their arms around like air-traffic controllers, speaking in code on their headsets, and fervently writing things on their clipboards.  

After nearly missing the first 13 seconds of the film (har, har) we settled into the air conditioned theater...for a nap.  The movie began.  It was narrated by Morgan Freeman, and let's face it, good ol' Morgan could read you a detailed description of a colonoscopy and you'd listen intently.  Olivia fell asleep.  I sat mesmerized by Morgan's voice.  It was over too soon, and we were shuttled out of the theater and up to what they call the "cyclorama" which is just a big painting all over the walls of a round room.  Olivia was groggy from her nap, so we found a place out of the way and sat down on the floor.  Eight seconds later, one of the white-haired employees approached me and asked "Is she feeling ok?"  I answered that she was just tired and a little nauseous.  The employee offered "We have a first aid room if you need it."  I declined, saying that it had been a long day.  "Wow," I thought, "that was nice of her to offer."  I thought too soon.  "Well," she said, "perhaps you could move somewhere out of the way."  Oh. My. God.  Really?!  Here it comes; what I wanted to say.  "Look, lady.  I'm running on 20 minutes of sleep.  It's hot as Hades out there.  I rode on a bus for five hours to get here.  I'm sweating like a sumo wrestler in an oven.  My kid is cranky.  I went mad three hours ago.  There is no danger of anyone tripping over me because nobody here can walk anymore.  The only thing keeping me from punching you in the throat right now is that I've completely given up on life and I don't want to waste the energy that I'm going to need to get back on the fecking bus to throttle you!  Now, STEP OFF!"  But alas, I just moved.  Out of the cyclorama, down the stairs, straight to the gift shop to ask if they sold cocaine or amphetamines.  They did not, so I got a coffee instead.

©Kari Potochnik

Trying to talk Abe into partying with me.  He declined.

Finally, it was time for supper, another buffet.  The food was decent, but at that point you could have served me a pile of shit on a plate and I'd have eaten it without  even asking questions.  After I had eaten, I noticed the teachers had congregated in a group and were discussing things about the trip home.  They all looked exactly as they had looked at 12:00am.  Not a hair out of place, eyebrows intact, not even a hint of the glisten of sweat on brow.  I wanted to kill them all, at that moment.  For being pretty.  For being energetic.  For smelling good.  I sat on my hands to avoid tragedy.  

I also noticed at dinner, that Civil War Man had once again joined us for our meal.  Again, he was at a table full of kids and parents.  I started wondering if he just showed up like this for the free meals.  Was he even employed by anyone specifically?  Did anyone know whether or not he was authorized to be at our meals?  I convinced myself that he was a homeless person, and had stolen, piece by piece, a Civil War Costume.  He had probably watched that Morgan Freeman movie so many times, that he was now a Civil War expert.  He had essentially fallen into the deal of a lifetime; two free meals a day, clothes on his back, and instead of shouting Bible verses from a street corner, he was singing about the good ol' North atop a hill full of monuments.  I knew, at that point, that I needed a drink, or at least a good psych evaluation.  

Finally, after dinner, we boarded the buses for the ride home.  I did not bother to reapply my makeup this time.  I would have ended up looking like Vanessa Redgrave in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?  I rammed my earplugs into my ears, got out my book and slouched down in my seat, pressing my knee against the seat in front of me to prevent the occupant from laying down in my lap.  It worked.  I even heard the girl say "It went back further than this on the way down..."  That's right, little girl.  It went back further because at that time, it was Kari sitting behind you.  Right now, you have the Mad Hatter back here.  Don't press your luck.  I will shove my leg into this seat until my knee BLEEDS, but I will NOT allow you to disturb my ride home!

I did manage to get some sleep on the way home, and my mood improved a tiny bit.  Pulling into the school parking lot, I felt like Harriet Tubman crossing into the North.  As we groggily disembarked the coach, God bless her, there stood Olivia's teacher, Mrs. J. saying goodbye to each and every parent and child.  Not just saying goodbye, but saying things like "Thanks for coming, Ed.  You were a blast.  Jen, it was great seeing you.  Hannah, get home and get some sleep.  Tom, thanks for being a trooper."  Had I been a teacher on the trip, I would have jumped MacGyver-style out of the bus a mile before we reached the school and called the police to take me home. Which is why I'm not a teacher.  

Looking back on the trip, it really wasn't that bad.  I did learn a lot about the Civil War, and I got to eat all that bacon so I really can't complain. Let's just say that I'm glad I only have one child, and that I will never have to take that trip again.

Pinterest: Ain't Nobody Got Time For That!

Last year, my best friend Jennifer set up a Pinterest account, and couldn't wait to send me a request to join.  She thought it would be right up my street, a site full of crafts and fashion and...just about everything you could imagine and more.  I signed up, but the iPod Pinterest app sucked and at that time I rarely used my computer, so I kind of fizzled out on it after two days of dealing with the app crashing.  About six months ago, however, I bought a Galaxy tablet, and on a whim I downloaded the Pinterest app.  Bad idea.  I became addicted.  In three minutes.

At first I thought that I would just pin, pin, pin and never actually go back and look at or attempt any of the projects, outfits, or ideas that I pinned.  I even remarked that Pinterest is a place to store pictures of shit you don't have time to do.  I was mistaken, though, and I surprised myself by actually following through on some of the projects.  I started making my own laundry detergent and fabric softener from Pinterest recipes, I've referenced my fashion board several times for outfit ideas, and I've used pins to help my daughter with school projects.  Basically, Pinterest is my crack and I'm OK with that; I even managed to get Nancy hooked on it.  

As much as I love Pinterest, I must admit that I have, on more than one occasion, come across something absolutely, insanely, time-consuming and ridiculous, something that even Martha Stewart wouldn't have the patience for.  I'm all about saving the earth and fighting global warming, but I don't have time to collect newspapers and shred them for cat litter and packing material, for example.  

Image source: http://macgyverisms.wonderhowto.com

Glue Stick Crayons

The first time I realized that Pinterest is rife with ideas that "don't nobody have time for" was when I read a pin about making your own crayons.  From old glue sticks and crayons.  First of all, crayons are cheap; real cheap.  In July and August, you can get a box of 24 Crayola crayons at any discount store for about a quarter, no joke.  I stock up on them because they're so cheap; did I mention that I'm kind of a hoarder of craft supplies?  So why anyone would need to manufacture their own crayons is beyond me.  

Glue sticks?  I think I have the same glue stick I bought in 1998.  It's never been used and is practically a fossil.  Glue sticks suck and anyone who's ever done a school project involving glue knows this.  Glue sticks are like ADHD glue; they're all like, "Yeah, we'll totally hold this paper onto this poster board.  No worries.  We;re glue.  That's our job, to stick stuff to other stuff."  Then two seconds later they're like "Uggggh, this is boring.  We're just like, stuck here.  C'mon guys, let's go see what Elmer's glue is up to," and your project falls apart like a house of cards.  Anyway, my point is that nobody has multiple near-empty glue stick tubes just laying around their home, so in order to manufacture glue stick crayons, you're probably going to have to go out and buy glue sticks.  If you're going out to buy glue sticks, you may as well buy crayons.

Now, on the off chance that you actually have several boxes of worn-to-nubs crayons and empty glue stick tubes, the insanity doesn't stop there.  Now you have to melt down the crayons and pour them into the glue stick tubes.  Anyone every had a burn from hot wax?  Ever had your legs or bikini line waxed?  Hot wax hurts.  So I really don't want to be messing around with it if I don't have to.  Second, what will you put the wax in to melt it?  Because no matter what Pinterest says, the vessel you use will be ruined.  Don't even tell me to put it in my Pyrex measuring cup and then when I'm done, stick it in the freezer and chip the hardened wax out.  If I wanted to chisel something, I'd chisel the mystery goop off of my fridge shelves.  Don't even get me started on getting the molten wax into the glue stick tubes; seriously?  Are you a masochist?  Why not just strip naked and pour boiling oil onto yourself?  You'll end up with the same results; burns over 99% of your body.  Homemade glue stick crayons: ain't nobody got time for that. 

Image source:  http://www.craftster.org

Little Red Riding Hat

(I didn't name this hat myself.)

Next up, this pimp hat.  It's actually been titled "Little Red Riding Hat" but I calls 'em like I sees 'em.  It's a pimp hat.  Made from "upcycled" (upcycled; {vernacular definition: hoarded}) cereal boxes.  The creator of this hat makes it look and seem remarkably easy to create this little number, but let's face it, unless there are directions for a "real, honest-to-goodness, working magic wand" prior to the hat instructions, we all know how this project will go.  Glue everywhere, sticking everything but the cardboard together, tissue paper stuck to your fingers, feathers all over the damn place, you won't have enough cardboard to make a hat big enough to fit your head, the cardboard will become soggy and saturated with glue, causing it to become misshapen and wrinkled, and after all is said and done, you'll have made up 26 new combinations of swear words that will earn you a year's worth of Hail Marys and Our Fathers.  Just go buy a pimp hat if you really want one.  It'll be worth it, trust me.  

Image source:  www.pinterest.com

Homemade kitty litter.

Homemade kitty litter.  It's for real, people.  There's not even a link on the pin; the pinner simply wrote "Homemade cat litter. Washed shredded news paper and baking soda. Let dry and boom!!"  That's the exact quote.  First of all, washed newspaper?  Have you ever spilled liquid on a newspaper?  Newspaper pretty much disintegrates if there's liquid within a one mile radius of it.  How the hell do you wash newspaper??  Do you fill up your bathtub and lay the paper in the water?  If so, how do you shred wet newspaper?  That implies that you must first shred, then wash the newspaper.  Good luck with that.  Washing shredded newspaper has got to be about as fun and productive as washing your cat.  Do you put the baking soda in the wash water?  Sprinkle it atop the newly-washed paper?  Why does the paper even have to be washed?  Is it dirty?  Will your cat turn up his nose at unwashed newspaper?  Your cat will likely take one step into this environmentally friendly litter, immediately recoil his paw in disgust and poop next to the litter box instead.  Then he'll poop on your pillow, as if to say "Am I not deserving of real kitty litter?  It's bad enough I'm forced to poop in a box, now you give me substandard litter?  No, I say.  No, sir."   

Image source: http://iambaker.net/homemade-sprinkles/

Homemade sprinkles for decorating cakes and cookies.

Next we move into the kitchen for some homemade sprinkles.  Whoever came up with this is either a complete idiot, an OCD neat-freak, has limitless free time on their hands, or all three.  Sprinkles are much like glue sticks; they never seem to run out, and you can have the same bottle of them lurking in your spice cupboard for millenia.  As for those brown, "chocolate" jimmies, I think I once read where a fossilized urn of them was found at a Neanderthal dig site.    I'm also convinced that sprinkles and jimmies are capable of sexual reproduction.  

This particular pin boasts that you only need four ingredients (powdered sugar, milk, light corn syrup, and food coloring) to create these little gems, and can miraculously be tinted to any color!  Thanks for the clarification on that, if you hadn't mentioned that I could tint them, I'd have ended up with boring, white sprinkles.  You can also flavor them, if you wish, with flavored extracts.  Because heaven forbid these little morsels remain tasteless, that they bore your palate with the taste of nothing but a whisper of sugar, that they not add another layer of flavor and depth to your cupcakes and sugar cookies.  

Once you mix up the ingredients, you put the mixture into a plastic bag with a tiny bit of the corner cut off, or a cake decorating bag (with a #3 tip), and start piping the little dots all over a piece of waxed paper.  WHO HAS TIME FOR THIS??  How could you be sitting quietly at your kitchen table, piping little dots onto paper and not break down into waves of hysterical weeping at the thought of all that you could be doing?!  For starters, you could be online ordering a one pound bag of rainbow sprinkles for $4.30, or better yet, a 24 pound bag of multi-colored jimmies for $45.29.  People with unlimited free time often have a virtually unlimited cash flow so cost shouldn't really factor into things.  If you have time to make your own sprinkles, you need to add some activities to your calendar.

Image source:  www.pinterest.com

Homemade glue recipe.

For you crafters our there, here's a recipe for homemade glue, Elmer's-style.  I was pleased to see that this recipe didn't call for horse hooves or boiled animal cartilage, but I just don't know that I'd trust this recipe.  You're presumably making this glue for a child, and when you mix children with water and sugar you get ants and sticky floors.  I guess the good thing is that it's edible, but Elmer's claims it's non-toxic as well.  Plus, you can buy a whole gallon of genuine Elmer's glue for under $12.00 as my online research reveals.  Any project that involves glue is potentially messy to begin with, and if you add to that the fact that you're going to play Amish for a day and make your own glue, you're just asking for trouble.  We all know that flour, no matter how hard we try to contain it, inevitably gets on everything.  Ditto for sugar crystals.  Now, imagine for a moment, if you will, a few preschool-aged children hanging from your thighs and belt loops, all yelling "WHAT ARE YOU MAKING?  IS IT ALMOST DONE?  WHEN CAN WE START OUR CRAFT?  CAN I TASTE THAT?  I WANT TO USE IT FIRST!  I WANT TO LICK THE SPOON!  WHAT SMELLS FUNNY?  MOMMY, WHY ARE YOU CRYING?"  Now imagine instead, handing each child their own mini bottle of store-bought glue while they quietly work on their popsicle stick picture frame.  You might even have time to mix yourself a good, stiff, drink while the little VanGoghs craft away.  Serenity now...

I love to craft and upcycle and re-purpose as much as the next guy, but there are just certain times that I must draw the line.  There are times when I look at a pin and think "What Stepford Wife came up with this bullshit?"  I hope I never become that person.  I'll admit I've overzealously  pinned a few ridiculous things, but I eventually came to my senses and deleted those pins.  Pin smart, my friends.  Or you may make it into my next blog. 

Booby Trap

I am the queen of ridiculous injuries.  I once suffered through six months of terrible back pain from sitting in a chaise lounge for a few hours.  I have caught myself on fire twice in the last two months.  I suffered a back injury from cutting grass...on a riding mower.  What follows is another story about another stupid injury.  I hope the laughter it provides you balances out the pain that I felt...

I found a website where you enter your body measurements, and the site generates a virtual model of you. It then tells you what clothes look good, what clothes don't, and even tells you where you can buy or order clothes online. I logged into the website and went to look for my seamstress tape measure. Of course I couldn't find it, but what I DID find was a really neat paper tape measure from IKEA. It's 36" long and I keep it in my flea marketing purse for measuring furniture, etc. It's lightweight and I always grab a few when I'm at IKEA because they're kind of cheaply made and tear easily. 

Anyway, I'm on my laptop in my living room and the website says you should measure without clothes, so I take my shirt off for my first measurement, my bust. The blinds were drawn, but since I have bamboo shades, I wasn't sure how much could be seen from outside, so I was determined to do my measuring quickly and efficiently. 

I take the paper tape measure, and try to wrap it around my boobs. Well, first of all, the measuring tape was twisted. I fumbled around with it for a minute or so, looking out the windows all the while, getting nervous that someone would see me. I finally get the measuring tape straightened out, and I go to pull it around my boobs, but since it's only 36" long, it's too short. 

Now I'm in a real panic as I'm standing half-naked in my living room. I look down on the coffee table and spot a magic marker. "Aha! I'll mark my boobs and then measure between the marks and add it all together!"  So I grab the marker and make my marks as quickly as I can. The measuring tape keeps falling so I have to keep grabbing it while holding it on one boob, magic marker in the other hand, eyes scanning four windows for Peeping Toms. By now, there are magic marker dots and smears all over my boobs. I finally give up and use a mole as a reference point. 

Now I'm ready to measure the "excess boobage," but as I slide the measuring tape across my boobs, I suddenly see stars as I slice across my boob (in a very sensitive area) with the measuring tape! You all know how painful paper cuts are...so you can imagine what a 3" long one across the boob feels like. 

I had to sit down and take deep breaths; I can only imagine what I looked like, sitting in my living room, shirtless, black smudges on my boobs, crumpled measuring tape laying on the couch, tears in my eyes. 

I will be investing the $5.00 for a new, REAL seamstress tape that I can keep in my sewing box.  I no longer care what my bust measurement is; that virtual model made me look fat anyway.  

SkyMall Product Review

On a recent trip to Florida, I did what all air travelers do, and perused a copy of SkyMall magazine instead of listening to the safety instructions. Because novelty shopping is far more important than knowing what to do if the cabin pressure suddenly drops, or the plane suddenly loses three engines and plummets into the ocean.  Obviously.  Now while I admit that there are some pretty neat-o gadgets featured in SkyMall, there are also some that make you say things like, "How damn lazy do you have to be to need THIS," and "Even if I could manage to get that sweater ON my cat, it's just plain ugly."  I'd like to share with you a few of my most ridiculous SkyMall finds.  

Image source: www.skymall.com

Winbot robotic window cleaer

$399.99

First, the Winbot robotic window cleaner.  Seriously?  How lazy ARE you?  Who even cleans their windows anymore?  If you're like me, you pretty much only wipe your windows if they're dirty enough to be obstructing your view of your crazy neighbors, or if they're spattered with the bloody remains of a "not all there" bird who went down fighting his own reflection.  This thing is marketed, obviously, at the rich people of the world who have huge, tall windows and money to burn.  Even so, what sounds better; "I just dropped $400 on a Winbot...for my tall windows," or "I  just smuggled a Filipino housekeeper into the country for the sole purpose of cleaning my windows.  She also juggles knives, which keeps the kids entertained while I get my daily massage."  The answer is B.

Image source:  www.skymall.com

Dermatend, the "mole, wart, skin tag remover."

$39.99-$99.95 depending on how many

moles, warts, and/or skin tags

you wish to remove.

Next we have Dermatend, a product designed to remove moles, wart, skin tags and the like.  Oh my GOD, where do I even begin with this one?  First of all, the ad boasts, "Over 1 million moles and skin tags removed."  No.  No, no, no and no.  If there's a sure way to get me to barf up my tiny bag of pretzels and my Coke, it's reading about skin tags.  There are certain things that you should probably see a doctor about, rather than ordering a tube of (probably) hydrochloric acid from a magazine you read on an airplane.  I notice the ad doesn't say anything about the reconstructive surgery you'll likely need after slathering this stuff on your face and neck.  And let's not even go to a place where we talk about certain warts that may erupt on your nether-regions because of too many keggers in college.  I will, however,concede to giving Dermatend a score of 10 out of 10 on my grossness scale.   

Image source:  www.skymall.com

Visor with hair, 

$19.99 for the plain visor,

$24.99 for the collegiate or professional

team version.

If you're not satisfied with your hair, or lack of it, no worries.  SkyMall offers this "visor with hair" to solve all of your problems.  This product makes it easy to look like a middle-aged man in the crux of a midlife crisis.  Ladies, don't worry, it's not just for men!  Have you always wanted to look like a lesbian golf pro, but were too afraid to cut your long hair?  Here's your answer.  It should be noted that men can also achieve the lesbian golf pro look but you'll have to shave your beard and wear cargo shorts if you want to pull the look off. 

  

Image source:  www.skymall.com

Irrigation Caddy, the "smart" lawn watering system.

It can be loaded onto your iPad, smartphone or tablet

AND works with your existing lawn irrigation system.

$179.99

I think this one takes the cake for "shit I will NEVER need, EVER."  It even has the Winbot beat, in my opinion.  Notice all of the bells, whistles, icons, etc. on the screen of the tablet.  If you ask me there only needs to be two buttons; "ON" and "OFF."  You either want to water your lawn or you don't.  It doesn't rain in one part of your yard and not in another, so there should be no need for dividing your irrigation system into zones.  If your yard is so big that it does rain in one spot and not the other, then I hate you and you don't deserve this amazing tablet app.  Get outside you rich, lazy, bastard.  When you need an app to water your lawn on the go, you've lost touch with reality and a little fresh air will clear your head, or at least put you at risk for a bee sting to remind you that you're not invincible just because you have money to blow on ridiculous stuff.  I especially like that this comes with a security code option.  Stop.  Now.  If your biggest problem in life is that your arch-nemesis will hack into your irrigation system and foul up your grass and miscellaneous lawn flora, you need a major reality check.  Go work for the Peace Corps in Africa for a year.  Then you can bitch about your grass dying.   

Image source:  www.skymall.com

Disinfection Scanner

$59.99 for the small scanner,

$159.00 for the pictured wand scanner.

I have to admit, this thing is pretty cool.  It's basically a wand that emits nano-ultraviolet light, hence killing germs on basically anything.  If you're a germophobe, I imagine using this, for you, could be likened, for the rest of us, to shooting morphine directly into the heart.  A rush of euphoria like no other, warmth spreading through your body, feeling lighter than air and giving the world the finger because "Screw you, world.  I feel gooooooooood and ain't nothing gonna bring me down!"  If you're a female or gay male germophobe and you've been blessed with a boyfriend, husband or son who is not so concerned with e. coli and such things, just spring for the larger model, tell the man in your life that it's a light saber and turn him loose.  You will have the most sanitary...everything...in the neighborhood.  

"Honey, I swear I saw a spider on the kitchen counter.  Here, take this light saber and go look for it."  

"Come here, son.  Let's play a cool game I read about on Pinterest.  You take this light saber, and I'll lock you in the bathroom.  I need you to saber the hell out of everything in order to earn your passage out.  You have four days.  I believe in you, son.  May The Force be with you."

Brilliant.  Absolutely, germ-shatteringly brilliant.  

Image source:  www.skymall.com

The Litter Kwitter, a toilet training system for cats.

$49.99

First of all, look at the cat in the ad.  He's looking at you like he's about to swat at you with his left paw.  He's also doing the ghetto neck-roll, like "Bitch, please.  I'll shit anywhere I want to.  There's nothing you can do about it, and you know there's nothing you can do about it.  Now get this shit out my face before I pistol-whip you."  

If you have EVER owned a cat, and you purchase this product and then complain that after coaxing your precious Mittens to at least try the Litter Kwitter, your bathroom looked like an overturned port-a-potty after a three day frat party featuring free beer and weed, YOU DESERVE IT.  

If you are a new cat owner, allow me to tell you what will likely happen.  Your cat will stand and watch you intently as you mimic what he is supposed to do.  He will watch you squat over the toilet while you say things like, "Poopy goes here, Mittens," and "Who's my smart little kitty who's going to go poo-poo and pee-pee in the toilet like a big kitty?"  He will pretend to be interested in the various-sized toilet seat modifiers shown in the photo, perhaps even rubbing against them and playfully batting at them.  He will sit on the toilet when you place him gently upon it, still looking at you with large, inquisitive eyes that almost say, "Like this?  Is this how I do it?  Am I a good kitty?"  DO NOT BE FOOLED.  The second you turn your back he will morph into feral cat mode and you will soon realize that the product should have been named "The Litter 'n Shitter EVERYWHERE."  

He will poop in your sink.  He will poop in your tub.  He will pee in the floral arrangement on your vanity.  He will rip up all of your toilet paper and then pee on that.  He will rub his little poopy kitty butt on your white bead-board wainscoting and write his name in pee on your microfiber shower mat.  He will do everything but use the toilet to eliminate waste from his body.  And, if you happen to catch him in the act, he'll look at you like, "Oh, NO!  I did it wrong, didn't I?  I'm a bad, bad kitty.  I'm sorry, I really am.  Lock me in the basement, I deserve it."  To which you'll foolishly respond, "It's OK, precious Mittens.  Maybe a can of tuna will help.  You're not a bad kitty, you just take longer to learn than other kitties.  There, there, don't be sad.  You'll get the hang of it soon."  Consider this your warning.  Don't get sucked in.  Because I guarantee you he'll be talking smack about you to the other pets in the household.  "Yeah, it's called the Litter Kwitter.  I know, right?  Stupid idiot, that's what she gets for leaving us here with a big bowl of food and water while she vacationed in Punta Cana.  I pooped in her bed, too.  She hasn't found it yet...be listening for the scream."

Image source:  www.skymall.com

SomaWave Helmet head massager,

$79.95

File this one under "things that will cement the already-assumed notion that I'm crazy."  The only way you could ever get away with wearing this is in PRIVATE, with not another soul around.  It looks like something straight out of Star Trek, and while it may be the most wonderful thing on the planet, the fact that it looks like something that is not of this planet makes it a gamble.  If you live alone, go for it.  But could you honestly sit at home alone, wearing this on your head, without asking yourself "What has my life come to?"  I think not.   

There's also a disclaimer that is printed with the ad that says "Do not wear while operating heavy machinery.  The SomaWave Helmet's euphoria-inducing waves may produce trance-like states of consciousness."  I can't believe anyone would even consider wearing this while operating even light machinery, much less a car, plane, helicopter, bulldozer or mo-ped.  I also can't believe that, unless it also surrounds you in a cloud of LSD, that it really produces "trance-like states of consciousness."  Marketing WIN, product FAIL.

Image source:  www.skymall.com

Message Beans, $12.95 each.

I've saved what I believe to be the best, for last.  If you order these, they arrive as tiny seeds that will (hopefully) grow into a bean that has a message imprinted on it.  I have no idea the sorcery involved in manufacturing this product, so I won't even begin to hypothesize how they get the message on the bean.  Maybe there's a little troll who lives inside the seed who inscribes the message on the bean, maybe it's some mutant genetically modified bean, maybe it's truly Harry Potter-esque magic; I don't know and I don't care.  We have starving kids all over the world, an AIDS epidemic, people dying of cancer left and right, and THIS is what the scientific community is working on?  Beans that say shit?  This product is 100% responsible for taking what shred of hope in humanity that I once had, eating it up and pooping it out.   

Getting a message on a bean is an amazing, albeit idiotic feat in itself, but what's even more mind-blowing is the fact that there are multiple messages to choose from.  Choices include sentiments like I love you, Peace, Happy Birthday, and my two favorites, Get Well Soon and Forgive Me.  Did anyone think those two through?  At all?  Get well soon?  How long does a bean take to grow?  For God's sake the person could be dead before the bean sprouts.  When you wish someone well, it needs to be immediate, not six weeks and some water and sunlight later.  You don't walk into a hospital room, hand the patient and fecking seed and say "I have something to tell you, and in six weeks you'll know what it is.  Bye!"  As far as the Forgive Me bean...you know that somewhere out there is a business man who travels for work saying "I really think my marriage could have been saved if only that bean had grown faster."  I propose a bean that says Marry Me, for commitment-phobes.  You'd have weeks to change your mind, and even if the bean sprouted and your beloved was ecstatic with acceptance, you'd still have time to bail out by saying, "Shit, they shipped me the wrong bean.  I'm terribly sorry for this misunderstanding, darling."

I realize the temptation that SkyMall elicits, I really do.  For two brief seconds, I considered buying the SomaWave Helmet.  I stopped myself when I suddenly burst into tears and wept while I lamented that I'm single and have nobody to massage my head.  Then I stopped weeping when I realized, "Hey, I'm single.  Which means I don't have to answer to anybody...ever.  I can eat ice cream for dinner and the only dirty underwear I have to wash are my own and my child's."  I had to stop myself from jumping out of my seat and shouting "FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST, GREAT GOD ALMIGHTY, I'M FREE AT LAST!"  Which is why I passed on the SomaWave;  I'm bonkers enough without it.  

Vogue

I love fashion.  I have subscribed to Harper's Bazaar for over ten years, I browse Pinterest and Style.com for the latest styles and trends, and I live for Fall Fashion Week.  Those of you who know me personally know that I'm not a size 0 by any means and so some of the fashions I love just don't look good on my 5'5" size 14 frame.  That's OK, because over the years I've learned what looks best on me and I have become a master at camouflaging my flaws and playing up my assets.  It only took me about 32 years, but I did it.  

Yes, I went through that awkward "pegged jeans" look in the 90's which basically made my tiny ankles look even tinier while creating a linebacker look to my upper body.  I also spent about six months of my life walking around sucking my stomach in so that I could wear a bodysuit, but let's not go there.  I was never one to follow the crowd, so I got a lot of flak for some of my outfits and style choices, but I never really cared much.  I'm reminded of a pair of shoes my aunt brought me back from Europe; she called them Romanian worker shoes.  They were cordovan-colored leather and had a double row of eyelets to lace.  I loved them to death and wore them almost daily during my 7th grade year.  My friends called them my Ronald McDonald shoes, but they were the BOMB and I didn't care what anyone said.  

I wore bow ties in what I call my "Pee Wee Herman" stage, also known as my "I might be a lesbian but I'm not sure yet" stage.  I wore suspenders when suspenders weren't cool (actually, I don't know that suspenders ever were cool but I liked them and so I wore them).  I distressed my jeans far before the grunge look became popular, and I wore Chuck Taylors before they were claimed by hipsters (I think that makes me a hipster hipster).  

My aunt Rosanne, who was only ten years my senior and who was also a bit into the 80's punk scene, was my style inspiration.  I idolized her and I wanted to wear what she wore.  I inherited her clothes and I remember in particular a pair of Asics wrestling shoes that I cherished and wore until they were falling apart.  Later my aunt told me that the only reason she bought them was because there was a member of a band she liked who once said he only  wore Asics wrestling shoes. 

As much as women's fashion changes, there's so much that also stays the same.  There's always the odd designer who really pushes the envelope and creates some madness that while artistic is not practical, and there are a handful who manage to be extravagantly artistic while still managing to create wearable clothes, but for the most part fashion for women is pretty simple.  Blouses, pants, skirts, shoes and bags remain structurally similar within groups and that's that.

Maybe I stand alone on this, but there are some things that I'd really like to see be all the rage in fashionable circles.  Saggy boobs, for example.  Most of us have them, save for the teenagers and childless among us.  I left out men for a reason; I've seen some pretty saggy man-boobs in my day.  Even women with small boobs will eventually find their girls heading south at some point.  Add to that that I absolutely detest bras and you see why I'd like to see saggy boobs become all the rage.  How great would it be to be able to roll out of bed, throw on a blouse and head to work knowing that instead of people thinking you're unaware of the fact that you could potentially tuck your boobs into your waistband, they'd think to themselves "She is really stylish and sharp.  How does she do it?"

Fanny packs.  Hear me out on this one, OK?  Yes, they're dorky.  Yes, they're a permanent fashion DON'T.  But they're also intensely practical; hands-free, which comes in handy most all of the time.  They do a wonderful job of hiding that stomach "pooch" that many women are plagued with, unlike a purse they don't cause back or shoulder strain, and because they're small women would be forced to carry only the bare essentials instead of the usual 50 pounds of useless crap we have in our purses at any given time.  Just last week I found a sports bra in my purse, my own thankfully.  I still have no idea how it got there, or how long it had been there.  Anyway, I'm convinced that if Kate Moss was photographed wearing a fanny pack, suddenly women everywhere would want one.  Kate, if you're reading this, help me out here.  


Fat upper arms, or at least blouses that disguise that flabby shit.  Maybe it's just because I'm built like a linebacker, but my arms never fit into ANYTHING.  If I buy a suit, I have to buy it at least a size larger than what I need in my waist in order to get the arms to fit properly.  Put me in a fitted top and I look like I've sprouted sausages from my shoulders.  Tank tops are pretty much out of the question (at least in public), and I'd kill for a bathing suit that was designed with long sleeves.  I want to see a magazine article that expounds on the beauty of arm flab dangling and fluttering in the breeze.  I want to hear that Brad Pitt is only with Angelina in the hopes that she'll develop chicken flab on her upper arms.  

Pajamas.  We all love them, and don't lie and say you haven't secretly wished that you could just roll out of bed and head out the door for that early morning flight.  Or that there hasn't been a day when you wished you could run to Wal-Mart in your fuzzy, elastic waist jammie pants.  While retaining your dignity.  Yes, I've been to Wal-Mart and yes, I know there are people who think it is socially acceptable to wear jammies while grocery shopping.  I want to see that delusion become a reality.

This is a good place to segue into caftans, togas, tunics, and muumuu's.  All of that loose fabric shrouding rolls, hips, cellulite, bony knees, and the like.  Doesn't matter if you're thick or thin, life in a muumuu would be fantastic.  Imagine going to your closet every morning and just grabbing a muumuu, tossing it on, stepping into a pair of ballet flats and walking out the door.  Bliss. 

Through the years I've found that it doesn't really matter what size you are, we all have complaints about clothing.  We've all asked, "Who the hell are they making this stuff for, anyway?"  At a size 14 I have complaints, at a size 18 I had complaints, at a size 9 (way back before dinosaurs became extinct) I had complaints.  My size 0 friends have issues with fashion and so do my size 20 friends.  The key is to find a brand that works for you, find the cuts that work for you, and if all else fails, throw on a muumuu.  Maybe you'll start a trend.  

A fantastic book by two Brits 

who are practical, smart, and hilarious.

I highly recommend reading.

Image source: betterworldbooks.co.uk

This is also an excellent book

and gives awesome camouflage techniques.

Very funny and worth reading.

Image source:  goodreads.com

Children Of The Corn

I think I may have mentioned in an earlier post that I am extremely lazy when it comes to certain things.  For example, just six months ago, at age 34, I realized that if I don't put something away, it's not going to magically put itself away.  I'm not even joking about this.  I had been cleaning up the house and I spotted something that had been sitting out for weeks and suddenly I had this revelation like, "Hey...this thing isn't going anywhere unless I do something with it."  It sounds absolutely ridiculous but it's true nonetheless. 

I realized recently, however, that my laziness has reached an all-time low (or high, whatever.)  A few weeks back, I was in the shower when I felt something painful under my foot.  I looked down to see a piece of un-popped popcorn laying in the bathtub.  Remember, I have a child, so I wasn't even going to try to figure out how it got there.  I was going to push the piece of corn down the drain, but all I could imagine was my drain somehow clogging and then having to call my dad to come and fix it.  I could almost hear his words; "What the HELL?? What is...there's a goddamn stalk of sweet corn growing in here! What the...you been putting food scraps down here?? This ain't a garbage disposal, you know! Gimmee that plunger and hold this torch..." so I picked up the piece of corn and set it on a shelf in the shower.

The corn is still there.  Weeks later. How am I justifying leaving the corn there?  After all, it's just a piece of corn.  I could flush it down the toilet or I could throw it away, all from inside the shower.  It's not like I say "Oh, there's that corn...I'll take care of it after I finish showering."  My honest-to-God justification is that perhaps the corn will germinate and I can show my daughter the miracle of plant life. Every day when I shower, I look at that piece of corn for any signs of germinating, sprouting, moving, growing legs and walking to the trash itself, etc. 


I recently posted about this on Facebook, and my friend Katie commented that if I could only patent shower corn, I'd be rich.  Suddenly I pictured Billy Mays plugging my corn; "Unleash the power of your shower! Perfect for city-dwellers with no room for a garden!"  Of course there would have to be a disclaimer that my company could not be held responsible for clogged drains or rodent infestations.  

Katie then commented that since Billy Mays is no longer on this earth, maybe I could consider the "Slap Chop" guy, if he wasn't in jail (for allegedly beating up a prostitute.)  I mentioned Ron Popeil, and Katie suggested Wilford Brimley.  I imagined Wilford's plug; "Hi. I'm Wilford Brimley and I'm here to tell you about Sweet Shower Corn. Sweet corn that doesn't contribute to diabetes. We'll ship your seedlings right to your door, along with your insulin and lancets."  I could partner with Liberty Medical Supplies.  


Why am I in denial??  Why can't I just throw the kernel away?  I think I've become attached to it, somehow.  I'm rooting for it, cheering it on.  I turn on the shower and step in, and there it is, sitting there.  It's always a little bit of a surprise, like "Oh, hello!  How are you?  Still here, I see.  Any sprouts today?  No, not today.  I believe in you little buddy, it's OK.  I know you can do it.  I know that deep inside of you, there's a big stalk of sweet corn ready to burst out at any moment.  Here, let me move you over a bit so you're sitting in this little pool of water. Maybe that's all you need, more water."  I even think it's cute.  All little and yellow, just hanging out in my shower.  Then I feel like maybe I'm being too hard on it, like now it's disappointed that it can't be all I want it to be and that's stunting it or something. 

IT'S A DAMN PIECE OF POPCORN, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME??  I have made excuses for my laziness by personifying a freaking piece of corn, and that is what you call mental illness, pure and simple.  Or is it?  Maybe I'm just really smart, imaginative, and creative.  I'm going with that one.  

Annnnnd, now that I've told you all about it, I feel that I can't get rid of it because now others are cheering for it as well.  Like if I throw it away, people will be mad at me and they'll gather in a mob outside my house with signs that say "SAVE THE CORN," and "MURDERER."  Maybe the rules should change to "let's see how long the corn can stay in the shower without disintegrating and/or molding over." 

I don't even know how to end this; that's how pathetic I am right now.  If you didn't already think I was a little bit "off" you sure do now.  But that's OK, because whatever happens, I still have my little kernel of hope who greets me every morning.