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.

Tough Mother

As Mother's Day approaches, I think about what it means to be a mother and I also think about my own mother.  My mother was tough...REAL tough.  She didn't put up with crap, and I swear her uterus is a lie detector.  It still works, though not as efficiently as it once did.  

My mother was strict and NEVER went back on a punishment...EVER.  She stuck to her guns, something I'm not so great at doing.  After five minutes of my daughter whining, I'm like "GO!  GO!  Go to the park and get abducted by a creeper...get abducted by ALIENS, just GO!"  Once when I was about eight, I had gotten this awesome pencil.  It had individual leads encased in little plastic nibs.  When the lead ran out, you popped the old lead into the bottom of the pencil and a new, fresh lead popped up.  We were in the car, and I was having a ball poking my five-year-old brother with the fresh, pointy lead.  My mother told me to stop; I didn't.  She reached around and grabbed the pencil in a ninja-like fashion and threw it out the window!  I saw my pencil, in slow motion, fly out into the wilderness on the side of the road.  My brother laughed.  I cried.  But I learned a lesson.  Do that shit where your mom can't see you.

Speaking of riding in the car, my mom had orangutan arms when it came to the "back seat reach-slap." If you have kids, or WERE a kid, you know what I'm talking about.  I swear when she reached back, her arm lengthened by six inches.  There was really no aiming involved, just flailing and slapping.  Didn't matter if you weren't the target, you got whacked anyway.  All you could do was curl up into the corner of the seat, cover your head like you were in a school tornado drill and hope for the best.

I remember once one of my black friends was telling me that she thought white mothers were too soft on their kids.  I told her that if that was the case, then I was definitely part black.  I once heard the Hispanic comedian Paul Rodriquez say that Hispanic moms, when mad, would start rambling in Spanish and would give you one whack for every word they spoke.  My mom doesn't speak Spanish, but she's very familiar with the "whack-a-word" spanking.  

Of course my mom wasn't all about spanking.  She would stick up for us kids with the ferocity of a hungry grizzly bear.  NOBODY messed with her kids.  Once, at a county fair, we were standing in line for a ride on the merry-go-round.  This HUGE guy cut line, not in front of us, but in front of the guy who was before us.  My mother walked right up to that beastly man, grabbed his arm and said, "HEY!  Get in the back of the line, buddy!  We were here first!"  The guy moved.  The guy in front of us turned around and said, "I wasn't going to say anything, but I'm glad you did!"  I thought they were going to have to call the guy who went around with the pooper-scooper because I think pants were shit that day.  My sister says that a line she remembers well from her childhood is "And if ANYONE bothers you, you tell ME and I'll be up at that school so fast..."  

My mom has a lot of cool talents.  She can juggle and is very proud of her skill.  She taught herself, and would practice with oranges.  She once thought she might try to juggle plates, but when a piece of Corelle dinnerware flew out of her hands and hit the wall, she gave up.  Good call, mom.  

She is also the champion of backwards running.  Yeah, you heard me.  If backwards running were an Olympic sport, she'd hold the world record.  I think she actually runs faster backwards than forwards; in fact, I'm sure of it. One talent she failed miserably at was ball-standing.  Again, you heard that correctly.  There was a basketball on the floor in our kitchen once and out of the blue she said, "Hey guys, watch this!"  She proceeded to try to stand on the ball.  She first held her balance using the kitchen table, but when she let go and tried to go it alone, the ball slipped out from under her, she slipped under the table, and bashed her head off of the table leg.  We just stood there, mouths agape, wondering what to do.  She started laugh-crying and said "Don't ever try that..."  Note taken, Mom. Note taken.

My mom was and is very competitive.  She never "let us win."  Ever.  She didn't care if we were crying and pouting, fair was fair.  I'm glad she was like this, because it taught us that 1.) life's not fair, and 2.) to trust no one.  Just kidding!  It taught us to do our best and to never go down without a fight because if your own mother will chew you up and spit you out, imagine what the world will do.

She won't admit to it, but my mom is also pretty creative and inventive.  We always had the best school projects (and the neatest, too).  She would spend hours with us working on projects, making sure every detail was perfect. Once when we came back from a vacation in Florida, she helped me make a display of all of the shells and sea creatures we had collected.  I remember having to put a few crabs into Ziploc bags because they hadn't quite "cured."  

Another time, when I was in kindergarten, she had taken my brother and I on a walk and we came across a dead snake on the side of the road.  "You could take this to school for show-and-tell," she said.  So she put the snake on a long stick and I carried it home.  She put it in a Ziploc bag and I toted it off to school the next day.  My classmates thought it was way cool.  My teacher called the janitor to get rid of it once the class had seen it.  Unbeknownst to my teacher, our school janitor, Mr. Best, was deathly afraid of snakes.  He took one look at the snake all curled up in the bag and took off out of the room, yelling "You'll have to get someone else to get rid of that!"  He found a cafeteria lady willing to do the job and all of the students were SURE that we would be having snake nuggets for lunch that day.

My mother was an authority figure, but she had some pretty cool tricks up her sleeve.  My sister reminded me of how she taught us to make fake wounds with rubber cement, and I remember her showing us how to fold a Land O'Lakes butter box to look like the kneeling woman's knees were her boobs!  I do have to give Dad credit for teaching us about the flammability of methane gas...I'll let you figure that one out for yourself. 

My mom was always ready with a lesson about anything and everything.  She was a voracious reader and knew a little about a lot.  Once, after a three-wheeler ride with my dad, my brother and I came home and asked, "If you're on a motorcycle, but you're actually like, sideways on a hill, what keeps you from falling off the hill??"  We were instructed not to tell Mom about that little trick and we tried to keep our word, but c'mon, we were curious!  Mom filled a bucket half-way with water, took us outside and told us to hold the bucket while we spun in a circle.  As we spun our way to puking, she said, "See?  That's called centrifugal force!"


I find myself saying things to my daughter that are straight out of my mother's mouth.  I've used the "If anyone bothers you" line more than a few times and I'm all about teaching life-lessons.  I'm not as strict as my mom was, but I try to teach my daughter the same lessons that my mom taught me.  My mom always taught us to be kind to others, to steer clear of drama, to do your best work always, to be honest, and to never judge a person before you get to know them.  We grew up in a house where racism, prejudice, and homophobia didn't exist and for that I am thankful. My mother always encouraged us to follow our dreams and  that you have to work hard for what you want.  I am the person I am today because of my mother, and for me that is the greatest Mother's Day gift I could ever receive.  

As for ball-standing, I admit I've tried it.  And as usual, my mother was right. 

My mom, me, and our dog Biscuit, circa 1981. 

©Kari Potochnik 

Life With Father

My dad's birthday is coming up and as I was cutting my grass today I started thinking about him.  He's a pretty awesome dude.  THE MOST awesome dude in my opinion, but I'm biased of course.  The best way to describe him is to say he's like the guys from Duck Dynasty mixed with the guys from Myth Busters with some Nikola Tesla and Teddy Roosevelt thrown in.  He's a local legend and goes by the nickname of Apple but nobody really knows why.  Once when I asked him, he looked embarrassed and made up some bullshit story about an apple tree, but I think he was lying.  

He's a total paradox, first of all.  He's a biker and has a few Harleys in his garage, and he's a BIG dude.  Not fat, but just a huge monster of a man; giant hands, huge biceps and quads.  Put nicely, he could be a bouncer and is not the guy you want to mess with in a bar fight.  But, he's also like a big teddy bear.  He never once laid a hand on me; did a lot of yelling and threatened more than once to "get the belt" but never actually followed through.  Once when I did something I shouldn't have, he tried to spank me.  He wound up to the moon, started the follow through and I closed my eyes and waited...and waited...and waited...and then *bink.*  I almost started laughing but I thought better of it and ran off to my room instead. 

Second, he's a freaking genius.  He's never had his IQ tested, but I'm sure it's at least  in the 150's.  He can build anything, fix anything, invent anything.  Once when I was a kid I asked him to build me a functional space ship.  I remember being totally shocked when he said no.  I was convinced that he was capable and just didn't want to bother with it.  I'm still pretty sure that was the case.  

When I wanted a basketball hoop, he didn't go out and buy one, he freaking built me one.  It was made of steel, and could have survived an atomic bomb.  The support post was probably 12 inches around and the back board was a sheet of steel.  It was out in front of  our house, right near the functional cannon he built out of an old oxy-acetylene tank and some wagon wheels.  Next to the flag pole he made.  On the brick pad that he laid.  In the huge cement driveway that he poured himself.


When working at a power plant, my dad had to attend a class about critical thinking skills.  The class was divided up into groups and each group was given a sheet of paper.  Their instructions were to use the paper to make an object that would fly the farthest.  The other groups got to work, feverishly building all sorts of paper airplanes, but my dad just sat there.  The members of his group, who probably thought they were sure to win since Apple was on their team, began to get nervous.  Finally one of the guys said "Apple, come on.  What are your ideas??"  My dad simply took the paper in his giant hand and crushed it up into a ball!  His team won. He also won a contest at that job for eating the most McDonald's cheeseburgers--23 to be exact.  But that's another story.  


He was the hero of the quarries, where he rode dirt bikes and hill climbed.  He invented a modified swing arm for his bike that basically allowed him to kick ass and take names.  Nobody could beat him.  At the age of about 54 he decided, on a whim, to enter a hill climb competition called Lucifer's Ladder.  He found some sort of dead animal on the road, cut off the tail, hung it on his bike and said it was his good luck charm.  He won in his age division and placed second or third overall if my memory serves me correctly.  "Not bad for an old man," he said.

When I was about 15, I had a boyfriend who told me, "You know, when I first met you I didn't know who your dad was.  Then someone told me you were Apple's daughter and boy was I scared."  I always laugh when someone tells me what a bad-ass they think my dad is, because I've seen him play with kittens and go nuts over babies.

He's generous to a fault.  He often asks, "You need money?  Dad'll bring you some money."  He talks to us kids in the third person; we don't know why and we don't care (especially if there's money involved).  He can refer to himself as King George if he wants to.  A few years ago, I mentioned to him that I'd like a rat bike, some old Harley that I didn't have to worry about  laying down or wrecking.  A few weeks later, he called me up: "Hey, Dad bought you a bike.  It's a Sportster, real nice, gray and cream with some red on it.  It's 1000cc, but the guy souped it up, too much horsepower for you.  We'll get you a practice bike first."  Needless to say, I'm scared to death to get on that bike, so my brother rides it instead.

Some years back, he was on his way home from work late at night and saw a young girl walking down the road, laden with luggage.  He pulled over to see if she needed help.  Turns out, she had come from New York on a bus to meet a "boyfriend" she had met online.  The "boyfriend" never showed up at the bus station to pick her up.  She had no money, and nowhere to go.  My dad took her to his house, and set her up in my sister's room.  The next day, he drove her to the bus station, bought her a ticket home and gave her money for food.  He told her, "You get home, your family is worried about you."  Thank God it was my dad who came upon her and not someone else.

My dad is the hardest worker I know; he'll run circles around you and then get up the next day and do it again.  Once when he worked for a power plant, a coal conveyor broke down.  The plant called in all sorts of professionals and engineers to fix it, but they were stumped.  Somebody thought to call Apple; bing-bang-boom-FIXED, just like that.  He's the only person in the history of that plant to have worked a triple shift.  He worked doubles all the time; we weren't rich but we never wanted for anything and we took a vacation every year without fail.

When I was a kid, I thought my dad was mean; he doesn't talk, he yells.  It took me many years to realize he was yelling because his hearing was going.  All those years of riding loud motorcycles and working in loud environments had done a number on his ears.  My brother Aric and I joke that when we were younger, and Dad would yell for us, he'd just yell "AAAAARRRRRI...."  We could never tell who he was yelling for so we'd both go running!  I was afraid of him, or so I thought.  I realize now that it was respect I had for him...and also a little fear.  His bark was and is worse than his bite.

As I write this, I think of more and more things that I could include but that would turn this into a novel.  As an adult, I try to tell my dad often how great I think he is and that he's the best dad anyone could ever wish for. 

But there is one thing I will never tell my dad...two years ago I was in his garage using his air compressor.  He was at work, so it was just my friend and I.  One of his motorcycles was sitting on the hose for the air compressor, so I had to move the bike. It was one of his bigger bikes, but all I was doing was backing it up a bit to release the hose from under the tire.  I straddled the seat and stood the bike up. leaving the kickstand down.  I backed the bike up very carefully and proceeded to let it down gently onto its kickstand.  The bike slowly went down...and down...and down, down, DOWN.  The kickstand had slipped!  The bike was on top of me, I was on top of a giant metal cement float and my friend was yelling "Oh my GOD!  Are you OK??"  I yelled back "Who cares if I'm OK, we have to check the bike!!" 32 years old and still a bit (OK, at that moment a lot) afraid of my dad. We managed to get the bike up and to my relief there wasn't a scratch on it.  I, however, had a GIANT bruise on my thigh from the metal cement float.  

I was shaking with fear and immediately called my sister.  "Katlin, I dumped Dad's bike!"  She was just as afraid as I was and her first words were, "Did you tell Dad??"  "Hell no I didn't tell dad," I said. "Are you NUTS??  I'm not EVER going to tell him.  I'll save the story for his eulogy." 

And that's just what I'm going to do.

My first day of first grade.  

Dad took a break from pouring cement to get me on the bus.

©Kari Potochnik

License To Drive

I was driving to work the other day and at a stop sign noticed the shiny silver nameplate on the back of the vehicle in front of me.  It was a Chevy Trail Blazer, brand new, and it got me thinking about car names.  I figured that the car in front of me cost somewhere in the range of $25,000 TO $35,000 and I thought to myself “At that price, I doubt if the owner is doing any actual “trail blazing” in his new SUV.  More likely he’s doing a lot of “driving to work” and “picking up groceries” and “shuttling kids around.”  So why do car companies give their cars such exquisite, flashy names?  Think about it;  that’s someone’s job.  To name cars.  What a job to have!  And whoever has this job is doing a remarkable job at marketing their company’s cars.  The Impala.  OOOOH!  Fast and sure-footed.  The Monte Carlo.  Rich and carefree.  The Mustang.  Muscular, graceful and fast as hell.  But how about some cars named for the reality of life, meaning, cars for the world we really live in.  And how about keeping women in mind when naming cars.  After all, women drivers make up at least 50% of those on the roads today, and it seems that they take a back seat when it comes to car-naming, no pun intended.  So here are some car names that I came up with that truly show what kinds of people are on our roads these days. The Saturn Menstruator:   A sporty little two seater that comes in just one color; Red Anger.  It’s a two-seater because face it ladies, at this time of the month it’s dangerous to be around others.  No car seats in this car!  The great folks at Saturn realize how important it is to not let road rage get the best of you at this time of the month so the Menstruator is pre-programmed to never go over 65 mph. A handsome burlwood tissue dispenser adorns the dash for when you uncontrollably burst into tears after seeing a dead chipmunk alongside the road.  Priced nicely at $20,000 it will have great re-sale value since you’ll only be driving it one week out of every month for the rest of your damn life. The Mercury Menopause:  For the “mature” lady driver, this car comes in both the “BRT” class and the “BTH” class, “BRT” of course standing for “Breezin‘ Right Through” and “BTH” for “Beat to Hell,” depending on how menopause is treating you.  The inside temperature of the Menopause never reaches any higher than 60 degrees Fahrenheit so say goodbye to those pesky hot flashes!  And forget about dreary weather messing up your heavily sprayed, overly teased hair because Mercury will throw in a lifetime supply of disposable plastic rain bonnets to keep you looking good for as long as you own the car! So all of the men out there don’t feel left out, let’s take a look at the Ford Castrator. A built in GPS system means you’ll never spend another moment arguing over whether or not to stop and ask for directions.  And boys, don’t even think about stopping at the bar on the way home from work;  the GPS system also acts like a tracking device-- by simply logging onto the Castrator website, your wife will be able to pinpoint the exact location of the vehicle 24 hours a day.  Special running boards on the passenger side are a full four inches lower than industry standard, meaning your wife or girlfriend will have no problem hopping up into the cab.  Just think fellows, you‘ll never have to hear her say “I don’t know why you have to have a truck anyway…” again! We all know why car companies name their cars the way they do; it’s all about sales.  Besides, our cars allow us to choose how the world sees us, and they allow us to show another side of ourselves.  A farmer can drive an Cadillac, a ballerina can drive a pick-up, and a construction worker can drive a BMW.  I guess it just saddens me that I’ll never be the proud owner of a Toyota Octopus or a Honda Chimpanzee, but a girl can still dream, right? Image Source http://shaniacooper.weebly.com/crazy-exotic-cars.html

Parenting Advice From A Novice

When I was expecting my daughter, I read every book about parenting I could get my hands on.  I had dreams of the kind of mother I'd be, the things my child and I would do together, the things I would teach her, the way I would discipline her and so on.  I prepared myself as much as I could, even imagining what the pain of labor would be like and hypothesizing how I would deal with it.  I felt that I had prepared myself FAR more than most parents do, and I was not naive to the fact that there would be things I hadn't expected.  I was READY.

I was NOT ready.  I'm STILL not ready.  Parenthood is HARD!  

My daughter had colic.  BAD colic.  I drove around at 3am, day after day, just to calm her.  I used to drive past dark houses and think "Those people are sleeping.  I wish I was sleeping..."  When I would put her down for a nap, she wasn't satisfied just being gently patted on the back.  I had to practically BEAT her on the back.  If she was in her swing, she wasn't satisfied just swinging, I had to sit behind the swing and give it a hard "WHACK" every time it swung backwards.  My right bicep could have entered a strong man competition.  

When my daughter was four months old, I ended up in the hospital with a blood clot in my lung and a stroke.  Talk about unprepared!  I was in a wheelchair for the better part of a year and if it hadn't been for my now ex-mother-in-law taking care of both of us, we never would have made it.  I was completely helpless for months to the point that I couldn't even hold her safely by myself due to seizures.  I used to think about things like not being able to run through a field and fly a kite with her, or not being able to coach her baseball team.  I had no idea if I would ever be able to walk normally again, but I was determined to hang in there and make the best of things no matter what.

Now that my daughter is ten, I'm happy to say I'm wheelchair-free and I can do all the things I'd dreamed about doing with her.  Easy-peasy, right?  Hell no.  Parenting is STILL hard.  There are days when I think I can feel gray hairs sprouting.  Nobody tells you this.  Mothers who are afraid of sounding cruel will make up phrases like "Children are a gift and a blessing," and "I just loved being pregnant," and "Someday you'll wish you still had those dirty little hands to wash."  Children are definitely blessings, but they're also little hellions sometimes.  Loved being pregnant?  Which part?  The nine months of vomiting, or the part where you swell up like a balloon and can hardly fit into a public restroom stall?  You'll stop worrying about dirty little hands and you'll say things like "Germs are good for us; they strengthen our immune systems. Right?"  

My point here is that there's no rule book for parenting, as all parents know.  Sure, there are parenting books, all good in theory.  It's when you step into reality and try to put those theories into practice that all hell breaks loose.

The other day my daughter and her best friend were wrestling on my bed.  I waited about ten minutes before I said anything.  

What I said:  Hey!  That's enough wrestling, guys.

What they heard:  Hey!  Wrestling is awesome and fun!  There's no better place to wrestle than in a parent's bedroom.  Don't worry about breaking stuff, guys.  It's all good!

I honestly think I told them five times to settle down.

What finally worked:  Are you guys lesbians or what??

No parenting book will tell you to play the gay card.  Ten years later and I'm still learning.  It's a process.

Once, when my daughter had a friend spend the night, they wanted to take a shower.  I was hesitant to let them shower together, but I figured "They're girls.  What's the worst that could happen?"  Three minutes into the shower, I heard a loud "THUD."  Someone had fallen down.  I rushed to the bathroom, shouting "What happened?! Are you guys OK??"  Giggling erupted.  "We're fine!"  Five minutes later, another loud "THUD."  This time I yelled "HEY!  Settle down!  Someone's going to get hurt!"  Less than two minutes later, another loud "THUD."  "I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL SHIP YOU BOTH TO AN ORPHANAGE IN THE UKRAINE IF YOU DON'T SETTLE DOWN!"  No parenting book will even mention the orphanage card.  I also know for a fact that I'm not the only parent who has ever played the orphanage card, either.  After the shower was over, I went into the bathroom to clean up.  I didn't know where to start; there was water on the walls, wet towels everywhere, a washcloth stopping up the drain in the tub, a rubber duck on the toilet, and I think I saw a dust bunny in a rowboat paddling out the door. 

I don't know how people with more than one child do it.  Two kids, maybe I could handle. Three or more?  I'd rather gnaw myself out of a bear trap.  I honestly don't know how they do it.  More power to them, I say.  I just personally can't even begin to imagine the fatigue, the homework, the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning up.  I'm practically breaking out in hives just thinking  about it.  

My daughter really is a gem; she has great manners, she makes excellent grades in school, she has a wide circle of friends, takes care of her belongings, has an awesome sense of humor, and is generally pleasant.  But parenting her is STILL hard.  I constantly wonder if I'm doing the right thing, if I'm raising her right, if I'm teaching her in a way that will grow her into a responsible and productive member of society.  I've seen great parents turn out awful adults and I've seen amazing adults come from crappy parents.  I've come to the conclusion that you do the best that you can and when they turn 18, you turn them loose and hold your breath.  

Don't believe everything you read in those parenting books; in fact, don't even read those parenting books.  Talk to other parents first, talk to your parents (unless they're crappy parents, then talk to your grandparents and ask them what the hell they did wrong, then DON'T do those things.)  Teach your kids the golden rule, to treat others how they'd like to be treated.  Remember that kids are just that; kids.  They're learning just like we are and they have bad days too, so cut them a break once in awhile.  There doesn't need to be a lesson in everything.  Let them get away with being mouthy once in awhile; it'll teach them how to stand up for themselves.  Let them make mistakes, but don't always be ready with an "I told you so."  Tell them that you love them as much as you can, no matter how old they are.  Teach them to be a team player within your family but don't be a crappy coach.  You are the biggest influence on your kids, and trust me you don't want them playing the Vidal Sassoon card; because if they don't look good, you don't look good!

The Bra Wasn't Invented By Satan

I recently got to wondering who the hell ever thought a bra was a good idea. Bras are uncomfortable, constricting and miserable, and I don't want to hear that I'm wearing the wrong size bra, or that I just haven't found the right one yet. I've been measured, and besides, choosing a bra should not be like choosing a life-mate.  It shouldn't be that complicated.  

After doing a little research, I found that the inventor of the bra was a socialite named Mary Phelps Jacob, which surprised me because I thought that surely I'd find out that The Prince of Darkness (aka Satan, The Morning Star, Lucifer, The Devil) was responsible.  It seems that Mary bought an evening gown but her corset showed through the gown and was visible because of the gown's plunging neckline. Mary was a pretty smart cookie, so she fashioned the very first bra from two silk  handkerchiefs and some ribbon.  Let me say that again; SHE MADE A BRA OUT OF TWO SILK HANDKERCHIEFS AND SOME RIBBON.  She did not use lace, wires, metal, hooks, push-up pads, fiberglass insulation or nylon thread.  Mary then patented her invention and thus the first bra was born.  I should mention here that Mary was the one to name the bra; prior to her invention there were other prototypes for bras, but Mary was the one to give her invention a name 

So what went wrong? How did we get from two feather-light silk hankies to the Iron Maidenform? I'll tell you how; Mary soon tired of being a business woman, so she sold her patent. To men. Her patent was purchased by the Warner Brothers Corset Company (no relation to the Warner Brothers of the movies), and from that moment on, all hell broke loose with the bra.  

I'd like to imagine what that first meeting at the Warner Brothers Corset Company must have been like.  Now, this meeting would have taken place sometime in the late teens, early '20's so there probably weren't any women present.  But for the sake of humor, let's pretend that there were a few women in the room, OK?

Woman:  Support is probably the main thing.  A bra should be supportive, that's the purpose of it.
Man:  Yeah!  Support!  We could use wood!  Or bone!
Woman:  Well, bone's been done in corsets.  We're kind of trying to get away from that.  And wood...well, wood's kind of like bone, very stiff and uncomfortable.
Man:  LET'S USE METAL! WIRES MADE OF METAL!
All Men:  HURRAH!

Woman:  What about material?  Silk is nice, very soft and comfortable.
Man:  Silk is OK, but what about lace?  Lace is HOT.  
Woman:  Lace is scratchy, I don't know if that's a good choice.
Man:  Again, lace is HOT.  I vote for lace.  Who's in favor?
All Men:  AYE!  HURRAH!

Woman:  OK, now for the closures.  Silk ribbon is nice, but I think there's a danger of it coming untied.
Man:  Who cares if it comes untied?  I say all the better!
Woman:  Yes, but we're marketing this to WOMEN.  They need to feel that their bust is secure and not going to tumble out at some inopportune moment.  Ribbon is no good.  
Man:  Fish hooks?  You know, that would dig into the skin to keep the bra secure.
Woman:  Fish hooks?  No.
Man:  Wait a minute, I think he's on to something with the hooks.  Maybe a hook and eye closure.  HOOKS MADE OF METAL!
All Men:  HURRAH!

Woman:  Alright gentlemen, I've gone along with everything so far, but let's see you come up with a solution to this one.  I've been hearing from some of my more well-endowed friends that coverage is a problem.  I think the solution here is just to use more fabric in order to assure complete coverage.
Man:  Have you lost your mind, woman??  MORE coverage?  I vote we push those babies UP, so that they're almost falling OUT.  Press them together for that butt-crack look, I like that.  It's like a butt on the chest; what could be better?  Of course, I'm looking at this from the perspective of a butt man.  Maybe the leg men and boob men have a different opinion on this?
All Men:  MORE BUTT!  HURRAH! 

Woman:  For heaven's sake!  This is ridiculous!  Metal and lace and hooks.  I'd like to see one of you wear this proposed bra for even an HOUR.  In fact, the more I think about it, you men have far more reason to "herd up your junk" than women do.  All that business down there getting in the way of walking, sitting, leg-crossing.  I propose we start talks about a crotch-bra for men immediately!
Man:  Good grief, McCaughey just fainted!  Someone get him a whiskey, quickly!
All Men:  BURN THE WITCH!

And there you have it, folks.  The conception of women's misery, and men's wildest dreams come true.  In defense of men everywhere, I did find a lot of information about women who designed and modified bras, morphing them into what they are today.  I have come to the conclusion that those women were witches, or at the very least masochists, or perhaps even sadists.  

So when you find that perfect bra, you can thank Mary Phelps Jacob.  And the next time you come home and rip your bra from your body, cursing and spitting all the while, you can blame the Warner Brothers. 

Image source

www.bustnlace.com