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

BE LIKE BOB

I like Bob Ross. No, I love Bob Ross. Not only do I watch his program because he's an awesome painter, but I sometimes watch him to fall asleep at night.  I have bouts of insomnia and his voice and the 'tap, tap. tapping' of his brush on the rough canvas are enough to lull a death-row prisoner to sleep. 

I was watching Bob last night, that's what I call him, Bob, and I was thinking how different the world would be if everyone were like him. Even if 50% of the population were like him, we'd all be so much better off.  Even if the other 50% of the population had the personality of the love child of Vladimir Putin and Roseanne Barr. 

Bob's a calm guy; nothing ruffles his feathers.  Someone came into your studio and painted a portrait of Kim Jong-un over your happy trees? Not to worry, we'll paint happier trees over Kim.  We'll paint a happy stream over his huge forehead, and a happy meadow over his bad 90's haircut.  Kim Jong-un won't get us down because we're Bob Ross.  

Imagine all the different scenarios in which having the personality of Bob Ross would come in handy...

You're rear-ended at an intersection. Ask yourself, "What would Bob do?"  Bob would say "That dent adds dimension to the bumper.  I was thinking of painting a panoramic landscape there anyway, and that dent will make the perfect dormant volcano crater."

Your loser roommate drinks all of your booze.  What would Bob do?  "No worries, bro.  I have a fifth of tequila I've been saving for a special occasion, and if running out of beer isn't a special occasion, I don't know what is.  Cheers, bro.  Drink up."

Your neighbor's dog thinks your yard is a giant toilet.  "That poop will fertilize the lawn and help grass and plants to grow.  Plants and flowers bring bees and hummingbirds.  Bees make honey, which is delicious, and hummingbirds, well, they're just so damn cute, aren't they?  Circle of life, man.  Poop is part of it."  

Your favorite sitcom is cancelled.  "Now I can buy it on DVD, watch it anytime I want to, and with no annoying commercials.  There's a director's commentary AND bonus features? Score!"

I want a bumper sticker with a silhouette of Bob and his awesome afro and the text will read "BE LIKE BOB."  That's how much respect I have for him. Is he a little "different?"  Hell yeah, he's different., but awesome people usually are. 

If you think you're a freak, or a nerd, or a geek, so what?  Look at Bob's damn hair; how many white people have the guts to have that hairdo?  Not many.  Bob doesn't care, Bob likes his hair.  Bob made a name for himself doing what he loved and not giving a shit what people thought about his hair, or his happy trees, or anything for that matter.  Bob didn't care if people thought he was a sissy, or gay, or a freak, or weird, or different because Bob was too damn busy doing what he loved to do and having a ball doing it.  

Do what you love, don't worry what other people think, love yourself and love life, and above all, remember; the world would be a better place if we could all just BE LIKE BOB.

Bob Ross, painting a picture.

©2013 Kari Potochnik

*If you want to use my cartoon, don't steal it,  just ask. I'm pretty cool like that.*

God Weighs In On The Gays

God: What's on the schedule for today?

Angel: Well, there's famine, like, everywhere. And violence. And war, hate, bombings, fire ants, blister packaging, and fitted sheets that keep slipping off the corners of mattresses.

God: Wow. I had no idea it was that bad.

Angel: Oh, and the gays.

God: What about them?

Angel: You know, same old same old. Homophobia, gay marriage protests, the whole "special rights" argument, blah, blah, blah. 

God: Seriously? Still?

Angel: Yeah, I know, right?

God: Are they still using Leviticus and Sodom and Gomorrah to back up their claims?

Angel: Yes, unfortunately. We've sent out memos, but people still aren't getting it.

God:  Ugh...look, can we just rent some billboards or something? Put up signs that say "THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT ABOUT THE GAYS" or "YOU'RE READING INTO THIS TOO MUCH."

Angel: We've done billboards. I don't think they're working.

God: Oh...well, what about some sort of divine sign?

Angel: If Elton John isn't enough of a divine sign that you're blessing the gays, I don't know what else is.

God: Ah, yes, Elton. Brilliant. You know he gets his talent from me, right? Oh, and don't forget Ellen. I just love her, isn't she the greatest? Do you watch her show? Hilarious!

Angel: Yeah, I'm a big fan. Listen, we need a solution here.

God: Right, right. Ok, ok, I got it. How about we hold a press conference?  Just Jesus and I and some reporters, nothing fancy. Make sure it airs on FOX, I want to see the looks on their faces. And invite Ann Coulter while you're at it.

Angel: I don't think that's a good idea. Do you really want all that publicity? Phones ringing off the hook up here, thousands of emails, people wanting book signings and photo ops, I don't think it's worth it, truthfully. 

God:  Yeah, you're right. Hey! I've got it! What if we just automatically give all the gays who get to Heaven VIP status? You know they eat that stuff up! They'll love it!

Angel: That's brilliant! Always with the great ideas. Seriously, how do you do it?

God:  I'm God.

Angel:  Right, right.