Fa La La La La, Rubik's Touch Sucks!

I like technology as much as the next girl. I can't imagine a world without my iphone or my DVR, and if you'd asked me a few months ago, I would have included my Roomba in that list, but now she's yelling at me, refusing to clean, and I am fairly certain she has been having "relations" with Tiger, so we are on the outs. Anyway, my point is...technology is good, and often makes our lives much easier. BUT sometimes technology is completely irritating and unnecessary, and the other day I saw a commercial for the item that most fits this description: The Rubik's Touch Cube.

Thursday morning when I first saw the commercial for this toy, I nearly choked on my Raisin Bran. It is a block the size of the classic cube, but with touch screens that you swipe your finger across in order to emulate a "twist". It even plays a recording of the classic cube's "twist" sound to give you that "nostalgic experience". Was it really that hard to twist the original cube? I have a pretty good memory, and I definitely don't recall ever injuring myself in a Rubik's Cube twisting incident. Is anyone actually willing to pay $130.00 extra to get a cube that they don't have to twist? If you are, I would like to meet you, at which time I would fully expect to see you either sporting a wrist cast or living life completely handless, due to a freak Benihana accident.

This stupid toy got me thinking about all of the toys I loved as a child, even though most of them didn't even take batteries, let alone have "touch technology". Here is a list of a few of my favorites:

Easy Bake Oven (Holly Hobby Version). Ok, so this one takes electricity and the amazing baking power of a 60 watt light bulb, but it was still a pretty basic toy, that awesomely took only 5 hours to cook a cake the size of a coaster. My desire for this toy resulted in lots of prayers and ultimatums to God. After He failed to follow my very specific instructions for delivering this gift to me, I told Him off big time, and bought myself one at a garage sale.

Perfection. This is the game where you wound up the timer, hit "start", and tried to get all of the shapes into their respective holes before time was up and all of the pieces popped out loudly enough to give a child a massive heart attack. I loved this game. I got this for Christmas when I was 7-years-old. Unfortunately, when I unwrapped it on Christmas morning it was broken and my dad had to take it in for a replacement a few days later. What my parents don't know is that the reason it was broken is because I spent the 2 weeks before Christmas unwrapping it and playing with it when nobody was home, then re-wrapping it afterward, accidentally breaking it a few days before Christmas. I also spent many hours in front of the mirror practicing my "surprised face" for when I opened all of the gifts I had not only already opened, but already played with.

Tape Recorder. When I was about 8-years-old I got my very own tape recorder. I used this for various activities, including the following: Recording my dad while he napped so that I could prove to him that yes, he actually did snore; Recording episodes of "Laverne and Shirley" so that I could replay them over and over until I memorized every word of dialogue, at which point I could re-enact a full episode for my very patient family; Pressing "record" and hiding it in my parents room when they were arguing so that I could play it back later and hear what they were arguing about; Recording phone conversations between the old ladies on our party line (remember those?) so that I could play them back over the phone the next time that they were talking, causing much confusion in their old lady heads; Recording farts and sometimes making an entire show called "Mr. and Mrs. Fart", because we were 8-years-old and that's just funny.

Hula Hoop. I spent many, many hours practicing my hoop moves. Arm hooping, leg hooping, neck hooping, and multiple hoop hooping. I was amazing. After not hooping for at least 25 years, I participated in a Hula Hoop contest last summer with the daughter of a childhood friend. Although I didn't win, I did clock in at 45 minutes, and since I fully expected to barely make it to 5, I was quite pleased that I still had some mad hooping moves, although truth be told I would have given big money to beat the trash talking 8-year-old who had spent months emailing me videos in which she sasses me while hula hooping.

Cork board and string. Yep, you heard right. Cork board, string, push pins and paper. I had a cork board over the desk in my playroom, and I turned it into an old fashioned switchboard like Mrs. Olson had in Nellie's Restaurant when Walnut Grove finally got a telephone system. I used to spend hours talking into an empty salt shaker while connecting calls all over town.

Fashion Plates. Remember these? You put together an outfit made up of small plates, then did a crayon rubbing on paper to miraculously transfer the picture to paper so you could color it with the colored pencils (included!), thereby making the most amazing outfit ever. If my mom had not sold this at the yard sale of '82 I may have been the next Vera Wang. Thanks, mom.

Shrinky Dinks. Come on, who didn't LOVE Shrinky Dinks? In my opinion, this was one of the best toys ever. Color a piece of plastic, bake it, voila...you have a necklace and earrings! No other toy gave you "permission" to use the oven, your mom's cookie sheets, etc... I mean, what could possibly go wrong with that? Whoever invented this toy was a genius.

Yarn and Crystal Gayle Albums. Specifically the "Don't it make My Brown Eyes Blue" album. I painstakingly fashioned a floor length wig from yarn, put on my album, grabbed my tin foil microphone and sang my little heart out for hours.

Play Doh Ice Cream Truck. The best Play Doh item EVER. I made soft serve, push pops, sundaes and fudge pops, and drove all over my playroom to my various Barbie Towns so that they could buy some cold, frosty treats. Don't tell my mom, but I often ate the "treats", or at the very least licked them until I got sick. So salty. So good.

Flower and Junk Wagon. We used to load our wagon up with dandelions, rocks, and other glorious items, and go door to door to sell them. I was very persuasive, and often came back with plenty of coin.

Barbie Dolls and Barbie Styling Head. When I was little, Barbies didn't come with all of the stuff they come with now. All you got was a Barbie and a few outfits. I used to make extra outfits out of paper towels and markers, and since I didn't have all of the dream houses and stuff, I made houses out of shoe boxes. I like to add some excitement by having tornadoes and other natural disasters hit their shoebox neighborhoods. One time I tore Barbie's arm off and drew bruises all over her with a black sharpie to make her twister-related injuries seem more realistic. As for my Barbie Styling Head...she suffered severe facial burns after a perm gone wrong, and that's all I wanna say about that.

So there's my crotchity old lady moment for 2009...my tribute to when life was much simpler and we had to walk to school every day, uphill both ways.

*Please list your favorite childhood toy in the "comment" section. If you're getting this post via email, you need to click on the post title (Fa la la la la Rubiks Touch Sucks) and it will take you to the actual blog site, where you will find a comment section at the end of this entry. Because of some glitch I can't seem to figure out, you must enter your comment under "anonymous" and then enter your name in the body of the message if you want. Whew! I'm exhausted.

ABOUT ME

25 Things You Don't Know About Me
Yeah, that's a lot of things. But they are fascinating as all get out.
Or not.

1) I know that ghosts are real. And no. I don't have any "proof" to show you. But nobody has any proof to show me that they aren't real, either. And when there's no clear winner, the unclear winner is always me. Ghosts are real. Deal with it. 

2) The three things I am most scared of are Mountain Men (the kidnappery backwoods kind), Leather S & M Masks (the Pulp Fiction Gimp kind), and mother-freakin' spiders (See Spiderpocalypse blogs 1, 2, and 3).

3) I always laugh at the most inappropriate times. Always. So if you've just found out that you have a rare disease or your dog died, prepare thyself for unwelcome laughter, and know that I mean no harm.

4) I talk to myself more than any person should. I often sing about what I'm doing, like I'm in a musical or something. Even doing the laundry becomes West Side Story with socks vs. unders.

5) In High School I skipped class ALOT. Our art room had a back door that opened to the outside, and sometimes after roll was called, I would slip right out that door when my teacher's back was turned. I usually ended up at the river drinking beer or at the park feeding ducks. P.S. I love ducks but they can go from awesome to asshole in .03 seconds. Just like me. 

6) Seeing or hearing John Denver makes me go into convulsions and throw up in my mouth a little.

7) I sleep with my left heel between my right big and 2nd toe. OR, I put The Hub's heel there, or a blanket. I have to have something there. Once in middle school, I was spending the night with my friend Crystal, who woke me up freaking out because I had toe-jacked her heel in my sleep.

8) Socks annoy the shit outta me and turtlenecks are the Devil's knitwear.

9) I once made Harold Ramis laugh hard enough to choke on his drink a little. It was a proud moment for me, so you'd think I would remember what I said. I don't. But I know it involved a bit of dancing on my part.

10) I have crushes on David Letterman, Matt Lauer, Louis C.K., and Norman Reedus.

11) I wrote a poem for Ellen that contained the words "pee" and "poop" and somehow that won me a trip to go to L.A. for the Primetime Emmy's, a taping of her show. I even walked the red carpet and was even seen in the background on E! Live From The Red Carpet, dramatically fanning my arm pits because it was hotter than balls outside. Oh, what a lovely 15 minutes of fame. 

12) When I was little my parents told me that boogers were eggs and that birds hatched out of them. I used to save all of my tissues and try to incubate them under my desk lamp. They got hard and crusty, but no birds ever came out. My parents really knew how to be total a-holes.

13) I never went to a prom because I thought they were lame and I wouldn't have been caught dead in a dress of any kind let alone a big, poofy, satin dress. My dad really wanted me to go one year and he gave me some prom money. I still didn't go to the prom, but I did treat my friends to beer and pizza.

14) I am a Canie Magnet. I am not proud of this, but it is a fact nonetheless. I cannot go within a mile of a carnival for fear of being mobbed by carnie men. It started in about the 8th grade (creepy, right?) and it holds true to this day.

15) In 7th grade I got rebellious and climbed out my window to meet a friend in the alley to smoke a cigarette. When I went back home I realized that if one plans on jumping out of a high window, then one should think ahead to how the frick they are gonna get back in. 

16) I have met Oprah. I invited her out dancing and she didn't come, but she said my shoes were cute. They really weren't very cute at all. Oprah is a liar. 

17) When I was little I was sure of two things: #1-I was going to marry sweet, cute Ricky Schroeder, but carry on an illicit affair with his naughty friend Derek Taylor (Jason Bateman), and #2- I was going to be discovered --probably at the mall -- and asked to play Annie in a re-make of the movie that would make everyone hate the other version. So whenever we went to a crowded place I would quietly sing Annie songs while wandering around, just in case any talent scouts happened to be within earshot.

18) I believe in past lives and ever since I was a kid I have had memories of being a black man who died in a scuba diving accident. I often freak out when water is on my face, and I'm pretty sure that's why. 

19) When I was 7 I spent ever waking moment for about a month, in my playroom, wearing a long wig that I made out of yarn, singing along to every song on my Crystal Gayle album. 

20) Squirrels are assholes and they are plotting to kill me. Ask them. They won't deny it. Squirrels may be assholes, but they are honest assholes.

21) When I was little I cut a window flap in a giant box and sat in it to watch tv. If my family started to annoy me, it was time to close the flap. I closed the flap alot.

22) I went to a really weird Christian school until 6th grade and it scarred me for life. They wouldn't allow us to go see E.T. but my dad took us anyway. That is where I got my rebellious streak.

23) Drag Queens make me giddy. The Drag Bar is my Happy Place.

24) I hate crows. A few years ago I was attacked by one at the zoo. He kept dive-bombing my head and eventually landed on it, gripped my scalp with his nasty feet, and started pecking me. It was just like that movie but it wasn't in black and white and there was more blood.

25) I once woke up with someone elses clothes on...and they were ugly clothes...and I was soaking wet from head to toe. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

If you need more background on me, CLICK HERE. You won't regret it.

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Silence Of The Snowman

So, as you learned in my last blog entry, on Friday, The Boy and The Hub built an awesome tropical snowman made from palm fronds, fruit, aloe vera, and various other warm weather things. Later that evening, The Boy decided to name him "Snowy." On Saturday morning, I looked out the window and saw him talking to Snowy. It was a pretty long and intense conversation with lots of hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions on The Boy's part, but I didn't really see Snowy contributing much, so I assumed that maybe Snowy is just the quiet type, and not a loud, dancing, big mouth snowman like the one in those xmas cartoons.

Did it bother me to see my 8-year-old boy in an extremely animated and intensely deep conversation with a snowman? Umm...of freakin' course not! Do you not know me AT ALL? As a matter of fact, I was unbelievably proud that he can carry on a one-sided conversation almost as well as I can. Honestly, I could talk to a can of soup for eons longer than most people can talk to an actual living breathing person. Not that I've actually done that or anything. But sometimes when The Hub comes home after a long week at the office, his vital signs are almost indistinguishable to that of a can of Campbell's Chunky Minestrone.

So anyway, The Boy is outside having a chat with Snowy, and after awhile he started hugging him, which I thought was totally adorable. I mean, come on! My sweet, Texas-raised child was so thrilled and excited about his first Houston snowfall and so in love with his first Texan Snowman, that he was outside hugging him! So I smiled, wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, had a sip of hot cocoa, and stood at the window thinking about how lucky I was to have such a sweet, innocent child. But soon I noticed that The Boy's "hug" began to look slightly violent, so I leaned closer to the window, wiped off the steamy glass, and squinted to get a better look. Upon closer inspection I realized that Ethan wasn't "hugging" Snowy insomuch as he was holding him in a frosty death grip as he ate part of his abdomen.

Was this how Hannibal Lecter got started? I read all of those books, and saw all of the movies, and that dude was into eating some nasty stuff, you guys. I do remember that the last book was all about Lecter's childhood. It's been a long-ass time since I read it, but I seem to recall that is was pretty freakin' snowy where he lived. Oh. My. Balls. You guys. When I was drinking some bedtimey wine the other night, The Boy asked if he could have some. Of course I laughed and thought he was just kidding around cuz he's silly like that. But ya know what kinda wine I was drinking? It was a freakin' Chianti, people. A freakin' Chinati!

I'm kinda messed up in the head right now.

By Monday morning, between the weather and all the "hugging" of Mr. Snowy, this is what remained:

I conducted a very professional, long, and exhaustingly labor-intensive CSI-ish inspection that included walking outside and saying "Well, it looks like the snowman melted," and taking this picture.  And my professional findings show that all the evidence seems to show that Snowy died of natural causes, i.e. weather related melt-ation. Luckily, bite marks in snow and ice disappear when it turns to liquid. Whew! But just to be on the safe side, I think I'm gonna take Snowy's aloe vera tongue and hide it someplace safe. Ya know, just in case the Police come poking around. For all I know, snowmen may be kinda zombie-ish in that even when they are just separated parts, those parts may still work, and the last thing I need is Snowy's tongue telling tales. 

Snow Blows

Well folks, it's finally happened. Hell has frozen over. Okay, so maybe Texas isn't technically "Hell", but if you came to visit me in August and got to experience the pleasure of stepping outside and immediately trying to dodge a flying cockroach and a giant red ant mound, while simultaneously having your make-up melt off and your hair frizz up like Bozo The Clown, you might think so. Anyway, it is snowing here in Houston today, which causes native Texans to go a little crazy. Steve got to come home from work early to avoid "the severe weather" which in Texan means a light dusting of slushy, wet snow. Some parents were even picking their kids up from school early so they could experience "the joy and wonder on their faces." Let me tell you something: If the school doors are unlocked and Ethan isn't projectile vomiting, he's going to school and he's staying at school. After growing up in Missouri, then living in Chicago, I am used to the snow. Actually, while living in Chicago, when we had a sunny, snowless day, people would pick their kids up early to experience the joy and wonder on their faces. As much as it is hot and miserable here in Texas, it was that cold and snowy in Chicago. But at least there we had Oprah and Chicago style pizza.

I must admit, though, that I have enjoyed the snow today. The way I enjoy snow is by snuggling up on the sofa in my yoga pants and fuzzy socks and watching it out the window while I watch Top Chef and Real Housewives of Orange County. I want absolutely no contact with the snow. I do not like to be cold, or wet, so winter activities are really not ideal for me. Of course, when I was little, I liked it just as much as everyone else. We used to build forts and attack each other with snowballs, form "sled pyramids" and slide down my neighbor's hill, and make lots of snowmen and snow angels. One year we even made "snow bunnies" and had the ingenious idea to spray paint them with food coloring. Unfortunately we made a bad choice and picked yellow. We could have gotten the same effect by peeing on them, but we were still proud.

I absolutely loved the snow until sometime in my teens. Actually, I can be much more precise with the date: It was December 1988. It was a cold and windy Saturday. The news said there was "a chance of snow", and you could kind of smell it in the air, but being that I was 17 and I had important Saturday night things to do, I ignored the warning signs. My best friend Crystal and I decided it was as good a night as any to pull the old "I'm spending the night with Crystal, I'm spending the night with Patti" trick. Our friend Dennis informed us that his parents were out of town, so we decided that we would spend the night at his house, as would our boyfriend's. Now, I have to pause here to tell you the first bit of proof as to how stupid I was: My dad was a very popular teacher/coach at my High School, and EVERYONE in town knew his SUV. Which I was driving that night. Which I parked in Dennis' driveway all night. Which was directly across the street from the house of my 2 step-brother's and their dad. Who obviously knew my dad. But I had important partying to do, and that never crossed my one-track mind, or to be more specific, my two-track mind: track one being boys, and track two being beer.

So anyway, our plan was pure magic. We had an awesome night with our friends, and even got in a few hours of beauty sleep. The next morning we woke up, stretched, smiled, and felt ultra-satisfied with ourselves and how amazingly sneaky we were. Until we looked out the window. Unfortunately, we woke up to about a foot of snow and ice. We knew that this would pose a small problem, since neither of us were particularly good at driving in slippery conditions, but what could we do? We had to get to Crystal's house early, to keep our story on track. My boyfriend backed the truck out of the driveway for us, because we couldn't even manage that. Once it was in the street, I took over at the wheel. Unfortunately, I only made it two houses down, at which point I slid and ended up deep into the front yard of a High School football player, whose parents were less than thrilled. So basically, I had to make an unpleasant phone call to my dad so he could come and pull his truck out of the yard of one of his student's, and the jig was up. That is why I hate snow.

Still, my son seems to love it, and he was very excited when he got off of the bus today. I actually witnessed that "joy and wonder" on his sweet little face. He immediately started playing in it, and he and Steve even made a snowman. Although, for a short time my son was having fun, I soon realized I had another reason to hate snow: It turns my son into a huge whine bucket. Every 5 minutes he opened the door to whine about how cold and wet he was, and when he came in he whined until I peeled all of his clothes off and made him a warm bath. Now he's whining just because he's on a roll and can't stop, I guess. So I realize now, more than ever, that snow is bad. Snow has it in for me. Snow wants nothing more than to make me unhappy, whether it be by getting me grounded or giving me a whine-induced headache. So snow, we are not friends. You ruined that relationship back in '88 and it can never be repaired. We had a good thing going up until then, but it's over. I choose my summer's and my Houston heat, my ants, alligator's and flying roaches. Summer may be hot, but summer never got me stuck in someone's yard wearing last night's clothes. Well, except that one time in '89...

Happy Holidays! (I'll try to keep my pants on)

It's officially that time of year we like to call "The Holidays". How do I know that? Because there is a chill in the air? Because there are giant inflatable Snowmen and Santa's in everyone's yard? Because every time I turn on the radio they are shoving that annoying and stupid Paul McCartney song about "simply having a wonderful Christmas time" down my throat (barf)? No, no, and no. The reason I know that "The Holidays" are here is because I can't button my pants.

Every year about this time, my body goes into some sort of fat-storage mode for the winter. Either I am distantly related to a bear, or my body is under the impression that I still live in Chicago and I need extra fat to survive. I do have some not-so-distant relatives who were Kentucky mountain people, so I guess the bear thing is a possibility, but because of the stigma of being the product of a woodland creature/human love affair, I'm gonna choose to go with the Chicago explanation. I have tried countless times to explain to my thighs that Houston's idea of winter is the same as a Chicago Spring, but my fat cells just aren't listening, and are hoarding every calorie like I'm some kind of Igloo dwelling Eskimo lady.

As I'm sure you all know, "The Holidays" started on October 31st, when our children went running around in the dark, dressed like cheerleader's and ninja's, knocking on the doors of strangers, and taking their candy (Nevermind that the other 364 days of the year we would go ape shit on them if they took candy from a stranger). At the end of the night, they came home with anywhere from 3-20 lbs of candy that, as all mommies know, is mainly going to be eaten by us when we are having PMS or watching a late night showing of "The Notebook".

Halloween damage: 3 pounds and a severe bout of depression after the inevitable sugar drop, coupled with the fact that Ryan Gossling loves that Rachael McAdams so much he built a house for her. WITH HIS BARE HANDS!

Next came Thanksgiving, which is a holiday during which we are supposed to give thanks for the people in our lives and all that crap, but let's face it...mainly what we are thankful for is the turkey, the delicious trimmings, and an endless abundance of pies and cool whip. Don't get me wrong, I am definitely thankful for my family too, as long as they don't eat the last slice of pumpkin pie. Be forewarned: when I've been cooking for 2 days, am high on carbs, and have my new Pampered Chef Slice 'N Serve pie spatula in my hand, it would be in your best interest to step away from the pie. By day 3 of left-overs, I couldn't even do my fancy guitar kicks while playing Rock Band, for fear that I would split my pants.

Thanksgiving damage: 4 pounds, a close call with the Slice 'N Serve, and a somewhat boring and kickless performance of "Give It Away"

I truly wish the nightmare was over, but as we all know, Christmas is just around the corner. This time, instead of sending our children off to take candy from strangers, we are forcing them to sit on a stranger's lap and ask for presents. In my opinion, all this is doing is setting them up for sad and seedy futures as lap dancers and/or trophy wives. But I digress... Christmas, as we all know, is all about a baby in a manger who didn't have a crib and 3 old guys brought him some sucky presents (Really, what's a baby gonna do with some shrub called myrr? Next time, old "wise" guys, bring something helpful like A CRIB). So now, all these years later, there is still an old guy, but just one, but he's fat, like maybe he ate the other 2 old guys, but the important thing is that he brings better presents. Anyway, back on topic: Christmas is also all about food. I am quite sure that I eat enough food during December to last an Ethiopian family an entire year. It is, quite frankly, disgusting and pathetic, but I just can't stop. There's food and desserts everywhere and I just can't say "no". This year, I am publicly asking my Mother-In-Law NOT to make her annual Peanut butter cookies with the Hershey Kiss in the middle. Those are my heroin, and I am afraid that if they are made, not only will I have to wear my elastic pajama pants for the entire Christmas vacation, but I may pull a Robert Downey Jr. circa 1996, and wake up after a sugar high in a stranger's bed. And not in a good way.

Christmas damage: Estimated 5 pounds, with the definite possibility of 8 lbs and a warrant for my arrest, if my M.I.L makes the heroin cookies.