I've Been Banned from Grocery Shopping

Is there a member of your family that's no longer permitted to attend the weekly or monthly grocery run? It seems that in every family, there is at least one person who's watched more than others; that one person who is notoriously characterized by their need for the needless. I don't know how it works in your household, but in ours, I'm permanently banned from grocery shopping. My husband forbids my attendance to any grocery store establishment. He understands that at some point in time, I may have to participate. In this case, he makes it very clear that both of my hands are not to leave the cart. How did it get to this point? Why have I been eternally excluded from the hustle and bustle of this housewife task? Before now, I've been in complete denial to the fact that I have a problem and that professional help may be required. When I shop, I tend to be the "Impulse Buyer." Oh yes, I'm the type they reach out to in the check out lines, with their candy bars, batteries and travel lotions. I crave the unexpected expectedness of the gotta-haves and don't-you-needs. I think I'm so clever hiding the items strategically amongst the pile of my overindulgence. The items usually go unnoticed until the cashier starts scanning the doo-dads and thing-a-ma-bops I've snuck into the cart. I suddenly feel my husband's eyes searing a hole through the back of my head. Even as shocked as I may seem, I've known this reaction was inevitable. It's been stated that I'm similar to a cat walking through the isles, distracted by every bright shiny object. To help with my problem, I've even gone to great lengths in creating a detail list of specific items needed, and specific items to stay away from. And yet, the same outcome is achieved after every exhibition. At this point in time, I'll just have to keep my hands glued to the cart. I wouldn't want to risk having a permanent hole in the back of my head, or are those great smelling travel lotions worth it?

Universal Cup Sizes, Please!

No, I don’t mean bra cup sizes! I’m talking about the everlasting conundrum of the venti vs. large vs. me crap. How many times have you walked into a non-starbucks coffee shop asking for a venti something-or-other, only to be rudely answered, “You mean a large?” No, I don’t mean a large, I mean what I just said lady! The fact of the matter is, we’re living in a generation that’s been “Venti-ed.” Basically interpreted as “spoiled.” Everyone wants to be different, in turn, no one ends up having that luxury. Therefore, we’ve ended up with a million different sizes for cups. This is why you have to squeeze that latte between your legs in the car. Someone’s “different” cup has cost you your precious cup holder, or your beautiful leather seats from spilling all over yourself. All the cup creators and manufacturers should hold a conference and develop 3-5 universal cup sizes for the entire world to adhere to. They should also invite all vehicle manufacturers, to make adjustable cup holders to fit those 3-5 cup sizes. See, simple, to the point, and it would work for everyone. No more lawsuits over spilling scalding hot coffee all over ones crotch, because the cup holder would actually be doing its job. See all they’re good for now is holding all those annoying car washing advertisements, hair pins, candy, random trash, and maybe those occasional emergency mints. What about those disgustingly large slurp, burp, jerks or whatever they’re called. Seriously, some of these x-large cups are larger than my torso. All I wanted was the x-large curly fries and I’m handed this enormous cup to go with your meal. Come on people, we may need to change the saying from wishful thinking, to wasteful thinking.

The Bread and Butter Plate, a Lost Art

I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself, “What the hell’s a bread and butter plate?” You’d be very normal for asking this question. The bread and butter plate, aka the b and b plate, is the forgotten and undermined dish usually used in a formal gathering located just above the forks, to place...your bread and butter on…Shocking! We’re living in an era of the “every day dishes.” Easy to use, easy to maintain, quick to grab, and, let’s just be honest, cheap. What happened to the art of entertaining? What happened to the thrill and the expectation of etiquette? I’m not saying “etiquette” as a politically correct term; I’m thinking more of an earnest consideration for one’s guests. When I was a little girl, like most, I played tea party and dress up. As the hostess, I made sure all the place settings were perfectly laid out, anxiously awaiting my guests’ arrival. When all my Barbie’s and bears were seated, I served each with respect and decorum. If only when we grew up, we could act in this way. Instead, we are taught that “time is money.” We’re encouraged to grab that Hot Pocket and sprint out the door with it halfway down our throats. I’m not saying that Hot Pockets are bad, I happen to live off of them. But I think that I would enjoy my day more if I made time in the morning for a nice cup of coffee, or even some bacon, eggs and biscuits on an actual plate; maybe even get up early enough to have breakfast with my husband. The art of sincere service is slowly dying. Instead of Shop Class, maybe boys should be taught lessons in chivalry. And for girls in Home Education, should to be encouraged to reinforce our grandmother’s tradition of sacrificial love and grateful hosting; or at least be taught what a bread and butter plate is…Now ladies, I’m not saying to lay out the red carpet and b and b plates every time your mother-in-law decides to pop by, or maybe you need too, who knows. I’m encouraging the enjoyment of serving others. My mom and older sister have helped me understand my privileges as a wife and woman. They inspire everyone around them to appreciate the time-consuming task of planning for guests. They make their homes a masterpiece to be comfortable and relaxed in. I’ll never forget the first time my husband and I stayed with my mom. We walked into the guest room and at the foot of the bed were…bread and butter plates! Not really. She had actually taken the time to neatly fold two bath towels, two hand towels, and two washcloths; on top were our own individual soaps, shampoos and lotions. We also were given a beautiful quilt to take home with us. I felt like I was staying in a five star hotel! Did I happen to mention the made-from-scratch meals every morning, noon and night? She’s an example of a rare bread of women committed to outstanding and memorable entertainment experiences. So come on girls, put those pretty aprons on, roll out those bread and butter plates, grab the lipstick if you must, and make your guests’ experiences ones worth gossiping about.

I Hate Getting Gas

For as long as I can remember I have loathed gassing up my car. When I see the gas meter near empty, I suddenly get a splitting headache; everything and everyone seem an annoyance. I become that road raged maniac on the highway. During my immature tantrums and exploitation of tailgating, questions arise as to why I didn't notice this sooner; why didn't I ask my husband to take my car for a spin, and just happen to be low on gas. Wink...He's a much more responsible individual than I am. While I'm at work, at my parents or just lounging at home, it will consume my every thought. Life is no longer enjoyable. "This sucks!" Is perpetually ringing in my ears. So why do I abhor this occupation so much? Number one, it's taking my money, and I feel I have nothing to show for it. No bag to carry my purchase in or memorabilia to look back on; just a receipt reading "I took your money!" Two, I pride myself on being an independent woman and would hate for others to think I need assistance washing my windshield. And lastly, I only have two possible exits: to the left or to the right. I'm completely boxed in by my car and the pump; unless I decide to hurdle myself over the unmovable concrete trash cans that reek of Funoins and stale soda. Not to mention that my purse is just hanging out in the passenger seat. I believe it cripples my confidence and makes me feel like one of those damsels in distress standing alone at the pump. Have you noticed that no one at the gas station makes eye contact with anyone else? Everyone has an expression of, "Do not approach me, do not talk to me, and don't even look at me." I think all the introverts got together and created a barrier of introversion around every gas station so that even the extroverts would completely shut themselves off to conversation. Of course, excluding the weird dude wearing miss-match shoes, talking to all his little friends, slowly making his way in my direction. My eyes getting larger and larger with his every step. Inside I'm screaming at the pump to go faster than the ketchup at Denny's. Yeah, that's totally me. Have you noticed that there are more and more questions at the pump now? "Debit of Credit? Zip Code or Pin Number? Do need a car wash? Do you want a receipt? Are you sure about that? Don't forget the soda! How many pets do you have? Married or Single?" Seriously! Stop with all the insane amount of questions. Just let me fill up my freakin' car in peace, while I try  avoiding the guy with imaginary buddies and uncomfortably swiping my card for everyone to see. Next time, I'll ask my husband to take my car for a spin.

The Documented Deaths of a Sock Monkey

History of the Sock Monkey

Ever wonder where your missing socks really go? Do you really believe that they disappear in your dryer somewhere, never to be seen again? This is the lie that's been spread by a mysterious source; isn't it funny no one recalls exactly from where? Brace yourself for the truth! The first few missing socks lay dormant and quiet, only God knows where. They collect and consume poor, helpless dusk bunnies, slowly growing larger and larger, until they are completely filled. When they're strong enough, they creep out in the dead of the night. The Sock Monkey travels endlessly through your home, fervently searching through the washer, the dryer, the hampers, and if he's desperate enough, will even go through your sock drawer! He devours your helpless sock pairs, ripping them away from each other, forever...Hence, becoming the elusive Sock Monkey. If and when you spot the Sock Monkey, do not be fooled by his slight smirk, beady eyes and outstreched arms. Immediately shun his stare, sacrifice your sanity and grab him by the legs. He will attempt to coax you in with his false love and affection, do not give in! "Never give up, never surrender!" The following are ways to avenge your socks; you must deal in a way sock monkeys will understand.

P.S. Sock Monkeys have a weakness for puppy breath, grapes and gummy bears.

You can provide Mr. Sock Monkey with easy access to your "vitamin" cabinet. Make sure you take the label off of the bottles first, and he won't know the difference between Flintstone vitamins and horse tranquilizers.

Invite Mr. Sock Monkey to dinner. "Wine and Dine" the little guy. Remember, he loves grapes, so be sure to break out the savory stuff. This is your opportunity to slip him a little extra "flavor", courtesy of arsenic.

Mr. Sock Monkey may be too much for you to handle. In which case, you may need to call in the big guns...someone you can trust! Ninja Bear to the rescue! He makes everything look like an accident. Just what you need.

There's no way to make a light socket look attractive. You could however, unscrew the cover, jam some grape gummy bears into the openings, and put the cover back on. Don't forget to place the fork "strategically" next to the socket. All you have to do now is sit back, relax and watch the Electric Rave.

Conclusion of the Sock Monkey

I know by now you're thinking, "This is horrible and sickening!" Yes, you're right, it probably is. In the end, this is the way I've dealt with my Sock Monkey infestation. The first few, I decided to set free with a fair warning of consequences if they ever returned to my house. These decisions brought me years of missing sock and horrifying nightmares. I've decided to put a stop to the madness...What will you choose? The Red Pill (Death of a Sock Monkey) or the Blue Pill (Freedom and Return of a Sock Monkey)?

Clowns Are Evil

Why are so many people afraid of clowns? Is it the abnormally large and inebriated looking red nose? Is it the fact that they look like a disturbed and beaten up porcelain doll? Or are we always on our guard, just waiting for them to spray us with that gay little flower pertruding from their chest? As adults, we've usually come to terms with our fears, and have been able to sift through the troubling memories of "Little Billy's" birthday party crasher. The fact of the matter is...clowns are horrifyingly creepy. Perhaps movies like, "Killer Clowns from Outer Space" and "It" have eternally disfigured our perseption of reality. Or maybe it's because Michael Myers from "Halloween" was wearing a clown costume the night he killed his sister. Children seem to be accepting of the idea of a giant man in a costume, until they're standing in front of the beast. Being in the presence of a 6 foot, 6 inch, loud maniac is unsettling to a 5 year old. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I never recall having met a Mrs. Ronald McDonald. There's something a little disturbing about a man all in yellow running around the playground with kids. Clowns tend to be the "bad guy" you just don't trust. Even in the Disney movie, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," I still didn't trust Clopin Trouillefou the jester. A famous sociologist, Peter Berger writes that "It seems plausible that folly and fools, like religion and magic, meet some deeply rooted needs in human society." Bull crap! How are clowns meeting some deeply rooted need in human society? Either he's a closet clown, or he's saying we're all messed up in the head and need comfort from an annoyingly colorful and disturbed weirdo. Their comic value is limited to a very small amount of time. Their hilarity is phony and over dramatized. People tend to watch them from afar with a concerned smile on their face; not saying anything for fear that their faces may be ripped off. And those are just the everyday clowns. On the other side of the spectrum, we have the Rodeo clowns. Those guys are in a whole class of their own. Who'd want to spend their whole day cooped up with an angry bull and just a couple of barrels to hide in? Not me...They're what have been called the crazies of the crazies. Beware! DO NOT ENTER the 10 foot radius of craziness, or you'll be eaten alive!