Imponderable #17: Why is it always the wife who chooses/buys the Christmas presents, the wife who wraps said Christmas presents, and the wife who selects, stuffs, and addresses the Christmas cards? What the frack? Oh, and? Decorates the Christmas tree. I don't get it. Somebody explain this to me. Is there like a genetic Christmas/holiday deficiency in the male Y-chromosome? Or is it purely a heterosexual male thing? I'm shaking my head, here.
Imponderable #18: Why, when an on-line company ships my order and UPS subsequently loses my order, does the on-line company refund my money without even asking me if I want my money back? HELLO?!? Barnes & Noble? I ordered the Twilight Saga Collection, all four books in hardback copy. To read. And after reading to place on my bookshelf for subsequent perusing for the next 12 years until my daughter is old enough to wet herself over Edward Cullen. I don't want $50 on my bookshelf! I want books! You can't read money! Edward Cullen and Bella Swan are not on the $20 bill! If I had wanted $50 on my bookshelf, I would have cashed a check and carefully arranged the bills next to my first edition copy of Interview With The Vampire* and my cloth-bound copy of Dracula. Why didn't you just keep the order open and try shipping me another set? Hmmmm? Grrrrr....
Imponderable #19: Why in the name of all that's holy is the CW totally screwing up Reaper? The second season isn't premiering until March 17, 2009. And? They're airing it after 90210. Um, gee, are you CW execs wanting it to fail? Never mind that it's a great show and that my man Kevin Smith is an executive producer. Oh, no. Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease give me my mindless, airhead entertainment. I don't want to think at all. Nope. I just want scantily-clad, scrawny 20-somethings whining about their boyfriends/money/weight/popularity. Yep. That's it. Empty entertainment. A guy? Whose parents sold his soul to the devil? No, that's not interesting at all.
Imponderable #20: Um, hi, next-door neighbor guy? When it's your turn to drive your teenage son to basketball practice or your twin middle school daughters to softball? Why can't you get your lazy-ass out of the car and hurry them up? Why do you have to sit in your car, in the cul-de-sac, and honk your horn, like, fifty times? WHILE MY KIDS ARE TRYING TO NAP!?! Your wife doesn't do that. Probably because she's not lazy like you and is actually doing her job of herding them out the door. Next time? I'm coming out there and kicking your fender.
*Yes, I went through an Anne Rice phase. Don't we all?
Showing posts with label imponderables. Show all posts
Showing posts with label imponderables. Show all posts
12 December 2008
09 October 2008
CMG Imponderables, Part 4
Imponderable #13: Why, why, oh why in marriage Hell, do one or more of the kids decide to cry out in the middle of the night during the one evening of the year* when the Ty-man and I decide to get jiggy? We're all happily gettin' our groove on, it's a crucial moment, and then BAM! We hear it over the monitor, WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! And there we are, trying to decide Do we finish? Do we calm the kid down? And we decide to finish. And the kid screams even harder, which just murders the mood. And by the time we get our PJs back on and calmly walk in to the kids' room like nothing is amiss, all is quiet and the mood is just squashed.
Birth control, people. Sweet, agonizing birth control.
Imponderable #14: Why is Mike Rowe so damned sexy? Seriously. I watch Dirty Jobs whenever I can. He's always covered in schmutz with his arm shoved up the backside of various mammals and yet, even while he's artificially inseminating turkeys or coming out butt-first from a steam boiler, he is smokin' fine. Rawr! Sorry Sean. You may be replaced. Or in a tie. I haven't decided. Could possibly be a three-way with Jensen Ackles. Plus? Mike is only ten years older than me. Sean is one year older than my father. That is starting to creep me out.
Imponderable #15: What the hell? Why can't people spell? Why do I get an e-mail from my subdivision's social committee about our Fall Festival and Bizarre? Bizarre? OK. People in my subdivision who happen to read my blog, please, for the love of all that is chocolate, read my lips. Bizarre is an adjective and means markedly unusual in appearance, style, or general character and often involving incongruous or unexpected elements, outrageously or whimsically strange, odd. So, what you sent out reads Fall Festival and Odd. Did you mean that? No. What I think you meant was Fall Festival and Bazaar as in Fall Festival and Marketplace. If you're going to be the social committee member responsible for sending out e-mails, why don't you invest in a dictionary? PLEASE?!?
Imponerable #16: In reference to the above imponderable, why isn't it legal to beat the snot out of people who massacre the English language? My first act as President of the Universe...
*Oh, yeah. Like I only have sex once a year. Come on! As if?!? You actually believe that we only have sex once a year? It's more than that! We have sex at least one, two.... TWICE a year!
Birth control, people. Sweet, agonizing birth control.
Imponderable #14: Why is Mike Rowe so damned sexy? Seriously. I watch Dirty Jobs whenever I can. He's always covered in schmutz with his arm shoved up the backside of various mammals and yet, even while he's artificially inseminating turkeys or coming out butt-first from a steam boiler, he is smokin' fine. Rawr! Sorry Sean. You may be replaced. Or in a tie. I haven't decided. Could possibly be a three-way with Jensen Ackles. Plus? Mike is only ten years older than me. Sean is one year older than my father. That is starting to creep me out.
Imponderable #15: What the hell? Why can't people spell? Why do I get an e-mail from my subdivision's social committee about our Fall Festival and Bizarre? Bizarre? OK. People in my subdivision who happen to read my blog, please, for the love of all that is chocolate, read my lips. Bizarre is an adjective and means markedly unusual in appearance, style, or general character and often involving incongruous or unexpected elements, outrageously or whimsically strange, odd. So, what you sent out reads Fall Festival and Odd. Did you mean that? No. What I think you meant was Fall Festival and Bazaar as in Fall Festival and Marketplace. If you're going to be the social committee member responsible for sending out e-mails, why don't you invest in a dictionary? PLEASE?!?
Imponerable #16: In reference to the above imponderable, why isn't it legal to beat the snot out of people who massacre the English language? My first act as President of the Universe...
*Oh, yeah. Like I only have sex once a year. Come on! As if?!? You actually believe that we only have sex once a year? It's more than that! We have sex at least one, two.... TWICE a year!
03 September 2008
CMG Imponderables, Part 3
It's time for more imponderables. Questions from deep inside my brain that I can't quite seem to get a handle on, yet can't stop asking myself. Over. And over. And over. And... well, you get the picture.
Imponderable #9: Why can't Discovery Health's Mystery Diagnosis ever show someone who is sick, who is convinced they have some freaky, rare illness, but ends up just having a cold? Or food poisoning? Or a wicked case of jock itch? Because every damned time I watch this show, I'm fairly certain that I have porphyria, West Nile, or Legionnaire's disease. I suppose said show would then be called You're a Hypochondriac, Stupid! and I wouldn't watch it because it would all be about me and my bottle of Advil. Never mind.
Imponderable #10:
Why, when I'm wearing these super-fly headphones to listen to EVP evidence, do I look like a total dork? Even with the gang sign. Is that even a gang sign? Frack if I know. I just know I don't look like a kick ass DJ waiting to spin some awesome dance music. I look like a geek paranormal researcher. Sitting in a papasan. Looking like a dumb ass. Word.
Imponderable #11: Why do people keep changing their avatars on Twitter? I'm confused enough as it is. Bubba gets the PB&J, Miss-Miss grilled cheese, J-man a PB&J. Oh, wait. Maybe it's Miss-Miss who gets the PB&J, I get the grilled cheese, and Bubba gets a PB&J. No. OK. Maury Povich gets the grilled cheese, J-man gets a PB&J, and I get squat. Yeah, that's it. Seriously. Quit it! Enough already! Between Twitter and the lunch menu in this joint, I can't keep track! I don't know who the hell I'm following! Aaaarrrrrrgh!
Imponderable #12: Why do I write these damned things in fours? Four imponderables per post. Four and only four. Oh yeah? Well this one has three, Rainman! Nya-nya! Ppppffffftthhhzzzz!
Imponderable #9: Why can't Discovery Health's Mystery Diagnosis ever show someone who is sick, who is convinced they have some freaky, rare illness, but ends up just having a cold? Or food poisoning? Or a wicked case of jock itch? Because every damned time I watch this show, I'm fairly certain that I have porphyria, West Nile, or Legionnaire's disease. I suppose said show would then be called You're a Hypochondriac, Stupid! and I wouldn't watch it because it would all be about me and my bottle of Advil. Never mind.
Imponderable #10:
Why, when I'm wearing these super-fly headphones to listen to EVP evidence, do I look like a total dork? Even with the gang sign. Is that even a gang sign? Frack if I know. I just know I don't look like a kick ass DJ waiting to spin some awesome dance music. I look like a geek paranormal researcher. Sitting in a papasan. Looking like a dumb ass. Word.
Imponderable #11: Why do people keep changing their avatars on Twitter? I'm confused enough as it is. Bubba gets the PB&J, Miss-Miss grilled cheese, J-man a PB&J. Oh, wait. Maybe it's Miss-Miss who gets the PB&J, I get the grilled cheese, and Bubba gets a PB&J. No. OK. Maury Povich gets the grilled cheese, J-man gets a PB&J, and I get squat. Yeah, that's it. Seriously. Quit it! Enough already! Between Twitter and the lunch menu in this joint, I can't keep track! I don't know who the hell I'm following! Aaaarrrrrrgh!
Imponderable #12: Why do I write these damned things in fours? Four imponderables per post. Four and only four. Oh yeah? Well this one has three, Rainman! Nya-nya! Ppppffffftthhhzzzz!
12 June 2008
CMG Imponderables, Part 2
Yeah, I know. Only took me two-and-a-half months to get back around to my imponderables. I know you've all been waiting with bated breath (OK, maybe not - maybe you totally forgot about part 1 - I get it) so here goes.
Imponderable #5 (continuing the count from part 1): Why is it when I look in the mirror, I realize I have a few pounds to lose around the middle, that whole three kids really screwed up the abdomen thing, but then when I see a picture of me? Dang. White, pasty, with mommy belly and thighs. Ish. Even my face has a little chub to it. I'm getting rid of the mirrors. They lie!
Imponderable #6: What is it about family members who come out of the woodwork when they want something? Hi, yeah Uncle R. Granted, I know you're in your 80s, have osteoporosis, are suffering from prostate cancer and might have lung cancer. So basically you're just one step away from the grave. But you? Wanting old family pictures? In my possession? Um, let me think. NO! The majority of my childhood photos are in slide-form, in your possession. So send those to me and you get the pictures of your 'rents. Oh, and? I have two hours a day for me time. You, my friend, are at the bottom of my list.
Damn, I'm evil aren't I?
Imponderable #7: Why did it thunder for two solid hours yesterday evening with no rain? I mean, what's up with that? What a huge tease. Oh, hi, all you drought-stricken southerners? Yeah, not only are you not gonna get rain? But I'm gonna tease you endlessly. I just roll that way. Love, God/Allah/Mother Nature. Sheesh.
Imponderable #8: How is it that the youngest child in the house (J-man, 13-months) can move the fastest toward the one thing in the room he's not supposed to touch, before I even have a chance to get said thing and put it out of reach? I'll never forget the twins running toward the covered electrical outlets. Covered. White. No sparkling, light-up, moving parts. Yet that's what they would gravitate towards. Now? J-man will zone in on the one thing he can swallow and shove it in his mouth before I can even lurch toward him. Guh. Yeah, um, DFACS? Obviously my child is faster than me and I can't handle him. Yep, that's my address. Go ahead and pick him up this afternoon. Thanks.
Feel free to ask your imponderables in the comments section. I'm pretty sure I can't answer them, but I can surely commiserate!
Imponderable #5 (continuing the count from part 1): Why is it when I look in the mirror, I realize I have a few pounds to lose around the middle, that whole three kids really screwed up the abdomen thing, but then when I see a picture of me? Dang. White, pasty, with mommy belly and thighs. Ish. Even my face has a little chub to it. I'm getting rid of the mirrors. They lie!
Imponderable #6: What is it about family members who come out of the woodwork when they want something? Hi, yeah Uncle R. Granted, I know you're in your 80s, have osteoporosis, are suffering from prostate cancer and might have lung cancer. So basically you're just one step away from the grave. But you? Wanting old family pictures? In my possession? Um, let me think. NO! The majority of my childhood photos are in slide-form, in your possession. So send those to me and you get the pictures of your 'rents. Oh, and? I have two hours a day for me time. You, my friend, are at the bottom of my list.
Damn, I'm evil aren't I?
Imponderable #7: Why did it thunder for two solid hours yesterday evening with no rain? I mean, what's up with that? What a huge tease. Oh, hi, all you drought-stricken southerners? Yeah, not only are you not gonna get rain? But I'm gonna tease you endlessly. I just roll that way. Love, God/Allah/Mother Nature. Sheesh.
Imponderable #8: How is it that the youngest child in the house (J-man, 13-months) can move the fastest toward the one thing in the room he's not supposed to touch, before I even have a chance to get said thing and put it out of reach? I'll never forget the twins running toward the covered electrical outlets. Covered. White. No sparkling, light-up, moving parts. Yet that's what they would gravitate towards. Now? J-man will zone in on the one thing he can swallow and shove it in his mouth before I can even lurch toward him. Guh. Yeah, um, DFACS? Obviously my child is faster than me and I can't handle him. Yep, that's my address. Go ahead and pick him up this afternoon. Thanks.
Feel free to ask your imponderables in the comments section. I'm pretty sure I can't answer them, but I can surely commiserate!
25 March 2008
CMG Imponderables, Part 1
OK, so I usually do my best thinking in either the shower or on the john. I used to do some great thinking while nursing the kids, but since those days are long gone, I no longer have deep thoughts on the couch at 2AM, with infomercials, and a suckling baby. Nowadays, I catch my deep thinking whenever I can, in the short bursts of privacy during kid naps, peeing, or in between reading the same Little Bear book for the 90th time.
So, I give you today what I hope to be a long and grand tradition here at CofaCMG.
My Imponderables!
(Just imagine James Earl Jones spoke that line in a booming voice with some echo effects. Yeah!)
Imponderable #1: Why does my low-water volume toilet clog after I empty out my colon? Seriously? Every damned time I go to use the john, no toilet paper, nothing in the toilet but my own poo, the stupid piece of crap (ironic name, huh?) clogs up and there I am, nasty, dirty butt, pants around my ankles, cussing up a storm, trying to unclog the toilet, gagging because bits of poo are clinging to the plunger. Finally, toilet is unclogged. I sit back down to do my business, using only three sheets of toilet paper to wipe, flushing again and realizing the toilet is clogged again. Seriously. It takes me a damned hour just to use the john. Why oh why do we have these toilets that supposedly save water when they really don't because you flush 20 bits of toilet paper 20 times in order to keep the crapper from clogging?
(Well. Heh-em.)
Imponderable #2: Why do my kids ignore me throughout the day, only to come flying in, from all directions, when they sense the telephone is in my hands? I'm not even talking yet, the other party has not even picked up their end of the line, and already Bubba is asking where his Marlin toy is, Miss-Miss is wailing over an imagined ow-ee, and J-man has decided to crawl up my leg and sink his teeth into my thigh. Are you kidding me?!?
Imponderable #3: Why is Sean Connery so damned good-looking? I mean, the man is 77-years-old. He was born a year before my father, for chrissake. I certainly wouldn't go down to the local retirement community and pick up a 77-year-old man who is looking for action with a young-un like me. In fact I would probably beat his ass if he tried anything. But if Sean Connery knocked on my door! Buh-bye Ty-man! It's been lovely, but I've gotta go.
Imponderable #4: Why do we all hate our voices? I'm not talking about what you sound like to yourself. I'm talking about what you sound like on your answering machine, your wedding video, and in my case, on my latest duet song with Fab. Seriously? I just spent an hour laying down vocal tracks (Damn! Don't I sound all recording industry now? "Laying down vocal tracks." I'll never be able to live with myself.) to I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow for Fab's next Big Honking Duet Show and I sound horrible! The second that doctor pulled me out, smacked me on my butt, and heard me cry, he should have ordered larynx-adjustment surgery. Seriously. Blech.
And on that note, I must begin to warn you of said duet show:
Fab has convinced a bunch of us bloggers to sing with him again. OK, maybe convince is the wrong word. Blackmail. Yeah, that's the word I'm looking for. If you're looking for something to do on Sunday, April 6th, I highly recommend you mosey on over to Pointless Drivel Live, for a most excellent show of 18 bloggers singing it up with the Fab-man himself. It's going to be a rockin' good time! So, mark your calendars and, fear not, I shall remind you again.
So, I give you today what I hope to be a long and grand tradition here at CofaCMG.
My Imponderables!
(Just imagine James Earl Jones spoke that line in a booming voice with some echo effects. Yeah!)
Imponderable #1: Why does my low-water volume toilet clog after I empty out my colon? Seriously? Every damned time I go to use the john, no toilet paper, nothing in the toilet but my own poo, the stupid piece of crap (ironic name, huh?) clogs up and there I am, nasty, dirty butt, pants around my ankles, cussing up a storm, trying to unclog the toilet, gagging because bits of poo are clinging to the plunger. Finally, toilet is unclogged. I sit back down to do my business, using only three sheets of toilet paper to wipe, flushing again and realizing the toilet is clogged again. Seriously. It takes me a damned hour just to use the john. Why oh why do we have these toilets that supposedly save water when they really don't because you flush 20 bits of toilet paper 20 times in order to keep the crapper from clogging?
(Well. Heh-em.)
Imponderable #2: Why do my kids ignore me throughout the day, only to come flying in, from all directions, when they sense the telephone is in my hands? I'm not even talking yet, the other party has not even picked up their end of the line, and already Bubba is asking where his Marlin toy is, Miss-Miss is wailing over an imagined ow-ee, and J-man has decided to crawl up my leg and sink his teeth into my thigh. Are you kidding me?!?
Imponderable #3: Why is Sean Connery so damned good-looking? I mean, the man is 77-years-old. He was born a year before my father, for chrissake. I certainly wouldn't go down to the local retirement community and pick up a 77-year-old man who is looking for action with a young-un like me. In fact I would probably beat his ass if he tried anything. But if Sean Connery knocked on my door! Buh-bye Ty-man! It's been lovely, but I've gotta go.
Imponderable #4: Why do we all hate our voices? I'm not talking about what you sound like to yourself. I'm talking about what you sound like on your answering machine, your wedding video, and in my case, on my latest duet song with Fab. Seriously? I just spent an hour laying down vocal tracks (Damn! Don't I sound all recording industry now? "Laying down vocal tracks." I'll never be able to live with myself.) to I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow for Fab's next Big Honking Duet Show and I sound horrible! The second that doctor pulled me out, smacked me on my butt, and heard me cry, he should have ordered larynx-adjustment surgery. Seriously. Blech.
And on that note, I must begin to warn you of said duet show:
Fab has convinced a bunch of us bloggers to sing with him again. OK, maybe convince is the wrong word. Blackmail. Yeah, that's the word I'm looking for. If you're looking for something to do on Sunday, April 6th, I highly recommend you mosey on over to Pointless Drivel Live, for a most excellent show of 18 bloggers singing it up with the Fab-man himself. It's going to be a rockin' good time! So, mark your calendars and, fear not, I shall remind you again.
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