Behold, the power of the brow

So my sister bought me an eyebrow pencil, which has been useful to me since I have pale hair and my eyebrows tend to wash away into my pale skin (oh, to be Peter Gallagher with his ridiculously discernable eyebrows).

Anyhoo . . . I have amused and delighted myself playing with my new found cosmetic toy! Changing the shape of your brows can completely alter the look of your face. For example, yesterday I drew in some magnificent-high-archers and spent my entire Sunday with my face in a constant state of delightful SURPRISE!!!!

My point is that we tend to take our eyebrows for granted, and underestimate their tremendous power. Just look at what a slight change in brow contour does for the Muppets cast:

Quite a menacing crew, aren't they?

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It looks like they are about to perform the . . .

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. . . most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppetational, KILLING RITUAL!

` ` ` This is what we call the Muppet Show! ¯

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An Open Letter To Shoes.Com

Dear Shoes. Com,

You keep sending me emails indicating that you have taken the liberty of making New Year's resolutions on my behalf.




How can I say this nicely? Back the hell off, Shoes.Com. I can make my own New Year's resolutions, thank you very much.

I won't deny the nobility of your proposed resolutions: love the Earth, stay in style, "in with the New ... Shoe!" As a new parent, however, my priorities have shifted. I have more pressing and more serious matters in my life in need of resolution than your proposed shoe-centric aspirations.

Here's just a sampling the stuff I need to get worked out in my personal life. For 2008, I resolve:

• Not to get pissed on. 2007 was a year fraught with urinary hazards, but I swear on all that is good and beautiful in this world -- I will no longer be a victim of changing-table-pissery, not this year!
• Learn to let go. The mourning period has passed. I can no longer stand wistfully before my closet full of beautiful, tiny clothes and long for what I once had -- clothes that fit. This year I will let go of my skinny jeans and tailored suits. I will learn to embrace the elegant simplicity of the Muumuu.
• Get 8 hours of sleep at night. I am a realist. I know I can't get a full eight hours every night this year. I am aiming at one. O - N- E night of unbroken rests.
• Tone my core. I am not after a six pack this year, but if I could get my navel back to a vaguely-circular shape, I would be satisfied. By the end of 2008, there will be no frowny-face belly button!!!
• Wean or Develop Ninja reflexes. As those sharp little teeth come in, this nursing mother needs to be on top of her game to avoid any more painful encounters with brand new incisors.
• Bathe. For the love of God, BATH! There's nothing clever to be said here. I have to stop sacrificing shower time for sleep. It's getting dangerous. And icky.

What is my point, Shoes.Com? Buying environmentally friendly or stylish shoes are matters I can't begin to tackle for at least the next 18 years or so.

I think what I am getting at here is that I wish to be removed from your mailing list.

Yours resolvedly,

Kerry

How to Raise a Douchebag

I truly did contemplate using a less disparaging title for this post.

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Really.

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However, currently exhausted after sleepless nights with a teething baby, I am grumpy and feeling judgemental. So there you have it.

Seriously though, if you are interested in raising your sweet baby as a full-fledged douchebag, here is my recommended text list for your child's fist year -- these are infant friendly boardbooks, no less.

for your aspiring Ali G

if your baby has moved past his 15 minutes of teething

Gucci Gucci Goo!

a graceful transition from strained winter squash to raw fish

This book didn't seem to fit the douchebag criteria, at first, and then I flipped it over . . .

Your little darling deserves the very best, so feed them more than caviar from that silver spoon. Nurture them with ART! It's never too early to be a Petit Connoisseur.


(Nor is it ever too earlyto cultivate a Petit Douchebag, apparently)

Oh, and let us not forget about this fantastic little nugget . . .

Baby-proofing

Because our little guy is contemplating crawling, the time has come for us to contemplate baby-proofing our home.

Researching the matter, I came across this chilling little item:

How can our company guarantee the safety of this wonder-product? Extensive toddler testing!

Research & Development went through 15 prototypes, 27 children, and 8 screwdrivers before they got the design just right.

This lucky little girl (more commonly known as Number 28) can gouge away at this outlet for hours on end with any conductive toy while her parents relax, secure in the knowledge that little 28 has a very low(ish) risk of electrocution.

Distressed

I don't much care for doing the dishes. But I never stopped to think that perhaps the dishes aren't that fond of it either.

What if I put you back in the sink for the night. We can do this tomorrow . . .

I feel happy about that decision, too.

How especially appetizing

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This beverage line always makes me giggle a little bit, especially since "naked juice" is a crude euphemism my sister Amy and I have used for years (much to Mom's horror and dismay).

But this is just too, too much . . .

Since WHEN is "Protein" a flavor?

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Open Letter to Homes.Com

Dear Homes.Com:

I was visiting your website today to look at home listings when I noticed your logo:

While I do appreciate the moxy of your energetic little "dot" in the Homes-dot-Com logo, I suspect this logo creates much confusion regarding the nature of your business.

Because it is such a fantastic graphic, I propose you keep it -- don't touch a thing. Rather, change your name.

Now that go-getter-swimmer of a "dot" makes MUCH more sense.

Good luck as your company reorganizes as a fertility resource website.

Yours helpfully,

Kerry

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - UPDATE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Response from Homes (squiggly dot) Com :

So while there is no current plans to reorganize their site . . . I suspect such plans may be forthcoming!

I'm encouraged by their response to my letter. I think I will try to resubmit a previous Letter to my utility Company.

An embarrassment to my mother

I still remember celebrating Halloween when I was in first grade (ah . . . the golden age of Trick~or~Treating). That year we got to develop our own Witch's Brew.

I focused on conjuring the most sinister and frightful elixir imaginable for my brew. Especially since some of my more manby-pamby classmates were listing ingredients such as marshmallows, crayons, and ham in their pithy concoctions.

Unfortunately, my overambitious recipe horrified and embarrassed my mother when the local paper published our brews in the news.

I suspect it was the "little kid's kidneys" part that she found to be objectionable.

We were sitting at the breakfast table before school when mom burst out, "LITTLE KID'S KIDNEYS?! Why would you want to put little kid's kidneys in your witch's brew?! People are going to think I have raised a ghoulish little girl!"

I suppose -- as phrased -- it is rather chilling, particularly where the recipe calls for both kidneys from a singular kid. I can't remember if that is a misplaced apostrophe or if I saw fit to completely eviscerate the renal system of just one particularly rotten child.

In all fairness, though, how is that worse than that Kyle kid who would commingle eyeballs with his chili? SO much more stomach churning than my brew.

Better than sticking your foot in your mouth

Recently, Matt and I took a quick trip to Wyoming where Max met much of his family for the first time -- including cousins! We got to spend some time in the car with my sister's kids while we were back home.

We kept pulling out all of our "A" material to keep Jordan and Connor entertained during the 100 mile trip. We knew we were skimming the bottom of the barrel when Matt said, "Hey, did you guys know your Aunt Kerry can put her whole fist in her mouth?!"

When they didn't respond, I turned around in my seat and found out why they were so quiet:

Gifted. The members of this family are abundantly gifted.

Uncool as ever, thank you very much

No matter how educated or accomplished you may be in life, you can never escape your high school loser status.

I was reminded of this fact today while clearing out my junk mail inbox. The good people at Classmates.com felt it important to remind me that I was not the coolest kid in school. Not even close.


Screw you, Classmates.com.

What's Jennifer doing that I'm not?!

If adult life is anything like our high school years . . . I would suspect that Jennifer is throwing crazy keggers while her parents are out of town and servicing the JV basketball team. Pretty creepy for a 30-year-old woman if you ask me.

I guess I'm just not that motivated to increase my number of Classmates.com visitors.

Comparing Notes

Now that I am a mother, I find myself swapping stories with other mothers. I was talking to other women who also had their babies by C-section, and we were discussing the down-sides of the procedure.

One woman said the worst part was the unsightly scar.

Another said the worst part was not being able to get around very well after her kid was born.

I still maintain that the worst part wast that uncomfortable cone they made me wear to keep me from gnawing out my stitches.

Little Miss Silver Lining

Sadly, four months after the birth of wunderkind Max, my hair has begun to fall out by the fistfull.

On the upside, however, I can finally exact my revenge upon my basset hounds by shedding on THEM for a delicious change!

Take THAT, you furry little bastards, you.

Sometimes it gets a little blue . . .

iTunes has a neat feature where it provides an "Explicit" material label for items that contain obscenities or mature content. Often, there is also a "Clean" alternative that has been edited or sanitized for more sensitive consumers.

For example, below is a great song "I hate Everyone," that you can purchase chalk-full of the F-word -- or, if you prefer, you can buy the version that uses more friendly terms like "ticked" and "jerk."

In short, the entire purpose of the "Clean" label is to denote material that has been cleaned up from it's former filthy self. Items that were clean to begin with don't have this label, like this podcast with children's stories. Below I have used a super-fancy red oval to highlight the lack of either "Clean" or "Explicit" labels.

Today I was poking around on iTunes to see if I could find any cool podcasts for Max when I found a Sesame Street podcast. How odd that the Sesame Street podcast comes with the "Clean Label" . . .

Doesn't it seem like the wholesomeness of the Sesame Street podcast should be implied? Why is that label necessary?

Yet, there it is: iTunes' reassurance that that this podcast will not contain any Muppet nudity, frog-on-frog violence, or any of that coarse urban-Sesame-Street-lingo.

My imagination has been running a wild with what has been edited out to make this fit for children. If not "COOKIE," for what, exactly, did the letter "C" stand?

Holy Crap, my sister scares me!

When I was pregnant, I discovered this whole new awe and respect for life and all living creatures. Motherhood made me all warm-fuzzy-squishified.

My little sister Amy is expecting her third baby in January -- she CLEARLY has not had the same maternal experience as me. Pregnancy, it seems, has inspired some sort of horrific gestational bloodlust.

She just sent me an email with the subject line My First Antelope.

The message simply read, "He isn't very big, but he'll do."

Holy Shit!!! I cannot believe this woman and I sprang from the same womb. She's a friggin' barbarian! (I wish you could see her belly a little better)

Okay, okay, okay . . . I take my barbarian comment back. I need to be supportive of my little sister while she is in that most beautiful of motherly ways.

As a show of my support I will volunteer my services in decorating the new baby's nursery. Here is my proposed motif . . . alphabet blocks and family photos!

I wonder if I can find a Precious Moments figurine to compliment the decor. Something in a "Baby's first slaughter" perhaps . . .

A Proclaimation

I have made a major life decision: in December 2009, we will buy Max a bulldog puppy for Christmas.

The puppy will be known as Milquetoast.

The neighbors will ask us, "Who is that freaking adorable toddler & his dog walking down the street?"

We will answer, "Why, that's Max and Milquetoast."

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SO SHALL IT BE!

Office Senility

I found something rather troubling in the refrigerator of our office's kitchenette.

Lysol in the fridge? Huh.

I wonder if this mix-up explains why the toilet seats are so sticky and smell of Sunny Delight?

Your Crazy Friends (and not the good kind)

There has been a flurry of guilt-trippy public service announcements on TV lately reminding you to be nice to your certifiably whacked out friends.

Hell, I'm all for being supportive of my friends who are though tough times . . . however it just doesn't seem prudent to turn a blind eye to any and all mental illnesses your friends and associates may develop.

Call me judgmental, but this commercial and its ominous knocking scares the bajeebus out of me.

Holy crap!!! The occupant of that house has got to GET RID of that creepy-ass-crazy friend. What kind of mental illness diagnosis are we dealing with here?

I just don't know how supportive I can be of a friend who shows up at my doorstep telling me that she's been seeking treatment for her recent bout of psychotic breaks and homicidal ideation. After the third time that bitch tries to stab me, I feel perfectly justified in screening her calls.

Don't make the same mistake we did . . .

I may have mentioned that we recently welcomed our first baby to our home. We named him Max. He is outstanding.

We are learing so much as new parents -- things that you never read about in the baby books. I like to share these lessons and discoveries whenever I can so that others can benefit from our experience.

To that end, please be advised . . .

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. . . this is "Burrito Max"

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. . . and THIS is a Max Burrito

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Keep 'em straight people. A mix up is not nearly as delicious as it may sound.

Quesionable neighborhood

So we thought we lived in a decent neighborhood, but we are starting to see the signs of gang activity in our quiet little neck of the woods. At an intersection a couple of blocks from our home, a vandal has defaced stop sign. I didn't get a photo, but a fairly accurate reproduction follows:

Let me just point out that this stop sign is located on the same road that swears vengeance upon all speeders with silly signs reading 20 mph -- Strictly Enforced! . Well, I'd love to know where the authorities were while these little Gryffendor thugs ran amok on our peaceful - 20 mph - streets.

For some reason, I am still not too concerned about my little family's safety just yet ... even though I do seem to be seeing gang colors of maroon and mustard yellow popping up here and there ...

You are quite welcome, kiddo.

So during the latter part of my pregnancy, I became rather swollen and sedentary. Unable to summit Everest, or participate in other such activities, I planted myself in front of the TV and made beaded jewelry (that's right ... I'm a crafty one!).

In March, I sent my mom home to Wyoming with necklaces to give to my little nieces. My niece Jordan, who truly has a fantastic way with words, sent me the thank you note below:




Let me just take a moment highlight my favorite part of this card:

"I hope you like your son."

I read that and thought to myself, "Good God! I hope I do, too!!!"

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Seriously, no one likes to talk about it, but not all people are equally likeable ... the same is undoubtedly true for babies who are, after all, just teeny tiny people. What if I gave birth to a baby that was a total jackass? How much more difficult would it be to lovingly nurture a condescending, judgmental, and inconsiderate type-A-jackass-baby? I submit that it would be very hard, indeed!

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Fortunately, I got to meet my little wombmate recently. I am happy to report that he is not at all a jackass ... rather, he is a DELIGHT!

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So thank you, Jordan, for your kind words. I do like my son. Tremendously. I hope you like your cousin.

This thank you note will have to go into my "Best of Jordan" category, along with this post and this one. Funny kid, that ...

Comeuppance

So, in the past I may have taken a pot shot or two at children and those who bear them . . . for instance here, here, and here. I have come to regret these cracks lately as it seems I am now about 11 months pregnant.

I look pretty ridiculous at this point. My lilting waddle would be best compared to that of Tic-Tok, Dorothy's mechanical-teapot-robot-buddy from the movie version of Return_to_Oz. I may be one of few people to remember this movie, but if you get a chance to see this weird little film, take note of Tic-Tok's waddle (and mine!).

My Heart Swells with State Pride

A recent tradition at the White House is to display Easter eggs submitted from each state. Each egg is a painstaking rendering of the artist’s pride in their beloved state. This year the egg submitted from my home state of Wyoming stood out among the other eggs.

Below are some examples; see for yourself.

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Alaska's Egg

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Wisconsin's Egg

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Iowa's Egg

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Nevada's Egg

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And, as promised, the intricate masterpiece that is the official egg representing the beautiful state and wonderful people of Wyoming:

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Wyoming's Egg !!!

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I say this without an ounce of sarcasm. I really, really miss my goofy home in Wyoming.

What's the catch

We were in Saratoga, Wyoming for the holidays a couple of years ago. When Matt went to the Doughnut Ranch to buy some breakfast, he had a peculiar exchange with the Doughnut Ranch pasty associate .

(Have you noticed that everyone is an "associate" these days? Weird.)

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MATT: Hi, I'd like to get a dozen doughnuts.

PASTRY ASSOCIATE : Okay. Would you like fresh doughnuts or day-olds?

MATT: What is the difference in cost?

PASTRY ASSOCIATE: They're the same price?

MATT: Does anyone ever get the day-olds?

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(That's not the kind of logic that will help her make Pastry Partner)

Fun with pharmaceutical brand names

I like it when medications sound like what they are. Cuts down on confusion. The names are catchy, easy to remember, and make our medicine cabinets safer places.

For example: Flonase. Just by taking a look at the label, you can guess that you are dealing with a product that restores normal nasal function and, perhaps, nasal flo?

Then there's Herpicin. This product is medicine for your icky little herpes vesicles. Nice.

Should be pretty easy to avoid confusion regarding the use of Anusol. (Which is -- by the way -- easily the funniest sounding medicine I can think of.)

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HOWEVER. I do take exception with Boniva -- which is not, I REPEAT, is not a medication for E.D. Make a note of it.

Sex, drugs, and ...um... bagpipes?

Here's a nifty sticker we spotted in the mall parking lot:

KILT !

Bumper sticker for Scottish hippies?

I don't know, but I find it very compelling.

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It's genetic

I came across a story this morning about a woman who died on her own plot at the cemetery.

Woman Dies Next to Own Grave

That story made me me think fondly about a visit home I had a couple of years ago. I was in the car with my parents when my mom turned excitedly to me and said, "Hey! Wanna stop by the cemetery and see the plots your father and I just bought ourselves?!"

She was excited because a number of plots in the oldest portions of the cemetery had escheated back to the cemetery because those who had purchased them many, many, many years ago never got around to using them. Given the amount of time that had passed, it was safe to assume that the original owners must have made other arrangements by now. Anyway, being in the oldest part of the cemetery means being laid to rest amongst huge established trees and other scenic amenities.

We pulled into the cemetery, and I have to admit, the folks had scored themselves some prime real estate.

There was a brief moment of awkwardness when the three of us fell silent, thinking about the sad days that would eventually bring us to this spot out of solemn obligation.

My mom spoke up, "well this is kind of depressing, isn't it?" Then she grinned, leaned forward, and suggested, "We should dance on our graves!"

My dad and I needed no encouragement, and for the next 30 seconds the three of us laughed, and danced with our arms in the air.

We finished up and got back into the car, still chuckling. My mom sighed, and said "Now won't that be a funny memory when you come back here to bury us?!"

That's right. The silliness runs deep in this kid's veins.