Post Sorbet

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There have been a number of things I have wanted to post lately, but I haven't. I just couldn't bring myself to return to my typical coarse and arguably tacky brand of wordsmithery following the last two posts of photos of my sweet innocent kiddo.

This post will serve as a buffer. A palate cleanser, if you will.

Okie-dokie, then. Moving on . . .

You may find this hard to believe . .

. . . but our refrigerator is actually a portal to another dimension!
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Max went looking for a late night snack, but found the gateway to a parallel universe.

This Year's Christmas Card

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Okay, this is just getting ridiculous

Things are getting out of hand on Madison Avenue's Creepy Tampon Ad Division.

Case in point:


" Bring it girls. Bring it! Bring it! "

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So tampon commercials have always made me a bit squeamish. Ladies in white pants, sitting on white couches, lovingly patting their bichon frise . . . with no signs of the "scarlet shame." Weird, uncomfortable, icky stuff.

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But these camera angles -- these are just too much:

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" Check it ladies, no mess here! "

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" See! "

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" I am kicking the stuffing out of the MENZEEEEES! "

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" You best not be looking at my hooey. "

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And the most horrible of Playtex's menstrual crotch-shots . . .

" Check out my period spirit! WOOOOO! "

- - - - - UPDATE - - - -

Diedre from over at Craft Cabana makes some compeling points in the comments:

And the voice over shouting her approval: "may the best protection win!" WTF,O? Also, in the 28 years that I've managed with just the regular tampons, I've never once encountered the need for "no slip grip." And while we are on the subject, how does the backup layer know it's the backup? Does it sit on the bench until it sees a situation developing?

I am still chuckling (and cringing) about potential injuries sustaind for want of a no-slip grip.

NO HATE! Okay ... maybe just a little hate

Last night a number of protesters picketed outside of an LDS Temple in New York to voice their support of gay marriage and decry those Church members who supported California's Proposition 8.

Demonstrators conveyed a bit of a mixed message.

"Shame on you!" the large crowd chanted in a 1-2-3 syncopation while looking up at the temple. Several protesters held signs asking "Did you cast a ballot or a stone?" while other signs read "Latter Day H8" and "Church of Mormon" with an X drawn over the second M to read "MORON."

That's some mighty fine wordplay, there. Way to take a stand and come down against bigotry and intolerance.

Not funny “ha-ha” – funny “weird-and-creepy”

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You may not find this too hard to believe, but not everyone thinks I am particularly witty. Today’s telephone call from a wrong number is illustrative:

ME: Hi, this is Kerry.

CALLER: Well, it’s not supposed to be.

ME: You sound like my mother’s obstetrician.

(silence)

CALLER: What?

(CLICK)

The problem with living with two men

WOAH!

Max warns: "Do NOT go in there!"

Kindred Spirits!

Last year I posted this Halloween story about my first grade witch's brew whose rather macabre recipe was published in the local paper - much to my mother's horror.

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If you don't feel like going back and reading this year-old post (though you should, it would make me happy), I will just recap the primary ingredients:

• hair;
• cobwebs;
• lizards and spiders; and
• little kid's kidneys

The last item being the ingredient my dear mother found unacceptably weird and abhorrent for a young child.

Nearly twenty-four Halloween seasons later, we picked up a great book for Max. The book is called Frankenstein Makes a Sandwich by Adam Rex.

Love it! It is a fantastic book.

Anyhoo . . . there is a poem in this book called "The Middlewich Witch-Watchers Club."

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Witch watchers hide in trees and shrubs or settle deep in ditches

And when they spot a witch, they look to see which witch it was

They check inside the Witch Watch Book by Mitchell & von Fuzz

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Today they saw a Speckled Crone

which shrieked while eating files . . .

And then a Frazzled Warthag baking kid and kidney pies.

That's right! KID and KIDNEY pies !!! I am not alone! I am not the only weirdo creating imaginary confections made from tender young organ meat. Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you Adam Rex for make me feel like less of a freak show.

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Can't Wait for the VP Debate!

And now . . . a series of awkward, confusing and, uncomfortable photos:

Sea lion stuck on the rocks . . .

Turtle stranded high atop the post . . .

Sarah Palin at the podium.

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These images share common threads:

• They did not get to the top on their own;
• They do not belong there;
• They have no idea what to do while they are up there; and
• You just want to help the poor thing down.

A shameless retelling of the post turtle joke.

My, what a manly grip you have!

I came across this ad while reading a legal journal.


Oh, so often I have shaken hands with the likes of the jackass shown above. To be truthful I have never found these vice-grip-blowhards to be the most formidable of opponents. The way I figure, if these guys think it is necessary to put the power grip on a diminutive attorney who barely looks old enough to drive, it can't say much about their own legal acuity. In short, I have learned the more aggressive opposing counsel is, the less intimidated I am by them.

I have, therefore made up my mind regarding the firm placing this ridiculous (reprickulous?) ad.

Meet My Gas Guzzler

While we were visiting Zion National Park, an Italian tourist backed up his truck and crunched right into the fender of our car.

Lovely!

So after about seventy-two phone calls we were able to locate an honest-to-God insurance company with whom to place our claim.

While my vehicle is in the shop I have had the pleasure of driving a Chevy Silverado extended cab pickup truck. This vehicle is a behemoth. Not only to I make a complete fool of myself every time I try to park this monster, but the gas mileage is KILLING me!

I think I found the problem, though. Underneath the gas cap lives a real-life Gas Guzzler.

Can you see him in there? Let's say hello . . .

This cute little Gas Guzzler looks benign enough, but his appetite is insatiable!

To hell with camping, let's all go INTRUDING!

My family was driving down the highway when we passed a recreational vehicle with the adorable little name of "INTRUDER"

When Matt and I reach that magical age when we buy matching sweatsuits, take up square dancing, and enter the RV market, I don't think we will want to buy a camper with such a mamby-pamby name. Oh no. We will be looking for something just a tad more menacing, more environmentally terroristic. Something along these lines:

"The Defiler"




"The Penetrator"

and my favorite . . . .

. . . the luxurious "Woods Rapist"

How to be a wife beater (it takes more than just a dingy white tank top)

I'm already learning so much in my new state of Utah! Here's what came up in today's research:

There are formal procedures one must take if they intend to abuse their household members. That's just smart legislation! If you legalize cohabitant abuse then you can regulate it - hell you can even tax it.

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Okay . . . in fairness to to the good people of Utah, this Chapter applies to the procedures by which abusers are arrested, charged, and sentenced. But you MUST agree the choice of words is funny if unfortunate.

McCain is Old . . . But is He Old Enough?

Here is a fantastic video from The Onion:

Old, Grizzled Third-Party Candidate

May Steal Support From McCain

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"I am voting for a man I can imagine drowning a bag of cats." Couldn't have said it better myself!

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I think the side-by-side analysis clearly illustrates the stronger coot-candidate.

Banking with a personal touch - excessively personal

I was setting up online bill pay today with a new bank. As a security measure I was asked to "provide answers for the 5 secret questions below."

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Could you read that?! That fourth "secret question"? Here, take a closer look:

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My bank is trying to learn what my greatest fear is? I am suddenly uncomfortable with the personal turn this online bill pay process has taken. You would really have to reach to come up with more uncomfortably personal questions.
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The traffic is a bit . . . different out West

By way of update, we bought a new house, I started a great new job, and the commute is breathtakingly beautiful.

My complaint: the traffic!

It took me more than two hours to get to work one day last week. I would have taken a different route to work, but no one warned me there would be a cattle drive in the middle of the interstate that morning.

Here's the picture message I sent to my boss:

Running late. Cows.

Define natural

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Restore my "skin's natural beauty" ? As natural as yellow eyes below a crown of acrylic nails, perhaps?

I'll be adding Doc Jepson to my list of plastic surgeons I won’t be using.

Very clever, you non-obstetricians you.

We spotted this on a VW Bug the other day:

Made me chuckle hard enough that I almost considered foregoing the assistance of a board certified physician to deliver any additional children we might have in the future . . .

. . . then that absurd thought made me chuckle even harder.

Let me just make public my labor and delivery policy: NO ONE in Birkenstocks comes near me or my kid. There. I said it.

"When you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants. In your room. Just for fun."

Now that we are back in the Mountain West (Hooray!) we got in a little white water action.

Matt got right into his gear and hopped into the raft looking confident and handsome as ever.

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Me on the other hand . . .

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I held up the party for the better part of an hour trying to squeeeeeeze my post-baby body back into a tiny wetsuit.

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Sexy photo, n'est ce pas?

More fun with the poster generator

After hearing of my dad's continued heartache and sorrow which could be caused only by prolonged exposure to hundreds of contractors, I returned to the Despair Inc. poster generator.

My dad's a funny guy. A funny, frustrated guy.

More evidence weighing against Utah's wholesomeness

We went to Utah last week for a battery of job interviews. My brother was kind enough to let us stay at his house. I was in his back yard when I noticed his neighbors' passive-aggressive message to my brother and his family:

That's right, Utahans see nothing inappropriate in flipping their neighbors topiary fingers.

At least Wyomingites are more direct with their gestures:

Wholesome Utah?

We are delighted to be moving to Utah. Not only because it is closer to our family in Wyoming, but because of the State's golly-gosh-gee innocence.

In anticipation of our move to SLC next month we have been reading the Salt Lake Tribune to keep abreast of regional news. That's where we came across this fantastic nugget:
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Caught on Tape: Naked Woman Slams SUV


Holy Heck! What have we got ourselves into?

Hooray. I have career options!

I am officially unemployed. I just wrapped up my old job and am now fully immersed in that most joyful of undertakings: the job hunt. .

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(I hate to lay a guilt trip here, but I am still awaiting SLC job leads . . . whenever you guys get a chance . . . surely you haven't forgotten about me)

I have some interviews lined up in the next few weeks, but for every single interview offer I get, I receive at least three very pleasant rejection letters.

Things are looking good. I have been assured that my résumé is "very impressive" and that many prospective employers will be keeping my information "on file." Oh yes my friends, I am as good as employed.

My favorite rejection letter to date was from an insurance company who was seeking an in-house defense attorney. In their rejection response, they indicated that they had just filled the position . . . however . . . (brace yourselves) . . . my qualifications were so Got-dang phenomenal that I should consider becoming an insurance agent with their company.

I am flattered to say the least.

I say a career move from lawyer to insurance agent is at least one notch over on the dirtbag continuum.

¯I'm a-movin’ on up . . . ¯

Potty Paradox

As I sit impatiently at my desk waiting . . . waiting . . . and waiting, it occured to me:


The longer you have to wait on the person ahead of you in the restroom:

1. The more you need to go to the restroom, yet
2. The less you want to actually enter the restroom.

I need to invest in an S.C.B.A. for office use.

That's some painful protection!

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OH! I actually had to read the ad to understand the illustration.

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This is sketch of a light bulb, not the male version of a chastity belt.

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That's too bad, really. This was a much more interesting advertisement when I thought they were discussing barbed wire prophylactics.

What exactly are you trying to tell me?

The eternal question: What is the greatest gift I could give my family?

Unconditional love? Security? Support? Warm-and-fuzzy memories?

No, no. According to the folks at Accuquote, the most wonderful gift I could ever give to my beloved family is the gift of life insurance.

Is that supposed to make me want to do business with Accuquote? Oh, I picked up on the ever-so-subtle potshot. Their ad should just say:

I hate you, Accuquote.

I'm pretty sure that was not my search.

Google keeps track of the terms you search. For those of you to whom this is news, I suggest you go back and clear your history. Trust me on this, you don't want your kid to be looking up "Bunsen Burners" for her science project only to discover that you have a deep seeded bunion fetish.

Anyhoo . . . I typed in the letter "f " into Google this afternoon and noticed this odd search term:



For the life of me, I cannot recall any projects that would have required "fat chicks" research.

What I have here is a real-life whodunit. WHO has been using my office computer? WHAT were they looking for? WHEN did this happen? WHY the hell didn't they use their own computer?!

If anyone has information that would assist in my office sleuthing, please drop me a line.

Time to retire the sign

Seeing as how teeth are nature's way of saying "time to ween," my days of pumping at work are coming to an end.

While I won't miss the inherently awkward experience of running a dairy operation out of my office, I will miss the sign I placed on my door while I was pumping.

Nothing says "don't bother me" like a cow on your door.

People wouldn't even knock when I had my sign up; documents would just magically appear under my door to be signed at my leisure.

It is with a heavy heart that I bid farewell to the deference, privacy, and quiet that was utterly commanded by my bovine sign (forgive the pun).

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