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."

`

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 . . .

`

. . . this is "Burrito Max"

`

. . . and THIS is a Max Burrito

`

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!!!"

`

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!

`

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!

`

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.

`

Alaska's Egg

`

`

Wisconsin's Egg

`

Iowa's Egg

`

Nevada's Egg

`

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

`

Wyoming's Egg !!!

`

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.)

`

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?

`

(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.)

`

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.

`

`

`

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.

So the Border War went well.

Battle of Wits

It is somewhat ridiculous how much I love Halloween. I was just relishing in the season when I remembered an interesting conversation I had with my niece Jordan last June.

She had just finished up with the first grade and was pointing out the gross inequity that is a nine-month academic year compared with a paltry three-month summer vacation.

The resulting discussion was something of a battle of wits in which she clearly came out on top.

JORDAN: I don’t think it is fair that summer is only three months.

KERRY: How long do you think summer should be?

JORDAN: I think we should only have to go to school for three months and then summer would be nine months long.

KERRY: Don’t you think nine months is too long for summer to last?

JORDAN: No. No, I do not.

KERRY: But if summer was nine months long then it would run into wintertime.

JORDAN: That’s ok. We could have fires and drink hot chocolate; and it would be fun because it would be during summer!

KERRY: So would you have Christmas during the summer, then?

JORDAN: Yes. And it would be fun.

KERRY: Good point.

JORDAN: Thank you.

KERRY: But what about Halloween?

JORDAN: What do you mean?

KERRY: Well if you get your nine-month summer, then you wouldn’t be in school at Halloween.

JORDAN: So?

KERRY: So, Halloween parties at school are the best! You get to wear your costume to school and eat candy in class.

JORDAN: Uh . . .

KERRY: See! You don’t really want a nine-month Summer.

JORDAN: Yes-huh!

KERRY: Nuh-uhn!!

JORDAN: No! Because Halloween would be in the summer, then I could wear my swimsuit!

KERRY: A swimsuit is not a costume.

JORDAN: Yes it is. I would be Barbie for Halloween.

KERRY: Barbie is a terrible costume. That is not scary at all.

JORDAN: (Pauses for effect) I would be . . .

. . . DEAD B A R R R R R B I E !

`

At that point, there was nothing for me to do but concede the debate.

Thank God that sign was there.

My fingers? Or the fingers of another?

Neither?

Okay. Got it.

`

`

Those in glass outhouses . . .

This ad in the newspaper made me giggle a little . . .

I was going to make a poop joke about Ms. Blake's bachelors degree, but then I remember that I hold a BS degree.

So . . . nevermind, I guess.

Unhinged!

This Commercial has left me feeling deeply disturbed . . . yet hungry.

How have I never noticed this before?

I spotted James Carville vicariously basking in Bill Clinton's recent dispaly of Democrat Backbone this week. For the very first time I noticed his eerie resemblance to Skeletor.


Calrville is like a real-live Master of the Pundit Universe. Cool!

Veggie Peril

So here's a news story that would have made absolutely no sense a week ago . . .

'Smoking Gun' Spinach Found in Victim's Fridge

`

This headline reads a bit like word salad . . . HA!

(ok, I'm a little ashamed by that one. My deepest apologies.)

`

So anyone have an interest in joining in a class action against Popeye for his negligent advocacy of the green stuff? Let me know . . . I may be putting something together.

The Burninator

Did someone say . . . TROGDOR ???



Sing it with me: "Thatch roof Cottaaaaaaages!!!"

I also always giggle whenever I hear "That guy wouldn't know majesty if it came up and bit him in the face."

The Trogdor ditty is almost, almost, as catchy as this one.

Questionable Commentary

STATEMENTS UTTERED DURUNG

SATURDAY'S COLORADO v. ARIZONA STATE GAME

THAT INDICATE THAT SPORTSCASTER

CHARLES DAVIS MIGHT HAVE A SOMEWHAT

LECHEROUS INTEREST IN THE GAME:

_____

_____

1. He just wanted guys to put other guys on their backsides
2. He's got a nice big tight end
3. Oh, oh, oh, easy you!
4. That was a nice big hole
5. He did a great job of tucking it up inside
6. He was able to get down and take the sack without a bigger blow
7. Nice penetration

Gridiron Guideline

It is football season once again.

(Go Pokes!)

Just a basic reminder for you athletes out there:

It is NOT okay to rough the Jesus!

(I'm thinking #21 just cost his team 15 yards)

`

My Big Break!!!

I have waited for this Opportunity all my life, and finally it is here !

_____

LONDON (Reuters) - Wanted: 20 diminutive actors who can sing. Hairy feet are a distinct advantage.

Producers of a musical version of "The Lord of the Rings" are looking for candidates to play the hobbit heroes in the epic fantasy based on J.R.R.Tolkien's classic.

"The producers are looking for male and female actors and singers aged between 16-35 who must be under five feet seven inches. Hairy toes and feet are a distinct advantage," a spokesman said Tuesday.

The musical, which received its world premiere in Toronto but has been reworked after some damning reviews, is to open in London in June next year.

_____

I am diminutive! I can sing! I would rather not get in to the amount of hair on my feet!

Time to quit my day job!!!

(I realize that is s an awful lot of !'s. I am comfortable with that; I stand by my !'s)

Nagged

You know ... I am pretty good with putting up with constructive criticism, reminders about upcoming deadlines, and cajoling from those people responsible for keeping me organized. I appreciate it indeed. However, I suddenly become much less cooperative -- and much less friendly -- when I feel like I am being talked down to.

This is why I have come to loath my snooty, self-righteous, calendar program. Too much attitude from a computer program, if you ask me. Let me share with you the admonition I received this morning.

_____

You have 19 to-do items which are overdue. Deadlines should only be
specified when the are real; otherwise they lose their reminder value.

Your to-do list is so long that it may not be realistic to have it all on

today's list, and some of those items are getting rather stale.

You should go through the list to see what you can assign to other days so that today's real tasks are more effectively organized.

_____

Fair enough. Computer says I need to update my to-do list. Who am I to argue with reason?

Illiterate

Question Authority!

Even when that authority is the super mighty SPELLCHECK -- especially when that authority is spellcheck.

I won't get into the details, but I happen to know from experience that correcting a misspelled word such as GENEROUS with a somewhat similar word like ... oh, let's say ... GANGRENOUS can seriously nullify an intended compliment.

Learn from my mistakes.

Don't just go clicking willy-nilly at any old suggested spelling. That's all I'm saying.

more on toes

I have been called out on the fact that I have a disproportionate number of posts about toes (most recently there was this one and a while back I posted about my own toe saga and my subsequent investigation).

In response I look to the eloquent wisdom of Patty Tanager the Cady Manager, "big woop, wanna fight about it?"

So . . . I have another toe issue. Let me back up and lay the appropriate foundation for this riveting yarn.

Until a few weeks ago, I had never had a professional manicure or pedicure -- primarily because I know where to secure nail polish, and possess the technical know-how to use it. But my little sister was getting married, so I decided to join in on the girly-girl-pre-wedding festivities.

My manicure went off without incident. Sadly, I can't quite say the same about the pedicure. Once my fingernails were pink and shiny, I looked around the shop for some sort of chair or fancy ottoman which would serve as the manicurist's working surface while she polished up my toes, but nothing of the sort was to be found.

It turns out pedicure-furniture is for chumps.

The manicurist lifted my feet under the table, grabbed my heels, and put my feet on her lap. I'd by lying if I said I was completely comfortable at that point, but my discomfort shot off the charts when she wedged the foot she was not polishing smack-dab in her crotch.

Yikes.

I can only imagine the look of horror on my face once my heel registered the warmth emanating from her hooey. Was this a pedicure or a date?

So I must ask: Is this normal, or have I just been naïve to what goes on inside nail shops?

This is not an idle question. Please educate me. I need to determine whether I have undergone a typical pedicure experience, or if I am, in fact, the victim of sexual assault.

Thoughts? Crotch-mounted-pedicure the norm? I MUST KNOW.

a grievance

More and more of my friends are beginning families and have an abundance of cute little kids. In light of that fact, it is with heavy heart that I say this. I don't think I like strollers.

In fact . . .

. . . I think I hate them.

(strollers -- not babies, I have no particular beef with babies)

I would never give strollers much thought if they were a normal, appropriate size. However, a stroller that transports a 10-pounder is approximately 150% larger than the motorized Rascal that transports the four-hundred-pounders that roam the isles of Sam's Club.

`

The size of these babymobiles is counterintuitive. We're dealing with tiny hands, tiny feet, tiny heads, tiny tushies. One might think the conveyance for these tiny people would consist of a tiny seat, tiny wheels, tiny space, tiny inconvenience to others. But one would be wrong on all counts.

`

Babies are small. Strollers are HUGE!

`

Why? I ask you, why? Why does a stroller require a canopy, a food tray, a cup holder, a complex system of compartments, shelving, and storage units? How many survival provisions are necessary for a trip to the mall?

`

When one of these things is fully loaded with baby accoutrement, heaping with bags and Build-A-Bear boxes, the stroller becomes a dangerous roving menace.

`

`

Strollers are the urban assault vehicles of the pedestrian world.

`

God help the poor souls that find themselves in the path of the stroller. Get out of the way; the stroller is most definitely coming through. There will be no slowing down. There will be no polite "pardon me." There will be no swerving. There will be no mercy. Save yourself and get the hell OUT OF THE WAY!

`

Might I recommend a more simple infant transportation system?

economy travel

French Tip Toe

I have a question for women who get the fancy French pedicure:

Why do you want your toes to look like fingers?

-

-

-