My daughter had a book she got for Christmas from a relative. This book is called “Songs to Go.” It is a book that is nothing but random pictures and the lyrics to the songs that are included on a portable music player. Here are some terrible pictures to help demonstrate what I mean:

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Notice Donald actually puts pants ON to go swimming.
Notice Donald actually puts pants ON to go swimming.
Who needs an iPod?
Who needs an iPod?

She loves this thing. Both the book and the music player. I keep saying I will never buy her Kidz Bop (which I until now had been calling “Kid Bops”), but here she is listening to the same lady sing the same twenty 30 second songs over and over and over again, like a reverse siren.

One of these songs is The More We Get Together:

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This is nothing but extrovert propaganda. Horrible.

Your friends are my friends and vice versa? And they’re all in the same room? And I have to get to know them all at once? No.

I’ve written some shy introvert versions of this song in case you’re in need of one like me:

The more we have our own time
our own time our own time
the more we have our own time
the happier we’ll be
and I’ll have my own space
and you’ll have your own space
the more we have our own time
the happier we’ll be


I’ll see you all on Facebook
on Facebook on Facebook
I’ll see you all on Facebook
and I’ll like your posts
Then you can like my posts and
say “aw” to my photos
I’ll see you all on Facebook
and I’ll like your posts


I’m better one on o-one
on o-one on o-one
I’m better one on o-one
‘less you’re that way too
then an talkative buffer
can help conversation
I’m better one on o-one
‘less you’re that way too


Please don’t try and call me
don’t call me don’t call me
Oh Please don’t try and call me
please text me instead
then I can think a-head
bout what I am saying
oh please don’t try and call me
please text me instead

Are you an introvert or an extrovert? Which version of the song speaks to you or is there another version that works best for you?

P.S. When I say Lydia loves this thing, I’m not kidding. That music player has been a life saver on many occasions so I hate to bite the hand that feeds me but I did anyway.

Don’t Actually Do That

Trying to squeak in a quick post so that I don’t go a whole month without one…which you know means you’re in for a literary masterpiece. AND, I have to get it done during the short window I have while the baby is sleeping – I’m pretty sure that’s how all the great novels are written.

The other day I was making (by “making” I mean opening the box and dumping it into water) pasta and because I’m a dork with no memory, I always check the directions, but I never noticed this until now:

Boil Taste

I realize “to taste” means more “to your liking” or “however much you want,” but I just don’t think “to taste” is the wisest direction to use in conjunction with boiling water.

And at the grocery store, because these are the kinds of things that are important to me, I checked some other brands and they said the same thing.

In a world where IKEA specifies that you NOT put babies inside storage bins, you’d think that the wording about tasty salty boiling water would be different. Maybe:

“Add between one grain and a coffee mug of salt,” or, “salt it like you mean it but don’t get too crazy.” I’m just throwing those out there, I’m not a pasta box directions writer. But, if you’re in charge of hiring for that position and have discovered me, I’m open to it.

I’m Such a Rebel

This weekend, Tom and I went to an antiques store. It was huge – old stuff as far as the eye could see. I don’t like to look at old stuff with a full bladder so I sought out the bathroom. As soon as I opened the door, I was greeted with this cheery message:

Dire Warning

“OH YEAH, just watch me flush the toilet after my use,” I thought to myself. What can I say, I’ve always been a bit of a rebel.

There were two stalls. In one stall some square had dutifully done what THE MAN told her to do – not flush. I rolled my eyes at such blind compliance to the arbitrary rules of antiques store society.

I used the other stall, and with the defiance of a thousand James Deans and Marlon Brandos, I flushed that toilet.

I washed my hands thoroughly, held my head high and swaggered out of the bathroom, expecting to be dragged away by the antique store authorities. But, no one was there. I had gotten away with it! What a rush!

People, you gotta live by your own rules if you really want to live.

I didn’t write on the walls though, that would be rude.

P.S. I’m starting to become disturbed about how often I write about public restrooms.

I may not be able to use pillows anymore.

At the drug store the other day, this caught my eye:

My Pillow Mustache


“I HAVE seen that on TV,” I thought to myself – that box was totally right! Looking at the list of wonderful things about the My Pillow:

  • Anti-microbial
  • Dust mite resistant
  • Built-in cooling effects (whatever the hell that means)

The list was long and impressive. But, I can’t purchase this pillow, and here’s why:

My Pillow Mustache Problem


I just think a grown man with a mustache shouldn’t be lovingly cuddling a pillow on the box. This seems very obvious to me, like marketing 101: “no one with a mustache should be affectionate with the product on the packaging.” I’ve never taken a marketing class, but isn’t that the first or AT MOST the third thing they tell you?

And then I couldn’t stop thinking about how much this man loved this pillow, and then I started to worry about what would happen if they had a baby together, and now this haunts my nightmares:

Mustache Pillow Baby


And now I’m not sure I can even have any pillows anymore.


P.S. I’ve had to send my stupid brand new laptop off to be fixed so there won’t be a Super Friends this week for those of you who read them.

Be Unspired 4

Pinterest and Facebook are full of of pictures with inspirational quotes on them. Sentimentality for sentimentality’s sake doesn’t work on me. I have no ill will towards the people it does inspire, it’s just like how broccoli just tastes bitter to some people – you know, because of genetics and shit. So, when I see these rampantly shared images, my gut reaction is a little different from the people who love them. I get unspired, if you will. Here’s some side-by-side comparisons: on the left, inspiring inspirational inspirement and on the right, my brain’s rejection of it. (P.S. I do know that “unspired” is not a word and there’s “uninspired” as a real word, but “uninspired” suggests that there was an expectation of it being inspired, and I just don’t feel that way, so I made up a word instead).