If we go missing, you’ll know who it was…

Two houses ago, when we moved into our first house in Georgia, after we’d been there a while, we found a couple of odd things in the backyard. Mainly, it was the occasional discarded  Almond Joy wrapper.

Seeing as how I do not like coconut and there’s no reason Tom would be secretly eating coconut candy in the backyard (I’m not a candy dictator), the only logical conclusion to make was that we were being stalked. Stalked by someone who like to eat Almond Joys while he watches people watch TV, apparently.

The Almond Joy Killer, we called him (or her, don’t want to make assumptions).

We were never murdered (I guess they only “kill” Almond Joys), and we eventually moved. We moved on with our lives. And we moved AGAIN, to a different state.

We lived in our naive little bubble, thinking ourselves safe from a chocolate-smeared Peeping Tom (not my Tom, a different, peeping, Tom).

All that changed last weekend when Tom came inside after mowing the lawn. What did he bring with him? THIS:

almond joy

DEAR GOD! He or she is back! I wonder if they went through a Mounds phase in the years between, and then they went back to feeling like a nut, and fell into their old ways.

Anyway, welcome back Almond Joy Killer, we’ll try and be more entertaining this time. Please don’t murder us.

I do acknowledge that even though it was only three dollars that is no excuse.

A couple of weeks ago my sister and I went to the local biannual kid’s clothes consignment sale. I bought a bunch of clothes for a baby I haven’t met or seen yet – so I don’t know how big she’ll be or get. That’s kind of weird, which means buying a lot of clothes of varying sizes and hoping for the best.

This consignment sale is a monster – racks and racks of clothes. You kind of go nutty after a while. Late in the afternoon, I found this monstrosity:

Baby Boop

The babyfication of popular animation characters perhaps hit it’s stride with Muppet Babies and then through the nineties everyone became a baby for baby and young child-related merchandise. For instance, Elmo, who’s already supposed be like three years old anyway, is mysteriously babyfied further for baby clothes and toys. Why? I DON’T KNOW. The only logical conclusion of this trend is little sperms with popular character faces.

But, seriously, Betty Boop? Really? Just a little reminder from Wikipedia about this cartoon character developed in the 1930’s:

“Betty Boop is regarded as one of the first and most famous sex symbols on the animated screen; she is a symbol of the Depression era, and a reminder of the more carefree days of Jazz Age flappers. Her popularity was drawn largely from adult audiences, and the cartoons, while seemingly surreal, contained many sexual and psychological elements…”

Kids LOVE 1930s sex symbol black and white cartoon characters! Especially ones with either their lips on their chin or their chin completely missing. Informal poll: which do you think it is?

How does she open her mouth? I don't see a jaw.
How does she open her mouth? I don’t see a jaw and there’s no room for bottom teeth.

So, I find this thing, it’s marketed under the name “Baby Boop.” I have the following conversation with my sister:

Me: Look at this, it’s horrible. Should I buy it? It’s three dollars.

Sister: Uh, well, it has a matching bib?

She meant this as the best reason she could come up with to justify my suggesting I buy this thing because I thought it was so awful.

I ended up buying it, thinking at the very least I’ll blog about it. I showed it to Tom:

Me: Look at this, isn’t it horrible?

Tom: Why did you buy that?

Me: It’s terrible, it’s baby Betty Boop.

Tom: We’re not putting that on our child.

Me: I thought I would blog about it.

Tom: You could have just taken a picture of it.

Me: At least it’s off the streets now.

So, for the past few weeks the outfit has been hanging off or our fireplace screen, on display like some two headed pig in a jar at an oddity museum. Tom’s been throwing things like “I want that out of our house” into the ether, hoping it will come true.

Now I’m blogging about it. So there.

While at the consignment sale, I actually also saw a onesie that Baby Boop herself would probably wear, but this one I just took a picture of because I couldn’t even bring myself to have this in the house:


I guess nobody had bought it yet because all their babies were taken.

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.

It’s five o’clock dinners and mall walking for me from here on out.

I’m thirty-five years old. I have a sister who’s four years younger than me with two beautiful children ages four (girl) and twenty months (boy).

Last month, my niece’s daycare had a little holiday recital. I was really excited to go because this is the type of thing I was looking forward to seeing since my husband and I moved back up to our home state, North Carolina, from Georgia.

It was very simple; you’re not getting a full-scale production with four year olds, although that would probably be adorable. The kids came out with little Santa hats on, attempted to sing “Jingle Bells” and a few other songs in unison, kind of did it, and then it was over. Each child also had the opportunity to explain to the audience what the holidays mean to them – every audible answer I heard involved candy and presents (sorry Jesus, etc.). I couldn’t hear what my niece said, and when I asked her later, she told me, “I didn’t say nothing.” So touching.

After the show, everyone filed into the classroom to eat cupcakes and then watch sugar-rushed children run around and scream. This is when things went south.

As my sister an I were standing around, attached to each other as we tend to be during social situations (she’s the “outgoing” one by about 2%), one of my niece’s teachers came up to us. She said something like, “You must be the grandma!”

Yes, she motherfucking said that.

I was having a hard time processing it. I’m sure I looked like a deer in the headlights, but  also with a lot of confusion on my face because, for example, I noticed that a deer was also driving the car. So, as I stood there, my bottom jaw probably being trampled by four-year-olds, my sister picked up the slack and said, with as much restraint as possible, “This is my sister.”

And then the lady gasped in horror and apologized profusely. HA, no. She had apparently already boarded the conversational “this lady is obviously the grandma” train and just kept chugging along, admittedly with a weary “why am I still talking” expression on her face. She continued, “Well I can see which side of the family you [my sister] get your looks from.”

Nope, sorry, we draw our “looks” from the exact same genetic pool. Try again.

Ladies and gentlemen, if this were the end of the story, I may not have even written about it. It makes me uncomfortable, as a lazy vain person, that I worry about things like this. I am indeed reaching the age where we as women start to try and turn back or freeze the hands of time, so to be told that my clock is a valuable antique is a little disconcerting. If it was just this one lady, who I think is in her twenties, I could chalk it up to a crazy misunderstanding – that maybe she asked before she got a good look at me – and let it slide (much like the skin sliding off my brittle old bones). But, sadly, that is not what happened.

A few minutes later, my niece’s other teacher, a much older lady, came up, extended her hand and said, “Are you the grandma?”

This time, I was ready! I extended my hand and with brow furrowed, released a sad, confused, “Noooooooo.”

This lady was so embarrassed and appalled at her assumption, she said she was so sorry and told me OF COURSE I didn’t look like a grandmother. HAHAHA, you guys are so gullible. No, she then told me reassuringly that SHE is a grandma, and then started listing the ages of her grandchildren.

Really, lady who is clearly at least twenty years older than me, you’re a grandma? WELL THEN EVERYTHING IS FINE!

I understand that it’s a nightmare come true to assume someone is “the” grandma  and find out they are not. Much like I’m sure it’s embarrassing to ask someone when they’re due and they’re not pregnant. I have done neither of these things but I have once mistaken a boy child for a girl child and I felt like a steaming pile of shit for doing so. I didn’t have a loud, more-attention-brought-to-the-situation meltdown apology, but I did apologize, because I was in the wrong, and it’s just kind of good to acknowledge so that it doesn’t seem like the other person is to blame. What I’m saying is I don’t want to feel like an old hag at thirty-five so one of you being slightly mortified would have made me feel a little better. To me, continuing a conversation as if nothing happened tells me that OF COURSE I was mistaken for a grandma, and have you tried the cupcakes?

Maybe it IS me. Maybe at thirty-five it’s time to admit that even though I would have given birth to my sister at age four (thus being pregnant through most of my third year), I do indeed look as old as my own mother (who looks great, by the way). Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, I don’t know. I’ll leave it up to you all. Here’s a picture from the day I attended the recital, what do you think?

Maggie Smith

15 Thoughts While I Wait on Hold for Utility Service

1. It’s time for me to get my biannual haircut.

2. I’m currently on hold to switch the water bill/account back to us for a whole flippin’ month. The estimated wait time on the phone is 18 minutes. The water resources wait music follows the same proud tradition of the Georgia DMV – one minute clip of muzak repeated over and over and over. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do – drive me to go online. I WOULD LOVE TO DO THAT WITH ALL OF MY HEART AND SOUL. It’s what I was born to do – run errands without having to leave my house or speak to anyone. Unfortunately, your user experience is seriously lacking and I don’t want to have to start a whole new account if I don’t have to. SO HA HA HA, jokes on you, I’m going to sit here and suffer. Oh, wait.

3. In related news, we got an offer on our house! Hooray! This is why I have to activate the water, gas, and electricity for exactly one month – the time between renters and new owners. If everything keeps moving forward smoothly (like the smooth jazz I’m currently listening to), we’ll close on December 31st.

4. My call is very important to them.

5. I’m sincerely starting to worry that I will have forgotten what I called about, panic, tell them to have a nice day, hang up, and have to start again.

6. Tom is currently making lunch while I’m here on hold. I’d like some lunch. Or maybe I’ve never had lunch before. My sense of self is slowly being replaced by this one minute of smooth jazz.

7. “We hear you want some water, some water, waaatteeer, want some water” is the lyrics to the song I’m listening to. I wrote these lyrics, they are copyrighted so don’t even think about it, Gwinnett County Water Resources.

8. I’ve had the thought – “maybe we don’t really NEED to have the water on for the next month.” But then I thought – “what if someone breaks in, notices there’s no water, so they take a shit on the carpet instead of in the toilet.” My second thought was about how the water needs to be on so that the plumber can properly fix a couple of leaky faucets.

9. I’m on the phone with the lady and she’s typing away so I’m going to type too. Typing twins!

10. Now I have to call the gas company. Their hold muzak is more generic Eric Clapton than smooth jazzy jazz.

11. Do not giggle and report a gas leak that you noticed shortly after eating a burrito. Do not giggle and report a gas leak that you noticed shortly after eating a burrito. Do not….

I’ve added a picture of gum.

12. This lady is chewing gum. I hope it brings her a little pleasure during her day of having to talk to idiots like me.

13. Now I have to listen to a robot explain the terms and conditions. Let me get my pen and paper! I’m just kidding robot, I’m not listening.

14. “To end this call, please hang up.” I actually sat through the message long enough to be told that.

15. I thank you for reaching the end of this post, you as a reader are important to me. Be-ba-di-do-wop-a-diddly-doo.


This post was inspired by: Studio30Plus‘ writing prompt, me needing something to do while on hold, and seriously extensive writer’s block.