New Releases
A new take on Macbeth’s Weird Sisters
I was driving to work today on my usual route which takes me through a residential area as a short cut. There is a house I particularly like so I always look at it as I pass. This morning I noticed a poinsettia in the kitchen window for the first time. Inexplicably, this irritated the hell out of me. I felt that hot rush of ire bloom in my belly before I took a mental step back and wondered why this bothered me so much. It’s a stupid plant. Who cares?
I think it had to do with the holiday season. Poinsettias are Christmas flowers. Much like lights on the front porch, poinsettias need to be out of sight well before March 1st.
I’m adding this infraction to the things that just drive me crazy.
- People with their Christmas lights out all year.
- People who try to keep the poinsettia all year.
- People who stop two car lengths behind the person in front of them at traffic lights. If your depth perception is this bad, for the love of Zeus, get you and your rolling death machine off the road.
- The idiots that own the weird antique mall by my house that have a collection of giant metal animals in the parking lot. They keep painting them weird colors. Some people think it’s whimsical. It annoys the crap out of me. When the life-sized giraffe showed up painted red and blue I almost burst a gasket. I have no idea why this bothers me as much as it does.
- Strangers who talk to you when you’re reading.
- Idiots who can’t figure out how to use the drop off lane at the elementary school.
- Morons who can’t count to 15 in the express lane at the grocery store. 21 Yoplait yogurts do not count as one item just because they’re the same thing.
- The newspaper delivery person who can’t even get the paper into my yard. I think he literally drops it out the car window because I usually find it on the curb.
Really, the problem is that I hate other people. Ava, Kelli and I often discuss dropping out of society all together. We are perfect candidates for hermithood. If we were hermits living alone in a nicely appointed cave (read: air-conditioned with wall to wall carpet and feather beds) we wouldn’t be forced to tolerate those jackasses who leave countless spam comments, in gibberish or Russian no less, on this blog.
Bubble, bubble toil and trouble, indeed.
In Our Humble Opinion…all hair salons should serve wine. Genius!
In Our Humble Opinion…you might want to rethink jumping on an Italian cruise ship these days.
In Our Humble Opinion . . . February 29th doesn’t really exist and we aren’t showing up to participate.
Or maybe spiders…..(quiver) that’s just too awful
The name of the club is Venom. Venom? What is that supposed to mean? It used to be a strip club called The Candy Store. That club had the worst reputation – there were always shootings and drug busts and all manner of nefarious goings on.
Now it’s Venom.
“What is Venom?” I asked My Honey as we drove by.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“Is it a vampire strip club? Are there naked girls ‘dancing’ with snakes? Scorpions maybe?” I asked trying to be helpful.
“I have no idea,” he reiterated.
“What did it say in the newsletter?” I looked at him expectantly.
“What newsletter?” He looked across the car at me as if he never knows what the hell I am talking about.
“The Guy Newsletter.”
He started laughing. “Newsletter,” he snorted.
“Are you telling me there’s no newsletter?” I am flabbergasted. How can there be no newsletter? Maybe that’s how come our husbands never know what the hell is going on.
“No there’s no newsletter.”
Wow this is a market that’s just desperate to be filled, crying out for attention. If one of you guys to do your species the greatest service, you’ll get yourself some newsletter software and get jumping on that. The wifes of America will thank you heartily. There are few things more annoying than when a husband comes home with the barest bit of gossip, leaving huge gaping questions. Questions that keep a wife up at night.
Women don’t need newsletters. We have no problem finding out what’s going on, who’s breaking up, where the best sales are. I promise you if there was a curious shoe/cupcake/book store opening up, we’d know all about it.
For goodness sake, one of you men get on this ASAP. Consider it a charity time donation if you must. Someone needs to fill in all these blanks.
Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to let them know stuff like what goes on in Venom.
In Our Humble Opinion . . . the kitchen is a nice place to visit but we don’t want to live there.
In Our Humble Opinion . . . nothing upsets us more than finding out that China is giving Canada two pandas – just how did we get passed over and whom do we call to have this oversight corrected?
In Our Humble Opinion . . . pancakes are a lunch food.
Oh, really?
Irony personified in a look
Sassy has been trying really hard to master the one eyebrow look of skepticism. So far she is very frustrated. Her father and I give her the look all the time. Primarily because she is often completely full of crap and that look says, “Really?” with all the implied sarcasm.
We’ll be sitting at dinner and she’ll get all excited and say, “Look! I’m doing it.” I’ll glance over at her and her facial muscles will be completely impassive, her eyebrows exactly even on her forehead. You could use a level on them, they’re so even.
the Super-High Rise
“Nope,” I’ll say. “Keep practicing.”
“No, I’m doing it,” she’ll insist. Her forehead will be so smooth it’ll look like she’s had Botox.
“Uh-huh.” I’ll shake my head and purse my lips.
At that point, she’ll usually lift her fingers to her face and examine her forehead region.
“Darn it.” She’ll deflate. “I was sure I was doing it that time.”
perfectly executed half-naked eyebrow lift
“Practice in front of a mirror,” I suggest. “Then you’ll be able to see that nothing is moving up there.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m doing it, though.”
I’ll flash her a look with my eyebrow darn near in my hair line. That just makes her mad. So I do it again. Just to prove I can.
“How come you can do it so good?” she’ll ask.
Really? Cause I’ve been doing it for forty-odd years. I have sarcasm, in all its finer points, down to a science. If they’d had sonograms when I was in utero you can bet you’d have seen my little eyebrow up there saying, “Really? Mexican food again, Mom?”