Resolutions 2014

Contributed by Kris, the Record Breaker:

Here’s to managing our expectations in the new year!  

I think the clear winner is item #3.

The First Thanksgiving

Contributed by Kris

It was in the moment we drunkenly crossed the road to pet a total stranger’s dog when I knew this Thanksgiving would be a doozy.  Ben, Emily, and I were waiting for the parade to roll, and we needed something to occupy our time.  We had already consumed all of the travel champagne (in this case defined as the large tumblers of mimosa that we carried in car cupholders), so it seemed entirely appropriate to pepper a random with questions about his Great Dane (maybe it was a Boxer mix… champagne, right).  It was a beautiful specimen of bigish (medium, definitely not small) dog at any rate.  The booze had put Emily in a good mood, and that was the whole point.  We wanted the first Thanksgiving with Ben’s sisters to be special.  Maybe we hedged our bet with 5 bottles of Korbel Brut, but we couldn’t just depend on our sparkling personalities to make the day memorable.  For years, Ben and I had tried to convince the girls to move home.  We’d tell our tales of New Orleans debauchery and Fred’s Debauchery and Banana debauchery, and through all of that was an implicit promise.  If they moved home, their lives would be more joyous, more rich, and apparently way more debaucherous.  We would see to that.  So we needed to deliver solid ratings in this first family get together.

Related Tangent: I think there are a few keys to make a gathering enjoyable.  First, you have to genuinely like the company of at least two people in attendance.  If you only enjoy one person, you’re probably going to smother her/him while also feeling a bit stifled with your lack of options.  If you have more than two, then mazel tov!  Second, you need the framework of an agenda, but not a regimented agenda.  You should plan on having dinner and watching a television show (sounds familiar, huh) but should not plan on dinner at 6:45  followed by four episodes of Girls.  Because what happens when the sauce burns and you and your friends are on your fifth glass of boxed wine when talk turns to Orange is the New Black?  Your schedule gets shot to hell, that’s what.  The point is that you provide a framework for the gathering to weave itself through and around, and then let cocktails and conversation take it where it wants to go.  Third, and I can’t stress this one enough, encourage cocktailing at any shindig.  I once attended a baby shower that had two types of sangria for refreshment, and it was a rousing success.  If you’re about to be a parent, you really need to schedule your wild oat sowing pronto.

Usually, we avoid small town parades unless we are riding on a hay covered trailer with a woman dressed like Elvis.  However, we made an exception when April and Morgan agreed to ride on a local restaurant’s float.  While we were waiting for the line of farm vehicles, antique cars, and duallys to pass us by, we traded Thanksgiving memories and laughed about nonsense.  Then we heard music, and the dancing began.  Dancing the Dougie with my sister-in-law isn’t something that I’m particularly proud of, but it definitely added some magic to the day.  And though I’m certain we scandalized the live nativity float with our pelvic thrusts, we created some hazy, champagne colored memories too.  Best of all, after we picked up all of the cheap candy and beads around the car, Ben drove Myrtle (his new Mazda Tribute) into the procession, and we followed it all the way to the end of the parade.  Naturally, we threw the candy and plastic necklaces to those along the route like the other legit floats.  It was magical.

After we picked up April and Morgan, we headed back to Emily’s place for more champagne and dinner.  The parade had put us all in a good mood, and family stories were being swapped while more mimosas were being poured.  Old school country music was playing in the background, and we danced in the living room from time to time.  Ben’s Pentecostal Aunt Lois joined us along with one of April’s Fort Polk friends.  We were a motley crew, and the conversations ranged from Momma Gooby hurling shoes and ashtrays at the Manuel kids when they wouldn’t sleep to military deployments in Iraq.  Eventually, the champagne ran out and the dancing ceased and the conversations tapered.  And we had done it.  We delivered the kind of good time that we had promised to the sisters all of those years. 

Puddin SEZZZZZ!

Contributed by Ben

Question Everything

Contributed by Kris

So many questions.

• “Is your job ruining your love life?”
• Is the orthodontist man wearing a Zoro mask?
• Why is the orthodontist man wearing a Zoro mask?
• Ballet flats with a tasteful one piece?? 
• High heels with a tasteful one piece?
• Are they on a boat?  Or is it a bar with a lone keg?
• Define “nightmare orgy”?  Be specific.  Take note to use descriptive turns of phrase.
• Is this the image that inspired Tarantino to write Kill Bill?
• Man’s True Danger?  Seems to be Woman’s True Danger. 

Day One: Cold Turkey Mostly

Contributed by Casey

After a thirteen-year love affair with the Dark Mother, the time has come, friends, to lay down the smokes. 

Several years ago, I read a book called The Easy Way To Stop Smoking by Alan Carr. Obviously, it isn't a magic book;

I continued to smoke for several years after the read. I did, however, hang onto some nuggets. 

Nugget 1: When you're ready to quit, pick a date and tell people. 

Done and done. I chose July 8 (today) because it's the Monday after a holiday weekend, affording the occasion to smoke it up before the big divorce.

Nugget 2: The day before your quit-day, smoke as many cigarettes as you possibly can. 

And done again. A few folks recommended to me to reduce the amount you smoke each day until you're down to none. In my experience, that just makes me miserable. Also, if you're still smoking (even just a few a day) when something traumatic or stressful goes down, you're far more likely to smoke-it-up, thus undoing all your whittlin' efforts. 

The idea behind over-smoking is to make yourself so sick, that the following day, you'll have a kind of smoker's hangover, making it that much easier to get through the first day. 

Yesterday, I smoked eighteen cigarettes in fourteen hours. I'm a little disappointed in myself. I feel like I should have been able to kill an entire pack, but by midnight, there was no way I could suck another one down. And yes, my throat totally kills today, so mission accomplished, yes?

Okay, so only two nuggets. 

An hour or so ago, the room got a little spinny so I took three drags of an electronic cigarette, which only made me more spinny and throat-sore. Back in the purse it went.

I'm also fasting. People seem surprised that I would want to add additional torment to this process. 

When you fast, your body reacts to the lack of food in a way similar to nicotine withdrawal, only it's a more intense feeling. So while the head swims from lack on nicotine, the desire for food is greater and you can't tell which deprivation is creating the more urgent annoyance. 

Another good reason to fast: smoker's like to partake after any meal. Skip the meal and the trigger is avoided. 

When I decide that the fast is over (tonight or tomorrow) and I finally eat, I'll be past the initial hurdle and the meal-trigger won't have quite as much influence over me. 

Another fasting side-effect: I'm drinking lots of water. Ergo, I'm peeing quite often. I'm so distracted by my many trips to the potty that I don't even notice that I haven't had a cigarette break. All I really need is an excuse to get up from my desk, which a full bladder provides. 

I'll do my best to update our eager readers with details of my success or failure. Edge of your seat, I'm sure. 

Sparkles

House Rules

A Hypothetical

Contributed by Kris

Hypothetically, let’s say that your father is arrested… for a non-violent crime of course.  He’s no Scarface.  No, he’s arrested for some DUI related offense; like maybe his 4^th DUI in 5 years (and you are definitely not gonna include those other 8- 10 times in years past because who’s counting).  You’re not surprised that he’s behind bars because frankly the writing has been on the wall for years that this outcome was inevitable.  And just for argument’s sake, let’s say that his incarceration has been a relief to you.  Sure you love him, that’s obviously not in question, but you have not had to deal with the day-to-day hassle of having him in your life.  The calls, the unwanted visits, the unreasonable requests for favors.  The way he makes you feel sorry for him even when he is the sole person responsible for the predicaments in which he constantly finds himself.  And frankly, he’s quite literally out of your hair.  I forgot to tell you that you happen to reside within a hundred yards or so of his domicile, which is his parent’s house naturally.  And if you would put yourself into this fictitious scenario, imagine that you’ve corresponded with your dad by letter a few times and seen him face to face just once in the last ten months.  That visit came after his second stroke in two months, and you were understandably concerned that he was about to die.  It’s not hard to imagine that death could come for a lifelong addict.  But imagine the relief you’d feel when you see him with your own eyes (behind a plexiglass construction cuz television does get that part right); you get confirmation that he’s still hanging in there.  And he is genuinely happy to see your face.  That’s nice, right?

Still with me?  Okay, now onto your hypothetical problem.  Father’s Day is upon you, and you want to get him a card.  Something that honors him as the person who donated half of your dna but that doesn’t extol his virtues as a parent.  This is a problem.  I’m not sure why with such a sizeable swath of the population being rounded up for jail time rehab that Hallmark hasn’t come out with a Daddy’s-In-Jail-But-I-Love-His-Jailbird-Ass holiday card.  It could be dubbed the Felony Father line and include a Get Out of Jail Free card to lighten the mood.  You can surely see the necessity of laughter for those serving time.  Now dispense with the hypotheticals for a second, try to recall the messages you read while shopping for a FD card this year, and….  That’s just it.  And….  I mean it’s not like you can buy the card that mentions all of the great things your dad has done for you.  Remember the time you played catch together?  Nope, you don’t because summer was his peak drinking season.  Remember all the camping trips you took together?  Well you do, but it reminds you of the time he drunkenly fell through the tent and scared the hell out of you and your sister.  Forgot to mention your hypothetical little sister; sorry ‘bout that.  What about all of the financial help he gave you through the years?  That’s funny when you recall sleeping on your wallet so he wouldn’t steal your money again.  And…

And you still love him.  Not hypothetically.  You really do.  He’s a mess; he’s always been a mess; he will likely always be a mess.  So you get the card with the fewest words.  It says something simple like To My Very Special Dad.  And he is special.  You can kinda remember him teaching you how to sketch robots.  Or that time he listened to The Marshall Tucker Band with you while telling you about the best back roads to ride around.  And how he would take you swimming and try to convince you to jump out of the tree even though you were scared.  And when you did it, he was so proud.  And his sense of humor and his laughter.  And...

Non-Traditional Students

Contributed by Kris

Clearly these students have gone back to school after an unfulfilling career as typists.  

Hit Em Wit Da Hee

Contributed by Kris

Maybe I’m just lazy, but I don’t want to listen to new music to find my Summer Jam.  That’s probably the first sign that I’m headed towards bitter middle age.  The second sign will be when my poly-blend trousers are tucked safely beneath my armpits.  However, I’m not immune to the occasional trendy hook that the preteen set gravitates towards.  Case in point, Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke, T.I., and Pharrell (who also has his mitts in Daft Punk’s Get Lucky).  I’m pretty sure that it’s the Marvin Gaye Got to Give It Up sample that pulls me in, but this tune is clearly a front runner for Summer Jam 2013.  It has sexy crooning, the aforementioned jacked Marvin Gaye beat, and exuberant shouting.  Just don’t watch the video or this delicate soufflé collapses.  It wants to be George Michael’s Freedom 90, but the models prance aimlessly while the singers pose unconvincingly.  And without the gravitas of a Christy Turlington or a Cindy Crawford or a Ms. Naomi Campbell (Ms. cuz I’m nasty) the effect is comical not sexy.  I wouldn’t say that the video is the biggest disaster since Amanda Bynes **toke** dropped her “vase”, but it definitely lacks David Fincher’s critical eye for composition and narrative.

Back to Robin Thicke for a moment.  If you really want a deviated septum **wink** kind of season, you should get into Cocaine.  After all, mountains of nose candy and handcuffs in back alleys go together like lemonade and front porch rockers.  It’s the very essence of summer.

If that’s not your scene though, I would like to offer an alternative.  This next candidate is very dear to me.  It has the vibe of a stoner song, the beat of a hip hop jam, and the lyrics of a true innovator.  Missy Elliott’s Hit Em Wit Da Hee has real potential as my Summer Anthem.  That’s right, circa 1997 ya’ll!  I told you I’m lazy.  But listen to this one.  I mean, this features Lil’ Kim, after Hard Core but before the crazy facial reconstruction.  Missy is not speaking the Queen’s English; she’s barely speaking intelligible words.  Wait, is that onomatopoeia I hear?  Why, yes it is!  This is the Summer Jam your English teacher could support.

Jingle Balls

Contributed by Kris

In case it’s not totally obvious at this point, I should say that my mind gravitates towards the absurd.  I find that I’m drawn to artists who make really odd choices whether that is in lyrics or in instrumentation or in personnel.  And in doing my research for my summer soundtrack, I had a really bizarre pull to a Christmas in July theme.  That led me directly to a recent release by Mrs. Olivia Newton-John and Mr. John Travolta.  Wait, who?  Did they remake Summer Lovin’ to the tune of Jingle Bells?  Sadly, they did not.  But they did team up again to produce an exceptionally crap-tastic Christmas album, This Christmas.  

I should clarify.  ONJ was on her game; the voice is still strong with that one.  JT (not Justin Timberlake, who is currently sporting Barry Gibb’s falsetto) seemed to struggle… and by struggle I mean lose the battle.  So why would I want these two dictating my mood all summer long?  

Six words: I Think You Might Like It.  The song has generous helpings of auto tuned voices (cough John cough), cheesy lyrics, and sleigh bells.  This is the song that will be played in the elevators in Hell or in Mr. Travolta’s case, elevators in Xenu’s volcano.  

I know it sounds like I’m crapping all over this, and I am.  But in the best way possible.  This song is infectious.  Like Hep C infectious.  I dare you to listen to it while staring at the accompanying photo.  You’ll never get it out of your head.  And for that quality alone, it is Summer Jam worthy.  It’s also pretty ballsy that they named this jingle I Think You Might Like It when everyone involved knew damn well that we probably wouldn’t.  So what I learned after listening to Olivia and John is that my search for The Summer Anthem of 2013 will continue… cuz this ain’t it.

Let the Music Play

Contributed by Kris

It’s that time.  It’s time to set the whole tone of Summer 2013.  Will it be a Summer of Love?  Will you need an anthem to rave and drink to?  Or is it a season of loss and sadness and sunburn?  Of course, I mean it’s time to pick a Summer Jam.  You’ve gotta be proactive.  You can’t just passively stand by and let the Top 40 determine the whole course of your next 3 to 6 (depending on the effects of global warming) months.  You’ve gotta take just a few minutes for yourself.  Listen to your heart.  Listen to your inner voice(s).  Listen to Pandora.

I’ve really cut it close on coming up with my own Summer Jam.  Since I primarily listen to NPR on my morning drives  and to old country music on my iPod, my choices tend to come down to Terry Gross and Charley Pride.  Fresh Air does not a Summer Jam make.  But as I am still trying to make a choice, I decided to share some of the finalists for my Summer anthem.

You’re the Reason Our Kids are Ugly by Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty - This one is a little tricky because it could signal that you and your lover (to use an 80’s throwback reference) are in the midst of a Hot Summer Feud or that you’re pregnant again.  Neither option seems like a great way to spend your summer months.  And everyone knows that heat, humidity, and pregnancy bloat are a terrible combination.  I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that my relationship is stable, and I will not be having any more kids (dogs/cats/turtles).  But this song is still a strong contender, and not just for the Ruth Buzzi shout-out.  It’s upbeat and snarky and funny and bitchy.  It practically demands that you drink to get through it and through the work week.  It speaks to the disappointments that we all feel from time to time with our mundane lives.  And it gives us the freedom to blame someone else for those problems.  What’s better than a guilt trip and a whiskey?  I can’t think of anything either.

I'm Gonna Do This

Contributed by Sarah:

Two Things

Contributed by Kris:

Dear Morning Commuter,

Holly Holly Holly Holly Holly Holly Beach

Contributed by Kris:

Thursday

Friends!  Hugs and Air Kisses.  Stairs of death.  Visors with our nicknames!  Freezable drink bags and coozies!  How do we get all of these groceries in the fridge?  There is NO room.  You cannot see the table.  I need a drink.  We all need a drink.  Rocking chairs!!  And a view of brown waves crashing along the shore.  This is a ghost town.  Catch up.  Refills.  Spillage down cleavage (this motif will repeat often).  Linda, get the hose!  Laughter.  International sign for Waffles.  We are learning new things.  Time to break in the Fry Daddy.  Tater tots wrapped in bacon

and kissed with jalapeno.  Delicious.  Time to walk the beach with Linda.  Dead fish.  Dead fish smell.  Seriously, like baby dolphins except not.  Porta-potties on the beach.  Genius.  Back to the porch.  iPod time.  And singing.  And Chicago popcorn.   I’ll make love to you!  I mean it.  T likes Jim and Ginger too!  Bonding.  Feeding the legendary Puddin’ Pop Hush Puppy Catherine Grace Halbert of the Alexandria Halbert Sea Pee-ers a bite of Chicago.  Probably drunk.  More laughter.  Fritters.  Put them in our face.  Decide to make banana pudding (confirms drunken state).  Passing out commences.  How does this get any better?

Friday

Nobody is sleeping late.  Wait, what?  Gulf breeze is keeping it pleasant.  It’s close to 9.  We need a drink.  Fritter and Peaches start cooking.  The fear of the chicken liver is real.  But it is overcome.  Mimosas may have a helping hand.  How many bottles of champagne?  A bunch.  It’s not even noon,  but we’ve found our drunk.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Porch Twerkin’ with the gang.  Not ready for advanced.  But we learn where our Twerk buttons are.  Porch Twerkin’ commences.  Wally Wally Wally World.  Keep your feet turnt out.  Sweet ‘Tater gets mechanical.  Found a good use for the outdoor shower, ahem.  That man on the plow is circling again.  Drunk crafting with Puddin’ and Lucy.  Oh, it’s a competition.  Paint on Grace’s elbows… and fingers… and maybe face.  She is winning.  Plow Man is in a cement truck now.  Hot Dawg and Waffles and Fritter brave the beach with the sweetest beach cart known to humankind.  It can hold up to 4 beach chairs and a cooler.  Or 4 dead children.  Some bananas need a nap.  And a snack in bed.  Check on the

beach crew.  There is burning.  And the birds are crazy.  Dead fish smell.  People can drive on this beach.  Mostly in trucks with Confederate flags.  That’s right, plural.  Back to the safety of the porch and those rocking chairs.  Linda, get the hose!  Realize we actually forgot a few groceries.  How is that possible?  Trip to the store.  Plus we need ice.  That poor ice maker has had it.  Waffles takes a cat nap on the drive through the marsh.  Is laughed at cuz it’s adorable.  Lucy and Matt make crawfish dip.  Drink it up.  Where did those kids next door come from?  We can get louder.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Ready for advanced twerkin now.  Cards Against Humanity.  Sweet ‘Tater is killing.  Laughter.  T is drunk, and funny as hell.  The Blood of Christ ends it.

  Smell Yo’ Dick.  Funky Fresh Senior Choir sings Hey Ya’ and Ridin’ Dirty.  See, we’re louder than those kids.  Find crumbs from Puddin’s lunch nap snack.  We were warned.

Saturday

Early to rise.  Everyone.  This never happens.  Wait, Lucy is still asleep.  Someone has to represent.  Crock pot tater tot casserole.  Yes please.  And we all need the recipe.  And we need to finish these bottles of champagne.  Wally Wally Wally Wally Wally World.  Feet are still turnt out.  Get low.  Drunk.  Grace is still wearing crafting paint.  Rocking in the chairs and listening to the Gulf.  People are parking trucks and RVs on the beach.  Only in Lousiana.  Booze spillage.  Don’t tell Linda.  Hot Dawg is experiencing swelling.  The sun is cruel to fair skinned folks.  Headed to beach with Guac and Hush Puppy.  Load on the sunscreen.  Roll over every 20 minutes.  Gotta finish this drink before the Jim gets too hot.  Sun is stealing my buzz.  Back to house.  Time to bbq.  Fritter is grilling hot dogs and vegetables.  We need the roughage.  Neighbors won’t let Fritter feed the pug a hot dog.  Poor, mistreated mutt.  Lucy to brussell sprouts:  ‘how does it work?’  That happened.  Laughter.  We are all vegetable experts, so we tell her how it works.  She has no love for the grilled sprout.  Eating is becoming work.  Full time job.  The sun and booze have zapped us.  Energy is

Have A Cow

flagging.  Pictionary and drinking and rocking on the porch.  We are definitely louder than the kids.  We are definitely tired.  We are definitely gonna have a lot of food leftover.  We are still laughing.

Sunday

Last day with our Chicago family.  Boo!  More porch sitting.  We have run out of champagne.  Shit’s getting real ya’ll.  Wonderful Gulf Breeze.  The Fry Daddy has a very regimented fry schedule til the girls fly out.  Grace does not have paint on her anymore.  When did that happen?  Lucy is done crafting.  That pergola will take what she gives it.  Hush Puppy finally gets hush puppies.  TV time and drinking.  Brother starts circling.  Quick trip to soak up some sun.  Drinking has become a job.  I need water.  Maybe I’ll stay sober tonight.  Back to house.  Hot Dawg’s ankles are still swollen.  Some kind of Bates Motel marathon is happening.  T and Waffles are heading out.  (Throw up International Waffle sign now.  Seriously, do it!)  So much laughter and so many stories.  UP is thrown out as possible location for next year’s trip.  Kinda like we have an exchange student program happening.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Brother and Jackie land at the same time as our girls depart.  Guess I could have one more drink.  The bottle is almost empty.  Cut to Lucy stories on the porch.  Scooby!!  Puddin’ dating stories.  Asbergers!  Brother stories.  Tchefuncte!  Laughter.  I gotta cook shrimp creole.  Holy Hell… I’m

drunk.  This was not supposed to happen tonight.  What this creole needs is more heat… ummmm…. Nope.  You can see the table.  Dinner happens.  It is good.  Our faces are melting off.  Grace decides she wants to live, so she takes a nap.  Smart girl.  Sarah gets  nicknamed T.T. by Brother.  We are once again in peak form and rocking on the porch.  Oh no.  Peach Moonshine.  Bonds of friendship dictate that you drink from the jar.  Oh no.  That jar is empty and I’m taking pictures with Jesus.  Stairs of death… especially when you’re hammered.  Seep Seep Nigh Nigh.  My feet are turnt out.

Monday

Shut ‘er down.   Holly Beach, you have been everything I needed.

HGTV @ 1:00 a.m.

Contributed by Ben:

My Annoyance with HGTV @ 1:00 a.m.

Long-haired brother of Property Brothers:  Your designs are usually great.  However, how many times can you say that the backsplash is “dramatic” and really mean it?  I keep wondering when the backsplash will start tap dancing and/or have jazz hands.

Delivery people:  How hard is it to deliver the correct couch?  When people order a grey couch, they really don’t want the brown one.  The fact that these delivery people continue to bring the wrong couch tells me one of two things:

     A. They are color blind.

   

     B. They truly want to be a designer and believe that the 

      brown couch will create the correct mood in the space.

How dare you!  Bring me the grey mood that I asked for in the first place.

Realtors:  Oh Jesus, help me…  When your client says, “I have a budget of one million bucks,” why oh why would you show them houses for one billion?  When someone says not a penny more, they usually mean that they can’t afford the top budget of one million, you greedy whore realtor.  Sometimes your gamble pays off, and the dumbass buys it.  But that doesn’t make you a good realtor.  It makes you a greedy whore and an enemy to the prosperity of ‘Merica.

Dumbass Yuppie couple buying a Lake House:  Why???  You have no children; you don’t like Nature; you work too much to really enjoy the place; you don’t have any friends.  No one likes you!  On second thought, maybe you belong at the lake.  Stay away from me until I decide to move to the lake.

P.S. Mr. Yuppie… The side by side fridge at the lake house isn’t small.  It definitely isn’t too small to hold your “weekend beer.”  If it is too small, the fridge isn’t the real problem, now is it.

One more thing:  Canadians, just because you are paid a decent living wage doesn’t mean you get to rub it in our faces.  If you can get excited about a two bedroom shack that needs upgrades for $440,000, then I say that you, Canadian, are welcome to come by my garage sale any day!

Rhymes with Name?

Contributed by Lucy:

Can you find the word that does not, in fact, even remotely rhyme with "name?" 

Courtesy of Rhymes.net.

Dear Cashier,

Debbie Gibson, R.I.P.

Contributed by Kris

Hey now.  Don’t fret.  Debbie Gibson is alive and well.  And thanks to her years as a teen idol (actual job description in her wiki profile) circa ’87- ’90, she is prolly hooked up to a champagne I.V. and is carried from her dining  table (don’t worry; she doesn't consume solids) to her favorite la-z-boy by Chippendales and aspiring “male” “models.” 

Let me backtrack, so I can find my point.  It was last Friday when the synapses began to fire and to send important messages to my brain… “you know I could go for some Electric Youth about now, and maybe Shake Your Love if I have 3 extra minutes.”  Oh, voices in my head, you know me so well.  Time for some DG goodness!

I turned to Pandora in my moment of need, and she came through with Only in My Dreams and Shake Your Love.  OIMD was as amazing as I remembered, but I feel like SYL has not stood the test of time.  Go figure that an ‘80s song has not stayed fresh for 20+ years.  That’s not a knock on our sweet Champagne-filled ahngelz (think “angel” and then gay it up) Debbie; that’s just the wear and tear of time.  After getting this taste of Ms. Gibson, I still had not heard Electric Youth, and I had to have it.  So I turned to the YouTubes.  Now, I have only ever heard the song and had never experienced the amazing choreography and special effects {(there are lazars ya’ll)(also, I’m bracketing here for effect, but this musta been in the early days of the green screen… you hafta see it with your own peepers)}.  We’re about to get deep and have a compare and contrast session between the precious never-been-married Debbie Gibson and the oft-married, Louisiana-proud Britney Spears! 

Okay, so first let’s ask the tough question.  How uncoordinated are those dancers?  Britney clearly beat her minions into better shape than DG.  The ‘80s were all about fresh faces and vests over t-shirts, while the 90’s were clearly about whoring it up in cropped exercise wear and dancing with military precision through your high school hallways.  Apples to oranges really.  That’s not a judgement; it was just a different time ya’ll. 

So as I was watching the masterpiece that is Electric Youth, I realized that for the first 3:30 seconds DG and BS were two sides of the same coin.  They were both cute, sweet girls who liked to sing and dance in groups and make faces at the camera.  It’s endearing really.  I am giving Brit the edge in sex appeal, but only because… you saw the outfit DG “rocked”.  But then at the 3:30 mark of the video, it’s like everything that happened to DG was foreshadowing what would happen to BS in the mid aughts (how wretched is that for a decade?? The aughts, really??).  From 3:30 on, there was chaos and spinning out of control.  If only DG had wandered into public bathrooms barefoot while shaving her head, we could’ve been prepared for Brit’s mid-decade meltdown.  I’m not blaming Debbie.  She’s an artist, and I’m sure she had to cut some stuff out of the video for MTV. 

I encourage you to watch this video a few (dozen) times and be entertained and inspired.  I am thankful that some part of my brain malfunctioned enough to lead me down the rabbit hole that ended up at Debbie Gibson’s gold plated door!

For Her

Contributed by Sarah:

Amazon reviews for Bic’s new pen “For Her”

“I can’t find a switch to turn it on, and it didn't come with batteries.  This is not the “for her” product I was expecting. At all.

“I bought these pens for my wife.  I assumed they would be safe for her since they are specifically for ladies but she used these for no more than two days before she sprained her uterus.”

“Thank god! My girlfriend continually drops my manly pens when she’s writing out shopping lists, which frustratingly leaves her less time to dress in pink, dream of puppies, then lick the kitchen floor clean you utter numpties.”

“When she wrapped her small but capable hand around the Cristal pen and stroked it, she saw stars, and she knew there were none out tonight.  She let out her breath in a long, uneven moan.  Her thumb rubbed the tip of the Cristal pen, spreading a drop of ink.  She opened her mouth and lay her Cristal pen on her delicate plump moist lips.  She shook the shaft of the Cristal pen with her hand urging the ink out.  It was too much.  She was too good.  She couldn't stop as she crossed washing powder off the shopping list…" 

Bacon Bliss

Dear Beyoncé,

The Golden Ticket

Contributed by Sarah:

Of all the exciting and wonderful things that have happened in my life recently.. the *most* exciting is discovering that no one likes the “Crisp White” flavor of Franzia.  I know this because after a long weekend of avoiding responsibility, Lucy (the dog, not the married lady) put her paw on me and looked longingly into my eyes with the “let’s take a walk” look and I thought, “Damn, I’m out of boxed wine.” Well, at 6pm on a Sunday, Wal-Mart has pretty much been picked clean. Not only the booze section but also the milk, cheeses, lotions, breads, its ridiculous the assortment of “oh, I guess I can make do with this” that came home with me Sunday evening.  

Back to the point. When I rounded the corner into boxed wine mecca, my heart sank. No boxes of Chillable Red. No fruity red sangria.  No Cabernet Sauvignon.  Not even one box of the pink shit was available. What was available? 40 boxes of Crisp White.

What to do?  You bend over ten or fifteen times to see if maybe somewhere back in the dust is a lone chillable red that’s hiding in the showers. No luck. You contemplate buying too many bottles of $3 wine which would get you through the night. Then realize that no, that’s just not going to do. Ask yourself if Crisp White really could be that bad? No, it couldn’t, could it? Maybe we should try it just this once. Maybe. Let’s look one more time for the good stuff.

OH JOY! There’s an one off-brand Vella in “pink shit” (I’ve decided that’s the official flavor because my alcohol addled mind can’t think of the real name) flavor hiding among the Crisp White like that magical golden ticket or an Easter egg!   Sunday evening saved.

Lucy (again, the dog) got her walk around the block, I got my marginal quality wine and a good night’s rest. 

Dear OkCupid,

Dear Eye Doctor,

Two Night Stand

Contributed by Puddin' Pop Grace:

The first time we slept together I was drunk. Like, drunk to the point that I'm not sure how it happened. It was our first date. I had the "Grace is online dating Amber Alert" out to Chris. So I do know that at the second bar I texted her that you were normal, I just didn't feel any chemistry between us. 

But it was a slippery slope. You went for it, I was drunk and lonely and in need of some reassurance about my looks, so I went along with it. The next morning I smiled thinking of you. I was sure it was a one night stand, and I was fine with that. 

And then you called me again. I thought I must have read the situation wrong. Maybe you actually liked me. Maybe I could like hanging out with you. You weren't a bad guy, just not my type. I decided to give you another chance. 

I went to your house and met your roommates. We're the same age, but I'm at least 4 years older than you in practice. The house was a mess. Your roommates were stoned and eating cookies. 

We watched half a movie. We went to your room. We watched Spongebob and you took off my shirt. We slept together again. You fell asleep. I looked around your room while you were sleeping. There was jewelry from other girls. There was a large box of condoms in your trash can. I snuck out of your house, feeling empty. 

This isn't what I want. 

Dear 20-Something Men,

Rosetta's Stone

Contributed by Kris:

Do not, I repeat NOT, wear high heels in the stream.  You will thank me for this later.

First Date Voice Over

Contributed by Hush Puppy Grace:

Actual Thoughts I Actually Had on a First Date:

Oh, well he’s very attractive. Quite possibly more attractive than I was expecting. Oh shit, he’s too attractive. What the fuck am I doing here? Wait, what’s wrong with him? He’s hot, employed (with a good job even) and seemingly normal… Not a good sign.

I am way over dressed for this dive bar. One should warn someone when they are going to a new bar that, essentially, this bar is someone’s living room. They've got on full-fledged overhead lights. Not forgiving. Oh god, he’s going to see the massive pimple I’m trying to hide with a combination of concealer and swooping my hair just right over my forehead.

He says to me, “Breakfast is really important to you.” This is after discussing how I wake up early every morning and an off-handed comment on the amount of Eggo Waffles you can purchase from Sam’s Club. (48 in a box, in case you were wondering. It’s very economical.) This dude just drew conclusions about my life. Who does that? I just passively listen to people… Maybe I’m doing it wrong.

He’s really hot. I want to rip that cigarette out of his mouth and climb over this table and straddle him.

I think I just said “fuck” for about the thirteenth time in this conversation… He hasn't cursed once. Oh shit. This guy is going to think I am vulgar and classless and crude. This is definitely why I’m never going to hear from this guy again.

Wait, what if I am fooling myself into thinking he’s not going to call me because of my foul mouth.  Maybe he’s not calling me because I’m a terrible person.  Or because I’m not cute enough. Or because of that giant zit… Let’s just go with the cursing, that’s the best thing for my ego.

We’re saying goodbye. He gives me a hug. He says “Let me know if you think of something before I do.” What. The. Fuck. What does that mean? That actually means nothing. I spend the entire night and the whole next day obsessing about this line. I ask every person at work how to interpret this… “It probably means he wants to go out with you again.” “Maybe it was like word-vomit that just came out and he didn't even know what it meant.” “Maybe he’s perfected the art of getting someone to obsess over him by saying weird shit…. Yeah, I think I’m going to start using that line.”

Pet Deep

I think it's about time we dust off our raccoon. Er, spoon? Whatever. This blog, is what I mean. Let's dust it off. Break it in. Beat it out. 

Be advised: raccoonwithaspoon.com is meant to be lighthearted. Please don't get political or racist or religious (or anti-religious) or anything else that might make me feel the need to delete your post. 

As a kick start  Kris, I'm posting the email you just sent us. Cause it's cute. And well written. And I'd like a Bissell Pet Deep Cleaner. 

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Remember when I won that Bissell floor cleaner?  Here’s the review that I wrote for the Bissell website, with the secret hope that they will send me more free house cleaning equipment.  Also, it did a fantastic job.  So if anyone needs to borrow it, have at it!

Please note that I did not include the phrase, “As a busy mother of three precocious kids” like I originally wanted to do.  Restraint, how does it work??

Two thumbs and 6 paws up!

Have you ever had a moment when you realized that you were living in filth? For me that moment came this past Saturday after I cleaned my carpet for the first time with the Bissell Pet Deep Cleaner. I have 3 "kids", 2 long-haired cats and 1 hound dog. When they've made messes in the past, I was always quick to spot clean, but I had never used a carpet cleaner throughout my home. My carpet is only 3 years old, and it seemed to be aging gracefully. Or so I thought. After making a first pass with the Bissell Pet Deep Cleaner, I was both delighted and disgusted. Delighted because my carpet looked brand new and smelled so fresh! Disgusted because I pulled enough pet hair out of my carpet to assemble a new long-haired cat. I vacuum on a regular basis. But as I was changing the water in the cleaner for the third time, I realized how much a vacuum misses. The Bissell Pet Deep Cleaner was easy to assemble and easy to use. The Pet Stain and Odor Cleaning Formula made my whole house smell so wonderful and my carpet look so new! If you have a pet, or especially if you have multiple pets, I encourage you to give the Pet Deep Cleaner a try.

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Maybe we could start writing reviews for things we use in our daily lives...or happen to use randomly. Things we especially love or especially hate. 

The truth is, I'll probably get pretty lazy after this post (copying & pasting someone else's email is the opposite of lazy, yes?).  So it's OK if no one does it. But I'm gonna try. And you should too. 

Also, feel free to write about anything. Or post pictures or videos. Com'on, com'on. 

Take that, Facebook.