In a galaxy far, far away people wore things without sleeves. Then someone invented sleeves. They called it: “a robe.” According to Darth Vader, this was not sufficient enough. Instead of taking over galaxies and impregnating a woman with an illegitimate child, maybe all he really needed was a “Snuggie.” It has big sleeves and you can’t see his hands. You can’t see his face either, but that’s beside the point. No one realizes it, but this dark force of nature started a fashion trend that would carry on through the ages. Obi Wan had a Snuggie, Skywalker had one, even Princess Leia followed the trend. A really big blanket you can put your arms through. Unless you’re a Wookiee.
It’s official. The Snuggie has made it’s mark, which surprises me because I think it’s one of those cheesy products forced upon Americans on a daily basis that we don’t really need. What am I going to do with a blanket with sleeves? Apparently it “Keeps me warm and my hands free!” Oh, I wasn’t aware that I was having so much trouble with this dilema before the Snuggie. It’s also “Super-soft fleece!” Um, okay. I apparently don’t own anything “super-soft” and need serious help. I think it’s cheap, silly, and a production of someone bored. Also, it’s one-size-fits-all. That can’t be good. In adult size that could mean that a 200 lb. Wookiee can fit into the same Snuggie as a 130 lb. princess. This does not make anyone feel good, especially me. I need to wear a size small for my self-esteem. A Wookiee wants to pick bugs out of my hair. In the Millenium Falcon, that would be flattering. In the real world, no thank you and please pass the bug spray!
My point being, I don’t want to wear some mass-produced product that can fit a man (no offense honey) or a Bigfoot. I am a woman and need women-like things. This is probably why “they” came up with an animal-print pattern, because it’s “sexy” or women enjoy looking like animals. I don’t get it–this makes me not like it all the more. I don’t dress up in over-sized cheetah blankets and I definately don’t want my husband to either. I think it’s weird!
So with all of this dancing around my subconscious, I went shopping last week. They had already stapled up the Christmas decorations, even though they weren’t done selling the overstocked Halloween candy. Then I saw it: “The Snuggie!,” stacked very neatly at the door, right next to the discount home pregnancy tests, for our convenience. (“Holy Crap! I might be pregnant.. again! Oh look, a Snuggie!”)
My daughter saw the Snuggie! and she got instantly excited. I made a face that mothers make when they’re caught off guard and are seeing something silly that their kids want for no real reason. She was nonplussed. She thought it was “neat” and “I should get one.” Little did I know.
A few days passed, and my husband had to go to the store to get some batteries. He came back with the batteries, an LED flashlight, and, you guessed it, a Snuggie! I smiled an uncomfortable smile and giggled, reflecting back to the exchange with my daughter. I didn’t know what to say. Turns out, my husband had the same reaction as my daughter, only he took things a step further and actually bought one. His reasoning, like my daughter’s, was simple: he thought it “would be cute,” and “I’m always cold.” Thus, a ginormous Wookiee blanket was the answer.
I was touched. It’s brown and I look like an Ewok, but I was touched. I think it’s so sweet that he would get me something I hated in my mind.
“The Snuggie” works, to my dismay. It is warm, but it doesn’t keep my hands free. It’s so huge! I need to use my “free” hands to carry it around with me when I move! I have to roll up the sleeves twenty times just to use the bathroom–I don’t want to wear a “dripping Snuggie!” It’s so long I could be on stilts and no one would notice. Also, the top of it is supposed to wrap around me somehow, and I wondered “Where are the directions?” How could a big blanket with sleeves be so complicated? How do I make it stay around me without tripping over it at the same time? At least I’m not cold. Despite the size, I misjudged “The Snuggie.” All my kids want to use it. Just another gift from my husband to me to them. I love it! It didn’t hurt that my big Wookiee blanket came with a “free” book light too. That came with directions. My husband is currently “borrowing” it. You see, the “Snuggie” is something for the whole family! Thanks honey! I got a gift, I’m warm, I can share it, and I know my husband loves “Star Wars;” and me.
I haven’t felt like blogging in a while because no one incident would take up a whole page, so I’ll give you the gist of it. (You know, I’ve never had to actually spell the word ”gist” before. I’ve said it a hundred times, but never had to write it and had to look it up in the dictionary. Weird, huh?) April showers bring: police.
My husband and I went grocery shopping (it’s been six hours, I know) and missed a few calls from our son. By the time we called him back–panic–he had called the cops terrified that we were shot dead in a gutter somewhere. What had he been watching? Well, he’s not watching it anymore I can tell you that! We were embarassed and horrified to say the least. We got home and the cops were still there, I gave my son a big hug, I felt stupid in front of a cop . . . again, and naturally sent the kids to bed early. Now, when we want to run errands in peace, we leave our older son still in charge but leave his little sister in charge of the phone to make sure he doesn’t call the police again. (Obviously unless there is a “real” emergency.) I think we’ve been out to dinner once since. And it was while they were in school. Oh, and my youngest kid turned eight.
May: Mother’s Day. I got breakfast and some cute crafts from my kids that they made in school. I don’t recall anything funny happening. I did get scolded for soaking dishes, though. It was my day “off.”
End of May: Sixth grade camp with my son. We meet up with the rest of the sixth graders at the school waiting to go on the bus. Then we received a laminated card to wear like a necklace AT ALL TIMES. We waited some more. Oh, then we waited even more. Then we waited a little longer and dragged our baggage to cars where people said “Squeeze it in and hopefully you’ll find it when we get to the camp that is two hours away.” Then we waited again.
Then we are squeezed onto a bus where my son doesn’t know anybody and we can’t even sit next to each other. Before we leave the school, the principal tells us, “Remember the car that has your baggage. You will use the same car when we leave camp in two and a half days.” Oh great. Thank goodness for my twelve-year-old’s memory or we would’ve been screwed.
Camp Whitcomb Mason: (I found out where we were going a week before departing. They kept the name of the camp a state secret all year–very helpful guys!) We get off the bus and are told, ”The name of your cabin is on your tag. Find your cabin!!”
Um, that isn’t helpful for several reasons: 1) I’ve never been here before. 2) The map we were given is reminisent of a child’s drawing containing point A and point B and one line. 3) The camp is not in a line, not even a child’s example of a line. 4) It was cold and raining and we were forced to drag our heavy baggage around with us until we found our cabin. 5) Some of the cabins are hidden under heavy trees, steel, and an immigration wall. My feet are wet already.
6) There is no smoking or drinking. We meet up at the main building and waited some more . . . in the rain. Then we waited even longer in heavier rain. Who’s in charge? No one’s in charge. I am in a cabin with girls, for obvious reasons, and I don’t know their names or who they are. I know them by numbers. It’s kind of like prison. I especially remember #11. That’s all I’m sayin’. More waiting and more rain and finally we play musical chairs in the main dining hall of our side of the camp.
Yes, there are two sides. My kid’s friends, of course, are on the other side. We are on Friendship side. It’s not friendly. The James side is the camp for the rich and famous. Over there, you don’t have to walk to the bathroom using a flashlight, it smells nicer, chaperones get their own bathroom, and it looks like where characters from “Different Strokes” would stay if they were forced to go to camp. Our side, well, characters from “Good Times” (where good times never happened) would be content with it and not complain. At least they probably had a lot of socks. Even poor people manage to have plenty of socks.
I, however, neither poor nor rich brought the recommended amount listed on the sheet that displayed what we can and cannot bring. It was three pairs. I brought four–the pair I was wearing, the pair I changed into during “free time the very first day,” a pair for the next day, and a pair to go home in. This was not enough. I suffered. By the second day, my feet were turning into fish and I desperately wanted to put a fresh pair of socks on but only had one pair left. I felt very high-maintence.
To make matters worse, I noticed my son did not bring his new pair of shoes, the ones without holes in them. He said, “I know. I changed my mind at the last minute.” This means he does not have a back-up pair of shoes. This means I don’t have a back-up pair of shoes. I’m a mom. He can’t suffer. I brought “Now ‘n’ Laters,” licorice bites, and fruit-flavored tootsie rolls (just in case he didn’t eat the typical cafeteria food. What? I didn’t say I was a super mom.), and now I have to give him my shoes from last summer that are no longer white and you have to physically tie them. There’s no velcro here! This is a challenge enough for him, but there is NO way in the firey depths of Hell I was giving him my warm, toasty socks that I had been hoarding for the next morning (You’d think I was starving and dreaming up a nice, juicy steak to keep my feet warm.). Kids need to learn the value of good packing. However he did bring soap. He didn’t use it, but he brought it . . . “just in case.” Just in case I made him use it, presumably.
In between the suffering, waiting and freezing with no direction whatsoever, we actually did some stuff. We walked, we tied-dyed, we sang camp songs, we walked some more, we dug bones out of owl puke, we had smores, then we walked again, we played games a lot while “dads” were on their cell phones pretending to be busy, and then, as shocking as this may sound, we walked and waited some more . . . in cold, evil, unforgiving rain.
My feet were wet for so long that they itched all night. My biggest worry? Ticks. Ever since I was a kid they find their way up my sleeve or the back of my neck or up my shorts (that was just by walking my dumb dog). I wore pants and no perfume=no ticks. This was my only break.
Still I got to spend quality time with my son and then we waited to get on the damn bus as soon as super humanly possible. The day we left was, ironically, perfect. Sunshine and warmth–it was a song out of the sixties. We had been to war and the government was sending their troops home. I told my son “Let’s get in line now before everyone else, and when they blow the whistle, we’ll make a run for it!” We had a lot of fun together. I’ll never forget racing for that bus. And you know what? We got to sit together.
My husband and I are huge “Terminator” fans so naturally we were curious about the new “Sara Conner Chronicles” hour long show that has a lot to do with a teenage boy, a hot robot, mom, and time travel that makes no sense. It’s way cool . . . by the fifth episode. We were half way through when it dawned on me: you know, with a teenage boy in the house and a hot teenage girl robot that does anything you command, you’d think he’d be taking advantage of the situation, but alas, network television doesn’t allow robot porn, not even on FOX. It’s okay if the robot kills people, though, and tears fistfulls of flesh off the corpse, but oh no, not hot robot sex! You know because that would just be WRONG.
Think about it–a teenage boy and a hot robot chick. She doesnt’t get her period, headaches, or nag you about dirty socks next to the bed. The kid doesn’t even have to worry about her orgasm — she can’t! You don’t have to worry about STDs or knocking her up, and she never sleeps or eats or gets tired. My husband was more than enthusiastic about this idea. Go figure.
Then I said, “What about a man robot? How come they’re not hot and doing whatever you say?” My husband kind of agreed and turned it into a point of “Why is the woman robot the good one on T.V. when she was the enemy in Terminator 3?” That’s not exactly what I was trying to say, but it’s nice to know that technology has it’s own double-standards too. Of course, like a typical woman, I would have a male robot fix my roof, clean up the monsoon of was once a basement, reaarange furniture until everything was perfect, plant a garden, bathe the kids, rob a bank, vacuum under beds, and talk to it about my problems and feelings, among other things. Gee wiz, I’d be too exhausted uploading demands to take it to bed. I think your typical woman would cause the robot to self-terminate in order to escape.
A hot chick robot wouldn’t care about escaping because guys only want a couple of things and those things are easy to program. Great. Now I have to compete with Heidi Klum and hot chick robots. It’s so unfair! Well, those are probably the same thing anyway. Only a robot could be that hot all of the time; even the Stepford Wives have their work cut out for them. I’m lucky if I can put in a pony tail without pulling a muscle.
Still, The Sarah Conner Chronicles does have an interesting gender dynamic going on. John, the future leader of humanity, spends his time going to school and taking orders from a hot robot and mom, neither of whom will let the kid take a pee without authorization. You gotta wonder how this is going to help train him for the war against the machines….probably pent up sexual frustration, and pissed off he didn’t think to get some from his hot robot. Life’s such a bitch.
It’s astounding to me that we’re forced to discuss the Presidential election over a year before we can do anything about it. Nevertheless, for whatever reason we have to deal with an endless amount of “analysis” by talking heads who attempt to make sense out of the horse-race, when, in fact, the horse is still sitting in the barn, minding it’s own business of eating hay and talking to Wilbur. (If you don’t know where Wikipedia is, I can’t help ya.)
Even more astounding is that none of this boring discussion has done diddly to address the single largest voting bloc out there: the 50-51% of eligible voters who don’t vote. If anything, this extended campaigning will only grow the core apathetic voters to 52 or maybe 53%, hey I’m no statistician. So, political hacks in all parties put down the Kool-aid and listen up: if you want to get out the Apathy Vote, I’ve got a few thoughts. You can write them down in your notebooks too, and tape them up in your “war room,” I won’t sue… very much:
1. Don’t be so boring. Your candidate is boring, and you need to face it. He (there’s only one she) is a boring rich guy who spends every day trying to convince us that he’s one of us. He’s not, we’re not buying, nor do we care. Embrace your guy’s boring: he’s a driven guy who (hopefully) knows a lot about politics, world history, and military and social issues. We want your guy to be a geek, it’s okay. Let the rest of us be colorful representatives of this bleak, homogeneous, clueless culture.
2. Stop telling us he’s “one of the guys.” We don’t want to have “a beer” with him either. I want the Leader Of The Free World™ to be leading the free world and not sucking back a long-neck with yours truly. I’m a slacker, not your guy. I’m not going to keep us out of World War 3, that’s your guy’s job. I’d like him to be talking with the pissed-off leader of Pakistan NOT after spending the day watching sports bloopers and getting hammered on Jaegermeister. Your boy needs a clear head for that stuff. Leave the rest to me.
3. Address some actual issue. Yeah, I know that beating up poor immigrants or discussing the merits of single-sex marriage are fun and activate a lot of blockhead bloggers, but we don’t care. What people decide to do to each other in the bedroom is their own business, so long as I’m not forced to watch it on YouTube, and no poor immigrant is lining up to take my job nor the job of anyone with an actual skill. Building a wall is stupid and we don’t trust government to not screw it up anyway. When we’ve got a tornadoes in January in the Midwest and a healthcare system ranked just above Bosnia, your guy has no time to waste on personal sexual orientations. Just let it go.
4. Stop denying evolution. If it helps you out, believe that god differentiates species and He does it via a process He created called “evolution.” Whatever your kink, you need to get over this and embrace science. It’s not such a bad thing. But please stop saying it’s not true. That just makes your guy look like a moron. Knock it off. You went to an Ivy League school too, you know better. Give him good counsel.
I was watching Dr. Phil the other day and was astounded that such a popular show could donate an entire hour discussing the pros and cons of men wearing baggy pants, as in showing off their boxer shorts to leave very little to the imagination. Here I thought Oprah was the fashion guru. I can’t believe this is how America is spending its free time! With all the problems in this country, I think we could make better use of it discussing how to feed the hungry, clothe the poor, build homes for the homeless, create jobs for the unemployed, and even who really is the better candidate. Baggy pants? This is the least of our problems, but Dr. Phil’s guests turned it into a race, discrimination, freedom of choice issue. I can sort of see why, but come on! So what if more African-Americans where their pants below the belt, but has anyone really done an accurate count? Does it really matter? Does anyone really care?
Moms seem to care. They don’t want their sons walking around with their butt hangin’ out or girls to be oogling. Dads, on the other hand, seem to embrace this fashion trend and join in on the youthful fun. Some moms think it looks like they’re carrying a “load” for safe keeping in the back. Guys like to show off their boxers with paisleys, polk-a-dots, stripes, cartoon characters, hearts, and Merry Christmas slogans. I guess real men aren’t afraid to show their softer side, at least butt. Apparently, you’re not supposed to wear this style with tighty whiteys, but some do anyway; usually white folk.
The discrimination associated with saggy pants apparently — according to the show – has to do with the ease of concealing a weapon in the trousers of a black guy. I can see why that would urk some people off. I can hide a small pistol in my breasts, but no one is looking at me suspiciously. I can also hide a knife in my sock, or a shotgun in my purse–we can fit anything in there! Not one person looks at me funny. That’s not true, all people look at me a little funny, but they don’t think I’m carrying a cargo of ammunition in my panties. At least I don’t think so.
I don’t think this fashion statement should be banned. I wouldn’t wear my clothes this way, but I’m a white girl living in the suburbs. How would I feel if people were offended by my khakis or Burberry scarf? Actually, I’d feel fine about it–screw ‘em! I make no judgements on how guys wear their pants, but it looks so uncomfortable! My pants hangin’ off my butt would be so difficult to manuever, and imagine all the guys staring at me at the grocery store. Gross! In any case, I think we have more important things to worry about like getting along, paying it forward, banning mini-vans, and finally getting that dork out of the White House. What’s next Dr. Phil? Wearing your hat sideways? Stick to troubled marriages and feuding in-laws instead. Psychiatrists should stay away from fashion. Baggy pants is out of your league.