Auntie Goose

Being the world's best aunt comes with its quips. Not only do I leave my sister's house smelling like baby wipes and peas, but I have crazy songs in my head for the remainder of the week. I can't tell you the looks I get by walking to class singing, "I see a fire truck, a big, red, SHINY fire truck!" or "J says juh, J says juh, every letter makes a sound, and J says juh!" I never even hear the full songs, because my nephew keeps pushing the buttons before the song finishes. So here's what I've been singing for the past 3 days – mind you, this song is sung by a lady with a heavy Brooklyn accent. Keep that in mind:

"I see a, I see a, I see a fire truck, I see, I see a fire, I see, I see a, I see a fire truck, a big red, I see a…et cetera, et cetera…"

Trust me; I'm going gang - busters here!

And besides these electronic jingles, I've been reunited with all my old favorite nursery rhymes. I'm not going to lie, and neither are my hips, Mother Goose has always frightened me. Am I alone in thinking that these songs make absolutely no sense?

I have decided to rid the world of confusing nursery rhymes. Let's begin with Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater:

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her.
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her, very well.

Oh man, do I have problems with this one! To begin, why did Mr. Pumpkin Eater put his wife in a pumpkin shell? Have you smelled pumpkins about a week after Halloween? In no way could he keep her 'very well'. Also, why couldn't Peter keep his wife? My bet is that he found a hot, twenty something in leggings and decided she was much prettier hanging on his arm then his current wife of 42 with stretch marks. Peter's plan: get rid of his wife… permanently. Finally, even those this song is meant for kids, how can putting a person in a stinky pumpkin be appropriate? Are these the things we want to be teaching our children? I can see the teachers now…

"Okay my little, gullible people! It's time for cognitive development! Now, according to Peter the pumpkin eater, when we can't deal with problems, we need to find an abnormally large vegetable to put them in..."

Sheesh! If we took the goose in the bonnet seriously, jail birds would be awful stinky fellows.

I can also tell that this rhyme is not 'nice'. Dude, Mother Goose needs to get down to the nitty-gritty and be honest. If you are going to talk about locking someone up in a pumpkin, you might as well give the gory details about how it went down. The Grim Brothers are great examples of 'honest' storytellers. With this in mind, I'm changing the words to the following:

Peter, Peter, the big cheater,
Killed his wife so she wouldn’t meet 'her'
Put her body in a pumpkin shell,
And there the wife began to smell.

Much better! It may be a little graphic, disturbing, and not 'kid friendly', but honesty is the best medicine, Mrs. Goose. All you need is a spoonful of sugar and you have a sweet concoction of truth-telling deliciousness that will slide down your throat with the greatest of ease. Perhaps you should take your pastel-colored bonnet and try your rhyming talents elsewhere. May I suggest pairing up with Vanilla Ice? I hear he's back with a brand new invention, baby.

It's Not You, It's Me

At the end of the year I try desperately to come up with a couple bad habits to change for the following 12 months. Every year I try to make things work between me and resolutions, and every year I am bogged down by my lack of decision-making skills (nunchuck skills and computer-hacking skills I've got down!). So after yet another January of fighting with commitment, I have decided to break things off with resolutions.

Resolutions and I never really agreed on anything. In end-to-end traffic, he would tell me to be patient. I would then proceed to curse at the old couple moving slower than a herd of turtles in front of me. He takes 2 steps forward, I take 2 steps back. We do not go together, Paula Abdul! You dance on a floor of lies!

Resolutions and I had some good times [insert puffy cloud border and heavenly harp strumming here]…

- Using "schnykies" or "pork chop sandwiches!" instead of other profane exclamations after stubbing my toe on magically appearing stumps and pebbles.
- Swearing off soda pop…except for Sprite, and Coke, and Root Beer, and Dr. Pepper.
- Reserving heavy ridicule and mockery for those my own size – shirt size that is.

Now that resolutions and I have separated, I don't feel guilty on keeping all the bad habits I have now. Maybe I'll even pick up some more! Thank goodness for great role models like Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan! Without them, I would never have known that keeping all your same destructive behaviors is attractive and gets you attention. I'd also like to thank Rehab. Without it, I would never have the audacity to create irresolutions. And without Amy Winehouse, I would never know how to say no, no, no to rehab (and how to work blonde hair with inch-thick eye liner). A toast to you both! (Pun fully intended).


So here are 5 of my New Year’s Irresolutions…a month late, but worth the wait.

# Uno: One word: Addiction.

My addictions compose my personality. As far as I'm concerned I do not intend to quit them. How would I keep up on my current pop culture without reading crappy magazines and watching countless hours of Best Week Ever? My ever-present smile would surely hide under blankness if I could not get my daily dose of YouTube. In fact, I think I will pick up on a new addiction. I already have an obsession with Guitar Hero, so why not develop a full addiction to it? What a brilliant idea! Here is my plan:

First thing tomorrow I will go to Game Stop and purchase all three guitar hero games and miscellaneous Scratch n' Sniff stickers to decorate my guitar and set it apart from the others. I will then being to play 24/7 while only taking breaks to watch the latest YouTube videos and take time to expand my 'tight and shiny' wardrobe. Once I become an expert guitarist and score 1 million points, I will surely be signed by a record label. It's too bad that I will let the glory of Guitar Hero greatness go to my head, and force my band to break up after only releasing 2 platinum albums. My despair of the breakup will lead me to a 'minor' drinking problem. I will attempt rehab a few times, but will relapse back into insanity after each treatment. I will probably spend the remainder of my life on the B list, surviving by starring in partially scripted reality shows and playing gigs at retirement homes for old people with names such as Gertrude, Gilbert, Pervical, and Henrietta. I will die at home in front of the television with my heavily scented guitar in hand, dreaming about the glory of being in the biggest Guitar Hero band of all time.

Thank goodness for spontaneous purchases and purple spandex pants.

# Dos: Three Syllables: My Burping.

For those who have heard my burping expertise, congratulations. You have witnessed art. A kind of Picasso/finger-painting while missing a few fingers style of art. It’s so modern, it’s futuristic! Anywho, this will be the year that I receive global recognition for my talent…

...by competing on American Gladiators. I have already considered the fact that I only weigh in at a lanky 120lbs, and that when I flex, my bicep plops down instead of up (dang you, Gravity!), but I am still confident in my ability to win. You see, I will not rely on my physical body to push Hellga or Mayhem off the platform with those oversized Q-Tips. I will reach deep inside my abdomen to produce a bomb-sized belch. The shock wave from my burp will send the opponent flying into the sweat-filled puddle of death-water 500 feet below. Success! From there, I will be asked to perform on many talk-shows. During a filming of Larry King Live show, I will become intimidated by Larry’s teal bowtie and fuchia suspenders…so intimidated that I cannot burp! Only hiccup! Larry will boo me off the set, and I will develop a minor drinking problem. I will drink my sorrows away, and spend the remainder of my life on the C list. They will find me dead at home with a handful of Q-Tips in my hand, as I dream about the glory of being the best belcher of all time.

Thank goodness for Root Beer and Scotch.

# Tres: Quotes, Quotes, Quotes.

My spontaneous quoting shall continue. Speaking of which, I don’t know how you tell you this, but I’m kind of a big deal. People know me. I have many leather bound books, and my apartment smells of rich mahogany. I'm Miss Priss?

Thank goodness for Will Ferrell movies.

# Cuatro: Papers. Pain. Procrastination.

I fully intend to continue to procrastinate as much as humanly possible this year. If I have a paper due at 7:00am, I will begin to write it at 11:59pm that night prior! I don’t care if I get all shaky and twitchy from liters upon liters of Mountain Dew, spelling is overrated anyway. I am so set on leaving everything to the last minute, that I think I'll finish this post tomorrow…or next Thursday…or more likely the last week in December.

Thank goodness for caffeine.

The Abominable Journey

Dear Friends and Family,

By now I’m sure you all have noticed the large amounts of snow in the valley. It is because of this snow that I write this letter. I am about to embark on a dangerous journey. Much like watching 12 hours of infomercials, the voyage may kill me. I have asked a camera crew to follow me in hopes of taking over Bear Grylls job to become the next star of Woman vs. Wild.

Here is the reasoning for my departure: Upon waking this morning to a winter crapland (there is no wonder in 2 feet of snow for me), I was informed that Costco was selling tall, blond, strapping lads for $19.95 each. And if I act in the next 60 minutes, they’ll throw in a guy with an athletic body (a $60 value) completely FREE! Because I am lacking in the dating department, I cannot pass up the opportunity to purchase a potential hubby. I have spent the last 30 minutes collecting my snow attire. Unfortunately, all I could find was my one-piece snow suit made of real aardvark fur complete with hood and matching gloves. I forgot how much of a fashion statement this suit is. Soon everyone will be wearing one of them.

You should not fret for my safety, for I have taken the necessary precautions to survive such a demanding adventure by packing the following items:

- One bag of marshmallows to mark my trail and help me get back home.

- A big green shovel to dig my way through the snow, and fight off snow beasts and crazy old people who block my way.

- My sassy red stilettos to woo the man of my picking.

- My Smooth Jazz CD to knock out the guy of my choice for easier transportation.

If you do not hear from me in the next 48 hours, please send a search party in the form of a St. Bernard with a small barrel of brandy around his neck to find me. Chances are I have already perished from Jack Frost's hatred and anger. Instead of finding me buried under thick layers of snow, you can expect to see me perfectly preserved in a clear block of ice beside a woolly mammoth and Scrat. Because I will technically be alive, I will still be able to move the area surrounding my eyes. For communication purposes, I will blink once for ‘yes’, twice for ‘no’ and will wink at those boys who I find especially good looking.

Too bad this communication will probably not come in handy. It is more likely that a struggling dog sled team will stumble upon my frozen corpse first. The poor musher, after wiping the frozen goobers from his scruffy mustache, will instantly recognize my furry body as belonging to the one and only Abominable Snowman. Being frozen I will only be able to blink, and Mr. Musher will have no idea of the grave mistake that he is making. He will immediately contact CNN and Mythbusters to prove that the Urban legend of "The A.S." can be Confirmed. Adam and Jamie will conduct miscellaneous tests on me to determine that I am a cross-breed of human, ape, and aardvark. For the fear of the aggression and super-human-monster strength that I am sure to possess, I will be kept frozen for many decades.

During these numerous years, guilt of turning me into a Museum artifact will haunt and torture Mr. Musher. He will have flashbacks of my hurt-filled sapphire eyes blinking at him. Blink, blink. Blink, blink. Blink, blink. The horror! The horror! of this blinking! In a moment of insanity, Mr. Musher will grab a green shovel and rush to my rescue. After thirty years as a frozen mythical creature, my freedom will be returned to me. I will remove my furry costume, and finally believe in love at first sight. Kenny G's "Forever in Love" will echo across the horizon as we ride into the sunset behind his dog sled team...

...assuming you do not come to my aid before he does. No matter how this trek turns out, I do expect to return with a man. Wish me luck. Oh, and, please let Scrat know if you find his acorn.

Hug hug, kiss kiss, big hug, big kiss, little kiss,

-Miss Priss

P.S. Mike, I'm keeping my promise. You can have my laptop and old cassettes.

Let's Get Real

A couple weeks ago I watched what is advertised as being "the most dramatic season of The Bachelor yet." I must admit, this season does look promising. The premiere contained the perfect mix of craziness: blonds, booze, boobs, and one really desperate girl showing her aquatic side (just of word of advice, ladies: the way to a man's heart is not through wiggling your webbed toes in his face).

So there I was in my flannel pajamas eating some Triscuit and Easy Cheese, when mid-squeeze I had an idea. I sat there frozen - the Triscuit in my palm becoming completely overwhelmed by the mountain of cheese consuming its delicious low-sodium layering of whole-grain goodness - as I thought. I had been brainstorming for months on how to make the most cashola with the least amount of physical effort. The answer was literally staring me in the face: create a ridiculous and far-fetched reality show.

Over the years, I have watched my fair share of reality shows. I often reminisce about seeing my mom gag at the contestants eating coagulated blood balls and cow intestines on Fear Factor. I must admit that approximately 2 years ago, innocent bystanders must have thought me a British boarding school headmistress, as my insult of choice was a heavily accented,"you are the weakest link...goodbye." I openly admit to my reality nerdiness, but my religious watching of partly-scripted television has allowed me to understand what it takes to make it in the Real World AND how to create one successful reality show.

Nowadays, you can make a reality show about anything. All you need are the following three aspects: The catchy title, the witty one-liner, and the outrageous situation in which to house the absurd idea.

Survivor and The Bachelor both got this memo. The titles are a little bland by themselves, but once you add a flashy one-liner, they are gold mines. At the end of each Survivor episode when "the tribe has spoken," it is as if I am watching one of those secretly suggestive cultural shows on the Discovery Channel. The bachelor has the dramatic "Will you accept this rose?" After which I proceed to bite my nails and sit in pure wonderment over whether the ditsy blond with bronzer running down her legs will accept the opportunity to date the tall, dark, and handsome hunksicle. Both are casted with typical characters to add the maximum degree of drama. Gosh, these shows are suspenseful, and in no way predictable!

So here's what I have in mind for my own reality series. I picture the commercial to read something like this:

Thought Hell's Kitchen was the most intense show you've ever seen? Buckle that seat belt, baby! Does Flavor of Love take the cake in your bakery of ridiculous relationship TV? Prepare to throw away your cookbook! Coming soon to a television near you, get ready to experience a show of religious proportions. The Monastery will take twelve boisterous strangers from their noisy, fast-paced lives and force them into the ultimate vow of silence. Isolated from society and denied communication, their sanity will be pushed to the limit. Every week, one person will be voted out as they hear the fateful words, "you have said your last prayer." For every week they last, they will be one step closer to winning a million dollars. Will these loud mouths be able to keep their trap shut? Will the absolute isolation and silence drive them mad? Find out this Spring only on NBC.

Happiest Place on Earth

Next week, I will be traveling to Disney Land - the happiest place on earth...even though I may be older than the average Disney crazy. The following characters keep me going back. Most of their signatures are already in my autograph book except my number one. HOPEFULLY this will be the year!
#5 - Little Mermaid & Flounder. Who doesn't love this movie?? Who hasn't been a mermaid for Halloween? And I did have a cartoon crush on Prince Eric.
#4 - Although the Disney classics will always be best, I couldn't resist Dash from the Incredibles. Definitely one of the best. #3 - Even though I hate to be super cheesy, I love Sleeping Beauty. She is the ultimate princess and I will be visiting her castle shortly.

#2 - Thank you Disney for creating Jack Sparrow! He has added a new dimension to my life as I"m sure he has to many others.

#1 - Surprised? Besides being my relative (according to my uncle) Pocahontas gets to cliff jump, climb trees and play with animals all day. I truly envy her life.

When Life Gives You Wedgies...

WARNING! This post, while trying to keep it rated PG, contains material that might be offensive to readers whose iPods are limited to Kenny G, Barbara Streisand, and Michael Bolton.

The Wedgie. It turns a lady into a man, a man into a Golden Girl, and forces imminent humiliation upon whoever it attacks. It could seriously be the most horrendous clothing experience of our existence - leg warmers and the Dickie following close behind.

In my family, there are two types of wedgies:

1) Wedgie (wej-ee) n. The natural occurrence of undergarment bunching between the buttocks. May also go by the name of "Snuggie" if you are under 8 years old, or are in the immediate family of my sister-in-law.

2) Melvin (mel-vin) n. A super wedgie in which the undergarments say hello to the outside world. These are usually brought on by gym class ridicule or an extremely bumpy water slide.

With this distinction made, I am prepared to tell you about my recent wedgie experience.

The day was doomed to failure from the get-go. My newly cut bangs decided to time warp to 1984, and my bright eyeshadow decided to follow suit. Hoping that my weird luck would stay back with stirrup stretch pants and Duran Duran, I began my 20 minute trek across campus thinking the glass was half-full.

But then glass started to empty...

Precisely seven minutes into my walk, I began to feel my undaroos creeping where they did not belong. Whether it was my stylish, yet constricting jeans, or sassy walk coupled with heels that were the cause of the unwanted movement, I may never know. It only took three minutes for a mature wedgie to develop, and had I been wearing overalls within feet of my older brother, I would have suspected a melvin.

I have experienced quite a few award-winning, may-i-have-the-envelope-please-wedgies in my day, but this one surpassed them all. The wedgie of 2004 caused by an awkward layer of underwear, thick tights, and spandex pants was definitely the most painful. And the most recent melvin of Fall '05 with my sweats was practically painless, but far too visible. My current campus wedgie was the perfect combination of the two: maximum pain with the greatest visibility.

The Ultimate Embarrassment.

So there I was, looking like a blast from the past with the Hulk Hogan of wedgies, trying to find a way to rid myself of this humiliation. I figured I had 2 options:

Option #1: The Pick.
Um...hello...unless you want to commit social suicide you never, ever just up and pick your wedgie. First, you are admitting that you have a wedgie, and second, you are drawing even more unwanted focus to your derriere. Neither of which will help your self esteem. Also, if you are unsuccessful with your initial pick, further picks will be needed and you will be reduced to a monkey. While I like monkeys as much as the next average Jane, we have come too far in evolution for me to resort to such primitive behavior.

Option #2: The Natural Release.
Most of the time the wedgie will eventually work itself out of your fanny naturally. Altering your walk usually does the trick - but for those who oppose to walking with more length between their legs and taking wider strides should probably opt for something different. Allowing the wedgie to find it's way back home will also provide you with extra time to find a restroom or wide-trunked tree for a worry-free pick. 60% of the time, it works every time. Stats don't lie, folks. My vote goes to natural relief.

So with approximately 13 minutes left before reaching my next class, I started taking longer steps with high hopes that my wedgie would go away. But with a group of cute guys feet behind my rear, I couldn't bare to look completely ridiculous. Alas, my steps were just not big enough to release the wedgie. I was forced to suffer with my shame. I finished my trudge to class with my puffy bangs close to the ground, and my glass practically empty.

I am happy to say that I am no longer a victim of the super wedgie, though my discomfort will not soon be forgotten. I tried to cheer myself up today by watching the horrible performance of Britney Spears opening for the MTV Music Awards. Throughout the entire song, she stopped lip syncing multiple times, had distasteful dance moves, and looked confused and/or disinterested. This got me thinking. Maybe Ms. Spears wasn't stoned at all (like I had originally hypothesized). Maybe those tiny shorts had given her her own mondo-wedgie, and she was just weighing the best way to get rid of it... You should have gone with Option #1, Brit. I'm living proof that attempting Option #2 in heels is a bust.