Haiku of the Day

Dear Mean Faerie or Goblin or Spawn of Satan Who Is In Charge Of Making People and Animals Barf,

Hi.

I know it's been a while since we've spoken, and to be perfectly frank, that's been just fine with me. Yet, you've forced the conversation today, haven't you? In fact, you have ruined a perfectly good post I was writing about getting to meet Mary Roach last night, co-opting it, and forcing me to, instead, write you a mean letter.

Listen, MFOGOSOSWIICOMPAAB, I know that you know I've hated you for pretty much my whole life. This has not seemed to bother you, and we've been able to happily coexist without bothering each other very often. So what confuses me is why you had to come after me with such a vengeance today.

Well, I should clarify. You didn't come after me, you came after the wee-er one. While she was in her car seat. And we were 35 minutes from home. And I had nary a wipe or change of clothes in the car.

Because of you, MFOGOSOSWIICOMPAAB, I am now not only going to have to set fire to the car seat, I am going to have to set fire to my car, too. Not cool.

And then, just as a little haha joke you thought it would be funny for us to finally make it home (after completely dismantaling the car seat, strapping a nearly naked wee-er one into her brother's booster, strapping the wee one into the front passenger seat, and high-tailing it down the highway as fast as I could go while holding my breath from the stench) and discover a GIANT PILE OF PUKE on the newly cleaned carpet.

WTF, MFOGOSOSWIICOMPAAB, W. T. F.?

At first I was really pissed. Why would you make the dog puke everywhere like that? But then I noticed the empty box of raisins full of the teeth marks from a really stupid dog. Are you laughing hysterically now that I can't hate you for making him puke? Are you pleased that even though I want to swiftly kick your ass for the drama you caused in the car today, I can't, because you might have saved the dog's life? Of course, we still have to watch him carefully all night so that we can catch the first signs of kidney failure, because the moron seems to have re-eaten a portion of the regurgitated raisins (gross), but at least there was that initial puke to keep him from croaking.

So thanks, MFOGOSOSWIICOMPAAB. You have reinstated contact with me after radio silence for quite some time. You have killed the car seat, which pisses me off. You have altered the smell of my car, which really pisses me off. But hopefully you have saved my dog. So I guess I can't hate you as much I want to.

Still. You suck.

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned mother

I get it, but I don't like it

Dear Person Who Invented Fried Chicken That Is Not Really What I Would Count As Fried Chicken,

I get it. Really. I do. You were thinking about my health. And you were thinking about presentation, and ease of eating. But seriously, PWIFCTINRWIWCAFC... boneless, skinless chicken fried chicken breasts are BULLSHIT. Do you hear me? They are bull. shit.

Is it wrong that I want to go sit at a restaurant and have a nice waitperson bring me a glass of sweet tea, a plate of fried chicken (legs preferably), a mess of mashed potatoes, and some turnip greens? Is that so horrifying? I don't want to eat it everyday, I promise. But every now and then, mama needs to get her grease on. And shoveling handfuls of Golden Chick fried chicken livers into my mouth while I sit in the car is maybe not what I had in mind.

What IS on my mind? Thanks for asking. It's on-the-bone fried chicken, meant to be eaten with hands, sitting on a plate that is not made of paper, placed on a table with a red-checked tablecloth and maybe a vase with a bluebonnet in it.

This is what I want.

Why is it so hard to find? I live in the south, dammit! Sure, it's not the deep south, but it's Texas, and people talk funny and wear boots and vote republican *shiver*, so it counts.

Why then, PWIFCTINRWIWCAFC, did you have to come along and muck things up? We do not need dressed up fried chicken in Texas. We do not need knives and forks to eat our poultry. Skinless, boneless breasts?? Really?? Everyone - and I mean everyone - knows that the skin is the best damn part.

My grandmother is floating around somewhere right now, and she is fucking pissed off at you PWIFCTINRWIWCAFC, for ruining fried chicken as we know it. Her ghost is whispering into my ear that you are also probably the person responsible for inventing biscuits in a can. Convenient? Yes. Should they be called "biscuits?" Hell no!

I just can't believe your scheming ways have ruined fried chicken for an entire Texas town, PWIFCTINRWIWCAFC. Ruined it!

Now I have to go eat Popeyes in my car and dry my tears with hard, not-very-buttermilky biscuits.

Fie on you PWIFCTINRWIWCAFC.

Fie.

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned eater

Dear Asshole Who Stole My Debit Card Number,

Hi.

You suck.

And also? While I am all for saving the earth, I am not all for giving $5,000 to the Environmental Defense Fund FROM MY CHECKING ACCOUNT.

You are lucky I'm poor and that the people at my bank are smart.

Ass.

A-A-B!

playing hide and seek
fun game to play with your kids
not with viruses

Dear Wonky Virus,

Normally, I like to start out these letters in a friendly sort of way. Throw out a few compliments, offer some self-deprecating humor, ingratiate my target a bit and then WHAM, get all nasty in a deft A-A-B move (if you play Lego Star Wars on the Wii, you know what I mean. If, Wonky Virus, you have no hands, as I suspect, and cannot play the Wii, A-A-B is a fancy Jedi move that tosses you up into a flying somersault and then STABS your light saber into the ground - or your victim - with  stunningly destructive results).

Today, I'm skipping straight to the A-A-B, asshole.

Plainly put, we don't like you, Wonky Virus. We want you to go away. Set up shop somewhere else. Skeedaddle. Vamoose. GO AWAY. And when I say "go away" I mean for real. None of this "disappear for twelve hours and then show up again in the form of a 103.4 degree fever" bullshit. Get on out of here. Don't come back.

It's been four days that you've been able to enjoy residence within the walls of the wee-er one. And now she's tired of you. We're all tired of you. It's time for her to eat again. It's time for her to sleep again. It's time for her to not be burning up from the inside out. You've had plenty of time to do whatever it is you need to do, and now it's time for you to move along.

Do you hear me, Wonky Virus?! Do you?!

A-A-B!!!

A-A-B!!!

A-A-B!!!

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned mother

Dear Gas Tank,

mileage may vary
the car conspires against me
and my poor budget

Hey there, Gas Tank. You and I have been getting a lot more face time lately, haven't we? I think you're a really nice tank and everything, and I do appreciate everything you do for me and my family, but, well, I think it's time we talked.

It's not that I don't enjoy standing next to you and freezing my ass off while you guzzle away my vacation savings, it's just that I think we've been spending a little too much time together lately.

I'm flattered that you want to spend all this time with me, but I want the time we spend together to be out of mutual appreciation, not desperation, you know what I mean? I feel like maybe you've been working overtime, or conspiring to get me closer to you or something. And I'm totally not criticizing, because I get it. You have a crush on me. And when you see me your day brightens. Birds sing a little louder. The clouds make little heart shapes in the sky. I've had crushes before. I know how you feel.

But manipulating the mileage you get? Just to feel my hand unscrew your lid? I don't think that's the most effective way to get my attention. Because I can tell you for certain, I didn't drive 520 miles last week. That's why I'm confused as to why you were empty today. I'm pretty sure this happened the week before last, too, Gas Tank.

I hate to say it, but... that's not cool.

Not cool at all.

I know our relationship is complicated. I know it's based on money and uncomfortable politics. But in the past we've been able to put that aside, you and I. Our relationship has been pure-ish. I feed you once every few weeks, and you help me haul shit around. It's very win-win.

But, now? Now I don't know what to do, Gas Tank. I feel betrayed. I feel like you're guzzling gas just to get my attention. Can't we go back to how things used to be? Can't we relive the good old days? I think we have something special and that we can work out our differences. Does that make me crazy? I don't know. But I need your help with this. A person-Gas Tank relationship takes work from both sides. Can I count on you to cut out these shenanigans and go back to our 520 mile days?

I genuinely like you. Almost even respect you. Will you respect me back?

Please?

Because if you don't stop fucking around I could easily toss you aside for one of those fancy new hybrids.

Get it together, Gas Tank. I mean it this time.

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned mother

Dear Heartless Grinchy Thieving Bastard(s),

Am trolling craigslist
I will track you down, assholes
you should be ashamed

So, Heartless Grinchy Thieving Bastards, I understand that animatronic light-up yard reindeer and their light up sleigh and their sleigh's stuffed and jolly inhabitants are pretty ridiculous. I, myself, constantly make fun of them. But just because I make fun of them doesn't mean I don't like them. I actually like them a lot. I think they make the yard look festive and funny. And though I can't find anything ironic about them so that I can passive-aggressively feel superior to my neighbors, that's OK. Christmas is not about feeling superior to your neighbors. That's what well-behaved children are for.

Anyway, HGTBs, you guys fucking suck. You suck for stealing our reindeer. You suck for stealing our reindeers' sleigh. And you suck for stealing the Santa and Elf who were happily residing in the reindeers' sleigh. You suck for making the wee one have to chew his cheeks as he fought away the tears this morning when he discovered the deer were gone. You especially fucking suck for making me unable to enjoy the extra hour of sleep I get on Sundays. I had to get up early today to fill out a goddamned useless police report, and explain to my kids why there are people in the world who steal CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS.

Assholes.

I hope you're enjoying them. I hope your kids think you hung the fucking moon for getting them animatronic reindeer for your yard. I hope you're not trying to sell them on craigslist or eBay. I hope you didn't steal them to throw at cars off of highway overpasses. I hope you didn't drown them in the pond across the street. I hope you're all happily fucking sitting together in your yard, drinking light-up animatronic beers and enjoying a beautiful afternoon.

I also hope I don't find you. Because if I do, you're going to find out what it feels like to have a light-up animatronic reindeer, plus his two buddies, plus a sleigh, plus santa and an elf, all having a throwdown in your ass.

You have made the baby Jesus cry, Heartless Grinchy Thieving Bastards. I hope you're happy.

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned mom

baby pangs

sometimes nature sucks
give me time to catch my breath
and then we can talk

Dear Mother Nature,

Excuse me, but WTF?

I've had the baby pangs something fierce lately. For this, I squarely blame you. You have infiltrated my psyche and caused me, for about two weeks, to dream every single night that I am out-to-here pregnant. I wake up and feel simultaneously disappointed and relieved. This is too much for my aging brain to handle so early in the morning, Mother Nature. You of all sentient/godly beings should know that.

I also don't appreciate the fact that you've ratcheted things up a notch lately. Like how, for the past few days, I've had this feeling. This obsessive, pretending-to-be-intuitive feeling that I should get pregnant RIGHT NOW. As if the world depended on it. WTF is that, Nature? Why are you doing this to me? I have a sixteen month old who still doesn't sleep through the night. By 5 in the afternoon I often want to crawl in the bathroom and cry myself to sleep. YOU KNOW THIS, NATURE. So, why? What is your deal?

Wait. Before you go off to create a tsunami or a tiny little flower or something, I have one more thing to talk to you about. Can we talk about today for a moment? Today I've really enjoyed how you've made me have to pee about 49,000 times. You have either seen to it that I have a(n?) hysterical pregnancy or a bladder infection.

Either way?

YOU BLOW, NATURE.

I want to kick you in your ear.

sincerely,
Kari
concerned mother

Update

In case you're interested, here's the response the mama in question (see post below) received from the Round Rock Premium Outlet Mall.

It is... uninspiring:

Thanks for calling today.  It was a pleasure to speak with you this afternoon. 

As we discussed, Round Rock Premium Outlets, and our company in general, welcome breastfeeding mothers to our centers all the time.   We ask only that the breastfeeding be done in a tasteful/discreet manner.   

To my knowledge, we have never previously excluded anyone who was breastfeeding from one of our centers.

We hope that you and your son will feel comfortable returning to Round
Rock Premium Outlets soon.

Sincerely,

Michele Rothstein
Senior Vice President, Marketing
Chelsea Property Group
A SIMON Company

I mean, at least it's polite and non-accusatory, but compare it to this (a similar incident that happened at a Round Rock Express game a little over a year ago).

Dave Fendrick with the Round Rock Express really just got it. He was embarrassed by what had happened and he went into full-on proactive "let's make this right" action.

I don't think Michele Rothstein gets it. It feels like this was one more more pain in her ass to get checked off of her Franklin planner to-do list yesterday. I could be wrong, but it feels like there should be more to that note.

********* UPDATE **********

An update to the update.... There will be a nurse-in at the Round Rock Outlet mall, by (or possibly in) the Disney Store, at 10:30 am this Sunday. Grab your boobies, grab a baby and come see if you can rile up some Segway drivin' security folk.

Dear Round Rock Premium Outlet Mall (and Disney Store) Asshats,

Imagine, if you will, that you are hungry. You are so hungry, in fact, tears well up in your eyes. Your Filet O' Fish sits mere millimeters from your face and yet - YET - you are not allowed to eat it. You can smell it, oh can you smell it. You can feel its warmth caress your chubby cheeks. The anticipation of the softness of its bun makes your mouth water and your hands rub together anxiously. You begin to squirm because the Filet O' Fish is not going away. It's right there, right in your face. And you are very, very hungry.

Finally, the Filet O' Fish is made available to you. You take a luxurious bite. It is exquisite, and then, even as you're chewing, the sandwich is ripped away from you. As it hangs again, millimeters from your face, someone tells you it's a liability to let you eat your sandwich there, even if you do it privately, away from other people. You think, "well that's horseshit," but you're starving, so you forgo the fight and go sit on a faraway bench outside to finish your lunch.

Once outside, you take a seat and lustily bury your face into your lunch. As you're munching, eyes rolling in delight, you see... what? Gob from Arrested Development? A man on a Segway hums up to you, steam coming from his ears.

"You must take your lunch to the bathroom," he fumes. "You must finish it there. There will be no sandwich eating in public."

"COME ON," you protest, trying to get in his good graces by giving a dead-on impression of Gob at his most obfuscated. "I'm hungry, and this is a public place!"

"It is a private place," the Gob-ish "security" man counters, even though you are both outside and not in a living room. He dismounts his phallic idiot-mobile. "You must do that," and here he gestures at you in a way that shows he's disgusted by you and your sandwich, "in the bathroom."

You refuse. There is a standoff. Ultimately, not feeling up for a fight with a certifiable asshat, you put away your partially eaten meal and leave the premises. You don't understand why you've been discriminated against. There are other people eating their lunches while sitting on benches and they have not been bothered by Segway-driving possibly fictional TV characters. You look around for the Candid Cameras. There are none. You look for Ashton Kutcher, he's nowhere to be seen. You are stumped.

Resigned, you take your sandwich, finish it in the car and go home. You do not buy anything on your trip, and you tell all your friends who enjoy sandwiches to stay away from the Round Rock Premium Outlets.

OK. That story above? It sounds ridiculous doesn't it? Positively moronic. And yet, substitute Filet O' Fish sandwiches with breastfeeding and the scene is tiresomely familiar.

Not only was a woman harassed by a Segway-driving security guard as she she tried to nurse her four-month-old (discreetly, on a bench outside) at the Round Rock Premium Outlet Mall, said security guard had been called by the manager of  - wait for it - the Disney Store after the mama had asked if she could nurse her child privately in a dressing room for a few minutes. The Disney store manager informed her it was a liability to allow a mama to breastfeed her child privately in the store.

Why would that be a liability, Disney Store Manager? Could the mama's breast fall off causing someone to trip? Could an overactive letdown accidentally shoot a stream of milk into an electrical socket and cause a blackout? Maybe the baby might burp really loudly, the burp would then be mistaken for a terroristic threat, and the whole store would be blown to smithereens by a renegade SWAT team of misguided vigilantes?

Not allowing a mother to privately nurse her baby in your store is top notch assholery, but calling Segway-driving security on her once she's left the store? COME ON. It makes me laugh at the sheer preposterousness. A mother feeding her baby is a security risk how exactly? She will scare away other mothers? Doubt it. Her breasts will somehow escape her shirt and cause a car accident amongst lecherous passers-by? Probably not.

It doesn't make any sense. It is, in fact, stupid that this happened. Actually, it's all of those words we learn when we discuss discrimination - ignorant, degrading, embarrassing, litigious.

Oop. Did I say litigious? Well, why would that be? Oh, maybe because discriminating against breastfeeding mothers is against the law in Texas. Best read up on your statutes, dumbasses. And after that, an apology would be nice. Not just to the mama you humiliated and the baby you tried to starve, but to everyone else.

Apologize for not living in the 21st century. Apologize for your twisted views that breasts are only sex objects. Apologize for demanding someone eat their lunch in a restroom. Apologize for marring the sanctity of the Segway name.

And most of all?

Apologize for your idiocy. Because, damn.

COME ON, Round Rock Premium Outlets and Disney Store Manager. COME ON.

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned mother

It's a good thing we don't fly Continental

Dear Flight Attendant Meanie Who Works For Continental's ExpressJet,

Hi there! I just read this article about how you humiliated a mama, asked her to drug her baby, and then apparently lied to get them thrown off your flight.

I would just like to commend you for being so open with your hatred for children. Usually, people who hate babies are kind of closeted about it, you know? They'll make snide remarks to their friends, but they keep their full-on vitriol to themselves.

Not you, though, huh?

I'm thinking, however, that maybe being a flight attendant isn't the best profession for you. Flight attendants are around A LOT of children. And they're around A LOT of children who are not on their best behavior. (Traveling makes a lot of us cranky, not just babies).

Maybe you are one of Roald Dahl's witches and you have a job around children because you're trying to find the best way to turn them into mice/vaporize them? Or maybe you're in some kind of secret immersion program used to cure oneself of unsavory habits (like hating babies)?

Whatever it is, I'm guessing you probably want to rethink your career choice. I thought I might offer you some assistance in coming with some employment alternatives that are more suitable for people who hate kids and/or have short tempers and/or who are assholes and/or who are fictional witches.

So here you go:

• Editor of "I Hate Babies" magazine
• Semi-truck driver who hauls loads of needles, extra-tears shampoo, pinchy sandals, lima beans and expired sunscreen
• Person in charge of experimental trials testing out the effectiveness of cayenne pepper as a diaper rash ointment
• Pharmaceutical executive who must constantly invent new vaccines for babies so that you and the other executives can afford to have solid gold bathtubs and pockets lined with politicians
• Recipe writer for "Elementary School Cafeteria Lunches in 30 Minutes or Less"
• Gingerbread house sitter

As you can see, Flight Attendant Meanie Who Works For Continental's ExpressJet, there are many employment options for a person such as yourself. I hope that you consider making a change in your career path.

And also I hope you learn how to stop being such a psycho bitch.

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Mother

it's not something that eats your lawn, though that's what it sounds like

oooh evil grupster
individuality
a parent's worst sin

Dear Today Show Producer,

Damn. It looks like I might be a grupster. And according to your segment this morning, this means I'm not only raising my children to be sociopaths, I'm jeopardizing their values, character and "success traits." (What is a success trait, anyway? Learning how to not choke on rocks? Cause if that's one, you may actually be right.)

Also, because I selfishly like to listen to my own music and prefer (though can not always afford) clothes that don't come from the big box stores I am - and I'm quoting here - "handicapping" my kids?

Right.

My own love for t-shirts that say things like "Reading is Sexy" and my propensity to allow the chillins to wear novelty t-shirts makes me a poor parent. Check. The fact that my son loves the Shins as much as I do means I'm damaging his future self. Check. The idea that because my ten-month-old daughter rides on my hip as I have professional meetings and phone calls means that by witnessing me in my non-mom environment she's never going to have her own identity. Check.

I'm just following in the footsteps of generations of other moms, aren't I? Traumatizing my kids by trying to do what I think works best for our family. Shame, shame. Guess I better bust out that Bedazzler and go to town on some smiley-faced low-low-low-priced Big Box denim fabric so I can make myself a skort and be a proper mom.

What kind of derisive, divisive, puffy, fluffy crap is this? News? Advice? What is it's purpose? You'd think you wouldn't TRY to alienate and insult your most popular demographic. (And by that I mean women 18-49 or whatever it is - not "grupsters." Obviously grupsters would never deign to click on their flat screen LCDs to watch such a plebian affair). Dare I even suggest that what the world needs now is love and not a bunch of ridiculous fuel added to the "mommy wars" fire?

I just love how at the very beginning of the segment Meredith Vieira's cloying voice says, "They're hip, they've got their own interests and stop the presses - they're also moms and dads!" It's spoken so judgementally that I'm tempted to say it's flat out vicious. She is the real life, unctuous Dolores Umbridge, smiling as she encourages insults. Oh, wait, is that a comparison I'm not allowed to make because I'm a mom and therefore I'm not supposed to know who Dolores Umbridge is? I'm happy to admit the reference makes me a dork, but the mere suggestion that I'm not allowed to revel in and enjoy current pop culture because I'm a mom and it could somehow damage my kids... well... that makes me want to throw on my "WTF" t-shirt, grab my kids and wallow with them in some of Nirvana's earlier music. Damn. I did it again, didn't I?

Anyway, I appreciate the idea that because I'm sort of hip and trendy (but not really) I don't want to be bothered by the spawn of my own loins. I mean, really, who does? The reality, though, is that my not-quite-punk rock shirts are covered in spit-up just like everyone else's. My Chuck Taylor's tread through smeared baby poo and flee down the aisles of Babies R Us when I need a baby gate. I am Every Mom disguised as myself. Or is that vice versa?

As I say to my son when he kicks his sister for no reason - "Hey, hey now, why are you trying to hurt someone just because you can? Time out, mister."

Well, time out to you, Today Show Producer. And just so you know I'm serious... no Shins for at least a week.

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned (yet selfishly a-typical) mother

The segment from this morning's Today Show can be found here.

More Accurate Descriptions Of The Smell Produced By Febreze "Fresh Scent" Antimicrobial Fabric Refresher Spray (AKA: The Spray You Use To Get The Funky Dog Smell Out Of Your Sofa Pillows)

8th Grade Science Teacher

Old Lady In Line At Walgreen's

Diner Waitress

Invisible Smell Cloud Left Behind After Macy's Perfume Sales Lady Leaves The Public Bathroom

Mean Deli Counter Lady

My Dog At A Middle School Dance

Dear Yoplait Yogurt Assclowns,

I'm just wondering whose big bright idea it was to put foil lids on your containers WITHOUT any kind of helpful little pull tab or perforation or something.

My kid could eat four containers of yogurt a day if I'd let him, but I don't for several reasons including the dreaded sugar factor and the fact that I can't get the damn things open to friggin SAVE MY LIFE.

While I appreciate the chance to vent my frustrations by repeatedly stabbing the lids of yogurt containers at every meal and snack time, I don't think this is good behavior to model for my kids, plus it gets to be a real pain in the ass to have to constantly clean yogurt spatter off my glasses.

So how's about a pull tab? A little red string like band-aids and trident have? Perforation? A plastic yank-it-off thing like milk? Something? Anything. Cause any day now I'm going to go batshit crazy over these stupid yogurt containers and I'm not looking forward to cleaning yogurt off of my textured walls while explaining what "batshit crazy" means to my four-year-old.

Fix it, Yoplait, or I'll have to suck up the price difference and serve Brown Cow all the time instead of just on the days I want to feel like a responsible parent.

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned mom

If Denise Richards Can Throw Laptops At Old Ladies And Then Blame The Paparazzi, Here's Some Stuff I Want To Blame On The Paparazzi

1. Forgetting to buy my mom a birthday card? The paparazzi were swarming all over my Hallmark Gold Crown store and I had to get out of there.

2. Driving through the tollbooth and throwing my change at the basket, and missing the basket, and having to get out of my car and pick up the change off the road thus causing a line of 40 cars to back-up behind me? My throwing arm was weak from having to repeatedly flip the bird at the paparazzi.

3. Running out of diapers? The damn paparazzi somehow made my baby poop seven times yesterday.

4. Missing my appointment with the eye doctor? The paparazzi forgot to set my alarm clock.

5. Refusing to play Candy Land with my four-year-old? The paparazzi are hiding behind Princess Frostine's skirt and they're going to ambush me.

6. Only cooking vegetarian burritos for dinner three nights in a row? The paparazzi ate all of the chicken and then stole my cookbook.

7. Cursing out the telemarketer even though I know he's from India and only doing his job? The paparazzi made me miss my anger management class.

8. Leaving a load of towels in the washing machine for two days? The paparazzi drugged me and made me sit on my couch watching TiVo'd Ellen episodes and eating Bold Chex Mix.

9. Replacing the toilet paper with the loose part underneath instead of on top? I was trying to irritate the paparazzi.

10. All that credit card debt? The paparazzi have stolen my identity.

Express yourself

Dear Dave Fendrick, VP/General Manager of the Round Rock Express AAA baseball team,

I'm willing to bet that you have no idea what kind of a maelstrom of events you have set in motion. I get that your baseball team is in Round Rock and Round Rock is in Williamson County and Williamson County is basically Hell on Earth for anyone who thinks Bill O' Reilly isn't the Second Coming.

But still.

There is no excuse, NO EXCUSE, for a family-friendly minor league baseball arena to not allow a woman to breastfeed her child from the seat she paid to sit in. I actually just had to stop writing this letter because I couldn't find the words to, ahem, express my shock, dismay, disappointment, sadness, anger, confusion and flat-out-mouth-hanging-open pissed off-ed-ness.

I mean, seriously? This is the Round Rock Express. This is where kids go to run the bases before games, swim in the pool, climb the rock wall, have a hot dog, catch a foul ball. They go for birthday parties and school trips and to meet famous players on their way to the Astros.

This is where nearly every game has a giveaway as you come in - free gloves or balls or even jerseys and bats for little tykes. It's the place where Spike the mascot keeps the kids mesmerized. It's where we do the hokey pokey during the seventh inning stretch.
It's where we eat ice cream out of little plastic baseball hats and watch fireworks on Fridays.

And now you're telling me that when my next child is born - 8 weeks from now - I'm not welcome to bring her and feed her at a game? She can't have a little snack while her brother has ice cream and cheers for Spike? Instead I have to go to the first aid station or a "private area" to feed her? How would you like to be forced to eat YOUR nachos in a first aid station or "private area"?

I'm trying to imagine the conversation someone would have about a nursing mom that would get them so riled up they'd have to complain to management.

[lots of gasping] "Honey! Put down that alcohol you're allowed to drink in public and look over there!"

[more gasping] "I don't see any--- OH MY GOD [indiscriminate cursing that people can hear three rows behind them] I can't BELIEVE someone would DO that and in PUBLIC!

[a girl walks by with her thong sticking out of the back of her jeans]

"Just the idea that I might have seen an inch of that woman's breast before and/or after her baby drinks the perfect elixir for his continuing growth and development... I'm just flabbergasted and disgusted by this."

[absently watches Express player grab his crotch while at bat] "Well I'm going to do something about this atrocity. I can't believe the things people think they can get away with in PUBLIC!"

Please, Mr. Fendrick, think about what you have done. You have humiliated a mother for feeding her child. You have angered an entire community of like-minded moms. You have done this a week before Mother's Day. You have tarnished one of the only, true "family-friendly" outings that everyone in the family enjoys - and that we can afford.

I hope you're prepared for some press. And I hope you rethink your discriminatory policy. Otherwise you're going to be rethinking your marketing strategy. Mamas buy the baseball tickets, you know. Mamas know how many stadium hot dogs the budget can afford. And mamas know that same amount of money can be spent somewhere else - somewhere her ENTIRE family is welcome. And by "family" I don't just mean her lactating breasts.

There's a shitstorm coming, my friend. And you started it. I hope you're prepared for it.

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Mother

***UPDATE***
I just got off the phone Mr. Fendrick himself. He called after I emailed him the above letter (yes, I actually sent it!). He said the Express had "learned a very valuable lesson" and that he is currently working on a nursing-in-public friendly statement to post on the Express web site. I told him I hope that, indeed, they have learned a lesson, because it would be a shame for so many nursing mamas and their families to have to stop coming to games. He was very contrite and not at all defensive - I really do hope he's learned his lesson and that mothers will not be harassed at any more games. Good grief.

Dear Skunk-Licker Waterpick Showerhead Designers,

This morning, like most other mornings, I endeavored to clean myself. Usually this is not a life-threatening task. Usually I can just hop in the shower, get clean, and hop out. Usually my shower head doesn't jump off the wall and hit me on the head FOUR SEPARATE TIMES. Usually I do not have to go medieval on it and bang it repeatedly on my teak shower bench (which, curiously, NEVER leaps from its stationary position to attack me).

But this was not a usual morning.

I'm just wondering which of you j-holes decided to put some kind of secret timer device into my shower head? Why would you make said device wait for me to become 7 months pregnant before unleashing its own personal water-saving jihad against me? What purpose does this serve?

All I ask for is a shower head with a little hose, so that I can CHOOSE when to remove it and use it to wash all of the soap out of my hair. I don't need the shower head to ANTICIPATE when I might need to remove it from its little holster thing and thus end up getting repeatedly beaten over the head.

This is not an absurd request.

So work on the design, will you? Remove any hidden devices that instruct your shower heads to piss off naked pregnant women. (Have you ever seen a pissed off naked pregnant lady? Godzilla + overinflated basketball - bouncing ability / hormones. It is your worst nightmare.)

Unless you want me to unleash my rage on your own sorry asses, and beat you against my teak shower bench, you better put those engineering degrees to work and make me a non-life-threatening shower head. OK?

OK.

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Mother      

crack addicts

playing peekaboo
much more fun with a baby
than with a butt crack   

I took the wee one to a birthday party today. It was the usual rip-roaring, cake-tastic, assemblage of crying toddler fun that a birthday party is.

While there, though, I was confronted - no accosted - with an incredible amount of ass crack. It came from one person and I'm pretty sure she wasn't flashing her booty on purpose. But the thing is, this wasn't the usual amount of crackage. It wasn't a whale tail, or an unfortunate plumber peek. This was a full 2/3 of a butt. Staring at me. For extended periods of time. I mean, after seeing that amount of butt for that amount of time I feel like we should have at least exchanged phone numbers.

Anyway, here's my plea:

Hear ye jeans manufacturers:

Mamas don't want to wear low-ride jeans that expose the junk in our trunks. Even if our trunks are mostly junkless, we'd like to keep them concealed. YET, YET, we do not want to be forced to wear Mom Jeans, either. You know what I'm talking about. 9 inch fly, elastic waistband, no back pockets.

Mamas want comfortable, butt-covering jeans with pockets and you know, some cuteness. Is this too much to ask? Because lately it's definitely been too much ass. Especially for birthday parties.

Acura hates breeders

shouting voice commands
at least your car would listen
and not need time out

Acura has a commercial bragging about how you can use voice commands to control the environment in your car, make phone calls and things like that. I'm sure this seemed like a very good idea to the childless people (or people who never actually drive their kids anywhere) sitting in a cushy boardroom.

But can you imagine actually using something like this with a three-year-old in the backseat?

"Seventy Degrees," You state calmly so that the air-condition will turn on.
"SEVENTY EIGHTY NINETY ELEVENTY," comes the sing-song shout from the backseat.

The air-conditioning breaks.

"Call home," you tell the car, thinking you can check your messages.
"Is DADDY home, mommy? Ooh! Maybe GRANDMA is there! Is UNCLE ADAM home yet? Does he WORK far away like in AFRICA?"

The phone calls Africa.

"Roll down windows," you shout at the car because you're sweating (not from the broken air-conditioning but from the cost of calling Africa - from your built-in car phone).
"Windows, shmindows, windows, blindows! Can I have a fruit ROLL-UP, mommy?"

The windows stay up.

"Map to nearest hospital," you growl at your car, feeling your impending insanity start to leak from your ears.
"Is the HOSE TIT MALL a place for sick people, mommy?"

You get directions to the nearest nudie bar.

And then you get out of your $35,000 car, find the closest baseball bat, tire iron, or rigor mortised raccoon you can find, and you beat your dashboard until you can think clearly again.

Then you drive home.

Thanks, Acura. I think voice activated controls are a really swell idea. I wonder why someone hasn't already put them in a family sedan. Oh wait. BECAUSE THAT'S THE STUPIDEST IDEA IN THE EFFING UNIVERSE.

And voice automated phone answering systems ("Say the sixteen digit number of your credit card now") you are so on notice. You wanna know why you can't recognize my sixteen digit account number? BECAUSE MY KID IS SINGING THE 12345-678910-11-12 SONG FROM SESAME STREET IN THE BACKGROUND.

All you voice activated "pioneers" can suck it. Maybe in another life you, too, will have an overly verbal child and you will see the hell you put us through.

Until then, please, please for the love of all that is not driving a mama insane, just let us enjoy turning knobs and pushing buttons. It's not a lot to ask. Even if it doesn't sound sexy in a boardroom.

Bastards

you remember Hal?
he was a computer, right?
he was the devil

Dear Horrible People Who Created Self-Checkout,

Hi. I just wanted to send a little note to let you all know how much I HATE YOU. I don't know why you thought self-checkout was a brilliant idea. I don't know why your marketing people thought that pissing off every.single.customer. would be better than, oh, I don't know, paying some surly kid minimum wage to piss us off.

Would you like to know, specifically, why self-checkout makes me want to hunt you down and set your brain on fire?

1) Having a computer shriek at me - in extremely loud volume - "Remove unscanned object from the bagging area!" and then, immediately after I remove the item, shout at me, "Do not remove any objects from the bagging area!" And then continue in this "he said she said" shouting match with itself until an aforementioned surly teen pushes a button from her little turret-like station in the midst of all the self-checkouts - well - THAT MAKES ME CRAZY.

2) Having to scan and rescan and delete and force cash into a slot and fight with a surly teen about my right to buy alcohol and then get shrieked at by a computer demanding me to take my receipt. Time? Not saved.

3) Your revenues do not increase when you piss off every customer you have. Sure, you may save the money you'd ordinarily pay a surly teen, or a single mom, or a retiree, but you lose any money I (and the quadzillion others like me) might spend at your store.

So what are the lessons this letter is trying to teach you? Self-checkout = The Devil. Self-checkout = No time saved. Self-checkout = No money saved. Self-checkout = unhealthy cortisol surges in already stressed out mothers and old people who have bad hearts.

Please, please Horrible People Who Created Self-Checkout, rethink your "gift" to modern society. It sucks. People hate it. Now please call me so I can dictate this letter to you, you can write it out yourself, you can address the envelope to yourself, you can lick your own damn stamp, affix it, and you can mail it downstairs in the mailroom so that it will be delivered to your desk in a few minutes.

Boy, THAT sounds convenient, doesn't it?

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Mother

um, yeah

if no can touchy
then keep toys off the sidewalk
cranky store owner

So, um, if you own a consignment shop and you want to sell your wares, and you put children's toys out on the sidewalk in front of your store, and then children walk by and play with said toys, and this makes you mad?

Well, what it really makes you is a moron.

profanity

I hate stupid fucks
who drive their big ol ass cars
just to run me down

I am at the point, I think, where I am going to start crashing my car into other people's cars on purpose, just to show them that a) they are stupid fucks b)breaking laws has consequences and c)they are stupid fucks.

I mean, seriously. Did the Volvo come with a cloaking device that I am unaware of? Does it have a big fucking bright red sign on it that says CUT ME OFF, I DON'T CARE! Maybe it says, SURE, COME ON OVER. TWO CARS CAN TOTALLY FIT IN THIS ONE LANE. Maybe it's sort of an LED thing that flashes IT TURNS ME ON WHEN YOU DON'T SIGNAL. Or LET'S TEST OUT THESE SIDE AIRBAGS, SHALL WE?

No wonder my kid shits his pants whenever we leave the house. Because people are constantly trying to kill us. People like, say, evil, dumb fucks driving red cars who don't want to mar their precious brake pedals, and instead of stopping their cars to let me and my son cross the street, they first TRY TO RUN US THE FUCK OVER IN THE PARKING LOT and then SWERVE AROUND US when they change their minds, causing me to scream out an obscenity that is still echoing in the ears of the wee one AND the 175 year old dude who helps us put the groceries in the car.

DAMMIT people suck. Especially when they try to kill my kid and his old people friends.

And while I'm ranting... what is UP with the gargantuan rock trucks driving around with signs on the back of them that say something to the effect of "If a rock flies off this truck and breaks your windshield it's your own damn fault." Um, no it's not. It's YOUR fault for having a FUCKTON sized truck - full of FUCKTON sized rocks - with only a rusted out tailgate holding all that shit in. Can I get a sign on MY car that says, "If I crash into you it's not my fault, because you are a stupid fuck?" DAMN, people.

New Crayola Colors

why have just "brick red"
when you can have "gardening
nose red" or "rash red"

Celebrities are into branding themselves (and here I mean branding, as in marketing, not as in actually branding their skin - though I'm sure plenty of celebrities *cough angelina cough* are into that too). Crayola is into letting you create your own color names. So why not join the two and create a new force in the arts n' crafts aisle: Celebrity Attribute Named Crayons (and, yes, it could use a hella better name).

Tara Reid Orange

Peter Gallagher Eyebrow Muff Black

Paris Hilton Inflamed Crotch Pink

Julia Roberts Big Ass Toofy Grin White

Dustin Hoffman Pickled Liver Green

Halle Berry Supple Mocha

Starr Jones Not So Supple Mocha

Rob and Amber Fading Star Yellow (thanks to Eric for that one)

Lindsey Lohan Dear God Why Did You Do That To Your Hair Platinum

I'll add more as I think of them....

The Fall of The Gross Belch

let him take the fall
because he was a sad sap
feel kinda bad, though

Dear Stanley,

Hey dude, you probably don't remember me, because the last time we saw each other was in elementary school. Or was it middle school? I don't really remember.

I do remember that one time you got in trouble in Kindergarten for using a yellow-green crayon when we were supposed to use a green crayon. You were all, "It's a special green!" but the teacher didn't listen. I felt some sympathy for you there.

When you insulted Jason whathisname's mother, though... that one time during a fourth grade assembly? And then he sneered a few choice words back and you started bawling, screaming about how "He said my mother looks like a chihuahua!" Well, I didn't have a lot of sympathy for you then. You kind of deserved that one.

What I want to talk about right now, though, is something I need to get off my chest. Remember in third grade when we were standing in line waiting to go to lunch? I think we were in Miss Fink's reading class at the time. The whole class was in line, and you were standing right in front of me. After a minute or so, I let out a belch like no other. It bounced off the walls like a super bouncy ball.

Remember how Miss Fink snapped her head around and marched over to us? Remember how she grabbed your arm and yanked you out of line? Remember how she yelled at you and said something about this being a last straw? Remember how you pointed at me and said "She did it!" and that made Miss Fink even more mad because you were trying to blame that grotesque noise on one of the nerdy quiet girls? Remember how she flung you into the corner and you had to stand there while the rest of the class marched to the lunchroom?

Well, I'm sorry about all of that. I should have spoken up and claimed responsibility. but I didn't. I let you take The Fall of The Gross Belch. You always hated me after that, didn't you?

Ah, well, I never liked you much, either. But I am sorry about that belch. I should have totally taken credit for it. Thinking back, it could have butterfly effected me to Homecoming Queen. You never know.

Anyway, I hope all is well, Stanley, and that you haven't spent these last few decades taking the fall for other people's grossness. I also hope you've learned the difference between green and "special" green. That's pretty important.

later gator,
Kari

Argh! sad state of affairs

Argh!

sad state of affairs
this dependence on TV
and all its glory

Dear TiVo,

I'm sorry I yelled at you. I just got caught up in the heat of the moment. I still don't know what you were thinking, but I guess I can forgive you for what you did. I guess.

Anyway, it was out of line to call you a "stupid fucking bastard piece of shit asshole." but you have to understand that with the wee one I don't get to curse a lot. So when I get mad, and he's asleep, well, I can really let loose.

You're not really a stupid fucking bastard piece of shit asshole - I was just angry. It still doesn't make any sense why you would record a rerun of scrubs instead of the first half-hour of The Amazing Race. You know how much I like the Amazing Race. It has three little bloop bloop thumbs up, for god's sake.

Nothing against Scrubs, but it's not even on the Season Pass anymore. And if it was, I wouldn't have it set to record reruns. I mean, COME ON. Why would you deliberately make me miss the first 30 minutes of The Amazing Race? If you were to not record part of it, why not skip over the nasty eating challenge? (Though I have to say Rob is becoming the man I hate to love. What a dopey scoundrel. I'm starting to love him a little bit.)

Oh well, I just wanted to say I'm sorry - again. Please don't let my outburst affect our relationship. You know I love you very much.

Please let's not fight again.

You are the wind beneath my wings,
Kari

thump had my kidney's thumped

thump

had my kidney's thumped
to check for an infection
old school, but right on

In the quest to fill the world in on each and every drama I have, let me bring you:

The Story of The Hairy, Teething Cyst That Wasn't

Once upon a time, a beautiful young maiden woke up to a screaming pain in her side. "Damn," thought the maiden, "What did I fall on?" Alas, she had fallen on nothing. It wasn't a stretched muscle pain, it was a deeper, angrier pain that began to radiate to her taught little abdomen.

"Shit," the maiden thought, "This bitch hurts." So she called the village doctor.

The village doctor said, "up yours, we're all booked up for the day, talk to this nurse." And the maiden did.

After extensive phone conversations about the smell of urine and the ranking of pain from 1 to 5 it was posited that the maiden might be suffering from an ovarian cyst.

"Ovarian cyst!" shouted the maiden after hanging up the phone. "Holy crap, dude, I've gotta check it out." And the maiden made the very ill-advised move of checking her symptoms on WebMD. This is when the maiden learned of ovarian cysts that have hair and teeth. That's right. HAIR. TEETH.

The maiden went a little crazy.

The nurse said to come to the village doctor next day morning to get checked out. So the maiden did.

After extensive prodding of personal areas, it was deemed that lo! the maiden did not have a hairy, teething cyst. She had a lowly bladder infection (hiss!). Her kidneys were thumped for good measure, and when that didn't send her off crying in pain, she was given orders to take her meds and go home (or vice versa).

Thus concludes The Story of The Hairy, Teething Cyst That Wasn't. And beware, everyone, of WebMD and it's heretic diagnoses.

Fie.

Oh, MAN messing with my

Oh, MAN

messing with my stuff
those evil bagel people
will get theirs one day

Dear Packaging Asshat,

I'm sure that, at the time, it was a convenient and time-saving measure to put all the cinnamon raisin bagels in the same box with the blueberry bagels. Kind of like it was time-saving to put all the plain bagels in the same box as the onion bagels.

But really, dude, you should know better than to mess with people's bagels. It's not quite as bad as messing with their coffee, but it comes really damn close.

When I excitedly opened up my bag of cinnamon raisin bagels this morning, I expected to eat, you know, a cinnamon raisin bagel. Instead, I got a mouthful of stale blueberry funk. So I checked the bag. Yep, cinnamon raisin. I checked the bagel. Yep, cinnamon raisin. I took another bite - still blueberry funk.

Now, if I'd wanted a blueberry bagel, I would have bought one. But I didn't. I don't like blueberries. But this was OK. I didn't want it to ruin my morning. (Isn't it silly how simple things like ass-tasting bagels can ruin a person's morning?) So I tossed my wretched bagel and grabbed a plain one - from a different bag.

Lo, I took a bite of the plain bagel and to my horror it tasted not of plain, but of onions! Holy Christ, Bagel Packing Person, what is your effing problem?

Sigh.

So here I am, bagel-less, freezing my ass off, and drinking my DanActive on an empty stomach.

Get it together, Bagel Packaging People. You do not know the power you wield.

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Citizen

my eyes! womanly figure vacuum-packed

my eyes!

womanly figure
vacuum-packed in denim pants
burns out corneas

Dear Lady at Target,

I know it's not really any of my business, but when your ass becomes a staple in my nightmares, I can't keep quiet any longer.

What would possess you to wear your jeans so tight? I'm sure in some universes wearing your jeans so tight that they ride up your butt enough to form an upside-down heart shape is cool. But at Target? On a Saturday? In the middle of the afternoon? You burned out my corneas with your separated, denim-clad butt cheeks. I can only thank the Lord above that I didn't see you from the front.

Seriously. When your jeans are so tight that a stranger could bounce not just quarters, but handfuls upon handfuls of Sacajawea dollars on your ass, it's time to rethink your fashion strategy.

When the bumps and divots of your cellulite are visible through the Wrangler loop-de-loops, it's time to worry about your own personal safety.

When your pants are so tight you risk gangreneous genitalia... Well, you should be a cowboy, not a soccer mom at Target.

I appreciate the stamina you must have to get those things on. And I appreciate that your figure is still shapely despite your advancing age. What I don't appreciate is knowing the intimate details of your perineal area. You gotta save some surprises for the bike shorts, you know what I mean? Your pants are making lycra jealous.

Anyway, I just wanted to discreetly let you know that your on-purpose, vulva-revealing wedgie really shocked me. Especially in the toy aisle (and not even in the Hooker Bratz aisle!).

Please save the hootchie pants for Wal-Mart. They need the business.

Dear Fisher Price Morons, Hi.

Dear Fisher Price Morons,

Hi. Do you know what a penis is?

What it does?

How it works?

I think you think you know, but I just want to tell you that you don't. Cause whoever the brilliant soul was in charge of designing the Royal Throne Potty... well, that moron designed the little pot without any regard to the workings of a tiny boy.

You think I jest? Hell no. I don't jest. I just finished cleaning up a big rippling puddle of urine from my bathroom floor. For the fourth time. And I have a little boy standing to the side of me feeling guilty because his "tinkle fell on the floor."

I explained to him that it wasn't his fault that his potty leaks, but he doesn't seem to understand. He was so excited to actually sit on his Royal Throne to tinkle, that when all the tinkle came shooting out of the pot, down the leg of the throne and onto the floor, he was heartbroken. When the "tinkle falls on the floor" the little guy doesn't get to proudly dump it in the potty like any self-respecting toilet-training toddler deserves to do. Instead, he gets to watch mommy clean it up off the floor.

I might have let this slide if it only leaked once... I understand that sometimes those little fire hoses can get pointed in a weird direction. But no. Every single time my kid tinkles in the potty, his "tinkle falls on the floor." Seems the little pot that slides in the throne has a small gap in it - a gap that won't hinder the proud tinkling girl baby - but will instead, traumatize all boys. Nice.

We have now relegated the "leaky potty" to the trash, and purchased a new non-leaking First Years potty. At Target, while we were making the purchase my son informed everyone around him that he was "getting a new potty because the old potty leaks." He then pointed to the Royal Thrones on the shelf at Target and said to each one of them "potty leaks" "potty leaks" "potty leaks." He told the cashier, the bagger, some lady in parking lot, and several other passers-by. My two-year-old is becoming your worst publicity nightmare.

So fix the Royal Throne Potty, you punks. Future two-year-old boys are going to want to tinkle in them, and future mothers of two-year-olds are not going to want to clean that tinkle off the floor.

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Mother

The Amazing Adventures of Danger

The Amazing Adventures of Danger Truck and the Super Hobos

comic book-izing
putting life into sideways
panels of fu-un!

Instead of despairing, I've decided to pretend that recent, irritating events are merely just a comic book version of my life.

To wit:

Why be concerned that the hubby's formerly dependable truck has crapped out and will probably cost a gazillion dollars to fix? Let's just name it Danger Truck and see what hijinxs ensue.

Why worry about the family's finances when we can just cut our own hair and wear grocery bags for clothes? We'll become a team of Super Hobos, out to prove that self-esteem never got anybody anywhere.

Why be dismayed that the dog's ass-licking tendency seems to increase day by day? We'll just call him Ass Master and see to it that he roots out fear and nastiness... wherever it hides.

Why fret over legions of creepy-crawlies that are systematically devouring my entire garden? We'll call them The Time Savers and just be happy that they pare down the "crops" so much that the family only enjoys one tomato and one pod of black-eyed peas at a time, thus increasing our appreciation of the fruits of our labor.

Why despair that the Wee One will only eat foods that are yellow or white? Let's just name him the Pasta Avenger and allow him to fight the plague upon our kitchen that is red, orange or even - gasp - green food.

Stay-tuned for more Amazing Adventures of Danger Truck and the Super Hobos. Up Next, the Pasta Avenger discovers that the Time Savers are actually the only things he'll consider eating that aren't white or yellow. Ass Master discovers a long lost watch and a five dollar bill.

Comic book-izing is fun!

datgummed speeders Dear Moron in

datgummed speeders

Dear Moron in the Gold Jetta,

Wow. You must have diarrhea. Or maybe that bladder problem that the "gotta go gotta go gotta go right now" commercials are about. Because the way you're hanging out on my bumper is bordering on threatening. And I know you're not trying to be threatening. Because trying to intimidate someone who's driving the speed limit in a residential area, is, well, a big deciding factor when it comes to ETERNAL DAMNATION.

I particularly liked how you tried to swing around me and drive on the wrong side of the road when I slowed down to turn into my cul-de-sac. Is that the point when you actually soiled your pants? Because I almost soiled my pants when I saw those kids on their bikes have to dart out of the street so you wouldn't run them over.

Maybe that's why I went a little crazy. Sorry about that. I didn't plan on flipping my blinker off and driving straight instead of turning. I didn't plan on following you until you got scared and left the neighborhood. I didn't plan on getting one of those angry twitchy eyes like the guys in westerns get. But it all happened anyway.

I guess you've never read The World According to Garp. Your monkey-level intelligence probably makes book learnin' difficult. I'm sorry. Because if you concentrated on your actual human impulses, instead of your irrational animal behavior, you would know that not only is reading a book fun - it's educational, too!

See, in Garp, there's this four way stop that people always run. And Garp, well, he gets really pissed. So he chases the offending cars. And he tries to catch them. On foot. He's a maniac. Someone you don't want to mess with. He doesn't like people breaking traffic laws across from his house. And neither do I.

Trying to drive 50 on a two lane road, boxed in by homes, driveways, and kids on bikes, is not only reckless, it's borderline retarded. So I'm sorry if I scared you with my spontaneous vigilante chasing maneuver. But, chica, if you're going to try and run over people's kids - even if they're not mine - I'm going to come after you with a vengeance only a mother can have.

So slow the fuck down, missy. I'm watching you.

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Mother

Amazon review Have you ever

Amazon review

Have you ever noticed that Amazon reviews have no middle ground? It doesn't matter what the product is, it's either the greatest thing created in the history of time, or it's a lousy piece of crap. No in between.

With this in mind, I thought it would be fun to see what Amazon reviewers would say about the baked ziti I made for dinner last night. (In the interest of keeping these reviews as real as possible, I've included typos, poor punctuation and bad grammar. Enjoy.)

Like sex in a 10x12 casserole dish May 27th, 2004

Reviewer: a food enthusiast austin, tx

this ziti has changed my life! i'm pretty sure it cured my life-threatening illness and then best thing is that it arrived on time. a freind of mine told me he had to wait for ever for his ziti to arrive in his dinner bowl, but i didn't. the ziti delivery was prompt, it tasted delicious and i can't wait for leftovers. you should really eat this ziti. it might change you're life too.

Hot May 27th, 2004

Reviewer: toddler in tx

This baked ziti was too hot.

extra, super great dinner May 27th, 2004

Reviewer: kitchen lover, anywhere USA

You have to eat this ziti. You'll love this ziti. This ziti is the awesomest ziti I've ever had. I would give it five stars except I think it gave me diarrea.

Where's the spice? May 27th, 2004

Reviewer: anonymous

I don't understand how people like this crap. WHere's the basile? Where's the oreggano? WHat about some sweetness to complement the aciditty? I'm sorry I ever ordered this.

broken but good May 27th, 2004

Reviewer: ziti enthusiast

I really love this baked ziti even though it arrived broken. Amazon cross-shipped a new one, though, and it tasted just as good.

Just like mom made May 27th, 2004

Reviewer: Ziti lover from outer space

I didn't actually eat any of this ziti, but i had some like it a few weeks ago and it was excellent. The sauce was different and the cheese was different and it wasn't baked - but it was great just like I'm sure this is. You'll love it!

Dear Favorite Gas Pump, Hey

Dear Favorite Gas Pump,

Hey you. Oh, come on. Don't look at me that way.

We've been through a lot together, haven't we? Like that time when I opened my door and whacked you in your concrete post? You really dented the shit out of my door, asshole (j/k).

And remember that time when you told me you were printing my receipt but you never did? You're such a joker.

The thing is, well, you're getting kind of high maintenance lately. It just doesn't seem like we can have fun together like we used to. I mean, you used to pump really fast for me and it was only like $15. But now you're kind of... to be honest... full of yourself. You want like $30 or $35 for the same amount of pumping (yet slower!) than before. I just can't swing that, hun.

And I know the Hummers and Blazers and whatever are more than happy to feed your new aspirations of world domination (or whatever it is that's gotten into you). But, whatever. I just can't do it anymore.

I think you can understand that I feel a little betrayed. Even with the convertible that took the fancy gas, you were always there for me. And when I introduced you to my brief pal the SUV, you treated us with respect (even though I knew you were probably laughing at us behind my back).

But, dammit, Pump, now that I have a sensible family car you're after me like I owe you back taxes or something. And that's what I mean by high maintenance. Sure you still pump pretty fast, and you're careful to keep your fumes to yourself, but that doesn't make it OK to gouge me. And I know you just got a new paint job, and now you're there 24 hours for me, but I'm afraid it's too little too late.

I think I have to see other pumps.

I'm sorry if this hurts your feelings, but I'm sure you can get a Hummer to comfort you. Sorry it had to end this way. We really did have some good times together.

I hope we can still be friends,
Kari

PS. Here's some free advice: You know that squeegee you're so proud of? Well, it's always dirty. Girls don't like dirty squeegees, Pump. So you better clean yourself up.

Alias-izing my life PLUS =

Alias-izing my life

I was at the wonderful HEB down the street (the bestest grocery store in all the world, if not for their low prices, for their fresh tortillas), and I had the wee one in tow, and we were hunting around for those little yellow scrubbies you can get 2 for $1. So we ventured down the mop, broom and dishsoap aisle.

I grabbed the scrubbies and had a thought (vision?). If I was Sydney Bristow on a secret mission to the HEB, what would I use to kick the living shit out of Sark should he surprise me? Would Marshall have engineered the breastmilk stain on my shirt to really be some kind of invisibility shield that would protect me and Wee One from being spotted? Would the shopping cart have a doppler microphone, would the Wee One's cookie really be a device to track Sark's movements?

What would I do if Sark come up out of no where? On this aisle, certainly I'd grab a mop or broom or both to go kung fu ape shit all over him. Maybe throw a little bleach at him; piss him off by ruining one of his svelte black turtlenecks. But on another aisle what would I do? Gross him out by throwing handfuls of grapenuts at him? Try to trip him up with skittles and M&Ms? Maybe I could beat on him with a rack of ribs, or stick fish sticks in his eyes.

And where would Vaughn hide to give me directions in my ear piece? Would he pose as the surly produce guy? The hair-netted fishmonger? Maybe he would grab a basket and be a laid off dot.com worker buying hot dogs and shaving cream.

Anyway, this state of mind stayed with me all day. Taking the wee one for a walk around the neighborhood, I scanned fences, trees, cars parked on the side of the road. Would any of these things provide cover for me and Tiny Spy as we hid from Covenant operatives? Could the stroller be mounted with laser guided tranquilizers, or a 3-D map of the neighborhood and surrounding areas?

Then my fantasy morphed to "what if the Blob came down the street?" "What about Godzilla?!" What would my escape route be? How would I protect Wee One? Would I be one of those people who comes up with an ingenious hiding place? Or, in the face in of disaster, would I be the idiot who stops and stares and ultimately gets stomped?

I guess all of this Sark ass-kicking / Godzilla preparation has its roots in something more frightening - like being able to protect my family in an emergency. But it's an interesting excersize to view the HEB through the eyes of a secret wonder woman CIA spy. And it makes buying scrubbies a helluva lot more fun.

(side note: blogger spell check tried to replace "grapenuts" with "carpenter")

Story-Time Chronicles scary blond-haired mom

Story-Time Chronicles

scary blond-haired mom
why were you rude to my son?
wal-mart-shopping bitch

Dear Scary Blond-Haired Mom at story time,

Thank you for grabbing my son's hands and shoving him away from your child. I know you were just protecting him from the extra alien head getting ready to shoot from your child's jaws. Or maybe you were protecting him from your daughter's scorching case of lip herpes. Because there must have been a good reason for you to rudely shoo my son away from your kid.

Maybe you were afraid that demure Miss Jane, the librarian, would yell at our two-year-olds for chatting during story time? Perhaps you didn't want adorable boy cooties to mar the perfect angelic child that is your daughter? I don't know. What I do know is that it is unacceptable for you to arrive late to story time, interrupt the story by huffing and slamming your fat ass down directly in front of me and my son, and then shoo my son away when he comes and stands next to your child so that he can see the story.

If you don't want other kids being near your child, don't come to story time. If you don't want other kids to smile and try to play with your child, don't come to story time. If you want to be angry and resentful for no apparent reason, don't come to story time. If you want to throw your fat ass down and block the view of kids trying to have fun looking at books about bugs, then don't freakin' come to story time.

I hope you were just having a bad day. Maybe the sale at Wal-Mart on sparkly denim skirts wasn't as good as you thought it would be. Whatever the reason, next time I would appreciate you sharing your dismay with the Wal-Mart manager instead of coming to the library and striking out at friendly babies.

And if you ever touch my son again I will come after you with the same fiery venom you must feel about feathered hair and acid washed jeans being out of style.

Back off, bitch.

Sincerely,

Kari
Concerned Mother

(side note: the blogger spell check tried to replace "freakin'" with "foreskin")

A letter to everyone's favorite

A letter to everyone's favorite red monster

Dear Elmo,

I hope you won't misconstrue this letter. It's meant as a kind of constructive note; a little criticism for the monster who's rarely examined with a critical eye.

Anyway, to be sure, you mean the world to my two-year-old. And I do appreciate the fact that your mind control allows me to sneak away at least once a day to enjoy some private time on the toilet. That's something I can't thank you enough for.

But, Elmo, come on. You have to admit you're a bit of a fame whore lately. Depending on red fur and a high-pitched voice can only get you so far. Take the former mousketeers, for example. Hookers. All of them. From Brit to Xtina to Justin, they're all just primetime hookers, selling their souls for a few dirty dollars.

Do you, Elmo, want your future filled with music videos where you remove more and more of your clothing until you are forced to wear a skin colored body suit covered in stra