Target Audience

Dear Target,

I think it’s safe to assume that by placing the toilet handle 4 feet off the ground, you are attempting to encourage people to use their hands, rather than their feet, to flush the toilet.  But it’s like this: No one wants to touch that handle.  Because we all know that everyone who may have previously touched it has just finished using the toilet, and has not had the opportunity to wash their hands.  Unless, of course, they’ve washed them in the toilet.  Eww. 

Target, I know you pride yourself in being higher class than Walmart.  As I write this, I’m sitting here in Bloomington where you are held in such high regard by the college students that you are constantly packed, while the Big K next door is a ghost town.  So why then, can you not spring for some automatically flushing poopers?  Walmart may not have a Starbucks inside it, but at least it has those!

Sure, right now I can Karate Kid that handle with ease, even if is chest height.  One of these days, though, I probably won’t be able to do that anymore.  At least not without risking grave bodily harm.  Is that what you’re counting on, Target?  That Myrtle and Esther, and one day even I won’t be able to can-can kick flush the toilet?  Maybe you figure that for every stubborn person like me who refuses to flush with her hands, there are at least two who can’t reach it with their feet.  

But I’ve got news for you, Target.  When I get to the point that I can’t kick that high, I’m not going to use my hand.  I just won’t flush.  And I know I’m not the only one.  Those automatic flushers sounding like a good idea yet?

The New Phone Booth

The invention of the cell phone has made it possible to reach someone anywhere, and at any time.  Except, of course, if you’re trying to get a hold of me, and I’m at home where cell signal is restricted to the bathroom and kitchen window sills, and the southeast corner of the living room.  But hey, you should always try the house first anyway.  Archaic, I know, but believe it or not I find the old land line to be quite satisfactory for at-home communication. 

 Folks see cell phones as a necessity these days.  It’s like everyone has forgotten that us grown-ups grew up just fine without carrying a phone.  That’s fine and dandy.  Don’t go anywhere without your phone.  After all, your car might break down. Or more likely, you might have to call your husband while both y’all are in Super Walmart to find out where he’s at. 

 But it’s gone beyond a necessity or convenience or whatever—it’s an addiction.  How else do you explain people who MUST answer the cell phone?  No. Matter. What.  Really, you don’t own the phone—the phone owns YOU. 

 Just the other day, Mini Me and I went into the restroom at Macy’s.  It’s a small restroom, with only 3 stalls.  All 3 were full and another lady was already in the queue.  As we stood waiting, one of the potty occupants was carrying on a conversation on her phone.  “Well, Jim’s going to have to have another surgery.  Mmm-hmm.  He’s already had 3 open-heart surgeries, you know…blah blah blockage blah blah…” Mini Me and I looked at each other and smiled.  I’m sure Jim would be thrilled to know that you’re sharing all his business with random strangers.  Strangers, I might add, who are grateful that Jim’s not having a vasectomy or a colonoscopy.  Our amusement was quickly interrupted, however, by the ringing of another phone in one of the other stalls.  Doo-dee-doo-doo-dee-dee-doo, rang the phone, followed by the sound of purse excavation, urine hitting toilet water, and finally, “Hello? Oh hi!  Yeah, I’m at the mall.  Mmm-hmm…”  

 Okay, really ladies?  Could it not wait?  You’re not 911, you don’t have to answer the phone.  Good grief!  Call them back when you’re done.  And get out of the daggone stall, so some of the rest of us out here peeing our pants due to a combination of full bladder and suppressed laughter can actually use the place for what God and Macy’s intended!

Soylent Green May Be People, But It’s Good Eatin’

A few months ago I picked up a package of noodles at a market in Bloomington.  Costing only 99 cents, and in a package that is labeled, simply, “Instant Noodle”, these Chinese made starch strings are one of my new favorite foods.  I can’t imagine what would make them as good as they are. I mean, they’re noodles, nothing exotic about that.  Nonetheless, when cooked, they have an awesome chewiness which, with the addition of a few vegetables, and a savory sauce makes for a very quick and yummy lunch.  I jokingly dubbed them “Soylent Green Noodles” because they’re so good, I figure they must have some mysterious secret ingredient.  And if they are made of people, I don’t even care.  Because they’re tasty.  Of course, I don’t really think they’re made of people, but they do come from China, the land of overpopulation and lead toothpaste, so it’s probably possible.

 Over the past several months, I’ve kept a supply of these noodles in the cupboard, picking up new packages as needed.  And last night, while I was in Bloomington, I picked up another package as well as a package for my friend Pat, because you know what they say, “Canniblism loves company.”  Today, I was talking to Mini Me about the Soylent Green Noodles.  She asked, “What’s Soylent Green?” and so I proceeded to explain to her about the movie, and its plot, concluding with my very own impression of Charlton Heston wailing, “Soylent Green is PEOPLE!  It’s PEEEE-PLE!!”  Then I explained that I’d jokingly called them that, with the comment that they’re so daggone good, I don’t care if they are made out of people.

 When I finished, she said, “Oh.  I thought they really were made out of Soylent Green, I just didn’t know what it was.”

 It’s people.  And it’s good eatin’.

Cloudy with a Chance of Overreaction

I refuse to grocery shop today, and you can’t make me. 

 First of all, it’s not my normal grocery day, and secondly, even if it were I think I’d still put it off because everyone is shopping today.  You see, it’s going to snow, and there is a certain segment of the population who still seems to think that we’re living back in the days of Laura Ingalls. Like in the days before grocery stores, when prairie dwellers’ lives depended on what they stored up for winter. They stock up for a snowfall of 3 to 5 inches like it’s the impending doom of Y2K or something, with bottled water, and enough toilet paper to stretch to the moon and back 6 times.  And like Y2K, the coming “winter storm” will probably not live up to the hype, but even if it does—People, it’s 5 inches of snow, not 5 feet!  Relax–most of you live in town, anyway, so your streets will be cleared in a day or so.

 But like weather-induced lemmings, folks will run off the cliff of sanity straight into the depths of bread and milk hoarding.

 My naturally rebellious nature simply won’t allow me to go there.  I refuse to be swayed by the mass freak-out.  In fact, I triple dog dare the storm to dump enough snow to truly snow me in, if it thinks it can.  And even if it does, that’s okay too.  Why?  Because I’m smart enough to actually keep some extra food on hand at all times.  Genius, isn’t it?  And you know what else?  I even go so far as to keep basic staples on hand, so that if I would happen to get snowed in without bread, I could *make* bread.  (What?! That’s just crazy talk!  I mean, nobody’s actually made bread since back in days of Laura Ingalls, er, hey, wait a minute…)  Time consuming, I know, but we’re talking about being snowed in, so presumably we’re stuck there with nothing to do but bake anyway.

 As much as I doubt that we’re in for the new Blizzard of ’78, I’m going to leave you with a recipe, just in case.  It’s a muffin recipe, which is like kind of a cheater bread, since it requires no yeast or rising.  Who knows, you might even have time to make this without being snowed in.

Mandarin Orange Muffins 

1½  c flour

1 ¾ tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

¼ tsp allspice

¼ tsp nutmeg

²⁄3 c sugar

¹⁄3 c butter, melted

1 egg slightly beaten

¼ c milk

(1) 10 oz can mandarin oranges, drained

Topping

¼ c melted butter

¼ c sugar

½ tsp cinnamon

Sift flour with other dry ingredients.  Combine butter, egg and milk, and add to dry ingredients.  Mix until moistened.  Fold in oranges.  Fill greased muffin tins ¾ full.

 Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes.  Remover from muffins tins and dip tops in butter, then in cinnamon-sugar mixture.

Changes

Mini Me went to school this year. As you may recall, we’ve homeschooled up until now, and it’s been an adjustment, but it was time. She’s done pretty well with school, gotten good grades, survived being called a loser for helping someone else, made some new friends, become known for her graffiti art skills, and narrowly escaped getting in trouble for possession of a Sharpie. She’s got some teachers she loves, and some that she could take or leave, and none that are really bad. However, this grading period has landed her in a health class with a teacher who is a cancer survivor. Mini Me knows this because the teacher has mentioned it in class. Every. single. day.

I know a couple of people like that, too. Thankfully, I’m not trapped in a room with them for an hour 5 days a week. I would be hoarse from singing “la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you” all the time. So, I feel Mini Me’s pain, but it also makes me laugh, because, well, better her than me.

Anywho, so this whole kid-going-to-school thing has left me without a day job, so to speak. Over the holidays I worked a seasonal UPS job (more on that at a later date), and I’ve been doing some freelancing, which is fun. I’d like to do some more of that kind of thing, and the way to get better at writing, and also to keep the flow going, is to keep writing. So, my goal is to write every day. At least every week day. That won’t always mean I’ll write here, but it will probably increase the frequency of my posts, which, let’s face it, have been pretty darned infrequent over the past few months. Of course, some of that is because I don’t have any funny cancer stories to tell since I’m not very cancery these days, and The Foob has gone to Florida for the winter with all of the other snowbirds. I can only get so much mileage out of those quarterly doctor appointments with Dr Birhiray.

That leaves me with a few options for this blog. I could write about whatever strikes me as funny in regular, non-cancer life. Or I could write about food. We all know I love that. I could write deep, inspirational posts. Okay, yeah, that’s probably going to happen, with the frequency of a leap year or something. I could just retire, but I do enjoy the blog, and my readers so I don’t really want to do that. And as I said, I think I need the exercise anyway.

What say you, my readers? Any of the above? A combination? Please let me know.

Pink Ribbon Overload: Marketing Ploy? What Makes You Say That?

Have you ever noticed that most pink ribbon products are geared toward women? Okay, our last entry was an obvious exception. But really, have you ever seen manly pink ribbon products? Maybe it’s just that the whole pepto pink thing doesn’t really convey the manliness that, say Craftsman is looking for in its marketing. About the closest thing I’ve seen to a pink ribbon man product are the NFL’s breast cancer awareness games this month, where we get to see big, burly football men wearing pink football accessories.  Which is kinda cool.

But back to the lack of pink ribbon man products.  Their conspicuous absence is probably why I have a hard time believing that most pink ribbon products are anything more than marketing. It wouldn’t really be worth it to Valvoline to go to the trouble of having pink boxes made, because the fact of the matter is, men don’t give a fat crap about breast cancer. No, really. Unless they have a loved one who’s been affected by it, or in the rare case that they have it themselves, they really don’t care.  And since some guys are just insecure enough to actually feel threatened by a pink ribbon on their razor blade package, it might cause the company to actually lose sales.  Hence why you don’t see pink ribbons plastered all over boxes of shotgun shells and cans of Skoal.  (Okay, yes, some women do use motor oil, shotgun shells, and Skoal, especially in Kentucky.  However, I doubt those are the kind of women who are going to base their buying decisions on a cutesy pink package anyway.  Just sayin’.)

On the other hand, there is just a ridiculous amount of pink ribbon stuff that falls into categories that women traditionally buy, such as the pink ribbon Huggies and dishwasher soap submitted by our friend Ashlee.

Taste buds dead from chemo?  Then you’ll love the pink ribbon Hamburger Helper I found at Kmart.  And isn’t it great how it’s got that little hand mascot to remind us to do our monthly exams? 

Or if you’re a foodie like me, perhaps you’d enjoy cooking a meal from scratch using this bunch of breast cancer fungi. Our friend Tanya writes, “What’s for dinner, you ask? Why apricot chicken with mushroom cancer, um, I mean cream sauce.” 

Mmmmm!

 

Pink Ribbon Overload: All That’s Missing is a Pink Pole

(Sorry folks, the image that accompanied this post has been removed at the request of its creator, who is apparently quite sensitive about his boob fairies.)

Today’s submission comes from Ryan, who commented, “OK, this kills me. First off, is there a demand for fairy art? Secondly, is there a bigger demand for stripper-esque sexy fairies?  This is just sad and funny…” 

Well, duh, Ryan.  Didn’t you know that stripper fairy art is the new Monet?  Besides, this is way better than a painting, because you can order this in a 52″ x 52″ poster— for only $155.95.  But wait, there’s more.  Not only can you get the poster-as-big-as-your-car-hood, you can also get this design on your mouse pad, can koozie, or skateboard.  I don’t know how many times I’ve thought, “Dang!  If only I had a breast-cancer-awareness-stripper fairy skateboard!”

And you know, it says right there on the listing that “Proceeds from the sale of all “Fairies for a Cure” line go to benefit Breast Cancer Research.”  Proceeds, huh?  Okay, assuming that you do manage to sell one of these, what exactly do you mean by proceeds?  That’s pretty vague.  All the proceeds? Ten cents?  And, I see that you’ve capitalized Breast Cancer Research in an effort to add an air of legitimacy to your statement.  Nice touch.  Would you like that $156 in ones for greater tuckability?

Pink Ribbon Overload: Permanent Reminders

My friend Jody sent in these two entries, with the following comment:  “I think you should get a pink ribbon tat & navel ring to celebrate Breast Cancer Awareness month!  Here are a few for you to check out!  If you don’t like these, don’t worry…they come in many different styles!”

 You know, Jody, I was just thinking to myself the other day, “Why Self, can you believe you haven’t had a surgery, or any other sort of invasive cancer-related thing for nearly a year?  I mean, gee Self, pretty soon you might just forget you ever had The Cancer and go back to a normal life.  You know, aside from the implant, and the 10-inch long scar, and the newpple that’s made from a piece of your groin, there’s really nothing to remind you of the year you spent your summer vacation being bald and having no eyebrows.  You know, Self, your memory is pretty bad, thanks to the Tamoxifen you take every night.  How will you ever remember the summer after chemo when you only had one boob, and had to find a Foob compatible bathing suit to wear to the water park?”

 I was really worried.  I mean, gee, if there’s one thing I never want to forget, it’s the ridiculous constipation that chemo causes.  So, Jody, I was SO glad when you emailed me the pink ribbon tattoo.  Of course!  Here I was planning to get my newpple tattooed to look more natural, and all along I was missing a grand opportunity!  Why, with a pink ribbon tattoo on the noob, I’ll never forget about The Cancer.  But gee, I just don’t know.  It seems like such a waste to put all the awareness someplace where only I can enjoy it.  So, I’m thinking perhaps I’ll go for the always classy neck tattoo. 

 Jody also suggested the navel ring.  There again, who’s gonna see it?  Hubster?  Oh Honey, trust me, he’s already aware of The Cancer.  Of course, given my penchant for the gaudy, there’s a good chance that gravity would have the Flava Flav sized ornament I’d pick stretching out my belly button, and swinging between my knees like a Focault pendulum. Still, just to be on the safe side, I think I should probably get a pink ribbon belly shirt to go along with it.   Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find one of those online though.  A tube top might work, too, but I haven’t seen one of those either.  Dang it.  Maybe the belly button ring isn’t such a good awareness tool, after all.

Pink Ribbon Overload: Roxanne, You Don’t Have to Put on the Pink Light

I’ve got an idea!  See?

 Heh heh.  Really though, this is just odd. 

 “Now with the flip of a switch, you can turn on a pink light to honor someone you know who has breast cancer, is a survivor, or lost the fight.” (Or perhaps just lost their light)

 Like an eternal flame, I suppose.  At least until the bulb burns out.  But as a survivor, I have to say that with the flip of a switch, you could also be turning on your coffee maker.  I’d much rather be honored with a cup of coffee than a pink light bulb.  And considering that each bulb costs $5, you could actually spring for Starbucks.  Just a thought. 

 This product is made by a company called Mood-factory, and the bulb itself is known as a Mood-lite.  Too bad it’s not Moody-lite, eh?  Adding to the weirdness is that the different colored bulbs are “created to elicit feelings of <insert mood here>”.  In this case, the mood is “sassy” and in fact, that’s what they call the bulb itself.  A sassy.

 The website goes on to say:

 “Brighten Our World Pink is an exciting new way to raise money for Breast Cancer Awareness. Putting a pink Sassy in a porch light or window on October 12th reminds people…blah blah blah” 

I don’t know about you, but I think it’d be much more “exciting” to put a pink sissy on my porch.  Kind of like a Salvation Army bell ringer, except collecting money for breast cancer research.  One that would pinch you, or at least give you a good old fashioned feather boa roundhouse if you didn’t donate to Komen.  “Oh no you dinn’t just walk by here and not put some change in my pink sassy sissy receptacle!”

(Props to Faye for enlightening us with this one.)

It’s October 1st. Let the Pinkness Begin.

Today is October 1—the official start of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  You know, there are just so many folks out there who aren’t aware of breast cancer.  Like newborn babies, and aliens, and goats, and…well, that’s about it.  Because there is no escape.  None.  As we demonstrated with last year’s parade of Pink Ribbon products, virtually no retail segment was immune to the pinkness of October.  Cat litter?  Check.  Hair dryer? Check.  Pita chips?  Check.  Cement mixer?  Check. 

 See?  So unless you’ve spent the last 25 years or so frozen in carbonite like Han Solo, you’re probably very much aware of breast cancer.  Yet the pinkness keeps coming. 

 Recently the executive editor of a local magazine, Terre Haute Living, approached me about doing some freelance work.  I decided to do it, and submitted a piece to be published in the upcoming November/December issue.  This is very cool, but you’re probably wondering why my pink ribbon train has derailed.  It hasn’t—hang with me.  When I went to actually meet Terre Haute Living’s Shaun Hussey in person, he made reference to the cover of the September/October issue, and how he’d gotten some criticism for the cover design.  Unlike most issues, this one had no words, except for the title, and apparently some folks weren’t down with that.

 I said I hadn’t seen it, and he reached over and grabbed a copy to show me.   It was emblazoned, simply, with a ginormous pink ribbon.  Perfect.  And this is the publication from which I’ll be getting my first print publishing credits. 

 Too bad I didn’t get this gig a month earlier.  Now that would have been some funny stuff.