Monday, September 28, 2009
Kelloggs introduced Sunny and the "two scoops" slogan in 1966 (thanks, Wikipedia!). It's pretty clear this indicates the amount of raisins in the cereal exceeds that of a lesser one-scoop cereal. Why wouldn't someone in 1967 just introduce "three scoops?" Isn't that like when someone is on The Price is Right, and after "coming on down" they guess $1 on the price of the prize (assuming all of the other contestants went over) but they don't realized they are actually the second to last person, so the actual last person says $2 and wins?
It seems pretty obvious to me.
Also, raisins are gross.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Isn’t it amazing how much people think they know about angels, even though we don’t actually see them?
Like what gives them wings … the sound of a bell ringing
Like what makes them cry…the sound of balloons popping
Like what they feel like…toilet paper
Sunday, September 20, 2009
It’s called being a consultant....but in this case, an aunt.
You only really have a small set of requirements (besides fertile siblings) to be an aunt.
-Bottomless pit of love and support? Check.
-Ability to serve as refuge when niece/nephew realizes they have the meanest Mum in the world and need to escape to awesome Auntie Lisa’s house? Check anticipated in the future.
-Prevent all injury and bodily harm. So far, so good!
Now when I brought up the idea of my BF and me bringing my 3-year-old nephew to the Aquarium this past Saturday, people (my entire family) had their doubts.
Can you handle it? Are you ready for this? What if he throws a tantrum? What if he doesn’t listen? What if he starts yelling? What if he starts crying?
In these situations, I’m sure his Mum would give him a warning. A stern talk. A time-out.
Do you know what Auntie gives him?
I’m not here to enforce discipline. I’m here to look at penguins and have a good time. To the Aquarium!
It actually ended up being a really great day. Sure, it costs about $785 to go to the Aquarium, but I think that was worth it just to see my nephew’s face light up every time one of those gangly toothed sharks swam by the window in which we were standing….for about two solid hours.
Kids are SO easy to take care of in four hour increments. Piece of cake.
Speaking of cake, I love beer.
I was on the Orange Line on Friday and a man sitting near me smelled kind of like beer. A normal person might say to him or herself, “Who drinks at 8 in the morning? That’s disgusting. That guy has a problem.”All I could think was “I cannot WAIT to go out after work.” (Can you believe people worry about me taking their kids into the city?)
Also, how is it that on random days I’m the tallest person on the train? I’m hardly a tall, lanky hipster. I’m an average 5’5 but I think a family of tourists was going to ask to take pictures with me when I stood up on the Red Line the other day. And that is nothing compared to the time I was on the Blue Line and almost recruited to play center on a men’s basketball team.
Just another day in the life of a commuter.
Remember, in the subway and in life, when you feel like there is nowhere to go…watch the doors, there is another train directly behind this one.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
First of all, I have a new nephew. How awesome is that? I now have not one, but two nephews that I can babysit and let stay up all night and eat pizza and make fun of their parents. Being an auntie is the best. Especially since I realized I can just take them to Home Depot and tell them that any of the men inside is the real Handy Manny and they will actually believe me. I’m a really bueno babysitter.
And I have a new job! It’s fantastic. I love it. Same field, just different company.
I think it might be the best thing to ever happen to this blog. Why? Because if you ever run out of things to talk about on your blog (see: the past 5 months)….start taking the MBTA to work. Guess who has a fantastic rack and will never run out of stories again? This girl.
For the record, I love the T. I think it’s extremely convenient. I give myself enough time to get where I’m going and it gets me there. I read. I don’t have to drive. I don’t sit in traffic. It’s fantastic.
First and foremost, when I get on the subway in the morning (at the first stop), I basically have my choice of seats. I always choose to sit in the last seat, right up against the wall. Why? Because that means I only have to sit next to one stranger. I’ve cut my “stuck next to a weirdo” odds in half. I should fight crime or solve the healthcare crisis.
Somehow, SOMEHOW, on many mornings a woman will get on the train and elect to sit in the seat(s) next to me and frankly, it just doesn’t work. It doesn’t work because, as you may have noticed, I said seat(s). I think I’ve almost had my ribcage crushed a few times by some woman with reverse Shallow Hal disorder who thinks her 36 inch ass is fitting into an 18 inch seat.
I truly believe there should be a ‘do you fit in this seat’ example chair set up in each station, the same way that people can measure if their carry-in will fit in the overhead compartments on an airplane. No one is judging, let’s just be a little realistic here.
And I am not a small girl. I am…how do you say…posteriorly gifted? Bottom heavy? Have back?
Oh, I’m not making this up. I have many examples to back up those statements. The first, and most therapy-inducing, being a soccer memory gone wrong. I was 16 years old, playing varsity soccer and dating a guy from a neighboring town. I adored this young man and was so excited that he was coming to see me play versus his home town. It was a night game, under the lights. His parents were there, cheering on the nice young girl their son was dating. The game was exactly as you would expect it, the intensity of town rivalries played out passionately on the pitch, fighting for each ball as if it was…wait…what? What is that? Do you hear that? The chanting? Are they…are they chanting “Thirteen’s got a big butt?” Oh yeah, yeah they are. Guess who needs a sub and she isn’t talking about a steak and cheese?
As a matter of fact, just tonight (no joke, this blog is practically happening in REAL TIME) I knocked over several drinks with my backside….ONTO a client…while trying to get up to go to the ladies room. My calm and professional reaction? “I have a HUGE ass.”
Who WOULDN’T hire me? Really?
Now that that’s out of the way (and I’ve adequately horrified myself enough to warrant skipping lunch this week), you understand that my comments about realistic ass-to-seat assessments are coming from a good place. An honest place.
A place that does not play a beeping sound as you back up towards me.
A place that does not warrant use of a shoe horn for me to try to get out of my seat and get off of the train.
A place where a round peg does not fit in a square hole, and your giant butt does not fit into this little seat.
Anyway, I’m back. I’ll be writing. Topics to include, but are not limited to:
- The guy that calls me “mama” at Downtown Crossing
- People that don’t take off their giant camping backpacks on the T (and why do you have that? I know you work at State Street not Mt. Washington)
- Pregnant or fat? Pregnant or fat? Do I give you my seat? I can’t decide! Avoid eye contact go!
- Cheez-its. Underrated and delicious.
Keep checking. Keep reading. Namaste.