I tend to get into television shows far later than most. In fact, if there’s a series that’s about to be cancelled or IS, in fact, cancelled, I will probably get into it, fall in love, then be devastatingly crushed when it is over. BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, DAMMIT.
I’m still not over the ending of Prison Break – I cannot think of it without weeping. I may have a little bit of a problem.
A couple of months ago, probably while looking for tweets about laser kitties, I stumbled across The Twitter babbling on about a show called Mad Men. I sorta want to put it in inappropriate quotation marks just because.
Well, I figured that if the REST of the world was watching it, I’d probably hate it. Even though I’m married simultaneously to Dr. House and Dexter – both popular shows – I always assume I’ll hate popular culture. You can thank my parents for that one, Pranksters.
About a month ago, after reaching the end of Numbers, spending several days in mourning and then realizing I needed a new hobby besides becoming overly invested in television shows (see also: my marriages to Dr. House and Dexter), I finally queued up Mad Men.
I’m hesitant about any show that I alone pick because I spent at least three months watching Nip/Tuck while hating every goddammed minute of it. I screamed at the TV like it was a football game every night until I watched every single episode. And then? I’m STILL furious that I spent so much time watching a show while hating every. single. character.
Alas, I digress.
But I picked Mad Men, and I began to watch it, unsure of how I could handle a show where people aren’t eaten by sharks or otherwise horribly disfigured, depressed or maimed (see also: my love of Cold Case and Law and Order: You Lead A Charmed Life, Motherfucker).
I admit, I was bored by the show. But I kept on because I HAD TO SEE IF SOMEONE WOULD BE EATEN BY A GIANT BEAR.
And then, I sorta, kinda, maybe liked some of the characters. Like a little.
But mostly, I liked the clothes. So what if everyone is repressed, drunk, and chain-smoking? THEY HAVE KICKY CLOTHES THAT I COVET! So what if everyone is having The Sex with everyone else? LOOKIT THE FANCY HAIRS!
I’m making an executive decision. I will go back to being a repressed housewife in the 1960’s IF I can get clothes like that. Because have you BEEN to The Target recently?
One word: ROMPERS. For WOMEN.
(that was more like two words or like fifty-niner)
I’m SO not okay with that. I’m also not okay with the scrunchies, acid-washed jeans, or jeggings.
NOT OKAY, PRANKSTERS.
So bring on the copious amounts of booze, gimmie my pack of smokes and fancy lady lighter, and screw being liberated. IF I CAN WEAR A TWIRLY SKIRT, I’M YOURS.
I’m sorry, Pranksters, because I have to inform you of something.
I just won the Mother of the Year award. Certainly it’s better than my You’ve Been Blogging Since You Rode A Dinosaur to School award (highly UN-coveted, by the by), but it is no less an honor.
But nothing will replace the Mother of the Year award I just won.
Since Back To School stuff is long put away, it seems that Halloween is right around the corner. I myself can not actually read a calendar, so Halloween could be next year for all I know it could be tomorrow, which WHOOPS! SURPRISE! But I think I have a month to determine what, specifically, my children would like to be for Halloween.
I’m still pushing for the whole Land Shark thing, but if I don’t get any takers, I may be that myself….or the Twitter Fail Whale (which would be so much awesomer if I were pregnant this year. I could totally leash up my kids as wee birdies).
(for the three of you who haven’t seen it, I suggest taking a minute of your life and devoting it to basking in the glow of this)
Anyway, I’ve been trying for about thirty-five-niner years to get ONE OF MY KIDS to dress themselves as the Land Shark for Halloween. My kids are generally all, “PISS OFF MOM,” probably because they remember that I’d dressed them up as (in no particular order) a Grumble Bee, a Hot Dog and a Hedgehog.
Honestly, I think that ONE YEAR of being the Land Shark is WELL within my rights as someone who birthed these children out of my vagina, but NO. Which means that I will, one day, have to do it myself.
And I plan on eating many people. Just say we were together if anyone asks, okay, Pranksters?
Last year, Benjamin was a pirate (boring), Mili was a pirate princess and Alex was a Flutter-By. He won the award that year for having the best costume. I, myself, was pretty jealous of it.
This year, however, not one of my other children has decided what they would like to be for Halloween. Save for Alex.
Alex has his heart set upon being Saturn.
No, not the now-defunct car company, the PLANET.
The car, at least, I could’ve understood. But the planet? Um. Hi. How the FUCK do I make a Saturn costume? No really, I’m asking you. Because otherwise I’m going to stuff a yellow sweatshirt and call it a motherfucking day. And I’m sure that by not having the proper patterns around Saturn, I will be berated and probably cried upon for failing as a mother. Which, actually is not much different than any normal day around Casa de la Sausage + Mimi.
I really, really do not know how I am supposed to live through all of these creative-ass costume idears. I mean, I? I was a pirate as a kid. And potentially a Land Shark. Maybe a Fail Whale. Possibly wanted to be crazy pregnant Britney and K-Fed one year (but Dave wouldn’t have it). NOT CREATIVE, PRANKSTERS.
So until I come up with a better solution, I’m going to dose my coffee with Almond Extract and wait for the inspiration to strike. Probably in the form of “I NEED TO BE BILLY MAYS FOR HALLOWEEN!!”
Send vodka, Pranksters. Send lots of vodka.
P.S. How do I make a Saturn Costume? While drunk.
I walked into InterventionCon this weekend all puff-chested and proud, like, ‘WHO’S A BAD-ASS-MOTHERFUCKING GEEK? ME!” I was practically humming “Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger,” as I waltzed into the hotel, all ready to get my
freak binary on. I was all ready to be all, “WHO’S ALL OPEN SOURCE NOW, MOTHERFUCKERS?!”
Imagine the look on my face when I finally opened up my eyes to the strains of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin,'” and realized that half of the attendees were in costumes. It was a COSTUME PARTY. And guess who had no costume?
That’s right, Your Aunt Becky.
I was, for the first time ever, somewhere without a spare costume!
Color me Furious George.
They weren’t costumes I wanted or even recognized, and somehow, I was flaming that I did not, in fact, own one. I could’ve been a wicked Britney Spears (post K-Fed) or even an Oompa Loompa. And still, nothing.
Somewhat dejectedly, I moped to my room – on the 7th floor – and threw myself down on the bed, trying desperately to coax some tears out of my eyes. First, I thought of the saddest basket of kitties with no one to love them. Then I thought about how cruel a world it would be if Uncrustables were discontinued. When that made me simply stabbity rather than tearful, I decided a new tactic was in order. I decided that my next best bet would be to rub them, then poking them until finally, I was able to convince two actual tears to come out of my eyes.
It felt strangely vindicating and utterly unsatisfying.
Next order of business was to get onto the elevator and go downstairs to mope in public. I like to share my misery. I’m a giver like that.
Only an odd thing happened. Even weirder than the full-blown adults in costumes I couldn’t quite place.
Proper elevator etiquette, as explained by my mother is this: you back that ass up while waiting for an elevator to allow exiting passengers to, um, exit. Then, only after everyone who is getting off is off do you board the elevator.
Likewise, once on the elevator, you allow passengers to get off on various floors by moving graciously out of the way WITHOUT BITCHING ABOUT IT, while you wait for your stop.
It’s a simple enough concept that even my pea-brain can comprehend it.
And yet, for the first time in my life, even AFTER living in Chicago and riding 50 floor elevators crammed full of people, I was shocked and horrified by the elevators in MD.
Because, it appeared that the new way of things was this:
Elevator door opens -> stand in a line in FRONT of the elevator doors, ignoring all the empty space behind you -> groan loudly whenever someone dares try to enter the elevator with three goddamed people in it.
On the other side,
Elevator door opens and person behind you wants to get off -> rather than wait for the first in place to disembark -> push your way past the other passengers ALSO attempting to get off.
Because we all know it’s a motherfucking RACE to the fucking FINISH, motherfuckers.
First time it happened, I ignored it. Okay. Fine. Someone was having a grumbly day. Happens.
The second time? Maybe coincidence.
The third? I decided that the non-convention goers were some of the rudest people on the planet and should probably be relegated to the ALOT Island with John C. Mayer.
The moral of this story? ALWAYS PACK AN EXTRA COSTUME. Also? Wear body armor for elevators in Maryland.
P.S. I missed you, Pranksters.
Also, Also: We have an auction up at Band Back Together. You should go visit it.