The perfect gift for the child you love, but whose parents you hate.

 

So, I was at Wal Mart last night and saw a huge stack of these in the middle of the aisle, apparently there to entice me to buy it for my children.

I'm going to use a sweeping blanket statement here, but there is no parent in the history of parents who has looked at a miniature metal drum set, complete with cymbal, and thought, "I need to buy that for my small child! Because you know what I don't have enough of in my life?  Loud noises."

And if you happen to be a parent  who is an exception to my sweeping blanket statement, I'm not counting you.  Because clearly you have issues you need to speak with someone about, and it's not fair to judge you in your current mental state.

You know who buys these for kids?  Your childless siblings or friends.  Or people who secretly hate you.  Or maybe your own parents, on a mission to get even for all the years of grief you put them through. Those are the people who will buy this for your child.

They're also the only people buying Play Doh. 

What's the most obnoxious gift your child has ever been given?  Or that you've deliberately given someone else's child? 'Fess up.

Desperately Seeking Jayme

 

 Have you seen me?

Odds are good I've lost the early 90's round glasses by now.

A long time ago (1995), in a galaxy far, far away (Logan, Utah) I was a college sophomore at Utah State University.  And I had five really great roommates.

One of them was a particularly bright spot in my life.  No, wait. Bright is an understatement.  She was like a supernova.  She was a splash of vibrant color in what could have been a really dismal year.  As wonderful and great as all my roommates were that year, she was the only one I felt like I could truly be the real me around. Not only did she accept the real me, but she liked the real me and encouraged me to let ME out more often.  She reminded me that I was fun.  But for some reason, we let ourselves lose contact.  I haven't talked to her in 17 years.

But I really, really want to.

 

The only other picture I have of her that I can post without 

potentially embarrassing her or ruining any future political aspirations.

Internets, I need your help.  I've exhausted my Googling abilities.  Short of paying a ridiculous amount of money to one of the people locator sites,  I have come up empty handed.  But there are a lot of you out there reading this.  A lot of you who are from the same area she's from (and may currently still be).  Maybe one of you knows her and can tell her I'm looking for her.

Here's what I know.  Her maiden name is Jayme Lee Hendrian.  She graduated from Skyline High School in Idaho Falls, ID in 1994.  She was on the volleyball team and in track, and I'm pretty sure she was kind of a big deal in both. She attended Utah State, and also played volleyball and was in track there.  She was raised LDS, though I honestly couldn't tell you what her status would be today. 

If the Google gods are correct, her married name is Jones.  She may be using Hendrian-Jones.  And it looks like she's either living in Idaho Falls or Rigby, Idaho.

I will come up with some sort of reward for the first person to get me a good e-mail address, mailing address, or gets her to contact me at brandidouglass@gmail.com. I'll even settle for a phone number, although cold calling someone I haven't spoken to in nearly 20 years makes me want to throw up a little.

And Jayme, if you're somehow out there reading this, e-mail me!  I have so much to tell you.  First of all, I married Will, so I guess I owe you some money for that bet.  But Tiffany totally married Scott, and they're still married, so you owe me for that one.  We'll call it even.  Also, I promise I'll destroy all the pictures I found today of us being...us if you ever decide to run for office.  We were kind of crazy, but it was so much fun.  Also, put on some pants.

Thank you for helping me be me for that year, and lending me a little of your supernova brightness when I couldn't find my own. 

And a very merry Christmas to you too, Neil Papworth.

 

Twenty years ago today I was a 17 year old high school senior in a tiny town in Wyoming.  My friends and I talked to each other on phones--the kind with cords. Our conversations were brief--mostly just long enough to make arrangements to get together so we could talk face to face.  And if we had something to say to each other that we didn't want all the other ears in our house to hear and we couldn't talk in person, we'd sometimes leave notes at each other's houses.  And my longtime childhood friends I had recently left on the opposite side of the country?  We sent real letters.  Like, with stamps and envelopes. Quaint, I know.  I didn't own a computer, and e-mail wasn't something available to the general public.  The communication options available in 1992 were not ideal for shy, awkward kids who moved a lot.  Like me.

Also twenty years ago today, somewhere in England thousands of miles away from that hick town in Wyoming, Neil Papworth unknowingly changed my future life for the better.  He was testing this new technology called SMS messaging, and he sent the very first text message ever.  It said, "Merry Christmas."

I was late to the texting party,  but once I got started, I became an overachiever. I am valedictorian of texting. They estimate that 200,000 texts are sent per minute. I'm probably personally responsible for a third of them.  I wasn't exaggerating when I said Mr. Papworth's achievement changed my future life for the better.  Texting is a godsend for people like me.  Because even though I'm 37 rather than 17, I'm still shy and awkward, I still hate talking on the phone, and I still move a lot.

E-mail will always be my first love.  It's the main reason I was able to maintain any friendships at all when I've moved in the past.  But then I started dating Facebook and e-mail mostly became a fond memory,  like that old boyfriend you still think about years later.  But then I met texting and we've been having a hot and heavy affair for a few years now.  I'm still seeing Facebook, but texting and I are going steady. We're going to prom. I'm wearing texting's class ring. (Don't tell, but sometimes I text and Facebook at the same time. And sometimes I'm thinking about e-mail while I do it.)

Texting has allowed me to build relationships with people that I probably wouldn't have otherwise.  Normal people can make those connections through phone calls.  If you've read even one post here, you clearly know that I am not normal.  So today I celebrate the anniversary of texting, and I honor Neil Papworth and the others who created the technology that allowed him to text "Merry Christmas" 20 years ago. What they gave me was more than the ability to send words through my phone.  They gave me human connection within my comfort zone.  They gave me friends I cherish.  They've all but eliminated the miles that separate me from those I care about.  Merry Christmas indeed.

Every Year

No matter how many times I scream obscenities at the screen during this part, Jo still refuses Laurie.  One of these years she's going to say yes.  I just know it.

The Kitten who Stole Christmas

So, back in early August one of our cats went to the great litter box in the sky.

Rest in peace, Stripes.

And because I'm stupid, I thought it would be a good idea to replace her with a kitten.

 

 Oh hi!  I'm here to ruin your lives!

This is Bea.  Which is short for Beatrice.  Which is short for "No! Beatrice, OFF you !@##$% CAT!"

She's soft, sweet, and snuggly.  And also the reason why some people think black cats are the embodiment of evil.  Because SHE IS.

When she's sleeping, life can carry on as normal, but when she's awake, we're all held hostage in our own home.  We can't leave anything out.  I have to allot double the time to do things like sweep the floor or wipe the counters.  Because clearly I'm doing those things for her amusement.

Amelia now has to keep all of her stuffed animals inside her toy box rather than on her bed because Bea doesn't like competition--not even the inanimate kind.  She would drag toys twice her size down the stairs and bury them in the litter box.

She has eaten and pooped out enough Legos to build a small replica of Manhattan.

In the three months we've had her, she has destroyed every piece of furniture in our family room.  Every single one.

 

 Did I do that?

And now?  Now it's the day after Thanksgiving.  The day I look forward to all year because it's the Day of  Christmas Decorations.  Christmas is my thing.  I go all out.  Three trees.  An elaborate Christmas village.  It's the only holiday I decorate for, and I make it count.

But I've spent all week with a growing pit in my stomach.  Every time that kitten drags something across the house or pulls things down off tables and shelves, my hopes for a Christmas wonderland are dashed. 

And today I had to accept it. There can be no Christmas Wonderland with Bea. There can be no tree filled with ornaments collected all over the world, representing people and memories spanning more than thirty years of my life.  There can be no little ice skaters spinning on the rink in a quaint miniature village.  There can be no heirloom ceramic tree with its sparkling plastic lights. 

This Christmas there will be one tree, tucked tightly into a corner, with only ornaments that can be destroyed or buried in the littler box.

 Because this year Satan Claws is coming to town.

I never saw THAT at Seaworld.

Marianne:  YouTube green porn.

Brandi:  I'm both horrified and highly amused.  PENETRATE ME!  (Also?  I kind of want to be Isabella Rossellini when I grow up.)

Marianne:  Did you watch the dolphins? I've only seen two of them.  My daughter made me watch them.

Brandi: I watched praying mantis and bed bugs. Then my kid came in and I had to stop.

Marianne: Dolphins are...wow!

Brandi:  Yeeaahhh.  I just snuck into my garage to watch Isabella Rossellini narate dolphin porn.  This is what my life has come to.

[For the record, most of my most scarring and/or amusing experiences have started with Marianne telling me to look something up.  Yet I keep doing it.  Also, I don't know if this is safe for kids or not.I'm leaning toward not. On one hand, it's totally factual, informational, educational, uses the scientific terms for everything, and is visually very child friendly.  On the other hand, you may not want want to have to explain dolphin masturbation or blow hole sex to your kids.  Use your best judgment.]

So, You Finally Have Hair on Your Junk: A Guide for Teens and Parents

So, you finally have hair on your junk. Congratulations!  Now that you've finally reached the Hair Down There stage of puberty, you may have some questions and concerns.  This pamphlet aims to address your questions and help you move forward through adolescence with confidence and ease.

Why do I have Hair Down There anyway?

Anthropologists believe that we humans developed our bushy, wiry, pubic, armpit, and (for males and a few very unlucky females) chest hair to act as a sort of brightly flashing sign, blinking out the message "I have reached maturity!  Let the mating begin!"  In addition to being a visual sign of reproductive maturity, your special hair also acts as an odor trap.  A virtual hormonal stink bomb.  Before the days of Justin Bieber perfume, humans attracted mates via the irresistible aroma of crotch and pit stink.  Ah, the good old days.


So...What do I do with it now that I have it?

Right now your special hair is all very new (and probably very sparse).  There's probably not a lot that you need to do with it.  You just keep doing what you're doing:  Admiring it in the mirror and thinking, "That's right, bitches.  I'm officially knee deep in puberty.  Take out the garbage?  You take out the garbage.  I have pubic hair now. You can't tell me what to do." In a year or two your private area will probably start to look a reject from The Muppets.  When that happens, you'll probably want to start doing a little care and maintenance. 

Care and maintenance?  What do you mean?

Just like the hair on your head, the hair on your junk occasionally needs some grooming to be at its best.  Chances are your parents were raised in the 1970's.  They're part of the final generation of au naturale personal grooming.  In other words, they're probably not going to be of much help to you in this area unless they happen to spend a lot of time on the internet reading smut.  You're quite literally going to have to take matters into your own hands.  Invest in a good razor, some small grooming scissors, and spend some quality time with Google. 

Are there any rules of pubic hair etiquette I should keep in mind?

I'm so glad you asked!  Yes there are.   First, if you're going to wear a swimsuit, be sure to follow the grooming tips listed in the previous section.  You don't want to look like you're smuggling a hedgehog in your Speedo.  That just makes everyone uncomfortable.  Second, always be actively aware of stray hairs that have gone rogue.  No one wants to find a pubic hair on the soap, not even one of their own.  And when your mother cleans your bathroom, she does not want to be confronted with hard evidence of your hormonal maturity on the floor and the toilet seat and stuck to the bottom of her sock. 

Anything else?

Just relax and enjoy this period of your adolescence.  It's a magical time.  Remember that your junk hair will be with you for the rest of your life, like a close friend, or the twin you absorbed in utero that's now just a small lump of undeveloped teeth and hair on your back. If you take care of it, it will always take care of you.