I almost forgot to mention it because my brain is already hard at work purging any recollection whatsoever of that chapter of my life.
Anyhoo, it’s going to be a busy day getting packed and ready to drive up to Cape Cod to visit Chuckles’ folks tomorrow, but I felt this news was worth at least a quick post.
I’ve got to say, when I woke up this morning with the realization that I didn’t have to go to work today, things just felt different somehow…
Continuing this highly uncharacteristic strain of integrity and mental fortitude (don’t worry, I’m seeing a doctor about it later today), here’s the next batch of infomercial reviews, served piping hot and fresh from my lil’ noggin to yours.
And because my brain is much like a runaway train in that any derailing whatsoever could result in mass destruction and devastating casualties, rather than trying to back up to explain what this is all about, I’m just going to refer anyone out of the loop to this and this.
According to the product description, this little contraption is designed to remove pills and fuzzies from sweaters, blankets, carpet, Andy Garcia’s back, etc. So I decided to test this theory out on a favorite sweater I’d worn since the mid-90s that had developed some pesky fuzz-nubs in some rather “titillating” locations. (Let’s just say I looked cold all the time.) Anyway, because of this, I hadn’t been able to wear it since back in ‘ought-3, so I was delighted to find that such a device existed to remedy my problem. However, after the shaver had its way with my poor sweater, the pills had become mangled, raggedy tassels. (Which, also, were not a good look for this particular location.)
I’ll be honest, I was pretty bummed out. This sweater had been with me through bad haircuts and good times and all the unholy awkwardness of my teenage years. We’d seen things together. Done things together. Horrible, unspeakable things. And, frankly, I wasn’t ready to let go of that bond just yet. But, after the shaver did its dirty work, it was clear there would be no miraculous recovery for my sweater so, with a quivering chin, I took it outside to the garbage can, cradled it lovingly in my arms and told it that it was a goodsweater, and then put it out of its misery.
By shooting it.
Kind of spooked the neighbors a bit, I think.
Verdict: Granted, it was my fault for not testing the shaver out beforehand, but you live and learn. Maybe it’d work better (or at all) on some different kind of fabric, but I’m too bitter and resentful to ever try again. Fool me once, shaver. That being said, if you’re prone to developing sentimental attachments to garments or despised the movie Old Yeller for robbing you of your sweet childhood innocence, I cannot, in good conscience, recommend this device.
Next up…
VuPoint Digital Film and Slide Converter FC-C520-VP-BX2 (CyberGuys.com, $102)
I bought this as a gift for my parents last Christmas. I distinctly remember standing in the checkout line, congratulating myself on being such a thoughtful daughter as I imagined the hours of nostalgic joy they’d derive from poring over our old family slides, digitizing the treasured photos of our youth for future generations to cherish.
Unfortunately, we’ll never know how well the slide converter actually works because, as it turns out, my parents have zero interest in that scenario. Apparently, they’d much rather spend their free time (and children’s inheritance, might I add) jet-setting off to exotic locales, braving the great outdoors, hosting lively parties, and generally being total parental deadbeats. Kidding, Mom and Dad! (Hah, like you guys read this blog anyway…)
Verdict: This is a great gift for sentimental, loving parents who actually cherish reflecting on their family’s precious memories. Or, if you’re just a bitter child with an axe to grind. (How come you never went to any of my school plays, huh, Mom and Dad??)
Whoops, sorry about that. Moving on!
Swiffer WetJet (available at most retail stores, $8 for starter kit)
In the beginning, there was darkness and disorder. Muddy shoe prints, dried coffee stains and mysterious sticky spots commiserated conspiratorially out in the open. Stale crumbs lurked in the shadows, menacing passersby. Roving rival gangs of cat hair rioted in the streets. The broom crouched in the corner, quaking in its bristles.
Who could save this lawless land?
And then, just as nearly all hope had vanished, the Swiffer WetJet moseyed into town. Bringing with it its long, righteous arm handle of justice.
And peace and order were restored to the kitchen.
The end.
Verdict: The Swiffer WetJet is the only reason our apartment hasn’t been condemned for major Public Health and Safety code violations. So I recommend.
Up next on the chopping block…
Fling-ama-String Cat Toy
My oldest brother put me onto this cat toy, which hangs on a doorknob and whips a string around via a battery-powered elastic conveyor belt. He’d bought one and raved about the hours of endless entertainment it provided (I’m assuming for his cat) — and, since I’m all about neglectful parenting, I jumped at the prospect of wearing out Roxy and Talula’s fluffy little backsides without having to actually interact with them in any meaningful way.
And it worked great for the first few weeks. Every time they started getting unruly or obnoxious, I just turned that sucker on and—bam!—they’d gravitate to it like pod people to the mothership, fully prepared to triptheir tiny cat minds until either the battery died or they collapsed from exhaustion. But now, much like Pokemon, slap bracelets and leg warmers, the fad has apparently passed and my cats are so over it.
Verdict: This thing has gotten rave reviews all over the Web and won awards by people who apparently give out awards for that sort of thing, so I’m going to assume my cats are just finicky jerks and heartily recommend this item to any and all cat owners. However, one word of caution: Prior to purchasing, you will need to come to terms with the fact that owning this item means that you are, in no uncertain terms, a catperson.
That was a hard step for me to take because it’s generally viewed as being about as cool as wearing a fannypack or collecting commemorative plates. And, especially unfortunate for Chuckles and me, we didn’t have any other serviceable door in our apartment to attach it to except our front door — which means, this convoluted contraption shrieks “WE’RE CAT PEOPLE!” to every poor sucker who enters our home. The only thing more obvious would be if we had a six-foot-tall cat tower in lieu of a sofa in our living room or matching T-shirts with their faces screen-printed against a rainbow backdrop.
Anyhoo, that’s enough reviews for a while. There’s still plenty more where that came from, but even I’m sick of this project by now, so I can only imagine how spiteful and vindictive you guys must be at the prospect of another infomercial post.
Maybe we’ll pick it back up again sometime down the road, but I think we could all use a “break”.
You know, just to kind of clear our heads. See where we want this to go.
Maybe date other blogs.
Kidding. Katie and I will hunt you down if we find out you’re cheating on us.
I guess I am going to continue this whole “infomercial bidness” I started way back when after all.
I fully intended to let this topic fade into obscurity like so many of my other empty promises (I mean, why start making good on those suckers now, right?) — but, lo and behold, here we are.
I’m just as surprised as you are about this sudden, uncharacteristic bout of tenacity.
So, where were we when I last posted? Ah yes. As I mentioned before, I’m a flaming infomercial addict who… yadda, yadda…
Every Christmas since I turned 16, my Dad has gotten me some sort of emergency car kit complete with jumper cables, orange traffic triangles, battery chargers, flux capacitors, etc. Every Christmas. I get the feeling my Dad thinks I’m some sort of pathetic, dim-witted female who regularly finds herself stranded helplessly on deserted roads in the middle of the night.
Which I am.
Which is, of course, precisely the reason it’s more probable I’ll choose to accept a ride from a twitchy-eyed stranger with a hook for a hand than waste my time bothering to figure out how to actually use anything in this kit. But, hey, thanks for thinking of me, Dad!
Verdict: Basically, the only time I even remember I own this kit is when I take a corner too fast and hear a vague dull thud from the trunk. So it’d probably be useful only for those who (a) are sensible, resourceful, capable adults who are vigilant about their personal safety, or (b) morons like me who think it’s comedy gold to to tell passengers that the thud they heard was just a drugged homeless guy in the trunk.
Next up…
My Lil’ Reminder Keychain* (AsSeenOnTV.com, $8.95 for 2)
Technically, I didn’t buy this item. This was a thoughtful gift given to me by my oldest brother as a way to conveniently record quick notes to myself when paper and pen (or, you know, blood and walls) weren’t handy. And it probably would’ve simplified my life in miraculous ways if I weren’t entirelycreepedoutto the very core of my being by it.
Ok, so maybe my reaction’s a little extreme. But, the way I see it, considering how often I engage in weird, strange, quirky, and/or bizzare behaviors, it’s only by the grace of the Lord Almighty that I have managed to avoid becoming a hapless, slack-jawed victim of YouTube. So choosing to use a recording device seems a little too much like thumbing my nose at Fate. And that prospect alone might’ve been reason enough for me to steer clear, but then add to that the time I was 13 and went on vacation to Fort Fisher with a girlfriend and her family and her Dad got a call from the hotel manager a few weeks after the trip saying that he had us on video surveillance doing cartwheels in the hallway in our bras and underwear in the middle of the night.
It’s just a bit traumatic to have to carry around for 15 years the knowledge that your friend’s Dad knows that, on occasion, you willfully engage in half-naked cartwheels, you know?
Verdict: I recommend this handy gadget for those of you without crippling media phobias or proclivities toward “double rainbows”-style freakouts. And for those who do, well, God help us.
* Ok, I lied a bit. This isn’t theexactsame brand I own, but I couldn’t find mine online. I know it’ll be hard to trust me again. I’m willing to go to couples counseling if it’ll help us get past this.
Moving on…
Debbie Meyer Green Bags (GetGreenBags.tv, $9.95 for 20 bags)
These bags, which are designed to naturally extend the life of your fruits and veggies, are the holy grail for anyone like me who decides, in a guilty, post-weekend-long-S’more-bender, to spend a small fortune on leafy greens, only to sentence said produce to a lonely, smelly, agonizing death in the bowels of the crisper before finally being tossed out a month later.
Mind you, these bags don’t work miracles — it won’t keep fruits and vegetables fresh forever and it sure as heck won’t make them taste any better than what they are — but it prolongs the shelf-life by about a week to a week-and-a-half. And that’s usually just enough time for me to have Hoovered up everything else in the fridge (including condiments) and, in a hungry rage, grudgingly resort to those celery sticks and alfalfa sprouts I bought three weeks ago.
Verdict: The downside is these bags are a little flimsy (it’d be great to have this technology in Tupperware), need twist-ties, and wear out after about 15-20 uses, but if you’re a regular produce-eater — or just prone to random bouts of guilt-driven produce purchasing — they’re definitely worth the money.
Whether or not to buy this device is perhaps one of the most personal decisions you will make in your life. It’s the Sophie’s Choice of hair removal. See, on the one hand, the Epilator works — and, unless you are some sort of Yetti, you will enjoy blissfully hair-free legs, armpits, etc., for up to two weeks. On the other hand, there is a good chance that, during the initial hair removal process, you will pass out on your bathroom floor and not be found for several days, thus significantly reducing your appreciation for smooth legs during that time.
Basically, it comes down to what lengths you are willing to go to in order to be hair-free. Because the way the Epilator works is by ripping out your hair follicles by their roots. And that is not merely advertising jargon like “Blasts through soapscum!” or “Destroys odors!” This device quite literally RIPS YOUR HAIR OUT. Right in front of its wailing follicle family. And the process can take up to an hour if you’ve got really hairy legs or a lot of surface area to cover.
I’ll admit I’m probably not the typical consumer here. I absolutely loathe shaving because it takes me up to 30 minutes, I always somehow mangle my shins while leaving random patches around my knees, and then I have to do the whole convoluted process all over again the next day. So, for me, the up-front cost is worth the long-term reward. Also, it helps that (a) I have a pretty high pain tolerance in general, and (b) years of using this gadget have deadened all sensation in my lower extremities.
Verdict: If you’re thinking about buying this, I recommend you do some serious soul-searching. Go for a walk on a beach. Watch a sunset. Then take a pair of tweezers and tweeze a few choice hairs as a test. If you start swearing and punching things at random, you’re probably not an ideal candidate.
Ok, that’s it for now! Stay tuned for the next installment… which, at this pace, will be around Fall 2011.
So I know the Merrell Down & Dirty Mud Run is so last week’s news and right now you guys are probably rolling your eyes, wondering how much longer I plan to trot out that little anecdote every chance I get.
Well, I’m here to tell you: Not only am I trotting it out one more time, but I’m saddling it up and riding it off into the sunset, pardner.
Wait, there are more photos! And despite the fact that they capture my stomach in all its pale translucent, deep-sea jellyfish-like glory, I must say I’m damn proud to show ’em off…
Seriously. Wasn’t kidding about the mud in the mouth-hole.
Ha-HA! I said. That race was laughably easy for my superior skills!
My sneaky husband is being extremely coy about how he procured these shots but, judging by their low resolution, I’m going to go ahead and assume it was by nefarious, illegitimate means. He does that sometimes, the lil’ scamp.
Nevertheless, I am finally able to prove to you all (and myself) that I ran it!
My conscience is clear.
My sins have been absolved.
I have attained sweet, sweet redemption.
And now that I have closure, I am ready to move on with my life and find other interesting topics to post about.
So I mentioned yesterday that I ran my first 10K race in Philadelphia’s first annual Merrell Down & Dirty Mud Run this past weekend.
However, in all the post-race chaos, I failed to snap a photo of Chuckles and me in all our dirty glory. I wish I had the excuse of being on hardcore hallucinogenics at the time, but I don’t. I just totally didn’t even think about it.
I am, in the words of Napoleon Dynamite, a frickin’ idiot.
Anyway, despite being a total flake, I still pulled it together enough to take some candid photos of my fellow runners braving the mud pit.
And, man, do I love these people.
Everyone seemed to have a different strategy when it came to the mud pit.
Some tackled the challenge head-on.
Some tried a more delicate approach.
And some came prepared for whatever happened.
Goggles. Genius.
Then there were those who got by with a little help from their friends.
While some required other forms of, uh, gentle encouragement?
“You’re a very nice person!” this drill instructor was yelling. “You’re also a snazzy dresser and I admire your haircut!”
Basically, the moral of the story was this: You either embraced gettin’ down & dirty.
Or you didn’t.
But, it didn’t really matter. Because, either way, you got down & dirty.
Dirty.
Dirtier.
Dirtiest.
After all, this wasn’t the “Merrell Clean & Sanitary Mud Run”.
This man had no sympathy for anyone, by the way.
And we all made it to the Finish line with smiles on our faces and mud in our teeth.
And the crowd goes WILD!
And, in the end, it was well worth the dirty running shoes.
So let’s ignore for a moment the fact I promised you guys a somewhat useful (and some might even say compelling and delightful?) series of posts reviewing the various infomercial products I have tried–
Seriously, why do you guys always feel the need to bring up old stuff?
–but I did something reallydirty with my husband this weekend and just had to share.
I have to say, I was a little nervous at first since I’d never done anything like it before but was surprised by how quickly I got into it.
And it was inpublic.
It even involved other people.
Lots of dirty, sweaty, half-naked people.
And some children, too.
Wait, this post is taking a really weird turn so I should probably just tell you now we did the Merrell Down & Dirty Mud Run before the authorities show up to confiscate my computer as evidence.
To those unfamiliar with the Merrell Down & Dirty Mud Run, it’s a national series of 5K and 10K races sponsored by Merrell Footwear & Apparel featuring off-road courses with military-style obstacles and LOTS of opportunities to get mud in your mouth.
You know, if you’re into that sort of thing.
Which, it just so happens, Chuckles and I are.
The Mud Run is held each year in New York, NY; Sacramento, CA; Los Angeles, CA; and, for the first time ever, Philadelphia, PA. The goal is raise money to support our troops through Operation Gratitude, a nonprofit that sends morale-boosting care packages to front-line American service members deployed overseas.
Since they began in 2004, Operation Gratitude has shipped nearly 560,000 care packages. As a former deployed service member and the spouse of one, Chuckles and I couldn’t think of a better reason to get ‘down n’ dirty’.
So, early Saturday afternoon, we loaded up the truck and drove the three hours up to Philly to prepare ourselves to join 1,510 other 10K racers (a whopping 4,500 runners in total) participating in the sold-out event early the next morning.
After a relatively uneventful drive…
Welcome to Delaware. Period. It’s almost like even the sign understands the irony.
…we arrived just in time to pick up our race packets before registration closed and get settled in at the Philadelphia Hilton.
Now, normally we are not ‘Hilton folk’, but they had a special group rate deal and the hotel is less than a mile away from Fairmount Park, where the race was taking place.
Still, waiting for the elevator in the lobby with the fancy chandelier and baby grand piano while holding plastic grocery bags that served as our luggage, I felt like I’d be a little more at home sleeping in the shrubs outside the Hilton than in one of the actual rooms. And the fact that there were all sorts of classy people in fancy evening attire milling around waiting for a wedding to start in the Hilton’s reception hall didn’t help me feel any less like a hillbilly.
We retreated to our room where I immediately tore into my registration goody bag like a wild, angry raccoon in a burlap sack. Cause I’m a sucker for free stuff.
Chuckles, however, went about it with a little more restraint.
All in all, we got some pretty decent loot…
…Paul Mitchell samples (no, those aren’t condoms), a few bottled drinks, an awesome moisture-wicking T-shirt, and a handkerchief-sock hybrid thingy I had a little trouble figuring out.
Fortunately, Chuckles was on hand to show me how the hankersock’s supposed to be worn.
Thank God, cause otherwise I might’ve gone out in public looking foolish or something.
Then, of course, I had to check out the other free loot we get…
Crabtree & Evelyn products at the Hilton? It’s like I’ve died and gone to a small, single-serving Heaven.
After doing a full room sweep in search of any other fancy amenities the Hilton offers…
Hey Katie? You’ll never guess where I’m calling you from…
…we were ready to go out and experience all Philly has to offer! See the sights! Embrace the culture!
Or not.
You’re not tired, are you?
I did manage to drag Chuckles out of bed long enough to make him drive me two miles into Manayunk for an early dinner.
Manayunk is a quaint strip of cute shops, good restaurants and laidback bars. It reminds me a lot of Frederick.
After carb-loading on tasty cuisine at Munk & Nunn, we headed back to the hotel and watched T.V. til we passed out at 9 p.m. ROCK STAR!
4:45 a.m. the next morning came way too early. So early that I didn’t even consider breaking out my camera. So, instead, I’ll paint you a picture with words.
So, the night before, we’d decided that our plan would be to wake up super early and drive over to the park so that we could find a good parking space and go back to sleep for another hour or two before the traffic started at 6:15 a.m. Smart, eh?
That is not, however, how ‘the plan’ ended up going down.
What did happen was we drove to the park only to find the entrance gates closed, where we then proceeded to bicker while driving around aimlessly for 20 minutes looking for an open entrance before finally pulling into a grassy field just as the crowd started arriving.
So we never did get to go back to sleep.
No matter, we pounded a few energy drinks and followed the equally bleary-eyed mob across the field to the Start line.
As everyone began gathering together in the pre-dawn light, the excitement started building and the adrenaline started pumping.
Despite the day’s rising temperatures and humidity, it was hard not to be happy in such a festive, upbeat atmosphere. Chuckles and I even made up.
Right, snookums?
And you know what? As we stretched and hydrated and pinned our numbers, I even started to feel like a real, honest to God runner.
It just so happens 482 is my lucky number. What a coincidence!
Now, here’s where this post gets a little light on photos. I had to check my bag (and camera) because I didn’t want to subject it to the heat and water and mud and all the other horrible, unspeakable things I’d be subjecting my body too.
Suffice it to say, we sat through a race pre-brief telling us to behave ourselves like good boys and girls, filed into roped-off sections for a staggered start, and then gradually shuffled toward the Start line until it was our turn for the cannon to go off.
And then we ran.
And it felt good.
The course took us up and down hills, along roads, through snaking woods trails, across a stream, down rocky embankments, and through a variety of obstacles, including a haybale scramble, cargo net climb, low-crawl under netting, rope scale, etc.
Chuckles and I got separated about halfway through the course but I encountered plenty of friendly fellow runners who were down with trading a quick joke or word of encouragement during our 30-second friendship.
To me, the end came all too soon, and before I knew it, I rounded the corner after finishing the last obstacle and came face-to-face with a roaring crowd.
Ah, the Finish line is in sight!
But wait, what’s that just before it?
Oh, it’s a HUGE mud pit.
That I have to crawl through.
On my stomach.
If I’d somehow managed to stay relatively clean for the majority of the race, this is where all of that ended.
After climbing under the camo netting, I gracefully hurtled face first into the mud pool.
Like this guy, except less graceful. And less bald.
From there, I awkwardly crab-crawled through approximately 15 more yards of muddy terrain before sliding down the last embankment on my stomach like a harpooned seal.
Then, with the sound of the crowd cheering in my ears, I stumbled across the Finish line, grinning stupidly and raising my arms in a V for victory.
And then I spit a gigantic wad of mud out of my mouth. The end.
Chuckles wasn’t far behind and I got to watch him slither across that mud pit with the agility and grace of a man who did this for a living for many years. I’d never been more proud of my boy.
Here’s where I have to admit I totally pulled a Katie. After the race, we were so high on adrenaline and so disgusted with ourselves (seriously, I had mud up my nose) that we ran off to the showers without even thinking about stopping by Bag Check to pick up my camera and get a picture of us in all our filthy glory.
Sorry, guys, but there’s no ‘money shot’. I know, we’re totally ashamed of ourselves, too.
But the good news is there were professional-looking photographers there at the Finish line taking pictures so hopefully some photo of us will surface on the Interwebs over the coming days. Unless those photographers were just taking pictures of strangers for their own private collection. Which is just kind of creepy.
Anyhoo, I’ll be sure to keep a lookout and post any ‘After’ pics I find.
In the meantime, I did muster enough common sense to grab my camera and start taking pictures of the other runners. And, man, were they a riot.
But I won’t post those pictures until later because:
1. I took, like, a thousand photos and need to wade through them all to find the top blog-worthy contenders.
2. This post is already ridiculously long. In fact, you guys have probably stopped reading by this point and now are just skimming for any key words that might grab your interest. In which case, BOOBS, PORN, HOT NASTY MONKEY SEX. (Paying attention again? Good.)
3. This morning I’ve been busted writing this post by almost every single one of my coworkers. How I suffer their steely-eyed judgment for you all.
So anyway, expect more pics up soon (but not like the infomercial series — I’ll actually follow through on this project.)
Oh, but before I go… the best part about this little story?
So far, you guys have been really good sports to put up with my endlessly trivial ramblings about refrigerator lint and sponges and whatnot.
But, let’s be honest. There’s probably only a finite number of those posts you’ll tolerate before you start assembling into a mob hellbent on delivering swift Indian burn- and swirlie-style justice.
Or just, uh, stop reading entirely.
Wait, scratch that. That’s not an option.
Fortunately, with the recent return of my marital manfriend Chuckles, I’m feeling rather magnanimous and altruistic and big-wordy today. So, in a rare act of mercy, I will forego the inane anecdotes I usually post about and actually dispense some semi-useful information.
If we were in a late 90’s house party movie, this is where the music would screech to a halt.
I know you’re all like “Saywha’?” right now.
But I’m here to tell you: “Fo’ shizzle.”
So, here goes. I’ve already confessed that I’m a shameless infomercial addict who’s spent obscene amounts of money buying stuff because some toothy maniac on TV was shrieking at me to, right?
Well, I figure I might as well exploit my utter lack of self-restraint by imparting my wisdom unto the masses on which products are actually worth buying and which ones are, in fact, the useless crap that they appear to be to just about everyone but me.
On a side note, I like to think I’m a pretty smart cookie in real life. I don’t let myself get taken by Nigerian princes or real estate scams selling beachfront property in Iowa. So I don’t know why I’m so darn gullible when it comes to infomercial pitches.
Maybe it’s the warm, comforting glow of the television that beckons to my lonely, sleep-deprived heart in the wee hours of the morn.
Maybe it’s watching some schmuck-actor’s mind-blown elation at his long-awaited deliverance from the sheer agonizing torment that had been his life before this product.
Thank GOD someone finally simplified THAT convoluted process!
Or maybe some small, hopeful part of me really wants to believe that at least some aspect of life could be blessedly simplified in just three easy payments of $19.95.
No matter the reason — my loss is your gain today, friends!
So here’s how it’s going to work: I’ve got a lot of products to review since I’ve been at this whole ‘infomercial bidness’ for a while now, so I’ll be breaking this down into semi-manageable blog-chunks over the next couple days.
But since I’ve already reached a massive word count just to preface this little project, we’re only going to have space to review a couple today. Oops.
So, without further ado…
Shake-It Flashlight (AsSeenOnTV.com, $8.95 for 2)
The concept behind this battery-less, bulb-less flashlight is to draw upon your own energy reserves to generate, through vigorous shaking, a reliable, maintenance-free, limitless light source.
Sounds nice, right?
It’s not.
After shaking this sucker for the amount of time necessary to maintain a feeble beam of pale yellow light for any extended period, you will no longer require a flashlight, as you have developed a massive, hulking bicep and are now able to punch through car doors, concrete walls or any other pesky obstacle impeding your access to more convenient nearby light sources.
This isn’t the Shake-It. I just wanted to use this photo. Huh-huh.
Verdict: There might be other shake-able flashlights that work out there, but this ain’t it. So unless you find a better brand or you’re prepared to start sewing size XXL sleeves onto all your S/M shirts, just take my advice and stock up on batteries.
Up next…
George Foreman’s Lean, Mean, Fat-Grilling Machine (AsSeenOnTV.com, $14.99)
Thanks to George Foreman, I managed to narrowly avoid malnutrition despite a steady, four-year diet of Bojangles BoBerry Biscuits, late-night gas station hot-dogs and Busch Light back in college — look for my new diet book, available January 2011!
Occasionally, when my eyes and skin would take on a sickly yellow pallor and it’d smell like a deep-fryer when I sweat, I’d break this puppy out, slap a few protein-rich chicken breasts on it and be nursed back to health in no time.
Of course, nowadays I look like Gollum from Lord of the Rings if I happen to accidentally skip my 20-vitamin routine one morning, but I digress…
Verdict: Consider this a great — nay, life-saving — graduation gift for any college-bound kid.
Ok, so that’s all for now! I’ll be sure to cook up plenty more tasty product reviews for your consumer appetite (can you tell it’s almost lunchtime?).
But, in the meantime, feel free to chime in below with your own infomercial anecdotes so I don’t feel like such a total loser.
After spending the last two weeks of my life negotiating, bargaining, pleading, and possibly even making thinly-veiled threats against a coworkers’ family in a vain effort to hash out this one teeny-tiny, cosmically insignificant newsletter article on health care program management (yes, the same one I mentioned way back here), I have come to the conclusion that words are primitive, ineffectual communication tools.
Much like the homeless guy in Baker Park who mutters and makes borderline lewd gestures at the birds, you know language is trying to accomplish something, you just can’t quite tell what. (True story, by the way. Frederick homeless people, you so crazy.)
As such, I will no longer be wasting my time with it. I am so over words.
From now on, friends, my main mode of communication will be through bar graphs and pie charts — and the occasional Venn Diagram to keep things sassy.
So, I could devote the next 30-45 minutes on this post trying to relay to you how I’m feeling this morning… or I could just sum things up in five minutes with a handy-dandy pie chart.
Hmm, what to do?
Voila! Such is the awe-inspiring magic of Microsoft Office Excel 2007. Bask in its glory.
Seriously, I said bask.
And since that felt oh so good, I believe I’ll do another one.
I think I feel a bar graph coming on… Yep, here it comes…
Nice, right? It’s easy, gets to the point, leaves no room for misinterpretation.
I don’t want to brag, but I think I’m revolutionizing communication here, people.
After two excruciatingly long, obnoxiously celibate (sorry, Mother-in-Law!) months apart, he’ll be flying in Monday.
Our relationship, like, well, let’s face it — pretty much everything about me — might appear slightly abnormal to the casual observer. A military career and the number of traveling jobs that followed managed to keep us apart a good chunk of the six years we’ve been together. Sometimes in different zip codes, sometimes on different continents.
Fortunately, Chuckles and I are both independent creatures, so separation isn’t as dire for us.
I, for one, revel in my alone time because it gives me the chance to shamelessly partake in a colorful array of nasty-ass habits. Like, for instance, eating S’mores for dinner while standing over the sink (because the thought of washing a plate literally weighs on my soul) wearing crusty, stained pajama pants that have spent the entire weekend molding to my lower half.
Anyhoo, while I enjoy my “gross-girl” downtime, that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him tons, and my lil’ ol’ heart still gets all a-flutter when it knows he’s coming home soon.
And since it looks like he might actually be sticking around for a while this time (more on that later), I feel I should get you guys all nice and acquainted.
Let’s see, how do I describe Chuckles? Well, he’s an “extreme” kind of guy.
How so? Well, he’s into stuff like this…
And this…
And this…
And this…
All of which have, on occasion, lead to this…
Bad husband. Bad.
And let’s just say my hobbies are a little less, um, diverse?
…you get the idea.
So how do we make this crazy little thing called marriage work?
Well, we’ve got one very important quality in common, Chuckles and I…
A quality that allows us to take life less seriously and smile through even the toughest circumstances…
And I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone who knows us that the quality we share is…
