…about summer fashion trends

June 16, 2011

Ashley shared her favorite trends with you. She is a more positive person than I. (She has the blonde hair and I have the dark hair. It’s a role we were born into) Instead of things I love, I am bringing you…

The summer 2011 fashion trends that will seem like a mistake when you look at pictures five years from now

1. Pattern “matching”

She looks good, but that is because she is a gorgeous model. You are not.

2. Stripper Shoes

Specifically, stripper shoes from 1970

3. Short shorts

And she threw in some stripper shoes for good luck.

Did you tell Ashley your favorite trend? Share your least favorite with me.


RAWC&A: My New Pink Button

June 9, 2011

It’s all about the genitals this week at Things I Thought. Specifically, female genitals.

I came across My New Pink Button through the Regretsy post about the product.

Never mind do the carpets match the curtains, now we have to worry about the baseboards as well.

This is the "Betty" package. It comes in different colors.

The product page reads

My New Pink Button ™ is a temporary dye to restore the youthful pink color back to your labia.

(Yes, labia.)

There is no other product like it.

(How odd.)

This patent pending formula was designed by a female certified Paramedical Esthetician after she discovered her own genital color loss.

(um…)

While looking online for a solution she discovered thousands of other women asking the same questions regarding their color loss. After countless searches revealing no solution available and a discussion with her own gynecologist she decided to create her own. Now there is a solution!

(Except now everyone knows she dyes)

As I see it, the biggest market for this is the old folks’ home. Splash a little MNPB on your old lady parts and Chester down the hall thinks you are the hot new nurse (unless of course he looks at your hair or face or any other part of you).

One thing the website doesn’t address: does My New Pink Button rub off on your Cuchini?


…about acronyms

May 27, 2011

or

I had very little to say about acronyms so here is some brain excrement

When thinking about this topic my brain kept replacing “acronyms” with “anagrams.”

There is a big difference.

Anagrams are word puzzles in which you rearrange the letter of a word to spell other words. For example “dog “is famously “god” backwards (and vice versa). Equally famous is the anagram “robeth” for “bethro.”

But this post is about acronyms. Acronyms are the shortening of a phrase using the first letter of each word of that phrase. As Ashley pointed out Monday, the phrase “LOL” means “Laughing Out Loud” and is usually misused. If I were to try to describe the real meaning of “LOL” as it is commonly used, it might translate instead to “Oh, yeah? I have nothing interesting to say to that” and sometimes “end sentence.”

The acronyms I have encountered the most are those related to jobs. Corporate America is fond of insider acronyms that take the place of real communication. At a former employer – the one that united Ashley and me – a full sentence might be “Did you submit the JDE request for the ISBN so we can have the PSR in time for the PSR?”

How cool did that sound?

Not very, huh?

And that’s what I think of acronyms.

BABY


…about WhatsYourPrice.com

May 19, 2011

Bethro

Hot mama ready to baby you

I'll rock your world. (picture not representative-taken at month 7 of pregnancy)


31 Years Old from Inside the House
5’3″ curvy/rubinesque
Brown and gray hair, green eyes, dark circles

I’m looking for a sugar daddy who knows how to go to bed at 9 PM, not interrupt me when I am reading, and who enjoys repeatedly re-watching episodes of Futurama. Must like cats and accept that my cat gets first dibs on sleeping next to me.

I like an active night life. We will be getting up 2-3 times a night to get a baby back to sleep. Together. Holding hands. Probably not holding hands because don’t touch me when I might get five minutes of sleep more.

I’m not looking to play games. I’m just looking for a baby sitter.


…rules to follow when living with others (married version)

May 12, 2011

Rule Number One is don’t post their foibles to your blog

Phil’s Foibles

Talking in his sleep (and also being a nerd)

In the third year of Phil’s journey to PhD-dom, I woke up one night to hear “You’ve got to put the error bar on the chart.” I come awake pretty quickly so I had time to hear the whole thing. I turned to him, thought about what he said and articulately inquired “what?” He repeated, slowly, as though I were an idiot, “You’ve GOT to put an ERROR BAR on the chart!” I thought again. Asked, “what?” He rolled over (which for Phil means sitting halfway up and throwing himself back down) and said with disgust “never mind.”

The next morning I told him of our conversation. He thought it was funny. Mostly he thought it was funny because, remembering his dream, he realized “an error bar wouldn’t even go on that kind of chart.”

Lack of full-grown-man hair

In addition to only needing to shave every two-to-three days, Phil has some strange spottiness when it comes to body hair. For example, the other day he walked out of the bathroom in his towel and asked me “when did I grow a hair bikini?” I looked, and lo and behold, there were two patches of hair over his skinny man boobs and one “strap” coming up from each and almost reaching his collar bone.

Almost maternal love for his cat

There is not much to say here except that Phil is a grown man who acts as though his cat is his baby.

Rule Number Two is never make public sleeping pictures of your spouse without asking.

Rule Number Three is I love you, sweetie.


Funny Stories About Past Me (FSAPM): Road Rage

May 5, 2011

There’s a new TIT in town. On a repeated (at least more than once) basis, Ashley and I will be bringing a little joy into your lives with amusing anecdotes featuring ourselves. Yes. It’s that navel gazing.

This is a blog.

I won’t be delving as far back into the past as Ashley did. This week, I bring you a story of a 27-year-old Bethro and her big mouth.

I think we can all agree that road rage is bad. Tragic things happen when drivers or those interacting with drivers become angry. My policy is “don’t engage.” Just move along. You never know when you are going to encounter that crazy who just can’t believe you “cut him off” (i.e., turned in front of him).

Good policy. And I stick to it. Except for maybe once every two years. I have no idea what happens when I am incapable of keeping my mouth shut. Some combo of too many video games and devil music or maybe the planets are in a poor alignment or maybe it’s some other cliche I have not thought of.

It was especially hard for me in the San Francisco Bay Area. It’s tough to move to a new part of the country and not understand the rules. And the people you now live next to don’t even understand that their rules might be different and you need a little slack. They just think you’re an idiot.

It does no good to dwell on how quickly they would be smooshed on Storrow Drive or how many one ways they would get wrong near Weybosset Street or whether they would even make it onto Route One in Saugus. You just have to try to adapt. But it’s hard.

On one particular evening, I was driving through North Berkeley at the tail end of my 1 1/2 hour commute back home from my corporate monkey job. I was on Solano Ave (that means something to some of the crowd). Tired, in my air-conditioning-less car, I failed to see a pedestrian behind a car about to cross a crosswalk.

Ignoring my lack of x-ray vision, let me explain something to those who have not experienced Bay Area pedestrian self-righteousness.  People will dart out in front of cars because they have the right of way. They do have the right of way – no arguments there. But, it seems to me that if some driver fails to see you in time and you weigh a small fraction of the thing about to hit you, right of way does not matter. Furthermore, some street-crossers take this right so far that they march into the crosswalk with hands held out to either side telling everyone to STOP for them.

So a woman crosses in front of me. I brake fast. My tires squeal. My heart pounds.

And then.

She yells at me.

“It’s a crossWALK” she hollers and gestures widely with her arms to show me. I’m already pumped up from the scare, but now I am angry as well.

I stick my head out the window (sorry for the next part, Mim).

“And I fucking STOPPED” I let her know.

“But you had to brake fast” she retorts

I grow angrier and stick my head further out the window. “So you don’t like HOW I stopped?” I demand of her.

Except not of her, but of her back. Because she is power walking away from me.

Because in this case, I am the crazy person and she shouldn’t have engaged.

When he gets in the car, Mr Walker becomes Mr Wheeler


April 2011 Fan of the Month

May 4, 2011

I am taking Ashley’s usual place to tell you that April’s fan of the month is…

MM Mim.

MM Mim is my mom, and we call her Mim because she is the magnificent

marvelous

mad mad mad mad

madame Mim.

She is the fan of the month because of the random number generator (Ashley’s hat or spreadsheet) but she deserves to be fan of the month for the following reasons.

  • She gave birth to me
  • She has a Devon Rex named Freda who is all personality
  • She reads the blog religiously and always comments – even on the posts others ignore

Congrats, Mimbly! Enjoy your month.


RAWC&A: Historical Edition

April 28, 2011

Venice, early 14th Century: Chopine

According to newhumanist.org  ” Thought to have originated in the East, the chopine was a raised wooden platform on which the shoe could rest…Chopines could be as high as 20 centimetres, so high that it was impossible to walk in them unaided. You would either have to hobble around on sticks or lean on your servants.”

Not your average stripper shoes

England, 16th Century: Elizabethan ruff

“Ruffs, or ruffles, started as a high frilled collar. Fashion then dictated a more feminine and seductive image for women which was achieved by opening the ruffle in front to expose the neck and the top of the breasts. The ruff was then constructed on gauze wings which were raised at the back of the head.” Or so elizabethan-era.org tells us.

Thank goodness they could still expose their breasts. I wouldn’t want the Elizabethan men (also wearing ruffs) to think that their women weren’t sexy.

Now that's ruff

Multiple points in Europe, late 17th, early 18th Centuries: Fontange

It’s simple: put a wire frame on your head and decorate it in ribbons (source). Bam. Fontange. It’s a little like a parade float, but with lice.

A little fontange and some chopines and I'm a foot taller.

England, 19th Century: Bustle

Victorian women got together and said “I’m happy with all the repressed sexuality and laudanum, but my ass could stand to be bigger.” And so the bustle was born. Click on that vixen below to read more about bustles.

Madam got back


…about awkward moments of silence

April 21, 2011

….

(ahem)

….

….

(pretends to read text messages)

“So have you seen 30 Rock?”


…about the rules of playground

April 14, 2011

When I was a wee tot, the rules of the playground were simple. As a shy kid the decisions were obvious; if  your friends are there, play with them (even if they are playing on the dreaded hand-over-hand bars). If your friends aren’t there, play quietly on whatever is vacant lest some strange child tries to talk to you or – much worse – judges you for some reason because you caught his/her attention. My mantra was don’t challenge, don’t rock the boat.

Moms aren’t allowed to be shy. The comedians have covered it. Children make you interact. Kids make you smile at strangers because your precious little one just drank from a stranger’s sippy cup. As if a sheepish smile makes your sippy-cup obsessed baby less odd or the nasty germs he received and spread any less nasty.

Milo, his dad, and his cousin. The little ones swap germs all the time.

But my shy instincts are there. I freeze when my little guy takes a toy from a kid – especially an older one who is likely to react badly. Do I say “no, Milo” or apologize or ignore it or tell them “sharing is caring”? What about when someone takes a toy from my baby? I’m inclined to roll with it because although Milo is grabby, he is fair; he doesn’t care when others are grabby (unless it’s a sippy cup).

Parents are all “how old is your baby?” and I’m all “blankty-blank months” and then I freeze because I know I should ask how old their ugly lump is but 1) it now sounds fake and 2) I just don’t care. There is no more isolated section of the playground I can escape to now that Milo beelines for the other kids. And everyone is always talking to me and judging me.


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