So much has been going on since last year. So much, in fact, that I haven’t had much time to write in my blog. And yet, here I am on a Friday night/Saturday morning, 5am in fact, writing with no real goal in mind.
I’ve been working a lot, doing what I love most in the world. Marketing. I have been parlaying my social online activities into a job and so far, it’s been pretty successful. I have an expanding client list, which is always a good thing. Paychecks are nice. They allow me shoes. Lots of shoes. Not like I couldn’t have lots of shoes before…but there is something liberating about not having to justify my shoe purchases to my husband. Mind you, he doesn’t inquire. He frankly couldn’t care less about my shopping habits. I just always feel the need to explain them away.
“Oh, these? Yeah, I got them on sale for $blah blah and then I had a Groupon which got me $blah blah off and then, there was an online code for free shipping so they finally came out to $blah blah.”
He always says the same thing.
“Babe, you don’t need to explain these things to me. If you like them, buy them.”
*sighs* Never an argument. Sometimes, I wish he would pull a Ricky Ricardo on me.
“Ceeeeeeee Peeeeeeee!? ‘Ave jew bin spending all our moneee again? Ees dat what jew are do-eeng? Jes?”
“Oh no, Hotband! I deedn’t spend all jor moneeee again! I got a YOB!”
“A YOB? Where did jew get a Yob? Oh Ceee Peeee! Jew ara bad bad wife! Ay carramba!”
(Those of you under the age of 25 will not even remotely get the I Love Lucy references. Please exit to the left. I have no use for you whippersnappers.)
5 am is a bad time for me to be awake. There’s lots of infomercials on at 5am. Lots. Generally there are two different categories of infomercials. Things relating to exercise…and everything else. Things relating to exercise are safe. NO danger of me ordering that P90X or the Insanity Workout in the middle of the night. (Although, I really want that T-shirt…but according to the commercial, you have to “earn” it. Screw that shit. I’ll just buy one. My body will reveal the truth. I didn’t earn anything but 5 pounds from the cheese danish I was eating while watching these morons lift chairs over their heads while grunting like wart hogs having coitus.) It’s the “everything else” that scares my husband. Everything else includes: The Instyler. I really want that fucking thing. I want to make barrel curls, roll curls, mini flips or straight hair that is polished by the rolling/brushing action. And ooh…it comes with a second mini rotating Instyler for when I want a tighter curl! It just may be the most perfect styling tool ever invented! They said so, so it must be true!
|The Instyler: Part hair brush, part masturbation tool. The possibilities are endless.|
Next on my infomercial list? Wen Hair Care. Yes, I love Alyssa Milano. She’s named after my favorite cookie. (Mmmmm…Milano’s. Double chocolate please.) But the Wen Hair Care System says that I don’t have to wash AND condition my hair any more because the non-lathering magic unicorn jizz in the bottle will magically make my hair stunning and glorious just like Alyssa’s. When I pump a dime size blob in my hand and comb it through, little fairies will dance around my skull, infusing my head with nourishing fairy dust and encasing each strand in their special fairy saliva. It will be magical! And all the worlds problems will cease to exist because MY hair will shimmer, shine and bounce. Presidents and Kings will bow to my whim because my hair is ethereal!
|Chaz Dean: Creator of Wen. Advocate of the Instyler for off label purposes.|
Next on my wish list? Set It…and Forget it! Not only is the product awesome, but the name is genius! As a matter of fact, I want this to be my motto in life! Everything should be that gimmicky. Work: Do It…nah, Screw It! Marriage: Wed Him…then Bed Him! Having Kids: Have Them…then spend the next 18 years of your fucking life biting your nails down to the nub worrying about the dumb little shits turning your hair prematurely gray and gaining 30 pounds in the process. Hm, okay. Not everything can be that catchy. But seriously, how awesome is the concept of slapping some food in an oven and then, leaving it? You know, while you go out to dinner, because you totally set it…and then, forgot it. I can see this thing playing a real important role in my life. “Yeah, babe. I did make dinner. But I forgot it. Go look in the amazing peek a boo window! It’s in there! Now, where shall I put these leftovers?” Everything in life should be so easy.
|These chickens are 5 days old! I totes forgot about them!|
This next one just makes my heart go all aflutter. It’s the Slap Chop. Waaaaaay before the Shake Weight commercials were around to bring joy to your soul as you diddle your skittle or choke your chicken (you know you do), there was Vince slapping his way into your life. Vince would slap chop any thing you put in front of him. Tomatoes? He’d chop them. Hard boiled eggs? He’s gonna slap ’em for ya. Baby fingers? Yep, them too. No more need to put your children in time out. Just put their little chubby hands on the counter and slap, slap, SLAP your way into obedience! Vince had no shame. Not even a few domestic violence charges, drug arrests and prostitutes would stand in the way of Vince slapping his way into your dreams. I have to be honest…when my grandson was born, I had a fantasy that consisted of Vince in Mohel gear bursting into the labor and delivery room, scooping up Liam and just slap slap slapping his brand new little penis into circumcision submission. Sadly, my daughter wouldn’t allow me to make this happen. Something about wanting him to stay out of therapy and actually be able to use his penis some day. Pfffft. Wuss.
|Hava Tequila. It vill dull zee pain! I vill slap slap slappa da penis!|
As Vince says, “I can’t do this all night”. The fantasies are simply endless. I love me some infomercials. I probably could go on and on all night…but alas, I have a feeling that this last one just might make Saturday night grandkid sleepover night come to an abrupt halt. Besides, I have a Pampered Chef chopper. It doesn’t have the same ring to it. “Let me Pamper Your Penis”. Hm. Maybe I’m wrong about that. Of course, my all time favorite infomercial is for the Shake Weight. The male or the female version…which really only boils down to whether you get a pink Shake Weight or a gray Shake Weight. But I love watching the burly guys on the men’s commercial do the jerk off motion with a straight face. You know that commercial was made to be soft porn for the gay community. No straight woman finds that remotely attractive. Same with the women’s commercial. You know that straight men who can no longer see their porn channels through the squiggly lines jerk off to the women’s Shake Weight commercials. Sure, there is the obvious “hot chick holds on to pink phallic thing and jerks it up and down” thing. But, if you look PAST that to the woman’s chest…you will see tons of jiggling boobage. That’s where the action is, Kats and Kittens. They found the jiggliest boobies they could find on 90% perfectly toned women. I think they probably crop in the jiggle bubbies off of fat chicks and insert them into the videos. Regardless, I don’t care how it happens, just that it happens. Plus, infomercials, unlike regular commercials, are 30 joyful minutes long. Plenty of time for info induced orgasm to take place.
Now, it’s 6 am. I totally ruined my alone time with my infomercials. I think I shall turn in and have sweet dreams of violating Vince with my Instyler, lubing it thoroughly with some Wen and then, listening to Ron Popeil saying “Shove It…You Will Love It” as I burrow it into one of Vince’s orifices.
A girl can dream, can’t she?