Better Living Through Voodoo. Science.

This Saturday morning, my doorbell rang. The children each ran to the door, assuming it was for them, because lord knows it wasn't going to be for me. #recluse I sauntered over to the door with morning hair, morning breath, morning face, and morning coffee, and it turns out it was for me. Well, it was for my eternal soul. I happened to be on the phone,  because I assumed it was one of the neighborhood kids and didn't bother setting the phone down, so the people at the door trying to teach me about the kindgom of some god went on their merry, albeit early, way. 

Of course, they don't know that I spent 17 years in the service of the same god as they are in now, so they don't know that I was totally rating their performance. 

My boyfriend giggle on the phone asked me how they did and I said, um, err, they just handed me some literature and left, weirdly considerate. He asked what my old spiel was for when people answered their doors on the phone, and I stammered. Because. Err. Well? What *was* my spiel, anyway? Am I really getting this old

No, I am not really getting this old. It's just that the last time I woke someone up on Saturday morning to save their hungover soul, the only people who had phones you could carry around with you and use anywhere you wanted to were Captain James T Kirk and his pals at Star Fleet. 

Like, yesterday, tvs inside of cars and phones without cords were dreams we had when we weren't busy joking about running out of water one day and stuff. And yet, here we are. Our cars will start themselves for us and our phones are used for killing cranky pigs and my trash can opens the freaking door for me everytime I need to throw something away. 

Really. I can't get my sons to open a door for me. Chivalry isn't dead, friends, it's just hiding in simplehuman garbage cans. Whom I am an ambassador for. #disclosure

On a good day, I can get my kids to put trash somewhere in the same zip code as our trash cans. The toilet paper rolls make it to the floor beside the bathroom trash, the recycling will defy the laws of gravity and decency in piles across from the recycle bin, and the tossbale trash from meals will delicately congeal on the counter between the sink and trash can. I have begged and pleaded and threatened and freaked out about this, but what I had never before done was add voodoo to the equation.

This is my black magic trash can. If you walk passed it, wave your hand, and say Allah, peanut butter sandwiches! IT WILL OPEN FOR YOU. I can't make my kids stop throwing things away now. It's *awesome* 

This is my soap pump. It is almost impossible to yank your hand out from under it before the soap squirts out, it's that fast. Don't think I haven't blown through a whole bag of soap trying. I am easily amused by shiny objects, shut up. 

Why do I love having a soap pump that magically dispenses soap for us faster than you can say child labor laws or soux chef, and a trash can that just opens when I need it to? Because turkey

I'm no germophobe but I am a turkeyophile and turkey guts, while delicious at 160 degrees and up, aren't so awesome smeared all over the kitchen counters, trash lids, and soap pumps. Smearing almost always = bad. Not sending your nephew home with a raging case of salmonilla poisoning almost always = good. 

Also, having two dogs who can't wave and a trash can full of turkey guts that opens by wave-sensing-voodoo? Yeah. 

So, I have this extra sensor soap pump. Anyone want one? It comes with lavendar hand soap (but I am a slave to the lemon dish soap, which is made specifically to work with these pumps. Just sayin.) Let me see the grossest, nastiest, dirtiest mess your kids have ever gotten into. (Because we all know you took a picture before you cleaned them up. BLOGGERS.) Leave a link in the comments to your picture, and the best-worst one gets it.

One Man's Trash Can

I never wanted to be an actor. I wanted to be the person behind the curtains, moving the set of the play around and altering your reality. I never wanted to be the diner, I wanted to the waiter in the back of the kitchen, watching sauces and meats and vegetables come together to create plated art. I didn't want to own the fancy car; I wanted to work in the garage where they tune the cars up. 

I like knowing how. I like understanding why. I am motivated by motivation. I want to know the story behind the thing, whatever the thing is. I want to know the painter, the foreman, the COO, the scientist. I'm fascinated by the psychology behind creation, the small spark of thought that turns into a movie, a meal, a trash can. 

When I was in my 20's, I lived in an apartment building with a guy who ended up being my kids' godfather, but at the time was just a cute twenty four year old boy in a band who really liked playing XBox with my kids. One day I go to pick the boys' up from Grand Theft Auto Hour and he's got this giant shiny trashcan in his tiny little apartment. He told me how much he paid for it and I was all Trash Can, You are Drunk and he was all Shut Up and I was all WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU PAY THAT MUCH FOR A TRASH CAN and he was all BECAUSE I NEVER WANT TO BUY ANOTHER TRASH CAN AND THIS IS THE BEST ONE. 

So last summer I'm staying with thirty four year old him and his wife in San Francisco for the summer and sure enough, there's his trash can, looking and working exactly like new. EXACTLY. Like, not a fingerprint, not a dent, not a scratch. 

So I bought a simplehuman trash can, duh. Or two. And a plastic grocery bag holder, too. Because. #accessories

And then simplehuman invited me to come to their offices to learn about why and how they make them and we've already established that I am all sorts of into that so I went and now i'm going to be working with them for like the whole next year which is awesome because they're really interesting people AND I might be giving away some products over the next year and that's called a run-on disclosure statement.

I will buy a trash can because I saw one didn't age a second in over 10 years, but I will love that trash can and write about it and tell my friends about it because I know this guy is walking around California looking at the stuff the rest of us ignore and trying to figure out why we ignore it, and how to get us to stop that, because he loves doing little things better. 

I will love a trash can bag because these guys spend their Thursday afternoon swinging bricks around over their heads in trash bags they engineered, just double dog daring them to break. #osha

I love people who love the crap out of what they do. These people love the crap out of what they do. They don't just make trash cans, they make the little things we all have to use every single day of our lives pretty, elegant, easy, and badass. They are scientists and engineers and font-enthusiasts who are making trash sexy. They are also making drinking wine easier, which wasn't even humanly possible. #superpowers

And that dishrack holds more than my entire dishwasher, not kidding. Which is kind of good, because my children are barred from ever so much as looking at my dishwasher again. 

Which was probably his plan all along. Dammit.

And So It Goes

This is my very last review-on-another-page post. That really isn't of relevance to anyone but me, but it bears mentioning.

Last week, I took all of my ads down on my blog, but I had already agreed to do one last sponsored post for BlogHer, and I wasn't about to pass the chance up. Why? Because the company we worked with on this campaign isn't afraid of women who swear. In fact, they kind of salute it, in a funny sort of way.

I knew when I started this blog thing that if I ever wanted to make a dime off of it, I'd have to curtail the potty mouth. Ultimately, I decided that saying [insert favorite expletive here] was more important to me that making money off the internet. Because I say [insert favorite expletive here] a lot in real life, and I don't have much interest in pretending to be something I'm not online. So I've spent the better part of six years being told that, "Hey, we'd love to work with you!" and a week later getting a follow up email that says, "But you just say fuck too much."

Which irks me. Because I honestly have only met one mom at all, in my whole life, who truly doesn't say any swear words, on or offline. And I think she may be a saint or something. Even my puritan right wing radical Christian cult bible humping mother said a swear word a handful of times over the course of our childhoods. Not all moms are perfect. Not all moms strive for absolute cookie cutter perfect. I'd argue that most don't, actually. But I get the distinct impression that companies want to work with parents because we bring this thing, this corner of the internet, to their table, but they want us to do it completely on their very unrealistic, disingenuous terms. Which, no.

So when I get approached to work with a company who's primary marketing piece to parents is called Dickhead? The only question I have for them is, "Where do I sign?"

For old time's sake, I threw the post up on a review page. Which now looks exactly like this one. I never pretended to make any sense, either. We're talking about your finest parenting moments. And by finest, I mean in-quotes-finest. Pop on over; there are goodies to be had.

And I'll start...Did I ever tell you 2of3's first word was shit? That's pretty tame, actually, compared to his first sentence.

Real World Killed the Video Star

I'm sitting in the same bar I've sat in every night for the past 6 nights, somewhere in the middle of Los Angeles, all by myself. I always think that these work trips are going to be so totally amazingly awesome, that I'll get so much done and enjoy the peace and quiet I am constantly begging any deity who will still listen to me* for.

And then I get here and my daughter calls me to tell me she meeds me, momma, and my middle son has emoticon text wars with me and my oldest son tells me every single thing he's done for me to keep the house together while I'm gone, and I try to go to the gym to sweat out the fact that I undeniably miss them but what I really end up doing it eating all the cheesecake room service will bring me and watching MTV all night, which doesn't actually have music on it anymore. Yo Yo Yo, MTVdumbteenagers! It just doesn't have the same ring to it.

And so I fall asleep at one and I wake up at four because my ears are ringing from the silence which is okay because in three days, when I'm home, I'm going to be bitching about how my house is clearly an echo chamber and how, though I do little right in life, I can totally make a mean pair of lungs. Three times over, in fact.

Yes, there is a point, and it is that we're talking about getting enough rest at my little review blog and it's the very last post in a series that ends in $100 gift certificate going to one of the commenters, so get going already. I'll be sitting here trying to figure out what the point of this Bachlorette show is.

*Turns out, there aren't any. Not even that delicious Flying Spaghetti Monster.

She Really Needs to Get Out of the House More Often, That's All.

And still, she doesn't finish the cop story.

She still also doesn't have a wallet or her super crazy hot red glasses anymore. Which is totally the punchline of the story. Bygones.

This all means that she can't see out of 2/3 of her eyeballs, and she doesn't have the insurance card she'll need to replace her glasses.

None of this excuses the whole third person thing. She really can't explain that. What she can tell you is that she's been writing much more coherently for BlogHer and Crystal Light, talking about summer vacation and great auntie Babbas and stuff.

And that every comment on any one of these posts this month enters you for a $100 giveaway. Every comment on her regular blog enters you for a chance at an email. Which is worth it's weight in gold, of course.