Elle Severe Presents

Le Reve

In Random on July 19, 2013 by Elle Severe


Two weeks ago I had the occasion to receive some delightful pain medication and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

So here’s what happened last night:

I watched Fashion Police as I do every Friday night, (Joan Rivers is an addictive little minx) and then just as I was about to shut the tv off, I watched a quick commercial for the E! News that was coming on at 11pm. They had a few celeb stories they were working on and then they said, “And what’s up with Ben Affleck” and I just shut the tv off because I’m all set with E!, to be honest. I’m not really sure why, I just don’t like that station even though I watch 90% of its programming. I guess I’m locked in some weird love/hate relationship with E!. I feel that way about most of my relationships, so this is nothing new.

Anyway, I do the typical pre-bed preparations, e.g., shutting off lights, brushing teeth, popping pills, etc. I climb into my super comfy bed and notice that my husband (Tony) isn’t in the bed even though he went to bed before me. I assume that he’s just decided to have a before bed cigarette. Those are my favorite cigarettes ever because I love when my bed smells like cigarettes, I mean, who doesn’t? Sexy as hell.

Sarcasm aside, I’m actually happy he’s not in the bed. His absence allows me to sprawl.  If he was in the bed I would have little to work with and be stuck with precisely my side. But since he’s not there, manning his territory, I can sneak my way over slightly and stake my claim over the border, so to speak.  Then when he comes back and gets into bed, we’ll either have an unspoken pushing argument with him emerging as victor as I pull my right arm and right leg back over onto my side, or he’ll decide it’s not worth it and he’ll just deal with having little to no room and then I win. Either way, it’s worth the fight.

But as I’m lying there, I feel like he’s been gone too long and it’s getting late. This is causing me to feel anxious. One cigarette is five minutes so where is he? What is he doing? I mean honestly, this fucking guy takes forever doing anything. And I’m used to it by now after 12 years of being together and him taking 45 minutes to do everything from shit to run to the store to get milk to switching over the laundry, but this is long even for him. As I’m lying there I begin to get myself really wound up so I say, “screw it” and I get up. I’m going to find this guy.

I turn on the lamp on my bureau just as Tony walks in. He looks a mess. His hair is disheveled, he’s acting very strange and I can see that he’s been crying. What the fuck is going on. I go to him. He can barely look at me. I’m standing in front of him, and now I’m panicking, something is very, very, dreadfully wrong. Is he having an affair? Has he chosen now, at 11pm on a random Friday night in June to confess his sins? If so, I’m going to kill him because we have plans all weekend and I’m not even trying to have divorce talk ruin my weekend. Again. J/k. Lol. No, that’s not it, is there something wrong with one of my kids? What the fuck is going on?

I say, “What’s wrong, what’s going on? You’re freaking me out, please talk to me”, he runs his hands through his hair, he is a MESS, he tries to speak but he just chokes, he whispers something, I can’t hear him, “What is it, just say it, it can’t be that bad, what is it?”, now tears are streaming down his face, he tries again, this time I hear him: “Ben”. That’s all he says, just “Ben”. But it’s enough. Now I know, oh God, Do I Know. “Nooooo” I say, “Oh God, How? What happened”, he shakes his head, he can’t speak. “Tell me, tell me, TELL ME”, Tony says two words: “Car accident” and then I lose it. I can feel my brain exploding into a million little pieces…I can feel my heart beating in my chest so hard, immediately I’m sweating, I’m for sure having a heart attack, this cannot be happening. I start to fall, Tony grabs my wrists to support me and says “Please, please”, and tries to hold me. I try to pull away, I look him in his eyes and I say “Jen”, and then oh my God, there is pain, abject, sorrow welling inside of me. And now I look at Tony and he whispers “Violet, Sera, Sam…no father”, I can’t take this, I feel like the world is over, this can’t be happening, not to him, not now. He just fought so long and hard to get back to a good place in his life! He deserves to be happy and poor, poor Jen. At this point I fall to my knees, I am now sobbing wildly, uncontrollably and can’t breathe.  Tony is crying again but says “We have to call Matt”. No. I’m not calling Matt. I’m not calling him to tell him best friend is dead. No. And then I just stay rooted to the floor looking at my carpet and deciding that this is one of the worst days of my life and I cannot bear the pain I am feeling…and then, just when I think this is too much to bear,  I reach out to Tony and…I wake up.

So the moral of this story is that pain meds are awesome.

PS. My pillow was soaked and my eyes were swollen, I was apparently dream crying pretty damn hard. I guess I really care about Ben Affleck.

 


No Kids Allowed

In Bitch Please, Random, Rants, Uncategorized on May 3, 2013 by Elle Severe

To all the morons who think Vegas is a family destination: It’s NOT.

Not joking. Your children are not welcome here.

I’m moved to write this because every time I go to Vegas I see kids.  Everywhere.  I’m not sure why; absolutely NOTHING about Vegas screams “KIDS WELCOME”.    I apologize in advance for how judgmental this post will be, but the reality is that children do not belong everywhere and this is especially true of Vegas.  Before you get all over me about this, please note that I am both a parent and a Vegas lover.

I’m not saying you’re a terrible person if you bring your baby to Vegas, I’m just saying you’re a terrible parent if you bring your baby to Vegas.  Las Vegas is for adults, period.

In the early 90’s there was a push to make Las Vegas a family destination.  Three new hotel/casinos were built with  child-friendly themes: the pyramid shaped Luxor, the pirate-themed Treasure Island and the medieval castle, Excalibur.  The idea was to make it seem like children were welcome while drawing in the parents in the hopes that they would gamble, eat and drink.  It worked for a little while. Though both the Luxor and the Excalibur are still operating today, both have taken hard financial hits.  Because parents and children still flock there, they have lost out on other customers and clientele, so both hotels are suffering financially and are now a little more run-down than they should be.  This results in them charging lower prices and therefore attracting a lower economical class of hotel guest, thus ensuring the cycle of crappy hotel to continue.

You can hear The Sirens from a mile away…

Treasure Island threw in their cards pretty early and re-branded themselves as The TI.   They went from having a massive pirate show out front every hour, to having a Sirens of the Seas show.  The Sirens are scantily clad, obviously.  The only casino on the Strip that is full blown parent/ kid friendly that has survived long term is Circus Circus. I think this is because it’s further down the Strip away from the real action.  History lesson aside, the bottom line is that children of any and all ages do not belong in Las Vegas.  Ask yourself this, is it smart to take kids to a place known all over the world as the “Sin City”? At its most basic level, do you want your beloved progeny in place known for its debauchery? Las Vegas is called the City of Sin for a reason.  Several reasons.  Good reasons.

Believe it.

The first time I ever went to Vegas in the early 2000’s, 24 hours in I turned to my husband and said, “This is DisneyWorld for adults”.  Every vice you have, or want to have, or need to have satisfied, is at your fingertips.  Alcohol, drugs, gambling, food and sex are everywhere and for a price (both emotional and financial) you can have any of it, some of it, or all of it.  All you need to do is open up your wallet and you can eat at a buffet fit for kings, you can drink until you fall over, you can gamble until you are flat busted broke and you can watch naked girls dance on a pole until the sun comes up; in some cases you can do all of these things at once.  You can do this in moderation or in excess but believe me when I tell you it’s encouraged to do these things in excess.  Point blank:  Vegas is awesome – for adults.

Alaskan King Crab legs for days, son.

You will lose.

Personally I go to Vegas to get away from my kids.   I have found that there are times in my life when I need a break from them.  I love them, I want to be with them and pretty much everything I do in my life centers around them.  But sometimes I need a f*cking break.  I need to have adult time whether it’s alone with my husband or with a group of my girlfriends; the reality is that everybody needs a little time away, it’s that simple.  So when I see kids in Vegas I get annoyed for two reasons, number one, because they do not belong here and number two, because they are infringing on my grown-up time.  I will also be honest here and say that I am openly hostile to people with children in Vegas.  Yes I am.  Too bad.  Now if we’re at Storyland, I’m kind and patient and even try to pretend that other people’s kids are cute and charming (they aren’t), but in Vegas, you get the stink-eye.

 

This really happens; all day, everyday.

 

Let’s start at the very beginning: the flight to Vegas.

You’ll start out the evening classy, but you’ll end the evening a sloppy ho.

Since 2002 I have been to Vegas no less than 12 times, each and every time, without fail, no matter what time the flight is, there is always a gaggle of people, guys or girls, who already drunk or seriously buzzed before we even board the plane.  These people have already indulged and that’s fine by me because they’re adults and we’re on our way to Vegas.   I personally have been known to take a couple of happy pills on my way to Vegas, ostensibly to prevent anxiety or a migraine, so even myself, a responsible party-er, is under the influence.   And if people aren’t already drinking before boarding the plane, you bet your ass they’re getting drunk on the plane.  I have to believe that the flight attendants heading to Vegas know that they are going to be on their feet serving drinks pretty much the entire flight.  Now children on a flight to Vegas is unavoidable.  Maybe you have family out there, or friends you’re visiting.   I have friends in Vegas and at some point I will be bringing my children out to meet them, so kids on the plane to Vegas is fine, I get it.  But be warned, you may end up sandwiched between a group of awesome bros who just can’t wait to get their drink on if they haven’t started already.  So already the ride to Vegas is a dicey situation and once you arrive in Vegas, shit gets real, and fast.

This is just the beginning.

Once off the plane and in the airport, which is very clean and welcoming, there are slot machines and bars.  That’s fine.  That’s not an issue.  However, once you leave the confines of the terminal and are in your cab heading toward your hotel, the billboards start.  These billboards advertise everything from Vegas shows to the hottest strip clubs to the raciest lounges.  There are ads for magic shows and buffets too.  But if you’re a kid, guess which ones are going to catch your eye? This can’t be helped, human nature is such that we are naturally drawn to the naughty.   In the back of the cabs there are free booklets that advertise these same things and inevitably there is always an ad for the latest Vegas showgirl cabaret with a picture of the lead dancer in the least amount of clothing possible.  And that’s just the ride to the hotel.

I typically order two of these upon arrival.

Check in areas areas at the hotels are clean and classy and smell nice, everyone is cheerful and happy to help you out.  Once you’re checked in, it’s time to head to your room.  Because Vegas wants you to gamble, it’s a foregone conclusion that in order to get to your room, you must pass through the casino, and once in the casino area, all bets are off:

Just a regular Tuesday on the casino floor.

1. Vegas still allows smoking in the casinos.   You cannot smoke in restaurants or clubs, but smoking is still allowed in bars and designated sections of the casino floor.  The casinos do their best to combat the smoke and the smell, and most do a great job, but the bottom line is that people are still smoking; smoke floats and lingers and hovers in the air and swirls around….so is it a good idea to walk your brand new baby, toddler, 7 year old, 12 year old or 15 year old through that? Simply put, no.  It’s not 1972 people,  smoking around kids is not okay.  Sorry.  We are better informed about the dangers of second hand smoke and more importantly, do you want your kids reeking of that? I don’t.  It’s gross.  If YOU want to walk through a smokey casino, by all means, please do so.  But since your sweet little baby can’t voice his or her opinion, don’t you think it would be best to make a good parenting decision for them and just not do that? Do you really need to be in Vegas so badly that you’re willing to have your infant’s brand new pink lungs exposed to that garbage? And I’ll be perfectly honest with you, when I’m in Vegas, I’m part of the problem; I will absolutely indulge in a cigarette or two or 50.  Hey, I’m in Vegas, in keeping with the “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” mantra, my rule is that whatever damage you do to your body in Vegas stays in Vegas and doesn’t count in the real world.

Go Go dancers be dancin’.

2.  In the casinos, in an effort to draw you in, there are scantily clad women everywhere.  These women are cocktail waitresses serving drinks to the masses, go-go dancers dancing on the bars, showgirls and Cirque performers and regular women of all ages wearing less clothing than they should.  The fact is, most of Vegas is scantily women.  Vegas is built on scantily clad women and that’s fine, for adults.  I’m old enough to know that the objectification of women is wrong and inappropriate, but if you think it’s okay for your 7 year old son to see that shit, then fine, but please don’t act surprised when he becomes a hyper-sexual 12 year old, a perverted 15 year old and a date-raping 22 year old.  I have no evidence or back-up, but my parental instinct and my gut tell me that it’s not okay for little boys and little girls to see sexual imagery coming directly at them for prolonged periods of time.  I have to believe that won’t end well.

Drinking is sport.

3.  Other than war zones and South Central, Vegas is the most volatile place in the world.  Think about it, you have  thousands upon thousands of people in a condensed, overly populated area drinking and gambling and LOSING.  They are getting drunker and broker by the second.  I don’t know about you, but when I lose money, I get really mad, really quickly.  And if I’m drunk, forget it.  I will lose my mind.  Let me take a moment to tell you a quick side story: My first trip to Vegas I saved up a tidy little sum to gamble, I drank like a fish all day and at 2am decided it was time to gamble.  I got my quarters, settled into a slot machine and proceeded to lose every penny.  I was so angry and frustrated I hadn’t hit it big that I began crying so hard and for so long that security came over and asked my husband to immediately remove me or risk me being arrested.  My husband manhandled me back to my room where I continued to sob uncontrollably for two hours.  Then I ordered room service, ate a burger like I was David Hasselhoff and passed out in my own filth.  And I’m a nice, decent, fairly normal human being.  So imagine how everyone else is behaving.  I mean, you are relying on complete strangers to behave around your children.  That’s an awful big leap of faith.  I don’t even trust certain family members to behave around my children so if you think I’m going to chance it that people in Vegas are going to be mindful of them, guess again.  It’s about protecting your children, which is your duty.  Sure there is tons of security in the casinos, every corner and crevice of the casino is on camera and monitored, but anything can happen in a split second.  Think how good you’ll feel about yourself if your kid is hurt in a Vegas casino.  That will be a story for the ages…or DCF.

Ask yourself this, is everyone really getting out to pee? You already NO the answer.

You will get lost. And no one will give a crap.

4.  The pools.  At most hotels there are multiple pools with all kinds of people standing around either hungover or already drinking in the hot sun.  Do you know what it would take to set off a full scale bro brawl? I’ll tell you, not much.  Now clearly in the nicer, more upscale hotels that attract a high level clientele, your children will be more protected in the casino and pool areas, but they’re not anyone else’s responsibility.  No one is going to save your kid if he/she begins to drown while you’re off getting yourself a third Miami Vice (pina colada and strawberry daiquiri in one drink, delicious).  I’m a strong and avid swimmer, but if I’m drunk I’m not saving anyone.  Why the hell should I put myself at risk for your kid? I got my own, so no thanks.  Furthermore, don’t ruin my buzz, I’ve paid way too much for it. This past summer I celebrated my birthday in Vegas.  At the MGM pool with my husband and friends, two kids about 10 and 11, brother and sister, began fighting in the deep end.  At first everyone ignored them because we’re all too self-involved to give a shit, but as the screams got louder and louder, people started to take notice and get this, ready? Not one single solitary soul did anything.  Including myself.  On purpose.  Why you ask? Because those weren’t my f*cking kids and they don’t belong in Vegas.  More importantly, their mother was nowhere to be found.  When she returned, with her bikini top askew and carrying drinks, I had a brief thought that I should be calling some sort of protective services, then I remembered that I didn’t give a f*ck.  And that, my friends, is pretty much how everyone in Vegas feels. I should probably apologize for that but I’m not going to.

“I’ll trade you my TIffani for your Sabrina”

5.  The Strip.  On the Strip there are people hired to hand out what are essentially trading cards of hookers.  People grab them, look at them and either pocket them or drop them.  Take a second to think how cool that would be when little Timmy looks down at the ground and realizes that he can collect a full set of Vegas hookers to trade with his friends back home.  I’m not even going to expound on that.

Just because it’s a “dry” heat doesn’t make it less hot.

6.  The weather.  I’ve been to Vegas at all times of the year.  Here’s a real shocker for you, it’s hot most of the time.  And in August, it’s hot as Hell, as in actual Hell, as in Hades.  So no, I don’t think you should be carrying around your 3 month old baby up and down the Strip when it’s 110 degrees.  Last August my friend Claire and I saw a man holding his little baby in his arms, when I tell you that I couldn’t tell if the child was dead or sleeping I’m not exaggerating – the sight of that limp, sweaty little baby in his arms as he obliviously strolled down the Strip in the beating sun made my stomach sick.  Claire and I couldn’t even believe it.  What parent does that? There is NOTHING on the Strip so awesome that you need to have an infant with you.  That was not the only time we saw that.  We saw kids passed out in strollers and flung over shoulders and crying and hungry and tired.  It was sad.  All I could think of was, for what? I just don’t get it.  Is a visit to the M&M store worth the risk of of sun stroke?  All those poor kids needed rest, how about going back to your cool room and letting that baby sleep in comfort? I assure you that the cheap t-shirt vendors are not going anywhere.  I’m also not saying that you need to work your sightseeing around nap time, put the kid in a comfy stroller and just tour the hotels, inside,  where it’s cool and comfortable.  How about at least keep it off the Strip during the hottest part of the day?

All day long…

One one of my last trips there I was walking through the new Cosmopolitan at around 11pm when I noticed three young women dressed to the nines walking through the casino pushing a carriage.  These young ladies were decked out in club gear; 6 inch stilettos, full make up, coiffed hair… these girls were workin’ it.  The only thing throwing off their ferocious game was that pesky stroller with the infant in it.  So where the hell were they going with that baby?? Da club?  I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt and assign them the following back story: they, and the rest of their family and friends were in Vegas for a family wedding.  One of the girls just had a baby but still wanted to attend the wedding so she brought her baby with her.  This works out because her parents are also there for the wedding.  Having not drank or otherwise misbehaved for the last 11 months, New Mommy decides she just needs a night out with her girls.  She and her sister and girlfriend got all dolled up and were walking through the casino heading to Mom’s room to drop the baby for the night while she and the girls had some good old fashioned clean Vegas fun (which is an oxymoron).  That’s the story I have assigned her because nothing else is acceptable, nothing.

I have a friend who wants to bring her children to Vegas because she heard they have a nice aquarium at Mandalay Bay.  I had to gently tell her that firstly, that aquarium is busted and secondly, no.  You want a good aquarium especially for kids? SEA WORLD.

I allow for the fact there are times and situations where your child might have to be in Vegas.  The family wedding I mentioned up above, or maybe you’re there on a day trip as you head to the Hoover Dam, or you’re in town visiting friends and just wanted to bring the kids over to the see the pyramid or the Eiffel Tower…fine, so be it, that’s cool.  But anything longer than a day in Vegas and you are asking for trouble.  Not only will you not have a good time, but neither will they, and neither will I.  And be prepared to have to answer questions you had hoped to not hear until they were in their teens.  Kids grow up fast enough these days, I’d prefer they don’t do it on the Vegas Strip.

I’m sure you have your own opinion on this, and it may differ from mine, but I will tell you right now that I will not be swayed.  While I was writing and researching for this piece I came across an article that said “Vegas as a Fun Family Vacation!”, I didn’t even spend 2 seconds reading that nonsense; I stand firm in my belief that children do not belong in Vegas.  Bring them to DisneyWorld, that’s where children belong.


A Little Taste of Masshole

In Bitch Please, Life, Musings, Random, Rants on April 6, 2013 by Elle Severe

There’s a writer on Gawker.com named Hamilton Nolan who absolutely hates Boston.  He hates Boston like I hate rats – with the passion and fury of a thousand suns.  He hates Boston the way I hated the Yankees prior to October of 2004.  He hates Boston so much that every time he writes about Boston it’s so angry that it borders on the absurd.  It’s become comical.  I can’t even begin to try to understand having so much hatred for a city that has done nothing to you.  I’m trying to think if there is a city I hate…I do hate Providence a little bit.  But that’s more my fault than Providence’s fault.  I mistakenly bought a home across the street from drug dealers.  I have to believe if I had bought a home elsewhere I wouldn’t have such terrible memories of Providence.  And in fairness, Providence has fantastic food. And Pauly D.  So Providence isn’t all bad.  I certainly don’t hate it enough that if I were a blogger I would devote more than maybe passing mention of my dislike for Providence, unlike Mr. Nolan who spends wayyyyy too much time badmouthing my beloved little seaside city.  HamNo’s hatred of Boston leads me to believe that at some point in life Boston somehow broke his little heart.  Maybe he and Boston were dating and Boston slept with his best friend? It’s certainly possible, Boston IS a sassy little minx.  Whatever the issue, he claims that all people from Boston are jerks.  Obviously I disagree.  I’m from Boston and I’m not a jerk.  My friends are from Boston and I’m not typically friends with jerks, so again, I have to disagree.  Also worth noting is that Mr. Nolan is from the Florida panhandle.  I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that means but it sounds poor.  I could take 10 minutes and Wiki it, gain some knowledge, but I honestly couldn’t be bothered.  Maybe that makes me a Boston jerk.  All I know for certain is that anyone from the Florida panhandle (is panhandle supposed to be capitalized?) needs to relax a little bit about Boston.  Moreover, HamNo lives in NYC and writes for Gawker now, so congrats! Leave Boston alone and enjoy your hipster self.  Why am I writing about this you ask? I’ll tell ya why: because last Sunday I had a little taste of Nolan’s Boston Jerks.  And it really bummed me out.

Splish Splash I’m costing you a shit-ton!

My four year old son is obsessed with the Duckboats.  We actually live in Boston so whenever we’re out and about, we see them and he goes bananas.  We’ve been wanting to take him on a Duckboat for a while now, but those bitches are pricey.  $33 for adults, $22 for kids 3 to 11 and $10 for 3 and under.  These people are not kidding around.  For my family, that’s going to cost $98 for 80 minutes of entertainment.  That’s a lot.  We’re in a recession.  And sure I spend $98 on stuff all the time.  You could argue that I can drop $98 inside of 8 minutes, nevermind 80, in a Christmas Tree Shop.  You would be right.  But I would respond to your argument by politely explaining that I will be using those frames and plastic flowers and paper goods and candles and mason jars to make fun things for the family.  Thus my dropping $98 on crap is entertainment far beyond an 80 minute history lesson that I can repeat verbatim in my sleep at this point.  When you live in the city of Boston, the cheapest, easiest “field trip” your grammar school can afford is putting you on the Red Line, trotting you downtown and taking you on the Freedom Trail.

5th grade field trip. Hahahahaha, you don’t know which one I am!

Therefore I know my Boston history already, thanks.  Combine that with my innate cheapness, the Duckboats are not happening.  That is until last Friday when Living Social offered a sweet little deal that I quickly snapped up.  I was so excited.  I couldn’t wait to tell this kid that we were going on the Duckboats,  I just knew he was going to shit his little pants.  As an aside, my kids make me nuts, but there is nothing more satisfying in the world than making them happy.   I love when they get excited, it gets me excited.  So I bought the reduced tickets (take that Duckboat mafia),  and then I pulled two rookie parenting maneuvers back to back:  that Saturday after baking cupcakes and decorating eggs, I told the kids we had a surprise for them (wrong number 1) BEFORE reading the fine print on the tickets (wrong number 2).  Parents are already groaning because they know exactly what I did wrong.  For those of you who are not parents yet, allow me to explain this major parenting faux pas:

NO.

1.  I told the kids that we had a surprise for them. When pressed, I caved and told them it was the Duckboats.  This got them excited.  The first rule of Parent Club is that you do NOT EVER, UNDER any circumstance, EVER, tell your kids about an event until you’re pulling up in the parking lot of said event.  Even DisneyWorld.  Don’t tell those kids you’re going to DisneyWorld until you have your  new sneakers on and your fannypack strapped tight and it’s chock full of Magic Kingdom passes and Mickey dollars.  Seriously.  Tell them you’re going to visit a sick relative or something.  It’s too long to get into the ‘why nots’ of it, just please trust me on this one, for the love of God.

2.  I didn’t read the fine print.  Every idiot on the planet knows that when you get something on Groupon or Living Social or Eversave, you need to read the flippin’ fine print.  Chances are your 72% reduced mani/pedi/laser bikini line hair removal is good only on Tuesdays at midnight when the moon is full.  And yet, I didn’t read the fine print.  The fine print where it said “…excluding Saturdays…”.  I am what the French call Les Incompetent.  Or what my mother would call a moron.

So I got the kids all jacked up and then immediately deflated inside of 15 minutes.  That’s not good parenting.  Not because you’re torturing them, no…because you’re torturing yourself.  I now have to make good on that somehow, some way and immediately.  Kids are not stupid and they have nothing else to think about except what’s happening to them in that very moment so they are obsessive by nature.  Believe that.   To right this horrific wrong I perpetrated on my beloved children, I set it up for the next day, Easter Sunday.  We would have brunch with the family in Cambridge and then head to the Duckboats at the Museum of Science.  Win win.  Wrong wrong.

ROAR, you’re about to go on a nightmare ride, ROARRRR!

Even though we are literally down the street from the Museum of Science, we’re late to the Duckboats.  I guess they ask you to arrive 30 minutes before departure time.  Not sure why, but I’m sure it’s in the fine print.  My husband drops us off so he can go park and I take the kids and get in line.  We’re the last people in line.  This does not bode well.  A family arrives behind us.  I’m psyched because this means that we’re not going to get the bad seats up front.  Nope, these poor losers behind me are getting them.  And they are all tall so they are going to be cramped and miserable, yay! Just kidding, that’s Boston Jerky of me.

Here’s where I blow it AGAIN.  While in line, anxiously waiting for my husband and busy trying to keep my kids from doing something dangerous and/or stupid, I spy what I think is a check-in area.  I panic.  I proceed to have a full blown argument in my head with myself.  It goes like this:

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Google for the Win

In Musings, Random, WhiteBread on March 27, 2013 by WhiteBread

I haven’t written in a while.  I’m sorry.  And while normally I’m not one to make excuses for my poor performance, I can’t help but offer some justification for my pathetic behavior.  I figured it was best to finally come clean about my recent disappearance so I could least pacify the concerned mind of that one dedicated member of my fan base.  Yes, I’m looking at you Lena Dunham.

The reason I haven’t written in such a long time – and this is really hard for me to admit to all of you – is because, well, I temporarily lost my vision in a terrible yoga accident.  I downward dogged way too hard.  My sight finally came back though after I climbed to the top of Mount Everest topless and stared God directly in his one, good eye.

You don’t look like you believe anything I just said.  Sorry, I don’t know why I thought you were foolish enough to believe such a heinous lie.  After all, everyone who knows me, realizes I don’t do anything without a shirt on. Ok, fine, the real reason is because I have actually been mourning the death of Pope Benedict.

Oh he’s not dead?  Wait, for serious?

Fuck.

Alright, ok.  So, then I have no excuse other than a total lack of inspiration lately.    However, that has changed as of recent thanks to the following two things: the wonderful people at Google as well as the second most talented musical duo of all time: Hall and Oates, (with the #1 spot belonging to the prolific Milli Vanilli).

Here’s the back-story: one day I was perusing the Internets and happened to fall upon a YouTube clip on an important topic that sparked my interest.  However before I could begin watching this highly anticipated video of a monkey kicking a human in the balls, YouTube was going to force me to watch one of their dreaded advertisements.  These ads are normally terrible nuisances to me.  Even their expedited 5 second wait time which allows you to skip the full advertisement is too long for me.  I am so adverse to these ads that I end up closing my eyes to avoid the sight, which only results in me falling asleep for hours.  I’ve been fired from 4 jobs.

But this time, something was different.  No, this wasn’t a 5 to 30 second advertisement for Revlon products, tax software or douches (Justin Bieber album plugs).  No, instead, I was subjected to 30 heavenly seconds that may have resulted in tears appearing in my eyes – though I’m still not sure they were my own.  Here’s the ad I’m talking about http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0hHaQgdypI .

Google uses this half minute plug to demonstrate how the song Maneater was actually written.  In using Google Docs to write their song in 1982, Hall and Oates only further proves that their music was wayyyyy ahead of their time.  Also, to put the humor witnessed in context, these 30 seconds are way funnier than Hall and Oates’s dancing in the music video for Maneater, slightly funnier than the cover of their H2O album but perhaps a tad less funny than Oates’s mustache.

Few things in life make me so purely happy, the short list including: rainbow sprinkles, the song Jesse’s Girl and Harrison Ford, or as I refer to it: Steph’s sexy, salacious sundae.  However, now I think I may have one more thing to add to my list.  And while I may never get the connection between angry tiger and mangobbler,  I can at least enjoy these 30 seconds of heaven and a confirmation of what I already knew was true, Oates is clearly the Ben Affleck of this relationship.

Oh, Mangobbler.  Get’s me every time.


Elfie Update

In Baby Nonsense, Life, Random on December 7, 2012 by Elle Severe

Elfie hits Vegas on his way back to the North Pole.

This guy has an insane commute and comes home to this? Not right.

Ruh-Roh…

 

Elfie hits the spa with his bestie.

 

Sleepover!


Ermagherd Errernds

In Life, Random, Rants, The Exchange on December 7, 2012 by Elle Severe

Elle: Who wants to run errands??!! First stop, UPS store that makes Pabby Crazy.  Second stop: CVS to spend ExtraBucks.  Third stop: Subway for cheap ass sub. Who’s in? I’ll buy treats!

Pabby: Ermagherd!  I hate that UPS store.   I hate everything about that store:  (Reminds me of the Henry Winkler scene in Waterboy where he’s wearing red high heels and talking on the phone that is not actually plugged in.  “I hate him Grandma. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!”

1)       Crossing the street at an angle in traffic and you get stuck in that big yellow no man’s land in the middle wondering if you’ve drawn your last breath and you have to fight the urge to grab the hand of the person you’re walking with like they’re your kids and you don’t want them to get smooshed like it was a game of frogger.

2)      The UPS store itself.  I object to any place that charges more for stamps than what they ordinarily cost.  Perhaps having stamps is a courtesy and saves people from having to go to the post office with all the people working there and waiting lines, just waiting to die.

3)      Someone is always up to some sh*t with a weird mailing situation.  I always assume at least one person is mailing out body parts.  (Perhaps someone they murdered and they don’t want all of the body parts in one place, maybe?)

4)      I hate the sh*tty board that has sh*tty advertisements on it.  “Need sowing?  Call 617-424-5542.”

5)      I hate how messy the store is.

6)      I hate that Elle gets constantly gets herself in this situations where she always has to spend a fortune at this place to the point where I consider her as someone who needs to be saved like the girl in the “Let her cry” Hootie song.  There are some times when she has a pre-paid shipping label and on these days, I consider it a Christmas came early situation.

And as far as CVS goes, using ExtraBucks is NOT extreme couponing no matter how much you “save”.

So ya.  I’ll go.

The End