About SheCantBeSerious

I'm married and have two teenage girls. I work in the IT industry. I watch too much reality television. I gripe that I don't work out enough. I like a beer or six on occasion. Outside all of that, I blog...at least I try to. And I am desperately seeking humor in everyday life.

A New Set Of Rules – Soccer Parents 101

This is a “re-worked” post that I originally wrote in 2011.  At the time I  had 2 daughters who had both been playing for years.  One was at the club and high school varsity level, and the other was enjoying recreational soccer.  My oldest went on to play at the college level before she decided she’d had enough.  I’m down to one playing now, and the parents are not nearly as intense as they once could be, including myself.  But I will never forget these days.  Soccer gave me many wonderful memories.  I got caught up in all this myself and was even a “videographer” for several years, filming every game and compiling highlight videos at the end of the season.  Soccer also gave me some great soccer parent friends that I still love and hang out with.  On the flip side, soccer could also be a great source of aggravation.  The aggravation was more fun to write about.  My new comments are in italics. 

Soccer videoSoccer season is “kicking” in, which explains the length of time since my last post.  With two daughters who have been playing for years now at various levels, my free time has come to a screeching halt.  What does this mean to you?  Not much maybe, but the start of a new season and a couple of scrimmages has made me think a lot about sideline etiquette.  And it has inspired me to improve on the current soccer parent rules distributed at that first parent meeting…those rules we know by heart, whether we abide by them or not.

See, we sports parents don’t really like being told what to do (we know it all already, right?) and we really resent having to sign our names to these rules, committing ourselves to good behavior for an entire season. We know we need to bring water so our child is properly hydrated at every game.  We know they need appropriate nutrition and a good night’s sleep.  We know to keep our cheers positive, with statements such as “Good job”, “Nice try”, and “Way to go”.  We know not to coach on the sidelines (okay, that may be going a little far).  But aren’t these basically common-sense parenting rules?

Well, the answer may be yes, but these rules are outdated, they’re over-rehearsed, they’re politically correct.  And they’re just not specific enough.

Now I’ve experienced the sidelines in club soccer and high school varsity soccer.  That’s a whole different ballgame and there is no way I could make an attempt on setting rules for the types of things I witnessed.  I’ve directed this list, however, to the recreational soccer parents–the newbies.  And maybe those who have lived through this as I have will find some humor in it.  So I present you with MY set of sideline soccer parent rules:

Will Ferrell megaphone1) No coaching from the sidelines.  This bears repeating, because it is one of the rules most broken by enthusiastic parents.  See, little Billy has already been told by his coach where to be, what to do, and how to do it.  Your direction could contradict what Billy already knows.  In fact, it does, because you most likely don’t really know the rules.  And little Billy doesn’t need another voice in his head.  All he hears now is “waWAwawaWAwaWAwawa” (trying to write out the Charlie Brown adult voice here, if you will).

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An Open Letter to the Lady Who Cut Me Off at the Handicap Stall

Dear Office-Restroom-Sharer Stall Thief,

I know you saw me floundering just behind you as we entered the office ladies’ room.  In fact, my first impression was that you were nice, when you held the two restroom doors open for me as I awkwardly entered with my new knee scooter.  20130516_103242

For anyone not familiar with the knee scooter, it’s a great invention that replaced the crutches that killed my arms for 2 weeks after some heel surgery left me with what resembled a bullet hole on the bottom of my foot.   But while the scooter was great, even it got old and could be awkward at times.  Walking is preferrable and maybe one day I’ll be good at that again.  In the meantime, I’ve vowed to become sort of an advocate for issues that people with disabilities face.  While my experience is temporary, it has been very educational, and those who know me know that I’m all about providing useful educational information to the public, especially if it means ranting is acceptable.  Now back to the bathroom lady…

I smiled and was gracious.  On top of that, I was very careful to scoot slowly behind you without nipping at your heels as I watched you choose from the full array of 6 empty stalls.  That would include 5 normal stalls and 1 handicap stall. I idled patiently as you made your selection.

No, she’s not going to do it, I thought to myself.  No way.  She can’t be that rude to choose that one while I’m actually right behind her watching her do it.  Oh, hell no. 

And I sat, stood actually, with one knee propped in disbelief as I watched you go straight for that handicap stall.  The stall I wanted.  The stall I needed.  The stall that would ultimately make me not like you very much.

I get it to a degree.  It’s the best stall, or at least from where you sit squat, it’s the roomiest stall.  But what else is the attraction?  You’re a big lady, but you could easily fit in those other ones.  There are no kids with you. Is it a poop thing where you just feel you have more privacy due to the extra elbow room?  It’s not that there’s any additional ventilation in that stall.  There are no sound proof walls.  So why do you consider this your luxury stall?  I really need to get to the bottom of this (pun unintentional).


Fo one who is struggling, however, that stall has lots to offer.  There’s room for the mobility devices, i.e, the scooter, the crutches, the walker.  It has bars on the side that allow the user to hold on to something other than the flimsy toilet paper container as they get off their contraption to get to the seat.  And the door–well, it opens outward which is a big deal I never appreciated until recently.

But you stole all that from me as I stood wide-eyed on my scooter, needing to go and unwilling to wait on your ass.  And you seemed oblivious to my dismay.

At first, I thought maybe you would soon realize what you had done and would be remorseful.  But then you started speaking, just not to me.  That’s when I realized that this stall is not just a luxury stall to you.  It’s your freaking phone booth.  And most likely, you are going to occupy that throne for the duration of your 15-minute break.

I thought you might have caught on as I banged my scooter around trying to get into that LITTLE stall with the INWARD-facing door.  You know, in one of those lesser stalls that you rejected that don’t accommodate a scooter. Or when I swore, not quite so under my breath as I had to hop on one foot, having to manhandle the walls, that flimsy toiler paper container, whatever I could grasp so that I could get my injured self to where I needed to be.

Too much information?  Yeah, so was your phone conversation I was forced to listen to.

And I’m pretty sure the caller on the other end of your phone got an earful as I took full advantage of those “malfunctioning” automatic flushers.  It’s funny how when you stand, then sit, then stand, then sit, then stand, sit and stand yet again, those boogers just keep flushing and flushing.  It was out of my control.

I might have considered how I would confront you when we would be forced to face each other at the sink to wash hands (especially since I needed plenty of cleansing at that point), but I guess you were pre-occupied.  So here I am now writing this open letter to someone who wouldn’t recognize themself if this post was printed and shoved in their face with their name on it.  And like the guy who spit my way, you’re now on my virtual list.

(flush) I feel better now.thCA0UTZZJ

When Bloggers Don’t Blog

Let’s play a game.   If you’re of legal age, take a shot every time I post the word “blog” or any form of the word.  A toast (or more) to a wicked hangover tomorrow…


How many blogs would a blogger blog

If a blogger did post blogs?

Why, she’d blog as much as a blogger blogs

If this blogger did post blogs!

Now say that 3 times fast.  Sounds like you’re about to hurl one, doesn’t it?

I know, I’m resorting to silly games and alcohol as I try to lure back in any audience I used to have.  Is it working?  Are you still reading my BLOG?

Seriously though, a fellow blogger once posted some pet peeves, one being bloggers who apologize after not having posted in some time.  I had never given it much thought.  After all, it seems only natural to say you’re sorry to a loyal audience that you have abandoned.  And apologies are nice.

I think back to when I first started this blog.  I think of all the great things I was going to accomplish, all the topics I would cover, all the creativity that was going to come spewing out of my fingertips as I would post, post, post away.  I had vowed to maybe not post daily, but at least consistently.  I would work hard to lure in the readers, keep them coming back, watch those stats go through the roof, win all types of blogging awards, get famous, publish a book, snag a movie deal, and eventually become independently wealthy.

And then I got a little lazy.

It happens to many of us, I think.  Life gets in the way.  The creative juices stop flowing.  You end up with 50 or so drafts in your dashboard that you just can’t make work.  You lose your focus, your direction, your will to blog.

So now here I am with a 4-month hiatus under my belt, and I’ve decided that blogger was right.  Being apologetic for your absence shows the assumption that readers have been waiting with bated breath to read what you have to write.  That perhaps every day your subscribers wake up in the morning and think maybe she posted something today and once they see that you didn’t, they resign themselves to another empty day of mediocrity and letdowns, because they will then have to rely on the consistency of the other millions of bloggers out there.

And it also implies that since you’ve now broken the barrier and posted something…ANYTHING…they are now breathing a sigh of relief, because hey, after 4 long dry months, she’s back!

Pretty arrogant, huh?

And since I’m not a diary-type of blogger, I hardly think anyone is wondering I wonder what’s going on with that can’t-be-serious girl?  Did she die?  Has  she been incarcerated?  Is she in rehab?  Yeah, rehab.  That must be it.  She did write about alcohol a lot.

Amanda Who?

Amanda Who?

So now in the spirit of the great Tweeter, Amanda Bynes, I deny all these excuses for my absence.  I’m alive. I’m not in jail.  And since I’m back with a blogging drinking game, one could surmise that rehab is not in my recent past.  Furthermore, my fingers were not broken, my laptop has not been in the shop, and I still do remember my password, although it did take a few tries.

I did bleach my hair platinum blonde and pump up my lips a bit, but that’s beside the point.

I  never actually stopped writing.  I just couldn’t make anything seem quite publishable.

Not like this gem of a post.

So no excuses here and no apologies, just a new will to blog.  And a chance to 1) sort of reintroduce myself, 2) see if anyone is still out there, 3) see if that Publish button still works, and 4) get you drunk, I guess, as I bring myself to blog once again.

By the way, I was just kidding about that drinking game.  You knew that, right?


Perhaps it’s a good time to point out my disclaimer again.

The Cell Phone Zombies Are Taking Over

Cell Phone ZoneThere is a sixth dimension beyond that which is comprehended by man. It is a dimension as vast as space yet as limited as one’s physical surroundings. A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of addiction, preoccupation, and mind control. It is the middle ground between reality and pseudo-interaction with global beings, between the world that man lives in and the virtual world in which man desires to exist. And it lies between the summit of his knowledge and the armpit of his limitations brought about by a cellular signal and data usage limits. You’re moving into a land of both substances and shadow, of physicality and vacuity. You’ve just crossed over into…the Cell Phone Zone.

It’s true.  The zombies have taken over.  It happened while we were texting, reading Facebook statuses, checking emails, playing with Friends.

These are all former souls who used to engage in the here-and-now.  They used to tell jokes (verbally).  They used to laugh.  They used to interact.  They used to focus on where they were going.

Yet now, they’re all seemingly distracted, by whatever lurks on the other side of that cellular device.  They drive (or attempt to drive) while talking, texting, googling a nearby restaurant, pinning random stuff, or posting photos on Instagram.

They can be easily spotted if you look around.  It’s the erratic driver in front of you that just went up on the curb.  It’s the guy going 45 miles on the freeway.  It’s the Chatty Cathy who just blatantly pulled out in front you, all the while laughing into her phone.  You can only imagine that she’s telling the also unfocused recipient on the other end how she almost just caused a 5-car pileup.

At one time, you might have assumed you were witnessing a drunk driver.  But now, it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.  I’m not sure which is worse.

In my own little experiment this week, I decided to count how many drivers were on cell phones this week as I headed home from work.  Note that I was a passenger and not doing this little experiment while driving.  Here in South Carolina, where it’s still legal to use a handheld device while driving, 8 out of 10 drivers were yakking.  Amazing.

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Come On, Subway. Give us an Inch.

For once, it’s not about McDonald’s.  This time, it’s Subway that has been caught coming up short–by about an inch or so, that is.  Thanks to some scrutinizing consumers, we’ve been made aware that those famous $5…$5…$5 footlongs are not measuring up.  And they’re being sued for it.

Surprisingly enough, the litigant is not a woman.

Two men from New Jersey are calling the sandwich shop out, because apparently size DOES matter, and these men don’t appreciate the exaggeration in Subway’s advertising.  They’re suing for compensatory damages.  Their lawyer is seeking class-action status after claiming sandwiches from 17 shops were measured at less than the advertised foot. They want Subway to change their practices–either stop advertising the sandwich as a footlong or give us all that inch.  The lawyer estimates that the missing bite equates to about 45 cents per sandwich.

Changing that jingle to $4.55…$4.55…$4.55 11-inch longs just doesn’t have the same ring to it now, does it?

The uproar started after an Australian teenager posted a photo of his 11-inch sub last week alongside a tape measure, on the Subway site on Facebook.  He prompted Subway to respond.  The photo has gone viral, and now others are posting similar images…all coming up short.


as posted by Matt Corby on Facebook

So I guess doing the “footlong”  will follow the trend of “planking” and we can expect tape measure sales to rise and measurement pictures to flood the web.  I shudder to think of the sordid images that are going to be shared across social networks among all you sick people out there.

Anyway, Subway responded by stating that the sandwich in the image did not appear to be baked to their standards, although that comment has now been removed from their page.  The official statement now is that the term “footlong” is a creative license thing, and should not be taken so literally as the sandwich’s actual size.

I’m guessing the Subway spokesmen are also men.

I’m pretty sure, though, that their advertising has included some literal references to the measurement of that foot.  I can’t be alone, because their comments aren’t going over too well with consumers.

I have to wonder if it’s time to turn the focus back on Jared and that weight loss thing.  Hey Subway, maybe you could spin this and state in your next commercial that Jared maintains his weight loss BECAUSE he’s not getting that last inch of sub.  You’re doing us all a favor by saving us some calories.  Yeah, that’s what it is–you’re helping us lose weight.

Think about that, and hire me to be your new public relations person.  I’m available.

And personally, I think 11 inches is plenty.  (Get those minds out of the gutter folks–I’m talking subs here!)  I already feel bombarded this month with an overload of weight loss commercials, gym ads, The Biggest Loser, and the war on childhood obesity.  While I may not be through packing on my winter pounds yet, I do find it surprising that now we have a news story of consumers demanding larger servings.  And suing over it to boot.

I get it though.  It’s a matter of principle.  The lawyer states that this “is about holding companies to deliver what they’ve promised”.  If you’re going to advertise a foot, you better realize that a foot is 12 inches, not 11, and you better deliver, or we’ll call you out.  That inch makes a difference.

And now, as I write this, I think I may want in on this thing (unless Subway hires me as a PR person and then I must disclaim this all somehow).  This lawsuit screams for a female litigant, if for no reason but the extra publicity and jokes that could pervade the web.  And I could use some extra blog traffic so I’m willing to be a punchline.

In fact, I’d like to take on all these fast food places.  I can be a consumer advocate.  The Erin Brockovich of the food industry, if you will.  I can see my name in lights as Jennifer Anniston wins her first Oscar for playing moi on the big screen.

erin brockavich

I get a little carried away sometimes, I know.

I need a slightly different twist to my lawsuit, so I’m going to “protest” by eating at Subway tomorrow, with my tape measure in tow, so I can measure their 6-inch sub.  Lord, help Subway if it comes up short at 5 inches.

I won’t stop there either, because  I’m not sure Lay’s is putting enough chips in those bags.

And furthermore, I continue what’s now become a soapbox rant by warning all you food establishments that the next time I get a serving that does not resemble the images advertised on TV, the walls of your restaurant, or your menu board, I will be sharing a split-screen image across the world-wide web, so I can get pseudo-famous like this Australian teenager.

If your images show the Whopper appearing as an 6-inch tall burger, I will be less understanding than ever about receiving that sandwich as a 1-inch smashed replica of something you might have put out for your dog that was licked and then rejected.

You see, we all just want what we pay for, what we’re promised, what we expect.  We don’t like to be short-changed.  We don’t like to be ripped off.  And we like to sue.

Size matters, dammit. (And that’s what SHE said.)

Santa Claus Is My New BFF

Last week, I argued that Santa Claus is real.  This week I can add that not only is he real, but he is now my new best friend…forever.

As I promised, I emailed him.  And he emailed me right back.. .within minutes.

What have I learned from my new pen pal?  That he still remembers me after all these years.  That he has a great sense of  humor.  That I’m apparently not the only “grown-up” that still writes to Santa.  And that he’s most definitely not hiring, which is a real bummer, because (not that I’m looking, mind you), working for Santa would be awesome.  I was picturing a great cushy telecommuting job that would allow me to Skype into the North Pole as needed, keeping up with wish lists (demand) and possibly using my tired, unused Advertising diploma and my awesome blog network and social network skills (haha) to help steer the children of the world toward items for which there may be more production (supply).

I also decided the benefits would be great.  Time off during the summer would be no problem.  I’d get lots of freebies marked off as overstock.  And the medical plan couldn’t be too bad, since, as a risk,  I’d be lumped in with a bunch of elves which would offset Santa’s bad habits and then some.  How often do elves get sick anyway?

So I got my wish list in to Canada (the closest North Pole branch) and I now I’m on Santa’s radar.  AND I promised to share with you this 2-way correspondence to once again prove that Santa does indeed exist.


It was easy.  I went here and filled in a form letter to Santa, which he received within minutes.  I form-filled some stuff, like my age, how good I’ve been (or not), 3 items for Christmas, and some free-form comments.  The result is below, with some personal data x’d out:

Dear Santa Claus,

My name is xxxxxxx.  I am a girl and I am already xx years old!!  I live in the great city of xxxxxxx.  Of course, that’s in xxxxxxx, United States but I’ll bet you knew that!  This year I’ve been so good that, well, ok, maybe my halo has been to the repair shop a few times this year.

Santa Claus, some things I might like for Christmas this year are: – new Droid smartphone; – winning Powerball ticket; and, – black BMW convertible.

Santa Claus, I almost forgot to say…  I think the North Pole is awesome. I think being one of Santa’s helpers would be an exciting job! In fact, I’m looking for a new job and think I could be a real asset to your workshop. Are you by chance hiring? How are the benefits? Anyway, I can’t wait for you to drop by on Christmas, and I’ll leave out the Snicker bar and Bud Light as usual. Hohohoho!

Love, xxxxxxx

Ok, so it’s not my best literary work, but as I said earlier, it’s a form-fill thing with insufficient space to write my normal 1500 words or so.  And perhaps I got greedy, since I started out only wanting a new phone.  There were 3 blanks to fill, so I went for it…and threw in a hint for a job opportunity.

And here’s my response from the big guy:

Merrrryyyy Christmas xxxxxxxx!

Thank you for sending me your email all the way from xxxxxxx!  HO!! Ho!! ho!!  Did you know there are lots of elves in xxxxxxx?  I hear they like visiting xxxxxxx because there’s a special girl by the name of xxxxxxx that lives there!  (*wink*).

Well call me the King of Jing-a-Ling, xxxxxxx!  Are you pulling my leg?!?  You can’t possibly be xxxxxxx years old already!  Why it seems like only yesterday that I was leaving presents for a certain little girl and here you are now, practically one of Santa’s elves! (*grin*)

Sorry the presents the last little while probably haven’t been quite as exciting as they were when you were a little girl but, well, you know how these things go (*wink*).  Anyway, Santa’s glad to see some of the ‘older kids’ (not to mention anyone in particular!) still take the time to write.  (And hopefully still leave out milk and cookies Christmas Eve too! *wink*)  I also hear you’ve been a sorta good girl.  (Of course, you won’t mind if I do a little checking, will you? HO!! Ho!! ho!!).  I see from your email that you like saying “Ho! Ho! Ho!”.  HO!! Ho!! ho!!  I like saying “HO!! Ho!! ho!!” too!

Let’s see what you put in your letter for Christmas wishes: 1. new droid smartphone; 2. winning powerball ticket and; 3. black bmw convertible.  Did you know I had to get rid of my phone?  Every time I phoned the elves they thought my name was ‘Santa Calls’!  HO!! Ho!! ho!!

I am really excited about my new “Santa Webcam”.  I hope you will come watch me live at the North Pole on it right away!

Oops!  I guess I shouldn’t have had that last cookie because a button just popped right off my suit.  I better go see if Mrs. Claus has any thread left!  ho!! Ho!! HO!!  Take care xxxxxxx and don’t forget to come back and visit me here at EmailSanta.com on Christmas Eve!!  And remember…  only 14 more sleeps until Christmas!!

Forever and Always Your Friend,

Santa Claus


Take from that what you will.  But here’s what I walked away with:

  1. Santa is not hiring and apparently does not want to discuss it.
  2. Santa will eventually find out I wasn’t that good, as he so alludes.
  3. Santa likes to make little digs at middle-aged women about their age.
  4. Santa knows I leave him Bud Light, yet he refers to milk, with some *winks*.
  5. In fact, Santa *winks* a lot, which tells me either a) he has a lot of private jokes,  b) he’s not taking anything I wrote him seriously, or c) he’s into the “milk” already a week before Christmas.
  6. I only said “Ho, Ho, Ho” once.  Santa added in a couple of “Ho, Ho, Ho’s” too many, which helps my argument above about the “milk” (*wink*).
  7. Santa has a webcam to plug.
  8. I probably got greedy, and I’m not getting a darned thing I asked for and I really, really, am in need of a new cell phone, so it would be really easy for me right now to be disheartened.

But my hopes are still high.  My cell phone loses a little bit of functionality every day.  I wasn’t too specific about the winning lottery ticket, so $5 could grant that wish. And just disregard that BMW convertible as a grand illusion, King of Jing-a-Ling, and forget I ever mentioned it.


Instead, please re-think that job opening, Santa (*wink*).  And even if that’s not possible, I’ll still look forward to you stopping by again this year, Santa (*grin*).  And even if you ignore all my wishes, I’ll still have your “milk” waiting for you on the kitchen counter.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”.  HO!! Ho!! ho!!

Yes, There Most Certainly IS A Santa Claus!

As Christmas gets closer and closer, something disturbs me.

There seems to be a real effort to discredit Santa Claus, and it gets worse every year.  It’s an injustice.  A conspiracy.  A scandal.  There are real scrooges out there who want to convince us all that Santa Claus does not really exist…and that Mom and Dad are doing all the work.

home alone

Perhaps you’ve jumped on the bandwagon yourself and decided that Santa does not actually exist.

For those of you, I have the following to say…

Really?  You think parents are doing all this work, shopping for all these unnecessary things on these long wish lists?  Waiting in lines a mile long, spending all our hard-earned money, running ourselves ragged trying to find some impossible-to-find toy that’s sold out of every shopping mall on this side of the world?


You give us too much credit.  Besides, we know you haven’t been good ALL year long, so it’s best not to pin all your hopes on us.

And it doesn’t matter anyway, because Santa Claus is very much real.

It’s true, and I can prove it.

First, write him a letter and see for yourself. You have to get that wish list to him anyway, and most likely you really need to tell him how good you’ve been all year.  He already knows what all you’ve done wrong, but at least this gives you the chance to own up and act like you’re sorry about it.  I’m a big believer in the written word.  And of course, documenting everything.

ralphie writes letter

Now there are a few ways to get your letter to Santa.

2 lines on an envelope will do it:

Santa Claus

North Pole

Or try this one if you want to get a letter back.  They will redirect it to Santa.  Apparently, he has a branch office in Canada, which makes perfect sense.




And if that’s too slow for you, email him here. (My preferred method)

Then there’s the 2012 NORAD Santa Tracker. Thanks to the North American Aerospace Defense Command, we can all track Santa and his reindeer on their journey around the world on Christmas Eve, starting at midnight, Mountain Standard Time, on December 24th. Tell Mom or Dad to download an app so you can track it from their phone. Tell them it’s worth the data usage, although they may tell you it’s way past your bedtime.  And it may be, so beware.

Now our North American Defense Command wouldn’t make all this up, would they?

Still not convinced?  I understand…you have questions.  Let’s take them one by one:

How does Santa Claus travel all around the world carrying so many toys from house to house, all in one night?

Obviously, Santa is a smart man.  Over at the North Pole, he’s running a top-secret mission of top scientists, engineers, mathematicians, and weather experts.  His sleigh is not nearly as primitive as you may think, as he has all the top gadgets at his chubby little fingertips.  And it’s highly possible that some sort of time travel is involved here.  As he travels East to West, he’s jumping ahead of the time zones, and I’m pretty sure that there’s a little bit of magic up those big sleeves of his.

If you need a more solid answer than that, I’d suggest spending some extra time on your science and math studies, so you can get a grasp of all this.  I didn’t, and you see what kind of answer I’ve come up with.

But the bottom line is…hey, he makes it work every year somehow, doesn’t he?  That’s all the proof I need.

What about all those people who Santa DOESN’T come to see?

That’s a tough question, and there could be many reasons for someone being missed.  Maybe they weren’t good. Maybe they stayed up all night and Santa kept on going, because he doesn’t stop when kids are awake.  Maybe they just don’t believe Santa Claus is real.  Believing is really, really important!

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Happy Thanksgiving To All Those Not Waiting in Black Friday Lines Already!

As I write this, Thanksgiving is just a few hours away.  I’m lucky…I don’t have to cook.  My in-laws put out a great spread every year.  And all I need to do is go to bed and rest up for tomorrow.

Yet the media has been pointing out these crazy Black Friday people, such as the ones at Best Buy that have been there for days already.

My apologies to all Black Friday shoppers who may get offended here.  I did it years ago when my girls were young.  I understand saving some bucks.   I get it that the economy is bad.  I also understand that the current economy has now directed that this stuff starts earlier and earlier each year.  Back in my day, all I had to do was wake up at 4 or 5 a.m. in the morning.  That was nothing.

But It’s gotten ridiculous.

In short, if you’re currently sitting in line, camping out, at Best Buy, missing the entire Thanksgiving holiday with your loved ones as you strive to save a few bucks on your Christmas gifts, you need to stop and question the meaning of gift-giving, family, and the holidays entirely.  Just my 2 cents worth…

I’m done.  And I refuse to rant any further on Thanksgiving-Eve.

However, I would like to take this post as a chance to wish all my internet readers a really Happy Thanksgiving, and in particular, I offer this advice:

  • May all family feuds be resolved on this day.  Time to bury all hatchets.
  • May no alcohol cross the path of any Thanksgiving partaker until at least after the first helping.
  • May no turkey be tossed across the dinner table.
  • May no one feel they’re family outcasts and end up spending the day in the backyard shed, the garage, or the front porch.
  • May football go your way, whichever way that shall be.
  • May the day end with everyone feeling truly thankful for all the positive things in their lives, forgetting the negativity, and gaining an increased appreciation of family (keeping in mind that we all have to get together again at Christmas!).
  • And shall everyone remember that family is precious, things to be thankful for are too few, and that there’s nothing that can happen (hopefully) that you and your family won’t look back at and laugh at hysterically one day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Getting to the Bottom of “The Sexiest Man Alive” Award (2012)

People Magazine has named him 2012’s Sexiest Man Alive.  And because I believe it’s important to keep you all up to date on current events, I present you Channing Tatum in all his splendor.

The real truth is that I really just wanted this image of Channing Tatum on my front page for a while.

I know what you’re thinking.  Hey blogger, Channing’s 32 and, well, you’re not.  By the way, aren’t you married with daughters?  What kind of example are you setting for them, you cougar, you?  Refer back to Cougars, Jaguars, Bobcats…Oh My!  I’ve already covered that subject, thank you.

But since you reminded me, let me post one of those magical images here too.

I wholeheartedly agree with the voters of People Magazine.  Channing is well-deserving, particularly when he’s out on that dance floor.  He’s hunky, seems like a nice guy, can act, and then there’s that dancing thing again.

But I do have a point here.  It’s the award itself.

Every year, People Magazine names a new Sexiest Man Alive.  This raises some questions for me.

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An Open Letter To The Guy Who Spit My Way Today

Dear Sir Classless Dude:

At first I was impressed when you held the door open for me as we exited the office building today.  Chivalry is not dead, I thought to myself.

When you held the second door, I thanked you.  What a nice, young, well-dressed boy, I thought.  He’s got the tie going on, the nice polished shoes, cleanly shaven, a real young professional, an up-and-comer, if you will.

And then you spit.

Let’s reflect.  Your pace was slightly quicker than mine, which was a good thing because when you were about 10 feet in front of me, I watched you boldly glance back and hock one right in my direction.

Did you happen to notice that you were walking into the wind when you did so?  I thought perhaps you might, and I slowed my pace.  He’s probably embarrassed, I thought, since he just spit into the wind and the spray is heading my way.

But apparently I over-estimated you, because you spit a second time.  Right in my direction.  Again.

Please help me understanding the act of spitting.  Is your mouth so full of saliva that you just need to release the overflow…not once, but twice?  Do you salivate more than the rest of us?  Are you seeing a doctor for this condition?  What do you do when you’re indoors.  Do you spit there as well?

Or is this learned behavior?  At some point in your life, did you decide that expelling saliva is an act of coolness?  That it reinforces your manliness, increases your virility, takes you back to the Neanderthal world  in which you were apparently were raised?

Or are you marking your territory much like a male dog leaving his scent?

I saw no signs of illness, no cough, no congestion, not even a runny nose.  I saw no outline of a Skoal can in the back pocket of your dress slacks.

So I’m a bit confused.  These are questions to which I’ll never have answers, I know.  But let me just say this as I step up to my soapbox if you could please refrain from spitting on it:

In many states, the act of spitting is illegal.  A minor crime, mind you, but illegal nonetheless.  At the very least, it’s disgusting, and no one appreciates the bacteria you’re so eager to spread around, particularly within a 10-foot vicinity of myself.

Maybe it’s ironic that it doesn’t bother me in the least when a baseball player cops a spit on the turf.  I, myself, may have even laughed when a girl on my daughter’s soccer team spit, because, “hey, we’re tough, we have a girl on our team who spits, so you should be afraid of us”.  And I admit to laughing at the train wreck of “bad girls” on TV who get in brawls after one of them hocks a loogie at the other.

But in a somewhat civilized society, I’d still call it a faux pas to spit in the path of a woman trailing behind you, or anyone else for that matter.

Especially when the wind is blowing downstream.  Oh, did I mention that already?

So next time, don’t bother holding that door for me, Mr. Cool Dude, because I’d prefer to be left far, far behind you. I don’t want to see your spit.   I don’t want to walk in your spit.  And I certainly don’t want to wear your spit.

Karma, buddy, Karma.


The Lady Behind You

Accept that some days you’re the pigeon.  And some days you’re the statue.