Or as I like to call them, mommyvans. Mommies who can't judge the size of their vehicle vans. Next mommyvan you see, I'll bet you'll notice a long scrap along the side of it, one of the rear view mirrors will be damaged, or the bumper will have some sort of dent. And inside, complete disaster. The plastic innards of a McDonald's Playland tube slide is like a sanitized surgical scalpel compared to the shit storm happening inside the cavity of a mommyvan. Style-less, over-sized chaos.
North Face Jackets.
They are everywhere. In line at ShopNBag the other day, four out of the six people within ten feet of me were sporting that dingy, looks-like-it's-been-over-washed, black, fleecy, no collar, zippered, expensive, ugly jacket. Including the cashier. It was like being amidst mindless, trendy fashion cult members. Puzzling, and creepy.
The Oversaturation of Adele.
Hey, I sort of like that title. Sounds like a Barnes and Noble "staff pick". Anyway, yes, she is an extremely talented singer and songwriter but gee whiz, why can't the airwaves give it a rest? Please? For at least a few hours? No Adele? Please? I'm tired of switching stations already.
The Karfuckingdashians.
Who gives a flying fuck? Apparently, almost everyone except me. I don't know much about them other than there is a bunch of females who all sort of look the same, the father is the used-to-be famous Olympic runner Bruce Jenner, something involving a porno, and somehow they are all over the place. Something about sisters? Who the fuck knows. All I know is, it pisses me off that every time I turn around, there is a Karfuckingdashian in my face. (Can you tell, when I am overly irritated, I say fuck a lot?) And if you ask me, that guy that one of them married for 15 minutes looks like Shrek.
The Latest Catchphrases
It must be me. I tried it. I tried sounding current by throwing a few My Bads and Just Sayins around. To my ears, I sound retarded. When I hear My Bad, Epic Fail, Uber anything and Just Sayin, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Now there's an expression I like.
Holiday Letters
It's that time of year again. Time to open wide to take what I call my December dose of Syrup of Ipecac, otherwise known as the Holiday Letter. You know, those delightful year-end recaps cleverly crafted to boast shamelessly while still sounding sincerely grateful and humbled by life's good fortune. The ones I get, however, are not so subtle. They simply scream "our shit doesn't stink." I read them and I wonder, do you hear yourself? Here's an excerpt ...
"Our Jennifer continues to work at (insert name of well-known wealth management company here) and is now Assistant Vice President and Marketing Coordinator for the United Emirates market. She has ambitious goals of competing in the blah blah blah triathlon with Team SaveALife. She continues to volunteer with various not-for-profit organizations such as blah blah blah and she is now President of the blah blah blah Alumni Association of (insert Ivy League University name here). Her fiance, David, also a graduate of (insert name of Ivy League University again), has entered his second year of law school at (yet another Ivy League university) and spends a majority of his free time as a volunteer firefighter, where he has recently been promoted to Lieutenant."
This particular author/mom writes in the third person, which also baffles me. The section on her goes like this ...
"Mary is still an extraordinary minister at church and recently joined (name of club which infers she combines regular exercise WITH volunteer work) and plans to donate one of her kidneys to a random homeless person within the next year."
And it goes on and on and on. Okay, I made up the part about the organ gifting, but that wouldn't surprise me.
... That's it for now, friends. What don't you get? I'd love to compare notes.
